Literary Vibes - Edition CXXIII (25-Nov-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Cherry Blossom and Her Two Friends (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 123rd edition of LiteraryVibes. It come loaded with beautiful poems, entertaining short stories and some wonderful anecdotes. Hope you will enjoy them.
We are lucky to have Mrs. Gayatri Saraf from Bolangir, Odisha, as a new contributor this time. She is a literary celebrity in Odisha, having won more than a dozen awards for her creative accomplishments. For the past forty years all magazines, including Katha and Kadambini, the two largest selling monthlies of Odisha, have carried her stories in their editions. Let us welcome her to LiteraryVibes and wish her many more laurels in future.
In life, we carry a lot of baggages, mostly psychological, which make us unhappy. Blessed are the few, probably very few, who see the positive side in every event and every interaction around us. There are always two perspectives and it's for us to choose which one to absorb and internalise. I want to share with you two stories I recently came across in social media. They will certainly stir your mind, as they did to me.
One Story, Two Perspectives
A famous book writer sat in his study. He took out his pen and began to write:
“Last year, I had surgery to remove gallstones. I was bedridden for a long time.
In the same year, I turned 60 and was retired .… quitting a company that I loved so much. I had to leave the job I've been doing for 35 years.
That same year I was abandoned by my beloved mother who passed away.
Then, still in the same year, my son failed his final medical exam because of a car accident. Repair costs from the car damage marked the peak of bad luck last year.”
At the end he wrote:
“Oh, what a bad year!"
The writer's wife entered the room and found her husband who was sad and pensive. From behind, the wife saw the husband's writing. Slowly she backed away and left the room.
Fifteen minutes later she came back in and put down a piece of paper with the following words:
“Last year, my husband finally managed to get rid of his gallbladder which had been making his stomach hurt for years.
That same year, I am grateful that my husband was able to retire in a healthy and happy state of mind and body. I thank God he was given the opportunity to work and earn for 35 years to support our family.
Now, my husband can spend more of his time writing, which has always been his hobby.
In the same year, my 95 year old mother-in-law, without any pain, returned to God in peace.
And still in the same year, God protected our son from harm in a terrible car accident. Our car was seriously damaged by the accident, but my son survived without any serious injuries.”
In the last sentence his wife wrote:
“Last year was a year full of extraordinary blessings from God, and we spent it full of wonder and gratitude.”
The writer smiled with emotion when he saw his wife's note and warm tears flowed down his cheeks. He was grateful for a different point of view for every event he had gone through the past year. A different perspective of the same events now made him joyful.
Friends, we can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Lesson from a Trip
There is another story of a rich dad who took his son on a trip to a village. He wanted to show his son how poor some people lived. They spent some time in a farm with a poor family and took leave of them. On the way back the father asked his son, "Hey son, how was the trip?"
The son replied, "Great dad, the trip was great."
The dad persisted, "Did you see how poor they live, did you notice the things that they do not have and how they were suffering?"
The son said, "Yeah I did."
The dad was relentless, "So what did you learn from the trip? What was your takeaway for the day?"
The son smiled, "Well, dad, we have one dog, they have four, we have a pool at home, they have rivers, we have a few tube lights at home, they have all the stars, we buy food, they grow theirs, we have fences around to protect us, they have friends, we have television, they spend time with friends and family to entertain themselves."
The dad was speechless, he looked at his son, stunned.
The young boy was not finished, he looked at his dad and said,
"Thanks dad, for showing me how poor we are!!"
The dad learnt a lesson from his son. It's not abundance of money that makes us rich and gives us joy, though many would think so. It is simplicity, compassion, friendship and good values of the family which fills our life with fulfilment.
As a coincidence, my short story "Our Friend Grumblenath" in today's LV is about a retired professor who is a perennial grumbler, finding fault with everything. Finally a cathartic, life-changing incident brings about the best of feelings in him. Friends, hope all of us will strive for looking at the positive sides of life and seek fulfilment in the numerous blessings we receive from God everyday - the free air, the open sky, luminous stars, flowing rivers, smiling flowers, laughter of innocent children, the joy of a close-knit family, the love and good wishes of friends.
Please do share the following links of LV123 with your friends and contacts:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/466 (Poems, short stories and miscellaneous articles)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/465 (Young Magic)
There are also two interesting medical related articles by the prolific gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/463 and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/464
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE FOREIGN TOURIST
PEASANTS OF ODISHA
02) Haraprasad Das
ANIMAL SACRIFICE, A RITUAL (UPAAYA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
PAIN IN MANY HUES
04) Bibhu Padhi
THIS PLACE
05) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
MANDATORY
06) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN
07) Abani Udgata
OLD CITY, LOST TIME
08) Pradeep Rath
IRIDESCENT LAYERS
09) Kanchanapalli Govardhan Raju
LIFE IS A SIGH!
10) S Sunder Rajan
THOSE ERODING WAVES
CYCLONE
WELCOME RAINS
11) Hema Ravi
THIS IS ME
12) Krishna Tulasi
PERIOD OF TIME
13) Sharanya Bee
UNATTENDED
14) Setaluri Padmavathi
HOME – A FEELING
THE SETTING SUN
15) Snehaprava Das
AUTUMN IN MY MIRROR
16) Ravi Ranganathan
LATE BLOOMER
17) Rekha Mohanty
THE PUZZLED THOUGHT
18) Seethaa Sethuraman
THE FINAL DRIFT - A REMEMBRANCE..
THE POWER OF DOING IT:
19) Arpita Priyadarsini
A MAN
20) Indumathi Pooranan
FROM WHERE TO HERE
21) Dr. Thirupurasundari CJ
CONSISTENCY
22) Professor Niranjan Barik
LAKSHMI, THE DICTATOR!
23) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
AFTERNOON
REVIEWS::
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
SHORT STORIES COLLECTED IN THE DURGA PUJA ISSUE OF LITERARY VIBES (Edited by Mrutyunjay Sarangi) – A READER’S IMPRESSION
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Iti Samanta
RAIN - THE INSEPARABLE CONSORT
02) Gayatri Saraf
INDIA THAT IS BHARAT
03) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
RAANDI PU’A ANTAA, A STORY
04) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THE VISIT
05) Chinmayee Barik
MISSING
06) Meena Mishra
SHE IS
07) Sheela Luiz
JUST BEFORE KICKOFF
08) Ashok Kumar Ray
DEATH'S CRUELTY (Part-1)
09) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
OUR FRIEND GRUMBLENATH
Table of Contents :: ANECDOTES & MISCELLANEOUS
01) Jayshree Misra Tripathi
LITTLE THINGS OF JOY
02) Ishwar Pati
THIRTY THREE AND A HALF
03) Prasanna Kumar Dash
A PUZZLED PYTHON
04) Hema Ravi
BRIGHTENING ONE’S LIFE, OTHER’ LIVES
05) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
SACHI ROUTRAY: THE TREND SETTER
06) Neerja Sundar
MUSICAL MUSINGS
07) Sumitra Kumar
LOCKDOWN TAMASHA—JOTTINGS ...
08) S Sunder Rajan
VISIT TO A PET SHOP
09) Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
MARGASHIRA GURUBAR LAXMI PUJA
10) Sheena Rath
MAGICAL MORNING
11) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: THE STORY ...
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Trishna Sahoo
MY UNIFORM
MY FAVORITE SEASON
POEMS
(Poems from 1990)
Hello buddy, howdy? Fine day.
Dutch? French? Or Afghan?
It doesn’t matter really.
Nice of you to have come
to sea our ruins. Thanks.
It’s Qutub, the meenar of our pride,
that’s Taj, the mahal of our love,
Those are Konark, Somnath,
Lal Qila and Agra Fort,
our rajas built for your joy.
For your fathers to come and plunder,
rape and massacre
and return centuries later
to applaud their splendid ruins.
Leaving already? Why?
You have not yet seen
how luxuriantly the seeds of division,
sowed lovingly by your fathers,
blossoming in Punjab,
Meerut, Delhi, and Hyderabad.
Won’t you stay
to taste a poison fruit?
Smell a foul-smelling flower?
Take home the rubies
of coagulated blood?
(Poems from 1990)
The smell of ripe paddy
churned hungry stomachs.
Sad buttocks
and shrunken breasts
peered through tattered wears.
Only daydreams sustained their smiles,
softened the sun on their hides;
until the friendly wind
in corn fields would berserk,
until the scowling clouds
in the sky turn sinister,
and until a storm gallop from the east.
They would push them by their scruffs
into another riceless year.
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.
ANIMAL SACRIFICE, A RITUAL (UPAAYA)
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Don’t be appalled
by the dripping blood.
This is your share of meat,
the prasad from the sacrificial altar.
Take it home,
cook and eat with family and friends,
enjoy the mood of festivity
in social company.
A bit gruesome, but nonetheless,
it is a delightful ritual.
See, the oozing blood
doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
Of course, it may return
as a nightmare, scary.
I may even scream
like a Gangashiuli* flower
finding blood on its pristine
delicate white petals.
But isn’t that
a different matter?
Why should you mind?
So much one gains, losing so little.
Great social profit for so small a price,
costing us only our innocence.
Oh priest,
anoint us with vermilion,
garland us
to make us dance
to the frenzied drumbeats
like possessed devils,
with abandon
to the macabre rhythms.
Let this opiate seduce us,
oiling our social engine,
steamrolling merrily
over our small innocence.
**FOOTNOTE:: "A small delicate night-blooming intensely fragrant white flowers with a narrow tube like orange stack. A gangasiuli tree is called the Tree of Sorrow as per Google"
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
Pain
sometimes torments
yet titillates
some other time
it intrudes
it erodes
it consumes
it castrates
it gnaws
it nibbles
it devours
it devastates
it pinches
it pierces
It spreads
a contagion of darkness
it stabs
with a sliver of lightening.
Some do sow
the seeds of pain
and cultivate it
and it spreads
like a green carpet of cactus
and they walk on it
with a masochist’s delight
their feet bleeding
yet it’s cool
and they find comfort in it.
I keep watching helplessly
as my dreams get swept away
by the ebbing tides
and my head getting battered
on the rocks of reality
and then I realise
my pain perhaps has lost its voice
and in my numbness
I become dumb
as if the cat has got my tongue
and as for my tears
they coalesce to a ripple
or even build themselves up
to be a wave inside me
that would rise and eventually break
while I would stay unruffled
and resolute
for I am the source
as well as the sink.
For I am the stream
as well as the sea.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
No one owns it, except
an immense darkness.
Who else is lonely here
except myself?
Stay with me,
ask me questions
I cannot answer.
There are ghosts here —
my ancestors.
Take me to some other place
where I can breathe.
I cannot find
my voice here.
Take me to some place
where I can breathe
the clean desert air.
1 hope to rediscover my voice
in the shining grains of sand.
A two times Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published seventeen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the world, such as Contemporary Review, The London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, Wasafiri, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poet Lore, Poetry, Rosebud, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, Xavier Review, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Dalhousie Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Bombay Review, and Indian Literature.
They have been included in several anthologies and textbooks. Six of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poet s, Language for a New Century ( New York: Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins),The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry, Converse: Contemporary English Poems by Indians ( London: Pippa Rann Books), and The Penguin Book of Indian Poets.
MANDATORY
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
She was sick
And withering away
Like an ideal communist state.
My bro had claimed the home
Our ageing Mom
His price to pay
We were there to see her
With apples for flowers
A get together
After so long
Forgot the one
About to say bye
Forever
Others talked about stuff
And skipped the old lady
Our discussions
Very effective
Killed a full three hours
The host was good
The food was good
The kids were quiet
We got out in time
Drove drunk
Some old lady crossed out path
I applied the brakesssss
on time
Still our own mom
Never crossed our mind
In a week
She was gone
A bunch of apples
Left in the back seat
Rot to a finish
One had mom’s face
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani 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.
Her two handles are anagrams of each other
As if to say, “What I alone am, suffices”
‘Sif to say, “You see! I am of my own making -
Never a drab sham - never! An original!”
That is not to say she seeks anonymity
Au contraire! She remains a class unto her own!
Legend wanna-be, not merely in her own mind!
Then again, dousing tears with icing translucent
She looks deliciously inviting to most - mmmm!
Lives on the edge, lives her surreal fantasies,
Yet, in her own domain, she is traditional
Counts her blessings, setting like the pale, orange Sun
She proclaims, “Ah! how beautiful - the moon”,
When Carl Sagan points to the lunar in wonder
Dutifully nodding her head at Carl,
ensuring others see her nodding, by being in their way
Oh! She does recognise a gem on her own aesthetics
Chalcedony from an emerald, at arms-lengths
Tell a crystal from a transparent corundum
All the way from the moon even, but will withhold
That dainty nod, till a diamantaire of repute, nods,
Even if at a not too seasoned, drab pebble
In all fairness though, she walks the principled line
Only, she’s willing to step out, yes just that once!
For what wouldn’t she give for the world’s wordsmiths to nod?
Once! Just once! What wouldn’t she give for Plath to say, “mmmm!”
Jairam Seshadri is the author of MANTRA YOGA ( 2021 Rupa Publications) WOOF SONGS & THE ETERNAL SELF-SABOTEUR (2019 Partridge) and JESUS SAHASRANAM - THE 1,008 NAMES OF JESUS CHRIST (2018 Authorspress). He is a CPA with an MBA from the US and has worked in the U.S, Canada and England for over 30 years before returning to India to take care of his father.
He founded the India Poetry Circle (IPC)) six years ago, which has seven anthologies to the group’s credit, in addition to two more in the pipeline to be published this year. IPC, through its offshoot, IPC PLAYERS, has also produced and staged several skits, as part of its ‘POETRAMA’© series, including a production of Shakespeare’s MACBETH online. Shakespeare’s KING LEAR will be staged online this Christmas 2022.
Jairam lives in Chennai and can be reached at 9884445498 or jairamseshadri@hotmail.com.
She led by his hand
to that old city
which was on paper.
Old sepia-tinted film roll
crunched under the feet.
Steps waded through
a pile of vignettes, not quite
there today, except the trees
who dropped their old coats
long, long back to stay here.
On her lips danced a furtive smile
slippery as memory in daylight.
Unreal light played on the unkind
faces of roads, houses and riverfront .
The terrible distances swallowed
the moments you held in morning light.
Abani Udgata lives in Bhubaneswar. Writes poems both in English and Odia. Udgata has been awarded in all-India poetry competitions and published in anthologies. He has been a regular contributor to LV. Email: abaniudgata@gmail.com
(Translated from Telegu by Elanaaga)
Blue sky, stars dreams,
Soaring ripples of the rill,
Moon in the mirror,
Slumber of sprouting smiles
being blown by lullabies.
How charming is life!
Some unknown bumblebees in the heart,
Feasts of verdant songs,
Dreams and embraces,
Lakhs of lutes
ringing simultaneously.
How beautiful is life!
Lips depicting light as darkness;
darkness drawing the picture of light.
Dawns dangling from lips;
small villages turning into towns.
How deceitful is life!
A walking stick joined two legs;
steric lights are abandoned.
Unknown terror all around!
Walking helplessly
along with disquiet, disrespect.
How tragic is life!
What is the final result?
The conch of revolution
has fallen silent.
The penance of syllables
got swept away.
Life entwined with
the hauteur of authority became
a cartwheel sans grease.
Now, life is but a sigh!
Born in Julapalli village of Karimnagar district of Telangana State on the 9th of November 1960, Kanchanapalli is now the editor of a Telugu fortnightly magazine called Thangedu. An M. Phil., M.A., and Ph. D., he worked as the Principal of a Gurukul College and retired from the service. Also, he was a guest professor at Telugu University, Hyderabad.
He authored a book of prosodic poetry titled Bhava Manjari (1981), four collections of free verse poetry namely Achooki (1994), Cheda Bavi (1994), Thandlata (2011), and Kala Inka Migile Undi (2015), a criticism book Tharaju (2022) and one stories book, titled Kanchanapalli Kathalu (2018). He was the editor of Telanagana Jagruthi magazine for some time. He also edited some anthologies of poetry. He got a few awards in the State for his work. His poetry is marked with fine expression.
Dr. Surendra Nagaraju, , born in Elagandula village of Karimnagar district, Telangana State in 1953, Elanaaga (Dr. Surendra Nagaraju) is a poet, translator and critic. He is a paediatrician but is only pursuing his literary interests now. He penned 30 books so far. Half of them are original writings, while the rest are translations. Among the latter, 8 are from English to Telugu and 7 are vice versa. He published 5 collections of poetry, 2 language-related books, 1 of metrical poems, 2 of experimental poetry, others consisting of lyrical mini poems (geyams), and criticism to name a few. He rendered Latin American stories, African stories, Somerset Maugham’s stories, and world stories besides Pavan K. Varma’s Ghalib: The Man, The Times into Telugu. Also, he translated story books of Telangana’s literary luminaries like Vattikata Alwaru Swamy, Dasarathi Krishnamacharya, Kaloji Narayana Rao into English besides writing books on Indian classical music, standard crossword puzzles, language-related pun-filled experimental sentences, and so on.
He received a few prizes and awards for his work. His poems and translations have appeared in Indian Literature, Muse India magazines etc.
I stand on the shores all alone,
As the waves come splashing in a foam,
Dancing to music, to break on the shore,
To recede, but to return once more.
Mile after mile stretch the lone sands,
Dressed by shells, shaped not by mortal hands.
A Supreme Being, no doubt, did conceive,
This Natural Beauty to perceive.
The caressing waves from 'neath my feet,
Cart away the sands, as they recede.
My feet tightly cling to a portion,
Not willing to share with the Ocean.
So too, as the waves of time recede,
Upon our minds, they steadily feed,
While leaving some memories behind,
Of any kind, for recall, enshrined.
Even as the welcome rains, I savor,
The downpour soon turns into a frenzy,
Driven by ferocious winds, with power,
Leaving a haunted feeling, so eerie.
A cyclone crashes our vicinity,
Down my spine it sends a frightening shiver.
Uprooting trees with such ferocity,
As everyone runs fearfully for cover.
Long stretches of roads are inundated,
Throwing normal life into disarray.
Crops over vast fields get devastated,
With irreparable loss in its way.
It sends out the message, so loud and clear,
Yearning for things in excess of one's need,
Will result in many a tearful eye,
As disaster strikes one, driven by greed.
(Posting my NONET poem. There is no rhyme scheme the poem starts with nine syllables and ends with one)
Simmering summer about to wane.
Leaving dry tanks, parched lands and drought,
With all waiting for the rains.
Thoughts of prior cyclones,
Send shivers thro' me.
Rains are welcome.
But cyclone?
I pray,
No.
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.
(Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi)
Amidst the sea of change that’s all around
Truly I don’t have to change; this is me!
Sunrises and sunsets have come and gone
When rains come, I enjoy it; this is me.
I like to spend time on the sandy beach
Watching folks come to relax, this is me.
Good Samaritans dole pennies to me
Vendors share their leftovers–this is me!
There are some mischief makers around here
When they trouble, I walk off, this is me.
The crows and the creatures are all my friends
I live, want others to live….This is me.
Rain or shine I am here, nowhere to go
It’s a beggar's life, you know, this is me!
(First published in Inner Child Press Magazine)
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
A missed opportunity can never be regained
For that chance, that time has passed
This moment has passed, so will the next
Time is something one must hold
A regret can never be reversed, so is a mistake
You never speak to a person, then how can time give memories?
You can never prevent this, never stop this
All you do is live along with it
All things happen with a period of time
From when you are born to the time when you are dead
Auspicious, happy, unlucky, gloomy, all types
Can we revive them back, now?
Come what may, we need to live in the present,
For the past is dead and the future is over the head
But what we pull ourselves depend on what we think
An 'Oh no!' or a 'What if?' can ruin our thoughts
Breathe free, in, out and through yourself
Think optimistic, time will flow with you
Thinking deep can put you down
Walk through the journey more, talk less
Peace and bliss will fill through you
If time and thoughts are on control
For the ideal person will keep it tight
And breathe free, and happily live their lives
S. Krishna Tulasi from Bangalore, studying 1st PUC in Presidency PU College. Her interests include reading, writing and music. She is an ardent fan of writing. She believes in giving social meaning or sharing her knowledge and experiences for the benefit of others.
Maybe she is all about the
Flour and curry strewn kitchen basins she wiped with a damp cloth from time to time
The bunches of amaranthus she washed and chopped to perfection on a crimson board
The cooking smoke lingering in the kitchen and her forgetfulness to switch on the exhaust fan
Like an everyday ritual
Or maybe she is a little more of
The old-tales she narrated from a pitiful childhood
Half-naked days with a semi- transparent towel
One for each of the eight kids
Washed, rewashed and wrapped around hungry stomachs until worn
A lean, exhausted mother coming home at dusk
Grain-filled shabby cloth bag hanging down her waist
Rice for the older boys and leftovers for the girls
And now, how the mother at ninety five is still on her feet
The old lady now craves for mashed tapioca with fried chicken
All these tales our chatty maid recites
In between cooker-whistles and bucket filling
Alongside careless mopping and picking hair off the wet floor
Her private lecture sessions
We all nod our heads and hum to
Too foolish to know how life can sometimes equip warriors with a kitchen-knife
And historians with a cleaning mop
Too evasive to admit to ourselves that
The only attentive response she will ever get from our side will be:
“Have you grated enough coconut?”
“Please don’t make the rasam too salty like last time”
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
A feeling of oneness,
A feeling of belonging
A thought of livelihood,
And sharing pain and joy
Under the sun
Home is not a family, it’s a feeling!
A place of diverse folks
Where they quarrel,
Connect, and unite
It’s a feeling of love,
Ego and friendliness
Home is not a family, it’s a feeling!
The walls of a building aren’t a home
Alter it to a home with warmth
Dutiful members make it a home
A home filled with bliss and peace
In turn, label it as a ‘heaven’!
Home is not a family, it’s a feeling!
Uneven-sized clouds gently gather
The bluish sky brightens the path
The evening breeze kisses the earth
The earthly creatures relax a bit!
Painting the colorful rainbow,
The setting sun clears the path
The tiny droplets find their way
And gently descend like pearls!
The flowering plants refresh the land
The muddy pots beautify the garden
Grassy carpet glitter with raindrops
The scent of the mud gladdens folks!
The sun’s rays pierce the mighty branches
And spread around the vast azure sky
The sky is an amazing painted carpet
The unknown painter is ever commendable!
The setting sun reminds me of mortality
And the passing clouds about the time
The methodical time machine has no stop
Which brings turns and twists in my life!
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com
Sometimes autumn
Stands in front of my mirror
To see a grey face wink at it
Layers peeling off the face
Like a book opening up at the
Touch of the north breeze,
A mass of crumpled pages
And the stains of blood
Of dead palasha on them going grey,
Time sleeps in the tomb of
the brittle papers
Doomed forever
Sometimes my autumn stands
In front of the mirror watching
The ghost days stare unblinkingly
From it like faceless puppets
Popping up weirdly from behind
A screen of dull white smoke
Swirling out from
the drooping reed flowers
by some alien river.
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
He is in his late seventies
As healthy as people of his age
Are allowed to be; but he is not lonely
Does by himself all his daily chore
And enjoys them keenly.
His wife is no more.
His children, a couple of them
Now no longer children
Are well settled abroad
In plump posts and plumpier places
He cares for them much less
Than they care for him.
People call him a loner
They mean a lot to him
So he has no clues
Why he is branded a recluse!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He was too fond of his school mate
She loved him dearly too
She died young, but not his love for her
Not the little gifts she gave on occasions
Gifts like hand kerchief, pen set, her photo
And a currency note; all so precious
That sheltered him from all vicissitudes
They were seeds then, hidden from view
Now they have bloomed within, fair and true
They help him cherish his precious fate
With life now he has no debate...
Ravi Ranganathan is a writer, critic and a poet from Chennai. Also a retired banker. He has to his credit three books of poems titled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Writes regularly for several anthologies. His awards include recognition in "Poiesis award for excellence" of Poiesisonline, Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and’ Master of creative Impulse ‘award by Philosophyque Poetica. He contributes poems for the half yearly Poetry book Metverse Muse . He writes regularly for the monthly webzine “ Literary Vibes” and “ Glomag”.He is the Treasurer of Chennai Poets’ Circle.
