Literary Vibes - Edition CXXV (27-Jan-2023) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Journey.. (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 125th edition of LiteraryVibes. We present to you a short and compact edition with wonderful poems and entertaining short stories. We are happy to welcome a new poet to the family of LitetraryVibes. Ms. Akanksha Murali is a young student at Bangalore whose passion for literature matches her crave for learning the intricacies of Engineering as a subject of study. Her poem in today's LV shows a rare intensity and soul-searching which will undoubtedly impress the readers. We welcome her to the LV family and wish her the very best in her literary and professional pursuits.
My home town Bhubaneswar is in a great celebratory mood these days with the World Cup Hockey going on. The streets are aglow with magic lanterns of multiple colours hanging from trees. Food fest, handloom fair and road show by performing artists have brought our town alive. Four years back we had the World Cup Hockey here and I had written an article 'Chak De Bhubaneswar!' in PositiveVibes in December 2018. (LiteraryVibes came three months later). I am reproducing that article for the reading pleasure of those who had not read it at the time. The show has since become grander, the lights brighter and the citizens prouder. The spirit of the town is indomitable and spectacular.
I recently came across a story in social media under the title 'God Exists'. It's about a band of army soldiers and a chaiwaala in the hard terrain of the Himalayas. The group of about twenty soldiers under the command of a Major had to climb about fifteen thousand feet to reach a camp where another group of soldiers were eagerly waiting to be relieved after an arduous stay of three months. The soldiers were exhausted after three hours of climb in freezing temperature, desperately looking for some place to rest their limbs for a while. A cup of hot tea would have been a welcome bonus. They found a small hut on the way and when they came near they found it locked. One of them peered through a small hole in the wall and saw a big kettle, packets of tea and sugar. It was obviously a tea shop. Their craving for a cup of hot tea rising, they asked for permission of the Major to break open the lock and enter the tea shop. After a few moments of hesitation the Major gave the go ahead. The soldiers entered the shop and found everything ready for making tea and a few packets of biscuits as well. They had cups of hot tea and biscuits to soothe their aching body and tired mind. The Major asked them to resume their climb and after everyone left the room he quietly placed a thousand rupees note under the tin of biscuits before closing the door and leaving.
The soldiers finished their three months of duty at the army post and were returning to the base camp. On the way they stopped at the tea shop, which was open. An old man served tea to them along with biscuits. The Major started talking to him. "So, brother, how do you manage to survive in this arduous climate? How much do you earn to eke out a living?" The old man smiled, "I earn enough to survive. God is my saviour, He makes sure my family and I don't die of starvation." One of the soldiers mocked him, "You think God exists in this inhospitable climate?" The old man, seasoned with years of wisdom, nodded, "Yes, of course God exists. You know what happened three months back? My son was taken away by the Army authorities for questioning. He was beaten mercilessly. I was desperately in need of money to apply for a bail. No one from the village came to my rescue, they were all scared. Lo and behold, when I came to my shop in the evening I found a thousand rupees note under the tin of biscuits. I am sure God had left it there to help me in my hour of desperate need. Who else would leave a thousand rupees for me, if not God?" The soldiers were astounded at this show of faith. One of them started saying something about their entry into the shop, when the Major gestured to him to keep quiet. They left the old man after paying for the tea and biscuits. The Major somehow felt the presence of God, in the unshakeable faith of the old man. He also felt there must be a God to look after his soldiers, otherwise how all of them managed to survive at fifteen thousand feet and were now returning to the base camp? He thanked the old man and left with his soldiers.
.............................
In a way, all of us believe in the existence of God and have been looking for Him ever since we developed a sense of quest. Is God in the joyous smile of a playful child, is He in the toothless grin of an innocent oldie, or is He in the blessings of a genuine giver? Is He in the beautiful flower swaying in a gentle breeze, in the gurgling waves of an undulating sea, or in the snow-clad mountains of a serene morning? Is God in the innumerable idols we worship, or in the pure mantras we chant, with our eyes closed, mind focussed on a supreme being whom we have not seen, but always felt as an inseparable shadow clinging to us. Is He what we feel when a motor bike brushes past us without knocking us down or when a glass door smashes behind us a second after we have passed through it? Is He in the elevator with us when we are stuck for hours and at the last second a mechanic appears from nowhere and sets it right? Or is God nothing but a feeling of Godliness when we want to do all good, harm no one, tell no lies and don't feel like cheating anyone? May be, God is a bit of all this and much more, a behemoth who encompasses everything and everyone and controls each and everything around us. If we believe in Him, no proof is necessary, if we don't, no proof is enough.
I would like to leave you with these ideas. They are not great, but worth thinking about in hours of solitude. Do enjoy the offerings in today's edition of LiteraryVibes and forward the following links to your friends and contacts:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/473 (Poems, Shoert Stories, anecdotes and travelogues.)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/472 (Young Magic)
There is also a medical related article from the pen of the prolific gyanecologist Prof. Gangadhar Sahoo at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/471
Please post your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the page. It may take a couple of minutes for you to do that, but it will go miles to encourage and inspire the poets and writers.
Wish you a happy February. Keep smiling, we will meet again on 24th, the last Friday of the month.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
HALF LIFE
02) Haraprasad Das
FILIGREE GODS
03) Dilip Mohapatra
STRINGLESS KITE
LOCKED DOWN
04) Pradeep Biswal
IT’S JUST ANOTHER DAY
05) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN - Part 9
06) Hema Ravi
NEW HOME
A NEW SUNRISE
07) Ajit Dash
TOSHALI : A MORPHO OF KALINGA
METAPHOR
08) Akanksha Murali
THE LAST ODE
09) Abani Udgata
LOWEST COMMON DENOMINATOR
10) Seethaa Sethuraman
QUESTIONING THE ANSWER
11) Bichitra K. Behura
PASSION FOR TRUE EXISTENCE
12) Dr. Molly Joseph M
NEW YEAR!
13) Meena Mishra
A GOOD TEACHER
AN ODE TO MOTHER EARTH
14) Gita Bharath
DASHAVATAR
15) Setaluri Padmavathi
YOUTH - THE FUTURE OF THE NATION
PHASES OF THE BIRTH!
16) Arpita Priyadarsini
AN UNENDING SERIES
17) Snehaprava Das
BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN (SITA)
BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN (RADHA)
18) Prof. Dr. Sidhartha Das
MINAR ON NEW YEAR'S MORNING
19) Ravi Ranganathan
OWNING THE SUNSET
20) Padmini Janardhanan
LAMENT OF AN ASPIRANT
21) Alexandra Psaropoulou
FLYING 13
22) Col(Dr)Rekha Mohanty
POWER OF VISION
23) Prof.Niranjan Barik
WALK THE TALK !
24) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE TRAIN
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
FOR WHOM THE HEART BEATS
02) Sreekumar K
IN NETHERLAND
03) Chinmayee Barik
MIRACLE
LAST WISH
04) Vidhya Anand
GOURMET CATASTROPHE
05) Gayatri Saraf
THE LAST RITES
06) Meena Mishra
JUST FRIENDS
07) Satya Narayan Mohanty
AN AMBIVALENT DO-GOODING
08) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
EKADASAHA
09) Aboo Jumaila
THAMAS
10) Sunil Kumar Biswal
SONA MEM
11) Ashok Kumar Ray
DEATH'S CRUELTY (Part-3)
12) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PAAN WALA AND THE BANKER
Table of Contents :: ANECDOTES
01) Ishwar Pati
THE LAST MISTAKE
02) Prasanna Kumar Dash
A COURTESY CALL
03) Gurudas Brahma
RAY, RAILWAY AND A RETROSPECTIVE
04) Gourang Charan Roul
ENCHANTING MAYAPUR SOJOURN
05) Sheena Rath
SPECTACLES
06) Sundar Rajan
AMIDST THE COCONUT PALM
07) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY...
08) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
CHAK DE BHUBANESWAR!
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Anura Parida
SEASHORE
02) Trishna Sahoo
WHAT IS LIFE ?
03) Ashmanth Anand
CULTURAL TRUCE
04 )Vishal Anand
ADIEU TO WOODS
05) Mrinal Mallick
FALLING LEAVES
AUTUMN
THE NIGHT SKY
POEMS
‘I am returning’ – your letter says.
I feel joy, feel redeemed.
I will not ask, where had you been?
If to ask the queen, ‘Are my hands clean?’
Even 'from nowhere' would do,
all that matters is you are returning.
You may not know me
but I know me the best:
- how feeble is my trust;
- how frail, my patience;
- how fertile, my doubts;
- how facetious, my humours!
I punish ‘me’, curse ‘me’, bang ‘me’ against
the poles of life, revile and ridicule the defeatist
under my peel, damn my calculating mind.
I have given up counting brownie points.
Your absence has bared my sacrifices,
self-inflicted wounds by a revengeful mind.
When you come, take the rudder of my life,
steer the boat. Your blemishes
make you complete. You descended
from your high station
down to my humble level.
Why didn’t I rise to join you, mid-way?
Ego? Inadequacy? Lethargy?
Or the X-factor, known only
wind and water. Perhaps,
my pretentious humility
to go along God’s way, stealing
your goodness as my avatar-halo!
I live feebly, half-alive, half-fossil. A fall season lingers, unending. Leaves, flowers, fruits fall away, blow away, leaving bare trees and bare spindly creepers, and the ground strewn with dry leaves, wind-blown. My life, shy of success, sitting unwashed, unbrushed amid a stack of open newspapers, a few books: all unfinished, a silently running TV showing a wounded nation romancing with hungry people, juxtaposed to advertised beautiful faces, laughing away to eternity; my friendless phone, my body cramping in half supine state, bare feet on a teapoy under two whirring fans overhead, a three-piece sofa by an empty cup on a side table with ugly tea dregs at bottom. Your absence, the only conspicuous presence and truth, in this unending season of fall like the time in our former home, now a house.
Come, sit, have a sip from the last dregs
of the cup in my hand, you had loved
and lived with before you left,
even if it tasted insipid like dish water.
It was my life and my life’s bitter sap,
my gambit I played against me.
In dream I rise to your call. My half-life
follows you to the stable, you unleash
a horse, ride it, pull me up to ride with you,
roughshod, saddleless, start with
a slow trot, whipped to race from “my fall”
to a “spring” out of my tunnel’s end.
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.
Gods in filigree do not need much space
They live in the interstices between
fruits and flowers,
between the pliant margins of things and their opulent substance,
hardly ever over-eager to
register their presence!
They nudge each other to make space, gently
silver is tougher than moonlight and treacherous in the core
So, they help each other and stay firm
And keep the river in course and control its water!
The filigree workers in downtown Cuttack, in hutments of tin sheds serving the Jewellers in Chowdhury Bazar
hardly know
their little handiworks of ornate efflorescence
are no pushovers in the glitz of commerce,
that they have a life of their own, together and alone,
like men they know how to retain power in times when faiths flounder
and paths veer!
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)”
I dive deep into your dovish eyes
and get swept away
with the tidal waves that surge within
pent up in captivity looking desperately
for an outlet that may release
them to their quietude.
I resonate with your pulsating breath
and get sucked into a raging storm
that blows within
and I feel like a straw in a wind tunnel
being tossed around helplessly
till you exhale me out.
I sheepishly enter your veins
and flow with the rhythm of your heart
and then I feel the fire in your blood
that scalds my ins and outs
that burns through my bones
till I escape
into the cool arms of a placid sea.
