Literary Vibes - Edition CXXII (28-Oct-2022) - SHORT STORIES & MISCELLANEOUS
Title : Frightened Horse (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 122nd edition of LiteraryVibes. We have come to you with a platter of superb poems, fabulous stories and brilliant essays and anecdotes. Hope you will enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed creating them. Do give your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
We are lucky to have two new contributors to our literary efforts. Dr. Iti Samanta is one of the leading celebrities of Odisha, and a household name, thanks to her multifarious engagements. A writer, an essayist, a critique, an award winning film producer and an entrepreneur, she is the editor of Odisha's largest monthly family magazine Kadambini and Children's magazine Kuni Katha. A recipient of multiple awards for her success in different fields, she is a living embodiment of women's empowerment, a cause for which she dedicates her time and efforts with a rare passion. Her story in today's edition touches the heart with love and compassion. Ms. Sheela Luiz from Ernakulam, Kerala, is a passionate lover of literatire and writes with an ardent fervor. Let us welcome both of them to the LV family and wish them succcess in their literary career. We do hope we will continue to be blessed with their writings in our future editions also.
Ms. Maya G.K., a retired banker and a regular contributor to LiteraryVibes, did a wonderful favor to me four days back. She sent me from the internet a beautiful peace of writing which seeped through my mind with a rare bliss. I realized how it is important for us to let go of our multiple inhibitions and embark on a journey of self-actualization. We should follow our heart and do what pleases us. Let's take a look at the story first:
*Let’s Go & Fly A Kite..!*
It was a week after the funeral…
She had buried her hard-working accountant husband, who had painstakingly worked from morn till sundown, risen from clerk to bank manager, sent two children to college and jobs abroad with the income, and given her a comfortable life style.
It was a week after the funeral, as she rummaged through his cupboard, looking for documents and files he had meticulously kept, and it was then that she saw the secret compartment.
She opened it trembling, she did not want to know any secret about her husband, she did not want to find anything that would disturb memories of the solid, dependable, hardworking man he’d been.
But she opened the compartment. She felt something light and papery to the touch, then slowly, carefully pulled out, not one, not two but a dozen kites. They were fresh as if just bought from the kite shop down the road, and she wept as she saw them.
.
.
.
“One day,” he’d told her, “I’ll have time to fly kites on the terrace!”
“You seem to have flown them before?” she’d said.
“I loved them when little,” he’d said, “I loved the feel of *the kite in the heavens rising up and reigning like a king!*”
“Why don’t you do so this Sunday?” she’d asked.
“Overtime, I have to work overtime this Sunday!” he’d said, “But maybe next Sunday or the holiday that comes after that!”
.
.
.
She wept as she felt the crisp paper. She wept because the kites represented a dream of a dead man, who’d wanted the simple pleasure of flying them, up in the sky.
Her sons came home the next day. They saw the kites fixed on the sitting room wall. “Ma,” they protested, “This is not the time to celebrate, this is a time of mourning!”
“Yes,” she said, “I know it is, and that is why I’ve put them there!”
They felt the paper, they stared at the lovely designs and they listened to their mother as she told them where she’d found them. They had tears in their eyes, as they thought of their dad, and the kites he’d never flown.
“Ma, I’d like to take one home!” said her eldest.
“And I want one for my home too,” exclaimed the second.
She gave the kites to them, and her heart gladdened as they called her the next week, “We’re picking you up mother, we’re going to spend the weekend camping!”
“Camping?” she asked, “I’ve never camped before!”
“Nor have we, but *that’s the kite we want to fly* mother. Come along!”
She smiled as they drove down the mountain track, she looked at the car of her second son behind, and as she looked out of the window, she felt she could see her husband, laughing as he flew a kite, higher and higher into the wind, reigning like a king.
His sad kites in the cupboard had made his sons fly theirs…
_What about you my friend, are your kites going to be found in your cupboard, or do they fly in the sky?_
*Go fly a kite..!!*
.....................................................
Friends, there are so many dreams that we failed to pursue, so many kites we kept hidden in a secret chamber, as we remained busy with our work and family responsibilities. When I was a young student (in the last century!!!) and used to live in Bhubaneswar, the town was fairly small, the roads deserted and the air cool. On moonlit nights I used to roam on a bicycle, an aching emptiness throbbing in my heart like a nagging melancholy. I was in love, but with no one in particular, no beloved waited for me on her terrace with a rose in hand and a smile on the lips. I just loved the moon, the azure sky, the moon light falling on the empty streets, the vacant fields, the green trees in cascading splendor. I pined for some company, wanted to speak to someone, pour my heart out and go home fulfilled. Loneliness, unfortunately, is a festering wound that never heals. I wanted to write, to sing, to dance and be noticed. Nothing like that happened and in a few more years I got onto the roller coaster of a job, a family and all my kites remained hidden in a secret chamber. Till I wrote my first short story in 2009, at the age of 57. It was a small, tentative kite, released in firghtening hesitancy, the fear of failure and rejection haunting the mind. The story was published in January 2010 in Kadambini whose editor Dr. Iti Samanta has made a debut in our LiteraryVibes in today's edition. After that I have written more than 130 stories in Odia and about 100 in English. I still love my moon and want my kites to touch her and caress her in soft gratitude. As a tribute to her I am re-publishing my story The Fourteenth Night Moon in today's edition of LiteraryVibes, in addition to a beautiful novella Moonstruck in Mumbai and a poem A Song for the Moon.
I have many more kites kept carefully in my cupboard. Dear readers, let's all take out our kites and fly them, up into the sky, to reach new heights, to touch the moon, and the stars. If you think LiteararyVibes can be a part of that journey, please come to us, we will be happy to hold your hands and accompany you.
Do share today's edition of LV with your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/462 (Poems)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/461 (Short Stories and Miscellaneous articles)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/460 (Young Magic)
There are also two brilliant articles by Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo, the emininent gyanecologist at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/458 and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/459
Let me also remind you that on 5th October we published a special Puja Edition of twenty absolutely scintillating stories. Those who have not read them can do so at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/457
Take care, be safe and keep smiling. We will meet again on 25th November with the 123rd edition of LiteraryVibes.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Dr. Iti Samanta
THE LAST TOUCH
02) Pabhanjan K. Mishra
APPU, THE ALIEN
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THE PLEASURES OF BEING A...
ONE AMONG THEM
04) Ishwar Pati
LOST IN PARADISE
05) Chinmayee Barik
THE GIRL NAMED GANGASIULI
PARTITION
06) Meena Mishra
TORMENTOR, NO MORE!
07) Sheela Luiz
FATHER THOM’S REVELATIONS
08) Snehaprava Das
WINNING WINGS
09) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSING:: MY TRYST...
10) Arpita Priyadarsini
UNDER THE MOON
11) Ashok Kumar Ray
DETACHMENT
12) P Suresh Kumar
THOSE …HELPLESS EYES…
13) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
THE CHICKLING
14) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
MOONSTRUCK IN MUMBAI
THE FOURTEENTH NIGHT MOON
Table of Contents :: MISCELLANEOUS
01) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE
02) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
TWO LITERARY PRIZE WINNERS
03) Pradeep Biswal
HARA PRASAD: THE PHILOSOPHER POET
04) Sundar Rajan S
DRIVE TO DOWNTOWN - COLUMBUS...
05) Jayshree Tripathi
MOTHER TONGUE.
06) Gokul Chandra Mishra
A NIGHT AT SATAKOSHIA
07) Gourang Charan Roul
MY FIRST GOLD SEIZURE CASE
08) Sumitra Kumar
DREAMS HAVE NO LOGIC, DO THEY?
09) Seethaa Sethuraman
SMARTPHONES FOR THE ELDERLY:
FOR IPHONE LOVERS:
10) Sheena Rath
VISIT TO THE PANDAL
11) Prof. (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
THE AMATEUR DOCTOR- SCIENCE...
12) Punyasweta Mohanty
SCANDALOUS RAMBLINGS OF A ....
13) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: MY MCG...
14) Sanjit Singh
MLM SCAMS, PYRAMID SCHEMES...
SHORT STORIES
(Translated by Dr. Dipty Patnaik from the Odia short story ‘Sparsha Shesha Spandana ra’)
Rains!
Pouring as if the heavens had opened up!
There was no sign of an intermisssion, let alone an end to the torrential flow.
Seemed as if the entire city was going to be washed away.
Sitting on the balcony, Akash, the sexagenarian, looked at the downpour, spellbound.
Rains always took him down the memory lane, on a trip of aching nostalgia..
Yes, this was certainly one such day.....
Akash had a compulsive desire to rush into the pouring rain, no matter how torrential it was. Yes, he was always like that, if he felt like enjoying a pleasant drenching, he would go for it.
Did that give him any sort of satisfaction? Of course it did, he loved the feel of "Varsha", the rains, with a rare passion. However much he drenched himself in the rain, he remained unsatiated. Yet, all good things must come to an end! At some point in time, he had to stop and return to a dry cover.
Behind this reluctant surrender there was a fear - fear of the cold, cough, and fever that invariably followed his romancing and prancing about in the rain. Whether his work got disrupted or not didn’t matter; he could not control himself and was propelled into the rain whenever he got a chance.
His wife Dhara would be waiting for him, with a towel in hand and a frown on the face,
"Who am I to prevent you from dancing in the rain and catching a cold? Where do I stand between you and your Varsha? I know, for sure, you love the rains as they carry the memory of Varsha, your beloved. I know you love Varsha and the rains with equal fervor. But don't come running to me if you fall sick."
Dhara's pent up emotions would erupt like a volcano and Akash would break into an indulgent smile at his miffed wife. Dhara would urge him to dry himself, but before he entered the bathroom he would start his sneezes.
He would try to explain, "I tell you, Dhara—aachoo, aachoo, aachoo...that..."; unable to complete the sentence he would stop apologetically, and Dhara would push him into the bathroom.
Dhara would not stop her harangue,
"See, it is always like this - get drenched in rain like crazy, catch cold or fever, and keep tormenting me! Will you ever listen to me? You finish drying yourself, let me make a cup of hot tea with ginger and black pepper. It may give you some relief...." A flustered Dhara would rush into the kitchen.
As Akash kept looking at the pouring rains he realized things were not the same anymore. The exciting moments of the sweet past were a dream now. He felt no desire to get drenched in the rain. He could only watch the beautiful raindrops from a safe distance and hear the sweet patter of the rain. And get lost in emotion-filled memory. Akash was sixty-five. Times had changed; he had reached the twilight of his life. Now when he thought of touching the rains, a shiver would run through him.
His heart pined for the golden past.
Suddenly, lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a loud, deafening thunder.
Startled, Akash shifted his chair further back on the veranda.
"Papa! Here is your tea."
Akash's daughter-in-law, Gayatri, placed the cup on a side table.
"You have not brought the newspaper, my dear?" Akash asked, wiping his glasses.
"The hawker did not come today, Papa, due to the heavy rains," explained Gayatri.
"Right, look at the downpour! It seems the rains will continue throughout the day".
"Yes, Papa, this is a thunderstorm. Did you hear the thunder a few minutes ago? It must have struck something nearby. Please come inside, Papa; you will get drenched here. It seems the thunderstorm is getting louder and heavier."
"Yes, the rain has already started splashing the other end of the veranda. I’m careful not to get wet and put all of you into trouble. Let me stay here for a few minutes more, my dear; I am enjoying the sight........Where is Mukul? Is he still in bed?" asked Akash, about his adorable grandson.
"Yes, Papa, I didn’t wake him up."
"I know, he would have been here sitting with me if he was awake. And what about your mom-in-law? Has she finished her puja or she just began?"
"Today is Thursday, Papa. The puja will be long and elaborate. She has just gone into the puja room. I’m to make the breakfast."
"Ok," Akash sat back, with a soft gaze at the rains.
Gayatri went away, to attend to household chores.
Akash picked up the cup and continued sipping his tea leisurely
He became pensive again, looking at the rains and going back to the distant past, to a time close to his heart.
* * * * * * *
“Papa…”
It was Mohan, his son, with a mobile phone in hand.
"Papa, it is Pabitra Uncle on the line."
Akash came back from his reverie and eagerly took the mobile from his son.
"Hello!" he yelled into the phone.
"Were you so busy that your son had to call you three times? It must be the rains, isn't it?"…the voice chuckled at the other end.
"Forget your jokes, Pabitra. Tell me, how are you? Good to hear you after such a long time. We’re having a heavy rainfall here. What about your place?"
"Rain in our area? No way the rains will be kind to people like us!"
"Here the situation is growing from bad to worse. A series of ear-shattering thunder has been booming since morning, accompanied by non-stop rains. It seems, the clouds will rest after shedding the last drop of rain."
"Oh, quite a deluge! Frankly, I have never understood why rains hover around only where you live."
"No, no, nothing like that; the weather forecast did mention a storm-like situation."
"Whatever the forecast may be, rains will never give up dancing around you and the place where you live."
The hint about his love for Varsha was evident in the words of his friend who seemed to have kept a reliable track of the Akash-Varsha connection over the years.
"Anyway, on such a fine rainy day, did you go for your morning walk?" Pabitra asked.
"Morning walk? In this heavy rain? Since the COVID pandemic, my family keeps a strict vigil on me. They’ve practically made me a prisoner at home. Only a few days ago, I resumed my walking. Today rain has played the spoilsport. It seems the weather will remain like this for the next two days. Of course, the weather forecasts do not always turn out to be true,"
"Do you seriously mean the rains stopped you from taking your morning walk? Am I hearing it right? Can anyone really stop you from touching your Varsha and her beautiful memory? Ha-ha-ha." Pabitra made fun of his friend.
"So, you remember my morning walks in the rain? How I enjoyed getting soaked in the rain! I was not scared of catching a cold or falling ill. What a daredevil I was! You have taken me back to those good old days, dear friend, " ruminated Akash.
"Do you remember our long drives? We preferred going on long drives to where it would be raining. How, once we started for Khandadhar falls on a picnic and it started raining. Without blinking our eyes we set out with the lashing rain accompanying us throughout, and raindrops pelting out a melodious sound on the roof of the car. What an experience that was!"
The memory, so true and real, came back to both the friends with astounding clarity.
"Pabitra! You’ve not forgotten a single thing! Tell me why have you rung up so early in the morning? Is it to take me down memory lane?"
"There is no need to make you remember anything. I know these memories are indelibly embedded in you. Whatever you may say, my dear friend, those were the days! None of us enjoyed the rains the way you did in our student days".
This pithy remark made Akash chuckle. Those were the days when he was close to Varsha and was envied by his friends.
"Can anybody forget the golden and carefree days of youth? Everything is imprinted in my mind. Those memories are as bright and fresh as ever". Akash mused.
"That's what I mean. My God, we would go for long drives in torrential rains. Starting from Gopalpur, we would reach Hyderabad via Vishakhapatnam. The madness and exuberance of youth, those exciting days crowd my mind even today, my dear! Remember, once while roaming around, we reached Similipal and Varsha was also with us...."
The picture of the past was vivid and touchy indeed!
"It's better to forget those days, Pabitra. What is the meaning of going for long drives in the rains at this age? And Varsha! I have given up getting drenched in the rain to feel her presence. My son, daughter-in-law, and, above all, my wife Dhara constantly admonish me for my habit of getting soaked in rains. Now a days, I just look at the falling rain, sitting under a shelter and silently thinking of those days, pining for a tranquil peace. All in my thoughts only”
Suddenly Dhara came to the balcony, she must have interrupted her puja.
"Which 'thoughts' are you talking about?” she intervened,
“Pabitra has called after such a long time and you are dwelling on the same old topic—Varsha! How long are you going to talk?"
"Pabitra, did you hear that? Do you understand my predicament? You just heard Dhara's grumbling. This is what retired life is. No work to do and nowhere to go. Just staying in the house and listening to the sermons of the wife. Is there an alternative, tell me, if you know?"
Dhara was not finished,
"When are you going to have your breakfast and take your medicine? You still lose yourself when it rains and remember your beloved Varsha. Mind your age, dear”.
Having been brought back to reality, Akash murmured into the phone..…
"Let's end our lively talk, Pabitra. My wife is in a bad mood. I will have to go for breakfast. I am already late for my medicine. Bye. Oh yes, of course, I will convey your Namaskar to Dhara Bhabhi".
Still smiling, Akash put the mobile down on the tea poy.
"Old memories of bubbly youth, naughty childhood, school, and college days are the stuff rushing to one's mind when one comes in contact with an old friend. It is nice to talk to an old friend on a rainy morning like this. Rains bring back many forgotten feelings. More so for you". Dhara said smilingly.
"Do memories ever grow old, Dhara?" Akash asked softly, “Memories are perennial remembrances. They can neither be old nor young."
"Ok, ok, I concede defeat. Who can outwit you in an argument? Today you’ve even forgotten to read the newspaper". Then she rememberd, "Oh, I forgot, the hawker has not brought it because of the rains."
Dhara placed the breakfast on the tea table and was leaving when Akash called her back.
"Dhara! Why are you always in such a hurry?", said Akash in a pleading way.
Dhara became alert,
"Have I forgotten anything? Haven't I given you a glass of water?"
"No, no! You never forget anything when it concerns me. From the day you came into my life, you have never let me down. You can make no mistake".
Dhaka was pleased. She looked at her husband lovingly.
Akash asked softly,
"Why are you in such a hurry to go inside? Can't you sit with me for a few moments?"
"Oh, my dear! What are you saying? Can I give you company when you are with the rains, the namesake of your darling Varsha? You had warned me in the very beginning not to come between you and your rains".
"Forget that madness and blabbering of youth. You should not brood over small things of the past. Tell me, don't you like Varsha?" - It was, no doubt, a momentous question!.
Dhara quietly looked at the falling raindrops.
Akash continued, in a soft tone,
"You also love Varsha; or else how could I have treasured her for such a long time? You’re very broadminded with a lot of noble qualities. If you had not supported me with all your heart during that crucial period, would I have survived?"
Akash was grateful to Dhara for what she had done. Only great hearts can maintain the right resonance.
He looked at Dhara with love in his eyes.
She wanted to leave,
"Ok, first finish the breakfast and take the medicine and let me go back to my puja."
I don't know why, Dhara, but I don't have any appetite today," Akash complained.
"You must force yourself to eat something; you cannot take your medicine on an empty stomach. I also mark you’ve lost interest in food nowadays and you are in a pensive mood most of the time. But you know, I never force you to express your feelings. That’s not in my nature." Dhara just looked at him.
"I can't imagine why a feeling of melancholy surrounds me nowadays. Everything looks hazy and I am restless."
"Something must be disturbing you", Dhara was all sympathy.
"No, Dhara, nothing like that. Nothing is worrying me! But I can't figure out......"
"Anyway try to free your mind and finish your breakfast. I am off to resume my puja; it is quite late."
Dhara left for the puja room.
Akash took a spoonful of upma absentmindedly and was soon lost in his cocooned world.
* * * * *
"Namaskar, Uncle!”
Lost in his thoughts, Akash did not hear Saroj, his son's friend.
Suddenly, seeing Saroj, he exclaimed, "Oh, Saroj! When did you come, my dear boy?"
"I just came and was inside talking to Mausi (Aunty) and Mohan".
"Sit down. I am happy to see you after such a long time. We last met probably three-four years ago. Your weird software jobs have made you forget your people and even your country."Akash smiled at the young man.
"No Uncle, who wants to be away from one's roots? But there is no other way. Suitable opportunities are rare for bright people in our country. However, I’ve decided to come back to Bangalore next year. I’m going to leave the USA for sure," Saroj replied.
"When did you come to India?"
"Two months ago."
"Oh! You’ve been here for two months and could not find time to come and meet us even once. You know, we are all very fond of you," Akash complained.
"I know that Uncle, but I came here only last week. My family is in Bangalore Meanwhile, I came for a day to take my mother so that she can spend some time with her grandchild and daughter-in-law."
"It's good to see you, my boy. How did you come in this downpour? It started early in the morning and still shows no sign of abating."
Saroj smiled, "I’ve got a car, Uncle."
"Ok, go in now. Mohan must be waiting for you to join him for breakfast ".
"Yes Uncle, I see you’ve not touched your breakfast yet".
"Thanks for reminding me. I will quickly finish it. Please tell Gayatri to bring my medicine, and don't run away in a haste. Try to stay here one full day with Mohan, your old friend and our family. We'll talk about the Corona wave in the USA. You were there and can describe the actual situation. Here the news on TV is generally censored".
"I'm sorry uncle. Although I would have loved to stay with you for a day, I’ve to do duty at the hospital, sitting at the bedside of my Mausi (Aunty) who is terminally ill. I came to pick up Mohan so that he could give me some moral support at the hospital. I've certainly planned to spend a day with all of you before I leave, but today you will have to excuse me".
"Which one of your aunts is ill?"
"This is a distant cousin of my mother whom she loves more than her own sisters. We are all very fond of the sweet-natured lady. Poor Babu Bhai takes care of her as she has nobody else to help her."
"Is Babu her only son?"
"No, no, he is her nephew, elder sister's son".
"Where are her children?"
"She never married, Uncle. She worked as a teacher and is a spinster. My mother says she was a paragon of beauty and had all the qualities that would have made her a good mother and a good wife. Unfortunately, something happened and she was adamant about not getting married. Nobody knows the reason why. Babu Bhai is her only support now. She is now in his care."
Akash looked at the rains. Something bothered him,
"Who is this Babu Bhai, Saroj?"
"Oh, I forgot to mention it. He is the famous doctor, Dr. Rajesh Das. We call him by his nickname 'Babu'."
"Of course I know Rajesh And some of his relatives. But what's wrong with your aunt".
"Initially, she suffered from COVID-19; but was cured. After a few days, something went wrong and Babu Bhai shifted her to his nursing home. Whether it is her post-COVID complications or something else, has not been diagnosed yet".
"Where is she now?"
"She is in Sunrise Hospital which Babu Bhai owns. The best possible treatment is being given, but she shows no signs of improvement. It has cast a shadow of sorrow on our entire family. At times, she does show some signs of recovery, but the next moment, she relapses into a worse condition than before. My mother is very sad and keeps on worrying".
Mohan called out to Saroj from inside. Saroj went in after taking leave of Akash.
* * * * * * *
Mohan and Saroj were facing each other at the dining table with a big spread of breakfast items.
It was still raining and the weather was ideal for two friends to laze around and exchange experiences. However, Saroj's aunt's illness dampened their enthusiasm and a disconsolate atmosphere prevailed.
"She is suffering like hell and poor Babu Bhai's suffering is no less," Saroj's sadness was palpable.
Suddenly, a flustered Gayatri shouted from the balcony, "Oh my! Oh, God, Mohan, where is Papa? I’ve searched for him everywhere, even the bathroom. I’m still holding his medicine, but I don't find him"
Mohan was shocked but remained calm and told his wife not to panic. Dhara had come out of the puja room and joined them. She had turned pale. She said in a distressed voice, "He never goes out without informing me and usually takes me along when he does go..."
The conversation and speculation abruptly stopped when they heard a car starting up in the compound. They ran down only to see Akash driving out of the gate in his old Fiat car. Dhara broke down and wailed, "How can he drive at this age, that too when it is raining so heavily? Even an expert driver will find it difficult to manipulate his way in such bad weather. Besides, your father had stopped driving long ago". Dhara's words were incoherent with the worry building up inside her. She kept sobbing and wiping her eyes with the edge of her saree.
Saroj rushed to his car with Mohan and started after Akash.
Gayatri and Dhara stood on the portico in stunned silence. The child, Mukul, was clinging to his mother.
* * * * * * *
Akash was driving very fast even though the rain blurred his vision. Grappled with tension, Akash continued sweating, despite the cold weather. He did not want to stop till,he got to his destination, Like a spring from a hilltop trying to reach the base, humps, diversions, and other distractions were quite meaningless for him.
Mohan and Saroj were worried. Mohan was telling his friend, "I got a thorough health checkup for him only two days back. Everything was normal. Then why such mad drive, where is he going?"
Mohan could not call his father on the mobile because he knew Papa always forgot to carry his phone with him. The two friends did not try to overtake Akash for fear of any untoward happening.
They saw Akash's car entering Sunrise Hospital!
Saroj assured his friend, "Now, don't worry; he will be in safe hands. Babu Bhai will take care of him."
Parking the car, Akash hurried in and headed straight for the indoor patient's ward while the receptionist kept shouting after him. "Sir, you can't go inside without permission; Sir, you’re not even wearing a mask." Two male nurses tried to stop him but he pushed them aside. His strength belied his age. Finally, he entered a well-equipped cabin where Varsha was lying with an oxygen mask covering her face.
The nurses on duty followed him, trying to stop him from going near the patient. Suddenly the head nurse appeared at the door. She gestured the nurses to be quiet. They came near her, with questions in their eyes. The head nurse whispered,
"Wait, who knows a miracle might happen! Where medicines do not work, love might."
And the miracle did happen.
The smile that spread across the patient's countenance when she saw Akash was heavenly. It exuded serenity and pure love.
Akash stared at her for a while without batting an eyelid. It seemed he was searching for answers to many questions.
He wanted to say, "I can see the weariness and pain of the long wait in your withered face. I am sorry, Varsha, for being so late. Can you ever forgive me.....?"
However, the words just stuck in his throat and remained unsaid. His emotions got the better of him.
He slowly lifted Varsha's lean hand. He could feel the warmth and looked at her intently.
A wan but radiant smile appeared on Varsha's face.
There was pin-drop silence.
"Finally...you...have...come!" Her voice was a whisper. Akash tightened his grip on Varsha's hand. Uncontrolled tears ran down his cheeks. They were silent, but their hearts throbbed in unison. Their ardor and passion .
But not for long.....everything ended in the twinkle of an eye. Varsha's hand slipped out of Akash's grip ..… she was no more.
Dr. Rajesh and the nurses frantically tried to revive her but failed. Varsha's eyes closed forever.
Dr. Rajesh instructed the nurses to remove the mask, the saline bottle, and all the other gadgets attached to her body.
Mohan asked softly, "Papa, shall we leave?"
He said to Saroj, "I will leave Papa and come back immediately".
Akash told Mohan there was no need.
"You stay here and help perform the last rites of Varsha. I will drive back home."
Akash reached home. By then, the rains had stopped.
Dhara rushed out of the house and opened the gate for Akash to drive in.
He climbed the steps of the veranda wearily with stooped shoulders. He gave the car keys to Dhara, and said, "Varsha is no more."
Dhara answered tactfully, "I know, Mohan rang me up. I’m happy, you could keep your promise of meeting her at least once before her death. Your last touch of love must have wiped away the poor girl's sorrows. Her life was just a long wait for her beloved."
Dhara’s eyes were blinded with tears.
Akash turned back. His gaze got fixed at Dhara's tears, flowing like unabated rains.
Dr. Iti Samanta a well-known short story writer, novelist, researcher, eminent editor of the famous family magazine ‘The Kadambini’, and national award-winning film producer and entrepreneur occupies a significant position in contemporary Odisha. Despite being brought up by her mother single-handedly in abject poverty, she successfully overcame many obstacles in pursuing higher studies and carrying forward her love and passion for literature. She even went on to get a senior fellowship as a scholar from the Ministry of Culture, Government of India for her innovative and influential research. She is a popular household name today for being an eminent writer, journalist, editor, and national award-winning film producer. She is the editor of the monthly magazines ‘Kadambini’and ‘Kunikatha’ which have set new benchmarks for the promulgation of Odia Language and Literature. And to support traditional handloom weavers to earn their living and promote Odisha's own art and culture not just in the country but across the globe she has started the Shephalee Designer House. Her life itself exemplifies women's empowerment and she relentlessly pursues her mission to empower women through her conglomerate organizations.
Translator- Dr. Dipty Patnaik taught Chemistry for 34 years in reputed colleges and universities of Odisha. During her teaching career, though she was active in research, she remained an avid reader and writer of literature. After retiring from Ravenshaw University, Cuttack, she has totally engaged herself in creative writing. Her credits include novels, short stories and popular science article collections along with a number of books for children. She has translated novels and short stories of Sarat Chandra along with stories of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia. Many short stories in Hindi, Konkani, Telugu, Tamil, and English have also been translated by her.
Apurva alias Appu, a rotund and handsome fellow, was named after Appu, the mascot kid-elephant of the 1982 Asian Games, for his resemblance in his childhood to the mascot of the ongoing Asian Games at Delhi. In his native Kutch of Gujarat, the body fat was considered as an expression of good health. A thin person, male or female, child or adult, was an eyesore in general.
That morning, Appu in his sweatpants was standing at his front door, looking out. The day was breaking, the night waking up from its sleepy languor. He thought fondly of his pretty and loving wife Yashodhara, still napping with their baby cuddly son Rahul in bed. He thought of his over-indulgent parents mostly trampling on his toe with mild irritation.
Appu had all along, he did not exactly know why, an uncanny feeling that he did not belong there, his native crowd. He was an outsider, an alien, exiled to the earth from another planet to live among the earthlings. His feelings were not without reasons. The sense of double standard of most people including his own relatives was beyond his reasoned grasp.
They stood by Bapu’s prohibition of liquor but drank it liberally in open-secret. They preached non-violence on the footsteps of the Mahatma, but became violent at the fall of a hat. They claimed religious secularism on the line of the Father of the Nation but harbored pathological hatred for Muslims. Most Gujaratis who live in America but had always a leg in Gujarat as well, loved American culture like cleanliness, kind disposition towards humanity, shunning superstitious practices, etc. But that they did on American soil, and the moment they touched down in India, they went back to their dirty, apathetic, and superstitious ways.
Apurva had felt more and more alienated to the men in his crowd and felt like a hot potato dropped among them. He shared his unique feeling with his wife, who could not believe it, but he had asked her to keep it a secret from others. Her mind overlooked his alienation of her logical minded husband, and mostly dwelt on his last remark that had he been an alien from another planet in exile? She, secretly thought, it could be the effect of her husband’s reading habit. Apurva, a student of physics, was an addict of reading futuristic science fictions. Alien life forms was his pet topic during discussions.
Apurva worked and lived at Ahmedabad in the growing city’s new flank. The family of five including his old parents lived in small bungalow surrounded by a garden with in a low boundary wall. His old parents, those days, had almost shifted their stay to his bungalow, and visited their village home in Kutch, Gujarat, as and when necessary.
When Apurva had come of age to marry, they had chosen Yashodhara as his bride. But after Appu’s marriage to Yashodhara, he disappointed his parents by falling head over heels in love with his wife. The old couple could not believe that the spring chicken of a girl, young Yashodhara, could compete with them in matters of love of their own good son Appu. Also, that type of behavior was contrary to societal expectations from a good son of the soil.
They looked for reasons for that misbehavior of Apurva. A jealous mind was a devil’s workshop, the age-old adage again proved itself. They found their scapegoat in Yashodhara, their new daughter-in-law, for Appu’s off beat love for her. A superstitious old shibboleth they found their key.
The belief was about a pretty and well-endowed wife like their daughter-in-law being a trap for her husband. Their jealous mind had full faith in that old wives’ tale. In fact. The belief had poisoned most rural minds in their area and parents-in-law were suspicious of their daughters-in-law.
The shibboleth had acquired colorful side allusions. A pretty and well-endowed wife would attract her husband like a lamp bewitching an insect. She would trap him like the lamp’s oil trapping the insect and sucking him dry. The husband would be sucked dry of his blood and other vital juices of the body. The character sketch sounded horrific and daughters-in-laws were compared to Dracula.
Appu’s parents therefore tried their best to keep the couple apart as much as possible. They nicknamed Yashodhara as “Draculie”, the female form of Dracula, and called her so openly during the family skirmishes. They carefully looked for telltale evidences of bloodletting from their Appu.
Apurva, after his nuptials, went on a two-week long honeymoon. He returned looking a bit dilapidated for binging with wife, spending sleepless nights and looting as much pleasure as possible without his parents acting as a pain up his ass. Their Appu’s condition. kind of,confirmed to the prejudicial parents that Yashodhara was a blood-cucking Draculie. Apurva knew, he could never allay his old parents’superstitious fears.
When Yashodhara lived with Apurva at Ahmedabad, his old parents, under some pretext or the other, kept visiting the couple at their Ahmedabad residence. Finally, they shifted their establishment to Apurva’s bungalow. Yashodhara knew they were keeping a watch on her for the safety of their Appu, the apple of their eye. She however basked in Appu’s love and ignored her Parents-in-law’s hate.
When Rahul came into Yashodara’s womb, the old folks tried their best to keep Appu and Yashodhara apart in the name of pregnancy, but the young couple managed to give them the slip and get united in secretin hotel rooms or friends’ houses.
The loud quarrels between the old couple with Yashodhara daily over their his health was exasperating Apurva as well as his immediate neighbors. The neighbors had an impression from those frequent squabbles that Aurva’s wife was either a very lusty woman or Apurva had been a besotted henpecked husband.
From Yashodhara’s looks and behavior, they had a feeling that their latter guess might be true, but mostly improbable. They guessed,possibly, the old parents were a tad over-protective about their son. During their irritation triggered by the shouts and curses of the old folks, when they heard Yashodhara being cursed as a Draculie, they laughed a lot. it provided them with a sort of cameo in the acrimonious air.
Apurva had respites from the family squabbles only during his morning walks and office hours. His parents harassing his wife, and hurling obscene epithets at her like in many uneducated and down-market families were alienating the inner man in him from the society. His feeling of being an outsider in his own society was growing stronger. He had a definite feeling that he was different from the people in his surrounding and he again doubted that he could be of alien origin. He once again shared his thoughts with Yashodhara, who made a face at him with exasperation.
The day in question, of which we spoke at the start, was an ordinary day, except that Appu felt fresh and a sort of exhilaration after a wholesome night in in bed with Yashodhara, and quiet Rahul, as his parents were visiting their village in Kutch for attending to certain unavoidable errands. The house had perfect peace and quiet the previous day since he returned from office at seven in the evening.