I long to go to the wild
in my imagination
where you sit on the bank of the
river side every evening
where the wild flowers bloom,
Up and above in the sky
the thin floating cloud plays
hide and seek with the
beaming moon.....1
I am cheerful but restless
I long to see your smiling face
I shall look over and over again
till I find you,
I love to be lost
on the circuitous path
until I find me with you.………2
The butterflies brushing against me dance and hop from
one branch to other,
I follow and run behind them
and your image flashes
in front of me to disappear
when I come very near…….. 3
I love to play the game in wild amongst the wild flowers
to find you at the bank of river sitting
on a stone putting feet on gravels in the cool shining flowing water
I wish to sit besides you and talk to you endless in nature’s lap
It has become now an obsession
The hope piles up beyond my expectation,
I want to see you all the moment
in day and night and in my dreams
at this lovely location
I love to be at a loss
and wish everything you win
and I accept the bargain …….4
The addiction of losing
at the verge of winning
is really mesmerising,
I wonder around
in the beautiful wild missing you
on my way ahead and down
I am sure you will come
As you had promised that evening….5
What a puzzled thought !
It makes me really happy to be submerged in my cool thoughts
though I know it’s a wild imagination,
I follow my happy endeavours
and keep on travelling the winding path I have never seen
might it flash some day
in my sweet dream ……....6
Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College.She worked in Himachal Pradesh State Govt as a medical Officer and in unit of Para military Assam Rifles before joining Army Medical Corps.She worked in various Peace locations all over India and Field formations in High Altitudes.She was awarded service medal for her participation in Op Vijay in Kargil.She is post graduate in Hospital Management and has done commendable job in inventory management of busy 1030 bedded Army Base Hospital ,Delhi Cantonment for six years and offered Sena Medal and selected for UN Mission in Africa.After the service in uniform she worked in Ex Service Men Polyclinic in Delhi NCR till 2021.She writes short stories and poems both in English and Odia as a hobby and mostly on nature.Being a frequent traveler,she writes on places.She helps in educating on health matters in a NGO that works for women upliftment.As an animal lover she is involved in rehabilitation of injured stray dogs.
She lives mostly outside the state and visits Bhubaneswar very often after retirement.She likes to read non political articles of interest.She does honorary service for poor patients.
THE FINAL DRIFT - A REMEMBRANCE OF DAD (Mr. R. Sethuraman)
Photo of Mr. R. Sethuraman (24/02/1937 – 16/02/2009)
Returning home from post office that 14th Feb 2009, Saturday afternoon,
Stepping in, he complained of severe stomach ache; thereafter, soon.
Stretching gingerly, he lay down on the 3-seater in the hall,
Voicing softly, he murmured that it was a pain, like no other at all.
Scurrying, I gave him the available medicine at home albeit for period pain and spasm,
Wondering all along if this would alleviate his acute pain problem.
Worrying, she quickly decided to at least serve him plain curd rice for lunch,
Filling as well as soothing for his stomach that would be, was her hunch.
Feeling a tad better post the pill and simple food platter,
Lying on his bed inside would be good, he felt a little later.
Catching up on her short siesta, with the ensuing calm,
Relaxing after this disturbing flutter, she too felt, would soothe her as a balm.
Surfing and uploading a rare, good pic of mine that had got me excited,
Lazing around with social media would be easy on me too for a while; is what I decided.
Short living calm before the storm, it was, we soon realised;
Unfolding, upheaval events that evening, left all of us stupefied.
Checking on him early evening, pushing open the slightly ajar door,
Side-stepping what he had retched up, that he weakly cautioned me about; on the floor.
Helping him from both sides along with her, to sip coffee in the living room;
Losing balance on his own otherwise, he was; that made our foreheads wrinkle and our faces gloom.
Rushing over the telephone, our family doctor, for an urgent visit,
Regurgitating the coffee too, on the centre table and nearby floor; he had emit.
Sensing no traceable blood pressure in him, our doctor alarmingly with the stethoscope; said,
Necessitating to admit him immediately to the close by hospital; it becoming an emergency instead.
Developing complications required moving him to a larger hospital that very night;
Resulting multi-organ failure and he drifted away to another world in the wee hours of Monday, 16th Feb 2009 morning; all quiet.
Guiding light of ours, he continues to be, all the way,
Twinkling in the sky, he is our very own north pole star, night and day.
Brush and colour it - don't brush off your artistic affinities or dilute it.
Pencil and write it - don't write off your literary leanings or blur it.
Voice and speak it - don't muzzle out your oratory outpourings or quieten it.
Open and feel it - don't lock out that heart fluttering love or smother it.
Stroke and light it - don't snuff out that smouldering inner fire or diminish it.
Smile and express it - don't shrug off those childlike joys or suppress it.
Dream and flight it - don't snooze off those wondrous fantasies or clip it.
So, just do it and experience the power within, that will amount,
Only then, will you be able to make every single life moment count.
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
A man's love
Is as fragile
As the wings of a butterfly
So,on the days
he comes
With a half torned heart
And puffed eyes
Hold him
In your arms
And tell him
That you understand
You understand that
Life happens
And sometimes it's okay
It's okay to find a corner
And let yourself succumb into it
A man's glimmering eyes
tells you more
Than his stammering lips
He stacks up his feelings
One after another
Just for you
To unfold him
And adore him in every way possible
he loves you
Reading him in between the lines
where he hides
his most calculated vulnerabilities
A real man
looks at you
With sunflowers in his eyes
And tulips in his soul
And waits for you
Like an eclipsed moon
In the midst of an apocalypse
A man is dusk
With a tint of orange
That shines through
The right pair of eyes
A man is a poem
Written in black and blue
Waiting to be read
By the world
Through it's mahogany hue
A man sometimes
Is an immature kid
With the skin of an adult
And the heart of a vagabond
A man is nothing
But an absolute amazing creation
Born to conquer and love
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.
Where have we come to …………..
From playing outside to shutting us inside
From pay phones to mobiles
From letters to emails
From greeting cards to messages
From once a year movie to anytime movies
From walking to hardly moving
From cycling to kick starting
From a simple yet happy celebration to showy, expensive parties yet faked happiness
From Psycho to Conjuring
From just a scream and show of knife was considered scary thriller
To the showing of all forms of violence as a daily affair
From villains to anti hero
From simple saints to corporate Gurus
From homes to flats
From forests to concrete jungles
From rivers and lakes to garbage dumps
From manual to mechanized
From colonies to countries
From slavery to Independence
Yet, not free ……
The list goes on and on
We have come a loooong way, have we ??? Or
We have gone a long way and there is no coming back ????
Indu Pooranan lives in Chennai and is passionate about literature. She started writing a few lines wishing her husband for his 50th birthday and from then on has gone on to making people feel special on important occasions by expressing her thoughts and the bonds they share. In addition to the photo grids that she tries to create, she also pens her thoughts on nature and current topics.
I wake up,
stare
at your smooth
visage
that hovers in the air,
myriad iridescent
layers of the past
shake me to the core,
and I cringe.
You caress me,
hold my hand and drag me gently, ever gently,
ignore my feeble protests,
we run all the way to the mango topes or river banks
and lie there exhausted,
giggle like small children when we catch our breath.
You sing of a sad song
in your sweet,
melodious voice,
song of lost love
buried in the layers of deep blue sea,
tales of lovely moments
long denied to us
and we stare at the iridescent layers of vast blue sky.
I wake up from
the silent noise
as you melt in the air,
pluck the vacant moment
with all my force
and stare at the lengthening visage as you vanish in air,
unredeemed
by any ray of light.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor is an author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry in English, 'The Glistening Sky', two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His dramas, compendium of critical essays on Modernism and Post modernism, comparative study on Upendra Bhanja and Shakespeare, travelogues on Europe and America sojourns, Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim. He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.
(Dazzle) Dr. Thirupurasundari CJ
Cheerful is our Dance ‘n Fitness community,
Observant and open-minded is every participant on tough moves,
Nonchalant expressions never our attire,
Stupendous stamina to achieve our goals,
Indomitable synergies for every conviction,
Self-assertiveness in every soul,
Therapeutic mind programming every day,
Endeavors revamping our lives,
Nourishing thoughts to flourish 'n cherish,
Charisma rubbing off to our fellow friends 'n a jubilant continuance,
Yippee, we shout out to the aged and youth with an unyielding inner drive.
Moving our bodies, magically things falling in place,
Consistency and determination,
The key to transformation.
A cheerful Biochemist and Molecular Biologist, Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle) has a university rank and gold medal in her Bachelors and Masters respectively. She fetched her state and national level fellowships for Doctoral studies. She started her research and teaching experience at a Diabetes Research Hospital. She is recognised as someone who teaches with passion. She took this ethos to a school and also excelled as Assistant Professor in a reputed University, Chennai and then for a brief stint at the Vector Control Research Centre, Puducherry. She has PG diplomas in Bioinformatics, Clinical Research and Patent Rights. She has participated in national and international scientific conferences and has published her research findings in peer-reviewed journals. Cancer, Diabetes, and Horticulture are the fields, she has traversed. The last of which was put to use at the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research. Her other passions include yoga, sudoku, poetry, sketching, gardening, and experimenting new cuisines. Besides being a science content writer, an editor for “Science Shore” e-zine, she has published her oeuvres in Bangalore Poetry Circle, Adisakrit, Positive vibes, Chennai Poets’ Circle, Indian Periodicals, International Writers Journal, Inner Child Press International, INNSAEI, Spillwords, and other anthology groups. Her oeuvres are also available on literary platforms like TechTouch talk, Cultural reverence, Namaste India, Muse India-Your Space, Story mirror, Pratilipi and others. She draws inspiration from others! Her thirst for dance is being quenched recently. She is happy within.
Can Laksmi the benefactor be a dictator?
The Goddess of wealth comes early in the morning winter,
Would see the cleanness of the door and surrounding outer,
If you have put on welcome signs for her,
Put the replica of her feet on the floor at the entrance door,
She loves stepping into your house and staying there,
The self-appointed supervisor and inspector
The oldest advocate of Swatchhata linking to Samrudhi,
The Margashira Guruvar, her date of favour
For bestowing blessings after inspection proper,
The cleanness should be evident from the outset of the door,
That is the key if you want to prosper,
You sleep in the morning, not welcoming her,
She will go to the houses of others and bestow her bounties there,
The house Lakshmi is meticulous in extending a hearty white carpet welcome,
But for years why has no perceptible change?
Why the house lord could not be a Nirav Modi either?
Why Odisha, the worshiper of the Goddess in every corner for centuries together
In all-India ranking goes so poor?
Answers the house Lakhmi,
The women are sincere, but the men folk are a disaster,
For home and society together,
So goes the order in the late evening to bring varieties of flowers,
The Rice-corn threads she had forgotten, essential to adore ,
An early morning bath,
The drawing of Jhoti before the dawn with hands bare
All these have been carried from the generations far,
House Lakshmi reminds us how the Lord of the Universe had to suffer
For disrespecting the wishes of the woman most dear,
He had to go hungry with his elder brother, the instigator, for days together
For not respecting in outing freedom of hers
And meeting families irrespective of class, caste and gender,
She reminds that why women are the Lakhmi at home
And why they must be kept in cheer,
Lo to the men who understand Dhanatarashi never
And make no gift to the in-house Lakshmi ever
They are the category to miss the most precious blessings of Her.
These are the people bound to alienate the Deity for dishonour
Of her living shadow at the home inner.
The House Lord surrenders to the dictatorial orders
Takes an early bath as never before
Dons the proper attire
Does other errands and chores
Margasira first Gurubar, the day of blossoming fortunes and flowers,
Maa Lakshmi may smile,
In the meantime, house lord slips the word “ritualist” and becomes a sinner
Prompt came out the rebuke, “Top irrationalist” as seen never
No pardon, no remission, no commutation for the blunder
Follow the diktat, there lies family saviour and salvation your
Understand the Day’s significance multiplier
The Rice-corn thread is the symbol of food security for all
Don’t be a boss over women, who manages well-being universal
Sans caste, colour, the parameter of rich or poor,
She should have the freedom to move from door to door
Aceept the Laskmi in-door and Lashmi out-door,
Submit to the orders of the benevolent dictator!
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
Some afternoons can be so lonely
One would feel the sun all wrinkled up
And staring with wandering eyes
Through narrow slits in the window panes.
And the wind wriggling through cracks in the roof
Singing mournful tunes like a blind singer in a deserted street
The songs touching like icy whispers
And the music freezing on landing on the ground.
The shadows would come creeping
Under the doors, trying to be unseen
And then climb onto the walls
Hiding behind the morose paintings.
And on such dreary moments
You will come like an uninvited memory
So distant, yet so real, alive, breathing,
Touching the soul with soft caresses
Silent tears frozen on your parched lips
Your words, never spoken, yet never forgotten.
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.
REVIEWS::
SHORT STORIES COLLECTED IN THE DURGA PUJA ISSUE OF LITERARY VIBES (Edited by Mrutyunjay Sarangi) – A READER’S IMPRESSION –
The editor was kind enough to start the collection with a story of mine, titled ‘Who was Kakoli?’ The story deals with a few socio-cultural issues, like, helpless girls sold by money-minded relatives to rich bridegrooms, widows not allowed to live in their homes but dumped at holy places, society forcing widows to do penance for sins they never committed and to beg for a living. There are cameos in the story too - a story of adolescent-love, an accidental digital genius, and search for a missing girl whose name or references are not known. But being a reviewer, I do not qualify to review my own story, and call it good, bad, unputdownable, or a drag.
‘Miss You’ by Sreekumar K. started with an eye-catching pictorial logo that reminded me of the iconic painting SCREAM (1893) by Edvard Munch. The logo showed many agonized screaming skulls, acting as a terrifying symbol. The first sentence informed the reader that in the title ‘Miss You’ the ‘you’ stood for a vase.
Later it was informed that the vase of exquisite loveliness was showcased by a group of gypsies in their roadside makeshift stall, meant for the sale of clay wares. The protagonist chased the vase relentlessly to buy and possess it as a much desired object but missed it by a whisker, like the proverbial ‘There’s many a slip between the cup and the lips’. The reader was expected to image his frustration as a heartrending scream. But the story ended with a ‘wisecrack’, and the reader kept wondering, ‘Was it a deliberate relief technique?’
Ajaya Upadyaya’s story ‘To Speak or not to’ had a catch in its catchy title with a Shakespearean dilemma as in Hamletian hesitation, ‘to be or not to be’. The story was about an arson by a nine years old orphan, escaping from her orphanage and burning down a warehouse stocking liquor. She did not plead guilty for what she had done, and put her justification unrefutably like a child prodigy. From her short but agonized life-experiences she had the conviction that the liquor is a horrific social evil, that destroyed homes, humanity, and health. A girl of nine, she spoke like an oracle of ninety. To make her point she drew sketches like a young Picasso. She disbursed justice with confidence of the apex court. She asked the police to release the two fugitive boys held as criminals for the arson that she had admittedly done. She declared them as innocent in her court of justice. Perhaps the author tried to convey ‘The child is the father of the man’.
Ishwar Pati’s ‘The Exquisite Bliss of Dunked Biscuits’ was a simultaneously humorous as well as serious story. In a way it questioned if dunking a biscuit in tea and eating it was uncouth and bad table manners, or was it a soulful and pleasurable act. The protagonist would find such conflicts in many households. The author put forth the unending debate in his comical style. In the family of story’s protagonist, his wife considered the dunking of biscuit in tea as uncivilized but for him it was a heavenly pleasure, a bliss.
‘A Cup of Sugar’, story by Chinmayee Barik, originally scripted in Odia and translated into English by Ajaya Upadhyaya was an eye opener to the differences in perception and perspectives by different persons during mutual interactions. The cup of sugar served as a symbol to highlight this clash between the perception of Rachna and perspective of Hridayansh, the two neighbors. Rachna was looking for a polite and sensitive neighbor, and in her perception Hridayansh did not fit to that standard, he was borrowing small things from her almost every day, but was not returning any. But the purpose of Hridayansh behind her borrowing was with a different perspective, to see that Rachna, a depressed woman, was doing alright.
The differences were pinching both like bad shoes until Hridayansh’s father revealed to Rachna the facts behind his son’s purpose. Slowly the fog cleared behind his repeated borrowing of small household things. Rachna understood Hridayansh in right earnest. A complex story of relationship between two neighbors, one suspecting the other’s care as harassment.
Krupasagar Sahoo’s story, ‘Didi from Dum Dum’, scripted in Odia originally and translated by Sumana Ghosh into English, is a clash of sensibilities and quintessences between two wives of a man. The first one had been married to him by arrangement and with rituals and festivities; but the second wife came as a divine gift when he was lying ill alone in his house away from home and dear ones. She worked in his house as a house-help. During that serious indisposition she brought him back to health with loving care. The proximity between them in that illness into tender intimacy and they started living together as man and wife. Two kids were fruits of their love.
The man however was guilt-ridden like a man living two lives simultaneously in one body. Even the man who was sent by the first wife as emissary to the second wife to get the man back to her, found himself compromised between the feelings of the two ladies for the man. The emissary felt obliged to stay neutral in the complex quadratic of love by the two wives for the man, not sure which way the balance was tilting. The author is a master of creating such coflicts.
Jairam Seshadri’s ‘Bozo and Wizo at the Fantasy Island Zoo’ tells the story of two chimpanzees put together in a zoo. Bozo was a young, and childish ape, but Wizo, old, and wise. It would appear that the generation gap and the differences between the old school and new school of thought of humans were not at much variance with the animal world. Another parallel with humans was that the young animals learnt from the old, and the old ones did not forgo their responsibility to teach and train the young ones of their world. A nice animal story of understanding and balance that blends with human traits.
‘When God was a Businessman’ from the pen of Satya N. Mohanty spoke of the Corona times, its vagaries destroying human life. The hardship from the killer pandemic was added in vigor and rigor by the imposition of an overnight thoughtless and unorganized total lockdown causing lakhs of migrant laborers losing jobs in cities and migrating back to their native places, often hundreds of kilometers on foot. To add fuel to the fire, God and businessmen joined hands to harass the poor with black marketing.
Laxmidhar Majhi, a daily-wage-mason, was caught like the leaf in a storm amid the manmade and God-made mess. His wife was afflicted by Corona and put into a Corona facility. Instead of being heartbroken for her illness, he felt happy for her, as he had no money or means to feed her and treat her. The story that way exposed the irony and horror caused by the people in power who handled the calamity most callously.
‘The Car Ride’ by Sundar Rajan S is the story of an unusual friendship between Dr. Kripa, a successful, a senior female doctor specializing in Community medicine, and Praveen, a young male taxi driver. They were, by age difference, gender inequality, educational backgrounds, and social status, like two banks of a river that never would meet. The duration of their friendship, from introduction to parting, was the time the car took to drive from Kripa madam’s conference venue to the airport where she alighted from the car to take the flight. Surprisingly the two banks of the river sort of met. The two individuals, Kripa and Praveen, with all their differences struck a friendship during the short meeting. It would prove, fact was stranger than fiction.
‘Recipe for a Family Drama’ by Sulochana Ram Mohan is the story of a home where so many new aspects were pitched - modern thoughts were clashing with age-old tradition, feminism was elbowing into a traditional family etc.
The fumes of protest against male dominance had been wafting now and then. The docile women, who took frequent criticism of their feminine traits, their light and non-tiring indoor work, wasting time in themselves etc., were restive to get adequate appreciation. What impressed me as a reader was that the vegetables were given character and individuality and were used as powerful metaphors for management of the house.
The protagonist, Padmam, the old granny, played the balancing role amid the wobbling conflicts of interests and perspectives in the family with generation gaps and idiosyncrasies. She proved to be the most necessary accessory for her joint family that was passing through a flux of transition.
Gita Bharath, in her story ‘Lockdown Times’, portrayed the sensitivities of children in a colony during the lockdown period of Corona pandemic. The children not only exhibited their compassion and passion for a stray puppy who had lost the care and feeding support from a roadside tea-vendor outside the colony gate, but also for a lonely old woman in a flat who was unwell and going without food and other essential facilities for days. They also made the best of their time by delivering stuffs at people’s doors, ordered by them but left outside the colony-gate by the suppliers’ boys. That way earning lots of good will, they earned a little pocket money. A nice exhorting story for the children.
‘Nature’s Best Friend’ by Archee Biswal was a happy reading in nature’s lap. Rolling grass land, idyllic peace of pastoral beauty, peeping animals out of nowhere, crawling harmless reptiles almost everywhere, innocent lambs hungry for human company, and a jolly caretaker of the sprawling farmland composed a contented milieu away from the boring concrete jungle and urban humdrum. Love for the nature was infectious.
‘The Ember’ by Mrutyunjay Sarangi was a blazing tale of the Naxalite Movement. The ember represented the anger of the protagonist, Asutosh, that smoldered through his entire student life helplessly, watching the injustice meted out to the poor and dispossessed by the rich, not excluding his own family. Asutosh was passionate about equality to all humans irrespective of cast, creed, religion, and wealth. His compassion for the exploited tribals and the poor had no bounds. He finally gave slip to all, his parents, relatives, and friends and went away to live among the poor tribals in their native settlements and serve them variously.
The author has brought out the double standard in the dealings of industrialists and authorities about the Naxals. The rich who steal everything from the poor are the real villains, but officially the exploited poor are designated as villains and terrorists. Mr. Sarangi tells a long story going into the details of Asutosh growing into a so-called ferocious Naxal in government files, where as in real life he was almost a non-violent messiah for the poor.
The real twist came in the narrative when the recounter, a high-ranking police officer, a close friend of Asutosh in the past, was sent by his boss to hunt down the fugitive. But the boss had a hidden but noble agenda that his junior learnt in a hard way that the legendary Asutosh was only a benevolent revolutionary against all that was wrong in the society, and also that his friend Asutosh had already been dead. A moving story.
All the twenty stories in this collection, a special Durga Puja Issue of 2022, are good narratives, speaking of the twists and turns of human life, our lives. I have commented, as one may observe, only on out of the box situations or abrupt angles that struck me as a reader, a bit unusual. I have not discussed the techniques used or the language, they are more of erudite areas where doctors may differ. I felt disappointed to miss the story tellers of the LV family like Dilip Mohapatra, Geetha Nair, Latha Prem Sakhya etc. (Around 2000 words)
SHORT STORIES
RAIN - THE INSEPARABLE CONSORT
Utkalika;
She removed the blanket from her face at the sound of the mobile ringing and looked at the wall clock.
"O my God! It's already seven in the morning!" She exclaimed.
The ringing was still on.
"Hello," she mumrmured into the phone.
"Hello! Rainy good morning, my dear!" It was Kalyani, her close friend.
"A call from you so early in the morning! What a surprise!"
"Why are you sounding so weird? Are you still in bed? Asleep on a beautiful rainy morning! So unlike you!"
"I had trouble getting sleep till very late last night. Kept tossing on the bed and fell into a deep sleep towards early morning."
Utkalika got up from the bed, went to the wash basin to splash water on her face. Kalyani was in great mood,
"O, is it so? Not surprising at all. With all the hulabaloo going on about the cyclone all over the media, you must have felt disturbed. Anyway, the danger is over. Hope you know that."
"Over? How is it over? Till last night the TV announcers were going berserk about the likely fury of the cyclone?"
"I saw it in the Facebook this morning and switched on the TV. Now they are saying the cyclone has receded."
"Receded? What do you mean receded?"
"It got dissipated in the sea, lost its sound and fury. There will be only rain for the next two-three days."
"O my God! There was so much preparation, waiting for the dreaded cyclone. All the shops had been emptied by panicked buyers. They must have stocked up stuff for a month."
"Good that the cyclone got dissipated. It would have done heavy damage everywhere - ruin lots of homes."
"Yes, you are right. Cyclone leaves afte a day or two of fury, but it breaks people's back, bringing untold sufferings to them. Good that the danger is gone, I am always deeply scared of cyclone."
"Why?"