I search for serenity across
the contours of your valleys and hills
but it feels like a roller coaster ride
and then I sever all my links
that connect you with me
and I sail the skies
like a stringless kite.
I have acquired the eyes of an eagle
and perhaps those of the owl
sometimes the eyes of the fly
or the incinerating eyes of the tiger spitting fire to see around and within
or through
or beneath and beyond.
I have crawled into my skin
yet have grown million sensors
to feel the serpent slithering up my spine
to decipher the doodles that
you draw on my back with your nails
and withstand the lava that engulfs me
or to bear the brunt of the glacier.
I have chewed a mouthful of bhut jolakia pepper
bitten the acrid quince
licked the licorice and lollipops
gorged myself on chunks of Roquefort cheese
ordered on line
gulped mouthfuls of Zinfandel wine
yet my taste buds are not numb.
My ears have puckered
and I can hear the spiders in Madagascar
weaving their gossamer webs
and the flapping of the
butterfly wings in Amazon valley
and the foot steps of the polar bear sneaking on the seals.
I can now sniff better than the African elephant
I can smell the roses from the
Gardens of Versailles
the exotic perfumes from the Sheikh’s harem
and the musk deers from the alpine scrubs
of the Himalayas.
And you think
you have locked me down?
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.
It’s just another day
The sun rises in the east
The birds fly away in the morning
Leaving their nest
The waves touch the shore
As before
The flowers bloom
Smilingly at the dawn
The dates change
In the calendar
A new day begins
Heralding new joys
New hopes
New dreams
Scripting a new saga
In the annals of history
Let the life shine
And break new grounds
Filled with fresh promises
Although it’s just another day !
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
I)
As soon as she set her eyes upon him, in trepidation,
She called him ‘Anna’ - Elder Brother!
Was it that she recognised him
Of blood,
A filial bond
From a hoary, distant -
Some eons past?
Or was it, or was it
She wanted
To merely preempt the mundane
The yawning ritual of fending off
thoughts, not too salubrious?
Was it her own charms
She took for granted
That unholy (and sometimes, rarely, holy!) thoughts surfaced
In others?
Anna!
Does she think that word
Will allay the base
Quell the riot
In a man’s mind?
That magic word!
(II)
She affixed a Sir
To his name. Every time!
Whether she spoke
Or in the written,
As if his parents had forgotten
To add that syllable to his given.
How could they have?!
She knew better!
Was it that she sensed a
A Truth abound
Cocooning him
And her magic, lone syllable
Would cause
Wisdom-spores
Break loose?
Not unlike an updraft
Dispersing dandelion seeds?
Or was it, Or was it
She saw festering wounds afloat
On the uppermost-
That to rupture
Would have repercussions
In feelings that lash
At her
And more
In him?
Does she think that word
Will appease, will quieten his desire
To put her in her place?
Sir?
That magic word?
(III)
Was there any man
She could call
Just by name,
His given name
That has been with him
From birth?
Without any affix
Or a prefix
Without delving into mystic realms
A natural reference
Devoid of dungeon ulterior
The name - merely an accolade
To seek his gaze
Without fear
Without a need
For a cliché
Dispensing Rituals
Of the unevolved?
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.
Saint Francis: Chirpy Little Birdie, Why are you alone? Where is your partner?
Little Birdie: I can't get him. He is gone forever...Cheep, Cheep! Sob! Sob!
Saint Francis: He loves you dearly, had been with you all along....
Little Birdie: All was well until that new mansion…….that mansion, with a massive garden came up...Sob! Cheep!!
(Birdie went on...)
Father, you know how happy we all were at the edge of the woods.
All….. until…..Sob, Sob!!
Those big men came with big machines.
They broke our homes, killed our children and made all those shiny, glittering homes.
And, we flew Eastward to find greener pastures. Sob! Cheep!
Saint Francis: But what happened at the large mansion?
Little Birdie: There are thousands of trees inside that garden,
So many fruits and flowers.
A lot of butterflies and bees are there.
Cheep! Cheep!
They have a lot of food.
Saint Francis: But, what happened to ‘Birda?’
(Birdie sobbed again…..)
One day, both of us flew into that large garden. We ate fruits to our heart’s content.
All of a sudden, something came near me; I quickly flew to the nearest branch.
But, it got Birda inside it.
Trapped!
A tall, moustached man gave out a murderous laugh. And he took Birda in.
I followed him, pecked him hard. But it had no effect on his hard body.
Birda screeched until he fainted……
Next day, again, I went into that garden.
And slowly hopped on to the window of that large mansion.
The dark man was nowhere.
And inside that large room, I saw a ‘golden’ cage.
In it, I saw Birda with a new Birdi.
I made several cheep-cheep sounds, but Birda could not see or hear me…..
Hearing my cheep sounds, the monster came out..
And I disappeared from his sight as fast as I could.
Two days later, I heard Bang! Burst!
And a lot of frightening sounds.
And the mansion became a cloud of dust.
Everywhere was smoke and fire.
I have lost Birda forever!! Sob! Sob!
Saint Francis: (stroking Birdie gently….)
Saint Francis: You are smart, Birdie, not to have fallen into their trap..
It’s unfortunate that Birda met his end so pitifully.
Fly Southward..
All your friends are already there
Go and start your life afresh...
Remember, Birda is free and happy in his new world...
(Kyrielle rhyme scheme aabB, ccbB, ddbB, eebB, ffbB - 8 syllables)
Smoky black clouds with annoyed frown,
Flames getting higher to burn down,
Heavy gusts threaten to capsize,
Will it all bring a new sunrise?
Clogged thoughts caused the furnace to break,
Leaving high and dry with heartache.
How to end all the mundane ties –
Wade through mists for a new sunrise?
Trapped in the labyrinths of life,
Getting past hurdles without strife,
Course correct, rewrite and revise,
In the hope of a new sunrise.
Receptively sought the answers.
The mind slowly frees from cancers.!
Peak-sized challenges now pint-size,
Faint glimmer shows a new sunrise.
Life no longer fatigue-loading
Rivers of change are free-flowing
Shackles broken –no longer ties!
In front of you, a new sunrise….
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.
While walking in full moon night
In the beauty of rainforest Vedavyas
You offered me to make boating over
The confluence of the river Sankha and Koel
You and me seen in the transformed Baitarani
Flowing over the footmark of Shiva and Shakti
Going ahead with blessing of Maa Hingulei
Your beauty enhanced in the doorway of silver filigree
Craftsmanship made you Karuvaki in army cantonment
Quest to Radhanagar rich in archaeological remains
Cave temple and Rock-Cut-Elephant at hillock Kaima
Fortified city credence of inscriptions a pre-maritime history
Too a centre of excellence of art and culture in ancient Odisha
A land of Navigaya made your smile of iridescent grin
Rich and diverse artistic achievement brings wave of words
Toshali nothing but the art of Utkal and warrior of Kalinga
Come in juggernaut leaving chariot
Let me feel your syntax of cramming smile
Writing page after page of featureless poetry
Weaving intertwined analogy taking jugful wine
Cramming three parody similes into a single clause
Tendering of love, get blocked, hate and get hearted
Images to weave time and space into a single fabric
Beauty of morpho amalgamated in negation of love
Bliss unchanged by gain or loss if loved with Yogi
As well I am unfinished without epitome of your love
I am fall in to keep it maintain worship in love forever
Above and beyond having patience for unconditional love
As union of two soul the beauty of half lord and woman
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.
High spirits elude me these days,
Silence valued as gold,
Memories are cold and distant,
Perception dark and void.
I go to places where I have never been
places I have never seen.
The air around me stands still
not enough for my heart to fill.
All hope seems to have vanished
I don't see color anymore
I bleed twice; once for myself
and once for the others who suffer beside me;
I embrace the world's wounds
like they are my own.
I rely on the sound of rain,
to relieve the monotony of my days.
The fire in my soul, dying away
Leaving embers in its wake.
**The poem speaks about a person on her last days. She reflects on her life and how she is feeling
Akansha Murali is an aspiring engineering student with a dream of becoming a successful entrepreneur and author. Weaving together words to unravel emotions is what She tries to do with her work. Books and words have always been an escape for her, a home in her world. A voracious reader and an enthusiastic writer. When she is not telling stories through words, She tells stories with her photographs.
Me and my silly poetry always wait at a safe distance
from the pair of his hands, his feet
and the raging storm in his breath .
Inside the cages they torture
his young son, charged with a crime
he had never committed.
A scarecrow stands in his field
bathed in hesitant moonlight while
he routinely gathers the green-shoots
from ancestral fields but the roads that
run by his field refuse to go anywhere.
He cowers in the fringe while
great fireworks light up the city sky-line.
The faceless that trudges on the outlines,
an absent deity for whom candles are lit
in distant temples and fierce battles rage .
For thousands of years his silence thickens
the winter fog,
the dense rain clouds
the wondrous green forests.
The blush of the early morning on the sky
too often carries the bloodied wreckage
of his green planet, the palimpsest of
ravages of the march of countless marauders.
We wait for him to recover his magic spell.
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
(Acrylic on canvas painting by seethaa Sethuraman)
The answer lies in those awkward, agonizing silences,
Are you willing to patiently listen to them?
The answer lies in those dispiriting, daunting challenges,
Are you willing to strong heartedly accept them?
The answer lies in those piercing, painful struggles,
Are you willing to valiantly endure them?
The answer lies in the many disappointments that you encounter,
Are you willing to see them as opportunities and transform them?
The answer lies in those fearsome nights following a rejection,
Are you willing to crawl out of that dark tunnel and embrace the bright days that follow them?
The answer lies in the present that seems so altered than the past,
Are you willing to let go of all that was and accept all that is, as revealed by them?
The answer lies in those chance, refreshing meetings with strangers,
Are you willing to open-mindedly acquaint with them?
The answer lies in the secrets of life that are shrouded in mystery,
Are you willing to lift the veil and uncover the magic in them?
The answer lies in the promises that you make to yourself,
Are you willing to move mountains under any circumstances towards actualizing them?
The answer lies in the continuous change that life presents us with,
Are we willing to flow like the river unflustered by all the hurdles, by meandering through them?
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.
PASSION FOR TRUE EXISTENCE
Bichitra K. Behura
One day at a time
Just to observe the thoughts
As they pass by.
This is the only moment
Can be truly lived
With enrapt intent.
Something has already slipped,
New page has not yet flipped
This is what I have
To relish
Before it is dead
To become part of the history.
Never think
Whether I am worthy,
Let me make best use of the blessings
With gratitude and humility.
Water in the river
Never remains the same,
The current washes away everything,
Let me not miss
This opportunity
Coming once in a life time.
The world may have ignored me,
Rubbished my efforts
Pushing me to the darkest corner,
This is not going to dampen my spirit,
Whatever may be the sitch.
Right at this moment
While the past is dead
And the future is a distant reality,
I rise from the phenix
To give another go at life,
With renewed vigor,
For the passion
To renew my existence
in the ever changing environment.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
we look at you
with
wide eyed
wonder,
our apprehension
turning
august with
forebodings
fine...
how we
scraped
through
the thorn strewn
pathways
that hung
on fringes of
despondent
valleys...
the pandemic
waves
sweeping in,
war of minds
warring nations
holding rein...
ailments
partings
punctuating
our average
lives
the spring of
blooms
over shadowed
by cold
autumn falls...
how we ducked
in and out
our way
through the
shroud,
getting stronger
to outlive all..
thank you
the shadows
of our former year
that lengthened
as we walked,
teaching us
acceptance...
