Literary Vibes - Edition CXXIV (30-Dec-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
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,
It's a great pleasure to offer you the 124th edition of LiteraryVibes and to wish you a very Happy New Year. May the year 2023 bring you a lot of happiness and cheers. Hopefully LiteraryVibes will contribute to it by bringing smiles to you and filling your heart with pure literary joy.
I feel privileged to introduce to you a wonderful family from Chennai, loaded with literary talent. The youngest child, Vishal, is a prodigy who had mastered literature, science, spirituality from the very young age of nine. His understanding of the world through a unique lens of rare intellectuality is awesome. His elder brother Ashmanth is no less prodigious, with exceptional insight into manifold issues. The mother Mrs. Vidhya Anand is equally talented and along with her husband, is the inspiration for her children. Let us welcome them with thunderous claps and cheers and wish them success in whatever they touch. We also have Shri Gurudas Brahma, a retired IRTS officer from the Railways who has written a delightful reminiscence of his early days in the scenic surroundings of Chakradharpur of Central India. Mr. Pushpendra Rai, a retired IAS officer from 1977 batch of Manipur cadre, is a prolific writer whose blog is hugely popular among his friends and admirers. We have the pleasure of adding a beautiful piece of enchanting travelogue from his blog in today's edition. Ms. Pournami Vinod, another first-time contributor from Thrissur, is a sensitive poet and a wonderful addition to the LiteraryVibes family.
One of the milestones of old age is a Cataract surgery of the eyes. It is probably an affirmation that one has seen a lot in life and some of them have left a lasting impression on the eyes. Eventually the layers of these residues are to be cleaned and vision restored to a reasonable degree. I had Cataract surgery of the right eye three weeks back, on the 7th of December. Although the surgery was painless, the aftermath was filled with tension, with excessive fear of damaging the eye by inadvertent carelessness. So I had to wear dark glasses all the waking hours and a plastic cover on the eye while sleeping, (I looked like a non-violent, benign pirate) The constant supervision by a well-meaning life partner made life a listless affair. I experienced what "living on edge" meant - a slight aberration by way of sleeping on the "wrong side" or removing the sun glasses for a moment brought forth a torrent of admonition from my better half. But I endured all that with my traditional composure and obsequious smiles. And after a week the operating surgeon gave an all clear. Life's tottering boat set sail on turbulent waters once more and here I am, writing my editorial for LV124.
Every adversity, as the saying goes, has some lessons to offer. I learnt many. Some of them might be of interest to you:
1. Since it was a planned surgery I was looking forward to blissful moments of quiet mediation with eyes closed, mind calm and enforced solitude. Since reading books, watching movies, browsing WhatsApp were banned, I had planned to listen to devotional songs, do chanting of mantras and recital of slokas. Believe me, I did not last even half an hour in this supposed-to-be enchanted state. I became restless, and almost went crazy. An out-of-the-character rebelliousness seized me and the worst sufferer was my wife, who wondered what had caught hold of me, why the old bone was doing a wild dance, shaking and beating like a hallucinating stick on a protesting drum. There was no listening to songs, devotional or otherwise, no chanting of mantras or slokas by me. I pined for the newspaper and the television as if they held the thread of my life in a delicate balance. By the second evening I was tearing my hair, I sang songs in a loud voice and recorded them in video clips. In an act of vengeance I sent them to my unsuspecting friends and WhatsApp groups. In one of the songs one can hear the voice of my desperate wife pleading with me to stop being crazy and imploring all the invisible beings - Gods, absent relatives, and ghosts of our forefathers being some of them - to come to her rescue. An unexpected offshoot of the mad exercise was a message from one of my classmates from college which read like this: "Oye.....(he addresssed me affectionately as his wife's brother), when your eyes are open you inflict short stories on innocent victims, when they are closed you throw songs at them, when will you stop?"
2. I had been told by everyone that the eyes being covered with dark glasses, sleep would be a constant companion. Strangely, sleep eluded me, probably because I had been denied the freedom to choose when to sleep or to be awake. In short, the myth that old age quietens human beings and makes them calm, docile, submissive, or disciplined, exploded on my face (and on the face of my poor wife) with a loud, deafening bang. I remembered wistfully all the advice given to me by well wishers for decades to practice Yoga, Pranayama and Anulam-Bilom which I had contemptuously dismissed. Perhaps they would have turned me into a calm and composed person if I had practised them. On the other hand, my inner turbulence surprised me. I don't want to give unsolicited advice to readers to practice whatever mumbo-jumbo suggested by evolved human beings, but I suspect at some point in life one will be tested on the degree of inner calmness one possesses and most of us would fail the test.
3. From the third day I started watching movies and the highlights of the FIFA World Cup, with the thick sunglasses on. That brought a lot of relief to my turbulent soul but the camouflaging of the colors under the dark glasses took away some of the pleasure of watching. The wife was secretly happy that all heroines of movies would look dark through the sunglasses, and I happily conceded that satisfaction to her. I was in no position to bargain and was prepared for anything in exchange of lying on the bed and looking at the ceiling through the blasted sunglasses.
I want to say a few words about the movies because in those dark (!) hours they left some sort of a deep impression.
(a) The first movie that we watched was "Dhokha" - a racy suspense story where everyone is cheating on everyone else. It's a really good movie, definitely worth watching. The twist at the end is mind-boggling. We kept discussing the story for many hours, long after the movie was over - an undeniable proof that the movie is good.
(b) The second movie was "Goodbye" - a tragic story with Amitabh Bachan and Neena Gupta in the lead. Both are outstanding actors. But the film left me highly disturbed. It is about an old man losing his wife to sudden death by heart attack and his recollection of their days together. The memory is so poignant and realistic that it left me breathless with agony. I strongly felt that even the art movies should draw the line somewhere. They should not break people's heart with grief. My God, why should one go through it just for the sake of watching a movie!
(c) The third movie, "Doctor G", fortunately, was a hilarious one - about a lone male Post-Graduate student in a Gynecology class with twenty other students who are all females. His ordeals in the hands of his class mates and the stern lady professor pushes one to bouts of hearty laughters. A must watch movie for those who enjoy innocent fun.
Let me wish all of you a delightful, hilarious time in the new year. Let your days be filled with laughter and nights with happy dreams. Let life be fulfilling for you and 2023 be a memorable year for all of us.
Do share the following links with your friends and contacts:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/470 (Poems, Short Stories and Miscellaneous articles)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/469 (Young Magic)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/467 and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/468
(Two medical related articles by the prolific Gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo)
Keep smiling, we will meet again on the last Friday of January 2023 with the 125th edition of LiteraryVibes.
Wishing you A Happy New Year again and with warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
December 30, 2022
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
YES-NO, UM..M..M..
02) Haraprasad Das
JESUS CHRIST (YISHUKHRISTA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
AN EULOGIUM
ABANDON SHIP
04) Ajit Dash
EVOLVED LOVE
LOVE
05) Abani Udgata
BIRDS OF MANGALAJODI
06) Jayshree Misra Tripathi
HOMECOMING
07) Kamalakanta Panda
NISHABDA SWARA
08) Sreerama Murthy
FAMINE FLAG
09) Pournami Vinod
MOON AND A BLUEFISH
10) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN
11) Krishna Tulasi
NEW YEAR EVE'S OATH
END OF ALL THE ENDINGS
12) S. Sundar Rajan
MY SUPER MOM
THE SUNNY SEVENTIES
13) Gita Bharath
EVIL EYE
14) Pradeep Rath
GOATS IN FINE FRENZY
15) Archee Biswal
NOSTALGIA
16) Arpita Priyadarsini
A NEW SUN
17) Setaluri Padmavathi
CHRISTMAS
18) Pradeep Biswal
THE BOATMAN
19) Dr(Col)Rekha Mohanty
THE HOLIDAY SEASON
20) Sharanya Bee
HOLY
21) Snehaprava Das
MOKSHA
22) Indumathi Pooranan
MISSED IN MIST
23) Seetha Sethuraman
SOUL ART
SANS REGRET
PEARLS OF LIFE
24) Prof.Dr.Sidhartha Das
TIMBER DRY
25) Ravi Ranganathan
OF A CERTAIN BOND
26) Prof Niranjan Barik
TABLES AND MY TOIL
27) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE BORROWED MOMENTS
BOOK REVIEW
01) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
AS GOOD AS MY WORD by K.M. Chandrasekhar
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Dr. Iti Samanta
A MOTHER'S PALLU
02) Fakirmohan Senapati
DAK MUNSI - Postmaster
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
INFLORESCENCE
04) Chinmayee Barik
THE ECHO OF SILENCE
05) Ms. Gayatri Saraf
SPRING OF INNOCENCE
06) Dr. Radharani Nanda
BLOOD IS RED
07) Gokul Mishra
ATTU
08) Neerja Sundar
TALES FROM HINDUSTAN WEEK
09) Ashok Kumar Ray
DEATH'S CRUELTY (Part-2)
10) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
RAINBOW WEDDING
Table of Contents :: MISCELLANEOUS
01) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE
02) Gurudas Brahma
A TRAIN OF MEMORIES
03) Pushpendra Rai
FIVE WEEKS; FIVE PLACES...
04) Ishwar Pati
DRIVING ME CRAZY
05) Vidhya Anand
VENETIAN BLINDS
06) Hema Ravi
EVERYONE GETS A SHARE
07) Sumitra Kumar
LOVE YOU, DECEMBER!
08) Dr.Aparna Ajith
HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY..
MATTANCHERRY’S JEW STREET..
09) Sheena Rath
MERRY CHRISTMAS
10) Nitish Nivedan Barik
LEAF FROM HISTORY..
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Hiya Khurana
HISTORY IS SYNONYMOUS TO MYSTERY
02) Trishna Sahoo
SEVEN HABITS
03) Anura Parida
IF I HAVE WINGS
A JOYFUL SOUND
04) Vishal Anand
SERENE VICTORIES
05) Ashmanth Anand
MANKIND- THE ULTIMATE
(To the memory of Pablo Neruda, the late Chilean poet.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Do I hear - your 'yes...
um... no', does your eloquent 'um',
hide the breath of sea-ozone?
Your sighs resemble the wild sea wind,
shy moves foam like the ebb.
I cannot really fathom.
If your sigh masks not a 'no',
why shying away from saying so!
Do you fear the season of fall?
Before me lazily shrinks
this languid stream, its wet spot
choking on a bed of dry dreams!
I do spot a ripple in the bog,
its reluctant mushy mud, a lick
of honey, just a dilemma away!
The late night wakes up
thirsty, the stream flows
in the backyard, dulcetly noisy.
You lurk there, the dark's lumen,
I inhale the sweet salinity
from breaths of the wet earth.
The wise owl sits silent,
flapping wings, sharpening
talons of presentiment -
before hooting an invite,
but no clear-eyed clear focus -
the prowler seems tonight, the prey.
The sky is opening its
doors and windows, the moon
is arriving, stars dimming.
The night is leavening from its languor,
changing from polka dotted black
into pale pastel of untamed hours.
Risking a walk to the familiar pond,
pushing aside reeds and rushes,
I descend down with ginger steps.
The impatient squelching mud,
the wry pouting lips rise puckering;
burying me under a sighing bliss.
(Footnote - Imagining an intimate hour of the poet Neruda with his rustic Burmese charming beloved Josie Bliss.)
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.
(Translation from original Odia by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Where are you, little one?
I sense your footfalls
in the wind’s rustle
across our bereft courtyard.
Be happy, my child,
wherever you are.
Let my conscience,
that moved heaven and earth
to recover from you the cost
of my few drops of blood,
carry the burden of that cross
a while more, penance for my blunder.
I dream of the day
I may pass the litmus test
to stand neck to neck
with your moral benchmark.
You would be the chosen one, I know,
for the Lord’s Holy Shroud,
even if the history would lay the Lord
differently in His immortal coffin.
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)”
How are we brought up
to revere the radiance
and denounce the darkness
and are taught to kill the night
with candles
with lamps and lights
and many other weapons
of luminosity.
How are we conditioned
to expect a monster
lurking in every shadow
and to fear the diabolical dark
and are taught to seek out the light
to brighten up our path
to lead us to the truth
and perhaps to our salvation.
Have we ever wondered
if we can create magnificence
without a canvas
without a backdrop to hold our colours?
Have we ever wondered
if we could see
those twinkling little stars
in their sparkling splendour
and if we could see the moon
wax and wane?
The night in its darkest armour
perhaps is the greatest equaliser
sweeping across the streets
and the narrow gullies
the corridors and the lanes
the valleys and the hills
and all ups and downs
get razed to a level playing field
dressed in the same cloak
in different shades of grey.
Kill the night if you may like to
for your insecurities and fears
scare you and overpower you
but do not forget to erect
a monument somewhere
on the crossroads of your mind
in honour of the valiant knight
snug on the saddle of his dark steed
with its front legs raised in the air.
(Note: In a monument the front legs of a horse off the ground indicates that the knight had sacrificed his life in the battle in the face of the enemy.)
My ship with its holds
filled with hopes and aspirations
has just been hit by
an unannounced iceberg
of intolerance and fanaticism
that has left a gaping hole
on her starboard side
shearing off her screws
and paralysing her rudder.
The cruel sea doesn't waste any time
and rushes in through all the openings
to fill up the lower decks menacingly
and as the level rises
I order Abandon Ship
and my crew rush to their
boat stations following the drill
they are used to
while my bosun stands steadfast
under the davits
in his drenched overcoat
and dripping boots
supervising lowering of the life boats.
Standing on the bridge
with my arms crossed over my chest
I look at the forecastle
rising up steadily
as the stern dips
and try to wrench myself
out of time's ballast
far away from the uncertain shores
beyond the horizon
wondering how of late
the climate has changed
and the icebergs have
outnumbered the ships on high seas
and prepare myself
to say hello to Davy Jones
and enter his locker for good
along with my ship.
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.
Aftab and Shradha live in leaving Indian love
History traversed once again in the name of neo-science
Sendoff the love of Sati and Shiva, Radha and Krishna
Leave-taking phenomenon of Dehi Pada pallava Mudaram
Manifestation of Ardhanariswar half women and Lord
Love evolving into leaving devotion and compassion not only
Darling Living in archipelago is beyond any cultural landscape
Empowerment over Skyy Vodka in one hand cigarette in another
Leaving empowerment funda of Laxmi, Saraswati and Durga
Imparting neo-secular progressive manifesto of excellence
Land of sorrow ocean of tear valley of death transformed
End of life leaving holy relics thirty-five pieces in neo-reliquary
Your feet blossoms like lotus
counteracts the poisonous ego
your lip showers elixir smile
Helms amorous love to generate
consensually know the relationship
Nor love impetus into transgenic and pieces
To find your love for me offering prayer
Let your pretty, tender feet adorn my head
Shedding of your anger making me wait often
Accepting reborn for re-union in cosmos
Heart never creased nor pieces into many
Altafs are meteorites as transatlantic
Fake words not desirable of shraddha’s love
Now live in is standing in witness box
falling in songs of invocation depicts love
Poet Sri Ajit Dash by birth inherits his forefather Pariskhit Rathasharma’s legacy as one of the Navaratna Ministers of a Royal King. Being an astute organiser, socio-political as well as Development activist, he has made his presence globally. A freelance journalist and motivator, Sri Ajit Dash leads his life with lots of diversifications as an expert, imbued with utmost passion in the fields of Literature, Language, Environment, Governance, Entrepreneurship Promotion. He is experienced in Media house promotion and Electoral Politics too. Now a days his study is going on in the Use of Multilingualism, Wavelength and frequency of Odia Script, Words and Sentence pronunciation by different speakers in a multilingual perspective. Prof D. K. Ray, Late Prof of English, had compared his poems with the legendary Irish poet W. B. Yeats in the preface to his book of poetry “Midnight Dream” published in 2017. Sri Dash follows his father’s poetic accomplishments as his recently published book "Wings of Burning Violin" has been a great success.
When the sky is flighty, feathery,
the air filled with sweet smell of
distant soil carried by migrant feet
the dank marsh, the opaque waters
dissolve umpteen questions of ages.
I come like monsoon clouds before me,
brief days and nights spent sometimes
in black-winged brilliance, sometimes
in purple shimmering and many others.
A self- absorbed monk
meditates on the the mirror of the wetland.
The shadows that come and go with wind
fly against the known boundaries of land.
The wings, brave and joyous, dare the mind
that lies caged within the it’s own doors.
In the fine morning when the sky opens
the reeds flanking the narrow channel,
muddy waters sing in a loud whoosh and spring
a thousand water lilies, their eyes half-shut .
(2)
Tiny fishes
In the muddy water cross-cross
like rope and swim forward
in our pitiless landscape where everything
is knife-edged, lines are always sharp at
shadow’s borders.
Away from the wetland, armies go on their
frenzied march past, maps in text books
stain the satchels of school kids
( ** A vast wetland on the edges of Chilka lake, famous site for sighting winter migratory birds)
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
The final descent
to the land of temples and hills,
through friendly skies, circumnavigating
unfriendly ones; monsoon thundershowers,
bolts of lightning, vibrations that set your teeth on edge.
Clouds afloat in various shades of blue.
Wheels screech on touchdown,
glide to a gentle halt;
Birds aghast at the invasion of metal foes.
I am Home, from distant shores
journeys spanning thirty years.
Each touchdown,
I glance at the deula, towering 150 feet high,
secure in the knowledge
I will soon retrace the steps of my ancestors,
over cobbled stones, pray at the same shrines,
at Ekamra Kshetra, as I did with my grandparents
and parents, in awe, in my childhood.
I smile in recollection of their endearing words,
ruffling my hair, now silver-grey, miss their embraces,
the healing touch of their soft pats on my cheeks,
the stories they shared, their tears as we bid farewell.
I am Home.
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.
NISHABDA SWARA (THE SONG OF SILENCE)
(Translation from original Odia by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Muted green
of the banana grove
brings me the quiet beats
of your heart
as the boatman’s shouts
bring a relieved sigh
to the worried traveller
waiting to cross a swollen river.
With braille you etch my skin
with the alphabet of love,
my caressing raindrops
wet-finger the earth,
the metaphor for
our private poetry.
Your presence in my life,
a refreshing breeze;
emboldens me against
my sorrows,
guilt and remorse
bolting by the backdoor.
My heart feels sheltered
in your cloistered love;
you, my sacred basil,
enshrined in my household.
O’ my presiding deity,
I love to be your captive devotee.
Kamalakanta Panda (Kalpanta) is a renowned Odia poet lives and writes from Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, over the last forty years. He is often referred to as Kalpanta (meaning the ‘ultimate’) in Odia literary circles. He is a poet of almost legendary repute in Odisha and if one has not read Kalpata, then, he hasn’t read the quintessence of Odia poetry. He is famous for a quirky decision: he would never collect his poems into books himself. However, one may not find an Odia literary journal, or an anthology not enriched by his poems. His recent passion is to re-discover quaint and musical Odia words, and use them in poetry to enhance its nuances and contours. He is shy and quiet by disposition and believes to serve his muse, the deity-poetry, away from humdrum and razzle-dazzle of poetic forums. (He can be reached at his resident telephone No.06742360394 and his mobile No. 09437390003)
Translated by: Elanaaga
They see the hills of cotton in the sky;
assume they are milk vans approaching them!
They sleep on any ground full of crevices
where iguanas creep around.
They can lie down even over small caltrops
on bare lands, pebbly fields.
They dance on an upended utensil;
can even kiss a serpent’s hood.
They want to move about in the world
on a raft of faltering steps.
Setting foot on the netherworld
and touching the sky with hands,
they avidly desire to become victors of the world.
Thanks to their unbiased mind,
they don’t discern any difference between
ups and downs, noble and ignoble,
prosperity and poverty, birth and death,
and feasible and impossible.
They mistake the depths of the ground
to mother’s womb.
They know not at all that the death
that hoists a famine flag and steals motherly love
relishes the tender lives; that the bore well’s mouth,
akin to a dried-up breast is death’s agent.
Sreerama Murthy is a senior journalist cum poet in Telugu literary field. He writes with the pen name, Nijam. He worked in many Telugu newspapers as an editor notably Andhra Patrika, Andhra Prabha, Soorya and so on. He is now the editorial advisor of Mana Telangana newspaper. Nivuru, Naalugo Paadam, Alalu etc. are the collections of poetry he has so far published. The name of the next one to come is Boodida Chetla Poolu. Of late, he honed his skill in writing prose poems. His poetry reflects the grief and travails of marginalized people.
Dr. Surendra Nagaraju, born in 1953 in Telanagana State, Elanaaga is a well-known poet, translator and critic in the field of Telugu literature. He is a paediatrician, but now only pursuing his literary interest. After working as a Medical Officer abroad for 6 years, he rendered his services in Andhra Pradesh Vaidya Vidhana Parishat and retired in 2012 in the rank of Deputy Commissioner.
He penned 32 books so far, 15 of which are original writings and 17 are translations. Of the latter, 8 are from English to Telugu, and 9 are from Telugu to English. His works comprise books of free verse, prosodic poems, experimental poetry, language-related essays, essays of criticism, standard crosswords and so on. He is an ardent fan of Indian classical music, especially Hindustani.
(Translated by Sreekumar Ezhuthaani)
Rowing the boat
Gently down the stream
slowly,
A shard of time
Left for the shore
A blue fish
A cloud dark spot
On its tail fins
Left to sink or swim
Makes it to
The ripples
Into my eyes
He is bent on
Describing a drowned man
To his schoolmate
His crush
Dear
Where were you yesterday?
Yesternight, as the moonlight
Flooded here
Walking around on my fins
Looking for you amid the ripples
I saw a big fish
Heading headlong
Into water
Dear
His eyes were not like ours
No frilly gills, no pectorals, no tail fins
His parted lips
About to say something
His strong hands
Still around another
His legs
Still on a walk
I tried kissing him
Like I kiss you
(delicately, of course)
His eyelids drooped
Water lilies wilting
Dear
His heart was still at it
In his last struggle
He went down to the depths
I went up to the ripples
Moonlight
Seeing all these
Rained tears
Pournami Vinod, teacher by profession, loves literature and writes poetry in Malayalam. She lives with her husband Vinod and daughters Nak Shathra ,Navaraga at Thrissur ( Kodugallur ,Anapuzha ) in Kerala. she Published a collections of poem called Barsanayile Radha .
Though She be but little, She is fierce
William Shakespeare
She relates to one ‘n all, and the burly, the hurly
Laughs, the lilt of which continues its ring in ears
Her lips part revealing tooth-pearls etched on infinite glossy
Incarnate tenderness, a dewdrop on a blossoming red rose
Warmth swaddling, the dance of red ‘n white always about
But show her injustice and let her hear a baby cry…
A tiger emerges from the dusky lashes of her half-closed eyes
*Straddling the tiger, wielding a trident, that crackles aloft *
And those dark forces, once unseen, cowering in shadows, lurking
Now seen, only bloodied, battered and slain
She is a dainty, with the ground beneath her feet lighting up
Evokes a smile, a glow, leaving all wondering whence the warmth
She moves as like a cloud, yet unmoving and still
Lingering alone to cover the Sun’s torrid, at will
She embraces, her nimbus aglow, bells chiming around ‘n about
But commit a heinous untruth, a malignant stare!
She, veritably a woman atop, striding a cadaver!
Dancing free rein, wearing a garland of heads of injustice ‘n liars,
Her tongue out drooling, swaying to, swaying fro, forever vermilion
*Wreaking destruction with venom of dread, righting wrongs *
She speaks akin the notes of a flute, dancing on river beds
Those notes transforming words around laughing rocks
She speaks listening to your every word
Fulfilling another’s need, her life, with a smile gracing
No fear in confessing to her, every untoward understood
But let her see an innocent robbed of a smile, inflicting sorrow’s vile
For no fault or reason of the guiltless
Then brace! for a tsunami of lava through her pearly teeth
Rest assured, the demons nothing mere ember and a faint screech
*With timid smoke from a mound, an ashen heap *
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.
Moving towards the end
A few days left
Then I realised I didn't have time
To remove all the wounds from the soul
The wounds stay still
So does the scar
I searched in puddles
The reflections in the mirror
Looks like the spring won't last
The water was transparent
Unlike their weird actions
And trust just broken like a promise
I searched in the dust
And the mist and the clouds
Through folklores and gray woods
And stories and myths also
Whether an eraser can be found
To rubs the regrets away
Just a few days more
Darker shades of black goes
To bring in the cold, white snow
The snow freezes the thoughts
The thoughts then burn with my mind
And the leaked ice flows from head to toe
The next year comes by
And all come back as a spark
They don't fade away
Until I decide to do so
So I made my choice today
And it is to
Cherish it the fullest, the fullest
Be the archer and the prey from the start
Obviously, never spill that blood
Stored in me, to vent out
Never miss the past, but create memories
And this is my oath on New Year's Eve
Doubtful December
I caught my breath
Escaped mental death
I hope you are listening, dear friend
We passed eleven months somehow
But this year will be etched in my heartbeat
For the departing train of bearing diseases has come back
And that disease is you, only you
I thought you'd love to stay
But you preferred to resist me
Why should I be treated like an animal?
It sure is hard, to pass this December
My tears got converted to acid rain
December froze it to form acid snow
It fell from the mansion window I stared at
You weren't there, I regretfully missed you
You leave me every month
You tolerate me like it's an obligation
Do tell me this time you're normal
Tell me this Christmas is ours to be
Tell me you will be there in this Christmas Eve
Tell me we will put up the tree together
Tell me you've got gifts to make me smile
Don't you break me like you did last time
Let this December be the end of all the endings
Let this Christmas be a chemical formula to happiness
Let this Christmas bring blessings and change
Let the Doubtful December transition to a delightful December
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.
Multitasking has her balancing seal,
Youthful exuberance envelopes her zeal,
Straddling chores, professional and domestic,
Ushering an elegance, that'll click,
Portraying a will, ne'er to yield,
Energised by drive to succeed,
Resolve so strong, that'll enhance,
My admiring friends are her ardent fans.
Organised approach of yours, ne'er my soothing balm.
My Super Mom.
THE SUNNY SEVENTIES
S. Sundar Rajan
When just out of his teens,
He burst on the International scene,
Scoring on debut, runs, seven seventy four,
Which is a record score.
He is a model opening bat,
Who does, for his runs, graft,
Twenty three* tons he has to date,
His hunger for runs, yet to abate.
Sinny for India were the Seventies,
With Gavaskar at the batting crease.
When the Caribbean saw him in full flow,
They eulogised him in a Calypso.
A picture of confidence he does portray,
For defence is his forte,
His wicket, he ne'er has tossed,
Hence many milestones, he surpassed.