Appu started walking along his regular route into a fresh and balmy morning. He looked up and at the horizon noticed a funny aircraft. It had the shape of a saucer. “Ah, it can be a flying saucer,” he thought, “Or, could it be a kite. Yes, it is a kite only.” That kite making the impression of a flying saucer in IFO category made him more acutely conscious of his alien allusions in life.
But he walked on. In half an hour, like every other day, his time was up for walking in the forward direction away from home. He had to turn around to walk back, homeward. But he did not turn around, rather continued walking with a feeling of lightness of being, a sense of joy and freedom. He felt an urge like Lal Singh, the character recently played by thespian Amir Khan in his Hindi movie ‘Lal Singh’. In that movie, Lal Singh went out for jogging one day, but went on jogging nonstop for three odd years. Appu kept walking on and on like Lal Singh.
At home, Yashodhara kept waiting for Apurva’s return for breakfast. Her anxiety started rising when he did not return until the time, he would leave for office by nine-thirty. He started asking his friends over mobile phone, and visited the nearby two parks to look for Apurva. She did not cook or eat her lunch and skipped the evening tea and dinner in acute anxiety. She spent a sleepless night and only Rahul in her lap was her solace.
The next day Yashodhara filed a missing-person complaint with the police and called back her parents-in-law from their village to join her in a search. They searched all places that they knew, even looking into most improbable places like inside bushes, up the trees, into unused big drainage pipes lying by the roadsides, shallow ditches, and pits in meadows. But Appu was found nowhere.
From the second night of Appu’s disappearance for all the following late nights would wake up the neighbors of Yashodhara with low moans and muted howls arising from her quarters. The moans would be low and tragic, one a low howl baritone of an old crying dog in distress,joined by two chilling pathetic meowing of weeping cats. The moans were more disturbing to neighbors than the earlier quarrels of the three individuals. The low moans like a sobbing tanpura compared to theirritating a drum beats earlier.
After a year of search, the police gave up on Appu. A higher boss of the police department noted in Apurva Chheda’s Missing Person File, “Look for his body.” The year had passed for the family haltingly and hurtlingly like a century. Appu’s family were consoled by a single activity, living around and loving Rahul, a tiny, almost splitting image of Appu in childhood. Those days, at time’s Appu’s secret about his hunch feeling of being an alien haunted Yashodhara, “Was he really an alien? Did he finally take off for his alien land?” He would search the sky, every night for Appu’s planet.
Appu’s neighbors, who had been exasperated over years, first by loud acrimonious quarrels and then by late nightly sad moans and howls, were recently stunned by a silence that had slowly and gradually descended. They also thought like the police that Appu might be dead, either falling into a river or down a precipice.
The neighbors noticed that Appu’s parents and wife were growing closer. Especially, Appu’s mother and Yashodhara were growing chummy with each other like old friends. They cooked together, cleaned the house, and did laundry together, and shared with each other the small episodes of their happy periods spent with Appu. They took Rahul to park together also.
Yashodhara had joined an IT company as a data entry operator after learning the rudimentary computer handling. Her salary added to the income of Appu’s father from the share-farming of the wheat-fields in the village to manage family’s frugal needs without Appu’s income. The family stuck together and continued to live at Ahmedabad bungalow.
One day, Yashodhara asked, “Mother-in-law, did you deliver Appunormally or through C-section?” The older woman blushed, “Keep it a secret my child. I did neither. I, in fact, did not deliver him. One early dawn I found him, a newborn, left outside our door, perhaps, by an unwed mother. We, a miserable childless couple, adopted him as God’s gift to us.”
Yashodhara chuckled to herself, and lowered her voice, “I guessed so, mom-in-law. You know, she was not any ordinary unwed mother, but an alien mother, exiled from her planet to our earth, who placed Apuu at your door. Appu once had confided in me that he was an alien. I am sure, he finally returned to his people.” Appu’s earthling mother sighed, “If it is the wish of Lord, let it be. If Appu has returned to his true home, the alien planet, may he live long happily in his own world!” Yashodharaagreed, “Aisa hi ho, mother-in-law, Amen.”
Life rolled on. One night, Yashodhara woke up to hear dogs barking aloud in the street outside their bungalow. Then there was the muted sound of a key turning in the keyhole of the front door. She jumped out of her bed thinking, “Dacoits are breaking in. Appu is not there. I am to fend for the family.” She ran to the door with a thick wooden bar, and stood to one side before the door to hit and finish the intruder. The key was still turning and she presumed, “Bloody rascal’s duplicate has a bad finish.”
The low sound of Appu’s voice floated from the other side, “Hey Yasho, I can hear your heavy breathing. Don’t stand gasping there, just open the door. I am back from my morning walk.”
Yashodhara hesitated to herself, “I don’t know how aliens look in their original form.” To be sure she asked Appu on the other side of the door, “Tell me, how many heads, legs and hands you have these days, my dear Appu?” “Don’t be funny, my Yasho. I am no alien. I am your good old Appu, Apurva.” This time the long-unused key, gathering rust,turned in the keyhole, and lo, Apurva in his full ‘Appu of the 1982 Asian Games’ shape was standing before Yashodhara.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is a poet/ story writer/translator/literary critic, living in Mumbai, India. The publishers - Rupa & Co. and Allied Publishers Pvt Ltd have published his three books of poems – VIGIL (1993), LIPS OF A CANYON (2000), and LITMUS (2005). His poems have been widely anthologized in fourteen different volumes of anthology by publishers, such as – Rupa & Co, Virgo Publication, Penguin Books, Adhayan Publishers and Distributors, Panchabati Publications, Authorspress, Poetrywala, Prakriti Foundation, Hidden Book Press, Penguin Ananda, Sahitya Akademi etc. over the period spanning over 1993 to 2020. Awards won - Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award, JIWE Poetry Prize. Former president of Poetry Circle (Mumbai), former editor of this poet-association’s poetry journal POIESIS. He edited a book of short stories by the iconic Odia writer in English translation – FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM, VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI. He is widely published in literary magazines; lately in Kavya Bharati, Literary Vibes, Our Poetry Archives (OPA) and Spillwords.
THE PLEASURES OF BEING A WRITING COACH
During my undergraduate days, I discovered that my writing could be a contagion. A very close friend started writing because I was writing. Another one started painting because I was painting. Strange, my singing didn’t do that.
When I became a teacher I put it to good use. Many fell sick, as a matter of fact. I found time to read their works and discuss them with them, sometimes one-on-one, sometimes, as a group. It added hours to my work, but it was enjoyable, for sure.
At Rishi Valley, a ninth-grade girl asked me: SK, they everyone wrote stories like I did. But only in my notebook did you write, THERE IS A GREAT WRITER IN YOU. Why? I told her BECAUSE THERE IS. Three years later, after both of us had left Rishi Valley, I rang her up, seeing a half-page interview published in The Indian Express, Pune Edition. The headline read: At Eighteen This Young Girl Has Three Books To Her Credit. “SK, I did mention your name in that interview. Didn’t you see? I had, tears of happiness blurring my vision.
Many of my students surprised me, long after we had said bye. Sick of the school system, I quit teaching and took to writing. By now, William Sansom, Stephen King and several others had taught me how to be a writing coach. When no money came from writing, I started an online coaching class for creative writing. Corona was keeping everyone at home though no one felt at home. I ran six batches of 15 students each. Now it is like a fraternity, a very close-knit group, with its share of well-wishers and ill-wishers. A few of them made it to the Literary Vibes too.
I took the trouble to study much more than I did in my entire life. I started liking more stories than I used to.
So, what is the secret formula to be a good writing coach? You see what you look for. Look for writers among those you meet and you will see that there is a writer in everyone. But then, why did I write THERE IS A GREAT WRITER IN YOU only in Shruti Patel’s notebook?
I wanted her to feel special.
She had lost her father a month ago.
See, that is how stories are born. Life passes before you like a stream and then something rolls down towards you and it slows down as it passes by you. Me writing a special compliment in Shruthi’s book was one like that. Some day, I will surely write one on that.
Very few people attended the cremation. And there was only very little of Mao Mammu left for the crematorium. He had set ablaze himself just outside the school, pouring an entire can of petrol over himself. What was left of him was brought directly to the crematorium. Most people who wanted to be there for his cremation could not do so because of the restriction due to Corona. I looked around for some familiar faces but could find only one.
Mao Mammu had visited me a week ago. He had come for another financial help, the third in a row with no intention of paying back. I had to tell I was left with nothing, just like him and I wasn’t lying. Before he left, he went over to my small garden and checked the plants. Among them was a shrug he had suggested to me as a cure for my diabetes.
“Do you use these leaves?”
“Yes, I do. I put it in my morning tea”
“Does it help?”
“Yes, yes” I was lying. I never bothered to use it even once. But I knew that if I told him the truth, I would have to listen to his lecture.
I felt relieved we parted in a pleasant mood that day.
Mammu or Mao Mammu as he was often called was the only one in our school from a different faith. He was very religious. When I first heard his nickname, Mao, I was puzzled. My colleagues explained it to me. He had a distant relative in Chatheesgad, a lady who was an activist among the tribals. Because of her Mammu was very keen on what happened to the Maoist groups there. This gave him the nickname Mao Mammu.
He was far from what I thought of leftists, let alone extreme leftists. His wife had run away with a neighbour taking both his children with her. This drove Mammu to drink beyond his means and he was always short of money. What he got from school as a bus cleaner was way too little for him. He used to do odd jobs like gardening and cleaning at teachers’ houses.
One day he called me aside and told me he was writing a novel. That was when I came to know that he was a playwright too. Every year he gets two chances of putting up his plays, one for the Onam festival as a part of an arts club’s annual celebrations and another for a temple near his home. I assured him I would surely read his manuscript when it was finished and try to find a publisher.
“Sir, you will love it. It is my own story, my life.”
“Really?”
“It is really funny. In it you will read how I got into trouble with the police because of my nickname.”
I knew it had not been fun for him in real life. He was beaten up badly at the police station. The old director was kind enough to arrange an advocate for him. The new director would have made sure he never came out.
Our earlier management was a Christian group. They were more or less tolerant of Mammu’s ways. They didn’t care much when he took french leave to attend the Friday Prayers. When the school was sold to a corporate group, the new director put an end to this. Mammu was very irritated and used the car shed for his prayer, amid the loud noise from the playground. He often told me it was as bad as not praying at all.
When I decided to resign from the school as I could not put up with their corporate ways, Mammu was dead against it.
“The children like you so much. They talk about you every day on the bus. They will miss you.”
“When they get another teacher, they will say the same about him too. There is nothing much in that.”
“What will you do, sir?”
“Find another school in some other place.”
“Leaving this place too? Then I too will miss you.”
I was pleasantly surprised to hear that. I had interacted with him only on very few occasions. In fact, I had heard about him from other people that from him. There were some very popular stories about how he got into trouble with the school authorities because of his naive ways and plain stupidity.
I left the school in time. In another month, they sacked several senior teachers and even the vice principal. The principal resigned on his own. New people, mostly hard-working young blood, took over. I ran into Mammu, mostly when I went to pick up a bottle of beer. He never asked me to buy a drink for him. If he was in the queue, he would get a bottle of beer for me. And accepted the payment and a small tip.
And then Corona struck a heavy blow. The school found in it a great chance to sack some of the non-teaching staff. The first one they wanted to kick out was Mammu. With him gone, there was no one else from his faith and it was desirable for the new management which was pro-Hindu in its attitude. While they took the decision, Mammu was on sick leave with Corona. He pulled himself out of it. No one had to break the bad news to him. So, he went to school as usual and then he was given the pink slip.
He walked out empty-handed and told the drivers that he was hungry. They shared their breakfast with him and gave him some money for his next meal.
Two days later, on a Saturday, when it was a holiday for the children and not for the staff, he came to school with a can of petrol. He moved to the far side of the playground where the drivers usually hang around to smoke on school days. He poured the huge can of petrol down his head and set himself ablaze.
People had started leaving. A couple of distant relatives had come to collect Mammu’s remains. I said bye to them and went home.
Reaching home, I went to the bathroom and took a quick shower. I could still smell the smoke all over me. I felt Mammu was out in the garden, tending the plants and waiting for me.
When I came out, my wife was waiting for me for dinner.
“Was it Corona?” She asked.
“No, it is something more common these days. You go on and eat. I don’t feel hungry.”
“What do you mean more common?”
“I mean ubiquitous.”
She smiled.
She likes it when I use strange words.
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.
Kashmir—everyone's dream destination. We were all excited when a chance to visit that paradise came our way. We flew into Srinagar from Delhi on a fine summer’s day. As soon as we landed, I could feel the nip in the air soothing my whole body. All around me were mountains draped in layers of snow—far away from the hustle and bustle of urban chaos. Because of security concerns, we were bundled into buses and transported from the airport to the tourist office in the city centre. The hall was full of hoteliers and their agents, pleading with the tourists to come to their hotel. I too joined the crowd and tried to bargain for a hotel room. After much haggling I struck a good deal.
We gathered our excited kids and were about to move out of the tourist office when I was approached by a shabby-looking Kashmiri. "Saab," he whispered in my ear, "why don't you come and take a look at my houseboat? It’s a different experience to sleep on the Dal Lake with waves splashing the boat." I hesitated. I had always been fascinated by houseboats and here was my chance to try one out. But then the hotel room I had booked would go to waste. He pleaded with me, "Saab, please take a look at my houseboat before you go anywhere else."
I asked my wife to keep an eye on the children while I went and checked out the houseboat. It was moored on the lake, its image reflected on the serene waters. The view of the lake from the boat was so panoramic. Inside it was decked up with carpeted seats and charming lights to make it cosy and homely. The lady of the houseboat entered from the kitchen with a bowl of piping hot soup. It was all so peaceful that I decided to give up the hotel room and move into the boat.
I retraced my steps to the tourist office with the house owner to collect my family and the luggage. But my family had vanished! There was no trace of my dear ones. I was thrown into a panic. Was it possible for terrorists to strike at the heart of Srinagar and disappear with a whole family? My host told me not to worry and started searching in every booth and room. Others also joined in the search. But being an alien to the place, all I could do was to sit quietly and pray. Suddenly my loved ones emerged from a corner like rabbits emerging from a burrow. I felt so relieved. At the same time my heart missed a beat when I saw daggers drawn in my wife’s eyes!
“Where did you go, leaving us high and dry?” she snapped at me. Even before I could reply she continued, “Can you imagine my plight in a strange place? It was so cold in the hall and the children were starving. I couldn’t give them anything because I had no money. Besides, the hours were ticking away and shops were closing down one by one. Desperately I appealed to a stallholder to make some chapatis and sabji for them. Thank God he obliged and they had food in their stomach. But then, what next? I was wondering whether to go to the police station and file an FIR when mercifully you turned up.”
I was stunned at the turn of events. I had chosen a houseboat to enhance our experience of Kashmir, but ended up putting their life on the line. “Sorry,” I muttered in my wife’s ear and squeezed her hand. Her fire spent, she followed me quietly as I took the suitcases and moved into the houseboat. Soon her gloom vanished when she saw the Dal Lake and the majestic mountains. Before long she was giggling along with our prancing children.
Over the days that followed we had a relaxing time visiting various tourist spots of Kashmir, while our hostess kept our stomach active with homemade Kashmiri dishes at regular intervals. When we left, we carried memories of the warmth of their hospitality, which remain fresh even today.
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.
(Translated from Odia story, Girjagharara Jhia, by Ajay Upadhyaya)
From a distance, his silhouette resembled an electric pole, straight and narrow, in most parts white, like a fixture of the Church yard. He was Father S J Augustine, thin and tall, his dark torso, almost totally covered by his white cloak.
There was a sprawling orchard behind the church and in its north-west corner, stood an abandoned asbestos outbuilding, in a dilapidated state. For us, the orchard’s chief attraction was a massive tree of Custard apple; it brought us back to the Church again and again. My friend Milon and I stealthily entered the orchard through its farthest gate for its delicious bounty.
Milon, from time to time, would, of course, questioned the morality of our action, with a warning, “Malhar, it is a crime to steal, and crime is often followed by punishment. But the lure of sweet custard apples always triumphed over the fear of punishment. So, our trips of thievery continued unabated.
In these trips, when we used to see Father Augustine from a distance, we ran to hide inside the abandoned building. Even in our hideout, we could not evade the gaze of the lizards, staring at us from its wall. Milon often used to say, our hiding was far from perfect; someone was still watching us.
Annoyed by his moralising, I would signal him to keep quiet. As he is younger than me, albeit by a few months, he would meekly follow my order. Nonetheless, he would occasionally ask, “If we get caught, what do you think would be our punishment?”
Once, we casually enquired with Sudama, the church gardener, about the punishment for stealing fruits from the orchard. He answered in mock seriousness, “Thieves are dealt with severely, they are hanged from their legs tied up, with their heads down.” That prompted us to think of our penance through confession.
On our subsequent visits, we would enter the chapel of the church to kneel before the Lord to admit silently to our theft and beg for forgiveness. While doing our prayer, I noticed, Father Augustine would be watching us from the corner of his eyes with a glint, as if he had come to know to about our pilfering. One Sunday, after the church prayers were over, we were summoned to his office. We were scared, not knowing what lay in store for us in the hands of the Father. As we kept walking towards him, his slender frame looked even taller. As we met, he blessed us with a gentle stroke on our heads and signalled us to follow him. We had no choice but to obey his command. After crossing three enormous halls, we entered a room where we were shown to a large basket, filed with ripe custard apples. He invited us to help ourselves with the fruits to our hearts’ content, saying, it was a gift from the Lord. We were relieved by Father Augustine’s generosity and thanked the Lord for his grace. Bowing our heads in gratitude, we made a hasty retreat.
When we were exiting the Church, we were arrested by the fragrance of Gangasiuli* (local name for Night jasmine). We looked around to figure out its source. Then we saw a girl sitting at the bottom of the steps, with a bunch of Night jasmine, we assumed, for offering to the Lord at her prayer.
Next day, I was alone in my trip to the church, as Milon was away, visiting his uncles’ house for a week. To my delight, Father Augustine invited me to join him for a photograph of us together in his impressive camera. He also read to me some verses from the Bible.
While returning from the church, I caught the scent of Night jasmine again. When I looked up, I spotted a bunch of Night Jasmine neatly gathered into a mound on the top of the steps. Then I found the same girl sitting on the bottom step, with her legs dangling. When our eyes met, a wave of elation washed over me. To add to my delight, she smiled back. Her pretty eyes were light in colour and she had golden hair set in attractive curls. The frock in light pink complemented her cheerful face and her dainty feet glowed in her fair complexion.
I picked up a few night jasmines from the step to savour their fragrance and put some in my pocket. I could visualise her face still smiling at me. Her beaming cheer lingered in my mind for a long time.
In the church, I got used to seeing her nearly every day. She would bring her bunch of night jasmine, but not offer them to the Lord inside. She would leave the flowers on the bottom step and sit quietly. She would be seen sometimes playing on her own and giggling to her self in the church yard. At times, she would be talking to Sudama, sharing with him pieces of cake, she brought in a tiffin career.
I longed to speak with her but was too shy to approach her, let alone talk. By now, I felt, I was possessed by her, aching to simply catch a glimpse of her. A trip to the church, thus, had become my daily routine. If she was delayed for some reason, I found myself anxiously waiting for her. I used to watch her from far, placing the flowers on the steps. I would wait for an opportunity to pick some flowers for myself. Our rendezvous routine was special. Physically separated by a flight of steps, we met; she sitting on the last step and I at the first. Despite the distance, her smile remained ever radiant.
I did not have to resort to stealing any longer. At every visit, Father Augustine would have arranged some custard apples, kept ready as my present.
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By the time Milon returned from his visit to his uncle’s place, I was down with a bout of malaria. This interrupted my trips to the church, but Milon continued to visit alone. On his way back from the church he would stop by my house and share the details of his recent visit to his uncle’s house.
He talked with genuine pride over his newly mastered skill of swimming during this trip to his uncle’s place. In the meantime, the girl from the church had taken complete hold of my mind. I was aching to enquire about her as Milon made no mention of the girl. I thought of asking him directly about her but I could not bring myself to bring up the topic. Because, I knew Milon’s nature: he couldn’t keep a secret. And, I could not risk my private feelings for the girl broadcast in the school. I had, therefore, no choice but to suppress my urge and keep quiet.
One day, Father Augustine appeared at my house, unannounced. He had heard about my affliction and managed to locate my house. He had brought some custard apples for me. He gave his blessings for my speedy recovery before bidding good bye. I remained expectant, hoping to get better soon.
A couple of days before I fully recovered from Malaria, Milon paid me a visit. As we got talking I was grabbed again by the familiar fragrance of night jasmine. I immediately got up, looking around to work out where the scent was coming from. It felt as if the girl from the church had come to my house and was waiting outside the window. I promptly opened the window but there was nobody. The jasmine smell was getting stronger. I could not help asking Milon, if he could smell it too.
Milon looked somewhat uneasy, as if he was trying to hide something. But he could not conceal his secret for long. He took out the bunch of night jasmine from his pocket and showed me. Surprised, I asked where he got them from. He looked squarely at me and said, “It is the girl from the church who gave them.”
“Which girl?” I asked, surprised.
“The girl from the church” He repeated.
“Does she know you?”
“Of course, she brings me flowers everyday.”
The grin on Milon’s face gave away his triumphant sense of achievement. His new pronouncement left me shattered, as if my most precious possession had been snatched away. From that day onward, I did not look forward to Milon’s visits any longer; it did not mean much to me, any more. Eventually, I recovered from my illness. One day, I went to the church, without Milon’s knowledge. It was deserted; there was no Father Augustine, nor Sudama. I went inside the chapel and wept to my hearts content before the Lord. I was unaware, how long I sat there. Finally, when I was returning, I spotted the same girl, sitting at the bottom of the steps, lost in her own world. Next to her, lay the bunch of night jasmine. Perhaps, she was waiting for Milon to appear. At the sight of me, she gave a half smile and turned her head towards the path.
I was on my way back home. All on a sudden, I was seized by a crazy idea. I plucked a red rose from the garden and returned to approach the girl. When I presented her the rose, she gazed at it intently for a while, gently stroking it. Then she looked at me with questioning eyes. I signalled her to follow me and started walking towards the abandoned house. She followed me without saying a word. On entering inside the house, I looked around; not a soul anywhere to be seen. She was gazing at me without a blink. I was fuming inside in my rage at her silence. Finally, I told her bluntly in a coarse voice, “You are repulsive; absolutely disgusting.” Perhaps, she was about to say something in return. But, I was in no mood to listen to any explanation from her. Without any consideration of the consequences, I pulled out two match sticks from the match box, I used to carry for lighting candles in the church. I lit the matches in one stroke and held them close to her right hand, singeing the back of her palm. I stormed out immediately and disappeared before I could hear her screaming out in pain.
I never returned to the church again. Perhaps, my guilt over the savagery of my mindless act stopped me. The fear of punishment from Father Augustine was weighing heavy in my mind too. If he came to know of this incident the punishment would be drastic, I feared. If the news reached my home, the dire consequences did not bear thinking. My only recourse was praying to God for a solution to my predicament.
Mercifully, my prayers were answered. Perhaps, the Lord took pity in me. My father got transferred and we left the place. I received a basket of custard apples and a Bible from father Augustine as a farewell gift. Nonetheless, a wave of sadness came over me as I was leaving this place for good.
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Twelve years elapsed, while Milon and I remained in contact by phone or mail, throughout. He kept me informed of all the news from our last place. Many changes had come about over the years. A new school had opened near the church and a bridge over the river had been refurbished. The bazaar had also been transformed amongst a lot of other changes to the place. I would long to see Father Augustine again and enquire about the girl from the church but my busy job precluded any such activity.
Yesterday, Milon phoned me with the sad news about Father Augustine, who was seriously ill from a major heart attack. I felt as if a major milestone in my life was fading away. Deeply saddened by this news, I decided to visit the town of my childhood. Throughout the journey, the events of my time there played out in my mind. After six long hours, when I reached my destination, Milon was waiting at the bus stop to receive me. His looks had changed little from our school days but he had put on some weight. As I alighted from the bus, he embraced me in a tearful hug.
In the guest house, we were seated across a table, catching up with all our life events. The first news, Milon shared, was the tragic death of Father Augustine on the previous day. This brought on me a profound sense of emptiness and a few drops of tear too.
That night, we did not sleep a wink as we kept chatting and catching up with all the news from the intervening years. There was such a lot to exchange that we did not realise it was morning soon.
Next morning, we visited Father Augustine’s grave. I fell to my knees, sobbing, “Who will get me custard apples now, Father Augustine?” As if in reply to my words, the wind blew and brought in it some flowers. I caught a few of them and held close to my chest. Poignantly, the flowers were night jasmine. This intensified my nostalgia many fold.
I could no longer restrain myself, and asked Milon, “What news of the girl from the church?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The same girl, who used to bring night jasmines for you.”
“Oh! You mean Nadia.”
“Is that her name? I had named her Gangasiuli. That is how I remember her and for me that will remain her nickname.”
“Yes, She is Nadia. But the flowers were not meant for me.”
“But, that day, you told me, she brought flowers for you everyday. You had them in your pocket and I remember, how proudly you showed them to me.” I retorted in one breath.
Milon looked uneasy and inhaled deep before saying, “I lied to you that day, Malhar.”
“Nadia used to bring the flowers everyday and carefully set them in a mound on the steps to the church. I wanted to believe that they were my present. The mere thought of Nadia bringing flowers for me was enough to make me ecstatic. That day, I pinched some of them and brought them along in my pocket, when I was visiting your house. But, soon I realised, they were not meant for me. She brought them for Father Augustine. Poor Nadia was orphaned in her infancy and Father Augustine was very fond of her. She, in turn, was devoted to him; she literally worshipped him with her flowers. When I found out the truth, it shattered my world of fantasy, where Nadia was in love with me. I was left heart broken and even you were not around for sharing my grief. Oh yes, these flowers on father Augustine’s grave must be from Nadia’s morning visit today.”
At this seismic revelation by Milon, it felt as if the earth below me suddenly gave way. My head started to reel as I realised my folly. What a world of illusion, I had been living in, for so long! The thought of my barbaric act under my mistaken belief stung me with sharp pangs of guilt.
I managed to compose myself and asked, “Does Nadia live somewhere close by?”
“Yes, she works for an NGO in this town.”
“How closely do you know her?”
“Yes, Malhar, after you left this place, I felt rather alone. So, I forged a friendship with her and our bond deepened over time as I came to know what a caring person Nadia was.”
I felt, at the very least, I must go to Nadia and ask for her forgiveness. Blinded by jealousy, in my mistaken idea that she was in love with Milon, that day, I singed her hand with burning matchstick. The scene of my burning her forearm, in a wild impulse, flashed again before my eyes. A wave of repentance engulfed me.
I managed to contain my emotions and turned to him, “I wish to meet Nadia again, Milon. Where can I see her?”
“But, what for?”
I remained silent; words had dried up inside me. It seems, Milon could read my mind and took me straight to Nadia’s place and left me outside her house. While I was about to ring the bell, eerily, the door opened, just before my finger touched the bell. A young woman, with golden hair and almond coloured eyes was staring at me with a questioning look. I recognised her instantly from her eyes. Twelve long years had failed to dim her memory in my mind. At the sight of her, I could no longer contain myself, and blurted out, “I am Malhar. As a child I used to visit the church with Milon. I also used to pinch your night jasmines. And, I was the one, who in my misunderstanding, burnt your hand with matchsticks. I am sure, you remember me, at least for this act of savagery. I have returned to seek forgiveness for my sin, Nadia.”
I was in a state of trepidation, fearing for some reprisal from her, in response to my confession. Will she start off with hurling abuse? Or, kick me out of her house? But she did nothing of the kind. Her face, in stead, lit up with a flicker of a smile. She went back inside the house and promptly returned with a piece of plain paper and handed it to me.
On the paper, it was written, “I am deaf and mute from birth. Please, write here whatever you want to say.“
While she was handing me a pen for me to write, I could see the twin scars on her fair hand. Their sight made my eyes well up. The urge to say something had to be crushed inside, because I could not utter a word. Forgetting all my sense of etiquette, I clasped her hand with both of mine and planted a light kiss on the scars.
She gazed at me with eyes wide open, surprised by my brazen display of disinhibition. Then, her eyes turned moist. Perhaps, she finally did recognise me. That day, I could see the tears in her brimming eyes, glistening for me, though, I couldn’t be certain of what they meant.
Did she truly forgive me?
*Gangasiuli: The local name for the fragrant flower, Night Jasmine (Night flowering Jasmine) or Coral Jasmine; individual flowers open at dusk, finishing at dawn. Other names are Parijat, Shefali, Siuli, Jharaa Sephali and Har-Shringaar. The tree is also called the “Tree of Sorrow” because the flowers lose their brightness during daytime.
(Translated from Odia story, “Nishabda Pruthibee” by Ajay Upadhyaya)
You are spared the pain of losing something, if you never knew, they be-longed to you in the first place. In life, as you begin to feel, you own some-thing, they invariably start to slip away.
Everything, I knew as our ancestral property, was put up for partition. The whole of the house, the scattered paddy fields in their entirety, the pond with its banks and the mango groves including the land, had to be split into two halves. Although I had seen plenty of such partitions in my local neighbour-hood, I never imagined it happening in our own family,
Our father passed away first, soon followed by our mother. Now, both have been reduced to a photograph on the wall. Even their picture looks hazy from the dust gathered on the glass. It is perhaps a blessing as it blurs their vision; at least, they are spared the distress of watching their assets being butchered into halves for my younger brother Bulu and me. They would perhaps die all over again, this time from shame, if they could see the partition in its gory de-tails.
The moon on the sky today was looking full. I remember, as children, Bulu and I, gazing at the moon together. In child like wonder, we delighted in shar-ing the joy; we never saw it as my or his moon. But, looking at it today, each of us sees a different moon, thorough separate eyes.
My two year old nephew, Putul, Bulu’s son, comes to me to sit on my lap, brushes his face against my chest. He has no idea of the impending division of assets. All he knows is that I am his uncle, inseparable from him, an indi-visible part of his world. Almost certainly, he would look for me tomorrow morning. He would knock on my door, as he would be craving to sit on my lap.
He calls me not uncle, but Badabapa (literally means Senior Father, a respect-ful address for father’s older brother). He will be knocking on my door, calling out for me, in his babbling voice. But there would be no response, none what-soever. Because I won’t be around to reply. I can’t simply contemplate leaving the house, while he is looking on. Therefore, I would be waking up early in the morning and slyly sneak out of the house in the darkness of the night, like a burglar, stealthily slipping out of the crime scene.
Now, we are separate; we no longer share the same household. Our home and hearth have already been divided. By dawn break, we two brothers would have turned into neighbours.
Bulu had been saying, “Bhai (local term for brother), Let’s finish the ritual of this separation while times are good. Times are changing fast, perhaps heading for the worse. We would be spared a lot of trouble if we sort everything out at the right time. You see, you have no children to worry about. But I need to consider the future of my boys. I have plans for converting my half of the an-cestral home into a four storey building.”
I gazed into his face, trying to decipher the meaning of his cryptic idiom: good versus bad times. “This is all in your mind, Bulu” I wanted to tell him, “Time is like water, it has no colour. Its look changes with the tint of your goggles.” But somehow, I couldn’t find the suitable language for him. Yesterday, while I was driving down from Bhubaneswar to Cuttack, I witnessed a horrific traffic acci-dent; an overloaded lorry had hit a cyclist, crushing the young cyclist to death. All I could see of the cyclist, jotting out from under the truck, were his two boy-ish feet. “All times, good or bad lead to the same end and this is it,” I said to myself.
I wanted to tell him, “It is perhaps best to lend our shoulders to each other for the remaining days before this inevitability,” but could not bring myself to say anything. He was engrossed in studying the blue print of our ancestral prop-erty. He was so immersed in measuring its dimensions and calculating the square footage, working towards an equitable split, that I doubt if, in his frame of mind, he could grasp my meaning, anyway.
Even worse, all my thoughts on the matter had by now become virtually mean-ingless. In the hectic journey of life, somewhere, we had lost trust in each other; it had imperceptibly vanished. Don’t know how it happened or where the process started. Did it begin to evaporate in the lessons of the classroom? Or, did most of it dissipate in the hubbub of the village market? May be, it quietly drowned to its death in the cacophony of the city. Somewhere along the way, the sapling of mistrust had sprouted, slowly spreading its roots so deep and wide that it had become impossible to eradicate.
Putul was weeping, insisting on having his dinner with us all at the dinning ta-ble. But with his diminutive frame, his arms were not long enough to reach the food plate on the table from the chair. He would walk up to me and longingly look at my lap. He would make an attempt to climb up to my lap but his soft muscles could not pull him up to me. When I pick him up to my lap, he would start to grab the food with his tiny fingers from the table to eat. But, he could barely eat anything he picked, dropping most of the food all over me. In the process, he would make a terrible mess; by the end of our meal, I would be left smeared with his leftovers. But it hardly bothered me. Far from finding it filthy, it felt as if I was anointed with the sacred most food meant for the Lord, consecrated by the holiest of the priests. For me, the whole experience bor-dered on a spiritual trip; I felt blessed!
I let out a long sigh, wishing that today never came to an end, so that there would be no next morning, the date set for our partition. But the morning ar-rived at its predestined hour. Long before dawn break, I had planned my de-parture, stealthily tiptoeing myself out of the house. I was most worried about how to handle Putul, if he woke up and grabbed my legs, barring me from leaving the house. Generally he simply won’t let go of my legs. But it is differ-ent now. We are no longer inseparable; the partition has split us apart. Any-way, Putul is now fast asleep; he is best left undisturbed. He mustn’t get any scent of the partition that was tearing our close knit family.