New Year!
we expect you
emerging fresh
from blooms
fragrant, radiant..
Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published twelve books,10 Books of poems, a novel and a Story book for Children. She has won several accolades which include India Women Achiever’s Award 2020. She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. She can be reached at E mail- mynamolly @gmail.com ; You tube- https://www.youtube.com/user/mynamolly
If you can teach the students of grade five and ten with equal ease,
If you can answer all the questions asked by the students without confusing them,
If you can adjust your pace according to the level of the students,
If you can evaluate 250 papers in in five days,
If you can rectify your students without putting them down,
If you can accept your flaws in front of your students,
If you can co-relate the subjects with the day-today activities,
If you can understand the needs of all your students,
If you can motivate your students to become good human beings,
If you can train your students for various activities throughout the year,
If you can identify individual differences,
If you can be firm but not too strict,
Then ,this is the profession for you and you will be a good teacher , my friend.
Let her swab the mirror again and again,
Until her mislaid youth she can gain.
No amount of swabbing seems to work,
It only adds to her escalating pain.
She is flabbergasted as to how is it possible.
No wonder she is completely inconsolable.
Wailing and crying at the top of her voice,
But no one can hear her, due to the deafening noise.
She thinks it’s a nightmare,
Her wrinkled face and grey hair.
Till yesterday it wasn’t there.
Oh God! So unexpected! Is this fair?
Her appeal, her exquisiteness her splendour and grace,
Millions of people craved for her embrace.
But today she has turned hideous and ragged
Swabbing the mirror again and again.
Fully determined is she to clean it,
Until her mislaid youth she can gain.
Corona, infection, quarantine, depression and casualty in millions.
Are her problems without any solution?
Arise her darling offspring, respond to her clarion call.
Get united and take a resolution.
Of swabbing the dirt from her mirror,
by taking immediate action.
Till it shows Mother Earth her old reflection.
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets. She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines.
She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
First came the Fish and then the Reptile
Herbivore and Carnivore then dimunitive Man;
Man became muscular, axe-wielding, skin-clad:
A fearsome travelling nomad.
Still symbiotic with bird and beast, he set societal laws;
But he started scheming and was soon involved in politics and wars.
In sharp reaction he turned towards science
And yoga and philosophy;
And even now I can clearly foresee-
A future with genetically bio-engineered forms
With the strength of a horse-- in the body of a man--
Did you think this a paraphrase of Darwin's works?
He who'd travelled wide and far?
No, these are far older thoughts from the rishis of yore--
The concept of Dashavatar!
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,
YOUTH - THE FUTURE OF THE NATION
The bundle of energy
Full of spirits and dreams
Challenging grabbers
You are the life of the nation!
Opportunities are aplenty
The world is yours
Prove your talents and prodigies
You are the breath of the old and young!
The bad company is one side
And the good one on the other
Think not that devastates the globe
You're the hope of the society!
Start not the habits that damage you
Influence not your fellow beings
To trod the unfair paths ahead
You are packed with power of intelligence!
Films, people and places inspire you
Contemplate before you act
The world is a great stage
And you're a great performer!
Illuminate the world with a bright light,
The light of knowledge and wisdom
Bring laurels to the nation
Dear youth! You're the future of the same!
The body forms little by little
Mobility in the womb
Unopened eyes, tiny parts
Shake gently and gently
Heartbeat feels like life
Miraculous status
Announces the birth!
The bright eyes slowly open
Cry speaks volumes
The world welcomes him,
That is an incredibly big
His presence is a treat
To the eyes and soul
Magic in a magical touch!
Ah! What a moment to mom,
Who caresses him ever!
Hmm! She sighs with a sigh!
Isn't it a great victory?
The baby brings cheer
The family feels Joyous!
Enthralling faces glow!
The monthly growth
Development of small organs
Smiles, tears, and discoveries
Amazement in an amaze
Happiness in eagerness
His body is filled with emotions,
Which enables him to notice and know!
Every step is a challenge
And every change is strange
Diverse actions make him strong
He strengthens his body,
And withstands fear and pain
He shines like a 'super star',
Grabbing acquired opportunities!
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
The ocean in me roars
Like a caged wolf
Waiting for a break through
The eclipsed moon
Howls every night
for a glimpse
Of the rising waves
Making their ways
Through me
I pause and smile
And try holding the sun
In my embrace
And gulp it all
Down my throat
Yet all I get
Is another year
Of rustic sunshine
With a hint of hope
And wishes
The world inside me
Craves for a glimpse
Of an unfathomable future
That lies inside those
Dark brown eyes
I try and decipher it into
An unending series
Of hopelessness and glimmer
My soul sings melancholy of love
And writes miseries of hope
That my uncertain heart carries
With it's every beat of scars
And more
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.
BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN (SITA)
Snehaprava Das
Because I am a woman,
Often a warning line is drawn to hold
my steps in check,
But then from nowhere a false-ascetic appears to maneaouvre me out,
To lure me to transgress,
I am doomed to an ageless agony, confined in a sacred forest of desire
Until a holy hand lifts me up promising
me a conditioned status of dignity,
But, because I am a woman
Even after emerging un-singed and unscathed from the judging flames
I am still doomed to a sainthood
And left alone to wash away my desires
In the waters of some holy river
BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN (RADHA)
Snehaprava Das
Because I am a woman
They never care to blame
your dulcet or its magic notes
that inveigled me out of
my unsullied world to your
passionate arbour, but always stick to
my soul the label of a coquette,
Brand me a transgressor, and shove me
Down to a vortex of infamy,
And look at me!
It is I, the woman of disrepute
the symbol of profanity
stand redeemed in love
Beside you, your holy queen
In the holy shrines set up by
The keepers of the holy law!!
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)
Minar of Mosque behind lattice of wires,
Looks up in the morning with aspire.
God and faith have got really tangled,
Like the murky mind of estranged people.
Faith and belief are choices by men,
Yet they refer it as directives of heaven.
Bloodshed nor torture have ever been taught
In Scriptures of faith and love.
Lust for superiority, authority of domain,
Tarnishes the image of faith and religion.
War mongers and crooks devide the globe,
Tearing apart the peaceful fabric of God.
Standing alone in the morning hue,
Hopes that New year brings compassion new.
Shackles and swords of hate be buried ,
Sunrise of 2023 bring unity surmised.
Let the woes of women,kids and men,
Be bygone with the years end.
Trust, the message of endurance and love,
Bind humanity all over the globe .
Let the new sunrise bless the world,
With golden rays of happiness and bond.
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.
I want to own the sunset time
That one time is my time sublime.
Not a reclusory reticence;
Possessiveness ?
How does it disturb you?
Not a moment I have skewed;
Encroaching upon your claim?
Never been my aim;
Poaching? How?
Not taken any such vow.
You can take your sunset too!
No, I won’t ever envy you;
but I want my sunset time
Exclusively for me.
That one time is my time sublime.
Feasible, possible; glow is widespread
Nuances of her nature still remains unshed
Without a murmur, without a stir
She holds her sway...holds the spur
Steers her shade, veers to our view
It could be me, it could be you
But I want my sunset time
Exclusively for me,
That one time is my time sublime....
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.
Every step towards reaching the Lord is bliss
Progressing with devotees is divine bliss
Collective energies nurture each other
Pilgrims progress with right thinking, right living.
Bird tweets herald the dawn; 'tis their instinct
Temple conches announce the dawn: 'Tis their duty
Dawn starts our daily chores: 'Tis our habit
Should krishnathvam dawn; 'twill be a blessing.
Dawn noises do not seem to impact
Neither bird song nor even churn rhythm.
Only the magic of krishna nama
Can awaken one from cozy slumber.
Slumbering in the comfort of ignorance
Awakened, realize it's just apathy
Habit to be vanquished like Ravana
Rama, please rescue me from this demon.
Curse me not with kumbakarnan's drowse instinct hugs pleasure of lazy lounging
Conspiring with the cosmic consciousness
May Volition overpower instinct.
Dawn arrived. Cuckoos' sing, lotus blooms
Devotees' chants enthralls, temple lamps glow
Ignorant, inert, yet to awaken
A helpless aspirant awaits *HIS* grace
Inadequate I am to deserve
The eternal bliss of Krishna-anubavam
And yet, what divine euphoria 'tis
To get drenched, drowned in Krishna karunya
Hand in hand with the enthralling Krishna
Swimming in chill waters of the cool dawn
Such divine joy. What! this only my dream?
Thozhis' jolt me into reality.
I, the lead singer of this Bhajan troop;
Oh! What curse that I trail behind now !
No Curse? Just apathy? Shaking myself up.
Wait. Back with my muse. Let the Cymbals chime.
Am neither deaf nor dumb or in slumber
Adiyen, only slow to awaken;
oh! bhagavadas, pray, do include me.
Slow but sure, steady - this pilgrim's progress
My apathy shall no more slow you down
I humbly accept all blame. No arguments.
Oh! Krishna, destroyer of all evil,
dissent and odium. Lead us to you.
May our Margazhi Sadhana fructify.
*Lament of an aspirant*
Thiruppavai is a 30 stanza poem sung by the Tamizh Saint Poet SriAnDAL (aka kodai)
Verses 6 to 15 focus on awakening an aspirant to join the satsang as they move on to meet their Lord SriKrishna.
These verses are inspired by the verses of Thiruppavai
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
Alexandra was born in the year of the horse of fire, in Greece, where she spent many years living in the wild mountains of the island of Hydra. Later, she attended St. Mary's in Wiltshire and studied European Thought & Literature at Anglia Ruskin in Cambridge. She lived in Paris and New York, before returning to Greece to settle. Her father was a renowned poet and author and had a successful publishing company in Greece. Her mother was a ballet dancer as well as president of the Dance Union in Greece. Her family social circles, ever since a little girl, were rich with artists, writers, and academics. She lives with her husband, a classical guitar soloist and four children near the Temple of Poseidon, Sounio, by the sea and publishes her own visual poems on Amazon.
I can feel the pulse of whole universe ,
when I gaze a star in a clear
night sky…….
I can see the wonder of under water beauties ,
when I lift a single shell onto my palm at the white golden beach
of the sea…….
I can smell the sweet odour of the dust of those lived on our loving earth ,
while I put a grain of sand
in front of me………
I am complete,
when I peep into my soul
in silence and see the
Divine light…….
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.
WALK THE TALK !
Prof.Niranjan Barik
You can talk with your eyes,
You can talk silently through your lips ,
As Mona Lisa did,
For which you adore her portrait for ages
And talk of Leonardo da Vinci!
You can talk too with your nose and brows ,
Make a bruise in the heart of others
You can talk with your tounge no doubt ,
Sweet or Sower ,
Talks may heal the wounds ,
May apply a soothing balm ,
Talk may call for an eye for an eye,
To throw the rascals out of the window
And the world into an abyss
A planet without sun or moon !
Talks can make or break ,
Talks can perish or flourish
A Mahabharat may ensue when they stall,
or Ukrain run into many a summer ,
Allowing the guns and missiles to do the talking ,
The Old Woman wails
The Old Man waits
when their son would return to talk to them,
Talks can bridge
Reconcile that looked irreconcilable
The wounded Kandha with the cross
And the scarred social margin man
Of the same neighbourhood,
but with vermillion mark on the forehead,
May sit close to each other
May rejoice sipping the same country nectar
Or sharing the same local leafy pipe again together !