He has bagged the Wisden too
And records to conquer remain very few,
For Sunil, the century maker,
For Sunil, the record breaker.
Note:: * Gavaskar retired with thirty four test centuries to his credit
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.
To ward off the evil eye,
Across cultures and lands
People wear symbols of faith
And cross fingers ,
Or gesture with their hands.
On my morning walk,
Atop a newly built house,
I saw this horned head---
Meant to absorb the dread
Evil eye
Of a casual passer-by.
Poor head, how will you cope
With the negative energies
All around?
Are you a figurative trope
For guardian of the home
An expression of the hope
That no evil may come
To the dwellers therein?
Gita Bharath has enjoyed five years of teaching middle school before starting on a banking career that lasted thirty four years. Now, happily retired, she focusses on writing and trying out kolam art. Her first book Svara contains three hundred poems, comprising narrative, humour,and philosophical verses. Her work has featured in international anthologies, and won prizes from Literoma, Asian Literary Society, Story Mirror, etc,
GOATS IN FINE FRENZY
Pradeep Rath
As I got no 'like'
for GOATs
in my Face Book post
I liked it myself.
How often,
ah, how often
Pele, Maradona
and now Messi,
greatest among the greats
mesmerised with their fine exploits,
filled ecstasy in my idle moments with their wondrous goals
and the whole stadia, and parts of the world went wild,
hollered, clapped
and danced in frenetic frenzy,
cherished the blessed moments.
Thought it proper to enliven my friends' hearts
with those sublime shots
and if they ignore,
it doesn't matter,
may be they are too busy or simply uninterested
either in the person or in the subject,
let them stay blessed.
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.
A single raindrop,
A cool, gentle breeze.
The smell of grass after rain,
A newborn bird's wail.
All of these,
Hold a special meaning.
They are part of an unforgettable memory
Small boats in this stormy sea.
A night spent in a cozy hut,
Somewhere far from the city.
The arrows of water shooting outside,
Us lighting lamps and savoring the sight.
No bindings, no problems,
Those were the days.
Now I am searching for those raindrops again
Those little gestures of nature I crave.
The chilly wind in the mountains,
And me standing in a black dress.
I was looking up at the white skies
My life free of any worries or lies.
The breath-taking sight in front of me
And you standing next to me.
The small cottages brightly lit
Oh, how much I miss it!
The relaxing smell after the rain
The grass seemed to have been repainted.
I remember us staring at the dew
While the sky was busy transforming into a mesmerizing hue.
It rained again today,
And I am eager to go to the grass fields
But I wonder if I can handle the flood of memories
I have still not healed.
A bird flying above us,
And our eyes following its trace,
The cries of a baby bird
Ceasing due to the mother's words.
There's a nest in the tree in front of my house,
It reminds me of memories long forgotten.
Hearing the bird's cries,
An ache of longing has begun to rise.
Me dancing to the tunes of my heart
And us staring at the evening sun
The smell of the campfire in the dark
The list goes on and on..
These memories hurt me a lot,
They attack me like a row of bullets.
I don't want to reminisce the rush
They remind me of us.
But sometimes they are like the North Star,
Guiding my aimless life.
They make the strings of my heart touched,
As I am into Nostalgia's hug, clutched.
Archee Biswal is from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is currently pursuing MA in Analytical and Applied Economics at Utkal University. Her dream was to be a writer ever since she was 9 years old. Her poems and short stories have been published in various magazines such as Chandamama and Kloud 9. She likes dancing, painting, and playing instruments such as the keyboard and guitar. She speaks 6 languages including German and Spanish, which she learnt while staying in Germany. Her favourite wish is to travel all over the world and collect new experiences.
Moving with a new pace
Making peace with the past
Learning ways to cope
With self and others
We learn to grow and let go
The sun shines
Barely making us realise
That it's infact burning
And giving us the warmth
That we cherish
The continously revolving earth
Makes us realise
That how nothing in this world
Is permanent
And how a thing of beauty today
Is a misery of tomorrow
We look at ourself
And remember how we've
Embraced everything
And nothing at the same time
That how we've grown out of things
And mended the scars
Making them fade into the oblivion
Showing it all seem new
Like a brand new guitar
With all it's strings intact
A new sun arises
With a hope of tinted tomorrow
And rays of love
Oozing out
From the very first morning of hope
We learn to accept
And make new memories
With all the possibilities
Of miseries and bloom
We evolve
Just like a caterpillar in a cocoon
With a hope of
Spreading wings
And giving another round
Around the sun
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.
No difference in race or religion
And no disparity between rich and poor
The joy it brings is immense
Schools, roads, and streets
Public places and homes
Illuminate with colourful lights,
That eliminates the darkness of life
Boundless pleasure insights
Unlimited feelings in the county
The pleasure lies in sharing and caring
Gifts and greetings exchanged
Friends and relatives gather
Carols are sung in the community
Cakes and candles spread happiness
Peace is in spiritualism
And calmness is in every church
Devotees come up with wishes,
Wishes that satisfy them
And wishes that satisfy the world
Christmas brings benevolence!
Holiday season in winter
Cheerful children jump with joy
Chilly breeze kisses the earth
Folks meet and eat delicious delicacies
In the spacious halls and malls
Warmth and love spread around
No bar for age, religion, or colour
Sacrifices of Jesus are remembered
May families and the entire globe
Live in peace, progress, and prosperity!
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
He sails across Mahanadi
In a moonlit night
While the breeze bustles
With a musical tune
The stars twinkle in the sky
A train moves
On the bridge above
To an unnamed destination
Cuttack still smells stinky
For a stranger
But he never cares
He drops the letter
In the post box
Addressed to a fellow poet
Reminiscing the moments
They shared years ago
In a poets’meet
Her sweet smile
Keeps him enthralled
Till date
Poetry is love for him
He admits
Wrinkles have started
Appearing on his face
The skin has lost sheen
Of the yesteryears
His heart is still young
Capable of enticing
Young bards at a glance
The other day
He came across
A mysterious mermaid
In the Puri beach
And lost dreaming
Since then
The temple of Konark
Keeps him wondering
About secrets of love
Beyond the body
Nineties are still numbers
For him.
( On the occasion of birthday of the Iconic Poet Jayant Mahapatra )
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
A new hope
A new promise
A new beginning
A new resolution
And a fountain of renewed zeal,
New friends
New
places to explore
New
home appliances
and exciting offers
New opportunities and deals
Emerging new ideas
Give rise to
new goodfeel……1
The glitters of Christmas trees
Shanta with
bag of goodies and
decorated malls
The chiming bells and
Christmas carol
The special yummy puddings
and cakes,
The destination parties
Experiencing new cultures
The best food and drinks to enjoy
The possibilities at the yearend
is endless…..2
Saying good bye to all good and not so good days of the passing year
Welcoming
an ushering fresh
New Year
Everyone loves
the year end extravaganza
music and dance,
The counting has already begun
The waiting is coming to an end
The grand entry of the world wide holiday season is round the corner
Hello everybody !!
Share and multiply your happiness
with less fortunates
Wish you all a
Merry Christmas and
Happy New Year
in advance….3
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.
My afternoon naps
Aren’t actual naps
But horrible proofreading sessions of the past
They whoosh like a wind circling within my head
Which is soon
Broken by a caaw by the window
And then by the piercing doorbell
A few seconds later
The music of a silencer-lacking motorcycle
A random bubble-bursting notification tone and finally
Concluded by the phone alarm that I have set
As repeated chants of an ancient Buddhist mantra. (Supposed to bring you peace)
These interruptions that aren’t actual interruptions
But speed breakers
The preventive, intangible barriers
Slowing down the intensity of my erratic thought-winds
From expanding, racing, evolving and
Tearing up the layers of my mind’s sanity
Like an all-devouring regret-typhoon
No forecaster can predict
That no expert disaster management team can mitigate
Therefore
Do not call me absurd
If I build a grand shrine, be on my knees
Worship with all my heart and sing passionate prayer songs
To an itinerant crow, a malfunctioning motorcycle,
The cacophonous doorbell and a disciplined smartphone
– For they are my only saviours, my holy quartets.
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.
Kill your desires!
Kill your dreams!
Kill your sorrows!
And there will be moksha,
The joy of ultimate freedom
From the agony of returning here,
Resignedly I tuck a slender hope of moksha under the warmth of my desire
and watch my winter
Sweeping down the sreets of night
heavy with the load of uncanny whispers,
My gaze returns again and again to
the spring flowers smiling fresh on the windowsill inside the neat plastic covering,
They refuse to drop even
a single petal down,
Moksh waits with its magic wand
to flood my dim corridor of pain
with its snowy light,
I wait for the spring flowers
to come out of the plastic coffin and redeem me with desires reborn!!
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)
Life is like a mist
It appears for a while then vanishes
I have lost my way into the fog
Searching for your shoulders to lean on
But, alas I can only see the boulders which I have to face now on
Is life a fog of illusion or a fog of confusion
Hanging all over my head
Nature is the kind of friend that never leaves my side
Even during my grief stricken times in her soul I can confide
Though I cannot clearly see
I know you are always there with me
Teaching me to fight the emotions
Trying to clear the mist in my eyes
We need something to kill the pain of all that nothing inside
I don't remember the days but the moments
Life is like a mist it appears for a while then vanishes .................
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.
(Palette knife painting by seethaa Sethuraman)
Piece together those pieces of your heart,
Paint it whole again, it is a wonderful art.
Chisel the rough edges with the strength of your soul,
Glue thyself with love, that is life’s main goal.
Learn to forgive even if it’s difficult to forget,
Look back at the past as a lesson and not with regret.
Life has to be felt here and now, by living in the present,
Don’t allow it to melt away, by filling it with lament.
Silence is golden - let it shine bright,
Knowledge is silver - keep it polished right.
Wisdom is nectar - let it trickle and flow,
Smile is diamond - make it sparkle even more.
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
Lone bulbul perches with pride,
Eagerly looks for sun to rise.
Cold wintery morning covered with fog,
Hope doesn't die, sunrise will come.
Leaves are gone, and I am timber dry,
Yet give shelter to birds flying high.
Oh, my humans, never feel shy.
Ageing is a gift, adore it high.
Prof. Dr. Sidhartha Das is a renowned Medicine Specialist and Diabetologist of Odisha. He retired as Principal of the SCB Medical College, Cuttack. He is a recipient of many awards including Life Times Contribution Award (2014), Madras Diabetes Research Foundation, Life Time Achievement Award (2019), Research Trust of Diabetes India, Distinguished Services Award (2019), Research Society for Study of Diabetes in India. He has been, among other things, the Chairman of the Association of Physicians in India, Odisha Branch (2011) and Vice President, Diabetes India, and a Medical Expert for the Odisha Human Roghts Commission (2010-19). He lives in Cuttack and is passionate about literature, reading and writing poems and anecdotal stories.
Thought I had locked it securely
Odd how you entered my heart so quietly
Never to leave it, So I thought!
While there, you stayed with my thoughts
Stayed with me, ate with me
Travelled with my mind everywhere
There was so much sweetness in it
There still is; though there was much pain
When you left, but only for a while!
Your memories kept overshadowing it…
Now, the door of a certain chamber
In my divine heart will be always kept shut.
The talks we had, the laughter we shared
The songs we sang with a certain longing
Are all in that sacred cavern
Along with that small seat where you last sat
In my garden and shared with me your burdens.
And when all others will never see me anymore
I shall quietly, serenely stop by its door
And ensure that even my shadow never lingers there…
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.
My father taught me Math,
Taught me tables,
His love knew no bounds,
So did Amitav's dad,
I know not how the Big B scored,
But I could see his distributing crore
Make people crorepati,
With the fastest finger fast,
With a few lifelines, life becomes strait,
No curve, but a journey upward
Big money with just words,
Why did my arithmetic go wrong?
My words could not fetch me house,let alone a bungalow
Neither decency nor dignity,
We learned the same tables,
But he is always at high one,
I failed to reach the hot seat even,
Why I am nowhere near a chair
With my hands, I toiled and sweated on labour
Waited for a May Day to get cheer or jeer
All Days are the same, a Merry Christmas, Or a New Year,
How does it matter?
I walked a thousand miles for thousands of hours
They cleaned the virus from my body with the jet sprayer
Was not my sweet father responsible, I now wonder!
A Carpenter’s son remaining a Carpenter
For Laski to be quoted year after year!
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.
I borrowed a moment from time
And looked at the milling crowd,
At everything around me
The trees, the lamp posts, the bill boards,
I talked to the men going to office
The kids with backpacks carrying books
The lone woman in search of a handful of solace
I borrowed a moment from myself
And talked to my soul
That had left me long back
Wandering in winding wilderness
I adjusted the strings of my abandoned guitar
And tried to play a few tunes with my bruised fingers
The discordant notes told me of the songs long forgotten.
I borrowed a moment from my busy city
To look at its lanes and bylanes
The beaches and the bazars
The lonely benches in the park
The crowded platforms at railway stations
And the air hanging desolately from telephone poles
Only to find my dreams scattered helplessly all around.
I borrowed a moment from death
In a desperate bid to save my life
And to look at things in a new light
To call all my friends for a grand get together
To tell all those I loved what they meant to me
I vainly looked for the address book in blinding tears
The last tears I would shed in my barren life.
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.
BOOK REVIEW
(Harper Collins 2022, Price Rs. 599)
"As Good As My Word" is a unique book, not only as a memoir, but as a chronicle of some of the most epoch-making events of modern India. Mr. Chandrasekhar, an IAS officer of Kerala Cadre from the 1970 batch, held many important positions in state and central government, culminating in the post of Cabinet Secretary from 2007-2011. For these four years he led the bureaucratic apparatus through some of the toughest crises, notable among them being, the Grest Recession of 2008-09, the 26/11 Mumbai terrorist attack of 2008, and the Commonwealth Games in 2010. The book traces the career path of a highly successful and outstanding civil servant and is a lesson to young entrants into civil service on how to face the challenges of difficult assignments. It is also an useful discourse on many aspects of governance, including India's trade policy and export scenario. It shows the author's deep insight into many complex issues as looked through the prism of administrative responsibilities. The chapter on "Reflections on Democracy and Dictatorship" is particularly insightful and thought-provoking.
For me personally, the book offers a sense of deja vu, as I was associated with some of the events directly in my capacity of Additional Secretary in Cabinet Secretariat for three years from July 2008 to August 2011, assisting Mr. Chandrasekhar in many of his onerous duties as the head of Indian bureaucracy. In those three years I have attended every meeting of the Union Cabinet and its various committtes along with the Cabinet Secretary, witnessing the unfolding of historic decisions and their implementation. Turning the pages of the book reminded me of the many days and evenings spent in the Committee room of Cabinet Secretariat, addressing complicated issues and vexatious problems.
Those who have followed the politics and economics of the UPA years will certainly find the book interesting and illuminating, throwing light on the labyrinthine path of unique events. It's a must read and I highly recommend it. The book can be obtained from Amazon and is guaranteed to give full satisfaction.
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
SHORT STORIES
"Wait, wait my son, my baby, stand still. Don't keep running. I can't keep pace with you. Let me put this food into your mouth, then you can resume your running...."
The mix of cooked rice, dal and curry remained in Jhumpa's hand as a ball, waiting to go into her darling son's mouth. The five year old boy was in no mood to relent. He kept running around the courtyard, waiting for his mother to chase him.
"No Mama, I won't come to you, I will keep running, you have to catch me. Come, run after me, if you can catch me, I will eat the rice ball from your hand. Come, come Mama, catch me......."
Jhumpa smiled at her son,
"How much will you make me run beta, my darling son? Am I as young as you? If I fall while chasing you, what will you do? Who will take care of me?"
He laughed,
"Come on Mama, you are not so old. How can you get tired so early? I have got you after so many days! Did you ever feed me? Only the grandma did that. You have come home after a long time, you must feed me. And you must play with me when I keep eating. Come Mama, try to catch me......"
Chicku started running again. Jhumpa was getting desperate,
"My son, my darling son, stop for a minute, let me put the rice ball into your mouth. You can keep running after that...."
Her mother-in-law shouted from inside,
"Leave him Bohu, he won't listen to you. He is too naughty, too restive - your son. Let me take him out of the house, show him the cows, dogs and the small kittens. Or, may be, he will laugh at his neighbour grandma - the hunchback lady, and eat his food. Your son was always naughty, ever since you returned home he has become quite a handful. You are pampering him so much that he doesn't listen to anyone now."
Jhumpa smiled at her mother-in-law's affectionate chiding. Yet, she knew she could not stop showering her abundant love on the small boy. How long she has been away from her dear son? Months? Years? Chicku was a smalll baby of three months when she had to leave him with her mother in law and go away to earn for the family - the mother in law, sister in law and the small child. It's out of her income that the family could survive, the sister in law could be given in marriage, and Chicku's needs could be met, he could be sent to a play school nearby in the village. God, how she pined to be with her son, how the heart broke into pieces thinking of him, his antics - the picture of Chicku flailing his hands in the air, breaking into small smiles, licking his fingers, remained etched in her mind. How she wished she could sleep with her arms around her son, hugging him to her, giving her warmth to the little baby. Yet, the call of duty kept her away from him. Whatever small breaks she could get from work, she wanted to spend every minute with him, giving him all her love. She had seen him growing during her intermittent visits, his attempt to stand, falling down and getting up again, his running around, screaming at the top of his voice at his grandma, ordering her around! But her vacations were so short, small breaks between shifting from place to place, she had to force herself to go away leaving her son in the care of her mother in law.
Jhumpa did not notice when Chicku came to her and shook her, with a loud "Mama..."
She came back to the present, and caught hold of her son,
"Bah, my darling has come to take the rice ball from my hand, come on, open your mouth...please...my darling, please...."
Chicku shook his head,
"No Mama, you thought I have come to eat from your hands? No, no, you have to chase me and catch me before I eat. Come Mama...come..."
Jhumpa tried to force the food into her son's mouth, he resisted and in the confusion the rice ball fell from her hand. The naughty son started clapping,
"Serves you right Mama.....trying to cheat me? Forcing me to eat without chasing me? I won't fall for your tricks Mama..."
With that Chicku ran away. Jhumpa walked towards him, another ball of rice in her hand,
"Come my darling, don't be stubborn with your Mama, eat and run as much as you want. Or better still, sit with me, I will tell you some nice stories - of fairies and princesses."
The grand mother came out,
"Come Bohu, you can't manage him so easily. I use so many tricks with him to feed him. He would want to meet the neighbour hunchback lady, talk to her cows, chase her hens, break the twigs from her plants, before he would take a few balls of rice. It is beyond you, give the food to me, I will feed him."
Chicku has stood still and was listening to his Grandma,
"No, I won't eat from Grandma's hand today, Mama must feed me."
Jhumpa pleaded with her son,
"Yes, I will feed you, come here my son, my darling baby. After you finish eating we will lie on the bed and I will tell you so many stories. Come here..."
Chicku shook his head and stood to his ground.
The mother in law took the plate of rice from Jhumpa,
"You go in Bohu, finish your bath and get ready for lunch. Let me take this naughty one out, together we will look for the cows, the dogs and the kitten. He will eat from me when he finds you have gone away for your bath. I know how sad you must be feeling. You had to leave home when he was so small. And roam around from town to town, village to village with your touring theatre party. You must be remaining awake till late in the night, busy with your theatre performance and then tossing on the bed pining for the touch of your tiny son. Please don't feel bad because this naughty boy is not eating from your hands, he is yours and will always be yours. He has become a little hyper active, seeing you after such a long time."
Jhumpa tried to be brave,
"No Bou, I don't feel bad, nor do I mind your words. I know how much you are doing for me and my son. If you had not taken care of my little son, where would he be? Without a shelter, without caring hands and a warm lap to sleep on. You are the one who wipes away his tears when he cries, I have been denied that privilege, thanks to my work taking me away from him. When I do the role of a young mother in some of the dramas I shed tears as a part of the script, but often my heart cries out for my child, my real tears merge with the fake tears. That's the time the audience claps the most, thinking that I am giving an outstanding performance, nobody knows the tears are so real because I cry out for my son."
Jhumpa started sobbing, her mother in law felt the emotions surging within her,
"Don't cry Bohu, sometimes I feel I am a burden on you. It's my son who should have taken care of me, not my Bohu. But look at that useless, characterless son of mine who left you and ran away with some other actress, after leaving a child in your womb. What a heartless fellow he is, and what a piece of gold you are Bohu! You managed the family, earned for us all these years, and because of your money my daughter could get married. May God give a Bohu like you to everyone."
Jhumpa felt emotional, listening to her mother in law. She knew life had been cruel to her. She had been unjustly denied the bliss of a happy married life. And the responsibility of taking care of a big family had been unduly thrust on her.
Jhumpa's mother in law could read her thoughts,
"Bohu, God has been unkind to you. Your journey is not yet over, it's going to be long and arduous. You have to take care of Chicku, give him a good education and make him stand on his legs. You have to return to your roaming Theatre party, put paint and makeup on your face and perform on the stage, day after day, night after night. This dreaded Corona has given you some well-earned respite. Enjoy this break and take good rest. God knows when you will get such a long vacation again.."
"Yes,Bou, I will spend all my time with Chicku and enjoy his company. Let him get a mother's loving touch which he certainly deserves. Don't worry Bou, good times will return again. I will go back to earn and keep you and Chicku going. How lucky Chicku is, to have a loving, caring Grandma like you. And how relieved I am, to know that Chicku is in safe hands when I roam around all over the state performing in a roaming theatre!"
Suddenly she felt Chicku coming from behind silently and pressing her with a big hug. She tickled him and he laughed, came up to the front and opened his mouth,
"Mama, give me my ball of rice."
Jhumpa gathered him in her arms, put him on her lap and fed him. He wiped her tears,
"Mama, were you crying because I was running around and not coming to you? Ok, don't cry again, I will not rum and will always be with you, close, like this..."
He hugged his mother tightly and tried to cover himself with the pallu of her saree.
Jhumpa could not control her tears, she was so happy and yet so sad that soon the spell would break and she would have to go away. She kissed her son on the cheeks,
"My son.....my darling baby..."
She was startled by the telephone ringing loudly. She somehow felt she knew what the call would be about. She wiped her eyes and picked up the phone,
"Hello....."
"Hello Jhumpa, I am Birendra here. How are you?"
"Hello Sir, Namaskar. I am fine."
"What were you doing when my call disturbed you?"
"Just playing with my son. He has become very attached to me, seeing me after so many days."
There was a long, loud sigh at the other end.
"Jhumpa, there is a piece of good news."
She knew what the good news would be and her heart sank.
"What good news Sir?"
"In a few weeks the government is going to lift all the Corona-related restrictions. In the last few days we have prepared four nice scripts. So we will start the rehearsals soon. Spend a few more days with your son and come and join the rehearsal from the first of next month, in about a fortnight's time. I want our Theatre group to be the first to hit the streets when the show resumes. Get ready Jhumpa, you are our star actress, the show must go on."
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Glossary
Pallu - That corner of the saree which is draped on a woman's shoulder
Bou - Mother
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 the original Odia by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Hari Singh during his long career had worked in many post offices of the rural areas as a postman. For the last ten years of his service, however, he was posted at the Cuttack Head Post Office. His hard work had earned him a promotion as the Head Postman. As a head postman he was receiving a salary of nine rupees a month that was mch higher than senior most postmen.
But every essential commodity at Cuttack town had to be bought with money. Nothing came free. One could not even light a fire without a matchstick that had to be bought with money. In spite of Hari Singh’s thrifty nature, he could not manage his expenses with less than five rupees a month at Cuttack. He had to send the balance five rupees from his salary to his wife who lived with his eight-year-old son Gopal in his native village.
The mother and son managed with that small amount, adding whatever little they got from the share-cropper of their little farmland. Gopal studied in the upper primary school. His school fee was two-ana (one eighth of an old-time rupee or tanka a month, but when a book, a pencil, or a slate had to be purchased, things became really difficult for Gopal’s mother.
Hari Singh and his wife took all the hardship including at times going without food to save money for ad hoc school requirements of their little Gopal, like buying a book or pen. But they did not mind such inconveniences as long as their Gopal continued his studies and got regularly promoted to higher standards in his school.
One day, the postmaster was looking at the service books of his staff and he told Hari Singh, “Hari Singh, you will shortly be due for retirement. You will be on pension after that.” Hari Singh knew that the pension was much less than salary. The news was like a bolt from the blue for Hari Singh. What would he do to manage things with the measly pension? He was disconsolate to think, Gopal’s schooling might come to a premature end after his retirement.
Gopal was born to the couple at their middle age and he had not yet crossed his primary school final examination in the village school. Hari Singh had a secret dream since the day of Gopal was born. His wanted his Gopal to start his service career as a Dak Munsi (postmaster) of at least of a sub-post office.
But if Gopal continued to study in vernacular medium even after his primary examination, his non-English education would not help him to get him a high-level posting like that of a postmaster in a sub post office. So, Hari Singh had plans to shift Gopal and his mother to Cuttack to stay with him after Gopal’s class five examination. Gopal would then study in an English medium school at Cuttack, was his idea.
But if he retired, Hari Singh’s dream of Gopal studying in English medium etc. would die as a pipedream. The postmaster of the General Post Office of Cuttack, a very senior level officer and Hari Singh’s boss, was very fond of Hari Singh. Even if his two servants served him at his house and did his housekeeping, yet Hari Singh was in habit of visiting the postmaster’s residence to attend to quite a few household chores on his own.
The benevolent postmaster had quietly watched his loyalty and was fond of the man for his helping nature. In the evenings, when the postmaster would settle down on his easy chair with his English newspaper, Hari Singh would hand him over his hookah filled with deliciously fragrant tobacco which no one else had the expertise to fix as good as him to the big boss’s satisfaction. In a while the postmaster would be in a pliant and restful mood in his cloud of fragrant tobacco smoke.
One such evening, when the postmaster began blowing clouds of relaxed smoke and went drowsy as the tobacco blew away his daylong exhaustion in the main post office, Hari Singh guessed that the time was propitious to submit his supplication before the kind boss. He sat at the feet of his big boss meekly and described his problems in details but most humbly. He did not forgo to inform his boss of his dreams for his son Gopal. He described his apprehensions of abject poverty if he retired shortly.
His eyes shut, the postmaster of the head post office of Odisha listened to his faithful head postman and said in a quiet voice, “Alright Hari Singh, put all these personal problems in an application along with your request for an extension and hand it over to me as soon as possible. Let me see what can I do for you.”