On our way out, my brother handed me the key to my share of the property. I held it firmly in my fist. I took a good look back at our ancestral house before heading out. I realised, we actually spent little time in this house. Our father was in a transferrable job, making his places of posting our home, and we re-turned to this house only occasionally. After our parents passed away, it was left under the supervision of a caretaker, who maintained in a habitable state. Today, my brother wants to demarcate his share of this house, which has brought us back to our village. He has travelled from Bangalore and I have come from Nuapada. For last three weeks, we have been living together un-der one roof, sharing a kitchen and enjoying a special closeness with our families, although the primary purpose of the visit is division of the property in-to individual shares. Watching the process of partitioning, my wife was over-come with emotion, and shed a few drops of tear. I was not sure how genuine was her display of emotion; figuring out her state of mind was beyond me, an-yway. I started the car, in my usual way, as if I was least troubled by the parti-tion and it caused me no heartache at all.
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The car had picked up speed. I was quiet and my wife, Shweta, let out a yawn. As if to break the monotony of the silence, she started a conversation. But, I could not somehow hear what she was saying. More likely, I did not quite understand what she was implying. Finally, to jolt me out of my reverie, she taunted me, “Why do you get so emotional at this partition? Didn’t you know that the number of houses eventually equals the number of brothers.”
I retorted violently and it came out in swear words, “Who the hell told you such ——.”
“What has come over you? I never heard such vulgar language from you.”
“O Kay, You never heard from me before; today let me say it all; ——-, ——-, ——-. “The number of houses always matches the number of brothers!” What rubbish! Why couldn’t the same ——— authority on the subject say, “Only one house for one hundred brothers” Has he not read our epic Mahabharat, where hundred Kaurav brothers lived together without partition?”
“Why are your taking your anger out on me? I am merely stating, what is common knowledge.”
“Now, shut up. Will you just shut up?’ I roared back at Shweta.
She immediately stopped talking, but I could hear feeble sounds of sobbing.
Our car was steadily rolling towards our destination. It had turned dark. I had driven down this road so many times but something came over me, which had never happened before. As we approached Nuapada, our car stopped in front of a school building. The signage on the school read, Utkalmani Gopa-bandhu School, Khadiala. This was our school; both of us went to this school, when we lived here. The roof of the building was not concrete then and it used to leak in rainy days. When it rained, we somehow huddled together to avoid getting soaked. If necessary, we managed by holding classes on the verandah. There was no proper toilet those days. The open fields behind the school building was the only facility for attending to calls of nature. Next to the school stood our home.
Oh, yes, it was our home! It was our father’s official quarters, which housed our family. When I looked around, I found, the school was locked. I stopped the car and without saying anything to Shweta, I got off. Nearby was a shop and I enquired with the shopkeeper about the Soil Conservation Office, which used to be near the school, but was somehow not to be seen.
The shop keeper stared at me before asking, “When did you last visit this place, Sir?” His question set me thinking and I made a mental calculation of the time, that had elapsed since we last lived here before replying, “about thir-ty odd years ago.”
“Yes, that’s what I guessed. The Office, you are talking about, is no longer at this spot, it has moved to the area behind the shops. It is dark now , so you must be careful while you walk to the office. But, I think, the old quarters have not moved and should be still there, although I am not sure who lives in the building these days.”
I indicated to Shweta to wait for me in the car and eagerly proceeded towards the quarters. Its solid iron gate was in a state of disrepair but it was locked from inside. Next to it stood a smaller gate, which was slightly open. I pushed it fully open and entered inside. In my mind, I had a clear vision of the build-ing’s layout and configuration of its interior. The inside was pitch dark. With the flash light of my mobile phone, I found my way around. Finally, I could see a faint light. When I knocked, an elderly gentleman opened the door, asking me, whom I was looking for.
“Our home.” I blurted out
“I am sorry, I can’t quite follow you” he responded.
His words alerted me to the reality. I realised how strange my behaviour must have struck him. Obviously, I owed him a fuller explanation of the situation.
I cleared my throat and started hesitantly “I mean, this where we lived as chil-dren. Our father was posted as the Junior Engineer in the Soil Conservation Office. We called this official quarters our home. Today, as I was passing by this area, I felt like stopping by to visit this house.”
Following this introduction, the gentleman enquired about my father’s name. As I mentioned his name, his face lit up. He told me, he had heard of my fa-ther and gave me his own introduction. He was also a Junior Engineer in the same office. He was living alone in the house, along with a couple of peons. He ordered one of the peons to put tea to boil and took me for a tour of the house. I saw the main bedroom, exactly as it was laid out in our time. At the sight of the bedroom, I could not contain myself. Immediately, I threw myself on the floor and leapt across to slip under the bed towards the corner wall. As I was stroking the wall, the gentleman looked at me, surprised, and asked what I was searching for.
“Our home,” was my reply again.
“How do you mean?” He squatted on the floor to get close to me, looking for a clarification.
“One day, when we were hiding under this bed, my brother and I inscribed in black ink, “Our home” on the corner wall. That is what I am after.”
“Oh, But how do you expect to find it today? This wall must have been painted many times over since.”
“That hardly matters. Repainting the wall can only obscure our scribblings; but ‘Our home’ still stands.”
He first scratched his head and next stroked his beard, utterly puzzled. My words must have struck him as crazy talk.
Perhaps, I had really gone mad. I insisted on my plan of going round the en-tire house including the back garden. He turned out to be too much of a gen-tleman to refuse me. He promptly got the house lit and arranged a peon to accompany me in this house tour with two flash lights. Delighted by his offer, I straight made a run for the well in the back garden. I remembered, there was a guava tree near the well. I was overjoyed to see it still standing, after so many years. I could not restrain myself; I swung my arms round the trunk, holding it in my embrace. An urge to weep was rising inside me but I con-trolled myself. I was dying to share these moments with Bulu, so I placed a video call to Bulu on my mobile phone. He sounded rather worried by my call, and asked if something was wrong.
On the screen of the phone, I didn’t see Bulu, as he looks now, but saw the boyish face of child Bulu with his innocent smile and soft cheeks. That set me off on my monologue, “Look Bulu, do you remember this house, our house? Yes, our house! Here is the old guava tree, still standing, Do you remember, I used to climb up this tree and you used to swing down from the tree, hanging from my dangling legs. And, look at the well; we used to savour its water, sweet as nectar. And, here is something to delight you, if you can see through the dark. There, in the dingy corner of the garage, is the office jeep our Baba (local term for father), we used to ride on. It is lying here, derelict. Do you re-member the day, we had hidden under the back seat of the jeep, when Baba was on his official trip. He discovered us half way down the route and had to turn round immediately. On reaching home, we were punished with a sound thrashing for our prank. Under the same jeep, our favourite puppy, Sulu, was accidentally crushed to death under the reversing jeep. I can remember eve-rything vividly, as if it was yesterday. See Bulu, here is the school, adjoining the compound wall of our quarters. We used to walk to school together, hand in hand, in fair weather and foul. No rain or storm ever could separate us; nothing could touch our closeness. How come then, our ancestral home is now split into your house and mine? You know what, Bulu, we tend to split things, which are under our control. Our petty mind and arrogant ego, contam-inate our togetherness, corroding it from within, eventually splitting us into you and me. I now feel the terrible loneliness of that “me”. But look at our home, these derelict quarters. It no longer belongs to us, but is still proudly standing with its original identity and all our memories intact. This is your home, my home; this is our home, whole and indivisible. This can’t be partitioned; it’s in-herently beyond division into your and my portion. Anything that can be parti-tioned is destroyed when you carve it up. Now, coming to our ancestral prop-erty, it’s better, you own it wholly. I promise, I will never return to claim my share. Whenever I feel the desire to see our home, I shall come here. This is where I can relive our cherished childhood and savour the memory of our sweetest days and the dearest figures from our life.
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Perhaps, Bulu was trying to say something. I could see his lips flickering, as if he was stammering silently. But I did not give him a chance. Before he could utter anything, I delivered my ultimate pronouncement. “Listen Bulu, you may remember, as children, you used to ride piggyback on me; hanging on my back with your arms round my neck. When my neck used to hurt under pres-sure from your body weight, I would be begging for some respite. All my pleas, “Let me have a break, Bulu, please let go of my neck.” would be re-buffed by your mischievous reply, “ This is not your neck Bhai; this is mine.” You loved to piggyback round my neck all the time. In a way, I realise now, your claim at the time was far from innocent. My neck truly belonged to you and always will remain yours. You are free to claim your entitlement, Bulu; now, you may have my whole neck. This is all that is left of me, anyway.”
I could barely hear what Bulu was saying at the other end. The world around me was suddenly stunned into silence; my ears went numb. A sense of help-lessness engulfed me. My mind froze and I was trembling with a dread, hither-to unknown to me. All I could do in panic was to switch the video call off.
Badabapa: literally senior father, an affectionate address for father’s older brother
** Bhai: brother
*** Baba: father
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.
TORMENTOR, NO MORE!
Meena Mishra
Sharing a true incident from TIL’s ( TIL - stands for The Impish Lass) life. But this is not only her story. This is the story of millions of girls who are independent and try to live their life on their terms. TIL happened to meet this fellow Prabhakar (name changed), who worked as the Vice President in an MNC. She met him during one of her book launches as he was a contributing writer in one of her anthologies.
He asked for her phone number and started sending her good-morning messages for eight months. She was fine with that since many writers and poets do that. At times he would like her WhatsApp status and at times the interaction was a bit more friendly-familiar than that of an acquaintance. Perhaps that encouraged him to propose that they meet over coffee after the lockdown. TIL agreed.
It was a harmless suggestion coming from an educated working professional. But little did she know, this was the first step towards trouble. Then it began. He started sending messages telling her that he liked her very much and would like to talk to her over the phone. Naturally, she explicitly explained to him that she was not interested and blocked him. She thought that was it.
No sir, there was more in store! The previous night TIL’s security guard informed her that there was a man with a pizza, who wanted to deliver to her place, personally. Now, these days due to the pandemic-lockdown no outsider was allowed inside the premises and all the deliveries were collected by the security personnel. TIL told him it must be a mistake as she had not ordered anything. Immediately after that she received a call from an unknown number. On picking up the phone she got to know it was Prabhakar on the line. TIL was shocked. “Please come down near the watchman’s cabin. I just want to see you. We will not exchange words since you don’t want to. I am madly in love with you. I want to see you once, that’s all,” he said. This was unexpected and uncalled for. It left her scandalised. She immediately disconnected the phone and was about to block him when a thought flashed in her mind.
“Why am I afraid of him? What have I done?” She composed herself and called him back, “Prabhakar, are you still there? “Yes,” he replied perkily. “Please don’t disconnect the phone till you hear me out till the end. Also, don’t speak in between. Just listen to me. Ok?” “I would do anything to hear your voice,” Prabhakar replied cockily. TIL had already planned to speak point wise; she started. “I am a broad - minded woman living in this dream city. What makes you think that I am fine with boys visiting me? Did I ever send you any such message that gave you this indication?” She continued, “I wear short dresses, party with my friends and click selfies. How does this interfere with your day-to-day activities?” TIL then told him about the 500 contacts she had blocked, till date as all of them had claimed love for her. She also stated firmly that she was an independent lady, who enjoyed her freedom, leading a life that she had chosen for herself. Then she demanded to know, who had given him the right to encroach upon her life.
Thereafter TIL was a bit harsh when she suggested that if he felt he was a handsome, eligible bachelor drawing a fat salary every month, he needed a reality check. She told him about her successful business house and added, “100 MBAs like you run their houses on the salary I pay them. I just need to shoot one mail to your company, and you will become jobless. My success-story has been covered by Times of India and Mid-Day; I advise you to read those newspapers. The Police Commissioner of Mumbai and the Cyber Security Director are my friends. I am sending you their contact details if you wish to verify it yourself.
Last but not the least, Mister, I am unblocking your number. I am unblocking all the 500 blocked numbers now. You have taught me a lesson for a lifetime. People like you should be scared of me, not the other way round!” And with this closing statement, TIL disconnected the phone. And that my dear readers put paid to the unsolicited affection being showered upon her. TIL felt so much better, after this simple but machoism-crushing act. It also made her think about the girls in our society, especially the independent kind. Why do we always begin by blaming ourselves?
Probably because our society is not supportive. That is so wrong! Wrong is still understandable but that should not become a deterrent. All one has to do is to identify one’s individual strength and Punch in the Gut (figuratively) would be ideal. It is high time girls stop being defensive. I guess whenever these hecklers are ‘only’ blocked they continue bullying other girls. But when the bothered become brave and call their bluff, they know the time is up for them! It does not matter whether you are a boy or girl. It does not matter whether you are 13 or 35. Do not allow anyone to bully you. You do not deserve it. Only when confronted with a problem do we realise our capacity to handle it. I guess we should be thankful to the people who create them because they teach us the skills that our friends cannot. Avoid overreacting to the problem. Think, plan, and tackle it successfully. Then it becomes a lifelong lesson.
( This is a true incident from the author’s life)
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.
Ireland is one of the most beautiful countries in the world. It also has one of the coldest winters. A tiny country that lies along the Atlantic sea.
Winter was at its coldest when Father Thom got there from Rome. The wide roads were lined on either side by leafless trees. It was like they were reaching their arms for the sky. Hilltops and scraggly hill sides lay tucked in behind the white haze of the cold.
A young woman named Traveres was at the Dublin airport to receive father Thom. She was a light-skinned, short-statured and extremely beautiful nun. She wore a name plate that said “Sister Traveres”. But she wasn’t in the habit of a nun. She wore a black midi-skirt and a lovely white top with tiny lace work on it. She had on a grey woollen jacket over it. A woollen cap. A pair of shoes that came up to her knees. And gloves of leather. “A doll that has come alive”, thought Father Thom. The cold wind continued to blow strongly.
“Father Thom, I’m Traveres. Coney Traveres.”
They shook hands. Coney embraced him rather respectfully and said, “Welcome to Ireland.”
Father Thom was a journalist. He had earned himself a PhD from the University of California and was working in Rome as a missionary with a Catholic organisation connected to the Vatican.
Father Thom’s baggage consisted of two boxes. One contained his clothes and the books he loved and the other held his camera and studio accessories. The taxi was waiting outside the airport. The driver was a woman. She packed the father’s bags in the boot and got into the car. She wore a large woollen overcoat that covered most of her body.
The wind was blowing at six kilometres an hour and Father Thom felt cold although he wore a suit.
“The temperature is below zero”, the driver muttered for all to hear. “It’s terrible travelling in this weather.”
The car drove along wide city roads with very little traffic and got on to the motor way. She was driving fast now.
Traveres was silent the whole drive. She was lost in the cold, frozen sights outside the car window. They were beginning to move out of the city. A few buildings and houses popped up here and there like ruins from ancient monuments. The car was approaching the country side. In the distance were lines of castles with ports for canons. Also the sea. Wind, sunshine, blue skies, white puffs of clouds borne by the breeze and the ruckus of gulls screeching gleefully. The Atlantic looked so beautiful in the distant horizon. The deep blue of the waters was dappled with the white of the winter fog. A warming sight for cold eyes.
The monastery was an hour and a half’s drive from the airport. The black asphalt wound around numerous bends and rose higher up the hill.
Father Thom broke the uneasy silence, “Have you been here long, Sister Traveres?”
Traveres was silent.
Father Thom wore a signet ring with a blue stone on his right forefinger. It was a prize he had won for doing exceptionally well in his PhD programme in California.
“A PhD in journalism is a rare achievement. Especially for an Asian missionary like you.” Traveres began to speak at some point.
“Yes.”
“I too studied journalism.”
“Oho?”
Father Thom opened up to her. For thirteen years he had been the secretary at the international news centre of the Catholic church. He spoke about the peaceful life in Rome, the close relations with the Vatican, one to one interaction with the Pope. Father Thom had been happy and contented all those years.
New thoughts and philosophies were coming into the church. Hopeful signs of a reformation. Father Thom’s articles and journals were noticed by the world media. He was beginning to be seen as a spokesman for change. His writings were a ground plan for that change. He soon came to be known as a good speaker and writer. He was the secretary of the news service department and was hoping to rise to a senior post soon. But he was completely taken off guard by the events that followed. A transfer that he hadn’t imagined even remotely.
It was difficult to leave aside the comfortable trappings of life in Rome. Father Thom had no inkling that he’d have to move to Ireland, a country beset with various troubles and dangers. He was distressed.
Father Thom let out a deep sigh and said, “They elevated my assistant Nichols, a German, to the post above me. And packed me off to Ireland without so much as giving me an opportunity to say anything… I’m an Asian, after all. I tend to believe that my dark skin had a say in the matter.”
Traveres burst into a guffaw. “That’s European racism for you! To be honest, you have a lot to be happy about Father. After all, you’ve become someone big in the church. Becoming the press secretary is no small thing.”
“They’ve now given that post to someone related to the Provincial Superior.”
Nepotism and racism have plagued the church for ever. But then, they exist all over the world.
Father Thom buried himself in a chamber of silence. He felt better realising that sister Traveres knew everything about him. The cold wind was now blowing strongly. The car window was getting wet from the cold. The driver Juliana switched on the wipers occasionally.
“Do you want to break for coffee or something?” she asked.
“No”, said sister Traveres, “There aren’t many good places outside the city. And shouldn’t we get to the monastery before it gets dark?”
Nobody said anything.
Sheep were moving about lazily on the grassy hillside.
“Your articles in the Vatican journals… your views on reforms… were a treat to us students at Edinburgh. Especially for nuns like us at the missionary. They offered some relief from the stifling traditions… We saw some hope there”, Sister Traveres spoke softly. Father Thom understood that she was well informed and was an independent thinker. Both withdrew into their silent shells and tried to make themselves comfortable there.
Everything happens for a purpose. And there’s no escaping destiny. Father Thom lay back with his eyes closed trying to chase away memories that were gnawing at him. He had found refuge in a place away from human contact, a large trench with walls of hard granite. A fortress with low walls. Large but enclosed.
Another surprise was waiting for Father Thom when they finally reached the large building that was called the monastery. Traveres was going to be his assistant in the work in Ireland.
Other missionaries had also gathered in the monastery. Ireland was divided into two distinct regions, north and south. Yet the people continued to clash over religious and political differences. Father Thom was here to renew and develop the Catholic ties of the people here. He was the spokesperson for the Catholic church and surely had a lot to do.
Sister Traveres led him to his room. The building had long verandas lined with large pillars. The place was steeped in a cold silence. Sister Traveres wished him rest and vanished somewhere beyond the long veranda.
Sister Traveres did not show up at dinner that evening. Father Thom met the other residents of the monastery. They were missionaries who had come from various provinces in Europe. Father Thom spoke with them in English, Spanish, Latin or French. He could speak most European languages. They took a liking for his vigour and communication skills.
Slowly, Father Thom began to understand the conflicts that besieged the region. The Irish people bore unhealed wounds from the forty years of civil war in the region. The conflicts continued unabated. Besides the Catholics and the Protestants, a new group had also sprung up. To bring peace among them was not going to be easy. Peace would have to be established among the warring groups, province by province.
Father Thom slept little that first night. He was worried and lay tossing in the low bed. He realised that he was caught in a very difficult juncture in his life. The wind was howling outside. It was difficult getting through the night.
Father Thom got out of bed early. He folded the large blanket neatly and kept it on the bed. He looked around. The room was rather bare. There was a table and a chair. Good enough for him to read and write. Against the wall was a room heater that made the cold tolerable. He started getting ready for the day’s travel. He checked the camera and the rest of his shooting gear. He put on a thick wool jacket with a hood.
The father spread out a road map and was marking out the places he had to visit when sister Coney Traveres came in. She looked at the camera and asked, “Ready already?!”
That was the first picture on Father Thom’s camera. Sister Traveres’s rather round face looked swollen like a football. He wondered if she was unwell.
“My room is in the lower floor. It’s small and horribly cold and infested with mice and cockroaches. The cold air keeps blowing in through the air holes. Who is to bother! We’re missionaries, the last word on perseverance.” Sister Traveres’s face was sad and distressed.
Breakfast was four slices of bread and three slices of bacon roasted in butter. Father Thom toasted the slices of bread himself and made a sandwich with the bacon. Sister Traveres mixed the mayonnaise and avocado pulp into a sauce in a bowl. It was light green in colour.
Father Thom remembered his mother and the light green chutney of mint leaves and grated coconut she made to go with the hot dosas. Also the puttu made in bamboo stumps and the chickpea curry. His mouth and heart watered from the memory.
Father Thom had passed out of school with distinction. He shocked everyone when he said he wanted to join the seminary in Pune and become a missionary. He had to blackmail his family, going hungry for days, to finally get them to agree. His mother had been silent. She had perhaps seen Thom as a way out of their poverty. But the poor woman had to hand over her only progeny to the church. She finally died in poverty while her son was doing God’s work in Europe.
“Father Thom… you seem lost in thought?”
“Oh, it’s nothing… don’t worry.”
They were heading to a prison called Maze, which was rather well known in Northern Ireland, for the wrong reasons. The famous hunger strike that came to be called the Dirty Protest had taken place there. Ten men are believed to have died in the protest. Their leader Bobby Sands died on the sixty-sixth day of the hunger strike. The public was appalled and riots broke out all over the country. Tens of thousands of people had gathered in the streets of Belfast at Sands’s funeral.
Sister Traveres seemed to come alive travelling with Father Thom. There were always new things to learn from him. Father Thom was a vast fund of knowledge.
The father was deeply disappointed with the prison visits and the meetings with the peace volunteers. For two reasons, he believed. One, the climate. The ennui of the severe winter. Two, the peace volunteers suspected him of being an Irish Republican spy. This had spread among the inmates. They mistook him for being an apologist for the Catholic church and they refused his offer of rehabilitation. Father Thom felt tired and lost.
In the days that followed, the prison officials transferred the inmates to various other locations. There were frequent prison breaks followed by violent incidents. The officials were at a loss. But Father Thom realised that several of the inmates were not the real culprits at all. They were being detained wrongfully. The authorities wanted to stamp out the local disturbances and the solution they found was to round up the rebels and their leaders and throw them in prison.
Some of the inmates were prisoners of war from Europe. Some were slaves deported from England. And some were people involved in petty crimes. There was nobody to speak up for them. The long incarceration had made them ill. Some had even lost their memory. Would it be possible to free, rehabilitate and find means of livelihood for all these men?
The Republican Army had the power to bring out directives for making changes and creating communal harmony. They were dominant in the government too. And that was the only ace Father Thom held. He wrote out a report. Nobody could sleep in the monastery that night. It was an honest piece of journalistic work questioning every belief and prejudice about the situation. And had lots of photos. It was a rejection of every discrimination based on caste, religion and race. A step towards a new horizon. A call for a harmonious and united province. But…
The stone walls of the monastery were attacked with threats, shootings and bombs.
Sister Traveres said, “Father Thom, you’re being accused of getting into things that are outside the church’s purview.”
“Yes, I know. A letter I got today calls me a lunatic who doesn’t care about the consequences of his words.”
Father Thom’s article had raised questions like, “How can you have peace pacts when you build thirty-foot walls around Catholic neighbourhoods to keep out Protestant Unionists?”
The troubles in Northern Ireland were beyond the capabilities of a clergyman. Father Thom wrote to Rome and waited days on end for replies. Finally, they arrived. But they were unsupportive and mostly tirades from the Provincial Superior. As if this wasn’t enough, the Republican Army that had supported Father Thom initially began to look on him with suspicion. Things started to turn bad.
Many of Father Thom’s pre-scheduled meetings were called off at the last minute and he was refused permission to visit several places. The father was at a loss. He wasn’t really speaking for his religion. He was speaking for the people. But nobody seemed to care. His days and nights were filled with anguish.
Sister Traveres always went to bed very late. She would be busy typing out Father Thom’s articles, arranging his paperwork, discussing things with the other missionaries or compiling various reports. Father Thom noticed that she was working almost all day with little rest.
“You look very tired, Sister”, Father Thom said one day.
Traveres’s cheeks were pale. Her face looked tired and her eyelids were swollen.
“What’s wrong, Traveres?”
“I’m not sleeping well, Father.”
“Insomnia… Everybody suffers from it at one point or the other.” Father Thom walked up to Traveres and embraced her affectionately Don’t stay up now. Go and get yourself some good sleep. You need some rest.”
Those words were like a balm to Traveres’s aching heart.
Sister Traveres belonged to a Philippine family that had settled in Hong Kong after it had come under Chinese rule. She was the younger of two daughters. Her parents were no more. Traveres was teaching English in a school when she received the Lord’s calling. She was working in China at a time when there were several protests against English. Death had stared her in the eye on many occasions. But Traveres trudged on, against all odds, for the church.
Traveres’s eyes filled up. She blurted out “Father Thom, I’m sick of missionary work. The pressure is too much. Looks like I’m not fated to live quietly inside the four walls of this monastery.
“Missionaries work under such extreme conditions. They have to survive a lot of animosity in the world outside the church. Their destiny is to suffer. They get killed, sometimes even burnt alive, in many parts of the world. Look at our own condition… People are split up into so many groups. So many illegal militias. So much money keeps pouring into these groups from the European Union. The revolt is almost a façade. They use it to promote drug mafias and establish brothels. Every group has its own secret agenda. The church too has succumbed to politics. Do you think it’s possible to stand up for an honest cause against these religious and political groups? It’s suicide. Are we ready for that?”
Father Thom was hit by a bolt of lighting. Traveres sat there glowing like a fire brand. It wasn’t the unthinking banter of a peaceful and soft-spoken nun. The deep roots of quiet suffering had rotted away. The emotions held back by the bulwark of suffering and patience were bursting out at last. It was a mighty outpouring. Father Thom heard the whoosh of a tornado that had sprung up as though from nowhere. He was dumbstruck.
After a long silence, Sister Traveres apologised and conveyed her decision.
“I wish to go back to Hong Kong. My sister lives there. She’s suffering from cancer and there’s nobody to take care of her. If I go back I can start working as a teacher again.”
“Don’t be disheartened”, said Father Thom, “If we give up hope, our minds won’t be able to handle such situations.”
The father thought about some of the simple, innocent people he had met in the prison. They were helpless and distraught. Shunned by all as criminals. They had no place in anyone’s mind. They were destitutes… Outside religion… There was nobody to help them. Their never-ending suffering had snatched away all hope of freedom or rehabilitation. Father Thom wanted to help them. But…
Things didn’t improve. Father Thom’s intentions were honest, but people distrusted the Catholic clergyman. The young men of both groups could not free themselves from the bad experiences of their fathers and grandfathers. They always came up with counter questions that stymied every attempt at a solution. It was as if they were revelling in the idea of revolt. They had lost hope in religion and their youth had vanished into the darkness that enveloped them.
Father Thom got news that the prison in Belfast was going to be shut down soon. The inmates had been redistributed to various prisons. Father Thom was dismayed by this. He could imagine how the men would have been loaded into closed vehicles and discarded at various places. The prison was an old decrepit fort located in three hundred and sixty acres of marshy grounds in western Belfast. The plan was to construct a large modern building there. A marker of development. Mostly promises. The new building would be the headquarters of the peace corps. The prisoners, who were mostly victims of unfortunate circumstances, were like the dry twigs that had shed their leaves in the bitter cold. They reached up to the sky as though in prayer. Will such branches put out leaves again?
Father Thom was depressed. But he refused to give up hope and continued to write, putting up a fight for the fundamental human rights of the poor helpless men in prison. But his efforts were just lines drawn on water…
Two more months went by. Father Thom was looking for solutions but nothing was in sight. His heart grew heavier and his words began to falter. Within the church garment, was an ordinary man in deep suffering, gasping for breath. He was deeply disturbed by the news of old, weak men dying in the prison house. Everything was crumbling around him.
Where was the Lord who had always shown him the way? Father Thom was distraught.
“Father, please take away this cup of suffering from me.” The father wondered if he was worthy to even pray like this. Very soon he stopped talking, began to eat little and his writing ground to a stop.
One day, while the troubled father was sitting quietly staring at the sky, Sister Traveres walked into his room. She knew he was in a bad condition. His face had darkened from the conflict and melancholy that had taken hold of his heart. Traveres saw an old man whose face and heart had wilted from the heat of inner struggle. She felt a deep pity for the man.
“Father Thom, come with me. Let’s go for a walk.”
The father got up. The monastery was covered on all sides by a moat. Beyond that were green pastures. Sheep were grazing there, their bodies overgrown with thick hair that would be sheared after the winter. The rough, almost matted fibres go through a lot of processing before they become the soft woollen clothes we wear.
The sheep ran up to the wire fence that separated the pasture and looked at the two of them as though in expectation. Sister Traveres and Father Thom kept walking. A gentle breeze blew from across the stream that was lined with pine trees. The two continued to the beach. Father Thom enjoyed the walk and wanted to go on. But Sister Traveres’s swollen feet were howling from inside her shoes.
The beach was dense with the squeals of sea gulls and the sound of their wings beating in the air. There was a boat jetty with a couple of boats. A group of tourists stood around. A few large buildings were visible among the trees on an embankment above the beach. Irish castles. The Irish people are generally well to do. But Peace Walls also called Peace Lines that meandered through the Irish landscape like a giant snake, separated the Catholic from the Protestant neighbourhoods. The tall walls didn’t just divide the land, they also divided the minds of the people. The walls made the people more selfish, if anything. They were an imposing barrier to unity. There was clamour for a church for Catholic Republicanism. Or a temple to terrorism.
Everyone wanted freedom. Everyone wanted a free and independent country without foreigners and immigrants. A land they could call their own. With all the rights of a nation. All the benefits. But they were unwilling to compromise or share. They wanted the air, water, earth, clothes and everything else for themselves. It was a competition of intolerance and selfishness. Peace and cooperation were a distant dream.
“Father it’s very late. Shall we go back?” asked Sister Traveres, her voice a soft whisper. The sun had gone down, but the russet afterglow spread out over the Atlantic. The beautiful view would continue till about nine in the night. Darkness would set in slowly. And then a thousand stars would light up. They would hang so low in the sky. Like a starlit roof. One of the magical sights of Ireland…
Sister Traveres continued to look at the father. His face was calm as though in meditation. He took Traveres’s pale hands in his own and looked at the small starry eyes under the swollen lids. The face was half covered by the woollen cap.
“Honestly, why are we so worried? Nobody owns the foundations of the earth or the castles in the heavens. And nothing happens as we desire. We’re just spectators. Destined to fight till we die.”
Sister Traveres asked, a little surprised, “Father… Do you wish to go back to Rome?”
“No at all. My conscience asks me to wait for the Lord’s intervention. I have no one in India. There’s no point in looking back. I want to focus on the things I must do from here on.”
The atmosphere had quietened. The breeze was gentle and the cold was bearable. The thick of the winter was soon to pass. The moist air cooled the insides. A new life was beginning to sprout.
The sky darkened while the two headed back to the monastery. Father Thom had been reading the great Irish writer James Joyce during his free hours at the monastery.
“I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use – silence, exile and cunning”, said Father Thom quoting from Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
Sister Traveres listened in eager silence. She couldn’t see the father’s face in the dark. But she had no doubts about his intention. No apprehensions.
They reached the monastery very late. The long veranda stretched into darkness. They stood near a large pillar, their bodies touching each other. Like two pillars of salt. They had removed their woollen jackets.
The next morning a taxi drew up to the monastery. An old clergyman got up, rubbing his eyes, from the quadrangle in the middle of the room. Father Thom thanked him for the stay at the monastery, handed him the key to his room and a letter to be sent to the Provincial Superior.
The letter said “I’m resigning from my position as a clergyman. I’m setting out on a new journey of survival. Kindly accept my resignation.”
The driver packed his bags neatly in the car’s boot. There were three boxes this time. Coney Travers held Father Thom’s hand as she walked down the monastery’s steps and got into the car. The morning sun was beginning to rise at the eastern end of the Atlantic.
Sheela Luiz, an M A. in Sociology, from Ernakulam, Kerala is a prolific writer. She has brought out novels, two collections of stories and several articles. Her sensitivity towards the people around her and her wealth of stories enrich her works. Thick darkness, but nothing dark, pervades her stories.
It was Makar Samkranti, the day the sun enters the zodiac sign of capricorn. Every Makar Samkranti is a festive occasion and the most important event that happens is kite flying. People of all ages prepare for the kiteflying competition. The object was to cut the line of your contender's kite flying in the air. They make or buy kites and firkees which are wooden spools with handles. They roll the thread which was covered with glue and ground glass onto the reel. This was done to give a sharpness to the line for cutting other kites. Kites of several shapes and sizes and colour throng the sky on this day..
Shubbu was very busy on that Makar Samkranti. His father had.given him money to buy kites and thread. He wanted to process the thread with powdered glass and glue like his elder brother did. But father strongly refused it. 'Boys of your age do not use processed thread for kiteflying,' he had warned. Shubbu had bought two kites, colorful and attractive ones. He just wanted to fix a tail to each to make it look attractive while they drift about in the distant sky. The curls and twists the tails form while flying make them look like swimming snakes. Only that they swim in the sky.
++ ++ ++ ++
Shubbu and his brother Bubu were on the roof of Shubbu's house. Bubu was an expert kite flyer. Shubbu, only eleven, had not yet mastered the skill of kiteflying.But once he got the kite launched he could manage well. Bubu, five years older than him, could cut the kite of others expertly. He would get his opponent's kite entangled in his line and give a sharp tug to the line by skillfully rolling the handles of his spool or firkee . The thread of the opponent's kite would snap in midair and the kite would come hurtling down.
Shubbu rolled the handles of the spool and Bubu holding the side edges of the kite gave it a upward push. The kite fluttered for a few seconds then caught the wind and began soaring up. Shubbu, changing his position from time to time and pulling at the string sometimes by hand and by rolling of the spool made it steadily rise up. Father pushed Bubu's kite up and then Bubu made the kite take a steady upward rise expertly as he always did. Their father stood watching.
'Look Shubbu,' Bubu shouted in joy, 'my kite has reached up to the sky. It is looking so small from here. Your kite is just floating aimlessly much below than mine.' Shubbu felt bad. 'Brother's kite is flying so nicely because father had helped him to launch it,' he thought enviously. 'Why didn't father pushed my kite up?' He tried to handle the spool with a little more force to make the kite go up higher. But it could not reach up to the height of Bubu's kite. Disappointed,Shubbu pulled at the string of his kite. It looked lovely, like a pink, diamond shaped bird with a twisting , green ribbon like strip of a tail.