Words can be sweeter than honey
Words can win hearts and minds without money
Words can also hurt more than bullets ,
Let these build and cheer ,not kill and tear .
You can still talk without talking .
But talk when you ought
Not talking may be wise ,
Not talking may too be a cowardice
Need to strike a balance
None ,but with the voice within as your North Star.
.
You can still talk without talking .
Behold the Old man pacing the urban space
None to share ,none to cheer, none to hear
He walks alone and talks to himself alone .
May be chewing a pan now and then.
Looking this or that direction,
Heeding Ravindra’s Ekla Chol slogan,
He is doing Ekla Bolo Bachan !
Yet he is giving a lesson
Walk and Talk,
Walk the Talk !
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.
All those who boarded the train with us
May not reach the end of the journey
Some of them would forget
Where they wanted to go
For them end would have no meaning
But they would cling to their seats, afraid to get down..
Some would gaze at the shining stars
And raise their hands to touch them
Only to find the hands sucked away
They would run after the missing hands.
Some would get down to pluck the flowers
And would be lost in the petals, unable to board the train again.
Many would make new friends
Some would fall out with each other.
For some their restless souls would rebel
Over weighty issues or not so weighty ones
There would be some, looking out of the windows
Trying to find their wandering souls in the passing shadows.
The journey would fade into a nonevent
Only the innocent beings with vacant souls
Would chug along aimlessly
Sans purpose, sans meaning
Till the train loses itself in mists
Making them wonder why they started the journey at all.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
SHORT STORIES
It was six-thirty in the evening, Riyaz Khan entered the compound of hotel Trupti in his car where he had a room permanently booked, and he knew, Komal would be waiting for him there as his guest. They would spend quality time together, interspersed with evening tea and dinner, and would be together in the room until midnight. They had been meeting like that in that room for the last five years. The staff and the room of the hotel knew them well.
Riyaz had reserved that room permanently from the hotel authorities. He considered it sacred, his and Komal’s love nest. In real life they were Subrat Sharma and Rehana. Riyaz and Komal had known each other’s real identity over the years, but pretended not to have the knowledge of the reality. Riyaz was a well-heeled businessman and Komal, a high-priced call girl before their first meeting.
After meeting businessman Riyaz, she gave up his earlier profession of so-called hospitality sector, but in simple words working as a call or escort girl. As Riyaz and Komal were in love, Riyaz deposited a sizeable monthly allowance every month in Komal’s account for running her house, and financed her to set up a dress-cum-cosmetic boutique with a few sales staff in Andheri area. She turned into a busy businesswoman and the sole love bird for Riyaz.
***
It was another afternoon roughly after seventeen years since Riyaz Khan had driven into the hotel Trupti’s compound to meet Komal, his love. This time it was the house of Subrat Sharma and Urvashi, a business baron and his wife, in Mumbai. The sprawling bungalow was lying quiet and peaceful. Subrat was in his office. His wife, Urvashi, was still in bed snoring in curtained darkness of her bedroom. She had returned home at almost the daybreak from a night-party and gone to bed after breakfast with Subrat who left for office at ten, his routine time.
Rehana, the housekeeper, was preparing herself a delicious lunch for Subrat that would be sent to his office. Yes, the housekeeper was the same as Rehana alias Komal of Riyaz was Subrat of her past. Nowadays, staying in the same house as its female housekeeper and the master of the house, Rehana and Subrat pretended as if Riyaz and Komal never had existed and they never had known each other before Rehana’s appointment into Subrat’s household.
Urvashi would leave bed between five and seven in the evening, and again may leave home around ten or eleven to join some party unless she had a social-service engagement. Rarely she stayed home in evenings, having no invitation to a party or no appointment to a social-service function. A well-known socialite, she got invitations to many parties thrown around the city.
Urvashi was a creature of the night, and a party animal. Subrat was a private person. In the starting of their arranged marriage, their lifestyles had clashed and the relationship was on the rocks. But passage of years taught them to adjust with the differences in their personalities and lifestyles and they became friends if not a wholesome husband and wife team.
Subrat would return home at nine, alone or with a guest or two for dinner. It could be a private dinner, or a business one. After the guests left, he will spend some time before the TV to watch news in the sitting room and retire to his personal bedroom. If Urvashi was around by chance, he may spend some friendly time with her over a glass of sherry or Bacardi and small talk.
The house bore on a large bronze plaque two names – Urvashi and Subrat Sharma. The bronze plaque was put on the main gate of the compound housing the bungalow.
In a side secluded area on the first floor of the house, Rehana had her room. Rehana after attending to her supervision of the servants’ work and their lunch, was having a quiet midday meal in her room. She had been employed as housekeeper two years ago by Urvashi, Subrat’s wife, through a service-providing agency. It was a sheer coincident that it happened to be the house of Riyaz alias Subrat.
Her love story in her Komal avatar with the then Riyaz had abruptly ended about fifteen years before she met Riyaz as Subrat again in Subrat’s house. Their love story had a run of five roaring years before it ended. A few days after the evening when Riyaz had been driving into the hotel Trupti’s compound, Riyaz vanished into thin air without any contact or reference.
After fifteen years, when they suddenly met, Rehana opening the main door to her heartthrob Riyaz, it was a shock but neither Rehana nor Subrat showed anything amiss in their expressions as Subrat’s driver was standing by him carrying his briefcase and tiffin bag. It was the evening of day Rehana had joined in Urvashi’s house.
Luckily Urvashi had no plans that night to go out. She introduced her new inhouse-maid to her husband Subrat, “This is Rehana, I have appointed her today through our service-providing agency. She would look after your needs, Subrat, that I fail to do for the reasons you know. She has been recommended as an experienced housekeeper.”
***
Rehana had a daughter Razia, around seventeen years old, who was an unwitting gift to her from her lover Riyaz Khan, alias Subrat Sharma. The day she was sure of her pregnancy, suddenly Riyaz’s telephone went dead and he disappeared. She did not know who, where, what of Riyaz except that he was Subrat Sharma in real life. She therefore could not tell Subrat the news of her pregnancy.
But after a few months she suddenly met Riyaz on a corridor of the hotel Holiday Inn. There was neither scope nor time to pass on the big news of her pregnancy, or take details to communicate with him as he appeared to be surrounded by bouncer-looking musclemen. Riyaz had whispered to her, “I am in a jam, sweetheart, just wait for me in the coffee shop, I will come there. Don’t runaway, it may take a little time.” She waited from four in the afternoon until the next daybreak. Even twenty-four-hour coffee shop staff smelt a rat and asked her to go home.
For a moment Rehana remained immobile when Urvashi had introduced her to her husband Subrat Sharma. Her heart was pounding wildly and she was afraid that Urvashi might hear her loud heartbeats.
***
Komal would recall that her origin was humble when she was introduced into the flesh trade, it was five years before she met Riyaz by a normal appointment arranged by a plump and fair auntie. She was just eighteen after completing twelfth standard schooling. She lived at Virar, a small township sixty kilometers north of Mumbai, with her mother, a brother and a sister, her two younger siblings study a in school.
Her family was undergoing abject poverty after her father’s death in an accident. She badly wanted to earn money to help her mother to run the house. A neighboring woman took her to meet an uncle at Andheri. The uncle living in a well-furnished spacious flat was dressed in orange like a monk. His wife, auntie, who seemed to call the shots, was plump and very fair.
Uncle spoke of a bright future for her, the future of an uncut diamond who was waiting for an expert diamond-cutter to cut and polish her to shining brightness. Rehana did not understand his hints.
Auntie, the uncle’s plump and fair-skinned wife, was neither soft nor circumspect like uncle in a monk’s robe. She appeared to be a strong-willed woman. She came to the point directly without beating around the bush -
“Your job would be to give company and quality time to rich individuals. You will meet them in hotel rooms that we would arrange. Per sitting your charges would be thirty-thousands, that we would negotiate and you would receive in cash before you get intimate with your patron. You would pay me ten thousand out of that to me and keep the rest. You would not talk to anyone about your profession. If your patron gives you some tips out of pleasure, you keep it yourself.”
She further clarified, “In our business ‘drugs’, or ‘smuggling’ or any sort of ‘crime’ has no place. It is pure and clean hospitality business. Go home, think, and if you return, you earn lots of clean money, no blood money.” At home, her mother explained what was hospitality business and what was blood money. About giving a try to the job, her mother remained noncommittal and maintained a studied silence.
Komal was deep in a dark tunnel. Her family was hand to mouth and her mother as a cook in a neighboring house and she as a tuition teacher in the same house to teach the employers two kids earned very little and adding together, it was short of running the house and meet expenses of her school-going siblings. Besides there was another impending hazard. Her employer once had already cornered her in a room and groped her all over. He threatened her to throw her and her mother out of their jobs if she shouted for help or reported it to anyone.
Rehana made a deal with herself, “From today, I will separate my body from my soul. I will use my body like my hands to do a job and I will treat my job with respect and ignore the jibes like ‘raandi’ or ‘dhandewali’ that, she knew, uncouth people hurl at women, suspected to work as call girls. This will give my family a respite from the financial dark days, and from working in a bad man’s house, besides giving my siblings undisturbed education. My soul would not lose its dignity.”
“They were my big thoughts!”, one day Rehana would gush out before Riyaz after they had met a few times, adding, “I tell you today, my dear Riyaz, when you said, ‘A prostitute was engaging her body to give services to earn a living as people do by using their hands, or hand tools like a chisel and hammer, or machine tools like a computer. If such people don’t do wrong, why should a prostitute be held guilty of doing wrong?’ you bought my soul by view. I felt your logic and feelings resonateed with mine, my love, and I felt clean to give myself to you. I fell in love with you.” By then Riyaz had declared his love for Rehana.
In her profession, Rehana was launched as Komal with many commandments to follow, like do this, don’t do this. Her last and the most important commandment from plump and fair aunty was, ‘Never give your heart to a patron, may he show the utmost care for you, or be the most generous person. Remember all that glitters is not gold.’ With that last sermon, she was released into the secret business of ‘call girl’ and ‘escort girl’.
To her own surprise, Komal had fair-weather sailing for five years in her job and made good money. Her siblings followed their studies without any hindrance, her mother joined an upmarket restaurant in Mumbai as its chef, they shifted to a three-room hall-kitchen flat in a more developed area of Andheri. She followed the last commandment of her trade to its last word.
One evening after she, as Komal, received Riyaz Khan as her patron, her last commandment went topsy-turvy. She went into a tail-spin and never recovered out of it. She was in love. She sort of, offered her heart to him in both her palms like an offering to God. Riyaz was taken aback but after meeting her, he responded to her feelings with double ardor, “Komal, I am yours and only yours, and you are mine.” They promised to remain united for all time to come, in thick and thin of life. But there remained a catch.
Komal whispered, “Riyaz, my love. I know you are married and childless, you have so frankly opened your heart to me. I don’t know why you come to me when you say, ‘My wife is very pretty and has a golden heart.’, and I don’t know why she could not fulfill your emotional and physical needs. I don’t want to know those complex nuances between you and your wife. But one thing is very clear. I will not topple your apple cart, I mean, your home. So, I will never aspire after being your second wife, though as a Muslim, Riyaz, you are entitled by law to have a second life partner.”