"It's so chaotic - the high speed of the wind, the deafening sound, things collapsing everywhere, houses, roofs, bridges, roads. It's always a long list of devastation after a cyclone. Isn't that scary? But you are not scared of cyclone! God knows how you come out to enjoy the cool air and drizzling rains after a cyclone. I sometimes wonder how you are so fearless. I remember after the last cyclone you came running to my home, braving all the broken down roads, the uprooted electric poles and the fallen trees - you had also gathered a lot of mangoes from the roadside and brought them with you. You were always like that - in love with rains. The way you get soaked in rain and play with the cascading water makes me go crazy."
"O, I really love the rains. You won't understand the feeling. You and your fear of rains!"
"Look, I called you to give the news that the cyclone has dissipated. And to be frank, I also wanted to know what you were doing. Who knows you might have gone out to get drenched in the rains. You have remained as incorrigible as ever. Do you remember the time we were having tea and snacks in a restaurant and suddenly it started raining. Before I could stop you, you rushed out and stood under the rain. Just like that, the tea getting cold, the snack forgotten. I had to pay for the unfinished tea and the snacks, but you didn't care. God knows what happens to you when it starts raining. You turn into a woman possessed. Why do you do that?"
"Oh, there is no pleasure in the world greater than getting soaked in rain. Why don't you come over here, we will enjoy, soaking in the rain. Your office must be closed. Check in TV. In the list of offices closed yours must be there."
"Forget getting soaked in the rain. Why do you get so irresponsible, just at the sight of rain? What possesses you?"
"Ok, ok, don't get so touchy in the morning."
"Ever since we became friends I have been noticing this. You are such a calm, steady person, but the moment you see rains you go berserk. As if the rains gobble you up!"
"Don't you know? I have long conversations with rains. Telll me, haven't you heard the rain talking? She has her own language, only you should have the heart to understand it."
"Looks like you have started on a new story!"
"Not yet my friend, can't you see I just got up!"
"Whatever you do, but don't go outside in these nagging rains. These unseasonal rains are quite dangerous. Don't get drenched in them."
"Don't you know how special the unseasonal rains are? My mother used to say, unseasonal rain carries some special messages. When it comes with so much preparation, there must be some purpose behind it, some connection with human affairs. And remember I am not the only one who bonds with rains. There are many others like me. The farmer looks forward to rains so that he can start sowing, the poet gets ready to write a poem, the plant sprouts new leaves, trees dream of new flowers. Lovers think of their beloved and feel romantic. Rain touches everyone, everything and brings a new hope all around. Only you should have the heart to understand her."
"Yes, I know, but with you it is different, it's a new world to which only you have the key. We have been friends for so many years, but you have never told me the secret of your love for the rains. Is there some invisible connection with someone through rains? Is rain the perennial love of yours, to the exclusion of everything else. Sometimes l feel so sad that you have kept this secret from me."
"Hey madam, don't be so philosophical in the morning. There is no secret kept from you. It's just that right from my childhood I have been deeply obsessed with rains. It's a feeling difficult to explain. Do one thing, take leave from your boss and come over here. We will talk about rains"
"Hah, talk of the devil and he is here. The mobile is flashing, my boss is on the line. I don't think he will let me enjoy a holiday today. Anyway, in case I can wriggle out of office I will give you a call and come over. Meanwhile you enjoy your talk with rains. Bye."
"Bye dear, try to come if you can."
Utkalika returned to the bed, the weather was so tempting, to get under the blanket and lose oneself in sleep for one more hour! She did that. It was warm and comfortable under the blanket, she tried to sleep. The sound of the rains outside was rhythmic - soothing, yet disturbing. She tossed on the bed, unable to get sleep. Sukeshi, her maid, entered the room,
"Didi, tea for you."
"Leave it on the table, I will have it as son as I get up."
Utkalika took the cup in her hand and went near the window. The fury of rains had abated. Now it was a soft drizzle falling languidly.
She wondered at the changing moods of rain. She knew rain was basically not bad in heart, she was just moody. She would often drop in slow rhythm bringing joy to young hearts, filling them with molten love. But at other times she would fall in torrents, drowning everything in sight and bringing misery to people. But, for Utkalika she was always a soothing presence, helping her, consoling her and inspiring her.
Through the window Utkalika could see the two kids from the neighbouring house emerging with two paper boats in hand, covering their head with plantain leaves. The moment they stepped out, Seema, their mother came running after them, shouting,
"Hey, Litu, Leenu, come back, come inside! How do you think of getting wet in the rains? And you have taken away the plantain leaves from the Puja room! Come back, at once!"
The kids were in no mood to listen. Litu, the elder one, shook his head,
"No mama, we are not going in till we have floated the two paper boats. Look at the drain outside, near the street, water is flowing like a river. We can't let this chance go." He held his little sister's hand, goading her to move forward. Seema kept shouting at them,
"Leenu, don't listen to your brother, come back. If I call your father, he will give a good thrashing to both of you."
That stopped them on their track. Seema moved with lightning spread, and dragged them inside.
The scene made Utkalika pensive, making her go down the memory lane.
"Baba, my son, please go and pick the coconuts from the garden, they are falling all over the place, going into the neighbour's orchard. Pick up the fruits also, there are so many mangoes, jackfruits on the ground. Looks like the cyclone is going to uproot all the trees everywhere. Go Baba, don't delay. There may be others also looking for fallen fruits and coconuts." It was their mother.
Utkalika's elder brother protested,
"But Bou, in such harsh weather mothers ask their children to stay inside. How is it you are sending me out to pick up coconuts and fruits? Are you not scared of coconuts falling on my head or lightning striking me?"
Her mother's voice would become soft, the eyes would fill up with tears,
"Baba, you know, we have no other source of income. I can manage to feed you some rice if I sell the coconuts and mangoes. Please go Baba, nothing will happen to you, Maa Durga will protect you from the falling coconuts. And keep chanting Ram Ram the moment you see a lightning in the sky. It will keep away from you. Now, go Baba, before the others take away the coconuts and the fruits."
Utkalika would volunteer to come with her brother to help him. The brother would shoo her away,
"Hey little one, you are so thin, the wind would blow you away. One moment you are on the ground, the next minute you would be dangling from a coconut tree! Don't even step out of the hut. Let me go alone and pick up the coconuts."
Utkalika would stamp her feet on the ground,
"No, I want to come with you to help you. Mama, please ask him to let me come with him. Please."
Mama would urge him to take her,
"Let her come Baba, you pick the coconuts she will bring them here in pairs and hand over to me. That way, you two would be in the rains and cyclone for less time. There is no dry clothes at home, the only dry piece is the thick saree I am wearing. When you come back after picking the coconuts I will wipe you with that. There are so many holes in the thatched roof, the rain water has leaked into the house. All the clothes have become wet. Now rush, both of you. Remember Maa Durga alll the time and say Ram Ram when you see lightning in the sky. Nothing will happen to you."
The siblings would run out and start picking up the coconuts and the fruits from wherever they could. Utkalika would come running, her frock heavy with the fruits and pour them out to her mother. In the cyclonic wind coconuts would be falling everywhere but not a single nut would fall on their head. The brother and sister would be chanting Goddess Durga's name and muttering Ram Ram to keep themselves out of harm's way. And in an hour they would finish their job. They would be hungry, the son would say,
"Bou, give me something to eat. I am very hungry. Can we have some hot, steaming rice?"
Bou would shake her head,
"No Baba, there is no dry firewood at home, I can't light a fire to cook hot rice for you. Drink some tender coconut water and eat a couple of fruits. And then we will have some left over rice from yesterday soaked in water."
The son would rebel,
"But Bou, who eats rice soaked in water in this weather? Can't you give us something better?"
Utkalika would tug at her brother's pant and gesture to him not to hurt their mother with such words. He would bow his head and quieten down.
The rain would be watching everything, smiling to herself. She could probably look into the future. She would know the two children would struggle through a miserable life, do well in studies and eventually settle down to a comfortable life. Bou would always tell them to face adversities with a brave heart.
"Look at the rain. Learn from her how to face good and bad times with equal patience. You sometimes see the havoc it causes, the leaking roof, the wet clothes, the earthen oven submerged in water. But do you think the rain comes only to trouble people and get all the curses from them? Think of the smile she brings with her good deeds. If there is no rain, how will we get all the food grains? How will the plants grow flowers and fruits! How will we get water to drink? Will we survive? Rain is the secret of our life. Learn to love rain, she will love you back"
That's how Utkalika fell in love with rain. Today she stood near the window. She heard rain telling her,
"You have understood me so well. We are friends for ever."
Utkalika smiled,
"There was a time I was terrified of you. When you came roaring and pouring like a cascade from heaven I used to wish you to go away. But gradually I understood how you bring so much good to us. And then I learned to love you, respect you. I found in you a source of confidence, you gave me the courage to face life with all its adversities, like a friendly shadow you always remained with me. You are my friend for life. I am not happy just to touch you, I want to merge myself into you, to soak myself in your everlasting love. That's why I run out every time I see you outside, to embrace you and drench myself in your smiling gift. I don't know how many will understand this, it's between you and me, personal and perennial."
Suddenly there was a thunder at the distance, a streak of lightning had just brightened the sky for a few seconds.
A gust of wind, laden with sweet, comforting rains rushed in through the window and caressed Utkalka's body like a true friend.
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.
(Translated from Odia by Manoj K Panda)
It was the great morning of the Republic Day. The mild sunray, filtered through the trees, swum around in the wind. The chirping of the bird beckoned a sense of freedom. The tricolor flags were already flying all over the town. They fluttered everywhere - at tea shops, betel shops, garages, homes and smiled on scooters and cars everywhere. It was an occasion for the ministers and MLAs to visit local areas, make tall promises, flash big smiles and distribute dreams of progress. As always they spoke proudly of the ideals of nationality, fraternity and progress. Not a moment during the day was spared without the sound of patriotic songs and the national anthem reverberating in the air.
The twist came at the end of the day. No such thing had ever happened in the town. The elders could not recollect such a thing to have happened in their lifetime. It was first detected by a betel-shop owner. He told another and still another and the news spread in no time. They wondered how so many tricolor flags could disappear!
The wind would have been considered a culprit, had it not been blowing tenderly. The fire was not a suspect either, because not a spark of it was seen anywhere. It was a disturbing piece of news for the local police. The local minister and the MLAs were in town. And the news of the theft of national flags!
"What a weird piece of news, the officer at the local police station thought.
Anything can happen in this country called India. When the parliament, the heart of the nation, could be attacked by terrorists, who cared for mere flags? Nothing is impossible in these times of extremism; nothing unbelievable. It must be the handiwork of some terrorists. Have they infiltrated into the locality in order to upset the tranquility of the small town? Possibly, who could say for sure what lies ahead? The perturbed police officer hurled some filthy words against the Electricity department for disrupted power supply which helped the miscreants. At the end of the day, police would be held responsible for every disorder. He called a sub-inspector and both of them sat down to make some conjectures. It was indeed quite serious a case as the national flags got stolen on the Republic Day. It's no less than an act of terrorism. Who might be so unpatriotic and what could be their hideous intentions, they wondered.
"Look” the officer whispered, "the minister and the MLAs and the media are all present in the town today. We should settle the issue as quickly as possible before the news reached them. Let's not blow the matter out of proportions. Go to the spot immediately." The officer helped himself to a glass of water.
The Sub-Inspector saluted his boss and drove his bike to the spot. In less than five minutes, he stopped at the corner of the main square in the town. Two men asked him about his patrolling the locality.
"You scoundrels, you're behaving as though you don't know anything." The Sub-Inspector sneered at them, "Don't you know about the theft of national flags in your area?"
A small crowd gathered around him. They expressed their ignorance about the case; they had vaguely heard the news, but had absolutely no clue about anything. "We're woefully busy in our business, sir," They were apprehensive that they might be hooked by the police.
Yet, when the officer started grilling, a man from the crowd confessed that he had seen a man with a French cut beard unknown to this locality. He was scurrying suspiciously; a bag slung from his shoulders and was furtively looking at the flags at about two in the afternoon. He might be a terrorist. He might disrupt the public meeting of the minister in the evening. He might shoot indiscriminately at the audience. All of them grew apprehensive. The man must be caught at any cost before the meeting started.
"I can't return to the station till I find that bastard," the policeman mulled. "Where could he hide himself and how long?"
"Ye mera India" - a patriotic Hindi film song filled the air before the meeting started. The police department was alerted. They disbursed themselves in each and every corner of the town. They searched frantically to the last end of the town. The garbage dumps, the slums, everywhere.
Shacks of palm leaves and rags in sllums made it appear as if heaps of hundreds of men, women and children lived there in tattered clothes. They often engaged themselves in petty unlawful activities. They did not feel ashamed even when caught by the police. The terrorist might be hidden somewhere in the slum. The officer went there in the dark. Narrow beams of light from oil lamps fell out of the huts. The slum-dwellers always apprehended a mishap when a policeman approached them. A few of them came out of their shacks and looked fearfully at the policeman.
The Sub-Inspector in his usual rude voice demanded an answer, "Is there any guest in your home today? Has anyone got any information about the theft of national flags?"
Silence ensued.
"You scoundrels, you look upon the national flag as though it's a mere piece of cloth. Don't you know its importance, you fools?"
"Kainru has fooled me, sir. He got a lot of them in a sack. When I asked him, he told me that he had purchased them from a tailor."
One of them reported.
Furious, the officer caught hold of him, "Where does he live? Your Kainru? Take me to that bastard right now. I'm searching for the culprit for more than three hours now, you rascal. You're no less than a terrorist. Someone from you must have engaged Kainru for a paltry sum. Where does he live?"
The man took the officer to a hut and called, "Kainru". No response came. A puff of smoke came out of the hut along with a feeble ray of light. The officer was out of his mind with rage. He was sure Kainru must be hatching some conspiracy with the man. "I'd foil all his plans which will ensure the Governor's award for me", he thought to himself.
The policeman pushed the door open and saw someone running out of the back door into the dark. An oil lamp was burning feebly. There in the scanty light he saw a young boy sleeping on a mat. And behold, the national flags lay scattered all over and a lot more were still in the sack. The officer pushed the boy with his baton furiously. The boy sprang up to his feet in a moment.
"Who tipped you to steal those flags, you bastard?" the officer bawled at him.
"None offered me money, sir, I stole them myself." The boy said nonchalantly.
"Who are you with, tell me? Who rushed out of the room just now?"
The boy's face grew pale. He could hear the laboured breath of his sister, who stood behind the dilapidated door. He looked at the flag in anguish and added, "She can't come here, sir."
"Why, you rascal? Is she a queen?" the officer retorted, mocking at him.
The boy stood there in remorse. "All brothers want to see their sister like a queen, sir. But my sister is worse than a beggar She's sleeping here covering her body in all these pieces of flags. I collected all these to make her a nice frock. I know these are national flags. But then, thay are clothes after all, to cover my sister and keep her from shame."
The officer couldn't believe his ears. He had a quick look at the back of the hut, but could not find anyone in dark. He could manage to gather all the flags, asked the boy to follow him and came back to his bike. He put the flags in the dickey and looked at the crowd. Suddenly he realised the power and status enjoyed by a policeman. As if to reestablish that, he held the boy's hand. twisted it a bit and growled at him, "You stole the flags? If I can't hand-cuff your hands, I'll break them for sure, you wretch. You won't be able to steal national flags anymore."
He thrashed the boy with his baton. People got out of their huts with lanterns and saw Kainru crying and pleading for mercy. No one came to his rescue. Deep inside, nobody seemed to feel his pain and helplessness.
"Let him be punished for his deeds", someone said. His sister felt the suffering her brother was going through on her account. She appeared from the dark, holding a tattered sack over her bosom.
"Leave my brother Sir. Don't beat him. He isn't guilty, I asked him to bring those flags. You've them all. What more do you want?"
All eyes turned towards her including that of the officer. Young and stout as she was, she wore a pair of torn pants up to her knees and held a rag like a scarf to cover her upper body.
The officer stood still for a while leering at her. When he came to his senses, he growled at her, "Come here and try to save your brother", and started beating him again. She rushed to his rescue and stood in front of his brother, opening her hands to cover him, unmindful of her rag falling off her. The baton from the officer's hand fell as well. The girl's curves took him unawares. She became conscious of her bare bosom, immediately picked her rag up, and covered herself.
"Okay. I'm taking your brother to the police station. Come there tonight and release him." He started his bike and drove off towards the police station, the boy riding on the pillion.
The crowd with lanterns receded into their shacks. A deafening silence ensued except for the minister's speech through the loudspeakers in the evening and the wailing of the poor girl that shook the night air.
Mrs. Gayatri Saraf from Bolangir, Odisha, is an eminent literary celebrity with 24 books to her credit. She has won 49 awards over the last thirty years, including the much coveted Kendriya Sahitya Akademi award for Short Stories in 2017. Her work has been translated into English, Marathi and few other languages. She has been an honoured guest in many literary festivals and seminars all over the country. Professionally, she has been a popular teacher and received the National Award for Best Teacher from President Abdul Kalam for the year 2004. She can be contacted at 7978920813 or gayatrisarafw17@gmail.com
RAANDI PU’A ANTAA, a Story by Fakirmohan Senapati in 1913
(Translated as ‘Son of a Wretched Widow’ by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Subal Mahakur was a village buffalo-herd. Selling milk was his family business for generations. Lately, he was camping in a makeshift hut at the edge of Harishpur jungle and keeping a watch over his flock of happily grazing buffaloes. He would camp at various locations at the jungle’s edges. Abundant rolling grasslands provided with abundant scope for grazing for his buffaloes. He stayed in the forest all seasons with his herd of buffaloes except the times of severe droughts when the grasslands wither away.
In severe droughts, the normal grazing grounds would go bald of the green grass. So, Subal would move his flock to some water body like swamps or big ponds where the water edges would provide abundant grass. He rarely visited his home in the village where his wife Devaki lived alone. With the first cry of jungle roosters at the daybreak, Subal would milk his buffaloes. At that hour his wife Devaki would arrive with a big empty pot carried on her head and would exchange it with the big pot of milk from Subal that she would take home.
Devaki would sell some of the milk to her regular clients. She would make milk products like curd, buttermilk, cottage cheese, butter, and ghee from the surplus milk. In afternoons, she would go out roaming her village and neighboring villages selling her milk products.
Subal was a hefty man of above six feet in height, and so was his wife Devaki, each, it was said, wielded the strength of a full-grown buffalo. In mornings when she visited Subal, she would bring him a readymade large rice cake keeping with his size, baked by her own hands, for his breakfast and enough rice that Subal would cook himself for his lunch and dinner. The jungle would provide for his needs of vegetables and the buffaloes his milk to drink fresh and raw.
There was always the fear of leopards preying on calves. Buffaloes could fend for themselves in the leopard infested jungle but not the calves. So, Subal kept an eagle’s eye on them day and night. Leopards recognized Subal’s heavy footsteps and his loud cry and kept themselves at arm’s length from his powerful back-breaking bamboo staff.
When Devaki would visit Subal early in the morning, they would spend an hour in intimate coziness inside Subal’s jungle hut in pastoral solitude by the edge of Harishpur jungle without a human being in sight within miles. Though the couple were approaching their forties they had maintained their love’s rigor. They had no children yet.
A misfortune struck. A pandemic killed most of his cattle stock and he was driven to poverty. At that time, in the threshold of her middle age, Devaki had become pregnant. The family poverty kept the happy-go-lucky couple at the edge of a breakdown. But a development saved their situation. The local landlord was looking for a man to take care of the herds of his buffalos.
On requisition, Subal joined as the Chief of four buffalo-herds, who respectively herded the zamindar’s four buffalo flocks. Subal was addressed as ‘Seth’, a form of ‘sir’ in English, by his for sub-ordinate buffalo-herds. His and Devaki’s happiness knew no bounds when every other person addressed him as Seth. Devaki was also addressed as Sethani or Madam.
Devaki gave birth to a son. The couple named their son, Anant, but called him as Antaa out of affection. Anta was their late age gift from God and they brought her up as the apple of their eye. Subal and Devaki basked with their good fortune again.
Once because of prolonged drought, all the grazing grounds by the edges of the forest went dry and bald of grass. Subal went out scouting the grazing grounds by a big swamp in the area that lay around five miles from his village. People of the area avoided the swamp for rumors about its quicksand, crocodiles, and mysterious depths. But Subal from his past experiences knew it had neither quicksand nor crocodiles, and the rumors had no basis.
There by luck, he met a high-ranking British police officer, and the meeting turned a new page in his life. The British officer was camping at the Makraampur Police Station, close to Subal’s village for monthslong inspection of all the small and big polish field formations of the area. He was provided with junior officers from various police stations for assistance and had an interpreter to transact with the local people speaking Odia. During his stay, he was visiting the swamp one day with his entourage to shoot big migratory birds for his dinner table. Many birds had made the swamp their seasonal habitat.
As his gun boomed, the nervous birds, unaccustomed to such violent noise, rose like a swarm of insects and circled over the swamp in the sky, crying out in fear and dismay. They appeared to loudly exclaim, “We never saw or heard of anything like this, a killer in the shape of a man but of the color of white chalk, who shoots at us, the innocent birds, who never harmed him in any manner! What sort of behavior is this?”
The sahib’s bullets had hit two big water birds that fell in water quite away from the shore. The British officer looked by turn at each of the juniors in his entourage to go and pick up his booty from the swamp. One by one all shook their heads. The big officer was disappointed at their timidness to enter the swamp.
One officer however explained their position not take a beating from a Britisher, “Sir, we are not getting down into the water because we don’t want to compromise the dignity of the British Police Uniform by soaking in a dirty swamp.” But the officer knew his cunning reply and the police staff’s cowardice in general, and smirked.
But Subal, who was surveying the fitness of the grazing ground by the swamp and was among the onlookers, also smirked at the cowardice of the junior officers. The visiting British officer surprisingly noticed that a hefty and tall man from the bystanders, went into the chest-deep water of the swamp and retrieved both the birds for him. Sahib asked the bold fellow his name and got his reply, “Subal Mhakur.” He was impressed by Subal’s fearlessness, helping nature and looks.
The officer had a small conversation with Subal through his interpreter, and asked if Subal would join the Police Force. Subal’s reply amazed the Britisher further, “I will let you know after I discuss it with my wife.” The sahib was surprised to see an Indian respecting his wife so much. His impression that only cultured British people had that quality was shattered. He uttered to himself, “Awful! Amazing! Unbelievable!” He noted Subal’s name and his impressions about him in his little pocket notebook.
He ordered Subal, “You report to me tomorrow at my camp with your decision.” He was not only impressed by the man’s courage and wit but his respect for women and his spontaneous kindness towards a stranger, himself, risking his own life and entering the swamp with forbidding looks. So, when Subal was walking away, he called him back, “Thank you my friend, thank you very much for your kindness for me, a stranger.”
Subal joined the police force and overnight got transformed from an uncouth buffalo-herd Subal Mahakur into a powerful and Police Constable Subal Singh wearing the grand uniform of the British king’s police force in India. He was appointed as the big sahib’s personal orderly during the latter’s long stay of inspection tour of the district. The sahib loved hunting big game in jungles. Subal took care of his hunting itinerary and accompanied him during his hunting expeditions.
The news of Subal’s promotion to a higher position in vocation and being in the favor of a big British officer spread like wild fire in the area. His social status went up overnight. People started saluting him and greasing his palm for small favors and to keep him in good humor. Subal’s strong-willed wife got a whiff of him visiting wine shops in wrong company.
She came upon Subal heavily, “You nitwit buffalo-herd, why are you slaving under these foreigners if you don’t salt away a little money, but blow it up in liquor shops? You are a father now.” Devaki saw to it that Subal deposited every pie of his earning in their family kitty.
Subal’s guardian angel, the British sahib, finally left Makraampur camp after completing his work. But Subal Singh continued as a symbol of courage and pride in local police force, carrying on the legacy of his great exhibition of courage and wit by the swamp.
The Police Superintendent along with the Collector of the district, both of British origin, were on a hunting spree to Dompadaa jungle near Makraampur. Subal Singh was included in the hunting party along with about a hundred attendants. His reputation in assisting sahibs during hunting big game was like a legend.
The collector shot at an adult leopard. The beast was only wounded and hid in a big thicket of the jungle. It kept growling nonstop in pain and rage. None of the hunting party dared to enter the bush to shoot and kill the wounded beast, because a wounded leopard was said to be more ferocious than an ordinary one. The District Superintendent of Police, who knew Subal’s reputation, looked at him meaningfully. Subal entered the thicket without a word, hit the leopard on its head with his well-reputed bamboo staff and pulled its body out by its tail to the collector.