His unblinking gaze followed the pink kite up into the sky. Suddenly from nowhere another kite appeared close to Shubbu's. It was a black and silver striped one and its tail was silvery and long. Shubbu struggled desperately with his spool, rolling and twisting its handles to pull the line of his kite away from the silver-black one. But the wind did not seem to support the movement of Shubbu's kite and it got entangled in the string of the silver-black kite. The string of Shubbu's kite snapped and the pink diamond shaped bird took a sharp nosedive down. Hapless and broken hearted , Shubbu watched it land on a roof adjacent to their own. '
'Hey, look at that.....' Bubu cried out. 'Your kite fell......' tch..tch..' he chuckled. 'Look at mine. It is flying so well.'
Father put a consoling hand on Shubbu's back. 'Don't feel so sad. You can bring it back and try again. Bubu is older than you. He can handle it with more expertise. You can also do that when you are his age.' Shubbu ran towards the stairs. He would go to their neighbour's house, collect his kite and fly it with more care, he decided. He was about to climb down when he heard his father calling him back.
'Come back here, Shubbu,' he said looking at their neighbour's roof.
'Look.......' he pointed his finger at the kite lying on the roof. A pigeon that was waddling on the roof had somehow got its claw entwined in the string of the kite. It tried to untwine its claw from the grip of the string. Failing in its effort the bird took off to the sky spreading its wings that shone a gray and green in the afternoon sun. It soared higher and higher and the kite flew merrily in the wind. It swept past all other kites that had thronged in the sky and became a tiny pink dot.
'Saw that?' His father asked, his eyes smiling. 'I have defeated them all, father! My kite has gone up much higher than theirs!'Shubbu's voice trembled in excitement.
'You haven't won. It is the pigeon that took your kite so far into the sky!' Bubu sounded envious.
'Yes, my son,' father said affectionately,
' Nothing can stop you when destiny gives wings to your dreams.' Bubu smiled now, happy for his brother.
Shubbu did not understand much of what his father said. He stretched his gaze high up into the sky. The tiny pink dot was no longer seen. Perhaps it had found its destination somewhere beyond the sky.
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
KANAKA'S MUSING:: MY TRYST WITH OIL COLOURS
Oil colours are very expensive and I hesitated to buy them. The main reason was lack of time. My profession, demands of my small family, my kitchen time and then my passion for keeping pets ate up all my day time. I stopped collecting plants for my garden and started planting tree saplings as they were less demanding. Yet I did not get quality time to follow my passion.
So I went on postponing my passion for painting but I think God had other designs for me. One day unexpectedly a nursing student whom I had helped to clear the IELTS exam returned from America. She had joined the hospital where she yearned to work and had come for her first vacation.
She visited me too, giving me a tremendous surprise.
Believe it or not. It was a bag full of painting materials. I was stunned. She made me open it just to watch my awestruck expressions.
There were sets of brushes, both hog hair and sable, an easel, a big set of oil paint, very large tubes, a set of Acrylic, a set of water colours. A bottle of linseed oil, another medium for mixing paint, palettes, set of painting knives, an artist’s apron, a bag for carrying the materials, if ever I wished to go out for outdoor painting trips and a few canvas boards and water colour card sheets
I sat with all the items spread out, flabbergasted, like a vendor displaying his items for sale. I saw my daughter giggling and my husband looking amused at my expression. Sruthy, my student was overjoyed that she had really stunned me.
"I knew you had this passion and so to set you sailing I bought all this for you, my dear Miss," and she hugged me.
Thus she set me rolling.
I made a time table for myself. In it every night before supper, I fixed an hour for painting. Now becoming really serious, I started with pictures I had stuck in my scrapbook, from school days which I had wanted to paint.
They were perfect because, I was imitating them.
The real issues were the use of colours for showing tone, value, atmosphere, perspective, temperature and the play of light on the subjects I painted.
Most of the pictures I had were cut down from either newspapers or magazines so could be painted perfectly in monochromatic schemes but not in colour, then they would collapse. I didn’t give up.
I realised I was worse than a child in all this.
I had to learn.
I decided to study painting but again the problem was finding time. I was overloaded.
Being a teacher itself is demanding and time consuming and if one is over dedicated then the picture is different.
Yet I decided to study by myself.
I searched our college library and was deeply disappointed. The next alternative was buying books.
For that I had to travel to Ernakulam which was almost 30 kms away by bus.
I started devouring the books on drawing I got from local shops mainly catering to small children and became aware of the fact that only a perfect sketch can make a perfect painting. But I had no patience for learning drawing.
Now when I think about it I remember my Amma
(mother) saying that I used to draw pictures when I was just three years old. If I had proper training then I would have been at a different level. Those were days when artists had very poor repute and my mother believed that and she decided I should not become an artist.
It was while studying in the 8th standard that my talent for painting and drawing was discovered by one of my teachers and it came out in the open. My teacher Miss Margaret who taught us Social Studies gave an assignment to draw the solar system. I not only drew it, but coloured it perfectly. My teacher was astonished. She displayed my assignment to the whole class and for the first time I was acknowledged as the class artist.
All the teachers made me draw pictures and diagrams on the black board from then on. When we had to create our class manuscript magazine I was put in charge of it . All the paintings, illustrations and cover designing were my tasks. Thus I was nurtured and appreciated as an artist till the tenth standard in my school, my Alma mater.
After that my plan was to join the Fine Arts College in Trivandrum. When I expressed my desire, Amma put her foot down. I hated maths, physics and chemistry. I had a secret agenda too. If I opted for art I need not study them. Apart from art I had a passion for the English language. They wanted me to take the second group. I cried for days together and finally seeing me walking about woebegone, my father gave in. I was allowed to fill up the application. And in the column where we had to give our choice of subjects, I wrote Group Three in all the 3 columns, opting for Indian History, World History and Economics to escape from science, maths and the commerce groups.
College life was different. In the government college I felt lost for the first three months. From the restraint and spoon feeding in Convent school, college life was total freedom and anarchy. The redeeming grace was the lunch break when all the Holy Angels' Convent girls who had taken up different groups assembled under the canopy of a huge cashew nut tree for lunch.
My painting took a back stage.
Shifting our home to a remote rural village ate up all my quality time in travel.
Except for making christmas and new year cards as a childhood practice I never took my art materials for creativity. Years later my passion surfaced as I started teaching in a college as a junior lecturer in English.
But here too studying art without guidance was not that easy. I needed good books or atleast a master. I opted for books but acquiring them in the 1980ies and 1990s was not that easy.
I almost gave up when a Godly intervention, I believe, took place .
The college management encouraged the Departments to build up their libraries and so the Departments were asked to collect books. Teachers were allotted duties to make lists of books and collect them from stores. So our Department called our book supplier and gave him orders. It was he who introduced us to book exhibitions that occur in every corner of the state. So when the first exhibition of the year started in Aluva, we decided to take our Department students too and give them a taste of seeing large number of books, and to encourage them to browse through them and buy if they desired.
It was a God send opportunity for me too. With two other teachers I too accompanied the students. I went from stall to stall enquiring for books on painting. There were children' series, but no text books as such. So I brought children's drawing and colouring books, shading books, and books on drawing. That was my baby step towards studying art seriously.
Then I found by chance a series called Great artists in which we can study the great masters in painting. In the same stall I found a Drawing series too which taught how to draw using illustrations from famous artists. In all the books I found that the first step to painting is drawing. Van Gogh perfected his skill by learning drawing for two years. But I was hasty. With the little skill I had I just plunged into painting. "Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread '' Alexander Pope had said. "Ignorance is bliss". Like an ignorant fool I just rushed on to painting. And the only subject that really fascinated me were horses. I studied horses, their structure and painted, blissful in creation never worrying about my lack of skill in drawing.
I had to improve my drawing and so spent my spare time doodling and drawing but nothing serious. I was all for painting, so impatient I was! The paintings of the horses were all imitations of the great masters except for the first one and the unicorn.
And one such imitation is this painting. I came across a sketch of a horse trampling a fallen soldier by one of the great artists of 16th century Titian, who belonged to the Venetian school of painters:
"Tiziano Vecelli or Vecellio (pronounced [tit?tsja?no ve?t??lljo]; c. 1488/90[1] – 27 August 1576),[2] known in English as Titian (/?t???n/ TISH-?n), was an Italian[a] (Venetian) painter of the Renaissance"( courtesy Internet )
"Recognized by his contemporaries as "The Sun Amidst Small Stars" (recalling the final line of Dante's Paradiso), Titian was one of the most versatile of Italian painters, equally adept with portraits, landscape backgrounds, and mythological and religious subjects. His painting methods, particularly in the application and use of colour, exercised a profound influence not only on painters of the late Italian Renaissance, but on future generations of Western artists." (Courtesy Internet)
The sketch was very vague. I have it even now. It was imprinted on the back cover of a drawing series I had collected for my study. It was a sketch of a horseman and a fallen warrior. As it was an elaborate study , I decided to concentrate on the horse. It was done in 2005 on a hard board, using oil colours. But even after -17 years it remains intact. I know I haven’t done, justice to the masterly sketch yet I love this horse of mine.
(Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
//Gianicolo hills, Rome//
“Do you know how beautiful you're Grace!!” exclaimed Kayden.
“Yes, I do. I've this ruddy plump cheeks, moist lower and rosy upper lips, sinuous neck,sleeky full breasts,tender belly,lean armored waist,ample thighs,slender legs and pretty feet. I know this Kayden” sighed Grace.
“No,not that way. you've these alluring eyes and this warm smile. The way you tuck your hair behind your ears is beautiful. You've this sweet voice and when I take your name,you smile." Said kayden
“oh!" Exclaimed Grace.
“Tell me something about you Grace,tell me what you love,how you want to be loved,how these stars have become your friends." Asked Kayden.
“Hmmmmmmm. You know it's been long since I've last been here. This place reminds me of him.”said Grace.
“Him!” exclaimed kayden.
“Yes, Sawyer.
Sawyer and I were best friends since childhood. Later in highschool we realized being madly in love with each other and promised to be together till the end. Everything was beautiful.Our first kiss was on Ponte Sant'Angelo, Sawyer used to say that the couples who kiss there remain together forever.He also promised me to bring me here once in every fortnight. Nothing can make us apart except death he said.Well he was right.” said Grace.
“wait! What're you saying? What's death? What has happened?” Asked kayden.
“27th June 1980, It's still fresh in the back of my mind. Sawyer was returning back from Bologna. He was so excited,he told me that he had a surprise for me.I love surprises you know and it was Sawyer, I was on cloud nine.
I slept to the dreams of waking up to him and holding him tight in my arms.
It was an accident they say,an inflight explosion. The plane plunged into the sea off Silicy,near Ustica. They said that Sawyer's body couldn't be traced. How could it be?? As the ocean has embraced him all.
I hate oceans now. ” said Grace
“ I'm sorry Grace. But how did you end up here?”
“Here??
Well,a year after Sawyer's death I met Austin. He was this young,tall and handsome guy. I got to know him through a common friend. We then became friends,he used to tell me about his dreams like how he wanted to own a villa similar to the grand villa in Woodchester and how he wanted to be famous. I liked his dreams and somewhere, him too. He used to say that his family makes the best ?uic? in town and someday he'll make me have a sip of that. I had that ?uic? once and it was truly the best I've ever had. I then woke up to a naked man by my side and Austin was nowhere to be found.”
“Oh! But Rome is all about love. Right? ”
Exclaimed Kayden.
“Yes, exactly the way france is all about kisses and Belgium is all about chocolates.”
Winked Grace.
Kayden smiled.
“Not everyday I escape from a brothel to make love under the moon ” Grace smiled looking at Kayden.
“I know Grace. You'll always be a dream,a dream held and cherished yet unfulfilled. I'll miss you." Said Kayden.
“ I'll miss you too Kayden. Sawyer and you share the same smile. Everytime I'm with you it feels like he's holding me with all his love and compassion. " Said Grace.
“See! He kept his promise. Didn't he? ”
Said Kayden.
“yes” said Grace and kept her head on his shoulders to trace the way the stars have aligned to make that night stay longer.
Arpita Priyadarsini, a final year Post Graduate student of Department of Statistics in Utkal University, has keen interest in literature. She loves reading fiction and poetry. She started writing poems few years back and has been published by an international publication house twice. Her Instagram handle is @elly__.writes, which is solely dedicated to her love for poetry.
I was going to the Kedarnth Temple. I met a man. His hair was long and white. His eyes were shrunken. His skin was wrinkled.
A garland of rudraksha was hanging from his neck. A Gerua Vastra ( reddish-yellow color cloth) was covering his body.
He was sitting in the sun. He looked like an old Sanyasi (hermit).
Out of devotion and curiosity, I went closer to him and touched his feet. He glanced at me with his sunken eyes and smiled at me with parched lips.
He seemed to be known to me. I was recollecting his loving memories.
He told me - God bless you.
I asked him - Won't you yourself bless me please?
He - Had I that much power, why should I be sitting on the hills in the sun and rain ?
Me - I know hermits have miraculous powers.
He - All saints are saying bogus things to cheat innocent people. It's their business only.
Me - But millions of people from old to young are running after 'Babas', 'Sanyasis' or hermits and religious places.
He - They go simply to hell for their false ideas, notions and conceptions.
She - Why are you sitting near the Kedarnath Temple ?
He - Where would I sit ?
Me - Don't you have a home with a wife, a son or daughter ?
He - Yes I did have.
Me - Where did they go in your old age ?
He - It's a long story. Do you have the patience to listen to it ?
Me - Teach me the lessons of your life, Sir !
He - Why did you call me 'Sir' ?
Me - What should I call you ?
He - Of course, it's a modern, elite address to an unknown person. However, I would tell you about my experience and also experiment in life.
Me - What is the difference between experience and experiment ?
He - An experience is something that you live through, something that happens to you in life; whereas, an experiment is a test which somebody does to see what the result will be, or to prove something.
Me - Did you succeed ?
He - I failed miserably both in experience and experiment in life.
Me - What is life ?
He - Life is simply a period between birth and death, or the experience or state of being alive. Life is too short to worry about money. Nothing can be foreseen in life. If you live peacefully, you are successful. Otherwise, you are a bundle of failures that lead you to disasters.
Me - Is there any way out ?
He - You have to forget about experiences and experiments. Your mind should start from 'O..M'...meaning…I am 'Zero'. Zero is the beginning and ending of life. You start from 'Zero' and end up in 'Zero' also.
Me - I am now totally confused, Sir ! It's beyond my understanding and comprehension. Please clarify with a life and live example.
He - I am very much living my life. Is it not sufficient for you?
Me - How can I know about your life… past, present and future…whether it was / is pleasant or bitter ? Tell me your life story please, Sir !
He - I came up from a humble beginning in my native village away from modern civilization. My life was not rich, but peaceful. I completed my PG and PhD in Chemistry and got a teaching job in a college. I got married to my colleague in Chemistry department. Life was fulfilling for both of us. We also had a handsome brilliant son. He is well placed in a job in the USA.
Me - Then you are one of the most successful people of our land. Why are you sitting in the sun and rain on the Himalayan terrain, Sir ?
He - And that's the irony of my life, living and lifestyle.
Me - Doesn't your only son love and like you much ? Have you ever gone to him to taste life in America?
He - Once, after our retirement from service, I had been to him with my wife. He and his American wife welcomed us from the airport and took us to their home in New York.
But their lifestyle and way of living was too different from that of ours. Their life is too hectic. Though they were loving us and liking us, they had no time for us. Both were busy with their wok.
We told them to come to India to serve here and to look after us in our old age.
But his American wife told him - 'I cannot live in the Indian culture, atmosphere and ambience. You may go to your native land giving me divorce.'
We were feeling suffocated with their lifestyle. But we didn't want my son's divorce from his wife.
After a couple of months, we returned to India. They also saw us off in the airport touching our feet.
I came with my wife to my native village that gave me birth once upon a time. My wife was grieving for her only son. She was not feeling well. Life was melancholic for her. She was seriously ill. We called and waited for our only son and daughter-in-law. They couldn't find time to see her off on her last journey. And her life took off to Heaven in a severe heart stroke, leaving me alone in melancholy.
There has been a sea change in our village culture, custom, atmosphere and ambience. I was also feeling suffocated in my native village. I sold all my properties and sent the money to my only son in America.
Now I am inhaling the pure air of the Himalayas and drinking the holy water of the Mandakini and eating my meals from my pension and talking to you, my dear young man !
My tears of regards were falling on the feet of my professor who had taught his last lesson to me on his experience and experiment on life.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
‘Will you give me for that price….I was sheepishly arguing with a shopkeeper and laughing loudly…..My wife jolted me and woke me up… What happened? Why are you laughing like a mad man in the middle of night? With a sleepy tone, I replied nothing important, you sleep. For next one hour, I kept tossing on the bed, but couldn’t sleep. I woke up and in the dim bed light, I could figure out the time on the clock, it was around 2’0 clock. The clock reminded me one more feat of my might over a small time hawker who meets his ends from selling beautiful watches on the pavements.
I slowly got up from the bed, turned around and looked at my wife, she is already back into sleep and happily snoring. With a small grin, I remembered the frequent squabbles we generally used to have on snoring, who snores louder and who starts it early on the bed. My children used to come to rescue of their mother and I failed every time, still I used to proudly claim it as ‘harmony’ but they termed it ‘cacophony’. Now, that children are pursuing higher education in different cities, we gave up those small fights as the excitement part is lost.
At 2’0 clock in the morning with no sight of sleep dawning on me, completely clueless on what to do for the next 4 hours, I slowly came out of my room, carefully latched the bedroom so that my snoring queen doesn’t get disturbed and wakes up.
I walked down the staircase and entered into my study room. Its’ been a while, I paid visit to my study room. Dust got settled down on tables, chairs, books and every nook and corner of the room like a mason who had skillfully plastered it. Certainly, a fingerprint analyst’s delight, had it been a crime scene. With a quandary state of mind looking at heaps of books lying on the ground and in cupboards and moreover sneezing around being allergic to dust, I felt to leave the room immediately. While rushing out of the room, I accidentally knocked the table and the cupboard adjacent to it oscillated a bit and a book on the top of cupboard fell. I glanced at the book and suddenly my thoughts travelled down the memory lane. I immediately picked up the book, dusted it with a piece of cloth and left the study room.
I comfortably settled on my bamboo rocking chair in the hall holding the book. The bamboo chair also reminded my disgraceful victory over a small time shop keeper. Somehow, I felt all the things around me, my dream, and the book are connected through a string of stories and trying to tell me something or awaken me to look at the things from a different perspective.
I amusingly looked at the book, it was titled ‘My Writings’ dated from the year 2007 onwards. With a small chuckle on my face, I started browsing the pages. There are some stories, half completed poems, meaning less or humour less jokes, funny anecdotes, some interesting articles which might have never made their way to any publication house and simply got buried in this hard bounded notebook.
While browsing the pages unattentively, I came across an article ‘Online Shopping….BOON or BANE’. The part title ‘BOON or BANE triggered my inquisitiveness to delve deep to know the reasons for it being called BANE, when in the era of online shopping, anything and everything under the Sun are available at cheaper rates with numerous options etc. The article was based on two anecdotes out of personal experiences. I started reading the story.
Sometime ago, there was a book exhibition in my township…I had visited to buy some books.(I forgot to tell you, I am an avid book purchaser not reader, as a result, I end up buying same books twice) As usual, broke into a conversation with the fellow customer who was seriously surfing/scanning a book ..‘this comes much cheaper on online’. The word ‘cheaper’ hit him like a snowball in midst of desert and was curious to know on which online sites and how much cheaper. We struck the chord and were seriously engrossed in comparing prices online (thanks to smart phones…internet is in your pocket). As this was going on, the in charge of the exhibition who was constantly observing came towards us and I suppose, by that time, he might have realized that we are mere window shoppers and also overheard our conversation of online comparison of prices. He interrupted saying, online sites can give you discounts, as they sell in large quantities and moreover they don’t incur overhead costs of maintaining godowns, shops etc, proving to be economically viable for them . He further added that if this kind of trend prevails, we won’t be far from the day, when there won’t be any book shops and many like us would go jobless. He continued saying that the ‘feel of touch of new book’ can’t be experienced in online shopping. I ignored his two cents and sheepishly argued with him, saying that what matters to me is ‘savings’ and also mockingly said regarding the touch of new book, I’ll touch the book and get the feel here and buy online, saying this I rushed out of the book stall without even looking back at his helpless state. After reading the first story, I could vaguely remember the incident.
Now, my inquisitiveness grew multifold and was eager to read the next anecdote. In another instance, I went to a mobile shop along with my friend to buy a memory card and in the meanwhile, my friend thought of buying blue tooth headset and when enquired about the price, it struck me that it comes much cheaper through online with a savings of Rs 400. I discouraged my friend from buying by saying that, you can buy through online at much cheaper price. The sales girl with disapproval of my statement replied ... Sir, you won’t get it that cheap. I said OK…still we’ll buy through online. She was hell bent upon to prove her point and browsed the tablet for online pricing. She was facing difficulty in getting online price, I helped her in proving her wrong and maliciously asked her, now will you give me at that price, to which she replied ‘sorry sir’. When the deal didn’t crack, the manager of the shop intervened and offered to sell @ Rs 50 higher than online price. I adamantly replied why would, I give Rs 50/-more. Finally, we got the bluetooth headset at online price. I came out of the shop as ‘Alexander the GREAT’ who conquered the tiny mobile shop. This narration further stretched my memory strings and I could connect all the missing dots and completely relate it to my life.
Yes, this book is mine and all these are my own writings. It’s been almost 15 years and have completely lost the trail of all these incidents in my life. For a moment, I felt that may be the immaturity at that age or the small and appalling victories over the weak, blindfolded me from seeing their pitiable condition or feeling the pain of the sellers in both the incidents. But, was taken aback, when my inner self questioned me, Am I matured now? May be not, as even till date, I sheepishly bargain with small time vendors, go in the late evenings to buy fruits and vegetables and grab them at a very low bargained prices, as they are helpless and left with no option but to sell them at any price for the fear of getting rotten and may not hold any value the next day. I somehow felt ashamed myself for being such apathetic person.
As I was deeply engrossed in the book, wandering thoughts and feeling guilty, someone laid hand on my shoulder, I got startled and looked back, it was my beautiful wife. With a question mark clearly evident on her sleepy face and through sign language by waving her hands, she conveyed her quest, ‘what I am doing in the hall at this early hour’. It was around 5’0 clock, I replied nothing important and she proceeded to carry out her daily household chores.
My daily routine starts with one hour morning walk in the nearby park, where I meet the residents from neighborhood. We exchange pleasantries and do a brisk walking following by some regular exercises. After returning home and completing may daily chores, readied myself for office. I finished my breakfast, waved good bye to my wife and headed to office. That day, I was with heavy heart, not interested in my office work, cancelled all my meetings and was deeply introspecting myself. When did it start ? and till when it shall last such indifferent and unkind attitude towards any person who is much below my social status?
Day passed with great difficulty and felt every minute as an hour. I started gazing at the clock and felt that the hands of the clock are at loggerheads to each other like a newlywed couple who are very adamant and reluctant to co-operate and move in co-ordination. Finally, the clock struck 5 and I left the office. On my way back home in my car, my mobile popped up a reminder about buying diyas for Diwali as ordered by Gharwali. I started looking for diyas on either side of the road while driving and finally moved in to a lane wherein the either sides of the road are fully occupied by small vendors trying to make out their living by selling diyas. I immediately pulled over my car to the right and got down. I started looking for diyas and as there were multiple vendors, making choices became difficult. Finally got settled down at a lady in mid 30s who spread her saleable items on a big plastic sheet and no customer was nearby. I selected the diyas as per the shape, size, and circumferences of the outer circle and the inner groove of the diyas given by my wife. Then, comes the best part of shopping, bargaining. With great acumen to negotiate and cracking deals with such vendors was always my forte, I settled the deal at a very low price though she was reluctantly agreeing to it. I gave her the negotiated amount and as I was about to leave with my prized possessions of this price battle, my sight fell on her eyes, they were innocent, teary and some kind of feebleness was oozing out of her eyes, they spoke volumes about her helplessness, miseries, pain in her life and her futile efforts to ask for a better price. I could hear a small girl beside her crying out of hunger. Her skinny and malnourished built depicted their poverty. Those eyes and the pitiable condition shook me and I felt a shudder in my heart. I turned away from her to escape from those distressed eyes searching for some kind of hope from any corner of the world. I hurriedly left the place, but after walking a few steps away from her, I realized I have been a victim all the while and succumbed to my own apathetic attitude which is deeply ingrained in my subconscious mind and as such it comes naturally and involuntarily to me. I cursed myself and my heavy heart which I was carrying since morning has further got burdened with disgrace and guilt after this incident. I turned around and started walking towards her and as I looked at her, I could see fear in her eyes as if a lion is about to attack her. As I approached her, I could sense the essence of her fear of losing some more money with any kind of raw deal with me. That very sight has killed me from inside and I stood before her as a transformed man. I gave her the balance amount and purchased all the diyas at the price she wanted to sell. Her eyes were beaming with joy and tears started rolling down her cheeks, of course those were tears of joy. I went home with a very light heart and as a completely transformed person who is with full of compassion, empathy and kindness.
My wife who answered the door bell, saw me smiling and being cheerful. She got confused as she is used to see my frowning face every day and without wasting a second, she spontaneously asked ‘Are you Ok ? Is your health Ok? I replied, yes I am OK only now and will be OK hereafter. She failed to understand my deep insight and ignored my words, given my eccentric behavior and filmy influence at times. She quickly checked out the bag with diyas and yelled at me on finding so many diyas. She questioned me, why did you buy so many diyas and ..? I cut short her question and smilingly said, It’s a long story, may be some other time.
From that day onwards, I have stopped negotiating even after being fully aware that the price is abnormally high. The shopping of fruits and vegetables in the evenings were free of negotiations and bargaining. I even use auto rickshaws for commutation purposes and usually they take me for a ride when it comes to fare, and I am OK with it. The compassionate nerve in me has been triggered so vigorously with that incident coupled with my past experiences, that I have started charitable institutions, orphanages, homes for destitute, organized special health campaigns for needy and poor, formed a trust to seek donations for taking up such activities etc.
This is my story and these are my turning and triggering points for what I am today… Hope you got what you are seeking, I asked the interviewer who had come to take my interview on being awarded ‘Philanthropy Award’ towards recognition of my work. Before the interviewer responded, I heard another voice, ‘finally now I got it’ … it was from my wife who mischievously winked at me …..
P Suresh Kumar is a Post Graduate in Human Resources Management. Presently, associated with NALCO, a Central PSU as Sr.Manager(HRD). He just tries his hand at some writings that come across his mind. He doesn’t claim to be a prolific writer but beams with pride even if called a novice writer. He has got many unfinished articles/write-ups/poems in his kitty. He can be reached at ‘todearsuresh@gmail.com’ /09439288008
After about half an hour into the counseling session, the psychiatrist - ohh sorry!, the psychoanalyst, as she should properly be called- was perhaps a bit irritated inside- with similar questions having to be raised repeatedly to fathom the patient’s mind, but whatever might have been her feelings towards the nutcase, she maintained her composure well. She looked at the two persons sitting across her desk with empathy, bordering on pity. She was Dr. Neha, a pretty young girl hardly in her early thirties, to whom Madhava, had been referred by the eminent psychiatrist of the big city, having his clinic in the same premises. Seemed to be the normal practice- or, part of the overall treatment regimen. When medications fail to have desired results, or they fail to cure someone of ailments like depression, hallucination, schizophrenia, and similar high sounding ailments of which laymen have little idea that they exist in the first place and the patient has- or more correctly his family says he has-like recurrent suicidal thoughts, insomnia; they send him/her to another professional called psychoanalyst for the final kill. The psychoanalyst is someone, who is supposedly trained to drain out a deep abscess through a sort of laparoscopic surgery inside the soul without using medication.
She was rather young with a reputation of being competent in her job. In course of preliminary discussions we had learnt that she was a young mother. Her daughter, now almost three years old, had just started attending a play school. With her apparently charming demeanor and sharp eyes that looked like the front ends of an X-ray machine, she could easily unsettle you if you told anything but the truth to her searching questions. This was almost all I was given by way of introduction by the psychiatrist who had referred the patient to her. It might have been a deliberate ploy to prepare the patient in becoming more malleable in the consultation chamber, and as a sort of feedback-cum-advice not to mess with her by anything called lies, or half-truths. Nothing but the absolute truth works in nut cases like these, he had warned! And now Dr Neha was there to save the patient from the cliff end.
The two persons sitting across Dr. Neha’s impressive desk comprised of Madhav, the patient, and I, his friend, who had accompanied him. My presence in that chamber was partly of my own making. See, it was I who had advised Madhav to seek psychiatric help in the first place. We were together through thick and thin- as they say- since our early school days. Thereafter, life had simply flown by. It was the sort of relationship when both of us took each other for granted. Naturally, I was privy to much of his secrets. Apparently he was also to mine. His secrets didn’t amount to much, except for rare occasions like the time he had got drunk with a bottle of beer, and had peed on the hostel verandah. Otherwise he was a gentleman amongst us; no, the only gentleman among his bunch of friends from college days, if we decide to ignore his minor peccadilloes. Yet, if truth be told in entirety, he had a propensity to get angry when he faced- or, overheard even- vulgar abuses in public, and in such cases often chastised the perpetrators. He had entered into a minor scuffle on this account in a public place without bothering about the consequences, or his personal safety and had exchanged blows of fisticuffs with a bunch of ruffians. Another time, quite early in his official career, he had flown off the handle when a hot tempered boss had dared to insinuate that he was ‘dishonest’ in his official dealings, that too, in an open meeting. Madhav had then stood up to not only protest, but also had demanded an apology, which had created almost a permanent blot in his career with a potential to have disastrous results. He was saved from the brink by the boss himself. That’s almost all the infirmities he had that was visible on his public face. Let me add that he had also dutifully written a few romantic poems during his college days; more with a desire to impress the girls, but they lacked either expert craft or necessary obfuscation. Mere passion never sells! Naturally they failed to either find the readers or impress the girls; and in due course that muse, too, had stopped sprouting. In due course Madhav had found a steady job- like most dullards with a bent of academic pursuits do- got married and had turned into a very dutiful husband in the manner of a domesticated bullock. Sorry for the misnomer! All bullocks are domesticated. He would have been hardly noticed in a crowd, any crowd, except in the company of a few close friends. Then he would often boom, even without beer. No gathering could be treated as complete without his presence. That’s all.
Post retirement both of us had ended up in staying in the same city, though at opposite corners. I had my own property; Madhav had taken a small two bedroom flat on rent in one of the mushrooming apartment blocks of Bhubaneswar at the farthest end of the city. There the rents were cheap. We could not meet frequently, but we remained in touch.
I was aware that his domestic bliss was past its prime, that his children were yet to be settled in life. After a certain phase he planned to leave for his hometown and live in a portion of his ancestral house. Obviously his wife was not in tune with such medieval plans leading to recurrent bickering in the family. That was all.
“When did you meet your neighbor’s family”- heard Dr.Neha addressing Madhav!
“Well, they were there when we moved into our flat”- Madhav replied.
“No, I mean, when did you come close to them, and develop this relationship- that has become the root cause of discord, destroying your family peace”?
“Only, for the last six months, or slightly more Madam! Nothing, absolutely nothing, was amiss before that. In fact my wife was the one who had changed the atmosphere prevailing in the particular floor of our apartment block. With an electrifying bonhomie pervading the atmosphere. Life was bliss. After a while all the flats on the floor of our apartment were open practically all the time, where anybody could saunter in, anytime one liked. Things had progressed much beyond sharing an occasional cup of sugar, or a few onions among the neighbors. Our usual habits of bolting of bolting the main doors got discarded ”.
“You mean to say, it was all the handiwork of your wife, and a few ladies, and you had no role to play at all, in going beyond accepted boundaries among neighbors- neighbors staying in modern day apartments? You did not develop any relationship with anybody on your own, and were just a spectator?”
“Well, all the young ladies called me uncles. They were respectful too, or so, it appeared. One young man, who was working in the IT sector, sometimes borrowed books, magazines. Dutifully returned them, unlike the cups of sugars borrowed by the neighbors, returning of which is considered bad taste. He was also the one who had transferred a lot of classic movies to my laptop. He could take care of minor faults/service issues in my laptop. His wife was a faculty in an engineering college and did not know how to drive. I had once offered her a lift in my scooter to the bus-stop when she was getting late. Do you call that crossing the border lines?” Madhav seemed a bit agitated, flushed. He perhaps looked like this when he had taken on the boss when he was castigated as being ‘dishonest’, or ‘corrupt’ in an official meeting a longtime back.
Dr Neha was cool, almost maternal! “I have heard all this from your wife. Now I want to know how all this bonhomie changed. How and a congenial heaven in this concrete jungle turned into hell turned into hell in so short a time frame? And, specifically, I want your version of the relationship with the neighbor’s child. What’s his name?”
“Well, sometime after we moved in, after about three to four months, the child was born. It was a cute baby boy; and we went to the hospital to see the mother and the new born. Should I have refused when my wife asked me to drive her down to the hospital? Not only that, the young couple was bereft of family support, as they had married against family wishes. So my wife had volunteered to stay back in the hospital for the night to look after the mother and the child. Was I responsible for fostering this relationship?”
“ Your wife also told me about the incident. How, she treated the girl almost like her daughter, and how she stood like a rock giving all kinds of support during that turbulent phase of their married life, when the boy’s family living in another part of the city had disowned him and the young daughter-in-law for having married against their wishes. Please proceed!” Dr Neha quipped!