Until then, Komal did not know Riyaz was not really Riyaz. It was Riyaz’s turn to reciprocate, “Komal, I am in love. No falsehood has any place in love. I am not Riyaz or a Muslim. I am Subrat Sharma.”
Komal confessed, “Neither am I Komal. I am Rehana. Komal is my business name.” From then on, they turned Rehana and Subrat to each other. Komal and Riyaz of their past were buried. They took another room in another hotel and kept meeting frequently. That new one was the hotel Trupti.
They had a roaring affair following that commitment. They dated, went out of Mumbai visiting resorts, pilgrimages, historical sites. Rehana had a revelation. Love was their aqua-regia. It dissolves all the differences between them, like religious faiths, food habits and cultural traits, and made them one. They spent fabulous five years as man and woman in love.
But when Subrat vanished from Rehana’s life, she went berserk, lost interest in everything. The allowance from Subrat also stopped. The Boutique closed for lack of attention from Rehana and mismanagement of her staff. Her savings from business days, from Subrat’s lavish allowance and the sale proceeds of the boutique ran out in a year. Again, she and her mother looked for jobs. By then she had newborn Razia, a cute baby, Subrat’s gift, and the fruit of their union, in her lap and was six-month old.
First her mother went to Dubai to cook in a Sheikh’s house for a fat salary. After two years, leaving Razia in a creche, Rehana started with a job of housekeeping. Time rolled on.
Rehana’s mother by her dedication in kitchen, won her Sheikh’s confidence. She was promoted to take the charge of house-manager and chef to guide a bevy of cooks, drivers, gardeners, and cleaning staff of her sheikh’s palatial house.
Razia was shifted to her granny to stay with her and study in a school at Dubai. Rehana wished to give Razia education keeping with her father’s dreams as Riyaz alias Subrat would often say, ‘Had I child, I would want him to study in educational temples like Harvard.’ Rehana had her eyes fixed on Harvard as Arjun had his eyes settled only on the bird-eye during his archery test by Guru Drona in Mahabharata.
***
Rehana’s love for Subrat stood in its dignity of silence in those fifteen years before meeting Subrat in his and Urvashi’s house. But her disconsolate heart often throbbed for him inaudibly. The Subrat-shaped vacuum harassed her in some nights, her bereft sky flying colored paper kites. But the leaf-fall of autumn with the sound of dry wind sweeping the fallen leaves seemed like her permanent companion with the threat of a winter as cold as ice-age outdoors ahead. Bird cries splintered her heart and bees appeared to conspire with flowers to harass her. But as time progressed her heart learnt to settle down and beat more evenly. She had not seen any trace of her heartthrob Subrat in fifteen years.
***
The time again shifted its course without any visible upheaval of the terra-firma on which Rehan stood. After Subrat reentered her life at his own villa like an impromptu guest-appearance in a drama, her rested heart started heaving again. The lost migrating swallows and starlings that had lost their way seemed rediscovering their paths to return home.
Not to rock Urvashi’s home, Rehana pretended not to know Subrat, as her lover, and perhaps for the same reason, Rehana guessed, Subrat behaved like a mute stranger with her. But their eyes met and spoke volumes outside the watch of Urvashi and servants. Rehana’s own sighs convinced her, it was much more enchanting to stay before her lover’s eyes than living in uncertainty as of the last fifteen years when she was not sure if Subrat was alive.
***
The strange mute love affair sailed smoothly within the four walls of Urvashi’s house. It slowly achieved a state of equilibrium and Rehana’s heart recovered its regular rhythm. The peace and tranquil of a silent yet deeply felt love ran below the surface of spoken words and visible expressions. The two hearts continued to beat together like two tanpuras in tandem, basking in the balmy sun of their felt-love for around two years.
One day Rehana’s mother telephoned, “I have a big raise in my remuneration by the grace of my Sheikh. A place is vacant in the kitchen and the Sheikh sahib has ordered me to fill it up. I advise you to join in that vacant position. Your daughter, Razia, is feeling lonely thinking her mother has run away like her father, the cock and bull story we narrated to her for her benefit. I don’t want Razia to suffer an orphan’s trauma for no mistake of her. So please send me the ‘yes signal’ and ‘when’, so I can send you your air ticket. You should be by Razia and not Subrat.”
That day she broke her silence. She revealed to Subrat in private the upheavals in her life from the day he disappeared without a trace. She informed him that Razia was the fruit of their union. She told Subrat that she had a wish to send her to Harvard Business School for studying Business Management after her graduation, as once Subra had said, “Had I a child, I would send him to Harvard.” That Razia was badly wanting her mother to be by her side. She had to leave Mumbai by ending her silent honeymoon with him in his house. Subrat quietly wept but remained silent.
Preparations were afoot for Rehana’s impending Dubai strip. Rehana was heartbroken. Subrat surprised all by going into an unexplained depression and sulk. Urvashi was worried for her husband’s health, thinking, “Why is my strong man withering away? Is he stung by Rehana’s imminent shifting to Dubai? Why do I feel in last few days a common simmer between my housemaid and my husband, their eyes often locking and welling up? Can a master of the house cross the social Berlin Wall that separates him from his maidservant?”
Deep one night, Rehana woke up feeling Subrat sticking to her in her bed under her quilt in the night’s dark and silence that ruled the bungalow. She felt the same thrill as she would feel each time Subrat had touched her eighteen years ago. She knew her skin was no more silk and supple. Her lips might no more taste honey or chocolaty. But her love would feel like soft and fragrant petals of Parijata from Jannat and taste like ambrosia. Subrat took her in arms, and his tears drenched her face. She tasted the salt of his anguish. He whispered, “Don’t leave me Rehana.”
She clung to him and sobbed, “I was just waiting for ‘this’ signal. I, as if knew it and therefore, have already cancelled the ticket. I would stay and look forward to a solution worked out by you for bringing Razia here. I know together we can do it.” That was all they talked and their muted voices were responded only by a night bird, possibly an unslept wise owl. Rehana felt that very instant with Subrat in her arms gave her a lifetime of happiness. The rest of that night remained wide awake in their arms. (End)
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.
Everything around me was white, the ghastly colour of ghosts. For me, it was absolutely soothing.
Great ambience sounds of birds chirping from the white trees around me.
With a stretch of the imagination, one could think of them as coming from monitors and speakers. I felt like a pincushion, long wires starting from the eyes of those needles disappearing into the white trees. Roots of those same trees went into me through every orifice on my body.
Angels were aplenty at my beck and call. I was in my size XXL baby diapers, lying in a size XXL crib, not allowed to get out or move about.
No mobile or laptop. I slept to kill the boredom and when I couldn’t, observed the others or wrote in my mind.
On a neighbouring bed lay an old lady who was wheezing loudly. Maybe at some point, I would have wished her to go quiet. One afternoon, she went quiet and left. Others too had walked out but that was rather proudly. This old grandma left so ashamed, she had her face covered. Of course, in white.
As I lay there, I had some visitations from the other world. It was strange like characters from a nightmare visiting you when awake. The angels would usher them out rather unceremoniously.
Still, I wanted to go back to those nightmares again.
The reason is quite simple.
All are 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 by Ajay Upadhyaya)
Gloria Madam, who lived in the flat opposite our bungalow, was a close friend of my father (We call him Baba). She was my friend too.
I also knew, Baba was secretly in love with Gloria Madam. He was one to unreservedly accept her with all her eccentricities. I have seen with my own eyes, Baba carefully sneaking away her hand written letters in his locker. I admit, this did upset me, when I first discovered it. I felt sorry for my mother (we call her Mama). Couldn’t Mama see for herself Baba’s feelings for Gloria Madam? At times, I felt, I should confront Mama with the facts, but somehow never did it. Perhaps this would have been one step too far.
Baba’s love for Gloria Madam was evident in his effusive praise of everything about her. Of course, it does not mean, she was not praiseworthy. In fact, it was hardly surprising that Baba was in love with her. Her charming personality attracted to her scores of lovers like Baba. I must confess, I was one of them. Unlike Baba, who used to share tea with Gloria Madam and spend hours on end chatting with her, I was content watching her at a distance from our roof.
Baba and I have similar tastes in many things; hence, our common choice of lady love was not unexpected. How accurate he was, when he would say, “Like father, like son”!
For Gloria Madam, love knows no limits or restraint. But nobody could doubt the sincerity of her sentiments.
Gloria Madam was carefree and outspoken. Dressed smartly, she was westernised in her attire and manners. On our first meeting, she called me “Sweetheart”. She held my hand in her palms for a while; she turned it round, studying it closely. In fact, I first thought, perhaps she was an astrologer. Only later, I discovered, she liked to feel in her own hands the palms of everyone she would meet. Of course, her soft palms and her sweet tongue made an irresistible combination for her male friends, who would be in no hurry to pull their hands away. In this regard, I was no exception.
It was obvious that I was enamoured by her secret art of making everyone feel loved. How I wished for some misunderstanding to creep up between Baba and her. In my naiveté, I hoped, that would somehow draw her closer to me. But sadly, my luck wouldn’t favour me.
Obviously, all the men in our colony had hopelessly fallen for her. Nevertheless, nobody could legitimately cast any aspersion on her character. Although she was an extrovert, her manners were always measured. In other words, although she was rather expressive, her conduct was thoroughly polished. She was the queen bee of the colony, endowed with a magnetic charm. Her presence was eagerly sought for all occasions and in every gathering, from the Puja Committee to afternoon picnic.
On the ladies in the colony, the effect of her charm was quite the opposite. For most of them, she was unquestionably the prime object of envy. All their attempts to copy her style would meet with minimal success, at best; nobody could match her elegance. No matter how hard they tried, ducklings could never become swans.
If I had to describe Gloria Madam in one word, it would be “unique”.
xxxxxxxxxxx
Love knows no rules to obey or defined order to follow. It can magically transform mundane moments into a celebration.
Gloria Madam was such a celebration. Her furrowed forehead and grey hair belied her youthfulness in its multicoloured splendour. Her disarming laughter added to the gaiety of all occasions. In my dreams, I have taken several dips in the lagoon of her timeless beauty, where she would appear at different times as a mysterious mermaid or a divine damsel.
Celebrations of this kind are essential for maintaining a healthy balance in our dreary lives. They offer the counterpoint to the drudgery of our mundane existence, providing much-needed relief though light-hearted cheer. Gloria Madam was the veritable source of such relief for most in the colony.
One day, the entire colony was plunged into depression by a disturbing news, which spread like tsunami.
It was the news of Gloria Madam leaving the colony and moving away. The air in the colony stirred with whispers and hushed gossips over her imminent departure. All the men were crestfallen while the ladies rejoiced. Nothing remained unaffected; the cloud of gloom threatened to change the season for the colony.
On returning from college, as I I heard this news from Mama, I too was thrust into a dark cave where I kept groping for some light. Baba mostly remained lost in his private world.
Mama, however, was in a jolly mood, humming away her favourite tune. She was busy preparing pancakes and halwa for our afternoon tea.
She wanted to send a packet of the special dishes for Gloria Madam and to my delight, I was chosen as the delivery boy. I had assumed, Baba would personally like to carry this present to Gloria Madam, when he would also plead with her against leaving the colony. But nothing of the sort happened. Most of the day, Baba quietly shut himself away in his room. So, I dutifully proceeded to her flat with the food.