The postmaster was hopeful about the outcome of Hari Singh’s representation for an extension of service period, because most of his superiors like the senior postal superintendents coming on inspection from central postal administration knew Hari Singh personally. When they stayed at the postmaster’s residence during official visits to Cuttack, nothing was spared by the postmaster in the matters of food and drinks. The entire responsibility was put by the big boss on efficient Hari Singh.
During visits, those superior officials could hear the postmaster calling a name `Hari Singh’ every second or third minute of the evening for something or the other and find Hari Singh attending to the needs. Hari Singh was an old hand in dealing with the high-ranking officers’ low immunity to vagaries of life at a small town like Cuttack. He knew the personal temperaments and tastes of most of them.
He would see to it that the postmaster’s honor as a host was not compromised. Even he would not leave the post master’s house till midnight, hours after the guests’ finished drinking and dinner, and gone to bed, for he knew that some visitors might go sick due to the disagreeable weather of poor Odisha which particularly might not suit the consumption of rich food and drinking of English brand liquor.
If some guests started throwing up, reacting to these anomalies of the native ambience, Hari Singh would take good care of such delicate situations even staying after midnight by arranging soothing soda water with fresh lime or other home-remedies. He would stock those medicinal supplies in postmaster’s kitchen in advance to deal with late-night emergencies to which the high-ranking people were prone to.
Hari Singh’s honesty and self-esteem were legendary. After the guests finally retired to bed peacefully, he would not even partake of the remains of the rich dinner like the postmaster’s servants, but would rather return to his own living quarters not very far the boss’s bungalow and start fixing something for his own dinner. These dedicated private services of Hari Singh had not escaped the postmaster’s attention and made him known to the visiting superiors. He was reputed as a diligent, honest, efficient, and the hardworking head postman.
The postmaster sent Hari Singh’s representation to the central office after adding his strong recommendations on humanitarian grounds besides certifying his fitness with good health and alert mind even at the retirement age, and his devotion to duty. He also added that Hari Singh was sort of an indispensable hand in some areas of his work which he did not elaborate but left to the understanding of the experienced big bosses who had been exposed to Hari Sing’s special services.
The order for extension of his service period was received after a few weeks but before his date of retirement. Hari Singh was beside himself with joy. He wanted to convey the good news immediately to his wife and wrote a letter to her, the first such written communication in their lives. He while giving the good news opened a little bit of his heart to his wife whom he deeply loved. He could express in a letter what he never could say to her face to face. The time of Hari Singh and his wife belonged to an era, so shy a period that opening up hearts between husband and wife was an alien concept even in the dark.
Within a week or two Hari Singh received the bad news of Gopal’s mother being afflicted by the killer Cholera. He rushed to her side immediately. His wife was almost breathing her last and could not recognize her husband. Hari Singh’s world came crashing around him. After his wife’s last rites, he locked the house and returned to Cuttack with his son.
Gopal finally joined a middle school of English medium at Cuttack. Hari Singh retired after a few years. A second extension was out of question. It was difficult for him to manage Gopal’s study expenses besides keeping body and soul together with the small pension amount. Even income from selling his produce from the share-cropping of his small land holding in village could not give him minimal finance buoyancy.
By and by he sold the pots and pans in his village house to meet emergency demands in Gopal’s school. He also sold the little quantity of ornaments left behind by his late wife, her only memorabilia for Hari Singh to meet the demands of Gopal’s study. Then followed his small saving in the post office account.
Hari Singh hoped, all his misery would end when Gopal would complete his studies and land a good job. Gopal also reassured him in a few occasions, “Father, do not worry. Borrow money to spend on my studies. Let me pass my examinations and join a good job. I will repay all your debts. You won’t have any trouble after that. We both will have a comfortable life after that.”
Hari Singh somehow pulled through without burrowing from relatives, friends, or moneylenders. God listened to Hari Singh’s prayers and Gopal passed his middle school examination in flying colors. None was happier than Hari Singh for Gopal’s results. He humbly requested the postmaster, who was once his benevolent boss, for his son’s employment. Other higher officers also were sympathetic and put a word. Gopal secured the job of a sub-postmaster or a Dak Munsi, as he would be addressed respectfully after joining the job. Hari Singh’s dream came true, as Gopal’s posting letter arrived for joining Makraampur sub-post office.
Gopal’s starting salary was twenty rupees a month, more than double of his father’s last salary, rupees nine. Hari Singh basked in glory of his son’s success and repeatedly thanked God, “Praise be my benevolent lord, and many thanks for your kindness. Lord, you have not ignored the prayers of this destitute, a poor father.”
The old man wept a lot in a quiet corner of his room the day the letter of his son’s appointment arrived. He badly missed his wife in his hour of joy and deeply felt she should have remained alive to savor her little Gopal’s big leap in life, a result of her sacrifices. He recalled how she had stood by him to make a man of their little monkey, Gopal, their son
When Gopal handed over his first month’s salary to the old man, the father was in raptures. He could not believe his eyes. His son had earned so much in a month! He counted the money again and again, before stashing them away in the waistband of his dhoti he was wrapping. He went to sleep that night with the money still tied at his waist. He was filled with an uncanny pleasure.
The next morning, he ran to the market and purchased shoes, shirts, and other necessary articles for his son, who must now look like an officer of his high rank and not like any riff-raff. He kept in mind an Odia adage, translated, roughly meant, ‘One must wear his status on his sleeves’, while buying wears for Gopal. He also took on rent a bigger house to suit Gopal’s high official status.
Gopal Babu, took training as a sub-postmaster at the Cuttack’s Head Post Office. He carried out his official work in English by the side of his colleagues of equal ranks. He preferred to speak in English only. Everyone called him ‘Dak Munsi babu’ or Mr. Singh. His official name was Gopal Chandra Singh. When Gopal babu returned home in the evening after his first day in the office, he found his old father slaving away wearing his dirty short dhoti covering only his loins and keeping his upper body bare and sweating.
Gopal, the English-educated postmaster, was appalled by his father’s dress sense for the first time. He felt a revulsion to accept Hari Singh, looking like a servant of his house, as his father.
Worries would occupy Hari Singh’s mind all the time, ‘What will my Gopal eat when he returns tired and hungry from office? What will he wear at home or to office tomorrow? How will my Gopal tackle the hard work and the heavy responsibilities as a Dak Munsi at such a tender age unless he has healthy food and restful nights in a soft and clean bed?’
Earlier the old man would set aside some time for spiritual indulgences, but of late he forgot his gods. His son's comfort and wellbeing occupied his mind all the hours of days and nights. The future would show that Hari Singh’s gods did not take his ignoring them kindly.
English educated Gopal Singh’s feelings for his old father deteriorated fast. Lately, he found the very sight of his old and poorly dressed father disgusting. The old man appeared to him as a stupid man having no English culture or modern ways. His father, according to Gopal, was maintaining himself like a peasant, ‘a sense’ he had acquired from his readings. This angered Mr. Gopal Singh and in his behavior with his father turned very unkind and rude.
Gopal Singh seemed to be over-pickled in renaissance culture of Europe. He was learning to look into himself and questioning his own identity, “Who am I really? Was I really sired by this uncouth fool, Hari Singh? How could this duffer of father sire a son like me, a brilliant species of mankind?”
Gopal Singh was worried, especially of the society ladies, when one or a group of them visited his house. He couldn’t hazard how the refined ladies would react when he introduced Hari Singh as his dad, a native, speaking in Odia, not knowing a word of English. Something had to be done.
Gopal Singh recalled a recent incident to bolster his doubts. The other day, the old man was hobnobbing around the house and his upper part of his body was bare. A few of visiting fashionable ladies, who had dropped by, were giving bare-bodied Hari Singh funny looks When they giggled as ladies did it frequently, Gopal thought they were laughing at his father.
He thought, “If this creature is not thrown out of my house, my social status will be jeopardized beyond repair.” One day, Dak Munsi Gopal Singh spoke seriously the basic truth of life to the man he doubted very much to be his father, “Look old man, you are no-good, just a poor looser in life, and of no use to me. You have done nothing for me or anyone in your life. Stay here if you like, or leave if you want. But remember, never show yourself when gentlemen or ladies are around.”
Hari Singh was shocked to hear such rude words from his own little Gopal, the apple of his eye. He was speechless. To whom would he complain about his own son's misbehavior? The only person, he could have shared his disappointment with, was his late wife. He wept bitterly. His sorrow brought back memories of his wife, and the reverie of the moments of his joy on the day of Gopal’s appointment as Dak Munshi.
That day, he had hoped his wife should be there to savor her son’s success. Now he thanked God that she had been taken away before being hurt by Gopal’s transformation from a son into a monster. He could not complain to gods for two things. His complaint might bring bad luck to his son, and further, he had forgotten his gods over a time while attending to his son’s needs.
Those days Gopal was not handing over his salary to Hari Singh like earlier months for managing the house. He was giving him the bare minimum to run the kitchen. Finally, the day arrived when Dak Munsi Gopal had to take the independent charge of the sub post office at Makraampur.
In the morning of his joining at Makraampur, he informed his father rudely, “Look here you old man, I am on my way to Makraampur to take charge. You follow me with bag and baggage to set up the house there.”
Gopal Singh gave a cursory glance at his household and then sneered at his father, “I can see, the luggage is not much and you can carry all of them on your own back. If you engage a porter, or a cart to shift the little luggage, I won’t pay you a copper for that. You are to pay that from your own funds given to manage the house. So, follow me and set up house there quickly. You are to cook a lunch for me after reaching. I eat my lunch at one-thirty as you know.”
The Dak Munsi Gopal Singh, dressed immaculately and with his umbrella in one hand and a short smooth wooden baton held and twirled in style by the other, walked the roughly fifteen kilometers to his destination with an exaggerated swagger. The old man was at a loss. He had no money to engage a porter or cart. Money given to him was just enough to prepare meals three times a day for the father and the son.
So, he made a bundle of all essentials, hefted the heavy bundle to his shoulders and walked in the direction of Makraampur with difficulty Somehow, he managed to drag himself to that big village. He was very scared of Gopal’s anger and outbursts that were just like a rare ill-bred irritable group of Englishmen he once had suffered from. His eyes were swollen from crying all the way from Cuttack to Makraampur and his bones were aching in fatigue by the time he reached the new accommodation of the Dak Munsi sahib.
But he could not even have a minute’s rest in peace for Gopal had been waiting for him to give him a piece of his mind for his late arrival. Hari Singh had to start the kitchen immediately to fix a lunch while listening to his son’s firework in English, “You, lazy bone, hurry, hurry, fast, fast, move, move… I am hungry.”
At Makraampur, Gopal Singh got busy in his work hardly spending any time at home. He had no time to have a word with his father. Lonely Hari Singh silently went about the household chores like a servant of the house. Never again the father and son sat together for a chat like the earlier times.
Dak Munsi was an important official of the British Government. Several people of the locality therefore came daily to pay their courtesy, but none bothered to know who the old man in Dak Munsi’s house was. Gopal also never introduced his father to anyone, never addressed him as ‘father’ in one’s presence. So, nobody spoke to Hari Singh at Makraampur, thinking he was an old servant brought by the sahib from Cuttack. The old father of the modern English speaking smart young officer rotted in his desolation and moronic silence.
The rural climate of Makraampur did not suit Hari Singh, who had been spending more than two decades of his last years at the city of Cuttack. Lack of proper food and rest and a mental depression growing out of frustration took their toll on Hari Singh besides the inclement rural air of Makraampur. Often, he had low fever accompanied by bouts of cough that would worsen during nights.
His son did not bother about his obvious worsening health condition or get him treated by a doctor. Hari Singh’s cough became really bad. Gopal Singh’s sleep was disturbed by his father’s spasmodic coughs every night. How would a responsible high ranking government officer carry out his arduous duties during the day if he did not have proper sleep at nights?
Once at midnight, Hari Singh’s cough became loud and incessant. An extremely irritated Dak Munsi asked his personal orderly, “Throw this bundle of old bones into a nettle bush.” The orderly was illiterate with no English education but a kind native heart was still beating inside his ribcage. He thought to himself, “What sort of a man is this Dak Munsi, Gopal Singh? How can I throw a sick old man out of this house at this hour of the night?”
The fever of the old man worsened. His appetite was gone. He went almost without food for days but his son pretended not to notice anything. One cold night, Hari Singh’s coughing feats went out of control. Dak Munsi Gopal Singh felt terribly disturbed. He fired abusive expletives in English at his father and gave a few tough English punches to the old man’s skinny ribs before throwing him out of his house. He also threw out Hari Singh’s bedding and suitcase containing a few of his personal belongings.
That was the limit for Hari Singh. The old man hobbled back to his village the same night. After his father’s unceremonious exit from his house, Gopal Singh was seen spending his time in high spirits. He was often heard telling people that he was a self-made man and never had depended on anyone for anything or had taken anyone’s help including his parents. He claimed to have completed his studies on his own and had got the job on merit.
Back in the village, old Hari Singh was apparently happy. The tinted glasses blinding his vision out of affection for a son had fallen off. The farmer, who tilled Hari Singh’s two acres of land on share-farming, gave him half the produce of two harvests, one of paddy and the other pulses. With his pension money added to his share of the share-farming appeared enough and to spare to the frugal old man.
Hari Singh repaired his house, bought essential household utensils for cooking, and managed his frugal needs very well. He rather was able to save a little for rainy days. His funds in hand also took care of a new indulgence, he had recently developed, of taking a pinch of opium daily that kept him safe against cough and cold attacks. Opium helped his body to adjust to rural inclement weather.
He had a lot of leisure these days. he again indulged himself with prayers, counting of sacred bids, and relaxing on his verandah or at the temple courtyard talking to friends. His time sailed smoothly like in a boat in fair weather sea. He only missed his wife but surprisingly he never missed his son Gopal. If any of his village friends asked him about Gopal, he tackled the subject like a secret wound which one could not expose to anyone. He would divert the subject and walk away giving a strong alibi.
(The story was penned by Fakirmohan Senapati in 1912 in Odia.)
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.
Sajitha waited for Manu a few steps ahead of him. Manu inched towards her, breathing heavily. Sajitha looked at him and then looked around. She was amazed at what she saw.
Flowers! This year’s flower show was the best so far. Due to Corona, this annual fair hadn’t happened for three years. She had missed it like a dessert at a feast.
Manu could see the happy expression on Sajitha’s face. He too wanted to look around but feared losing his balance as he was moving up each step. He thought of looking around standing close to his wife later. She was standing only two or three steps ahead of him.
Finally, he stood close to her, leaned onto her shoulders and looked around. He too was surprised. The hillock was in full spring. He tried to recall which season this actually was. For him, it had been winter for too long.
“Are these steps too steep for you?” Sajitha was asking.
“Now they are. They weren’t. But that was thousands of years ago.”
She forced a smile. He had not expected her to get that.
He blamed his son for persuading him to do things which he wouldn’t have done otherwise. Even this flower show was one like that. And long ago, his marriage with Sajitha who used to be his home nurse. In between a lot of other things. Shakespeare’s phrase “loving wrong” came to his mind.
Anoop, his son from his first marriage had shifted to Delhi a decade ago. Manu had been widowed for several years then. He was in his sixties and had no thought of getting married again. He had seen it all. His son had a good job, a beautiful wife and two adorable kids. Manu was happy that he had completed all his duties in this life. He had no desire for a longer life, let alone another.
Sajitha came into his life as a home nurse. She too was widowed but looked quite young and strong. In spite of all that, she was very meek and mild. After a few days under her care, Manu noticed that it was a new life, a kind of life he never had but intensely craved in his youth. He was getting all the attention and care he needed. It was a pity that such things like love and care could be sold and bought. But he knew that it was a different world. Such things could be sold and could only be bought.
Manu and Sajitha walked lazily around the rows of neatly arranged flowers. He found some of them so profuse and stunning and thought it had to be hormones. The Chrysanthemums had nothing but flowers. He thought of the ones he had planted around his home. They grew big and strong but bore only one or two flowers. A few of them just wilted and died. He gave up on flowering plants and started planting crotons and indoor plants. Occasionally one or two bore flowers unexpectedly. Seeing an unexpected flower on an indoor plant could make your day.
Manu started coughing. This happened every time he strained himself. He never had asthma. But now he would pant or choke whenever he strained himself.
“Are you allergic to pollen?” Sajitha was concerned.
“I think so,” he lied. He wondered why he could not bring himself to admit that his age was taking a toll on him.
Sajitha was continually sipping from her Pepsi bottle. He too craved a gulp. He didn’t want to ask her. He had to abstain from sugary stuff. He suddenly recalled that “sugary” was also a common adjective for romantic fiction.
He tied to see where he could get a cup of tea or coffee. He knew that there were some food shops at the end of the stalls. He would go for a black coffee without sugar when they reached there. He had got used to bitter stuff.
They found the agricultural pavilion interesting. New technology had become a great blessing for agriculture. He was surprised to see jackfruits on very young trees grown in big drums. Sajitha ordered a mango sapling to be delivered to their home. It wasn’t exactly a sapling. It stood six feet tall and flaunted some bright tiny yellow flowers. The salesman said that the fruits were very sweet.
“In three or four years this single tree will give you all the mangoes you need,” said the salesman.
“We don’t eat that many mangoes. Maybe you can come over when it fruits like that and claim all the mangoes you need,” Manu joked.
Manu was sure he would last that long. But he was not sure whether he would get to taste them at all. He recalled an old poem in which a young boy dies before the mango tree his mother planted bore fruits. The boy had plucked a few flowers and got beaten by his mother for that. It was a great tear-jerker. He used to recite it at competitions and win prizes.
They heard a loud noise of some glassware breaking. Turning to the right, they saw a north Indian boy looking down at his perfume bottles lying broken on the ground, his face gone white like a ghost’s. He had arranged his wares on a makeshift table which was upset by a child running around. People crowded around the scene. Manu fished out a hundred rupee note from his purse and asked Sajitha to offer it to the boy. She added five hundred from her own purse and ran to the boy. Soon, more people began to offer whatever they had. Manu hoped that it would compensate at least part of the loss. There was a strong fragrance in the air. It wasn’t from the flowers.
There was a good collection of bonsais. Most of them were more than half a century old. A young man was talking about them to the customers. He said he was an IT professional. These were the work of his father who was no more. His father had taken good care of them for decades. Manu looked at them and was amazed by the effort and patience which had gone into them to make them what they are now. This was a hobby he detested but still, he could not help appreciating the beauty of the plants. They would have been twisted, pruned, starved of nutrients and fed with hormones to get the exact result. But today any of them would bring a good amount. It could go up to a hundred thousand or more.
Sajitha was going through the rows of gymnosperms. They bore no flowers or fruits. Some propagated using spores and others through leaves or stems. Sajitha took some pics of a few cacti. She grew a few in their bedroom. But they were not lively as the ones she saw here. The salesman gave her a few suggestions. She found them all too hard. She decided to grow more flowering plants. They were always a safe bet and there was something to look forward to. Sooner or later they would bear flowers. Compared to them, the cacti were lazy, drowsy or even frigid. Only a curiosity, not interesting plants at all.
Manu called her over to have a cup of coffee. They each ate a samosa and found it excessively spicy. When hot coffee too was poured into the mouth, it woke them up. They heaved out a warm spicy breath and laughed at each other.
Manu looked at the back of the ticket to see if they had seen all the displays. They had missed the aquarium and the bookshops. Sajitha asked him if they could wait to see the dance programme which was to start in a few minutes.
Manu thought about it. He was really tired. He knew that if he sat down for an hour he would find it hard to get up and walk about. He said sorry to her. She understood. He agreed to bring her over here some day before the fair ended just to see the dance programme .
They had to climb a few steps to the exit. Sajith was still taking the pics of a few flower arrangements. Manu asked her to take her time. He said he too would take his time to climb up the steps.
Halfway up the steps, Manu began to cough. He turned back to look at Sajith and she seemed to be far far away. He took out his specs and wiped them with his shirt sleeve. His vision cleared up. He was able to spot Sajitha in the crowd but strangely she seemed to have gone farther away now.
Manu wondered whether he should wait for her right there or try to make it up those steps. Finally, he decided to go up the steps and wait for her just on this side of the gate. She would be able to run up those steps to join him in no time.
Each step was a struggle and with each of them, he was panting more and more. His breath echoed in his ears. He suppressed a cough and the strain made his eyes moist. He craned his neck to look back and saw Sajitha running up the steps as he had thought she would.
He looked around to make sure he was standing just inside the gate. But he wasn’t. He found that he had gone out through the exit.
He decided to wait for her there.
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, “Anirdhhista Sambhabana” by Ajay Upadhyaya)
I was watching him discretely at a distance from my swing. He was playing with my discarded shoes, treating them as his prized possessions, reserved for his exclusively use. I never knew one could get such undiluted pleasure out of a pair of worn-out shoes; this possibility was beyond my comprehension. For, although I owned eight pairs of shoes, I could not feel, in myself, anything like the joy I saw on his face. He would lovingly rub the shoes against his cheeks. Next minute, he would delight in proudly balancing them one by one on his head. And, then, with evident glee he would look up to the sky, as he swung one of the shoes in his outstretched arm, mimicking a plane taking off, with the matching sound, Shooo…….
He was our caretaker’s son, four years younger than me. He looked really scruffy. His clothes were dishevelled. To top it all, he had no sense of manners. When he was offered something to eat, he made a terrible mess, with food smeared all over his body. From the marks on his face, it seemed it hadn’t been washed for days. He would cower, when I looked at him with stern eyes. He would gradually retreat from the scene and disappear from my sight.
My Mama used to give away my old books and toys to him. Although I resented her attention to him, I found it hard to voice my opposition to her actions. After all, he caused me no harm. But for some reason, I could feel a growing aversion towards him.
He also had a strange name: Mangaa (a local term for beggar, someone who subsists on charity). Even his father could not tell where this name came from. This awful name doubled my dislike, as if I was simply allergic to it. He would walk around noisily in my discarded shoes; I found its sound annoying. If I gave him a harsh look, he would pick the shoes up in his hand and run out of my sight. Somehow, this would irritate me even further. I finally asked our caretaker to stop bringing his son to our house.
It seems, my Mama heard me reprimanding our caretaker for his son’s conduct, that was making me unhappy. What happened next day caused me grave concern. In direct defiance of my wish, I found, Mangaa had moved in with his father to our servant quarters. Although I was hurt by this decision of my Mama, I had to grin and bear it.
Later on, I learnt that Mangaa was motherless, which shifted my attitude towards him somewhat. Now, I had no alternative but to accept the situation. Every morning Mangaa was the first person, I would meet in the house. He would assist my Baba in small tasks at home. At meal times, My Mama would sit with him until he finished eating, while Baba and I would be waiting for her at the dining table. She would be least troubled by the angry glances I threw at her and she continued unperturbed.
One winter evening, when the weather was biting cold, I was horrified to see Manga wrapped in the favourite woollen shawl of mine. This was the final straw, that broke my proverbial back of tolerance. I marched up to him and slapped him hard. It did not bother me, if his father watched the whole incident. Mangaa had to be punished for his audacity. Playing with my discarded shoes was one thing but using my expensive favourite shawl, as his own, was a different matter altogether. Manga quietly swallowed the insult and silently took the beating. He simply lay there curled up on the verandah. I was still fuming but had no choice but to leave him there and walk away.
The aftermath of this incident was decidedly unpleasant. Mama almost stopped talking to me for the next two days. I could hear her complaining to Baba about what a spoilt brat I had turned out to be. Baba silently listened to her grievances but showed little reaction. It did not, however, escape my notice that both were rather distressed by the whole episode. Nonetheless, I found it hard to accept the affection they showered on Mangaa. I retaliated by keeping mum for the next two days.
That night, Baba came to my room at bedtime. He tried to comfort me by affectionately stroking my head but I rebuffed him by turning away. He knew, I was sulking and tried his best to placate me but my resentment could not be assuaged so easily. He tenderly pulled me close to his chest and read me my favourite bedtime story. Then he went on to tell me that on the evening in question Mangaa was suffering from high fever. It was none other than Mama, who had covered his shivering body with the woollen shawl to give some comfort to the poor boy. Next, he made a surprising revelation about his own past. He told me, he too was an orphan in his childhood. He grew up on charity from well wishers and throughout his childhood he managed with clothes and other essentials, which were all hand-downs. He quietly left, kissing me good night. I lay in bed, ruminating for a long time over my father’s account of his deprived childhood.
The next morning, I woke up with a new spirit as if I had somehow matured overnight. My feet automatically carried me towards our servant quarters. From a distance, I could see its doors slightly ajar. I promptly pulled them fully apart to find no-one inside. At the sight of an empty room a sense of desolation came over me. I ran into the kitchen. Normally, Mangaa and his father would be working in the kitchen in the morning, but on that day Manga’s father was alone. As soon as he saw me, he volunteered, “My child, you won’t be troubled by Mangaa any more; I have sent him off to the village. He was getting quite pampered here, becoming very naughty. The discipline there, I am sure, will instil some good manners in him.”
Since that day, thoughts of Manga gradually receded to the back of my mind. From time to time, I used to imagine how and where the poor boy would be living and I thought of enquiring about his welfare with my father. However, I could not bring myself to ask. After sometime, Manga’s father also left our house and moved away.
With passage of time, my life moved on. Some memories stayed, while others faded away. Thoughts of Mangaa moved from infrequent to rare, but he never went out of my mind completely. Now, my marriage was just ten days away. Mama was too engrossed with arrangements for the marriage ceremony. As her daughter, I could understand her preoccupation and feel her anxiety; after all she was the mother.
To ease her tension, I reassured her that I could face whatever hardship life threw at me. Since the time I learnt of Baba’s deprived childhood, I had set his world view as my gold standard. Although, my parents spared no pains to ensure all the comforts for me in the hostel, I had opted for a life of austerity. In my professional capacity as a doctor, I treated all my patients as if they were my kith and kin. Although my father was relatively affluent, I lived a frugal life. With Baba as my role model I had grown up to be tough enough to survive in all circumstances. My words seemed to allay her anxiety somewhat and in return she gave me an affectionate hug.
The marriage ceremony was a biter sweet affair, concluded with a cocktail of emotions combining the excitement of a new beginning, as yet unknown, with the sadness of leaving behind something familiar, my sweet home. The time to say good bye was approaching. I was emotionally exhausted. Bidding good bye to all, I had sat in the car, that was waiting to ferry me to my new home. At this very moment, a young man suddenly opened my car door and gave me a hug. I sensed that he was perhaps weeping. Before I could say anything, he bowed to touch my feet and immediately left. I did not recognise him and however hard I tried, I could not place him. The heartache of leaving my family behind was too overwhelming and I was in no frame of mind to think about him. Although I was left wondering who he was, before I had an opportunity to ask, my car started to roll.