“Well, the baby boy was cherubic looking. But that’s not the main thing. He was uncommonly intelligent and sensitive, way beyond what was normal for his growing phases. Pretty soon he became the apple of our eyes. He was our constant companion. Once he started walking he did not leave us alone. He had to be cajoled and then forced to go to his flat. My neighbors started commenting that the boy who now addressed me as ‘Dadu’(grandfather), must have been related to us in our past lives. His own grandfather, who had by then got reconciled to his son, failed to get that kind of response from the boy. Gossips of various kinds floated in the air and they sounded pleasant, for a change. The boy- he had a name by then, but let’s not bother with that- became a part of our family. We took him with us when we visited our friends and relatives. The mother never hesitated to part with the baby so long as he was in our custody. So, was I alone, responsible for nurturing this relationship?”
“May be yes, no, positively yes! At this stage you should have put the brakes. Like an illegitimate affair it was leading nowhere. Could not you see that? Was it not your responsibility as the head of the family to nip the bud of the poison plant taking roots? Were not you a simple resident in a multi storied apartment? And the flat was not even owned?”
Madhav felt silent and had a vacuous look. I knew the circumstances. Memories of those evening walks with the two year old boy, those visits to the temple, those unending story telling sessions on the roof top- came back. His own daughter had just got married leaving a terrible void in his life. He had yet to get adjusted to his post retirement inactivity. With little else by way of physical activity to occupy him he fell for the child by the hook, line and the sinker-as they say- and got hooked. And yet, those were some of the best periods of his life. Madhav had shared this part of his life with all the pleasant details. I had also visited his house often enough to have a fair inkling of the waves his life was moving in.
Then his wife woke up on one not so fine a day from her sleep and put her foot down. Perhaps her ears were already poisoned in intermittent doses by the gossips doing the rounds amidst the closed environment of a mid level apartment block, where, practically everyone knew everyone else. The gossips had possibly given birth to jokes as well. Oh, to be sure they did! How many residents had started calling and treating Madhav as the child’s real grandfather? How many had demanded to know if the child slept with his parents at night?
Things had reached a crescendo the day Madhav, out of all innocence, volunteered to accompany the boy to the play school and back. He had foolishly concluded that this would be to everyone’s benefit and he, himself, would benefit through some time bound work. It would keep him fruitfully occupied on days he had nothing to do! Meaning, practically everyday.
His wife then developed a distaste- bordering on abhorrence- for the family. Most of the ears on both sides were by then poisoned by what was said, or what might have been said, which was more dangerous. Though on talking terms at this stage she started blaming Madhav as if he was having an affair behind her back each time the child and he met. Each such meeting brought in her a violent outburst. Gradually she stopped looking at the boy and avoided eye contact. She also stopped the boy from having free admittance to the house.
On a particularly cloudy day the boy had ignored all the frowning faces coming his way and entered Madhav’s flat which was familiar terrain to him, almost as clear his palm lines. Standing on the glass topped teapoy table he was playing with some weights, when suddenly there was loud sound of a crash! We rushed and found him toppled over along with the LED Tv purchased a few months back. Both the TV and the glass teapoy were damaged beyond repair and the boy was seen to have cut himself in the process. All hell broke loose when Madhav returned from the hospital after arranging treatment for the bleeding boy. The boy’s mother was the real culprit according to Madhav’s wife. And that was the grand finale to the whole affair! Except that the end note was discordant. That was the day the final lid was put on the coffin.
“So, you have stopped seeing the boy thereafter? Can I presume that you have not kept any contact with the boy for last one year, or so, during which you have developed certain symptoms? Symptoms for which your friend, present here, had brought you for treatment by my senior?” Dr. Medha queried. The interview seemed not yet over.
“What symptoms?” Madhav responded.
“Well, you were found walking near a desolate stretch of railway line on a full moon night, which was not that far from your residence. Along with the fact that you have stopped talking with your family members! Or, the fact that you have sleepless nights! Symptoms for which your wife got concerned and had sought out help from your friend sitting here! You claim that he’s your childhood friend and yet he did not know anything in the matter”!
This time Madhav did not give any answer. He simply remained silent.
After a minute of silence Madhav quipped: “was it my fault. Have I caused any suffering to anyone through my actions? Neither did I start anything, nor did I end anything!”
“Yes! You are the one who’s responsible! You were the one expected to be more knowledgeable. You should have been cautious before developing a relationship which was doomed from the beginning! Don’t you know anything about the proprieties of maintaining good relationships with your neighbors? Particularly in an apartment? Absolutely no ideas about the niceties, about the proprieties of leading a social life while staying in an apartment? Are you naive?”
Dr Neha was curt and unrelenting in her response.
“But have I allowed anyone, except myself, to suffer for being foolhardy all these months and years?” Madhav gave a pathetic look bordering on entreaty to Dr. Neha. My heart was in turmoil.
“Well, the answer to that may be yes! Definitely, yes! You are conscious of your own pain, but you are forgetting the boy and his sufferings. Try to imagine his pain the day you closed your doors on him! What was his age then? Was he in a condition to analyze and introspect- like you seem to be doing right now? What was his fault?”
Dr. Neha seemed to have pronounced a definite verdict of guilt. She was yet to declare any sentence. But looking at her I could notice it was not going to be an easy one! To think that it was Madhav- as the patient- had come for solace! Unfortunately, he now had to encounter a healer, who had been taken over by a mother. He stood up, condemned- awaiting punishment. Yet, his treatment had just begun, and so, he was hopeful!
Dinesh Chandra Nayak (b 1952) is a Post Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University, Vani Vihar. He entered the State Civil Service in Odisha and held many important positions before retiring in 2010. His present pastimes include reading, titles like "Joy Of Laziness" among others. Although he did not earlier feel any spring of creativity strongly, LiteraryVibes has inspired him to "try to burst forth in geysers". He hopes the transformation of the dying ember into a new life will lead to a creative splendour. LV wishes him the very best in this new journey.
(A NOVELLA OF HEADY ROMANCE - FOR THOSE WHO ARE YOUNG AT HEART)
MARINE DRIVE, MUMBAI, WEDNESDAY, 19TH APRIL
The red horizon, bathed by the luminescent rays of the setting sun, mesmerized Gautam. If anyone asked him what was the most beautiful spot in Mumbai, he would answer without a second thought, this particular place in Marine Drive, near Chowpatty, where one can park the bike abutting the pavement and look at the setting sun during cool evenings. This is the spot from where sunset looks the most beautiful, the sun slowly sinking into the calm, blue sea and its long rays stretching right up to the shore in a red carpet, reflecting, in a way, the red sky and the multiple images sketched by an invisible artist.
Gautam has to pass this way everyday, almost at the exact time when the sunset assumes the most maddening color. He looks at the red horizon and marvels at its irresistible attraction, as if someone whispers seductively in his ear to close his eyes and walk into the sunset, promising a world of dreams and colour, songs and music. Ah, the blue sea, the white clouds, the red sky - what else is needed to add colour to life!
Any other day Gautam would have lost himself to the ecstasy of this beautiful evening, raised his hands and screamed, thank you Mumbai, thanks for all the joy you have given me, all the dreams and the colour. But today his mood was low, his mind in turmoil. He was haunted by a sense of aimless wander, an endless journey which was driving him crazy. He wondered how long it would go on like this and if he could survive the interminable wait.
Gautam looked around. On the parapet of the pavement young couples were sitting, hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings to each other. Some girls had closed their eyes, their heads resting on the shoulders of their comapanion, lost to a rhythm of unparalleled joy. Some of them were probably friends from college, some were colleagues from office and others were spouses who found their small apartments too crowded to enjoy moments of togetherness.
Gautam felt terribly alone. A big city with more than twenty million people had nothing to offer him at this moment, no friend, no companion. Anjali, the flame of his heart, must be busy in her office, Yogesh, his room mate closeted in some cafeteria with Sheela, his current girl friend. And no one cared for Gautam, absolutely no one!
Yet his life was not like this five months back. He was enjoying his bachelorhood in joyful abandon, going to office in the morning, watching a movie at Metro multiplex near his bank in Fort, eating out, mostly at Irani Cafe, where the mutton curry was the tastiest in the world, going to his apartment, spending a couple of hours on Facebook and going off to sleep. Weekends, he used to go for a drama at Prithvi Theatre, or bring half a dozen bottles of beer and lots of snacks to share them with Yogi, his room mate.
And one evening everything changed, life suddenly became a roller coaster. Gautam often remembered that fateful November evening. He had returned home after dinner, opened his Facebook account and sent a message,
"Hi, I need a little help. Planning to go to Alibuag this weekend. Can someone tell me what is the best way to spend a day there?"
Within a minute he got a reply,
"Hi, Alibaug is a lovely place. Had been there three weeks back with my roommates. Ninety kilometers from Mumbai, straight road, no problem."
"Thanks. I am Gautam."
"Gautam?"
"Gautam Patnaik, from Odisha, 29 years, IT professional."
"Wow, what a coincidence! I am also from Odisha - Anjali Mishra."
"Wow! Anjali? Lonely Odia girl in Mumbai?"
"No, not exactly lonely, I have three room mates to give me company. All of us work in TCS. I joined a year back."
"O, you are also an IT professional? That's wonderful. I work in Standard Chartered Bank. My third year in Mumbai. I am IIT Chennai, 2018 pass out."
"Wow! IIT? Super duper brainee? I am just a small fry, Bhubaneswar ITR, 2019 batch. TCS campus recruitment, three months training in Thiruvanandapuram, and then posting in Mumbai"
"Are you from Bhubaneswar?"
"Yes, Unit six, government quarters. How about you?"
"Shahid Nagar. What a pity, we are from the same town, but have never met! Strange to chat with you, an Odia girl for the first time in Mumbai! How did I miss you in Bhubaneswar?"
"What do you mean, miss you? I have seen you at Bhubaneswar."
"Seen me? Where?"
"At Sahid Nagar Inox. You had come to watch Amitabh Bachan's Pinky with one of your friends. We were four girls, sharing a couple of burgers and a big bottle of Cola. You and your friend had two ice cream sticks in your hand. You were so busy staring at us like hungry wolves that you forgot your ice cream. It melted and dripped unto your shirts. You had a blue tee shirt on, your friend had a red check shirt, sleeves folded. Remember? That shemeless, hungry stare?"
"Ha, ha, what a story teller you are! Good that I had watched Pinky at the IIT auditorium in Chennai. I almost got fooled by your detailed description! Blue tee shirt! Hah, I never had one!"
"But I succeeded in scaring you for a few seconds. Didn't I? Now I know what is your weak point, it's staring at girls!"
"Tell me, which young man worth his moustache doesn't stare at girls? Haven't you heard what the boys in IIT do? Should I tell
you?"
"Oh no, don't want to hear dirty stuff."
"Scared of dirty stuff? Why? No love shuv at work? No boyfriend."
"No, not yet. Waiting for Mr. Right."
"Mr. Right boleytoh?"
"Handsome, gorgeous, dashing. Someone who can gift a forty lakhs worth BMW to his girlfriend without blinking an eye."
"O, angling for Junior Ambani? Good luck to you and to us. At least we will have a chance to meet you at Antilia over a lunch."
"A lunch? At Gujjubhai's place? Naa baba naa, can't eat green peas and palak for the rest of my life. We Odias are good at polishing off crab curry and prawn fry. Wasn't it Confucius who had said, shun the food that only fills the stomach, eat what satisfies the soul."
"Yes, he had also said a prawn in a curry is better than two govis in a tawaa. Or something like that. Tell me will crab and prawn be available at Alibaug?"
"Yes, Alibaug has everything, only your wallet has to be full."
"Want to come with me, two lonely Odias giving company to each other?"
"Do you have a car?"
"O God, I failed the test! No car, but I have a gorgeous motorbike, something like an owner's pride and a neighbour's envy. Not good enough for Miss TCS?"
"No, no, actually a motorbike is better on a road like Mumbai-Alibaug. You will drive, I will ride on the pillion, the cool air will feel the heart with soft music, my hair will be blowing like a bunch of magic balloons. Ah, there is a rare pleasure in that, something you won't get in the stuffy car. Will you pick me up?"
"From where?"
"Andheri East"
"O, that's no problem. I live in Goregaon, I can pick you up from Andheri East. It's on the way. Give me your address."
"Give me your mobile number. I will WhatsApp it."
"9957395307. What is yours"
"9928986745."
"OK, Sunday morning, eight? Is that fine?"
"Sunday.? O no, this Sunday not possible."
"Why?"
"A friend has invited me for a movie."
"Friend? A boy or a girl?"
"A boy, he works in the same office as mine."
"But you said you don't have a boyfriend?"
"O, he is just a friend, a good friend."
"OK, bye."
Miffed, Gautam came out of Facebook. His mind descended into a darkness he had never experienced before. Some how the lively, fun-loving Anjali had cast a spell on his mind and he was sad to lose her. A good friend! What is a good friend? How much time it will take for a good friend to become a boyfriend? He dragged himself to the balcony and looked at the dark sky outside. Suddenly his mobile phone rang, he went back into his room and checked the number. It looked like Anjali's.
With a voice laden with sadness he muttered,
"Hello."
"Hello super duper braineee IITian, did I give you another scare?"
"What scare?"
"The good friend scare!"
"It's your life. You can have a friend, a good friend or a boyfriend. It's your choice. Why should it scare me?"
"Aha, super duper sensitive IITian! I wish I could see your face now, eyes flaring, face contorted with rage! Listen, master of the brainee world, I have no boyfriend, no good friends, all that I have in this big city are my three room mates. OK? But let me tell you, not being a non-IITian you will not understand the immense pleasure of making a fool of an IITian."
"Oh! So, how many times have you had this rare pleasure? Of making fools of IITians?"
"Just started. This evening. Didn't Confucius say 'All is well that starts well'? See you on Sunday morning."
Gautam's heart started dancing with joy, the cloud of despondency lifted like magic. He was curious to know how Anjali looked like. He went to Facebook search and typed Anjali Mishra. There were sixteen of them! So he added TCS Mumbai to the query and suddenly his computer screen lighted up with the picture of a beautiful girl, bright eyes, face lit up with a natural smile. She was looking ravishing in a yellow dress. Wow, so beautiful!
The phone rang again. It was Anjali,
"Did you like it?"
Gautam pretended innocence,
"What?"
"My profile."
Goutam felt as if he had been caught stealing a candy from a jar in Anjali's kitchen.
"Not bad!"
"That's all?"
"Ok, A plus plus. You are a rare beauty. Generations from now will scarce believe such a beauty walked on this humble earth."
"Wah, wah, Anjali khush hui! But my dear genius, we have just started knowing each other, don't spend all your butter in one go, you may run out of stock."
"How about me? Did you like my profile."
"Well, you are passable, thank God you are not a natural disaster!"
"Handsome?"
"Passable."
"Gorgeous?"
"Passable."
"Dashing?"
"That judgment is reserved till we meet."
"Did I come anywhere near Junior Ambarni?"
"Ha, ha, Gujjubhai! Don't you want to eat crab curry and prawn fry at Alibaug? Go to sleep. Good night."
"Will you visit me in my dreams?"
"Yes, do a programming of the mind, I will come along with my three room mates."
"God save me from four dream girls! I am scared! Can I call you tomorrow morning?"
"O no, don't call during office hours. It is strictly forbidden. Don't you know what TCS stands for - To Call is Sin. So no phone, no message."
"OK, then I will call in the night."
"Why this impatience? Anyway we are going to meet on Sunday."
"Sunday? That is four days away!"
"How did you survive all these days?"
"I will tell you when we meet."
"Ok, go to sleep, good night."
"Good night."
Goutam waited. May be, Anjali will call again. But there was no call. He desperately wanted to talk to her, if possible for the whole night. But didn't want to irritate her. He felt as if by some quirk of fate the moon from the sky had come down to settle in his palms and he didn't want to open them for fear of losing the moon. With the moon ensconced in his hands, he went to sleep.
Next morning at ten he sent a message to her, "Hello, good morning. Busy?" There was no answer. Again at twelve noon, "Hello, super busy?" No reply. At two he asked "Did you have lunch? From office canteen or home?" At five he was desperate, "Anjali, which branch of TCS you work in? Should I come to pick you up?" He did not receive any message from her.
At eight thirty in the evening she called. He was waiting for the call.
"Why were you messaging though out the day? Has your bank gone bankrupt and closed down?"
"Why didn't you reply even to one of my messages?"
"Our group leader watches all of us with a hawk's eye. If he finds anyone talking or messaging on phone, he gives a lecture for half an hour on work ethics or profreesional commitment. Don't try to contact me during office hours. Didn't I tell you TCS stands for To Call is Sin?"
"Suppose I am about to die because I didn't get a drop of water anywhere. My throat is parched and is about to catch fire. If I stand outside your office and call you over phone, will you not come running to pour a bottle of water down my throat an d save me from dying? Even that is not allowed in TCS?"
"Oh, stop your drama. On Sunday when we meet I will pour water down your throat to last a whole year. OK? Please don't come to my office, thirsty or not."
"Not even to pick you up?"
"No, Gurminder, Nobonita and I return home together by local train every evening. I am sure your bike, howsoever grand, cannot carry three persons on the pillion seat."
"O O, an entanglement with you means, take one, get your roommates free? Not a bad deal?"
"O dreaming genius, tread softly, dont go so far that you lose your way and tumble. I think this is another Confucian saying. Anyway, when I say don't come to office you better not come to office. OK?"
"OK Ma'am. Anything you say goes! What were you doing after returning from office?"
"O, I was cooking, for the four of us."
"That's good! So which dishes are your speciality?"
"O, I know a little bit of everything, a bit of allrounder. I know how to make mixed vegetable, fish fry, chicken biriyani, egg curry."
"Wow! What a genius you are!"
"Go slow on butter on me, you may need a lot on Sunday. Now tell me, do you eat from outside everyday? Or cook your meals? Do you live alone or you have a room mate?"
"I have a room mate - Yogesh Batra. He is from the same office as mine - he is in marketing I am in software. We live in a one BHK apartment. I sleep in the bedroom, he in the living room. I know how to make tea and prepare bread and omelette for breakfast. Yogi knows no cooking, but he is totally indifferent to food. His obsession is girls. He is onto his seventh girlfriend now. The latest conquest is a Marathi girl -Sheela Shinde, a student of M.A. in a local college. Yogi spends most of his time on phone with her during office hours. At home he is on phone till two or three in the night. He is usually asleep,when I leave for office at half past eight."
"But how does he manage, reaching the office in time?"
"Ours is flextime. Yogi comes at ten and leaves at seven. Most of his office hours are dedicated to Sheela, but he is a smooth talker. The boss eats out of his hands, and whenever he goes on a marketing call he never fails. A real smart cookie, he can sell the Gateway of India to you and exchange it for Taj Mahal the next day. Anyway, leave Yogi alone. Tell me about yourself."
"About me? Is there anything left to tell you? Like a genius that you are, you have collected all information about me. I hope you are not planning to write a book about me - From Bhubaneswar to Andheri East, Journey of a Lonely Girl."
Before Goutam could reply there was a big explosion like sound from Anjali's living room. Someone was calling her in a loud voice, there was no doubt it was Gurminder. Only a Sardarini could have a booming voice like that.
Anjali was in a hurry to disconnect,
"Sorry, I have to leave. The three gorillas have already started attcking the mutton pulao. If I don't report to the battlefield, I will be left only to pick up left over bones."
"You have made mutton pulao? Wow, a real marvel! Can't wait to sink my teeth into the juicy mutton as and when and if you offer to me!"
"As and when and if will depend on as and when and if you click on Sunday. It was Confucius who had said if you want rub your nose, you must keep your palms clean."
"Palms? My palms are always clean, like lotus leaves plucked from a fresh pond. Listen, Can I come tomorrow to your apartment in the evening? We can go for some coffee soffee, or may be a Kulfi."
"No no, no coffee soffee. I will call you tomorrow around this time."
Anjali disconnected. Goutam wanted to talk for anther couple of hours. He called her number at ten. There was no answer.
Next day Goutam sent four messages to Anjali but didn't get any reply. He finished dinner early and returned to his apartment. She called at eight thirty. Goutam answered at the first ring,
"Hello Miss TCS, where were you during the day? Don't you really see any of your messages during working hours?"
"Sometimes we see, but we never take a chance to send a reply or talk to someone. Leave it, you won't understand."
"OK, then quit TCS. That is the best solution."
Anjali giggled, a soft, sensuous, jingling laughter, like the gurgle of a jungle stream,
"Quit the job? Just to talk to you? So, Mr. Genius, who will feed me?"
For a couple of seconds Goutam kept quiet. He wanted to say, I will take care of you Anjali, just say yes, but with just two days' acquaintance he couldn't say that. She giggled again,
"Oye, Mr. Genius, I know what you are thinking. But didn't Confucius say, to win a Marathon, you must run the first hundred meters?"
Goutam sighed,
"So, Madam To Call is Sin! You want to make me run a Marathon? I must go to Marine Drive from tomorrow and start toning up my muscles! Tell me, you really want to drag me into a long run?"
"First run with me to Alibaug on Sunday, then we will see. Yes, before I forget, let me warn you on a small thing. Don't look at my eyes when we are talking. I have this Lalita Pawar problem, my left eye keeps winking every few minutes. I once had some kind of fever in my childhood and since then this problem has remained with me. The doctors say it is Facial Palsy and is incurable. Many people mistake me, thinking I am winking at them. Once a young boy in a mall suddenly caught my hand thinking that I was bowled over by him. And somehow this winking becomes more frequent if I get angry or upset or excited. So two quick winks in succession, he lifted my hand to his lips and planted a kiss there. I managed to snatch my hand and gave him a big slap which sounded like a tyre bursting. The poor idiot ran away."
"O my God! Quite a fighter you are, a Jhansi ki Rani! A hunter wali?"
"Yes, one more thing. Wear a jacket on Sunday When you come."
"Why? To cushion the effect of Hunterwali's whip?"
For a few seconds Anjali kept quiet, just to prolong the suspense. Then she burst out laughing,
"Silly, if you don't wear a jacket you will catch a cold after the bike ride in the open."
"Oh, so much concern for me? I am flattered."
"The concern is not for you Mr. Genius, it is for me. If you fall sick how will we eat the crab curry at Alibaug? And who will bring me back to Mumbai?"
"Don't worry, I won't fall sick, I won't even die till I have fed you crab curry and prawn fry at Alibaug."
"Hah, quite a dramabaz, aren't you! Now, let me leave. Gurminder has brought naan and butter chicken from a restaurant. We must attack it before it gets cold."
"Will you call again? After dinner?"
"No, I am halfway through Chetan Bhagat's latest. Want to finish it. But tell me, why are you so keen on talking to me? Haven't you talked to a girl before?"
"You want to hear the truth? Or some cooked up story?"
"Don't even try to tell me a lie. I have a special knack of catching a lie thrown at me."
"Ok, the truth is I have never talked to a lovely, vivacious, giggling beauty like you in my life. The girls in IIT are very smart, very calculative. They assess the potential of the boys in the fist year itself. They keep an eye on the top students in the class, they know who will go to America, who will land up a job with Google or Microsoft. So I had no chance."
"Why! Didn't you want to go to the US? To the land of opportunities.?"
"Nah, I was tired of studying. Going to US means another two years of Master's, may be five years if it is Ph.D.. I don't have patience to study any more. I was sick looking at the book in the fourth semester at IIT. So I got this interesting offer from Standard Chartered Bank in campus interview and grabbed the thirty fIve lakhs plus bonus package. At twenty nine years, this is more than enough. Who wants to study?"
A shrill whistling sound came floating over the phone. It was Anjali's way of saying she was stunned,
"Thirty five lakhs! My God, and here we are, gloating over our forty thousand a month! Thirty five lakhs, plus bonus! You are almost an Amabani. I should keep a distance from you. Out of sheer respect!"
"If you keep a distance, how will you go to Alibaug? On a skate, tied to my bike? I will be looking back every few seconds to check if you are following me or fallen into a ditch!"
"No, no skating fating, I will ride on your bike and go to Alibaug, the cool air singing songs of joy into my ears. Oh, ok, ok, let me go. These rowdies are barking like hungry hyenas, waiting to attack the chicken pieces. Tomorrow is Saturday. Our office closes at four. I will be home by five. Will call you early."
"If your office closes early, let me come to your apartment and pick you up, we will go out to have ice cream."
"Oh no, I remember now, tomorrow is my turn to cook dinner. So no going out, and no phone call. Want to sleep early so that on Sunday I will be ready by eight for Alibaug. Bye, see you on Sunday."
Goutam didn't want a Saturday to go waste, without meeting or at least talking to Anjali. So he was still saying, Anjali, wait, listen.....when she disconnected.
Saturday evening was a big drag for Goutam. He had bought some chilled beer with him on his way back from office but didn't feel like opening a bottle. At least half a dozen times he picked up the phone to call Anjali, but didn't want to irritate her. Finally he called, but she didn't answer. Probably she was busy cooking for her roommates. And Yogi? Ah, Yogi, his roommate must be roaming in heaven, in the company of his girlfriend Sheela. He had told Goutam they would go for a movie in the evening, He would return late in the night and give a graphic account of how they sat close to each other, how their hands were busy exploring each other and how Sheela suddenly burst out laughing, how the others looked at them and tried to quieten them with a shh.... For the last few weeks Yogi's world was filled with Sheela's antics, how she was the boldest among all his girlfriends, how it's just a matter of days before he hits a sixer with her. Sheela this, Sheela that, ah, lucky Yogi!
Suddenly he remembered Anjali had told him about her eyes closing every few minutes due to facial palsy. He was curious to see if any of her photos in Facebook showed a blinking left eye. He frantically went through the photographs. Only in a couple of them he thought there was a slight hint of the left eye a bit smaller than the right one, but he was not sure if that was actually the suggestion of a wink. Anyway he was going to meet her the next day, he could see for himself. Looking at so many lovely pictures of Anjali filled his heart with joy and he went off to sleep, dreaming of the exquisite girl, and her sweet giggles.
Exactly at eight Goutam stood outside Anjali's apartment building and called her. Anjali came after a couple of minutes, slowly emerging out of the gate. Goutam could not take his eyes off the captivating beauty - she was devastatingly beautiful. His heart skipped a beat, just looking at her. Anjali came near, smiled at him,
"Hi, so punctual! Why were you staring at me as if I was a model walking on a ramp?"
Goutam stammered,
"A model on a ramp? No, you are much more gorgeous than that!"
"But why this hungry stare? Like you will swallow me given a chance?"
"I was looking at your eyes, waiting for you to wink, your Lalita Pawar syndrome. In fact you have already winked at me twice!"
"Sorry, I had already prepared you for that. If you find it repulsive let me go back to the apartment."
"Oh no, no, I love your winks, they are so seductive! But tell me, last night I had opened all your Facebook pictures, but hardly found a winking eye in any photograph!"
Anjali waited for a few seconds and started laughing,
"You love my winks? So, the day has started with pulling the legs of the genius IITian! Not bad, going to be an interesting day. Any way Palsy or no Palsy, I will keep winking at you, just to be seductive!"
Goutam smiled and said to himself, you don't have to do anything to seduce me Anjali, just be by my side, I will be floating in a dream. Anjali had put on a pair of jeans and a yellow colored top, with a green scarf covering her beautiful neck. She was looking out of the world. She sat on the bike, the legs on both sides. Goutam waited for her to wrap her slender hands around his waist, but she put her hands on the sides.
Suddenly there was a big shout from the window of their apartment, "Oye, balley, balley, good luck!"
Three pairs of eyes were staring at them, the hands waving like signals on railway lines giving clearance to a speeding train. Anjali waved back and whispered to Goutam,
"Look at the chimpanzees, how obscenely they are waving their hands. This rascal Gurminder goes for jogging every Sunday morning, today she has stayed home just to roast me. Come, hurry before they go out of control and start doing a cabaret dancing near the window."
It was a memorable Sunday for Goutam. The wind got chillier as they left the city crowd and entered the open highway. Anjali must have felt cold, she came closer to Goutam, leaning on him. The touch of her body sent an electric current through Goutam. As the road became a bit bumpy she grabbed his waist and enjoyed the cool wind in joyous abandon.
By the time they reached Alibaug, the water had receded into the sea for about two hundred meters. It happens in Alibaug all the time. At regular periodic intervals the sea water recedes and then returns in full glory. There is a small island inside the sea and one can walk there when the sea water recedes, enjoy the scenic beauty and roam around an abandoned fort. They walked back from the island after an hour and went to a restaurant. Rice with Goan fish curry was its speciality. They also ordered a plate of crab curry and prawn fry. Goutam looked at Anjali,
"Want to have some beer?"
She shook her head,
"I don't drink. You go ahead if you like."
"No, I am not a regular drinker. I drink occasionally if there is company, that too only beer. I stay away from very hard drinks.. Tell you what, lets have a plate of pomfret fry in stead of beer."
"My God, I am full. But can't say no to pomfret fry. No dinner tonight. Must go up and straight go to bed before the chimpanzees start ragging me."
Goutam raised his eyes,
"Ragging? What ragging?"
She laughed,
"As if you don't know! The chimpanzee stuff, what we ate, what we talked, what we did. Their dirty minds will go wild, imagining all kinds of things."
He looked at her, his heart racing like a horse on the track. She was looking lovely, like a cute damsel who had just climbed out of the blue ocean, to spread radiance with her yellow dress and dazzling smile. with a voice dripping in mischief he said,
"So Ambani Junior is out of the race? I have a chance?"
"You have no chance. You are very unromantic. I winked at you so many times in the morning, it was like wink at first sight, but you never winked back even once."
"O, that's nothing. You may not know, but I am a sort of winking champion. I have taken special coaching from that Malayalam actress Priya Warrier. I can wink from ten different angles. See, one, two, three, four, five....."
Anjali started rolling in laughter.
"Ok, ok, how many girls have you winked at during your college days?"
"Well, let me count, one, two, three, four.....four girls, but nothing serious....only innocent games of wink wink."
"My God, quite a Romeo! Where are they now?"
"No idea.....never tried to know. If I knew I would meet you on this November morning, eating crab curry and pomfret fry, I would have kept all those winks wrapped in golden wrappers and presented to you today."
She looked at him and flashed another dazzling smile of hers.
The sea had filled up with the onset of tide. They sat on a bench on the beach and kept talking, like old friends meeting after a long time. About Bhubaneswar, Chennai, life at ITR college, at IIT. Anjali told him about her younger brother Chintu who had just joined college, how he wanted a new mobile phone, a jacket from her when she visited home, how he was keen to visit Mumbai but his face became red with shyness when Anjali told him that she shared the apartment with three other girls.
Goutam smiled at her,
"Ask him to come, he can stay with me."
She looked at him, a mischievous twinkle lighting up her eyes,
"O genius! Making big plans! May I know what's going on in your mind?"
"Nothing scandalous. You want to hear what my roommate Yogi and his girl friend Sheela do? Then you will know what a decent, innocent, civil guy I am."
"What do they do? Your Yogi-Sheela?"
"Every Saturday they go to watch movies. In the darkness of the hall they actually do a cinema instead of watching one. Their hands get busy with each other......."
"Ok, ok, stop there. I feel nauseated to hear such dirty stories."
"Every Saturday night Yogi gives me a progress report, how far he has reached in his adventure, how he is waiting for the chance to score a six and seal the deal, how Sheela is also getting impatient......"
"Stop, stop, no more details please. Do Sheela's parents know?"
"Her dad is a marine engineer, half the year he is out in the sea, sailing. The mother is a marketing director with the Taj group. She is busy with her work all the time. They have a huge apartment in Colaba on the 24th floor. Sheela says the view of the sea is awesome from there. Yogi has not visited her house so far but Sheela has already given him a video tour of the inside. Sheela has shown him the picture of her bedroom, her cupboards, Yogi says he was floored by the huge number of her dresses and the matching inner wear....."
Anjali quickly put her hand on his mouth,
"Stop, stop, don't you know where to stop?"
Her shy smile was captivating, the touch of her hand mesmerizing. A shiver ran down Goutam's body, drenching his heart and soul with a soft tenderness. He felt like holding her hand and telling her never to leave him.
Anjali also became conscious that unknowingly she had suddenly touched Gautam's face. A sudden ache filled her heart with a hitherto unknown feeling. She looked away at the sea, her mind in a mild intoxication.
They sat there till the afternoon sun washed the undulating waves with a silver glow, the cool sea breeze tugged at their heart with a
gentle togetherness.
Around eight in the evening Gautam dropped Anjali at her apartment. She told him,
"Give me a call after you reach the apartment, just for a minute."
"Only a minute? Can't it be longer?"
She laughed,
"Today's quota of talks is over. Just call me to say you have reached safe. We will have a long talk tomorrow evening."
"How many minutes?"
"No need to count the minutes, we will talk as long as we feel like."
"Promise?"
"No promise fromise. You can count on my words. Now go home, sleep well. Good night."
She turned and left. Gautam kept looking at her, his heart wrenched by a lingering sorrow at the parting. Before she entered the gate she looked back and flashed him one of her trademark dazzling smiles. Gautam's heart skippped a beat. Ah, how he wished the day had never ended, he and Anjali could have sat close to each other at the beach in Alibaug, reveling in each other's presence!
A WEEK LATER.............
The phone rang at eight on a Monday evening. It was Gautam calling Anjali. She was in the kitchen, she came running to pick up the phone.
"Hello, why this before time call today?"
"Could not wait. If you give me a chance I can call you all the time during the day, but you are heartless. TCS is just an excuse. I had made big plans for yesterday, a Sunday, but you went away to watch a movie with your roommates. Should I come tomorrow? After office? We will go out to Rustamji to have the best ice cream of Mumbai?"
"No, no, men are not allowed anywhere near our apartment."
"Are you serious? Is it possible to have an apartment in Mumbai without the shadow of a man polluting it?"
"Yes, all the four of us work in TCS. Before we decided to share an apartment we agreed on this. Once we allow men to come and meet anyone of us there will be no end to it."
"Are your roommates also like you? Shy, innocent cuties who will wither like spring flowers at the touch of a gentle wind?"
"O my God! What a poetic overflow? Did you learn it at IIT Chennai? Ok, say that in Tamil, let me see."
"In Tamil?"
"Yes, in Tamil, let me see how good you are in Tamil."
"Ok, here it is. Ennadaa rascal, veettuku podaa, odi po!"