That was my first and the last visit to Gloria Madam’s flat. She was pleased to see me, as ever. With her customary address of “My sweet heart”, she took me by hand into her drawing room. All along, I was relishing the touch of her soft palm and smooth skin.
Inside, the decor of her drawing room was unusual. It was a large room, with an open plan combining the living area with a kitchen. On the side shelf sat an impressive looking Gramophone Recorder. Next to it were several English books. On the wall opposite, hung a massive mirror. By its side, on the table were some brushes and paints. The rest of the wall space was covered by paintings; all had the same subject, a young man. Interestingly, none of them clearly showed the man’s face and all the paintings were unfinished. I guessed, Gloria Madam might be a painter.
While I was lost in thoughts, appreciating the fixtures of her drawing room, she brought me back to the present, “What about your Baba? Isn’t he home?”
“No, he is out on some office business.” That was a patent lie.
I thanked my stars for this privilege of an exclusive session with her.
She handed me a cup of tea. As she sat down close to me, I could feel my heart racing. Leaning towards me, she asked, “Could you please do me a favour?”
I nodded my head in assent. But my silent reply to her was, “There is no question of favour, simply order me; nothing is too big a job.”
She carefully picked up a letter from the table. She caressed it tenderly and lightly kissed it with her lips, before handing it to me. I kept looking at her, puzzled, not knowing what would follow next.
She smiled and said, “Please give this letter to your Baba.”
Gloria Madam’s love letter to my father, placed in in my hands, was like a body blow to my embryonic love for her sprouting inside me. I felt suffocated and quietly left her flat, heart broken. I was in no state to share my sorrow with anybody.
In this age of mobile phones, writing letters seemed rather strange!
On reaching home, I put the letter away under my pillow for a while. I could sense the erotic fragrance rising from the letter; the rapturous feeling was mildly intoxicating. Before getting carried away any further, I quickly reminded myself that all this passion was dedicated to Baba and meant for his loving heart. I reluctantly got up and headed for Baba’s room. Mama was fast asleep. Baba was not on bed. I immediately went across to check the Study and was relieved to find Baba there. He was sitting on his chair, gently stroking Gloria Madam’s letters, one by one, before stacking them away in the almirah locker.
I had Gloria Madam’s letter in my trembling hand, undecided whether to give it to Baba or not. I was, at the same time, dying to know what Gloria Madam had written for him. The desire to read her letter was getting the better of me.
I finally gave in to my urge to open the letter. It had only one sentence, “I am waiting for you; when will you come to me? I remain, Gloria”
This was enough to set my blood boiling. My love for Gloria Madam vanished instantly. The weeping innocent face of Mama flashed before my eyes. I could feel the heat of my own breath. So, Gloria Madam was hell bent on destroying our family. She wants Baba to leave Mama and go with her. What would happen to Mama then? I felt, I would go crazy from wild thoughts whirling inside me . I lay in wait for the morning when I would be able to vent my rage on Gloria Madam. I started to gather all the courage I would need for this ultimate showdown.
As the morning broke, I ran towards Gloria Madam’s flat. But she was not around to face my fury. She had left.
xxxxxxxxxx
Gloria Madam was gone; I returned disappointed. All my ire remained unresolved.
Baba was sipping his tea in the balcony but his gaze was directed at the flat, Gloria Madam had just vacated. Since her departure, a sense of emptiness had descended on the colony. But such feelings rarely last long. No matter how devastated we felt at the time, life in the colony gradually returned to normal, except for me.
I was still agonising from the guilt for concealing Gloria Madam’s love letter to Baba. The prospect of facing Baba was too painful for me. Although initially, I felt justified in my decision to withhold the letter, I was soon ridden with doubts over the propriety of my action. Was I entirely in the right that day? In the final analysis, I realised, how I was blinded by my rage and failed to see how wrong it was to hold back Baba’s letter.
My misery over my mistake kept nibbling at my peace of mind. I had never kept Baba in the dark before; concealing this letter was too serious a matter and it was consuming me. I wrestled with my conscience for several days until I could not contain my turmoil any longer.
One day, when Mama was away attending a party, I took the opportunity to confess to Baba of my shameful action. Baba was alone, busy reading a book. I went up to him and lingered without saying anything. Baba understandably asked, “What is the matter? Do you want to say something?” But really I had nothing to say; I silently handed him the letter from Gloria Madam. I stood apprehensively like a statue, anticipating a severe reprimand for my grievous lapse. Surprisingly, Baba took the letter off my hand , looked at it and put it in his pocket, before returning to his book.
In a trembling voice, I asked, “Baba, don’t you have anything to say?”
“I don’t think so. I know, this is Gloria Madam’s letter.” Baba’s tone was quite matter-of-fact.
Baba’s composure and his calm response broke me down. I dropped to his feet and said, “Please forgive me Baba for my serious error of judgement. I made a grave mistake in concealing your letter. When I read her letter I lost my senses.” My eyes were brimming in tears, while I was making my confession.
Surprisingly, Baba pulled me to his chest and made me to sit next to him. With a deep sigh, he said, “You can’t be faulted really. Because, you don’t know the truth about Gloria Madam.”
Baba went on to narrate Gloria Madam’s life; facts of her extraordinary past left my head reeling. She was from a Kerala Christian family. She worked in a senior post in a Bank. Despite her high social position and trimmings of power, her life was blighted by her love affair with a priest from the church. Their affair was an unpardonable sin in the eyes of her conservative Christian community. Strangely, priests in the church can preach the message of love, but their own love life is limited to the Lord. They dedicate their life in service to God. Bound by the vow of celibacy they are forbidden from romantic relationship with fellow humans. A public display of their liaison would be heresy. So, the only option for the star crossed lovers was to keep their affair a secret and live in constant fear. Nonetheless, by nature, Gloria Madam was a fearless character, who was prepared to defy social norms and rules for the sake of her love. Pleasures of body, in her view, is an indispensable part of expressing our love. Sensuous pleasure enables us to share our life to the full. Perhaps, physical union is a necessary step on our path to spiritual liberation.
Eventually, Gloria Madam absconded with her lover. They went underground, with the assistance from one of the Bank employee, who kept them initially in hiding in his own house. But soon, the religious fanatic group got the scent of their location. The couple had to change their hideouts frequently to evade detection. The fanatics formed a patrolling brigade who kept searching for them like hound dogs. Due to a moment of carelessness on the part of the priest, his diet was exposed and he was captured by the fanatics. After a few days, he mysteriously went missing. This left Gloria Madam all alone living in constant terror. She was eventually forced to leave her native Kerala and relocate to a faraway place. Nonetheless, she never lost hope; she kept waiting for his lover’s return as she was confident, one day, he would come back to her.
She remained on the look out for any news of the priest ever since, travelling far and wide in search of him. She had however stopped visiting churches as an act of protest against God. Her confidence in her own capability and initiative triumphed over her faith in God.
Baba fell quiet after relating this colourful but tragic life of Gloria Madam. But I was still intrigued about her letters to Baba. I could not see how the letters fitted into this story. So, I had to ask, “Baba, what about this letter; who was this meant for?”
“Undoubtedly Gloria Madam’s love was pure. But she had many quirks. For example, she believed in the power of rituals. She was convinced that her letters to his lover would certainly bring him back to her. Moreover, her approach to writing letter was weird. All the letters were meant for her lover but they were actually addressed to none. Even though she had lost her faith in God, she would ask me to drop her letters in a letter box of any church. She truly believed this was a sure way to guarantee his return. Initially, I would religiously drop each letter in the Church letter box. But soon, I realised this was silly. So, I gathered her letters in batches before dropping them at the Church. How would the letters reach him? What are the chances of him returning after remaining missing for thirty years? Nobody knew, if he was still alive. He might have been dead long ago. But Gloria Madam believed in rebirth after death. She was convinced, if her lover did not return to her alive, he would certainly join her in his next birth. We used to have long sessions of discussion, debating the concept of rebirth and reincarnation. She was an avid reader of books on rebirth and had gathered a massive literature on reincarnation. Frequently she would bring up stories of rebirth in different parts of world in support of her belief.”
The account of Gloria Madam’s life left me dumbfounded. I did not know such people existed in this world. “But, what was behind her sudden decision to leave our colony?” I could not resist asking Baba.
“One day, she received the news that her lover had been murdered. Naturally she was inconsolable and I found her grief unbearable. Nonetheless, I did my best to comfort her; I tried to make her look at life in a new light and leave her past behind. But she could not let go of her lover; she was convinced, her love would not go unrequited. One fine day, she decided to leave the colony and no amount of reasoning could change her decision. I have no idea what she is up to now. She is hard to forget though; these days, she often comes to my mind.”
I could see Baba’s eyes were getting moist. In them I could see his pain. “What is all these suffering about?” I wondered. Plucking all my courage, I put to Baba the question, which was on my mind for so long, “Baba, do you love Gloria Madam?”
Baba raised his eyes towards me and spoke clearly, “Gloria Madam was an extraordinary lady. Given her self-confidence, grace and charm, who could resist falling for her. Needless to say, I held her in deep affection. I admired her independent thinking and I was in awe of her courage of conviction. I think, I am not alone; all the men who came in contact with her, perhaps fell in love with her. If affection and admiration are different aspects of love, then yes, I love her.”
My resentment towards Baba was gone in a flash. My regards for Baba instantly multiplied manyfold and my chest swelled in pride at his revelations. I realised, love was not about winning hearts. Love is the magic behind joyful moments in every day life, which Baba got in abundance from his friendship with Gloria Madam.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps my adoration of Gloria Madam was not very different.
This was the right time for me to declare my feelings for Gloria Madam. I said, “Baba, I too love Gloria Madam. I miss her terribly.”
Baba turned to me without a word, and gently placed his hand on my head by way of giving his blessings, as he got up to leave.
I kept following the retreating figure of Baba, my beloved father.
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Six long years have elapsed since and a lot has transpired. My life has changed too. I have got married and started a job. But one ritual in Baba’s routine was stuck in the past. He still sits in the balcony, gazing at the flat across. Following an accident, Baba’s limbs had been paralysed, although his mind has remained as sharp as ever. He can’t walk any more. Mama has to help him to drink his tea. Despite extensive treatment, his paralysis has persisted.
In my job, I have to travel to different places. One such tour took me to the hill station, Malkangiri. I have a fascination for hill stations and never miss an opportunity to enjoy their scenic beauty. After my day’s work is done, I would go for a drive round the hills. On such a drive, my attention was drawn to a curious scene. I spotted a boy on the road side, busy painting a portrait of a lady of mature age. The boy was perhaps in his mid-teens. As I was approaching them, at first I could see the lady only from her back. Nonetheless, it did not take me long to recognise her; she was none other than Gloria Madam! I ran to her and she was overjoyed to see me. She cried out “sweet heart” and held me in an embrace. Immediately she invited me to her house. It was a modest dwelling, set in a serene locality with leafy surroundings. She looked as pretty as ever although her smooth skin had given way to a few wrinkles. Handing a cup of tea to me, she sat down to enquire about my well-being. She had a twinkle in her eyes and I could not help asking her the secret to her new found happiness. She replied, “Oh yes, I am in bliss as I have finally found what I had been looking for all my life.”
I broke into a cold sweat. What has she found?
Taking in a sip of tea, she said, “The boy who was painting my portrait has got six fingers in his right hand and a black mole in the middle of his little finger. “
“So, what does it mean?”