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After a few days, while speaking with Mama over the phone, I enquired about the young man. She was surprised that I could not recognise him; he was Mangaa, the son of our old caretaker. But he was not the same old Mangaa any more, he had graduated to Software Engineer Saurav.
I was stunned by this revelation. “So, it was Mangaa! Where was he all this time? When did he come?”
“He arrived on the day before your marriage. He was Baba’s right hand man; he managed all the arrangements and supervised the proceedings of the ceremony. I presumed, you two had already met. He was enquiring about you, not only during this ceremony, he has been asking about you off and on over the years.”
“What?”
“Saurav’s father left his employment in our house and soon afterward he fell ill. He died not long after that. Since then, Baba had become Sarauv’s guardian. Saurav continued his studies from the hostel and managed to finish his engineering degree. Now, he is working in Dubai as a Software Engineer. It seems, he is really scared of you. Nonetheless, he has remained curious about you all this time, always eager to know about your well being.”
“But, how come, you never told me any of this?”
“Mangaa is not the only one. Your Baba took so many destitute children like him, under his wings so that they could make a life of their own. But, he never openly talked about his charitable work. You know, he has always been against blowing his own trumpet. He made it a point, not to boast about his philanthropic activities. When Mangaa learnt about your marriage, he offered to come over to help Baba in managing the ceremony. He did arrive in time and he was a big help too. Such a decent boy! I thought, he would stay for a few more days. But he is due to return to Dubai on the coming Sunday.”
Stunned by Mama’s words, I asked, “Where is Mangaa now? Can I meet him?”
“Well, he is staying with us. Where else would he be? He has no other family or friend around.”
“What! He is in our house?”
“Why? Can’t he stay in our house?”
“No, that is not what I meant. I must come and see him.”
Mama was mighty pleased to hear of my plans to visit home. The excitement of meeting Mangaa soon was rising in me. I could not work out, what was behind this burning desire to meet him. I asked myself this question repeatedly. I looked at myself in the mirror, hoping for some clue to the turmoil in my mind. I sat with my eyes shut for a long time, as if that would reveal me the answer. I imagined Mangaa from my childhood; I could feel his touch, which brought a mild shiver in my body. As I cast my mind back, I got lost in my trip down the memory lane. I remembered all the incidents with Mangaa from old days. At least, I owe him an apology for the appalling way, I treated him. I was glad, the permission for my visit to my parent’s house for a day was through. I eagerly waited for my journey.
On reaching home, I could see the joy on the face of Mama and Baba. But my mind was elsewhere; I was searching for Mangaa. It was hard to conceal my darting eyes from Mama, who asked, “Oh, are you looking for Mangaa?”
“Yes.”
“Since the time he heard of your visit, he has been stuck inside the kitchen. You know, he is a master cook, skilled in cooking delicious, but healthy dishes, with minimal spices and oil.”
“Let me meet him, Mama.”
“Of course, go into the kitchen.”
I walked towards the kitchen, pondering over how to introduce myself and start the conversation. Should I call him Mangaa or address him as Saurav? What would be his response? How do I broach the unpleasant events from our childhood? And, where do I begin, in making apologies for my shameful behaviour towards him? I reached the kitchen before I had the answers. He was busy, cooking something with the gas cooker. I approached him form his back; he was wearing blue Denims and a long shirt with white collars. He had earphones in and was busy mixing the vegetables with barter, in preparation for frying. I moved gingerly close to him. He was probably listening to music and was unaware of my presence. I moved quickly and drew a chair in front of him and sat down. I looked at his face. How handsome and well groomed he looked; there was none of the scruffiness, I remembered of him! It was hard to believe, he was the same old Mangaa. I kept gazing at his face, without saying a word. Suddenly, he looked squarely at me. He was visibly disturbed; he was thrown into a state of mild agitation. He then abruptly left the kitchen, as if he did not know what to do next. He walked out, leaving the frying of the chips, halfway, behind in the kitchen. I could not out call out to stop him either. I was left, sitting on the chair, staring at Saurav, walking away.
When I next saw him at the dining table, I found him rather quiet. His replies to questions from us were monosyllabic, limited to “yes, no, all right.” I looked at Mama. Her affection for us was evident; she was busy serving us all the tasty dishes, one by one, imploring us to eat. During the course of conversation, Baba casually suggested that Saurav would be dropping me off in my in- law’s house. I noted, Baba was no longer addressing him as Mangaa; he had switched to Saurav. I could see, Baba’s proposal made him slightly nervous. As he was eating, his hand and mouth froze momentarily.
The day had broken into evening. I was nowhere near finishing the main task I had come here to accomplish. I was getting frantic at the thought of returning without completing my mission. I sincerely wished to seek forgiveness for the mistakes of my childhood, which was the primary purpose of the trip. But I could not even bring myself to speak to him. He too was avoiding me. Time was passing and my return journey to my in-law’s house was drawing close. But Mangaa was nowhere in the house. Mama called him on his mobile phone but it had been switched off. I was resigned to returning alone and was about to ask our driver to prepare for the journey. Somehow, I found myself, next, walking towards the servant’s quarters. It was the same old room where Mangaa used to live with his father years ago. The door was half-closed as in the olden days. I pushed it open. He was sitting on a chair, gazing out of the window. With a deliberate gentle cough, I signalled my presence and he immediately stood up. He looked uncomfortable, though not scared anymore.
I took a deep breath, before starting, “I came here with a purpose, that is to talk to you. But I have not been able to speak.” He looked at me. “Saurav," I called out. He looked at me again without a word. I repeated, “Saurav.” He inhaled deep a few times, as if he was becoming breathless.
I spoke next, “During the marriage ceremony, I noticed, you came to give me a hug in full view of the public before touching my feet. And, then you disappeared. I could see, you sneakily took away my shoes, before vanishing from the scene. And, you thought, I did not notice. How dare you?”
That was all it took to move Saurav; he simply broke down. He gulped hard twice and took a deep breath. “I knew, you probably took offence at what I did. Imagine, how you would react when your most cherished object is being snatched away before your eyes. When you are reduced to your helpless most, you fall back on some secret courage, hidden deep inside. So, I simply did what came to me at that instant. I admit, it was my mistake, again….”
For the first time, I could understand the true meaning of what Saurav was saying. But I had no words to reply back. How strange for our feelings to change so dramatically! Somebody, who was deeply disliked for something trivial, could become so intensely appealing, for reasons, hard to put in words. The object of this phenomenon was right in front of me.
Then, Saurav lifted his head and looked in my direction, with a flicker of a smile on his face. I returned a quiet smile back. When our smiles met, unnoticed by all around, they brought all the undefined strands in our relationship to a confluence.
I was still unable to tell him, what I had been waiting to do for so long.
Nonetheless, his eyes were brimming, and it seemed, he had spoken everything he wanted to say. He was preparing to slip out of my sight, exactly as he used to do as a child, slyly, holding my shoes in his hands. I felt, I was losing him all over again, as I did last, many years ago. I could no longer restrain myself; I clutched his hands and blurted out, “You are coming with me, Saurav. Aren’t you going to send me off?”
Chinmayee Barik, a modernist writer in Odia literature is a popular and household name in contemporary literary circle of Odisha. Quest for solitude, love, loneliness, and irony against the stereotyped life are among the favorite themes of this master weaver of philosophical narratives. She loves to break the monotony of life by penetrating its harsh reality. She believes that everyone is alone in this world and her words are the ways to distract her from this existing world, leading her to her own world of melancholy and to give time a magical aesthetic. Her writings betray a sense of pessimism with counter-aesthetics, and she steadfastly refuses to put on the garb of a preacher of goodness and absolute beauty. Her philosophical expressions carry a distinct sign of symbolic annotations to metaphysical contents of life.
She has been in the bestseller list for her three outstanding story collections "Chinikam" , "Signature" and "December". Chinmayee has received many prestigious awards and recognition like Events Best-Selling Author's Award, "Antarang 31", Story Mirror Saraswat Sanmam", "Sarjan Award by Biswabharati", "Srujan Yuva Puraskar", and " Chandrabhaga Sahitya Samman".
Her book 'Chinikam' has been regarded as the most selling book of the decade. With her huge fan base and universal acceptability, she has set a new trend in contemporary storytelling. By profession chinmayee is a popular teacher and currently teaches in a school named " Name and Fame Public School" at Panikoili, a small town in Odisha. She can be contacted at her Email id - chinmayeebarik2010@gmail.com
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
(Translated from Odiya by Supriya Kar)
“Unn … un,” she started crying. She didn’t stand in the queue nor did she give in to anyone’s persuasion. She’s firm on her decision – “I won’t have food.”
A science exhibition was going on at a Government Girls’ High School in Bolangir. Numerous groups of students from different schools had come to participate in it along with their projects. Teachers, guardians and visitors gathered at the exhibition. A celebration of science- projects made and explained by students-perhaps innumerable flowers in the school garden bloomed and swung gaily in the air to join the celebration. The chief guest at the exhibition was the District Education Officer, an acknowledged lover of science. He visited the stalls accompanied by the Headmistress, who would look at her wrist watch now and then. Lunch break at two. The preparation was on, the air brought over the smell of rice, dal fry, cauliflower curry, and tomato sweet and sours hummus.
It’s two o’clock. The mike announced: “We now break for lunch. Participants, guides and teachers may kindly proceed to the dining venue. They’re requested to stand in the queue and bring their tokens. We hope everybody’ll abide by the rules. Participants may return to their stalls after an hour.”
A pleasant noise spread across the venue. A bird perched on a nearby mango tree squirmed. The arrangement for lunch was made under a colourful marquee. A long queue formed in no time. Two teachers stood at the gate and checked the tokens and allowed entry into the venue one by one. The Headmistress had strictly instructed that discipline must be maintained at the exhibition at any cost.
A little girl appeared on the scene. She had tied her hair in a ponytail and carried a water bottle on her shoulder. He eyes and face shone brightly. She had brought a science project in the sub-junior group. She stood in the queue and looked around her. She enjoyed being at this exhibition. To her, it steamed like a fair of happiness. Numerous boys and girls like her have come to attend the exhibition. How big was this school and how clean its premise! Oh, such variety of flowers, tiny butterflies! She felt like running and catching a butterfly. She thought to herself, if only there could be an exhibition everyday at different schools. How wonderful would that be! It seemed the quiet breeze could sense the little girl’s thoughts: it softly caressed her. She proceeded further in the queue. Teachers checked the tokens. No one pushed or pulled anyone, everything went on smoothly. She liked the discipline very much.
“Where’s your token, girl?”
She suddenly realised that she didn’t have a token. It must have been with her teacher. Where was he? Her face grew pale. She looked around-everyone had a token in their hands. The teachers would ask her, too. She wouldn’t be allowed entry to the dining hall if she didn’t submit the token. Her friends would laugh at her. Oh, that would be embarrassing. She got out of the queue to save herself from the impending humiliation and stood under a mango tree. She waited for the teacher who had accompanied her. A dust-coloured sparrow popped up near her. It picked a morsel of food with its beak and flew away. How funny! The sparrow didn’t need a token.
“O, girl, are you from Bhainsa?” He must be a teacher. The girl looked at him and said, “Yes.”
“You’re accompanied by your teacher, Dinesh babu?” She nodded.
“He’s gone to Belpada for some office work: he asked me to look after you. Come, stand in the queue.”
“I don’t have a token.”
“So what? I’ll put in a word.”
The little girl didn’t like his suggestion. It seemed weird to her. She would get her meal if the teacher put in a word! No, she would follow the rule. A token was mandatory for having a meal here and she didn’t have a token-she won’t have her meal. She made this clear to the teacher. He was taken by surprise. Such a little girl and so particular about rules! Two parents arrived and came to know this. One of them liked the girl’s spirit. But the little girl must have her meal. She tried to persuade her.
“I know your father. I also know the teachers at this school. Come, I’ll request them your behalf.”
Why should she accept someone’s favour? She didn’t agree. And yet, tiny pangs of hunger began to coagulate in her stomach. Her news spread all over the venue. The science teacher came running to the spot.
“Dear, I’m in charge of food distribution. You can have your meal without token.”
The girl still didn’t budge. She remembered her parents. They didn’t have a BPL card. Her father didn’t go and stand in queue in front of the ration store. Her mother didn’t have a health card; she didn’t stand in a queue to get benefits from the government health centre. Here a token was required to have one’s meal. How could she stand in the queue without the require token? One never got respect if one didn’t follow rules. He father always said, “One’s self-respect is more valuable than food.” She liked his words immensely.
The sun dazzled on the sky, her soft face shined brighter.
The Headmistress turned up now. How could a little participant remain without food at the science fair? Just because she didn’t have a token? She looked at her. The innocent face of this girl, who must be eight or nine, reflected quiet confidence.
“You’ve brought such an interesting project; do you still need a token?” She asked her tenderly.
“Other participants have also brought the same, madam,” she replied promptly and sipped a little water from her bottle to suppress the pangs of hunger.
“Come, I’m the Headmistress, come with me.” She held her hand, but the little girl took her hands away. Like new leaves, the little spring in her heart was pure. Numberless thoughts gathered on the banks of that spring!
The Headmistress wasn’t angry. She appreciated the girl’s sense of self-respect. Such girls become dreamers. They climb the Everest. They bring glory to their place of birth. She felt so proud of the girl.
Thakur babu, the organizer of the exhibition, arrived. The girl would yield to his words, everybody assumed, but his cunning words had hardly any effect on her. The little girl disarmed all with her self-esteem. Teachers shape the studnents’ mind. They show the right path. And yet, their faces now carried a look of defeat. Thoughts wavering inside the little girl’s quiet mind evoked their sympathy.
The DEO arrived. “No one can persuade a little girl to have her meal,” he looked at the teachers questioningly. He approached the girl and asked her affectionately- ‘Little girl, you won’t have your meal, why?”
“Sir, I don’t have a token.”
“Oh, really?” he signaled at Thakur babu- “Please bring a token.”
He brought a token and gave her. The girl checked it and returned it. “It’s torn, torn tokens aren’t allowed.”
The onlookers looked at each other in surprise. The DEO wiped his face and neck with a handkerchief. The girl didn’t like the look on the onlookers. Her father faced a lot of difficulties to get BPL card. She’ll take pains to get a token. The colour of hunger deepened in the hunger valley, but she won’t have her meal without a token.
The DEO signaled something quietly. A new token was brought and given to her. It seemed as though it was not a mere piece of paper, it was a symbol of her self-respect.
“Now happy?”
A thin line of smile appeared on her face like a glimmer of the moon. She now had a token. She would stand in the queue and have her meal with dignity. Like a butterfly, she glided towards the queue.
She’ll be a heartthrob when she grows up. She’ll work for her motherland. Gentlemen! Help her carve out her destiny. Let infinite promise of splendor come out of her self-respect.
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
BLOOD IS RED
Dr. Radharani Nanda
Markanda, the fifty years old man sat in the courtyard and looked at the sky. He was recollecting the day he stepped to the premises of this house when he was hardly nine or ten years. Climaging to his mother he stood silently below the varendah of the house listening to the conversation of her mother with the owner of the house Rajkishor Mohapatra and his wife Sobha Devi along with a few villagers participating in the ongoing discussion. They were the people who had found the mother and son begging for their livelihood in Puri Badadanda.
Rajkishor Mohapatra was around forty five and a distinguished figure in the village Niali. He was a moneyed man having vast expanse of agricultural field. Village people had immense faith on him. He never hesitated to provide them help at the hour of need though he was cunning and knew the art of extracting work in return for the money lent to them without hurting their sentiment. The villagers brought Markanda and his mother Ketaki with the hope to provide a shelter and food for the hapless family and that was only possible if Rajkishor babu showered mercy on them.
Markanda and his mother Ketaki were Harijan by caste. Knowing this fact the land lady Sova Devi frowned upon the people who brought them. "What the hell you people are doing," she shrieked. Are they of any help to me being a scheduled caste? is it worth feeding two people when they are of least help. We have enough man power to work in the field. To get a domestic helper in this village, which I badly need, is impossible as it would downcast their self prestige even though they are poor. But in what way these two people will be of any use to me ?" Rajkishor Babu tried to calm her down. Little Markanda, unable to assess the depth of the topic was listening to them silently though he was not completely ignorant about the points of their discussion. He had many bitter experience about it in his village and in lower primary school days which had a deep imprint in his heart.
Ketaki was hardly thirty five. Rajkishor Babu found the mother and son would be of immense help to them. The works to which a sizable amount of money is demanded by upper caste people can be easily extracted from these poor beggars with much less amount keeping in mind their untouchability an advantage. He in his majestic influencial voice enquired the mother Ketaki her ability to take up the work schedule enlisted by him. In return he promised her a rent-free thatched house in his premises and two time food to both mother and child.
The villagers were happy their plan didn't fail. They thanked Rajkishor Babu for his kindness. Ketaki bowed down before Mr.Mohapatra for his broad heart to provide shelter to the helpless, unknown people like them. Ketaki entered the house with her ten years old boy Markanda. It was already late in night. Villagers left for their home. Ketaki spread her torn saree on the floor and both mother and child went to sleep. Ketaki prayed and thanked Lord Jagannath for His mercy on her. She was yet to believe it was not a dream.
Markandakept ruminating on his past. They were poor, living in a Harijan basti at the end of their village under Bhadrak district along with people of his caste. He was the only child of his parents.They had no agricultural field, the only means of living being his father's work as a daily wager in the field of Samantha of their village. With his meagre earning somehow they were able to manage their life. Markanda was in class three. He was sitting in the back bench keeping distance from other class mates. He didn't remember who had instructed him to sit like this but from the beginning of class one his seat was fixed in the backbench. In recreation he longed so much to play with other boys of his class but he would sit alone as nobody liked to befriend him. With gloomy eyes he would observe others making merry.The child in him would cry and desperately seek the answer to it but in vain. This much he understood, his untouchability status was a bar to him from coming close to other boys. Who had created it? He had asked his Mother many times and Ketaki with her folded hands would point towards the sky above.
But in their withered thatched house he was feeling himself the prince of the family. Sometimes His father would bring small fishes from the narrow tributaries of the canal flowing by the side of the village. Ketaki would cook it with mustard paste and dried mango pieces.That day would be really the happiest day for him and remembering the taste of the curry made by his mother still caused dribbling of saliva from his mouth. Markanda's happiness knew no bounds at the festival time when his father would carry him on his shoulder to show him the celebrations in village. His father would start weaving dreams about his future. Government had so many plans for the backward castes. Free books, pen, pencils, notebooks were provided. Special provision for scholarships for good students of their caste was also there. Caressing Markanda's hair his father would tell his mother, "Listen to me Keti. Our Markand will read and write and one day it will not be difficult for him to take up a job in govt sector unfer quota system. He will sit in chair and work as a Babu. He will not toil hard for his living like us". Though Markanda's tender mind could not feel its importance at that time now the memory tears his heart into pieces.
Tragedy struck them when his father was afflicted with an unknown disease and was bedridden. Doctor in Block hospital detected pneumonia and advised them to take him to the big hospital in Cuttack. It was a bolt from blue for the poor family. Ketaki borrowed some money from the villagers but the relatives were poor enough to help her a big amount and with immense difficulty they helped her to take her husband to Cuttack Medical. Nothing could be done as disease had progressed and lying in hospital bed for few days he passed away. Markanda was only ten years old. He had been promoted to class fourth. It was a full stop to his study. The interest and the principal amount of money she borrowed from others increased day by day. A time came when she had to sell her thatched house and the small piece of land near her house to pay off the debt. Now the only shelter was under the open sky. Ketaki could not think how they will thrive. Darkness enveloped them from all around.
People with affluence didn't come forward to help the mother and son and provide a shelter because of their caste. The relatives with a hand to mouth living were barely of any help. A ray of light sparkled when Ketaki heard some people with family from her village were about to set out for Puri for Darsan of Lord Jagannath. Ketaki without thinking for anything else humbly requested them to allow her and her son to accompany them. Before she left her village she prayed the Lord Jagannath and asked His blessings in their new journey of life. Towards evening all of them returned back to village but Ketaki didn't return. She stayed with her son at Puri keeping faith on the Almighty.
Puri Bada Danda was her new shelter. In the morning she would beg with her son by her side. Out of mercy pilgrims would give her some coins. With that she collected some food to feel two empty stomachs. Once or twice she had ventured to enter into the temple and bowed down before her revered God. From Anand bazar she would bring some leftover Abhada for both of them. Though no body here recognised them, her mind would alert her for such doings. With folded hand she would ask Lord to forgive her for her entering into the temple.
She would wrap her saree around her neck and pray to Almighty for His mercy everyday. Lord listened to her Prayer.
A group of people from Niali village came for Mahaprabhu Darsan. They could find this poor desolate lady and her son begging in Badadanda. They didn't have shelter to stay. in front of Singhadwara they slept at night in one corner on the bare earth since last 10 days. They took pity on the mother and son. After a closed conversation they could find a solution and Ketaki with her son came to Rajkishor Babu's house. Since then this house became their permanent abode. Ketaki had never thought of finding a new home for them. It appeared like a dream and blessings of God on them.
Ketaki would start her day in the morning after getting a bowl full of puffed rice and a cup of bland tea from Sova Devi meant for both mother and child. Markanda would join her mother in her daily routine work. He used to water the kitchen garden where his mother planted cucumber, bitter gourd, Ridge board, broad beans and saag. After his mother took away the cows and calves to the field he would clean the cowshed and help his mother in making cakes from cow dung for fuel as used in villages. At mid day he would stand below the varendah to ask for some oil before taking his bath. The landlady poured few drops of coconut oil on his palm keeping adequate distance from him. He would take bath in the canal that flew by the side of their locality. He would bring his plate and Sobha Devi would give him rice, daal and a small amount of vegetable curry with onion and chili cooked by her.
His mother used to take her meal a bit late. She would sweep the entire premises, wash utensils in the pond which Sova Debi rinsed before setting them in the kitchen.They were forbidden from touching the well and asked to take bath in the pond. The canal by the side of their village was the only means to meet their need. Sobha Devi was very strict about her view on untouchability but she never showed her hesitance to provide them food and meet their small needs.
Rajkishor Babu had two children - a son Ritesh and daughter named Lily. They were studying in middle school. Markanda had been strictly instructed not to touch the children. But they were very affectionate towards Markanda. If he had time he plucked guava, custard apple for children from the garden and was delighted to see them eating with pleasure. He remembered how he was scolded once by Sobha Devi when his hand touched by chance the hand of her son while giving him the fruits. Her mother also beat him and warned him not to dissatisfy the landlady for fear with of losing their shelter. Markanda could understand the situation. Though his heart cried he would check his tears from rolling down.
Markanda turned sixteen. He had taken up the burden of managing outdoor works of Rajkishor Babu. Children were in highschool. His mother was falling sick most of the time and was incapable to carry out her works as before. Sobha Devi would become irritated on her many a time and scold her in the name of her low caste status. Ketaki silently bore her rebuke. Markanda would feel sad for his mother but he was now grown up to understand their situation and handle it with ease without any grudge in his mind. He had learnt to reconcile with his current situation.
Children would try to convince their mother about her perspective on casteism and untouchability. They try to refrain their mother from her rude behaviour for Markanda. Sobha Devi would flare up on them and warn them not to teach her the ultramodern ideology, lest soul of their forefathers would all rot in hell. They would try to explain to her, "Maa, blood of our forefathers was red and so also ours and of Ketaki and Markanda. Then why such difference? All these are because of our false belief and faulty culture for which our society has been divided in many ways." But nothing could work on Sobha Devi. She continued to stick to her principle.
Time rolled on. Markanda was now an indispensable person for Mohapatra house. Irrespective of the all discriminations he came across, he had great respect and bonding for this family. He regarded them as his saviour and revered them like God who had given shelter to the poor destitute like him and his mother. Only for the respected family nobody in the village could venture to touch them or try to demoralize them in any way. Though a spark of love illuminated in some corner of the heart of Sobha Devi for Markanda she never let it show openly. Rajkishor Babu was fully dependent on Markanda and trusted him wholeheartedly because of his truthfulness and sincerity. Now a days Markanda does not regret for anything. He had dedicated himself for serving the Mohapatra family with loyalty and devotion.The whole village knew Markanda was like a shadow who followed Rajkishor Babu everywhere he went. The boys teased him calling him Markanda Mohapatra or Mr. Mohapatra in short. Markanda would turn a deaf ear to all their sarcastic comments.
Last year his mother breathed her last. Doctor told she had a heart attack. Markanda was very much griefstricken after losing his mother. Sobha Devi, Rajkishor babu and their children consoled him. With their support and help he was able to bear the loss. But his
emotional and perturbed mind would go down the memory lane, to his village, the Harijan basti, their small thatched house and his school life. Today also he is the same low caste Markanda bearing the sore glare of the people, he still asking his landlady for oil before bath standing below the varendah. Rajkishor babu though provided him three meals and other minimum necessities, he had never paid anything as his salary but Markanda could get some pocket money while going out with him. Markanda was overwhelmed at his concern for him. What more an orphan boy wants. He reminisces his mother's advice and carry out wholeheartedly.
Markanda always kept himself ready for their service. Rajkishore Baboo's children Ritesh and Lily had taken admission in college and staying in hostel. They used to come to village on vacations. At that time Markanda's happiness knew no bounds. He would pluck fruits from their orchad for them. They were amazed at his childish behaviour and also could feel his concern and affection for them. They were very much sympathetic to him and would affectionately tell him "Markanda we are no more little boys and girls to eat these fruits". Markanda would innocently look at them. Oh, truly they are grown up now. Why did he not understand. Markanda would run to the canal to catch some fishes with his fishing net and give it to Sobha Devi to cook for his dear young master and didi. Sova Devi would accept it gladly but it never reflected on her face. Her grave look and indifference would shatter Markanda's happiness within a moment. A little bit of affection that he sought from her would make him emotional. What more he could do so that the Malkin will be pleased with him. Can he change his caste at any cost? If somebody would drain out all his blood and fill his body with new blood probably Malkin would accept him. After his mother passed away he had seen his mother's image in Malkin and respected her from the core of his heart. He imagined he might have done something wrong in his past life for which he took birth in low caste and something good for which he could get such a nice shelter and protection from a great family to grow up. He heard the Priest of the village temple reading Bhagabata at their house explaining to the people the effect of your karma in past life.Though he was not educated but hadenough brain to understand its theme.