"Ha, ha, you are bluffing, this is pure bluff. Is flower rascal in Tamil? Don't try to cheat me, you may be an IIT genius, but we from ITR are not pushovers either. Ok?"
"Yes Ma'am, noted. Now tell me, are all your roommates innocent flowers like you?"
"Gurminder has a boyfriend in Jullundur, he comes once in two months in connection with business and stays in a hotel for a week. Gurminder moves in with him and returns to the apartment after he goes away."
"Wah, wonderful. How about your poet Nobonita?"
"Three months back his fiancé had come to Mumbai to attend some conference. Nobonita went to meet him in the evening for dinner. When she returned in the night, Gurminder packed a suitcase for her, took her in a taxi and forced her into the fiancé's room and came away. Nobonita returned after six days."
"Ha, ha, you are surrounded by experienced players but have not dared to come down to the ground to play! How about Jacintha?"
"She is a real cutie. Very gentle, soft spoken and demure. She prays before the photograph of Jesus for half an hour in the morning and evening. She spends time playing guitar and singing soft, lilting songs. She is quite decent, has no boyfriend."
"So you think only those girls who have no boyfriends are decent, the others are characterless?"
"I don't exactly think like that, but somehow I can't tolerate the idea of someone spending nights with a boyfriend. Physical intimacy is a gift which should be preserved only for the husband. No other male has a claim over it."
"In this age it is a very old fashioned idea. In Mumbai more than half boys and girls get physically intimate before marriage. You know, Yogi says Sheela is his seventh girl friend. He had slept with the previous six girls. He and Sheela are just waiting for the opportunity to get some lonely moments and consummate their relationship. Yogi says the day is not very far. He got so excited while saying this that he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. He says there is no point in having a girlfriend unless you sleep with her."
"Do you also think like that?"
"What difference does it make? It is their life, they should live it the way they like."
"Can I ask you something? You won't mind?"
"No, no, ask me whatever you want."
"Have you thought of marriage?"
"Ha ha, you think the parents will let you live in peace without that? My parents have a single track mind these days. They talk only of my marriage when we are on phone . They have lost count of the so called proposals."
"Why don't you select from one of those proposals and get married?"
"You want to know the truth? I have fallen in love with this free, worrylesss life. There is a special pleasure in blowing money in eating out, watching movies, attending IPL matches or going on long drives on bike to Ratnagiri, Nashik, Goa. Who wants to get married and be tied down to domestic routines?"
"So no plans of getting married in near future?"
"I will think about it if I find a good girl, beautiful, lively, broad minded......"
"Broad minded? What is that?"
"Broad minded? Someone who is not narrow minded, not tied down to old fashioned ideas. Broad minded like Sheela, Gurminder, Nobonita...."
"What? Such girls are your role models? Chhi! I had such high expectations from you and you are so low in your thinking! I could never think you will stoop so low! Stop calling me from now on. I will never take your call."
Gautam panicked. Suddenly his heart beat got fast, very fast, like the running of a locomotive train,
"Anjali! Anjali, please try to understand, I was joking. Sorry, please, listen, Anjali.....O my God, she disconnected!"
For the next half an hour Gautam kept trying Anjali's number. She had switched off her phone. The next day also the phone was switched off. Gautam felt as if he would go crazy. On Wednesday evening he left office early and waited outside her apartment. Anjali ignored him and went towards the gate. Gautam pleaded with her,
"Anjali, please wait and hear me out. Please Anjali, I will call at nine, please answer the phone."
She entered the gate of the apartment without looking at him.
But when Gautam called at nine she picked up the phone,
"Please stop calling me, I don't want to talk to you. I am not your type. Please don't bother me."
Gautam almost sobbed on the phone,
"Please Anjali, I am sorry if I hurt you with my words. But couldn't you take a joke in the right spirit? You misunderstood me?"
"That Yogi has spoilt your mind. Get rid of that debauch. You want to become like him, sleeping with girlfriends, discarding one, picking up another! Chhi! What a shame!"
"Anjali, let Yogi go to hell. Tell me, will you marry me? Please say yes Anjali, please. I can't live without you."
She was quiet for a moment,
"I can't say yes or no just like that. My parents will have to approve. My Bou will agree with whatever I do, I am her heart throb. My Baba also loves me a lot but he is a hard nut, a real hard nut. A devout Brahmin, he won't agree to my marrying a non-Brahmin like you. It is going to be a tough journey, I had thought of all that and was making up my mind to break the news to my mother, then one stupid sentence by you changed everything, put the clock back by several days. Give me time, I have to again prepare myself, to ask my Bou to convince Baba."
"Will you have lunch with me on Sunday? At Iranis in Fort? Then we will go and watch a movie at Metro."
Anjali flared up,
"O, you want to go to a movie? Like Yogi your hands will become active trying to reach the unreachable? Do you males have a single track mind? Can't you think of something decent?"
Gautam started sweating,
"O, no, no, its fine. No movie, ok? We will eat and spend the afternoon at Marine drive chatting. Evening we will have ice cream at Rustamji near Churchgate station and then I will drop you at your apartment? Ok? Happy?"
"Yes, pick me up at one."
"Ok, good night."
FIFTEEN DAYS LATER..........
Anjali was a bit late in picking up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Is everything ok? Why didn't you pick up the phone last night?"
"I had gone to bed early. Had a bad headache after return from office."
"O! Did you take some medicine?"
"I took a crocin and went off to sleep. I am alright now."
"Want to talk or take rest?"
"Yes, tell me what's in your mind?"
"Did you speak to your Baba?"
"No, I am depending on Bou for that. I have told her everything."
"How did you break the news to her? Was she shocked?"
"She first broached the subject, told me I should think of marrying, now that I am twenty six years...."
Gautam interrupted her,
"Twenty six? I always thought you are much younger, you don't look a day more than nineteen."
"Shut up, stop buttering me. You will get nothing for all that buttering."
"Ok, ok, tell me what plans your Bou has for you?"
"She said, many proposals have come. There is a boy in America who has been impressed with my photograph, they want to have an early marriage, this summer itself."
"You want to go to America?"
"What about you? You want to go?"
"No, Mera Bharat Mahaan."
"Then my Bharat is also Mahaan. So I told Bou, why are you thinking of boys from America for me, they would be already having three four live in girlfriends. She couldn't believe it, asked me, 'Does it really happen? Boys and girls living together without getting married?' I told her even in Mumbai it happens. Two of my room mates go and stay with their boyfriends in hotel when they visit here. Bou kept quiet for a few seconds, then very hesitatingly asked me, 'you are working in a big office, you must be meeting lots of boys, do you.......'she felt shy to go into details. I laughed on the phone, 'why don't you ask me directly, if I have a boyfriend?' She persisted,'do you?' 'No, of course not. But there is an Odia boy who has become quite close to me, I also like him a lot. He is an IIT graduate, works in Standard Chartered Bank, earns three lakhs per month.' Bou got quite excited, 'is he from Bhubaneswar? Get his parents' telephone number. We will contact them.' I felt nervous, seeing how excited she was, 'Bou, there is a small hitch. They are not Brahmin, his name is Goutam Patnaik.' Bou kept quiet for a full minute, and then shrieked, 'O my God, what have you done? Will your Baba agree? You know how stubborn he is.' I told her,'it's your problem. You should know how to convince him.' She asked me, 'Are you really keen on this boy?' I said 'yes, if I marry, it will be only him, no one else. If Baba doesn't agree I will prefer to remain unmarried.' Bou got worried, 'my daughter, you have pushed me into the biggest crisis of my life. I will have to use all the weapons in my armory to win your Baba over. Give me a couple of months' time. Let me keep trying.' Bou is really worried - she has many weapons to use - pleading, praying, fasting, throwing tantrums, stop talking and other forms of non-cooperation, but Baba is a real tough nut to crack."
Goutam was ecstatic,
"Your Bou is a piece of wonder, like you. I am sure she will succeed. Now tell me, will you really remain unmarried if you don't get me?"
"What else? You think I was bluffing to my Bou?"
"Then why are you so reluctant to go to cinema with me? If you are so scared of the dark, how will you have a successful married life?"
"O, the genius IITian has again veered to the dirty track! Should I disconnect the phone?"
"No, no, oh no. But tell you what, at least come to my apartment, it's not that dark here, not like a movie hall."
"You boys have a single track mind. Wait till we get married, I will come to your apartment and will never leave. We will throw Yogi out, let him get married to Sheela and live in her Colaba apartment."
"Who says Yogi will marry Sheela? As the name suggests, he is a wanderer, moving from place to place, girl to girl."
"O, Yogi the Bhogi?"
"Hah, he will like that - Yogi, the Bhogi, ha ha."
"Will you come on Sunday? To take me to Sanjay Gandhi Park?"
"Yes, of course, this humble driver is always at Madam's service."
"Good that you have understood it before we get married. No scope for confusion on who is what."
"Will you definitely marry me? Made up your mind?"
"Yes, any doubt?"
"Then why this reluctance to come to my apartment every Sunday?"
"Good bye, looks like you will never reform, your mind has been polluted by the Yogi effect. See you on Sunday, at nine. Come prepared to go to Sanjay Gandhi Park, not to your apartment."
FIVE MONTHS LATER..........
It was Goutam on the phone,
"What is the latest, Anjali? Did your Baba agree, has he given consent for the holy matrimony? How long will I remain content with Sunday outings, daily telephone talks? The mind is getting restless, eager to have you with me. Do you know how I feel? As if I am standing on a river bank unable to scoop a palmful of water to quench my thirst."
Anjali laughed,
"Control your thirst for some more time. As Confucius said, if make no water, drink beer. I have been pestering Bou like a debt collector chasing a defaulting loanee. Her tantrums have not got the desired results. Baba does a Tandav dance every time she brings up the subject. He is going round with a morose face and sunken eyes and relatives have started asking Bou if he is seriously ill. Bou is totally confused, unable to cope up with my pestering and Baba's anger."
"I am also thoroughly confused. Neither we are getting married nor you are coming to my apartment. How long will you keep me hungry? I am almost facing starvation-death."
"O O, so serious? Haven't you heard what Confucius said, let the fruit wait, the bite will be juicier."
"Please, please, let me take just one bite, just to know how sweet is the fruit."
She laughed,
"No way, with one bite you will swallow the whole fruit. Then you will go crazy and demand a new fruit every day."
"No, honest, promise, just one bite."
"You have survived twenty nine years, can't you wait another six months?"
"Six months? I don't think I can survive even six more days of this maddening hunger."
"Good night. Go to sleep after doing meditation and Pranayam, Baba Ramdev style. Can't you see what a powerful Brahmachari he is."
Goutam would have probably reconciled to the wait with hope in his heart but suddenly he had a fight with Yogi after a couple of days. He returned one evening to his apartment after dinner and the moment he eneterd, he knew something was different. There was a mild smell of perfume hanging in the air. Perfume! Goutam knew neither he nor Yogi used perfume, so who was here? He looked at Yogi's bed, the bed sheet was crumpled, two pillows had fallen off unto the floor. Suddenly he saw it in a flash. Sheela! Sheela was here! My God, how brazen of Yogi! Goutam went crazy, miffed, but jealous all the same.
Yogi returned around eleven. Before Goutam could say anything Yogi hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek,
"Am I not a gadhaa, a champion donkey, a confirmed bewakoof? I wasted so many days looking for the right opening, when this bloody apartment was waiting here all the time, empty during the day and inviting like a seasoned whore! Today I saw light in a blinding flash, slipped away from the office, picked up Sheela from her college. A short drive to heaven and here I was with Sheela and Sheela ki jawani! Wah, Wah, what a piece of butter yaar, she is just out of the world!"
Goutam looked at him angrily,
"What if I had returned home after lunch?"
"Beta, don't talk of the impossible. In the last two years you have never returned home before evening, how could you do it today? In fact, now you also convince Anjali and bring her here. You will finish wedding, honeymoon, everything in one day in the cozy confines of this blessed apartment. Just give me a call and alert me so that I won't keep a program with Sheela that day."
Gautam winced, a deep sigh of frustration shook his body like an icy wind blowing over a withered leaf. Anjali! Coming to his apartment on a lonely afternoon, before wedding? Not even in her dreams. He reminded himself, with an ache in his heart, Anjali is Anjali, she could never be a Sheela.
MARINE DRIVE, MUMBAI, 19TH APRIL
The red rays of the sun did not fill Gautam's heart with joy today, a deep sense of melancholy sat over him like a dark cloud on a mountain top. Yogi had come to his cabin to have lunch together. Before he opened the lunch packet from the office cafeteria, Yogi gave him a nudge and a wink,
"You know what! Allah jab deta hai chhappar faadke deta hai. When it rains gold, it pours gold."
"What happened, did you win a lottery?"
Yogi thumped Gautam on the back,
"Yes, a big, big lottery. A lottery of three days and three nights!"
"Stop blabbering. What kind of lottery is that?"
Yogi grinned like a crocodile about to pounce on a hapless deer stuck in water.
"Sheela's Mom is going away to Chennai for a three days' conference, her dad must be somewhere out on the sea drinking beer and smoking cigars. So Sheela has invited me to her apartment for three nights of fun and frolic, with brief intervals of rest during day time. Listen to me, you idiot, the apartment will be available exclusively for you for three days. Get Anjali there and enjoy. Have a good rehearsal before the main show post-marriage. Don't let this chance go waste."
"Chance? What chance? All roads are blocked for me. Anjali has put a curfew everywhere."
Yogi was in a hurry to leave, his first night at Colaba was to start today. He threw a passing glance at Gautam,
"I pity you! A real loser you are."
Gautam looked around him. The happy couples, sitting glued to each other made him despondent. His heart sank into a deep despair. Ah, was there a way, all the paths got mixed up, the road blocks disappeared, Yogi's path became his path. He would walk on the path towards a promised place of awesome beauty and joy. The path would be strewn with flowers, at the end of it he would reach a house shining with a rare glow, inviting him to enter. There would be no need to knock, his presence would have charged the air with a sense of pleasant anticipation. The door would open, and the beautiful damsel who would hold his hand and lead him inside could be Anjali, or Sheela or Gurminder. She would hold him in a tight embrace, never to let go of him. They would lose themselves in an ever lasting joy, an unending bliss........
Suddenly Gautam returned to reality in a flash. There was a message alert on his mobile. It was from Anjali. He was surprised, this was the first time she had reached him through a message before eight. He opened the message,
"Hi, congratulations. The wait is over. I took leave from office today. I have been working on Baba since morning. Bou had finally given up last night. I cried, pleaded with Baba, threatened to stop talking to him and finally told him I would end my life if he didn't allow me to marry you. He was stunned. And finally asked me one question, was there anything he could say to make me change my mind. I said no. So he agreed and hoped that the Gods will protect me and our marriage. He has also consented to hold the marriage next month. Good for you. The way your hunger is rising, I am scared you may not survive more than a month. So! Call me at 8.30. Hope the genius IITian will know that alll these efforts by a poor, lonely girl in Mumbai, deserve a diamond ring when we meet on Sunday. Bye, lots of love."
Gautam could not believe his eyes. Suddenly his heart leapt to the sky, scooped a handful of color and started dancing with joy. He felt like running down the pavement on Marine Drive, shake hands with everyone and tell them between smiles, "Hey, you know what? I am going to marry the most gorgeous girl on earth - the girl I love with every throb of my heart."
He looked at the sky, the sun had set, he remembered it would be a full moon night today. When he looked out from his apartment in the night at Goregaon he would find the hillocks, the church towers and the tall temple awash with silver light, with a rare glow, to match the radiance that filled his heart for Anjali,
(FOR THOSE WHOSE KITES TOUCH THE MOON)
I looked out of the window. Moonlight was dancing in the white sky with a cascading abandon. Ah! If only I could go out, stand in the open and get showered by the serene coolness! The next moment I got up, electrified! Yes I could go, today is the fourteenth night moon! The ban on my wandering out is only on a full moon night.
Anyway it was impossible to sleep, I had been tossing on the bed for the past half an hour. The power supply was off, in the umpteenth power cut of the day. Only the Electricity Board knew when power supply would be back. Even God had no idea about it, having washed his hands off this decrepit organisation long back.
I got down from the bed and opened the door. There was silence in the house, my wife, son, his wife and daughter - all were sleeping. Late October in Bhubaneswar is neither hot nor cold. They could sleep, tired from the day's activities. As a retired person my day was as empty as the night. And I slept alone. For the last many years my wife shared the bed with Anjali, our grand daughter. They are great pals, telling stories to each other, mostly about me and my supposedly deficient intellect.
I felt lonely, under the midnight moon. I was happy it was only the fourteenth night moon and there was no ban on me to go and chase it. The ban was only for full moon nights. It is generally known among my family and friends that I become a different man on those white nights, possessed by a sense of intense melancholy. I yearn for all that I missed in life, lost in a vacantness which pervades my being. Anjali, my darling dushman, keeps on pricking me with small needles all the time, enjoying my vagueness about what I want from the moon.
"So Jeje, moon has been up for more than two hours! How come you have not gone to the roof, raised your hand trying to touch it?"
I look at her, pitying her ignorance,
"I don't have to touch it. A full moon doesn't wait for people to touch her. She just rains her light on everyone, drenching them and filling their heart with joy and bliss."
Mischievous Anjali tries to pull my leg,
"But Jeje, my heart is not filled with joy and bliss! I feel nothing special."
I pinch her on the cute, pert nose,
"Wait, in another few years, your heart will pine for someone on a full moon night, even the thought of your prince in waiting will fill your heart with joy. Soft, white light of the moon will play a tender music and you will go crazy".
Twelve year old Anjali rolls with laughter,
"Jeje, you are the crazy one in the family, so romantic at seventy! You should go and see a doctor!"
And she runs away, as if I have caught some infection!
I can't blame her. On moonlit evenings I go out for a walk, looking at the white roads, the bright trees, the smiling sky and the twinkling stars. I greet everyone on the street, some return the greeting, many just smile and shake their head. A couple of times I had asked Anjali to accompany me. She plays tricks with me,
"But Jeje, where will we go? Suppose we go out of our gate, will we turn left or right?"
I laugh at her. What a silly question? Does one ask for directions under a moonlit night? Does it matter whether we turn left or right? We just keep going, the moon light sprinkling joy on us, cool and beautiful. I try to convince Anjali,
"We will just go on, we don't have to reach anywhere, the road will be endless and when the moon sinks in the morning sky we will return home."
She laughs like she is possessed by a wild demon,
"Chhi Jeje, you are a confirmed loon, a total nut case. I will call you the mooney loon from today, or should it be looney moon? Let me go and tell Jejemaa, she will be so proud of a looney husband like you!"
Before I can stop her, she goes and tells my wife, who would be just waiting for such an excuse to put further bans on my movement. She is convinced that a man close to seventy years of age is a grave danger to himself and to humanity in general if he is let out of the confines of home. Of course I am guilty as charged, because I have the tendency to do the most outlandish things when I go out, buying all kinds of stuff, talking to all types of people, discussing all the problems of life and prescribing solutions to all the ills of the country. Added to all these, if I wander aimlessly till the wee hours of the morning on full moon nights the circle of looniness will be complete. Hence the ban on my moving out on full moon nights, a decision meted out to me by a full bench of the family court presided over by the mighty matriarch.
But tonight was different, it was only the fourteenth night moon which was smiling down from the sky and I had the freedom to go out of home. I came out, closed the door, made sure the auto lock clicked and walked down the short garden path, pausing for a brief moment to inhale the fragrance of the Jui flower, drenched by the white lights of the moon.
The moment I approached the gate I saw him, he was standing there, a man of indeterminate age, but looked perhaps closer to my own age. He smiled at me,
"You are also sleepless in this moonlit night?"
I nodded,
"The power supply is off and this moon light seeping through the window drew me out irresistibly."
"Same here. Come, let's take a walk. Which way do you want to go?"
I laughed, remembering my talk with Anjali, my cute mischief of a grand daughter,
"Oh, one doesn't ask for directions under a moonlit night. One just walks on."
"Ok, let me take you down a path I had travelled a hundred times when I was a student, forty eight years back. If we take a left turn at the next crossing and go straight for about a hundred meters, we will reach Rupali Square. A left turn from there and we walk towards Vani Vihar, the university. That's the path I used to take everyday for two years to go to attend my classes. Want to come with me?"
"Of course, always a pleasure to walk down memory lane! That too on a moonlit night!"
We walked along, enjoying the silence of the night, sipping the liquid whiteness of the moon light. The man got quite animated at Roopali Square when it was time to take a left turn towards the university,
"See the opposite road? That's the one I used to take to get to the main road, from my house. Let's go a little bit into that road, I want to show you something."
I looked at him . There was a beautiful smile on his face, a mix of mischief and bashfulness, as if some cute memory was flooding his mind.
I was curious. He pointed out to the balcony of a house about twenty meters away,
"Can you see that balcony? It's a wonder; so many houses have come up around here, but the balcony is still there. You know, everyday around noon when I used to pass this way a girl would be standing there looking to the road, as if she was waiting for me. A beautiful girl, thin and tall, with a bright frock on her. Or was it a gown? Frankly I didn't know the difference between a frock and a gown, but the colour was mesmerising, mostly a mustard yellow or a light green. My heart used to do a quick somersault, just looking at her, music would start playing in my ears and even in hot summer a cool fragrance will touch my soul, drenching it with ethereal joy. I would slow down a bit and then move on, but the moment would remain with me for the whole day, sometimes till the next noon when I would see her again, standing at the balcony, perhaps waiting for me."
The gentleman stood there for a minute or so, trying to recollect the girl, and then turned around, walking towards the main road,
"I could never gather the courage to meet her even once and speak to her, but I spent so many moonlit evenings, walking alone along these roads, imagining great things about me and her. Somehow I thought she would be having a younger brother, a rotund ball of a boy, eager to eat ice cream. They would have come out of home to get ice cream on the moon lit evening, when I would accost them, the girl will be bubbling with joy looking at me, happy and bashful, the boy would be eyeing the ice cream cones with ravenous desire. I would get a few cones for him and let him eat, when the girl and I would sit down quietly, the ice cream cones in our hand forgotten. There would be so much to talk! I would ask her which school (or was it college? I was not sure) she went to, what were the timings, how did she manage to be at the balcony around noon every day, what was her favourite colour, which flower she liked, was she fond of sweets or achar, and a hundred other things. I would tell her what I wanted to do with my life, how I lived from noon to noon just waiting for a glimpse of her. We would look into each other's heart, trying to seek ourselves and merge our souls as if our whole lives depended on that. The moonlit sky would make us dream of a future together, but the spell would be broken by her roly-poly brother who would have finished half a dozen cones of ice cream and unable to eat anymore, would intrude, and remind her to go home. She would drag herself away from me with a promise to return the next evening."
We stopped for a few seconds. The gentleman shook his head,
"But it never happened, I never got to meet her. After finishing my M.A. I got a job in Benares and left. When I came back six months later to visit my parents I didn't see her at the balcony at noon any more. I thought of knocking at her door, but somehow the fear of rejection pulled me back. I have always been like that. Living in dreams, away from reality, and ah, these moonlit nights! They are the real culprits, aren't they, driving me crazy!"
We had kept walking, the Women's College was on our left. During the day it was a hub of noise and giggles and girlish screams, now it was sleeping like a dreaming fairy. The man stopped, looked at the silent building and chuckled to himself,
"You know, I was really shy with the girls, almost scared of them. I never used to cross the street and go to the other side till I had passed the college compound. I was scared that I might accidentally brush against a girl and all the other girls would mob me and rag me till my eyes would burst out of their sockets and I would collapse like a punctured balloon on the street. And then one day the unthinkable happened. A couple of girls, coming from the opposite side stopped me and asked what the time was. I started sweating, I looked at them without blinking and almost fainted. They were shocked as if I had wetted my pants! Suddenly they started giggling loudly and ran away. That was one of the few days when the girl in the balcony did not bother me for the day, the two girls appeared before me a hundred times, asking, what's the time please? In the night I got up from my sleep many times, clearly hearing the voice of a girl asking me, what's the time please? Ah, the sweet pangs of melancholic youth! We didn't grow up in an age where boys and girls talked to each other so freely, walked hand in hand on the streets and shared all their secrets!"
I sighed, ah so many memories! The gentleman probably read my mind,
"Yes, so many memories, mostly good ones, a few bad ones too. Look at that spot near the bus stop, let's cross the street here. Can you see this spot, here? It's exactly at this spot that the back wheel of a bus had run over the head of a man. Oh, it was so ghastly, happened just a few feet from me. The man had probably forgotten his stop and hurriedly jumped down when the bus had started moving. He slipped and his head came under the wheel of the bus. It was smashed, there was blood pouring from his mouth, nose and ears. He must have died on the spot. I didn't stop to see. I just ran till I reached the class. Oh, such a frightful memory!"
We were silent for a couple of minutes, death has an irritating way of silencing us, its monstrous vastness sits heavy on the consciousness.
Suddenly the man burst out,
"See, see this place, near the culvert. There was an old man who used to sit here every day selling peanuts and all kinds of mixture. Once on my way back from class I bought fifty paise worth of peanuts from him and gave him a five rupees note. By mistake he returned me an extra rupee, instead of four and half rupees he retuned me five and half. When I reached home and took out the money I found it out. So I ran back to him and returned the extra rupee to him. He was so happy at my honesty, he blessed me, 'Babu, you will become a big man one day, such honesty, such goodness is rare in this Kaliyug!'"
The man let out a law moan,
"Big man! What big man! A boy who runs back in a winter evening to return a rupee to an old man, does he become a big man? He always remains a good man, but can never become a big man. Standing on a pedestal of honesty he finds lies, dishonesty, falsehood winning the game for others, he becomes a wide eyed bystander, clapping and cheering others'success. His friends, his family pat him on the back and say, ah, the honest looney! It is because of such people that even in Kaliyug the world has not come to an end!"
The man smiled at me,
"But I have no regrets, I have lived life on my own terms, never had to bend before the dishonest bullies! I left them alone, so did they. Hey, here we are at the massive gate of the university! This huge pedestal with the statue of Saraswati was not there during our time. There was only a huge arch at the main gate. You know, one day the students went on a strike due to some tiff with the crew of a bus. They beat up the driver and the conductor who ran away, leaving the bus in the campus. One of our class mates had proably driven a car earlier. He got into the driver's seat and started honking. About fifty of us got into the bus, it started rolling, lurching like a veteran drunk. We didn't care, everyone was shouting 'Student Unity Zindabad', 'Down, Down, Odisha Road Transport Corporation'."
The man stopped for a minute and muttered, 'Student Unity Zindabad', 'Down, Down, Odisha Road Transport Corporation'. As if he was living through those moments again,
"When the bus came near the Ladies Hostel, the shouting became frenzied, some of the students got down from the bus and started dancing while shouting slogans. The girls gathered near the windows and clapped, but no one came out of the hostel. After honking for a few minutes, our classmate, I think his name was Satya, took the bus outside the campus onto the highway. But he must have got nervous and to our horror, drove into a truck coming from the opposite direction. Luckily the bus was probably running at fifteen kilometres an hour and the truck driver had slowed down, seeing the meandering bus. There was a loud bang, the bus stopped and smoke started coming out of the engine. We all got scared and started running away from the bus. In half a minute the bus was empty. I ran till I reached home. For three days I didn't come out and every time there was a knock on the door I shivered, thinking the police had come to arrest me! But it was great fun when we were going round the campus in the bus shouting slogans, creating a ruckus out of nothing!"
We stopped near the gate, it was locked, we couldn't get in. The university was on the highway, a bye pass on the Calcutta-Madras NH. Trucks were moving leisurely, drivers must be enjoying our sleepy little town in the bright moonlit night. We started moving, the man let out a long sigh,
"I have a very touching memory of this stretch of the highway. You know, I almost died somewhere here on the highway? It was on the first day of our final exam. The paper was very tough. Of the five questions we had to answer I knew the answer to only one and half. I somehow wrote them, for the rest, my answers were just hot air based on guess work. When we came out of the exam hall, everyone was walking with heads down as if we had been robbed of a million rupees by a trickster. I came out of the main gate and started walking on this very road that we are walking on now. Tears had blinded my eyes, I knew that I would certainly fail in this paper. I almost decided to end my life by jumping before a passing truck."
We had reached the cross section where if we took a left turn we would reach my home after a hundred meters or so. The man continued,
"Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked back. It was my class mate Ajit. He had done slightly better than me, but was equally depressed. He assured me that the evaluation would be liberal since everyone had performed poorly. No examiner could fail the whole class! We wondered who had set such a tough question paper with all unexpected topics and doubted his parentage, almost certain that he was a product of the laboured efforts of multiple fathers. Gradually we started abusing him, using the most colourful expletives against him. I marvelled at Ajit's command over the filthy segment of the language. I learnt some new words that day with heavily loaded meanings which would make even a fish seller blush. I also learnt that abusing an invisible enemy with the choicest expletives was a great stress buster! Ajit walked with me till I reached home. And that's how my attempt at ending my life came to nought"
The man smiled, happy to have lived to tell the tale again. We had reached the gate of my home.
I shook hands with the gentleman and thanked him. Told him how happy I was walking with him, going over the past, ruminating on past memories. He smiled and said I was always welcome. I turned to walk down the short garden path. The next moment I froze. Standing at the door were my wife and son, anxious, eager to know what I had been up to. My son spoke out, loud and worried,
"Baba, who were you talking to? And it appeared you shook hands with someone. But there is no one there at the gate!"
I looked back, the gentleman was still there, standing and smiling.
I had never seen my shadow so clear on a moonlit night, that too my smiling shadow!
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.
MISCELLANEOUS
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - THE STORY OF SHIVA AND GANGA
Om Ganga dharay Shiva ganga dharaya
Hara hara bole namah Shivaya
Om Gangeswaraya Shiva Gangeswaraya
Hara hara bole namah Shivaya
Om namah Shivaya Om namah Shivaya
Hara hara bole namah Shivaya
Ganga (Sanskrit: ????? or ????, Romanized: Ga?g?) is the personification of the river Ganges who is worshipped as the Goddess of purification and forgiveness. The river Ganga is popularly known as the Ganga Mata (Mata means "mother"). Indian culture in general and Hindism in particular recognises the Ganga as sacred river and is worshiped as Goddess who accepts all and forgives all. Unlike other Goddesses, she has no destructive or fearsome aspect, destructive though she might be as a river in nature. The river Ganga is the lifeblood of the Hindu tradition for its divinities, and enlightenment. Worship of Ganga does not require the usual rituals like invocation (avahana) at the beginning and emersion (visarjana) at the end, which is required in the worship of other Gods and Goddesses. Her divinity is everlasting.
Some of the earliest mentions of Ganga are found in the Rig veda, where she is mentioned as the holiest of the rivers. However, the stories on Ganga prominently appear in post-Vedic texts such as the Ramayana, Mahabharata, and the Puranas. The Ramayana describes her to be the first born of Himavat, the personification of the Himalayas, and the sister of the mother Goddess Parvati. However, other texts mention her origin from the preserver God Vishnu. Legends focus on her descent to earth, which occurred because of a royal-sage Bhagiratha, aided by Shiva. In the epic Mahabharata, the Kuru king Shantanu and Ganga are the father and the mother respectively of the warrior Bhishma. The Mahabharata narrates that there was a war between Devas and Asuras. The leader of the Asuras, Vritra, was killed by Indra so his followers hid in the sea and the Devas were unable to find them. The Devas requested sage Agastya to help. He used his divine powers and swallowed the ocean to reveal where the Asuras were hiding. The Devas defeated the remaining demons and asked sage Agastya to restore the water to the ocean. However, sage Agastya was unable to release the water despite trying several times. This caused drought conditions on earth but Lord Vishnu assured Gods and Goddessesethat the ocean will be filled by the flow of Ganga on Earth. The Ramayana and other spiritual texts narrate that Brahma created Himavan who became the king of Himalayas and married Meru’s daughter Menavati. He had two daughters namely Ganga and Parvati. When Ganga grew up, she was taken to heaven where she took the form of a river.
The Bhagavata Gita depicts another birth story of Ganga, according to which, Vishnu in his Vaman incarnation appeared in the sacrificial arena of King Mahabali. Then to measure the universe, he extended his left foot to the end of the universe and pierced a hole in its covering with the nail of his big toe. Through the hole, the pure water of the Causal Ocean (Divine Brahm-Water) entered this universe as the Ganges River. Because the Ganges directly touches the lotus feet of Lord Vishnu (Narayana) before descending to the earth, it is known as Bhagavat-Padi or Vishnupadi which means “Emanating from the lotus feet of Bhagavan (God)”. It finally settles in Brahmaloka, the abode of the lord Brahma before descending to earth at the request of Bhagiratha and held safely by lord Shiva on his head to prevent the destruction of Bhumi Devi (Goddess Earth). However, Ganga was released from lord Shiva's hair to meet the needs of the country.
Ganga has Varuna as husband (when he incarnated as Shantanu, she married him). Varuna is presiding deity of Samudra and Ganga joins Samudra. Ganga is daughter of Vishnu as she emanated from His toe. Ganga is known by many names such as Bhagirathi, Shivapriya, Jahnavi, Nikita and Mandakini. Her father Himavan and mother Main?vati and her husband is Shantanu and her son is Bhisma. Kalasha is her weapon and Makara is her Bahana.. Known by many names, Ganga is often depicted as a fair, beautiful woman, riding a divine crocodile-like creature called the Makara.
In India, Ganga is generally seen as a mother to humanity. Pilgrims immerse the ashes of their kith and kin in the river Ganga, which is considered by them to bring the souls (purified spirits) closer to moksha, the liberation from the cycle of life and death. Festivals like Ganga Dussehra and Ganga Jayanti are celebrated in her honour at several sacred places, which lie along the banks of the Ganges, including Gangotri, Haridwar, Prayagraj, Varanasi and Kali Ghat in Kolkata.