“My lover also had six fingers in his right hand with a black mole exactly like this boy. He was a priest, who unfortunately got murdered years ago.”
“So, you mean…….?”
“Exactly, you have got it right. It’s nothing short of a miracle! The love of my life has been reborn as this boy. You know, he has the same talents as my lover from his previous life; the boy is a fine painter. He is an orphan and I have taken on all the expenses of his upbringing. You will see, what a talented artist he is.” She fetched me a number of his paintings to look at.
I felt like screaming out at the top of my lungs, “This is humbug! There is no miracle! It is nothing but a blind belief. It is probably a coincidence that the boy has some of the same features as your lover. But he is not the same priest, you were in love with.”
Now, I was beginning to understand the mystery behind Gloria Madam’s fascination with the palms of people she met. I had so much more to say but I could not miss her exuberance at finally being united with her lover. I could see, she was already in the seventh heaven. So, it seemed prudent for me to keep quiet.
She went on to enquire about Baba. After learning about his accident, she wanted to speak with him on the phone. She sounded ecstatic as she poured out all her news, while Baba was helplessly listening, unable to respond to her properly.
After a long time, I had a sound sleep that night. Meeting Gloria Madam again, I was enjoying my trip down the memory lane. I was reliving the sense of elation, I felt, watching Gloria Madam from our roof. The old memories from the golden past brought on a wave of euphoria. Early next morning, Mama phoned unexpectedly. I had not woken up fully when the phone rang. As I picked up the phone, I heard her weeping at the other end. I got worried and urged her to tell me what had happened.
Mama was still sobbing but between her sobs spluttered, “Tell you what, we are witnessing a miracle! Your Baba has started to move his arms and legs, something he could not do until yesterday. On the bed, he even attempted to turn his side. Now, the doctor is positive about his prognosis; he says this augers well for his future recovery.”
By now Mama was beside herself, wailing at top of her voice, I quickly put my phone away and sped off in my car towards Gloria Madam’s house.
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)
This is perhaps my last letter to you for the year. I have an inkling, you might never visit me. But that doesn’t deter me from writing to you, inviting you for a visit to my house. For the last four years, I have been writing to you four times a year, one for each season, as a matter of routine.
I admit, it is natural to expect that I come to you in stead, if for some reason you are unable to visit me. You must be wondering what has stopped me. Perhaps, I have not given up hope that one day you will eventually come to see me. I know, you have not replied to a single letter of mine. You will get a surprise, if you bother to read them; all my letters have the same content.
Let me start at the beginning when I first came across you. It was about ten years ago on my way to a job interview, when I picked up your book from a foot path book shop, before boarding the train. It was keenly priced and I had no hesitation in buying it. The book’s title in the local language was, “Charitraheen”, (meaning a debased or depraved character or a corrupt person devoid of morals). After glancing at its cover and giving the first few pages a quick read, I bundled it into my laptop bag. The interview, scheduled for next morning was for a job in the Railways. On the sleeper berth in the train, when I was attempting to sleep, I noticed a pretty girl, seated across, looking at me. Her sweet face kept me hooked and I used the pretext of reading your book to catch glimpses of her surreptitiously. In the process, I went through the first few pages of the book. The story failed to im-press me at first . But as I continued reading, gradually I got so immersed in your story that I practi-cally forgot about the girl. The whole night passed and for me, the girl simply ceased to exist.
Strangely, the protagonist of your story, branded as someone devoid of morals, shared my name, Ivan. In the story, Ivan was a gangster. I also happened to have a reputation of a goonda (a local term for a violent person, someone hired to intimidate or harm people) in our village. Intriguingly, through fearless resistance to the corrupt and powerful, combined with benevolence towards the downtrodden and dispossessed, the so called gangster in your story turned into a paragon of virtues at the end. One startling sentence from your story, that stood out for me, read, “Activities of some may superficially appear antisocial or criminal, but their lives can be truly virtuous and hold up as shining example of high moral conduct.”
Many incidents in the life of your central character, albeit trivial, bore an uncanny resemblance with events of my life. It seemed, the book was not a work of fiction but a story of my life. As morning arrived, my mind had been made up; I had decided against attending the job interview. When I re-turned home, my father was astonished to hear that I skipped the interview. But I was insistent, “I am not interested in being a Station Master in the railways?”
“Then, what do you intend to do in life?”
“I plan to pursue a career of a gangster.”
This reply of mine was enough for my father to fly into a rage and give me a sound thrashing. How do I explain to him that a ruffian can do good to the society and lead a principled life? So, I handed him your book from my laptop bag. He looked at its cover before flipping its pages. After reading parts of the book, he plumped to the ground, with his bowed head cupped by both his hands. Next minute, he picked up the book and ripped it apart, scattering the torn pages above his head. The pages flew around by the whirling ceiling fan like leaves caught up in a storm, before hitting the ground. So was the fate of my grand plan for a Don’s career.
By now, my craze for a gangster’s life was waning in my mind. Silently, I collected the ripped pages of your book and carefully put them away. I still had to make something of my life. I had to procure a job that would meet my father’s expectation. It did not matter, whether it was a Station Master or a Post master; it had to be a Government job. But, I had not quite given up my dreams of becoming a professional gangster. In my fantasy world, I was secretly living the life of a fearsome gangster. I could single handedly beat up several people into a pulp, leaving them flat on the ground. Risking my own life, I would fight for defenceless victims of social injustice, and stand up for their causes to the goons of the corrupt authority. As a Don of the underworld, I would be revered like the Head of a parallel Government. In this kingdom, I would be seated on a pedestal, with my signature attire and a massive bracelet around my wrist, fashioned after film star, Big B, in the movie, Sarkar (meaning Government). At times, I would privately indulge in going over your book again, usually in the toilet. It had to be done with utmost secrecy because the dire consequence of being found out by my father was simply unimaginable.
At the same time, my job hunt was relentless and the interview spree seemed unending. Finally, I managed to secure a job in the Military, which I reluctantly accepted. But even when I was leaving home for taking up my post, I continued to believe, I was meant to be a gangster, not a soldier. I knew, my words struck everyone as plain crazy. Notwithstanding the similarity of our lives so far, strangely, our paths diverged here; I ended up being a soldier in stead of becoming a professional hitman. This remained a puzzle for me, which took a long time to unravel.
Initially, a soldier’s life proved difficult for me; its rigorous routine and tough physical demands left me exhausted. Demoralised, I thought of running away from it but something stopped me from mak-ing a bolt. I think, it was my father’s angry face, which would flash before me, every time, I thought of absconding. Thus, I was resigned to the drudgery of my soldier’s life. Nonetheless, my mood got a major lift, the day I returned home in a military uniform. The warm reception, I got from my villag-ers enthralled me; their respect and adoration made my father immensely proud. I realised that my destiny had mandated a military life for me, not a gangster’s career. As the finality of my fate hit me, your story’s Ivan gradually faded from my mind.
My next posting was in Mumbai, where I had a really contended three year stint. But my happiness was short-lived. One day, while travelling in a public bus, I was caught in a bomb blast. From the injuries I sustained, I lost my left leg. Nonetheless, I survived. Sad though I was, I accepted my fate.
My father’s reaction to my injury was catastrophic, he almost lost his senses. My mother turned mute in grief. I tried to bottle up my feelings inside and kept up a brave face. By the grace of the Government I got employed in a local Bank on compassionate grounds. As I was trying to erase the painful past from my mind, one day I spotted a customer at the Bank with a book by you with the same title, Charitraheen. On a closer look, I found this was the second volume in the series. I bor-rowed the book and read it. I could not believe the path you had charted for your ruffian Ivan in this sequel; it simply blew my mind off. The protagonist in the second volume eventually becomes a soldier, who loses both his legs in war. Again, the parallel in our lives was mystifying. I looked at its publication date; you had written it well before the date of my accident. This struck me decidedly spooky; alarm bells started ringing in me. My mind froze while my body was shaking in fear. It felt almost certain that somehow you knew of me. But, how would you know about my future? Could you have seen the course of my life in your inner eye, before it happened? The striking parallel be-tween the lives of the fictional and the real Ivan couldn’t be mere coincidence! Are you, then, the maker of my destiny? In my mind, you were turning into a malevolent Goddess, unless, you were a master clairvoyant. Again, if you could foresee my future with such clarity and precision, could you have given me a happier life, by adopting a different storyline? If it is in an author’s gift to shape lives of people, I pray, they only write stories with happy endings. Why torment the characters with such grim outcomes? They must never leave their characters with horrific injuries and shattered lives.
Perhaps, I could have gone to you and met you. However, it is my fervent wish, you visit me in my house. Otherwise, how would you get the full picture of life with horrific injuries and demeaning disa-bility. I now wonder, what other ordeals you have planned for my future. I have many questions for you, and a few grievances too. It occurs to me that we are total strangers; would you recognise me if you see me? Neither do I know you well enough. Perhaps, it is unfair to begrudge you for all my misfortune. Nonetheless, I wonder, what would have been your reaction, if you were in my position. At least once, you should visit me and see for yourself the toils and travails, the character of your creation has to endure in flesh and blood.
Awaiting your reply, I remain.
Ivan
xxxxxxxxxx
The Personal Assistant (PA) of author Ira Goswamy read out this letter to her. After she finished reading, Miss Goswamy sat quietly for a while. She did cast her mind back to the time when she wrote this novel, trying to work out whether this was based on any real life event. She could not re-member ever meeting a character like Ivan in her life. As her PA handed over the letter to her, she gently stroked the letter; she could feel through her fingers the agony of the letter writer. As it dawned on her that her fiction resembled real life so convincingly, she was overwhelmed, chocking on her surging emotion from deep inside.
For the first time in her life, she felt an urge to reply to a reader personally. With trembling hands she started to write.
Dear Ivan,
You are, most certainly, younger than me. So I do not hesitate to address you by your first name. I never got to read any of the letters you wrote to me, until now. I was not even aware of their exist-ence. Due to their sheer volume, it is impossible for me to read all the letters from my readers. My assistant takes care of them and stacks them away, giving me the gist of their contents.
So far, she had made no mention of your letters. Perhaps, she did not take you seriously. Because your outlandish claim of resemblance with your life was simply unbelievable. Moreover, your letters were repetitive. My daily activities are limited to writing and listening to classical music. Of late, I am virtually cut off from the world around me. In my leisure hours, I entertain myself by spending time with the birds in my garden.
Today, my PA for some reason, brought your letters to my attention. Perhaps, she had undergone a change of mind, overturning her presumption that the letters were babbling of a crazy reader. May be, she was feeling guilty for not relaying their contents to me earlier. No matter what her excuses are, I am glad, I have now got a chance to reply to you.
As my PA finished reading the entire letter, I was left astounded. I agree, the uncanny resemblance of my story’s character with your life defies logical explanation. I first thought, it is possibly an ex-treme example of coincidence, But on second thoughts, this fails to do justice to this extraordinary likeness in lives of two Ivans. The story is woven out of pure imagination; its characters are the loom from my inner world of fantasy. I am out of my wits when I find this to be also your life story. I can’t put my finger on any anecdote, that could have shaped the storyline. If it is based on an event in my own life, I am certainly not aware of it. As far as I know, I never met you or anyone with a life like yours. It pains me to no end, to learn that the fictional tragic events, I created for my plot, have mysteriously translated into reality. I rue my decision for adopting the storyline in this volume where I left the protagonist a helpless cripple.