After her vacation was over Ritesh and Lily got ready to go to their hostel at Bhubaneswar. Rajkishor Babu accopanied his daughter and son. Markanda carried the luggages to bus stop which was only half a kilometer from their house and accompanied them. After leaving them in hostel Rajkishor Babu returned by a taxi to village with Markanda. It was almost evening. They were oly few kilometers away from their village when their car met with a serious accident with a truck coming from opposite side. Rajkishore Babu suffered grave injuries on his head and body with profuse bleeding. The driver and Markanda narrowly escaped and took Rajkishor Babu to the nearby hospital. Police came and after thorough investigations Doctor referred him to Cuttack Medical College and Hospital.
Sobha Devi was shocked to get the message about her husband's accident. She immediately rushed to the Block hospital and then to Cuttack Medical. Her relatives and friends came to help at this crucial period but Markanda's support was needed most. Markanda had never been to Cuttack before. At that time Sobha Devi had totally forgotten the bar of untouchability that she had created between her and Markanda. Doctor examined Rajkishor Babu and expressed his concern for his condition due to excessive blood loss. Immediate blood transfusion was needed for which the blood of relatives and also of Sobha Devi was tasted. But his B negative blood didn't match with anyone's. Those days there was huge scarcity of blood in Blood banks. Added to that, donor for B negative blood was also very less in number in the list and not within reach. Sobha Devi was crying like a child. Doctors suggested to test the blood of Markanda standing at a distance. Markanda stood with folded hands and shook his head. Sobha Devi looked at him and shouted, "Why are you standing like a statue? Is your blood different from Babu? Go and get your blood tested. You have been nurtured by him for so long and you would let him die?" Markanda thought his Malkin was not in her sense. He fell at her feet and sobbed like a child telling her, "How can I commit such a sin Malkin? Can I donate blood to Babu being a boy of low caste?" Sobha Devi had no mind to listen to his mumbling. Doctor ordered his attendant to take him to the lab and test his blood. God's plan is amazing. Everything that happened in our conscious or subconscious state is for a purpose. Markanda's blood matched with Rajkishor Babu. The little boy Markanda from a remote village in the district of Bhadrak was now the saviour of Rajkishor Babu who once gave him shelter.
Rajkishor Babu recovered after proper treatment and care. Markanda, though overwhelmed with joy at his master's recovery, his heart was quivering with fear at the thought of Sobha Devi's next action on him. Probably the time had come for him to be driven out from their house. Who will provide him a place to thrive? He was not able to face the possibility.
One day Sobha Devi and Rajkishor Babu called Markanda and asked him to remove all his belongings from his thatched house. Markanda fell at their feet and pleaded "You are my father and mother. Please punish me for my fault. But don't drive me away from your house. Where shall I go? Please give me the chance to serve you to repay my debt, the favour you have shown to me by giving shelter to me". His tears rolled down unabated from his eyes. Rajkishor Babu and Sobha Devi consoled him, "Who is driving you out from this house, you mad child?You bring your belongings to the quarter adjacent our house. From today you will stay close to us like our child. Your blood is flowing in me. How can I remain away from you? You are like my Ritesh and Lily." Sobha Devi caressed his hair and told, "Which debt you are talking about Markanda? You saved your master's life. Actually we are indebted to you and we cannot repay it in this life. Do as we are asking you from the core of our heart." Markanda got up from their feet and wiped his tears.
From that day onwards Markanda started living in the quarter adjacent to Babu's courtyard. He didn't have to ask for oil standing below the varendah and no more he had to take food in the worn out utensils with garlic, onion and small amount of curry like a servant. The entire scenario changed.
Markanda got married in due course. He is having one son and one daughter. Rajkishor Babu and Sobha Devi have left for their heavenly abode. They have registered the quarter where Markanda is staying and some agricultural land in his name. Markanda cultivates those lands and takes care of the entire property. Lily got married and is residing with her in-laws. Ritesh is an Engineer in HAL at Sunabeda in Koraput district and stays there with his family. They come during vacations with children for few days and go back after spending a lovely time with Markanda and his family.
Dr.Radharani Nanda completed MBBS from SCB Medical college, Cuttack and post graduation in Ophthalmology from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur. She joined in service under state govt and worked as Eye specialist in different DHQ hospitals and SDH. She retired as Director from Health and Family Welfare Department Govt of Odisha. During her service career she has conducted many eye camps and operated cataract surgery on lakhs of blind people in remote districts as well as costal districts of Odisha. She is the life member of AIOS and SOS. She writes short stories and poems in English and Odia. At present she works as Specialist in govt hospitals under NUHM.
It was a trepid summer morning. The schools held their classes in morning schedules during the hot summer. The final examination was over and the ME school of the village happened to declare the result and close the school for about one and half month as summer vacation.
Gopi and his friends,reading in class 6th, were anxiously waiting for the result to be declared. The Head Master accompanied by the Class Teacher arrived in the class room holding a file containing the results to be announced. As per the prevalent practice, the student whose name was declared by the Head Master as promotee to next higher class , was to stand up and leave that class room and to take seat in the higher class. The anxiety among students with the passing of time ran sky high each holding the hand of his classmates.
The Head Master read out names rhythmically and then stopped abruptly. The message was clear for the left out students who could not stand the test and were compelled to seat in the same class. There were about five such left outs and Gopi was one among them. The scene was unbearable for them as all other students were focusing their eyes on them as failed students . Obviously loud cry was heard from the room and the five friends clung tight to each other sobbing profoundly without knowing how to go back to their homes and show faces to parents.
Sabita, Gopi's younger sister ,was also reading in class 3rd and the Head Master had just declared her holding the First position promoting her to class 4th. Her joy knew no bounds and she was running like a smart deer in the school.
Then she arrived along with other students at Class 6th, where the Head Master had just finished declaring the result. She saw the tearful eyes of Gopi and his friends who were not promoted to the next higher class, occasionally sobbing when others watched their plight. Her joy vanished instantly ,tears flowing down from eyes. She stood there as a motionless statue to share the agony of her brother who was not in a position to acknowledge her presence there at that crucial juncture. After almost two hours she galvanized little courage to come near Gopi to console him and his friends. Whatever little acts of counselling she knew, she tried her best to assuage their feelings and said ,"Bhima also lost in the first attempt, but later on he was victorious". She told Gopi and his friends and begged them to take the failure as challenge for the next year.Gopi asked her , “how can I go home and show my face to father”?
Gopi’s father, Gagan babu, was the post master of the sub post office of the village on contractual service with a paltry salary. He had a lot of hope in Gopi , as he was born after the death of two of his siblings during their infant days. He never used harsh words to Gopi, nor punished him with beatings. But he always directed Gopi to read mindfully and complete the home works given by his teacher. Gopi’s mother was always by his side whenever he committed any nuisance or refrained from reading.
Hence Gopi was not in a mood to face his father and told Sabita “ You should not reveal the result at home and father should not know about this “. So nodded Sabita and assured to keep the matter secret till his father came to know from others. She had an idea before Gopi .
She told, “ You can spend few hours hiding in our Attu so that even if father gets annoyed on hearing the result from others , he would become cool by not seeing you in the house for a long time and get worried on anticipating some wrong doings.”
Three years back , Gobara, a neighbor of Gopi had fled from the village on getting plucked in his class and did not return till night. He appeared only when he found that his parents were not worried on his result.. So Sabita thought , her idea was best for that moment and disclosed before Gopi .
Attu is used to be a common house building structure in straw thatched houses in rural areas, used as false ceiling to protect the house from summer heat, winter cold , fire hazards and for miscellaneous uses. It is supported by wood logs or bamboos ( locally known as Kadi and baraga in Odia) upon which thick earthen plastering is provided to make it strong to withstand the load of human beings. During rainy season , the attu serves as a drying yard for paddy, pulses ,millet or other agri products harvested from fields. Notwithstanding its various utilities, it remains a happy passage for thieves and miscreants who could get passage to all households through it. The dark atmosphere surrounding the area used to be a frightening sight for children who were barred from entering it. They are often fed with the rumours that Ghosts stay there in Attu.
Gopi could hide himself in this dark unnoticeable place and Sabita supported him by supplying him eatables periodically without any body”s knowledge. Her mother could understand the plight of Gopi but could not sympathise in a better way.Her father
Arrived for lunch and enjoyed a quiet nap till afternoon without noticing the reality drama which were being enacted at home. He did not enquire about the result of Gopi as he was confident that his son would come out with flying colours as Gopi had informed him earlier that he had answered all questions correctly in each subject including in Arithmetic which was bit odd to him.
The sun was about to set hiding His face behind the conical hill standing majestically in the western side of the village. The cattle hordes were returning home from their daily sojourn of grazing ground situated at the foot hill.The curling smokes oozing out of thatched houses signalled the preparation of dinner in the house holds.
The darkness was fast falling and Gopi was looking for opportunity to climb down from Attu. "How can I avoid the attention of father?"he whisperd to Sabita.
His mother used to send flower garlands daily to the presiding deity of the village ,Lord Gopinath in the evening.Not a single day she missed her temple service and Sabita used to carry these garlands to the temple.
But that day Sabita did not want to go to the temple leaving Gopi in that dark haunted attu. She requested her father to carry the garlands to "Lord Gopinathjew " giving an alibi of her foot injury.
The evening Arti of the village deity Lord Gopinath jew was over and Gagan babu had the chance of meeting his elderly friends who had assembled there in the evening. During discusion the result of the school declared that day was discussed and all were worried for the "Five Friends " who failed in class 6th . Gagan babu came to know about the result of Gopi from discussion and returned home with a heavy heart.
At home he enquired about Gopi who was found sleeping on his bed covered with a blanket. Finding him sleeping at that unusual odd hours, Gagan babu touched Gopi's body shivering with high temperature. Sabita was standing silently and cursed herself as guilty for her idea to keep her brother at the dark Attu, the place of ghosts , through out the day . Her mother was busy in preparing home remedies for reducing the high fever and fomenting his fore head with cold watery cotton fabrics. Father and son could not talk to each other that day.
After his convalescence Gopi gathered courage and revealed his result to his father. He touched his feet and assured to do better in the class . Next year the result of the school was announced by the Head Master in the same ritualistic manner but Gopi and his friends came out with good results. Now in 7th class, these Five Friends, studies seriously and did well in the exam. But Gopi was not happy at the situation. He did not want to leave some of his friends and go to far off place for higher secondary education.Some of his friends informed him that their parents did not have the financial capacity to send them to distant high schools . The Five Friends were extremely heart broken to get separated. Gopi informed to one of his friends ,
" While sitting in Attu last year in that unauspicious day I had dreamt of reading in the
village high school. Why can't we pressurise our parents to start a new high school in our village itself? If that happens we will not be separated at all for next four years."
The idea brewed through Gopi's dream at Attu was well accepted and the friends rushed to their house to pester their fathers to start a new school in the village .
The village had a strong hinterland and there was no high school in the vicinity with a radius of 20 kms. Some Govt officials and influencial local leaders carried out viabilty tests of establishing a new private high school in the village. Some villagers and land owners donated land voluntarily and a rough design and blue print was prepared to open a High Scool in the village starting from the current session. Donations in cash or kind surged in . The near by jungle provided the timber/ bamboos for thatched roofing and stones for laying foundation. Brickes were manufactured by labourers and youth hailing from the village and the adjoining villages through "Shramdan".
The school construction was over in six months and till that the school was running at the local "Dharmashala" , public rest house. The school gradually became the only recognised centre of higher secondary education in the locality and the dream of Gopi seen in Attu on that day bore fruit.
All the Five Friends passed out in the matriculation and went to the district head quarters for higher studies. What a cioncidence happened ! Some of these friends joined the High School as teachers and Gopi assumed the chair of Head Master of the school.
The rural infrastructure started growing keeping pace with the economic development. The thatched houses disapeared by concrete building. The attu became a thing of the past and became fast extinct in course of time. Gopi had to bow his head before the demand of his family to renovate his house and build RCC roofed pucca building.
He was relaxing on his cosy wooden chair when crashing sounds emanated from his Attu. Within no time the entire structure was grounded. Each sound of wood cutting pierced through his heart like arrows. Gopi was stunned to see the plight of Attu burried under a huge mould of earth.Tears forced out from his eyes recollecting the vision he dreamt on that fateless day.
The words of his late father flashed into his mind. His father always said, “Do not remove the Attu and the straw thatched roof during my life time”. But . alas ! He succumbed to the demand of his family members. He remained motionless and still. Shortly after an ambulance was seen parked in front of his house.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
TALES FROM HINDUSTAN WEEK 4: THE MYSTERY OF THE MAGIC BOX
In a small town near Varanasi, there lived a cloth merchant named Ramdas. He was not only successful in business but also a wise and generous man. He seemed to possess an uncanny ability to always wear a smile on his face, even in the toughest of times. His even temperament,
compassion, and winning smile inspired confidence in everybody around him and they not only respected him but also loved him. Despite reaping enormous profits, he donated to the poor and needy and lived a simple life.
His childhood friend, Somu was a rich ceramic merchant in the neighboring town not too far from where Ramdas lived. During their childhood years, they were inseparable. They had spent many idyllic summers playing together, swimming in the rivers, and eating sweet ripe mangoes freshly plucked from the trees. Despite their close friendship, they grew up to be poles apart from each other. While Ramdas worked for serving those around him, Somu worked to get ahead at any
cost. He prided himself on his success and spent his money lavishly. He was known to be
ruthless and cunning. His shrewdness made him a formidable businessman whom people feared.
Although he was too proud to admit it, the last few years had been difficult for Somu. He had faced multiple losses in business and the profits had waned considerably. "If I can't find a way out, I will have to shut down my business soon," concluded Somu. The despairing Somu spent
many sleepless nights tossing and turning, anxiously hoping for the tides to turn, but there was no relief. Suddenly, he was struck by an idea. "Maybe paying a visit to Ramdas will provide a solution to my problem. I will learn the tricks he employs to make perennial
profits", thought Somu. The next morning he set out on his journey to meet his friend.
When Somu arrived, he was surprised to find a simple home with a sign hung on the door that said "Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here". "Strange!" thought Somu as he
rang the bell. Ramdas was thrilled and welcomed him with a warm embrace, a delicious meal, and generous hospitality. "How happy am I to see you my dear friend! You can stay here with me as long as you like!" he cried out joyfully.
That night, Somu shared his woes with his friend. With an eager glint of hope in his eyes, he desperately asked Ramdas to relieve him of his sorrows. With an empathetic smile, Ramdas nodded.
The next morning there was a flurry of activity in the house. Somu was woken up by an aroma of flavorful dishes that led him to the kitchen. There he saw an elaborate spread filled with exquisite appetizing dishes. Just as he was about to enter, Ramdas called out " Good morning, Somu! As you can see, I am a great cook! But, I have some errands to run now, and as soon as I am back, we will dine together" he said as he winked at Somu.
Before Ramdas left, he carefully handed Somu a tiny antique box and key and said "I am handing you my most valuable secret. This was passed down by my father's father and his father before him. It contains all that you need to be successful and happy. But, whatever you do, do not open it. Stay alert and keep a close watch!".
Before Somu could satiate his curiosity about the mysterious magical box, Ramdas disappeared.
It seemed like hours had passed and Somu was getting restless. The idea this tiny magic box
could transform his life filled Somu with confusion and doubts. Could it really be possible? Somu couldn't wait to find out!
It seemed like a few more hours had passed. When ripples of anger had risen to the surface of his mind, he wrinkled his nose. " Is this how one treats a guest? Why is he making me wait this long?" simmered Somu.
He waited a few more minutes until a greedy thought cropped up - "What if I steal the contents of the box and hide the key? He'll never find out! It will all be mine forever! " pondered Somu
foolishly. But he knew better than to cheat his own friend.
By now, Somu was getting impatient and hungry. The green-eyed monster of envy took hold of Somu and he let his mind wander. "If only I had the secret to set up a successful business! He got lucky! " complained Somu bitterly.
A few moments later, his stomach growled and his mouth watered. He glided into the kitchen hypnotized by the delicious aroma that wafted toward him.
"I can't wait any longer!" decided Somu and just then he heard Ramdas's footsteps inching closer to him.
"Sorry, that took a while. Did you keep a close watch? ," asked Ramdas with a smile. Somu shrugged.
Ramdas slowly unlocked the box and Somdas was shocked to find that this whole time the box was empty!
"When I asked you to keep watch and stay alert, I was talking about your mind!" explained Ramdas patiently.
In a short span of time, Somu had gone through a whirlwind of emotions - anger, greed, envy, and impatience unconsciously.
"The secret to success and happiness is in being mindful. Happiness is within you!
You see, there is inner happiness within everyone, but it is covered by layers of negative
thoughts, fears, worries, and anxieties. This Inner happiness is an inseparable part of us, of our essence, but we often allow various factors to hide it. Let go of selfishness, and work in the spirit of service and you'll know real happiness". concluded Ramdas.
Somu returned back to his town with his newfound wisdom and worked hard to abide by it. As years went by Somu's business slowly started looking up and he found true joy and happiness, not in profits or pride but selflessness and service.
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.
I reached the door of my home in the dead of night and pressed the door-bell. My wife opened the door and I came in. My son and daughter also woke up from sleep. They soon got busy eating foreign chocolates.
I told them - Don't finish all the chocolates. Keep something for Krishna, the son of Sita. On the date of my departure on the foreign tour, I had promised him to give some foreign chocolates.
My son said - He is no more now. I would take his share.
My daughter told me - He was my friend and playing with me. So his share should come to me.
I could not understand what they were saying. I told them - He was following me and talking to me, while I was coming home walking from the cremation ground in the darkness of the stormy night.
My son and daughter were holding my wife tightly and shivering. They dragged their mother and slept inside the blanket.
I asked - What happened to you? Why are you scared?
My son said from under the blanket - We have heard ghost stories in our school, but never seen a ghost, but you came up with his ghost. His spirit might be in your body. You go to the other bedroom and sleep there alone. Don't sleep with us. Don't tell us anything. Go away please.
My son was naughty. I didn't believe his words. How can I disbelieve my own eyes and what I had seen in my eyes and heard in my ears.
I told my wife - It might be a plan for my son to get more chocolates. You please tell the truth.
She narrated sorrowfully…
It was a sorrowful afternoon, about 2pm, four days ago. All of a sudden dense black clouds appeared in the sky. The Sun was lost in the cloudcast sky. Darkness engulfed our city. Lightning and thunder were roaring. It rained cats and dogs. Big drops of water were showering from the dark sky and pouring on our capital city heavily and violently…never ever seen in my lifetime. Within two hours the thunderstorm calmed down causing devastating effects and problems. The Sun was playing hide and seek behind the clouds. Rainwater was flowing on the street like a stream near the cremation ground and Krishna was floating his paper boats in it merrily.
One lady of the slum told Krishna from the window - Your Mom has gone to work in the apartment complex. Why are you drenching your body in the dirty rainwater? You may catch a cold. Come home please.
Krishna told her - A new hawai slipper is being swept away by the violent current of the rain water. I am going to catch it, lest it may go into the covered drain through the opening in the slabs.
After one hour his mother Sita came from her work, but couldn't find her son, Krishna. She asked the neighbors of the slum on the street near the cremation ground.
They said - Krishna was floating paper boats in the rain water. Now he might be roaming somewhere. He would come, when he feels hungry. Don't worry please.
But her heart, mind and body went on searching for him everywhere. She asked all his playmates. They couldn't say anything about him.
The Sun set in the Western sky. In the faint light, Sita was busy searching for her son. She was asking all the people of our locality. But none could give a hint. She was weeping, and crawling at the gate of the cremation ground. All the near and dear ones were searching for missing Krishna. People gathered there in a sorrowful mood. All liked him from their heart for his amusing naughtiness.
The lady, who had seen Krishna from the window while floating paper boats, came out and said sorrowfully - I had seen him running after one of his hawaii slippers near the opening of the covered drain. Then I remained busy with my household work. I don't know what happened to Krishna afterwards.
People were busy searching for his hawai slippers. One of Krishna's playmates found one of his hawai slippers near the vacant slab opening of the covered drain. Sita also recognized it.
Now the question was… Where did Krishna and his other chappal go ?
It was presumed that one of his slippers might have got swept into the opening of the drain and Krishna might have gone there to catch it and fallen into the drain.
People gathered there and removed slabs in the hope of rescuing Krishna alive. It was a government drain of the municipal corporation in the capital city. The police and government officials also gathered there. Since it was a question of life and death, all cooperated for the survival of Krishna.
All the slabs were removed and the drain was searched, but neither Krishna nor his chappal was found. By at night everyone left the place and went home for sleep.
And Sita was crying and crawling alone in the cremation ground. Her husband had been missing for a couple of years. No one knew if he was dead or alive.
Now Krishna was also found missing. It seemed Seeta's misery was unending.
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.
"When I grow up I will marry the rainbow. I will walk across the sea, hold him tightly and ask him to marry me."
That was four years old Ruchi, standing in the balcony of our 14th floor apartment at Malabar Hill in Mumbai and looking at a beautiful rainbow against a clear sky just above the Arabian Sea.
Our son Chintu, six years older to his sister, would laugh at her from the dining chair,
"Ei, stupid, no one can walk across the sea, you will drown."
Ruchi was not prepared to give up,
"Bhai, you know nothing. Only the first ten feet of the ocean is rough, full of waves. If you swim across those ten feet, sea is very calm after that, just like a blue carpet. You can walk across it. Mummy I am right naa?"
Malabika, my wife, did not want to take sides between her children, nor did she want to break the heart of her cute little daughter. She winked at Chintu, gesturing to him to keep quiet,
"Yes, the sea looks like a carpet from here, a young girl like you can walk across to grab the rainbow if you want to. But tell me why do you want to marry a freak like a rainbow, bent like a bow? We will find a straight, handsome man for you to marry."
Ruchi was horrified,
"No, no, Mummy, I want to marry the rainbow only. He is so beautiful, but he is also very naughty. He only knows where he hides and doesn't come out for days. Then one day he appears again, so beautiful, so full of colour. I want to marry him so that he always lives with me, like Papa lives with us. So, no more argument Mummy, I will marry the rainbow when I grow up. Papa will host a grand party for my wedding. You will naa, Papa?"
I would nod, her cute face would fill up with joy. With a twinkling smile she would run to me and hug me,
"Promise?"
I would nod again,
"Promise."
That was twenty two years back. I was a middle level scientist at Bhabha Atomic Research Centre (BARC). We used to live in a fourteenth floor apartment at the fifteen storied building in Malabar Hill. Life was on a roll, the view of the Arabian Sea from our balcony was exquisite. Chintu showed early promise of brilliance, Ruchi was to follow her brother's footsteps few years later. Both were star students in their class. Chintu's best friend's father was a civil servant with Maharashtra Governmnet, Chintu wanted to be one like him. He was calm, quiet, composed, very balanced from the school days, winning dozens of trophies in Debate competitions, Elocution contests and Essay writing. He cracked the civil service exam in the first attempt and was allotted Odisha, as his home cadre. He was happy to go back to his relatives, the parents and brothers and sisters of mine and Malabika's. At the Academy of training he fell in love with a batchmate, Jayshree, a girl from Maharashtra, and the wedding was solemnised in Mumbai.
Ruchi, on the other hand, was focussed on a research career right from her school days. She wanted to be an Aerospace Engineer. She was a versatile talent, excelling in debate, dance, karaoke singing and painting. Yes, she was still obsessed with rainbows, not as a possible marriage partner, but as an object of intense adoration. Most of her paintings would have a rainbow hidden somewhere and songs on rains and rainbows were her favourite. Chintu was indifferent to food but she loved to eat Odiya dishes, prepared by her Mom, christened by her children as "the best cook in the world." And when they visited their grand parents in Odisha it was an endless procession of exotic vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes, followed by varieties of fruits and desserts. Ruchi used to learn Odissi dance and give performances in Baripada, the small town where my parents lived. She was a live wire among her cousins, hugely popular and sought after.
The day Ruchi was selected for admission in IIT, Chennai, she was ecstatic but Malabika went into a panic. The thought of the seventeen year old daughter leaving for the hostel shattered her,
"How will you survive on upma, idly-sambahr and rice-rasam? Who will give you mutton biriyani and prawn curry? Stay back in Mumbai, try for a change to IIT here, you will stay at home and commute. Pawai is connected by bus, you willl have no problem. Without good food you won't get sleep in the night."
Ruchi, no less sad to leave the comfort of home, tried to console her,
"Don't worry mummy, IIT hostels are not like ordinary hostels. You get all kinds of food there. Chennai IIT is one of the best in the country. I will be coming during vacations to filll myself with mutton biriyani, prawn curry and fish fry. You can come over to Chennai when Papa goes on official tours to Kalpakkam. Let me go mummy, I am keen on Aerospace Engineering."
Malabika had packed Ruchi's suitcase with at least twenty kilos of food when we went to drop her at Chennai. Ruchi was excited to be at the hallowed campus, we shared her joy. Malabika's tears flowed unabated on the way back to Mumbai. She accompanied me to Chennai during Ruchi's first two semesters, but soon realised that her presence was a distraction for her daughter. Gradually she got used to the children's absence. Chintu and his wife were busy with their work in far off Odisha and we stared at an empty nest, rather early in our life.
Ruchi had plannned her career quite well. She wanted to go to an American university for her Masters and Ph.D, and started applying for admission in her fourth year at IIT. She had done exceptionally welll in her studies and her GRE score was among the top. By first week of February she got an offer of admisssion with full tuition waiver and Research Assisatntship for a Ph.D. Programme from Cornell University, Ithaca, New York. It's an IVY League university and only the best among the applicants are selected for admission and assistantship there. It was a dream fulfilled for Ruchi. She called me in the evening with the good news. It was clear she was euphoric,
"Papa, you know how I feel? It's as if I have got the moon in my hands. I have come to the Marina beach with a couple of friends to celebrate. I feeel like running madly on the sand and shout at the top of my voice, 'Ithaca, wait for me, here I come.' I want to go to the old lady selling sundal and buy the whole basket of the peanuts from her and give a packet to everyone in the beach. I want to buy all the balloons from the vendors and blow them and let them fly, the way my heart is soaring to the sky. I want to gather alll the children on the beach and buy a stick of ice cream for them. You won't imagine Papa how happy I am. I can see myself at NASA in another six to seven years, sending rockets to the sky. I can do it naa Papa? You know I can, don't you?"
I shared her happiness. I knew how keen she was on her dream and I knew she was perfectly capable of achieving it. I blessed her and gave the phone to Malabika. She burst into tears. I sometimes fail to understand this tearful chemistry between a mother and a daughter. If they are happy they would cry, if they are sad they would burst into tears! The noise at Marina beach made conversation difficult.
Ruchi called again in the night to have a long talk with her mother. Malabika started crying,
"My daughter, how can I let you go away so far! I cried so much when you left for Chennai, I couldn't bear to live without you. Now you are going thousands of miles away. Why can't you find a job in India, get married and settle down somewhere we can visit every month? Please don't go to America, it's a weird country."