The Legend
Most of the images and sculptures of Lord Shiva depict the river Ganga flowing from His matted hair. There is an interesting legend behind God Shiva and Goddess Ganga. As per mythology, there was a powerful king in India named Sagar. He decided to conduct Ashwamedha Yagya, (a horse sacrifice), to declare his supremacy over the Gods. Indra the king of heaven grew jealous of King Sagar and decided to steal the ritual horse. Indra successfully abducted the horse and tied him in the ashram of Sage Kapil, who was then meditating for many years. King Sagar ordered all his sons to search and find the sacrificial horse. After a long search they found the horse tied at the ashram and began assaulting the great sage thinking he was the culprit who stole the horse. The sage awoke from his trance and in his anger started to destroy all the sons of king Sagar. Anshuman, the grandson of King Sagar, pleaded for forgiveness. The sage told him that he could save his life by bringing the sacred river Ganga down from the heavens to purify the souls of him and his ancestors and help them to attain nirvana. King Dilip, son of Anshuman pleaded with Lord Brahma to help them bring Ganga to earth. He failed to appease Brahma so he passed the task to his son, Bhagiratha who was able to please Brahma. Brahma ordered Ganga to descend to earth. The furious Ganga felt this as an insult and decided to destroy earth with her force while descending from heaven. Bhagiratha was warned by Brahma that earth will not be able to bear the force of Ganga while descending from heaven, so he must seek the help of Lord Shiva, the only God who can withstand the descending force of Ganga. Bhagiratha prayed to Lord Shiva to help him and Shiva agreed to receive Ganga in his matted locks of hair. Ganga was arrogant and tried to drown Shiva by pushing him to the core of the earth, but the mighty Shiva easily held her in His locks of hair. Shiva’s matted hair was so strong that Ganga became helpless. Lord Shiva wanted to teach Ganga a lesson, but instead released her in seven streams as He was satisfied with the prayers of Bhagiratha. The seven streams of Ganga are (1) Bhagirathi, (2) Janhvi, (3) Bhilangana, (4) Mandakini, (5) Rishiganga, (6) Saraswati and (7) Alaknanda. Ganga became calm and followed Bhagiratha, who led her to his ancestors and with her purity, released their souls. Bhagiratha’s great effort in bringing Ganga to earth is known as “Bhagiratha Prayatna”. What would one consider to be the noble quality of Bhagiratha – his strong respect for his ancestors and his determination to meet any challenges to attain the goal? Ganga is considered to be the most sacred river in India which originates on earth from the depths of Gangotri glacier.
In the words of Sadhguru – “As you know, Ganga is supposed to drip from Shiva’s dreadlocks. There is a saying in Himalayas that every peak is Shiva himself. The Himalayan peaks are snow-capped, and the many small rivulets that flow out of these snow-capped mountains slowly assimilate and become streams and then rivers. This is why they said the mountain is like Shiva, and these streams flowing down are the dreadlocks and became river Ganga, which came from the skies – which is very true because snow falls from the skies. It is that symbolism which has created the legend of Ganga, and it is considered to be the purest water because it comes from the sky. Above all, it has acquired a certain quality by flowing through a certain terrain. I have trekked alone every year in the Himalayas from the age of nineteen, and I was cold and hungry all the time because I just came without any much equipment. All I had were denim trousers and a thick T-shirt. I have experienced this many times that just a few handfuls of Ganga water kept me going for more than forty-eight hours without any sense of being tired. And I have heard first hand from many people how their ailments have been cured just by drinking Ganga water. As you know, in India even if someone has to die, they need a little Ganga water. Ganga water can be something very special, not because you believe something, but simply because the quality of the water is like that. It is the Himalayas which does something to this water.”
A question arises – why lord Shiva saved the earth by receiving the falling Ganga from heaven when lord Vishnu’s main responsibility is to protect the world? It is interpreted that Gods and Goddesses have qualities of each other which means If Lord Vishnu is protector that doesn't mean he cannot destroy. Similarly, if Lord Shiva is destroyer that doesn't mean he can't protect. They are different forms of Supreme Being (Par Brahman) or Trinity – Brahma, Vishnu and Maheswar. Now coming back to the question, it should be understood that when Goddess Ganga came to earth, she being a divine river came with a very strong force. Looking at her intensity, Lord Shiva quickly opened his Jata (matted hair) and held Ganga in it. That time, Lord Vishnu was at his abode Vaikuntha, Whereas Lord Shiva was at his abode Kailash (which is on earth). Ganga came out of Lord Shiva’s Jata, and flew slowly downwards to earth. Ganga is also known as the daughter of Himalayas and sister of Parvati.
The Ganga basin extends over an area of 10.86 lakh sq kms and lies in India, Tibet, Nepal and Bangladesh The drainage area in India is 8,61,404 sq kms The river covers about 110 km along the Uttar Pradesh-Bihar border, 445 km length in state of Bihar. The principal tributaries joining the river in the state of Bihar are the Ghaghra, the Gandak, the Kosi, the Mahananda and the Sone which are originating from Tibet and Nepal Plateau. The Ganga originates as Bhagirathi from the Gangotri glaciers in the Himalayas at an elevation of about 7,000 m above mean sea level, in Uttarkashi district of Uttarakhand. Major Tributaries of the River Ganga under upper Ganga basin are viz Bhagirathi; Alaknanda; Ramganga; Ghaghra; and Gomti.
Ganga is revered in other countries
In Bali, Ganga is worshiped together with Danu. Her waters are considered holy in Bali. Her maternal association with Bhishma is known in Bali. Religious sites associated with her in Bali are Tirta Ganga, Pura Taman Mumbul Sangeh, and Kongco Pura Taman Gandasari.
Ganga is revered in Cambodia since the Khmer regime. In Shiva's iconographical form Uma-Gangapatisvarar, Shiva is depicted with Ganga and his wife Parvati. Ganga's images are seen in Bakong, Lintel in Thommanon.
Ganga Talao in Mauritius is considered by the Mauritians equivalent to Ganga. In 1972, the then Prime Minister of Mauritius, Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam brought Holy water from Gomukh in India and mixed the same with the water of the Grand Bassin and renamed the Talao as Ganga Talao.
In Nepal Ganga is respected as water Goddess and worshipped together with the river Yamuna. The sculptures of Ganga are found in Patan Durbar Square and Gokarneshwar Mahadev temple in Kathmandu District of Bagmati Province.
In Sri Lanka, sculpture of Ganga with other deities is seen in Kelaniya Raja Maha Vihara.
Ganga is invoked with Hindu deities Shiva, Bhumi, Surya and Chandra in Thailand's royal Triyampawai ceremony. She is worshipped together with Goddess Phra Mae Thorani and goddess Phosop in Tai folk religion. The four sacred pools of Suphan Buri Province have waters from the Ganga and the Yamuna rivers and are in use for rituals. Alongside Gautama Buddha, Ganga is worshipped during the Loy Krathong festival in Thailand.
Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda is a retired Civil Servant and former Judge in the Central Administrative Tribunal. He belongs to the 1972 batch of IAS in Tamil Nadu Cadre where he held many important assignments including long spells heading the departments of Education, Agriculture and Rural Development. He retired from the Government of India as Secretary, Ministry of Heavy Industries and Public Enterprises in 2008 and worked in CAT Principal Bench in Delhi for the next five years. He is the Founder MD of OMFED. He had earned an excellent reputation as an efficient and result oriented officer during his illustrious career in civil service.
Dr. Panda lives in Bhubaneswar. A Ph. D. in Economics, he spends his time in scholarly pursuits, particularly in the fields of Spiritualism and Indian Cultural Heritage. He is a regular contributor to the Odia magazine Saswata Bharat and the English paper Economic and Political Daily.
Here is a list of ten literary awards you cat set your eye on:
Nobel Prize in Literature
National Book Awards
Booker Prize
Pulitzer Prize
Women’s Prize for Fiction
PEN America Literary Award
Neustadt International Prize for Literature
Sahitya Akademi Award
America Award
The Hindu Literary Prize
A little bit about the one who won the Nobel and the one who won the Booker.
Annie is French. So we can appreciate her style only through the eyes of her translators. Since the Nobel too depends on the translations, it is OK to consider them in judging her style.
Her writing is mostly memoirs. Apart from what she calls fiction her works, especially later ones, are autobiographical. But since they are categorised as fiction, the ratio between fact and fiction in her works is immaterial. So, her memoirs are not memories but from memories. It is not unusual for writers to base their fiction on real-life experiences. In such cases, there is creativity in selecting the autobiographical element, just like how we decide which synonym to use in a poem. Here the question is about what one puts down on throws out.
In some of her fiction, she brings herself in as “I” and in others as “She”. Even in this, there is a message: Fact and fiction are as intertwined in her fiction as it is in life, or the other way around. She calls her writing style ‘flat language’. It is stripped of ornamentation and very neutral in its tone. She does not believe that personal things should not be discussed in public.
Shehan Karunatilaka is from Sri Lanka and how can a writer, especially a Sri Lankan Writer turn his face away from what happened around him! He entered the field of writing when he won the Commonwealth literary award and then grabbed several much coveted literary prizes, one after the other. In his award-winning book The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida, he talks about the seven days’ of a man after he is no more. Written in a powerful style, notable for its war-like ferocity, this book is a thriller in that it depicts a race against time. Told from a curious point of view, the second person point of view, it is a pleasant read, to say the least.
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.
HARA PRASAD: THE PHILOSOPHER POET
Hara Prasad Das is a name to be reckoned with in contemporary Odia literature. He excels as a poet, an essayist, a columnist and a thinker. One can see a refreshing tone and something novel in his writings.
Some attributes that his writings are very often incomprehensible for the common readers but his credentials as an intellectual is well recognised. He is one of the few having access to the western and pan Indian literature as well as the Odia literary traditions.
I remember that when he returned to Odisha in early nineties he started writing a regular column in daily Sambad and it was a revisiting of our rich poetic traditions starting from Sarala Das. It created a ripple among the Odia writers and intellectual circles.
The innovative approach in his writings was widely appreciated and discussed. I recall that in a meeting in Utkal University Guest House one day those days the veteran writer Prof Chandra Sekhar Rath openly praised him for his column and told that he felt like touching his feet for his scholarly articles. One can see his erudition and appreciation of our ancient poets in his own way, which had escaped the notice of our critics till then.
Although in his younger days he created a sensation by his works of fiction, he was almost silent for years when he was posted outside the State for quite a long time. From the nineties onwards he became one of the most prolific writers of Odia literature.
He is a good orator and always gives new interpretations of things to the eager audience. He had also acquired a very good reputation as a tough and knowledgeable officer in IAAS cadre and occupied many key positions in Government of India. He had served as Principal Accountant General in states like Odisha and Bihar. He is a person who calls a spade a spade and therefore incurred the displeasure of many in his life. However, he never surrendered to his detractors at any point.
His epic poem Desha (the Country) which got translated into Hindi is a unique work of poetry and it received huge critical appreciation at national level. His poems depict the philosophy of life in different hues and are full of unusual images and metaphors created in his own style.
One will feel as if the poet is in intimate conversation with the readers and the characters are picked up from the ordinary day today. The diction of his poetry distinguishes him from his contemporaries and has earned him a unique position in present day Indian poetry scenario.
At the personal level he is very warm and affectionate particularly with the young writers. He used to edit a regular section in a literary journal featuring young poets and giving his critical appreciation of their writings. It made him hugely popular among the young poets. He is credited with a dozen poetry collections and a number of books of essays.
He deservingly bagged many awards including Sahitya Akademi award in 1999, Sarala Award and Gangadhar National Award for Poetry in 2008 and Moorti devi Award in 2013. Of late some of his writings have political overtones inviting criticism in certain quarters but an intellectual need not be necessarily apolitical. One has a right in a democracy to take sides and exhibit his commitment to certain principles he believes to be right. Intellectual discourse in the public domain should be encouraged and the voice of dissent should be honoured in a true democratic tradition.
My association with him dates back to the nineties when we used to meet frequently in various literary meetings and it was always refreshing to talk to him. When he was Principal AG in Bihar posted at Ranchi I visited Ranchi with my esteemed friends Dr Gourahari Das and Paresh Patnaik and he extended his warm hospitality during our stay. His company is no less memorable.
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
DRIVE TO DOWNTOWN - COLUMBUS - OHIO
With time waiting for me, I planned to take the public transport to reach Downtown in Columbus, Ohio. While waiting for the bus, I casually looked round and was welcomed by a neat cabin like shelter at the bus stand. Few foldable seats were available, which were neatly placed. On one side of the shelter, the bus route was very clearly depicted while the other areas were lined with local pictures of the town.
I hardly had to wait for long for the bus to turn up. The bus came to a halt at the kerb on the extreme right of the road and the automatic doors opened at the front and rear end of the bus.
We two of us got into the bus through the front door and checked with the driver if the bus goes to Downtown. The driver said yes. Then I pulled out two one dollar notes from my pocket and placed it at the "fare box" and got the tickets. To my surprise, on seeing the tickets, I found that if we plan to return within two hours of boarding the bus, I can use the same tickets without paying any additional fare.
The seats in the bus were arranged in two layers on either side with the crib for children at the centre. In the first half of the bus the seats were lower than the windows while in the latter half, the seats were raised. This gave a better view of the road side, through the window at the rear.
The bus moved at a steady slow pace and kept to the extreme right of the road. A display above the driver provided the details of each bus stop on arrival along with an announcement.
On either side of the bus, just above the windows were strings running across the bus from the front to the rear. Any passenger wanting to alight can pull the string when a bell would ring to inform the driver to halt and an announcement is made that the bus halts due to a request from a passenger.
To support the last mile connectivity, a facility is available where passengers could fit their bicycles in the bus as their luggage and then board the bus. When they get down from the bus at their destination they can collect the bicycles which is then used for the last leg of their journey.
Though slow, I enjoyed the bus ride to Downtown.
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.
....my young mother would sing nursery rhymes to me in English, as well as Oriya, and help me with the English alphabet. I was enrolled in the nursery of St Joseph’s Girls High School in Cuttack, founded in 1872 by the Sisters of Annecy.
We lived with our grandparents. My paternal grandfather was the Superintendent of the Medical College in Cuttack. He founded the Paediatric Wing in the early 1960s and Sisters from the Convent would help there. My grandfather was fluent in his mother tongue Oriya, as well as English, Bengali and Hindi.
The double-storeyed house was home to my grandparents, my father’s elder brother and his family of three sons and our family of (then) three daughters. We were a large joint family. I recall all our aunts and uncles and their children congregating there for festivals – there was always activity and noise.
My father left for England in 1960 and my mother took us there to join him a year later. My sisters and I fitted in easily enough at the Fairlawn Primary School in Forest Hill, with our convent-style background. In the transition from East India to East London language was not an issue and communication was seamless. I was only teased for being ‘brown’, which annoyed me, and I sulked about it at home, but my parents simply said children everywhere would tease each other.
Later I realised that a number of children at Fairlawn were from foreign missions. We were the only Indians. One of our teachers had married a Pakistani national, and her children became our friends, and there was an Egyptian boy named Ahmed in my class who told me he didn’t like Indians as we killed lions. No doubt he meant tigers.
One especially good thing about Fairlawn was learning French, in my final year there, before the now defunct 10+ exams. I loved learning French. It seemed so natural, and three decades later in Madagascar, I could still feel the nuances of the language. Unfortunately, when we returned to Orissa in 1966 after my grandmother died, French was not part of the curriculum at school.
There were no options for a foreign language in India back then. It might seem an odd thing to say, given that we were all learning English. But I’ve never thought of English as a foreign language. None of us did, who were educated in English-medium schools. English has become second nature to us. In some ways, perhaps even first. My first unconscious responses are always in English. I think in English, and express my thoughts in English, and now, as a writer, I write in English too.
We studied Hindi at middle school, the way in England children studied French, only more formally. Mother tongue was sorely neglected, with just a token lesson each week. In high school, we were permitted a choice between Hindi and Oriya for the Indian School Certificate - in those days (this was in 1972) papers were sent to the University of Cambridge to be examined, except for Indian languages.
Paradox is piled upon paradox. At Delhi University I studied pure English Literature, in which I also went on to complete an MA. Before I could graduate, however, and in order to be awarded my BA Honours degree, I had first to sit a compulsory language test in Hindi. It was mandatory for those who had not done so at high school, where in a spirit of sentimentality - and without much success - I had chosen Oriya instead.
My husband was a fellow Oriya, but naturally we spoke mainly in English. He too had been to an English- medium school. In fact, we had briefly attended Stewart School (Bhubaneswar), at the same time. There were so many British, American and Canadian teachers there that it was like travelling without leaving the school grounds.
Later, he was also a career diplomat - proficient in Arabic, and equipped with the essentials of Spanish and French - and we moved every three years across three different continents. This meant I was exposed to many languages, and learned a little of all of them, basic conversation, including Finnish and Korean, which were very difficult. However, it also meant that I gave up too easily, as the demands of family and my official duties took over. Frustratingly, my desire to learn the language of each new posting was thwarted by all the other diplomatic spouses - not to mention those of our host countries - wanting to converse in English. Perhaps, now I come to think of it, speaking English was one of my principal official duties. As a “trailing wife” it was English I took to the rest of the world, not Hindi or Oriya. Such are the ironies of life.
There are losses in this constant displacement, but they are outweighed by the gains. Our children became global citizens, at ease wherever they go, transcending cultural differences with élan. To me, languages mean people and places and shared memories. But I love them for their own sake too, their poetry, and those unexpected catch phrases that take you unawares and delight you anew each time you hear them.
I lost my husband of thirty years in 2017, after three decades as “diplomatic baggage”, in the words of British Indian journalist Brigid Keenan. During that time, we lived in seven different countries - South Korea, Finland, Panama, Sri Lanka, Madagascar, Uganda (with Rwanda and Burundi), and Kenya (with Somalia and Eritrea) - surviving conflict and civil war and major terrorist attacks
We travelled far together. But underneath it all still lies the Mother Tongue, like the deepest of geological strata. I often spoke Oriya with my children, just as my own mother did before me, and so too did their father. Even now I speak with friends and domestic helpers, interchangeably with Hindi and English. And we have a new language too - Hinglish! Hindi television serials and movies have two or three words of English in every sentence and we shift between them automatically, without thinking about it, without even noticing what we are doing.
Adapted from the article on Mother Tongue, in How Languages Changed My Life, PROJECT MEITS (Multilingualism: Empowering Individuals, Transforming Societies), based on interviews, scripted, edited by Heather Martin and Wendy Ayres-Bennet. Archway Publishing December 2019
Jayshree Misra Tripathi has been a consultant, educator and examiner in English Language and Literature, for the Diploma of the International Baccalaureate Organization. She worked in print media in the late ’70s and ’80s in India. Having lived in diverse cultures for over thirty years with her late husband, a career diplomat in the Indian Civil Service, her short fiction and narrative verse dwell upon journeys through the diaspora, highlighting women's 'voices' and cross-cultural conversations. Her books include Trips and Trials, What Not Words, Two Minute Tales in Verse for Children Everywhere, Uncertain Times and The Sorrow of Unanswered Questions. Online blogs are on Huffington Post India Archive and News 18.She includes her maiden surname in her writing, as the eldest of five daughters.
It was a dry winter evening at Badamul, a solitary hamlet in the lap of dense forest, lying lazily at the southern bank of the river Mahanadi. A few curious persons were anxiously waiting to receive a VVIP at the silhoutte .
Just above the road a bunglow constructed for royal visit in pre-independence era was standing majestically, looking at the waters of the mighty Mahanadi which just oozed out from a compressed journey of about 22kms flanked by sky touching mountain ranges on both sides and flowing gorgeously to meet the sea in a hurry.
The bunglow was unique as it had provision for power connection unlike other Inspection Bunglows of that time.There were some hectic activities going on there to make up the rooms and to touch off the ambiance of the IB as if a virgin lass, une Jeune fille, was getting ready at a parlour to welcome an imprtant visitor.
Satkoshia is a gorge in the river Mahanadi stretching over 22kms ably guarded and sandwitched by high mountain ranges of Eastern ghat on both sides of its banks. Its flora and fauna provide an unique eco system in an area of above 1000 sq kms on both sides of the river. This IB at Badamul is just at the end of the goerge where the river flattened, flowing in a hurry to meet its destination.
The evening slowly tranformed into night. Finally the VVIP guest arrived and he was the Chief Minister of the state, accompanied by other VIP guests in a carcade. Arrangement for stay was made for the VIP guests in tents on the sandy bank of the river and the CM was escorted to the IB along with a minister of his cabinet. Power supply was made through generator set procured by the concerned deptt. All were served with snacks and welcome tea on arrival. The CM preferred to be served dinner at the varanda of the IB with very few of his close associates.
The moonlit night presented a scenic view of the river to the visitors sitting on the varanda of the IB . The shady branches of the tall trees situated on the bank never stopped to provide a glimpse of the silver looking ripples of the running waters of the mighty river flowing down stream. For the poetic sentiments of the CM the beauty was irresistible and he insisted to have a boat ride on that neat moonlit night.
He asked his ministerial colleague, "Can you arrange for a boat? I would like to spend some moments with the nature alone ."
The boat journey was arranged and the CM directed the boatman to carry him upstream ro the lap of nature.
Spending around an hour the CM returned to IB, enjoyed the dinner and bade good night to all so as to retreat to his suite. His unusually early folding off the day astonished all, as he was known to be very active with the passage of night.
Any way every body felt relaxed and went away to their places of stay.
The sun rise at Badamul was a scene to be watched by nature lovers. But CM , awell known adorer of nature did not make it to watch the sun rise. Every body waited for him to come out of his room. But there was a stunning silence. The bearers, carrying the morning tea were eager to meet their guest, but still no response from CM's suite.
"CM is never so late to rise", told his cabinet colleague and he himself went to knock at the door. Alas, the door was open and there was no trace of the CM.
The news surprised every body and they went into a tizzy. Everybody was running helter skelter and frantic activities were going on to trace the VVIP guest. The accompanying District Officials who were supposed to provide security to the CM looked clueless and nervous of any catastrophe happening. The cabinet colleague came to their rescue and asked them not to feel nervous. He came out of the bunglow, climbed down to the point where boats were jettied. He found that the boat in which the CM had enjoyed the previous night saffari in the gorge was missing.
He instructed the officials to accompany him in another boat for searching out the missing VVIP..
After going upstream in the boat to almst the middle point of the george, they found the boat with the CM, who was engrossed in thoughts and witnessing the virgin beauty of the nature.
The CM felt sorry for the anxiety he caused to all and confessed,
"I have seen so many scenic and beatiful natural eco systems in the world, but no other place can match with Satkosia. Last night I had quitely instructed the boat man to come to my room and wake me up at around 4 AM. The irresistible beauty of the place forced me to come to the river at the odd hours, to watch the full sunrise, and enjoy its virgin beauty."
Then he handed over a sheet of paper to his cabinet colleague, wherein he had captured the beauty of the nature in the form of a poem.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
In the year 1976 I was posted to Berhampur Range on transfer from Cuttack. During that period Berhampur Range was considered one of the most important Formations of Odisha Customs and Central Excise Commissionerate as regards Gold and Tobacco control. On joining I was posted in the tobacco section of the Multiple Officers Range (M.O.R) having control over 26 tobacco warehouses in the Badbazar area of silk city of Berhampur. As tobacco was under physical control, I used to visit the Badbazar area very often in the afternoon to allow tobacco clearance from warehouses to their small dealers located in the neighboring districts, under own supervision. Most of the Gold dealers were having their showrooms in the Badbazar area of Berhampur . I had developed a few acquaintances in Gold trading business houses and cultivated some informants allotting each with a secret code to keep a tab on the illegal transaction of gold.
One day in the festive month of October, I was busy with my file works in my room next to the chamber of the Range Officer Shri R.C.Patnaik, a telephonic call came from an unknown person requesting my superintendent to hand over the receiver to me and immediately I was called by my superintendent to attend to the call. I was taken aback when the caller revealing his code number informed me about some contraband gold is being smuggled to Cuttack and requested me to come to the Kamapali square of the city. Immediately taking permission from my superintendent, I left the office with my senior colleague Sri P.K.Roul in his bullet motor cycle to Kamapali squire bus stand. On arriving at the spot, I eyed for the possible informer who had telephoned me a few minutes earlier and could locate one gold dealer from Badbazar area sitting on his scooter. When I made eye contact with him, he immediately pointed out his finger towards a Cuttack bound bus. Furthermore, he indicated that the suspected goggles-wearing smuggler –a hefty young man in jeans was travelling in the bus. His hints were enough for me to proceed to stop the bus. As soon as the bus pulled its brake, I entered into the bus and searched for the suspect gold smuggler amidst the passengers. I could locate one smart young man wearing goggles sitting behind the conductor seat alone. I took the seat next to him and saying a hello enquirer about his destination. After few pleasantries I was sure my co passenger in jeans was the possible gold carrier. Then I asked the fellow passenger to get down at the M.K.C.G - Medical bus stop to have some coffee, as buses usually halt there for tea break . Meanwhile my friend had arrived on the spot in his motorcycle as he was closely following the bus. At this point of time I revealed my identity by showing the passenger from the bus my I-card and enquired if he has any luggage left in the bus. When he told in the negative, we suspected that the contraband gold must be in his possession concealed somewhere in his flamboyant dress .When the bus was allowed to move ahead, we marked there was no perturbance in him and we were cocksure that the contraband must be with him. We took the young man in our motorcycle to the furniture shop premises of my co- volleyball player friend Tippa - Anand Eterprisers located at the Kamapali squire. He allowed his premises to carry out the body search operation for concealed gold. After entering the shop premises we asked the man to confess if he was carrying any gold and when he remained reticent, I conducted his personal body search. Nothing was found on frisking but I could notice he was holding back his dropping jeans. At this point I pulled out his leather belt and to our utter amazement we found some gold biscuits were tucked inside the holes of the leather belt. These holes were tailor made to conceal the gold biscuits. Then the concealed primary gold in shape of biscuits were extracted from the cavities of the leather belt and found to be 18 in numbers. Then I informed my superintendent over telephone about the detection of primary gold and requested him to come over to the spot to finish the seizure formalities. The exultant superintendent along with some inspectors came in the jeep driven by Raju Mohanty, our office driver. My Superintendent was very appreciative of the spectacular seizure of 18 gold biscuits .The gold was weighed and was found to be 1.5 kg, valued at Rs 1,95,000.00 (10 grams price @ Rs 1300.00) and the seizure list (Panchanama) was prepared in the presence of two independent witnesses on the spot and the gold was seized for violation ofprovisions of Gold Control Act,1968.
In course of follow-up action, the young man was taken to locate the source of his procurement in the Badbazar area. The young man identified the jeweler shop of one Kotta Choudhury and the shop premises were also searched but no contraband or unaccounted gold was found. The statement of the owner of the shop was recorded. It was ascertained that the primary gold in biscuit form was purchased from that shop and was under illegal transportation to Cuttack without any valid documents. As the young man stated that he was a student of Stewart College, the jurisdictional Assistant Commissioner, Cuttack was requested to verify his bona fide studentship at the college. The divisional preventive officers immediately contacted the college authority and reported the genuineness of his statement. Considering the future career of the young man he was not arrested but was implicated in the case. He was show caused and exemplary amount of fine and penalties were imposed on the offenders with absolute confiscation of the primary gold which stood vested in the Government.
Prior to Chinese aggression in 1962, Gold Control was under Defence of India Act, and Rules, 1962. During the Indo-Chinese war in 1962, Shri Morarji Desai as Finance Minister introduced Gold Control, Act 1962. Gold Jewelry above 14 carat fineness was banned. In 1965 , gold bond scheme was launched with tax immunity for unaccounted wealth. All these steps failed to yield desired result. Morarji Desai finally introduced Gold Control ACT, 1968 (24.8.1968). The Act prohibited citizens from owning gold in forms of bars, coins, lumps known as primary gold. Certified Goldsmiths were not allowed to own more than 100 gm gold and Licensed Dealers not more than 2 kg. Finally the era of Gold Control Licensing Raj was abolished on 6.6.1990 when Shri Madhu Dandavate was the Finance Minister. The Gold control Act, 1968 was repealed on 6.6.1990.
Though I have participated in several spectacular seizure cases involving contraband gold and silver in my career, I always take pride in booking this first seizure case of contraband gold within six months of my joining the Customs and Central Excise Department and I still cherish the thrill and sensation even now.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
DREAMS HAVE NO LOGIC, DO THEY?
Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.
—Sigmund Freud
Climbing up a friendly mountain or the long winding stairs of tall monuments to feast on the expansive canvas co-produced by man and God is always an exciting exercise that gets me chasing the highest highs. One good reason why at times, I fancy living in tall apartment buildings. In the past, I have climbed TalaKaveri in Coorg, Pazhani temple, and a few lesser-known ones within my endurance and ability. Climbing the Tirupati shrine on foot remains a pending activity to date. The Thiruneermalai temple near our workplace is a short ten-minute, enchanting ascent we often undertake with our visitors. And the famous Statue of Liberty I ticked off at a younger age. The most notable of my climbs in the last five years is the Tiger's Nest in Bhutan, which took around eight hours up and down. Small and steep staircases on the sides of Periya Kovil or Brihadeeswarar Temple in Thanjavur and Wat Arun in Bangkok are small pleasures to take on.
Climbing up is a joy, but getting down has produced mild flutters in my stomach both as a kid and an adult, especially when the stairs are too steep. I never think twice before climbing, reasoning to myself that I will deal with the flutter later. A fear I better learn to handle, I advise myself just as any parent would tell a child—if climbing up is possible, can step down be impossible?
Well, it became next to impossible, nay, just impossible for me on one occasion. I lost my balance and fell off the metal staircase in a cramped store on a narrow, busy street. I slid down the steps on my back to crash headfirst on the floor. My purchases, the contents of my bag, and some cash were flying in the air. When my preoccupied mind and legs deceived me, my loyal reflexes dashed to my spontaneous aid, guiding me in time to lift my head just before landing, and I took the impact on my shoulder blades. I was stunned by the sudden miscommunication between the mind and body and showed no evident reaction in those few seconds. I wondered if my body had turned numb or if there really was no pain. Shocked to see me still, my fellow shoppers raised me from the ground and made me sip some water. They helped me collect myself and handed over my belongings. Thankfully, I had left my infant baby waiting with my mom-in-law, sitting in another store nearby (that had a friendly manager) while I picked up some tailoring necessities for the garment boutique I owned back then. Expressing gratitude to the kind and courteous strangers and an unseen benevolent force, I walked back calmly to my waiting child and mother-in-law, kept quiet until we reached home, stomachs fed, had my dinner and wound up our day to narrate the incident.
None of these thoughts or events ran through my mind the night before. I am sure of that. Some days ago, I saw my old picture ascending a ladder outdoors to reach a tree top in Yelagiri hills. And let me tell you what it all possibly led to, assuming I am good at identifying the root cause, akin to contact-tracing the Covid-19 virus in an infected patient, more accurately, when my husband had contracted the virus!
Dreams have no logic, or do they?
When my kids had grown past their twenties, I was five months pregnant and in a hospital called Ram Krishna Hospital. (Our efficient dreams don't miss out on details like putting interesting names to places and people too!) After a regular prenatal checkup and consultation, I moved towards the elevator at the end of the corridor to get down and reach the car park. To my shock, I found it converted into a shrine. A bust-size sculpture of NT Ramarao (late yesteryear actor of Telugu films and former Chief Minister of the erstwhile Andhra Pradesh) was mounted on a pedestal. It was decorated with flowers and lamps et al. There was a patient room adjacent, and its door stood wide open. The room begged for housekeeping support; the floor was dirty, and a pile of blankets for laundry lay strewn on the empty cot. What bothered me more was—why a functional elevator got converted to something else. Since I did not own the building, I thought it best not to care about finding answers and went down the flight of stairs positioned in the middle of the corridor to catch the elevator from the next level. How it could function from there defied logic, yet you know, it was a dream, and preposterous dreams don't rely on reason rising from a wakeful mind.
There too, a shrine for NTR was similarly being fixed, with NTR, the man himself, standing! He was wearing a dhoti and, with folded hands, keenly supervising the work. My confusion soared, and still giving up; I decided to forgo the elevator and take the stairs in toto to reach the ground floor. Happily recollecting the consultation with the doctor and her positive feedback, I headed towards the ground level with an all's-well feeling. Strangely again, the last flight of stairs showed something unusual. It had two steps missing at the top end, which required me to jump straight to the third step. Not very difficult. But, here, I hesitated because I was carrying a child in my womb. An older man standing on the ground was urging me to do so and shouted—JUMP, and I screamed aloud to him my refusal. I immediately felt my husband rubbing my shoulders and stroking me back to sleep. Silly dream, I exclaimed, feeling shy and stupid; without a word, not wanting to disturb either of our sweet slumbers, I turned over and tried to sleep again.
This time, it was a new episode inside our very own Valluvarkottam. Honestly, I haven't physically studied the monument in detail except for visiting years ago, only the main hall for arts, crafts and handloom exhibitions with products from all over the country. Again, I don't know why I promptly took the stairs at the back end leading up above the main hall. But I couldn't trace the same stairway to return after my brief expedition. Instead, I could only find newly constructed steps on another side that were steep and almost 50 feet wide. Without side walls, it reached the ground and was open to the sky. Not a soul was visible. Was I so immersed in the historical monument that I lost track of the humans around me? Where did they all disappear? I was complaining to myself and feeling angry.
I had no choice but to take the wide and steep steps down and get home. Carefully I sat on every step and made a brave jump each time to the lower one, managing to reach the ground. Determined to stride out the front gate peacefully, but it was not to be, as to my surprise, I found several people taking the stairs I had initially taken at the far end to go up. They were now standing and moving in an orderly queue like ants moving towards a sack of grains. Befuddled, I wondered if the stairs would disappear for them, too, after they went up as they did for me. I decided to go up the stairs again, curious to find out, feeling reassured that I was not alone this time. I will be alert and not get lost, I promised myself.
As we were all wandering around on the upper level, I found a rope tied to a hook fixed on the parapet wall at the front end, and some men were assisting many anxious people in sliding down, holding the rope to reach the ground. Puzzled at what was going on and questioning the need for it, I looked back to check on the new set of people still climbing stairs at the far end and was utterly baffled at the needless exercise of taking the rope to go down.