The amazed District Collector announced a reward of twenty rupees, a lordly sum at that time, on the spot for Subal Singh’s unmatched bravery and presence of mind. He was also upgraded and promoted to the rank of a jamadar of police with a salary, double the earlier amount.
Devaki was not much behind her husband Subal in the matters of courage and physical strength. When Subal was a buffalo-herd, she had lived alone for long years in a house on the edge of her village, a deserted stretch with little activity and movements in late nights. Gossip groups believed she had salted away a lot of money in her house. One late night, three burglars bored a big hole in her mud wall and entered her house. They first held the sleeping Devaki to tie and gag her up before searching the house for the booty.
But Devaki shook her powerful body, roaring like a lioness and the thugs were hurled out to the walls. They ran through the hole in the wall for life but Devaki grabbed the last one by his neck and tied him to the main pillar supporting the roof of her house. In the morning the villagers got the news of the burglary and came running for her rescue. They found the thief to be none other than the village chowkidar Jhapat Singh. The villagers decided to hand him over to the police. But Devaki said, “No, let me punish my thief personally. If we hand him over to the police, his innocent family would suffer for no fault of theirs.”
She then landed two slaps on the chowkidar’s cheeks. So powerful were her slaps that the cowkkidar’s face swelled up like a big ripe papaya. The chowkidar Jhapat Singh became bedridden for two weeks for her slaps.
Devaki’s little son, Ananta, addressed as Antaa by all out of affection, was of four years when his father Subal Singh suddenly fell ill and passed away. Antaa was robust and dusky in complexion like his parents. Subal’s death created an emotional vacuum in Devaki’s life. But soon she collected herself and got busy.
She restarted her milk-product business by buying milk from one of her known buffalo-herds. Every evening after returning from her roaming-sale of buttermilk, butter etc., she would hold Antaa in her lap and play with him for quite an hour. It gave her great pleasure to sing lullabies to put her infant son while swinging him to sleep on her lap. The passersby would compare them to a mother elephant putting its baby elephant to sleep.
Even at the age of four Anta suckled at her mother’s breast though they had gone dry. In other matters also he behaved like a year-old kid and the playful ritual of breast-feeding created a deep bond between the child and mother.
To Devaki’s great joy her son was growing out of his infancy into his childhood. Antaa was of ten years, but he had the looks of a hefty, tall, and well-built twenty years old youth. He had already grown to almost six feet in height and was proportionately hefty. He however threw tantrums like a five-year old boy. He was moody and whimsical. He listened to no village elders but obeyed every word of his mother.
Antaa, the apple of Devaki’s eye, of late, had started causing a bit of headache to her. Complaints kept coming about Antaa. He roamed the village all day ravaging people’s gardens. He was reported to pluck and devour ripe fruits like guavas, papayas, cucumbers, tomatoes, besides raw vegetables from their plants. There was no limit to his appetite.
But Devaki, blinded by her indulgence for the son, quarreled with all. She thought they were jealous of her son for his size, strength, and good looks. She thought her Antaa was still an innocent kid and the complaints were fabricated.
One day, while returning home from selling her products, she found the teacher of her village primary school crossing her path. Devaki had an idea of educating Antaa. Next day she went to the school and found the teacher, Vaishnav Mohanty sitting on a raised platform by the big Baula tree in the school compound with a thin supple cane stick in hand. He was imparting lessons to his six to ten-year old pupils sitting on the ground before him.
She humbly requested the teacher to educate his son. The teacher was hesitating, when she sent one of the bigger sized students from the group to bring a pot from the teacher’s living quarters in the school compound. She emptied her own pot of buttermilk into the teacher’s pot.
The buttermilk did the trick. It appeared to have convinced the poorly paid teacher of the mother’s urgency to educate her son and now, he nodded his approval. From the next day Antaa attended school to the relief of the village women as well as Devaki. Though the comparatively much bigger sized Antaa than the other children in school looked a bit mismatch, the promise of Devaki’s free buttermilk made the teacher ignore the oddity.
The teacher found it hard to teach Antaa, even to make him learn the preliminaries of reading and writing. While Antaa was busy tracing the alphabet on his slate, the teacher noticed that the big kid’s mind was straying to the sweet ripe berries in the Baula tree, the monkeys and squirrels roaming in the school compound and other naughty things. The moment the teacher was away, he would be reported of his mischiefs like climbing trees, chasing monkeys, and throwing stones at birds.
The teacher was losing his patience with Antaa’s antics. He felt so worried, he was unable to leave his class for even a minute to attend to any of his personal indulgences like having a smoke, a pee or the like. But he maintained his silence for two reasons: the legendary temper of Antaa’s mother, and her daily bribe of buttermilk. But Anta’s troublesome antics finally overcame the teacher’s fear of his mother and greed for buttermilk.
He started caning Antaa whenever he disturbed the class but the teacher’s punishment had salutary effect on the pupil. Antaa remained totally indifferent to teacher’s caning. Devaki had no inkling of this new development. Her son never mentioned about the caning to her. Perhaps Antaa forgot the teacher’s punishment on his way home. Antaa did not improve in his behavior or learning. Five months had passed, and Antaa had not learnt even the alphabet.
Finally, the teacher’s anger boiled over. He collected a few sticks from a nettle shrub growing by the pond in the school compound and caned Antaa on his bare legs sticking out of his school shorts. The stings of poisonous nettle caused painful rashes on Antaa’s skin and Antaa badly suffered for the first time. But surprising his schoolmates he kept quiet. The teacher noticed after his nettle-treatment a change in Antaa.
Antaa grew sober, sticking to his seat and practicing the alphabet on his state. He also started voluntarily to run small errands for his teacher unlike earlier days. The teacher congratulated himself to have invented a cure to the so-called hardcore disobedience, the cure by nettle-treatment. He found Antaa as one of his most obedient pupils.
One afternoon, the teacher ate something disagreeable in his lunch and his stomach churned after an hour. He felt an untimely urge to attend the big nature’s call. As the rural trend at the time was to go into the bushes, he sent Antaa to bring a pail of water from the pond in the school compound.
He took his pale of water from Antaa’s hands, and ran into the bushes in the big school compound. After a while, heartrending cries of the teacher were heard from the bushes, followed by him running out like a madman, scratching his bottom and scorch areas, hands, face, and the neck, while cursing aloud the seven generations of Antaa. He then fell to the ground, and rolled all over.
The teacher’s animal like cries and grunts brought the villagers. They found the skin all over the teacher’s body swollen up and turning poison-blue. He was foaming from of his mouth. He was finding it difficult to breathe. and was choking. Whatever little they heard from the pupils, they knew Antaa had his revenge by scaping nettle fruits into the teacher’s washing water, and after his washing, the washed areas had nettle poisoning. Antaa was nowhere to explain what he had done.
The village Vaidya, the medicine man of the rural area, treated the teacher by rubbing medicinal oils on his skin, let him drink a glass of milk, mixing the same with a liberal dose of fresh turmeric paste and herbal cure. It took around a month for the teacher to get out of his bed and feel fit to resume teaching.
Before that he felt like to give a piece of his mind to Antaa’s mother, Devaki. Shouting at Devaki and Antaa with all sorts of curse words, the teacher approached Devaki’s house. In spite of his anger, his approach was cautious keeping himself an arm’s length of the woman. He had been the eyewitness of the widow’s buffalo-strength once in the past.
He was taking a walk by the river bank on the outskirts of the village, and found Devaki coming from the other direction, balancing a big pot of buttermilk on head and her powerfully built hands swinging free on her sides. At that time the temple-bull of their village, famous for its wild behavior, charged at her.
But Devaki quietly stood waiting for it. As soon as the bull was within touching distance, she held it by horns and pushed it back to the edge of the bank and pushed it down. The bull ran away tucking its tail. The buttermilk pot remaining balanced on her head all along, Devaki walked away unconcerned
Devaki had the news of the teacher coming to blame Antaa. So, she had asked her son to hide inside her house and she herself was sitting on the veranda outside, waiting for the teacher. As soon as she heard the teacher’s shouts at the village lane’s corner, she brought out her husband’s well-oiled big bamboo staff, famous for its power against wayward buffalos and greedy leopards.
She uttered a blood-curdling cry, much louder than the puny teachers, “You bloody cursed teacher. You son of a bitch, a slur in the noble names of the teacher-tribe, you dare curse me and my little Antaa.” Hearing the roar of Devaki, the teacher turned around, sort of tucked his tail between his legs, and ran away. He left his job and returned to his native village.
Days passed. The village orchards, fruit and vegetable patches were of the village were intermittently rampaged by Antaa’s new found freedom from school. But elders ignored those minor complaints because Antaa acted as a Good Samaritan to many. One was to be only careful about one’s words and just be a little subtle not to trigger Antaa’s uncontrollable anger, to get the benefit of his giant strength. He did singlehandedly and free of charges what ten paid laborers could do. If provoked, he might break the doors and walls of a house with bare hands.
One of the villager’s garden-yard was being dug to prepare plots for seeding and raising vegetable. The owner employed laborers but they estimated the job to take several days to prepare the big plot. The owner noticed Antaa among onlookers and he teased humorously, “Antaa is the son of the powerful police jamadar Subal Singh. But do you think he can dig as good as these men?”
Antaa took it as a challenge to his pride and his father’s reputation. He took a spade from one of the workers and started digging the barren yard without uttering a word. Like a possessed man, he completed the work of four laborers for three to four days, alone before that day’s sunset.
Another day, a poor villager’s thatch needed urgent repair before the imminent monsoon but cheap labor was not available. Antaa came as the distressed family’s savior and repaired the house in one day with the owner assisting him. Those incidents had earned a silent respect for Antaa among the menfolk. His mother thought it her son’s exploitation. Other women thought Antaa was getting undeserving and excessive credit for insignificant good work.
Once, cholera epidemic ravaged one of Antaa’s neighboring villages. Ram Bhandari’s old father had died of cholera and the scared villagers did not come to remove the corpse. Antaa was passing by the house that night and heard Ram’s suppressed moans.
He went in, took stock of the situation, bundled the corpse in a mat, and carried the heavy load on his fearless and strong shoulders to the cremation ground. In that dark night, he buried the corpse in a pit dug into earth as was custom for cholera deaths, with the help of Ram Bhandari. He took a bath in the river and went home even before Ram could thank him. That was Antaa, the son of the wretched widow Devaki.
Vinod Rai Pur village, where Devaki and Antaa lived, was located on the north flank of the river Bhargavi. It lay in a low-lying area along with many villages. A long and strong mud rampart build by people running along the north bank of Bhargavi, prevented the flood water in monsoons from entering the villages in low land area.
It was the morning of the first day of Durga puja, the day the goddess was to be invoked with love by the devotees as per tradition. The morning’s mustard sun shone cheerfully indicating a joyous day. But by ten in the morning, a little patch of black cloud appeared above the north horizon that in an hour covered the entire sky with rolling black clouds. The sun vanished and the bright morning looked like a late evening.
It started with a drizzle that increased like a cloud burst. It rained heavy day and night nonstop. Even in the memory of old people of the village, the rain was unprecedented. Many mud houses of the village started collapsing. The puja of the goddess lost its glitter and turned into a tame little ritual by a few priests.
On the fifth day of the rain, which coincided with Devi Durga’s last day of worship, Dussehra and the Devi’s immersion, suddenly a clamor of shouts of ‘Our Vinod Rai Pur is going down a deluge’ rent the air in the village. People shouted ‘Hari Bol’ (Hail our Lord Hari) and blew innumerable conches to invoke divine mercy. It was heard that the rampart by Vinod Rai Pur was on the verge of being breached by the water pressure on its south side. The water had been brought by the River Bhargavi from its upper hinter land that had received heavier rain.
The villagers ran to the rampart. The southside of the rampart looked like frothing and swollen sea in tide. Big waves were breaking by the top edge of the rampart, and big amounts of frothy water overflowing and washing away its mud surface. With a call from the Sarpanch of the village all able-bodied men and a few of the brave women of the village ran there with spades and baskets to save the rampart. One could hear tens of baskets of mud and sand getting emptied every second, but the water force was too fierce to stop.
But Antaa was oblivious of all the hubbub and shouting of the villagers. He had a gala time, running around and eating fruits and vegetables in their patches ravaged by the rain and wind. In his meandering, he approached the area where the water force was defeating the villagers’ effort. He felt challenged by the divine injustice to his villagers. He quickly ran back to his village.
By then, an elder was telling the villagers at the site of the irrepairable breach on the rampart, “This is a curse by Indra Dev. He is asking a sacrifice, a big sacrifice. Only a human sacrifice can save our village.” The panicked villagers were looking at one another’s faces, as if asking, “Who among us would volunteer for saving the village?”
Suddenly Antaa appeared from nowhere carrying a huge metallic door on his powerful shoulders. People recognized it to be their temple-door unhinged and dislodged by Antaa. They saw Antaa putting the big door on the path of the water flow and there was a temporary respite for the first time. They saw him holding the vast metallic barrier in place by putting his giant shoulders against it with full force. He was shouting, “Put mud by my feet to repair the breach.”
People followed the command of their new leader, Antaa. They ran and deposited mud and sand and rubble, whatever came to their basket and threw them at Antaa’s feet as instructed by the fellow. The mad frenzy continued for an hour. The repair was made and there was hope that the village would be saved. It was getting dark as the day was ending. The forceful water stream was muzzled and the barrier was getting stronger.
The elders standing at a little distance, could hear Antaa shouting and hundreds of mud baskets being emptied by the rampart that was quite thick and strong by now After some time Antaa’s sounds were muffled and finally he stopped shouting. The elders thought Anta had finished his good job, and had saved the village from a divine wrath. They also found the rain had stopped and the river water was slowly getting lower in level. They looked for Anta to thank him and praise him as their hero.
All looked for Antaa, the son of a wretched widow, but now their savior. He was nowhere. A few villagers recalled how Antaa had been knee-deep in mud and when more mud had been deposited, the mud level rose to his waist level, crawling up to the chest level and finally to his neck. They recalled him still shouting for more mud. Then none recalled what went on, and why his shouts stopped and his head did not show above the mud.
The elders realized Antaa had been buried under several feet of mud, sand, and rubble deposited by the big metal door from the temple to make the repair of the rampart possible. He had sacrificed himself to save his village. There were shouts of praise for Antaa by all for giving his life for saving the village. But none had the heart to break the sad end of the brave son to his bereft mother.
It was early morning. Devaki rose from bed and discovered that Antaa had not returned in the night. Taking her husband’s big bamboo staff, the aging widow went out to look for his son. Whoever she met and asked about his son, they were evasive about Antaa’s whereabouts but were gushing with praise for his sacrifices. Devaki was surprised but pleased. She thought finally the villagers knew the worth of her son. But where was he?
After searching for her Antaa all through the village, the old widow reached the newly repaired rampart where a few villagers were still loitering. They informed her, “This breached portion was built last night. Your so-called useless son made it possible. We are all thankful to you to have borne in your womb such a noble fellow like Antaa. He is our hero.”
She did not understand all that they said but asked, “Where is my Anta?” They smiled ruefully with averted eyes. Devaki thought they were trying to hide some sort of a prank Antaa was playing with her as he always did, and those young fellows would not tell her. So, she went near the river edge to look down for Antaa hiding by the water’s edge. The bystanders heard a big splashing noise as if a big thing fell into the water.
They ran where the widow was standing. They found the extreme edge of the newly-repaired mud wall had collapsed at one place, but there was no sign of the old widow. But her strong bamboo staff was floating away in the strong current of the water. (Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
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.
Mary’s mom is not well. It is an unacknowledged fact that her days are numbered. Mary had been pestering me to pay her a short visit. Nothing ceremonial. Nothing to be bought for the old lady. Just a casual visit.
Things haven’t been great at my office. After the corona period, several co-workers haven’t come back. Almost a dozen of people are now doing the work of more than two dozen people. That meant longer hours, of course.
I took a half day's leave from my office and Mary said she would get home earlier than usual and she did. We left the kids at the Tennis court. John, whose children also attended the tennis coaching, agreed to take them home with his own kids and keep them there as long as we wanted. I decided to buy a drink for him. He loves it.
Mary wanted to drive. I am still nervous when she drives. She takes time to make decisions. On the road, that is a big no-no. We have had several close shaves.
Her mother may not need anything. She is fed through a tube now, Mary told me. Still, some apples won’t be bad. Not to eat, but to place near the bed, like flowers. Apples have become damn cheap, I knew.
But my in-laws with whom she is staying has three grandchildren staying with them. His only son and wife are stationed at Salem on business. Something should be bought for the kids. It is the month's end. I searched my wallet for my credit card. Mary saw that and smiled to herself.
At Peace Villa, my wife’s house, everything was almost OK. Not perfect, but just OK. The garden was overgrown with weeds. Paint was peeling off from the walls and God! they still use old-style light bulbs. The house looked grim inside and outside.
Mary had rung up to announce our visit. So her sister Ammini was at the gate waiting for us. No, she was not waiting for us. She was collecting the clothes she had left outside to dry. Seeing us, she put them back on the clothesline and ambled towards us to hug us. This is Mary’s eldest sister.
As we entered the drawing room, the stench of floor lotion greeted us. It reminded me of the visits I had had to the central jail to see a party worker. It stank the same. Mary’s sister told me she would get me some tea and disappeared into the kitchen. Mary went with her. Before Ammini went in, in a hurry, I asked her how my mother-in-law was. She said she was OK and threw a glance at me in appreciation of my concern. She herself was getting old.
I asked her where the kids were. I was asking about her grandchildren. She said they were at the music class. Right. It was my suggestion to send them for some training in music. I was the only non-singer in my family. I value music skills most highly.
I went back to the car to get the goodies. Coming back in, I handed them to my sister-in-law and she handed me a cup of tea. I sat down on the sofa with it and browsed through the newspaper.
The chief minister Pinarayi Vijayan was in yet another controversy. I had quit this newspaper reading habit long ago. I don’t even watch the news. It says news but there is nothing new in it. The same stuff is recycled over and over. One gets sick of it all.
Sunny, my brother-in-law, came driving his Maruti 800. He was carrying a bottle wrapped in newspaper. I knew what it was. He is no drunkard but he never forgets to be ready for visits. His visits and our visits. Only our visits were rare.
He had picked up his grandchildren from the music school. They ran to me and climbed all over me. I hugged and kissed all of them and told them I had brought their favourite snacks for them. They threw their notebooks away and ran to the dining hall. I could hear their shrieks of joy in the dining hall.
Sunny sat opposite me. He looked tired. He had gone balder than when I met him last. And that was only a few months back.
“Did you catch Corona?” He asked.
“Yes, twice. I heard yours was severe.”
“Yeah, I caught it early on. Had to spend a few days in hospital. Even now I pant too much when I climb the stairs. I was worried mom would catch it too. Thank God, she hasn’t. Keeping my fingers crossed.”
“I was worried about the kids getting it. Kept them indoors the whole time.”
“It did me good. I don’t drink as I used to. Finally, peace villa is really peace villa for that.”
I laughed.
“The government profited much from that. They came back to power.”
“Yes, they made good use of the crisis.”
“I thought our firm would lose the fight. It has suffered a heavy loss. They are yet to break even after that.”
We went on and on. Politics, church, office work, domestic issues and general health flowed into our conversation. Or it is better to say our conversation flowed over them all. Even with nothing to discuss, we would have blabbered to each other for hours.
In between, he took me around to see the extensions they had added to the house. There was a neat little bedroom for the guests. He said he had had me in his mind when he planned that. I believed him. He loves my company, for sure.
The children came to say good night. Sunny kissed them. They kept their faces away from him since they knew their pappa had been drinking. They seemed to be used to such scenes. I also hugged them.
Mary and Ammini came over to call us for dinner. The kids had had their dinner, said Ammini. Mary looked so happy. Obviously, she had had a great chance to download her worries on her elder sister. Good for her.
The dinner was fabulous. Both sisters are great cooks. I complimented Ammini and Sunny complimented Mary.
Just after dinner, we went back to our drinks. We shared a little with Ammini and Mary. Soon Mary’s mood changed. She began to look more and more worried minute by minute. I thought it was the drink.
It wasn’t. She had recalled that the kids were with John’s family. They were not such good people. She wanted to go and collect the kids.
Ammini shared her sentiments and asked me to hurry and do it fast. She wouldn’t have heard about sleepovers and dine-overs yet. They are still city things here.
Sunny was a little worried we had not finished the drink. He offered one more round but Ammini told me not to. Mary too pulled me away. Sunny asked me whether I was alright. I said I thought so and Mary crossed herself.
Sunny and Ammini said bye to us as we got into our car. They reminded us to go slow.
I let Mary drive and got into the backseat and lay there all curled up. I was drunk. Watching Mary drive in the dark might make me puke.
I groped in the back seat to see if there was something I could use for a pillow. I found something. It was rather hard.
I could not see it in the dark. I groped with my hands and found what it was.
2 kilograms of Simla apple bought at 240 per kilo, wrapped in newspaper and enclosed in an eco-friendly paper bag.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
(Translated from Odia story, Nikhoj, by Ajay Upadhyaya)
The raging fire had engulfed everything in its sight. As the fire started to subside, smoke filled its place. The entire colony was convulsing in agony from the twin torments of blazing fire and black smoke. Fire showed scant regard for rules on right and wrong; it was driven by a weird mind of its own. The howls of its victims, rising from its midst, bore no name nor religion. In their anguished screams, there was nothing to set Hindus and Muslims apart; this facade had been stripped away by the ferocity of the fire.
Pandemonium prevailed and the entire town was caught in its eruption. Not only the buildings but every household was burning. Their distressed wailing collectively was piercing enough to tear through the town’s air, which could be heard from far.
By the time Abdullah opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a corner of the room. It was full of thick smoke. He could barely make out what he was hearing. With supreme effort, he lifted his head. His body was weak with injuries. Somehow, he managed to pull himself up to a standing position and wrapped his torn loongi (a long piece of cloth to cover lower half of body, worn by men in hot climate), round his lower torso. He craned his neck to look out of the window. He could see houses still burning in the neighbourhood. A crowd had gathered out side, clamouring and searching for their loved ones. The path was marked with blood stains. He could sense a commotion out there with sounds of looting and shouting, against a din of crackling house fires, still alive, although, in their last spurts.
Abdullah next turned his attention to the inside of his house. Painfully, he dragged himself slowly towards the kitchen. He could see the feet of his wife, Naseema, from the gap between the doors. He entered the kitchen and dropped himself on the floor next to her. She was lying absolutely still. As he stroked her lifeless body, her face came in full view; her mouth was wide open. He instantly knew the tragic fate of Naseema but strangely, he could not weep; all his strength had drained away, nothing left to shed any tear. He simply sighed and sat staring. His gaze next turned to the wall in front of him. There was the burkha (a traditional garment covering the entire body including the face, worn by Muslim women) of his daughter, Nazia, hanging from the nail, but where was Nazia?
Suddenly, Abdullah found his strength back to call out, “Nazia, Nazia” But she was nowhere to be seen; there was not a sound of Nazia either. He searched the entire house, room by room but all in vain. Now, Abdullah was no longer searching for Nazia but he was on the lookout for her body. He looked into every nooks and cranny in the house. He searched under the cots and explored all the corners of the kitchen but there was no trace of Nazia. Then, he cast his mind back, trying to recall where and when he last saw Nazia.
Yes, he remembered; he last saw her, preparing to go for her bath, while he was sitting down to recite his prayers. That is when he heard her crying out, “Run, Abba jan (dear father); get out of the house. They are here, all set to kill us.” He could not interrupt his prayers to decipher exactly what she meant by this dire warning. Immediately afterwards, he saw something hurled into the room from outside through the window. All he could remember was a mighty loud explosion next. His mind was blank; he did not know what followed.
After scouring the whole house, Abdullah found no body of Nazia. However painful it might be, perhaps, he would have reconciled with her death if her body was found, but now Nazia was in limbo. For Abdullah, the uncertainty over missing Nazia was far harder to bear.