Ruchi chuckled on the other side,
"Mummy, who told you America is a weird country? What is weird about it? Who has given you wrong ideas?"
"My friend Sujata, O, of course you know Sujata Aunty who lives in Goregaon. Her daughter Anushka got married last year to a Gujarati boy in America. She had weird experience when she went there. It seems her husband used to have relation with many girls before marriage. Anushka says sometimes she gets weird calls in her husband Tarun's number. Once around 1.30 in the night some American girl called and said, "Hi, buddy, long time no see, have you forgotten me! Fallen for some other girl? Hey, are you alone, should I come over? We will have a wild night." Anushka was horrified and disconnected the phone. Another time a tall, beautiful Punjabi girl knocked at the door in the evening. When she saw Anushka, she was shocked, "O My, Tarun has again changed his girlfriend! You look like a real desi, fresh admission in university?" When Anushka said she was Tarun's wife, the girl started laughing, "That's what Tarun should say, to fool his ex-girlfriends, why are you saying that?" When Anushka asked her husband, he laughed it away, "Oh, don't worry about that. Here it's very common, cold nights, hot hormones, you know, sleeping together is bound to happen. Now that you have come I will remain like a domesticated cat" and he started doing meow, meow to convince her. Isn't that weird?"
Ruchi was laughing all the time and trying to interrupt her mother,
"Mummy, what's your problem? You think I will become someone's girl friend? Or marry some one who will do meow, meow? Don't you remember my rainbow is here, above the Arabian Sea? I won't marry anyone without you and Papa agreeing. Papa has to throw a big party, remember? He has promised. Mummy, don't worry, my entire focus will be on studies. When my final semester is over here in IIT, I will spend a couple of months with you before leaving for the U.S.. You teach me how to cook all good dishes. I will eat well and study, nothing else, ok?"
Malabika's worries were not over,
"But what will you eat there? I am told Americans eat only beef, nothing else?"
Ruchi was amused,
"Mummy, I have searched in the internet. You get everything in US. in the departmental stores, alll kinds of vegetables, readymade chapatis, fish, prawn, chicken, everything. Even drumsticks and bhindi, baingan, lauki are available there. You know Mummy, we call bhindi lady's finger, they call it okra, baingan is brinjal here, eggplant there. So don't worry, when I come during vacation from the U.S. you might find me fat. Now go to sleep in peace. Let me try to find some ex students from Chennai IIT who are studying in Cornell. They can guide me on what to expect when I go there"
Ruchi's final semester at IIT was over in May and she left for New York in mid-August after spending three monthss with us. Our heart was heavy, knowing, this was the last time she would live with us for so long. Once she got a job in U.S. it will be difficult for her to get leave. Malabika made Ruchi sleep with her, never letting her go out of her sight, she kept wishing Ruchi would change her mind and look for a job in India. We all went to Sambalpur and spent a week where Chintu was working as Collector. We visited our daughter in law Jayashri who was Collector at Sundargarh, the neighbouring district. The grand parents were happy that Ruchi was finally coming close to achieving her dream, they pampered her with lots of delicious food and gifts to carry to U.S.. Ruchi was always everyone's darling and she returned their love with equal fervour.
Finally the day came for Ruchi's departure to New York on the way to Ithaca. Malabika was inconsolable a few days before the scheduled departure. Ruchi tried her best to cheer her up, promising again and again that she would come to visit next summer. At the airport I looked with wonder at my small, frail girl carrying a huge backpack and walking towards her destiny. My eyes filled with tears, when she looked back and waved at us before entering the departure gate.
It was a non-stop flight and Ruchi reached New York in sixteen hours. Two of her seniors from IIT Chennai picked her up from JFK airport and took her to Ithaca. She called us from her friend's phone on arriving at New York and again from Ithaca. Soon it became a daily routine with her to talk to Malabika at ten o clock her time, when it would be around noon in Mumbai. I would be mostly in office. Ruchi would speak to me on Sundays. The talk between mother and daughter would be endless, often Ruchi would doze off to sleep, holding the phone in hand and Malabika would disconnect the call.
The way Ruchi described her days in Ithaca we often felt we were actually living there, we became a part of her American life. The first time she went to a departmental store her eyes popped out in wonder. There were so many things, neatly stacked, so many varieties of fish, shrimp, meat, vegetables, bread products. She shared an apartment with two other Indian girls. They cooked in turn, each girl cooking for two days. They went out to eat on Saturday which was the only day to relax, wash clothes, watch movies and have fun. On Sundays they would go to their lab and spend the whole day there.
By the beginning of October the weather changed, Fall season was at its peak and the leaves on trees would change colour. There would be a riot of colours everywhere. There would be a heavenly beauty everywhere. Soon the trees would shed their leaves and winter would set in. The day Ruchi experienced her first snowfall she went crazy with joy. It was evening, the weather had got very cold. Temperature had gone below zero and suddenly in the evening it started snowing. Ruchi and some of her Indian friends who were new to U.S. came running out and stood under the snow. Soon there was a steady drizzle of snow and by morning it was white everywhere. The roof tops, trees, roads, cars - everything was covered with three inches of snow. It was time to take out the snow boots and walk gingerly on the pavements, which were slippery. Ruchi told us every newcomer tumbles and falls on her butt at least once - a grim warning to be careful in future!
A fortnight later Ruchi seemed super excited. The previous night it had snowed an unprecedented thirty six inches. In the morning she and her room mates could not open the door of their apartment. The town had come to a standstill. But in no time the roads were cleared and vehicles started plying. Ruchi thought the University would declare a holiday, like we do in India when there is heavy rain or storm. Anyway, she didn't have a class during the day, so she went under the quilt and slept till afternoon. She had a class at six in the evening for three hours. There the professors could combine three classes and engage the students for three hours continuously. Mild snowfall continued throughout the day. In the evening Ruchi strolled into the campus. She had not expected the class to be held, particularly because the Associate Professor was physically challenged, he had lost his two legs below the knees in a car accident. So he used to come in a wheel chair to the campus. When she reached the class she was stunned to find almost everyone in the class. The teacher came to the class in time in his wheel chair. His wife who had driven the car to the campus, waited in a the nearby coffee hub, the class continued for full three hours and she took him home after that. Malabika and I were quite impressed to hear this.
But that was nothing compared to what happened in the next semester. Ruchi had enrolled in an Advanced Statistical Modelling class which was taught by a very eminent professor, Ross, who, at the age of forty one had become the President of the American Statistical Association. In the first introductory class the students found an old, grey haired man sitting in the front row. While introducing the subject and explaining the planning of the classes for the semester Ross would look at the old man and ask, "John, is that ok, or should I make some changes?" John would nod and say, "it's fine. Go ahead..." After the class was over John and Ross went out together. Ruchi and her class mates were curious to know who was John whom even an eminnet Pofessor like Ross was consulting. They asked the Teaching Assistant, Parfait, who was a senior student in the Statistics department. He smiled, "Don't you know who John is? He is a distinguished Professor of Statistics and at seventy two years is the most active academician in the world of Statistics. He is so good that there are four Statistical Theorems in his name. He was Prsident of the American Statistical Association for seven years continuously, till he begged to be relieved of the post." So the students asked Parfait why John was in the class. Parfait burst into a loud laugh, "O, he has enrolled in the class as a student after paying the tuition fees for three credits. He wants to learn the latest Advanced Statistical Modelling. He feels his knowledge is getting outdated!" Ruchi told us at the end of the semester that John attended all the classes, wrote all the assignments and took the exam at the end of the semester, like every other student. We were truly stunned to hear this. I told Malabika, "Look at the appetite for knowledge. No wonder American Universites produce more than half the Nobel Laureates every year!"
Ruchi's first brush with American party life came a month after she reached Ithaca. One of her classmates from the same lab as hers, Anne Calves, a French girl, invited her to a Cheese and Wine party on a Friday evening. It was to start at eight, Ruchi was expecting to have some dinner there. A senior, Saurav, offered to take her there. When they reached, only a few were present. There were dozens of wine bottles, some fruit juice and a big crate of beer in a corner. Ruchi found to her dismay there was no dinner, only some salad and lots of varieties of cheese cubes along with bread sticks and crackers. Saurav came to her and asked her whether she had dinner before coming. That's when she came to know Cheese and Wine parties in U.S. were post-dinner affairs. Ruchi ate as much cheese and bread as she could. Gradually more people arrived, the apartment got filled up. By eleven more than fifty people had started singing and dancing to wild music. Endless quantities of wine and beer flowed. Everyone had brought some beer or wine to add to the liquor already available at the apartment. The music got louder and the party wilder. Ruchi was sitting in one corner, smiling at everyone, but unable to join the dance. After midnight some neighbour must have complained, the police came knocking at the door. The cops gave a warning to the students to break up the party in ten minutes and leave the place. One of the students, drunk to the gills, shouted, 'what if we don't break up the party'? The cop looked at him with an evil grin and said 'The first violation 1000 dollars, the second violation all of you go to jail.' The crowd answered with a big shout and booing. The moment the police left, Anne climbed onto a table and said, "Hey guys, you want to break up or pay a thousand freaking dollars as fine?" Everyone shouted "Pay fine, pay fine, shut the cop's freaking mouth." Anne said, "Ok guys, those who want to continue the party take out twenty freaking dollars from your pocket and put on the table here......" She was still continuing her speech from the table top when Ruchi left the apartment and started walking the two miles to her home.
Malabika screamed at her,
"What are you saying? Ruchi, my baby, you walked two miles alone to your apartment? What time was that?"
Ruchi had known she was going to get some shouting from her mother,
"Around 12.30, but Mummy, nothing to worry. In U.S., as in any other civilised country, the first thing you notice is the absence of fear among women and the sense of safety they enjoy. Here people have fear for law and no matter who you are, if you commit a crime, you will be caught and punished. No one can say I am the MLA's son or Minister's nephew and the law doesn't apply to me."
"Why didn't you ask that Saurav to drop you at your apartment?"
"O, Saurav? He was fully drunk and was one of the first to take out twenty dollars from his pocket and put it on the table."
Ruchi gradually settled down to a sedate social life, making friends with few other Indian girls. Her talk with Malabika continued without a break. One night she was late in calling. Malabika panicked. The call came around 11.30 Ruchi's time. She was excited,
"Mummy, I had a strange experience this evening. My roommates invited me to a party. I was late in returning from lab, they had left after writing down the address of the place where they were going. The apartment was just one street behind ours. When I went there I was amazed. There were more than twenty five people, all Indian students cramped into the small living room and two bedrooms. The apartment was in semi darkness, Hindi songs were blazing from some music system, some were dancing, many were sitting on sofas, a few were lying on the flooor. When my eyes got used to the darkness I was shocked to see what was going on there. Boys and girls were on the floor, their bodies glued to each other. One of the girls, a Bengali girl, was sitting on the lap of a bearded fellow who looked like he had not taken a bath for more than a year. Almost every one was drunk, including my two roommates. There was a strange smell in the air. The apartment was full of smoke. From the smell I knew it was charas they were smoking. I asked someone if there was some Coca-Cola or sprite available and some food. He laughed loudly, and shouted, 'Hey guys this dame is asking for Coca-Cola. And food. Does anyone have Coca-Cola here? And some roti-sabji? Give her, if you have'. They all went wild with laughter. Two girls dragged me to the centre of the hall and tried to force some beer into my mouth. I almost puked and ran out of there. I came home, heated up some leftover food from the fridge and ate it. O my God, what a weird party was that! No food, no soft drink!"
Malabika was aghast,
"Why did you go there? See, this is what I had told you. America is a weird place, very very weird, people have no character there. Indians also become characterless when they go there. Promise me, you won't go to such a party again."
Ruchi started laughing,
"Ok, ok, I promise I won't drink alcohol or smoke charas, but how can I not go to parties? Don't worry Mummy, I won't lose my character, at least not without taking your permission. Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha."
Malabika suspected that some beer had gone into her dear daughter's system and she had got drunk,
"Ruchi, my baby, are you drunk? Why are you laughing like that?"
"Just teasing you Mummy, relax."
They talked for some more time. Malabika continued to be worried.
Ruchi couldn't come during the summer break. It seemed her lab duty increased, as did her assistantship amount. In summer the students get double the money stipend, because they could work longer in the Lab for their research. Malabika had got used to her daily calls and wished she studied hard and finished early. She still hoped that Ruchi would finish her Ph.D., return to India and like her Baba will find a good job in ISRO or somewhere and settle down to a happy married life here. In the third year of Ruchi's Ph.D. Program one evening she startled her mother by announcing an Indian boy was chasing her. Malabika was shocked,
"Chasing? What do you mean chasing?"
"Gagan, he is Saurav's room mate. He is from Computer Science department. God knows what Saurav has told him, he comes to visit me in the lab, stays there till I finish and wants to drop me home. I have told him many times, I don't need a ride in his car, but he just smiles and behaves like a pet dog waiting for a piece of bone. Couple of times I tried to avoid him by coming home early, but then I thought why should I spoil my routine just because he is an idiot? On Saturdays he comes over and takes me for grocery shopping and carries the grocery bags upstairs to our apartment. He stays back and asks me to make some tea for him. Sometimes he lingers as if waiting for me to ask him to stay for dinner, but I have never done it. Somehow I don't like that boy, more so, because he is Saurav's friend. And he is so obviously a moron, trying to touch my hand while taking the grocery bags from me, or brushing against me while standing in the line at the grocery store. My room mates have started thinking he is my boyfriend! Boyfriend, my foot! I am just waiting for an opportunity to throw him out of the apartment."
That opportunity came a month later. It seemed there was a long weekend with four continuous holidays. On Friday evening Gagan helped Ruchi with the groceries, offered to take her out to dinner, which she refused. Gagan lingered for some time, praised her to the sky for giving him "the best tea in the world" and then suggested that since there were four holidays they could go on a long drive, may be to Niagra Falls, spend a couple of nights there and return on Monday. Ruchi was shocked at the suggestion, and the brazenness with which it was made. She asked, how about the stay at Niagra? Gagan replied sheepishly, "O, I have already blocked a room at Buffalo in anticipation, since no rooms were available at Niagra. The moment you say yes I will pay for the room for two nights."
God knows from where Ruchi, our frail little girl, got the strength, she pushed him out of the apartment, shut the door on his face and asked him to never contact her again.
A few months later Malabika got the shock of her life when Ruchi said she had fainted in the lab,
"You know what happened this evening Mummy, I fainted in the lab."
Malabika herself almost fainted. She screamed,
"Why, how did it happen?"
"I was working in the lab, suddenly my head reeled and boom, I fell onto the floor. The lab was almost empty, it has been snowing since afternoon. There was only one boy Shanon, one year senior to me in the department. He came running, lifted me from the floor and made me sit on the chair. 'Ruchi, what happened to you? Why did you fall?' I was in a daze, feeling very weak. 'Famished, haven't eaten anything since lunch.' 'O my God, let me check. I think I have a sandwich in my lunchbox in the fridge'. He ran and got a sandwich and offered to me. I shook my head, 'Can't eat that, I don't eat beef.' He smiled, 'Not to worry, I also don't eat beef, no one in my family does. This is a chicken sandwich, eat it. Please.' I finished the sandwich in a minute, and smiled at him, 'Thanks, can I have one more? Please?' He was very apologetic, 'Sorry, that was the last one in my lunchbox. Tell you what, lets go to the Wendy's and grab a few more sandwiches, and some hot coffee also. Let me get the car, you wait here and come down to the exit in exactly three minutes. I will be there. You must be tired. Don't walk in the snow.' We went to Wendy's, had a few more sandwiches, French fries and hot coffee. I felt really good after that."
Malabika was worried,
"Why do you remain without food for so many hours. What if that boy, what's his name, was not there?"
"Who? Shanon? How can he not be there? You think all the Puja you do everyday is for nothing? If God can't send an angel or two to rescue your daughter, what for he takes all that delicious Prasad from you everyday? But you know Mummy, this Shanon is a wonderful chap. He talked so much about India, I felt he knows more about my country than me. Do you know there is an Isha ashram in Coimbatore where you have the tallest statue of Shiva? He talked about Patanjali Ashram, Yoga, ghats of Benares and the Buddhist temples at Gaya. He asked me if I know Ravishankar and if I can play sitar. I told him I don't know how to play sitar, but I am a good Odissi dancer. He was curious to know what is Odissi and I explained to him it is a dance form which originated in Odisha. 'Are you from Odisha?' I nodded. He laughed 'That's why you are Odishi?' No one had told me that before. We kept on munching sandwiches, French fries and talked for two hours. He didn't let me pay, 'You must be feeling weak, so I won't let you pay', that's what he said Mummy!"
Malabika had never heard Ruchi talk of someone so effusively. The alarm bells started ringing in her head. She went to the Puja room and prayed to the Gods to save her daughter from the clutches of a weird American. The next Friday Ruchi told her mother how Shanon took her to the Grocery store in his car, how they spent the evening at Pizza Hut, eating Pizza and ice cream and talked for three hours. It was Shanon this, Shanon that, it seemed Ruchi couldn't stop talking about the young boy. Malabika got panicked, "Ruchi, have you gone crazy? He is an American, what is his character?"
Ruchi laughed,
"What kind of question is that Mummy? How do I know what is his character? I went out with him for the first time. But I can tell you one thing. When that idiot Gagan used to take me out for grocery shopping I had a creepy feeling, as if he had some dirty thought going on in his mind. The way he used to look at me, my body, trying to touch me as if unknowingly, I used to feel very nervous and uneasy. With Shanon I never had that feeling even once. He behaved in a correct manner. He is a thorough gentleman Mummy, I can feel it in my bones."
Six months later Ruchi surprised her mother on a Friday night by announcing that she just returned from Shanon's home that evening. It was summer vacation and they simply informed their Professor and left in Shanon's car on a Wednesday. His parents lived in a small town called Eerie in Pennsylvania with Caroline, Shanon's younger sister. It's a beautiful town, on the bank of Eerie lake separating U.S. from Canada. The houses in the town are built in such a way that you can have a view of the lake from every home. Ruchi's heart leapt with joy when she saw the town and the lake shining brightly under the afternoon sun.
Shanon's parents were professors at the Eerie campus of Penn State and were enjoying their summer. They were waiting to have lunch with Shanon and Ruchi and were shocked when Ruchi bent to touch Brad's feet. When he gave her a hug she blushed and Caroline clapped. Linda lifted Ruchi when she bent, gathered her in her arms and gave her a peck on the cheek as a mark of affection. Caroline came running to her Mom and asked for a kiss also. She hugged Ruchi and refused to let her go till Shanon smacked his sister on the head. They sat down to eat and when Ruchi called Linda "Aunty". she burst out laughing, "No, no, please call me Linda, Brad still treats me as his babe, he will faint if you call me Aunty. Talking of fainting, are you still in the habit of fainting in the lab and waiting for Shan to pick you up"? Ruchi blushed yet again, it seemed it was a day of blisses and blushes for her.
Malabika was eager to interrupt Ruchi and asked her the question that had been troubling her ever since her daughter announced that she had visited Shanon's home along with him,
"But where did you sleep, during the two nights you were at Shanon's home?"
Ruchi laughed like she had a seizure,
"I knew you will ask that question, but don't you remember I had told you I will not lose my character without taking my dear Mummy's permission? Actually I shared Caroline's bed for the two nights I was there and I could hardly sleep. God knows from where the sixteen year old girl gets her energy. She doesn't stop talking and doesn't know how to stop laughing. Till early morning she kept on talking and every two minute she will break into a heeennn, heeeeenn, heeeeennn...and then she would say shh...don't laugh loudly, Shan will get up, although I doubt if he would be actually asleep or tossing on the bed thinking about you.....heeennn, heeeennnn, heeennnnn.... The second day we went out to lunch at a beautiful lake side restaurant. In the evening I made delicious chicken curry and fish cutlet. You know Mummy, we get something called catfish here which is completely without bones and ideal for making cutlets. Brad and Linda said that was the best chicken curry and fish cutlet they ever had. Caroline carried the leftover to her room to eat in the night. Shanon just kept smiling. Caroline and I again spent a virtually sleepless night, she told me of her friends, particular couple of cute boys who were showing interest in her. But for her no one in the world is as good as her darling brother. We left for Ithaca, after an early lunch. Shanon was very happy, smiling all the time, 'My parents liked you a lot, and Caroline has loads of love for you. She thinks you are the best person she has ever met'. Soon I fell off to sleep and got up after four hours when we reached the Grocery store in our town for the weekend shopping. I kept sleeping in the car, Shanon went and bought all the stuff I usually buy and dropped me at home. Such a wonderful boy Mummy, I had never seen someone like him in my life."
Malabika was gradually coming to the realisation that no matter how many trips she made to the Puja room Ruchi was probably on a trip which would end with one inevitable destination. When young souls are in love, even Gods close their eyes and go into silent meditation. Her fear came true when Ruchi announced a month later that she was coming to India to spend the remainder of her vacation. Malabika went into raptures hearing that, but it was short-lived,
"But Mummy, I have a surprise for you and Papa. Yesterday Shanon proposed to me in the restaurant with a bouquet of roses and a ring. I felt so happy Mummy, I know he is the best person for me. I kept the roses, but returned the ring to him. I told him that I would accept him only if my parents approved, otherwise we will continue to be friends, but there would be no wedding bells. He also agreed to that. So he will be coming with me, you meet him and if you think he is good enough to be your son in law, give us your blessings. Otherwise I will withdraw from him and wait for someone who would meet your approval."
A week later we were waiting at the Mumbai airport at dawn to meet our daughter and her friend. Ruchi was coming home almost after four years. We were nervous about the young man accompanying him. The way Malabika was folding her hands, remembering her favourite gods and praying to them, showed a mind with severe trepidation. We could spot Ruchi from far. She had not changed a bit - our dear daughter was the same thin, sprightly girl that had waved us good bye four years back. The young man accompanying her was thinner than her, but taller by a few inches, almost touching six feet in height. Our hearts swelled up with joy when he bent to touch our feet and asked Malabika in chaste Odiya, "Mummy, apana kemiti achhanti?" (Mummy, how are you?) Malabika was pleasantly surprised and involuntarily blurted out, Ayushman Bhabah! Ruchi was looking on with a smile on her face. Malabika asked her, "Did you teach him Odiya?" She shook her head, "No Mummy, I swear, he has learnt it from the internet. You wait, when he goes home he will give you tutorials on Haji Ali, Hanging Gardens and Gateway of India!"
Shanon collected all the luggage, it was nice to see Ruchi leaving everything to him, as if she felt she was in safe hands. We had breakfast, Ruchi helped her mother, Shanon kept talking to me. He had so many questions, it was a pleasure talking to him. We thought they would be tired and would take a nap, but the difference in time zone made them sleepless. Malabika was making shrimp curry and chicken fry for lunch. Ruchi told her, "Mummy, let Shanon help you, I have taught him how to peel shrimp and cut chicken into small pieces. Rest he has learnt from internet. He is now an acknowledged expert on Indian dishes among our friends." Shannon smiled and went to the kitchen to talk to Malabika. His American accent and the occasional outburst in Odiya amused her. Ruchi and I could hear her peals of laughter and we felt happy for her.
All of us slept for a couple of hours after lunch. The evening tea in the balcony of our apartment was a simple affair. We were planning to take them out to dinner at Copper Chimney, a favourite joint of Ruchi and Chintu when they were in Mumbai. Chintu was to join us for a week from Sunday with his wife and two years old daughter. The sunset in Arabian Sea is always a piece of wonder. When it got dark, Malabika knew it was the evening Aarti time. She went to the Puja room, lit the lamp and dhoopsticks. Ruchi and I got up and to my amazement I found Shanon following us. Soon it was prayer time and we started singing "Aahe Dayamaya Biswa Bihari, Ghena Dayabahi Mora Guhari........" This is the evening prayer we have been chanting for years, even before Chintu and Ruchi were born. Imagine our shock when Shanon also joined us in the prayer and closing his eyes, started singing it in chaste Odiya.
Malabika stopped for a second, smiled and continued. I was rendered speechless. I moved back a little and looked at Ruchi. Her eyes were closed, her face was glowing with a rare love one reserved for the very special person in one's life. That special person of hers was standing with eyes closed, hands folded, lost in devotion, quiet in dignity and serene in beauty. I knew our dear, darling daughter had crossed the seven seas to pluck a rainbow of many colours from the American sky. I felt as if she would soon open her eyes and look at me,
"Papa, do you like the rainbow I got for myself?"
I would smile and nod,
"So, will you throw a big party for my wedding?"
"Yes, I will."
She would walk to me, clutch my fingers with her soft hand, like she used to do when she was a child,
"Promise?"
My heart swelling with joy and eyes brimming with tears, I would say,
"Promise."
(Author's Note: The events described in the story, except the rainbow love, are real, picked from my days as a Ph.D. Student at PennState, USA, during 1993-98. My wife and I were already married for 14 years and had two kids when we went there.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
MISCELLANEOUS
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - WHY LORD SHIVA ADORNS SERPENTS?
Meaning: I offer my humble salutations to Lord Mahesvara - who has a garland of serpents around his neck; who has three eyes; whose body is covered with vibhuti (ash); who is eternal; who is pure; who has the entire sky as his dress and who is embodied as the first letter Na.
One of the names of Shiva is Bhujangapatihari (????????????). Bhujang (?????) means a serpent or pure particles (pavitrakas), pati (???), the nurturer and hari (????), the one with a garland around His neck. Various serpents represent groups of pure particles. Bhujangapatihari thus means the one who nurtures pure particles and wears them like a garland. Though externally they appear like serpents, internally they are a kind of ladders. To make spiritual progress one has to climb up holding onto the tail of the serpent. Shiva adorns serpents at nine places on his body – (i) one on the head, (ii) one around the neck, (iii) one on each arm i.e two places, (iv) one on each wrist i.e two places, (v) one around the waist and (vi) one on each thigh i.e two places.
The serpent is a representation of the Man (Purush) principle who endows progeny. The Chapter 12 of ‘Science of Spirituality’ indicates that the serpent is also considered as Shiva’s weapon. The nine serpents from the universe are also referred to as ‘Navanarayan’. The Navanaths have originated from these nine serpents. The Chapter 38 – Path of Activation of Spiritual Energy (Kundaliniyoga)’ of ‘Science of Spirituality’ narrates that a female serpent (nagin) is also present in Shiva’s body. It is called the kundalini (spiritual energy). Five serpents wander in the body as five inner vital energies. One does not possess the other four serpents. However through spiritual process one can acquire them and achieve spiritual progress. Puranas and scriptures present good number of tales associating snakes with Lord Shiva. Matsya Purana indicates that Lord Shiva should be worshiped after he is garlanded with snakes. Images of Shiva generally depict a single snake around his neck. The five-headed snake forming a canopy over Shivalinga is also a common representation. Vasuki is Shiva's snake, and noticed around His neck. He is known in Chinese and Japanese mythology as being one of the "eight Great Dragon Kings" (???? pinyin: B?dà lóngwáng; Japanese: Hachidai Ry??)