My eyes compulsively darted between the stairs and the rope for a few seconds in disbelief and then safely opted for the rope to go down the Tarzan way, lest I didn't find the stairs at the far end after I moved close to it. I had lost faith in anything rational in the said time and space. Once down, I screamed again with a massive sigh of relief and was promptly patted to silence by my reassuring husband, this time more vigorously. He instinctively checked my forehead for temperature! A bit embarrassed at my plight, I was determined not to go back to sleep after that and face another mysterious adventure. I wondered which place next it would've been, but it was enough for that night. I stayed awake recollecting everything about the dream, thankful that nothing was real and taken to laughing at myself, amused if all this could be related to some past life experiences! I couldn't help thinking in the direction with mild traces of a hangover until morning. It kept me anchored, albeit weakly, to the weird story my conscious mind strived to negate and validate that all was well.
I had never thought of penning my dreams, as they always end abruptly, but this marathon session became the exception. On a lighter note, do you think I am the right candidate for those TV shows showing past life regressions? Haha! Well, I do! But the question foremost in my head is—when did NTR walk out of his grave? Since I have not watched any of his films or tracked him as a politician, I wonder about my strange connection with him. Can anyone please help? And more importantly, logical or not, my dream (a comical horror?) made me realise how ill-informed I am about my city. It's time I planned to visit Valluvar Kottam for its historical significance, which, after all, is the go-to excursion destination of primary schools in Chennai, besides qualifying my dream as an inward call to find closure to the mystery I had created for myself!
But there sure is another dream that counters what I've said in the title. It's the constant dream within human minds arising from inspiration. That makes a lot of sense and logic. Go for it. Dream a lot; it could set the tone for life and success. Sometimes dreams in our sleep could even bring us unexpected solutions.
Sumitra Kumar is a frequent writer for a lifestyle magazine called 'Women Exclusive' or WE, which has published many of her articles, poems and travelogues. She is a passionate blogger and poet; a constant love for writing saw her contribute as an editor in Rotary bulletins, which extended into a magazine in her time. She has won many awards in national writing contests conducted by Inner Wheel, a branch of Rotary. Her first published book of poems, Romance with Breath, was launched in April 2022. A second poetry collection and a first novel are on their way. Her varied career stints include being a software programmer, a flight attendant in Air India in the early nineties, and later self-employed as a fashion boutique owner and futures and options trader. Sumitra presently makes her home in Chennai, India, working jointly with her husband as Directors in their packaging and automation business. You can reach her at sumitrakumar.com and follow her on http://www.instagram.com/writer.poet.sumitra https://www.facebook.com/Writer.poet.sumitra/
Once, had heard an elderly person drawing a parallel between the “Touch” Smartphone and the “Touch-Me-Not” or Mimosa plant! The latent reasons for that statement warrant attention.
Typically, most elderly folks anyway tend to harbour tech anxiety; these phones only seem to accentuate that. In their opinion, too many things happen instantaneously if one is not careful/ judicious with the touches/ taps on these phones - with weaker bodies and hands at their age adding on to their anxiety, can those be really helped (controlled)? It almost seems like these phones were reacting like the “Touch-Me-Not” plant; the plant immediately closes and droops down, whereas these phones open (much more)/close multiple functions too quickly for these, largely, uninitiated folks.
In any case, with the current prices of these “Touch” smartphones, it almost seems like reinforcing the elders’ perception of these phones definitely being “Touch-Me-Nots” for them.
Wondering if the marketers/ developers of smartphones are also listening and thinking about the special needs of the elderly? Maybe, a cross of the feature phones and the smartphones can be thought of or anything else. As, these can be really supportive gadgets for them in many ways, provided it caters to their requirements!
Guess, amongst other things, an innate reason why folks love their iPhone...
There is something so endearing about the movement technology (don't know what it is called technically) used in the iPhone that spontaneously tugs at your heart strings. Almost seemingly capturing human emotions in a beautiful manner.
Be it, the 'wiggling icons' when you are wanting to move them around (that thrill of travelling around as well as figuratively, 'going places') OR words that do the slight jump before delightfully settling in when a word option is accepted (that sudden 'spring in one's step' associated with positive strokes/ acceptance); etc.
Some may call these silly but when were emotions all rational?
Maybe, it would be good for Apple Inc. to play up the 'emotional' appeal of its iPhone in their ads that much more.... rather than merely pompously stopping at 'If u don't have an iPhone....'
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
Today being monday morning, Rahul my son had been waiting eagerly for the driver to join back duty .Me meanwhile ,being Maha Ashtami today ,wanted to finish my puja as fast as I could so that I could attend the Aarti at 11 at the pandal.Was not sure if I could make it.Before leaving home i had to make Puri,halwa,kala chana, potato gravy specially the way Mom used to make it for pujas.Wanted to wear a saree,but it didn't look possible,i had to think ten steps ahead of Rahul,as i wanted to take him along with me and also click a few photos with him, which i had not managed to do for a very long time.For Ashtami was keen to wear red and kept thinking if I could do the same for my son.Red has always been an auspicious colour for puja.I needed help today, instructed the man of the house to help him with his shower,who was most willing to do so,things seemed to be falling into place when I realised I had forgotten to order ghee,it was too late now.Somehow managed to connect with the driver who was stuck as usual on Godhbander Road.
The minute Rahul's father left for work i immediately locked the front door so that Rahul doesn't step out the minute he sees the driver:: Harry uncle as per Hushkoo.I got down to work in the kitchen and within minutes everything the "Prasad" was ready, placed bhog in the puja place, plucked flowers from my garden specially red hibiscus and blue aparajita which are Ma's favourite.
Rahul had already started pestering me to get ready so that we could leave,i quickly told" Mama needs to change "!!and then we are ready to leave.!!He was thrilled that we were going together which meant he would be stepping out of the society campus for his drive.
I realised I had no time to drape a saree if i wanted to reach in time for the Aarti.I enjoyed stretching my legs a bit inside the car, meanwhile my son had started playing his favourite songs....."dil chahta hai....".As the drive continued,i was relieved to see a smile on my son's face,as we took a left turn from the main road we were engulfed by the intoxicating fragrance of Saptaparni blooms,also known as blackboard tree.
When the car stopped in front of the pandal i realised that it's practically impossible to take Rahul inside,huge crowd of almost fifteen hundred to two thousand people waiting in queue for pushpanjali.I was told i cannot take the coconut and fruits inside,need to leave it at a counter on the left side of the entrance.I followed instructions and finally got the darshan of Ma Durga,as though she was waiting for me, the minute I entered they started the pushpanjali which is done in three rounds.After this people were asked to leave so that we could make space for others who had been waiting under the sun.I didn't want to leave so early,so pulled a chair next to the fan and was lost in my meditative trance.It was so fulfilling, my only regret that I couldn't take him inside.
Ma Durga the ultimate power and Shakti.
Meanwhile as I get back home, Hushkoo starts chasing me, initially couldn't figure out for what and then it dawned that it was the halwa(north) or sheera, which was made with ghee,his ultimate passion as far as food goes,he goes to the kitchen and refuses to come out chasing the helper lest he gets a bigger quantity of the halwa, before he gets it.
Overall an extremely satisfying morning, Rahul's smile is what will keep me going for the rest of the day and of course need i need to mention Hushkoo who feels winters have arrived and refuses to sleep inside the house,he must sleep in the balcony only ,at night surrounded by the fragrances of shiuli and Saptaparni blooms and chasing that nasty rat who keeps climbing up the jackfruit tree to reach our balcony.
Meanwhile the man of the house enters and i get busy serving food for everyone.
Ya Devi sarvbhuteshu shakti rupen sansitha namastasyae namastasyae namastasyae namoh namah!!
#JaiDurgaMa
#ShubhoMahaAshtami
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
THE AMATEUR DOCTOR- SCIENCE, SUPERSTITION AND SAVING LIFE
Prof. (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
That was the year of my internship in 2000, in our times it was known as “Housemanship”, the one- year compulsory rotatory clinical training in different major subjects amassing practical knowledge. During the grilling four and half years of MBBS, which turned out to be actually 5 years and little more due to delayed exams, mass bunks, strikes, annual day celebrations, was the time period to gather gargantuan treasure of knowledge based on which we were supposed to propel ourselves as doctors in future. But this one year was quite crucial as it gave us insight to the real world under the safe cocoon of our teachers and seniors.
We were also nicknamed as HS (House surgeons); decoded as “Hospital Sandhas” literally meaning “the powerful bulls of the hospital” and it was true to some extent too. We were fresh out of graduation, had our own association, worked hard and were the main workforce in the wards apart from post-graduate trainees, didn’t have the fear of failing and thus the energized bulls. That gave us courage to do some extra effort for few patients even.
During my Medicine department duty, I was posted in 1st unit, by far the best and busiest unit. At times the number of admissions were so high that we had to keep a few patients on the floor and had to name them as Floor-1, floor -2 etc.
Once it happened so, that on the day of OPD, two beds from the end a patient breathed his last. Aum Shanti…we had learnt not to grieve on deaths anymore. We were mere observers of life and death. The bed was vacated. The busy OPD started and on that day, I was on emergency duty. That meant I won’t be there at the out-patient section, but rather stay in the in-patient ward and see how the patients get admitted and occupy their assigned beds and the desirable treatment is started immediately. Amidst ordering for tests, sample drawing, Ryle’s tube insertion, catheter insertion how the day passes by we don’t get an inkling even.
A new patient with brain stroke was admitted to the bed mentioned above and he too expired with an hour. Since still the OPD was going on, quickly the body was handed over to the respective relative and a 3rd patient was admitted.
This time a boy of around 15-16 years with sickle cell crisis. Anaemia and jaundice were quite obvious but he kept smiling. The tests were ordered, typical features, fetal hemoglobin high. But such crises are nothing new in Western Odisha and we had treated so many such cases. Moreover, the child was in cheery mood. Maybe with proper medications and a pint of blood he’ll be fine soon and shall be back at his home again.
But inwardly, I was a bit apprehensive. Though not at all superstitious by nature, surreptitiously a thought set in my mind, will the bed be lucky for this boy. “Hah! I am over-thinking” shooed away the negative thoughts and returned home in the evening.
Those days we didn’t have mobile phones to clear our queries as soon as they arose in minds like today. I just waited for the next morning visualizing about each patient mentally. Started little early as the day after admissions remain quite hectic and we have to work really hard to keep up with the pace and relieve the night duty doctors.
When I came to that boy, found my negative thoughts taking shape. for the first time I was starting to think whether the bed is haunted and whoever gets admitted to that bed dies within few hours but watched him helplessly. Every treatment was going on but he was in a semi-comatose condition.
The next day when I went to the ward, the boy’s condition had further worsened! Know not why I felt that that boy deserves to live and I just can’t let it happen thrice in close succession. It was not new to us to lose patients but this particular bed bugged me. By mid-day I requested the attending sister to change the boy to the adjacent bed. The sister initially declined and said HOD will be too angry when he will see such a change. But somewhere she echoed my thoughts too and eventually, she changed the bed.
Miraculously, the boy started showing improvement just after a few hours. I was feeling apprehensive and elated simultaneously as science and superstition fought within me. That night I slept peacefully.
I was all ready for the new day and was bit excited to know about the condition of my little patient. Rushed to the hospital by my Scooty and found the boy wide awake and chirping with a wide grin and the mother seemed so relieved.
But my exaltation came to a halt when HOD scolded very harshly the sister about changing the bed. Very strangely, the concerned sister swallowed all the bitter scolding on my behalf without uttering a single word. We secretly exchanged glances. I felt guilty and cast an apologetic glance but she just smiled back at me.
Later after the rounds I apologized to her but she just smiled and said nothing.
Beyond science there are many things that we can’t explain in the language of material science but maybe by spiritual science. As I reflect back, few questions pop up in my mind- Was the bed really haunted? Did I myself sent wrong vibes initially for which condition worsened and for the same reasons due to my strong sub-conscious positive signals helped in recovering? Why the nurse didn’t throw the blame on me, did she also consider herself a partner to this so-called crime??
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.
SCANDALOUS RAMBLINGS OF A RESTLESS MIND.
His greatest feat of selflessness has been that he admired and worshipped, and knew how to conceal from himself that it was he who had created what he admired.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
The city is a giant neon-colored party. Lights, music, food, vendors, crowds everywhere you turn. It’s the season of festivities. One that symbolizes the triumph of good over evil, the time of the year that recognizes that female shakti or energy is just as powerful as its masculine counterpart. After a two-year hiatus thanks to a force, not supernatural but very human, people could come out into the streets and celebrate again. So, it’s only natural to see such enthusiasm, such zeal in celebrating something so very important to the masses.
And oh, the celebration! The extent of it knows no bounds. No expenses are spared in putting up the best pandals, the best lightings and the very best of all sound systems. The rituals, the drums and bells, the chanting, the dancing, the glamour of it all. The streets are vibrating with color and vigor. But somehow this excitement of the people, of the world around me fails to get to me.
I am not excited. What I am seeing is saddening, disappointing even. The ornament laden idols, the themed pandals, the songs that are in no way related to the celebration of the goddess, the dancing, the rituals whose meanings have long since been lost, fail to get to me. In the midst of celebrating, people are forgetting the reason why we celebrate this particular festival. In the midst of emptying out pockets, people forget that the very reason of festivals is to bring together people in harmony and not to see whose pandal is the best.
I may not be a very religious person, but I am a believer for sure. To see symbols being taken too literally, too seriously could make anyone question the intellectual capacity of the masses in general. To never question is a sin that can never be forgiven. And hence, the questions: what is the point of it all? What is the point of such extravagance when people still live on the streets, die of hunger and thirst and God knows what other ailment, not to mention the various evils rampant everywhere? What’s the point of investing so much in this when we could do so much for those in need? Isn’t that what is taught to us since we were kids? Isn’t that what is written in the good books? To celebrate Mahishasura Mardini and yet do nothing about the actual Mahishasuras everywhere, does that make sense?
Disillusionment, is the word. I see wastage in such extravagance. And truth be told I feel guilty. Guilty for not being moved by the rituals, guilty for not being able to feel devoted. Something is getting in the way; people. I am scared too, for feeling the way I do. No one wants to be a pariah after all. The masses can be a scary lot.
But that’s the thing, I shouldn’t be afraid. I shouldn’t be scared of God. It’s okay to ask questions, it’s okay to be doubtful. Isn’t that how Gita was conceived of in the first place. But this fear is ingrained in us. Since we were kids, we have been taught to say certain things and to avoid others, especially when it comes to religion. That’s just the way things are. It’s a matter of faith. You must believe. I can’t believe, not without a rational explanation.
If it’s a God that doesn’t tolerate questions, that takes offence, then it’s a very human God that we pray to. Fear mongering, I’m sure isn’t one of God’s tenets. Courage is.
What’s funny is that it’s not okay to ask questions but it’s okay to preach hate, to hurt, to kill in God’s name. As long as you do it in God’s name, all sins are forgiven. Is that it?
The rituals, the drums, the bells that toll, the songs that demean, the dances, everything is a show. It’s the greatest show of all time, religion. People who call themselves devotees are the same people who have forgotten why it all started in the first place. To commemorate, to remember that there is good in the world and evil as well. That for good to triumph we must take action. We as a community and we as individuals must fight against the evil that plagues our society and our minds. But no, it’s all singing and dancing and fasting these days.
Eradicating evil is God’s job, not our responsibility, is it? Maybe that is why religion is so reinforcing, it takes the burden of accountability away from us. It isn’t our fault, the way the world is because it’s all in God’s plan. It’s great to be optimistic, to see the good in everything. But to see good in rape? Murder? Hate? All sorts of social evils? To say it’s okay? No, it isn’t! It never was, it never will be!
God works through us. So how can we sit back and watch as evil unfolds all around us, waiting for God to do something? My father told me a story once about a man. He was a devout believer, performed all the rituals ardently. When he heard that there was a flood coming, he wasn’t afraid. God will show him the way, he said. When people were evacuating, his friends came up to him and asked him to leave with him, he didn’t leave saying that God will save him. Again, when the officials in charge of evacuation came to him, he stood adamant, not wanting to leave. No matter how hard people tried, he just wouldn’t leave. So, when the flood hit, he was optimistic that nothing would happen to him. But of course, his house was flooded. He prayed constantly, to let nothing happen to him. In the end, as all the levels of this house slowly submerged under water, he went on to the roof. Helicopters flying overhead sent a ladder down asking him to climb up. He didn’t, saying again, that God will help him. He died, of course. After his death when he met God, he asked of him that even after doing all that was asked in the scriptures, even after praying day and night why did God not help him? To that God replied that those people asking the man to leave, the help that came for him, the helicopter, that was God helping him. What did he expect? For God to reincarnate for him? God works through people. One can’t just wait and say that God will save them and do absolutely nothing.
So yes, watching those idols laden with gold and silver, lakhs of rupees as if God cared about money, disheartened me. I remember thinking that’s not the God I pray to. Once I went with my mother to her hometown to this one Dakhina Kali temple. It was time for the evening arati. The temple was packed. People standing so close to each other it became difficult to breathe. And then it started. The drums, the bells, the chanting. I don’t remember how long it lasted, for me it felt like an eternity. The vibrations, the people who appeared to be in a trance. I couldn’t breathe. I fell down on to the floor, even falling down was difficult for there was no space. And I cried. Like a child lost in the crowd, I cried. I cried for my mother. I screamed for her, an adult, until she found me and I held her and cried. The whole trip back home, I could hear the sounds, the vibrations. The energy was so overwhelming I couldn’t take it. But that’s the thing about God, isn’t it? It’s not so much about God as it is about people. It wasn’t God’s energy that moved through me, but the collective energy of those around me. The power I felt when those people, seemingly normal people, were capable of conjuring such force when united for a cause, even if the cause was supernatural was astounding.
The city and its crowd became too much for me, so I left for some place quiet. Someplace where I didn’t have to be afraid. Someplace I could feel God. To be honest, I never thought it was that complicated. God is simple. Things shouldn’t be so difficult. People make things complex just so that they can find some meaning to it all when in fact the meaning has always been crystal clear: be good and do good.
As a young girl, my mother had to struggle a lot for her education. She didn’t have books or notes to read from, so she had to borrow and work twice as hard as the others who could afford a proper education. When her sister went to visit the aforementioned temple, she asked my mother was there was anything that she wanted to ask from maa. My mother replied, tell her that if I don’t get a first class, if I don’t get what I deserve, I’ll pull out her tongue. She was ridiculed for it, even after she got her first-class degree. She regrated the words saying that it was one thing to say it to maa and another thing entirely to say it in front of people. That’s when I realized, God isn’t scary, people are.
When I get too confused, I recall what I learnt in college in philosophy class. A great philosopher I don’t remember who, when speaking of God once said, God is infinity but we are finite beings. A being that’s infinite can conceive of endless finites but a finite can never conceive of even a single infinite. Finites can come out of infinity but not the other way around. That’s contradictory in itself. So, we can never actually conceive of God. So, no one can truly say that they know of God. They don’t.
Far away from the city, where the stars are visible and one could smell the night off of the flowers and leaves, I sat on the rooftop just staring far off into the distance. I could still hear the muffled sounds of celebrations all around me. I felt like I could breathe again. And weird of all, I could feel God again. That feeling of intense love and affection for everything and everyone flooded through me. That feeling of connectedness with every living object. We all come from stars. The same atoms that make me, make you, make the world around us. We are the same. We are living in God. Let’s celebrate that if nothing else.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. If having these thoughts makes me a pariah, then it makes a lot of us pariahs. So, this festival, do not be afraid to stand up and fight for what’s right. May God bless us 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.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: MY MCG MOMENT !
It was a dream come true, my date with MCG ! I can proudly say like many other fortunate ones that I had my MCG moment.
"The MCG is one of Australia's greatest assets and sits proudly alongside other internationally recognised attractions and attracts three million-plus people annually." says one commentator.
Another sports analyst writes ,”Melbourne is arguably the sporting capital of the world, and that is largely thanks to one of our most recognisable icons; the Melbourne Cricket Ground”.
MCG or the well- known Melbourne Cricket Ground popularly also called ‘G’ in Australia is the birthplace of (test) cricket. It is located in Yarra Park not far from the city centre in Melbourne ,Victoria, Australia. Built in 1853, the stadium has played a profound role in the development of international cricket. MCG is the venue that has hosted the first Test (1877) as well as ODI (1971) matches that were played between Australia and England.
Teams representing Australia and England played what is regarded as the first Test match from March 15-19, 1877 at the MCG. Australia won the match by 45 runs and the birth of international cricket is said to have taken place here then.
Interestingly the history was re-enacted hundred years after in 1977. The commemorative 1977 Centenary Test between Australia and England was again a great memorable event. With Australia struggling at 132 for 4 on 3rd day of the test match and in need of a fight back, David Hookes provided one when he smoked five fours in a row. England fought back valiantly in their second innings, led by a huge 174 by Derek Randall but fell short by 45 runs, producing the same result as the first Test 100 years before.
MCG has hosted the 1956 summer Olympics, 2006 commonwealth games and cricket world cup in 1992 and 2015. It is hosting 2022 T20 cricket world cup, currently underway as this write-up goes into print in the Literary Vibes. It is also the main venue for Australian Football league match and significantly MCG has been used for “rest and recover” by the armed forces of the US, Australia during World War II.
The first Olympics to ever be held in the Southern Hemisphere put Melbourne on the map as a stronghold of world sport, when it became the first city outside Europe and the US to host the Olympic Games. The MCG was the key venue at the Games as Australia won 35 medals.
Interestingly the aptly coined "Friendly Games" title was epitomised at the Closing Ceremony of Olympics at the MCG, when John Wing, a Melbourne teenager, penned a letter to the organisers of Olympics urging them that the athletes should march together rather than behind the flags of their countries separately. "There will be only one nation. War, politics and nationalities will be forgotten. What more could anybody want if the world could be made one nation," Wing pleaded in his letter. This led to the Olympic tradition that has been followed at the closing ceremony of the world mega event since then.
It is here at MCG that Sir Don Bradman had scored his 4th consecutive century which was repeated by Sydney great cricketer , former Australian captain Steven Smith at this same ground. Shane Warne's 700th Test wicket had happened here (December 26 , 2006).It was his farewell MCG Test for the local hero Shane Warne who became the first Australian to take 700 Test wickets when he bowled England's Andrew Strauss en route to a five-wicket haul on Boxing Day Test match. The crowd of about 90,000, one of the highest crowds for a day of cricket in Australian history - went into raptures. It was the first Ashes hat-trick in 90 years. The tragic death of Warne (13 September 1969- 4 March 2022) was a shock to all cricket lovers. The State Memorial Service in his honour was held at MCG on 30 March 2022.
I had been to Melbourne this month (i.e., 3rd October, 2022). I had been planning to visit this historical ground for quite some time, but a week before my trip I checked their website to book for the stadium tour. Whole October calendar was showing unavailable in the website and the reason it was displaying that the ground was getting prepared for the Mega event ICC cricket World Cup 2022. I was bit disappointed but I had in my mind to at least visit the stadium from outside. On my 2nd day of Melbourne visit, in my itinerary I had planned Melbourne cricket ground. I reached the place; it was a pure fan boy moment for me.
Outside the stadium there were many statues in every 50 meters of Victorian Cricket legends who went on to represent country, statues of Australian football legends, Olympic athletes, etc. I felt honoured to take my picture Infront of the Sir Donald Bradman’s statue. At that moment I felt it was worth coming to MCG because just taking the pictures from outside made me feel great. I could also see National Tennis Centre there. This thrilled me.
After a lot of photos, I asked a security guard present there if it was possible to go inside MCG for a tour on that date, and he said to my disbelief,” Yes” and the entry for that he told me was from Gate No. 6. I was completely surprised, at the same time thrilled and felt so happy. But I was not completely convinced till I got the ticket. I ran like a child to Gate No. 6, in case it would close because it was already past 1PM. I reached there and enquired in the counter after entering the Gate and it was a dream come true moment. They told me that yes, I can book for a MCG tour, the guide will take us around the MCG Ground and show us each thing one by one. The entry fee for that is 30 AUD, I paid it gladly and I was told to wait with the other viewers who had come for a ground tour similar to me.
After 5 mins the guide arrived, a smart sober gentleman dressed immaculately. He introduced himself as Mr. Greig and asked all the people wating for him for the purpose of the visit. I told I am from India; I am a huge fan of cricket and have watched numerous games which was being played in MCG in the TV. So very excited to see the ground and other stuffs live with my naked eye. Of the other people who were there what I remember two were from Scotland who had come to see their iconic athletes home ground, and rest from Australia I believe. Mr. Greig was very friendly and the told the more we can walk the more we can cover and discover more. The tour was for around 1 and half hour. He first took us to the ground floor inside the stadium, I could see the dugout where cricketers’ seat. I took photos there. I was near the boundary rope, but we were told we cannot enter inside the rope as the pitch and all was being prepared for the world cup. When I saw the ground, I just imagined what it would be feeling to play Infront of a packed house which accommodates more than or nearly a lakh of spectators on many important occasions.
But from what I saw I felt dimensions of the ground was not huge and I could hit sixes to some part of the ground if given a chance. Then Mr.Greig told us to follow him, we then reached the Dressing room of the home Team (Victoria). Mr. Greig said, that is the place where players keep their kit bag stuffs, individual lockers and all. I had a rough idea as I am a die-hard fan but this information was new to some. In the dressing rooms there were chairs where players could sit. Then Mr. Greig took us to the next room, which was the strategy room. It had white boards, TVs and all. Mr Greig told us that this is the place where the players analyse the strength and weakness of the other rival teams. They make their strategies. After that we followed him to the press conference room, he told us that this is the place where the captain or the player who has come to addresses the press, faces the heat from the journalists especially if his/her side has lost.
I was capturing all of Mr. Greig talking’s in my iPhone and at the same time I was not missing any chance of taking my own photo in these special places, either by selfies or by giving my phone to someone in the group to take. Meanwhile Mr. Greig was telling hurry up, many more things to see. After getting out of the press conference room we were walking to our next spot. On the side there was indoor net practice facilities. Mr. Greig pointed out to those practice pitches and told, so our guys feel difficult to face Bumrah. So here in this indoor practice, we have a bowling machine hidden behind the screen, so players can select Bumrah and it will seem like Bumrah is running to bowl with his action and finally the ball will come out from the bowling machine through the Bumrah’s hand shown in the screen. That’s how they can get accustomed to his awkward action, speed and pace. But I joked him there that live games are completely different from these simulated ones which he laughed off and then we proceeded to our next spots. He took us to the Media broadcaster rooms, where live commentary happens. Inside rooms there was already meeting going on to which Mr. Greig told them, “Sorry folks to interrupt your discussions but these are enthusiastic visitors who want to see all these boxes”. To this they happily smiled. Then we were taken into sections whose seat tickets are very expensive. Those sections outside view to the ground was covered with glasses and had AC in it. It would be really comfortable watching from there. The views were great. I took photos, some photos here, and some there, everywhere. Then we were taken to a gallery where many photos of iconic moments that has happened in MCG were captured and displayed along with medals, bats and souvenirs. I could see Brad Hodge bat kept in a glass. Meanwhile I saw Great Shane Warne statue from the glass in the outside. I wanted to take a photo with that statue but couldn’t figure out how to reach there as it was some distance away and difficult to reach there.
There were pictures of Olympics games held in that ground, there were pictures of their athletes. Among so many photos of greats and great actions, I could see that of Kapil Dev in bowling action ,Bradman and Tendulkar jointly in a single frame.
After such a splendid time Mr.Greig announced that we had reached from where we had started, and asked our opinion about how it was. I replied it was beautiful, life time experience and would like to take a photo with him. He happily accepted the invitation and I had a snap with him. He told me to give my feedback regarding this tour to his boss, who was a little away in his office on the same ground floor. I met his boss and told Mr.Greig had done a wonderful job, he has walked us through all the things inside the MCG, it was beautiful time, worth spending. His boss was happy and so as Mr. Greig. They asked me if I was visiting MCG again on 23rd October (that month, 2022) to see India vs Pakistan, world cup match which I told sadly ‘No” as I would have left Australia by then. They told the tickets were sold within 15 minutes of the selling and felt sorry that I was missing a great cricket festival and the most excited event as India-Pakistan duel.
I thanked both of them once again and came out of the ground happily. I have captured my tour in video and writing this article which I will always read and cherish. Definitely one will not hesitate to agree that it is a lifetime experience.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
MLM SCAMS, PYRAMID SCHEMES, AND ITS ILLUSION OF FINANCIAL FREEDOM
You must’ve come across these kind of advertisements on social media. People talking about starting this side hustle along with college/work to earn some extra income. Maybe your family/friends have invited you to join this amazing business opportunity and build your business empire through this earning platform known as ‘Multi-Level Marketing/Network Marketing/Direct selling‘ etc.
When people from this industry try to bring you in, they usually make very tall claims that promise high returns for a low investment. While this sounds very appealing at first, the reality is far from what they claim. Therefore, I decided to write this blog post to show you the other side of this industry so that you will be able to take a more informed decision if you’re ever presented with the opportunity of joining an MLM.
What is Multi-Level Marketing?
Multi-Level Marketing is an earning platform in which you pay an initial investment amount to join the company and purchase its products. You then sell that product to your family/friends for which you will earn a commission on every sale you make. The products that these companies sell are usually in the line of cosmetic lotions, essential oils, healthcare supplements, household goods, etc.
You can also earn through recruiting other people to join the company, for which you will receive a commission on every product they sell and for the members that they recruit. So as the number of recruits who join under you increases, so will your commissions.
Understanding Pyramid Schemes – and why they are ILLEGAL
When MLM representatives try to recruit people, the usual response they receive is, “This is a Pyramid Scheme. I’m not falling for it”. For this reason, when they try to recruit you, they will make it very clear that “Multi-Level Marketing” is entirely different from a “Pyramid Scheme”. While there is some truth to this statement, MLMs and Pyramid Schemes are actually very similar. To understand this further, let us know what exactly a pyramid scheme is.
Above is a classic Pyramid Scheme Model. The person who recruited you is known as your “Upline/Sponsor/Mentor”. He/She will earn a commission once you invest in the Company.
The people that you recruit are called your “Downlines”. You will receive a commission for recruiting them along with an additional commission for every member they recruit. So, as the number of downlines increases, so will your commissions.
On the surface level, it does look like a fantastic business opportunity. All you need to do is recruit around 2-3 people to invest in this business, and once that happens, money will come rolling into your lap through commissions from your downlines and their downlines.
However, if we look at this scheme on a deeper level, the results are actually the opposite. To understand this point, let us consider a scenario in which each member recruits two people.
Pyramid Scheme Scenario
Let’s assume that you’re the one who is at the top in the first level and you recruit 2 people as your downlines. So at the second level, we have 2 people.
Assuming that your downlines recruit 2 members each, we now have 4 members at the third level
From 4 members, it becomes 8 at the fourth level
And from 8 members, it becomes 16 at the fifth level.
If you observe the pattern closely, you will notice that at each level, the total number of members increases in exponents of 2. (i.e. 2,4,8,16,32,64…)
Now when we go towards the 33rd level, the total number of members there is 429,49,67,296 (Around 429 Crore people)
Here is where the problem lies, if each member from this level has to recruit 2 people to earn their commission, they will need to recruit a total of 858,99,34,592 (Around 858 Crore people) which exceeds the total population of the Earth.
As there are no more members to recruit at the next level, the scheme will slowly collapse resulting in a huge financial loss to the people at the bottom levels since they won’t be able to earn their commission.
In this kind of scheme, only the people who enter within the first few levels can earn well from it while the remaining end up making very little to no money. This is not because the people at the bottom levels didn’t work hard enough, it is because the scheme in itself is flawed by design since it needs an infinite supply of human beings for it to work well, which, unfortunately, is not possible.
For this reason, these pyramid schemes are illegal in many countries including India.
Difference between MLM and a Pyramid Scheme
Multi-Level Marketing, unlike a pyramid scheme, is not a completely illegal venture, since a product is being sold and the members are encouraged to make sales. However, the product’s sale commission is usually priced at such a low rate that it is next to impossible to recover the investments through sales alone. Thereby, subtly inducing members to start recruiting.
In an MLM presentation that I recently attended, the speakers themselves mentioned that the real strength of the MLM Industry lies in recruitment. So in other words, we can say that Multi-Level Marketing is just the legal and upgraded version of a Pyramid Scheme.
Should I join an MLM Company if presented with the opportunity?
When an MLM representative tries to recruit you, their first step is to invite you to one of their Business Presentations.
In these presentations, the speakers employ cult-like practices and hype you up with their business models and success stories. They will talk about how you can become an entrepreneur through their company with flowery words like, “You can be your own boss”, “Make your own hours, “Be independent and achieve financial freedom through this amazing business opportunity.“
However, in reality, all of this is just a facade. When you join an MLM company, you’re not really an “Entrepreneur”. Because you will actually be working for the MLM Company as an unsalaried distributor. Moreover, you won’t have any real control over the product, its quality, its price or even the commission structure, So where is the “entrepreneurship” element here? … WHERE??
Conclusion
As human beings, we all have an innate desire of getting high rewards for very little work. These MLM Companies exploit this desire by enticing you with a very glamorous picture of their business, financial rewards, etc. Personally, if you ask me, trying to make it in this industry will consume a lot of your time and energy, for which, as you can clearly see, the chances of succeeding are very low.
On the other hand, if you take that same energy and invest it in self-development, learning new skills, or even starting your own business like a real entrepreneur, your ROI on that will be much more rewarding and fulfilling.
Sanjit Singh is currently working as a Content Writer in Zoho Corporation. His hobbies include Writing, Public Speaking, Teaching, Juggling, Origami, Meme Creation and Shuttle Badminton. He has a blog on wordpress.com named "Sanjit Singh - Unconventional Wisdom." The purpose of his blog is to present simple solutions to complicated problems that his generation faces.
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