Abdullah made an effort to cry, hoping, that would bring him some relief. But, even as he cleared his throat, in readiness for crying, tears had congealed in her eyes, refusing to budge; as if, they had resolved to deny him this easy escape from pain. How strange for your own tears to turn against you!
This set Abdullah into his musing mode. Could he think of a religion, which has given lasting peace to mankind? Nevertheless, the entire world follows religion blindly. Who knows what Rama or Allah looks like? No-one can claim, they know for certain. An intense loathing for religions was growing in his mind.
By now, Abdullah had forgotten what his faith was and which religion he belonged to. He had no-one around to share his grief, anyway. He wandered from mosques to temples and then to churches, praying for Nazia’s safe return. He would beg with bowed head, imploring to Almighty, “Oh Compassionate Lord, wherever you are, whatever name you go by, please have pity in me, return my Nazia to me.” But all his prayers echoed back, unanswered.
It seems, even Gods were powerless against the grand cosmic design. Nothing could reverse the past; Nazia was simply lost in its flow. Today, she simply remained missing.
Abdullah visited Nazia’s school, aptly named, Sishu Mandir (literally Children’s Temple). He looked closely at the children gathered there. They all looked like Nazia to him, although he knew, it was all in his mind. The teacher was busy in the class room, teaching the pupils about prayers. Standing at the door, Abdullah asked the teacher, “Why is Nazia missing today, Sir? Is it because, she is Muslim? Nazia used to gladly observe all religious functions like Ganesh Pooja and Saraswati Pooja. She always joined in singing the national anthem with fervour. Furthermore, she delighted in performing in the school play, doing the role of Radha, the consort of Lord Krishna. She lacked nothing in her reverence to Hindu Gods, although she was born into Muslim faith. Then, where did she go wrong? Who took her away and what for?”
“She was only fourteen years of age; only God knows what they would do to someone as young as her?” Abdullah said to himself.
As he uttered the words, fourteen years, his tongue trembled in fear, as if it is the most dreaded period in a girl’s life.
The teacher listened to what Abdullah had to say, but he did not have the courage to look at him directly. He had no suitable answer for his awkward questions, anyway. But, putting his hands around Abdullah’s shoulders he said gravely, “These despicable animals have no religion, Abdullah. They do not deserve to be called human; they know nothing about true religion.”
Before Abdullah could say anything in return, the teacher continued, “It is not only your Nazia, Abdullah, but Rupa and Laxmi are also missing in the riots following the fire.” Pointing at the lady, siting downcast, nearby, he continued, “If you look up, you will find Rupa’s mother waiting there for some news about her daughter. She has gone mad over her missing daughter.”
Abdullah got a jolt. Until now, he thought he was alone in his grief. But, he could not muster the courage to approach the lady. Even if he somehow went up to her, he did not know what to say. How would he broach the topic? Abdullah knew in his heart, what had happened to their daughters in the hands of the heartless assailants. How would he tell her, “Most probably, your Hindu brothers and my Muslim fellows did kidnap our daughters, Rupa and Nazia, in order to ravish them, molest them like animals”?
Abdullah’s throat was getting parched. He felt, if he could find the criminals behind the missing girls, he would slaughter them into little pieces and feed them to dogs.
To keep such drastic thoughts in mind also needs strength. Abdullah had to somehow gather enough of it; he was at it steadily and silently.
Everyday, Abdullah went around knocking on government offices, including police stations, the office of the SP and the Collector, begging for some action over missing Nazia. He also resorted to bribing officials in the hope of some positive results. From their responses, he was not sure, if they simply ignored his plea, shrugging him off, with a perfunctory, “Have patience.” He could not work out how much patience was required for this long wait for his nubile daughter’s return. “And, how long would the wait last?” he wondered, “one week, a month, a whole year or entire life?”
Nobody was able to answer this for Abdullah.
Abdullah finally resolved to take matters into his own hands. He decided to conduct the search for Nazia himself. As if, in stead of persevering in his appeal to Gods, he was trying to turn into his own God. Marshalling all his strength and resources, he embarked on his pursuit in earnest. He had already explored hospital mortuaries, visited post mortem rooms and scoured highways and railway platforms. Now, he also dived into the local ponds and canals; he did not spare the sewers in his search for Nazia’s body. He enquired about her with all and the sundry. He left no stone unturned in his search; he bribed some officials and begged for information to others. He masqueraded as a paperboy and a vegetable vendor in his quest for some news on Nazia. Despite all his efforts, Nazia still remained missing.
Who was behind Nazia’s disappearance? Did the sky whisk her away? Or was it the earth which swallowed her? Abdullah was at his wit’s end; this was driving him crazy. He feared, he might even start chasing people and attack them like a rabid dog.
One day, he received a tip off that seventeen young girls had been hidden away in the local red light area of the town, to be shipped off to Kolkata. He started making trips there every night, watching the movements in the area like a hawk. One night, he spotted something moving in the tenements. The sky was lit in the half moon but the because of the clouds, the huts were shrouded in semi darkness. The moving figure was like a lone dark shadow, slowly drifting from the amorphous mass of darkness of the red light district. Tip toed, Abdullah followed the shadow. As the moon emerged from behind the clouds, he could get a clearer view of the silhouette. It looked like Nazia to Abdullah; it was roughly of a similar height, with a slender frame as his daughter. He could feel a sudden surge of excitement. This ray of hope, however faint, kept him on his tracks after the shadow. While she was about to cross the railway track, he grabbed her. As the shadow turned to face him, there was no Nazia; it was Rupa, Nazia’s friend.
Abdullah was least prepared to find Rupa there. Rupa had several signs of injury on her; her cheeks had many black marks. She looked dishevelled; there were dried blood stains on her torn garment. She was trembling; her eyes projected her terror and trepidation. By way of calming her, Abdullah told, “Rupa, I am Abdullah chacha (uncle), Nazia’s abba.” Rupa’s face turned even more pathetic at his words.
“Rupa, have you seen Nazia?” Abdullah asked her, kneeling down.
Rupa remained silent. Abdullah repeated his question.
In a trembling voice, she replied, “Nazia is dead.”
Abdullah felt as if he had been dropped from the skies, hitting the hard ground with a thud. All he could do is to raise a feeble voice, “How?”
“Four of them pounced on her and at the end they killed her. Just before she died, she kept staring at me. Then everything was finished. She lay there motionless.”
Abdullah’s voice was getting increasingly stern as he uttered his next words, “Who were those swines? Were they Hindus?”
Rupa again kept silent. How would she say that it was impossible to tell? In the darkness, they all look the same.
As he heard that Nazia was no more, Abdullah felt faint, as if he was going to collapse on the spot. A strong urge for some action rose in him, either to kill himself or finish the assailants off. But, he simply trembled helplessly. Exactly at this time, Rupa was stepping away, disappearing into the abyss of darkness.
For Abdullah, the moment was surreal; he was not sure who was in front of him, Rupa or Nazia. It felt as if Nazia was about to go missing, once again. It is Nazia’s fate that she is gone, but at least Rupa can be saved. To Abdullah, the figure of retreating Rupa was slowly turning into his dearest Nazia.
Abdullah called out, “Wait, come back. I will take you back to your family. Your mother is waiting for you.” But, Rupa paid no heed to Abdullah and quickened her pace in stead. Abdullah sprinted after the running Rupa and eventually got hold of her again by the edge of the railway track.
Rupa turned round to take a look at Abdullah. What she saw terrified her. There was no Abdullah chacha; the man standing before her was one of the dreaded rapists. In sheer horror, she gave him a violent push. To be absolutely certain, she had got away totally, she leapt on to the track.
While Abdullah was trying to say something to Rupa, the train appeared in a flash from nowhere, to wheeze past the track over her body.
For Abdullah, the last Nazia from the world was gone, leaving the earth with none at all. Horrified, he burst out with an earth shattering shreik, Naziaaaaaa….
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.
Dear Friends,
I am going to introduce you to, The Impish Lass ( TIL ) To begin with, let me tell you that she lives in your heart. Deep within all of you resides an impish lass or lad. Someone who loves breaking rules, bunking classes, loitering around, enjoying with friends, visiting different places, wandering like a free soul in the open fields, climbing trees, accepting challenges, taking risks, discovering small delights of life, appreciating beauty, experimenting new things, keeping secrets, falling in love, crying when heartbroken and ready for reconciliation. It is a common scenario for all of us.
What do you do when you look at a beautiful rose, a laughing baby, a gorgeous lady, or a handsome man? You smile, you are in high spirits, and you overlook your qualms for some time. Even TIL feels the same. After reading her story you would feel it is your story, your neighbour’s story or probably your parents’ story. Because she is one of you.
The anecdotes from her childhood have the power to make you feel happy, feel sad, feel crazy, feel relaxed. A common naughty girl wearing the naughtiest smile.
She is.... The Impish Lass.
Loads of Love,
Meena Mishra
1- The Best Teacher
TIL stood beneath the sweltering, sun crested sky, her hand tightly wound around her mother’s slender fingers. The clouds were coloured a deep, effulgent golden and the long, dry grass grazed her knees. “Aai!’’ she whined, dramatically putting a hand to her waist. “I can’t walk any longer. Where are you taking me? My back is tired and if I take even a single step more, my knees will melt and break!’’ she moaned. TIL’s mother, a hefty and powerful woman swivelled around, and began laughing. “How will your knees melt?’’ she spoke, immersed in a fit of incessant giggles.
“Aai! Don’t laugh at me. It is so hot. When we eat ice cream in the sun, the ice cream melts, doesn’t it? So, the same way, my knees will melt!’’ squealed TIL, a persistent aura in her voice justifying her logic. Her mother bent down, and scooped TIL up in her strong arms, as they journeyed further. Her mother burst into song, as TIL followed suit, their song in sync with the rhythmic tinkle of her mother’s bangles. A moment later, the mother and daughter paused before a host of sunflowers. The sunflowers seemed to be outlined by the bright golden sun rays and were decked in various shades of yellow. It was absolutely overwhelming.
“Do you see the sunflowers, Rajkumari?’’ asked TIL’s mother, lovingly stroking her daughter’s head, as TIL nodded. “Look at the way the sunflower follows the sun. You will see that whenever the sun changes position in the sky, the sunflowers will follow suit. You know child, I am illiterate, but I can read the textbook of nature, which contains the alphabet of love. Every human being can understand the language of love, but that is if the human being wishes to do so. Nature holds such vivid and beautiful examples upon her pages, this scenario being one of them. The sun is the ideal teacher, and the sunflower is the ideal student, following the guru wherever the guru goes. There is so much you can learn from the sunflower, TIL. I know…. I hope you will.’’
TIL’s mother scooped up her daughter in her arms and took her back home. TIL (The Impish Lass) was a fair, chubby, eye-catching, endearing, three-year old baby with curly black locks touching the absolute centre of her forehead, and meeting in a spot between her eyebrows. She lived with her parents, uncle and a younger brother at Kali Bazaar, a small colony at Hazaribag, a small town in Jharkhand. All the people living in that locality had a soft spot for her, so much so, that whenever TIL’s mother had to go out of town, a host of brightly clad women queued up to babysit TIL. The people of the locality had nicknamed TIL – “Khazaana’’ which means treasure box. Truly, TIL was a Khazaana of love, innocence, and stories. Despite her tender age, she was an ambitious and immensely active storyteller. Her eyes would shine, and she would move her hands dramatically, while narrating tales from the magical world of her imagination. She seemed to house myriad fairylands within her three year old self, and would widen her eyes with amazement – sometimes surprised by her own tales, as she’d narrate tales about the princess who thrives on the leaves of the spinach that her mother would bring home every alternate evening. These tales, and her adorable actions were the highlights of everyone’s heart, and one could spend hours and hours listening to TIL’s narrations.
TIL’s father decided to shift to a more secure house far away from this lane. A colleague of his helped him in the process and the whole family shifted to Munka Bageecha a quieter lane of Hazaribag.
TIL always told her mother that she wanted to go to an English Medium School. Those were the days when parents preferred their kids going to the nearby municipal school, a simple hop, skip and jump from their house, at least during initial years. Her mother was an illiterate lady but thought of inquiring about her daughter’s admission. She asked many neighbours’ in the locality. One of them informed her that there was a convent school for girls, but that day was the last day for admission.
TIL and her mother visited Mount Carmel School. Both mother and daughter were thrilled to see the school. The huge campus, excellent infrastructure, spacious and well-ventilated classrooms, and the huge playground, fascinated both of them. The teachers were elegant women, clad in crisp saris. They wore their hair in tight buns and smiled lovingly at TIL. They wore minimal jewellery and yet they seemed like the most beautiful women on the face of the earth, outshining the slim, featherheaded models that often walked the ramp.
“Because the true jewels are education and learning,” spoke TIL’s mother almost reading her daughter’s thoughts. “Gold and silver do fade away one day…”
The mother requested the school authorities to fill up the admission form for her as she couldn’t read or write. They did the needful. “Shall I ask my husband before I make the payment?” She thought for a moment and then rubbed off the idea. Whatever she was doing, was for her daughter’s betterment after all. With a broad beam on her face, she made the payment. “Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with a plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding line, and no way of knowing how close the harbour was. ‘Light! Give me light!’ was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.”
These lines by Helen Keller always reminded TIL of a girl who would have lost herself or rather never discovered herself if it had not been for education. Similar is the case with millions of children across the globe, isn’t it?
TIL’s mother took a decision that finally led her to what she is today. Her urge to educate her daughter made TIL grateful to her throughout her life and the way she took the decision without referring to her father was the reason, TIL always looked up to her. The lady with sturdy virtues inspired her to be like her and take commendable decisions for the ones she loves. The virtues of this lady did not have an indelible impact solely on TIL – instead through TIL, they impacted a myriad people around her. For instance, on her first day of school, TIL’s teacher asked every student to draw their inspiration on paper. The students had filled their sheets with drawings of sportsmen and flamboyant film actors, but TIL’s subtle and neat pencil work caught the teacher’s eye. TIL had drawn a simple sunflower, colouring it a light yellow, and above the sunflower, she had drawn a majestic sun ensuring that the sunrays were the brightest orange colour. She had beautifully shown the sun rays caressing the petals of the sunflower.
“How is a sunflower your inspiration, dear?” the teacher asked her, a curious expression in her eyes.
“For me, the sunflower is the true symbol of unconditional love and respect. It looks up at the sun and follows it, wherever it goes. It does not say anything, and lets its actions speak louder than its words. It clearly considers the sun to be its guru. I also want to become like the sunflower one day. I also want to imbibe the essence of unconditional love and respect for you, ma’am, since you are my guru.’’ With these words, TIL bent down and touched her teacher’s feet. With teary eyes, the teacher blessed TIL, and held her close.
The teacher knew that the child had a fertile imagination and she could make a promising writer, if nurtured and guided. For some reason, the teacher was overwhelmed by a desire to seize the moment before her and begin just then.
“So, what do you think, my child? How does the sun teach the sunflower? What goes on in your classroom of the sky?”
“Well, ma’am… maybe the sun rays are the chalk, and the sky as the board….” began TIL.
After all, TIL had just begun.
And, as she talked on and on, delving deeper into the heart of the story, the teacher knew that now, there was no stopping her.
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.
Not much longer. Any moment now millions all over the world will converge… all eyes glued to television sets, focused on one small ball. Heartbeats will stand still, waiting for the call…the call to the kickoff. It’s all excitement at our big family house. The uproar of glee. Mamma turned eighty yesterday. The children who came from other parts of the country with their families are still here. It’s a huge crowd…those that came from far away, the ones that are here, children, grandchildren… In the hall downstairs, they’ve already set up and tuned in to the big 55-inch TV. It was a gift, a collective gift from all her children. All her sons are football lovers. Their wives and children are also waiting, dressed in yellow jerseys. Some are in blue too. Jokutty, the eldest son, couldn’t contain his joy. How far advanced today’s kids are, he thought. And how lucky. Sitting far apart in Hyderabad, Kolkata, and Bangalore, they had planned everything meticulously with their fingertips. They want to be with mamma these two days. Firstly, it’s her birthday. And then…and then it’s the kickoff to the World Cup season. In the old days, the world of news was so far away. How quickly technology has conquered even the smallest children. Everything in a trice. And everything at the tip of one’s finger. “Hey, just who do you think these guys, Jokutty and Sylvie are? They were the star strikers of our football team!” said Mamma. She is watching the television, her feet stretched out in front of her. She has proudly put on a blue cap someone gifted her yesterday. When mamma came out with this statement, the grandkids got all excited. They crowded over Jokutty Uncle. “Is it true, uncle?” They can hardly believe it. Jokutty is a serious type, soft-spoken and adamant. He’s the principal of a college. He lives in Hubli in Karnataka with his wife, a railway official. They have no children. “Come here, children” Mamma calls out to them. “I’ll tell you all the stories”. Her old memories are intact. All things of the past. Things no one will forget. The kids are ready to
listen to grandma’s old tales. Unfamiliar stories and old memories are sweet indeed. The daughters-in-law also sat down to listen. Mamma began her story. “Back in the day, the main kids on the block were all members of the Don Bosco Club. Jokutty was captain. Sylvie, PC Antappan, Morris, and then…Asokan, Sadik, Narayanankutty, our guitarist Emil…” “Emil uncle of Kolkata?” “The same. He was the goalkeeper. To get into the team at the selection round, he would go to the Vaduthala river and soak in the water for hours.” “What for, grandma?” “To adjust his weight. In those days, one had to weigh just right to get selected. Your uncle Jokutty was both captain and manager of the Don Bosco team.” “Wow” said the kids, turning admiring glances on their uncle. “There were three older guys who liked to watch these youngsters play and who used to sponsor them. They were the football crazy trio and we used to call them the Sorry Bros.” “The Sorry Bros?!” the kids chortled. The daughters-in-law also burst into laughter, but stifled it with their hands. “It’s an old story... Two of them lived on the other side of the stream which outlays our land in the west. Shauri and Abraham. The third lived in a house on the eastern fields. His name was Anthappan. All three worked for the company. All in well-paying jobs. In those days, company workers were held in great regard by the coastal folk. “In the Chathyath area, there were two or three big companies. The petrol company Burma Shell, and Tata. Employees earned big money. They were the moderately rich Christians of the area, next only to the big landlords, the Kannambilli Menons. “Every night, on their way back from their shifts, the trio would pop into Thorappan Pakkaran’s toddy shop and fill up to the gullet. It was usual for them to trudge along at an ungodly hour, all staggering and belting old chavittunatakam songs. “And then they would want to take a piss. Anthappan’s house is right next to the path through the fields on the east. Shauri and Abraham always accompanied him home because there were no street lights in those days...and no other houses along the way. Wild darkness would be spread all over the ripe paddy fields. There would be fireflies
everywhere. The anteater and the maruthas of lore will be hiding nearby. It’s the time of night when evil spirits wait to jump across your path. “Once they get Anthappan safely home, Abraham and Shauri will move homewards. But Anthappan, unwilling to let them leave alone, will accompany them. In the process, the three will arrive at each house in turn, and in front of each house, they would lean hard against the tree fences and gleefully empty their bladders. When done, they would realize that they had peed in front of not their own, but their friend’s house. Each would say ‘Sorry, bro!’ and then shout, in unison, ‘Sorry, Bro!’ Someone who knew of this nightly routine once called them ‘the Sorry Bros’. And soon, the name stuck. Our Sorry Bros were the main sponsors of the Don Bosco team.” The women and the kids in the room burst into laughter. It sounded like the unexpected crackling of fireworks in the sky. “Mom, dearest, please don’t tell these tiresome old jokes to the kids” Jokutty affectionately admonished Mamma. “Go away!” said Mamma. “Every word of it is true!” Now Mamma became quite excited about narrating the old story to her grandkids. She wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. She continued. “The Sorry Bros are very respectable chaps by day. They’ll arrive every day to watch the football practice. And they would praise the Don Bosco team to the skies to one and all. “They are the sole players of our region. Smart fellows. Our own superheroes. Each time the boys came back with a victory, there’d be a feast for all. With special beef roast and parottas from Papputty’s tea stall, all paid for by the Sorry Bros. “In those days, there were no televisions and telephones. No internet too and no chatting. All over the newspapers, the stars Pele and Maradonna shone and dominated international football. And out here, in our minuscule football fields, empty plots, and even the dirt roads, players everywhere! Matches everywhere. Even on the harvested fields. Be it rain, searing sun, or wet mud. It was like life breath for us. Football clubs sprang up everywhere. Clubs to organise tournaments and clubs to just play the game. Sprouting overnight like mushrooms after a rain. “Anywhere they went, our Jokutty’s team would lift the cup. Jokutty and Emil were also players of the Albertian College team. One time they even went on strike against the
college authorities by playing football on the street. Protesting that the college did not have a proper football field. “Because of their presence, the Don Bosco team had some extra glamour. We had some Portuguese players, some Muslims, Christians, Nairs who practiced untouchability, Ezhavas, etc on the team. But Football knows only one religion, emotion, and voice! “Thanks to the Sorry Bros, there was never any lack of food. The playfield is on the Bosco Oratory Ground. It’s a big field and belongs to the church. Tournaments are held there every year. Big events where the likes of the glamorous FACT team come to play. And that year, by good fortune, Jokkutty’s Don Bosco team reached the finals. For the first time ever.” “Hey Mamma, don’t try to belittle us,” said Mamma’s third son Sylvie, a bit angrily. He is an officer at Siemens, in Bombay. “We’ve always won three or four rounds, haven’t we, Jokutty?” Sylvie was soon lost in his memories... But the kids are all excited now. “Go on, grandma” they cry. And go on, she does. “The rival team was the previous year’s winner of the cup. They were from the island across the lake. Really hefty fellows. The moment Jokutty and team saw them, they lost much of their confidence. These chaps were scared stiff!” Mamma laughed loudly. “So our uncles took a beating, right grandma?” “What a game it was! These slender fellows from Vaduthala and Pachaalam in Jokutty’s team gave the senior players from the island a taste of their own medicine, and destroyed them completely and easily lifted the cup! Those big fellows couldn’t score a single goal.” “Hurrah!” the kids burst out. Jokutty felt a cool breeze envelop his memories of those old moments... “That final game! What a crowd there was!” Mamma continued. “The only times such huge crowds ever gathered were at the giant festivals of the Thattaazham Goddess, the Chaathyath Carmel Mother, and the festival of Ayyappan Grove. The revelry! It is said that the screaming of the crowds and the thunder of the drums went across the lake and right into the desperately thudding hearts of the islanders. The islanders rowed their way back home in tears.
“The following month... Jokutty’s team was invited to a friendly match with the island team. The game was fixed for a Sunday. The following day was examination day for the graduate students who included Jerome, Jokutty, and Emil. “But not to worry. We’ll definitely win the match. And it would be in bad form to not accept the invitation. The Don Bosco team decided to play. The Sorry Bros encouraged them. “Finish’em off and come back quick, boys,” they said. “There is a barge that goes to the island. There is no other way to get there. The Don Bosco team took the evening’s barge to the island. The Sorry Bros and other friends wished them well. “The little waves of the Chaathyath dock splashed loudly along the low stone wall. The players sat in the barge, their ears tuned to the music of the water on the stones. Emil alone hummed a little song. ‘Country roads, take me home...to the place...I belong...West Virginia...mountain mamma…’ “The sky was clear. Emil’s lovely song touched everyone’s heart. Emil is a good guitarist. His parents and all four brothers are good musicians. A veritable musical academy all by themselves. Absorbed fully in Emil’s song, Jokutty and Sylvie also joined him. ‘Country roads, take me home...down country roads…’ “Emil alone wasn’t nervous in the least. He is the team’s goalkeeper. He will not let a single ball through. Awesome goalkeeper, Emil. The evening sun cast a vermillion glow on the players’ faces. The boatman kept working the tall barge pole. Crabs that were being pulled by the rising tide were finding their hiding places in the crevices of the low stone wall. “The barge arrived at the island on time. It’s a coconut grove where the dock is. A small crowd of youngsters in lungis was waiting there to welcome the players. It’s one hell of an island. The match is to take place on the church grounds. Not much of a football field, though. “There’s a huge crowd waiting. The field is full grown with green grass. The spectators are sitting cross-legged on the meadow. Looks like everyone in the village is here. Christian women in their chatta and mundu, plenty Jews in their kavaya and red dhotis, Portuguese sahibs in their trousers, the stonemasons of the region, fisherfolk, coconut climbers, some elders in dhotis and no shirts, some women wearing just a dhoti, blouse and a vermillion mark on the forehead and so on. Everyone has turned up to watch the match.