Another perspective of the snake around Shiva's neck is his compassionate side. Since he is the Lord of the animals, Shiva has a complete control on the behaviour of snakes on His body, he is kind enough to wrap a snake around his neck. This representation supports the proverbial belief of "live and let live". There's a temple in Nepal dedicated to the Pashupatinath form of Lord Shiva. It is considered one of the holiest shrines of the Shaivites. Since a snake is one of the most feared and dangerous creatures in the world, the garland of snakes around Shiva’s neck firmly establishes the fact that even the snakes fear Him and remain under His control. Legend has it that all the snakes found on Shiva’s body are considered to have been worn during his marriage with Parvati as His ornaments. It is also said that Shiva made ornaments out of poisonous snakes and offered the same as gift to Parvati.
Legend
Shiva drank Halahala
During the churning of the ocean many things were recovered namely Halahala (also known as Kaalkoota); 14 different gems were produced; Lakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune and Wealth,; Kaustubha, the most valuable jewel in the world; Parijata, the divine flowering tree; Varuni, Goddess and creator of intoxicating beverages; Dhanvantari, the divine doctor; Chandra, the moon; Kamadhenu, the wish-fulfilling divine cow; Kalpavriksha, the wish-granting tree; Airavata, the elephant of Indra; Apsaras, various divine nymphs/dancers like Rambha, Menaka, Punjikasthala, etc.; Uchhaishravas, the divine 7-headed horse; Sharanga, the bow of Vishnu; Shankha, Vishnu's conch; Amrita, the nectar of immortality.It should be noted that the churning first produced halahal - a poison which spread and terrified the Gods and demons as the poison was toxic. It had effects to wipe out the entire creation. Lord Vishnu, and other Gods approached Lord Shiva to protect as only He could swallow halahal without being affected. Lord Shiva gathered the poison and drank. However, Parvati – Lord Shiva's consort pressed his neck so that the poison did not reach Shiva’s stomach. Thus, it stayed in his throat neither going up nor going down and Shiva remained unharmed. The poison was so potent that it changed the colour of Shiva’s neck to blue. For this reason, Lord Shiva is also called Neelakantha (the blue-necked).
Snakes, especially cobras, are said to carry ‘mani’ (rubies) in their head. It is said that these rubies serve as lamp during night to Parvati and Shiva. Another legend has it that once all the snakes were driven out from the world. They got protection and shelter in Kailash. But the cold climate made snakes immobile; to get warmth they took shelter in the body of Shiva. They then became his ornaments. The snake depicts the power of Kundalini. It is described as a coiled serpent lying dormant in the Mooladhara Chakra of living beings. It descends when one starts on the spiritual path and becomes increasingly divine oriented. The snake around Shiva’s neck depicts what a human being can achieve when they follow the spiritual path
Shiva's snake Vasuki
Lord Shiva is often shown with a snake curled three times around His neck and looking towards His right side. Vasuki is Shiva's snake, depicted around his neck. The three coils of the snake symbolize the past, present and future – time in the cycle of life. It is said the serpent on Shiva's neck represent the endless cycle of birth and regeneration. It is also believed that to be free from the vicious cycle of birth and death, one must surrender to Lord Shiva with devotion and dedication. The devotees should keep their ahankar/ego under control. Another symbolism is that snakes on his neck represents ego which once controlled can be worn as an ornament.The snake looking in the right direction of Lord Shiva signifies that the Lord’s perpetual laws of reason and justice preserve natural order in the universe.
It is believed that Shiva blessed Vasuki and wore him as an ornament. Vasuki is considered as the king of cobras and has a gem called Nagamani on his head. Vasuki is also mentioned in Ramayana and Mahabharata. The popular legend in which Vasuki is considered is in the ‘Samudra Manthan’, the churning of the ocean of milk. In this legend, Devas and Rakshasas were engaged in the churning of the sea in search of nectar to be immortal. Vasuki allowed them to use him as a rope to extract the ambrosia. During the churning of the ocean of milk , the deadly poison (halahala) came out which Shiva had to drink to save the world.
Question arises - why did Lord Shiva wear Vasuki around his Neck?
There were some snakes in the water and Vasuki was one of them. Vasuki also served as the rope that was tied to Mandar Mountain during the churning of the ocean of milk. Shiva was impressed by this and hence accepted Vasuki around his neck. The Lord wearing the deadly snake like an ornament signifies that He is independent of time and death and as a matter of fact, is in control of the time. The snake represents the Ahamkara (ego). When we poke a snake, it recoils instantly and spreads its hood to attack us. Similarly, when someone says something that we don't wish to hear, our ego spontaneously reacts. This ego lies inside the human body whereas, in the Gods and the Goddesses, the ego becomes powerless. It doesn't affect them because they govern it. Hence, Shiva uses this Ahamkara as an ornament because it doesn't find space within his body. The Lord monitors the Ahamkara or the ego that otherwise makes us hollow from within.
Lord Shiva is also known as Pasupathinath, the lord of all creatures and as another story goes, it is believed that once when the snake species was in danger, they approached Lord Shiva for Shelter. Lord Shiva gave them shelter by letting them stay in Kailasa. But due to cold weather, the snakes approached Lord Shiva for warmth of His body. Thus, He as a protector used to wear these snakes as an ornament to provide warmth to them. Interestingly, Shiva is also known as Nageshwar, meaning Lord of the snakes. There are temples dedicated to this form of the Lord across the country.
The snake also stands for all passions and desires and by wearing the snakes around his neck, Lord Shiva conveys the message to all his devotees that He has overcome all desires and is in full control of Prakriti, or maya and its various machinations.
The snake stands for all the evil and demonical nature in the world. By wearing the snake around his neck, Lord Shiva gives us the assurance that no evil can touch us or destroy us once we surrender to him, seek his protection and worship him with deep devotion.
The snake also suggests the dormant energy, called Kundalini Shakti, that resides within one and is described as a coiled serpent lying dormant in the muladhara chakra of all human beings and descends when one starts one’s spiritual journey and becomes increasingly divine oriented. The snake around the neck of Shiva, thus, conveys the meaning that in him the kundalini not only has arisen fully but is also actively involved in the divine activity by keeping an eye on all the devotees who approach Shiva with their individual problems.
Shiva is also known as Bairagi (or Vairagi), meaning he is above the mundane world. He doesn't fear anything as he is above all emotions. A snake that is deadliest to us is nothing but a harmless creature for Shiva.
After the offering of Aarti to Lord Shiva the following Mantra is chanted. Let us recite the same.
Meaning
O Lord Shiva, You are pure white like camphor, You are incarnation of compassion, You are the essence of worldly existence, Your garland is the King of Serpents, You are always dwelling inside the lotus of the Heart, I Bow to Lord Shiva and Shakti together.
Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda is a retired Civil Servant and former Judge in the Central Administrative Tribunal. He belongs to the 1972 batch of IAS in Tamil Nadu Cadre where he held many important assignments including long spells heading the departments of Education, Agriculture and Rural Development. He retired from the Government of India as Secretary, Ministry of Heavy Industries and Public Enterprises in 2008 and worked in CAT Principal Bench in Delhi for the next five years. He is the Founder MD of OMFED. He had earned an excellent reputation as an efficient and result oriented officer during his illustrious career in civil service.
Dr. Panda lives in Bhubaneswar. A Ph. D. in Economics, he spends his time in scholarly pursuits, particularly in the fields of Spiritualism and Indian Cultural Heritage. He is a regular contributor to the Odia magazine Saswata Bharat and the English paper Economic and Political Daily.
(Reminiscences of a Young Railway Officer In Chakradharpur)
In a balmy November evening, I arrived by train at the dim-lit platform of Chakradharpur (CKP) station to take up my new assignment as a Junior officer in the railway divisional office. A man in a spotless white uniform with a swarthy face and gleaming teeth entered my coach and introduced himself as the Station Master. We alighted from the train after exchanging a few pleasantries. A whiff of refreshing autumn breeze laden with the gentle aroma of an unknown flower wafting across the platform greeted us. The station was quiet but for the occasional cry of 'Chai Garam”. As our train whistled to leave, we were escorted out of the platform to the desolate saloon siding at the far end of the main platform where a number of saloons were parked. A saloon was opened for us for our stay. Though often frowned upon by many as a colonial vestige, the saloon was indispensable for the railway officers for several reasons; from attending accident sites in quick time to carrying out regular safety and equipment maintenance inspections in far flung areas where no accommodation for stay and board was available. Before we could settle down, the care-taker ushered a telephone technician to install a railway telephone in the saloon to connect me officially to the outside railway world. I knew immediately that my job had started and I was only a call away from the incessant hive of activity in the division.
We retired to bed after having an early dinner which the caretaker cooked for us on the smoldering coal of an archaic oven in the saloon kitchen. The coal lent a unique smoky flavor to the food and that taste still lingers. The silence of the advancing night was punctuated by the whistles from the locomotives of the passing trains and occasional chirping of birds that had made home the branches of large banyan trees in the vicinity. With the dawn breaking, a veritable bedlam of chirruping by a bevy of boisterous birds woke me from my sleep. I stepped down from my carriage and took a stroll on the road parallel to the railway track into the railway colony. The lonely road had the look of a boulevard with tall over-arching trees on either side. Partly hidden behind the trees stood a row of majestic brick red colonial bungalows, each in a sprawling acre with well- manicured lawns, extravagant blossoms of flowering plants and thick green foliage on the fence. The fresh air, the sublime serenity and the green landscape of the colony filled my heart with joy and unusual calm. I returned to my carriage rejuvenated to get ready for the first day of my new assignment.
Old station building of Chakradharpur
I was greeted with a welcoming smile by my new boss as I entered his office chamber. He sat at the far end of the sprawling room behind a large Mahogany table of Bengal Nagpur Railway(BNR) vintage. He stood up to shake hands with me. He was a tall handsome man with a dignified demeanor. He drew my attention to a large railway map of the division placed under the glass top of his table and gave me a short introduction of the division which extended from Tatanagar to Jharsuguda on the Howrah-Bombay trunk route with several branch lines serving the mineral rich districts of Orissa and Bihar (now Jharkhand). The division was a front runner in terms of freight traffic and earnings among a comity of more than 50 railway divisions in the country. He assigned me the responsibility of looking after the operation of the passenger services and also to monitor freight services in the largest iron ore loading area namely Dongoaposi serving a host of railway sidings of SAIL, TISCO, OMDC and OMC etc. Our discussion was interrupted by the entry of a middle aged, short and somewhat corpulent man with an ear to ear smile. He was introduced to me as Mr. Khan, the Divisional Operating Superintendent in charge of freight services of the division. He briefed my boss about previous day's performance in freight loading, factors that affected the operational efficiency and also the current day's plans. He rattled out a plethora of facts and figures with amazing ease from a sheaf of papers without batting an eye lid. I sat there transfixed wondering if I could ever master the complexity and intricacies of rail operation of the division.
Once the conversation ended, Mr. Khan was asked to take me to the control room to familiarize me with the nitty gritty of train operation performed by the controllers in different sections of the network. The Control is the heart of railway operation working round the clock to ensure safe and seamless rail transportation. Mr. Khan took me around the control office and explained to me the various facets of its working. He told me that Bimal Mitra, the celebrated Bengali writer of Saheb Bibi Gulam, an immortal Hindi film, worked in CKP Control in 1940s during BNR days. He wrote a number of novels during his stay including a novelette Char Chokher Khela based on the lives of a large Anglo Indian population in the railway colony.
The quaint little hamlet came on the railway map after a broad gauge line connecting Rajnandgaon to Asansol was constructed in 1891 by BNR. The opening ceremony of this new line was held at CKP station on 3rd March 1891 presided over by Viceroy Landsdowne. Later, the line was extended from Sini via Kalimati (now Tatanagar) and Kharagpur to Howrah in 1900 providing a shorter rail link between Calcutta and Bombay. Hitherto, train service between Howrah to Bombay had started via Allahabad and Jabalpur in 1870. BNR was dominated by Scottish officers at the helm. Known for their hardiness and frugality, they decided to set up railway districts/divisions at isolated places far from the madding crowd of the cities. They built railway offices, workshops, loco-sheds and colonies at obscure places like Chakradharpur paying a paltry sum for the land acquired and ensuring at the same time that the workmen were not distracted and gave undivided attention to work.
Nestled in nature in a large swath of land with thick vegetation, surrounded by the verdant forests of Saranda hills and the meandering Sanjay River, CKP's railway colony was a veritable sanctuary for both work and recreation. Self-subsistent, the colony provided all amenities to the railway men and their wards for a comfortable living. It had pre-school kindergarten to high schools and a well-equipped hospital with specialist doctors. Since the British time, railway had been known for promoting sports by recruiting budding sports talents and creating sports facilities in the colonies. The colony had a stadium for outdoor sports and a Centre of Excellence for Sports to hone talents. Officers had a Club and the staff an Institute, both well-appointed with varied recreational and indoor game facilities. On Saturday evenings, they became abuzz with activities. One could hear the sound track of songs from“Saturday Night Fever” played loudly in the Institute accompanied by the sound of tap dance by the Anglo-Indian community. In the halcyon days of BNR, the colony had a rich presence of this community which dwindled after independence as they started migrating to Australia and Canada in quest of new homes. Though fun loving, they excelled both in work and in sports. Infact, some of the legendary drivers in the steam age of Indian Railways belonged to this community. De Monte, who had gone down in railway folklore as an engine driver, was so punctual that the station masters used to set the time on the station clock by the arrival time of his train. Ironically, De monte died of a heart attack in the engine room after pulling the train right time at the station. The little town had many stars; a famous writer in Mitra, a tireless activist Satinath Sarangi, known for his work for the victims of Bhopal Gas tragedy, a Gandhian activist in Sailesh Bandopadhya, Chess Grand Master Deep Sengupta and Anna Kashfi, a British film and Hollywood actress of 1950s and the first wife of Marlon Brando!
(One of the colonial time bungalows with a sprawling lawn)
There is never a dull moment in the life of a railway man. As an operating officer, my day would start early in the morning with a phone call from the Control briefing me about the division's major performance indices of the previous day followed by a sheaf of papers called “Position Papers” delivered at home, containing in great details station/siding-wise freight loading, punctuality of each mail/ express trains, utilization of locomotives and wagons, factors affecting operation and a host of other indices. Tele-conversation with the area officers was a daily morning ritual to assess performance and plan for the current day. Unlike other government departments, one unique feature of the behemoth was that the day's performance was evaluated on a daily basis at the divisional, zonal and at the apex Railway Board level through tele-conferences. This kept the officers and staff on their toes. This is not to say that there was only work and no play. The job entailed frequent tours for inspections of stations, marshalling yards , level crossings, rolling stock depots etc. to ensure efficiency and safety of rail operation. Footplate Inspection from the engine room of the locomotive of a train used to be most fascinating and educative for me. It not only gave me an insight into the working of each component of train running but also taught the significance of team work in ensuring seamless train operation. The thrill of travelling on the swaying engine of the train negotiating the track, bridges and tunnels with great speed through the lush landscapes of the hilly terrain and green valleys(with which the division abounded) are still etched in my memory.Work took me frequently to the lap of nature – the iron ore rich blue mountains of Gandhamardan, Saranda et al. After a hectic day at work, a stay in the hill top guest houses amidst sylvan surroundings was always invigorating. It was fascinating to hear the eerie tale of the unsated spirit of an English lady murdered by her husband, haunting at midnight the Directors' Bungalow of the erstwhile Bird & Co. at Barbil or watching the clouds wafting into the room in SAIL's guest house at Megahataburu-the abode of clouds.
(The Centre for Sporting Excellence)
Few months into my job, on a summer evening I was instructed to foot plate on Howrah-Bombay Mail from CKP to Jharsuguda as General Manager, SER was travelling in a saloon attached to the train. The train arrived at CKP from Howrah past midnight and a new set of crew took over charge of the train. No sooner I boarded the locomotive, the driver whistled and started the train at the scheduled time. Known for his great driving skills, safety record and punctual running, Thomas had been driving the prestigious Bombay Mail (1Up/2Dn) between CKP to Bilaspur in either direction. In no time, the train picked up speed piercing through the dark moonless night at 110 kmph whizzing past few wayside stations on through signal. As we were about to approach the mountainous region of Saranda forest, we suddenly encountered the fury of a cloud burst and a howling gale that shook the speeding train vigorously. The track was littered with tree branches and twigs because of the gusty gale. With all the experience and skills at his command, Thomas managed to control the hurtling juggernaut with more than a thousand passengers on board and averted a potential disaster. Despite a delay due to the sudden calamity, the train made up time thanks to the alacrity of the driver and the ground staff in clearing the obstructed track. We reached Jharsuguda on time.
(South West Institute for European staff in BNR days.)
As a part of the railway's periodical punctuality drive, I was to carry out a night inspection on the locomotive of Bombay Mail from CKP on a nominated day with a Traffic Inspector in the Guard's Van. Because of a major derailment of a goods train on a freight intensive branch line on the previous day, I had to spend a sleepless night till next evening in the Control Room to monitor restoration of traffic. Tired to the bone, I decided to reschedule my inspection for some other day and directed Inspector Sharma to carry on with the footplate inspection in my place. I returned home, took a cold bath and retired to bed after an early dinner. A phone call from Control woke me up in the wee hours of the morning informing me that Bombay bound 2 Up Mail had a collision with a goods train short of Posoita station situated half way between CKP and Rourkela. I rushed to the Control office and found my boss very restive as no information was forthcoming from the accident site due to total interruption of tele-communication between control, stations and the train. Half an hour later, a feeble voice came on the Control line from the east cabin of Posoita confirming the horrific news of the collision with casualties. Before we could get further details, the line went dead. I sat with my ears glued to the control phone hoping the communication to resume and wondering about the fate of Sharma whom I had directed to carry on with the inspection from the locomotive. Suddenly, to my bewilderment and a sense of relief, I heard the voice of Sharma reporting from Posoita. He narrated the sequence of events leading to the collision and the resultant damage and casualities.
(My official residence ...)
A loaded goods train had left the previous station Goelkera for Posoita and before its arrival, all communications got snapped between the two stations. So, Bombay Mail was stopped out of course at Goelkera and as per rules the driver was given a written authority by the Station Master to proceed cautiously at a restricted speed of 10 kmph to stop short of any obstruction. The train left half an hour late. The weather was wet and murky and visibility poor with a thick mist engulfing the night. In a span of 15 minutes, the passengers fast asleep on their berths were shaken up, petrified by the thunderous sound of the locomotive ramming into the rear end of the stalled goods train. Sharma who had decided to travel in the Guard's van as per the original schedule got down with the Guard carrying first-aid kits, stretchers etc. Assisted by few travelling railway staff and doctors on board, they rendered medical aid and assistance to the panic stricken passengers. Thankfully, there were no causalities among passengers except few with minor injuries. The scene was gruesome at the collision site with the mangled locomotive mounted on the crushed rear wagons of the goods train and dismembered parts of bodies of the Crew members dangling grotesquely from the adjoining tree branches. I was devastated to hear the heart-breaking news that the driver of the ill-fated train was Thomas. The statutory enquiry by the Commissioner of Railway Safety fixed the primary responsibility on the driver for over-speeding beyond the prescribed speed limit on a terrain having sharp curves and thick mist impairing visibility. Instead of thanking my stars for the reprieve, I rued my decision to skip the inspection on the fateful night as my presence on the engine would have prevented Thomas to violate the rule book, thus averting the disaster. As I mourned his death, I was sure, even in the face of imminent death, he would have used all his skills and stretched all his nerves and sinews to reduce the impact of the collision to save the lives of the passengers under his charge.The only chink in his armour I could imagine was his obsession with punctuality and over confidence which finally led to his nemesis.
Nearly four decades have passed since then. Some memories have faded but there are many that time does not erase. Memories of three eventful years in the formative days of my career in the quaint railway township filled with thrills and trials in equal measure were not merely a relapse into nostalgia but a celebration of life in its varied manifestations.
(Burton Lake.. a favourite hang out)
An ex-railway man, Gurudas Brahma loves to read and re-read the classics in English, Odiya and Bengali literature. His favourite writers among others include Charles Dickens and Tolstoy in English, Tagore in Bengali and Fakir Mohan Senapati in Odiya literature. He is also an avid fan of the the writings of the modern day historian,Yuval Noah Harari. He is passionate about railway history and heritage and Satyajit Ray’s films and Tagore’s poems. Presently, he is associated with few social service organisations working for the destitute and the disadvantaged. Brahma has retired from Indian Railways as Chief of Operations of East Coast Railway and has settled down at Bhubaneswar. He occasionally dabbles in writing short essays and anecdotal stories.
FIVE WEEKS; FIVE PLACES; FIVE WALKS
Vistara flight UK 855 banked steeply to the left on its approach towards the landing strip. Down below, we could see the darkened waters of the Arabian Sea, dotted by the twinkling lights of ships, yachts and fishing boats. As we came out of the terminal, I asked the driver how long it would take to get home. 40 minutes, he said, but then, as it was late night, he decided to take a whole lot of short cuts, through narrow lanes and alleys, and finally made it in about 30 minutes.
My first question to the kids at home was about the distance to the nearest waters. As they looked at each other, surmising numbers and directions, I decided to explore on my own. The following morning I left soon after dawn and started asking my way to the waters. The guard at the gate said I could walk South about 15 minutes to a place where I could just ‘see the waters’ but not get close to it. My next ‘ask’ was a parked van, occupied by an old man. After I had been able to explain myself, with some difficulty, he smiled, nodded and got down from the van to guide me, very helpfully to a shop, fifty metres down the road, selling lots of Bisleri water! I thanked him profusely and started off again, this time following Google maps and my nose.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, I reached the river and walked alongside downstream for a few hundred yards before coming upon a huge expanse, where the river met with the massive Sea. A lovely sight. Lots of sea gulls. Ocean faring ships in the distance. Relative silence, punctuated at times by the occasional scooter going past on the road.
On the left side the sea, and on the right, the Reis Magos Church followed by the Reis Magos Fort. Apparently, every new Viceroy who alighted on the shores would disembark at that spot before entering the city; and the Viceroys who died in the city were buried on its premises.
Fabulous site! For the next few days my morning routine that Diwali week was to go to the location, spend a little bit of time walking around, discovering new villas and facets every day.
At times coming across small groups in animated conversation. What surprised me most was that despite the fact that the Cricket World Cup was going on, a set of boys were discussing the prospects off Messi, Ronaldo and Neymar in the Soccer World Cup coming up only a couple of months later!
Morning experiences, which would then be the subject of conversation around the breakfast table.
A week later, we were back in one of the 6/8/10/15 most polluted cities in the world, or whatever derisive title given to it. The same morning routine I followed when at home. Stepping out at the crack of dawn and walking briskly to the secluded park in one corner of the locality. Contemptuously ignored by the pack of coated dozing ‘guard dogs’, littering the approach to the lane outside the park. The USP of the park was that it was totally deserted early morning with the ‘social walkers’ giving it a wide berth as it was not endowed by rows of beautiful plants and flowers. Nor was there a chai samosa wallah around catering to the morning folks who imbibe 250 calories after burning 75 or so!
A simple business-like 250m oblong track circumventing a grassy patch, professionally maintained. The park stays cool the year round as it borders the Aravali bio-diversity stretch on the western side, with tall trees on the other side shielding it from the peppering rays of the sun. Delightfully cold in the winters. Because of the proximity to thick vegetation, there’s a sudden dip of almost 2° temperatures when you turn in to the park.
The only people you come across are guards outside the homes speaking loudly on phones. One of them that morning desperately trying to convince his wife that he so wanted to come home for Diwali but could not get leave!
A few days later, and we were winding our way through the Gangetic plains, traversing the Terai belt and Corbett territory into the Himalayan heights. After demolishing heaps of vadais and idlis, washed down by piping hot filter kapi at Udupiwallah, we started climbing into the hills.
Finally getting to our 7000 feet (2000m) perch around lunch; the air thinner and the chill perceptible. We got a glimpse of the brown, green and white peaks in the distance. It’s the month of November – the green landscape has given way to a muddy brown to soon transform to snowy white. Serene, quiet, and tranquil.While a week back or so, I could not see any part of the sky, due to the haze created by the polluted air, over here I could not see a single cloud. Not even the artistic cauliflower-shaped cumulous clouds, seen in fair weather conditions.
After a cold, though comfortable night, just after daybreak, I stepped out into the delicious chill of the Himalayan air. The stillness was deafening. And as usual, nobody around me.
A walk down the steep slope to the other end of the territory, and then the near 50 degree climb back making it a veritable cardio, just as the doctor ordered. Deciding against stepping out into the village, I pace up and down the promenade, feeding my hungry eyes on the mountains, now turning crimson orange, with the sun lighting up Mt Trishul (alt 7129m) and Mt Nanda Devi (alt 7816m).
(Mt Trishul extreme left; Mt Nanda Devi, centre)
The only thought that comes to mind is:
Agar firdaus bar ru-ye zamin ast
Hamin ast-o hamin ast-o hamin ast
If there is heaven on earth
It is this, it is this, it is this!
[Debatable whether the oft-quoted golden couplet, inscribed on the inner corner arches of the Diwan-e Khas (Red Fort), can be attributed to Amir Khusrau or Saa’dullah; or na maloom (anonymous), as pointed out by the redoubtable Naved Masood]
The following week, Vistara UK 941 landed us again on a strip next to the Arabian Sea, but this time on our largest megapolis on the western coast. As it was around noon on a holiday, not much traffic and one got home in less than 30 minutes.
The following morning, my usual walk on the well-maintained, manicured stretch of land, peppered by a cricket field, string of pools, kids’ play area, tennis courts, yoga corner, party patch, etc., all on the seventh floor of the complex! As I walked around the outer perimeter of the cricket field, I could see a whole lot of geriatric walkers, very enthusiastically, completing one round of the field in about 20 minutes! But then the spirit of stepping out early in the morning, to get a little bit of peace and calm before the multitudes erupt into a cacophony, is definitely more important.