Straight from their houses. And then there is the local priest and the sexton. Even the nuns and all the other inhabitants of the convent are also there! Seats have been arranged by placing coconut and arecanut leaves on the meadow with light shawls spread over them. Some people can be seen leaning against coconut trees. Children are waiting with bated breath for the match to start. “Jokutty had never seen such a crowd before. They’re all enjoying themselves as if sitting in the yards of their own homes. Shouting out and hooting. “The whistle went off. The game started. It wasn’t really a game, though. It was madness. Insanity. The thrill of cutting each other down, howling in laughter, the ecstatic influx of the rush of adrenaline and hot blood in the veins...that kind of match it was! At the apex, cutting through the turmoil, the Don Bosco team scored a goal. An incredible, straight goal from Sylvie. “The spectators burst into a thunderous shout. And they were shaken. With mouths wide open now, they went all silent. Like a balloon that had lost its wind. And while they were still coming to terms with it, there goes the next goal! Straight from P.C. Antapan’s foot! “It’s halftime now. Don Bosco had already driven its third goal in. Three goals to none! The crowds were visibly dejected. Even nature stood still as if it were at a house where someone had just died. While Jokutty was planning out new maneuvers, a problem came up. Two or three of the elders approached him. “‘There’s something we got to tell you,” they said to Jokutty. “Sylvie and PC puffed up their chests, ready to lock horns ‘And what exactly is it?’ they asked. “Sylvie was already angered by the rough play so far. He wondered if they would have to settle the issue with their fists. “Jokutty stepped in. ‘Do tell us your concern, uncle’ he said, all thoughtful. “‘You guys are three goals ahead, right? It’s as good as you’ve already won, right?’ said the old-timer. “The boys didn’t have a clue where he was leading. They looked at each other uncertainly. “‘We’ll return two goals now’ the old man said. “‘What kind of match would that be?!’ said Jerome.
“‘Exactly!’ said the oldster. ‘We’ll now shoot two goals into your post. Or, let’s put it this way, you guys accept two goals from us.’ They’re totally shameless, it seems. “‘What bullshit is this?’ said Sylvie, shivering with rage. ‘Here we are, giving the game all we got and you come to us with such nonsense! Is this some kind of joke?’ “‘Shall we kick the daylights out of this old man?’ said Asokan, from the colony. ‘Coming up with dirty tricks when you know you can’t win, you dogs?’ “‘You boys will do exactly as we say’ said the oldsters. ‘If not, you won’t make it home across the lake tonight.’ With these words, the old men vanished into the crowd. “Jokutty rolled his eyes in rage. Everyone is now itching for a fight. The whistle sounds. Time to resume play. “The University examinations begin the next day. The boys can attend the exam only if they can reach home tonight. They’ll get in serious trouble with their families if they miss the exam. The future would be pretty bleak too. There would be serious trouble at home, in town, and also between both banks. The lads from the colony would rush here in their boats. There would be hell to pay. What a fix! Are the islanders looking to avenge their earlier defeat? Jokutty is lost for words. Emil, standing far away, enjoying the breeze which wafted across the lake was oblivious to all of this. As soon as the whistle sounded, he took his position at the goal post. “A slender-looking young man took hold of Jokutty and said, very respectfully “Brother, this match is a matter of honour for us. We aren’t educated folk like you. All these players are labourers who work daily for the day’s wage. They are people who had to leave their studies in the eighth and ninth standards because they had to work to support their families. Last time at Vaduthala, when they lost to you, things went south for them. For days, no one would give them any work. Whenever they were spotted in town, people would ridicule them and hoot. If this was their situation when they returned defeated, just imagine what lies in store for them if they lose this time on home turf, and in everyone’s presence! It will be utter humiliation for them if they can’t get even one goal in. The crowds which have gathered here are all their relatives...wives, children, parents and extended family. A crushing defeat would be too much for everyone to bear. The womenfolk have already begun to cry... “Jokutty realized that they were in the midst of a band of uneducated, insane football lovers. He sort of understood the lie of the land.
Across the centreline, the opposing team had gathered in position. Jokutty looked at them. They looked back at him with pleading eyes. They turned their pleading eyes now on the rest of the Don Bosco team. Pleading, begging glances. “Jokutty noticed another emotion that lay hidden in those pleading looks. These chaps would go to any extent to retain their self-respect in the eyes of their families. The game had already begun. And then slowly...everything was slow now... “The entire crowd rose to their feet and began to scream and shout. The ball is with the Don Bosco team. P.C. Antappan went and stood before Emil’s post and began to dribble the ball. “‘Hey PC, you oaf, get that ball away from my post” shouted Emil. “What the hell are you up to?’ “Even as Emil shouted and swore at PC, the opposing team’s forward ran up to PC, stopped at his right, and kicked the ball towards the post. “‘Goal!!’ “Emil shuddered to realise that he had, for the first time, let a goal in! He was flabbergasted. Shell shocked. And even as he reeled under that horrible surprise, there goes the next goal, shaking the net! The crowd leaps up in excitement. ‘Jokutty!’ Emil screams. ‘What the hell is happening here?!’ “Emil’s shout brings Jokutty to his senses. Enough, he thinks. I mustn’t play along with this cheating anymore. Enough is enough! The next fifteen minutes. That’s all Don Bosco needs, he thinks. “The crowd is cheering to the skies. The cheering turns to violent excitement. Plastic bottles are now being hurled into the field. Both teams gave their all. Neither giving or taking. A deadly match. Such a powerful match has never been played on that island before. Or since. “When the final whistle blew, the spectators were jumping in glee. The two goals which their team had returned to the three from Don Bosco was what really excited them no end. Women hugged and kissed their menfolk. The crowds pulled their players onto their shoulders and dancing in glee, disappeared. In fact, Don Bosco received their trophy in an empty field. So who really won? Them or us, wondered the Don Bosco players. So, even
though the priest and the organisers invited them to dinner, our players did not stay to dine. “While they walked silently towards the dock, Emil sprang at PC. ‘You rascal! It’s all because of you!’ And before anyone could intervene, the two men were at each other’s throats and soon fell grappling on the sand. ‘Let go, Emil!’ Jokutty screamed. ‘That’s enough now.’ Emil managed to wipe his eyes with no one seeing. “The barge and the boatman were waiting patiently for them at the dock. “‘It’s good that they were able to score two goals in return’ said the boatman, silently pushing the barge pole. ‘If you hadn’t let them, they’d not only have destroyed your happiness but would have drowned this boat and me with it. Two of their thugs were here, standing by all along.’ “As the boatman began to row faster, everyone grew silent. Even though they had won, they felt just the opposite. Emil’s wet green eyes shone in the darkness. Suddenly, he understood everything. “He reached out and took PC’s arm. “‘Sorry, mate’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’ “Everyone gave a little laugh but Jokutty felt that the little wavelets of Vembanad Lake were mocking him from the darkness. Unable to bear his humiliation, he let a sob escape his lips. The look on everyone’s face grew dull, depressed. “The Sorry Bros were waiting for the team at Chaathyath Dock. The night was far advanced by then. “‘You did win! We knew you’d return with the cup!’ they said. “‘Never mind what else happened,’ they said later. ‘Don’t feel sad.’ “The Sorry Bros welcomed the team with great affection. Steaming puttu and spicy peas curry waited for the players at Papputty’s tea stall. Accompanied by, yes, the amazing beef roast special. Ravenous as they were, the team began to eat. And as they ate, their sadness lifted and flew away. “Let’em come playing next year and we’ll break their knees, Sylvie, PC, and the others had decided. But... “Jokutty’s team never went back to the island to play. Neither did they play anywhere else, ever again.”
“Oh!!’ said the little children. ‘Why not, grandma?!” Mamma sighed. “Those were the days of obstinacy” was all she said. Silent now, Mamma turned her eyes to the LED screen. Her audience also turned away to face the screen. The kick-off to the World Cup had already begun.
*****
Dr. Radha Meera and Dr. Mariyadas are members of the Kerala Sahithya Mandalam and are illustrious people who need no introduction. Radha Meera is a remarkable writer in the fields of both poetry and prose. She is also a very capable organiser. Dr. Mariyadas is a soft-spoken, peaceful man but his discourses and speeches are full of sparks and fire; also deep and profound. I express my heartfelt respect for them. I do not know Rahul personally. I know him as Mrinalini’s son…a social worker. With great affection, I offer him my congratulations.
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 my return journey from Europe. I was coming home from Delhi by flight at midnight. The sky was cloudcast. Lightning was flashing across the dark cloudy sky. Thunderstorm was roaring. The flight landed. I got down and came walking to the arrival gate.
It was raining cats and dogs. The streetlight had gone out. Darkness engulfed the area outside the airport. I couldn't find my office car in the darkness and due to network problems, I couldn't contact the driver either.
I was in search of a taxi to reach home. No taxi was available. I was walking outside the airport with my mind in tension. I was puzzled and perplexed.
Suddenly, a taxi came to me. I didn't want to lose the chance and I got into it in a hurry without any delay. It started running at high speed cutting across the darkness. The streets were lonely and vacant due to the rainstorm.
I asked the driver - What's your name ? How much money shall I pay you?
He said in a sorrowful voice - Can't you recognize me, Sir ? You were a regular customer of mine in your private tours in the state. I am Rama. What should I ask you ? You may pay as you please.
Me - I have not seen you for a couple of years. Where did you go?
He said in a sorrowful voice - I had gone outside the city to earn more money. I was driving a taxi there. One day in a dreadful, deadly accident my bones were broken and I was hospitalized for months together. At last the hospital authorities released my body and I came here to see whether my wife and son are alive or not. But I cannot find them. Have you seen them, Sir ?
I told him - Yes. They are very familiar to me and all the people in our residential society. In your absence, your wife Sita faced a lot of difficulties to take care of your baby son, Krishna. She is now working as a maidservant in my home and other houses in our apartment complex. Your son is growing up. He is playing and running, while his mother Sita is working. I had seen him playing on the sand while I was coming by my office car to the airport for my onward journey to Europe. He waved his hand at me. I stopped before him. Krishna told me smiling - Uncle ! Please bring foreign chocolates for me. Now, it's the dead of the night. I may not find him and meet him to give him chocolates. He may be sleeping peacefully with his mother, Sita. Tell him please, in the morning I would go to him and give him chocolates. He is a little bit naughty, but amusing. I like him so much for his naughtiness. He makes fun and we like it. We call him Krishna for his childlike wickedness and simplicity. He is cute, loving and affectionate. All of us like him. You should send him to school early.
The shower was increasing. Rain was pouring on the entire city. Water was flowing on the lonely streets like streams. Suddenly he braked the taxi.
I asked - What happened ?
He got down and said - One of the front wheels punctured. I have to change it. Wait a while, Sir ! Don't come out please, lest you might be fully drenched. It's raining heavily outside. Nothing is visible in the darkness.
Me - Do you need my help ?
He - Not necessary. I am trying my best to make everything okay so as to reach your home early in this rainy dark midnight.
Me - I can't see anything. Can you say…where are we now ?
He - In front of the cremation ground, within half a kilometer from your apartment. Don't worry about it please. It is a walking distance from your home. I had seen you here on your morning walks a couple of years ago.
In the darkness, he was busy changing the punctured wheel of the taxi and I was hearing its sound.
After a while, no sound was coming to my ears. No one was there or nearby. I was a little bit apprehensive. Fear was enveloping my mind. I was sitting in the taxi alone, finding no alternative.
Time was passing by. After a while, I got down in spite of the heavy rain. But I could not find Rama, the taxi driver. I called him loudly and repeatedly, but got no response from him. I was fearful in the dark loneliness. No one was there to come to my rescue. There was knee-deep water on the street. I looked around in fear.
A sorrowful weeping sound was coming from the cremation ground. I listened to it carefully and looked into the cremation ground. In the lightning, a shadow in appearance like that of Sita, our maidservant, came to my notice. I tried to reach her. But the gate was locked. I couldn't enter nor could reach her to know about her melancholic weeping.
In fear, I was walking ahead on the street in knee-deep rain water, since I was quite familiar it for the last so many years.
The lightning was showing me the way. Rain was showering on me. I was fully drenched.
The stray dogs were not only barking continuously, they were also crying in a grieving tone from the nearby school building. I was walking home alone.
After a hundred feet, I found Krishna, the naughty son of Sita and Rama.
I asked him with curiosity - What are you doing here Krishna in the dark night in the rainstorm? Are you not afraid of the dark rainy night?
He said weeping - I am searching for my Mom. She is missing somewhere. She has taken away my fear. I have to find her.
I asked him - Where has she gone?
Krishna said sorrowfully - I don't know. But I cannot find her. I have not eaten anything. I am hungry. Can you search for her ? Where shall I sleep ? Our door is closed.
I said - You come with me and sleep at my home. In the early morning, we will find her out. I have brought chocolates from Europe for you. Do you remember…what did you say to me on the day of my departure ?
He told me sorrowfully - I cannot recollect anything. My memory has failed.
I said - Accompany me, Krishna.
I was walking and he was following me. I reached the closed gate of our apartment complex. I called the sleeping security guard loudly again and again. He woke up and opened the gate.
I looked back. But I could not find Krishna. A weeping sound was sweeping away my mind and heart. I was fearful in the dark rainstorm.
I asked the security guard - Did you see the boy, who was following me?
He told me - You were alone, Sir. No one was with you or following you. How can I see him ?
I was puzzled, perplexed and dumbstruck in my fear. I couldn't disbelieve my own eyes that had seen Krishna following me.
It was too late. The security guard closed the gate and slept. I was coming home alone.
Krishna's gloomy appearance had caught and captured my heart. His sorrowful voice was ringing in my ears and echoing in my mind. I reached home in an unknown fear. My heart and mind were weeping for Krishna.
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.
On a fine, balmy evening I came across Radhanath while taking a stroll in the market. We had not met for quite a few months although we live in the same town. That's because we are separated by miles of broken down streets, crowded bazaars and tons of noise and pollution. He is in a way lucky, living in the outskirts "enjoying" less of the city life, whereas I get the full brunt of the chaos of urban life in the center of the city. Yet we move on, content with our daily dose of rice and fish curry.
Now, if I tell this to my friends from the college who are in my group of morning walkers, the first question they would ask is "Radhanath? Who Radhanath, which Radhanath?" In reply I would smile and say, "Radhanath! Don't you remember Grumblenath from our college days? The one who thought smiling was a cardinal sin and whose frown could tumble a crown?" Of course, Grumblenath they would remember and break into a huge riot of laughter.
Actually Radhanath is not a bad man as such, but he is different from others, very very different. If someone asks you or me, "Hello friend, how are you?", we will smile, nod and say, "I am fine, life moves on....How are you my friend? All well?" But Radhanath has a different approach to life, if you ask him how are things, his animal instincts would awaken and he would pounce on you like he was waiting for a chance like this, and you are the chosen pounce-victim of the day,
"So? Now only you remembered a poor friend like me? What were you doing all these days? Didn't you ever think of making a call to find out if this old man is still alive or not? You think you are the only one in this city who is busy? Others are just useless time-wasters? Why are you asking how I am doing? Do you really care, you big fish of the pond, do you care for the small fingerlings?"
This assault would obviously unnerve the unprepared friend. He would feel squeamish, and murmur,
"I was only asking about your well being. Is everything ok with you?"
Radhanath would let out a torrent of grievances,
"What ok? How can I be ok? This wretched body is a storehouse of all ailments - high sugar, BP, cholesterol, heart issues, you name it, I have it. I wonder why God has given me so many problems in one single birth, couldn't He keep something for my next births also?...,,,,,,"
Grumblenath would go on and on. We often feel our friend makes a valiant effort to test our patience. In stead of reeling out the names of so many ailments, he could very well carry a xerox copy of the list in his pocket. Upon being asked, "how are you", he should hand over the list and leave, the proceedings of the tête-à-tête concluded in solemn silence.
In one such encounters I had ventured to ask him what kind of treatment he was undergoing and who was his doctor. Grumblenath flared up, as if I had inadvertently sprinkled some red chilly powder on his unsuspecting rump,
"Treatment? Hah, you are talking of treatment? Do you know what torture it is to subject oneself to treatment? And you are asking me which doctor? Is there one doctor you can go for your ailments? No Sir, times have changed. This is the age of super specialization. If you have problem in your foot one specialist will see your toe, another specialist will treat your little finger, a third one will look at your ankle. Each will charge you 500 rupees and prescribe at least a dozen tests to "rule out" all possible and impossible calamities like Meningitis, Hepatitis, Nephraitis, Tuberculosis, Filariasis, and Thrombosis. Add Thyroid, Corona and Lipid profile to that, apart from tests for sugar, sodium, uric acid, potassium, magnesium, calcium. Fingers have to be x-rayed, ankle has to be subjected to MRI. It will be a neat package of ten thousand rupees for tests alone. So you go back to the doctor after a week with the test reports and return with a prescription for another five thousand rupees of medicine. You wish you had listened to your inner soul and applied some pain killer ointment on your foot after hot water fomentation. But the wife would not leave you alone, insisting on dragging you to the doctor and secretly enjoying your discomfiture. And these doctors? Let me tell you, they are a real pain in the @&?."
The three-lettered reference to a delicate part of human anatomy would make me smile, because Grumblenath has many pains in his @&? ever since we knew him as a student. I would still try to reason with him,
"You are being unfair to doctors. They are a real dedicated lot. Call them any time during day or night they will come if it is an emergency. They save thousands of lives through their treatment. And didn't you see how they and the wonderful nurses took care of millions of patients, putting their own lives in danger? In every profession there are a few rotten eggs. It's not fair to paint all of them as bad."
Grumblenath had started shaking his head. Obviously he had a different point of view,
"You know what happened three years back? I had a bit of chest pain and my wife Madhabi rushed me to the hospital. Before I knew anything the doctor had inserted three bamboos into my heart."
I was shocked,
"Bamboos? What do you mean bamboos?"
Radhanath's face became distorted with anguish,
"Stents! That too imported ones, each costing one lakh fifteen thousand rupees. The total cost of operation came to five and half lakh rupees."
I was stunned,
"Five and half lakh rupees? How did you manage to pay?"
Radhanath's anguished face had become red like an over ripe tomato,
"Not me, I could not have paid out of the paltry pension of a retired professor. My son who works in TCS has included the parents in his insurance scheme. He extracted the amount from them with great difficulty. You should see how the insurance fellows are all sugar and honey when they canvass their policies, but they sound like hissing cobras if you claim any amount from them. You have to threaten them with consumer court, high court, Supreme Court before they cough up the money."
"But five and half lakh rupees is a lot of money!"
"Yes, since government hospitals are dens of infection you have no choice but to go to private, corporate hospitals. They are in the business of health care. If you as much as sneeze there, they will immediately catch you, admit you in the hospital, conduct a dozen tests and release you after prescribing simple Sinarest. But not before extracting a couple of lakhs from you. When I was getting the bamboo treatment from them I met a number of poor patients who had sold off their land in the village to arrange money for their treatment. If they get well they wouldn't know how to eke out a living, their land having been sold out. If they die, the relatives will have no money to take the body to the village and the hospital authorirtires will not release the body until the full cost of the treatment is paid. It is pathetic my friend, utterly pathetic. I don't know why the government can't open a good, modern hospital in every block headquarters and municipalities to take care of our poor patients."
Having worked in government for more than thirty five years I have also often asked the question, but I am yet to find an answer to that.
The friends of Grumblenath know that he is a big critic of the government. Six months back I had met him in the market and asked him how was life, I hoped everything was going on well. He had growled,
"Well? How can it be well? We don't live in posh localities like you. If I had a house in Nayapalli, like you have, I wouldn't be suffering today. My scooter died three days back - a gory, untimely death. I have been going everywhere by walk. My poor chappals might also die soon."
I tried to cheer him up,
"Don't talk of death so lightly. Didn't someone say, every death is a new beginning, when the night dies, morning is born, when darkness leaves light dawns. Count every new day as a blessing, then only life will be joyful. If your old chappals die new chappals will come to your life. Anyway, what happened to your scooter?"
"It died on the road on a rainy night, hitting a pothole. The ?&@??@ people call our city a smart city! A smart city - my @?&@@@&!"
I was taken aback, as if I had just been bitten by a playful monkey on my rump. I was in fact stunned by the severity of Radhanath's emotions. He had uttered two utterly unprintable words in quick succession and coming from his professorial mouth they sounded like two bomb explosions in a crowded market place. My eye brows shot up like the signals at a railway level crossing,
"How did your scooter hit a pothole? Was there no street light?"
Radhanath grimaced, like a drunk suddenly finding the shutters of the liquor shop pulled down,
"Street light? Are you serious or are you joking with this poor friend of yours? Don't you know, in this @&@?@& smart city the electricity board jokers switch off the power supply at the slightest hint of rains, or thunder?"
Recovering from the shock of a third expletive in less than three minutes, coming like a loud shot from an well-oiled pistol, I realised Radhanath had inadvertently hit the nail on the electricity board's thick head. Having lived in different cities of the country for considerable lengths of time, I had never seen power connection being cut off at the hint of a rain or lightning. In fact, Mumbai, the excellent city, is never plunged into darkness even when the entire city is submerged in non-stop torrential rains. I have asked many friends why Bhubaneswar experiences this extraordinary phenomenon. But like many unresolved questions of life, this has remained an enigma.
Yet, I knew it was my duty to console Radhnath, after all,what are friends for if they can't put a little soothing balm on a painful monkey-bite? Moreover, Radhanath's eloquence in the matter of unprintable expletives had impressed me, almost to the point of a spiritual awakening. Such expletives were our daily fodder during the college days, but the way Radhanth uttered them with ease and elan, sort of shook me to my roots. I felt like complimenting him,
"Bah Radhanath, your command over the colourful language still remains fresh and young. Happy to note that. Don't worry, you will get back your scooter repaired, painted and shining like a recycled bride. At least you are lucky to own a scooter, look around you, there are so many who are walking or riding a bicycle. You...."
Grumblenath interrupted me, his irrepressible dark mood refused to see a streak of light,
"Lucky? What lucky? Look at those two guys walking on the pavement on the other side of the road, talking, nudging each other, sharing a bidi and rolling in laughter. And see the guy coming down the road on his bicycle, singing at the top of his voice. Ah, listen carefully, it is a romantic song for his sweetheart, who is probably waiting at the corner to hop on to his bicycle, and together they would ride on to everlasting happiness. They are the real lucky ones, always happy, laughing, singing their heart out. What do I have to feel happy?"
I smiled,
"Don't be so modest, Radhanath. You have an apartment, a good wife, two devoted sons, a pension - you have worked diligently all these years, teaching young students, moulding their life. God has given you a happy, contented life - a reward for your good Karma."
Grumblenath exploded, like a gas pipe in search of untimely Nirvana,
"Karma? What @&!&@ Karma? And what good deeds? You think all these have any meaning? In front of our apartment complex there is a palatial house. Massive building, big lawns, high compound walls, two big cars, one of them an SUV - we used to think some big industrialist lives there. One day we came to know that the person is a retired RTO. He goes abroad three four times a year, takes his wife on trips to Agra, Khajuraho, Kashmir and Bangalore. Look at us, we go to Puri, Konarak, Chilka, stay at the cheapest hotels, eat junk and return home, drained of money and energy. My friend, there is no such thing as reward for good Karma. Otherwise how God would have been super kind to the RTO? His two sons are in US, floating in dollars. Look at my two sons - one is a poor lowly-paid engineer in TCS, the other is languishing as an agricultural officer in some remote corner of the state. And you say God is kind to good people. No my friend, this is Kaliyug, sinners are winners, we are the losers."
I was not prepared to accept his argument that Radhanath's two sons were any less than his prosperous neighbour's sons. In fact we had seen them as growing boys and were impressed with their good manners. My wife Kalyani used to refer to them as two pieces of diamond. When Radhanath was posted as a lecturer at Dhenkanal we used to drop in at his place on the way back from Sambalpur where Kalyani's parents lived. His wife Madhabi was an excellent hostess, always welcoming us and feeding us the choicest dishes.