Somewhere around the cricket field, I saw two young men, who had just stepped out of the tennis court, engrossed in conversation about some mutual fund scheme. As one of them listened intently, the other belted away facts, figures, terms, conditions, etc., perhaps urging him to invest in whatever he was offering. I’m not sure whether it was my imagination but I got the sense that the first one was trying to pull away while the other held him captive. A few rounds later, I saw both walking towards a tower, with one frantically looking at his watch and the other persisting with his sales pitch.
And in the middle, the 50 plus folks cricket game. Cricket bat, tennis ball. I soon discovered that if you hit the ball out of the ground, not only are you ruled ‘out’, but the team also forfeits five runs.
It was quite a spectacle watching them trying to take a catch. One ambled slowly towards a ball coming towards him, flailing his arms in the air, only to watch it fall harmlessly about 3 feet in front. The captain sighed but then had to run towards the 60 plus bowler to remind him that the ball doesn’t have to tip twice before it reaches the batsman! What fun!
A few days later, Vistara UK 641 took us to the capital city of the largest province in the country. Thanks to the work done by successive executive heads of the state, infrastructure development has changed the landscape totally. As against the narrow road connecting the city with the airport, in an era gone by, now there is a shimmering expressway, which takes off from the airport and lands you right in the middle of the most happening part of the city.
The following morning as I stepped out of the hotel, I asked the concierge about the nearest park. As he looked blank, I realized that he was perhaps more familiar with Facebook sites than any of a physical nature. Not wanting to subject him to further agony, I stepped out and much to my delight, found a huge well-kept park 150 m from the hotel. Just next to a monstrous Digital offices building. ‘Shalimar Garden’.
While walking around the almost deserted place, I noticed some elderly residents gossiping in a corner. As I passed by, from the snatches of conversation, I guessed that they were arguing the merits and demerits of the new pension system vis-à-vis the old one. And on the next round, whether the local Apollo hospital accepted CGHS patients. Ah, undoubtedly retired government folks!
But what truly got my attention was a boy, who had probably stretched overnight onto a bench and was now slowly waking up and gathering his stuff into a rucksack. As I completed a round and passed him again, I saw that he was now sitting on the bench and revising lessons from a long exercise book. I guessed that he had perhaps reached the city in the early hours of the morning from some neighbouring town, and would soon be headed either for an exam or an interview. When I mentioned this to the wife, she was quite surprised, but convinced that the boy would certainly make it to whatever institution or job he was aspiring for.
Varying sights and sounds of mornings in different parts of the country. Each place with its own distinctive topography, character and complexion. But all essentially Bharat!
From Goa to New Delhi to Dhanachuli to Mumbai to Lucknow, in the space of five weeks!
Dr Pushpendra Rai has more than four decades of professional experience, as a national and international civil servant/diplomat working in diverse areas like rural and economic development; energy management; financial planning and banking; innovation and intellectual property rights; treaty negotiations; and international cooperation.
In the IAS, he was also National Director, UNDP projects; Secretary-General, QCI; Member, National IP Expert Group; Member-Secretary, Foreign Investment Promotion Council; and the country’s lead negotiator for WTO/WIPO. He worked for the UN(WIPO), based at Geneva (Director) and Singapore (Asia-Pacific Director). Dr. Rai managed the historic Development Agenda process, leading negotiations with 193 Member States; and represented WIPO globally, speaking in more than 40 countries to academia, industry, policy makers, judges, legislators and diplomats.
Dr. Rai has Master’s degrees from Lucknow and Harvard University, and a PhD from IIT, Delhi. He advises countries and companies on intellectual property issues and is involved in community work. An active writer, he blogs at www.pushpendrarai.com
Once upon a time driving on the road used to be such a pleasure. Sitting behind the wheel, I watched the countryside flash past my window, with the trees running to keep pace with my car! I looked at the cyclists with condescension and gestured to them from my high pedestal to ‘hurry up’. Relaxing in the driver’s seat, I had a clear view of the sky right till the horizon. When two cars crossed, both the drivers smiled and waved at each other. We also took time out to admire our models over a cup of tea at the dhaba. When adversity hit and my car broke down, helping hands readily came forward. They stopped without being called and asked me, “Need any assistance, my friend?” In no time they fixed my car and we would be on our way. Yes, those were the days...
One of the cardinal principles of driving is to ‘keep to the left’, which means that ‘left’ is right and ‘right’ is wrong. But in the USA, ‘right’ is right! So a hardened traveller has to switch from the left to right, and then back to the left, as he moves from country to country. I myself tripped a couple of times in Europe when I entered the left lane. I watched cars bearing down on me till they saw my predicament and stopped. Being considerate Parisian drivers, they allowed me to reverse my car and get into the correct lane. For the life of me I couldn’t fathom why humanity didn’t stick to just one side—left or right—and save everyone from imminent peril? But then, where men can’t see eye-to-eye on which side of the road to drive on, how do we expect them to have a uniform view on world peace?
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.
Day and night we experience in all our lives, isn't it? Low ebb tides and high rise waves are interwoven in the journey of an ocean. Health and life are entangled in sync with mind and joy.
Well as we wonder, all these are ever intertwined with a mystery hidden behind. Young bodies thrive on energy, zest and zeal in high decibel sounds and racing games. Speed and thrill are the dream of every motorist on roads.
Risk and danger are the blinds that play a dormant yet definite role . However, these elements are swpt away by the strong wind that the young man ponder over - victory.
Friends, there has been instances in all our lives when we exasperate the feeling of winning with heavy sighs and pants due to immense pain and suffering. Do you ever wonder whether the success would have been sweet without these aches in our efforts? Yes, these are the true blinds we seldom see beyond.
A veil or a Venetian blind can deter the streak of light when dropped down but the moment it vanishes, the ray of bright sun gleams strong isn't it? Let us be wise in using these blinds to prepare ourselves to face the beauty of life. A gym coach uses this blind to protect himself and his client from intense exertion. Well, the cream of the pudding is what we call - mindfulness.
That is the Venetian blind we must manouvre to enjoy the spice of living moments. Happy living!!!
Vidhya Anand is an enterprising woman with a successful career in Training and development for almost two decades, she has been providing quality training in communication skills and other soft skill programs in leading IT and non-IT companies. She has conducted career guidance programs to young college students in chiselling their future towards their goals in profession
Her forte in style and accentuation, has catered to be a talented voice and accent neutralization expert during cross cultural training sessions. She has been an influential speaker and anchor in social and welfare workshops on special needs children and their wellbeing. She has been a passionate writer penning down poems and articles for magazines too. Her role as a persevering mother of an autistic boy has all along been driving him towards progress and positivity in his life. Words and expressions are rooted in her personal anecdotes and narratives, fresh from her own perspective.
‘Happiness….’ its mention brings joyfulness and exhilaration to all. Happiness is believed to be a state of mind characterized by emotions associated with optimism, positivity, contentment and exhilaration. A recent news report mentioned: “Nordics are always winning the happiness race. Finland took the top spot for the fifth year in a row, followed by Denmark, Switzerland, and Iceland. People say it is because they are small, homogenous, and wealthy.”
While it is fair enough to admit that people are happy when they are taken care off well by the governments, have substantial incomes, pensions, parental holidays, sound health care, unemployment benefits and maintenance for the ill and disabled, the other side of the argument is also valid - warmer temperatures and bright sunny days bring in greater happiness to people than long, dark and depressing winters.
Here is an interesting anecdote:
Little Laya was holidaying in India with her parents. While driving through the city roads, she watched young and older children playing under the glaring sun; they were scantily dressed, a little grimy too; however, their eyes were radiant. Alongside them were patched-up tents, aluminum- utensils and brown-black mongrels. An elderly lady was resting on the pavement, with her head covered by a faded old cloth. Laya’s mom pointed out that they were poor people who lived on the pavement. Almost at once, the four year old retorted – but they are all happy!
Harmony amidst the chaos and uncertainties!
The fleeting scene exuded a picture of enjoyment for the little girl. Enjoying with peers was an act of freedom and joy, which did not come easily in other countries. ‘Play dates’ were necessary, parents had to fix the dates with their friends’ in order that their children could spend time at the friend’s place.
Well, does luxurious living bring in happiness? Many of us can recall the film “Richie Rich” - the poor little rich boy who had everything except ‘companionship.’ And how jubilant he was at the end, reunited with his parents and in the company of his ‘humble’ friends with whom he had longed to play baseball at one time.
Happiness means different things to different people: to a fulfilled personality, it could imply sharing a hearty meal with friends and family, to a materialist, happiness implies saving to fill the ‘proverbial’ seventh jar with half-filled gold. By and large, people who have an optimistic view of life are generally happy, they have greater contentment and acceptance of challenges that life offers, even though doubts, apprehensions, feelings of loneliness and anger can haunt them occasionally.
Writers and lyricists wax eloquently about happiness. Borrowing the lyric from a renowned comedian and singer -
“Happiness, happiness, the greatest gift that I possess
I thank the Lord I’ve been blessed
With more than my share of happiness…”
(First published in medium.com)
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.
DECEMBER IN CHENNAI IS SYNONYMOUS WITH TAMIL MARGAZHI MONTH, MUSIC, MONSOONS AND, OF COURSE, MERRY CHRISTMAS! WHO CAN'T FALL IN LOVE WITH IT?
December is also a special time of the year, being the farewell month of the calendar. It brings back nostalgic memories of the times that have slipped past us as the year stands at the brink of expiry. It simultaneously sets up expectations of a brand new one filled with hopes and dreams—a future to look forward to buoyed in anticipation of feverish festivities just around the corner.
For most people, it is a time for introspection and new resolutions—the changes they brought over the year that has gone by and some more that need to flow into their lives. If you are a student, you may have all the time, as these are holidays, to take time off, enjoy, analyze, and plan your career. It is a time to make good your academic backlogs, if any, with a few more months in your pocket to catch up before the final examinations; that being the case if you are studying in India. If you are above 30, you could add a few strands of grey each year! But do not worry, for the side effects of getting wiser, a little calmer and smarter are most welcome. By this time, you would have found your calling and can hopefully plan and execute your systematic savings and investments too.
The winter month is incredibly cool (in every sense), especially for Chennaites, as it is, fortunately, the much-humoured hot phase of the year compared to the rest of the scorching months that are termed hotter or hottest, if that alone brings rushes of excitement! Well, yes, it does for everyone, is the liberal assumption! With Christmas festivities and Margazhi Utsavam for Carnatic music lovers, there sure is music, dance, laughter and joy in the air.
Mind you; the Carnatic music season is not just for older generations alone but also increasingly attracts younger crowds every year! Given its long history, the music season and its popularity is spreading beyond borders, and many young NRI kids fly down to find a singing or dancing slot in the busy schedules of Music Auditoriums. It's a healthy battle for the best talent, and ardent music fans, including many westerners, are its joyous beneficiaries. Innovative modernists and diehard traditionalists debate over the future direction of this classical style. We also hear that this festival is exclusive, as nowhere in the world do talented musicians converge like this to produce fine music. It's also a time for sporting your best outfits and colourful Kanjeevaram silks, with the weather being kind to the skin and fabric. So do count your money and get on a shopping spree if that further elevates your high spirits. But beware of packaging waste and leave them at the shop for reuse. Remember to carry your own shopping bags too.
Christmas and Santa effectively set the tone for sustaining the mood elevation in the final week of December, keeping everyone upbeat until the new year. Keep your colourful outfits ready for this one, preferably red and white; one might say, to match the theme. The much-needed rains are welcome and greeted with open arms by all, factoring it in advance and with the determination not to allow it to play the spoilsport to celebrations!
Coming back to new year's resolutions, these are good to declare but often fail to pass the test in the year ahead! So let's always resolve to firmly commit to work, health, relationships and good sleep regardless of the outcome. With this outlook, life's a breeze, and time will fly, bringing in all the luck your way.
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/
HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY INFINITE JOY
The life in this mighty planet is a finite one suffused with umpteen eventualities. Amidst all the vagaries of the finite life, something remains infinite; the joy of a newborn. The new borns are exposed to a new world, one fine day all on a sudden. From the safe cocoon of mother's fluid world, they get exposed to a gigantic world of new realities. The cutting of umbilical cord marks a new path for them to move in search of fresh woods and pastures new. They let the world know their entrance to this finite life with a scream or a heavy cry. It might be their crying need to seek a comforting and safeguarding shelter for them. Slowly and steadily, they get acquainted to the ways of the new world. The mewling, puking and peeing have given way for a treasure trove of wonders. They start exploring anything and everything in, around and within them. Their world is no more confined like their initial months' home of restrained movements and moments. Life infact makes a new turn with their exposure to the new world of comforts and discomforts. They start trying to fit in tune with the fabulous and falsifying music of the vast world.
Despite all the crests and troughs of ordinary life, the new borns are brimming with gaiety always and forever. The tiny milestones make them hyper excited; flipping one morning all on a sudden bestows a new world and view. Gradually, they start exploring their vistas by sitting, walking step by step and babbling. The incoherent utterances are their tools to convey and express their new found delight, wonder, angst, pranks and what not. The little marvels unravel their marvel in new found ways. Their universe is free from the shackles and shades of the existing world. They discover the roots and routes for their life resplendent with infinite joy. Of course, an infant is in his/her life’s golden phase unmindful of the anxieties and uncertainties of their sustenance. They bask in the glory of their infinite joy......
Being the mother of an infant, I too bask in the glory of my little munchkin's infinite joy.... I wish he were an infant forever!!!! I am in easeful love with the little world of joy he lavishes every now and then. At times, my tummy misses his presence. Still, I enjoy the pulsating presence of my loving baby always and in all ways.
Everywhere around me, I hear a soothing echo
Yup, the rejuvenating reflection of my get- go!
Unmindful of the passing moments and days,
I spend my movements in your daze
Your ravishing face has a grace
That entices me for a serene embrace
When I watch your unheralded meteoric crawl,
My appalled self feels you are going to fall.
Your infant joy is in a state of hurry
That can lavish me nothing but worry
Your jubilant entity craves for my presence
My sweet sound chills you to dance from the distance
Unfamiliar with the ways of the wordly mysteries, you relish in your infant joy
Unmindful of life's vagaries, I just digress from all that can only annoy
From the ennui of everyday life, you release me on bail
The aroma of your newborn innocence, I too inhale!
Amma wishes a very happy birthday to you, my darling Anvik aka Kunjapp baby....... Love you loads, my loving Little App.. Yearning for the changing syllables, words and sentences of your tiny inquisitive heart! Hugs and kisses, my cutie pie!!!!!
MATTANCHERRY’S JEW STREET: ALWAYS AND IN ALL WAYS A VISUAL TREAT
“Travelling- it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller”. Ibn Battuta, the renowned Medieval traveler, and explorer has exemplified his dictum by bestowing creative wings to the adventurous roads he traversed in his life. Well! I too have created the faint footprints I have already crisscrossed during the pages and stages of my life. Some stories do serve as the guideposts to my heart as well as my amygdala. Let me take you all to one such story from my mind’s travel diary that has touched the artistic creases of my life. The vast treasure trove of memories made me get down in front of the Jew Town at Mattancherry, the real marvel of a pulsating past and a mellifluous present! For me, it’s always the exquisite land of rarity and variety I came across in the history textbook of 10th standard; the street where culture echoes, tradition muses, attractiveness allures, heritage booms, and the astounding diversity delights. An array of musings straddles across the terrains of my sparkling experience.
On a cheerful Sunday morning, my husband, Sujeeth and I sat off our safari to Jew Town that has the serene power to tickle our nostalgic bones. To enrich the exuberance of our unplanned trip, we planned to roam around in our thunderbird the whole day. We reached the narrow street between Mattancherry Palace and the Paradesi Synagogue within no time. I was gazing unblinkingly at the bustling roads we covered from Fort Kochi to Jew Street. My shopaholic’s eyes were enthralled by the variegated combo of spices, culture, cuisine, and handicrafts. Jeeth slowed down our thunderbird from one end of the street to the other just to admire the microcosm of the universe vibrant at Mattancherry. While Jeeth was parking vehicle nearby Mattancherry Palace temple, a young guy, probably a local guide approached me asking whether I have roamed around the street or whether I needed his help. I did not feel like disappointing his smiling face and asked whether he can enlighten me with the history of Jew Street. Jeeth joined by then and Vivin, our young guide started his narration. “ I feel Sir and Ma’am are new to our Jew town. So, let me first introduce our iconic locale, Mattancherry to you – The Hebrew word mattan alludes to donation, and cherry in Malayalam means settlement. Hence, the name ‘Mattancherry’, is related to the donation of land by the King of Kochi to the Jews. It is even said that the street was full of mutton butchers. The entire street will tell you the tales of Mattancherry, the most vibrant spot in Kochi where tradition and culture roll unchecked. This was the major centre for Jews who came here on ships for trade and settled in. Today, the total number of Jews who live here is a handful”. Out of exhilaration, I asked – “Vivin, Where’s Sarah’s Aunty’s Embroidery shop? He informed me that it’s on the other side of the street. Although the Jewish community of Mattancherry lost its oldest member, how can one I forget the ever-smiling face and the friendly gestures with which she entertained all the visitors of the Jew Street? After spending an hour strolling around the lively street of antiques, handicrafts, handmade toys, floral orals, chandeliers, curios, tribal art, spices, embroidered and stylish clothing, we bid adieu to Vivin and entered the Paradesi Synagogue (foreigner) aka Jewish Synagogue, the oldest functioning Jewish house of prayer. The Synagogue built-in 1568 has Hebrew inscriptions dating back to the 14th century. The painting gallery at the entrance illustrates the history of Jews in Kerala from the time of King Solomon. I was completely mesmerized by the clock tower that was added to the Synagogue in 1760. The faces of the clock showed time in Malayalam, writings in Hebrew, etchings in Roman numerals. The Synagogue built adjacent to the Mattancherry Palace Temple was on the land gifted by King Rama Varma, the ruler of Kochi. We proceeded our journey to Dutch Palace, now a museum displaying the paraphernalia possessed by the rulers of Kochi. We were captivated for more than an hour looking at the awe-inspiring architecture that is a blend of colonial and Kerala styles. I was a bit disappointed as photography was strictly prohibited inside the palace. To my great relief, we bought a sort of fan from one of the vendors selling near its entrance; the living memory of our palace visit. I noticed one thing: The Mattancherry Palace Temple and the Paradesi Synagogue share a common wall. Jew Town has now turned out to be a melting pot coastal reserve where diverse cultures, beliefs, customs, and faiths sprawl together in unison. Hours passed within a wink and Jeeth reminded me to keep a check on time. I reminded him of Sarah Aunty’s Embroidery Shop, the last one to see at the Synagogue lane. Table clothes, Children’s dresses, and Kippa – everything speaks of the rich heritage and history of the Jewish community. Above all, I could feel the aura of Sarah Aunty in, around, and within her shop. It’s owned by her adopted son, Thaha Ibrahim who took care of her after her husband’s death for almost twenty years. My long conversation with Thaha uncle still takes me back to the days of the Jewish community although they are dwindling in number. He told me once: Even now the visitors of Jew Town come to Sarah Aunty’s shop. They are curious to know a lot about Sarah Aunty, her life, love marriage, Jewish history, life style etc. Just like the way you talked to me and asked me about Sarah Aunty, many do”. I was so touched by Thaha uncle’s words. More than five hours had gone and nothing had gone into our starving stomachs. Jeeth suggested proceeding to Ginger House Restaurant, the antique-filled Indian restaurant with a patio overlooking the Kerala backwaters. The creamy- cashew paneer curry of this waterfront restaurant made our day. The renowned Indian author, Anita Nair once said “Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow”. A part of the Jew Street remains in me like the image of Sarah Aunty imprinted in my mind.
A snippet from my diary of December 2019. How time flies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
Winter is one season that I look forward to after having experienced it in Delhi for 25 years.The intoxicating fragrance of Saptaparni flowers fills the air with hope, excitement and fervour along with the mouthwatering sweet tastes of peanut chikki and gajar ka halwa.A must have during winter season.
Moreover the joy of Christmas and New Year celebrations wrapped up with colourful woollens, visiting friends and family with gifts.
Bombay has a long spell of monsoon showers and usually after diwali you feel a slight nip in the air in the early hours of the morning and late evenings.Weather feels dry,fans switched off and even the coconut oil in the bottle freezes.
But somehow this year the weather seems rather unusual.It was extremely cold for about a fortnight and then a sudden change with temperatures rising. It's been hot for a while now with the sky being overcast with thick clouds.In fact two days ago when I woke up at around 7am,i saw the sky was burning orange flame,an unusual sight for an early winter morning.
Looks like we are going for a warm Christmas this year.Wonder if Santa plans to visit us with his bag of gifts.
Hushkoo has decided not to sleep in his favourite balcony at night,he wants the Aircon to comfort his tired feet.
As I wake up in the morning,i quickly want to get ready for the day, finish my daily prayers,eat a hearty breakfast and step out for my leisure walk.Rahul too accompanies me during my prayer recitals,in fact he loves to be part of it.His favourite prayer lines...."Ganpati Bappa Porya!!(morya)(3)," and then...."Jai Durga (silent)Ma!!.."with all his desired efforts to learn.
As i step out for my morning walk, little did i know that I was going to meet Actor Vijay Raaz who has acted in movies like.... Gulabo Sitabo and Gangubai Kathiawadi etc etc, needless to say powerful acting as always.
He mentioned that he has specially come down with his friends to meet Hushkoo,who is no less than a celebrity himself in our campus., with all the pawfection showered on him and his petlicious food gobbled by the neighbourhood cats, he doesn't mind it though as long as they come to greet him every morning.
Although I can't figure out as to when Hushkoo has had his first rendezvous with the him.I guess a frequent visitor and it just feels so pawsome.
I think I will have to stop here as in the background there is this irritating spanish song sung by an unknown singer,who is singing out of tune, can't bear it any longer and neither can I focus on my work and thoughts.
Feliz Navidad!! a todos.!!
Merry Christmas to one and All and may this New Year bring loads of joy, happiness, health and surprises for each one of you.
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)
LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT SOME BLACK SWAN EVENTS!
Black Swan event is an unexpected incident which doesn’t have any previous patterns and cannot be predicted as it is too rare and are in the category of exceptions. Such events affect almost everything globally, the economy, the mankind, the living style of the people etc. Some people see this turmoil as an opportunity and rise while some organizations or individuals get trapped and never recover from this. Risk Management becomes a big challenge which needs to be planned and handled efficiently during such trying moments by the Government or the concerned authorities so that its negative impact is as minimal as possible.
Black Swan event is a phrase which was first coined by the Professor of Finance, Nassim Nicholas Taleb of New York University in his book “Fooled by Randomness” in 2001 .He later elaborated the phrase through his book, “The Black Swan: The impact of the Highly Improbable” in 2007. People around the world believed and had taken it for granted that the swans were white in colour only .But surprisingly and unexpectedly in the year 1697 a Dutch explorer, Willem de Vlamingh discovered the black swans or the swans which were uni-colour black. Taking cue from this 17th century Black swan discovery the Finance professor Taleb ,also an ex-Wall Street trader, tried to describe how some unexpected thing can happen which will produce earth shaking repercussions with both good or bad consequences .But people need to anticipate and make plans to deal with such most unexpected eventualities.
The Covid 19 is considered as one such black swan event as no one had predicted this phenomenon to happen as when it did in Wuhan in China and spread so rapidly throughout the world bringing life to a standstill , besides taking an unprecedented toll of life almost everywhere. In the financial world it showed the downfall of many businesses globally. On a positive side it brought fortune to some who took decisions based on long term sustainability. One such case is about the company OfBusiness start-up which became a unicorn ,which as we know is a company that has reached a valuation of one billion dollars. Its CEO and co-founder Ashish Mohapatra a man from Odisha and a product of my School,SCB Medical Public School ,Cuttack and an IITian (Kharagpur), says “Everything that is tough has an opportunity .If you believe that you can make a lot of progress through it ”. He said by the mid of January 2020 it was clear to all that a black swan event was going to hit the world. Most of the Chinese provinces had declared emergency in mid of January of that year but most people throughout the world went about their normal way and reacted late. You got to have leading indicators not lagging indicators and you have to react first. Global trade corridors stopped, many businesses of India which relied on China and South East Asian countries like Myanmar, Vietnam, Cambodia for imports from those countries were stopped because of which commerce became local in nature. There was no way things could be imported from outside as you don’t know when things will reach you. So, globalization became localization. But Indian players stood up. During this harrowing period, Consumerization came back to India by Indian companies. Those Indian companies which were providing high quality services became bigger. Mohaapatra says businesses which lost in that covid period was because they lost trust in their people. Many Business houses started firing employees, cutting and deferring wages.
In the month of April 2020,OfBusiness, a start-up till then, which hadn’t become unicorn had no revenue for that month. Still, they decided that they won’t cut people cost, they won’t fire any employee because once people are fired that will create chaos, panic in the organization. Employees will lose their trust on the organization. People are investment not expenses. Due to this ideal and strong conviction and integrity of the company it rose from a start up to a unicorn business.
Nicholas Taleb , has described that Risk Management for investors can be handled in two ways for any kind of black swan event. One is the barbell strategy where investment should be made in safest financial products and small investments for speculative investments. No investment should be in the moderate risk and the risk bearing part of the portfolio must not be more than 10%. Maintaining a diverse portfolio is important as that will ensure if one of the investments is not doing well, the loss can be covered by other investments which are doing well. And if we correlate with Ofbuisness strategy it was similar to Taleb Risk Management. Ofbusiness bosses followed the barbell strategy in way that their safest investment is people who work for them. They didn’t cut people cost, rather told them that their salaries will be increased in June. This in a way assured the employees about their salary and brought the best out of them in job. They reduced good to have features cost, like get to gather expenditure cost, business travelling costs which were again not any risk factor in this turmoil like how Taleb has described.
Another such black swan incident was the black swan event of the 2008 stock market crash in the US, collapsing the whole of the Wall street and bankruptcy of the Lehman Bros bank. Eventually US responded to the crisis by passing the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 which was used as an expansionary monetary policy, facilitated bank bailouts and worked towards economic growth.
September 11 , the cataclysmic event of terrorist attack on the twin towers of New York may be called another Black Swan Moment as it is said to have changed American Society and the world as never before. It will not take hard labour to find out other Blackswan moments in history. January30 ,1948 is another date when Mahatma, the apostle of peace fell to the bullets of an assassin, uttering Hey Ram, still with a calm and composed countenance ,without betraying any bitterness. People remembered and drew a parallel with Christ who during those painful processes of crucification prayed God to forgive those ignorant persons as they did not know what they were doing. These tragedies or Blackswan events had their positive sides too in spreading the messages of peace and alternative approaches to issues of conflicts in politics.
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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