Once when we praised their two sons as pieces of diamond, Radhanath in his usual way grumbled, 'what diamonds - it is only through Madhabi's strenuous efforts that they came to our lives, otherwise who am I to claim any ownership over them?' Madhabi's face became red with deep embarrassment, she pinched him in his arm and managed to divert the topic. Kalyani and I had a roaring laughter on our drive back from Dhenkanal, speculating on the various kinds of strenuous efforts Madhabi would have taken for getting two precious pieces of diamond as their sons. We would stop, and in a few seconds Kalyani would start again, roaring with laughter till tears came out of her eyes.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Three months after my unexpected evening meeting with Radhanath at the market, Kalyani cornered me one day after my return from morning walk. She looked concerned,
"Have you heard about the hospitalisation of Radhanath Babu?"
I was shocked,
"Radhanath? Hospitalised? Why? What happened to him?"
"Your friend Dr. Hrudanand's wife called me a few minutes back. It seems Radhanath Babu was stabbed in the stomach three days back."
"O my God!" I exclaimed, "Three days back! That was Independence Day - who stabbed Radhanath on such a momentous day? Radhanath, of all the people, he is a nondescript poor chap, as harmless as a sozzled frog!"
"I have no idea, let's go and visit him. Poor Madhabi, she must be worried."
Radhanath turned his face away when I approached him in the cabin he was occupying. His face had swollen like the backside of an abandoned Ambassador car, there were tubes going in and coming out of his body at all sorts of mentionable and unmentionable places.. Kalyani, who has a delicate heart could not stand the sight of the heavily bandaged Radhanath sprawled helplessly on the hospital bed. She went out with Madhabi. My heart swelled with pity, looking at my suffering friend. In a trembling voice I asked him how he was feeling.
I was surprised at his reaction. His voice was weak, but the words were strong,
"So? You could find time finally, after three days? I almost died, and you did not think of visiting me even once all these days? You think only big shots like you deserve to live and poor professors should kick the bucket and leave the world........"
I cut him short,
"Listen, we will go into that later, first tell me how you are feeling and how did you land up in this ghastly place?"
"I am feeling weak, drained out, but I think I will survive."
"Of course you will survive. But tell me what happened?"
Radhanath was surprised at my ignorance. He got back some of his spirit,
"Didn't you read it in the newspapers? It was all over the town. For a couple of days I became famous. TV cameras, reporters, journalists, the whole zing bang crowd. I almost thought someone will make a movie on me and offer me the lead role."
I couldn't suppress a smile. Radhanath would be a box office hit as a hero if he would be allowed to use the kind of free speech he used the other day! I shook my head,
"No, we are getting our house painted, no time to read the newspapers. I even don't know where they disappear in the morning. Our TV is also tucked away somewhere wrapped in clean bedsheets. You have to tell me what happened to you."
Radhanath made a strenuous effort to sit up. He beckoned me to give him some water. I did.
"On the morning of 15th August, the Independence Day I left for my daily four-kilometres walk. You of course know our smart city actually belongs to street dogs and humans are unwanted intruders in their howling lives. In fact it's a city for the dogs, by the dogs, of the dogs, a sort of dogocractic paradise for the four legged beasts. So one cannot walk on the pavements for fear of treading on the overflowing dog poop, and we are forced to walk on the streets, always on the watch for overspeeding bikes and evil looking, demonic dogs. I was walking and talking on the mobile phone glued to my ear. Suddenly two @&?!&@ bastards came from behind on a motorbike, one of them snatched my phone and they tried to speed away. But just a couple of meters away there was a ditch and their bike skidded on that. I pounced on the @&??!@ boy sitting on the pillion, he had fallen down, the other &?!@!& boy of doubtful parentage was struggling to straighten the bike. He managed to rev up its engine ad moved a little forward. Do you see that nice-looking stick lying on the table there?"
I turned my head and saw the object of Grumblenath's admiration. It was indeed a cutie, lying there smug and full of self-pride like someone who had just cleared UPSC's Civil Services Exam and waiting for parents of nubile brides queuing up before him for sumptuous matrimoney for their daughters. My heart had perked up considerably, noticing how Radhanath's spirit had not diminished even a wee bit and he was spewing colourful expletives like a wily magician throwing knives into the air. Radhanath smiled, although on his heavily camouflaged face tied with banadage, the smile looked like a grimace,
"With that blessed stick, which I always carry during my walk to ward off enthusiastic dogs taking an unnatural fancy to my hindquarters, I gave the boy some of the best and juiciest beating you can imagine. He was begging for mercy, having thrown away the mobile phone to the roadside. But I was seized with a maniacal anger. I kept beating him as if that would bring me a ticket to fly to the moon. And I kept shouting at the two @&?!@ bastards, "You bloody scoundrels, you &??@!?? and &?@?!??&@, what do you think of us? Your helpless victims? On Independence Day we innocent citizens don't have the freedom to walk peacefully on the street and you @&??&@ have the freedom to steal, loot, rape and murder? Is this why the country got independence, to let you loose among innocent people like hungry wolves on a pack of deers? I will kill this @&?@&? today, let me first smash his bones to pieces......" The boy on the ground started crying, the one on the motorbike kept shouting, "Uncle, uncle, let him go, don't ask for trouble, you will regret it." I kept beating the boy, who was now rolling on the ground in pain. Suddenly the boy on the bike got down, took out a knife and stabbed me two times on the stomach. Blood oozed out like a soda fountain. I grabbed my stomach and fell on the road. The two boys sped away. Some of the onlookers who had watched the tamasha without raising their finger, rushed to me. Someone called the police and the ambulance. I had lost a lot of blood, the cut was deep. I had lost consciousness. The doctors must have done a good job, the young and cute nurses are all kind and sweet to me, why should they not be? I must be looking innocent and harmless like their grandfathers."
Radhanath smiled again, remembering the young and cute nurses. I joined him in his smilothon,
"So you don't have grudges against the doctors any more? After all they saved your life!"
Radhanath looked at me with a sort of piercing gaze,
"Doctors? Blast the doctors! Who cares for them. Look at where the country is heading. Even on a sacred day like Independence Day, there is no law and order in the state capital, no fear for police. Goons are out to rob the innocent citizens in open daylight. My friend, our country has gone to dogs. Lawlessness, indiscipline, corruption, dishonesty - all these have pushed the country to a sorrowful abyss. There is need for a fresh revolution to rescue the country. You know when I regained my consciousness and was told that I had lost more than ten ounces of blood, what I said to myself?"
I shook my head, there was no way I could have known what Radhanath told himself.
The words that followed from our perennial iconoclast Grumblenath left me stunned,
"You know, somehow I thought the country is in need of a new revolution and to free it from the bondage of lawlessness and corruption, ten ounces of blood are nothing, I am prepared to lay down my life for the cause."
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
ANECDOTES & MISCELLANEOUS
LITTLE THINGS OF JOY: SIPPING CHAI IN AN ANCIENT CAVE IN URFA CASTLE
Chai or cay, what would we and the world be without it? From the sweet, milky, cardamom-flavoured repeatedly - boiled chai of our dhabas, here I am, thousands of miles away, sipping black Turkish cay in a cavernous enclosure, in the old castle fort of Urfa. I am seated just some metres away from the birthplace of Prophet Abraham, close to the holy pond with the sacred fish, which hundreds of visitors have come to visit this Children's Day. The Golbasi garden around the pool is alive with colour.
I listen to my colleagues talk. Records relate the ancient city of Urfa, in south eastern Turkey, to the 4th century BC. However, scholars pre-date it to 9000-11000 BC, which excavations, barely six miles from Urfa, underscore. The megaliths pre-date the Stonehenge by 6000 years. Called Gobekli Tepe, it has been described as perhaps being the first man-made temple in the world. This area is situated in the northern part of a "fertile arc" of arable land, stretching across the Persian Gulf to modern day Lebanon, Israel, Jordan and Egypt.Legend has it that King Nemrut, a descendant of Noah, had built the infamous Tower of Babel, but gave up. He ordered all young children to be killed to defy a prophecy of his death. Abraham was caught demolishing the pagan idols of that time and was thrown from the citadel turrets into a fire lit below. He was barely 10 years old. However, he was protected by nature. A rose garden surrounded him and the fire turned to water, the burning embers of wood into fish. The fish and pool have been regarded as sacred and protected ever since.
Our hosts order more cay and as we sip, I glance around the cave. The tables and chairs are simple, adorned with local rugs and trimmings. One wall has a shelf full of old radios from the 50's & 60's. I do not feel like a stranger in this holy place, as I am sipping black cay from a curved, tulip-shaped glass, easy to hold. Young girls chatter away, oblivious to my stares. They sit, some with headscarves, others with the wind softly blowing into their carefree hairstyles. The colours of the scarves indicate where they are from - if they are Arab or Turkish but I am informed that many just wear whichever colour they wish to. Listening to the whistling wind outside (rain has been predicted), we hear many voices in the cave, a mixture of Arabic, Armenian, Syriac, Turkish and Kurdish languages, so natural. Like in my motherland, too. The thought makes me happy. My mind flits to an auto-rickshaw driver in New Delhi, asking me if I was from Bengal because of my accented Hindi! He was quite near the mark as I am from the neighbouring state of Orissa.
After cay, we stroll down to the bazaar that bustles even today. More so, as today is a local holiday. It reminds me of our ancient bazaars in the Red Fort, as crowded, as enticing, with the proverbial chai-wallah, weaving through the throngs of people, with practised ease. The caydanlk is the stacked two-kettle containers or teapots in which the cay is brewed. The smaller tea-container is used for strong brewed tea and the larger one contains boiling water to dilute the tea, if it is too strong.
I am told I cannot leave without tasting some Turkish coffee! We head across the cobbled stones to an old rest-house, converted into a modern-day coffee house. The woodwork is reminiscent of other such structures in the region and the decor has been maintained in the traditional style. The tables have been set up in the former courtyard. My colleagues agree that coffee is still prepared in the manner in which it was during the wondrous Ottoman Empire Period. The coffee beans are ground well into a fine powder and then boiled in a brass pot, called a cezve. How can I resist having my coffee-cup read? That is another story!
These old traditional customs the world over only serve to show how people wish to welcome strangers in their midst. War and its attributes seem distant. Corruption in high places and in the field of sport seem surreal, but as I head back to the airport, its back to reality.
The chai I order at the airport in Istanbul airport is just to get a chair as I have a few hours to wait for my flight. The airport is bustling with passengers and chairs are scarce. Then I ask for a coffee and scald my tongue, a wake-up call to sip the beverage slowly and savour its essence as I had in the ancient city of Urfa, a few hours ago. Somehow it does not taste quite the same.
Did this ancient ritual of drinking chai with family and friends and colleagues evolve, to allow us some space to listen, collate news and views and mend relationships? Perhaps our elected persons in their high offices could have a time-out, just once a day, to sort out their issues, sipping chai, savouring its essence, clearing their minds and cleansing their souls. Perhaps the humble chai leaf may help flower a new chapter of history and development that we sorely need.
First Published: May 18, 2013, News18.com Blogs
Jayshree Misra Tripathi has been a consultant, educator and examiner in English Language and Literature, for the Diploma of the International Baccalaureate Organization. She worked in print media in the late ’70s and ’80s in India. Having lived in diverse cultures for over thirty years with her late husband, a career diplomat in the Indian Civil Service, her short fiction and narrative verse dwell upon journeys through the diaspora, highlighting women's 'voices' and cross-cultural conversations. Her books include Trips and Trials, What Not Words, Two Minute Tales in Verse for Children Everywhere, Uncertain Times and The Sorrow of Unanswered Questions. Online blogs are on Huffington Post India Archive and News 18.She includes her maiden surname in her writing, as the eldest of five daughters.
Twenty20 is the latest wave of cricket to overwhelm our lives with its fours and sixes. But I for one am left at sixes and sevens. Why must limited overs cricket be only in multiples of ten? It started with 60 overs for each side. Then 50 became the norm for a long time. Now it is slashed to 20 overs a side.
Strangely, though plenty of debate has taken place on the frequent changes in the game’s format, with arguments like how its ‘purity’ has been lost, how a sedate gentlemen’s game has been turned into a jamboree, how it’s aping its American baseball counterpart, etc., no one questions the fixation for fixing the number of overs in multiples of 10. Baseball suffers from no such ‘obsession’, where a game consists of 9 innings (inning in American manner of speaking). Each side consists of 9 players, with the number of dismissals allowed to a team being 3 in each inning, i.e. a total of 27 ‘outs’ in a game. The number of ‘strikes’ that gets a player out is also 3, while the number of ‘balls’ that entitles him to ‘walk’ to first base is 4. The number of bases that make up a baseball ‘diamond’ or the playing field is 4! In short, every figure in baseball is ‘odd’.
The game of cricket too prescribes 3 stumps and 2 bails. An over consists of 6 balls. The number of runs that accrues from a boundary is 4 and from an over boundary 6. In fact, the game provides for the batsman to score 1, 2, 3, 4 or 6 runs off a ball, but not 5 (except in the rarest of rare circumstances of an overthrow)! The only figure that is numerically ‘symmetrical’ is the number of outs allowed to each team, which is a round 10, and that’s because the 11th player can’t go on batting alone!
Why am I irked that the number of overs in ‘limited cricket’ is a nice rotund figure? Nothing actually, except for the constant bickering in the media about the relative pros and cons of 50 vs. 20 overs. Some insist that 50 overs seems ‘too long’ to hold audience attention, while others contend that the game’s rich flavour is lost in the ‘instant’ T20 variety. The debate on 50 overs being ‘too long’ and 20 being ‘too short’ rages on.
So why not a golden mean? If it works out to say 33 ½ overs, or even 2/3, so be it! What’s wrong if each side is asked to play 33 overs and 3 balls? After all, our paramount concern should be not to score brownie points, but to conserve the true spirit of cricket. Everything else is simply ‘not cricket’.
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.
(The distressed python near Laharpur Dam, Baghmugaliya Extension.)
November 28, 2015. A bit chilly in the evening at Bhopal, but not yet very cold. About 8.00 PM, I was walking my dog when a car coming from the opposite direction suddenly screeched to a halt a few metres away. When the driver stepped out, I noted that he was Mr. Pateriya, a senior Forest officer, and a neighbour.
Any issue with the car, I asked?
‘No, a python crossing the road. I was about to run over it. Thank God, I was not speeding, and applied the brake in time,’ he said.
The python was stunned for a minute by the car’s headlight, and the screeching noise, but hastened for cover. In its confusion, it missed the path leading to its home somewhere on the rocky banks of Laharpur Dam – an incomplete and abandoned irrigation project, and climbed up the iron railing separating the river bank from the road. Perched on top of the railing, it tried to reach a branch of the nearby neem tree, but in vain.
A flash mob assembled soon enough, and began clicking photos on their mobile phones using the flash. I must confess that I, too, had clicked a few photos, though without the flash. Several young boys and girls clicked selfies. To click a photo of the open jaws of the hissing python, some even poked it with stick, and threw pebbles at it.
The python was hungry, possibly having missed the rat or mongoose it was trying to capture in the bushes on the road-side. It was away from home, and the cold iron railing surely felt very different from the branch of a tree, or the swamp from which it caught fish. Pythons are excellent swimmers, and can stay under water for up to 30 minutes at a time.
The shouting and screaming by the excited mob of mostly teens with flash cameras in hand was a scary experience for the reptile since it had not seen these two-legged creatures at close quarters. It became terribly upset, and began hissing. All it wanted to do was to find its way back home.
Mr. Pateriya and I shouted at the young revellers to have mercy on the harassed creature, and stop bothering it. We also alerted the Forest department.
The rescue team arrived after about two hours. ‘What took so long?’ Mr. Pateriya asked the Range Officer, who had arrived on a large truck, and with a team of eight or more workers carrying sturdy lathis and thick ropes.
Where is the bison, asked the Range Officer? I had to mobilise a proper team to capture it.
Our alert message should have been in Hindi, we realised. Ajgar could not have been mis-heard as van bhainsa or bison!
Soon, the team rescued the python, put it in a jute bag, and took it for rehabilitation to Van Vihar National Park, Bhopal.
A few days later, on Dec 2, I visited Van Vihar to check how the rescued reptile was doing. It had been fed well, and was sleeping cosily.
The vet had examined it. The rescued python was a young male about 3 years old, 6 ft long, and weighed 12 kilos. He was in good health.
I asked, ‘Would you keep him in that cage for ever?’
‘No, after a week or so, we’d release him in Ratapani sanctuary, adjacent to Bhopal. Every year, we rescue several pythons from Bhopal, including a few from the CM’s residence. Bhopal, with its hillocks and lakes, is a natural habitat of the Indian rock python, a very shy, nocturnal, and non-poisonous snake.’
(The rescued python at Van Vihar National Park, Bhopal on Dec 2, 2015.)
LP (Laharpur Python, as I fondly named him), translocated to Ratapani, would now be a robust male, about 17 ft long, and weighing 70 kilos or more. I hope he found a mate, and is the proud father of several children, and a few grandchildren, too.
Born and educated in Odisha, India, P. K. Dash taught in G.M. College, Sambalpur and had a stint in the State Bank of India before joining the Indian Administrative Service. He superannuated as Additional Chief Secretary to Government of Madhya Pradesh. He lives in Bhopal.
Books by the Author :: Short story collections:
- Tell A Tale and Other Stories
- Invisible Poet and Other Stories
- The Mysterious Ladies and Other Stories
- Fiction
- Kathapur Tales
- Essays
- Pink Diamond and Other Essays
- Self-Help
- How To Be an Author in 7 Days: A Beginner’s Guide to Self- Publishing
- Story books for children:
- Cave of Joy: Anand Gufa
- Two Tales, Three Tellers: A Fairytale & A Fable
Poetry
- O Krishna, O Son! Yashoda’s Sublime Song of Sorrow
- River Song and Other Poems
- Songs of Soil: Selected Poems of an Unschooled Bard: Padma Shri Haladhar Nag
*** Note: The books are available at Amazon.in, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai. Ebooks are available at Amazon Kindle.
BRIGHTENING ONE’S LIFE, OTHER’ LIVES
In dictionary parlance, Self-love implies ‘regard for one’s own well-being and happiness.’ Self-love is said to promote the physical, psychological and spiritual growth of an individual. One ought not to be ‘self-sacrificing’ to please others; one does not need to ‘compromise’ to achieve one’s own goals or requirements.
Every individual is wired differently, and has different ways of ‘prioritizing’ their needs by ‘setting healthy boundaries.’ Without a doubt, self-care involves a healthy mind in a healthy body, accepting yourself as you are, doing what you like to do best at all times. In trying to please others and make others comfortable, one ends up making a comical picture of oneself, just as in the Aesop’s fable of ‘The Man, The Boy and The Donkey. Likewise, when one becomes a candle burning oneself from both ends, the individuality is lost permanently – it’s a robotic existence!
Before I continue, I would like to discuss what ‘narcissism’ is, and whether it is the same as self-love. Narcissism, as the lexicon explains, is an ‘excessive interest in or admiration of oneself and one’s physical appearance.’ A narcissistic person displays qualities of ‘selfishness,’ has a sense of ‘entitlement’ and displays ‘lack of empathy’ towards others. Often, it is a sign of low self-esteem of an individual who is in need of ‘reassurance’ and ‘validation’ from others. In contrast to narcissists, people who practice self-love are ‘mindful’ and choose to act or not to act over situations and happenings. They are strong, confident individuals who are able to make decisions, adapt themselves to changes with ease.
Having said this, I believe that there is a very thin invisible line that distinguishes self-love from narcissism. Being in love with oneself with a positive mindset is a healthy choice and if one sees ‘growth,’ it is appreciable. However, self-love can often turn into an ‘obsession’ which leads to ‘toxic’ behavior.
Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is one of the disorders recognized by the ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.’ Narcissistic individuals will stoop to any extent in order to gain ‘validation’ and ‘approval’ for all their insistent and eccentric behavior. Such objectionable actions can bring along a lot of strain in their interpersonal relationships with their family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances.
Let not self-love ever turn into narcissism.
Let us not be intoxicated with our own selves.
After all, a little caring and sharing can go a long way in fostering and nurturing healthier relationships,more so in a world besotted with newer challenges. Brightening another’s life is beautiful by itself..
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
SACHI ROUTRAY: THE TREND SETTER
Sachi Routray was a legend in his life time, a poet and writer of repute who made many strides in Odia Literature. Born in 1913 in Gurujanga on the outskirts of Khorda town he participated in the freedom struggle in his young days . When Baji Rout the child martyr fell to police firing in Dhenkanal district and his dead body was brought to Cuttack he was one among the few freedom fighters taking him in a procession in the streets of Cuttack city and he made him immortal with his epic poem ‘Baji Rout’. This poem was enough to ignite the minds of the masses against the British Raj. His other poem ‘ Pallishri ‘ depicting the beauty of his native village was equally popular and caught the imagination of the readers . He was a prolific writer who was at ease in both prose and poetry of different genres. His unique style and experiments brought new horizons in Odia Literature. His poem ‘ Pratima Nayak’ depicted the life of a city girl struggling hard for a living and attracted the attention of the readers as well as critics. Simultaneously, he was a forerunner of progressive movement in Odia poetry under the influence of Marxism. When the Odia Poetry was looking for a break from the tradition during post independence period he took the lead and his masterpiece ’ Kabita 1962’ defined the modernity of Odia poetry and marked a watershed in the arena of poetry. He used to edit a literary journal titled ‘ Diganta ‘ which advocated the modernist theories of literature. Deservingly he bagged the highest literary award at the national level ‘Gyanpith Award ‘ in 1986. Before his death in 2004 at the age of 88 he was considered to be the most acclaimed living literary figure of the State. He was a father figure for the successive generations and overshadowed the Odia literary scene for a long time.
In the formative years of my poetic journey he was the shining star and all the special issues of the leading literary journals carried his poems as the lead poem always. Even at an advanced age the sparks of his poetic genius were evident in his lines. The words, the idioms and the ideas of his poetry distinguished himself as a trendsetter in modern Odia poetry. I came face to face with him for the first time when he came to the Utkal University campus to attend a literary event in 1980. For our generation he was a grand patriarch of Odia Literature. To see him and listen to him was craze for us. The university auditorium was packed with students and teachers that day to listen to the great poet. Two years later he was chief guest in a literary function organised by Odia Yuva Lekhak Sammelan at Chandikhol. The very day there was hue and cry over one of my poems recited in the poetry reading session and the controversy over obscenity in poetry was agitated fiercely. There was a heated debate between the oldsters and the young poets going on. Curiously, he supported the theory that there’s nothing obscene in literature and had it been so our forefathers could not have created Konark. His remarks were hailed by the young writers with huge applause and the opposition was silenced with his words.
Years later I had the occasion to meet him at his residence with senior poet Rajendra Kishore Panda, one of his biggest admirers. We had gone to his house in Cuttack to convince him to form a trust in his name to carry on his legacy after his death. During the discussion he was found sceptical about the proposed trust and was apparently keen to get assured that the royalties of his books come to him. This sort of an attitude somehow irked me. On our way to Bhubaneswar I expressed my impression about him candidly before Shri Panda. However, he advised me to see the legendary figures in art and literature at the height of their career and not at their low. He told me that it is just a sign of his senility which should be ignored. It was a great lesson of life for me that day and I still remember those lines. The trust was ultimately formed with Shri Panda as the Chairman and me officiating as the Director. Shri Satakadi Hota , the noted writer and editor of ‘Amrutayan ‘ was the Vice Chairman. Within few years the organisation became defunct with no funds in the coffers and no active members to carry it forward. Subsequently, other organisations came forward to perpetuate his memories after his death and institute awards in his name as a befitting tribute to the legendary poet. In fact nothing can erase his name from the history of Odia literature and he will continue to occupy a position of eminence in the hearts of the poetry lovers for all times to come.
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
When I began my musical journey with my maternal aunt, Dr.Chitra Madhavan, she used the technique of "kelvi paadam" to teach us songs, i.e. the songs were taught purely by listening to their melodic elements blissfully oblivious of technicalities like the musical notes, the count of the rhythmic beat, or stress on the phonetics. These songs were also not part of "mainstream" Carnatic music as she leaned heavily towards popularizing songs by contemporary composers.
As children, this was the perfect setup for the subtler elements of music to reach us. We simply enjoyed the bliss of unity - oneness in rhythm and melody and our music school was akin to a bhajan group that sang with careless confidence and childish glee. Since we were handsomely rewarded with traditional Indian delicacies and snacks (like hot and crispy vadais, dosas and murukku) after recitals, we considered ourselves to be the best. In a 7-year-old's mind, what could possibly be a more obvious sign of a job well done than hot cups of Horlicks or Bourvita after singing for an hour on stage?
We hummed along as we returned home with contented purrs like a litter of kittens from an evening well spent. These are little pleasures of childhood I still hold close to my heart.
It wasn't until much later during my early 20s, that I wanted to explore deeper technical aspects which involved a lot more than being able to reproduce phrases during class.
At this point, I really began to struggle. My confidence morphed into a burning desire to overcome this hurdle and understand the deeper nuances of music. But I felt like I had hit a wall and there was no way forward but a slow deliberate painstaking effort to come through.
Amongst the technicalities and the subtle nuances of beautiful ragas taught to me by wonderful gurus, I also understood the importance of voice culture in Carnatic music.
While most of the time the focus is on what to sing, "how to sing" is often overlooked. This is something that my gurus cultivated in me without my knowing. By simply mimicking their way of singing, I picked up the elements of voice culture.
In voice culture, Omkara sadhana is a technique where the primordial sound "Om" is sung at every note in the octave and you become aware of the vibrations it produces in your body. For any singer, the three most important results of practicing Omkara sadhana are resonance, volume control, and overall voice control. It increases the range of your voice and allows you to reach all octaves. If you are breathing right, you can create a uniform resonance at different levels of your body. To be able to do this, however, it is important to create musical awareness.
You slowly begin to realize that as you go up in frequency and octaves, the vibrations also traverse up your spine. Lower notes are sung from the abdomen, middle notes are sung from the chest and throat and higher notes have a slight nasal intonation and are sung from the head.
With respect to "what to sing" I still have a long way to go since music is known to be as deep as the oceans. When it comes to music even one lifetime isn't enough to know all of it, so what if it takes a few more years? At last, I’ve found the door on the wall!
PC: Illustrations by Grant Snider
Ms Neeraja Sundar Rajan is a healthcare professional with a Masters in Chemical Engineering. She is multifaceted with a passion for art and Carnatic Music. She is an animal lover and cares deeply about their welfare.
LOCKDOWN TAMASHA—JOTTINGS FROM MY LOCKDOWN DIARY
We once debated—maids and their contribution to our busy lives—in our girls’ Whatsapp chat group. The majority opined, saying—we need them as much as they need us. We hire them because our education can contribute more meaningfully to society. We delegate domestic chores, creating jobs for many skilled and unskilled workers. Some said their maids became their lifelines they could never think to forgo. My agreement with them was only partial. An alternate view had found equal strength in my thought stream. Why should someone walk distances to come and do domestic work that should be considered personal? I understand that it is not practical to be entirely self-sufficient in a world of interdependency. But shouldn’t family units hold self-sufficiency in higher esteem and at least experiment in some ways? I have often tried and experienced unlimited joy in self-reliance.
But quite contrary to my stand, I have hired maids most of my life. However, there have been multiple long spells of several months to even three years when I have not. Those would be the times when I would have shifted residence or may have terminated services due to excessive uninformed absence that disturbed my workflow. Fortunately, maids, ever in demand, manage to find new placements. After that, I wouldn’t look for another person, getting used to my routine without external help. It brought me a sense of accomplishment, fitness, and a feeling of all things in control, taking away unwanted shocks, uncertainties, and disappointments from another’s habitual absence.
Humming songs while performing chores helps one artistically sail past the mundane, with the resultant satisfaction evolving into inexplicable happiness, pervading into other meatier interests like writing, bringing forth immense creativity in a limited time. The rewards seemed endless as such experiences brought unexpected revelations. Even time befriended me with its ampleness. Strangely, I possess less time when work is outsourced and come to be less equipped to handle uncertainties.
I made these conscious choices without complaints because I knew I could comfortably rely on my work plan, which I had fixed early in the day or the day before. I could go out any time of the day and for any length of time, not pushing myself to get back home in a hurry just to let the house help inside. It felt like absolute freedom.
Covid-lockdowns in the recent past kept all types of people, social or not, under house arrest. Although dressing up for special occasions was always much loved, the plain, uneventful weeks spent in old pajamas were comfortable in many ways. The projected TikTok videos where people yearned to dress up seemed more of entertainment value. The mind was busy wandering to every creative idea and opening up to thoughts, including the anxious variety, keeping it alive with a self-sermon to appreciate the present.
The kids, now adults, were living with us, addressing their needs and discovering their unique ways to equilibrium. I insisted upon a standard lunchtime but seldom achieved it. They believed it did not work in our home because it was not in continuous practice. So I trailed memory lanes, scanning the past to trace when and where we went wrong. Can we correct it now? Before mealtimes, I religiously knocked on their bedroom doors to find out if they could join us. You guessed it right! My attempts met with partial success.
The ball, now clearly in their court, they struck back with defences anew that we are serious type parents and need to be more fun-loving! To indulge them and make “reparations”, we began by playing cards or watching movies daily. The challenge was our preoccupations with gadgets made it most difficult to find a time suitable for all! But we watched a very different movie of their choice whenever we did. Movies with intricate plotlines that demanded focused attention and yet challenged comprehension were the ones they chose. On one occasion, we watched the film Shutter Island. We quickly hit the sack as it was past midnight when the film ended. The following day my son went thus: “You guys didn’t discuss the movie after it got over and just crashed!” He explained the deeper plot of the film that we had missed. On another occasion, they played nonstop music of their choice and nudged me to dance, which I did sportingly and won their appreciation for my freestyle rhythm. There was infectious laughter in the air, making our best moments.
Despite espousing self-sufficiency, I admit to having live-in help throughout the lockdown. Watching the rest of the world saddled with unusual domestic chores made me both thankful and guilty. But I also sensed a crucial loss seeing my family deprived of the circumstantial compulsion to participate in household chores! Although deemed unenviable at face value, entire families worldwide—during these testing times—plunged into untried domestic activities and absorbed new and eternal life lessons in the bargain. At least, that was the perception we got from social media. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that comes less by choice and more by accident left everyone enriched unimaginably! The fact that bonding happens better through shared domestic chores is unquestionable. Doing household chores may be difficult for the uninitiated, but it is not life-threatening as Covid! For me, it’s certainly therapeutic. But someone, for now, at home, alights angel-like and does all the work. Should I be grateful or complain? I am utterly confused!
If anyone talked about minimalism, I promptly nodded in agreement. But good food remained a constant weakness. Exotic or straightforward, just one creative dish a day stimulates the mind, body and taste buds. It was either my daughter (mostly her) donning the chef cap or me on a given day. Sometimes I would assist her in making gourmet recipes, and sometimes, she would ask me to disappear, preferring a solo culinary expedition. Once in a while, it does make an incredible journey for us humans!
She had a whole week of online exams and, in its midst, wanted to make a particular variety of cookies on her own as her favourite activity for a stress buster. It required separating the yolks from the egg whites and whisking them independently. She was doing a skilful job of separation at the outset when breaking the shell. But in my motherly enthusiasm, I gave her an egg yolk separator. The untrustworthy yolk happened to be weak and fell right through merging with the pristine whites. Our young adult was upset, and I, of course, made myself invisible!
Later she enlightened me that she was more disturbed because I told her it was “okay”; it might not make a big difference to the final output!! To her, who had researched the tiramisu recipe (which is a coffee flavoured Italian dessert) in detail, my “scant regard” for a crucial non-negotiable process was unsettling. The finger-like cookies looked perfect to my forgiving eyes. However, she revealed that it was only the base for the lip-smacking dessert she planned to make and would initiate the second stage the following day. The cookies were left unpampered in the refrigerator for the next few days. Tempted, I was to taste it but restrained myself, thinking she would start the subsequent process soon when her mood for the exotic returned. After a few days, it had disappeared altogether! “Hmmm, it turned soggy”, she sighed, trying hard to hide her sheepish grin when quizzed! I sensed a dilemma common to moms: whether they should offer ideas on better functionality in any process or park them as—to each their own, learning only from the omnipresent know-all Google and firsthand experiences. Fortunately, as a mother, I am never alone in this predicament!
However, to our delight (my husband included), we have seen a new side to her creativity in this period, enjoying her endless delicacies day after day! She often ropes in my son too (whom I’ve taught basic no-frills cooking) to learn a thing or two more in the kitchen; needless to say, how this aspect delights mothers—young boys in the kitchen breaking gender barriers.
Learning to play a variety of card games, dancing to music, and watching movies of our kids’ choice enthralled us through the lockdown. Additionally, there was homemade speciality wine successfully experimented with by my husband to keep our highs intact. With the onset of Corona, our past lifestyles had left us unceremoniously, the future seen as a bag of possibilities, and only the present proved our loyal eternal partner. And how we learnt to embrace it optimally and enthusiastically, accepting the universe never makes mistakes, making our lockdown stories of wholesome nourishment and entertainment. I am sure every fortunate family that escaped the dreadful virus unhurt would have similar stories to regale.
Thanks to the lockdown, one-hour yoga and meditation mornings doubled to two hours. In the second month of lockdown, I resumed work when clients slowly activated correspondence from their end. It was, however, work from home. The rest of my time, I reserved for constant dreaming, writing and newfound singing.
Although I am constantly anxious about the economy and business, I did not miss the outside world and enjoyed solitude to the hilt. I didn’t miss wearing fancy clothes, the interest for which anyway seems to be waning in the wake of my exciting baby steps towards minimalism.
From July 2020, we were back to regular work, commuting to our factory. As we cater to the food industry, we had special permissions to operate. Do you want to take charge of your life or let someone or something like a virus take control of it is a question I ask myself constantly to keep going. However, taking precautions and following Covid protocols laid by the government was essential. I wish and pray that the world and its economy get back to order soonest.
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/
VISIT TO A PET SHOP (COLUMBUS - OHIO)
While driving down Columbus - Ohio, I came across a few pet shops enroute. My curiosity made me stop at one of these shops. On entering the shop, I found it to be very spacious. On the left side were neatly arranged glass kennels, with good lighting and ventilation. There were over dozen breeds of puppies and they were housed breed wise, in the kennels. Visitors could easily view the puppies through the glass, watch them at play and choose the one they prefer to own.
As I was watching the puppies at play, a young girl with a cheerful smile greeted me with a puppy on hand, which was very hyper active.
"Hi sir, would you like to play with this puppy", she asked. "This is Cavalier King Charles Spaniel", she gushed. I am an avid animal lover and before I could reply, I found myself holding the puppy gingerly in my hands. She ushered me to an open cabin, left me enjoy some time with the puppy and closed the cabin door. In passing she mentioned that this breed is classified as a toy dog by Kennel Club. They are friendly and affectionate and hence require a lot of human interaction.
I found that it refused to stay for long in my arms, even though I fondly caressed it. When I put it down, it wagged its tail and vigorously started to nibble at me shoe lace. After a few minutes, it loosened out my shoe lace.
A little while later, for variety, the girl brought a brown Shiba Inu, which was almost fox like and an ancient Japanese breed and also a Cockapoo, a cross between Cocker Spaniel and a Poodle. After spending some more time with variety of puppies, I moved over to see the other pets.
There were variety of cats and one was lazing out in a hammock. There were a couple of parakeets which were very selective in sitting on the hands of the visitors, when invited. I had the pleasure of fondling bunny rabbits and holding a few birds. There was a tortoise too available as a pet.
I left the pet shop a bit reluctantly after an hour carrying back fond memories of the relaxed atmosphere that prevailed amongst the variety of animals and birds at the pet shop.
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.
(Laxi Puja on Thursdays of Margashira / Margazhi Month)
This is the busiest month for Odisha women...it is the month of Manabasa Gurubar. The month of "Margashira". The favourite month of the Lord Himself.
Since childhood the image of "jhotis" (Alpana in Bengali, Rice paste Kollam in Tamil), early winter, early morning waking up and the house smelling of Jhuna dhoopa (Dhoop/ Sambarani is made to produce lot of good smelling fumes in which with the help of coconut dried peel, camphor, little jaggery and jhuna that is obtained from Sal tree resin), mother wearing a white saree with red borders and different sweetmeats (especially pithas made from urad dal and rice batter) is well merged with this special Puja.
Mostly done in Odisha but not unusual in Bengal also as a neighbouring acculturation. Since Goddess Laxmi is considered the Goddess of wealth, she's not only loved but also revered and bit dreaded that if the rituals are not done properly, then She may flee easily, as She's otherwise named as Chanchala (who can move away fast). Hence under the aegis of the Mothers-in-law, the daughters-in-law perform the rituals and the kid daughters learn by watching them....the legacy is passed on with lot of admonishments and superstitious beliefs to the next generation.
The superstitions have basically creeped into our lives for 2 reasons...
1. "Swajati parahinsraka" i.e. intra-species intolerance, especially women are greatest foes of their own species due to jealousy.
2. Many good practices had started to give little extra care to the women on Thursdays, so that they can take bath leisurely, do Shringaar and have some good nutritious food like fruits and sweets. No cumbersome cooking with onion, garlic etc, no non-veg cooking, no nail cutting, no sweeping (Everything should be ready from the previous day), no cleaning of clothes (olden days lacked washing machines) etc.....
But over ages, with suppression of women and lack of education, they started behaving weirdly following these practices as mandatory and without logic. Thankfully, today girls are educated and given more freedom than earlier days and these rituals are sensing a change.
Out of all aspects of the Puja, I like to put these Jhotis maximum (though I was miserable in drawing till I came to +2 when I suddenly discovered that if not a genuine artist, I can be a plagiariser at least, since it needs focus and following the lines and I possessed that faculty well).
Now my daughters have picked up the art. I like both traditional and modern designs alike. In my view, art and literature are like flowing rivers which can pick up or drop many things on their way to the destination.
Goddess Laxmi is not only bestow wealth, but she dwells there, where harmony, peace, punctuality and cleanliness prevail. These facts are less understood and under the pressure to perform the rituals, blindly followed practices, in many households today there would have been massive altercations, verbal abuse taken place, husbands would have reached their workplaces late, kids would have skipped their schools for the sake and likewise.
Be aware of the true Laxmi-ship...after all you need money or anything for a smooth living, peace and happiness. Money is the means and not the goal. In lieu of achieving the goal we take the means as our real goal and get diverted from the original goal i.e. peace, happiness and health.
The rules and rituals should definitely be mended and at places bended for today's working women and well-fed society. Let there be peace, harmony and health everywhere.
Happy Manabasa Gurubar to all.
Aum Shanti...Shanti..Shanti
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.
Found my son Rahul in a happy state of mind this morning, whole night i kept thinking,wish I could take him to the pandal for Ma's darshan, should I try again tomorrow, everything seemed blank in front of my eyes, probably it's not meant to be this time.
When I realised Rahul seemed calm and there was something that kept bringing a smile on his face, probably yesterday 's outing outside the society premises.I just grabbed the opportunity rushed through my morning activities,kept planning, meanwhile Rahul kept monitoring my activities,"does she plan to take me for a long drive today too?".Yes draping a saree was not to happen today too, every minute was precious for me, before he could change his mind,he had already started cajoling me for his brushing and shaving (manages well with a little help).I instructed him to finish his bath soon so I we could step out.He as though understood every verbal propmt,was ready for his shower,i quickly finished my breakfast,poha,easy to digest but if eaten in a hurry can choke you.Rahul wore a new tshirt for the pandal visit.Surprisingly he refused to have breakfast probably out of excitement.
We finally got into the car,was almost thinking of gesturing to the man of the house to hop into the car,who was busy with his morning walk and chatting away with his group of friends but at the same time I was running out of time, what if the place gets crowded?
Picked up coconut and some flowers that my son could offer to the deity.
Finally the car came to a halt at the gate outside the pandal,i got down and went up to Rahul who was sitting in front",let's go for Namoh,namoh!!"....then mamma will give you choco, icecream and choco cake, nothing seemed to work,he just refused to get down."Rahul good boy,let's go!!"i waited for a few minutes and then lo behold!!he loosened his seat belt to my utter surprise and got down,i immediately instructed the driver to park the car and follow us.Rahul held my hand and entered the pandal,drums were playing,he immediately covered his ears with a smile and sat down on the chair, the pandal was almost empty with around fifteen people there.Within minutes the lady volunteers formed a circle and started dancing in Ma's glory, before I knew I was amongst them dancing too with joy and cheer, wasn't expecting anything like this to happen,took it as Ma's blessings.Within ten minutes all was silent again.I went and sat down next to my son.After a while I went up to the volunteers to seek permission if i could take my son right up to Ma's murti,as he is a special child.They immediately said "yes!!".I went up to my son asking him to follow me,he refused once again quite strongly.By now we were the centre of attraction,panditji came all the way upto him to follow him,but he refused.Volunteers instructed to stop the drumming as they sensed the sound was disturbing him.I again sat down beside him,told him about the chocolate and cake he would get as a reward,he probably needed some time.After about fifteen minutes Rahul got up,i held his hand tightly and said "let's go for Namoh namoh!!",he followed me climbed the four wooden steps,me my eyes all moist ,(tears of joy)a few drops rolled down my cheeks,he folded his hands,bowed down with a smile handed over the coconut and flowers to one of the volunteers.I just couldn't believe what was happening in front of my eyes, all'volunteers stood awestruck at one corner,a look of joy,they too were feeling blessed to what they got to witness so early in the morning.,they have been serving selflessly all the devotees last couple of days.One of the volunteers came forward to help me come down the steps as it was slippery due to the thin cotton fabric that they had placed.
As we stepped out, Rahul too was feeling overjoyed at his best behaviour,we stood outside the pandal and clicked a few pics.
As we got into the car i immediately gave him a chocolate as promised as the car started moving,as we drove back today i saw a number of pink blooms(do not know it's name)on our way,it's pink day today dedicated to Ma Siddhidatri who symbolises kindness and affection on the ninth day of celebrations .
Everything that happened this morning was very spiritual and divine.
I bow down to Ma Durga seeking her blessings always.
As the car approached the main gate the wagabond Hushkoo was spotted in his favourite balcony and was stunned to see that his Rahul bhaiya and mommy had gone for a long drive leaving him behind.
For me what happened today was nothing short of a miracle.
Miracles do happen,but one must have the faith.
#JaiDurgaMa
#ShubhoNavami
Ya Devi sarvbhuteshu shakti rupen sansitha namastasyae namastasyae namastasyae namoh namah!!
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)
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: THE STORY OF AN INDIAN HERO ON THE BATTLEFRONTS IN CHINA
During Second Sino Japan War, Chinese General Zhu De, a revolutionary wrote a letter to Jawaharlal Nehru ji in the late 1930s to send some Indian doctors to treat their Chinese soldiers who were getting injured in the battle field. Netaji Subash Chandra Bose, the then President of Indian National Congress made a press statement to appeal for the same. Bose wrote an article in Modern Review on Japan’s aggression on China. The key point for this mission was that India, a country then fighting for its own independence would help another country which was also fighting for the same cause. Dwarkanath Shantaram Kotnis was an Indian doctor born on 10th October 1910 in a middle-class family from Sholapur, Maharashtra. He had two brothers and five sisters. In 1938 after his graduation from Seth G.S. Medical College, University of Bombay, he was preparing for his post-graduation. At this time, he heard about the challenging opportunity to serve in China and immediately wanted to take up this job before going for higher education. Little he or his family knew about China then. His father encouraged young Kotnis to venture out but his mother was sad and worried that he would be going to an unknown territory and serving in a war zone.
He was part of the five member doctors’ team who arrived in China to help the army who were fighting on the front line. Kotnis also had to be in the front line to treat those soldiers. Needless to point out that it was a great risky venture. At one day around 800 soldiers were getting injured and had to be treated. It is said that sometimes Dr Kotnis had to perform 72 hours surgical operations at a stretch without sleep. It was a very stressful job, still the soldiers got the best service possible and very good treatment and recovered under Kortnis. Even while the war was not over and the missions of some foreign doctors were perhaps achieved as the locals had been trained in Medicare , and they decided to go back to their native country including Kotnis’s other Indian compatriots, Kotnis stayed back and then joined the Eight Route army in 1939 to nurse and treat. He did an effortless job. People used to come to thank him for stupendous contribution. His hard work and dedication for the country was noticed and he was made the Director of the Bethune International Peace Hospital. Kotnis swore an oath by the tomb of Dr Bethune (tomb of Dr Bethune was after the Doctor Norman Bethune, a Canadian doctor who had also been a great medical helping hand for the Chinese) that I will live the life as yours and he truly lived up to the expectation. He was very fluent in Mandarin and taught medical students at a time where there were no text books in that language. Kotnis was writing his own text books and when he was writing the second text book on page number 173 he collapsed. Later he died.
He was very happy in China and wrote letters to his family which sounded that he was happy and content with the profession he was living. Every place he went in China he would describe in detail in his letters to his family. He loved Chinese culture and the place so much that he learnt the language and became proficient in writing and speaking. His Chinese name was Kedhihua dai fu. He got lot of love from the people in China and gained popularity and was adored as a hero. That was the primary reason why he did not leave China during Sino Japan war (1937-45) described as the War of Resistance by the Chinese. He fell in love with a Chinese nurse, Guo Qinglan, In 1941 and they both married. The next year they were blessed with a son. The Child was named Yin Hua, Yin meaning India and Hua meaning China. But due to too much hectic work and pressure which Kotnis had to undergo while treating patients during the demanding time of war, he in the year 1942 died at a very young age of 32 due to epilepsy attack. He was buried in heroes courtyard in Nanquan village, China. His son followed his father path to become a graduate from a medical college but he also died for not getting proper treatment in 1968.
When Kotnis died Mao Zedong had said, “Army lost a helping hand and Country lost a friend, let us bear in mind his internationalist spirit. “Till today also he is a sign of Sino-Indian friendship. His wife was honored at several India China diplomatic functions which were attended by Vajpayee and before that KR Narayan. Qinglan his wife often visited her in laws in Mumbai and passed away in 2012. Chinese delegates and officials used to visit Manorama, who was Kortnis’s sister. Together they would reminisce the Doctor’s great work.
School Shijiazhuang Ke Dihua was founded in 1992 and named after Kotnis. More than 50000 people have graduated from that school since its inception. All the new students and staff must swear before the statue that they would work like him according to Liu Wenzhu, an official of that school. Liu hopes that Kotnis is not only remembered as an icon who had served people and wounded soldiers in a hard and trying circumstances very efficiently but also as a symbol of friendship between India and China. Madame Sun-Yat said that regarding his role in the revolution “his memory will belong not only to Chinese or Indians but to the noble roll -call of fighters for the freedom and progress of all mankind, the future will honor him more than the present because he struggled for the future generation ”. A memorial at his birthplace, Solapur was installed on 1 January 2012, built by the Solapur Municipal Corporation. The south side of the Marty’s memorial in Shijiazhuang city of the Northern Chinese Province is dedicated to Kotnis. There is a statue in his honor. A small museum is there which has a handful of books written by Kotnis on his passage from India to China.
Kotnis is revered in China with their textbooks telling the story of the doctor to their children. It is said that Beijing hospital has created a medical team in his memory. Yet his adventure and medical philanthropy is little known in the land of his birth. ‘Few in Mumbai or the rest of the country know about the doctor who served in China during the 1938 Sino-Japanese war and died there in 1942,’Kotnis’s younger sister Vatsala had once remarked.
But it is worthwhile to mention that the well-known film-journalist, Khwaja Abbas Ahmed had written about Kotnis in his bestseller, “One Who Never Returned” in 1945. The following year there was the screening of the classic Bollywood movie “Dr.Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani”, directed by V.Shantaram.
In 2003 at a reception party in Beijing in his contour, while introducing Guo Kotnis, wife of Dr Kotnis, the then Prime Minister Vajpayee had said, "Even if you don' t know who Dr Kotnis was, you must have seen the film Dr Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani."
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
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