But the fact remains that the story does not end in the second volume. The last volume in this trilogy is currently in press, due to be released in a few days time. When you read it, you would be pleas-antly surprised by Ivan’s dramatic change of fortune. A series of unexpected turns in his life makes it truly fulfilling and he triumphs at the end, emerging as a hero. If you still have faith in the power of my pen, do not lose hope. Our unpredictable future has a life of its own, independent of the past. In life, who knows, what lies round the corner?
My dear Ivan, It is not easy for me to write this letter. But my own pain fades away in the face of the joy I feel when I imagine the ray of hope, this reply might bring to your life. I am quite advanced in age; my health has been ravaged by my incurable illness, which is in its terminal stage. It takes ex-traordinary effort for me to simply write this letter to you. Doctors have given me only a few days to live before I meet my maker. The urge to visit you is strong but my frail body won’t let me fulfil my desire. You must forgive me for not writing a different story, which might have spared you all this pain. Yes, one more thing, you have probably already guessed by now. This letter is written in Braille, and I hope, you will be able to somehow read it. I could have asked my assistant to write a standard typed letter to you. But I wanted to write this important letter with my own hands. No doubt, it is the most gratifying letter of my life.
Oh yes, I will definitely fulfil your wish.
As my doctor predicts, my soul is expected to leave my mortal body in the coming days. So, it is high time, I add my last wish to my will, that my coffin will travel in front of your house on my final journey to the cemetery. Paying a visit to you is my wish too; in fact, it is my last wish.
If you can, forgive me for causing you so much grief, totally inadvertently.
I remain,
Yours
Ira Goswamy
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.
It was a bright sunny morning. Divya had just then stepped on her soft cushioned slippers, exclusively gifted to her by her dear brother Deepak residing in San Jose. Yes, her feet had been aching for some time and she needed them to feel relaxed in the early morning. She had been his close to heart sis, sharing pillow fights, silly pranks, and sharp tantrums throughout her childhood. Many days they had sneaked off secretly to the tiny corner shop to buy candies and relish then when they would walk the talk.
Moons and stars have come and gone, and she had evolved herself as a well-groomed young dynamic software professional, brimming with leadership and success in her career endeavors. Her MNC, was a strong arena to encourage employees in their creativity and technical acumen as a leading design company in Robotics in Logistics. It was situated in Gurgaon, and she had got accustomed to the trim lifestyle and conditions.
She had dreamt realism and perfection in her life all through as an aspiring student, sincere and hardworking in school. She knew well that her reins lied on engineering and technology, specializing in computers.
It was her deep friendship with her dearest friend Asha, whose dad was in Dubai. Her own father, a Central Government employee in FCI, was a simpleton who believed in strong ethics and good education alone. She would envy the pride in Asha’s tone while she would boast about her talking robots, dancing dolls and musical robot toys. It would be a huge deluge of toys in her playroom and Divya would submerge herself into the magical world of technology. She would stare into the eyes of the robot, its flashy lights, wondering how it could respond to commands and walk straight. Later did she learn the concept of Linear motion and Line robotic mechanism in her graduation. She had instilled a grim grit in her mind to design robots in future and make life easy and joyous to mankind.
She was reticent to share her dreams, and no one knew it as she had anchored it in her bosom along with her breath. Her aim was determined to tap the doors of a prestigious engineering college and she graduated as a Computer Science Engineer. She was fortunate to be the crème-de-la of the group during campus interview and got herself the job at the first strike.
Her parents Krishnan and Lakshmi had always been proud of their daughter and never stopped her from living her dreams. They had planned her life to be as settled as earth itself with a firm wedlock to Harish Madhavan, a successful Finance Professional in a leading Finance and Accounting MNC. Both were happily married to the corporate world and their comfy moments in the upscale gateway apartment in Gurgaon.
A sudden gush of chill wind from the window had woken her up from the past and there she was staring at the mirror, smiling at the thought of seeing her dearest bro, in her doorstep in few hours from then. It had been almost 3 years since he had been in London for his master’s and employed there as well. The pleasant surprise had been planned to cheer her up with his presence, after all. Like all of us, she too had a weak spot in her, being cooking. Her culinary skills have not been too good, and she had to struggle to cook tasty food in her initial days of married life.
She wriggled her wavy strands of hair, tied them to a knot and walked into the washroom. She freshened up, took a fresh shower, and made her foray into the kitchen with her freshly brewed cup of filter coffee in her hands. Her mom, Lakshmi had strictly advised her to have even coffee after bath alone. She was a dutiful daughter always, eh? She hummed her favourite tune from a famous Hindi movie, kabhi kabhi…. She was in a frenzy as it was a day that Deepak would be there, chatting and talking loud with his smart witty jokes and warm interludes with her. She indeed missed Harish as he was in Singapore for his conference lasting for a week. Her game today, was a single-handed batsman expected to hit sixers in the kitchen to impress her anna. She had well planned and drafted the menu with two aspects- comfort cooking and gourmet cooking. She knew her home pitch was south Indian meals with sambar, rasam and spicy potato curry. A warm portion of vegetable pulao was cooked in a rice cooker. Her parathas were not soft and she made 4 pulkas with dal and ghee.
The game was to be heated up in the dessert field. Her all-time favourite was rabdi- pal payasam, the desi version in her town. She prepared it happily, as placed it aside as a creamy custard. A few glances in the bakes and cakes show, she had developed a special affinity to making cupcakes and she had fixed on making it that day too. She started to pen down the ingredients and placed them on the kitchen table with utmost effort. Her garnishing skills and tasting palate has been quite poor and she had ensured that it would be a chowka , anyway. It was a litmus test, to turn the plain jane cupcakes into a fairy snowwhite with delicious frosting. The plain flour with carefully measured scoops of butter and baking powder, was well beaten up and folded with soft turns to make the smooth, thick, gooey batter, ready to be moved from her glass bowl to the baking moulds. She felt something was missing in the mixture with her fingerlick. She sprinkled few pinches of cinnamon powder and there it was, all set to be in the oven, cooking for almost 15 min, to bloom into a soft textured velvety cake. She kept her fingers crossed to be able to do it, as good as it must be.
The frosting was expected to a unique lemon curd flavour with the cream cheese. She added cream cheese and butter, and yoghurt from the fridge. As she was trying to fold them and beat them, she hardly knew that chemistry was different from technology and the frosting had suddenly curdled. it was not stiff, and later did she realize that the curd we use is different from the yoghurt used in the chef paraphernalia. Her curd was watery with the whey too, which she had ignored due to bad luck. She recalled how it must be a not sour curd and hung curd. Her heartbeat was faster, and she was very upset about the work. How she had dreamt of serving a good, yummy cupcake to her darling anna, who would kiss her gently on the forehead for the tasty dessert his little sis had made.
She was uncertain on the next shot and stood gazing at the ugly, off white, yellowish mixture. She had daintily shredded lemon zest generously in it to give the rich lemony aroma. She was searching for a eureka moment to hit then. A miracle was expected to be shown to hit the perfect six. As her eyes were scanning stuff, her eyes met on the kadai covered with the thick payasam, she had prepared. It was a nice, thick custard, sweetest in the taste. She suddenly knew the strategy, what to bat and how to hit the sixer. She carefully scooped the thick malai, placed them further in the refrigerator for almost an hour. In the meanwhile, she went on to work on the plating.
A neat banana leaf, washed and placed on the table, she smiled heartily at the lavish spread. “Anna daata sukhi bhava”, is a Sanskrit saying which means “May the person who serves food always stay blessed”. Well, the cream of the soup today, was the dessert. She was determined on gifting the special treat to Deepak, as her token of love with extreme care. It was a crucial moment to witness the gourmet cooking catastrophe in the kitchen.
The bowl of payasam was taken from the fridge, and to her happiness it was a thick, sturdy paste. She was proud of her jugaad idea and shouted” Eureka!!!”. The power of action is in the pudding, right? The payasam, turned into a custard, ready to be added into the frosting. It soon became a fine frosting with strong lemon zesty aroma, thick fluffy creamy frosting placed on the cupcake. It seated itself like a snow flaky crown on the top of the bloomed brown crusty cake.
The gourmet catastrophe was smashed badly into victory by the fantastic sixer. Dear friends, many times, we face catastrophe situations in our day today life, with critical thinking to solve problems. Any catastrophe can be destroyed with sheer confidence and bit of imagination. Divya had won the match as a single player, and badly expected a WOW factor shoutout from celebrity chef. Her phone was ringing bringing her back into time to realize Deepak was calling to inform he had arrived. She had become a strong chef too, along with being a good designer.
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.
THE LAST RITES
Gayatri Saraf
(Translated by Supriya Kar)
My father passed away this morning after battling against death for six months. Last evening it seemed his end had arrived. I informed my elder brother, who lives in Calcutta. He and his family must be on their way and reach home by afternoon. The news of father’s passing spread very fast: our relatives and friends started gathering at our house. They all remembered how wonderful a person my father was. Everyone asked after my elder brother, who was expected to perform the last rites.
“I’ll perform the last rites,” I muttered.
All were taken aback; they looked at one another curiously. They looked at me in disbelief and murmured their disapproval. Certainly, if I lit the pyre, it’d be an unprecedented incident. It seemed as though my words grew wings and spread across the town.
“Daughters now-a-days perform the last rites at many places. It’s a sort of fashion to have no discrimination between a son and a daughter. That’s why she’s geared up. All said and done, a woman’s a woman, how would she ever equal a man?”
“The responsibility wasn’t over by merely setting the pyre aflame: could a woman carry out the austere rituals for ten, twelve days that follow?”
All such criticisms were passed on to me. I remained unperturbed. I knew no one would be able to talk me out of my decision. My father’s body lay in the living room. I sat looking at his face. It seemed as though he had gone into a deep slumber and after a while, he would wake up, open his eyes and call me, “Pari.” And I would say,
“Shall I bring you a glass of water? Open your mouth; take this medicine.” Alas, that’s just fantasy. I knew father hadn't survived long, that he’d passed away sooner than later. And he passed away in the morning. A bond of affection that was between us for thirty-two years severed.
No songs would be played on father’s gramophone. The recitation of the Bhagavata will no longer be heard. No one would rapturously listen to Sunanda Patnaik’s soulful rendering of “Jeevana patra mo …” on radio. The betel basket would remain empty. The fragrance of areca nuts and spices would no longer fill the room. Everything will turn into memory. I’ll have to live alone from now onwards. Father was like a close friend who shared my joys and sorrows. I now remembered what he had told me once while he was in sickbed.
“Pari! There’s a diary in my suitcase inside the wardrobe. There’s an envelope for you. Open it on the day I breathe my last. Remember not to open it before or after, but on the day I die, before my dead body is carried out of the house.”
I had felt like opening the envelope that very moment, but, no, I couldn’t do that. He had sealed the envelope in good faith. That fateful day had arrived - I must open the envelope today. He had strictly told me to open it before the dead body was carried out of the house. I looked at father, moved my hands over his cold forehead – “I remember your words. I’ll now open the envelope. I don’t know what you’ve kept for me. I never asked for anything but your love - that’s my treasure.”
I entered his room and opened the suitcase- his diary, pens, sheaves of paper and everything else lay inside. I carefully picked the envelope out of the diary. What’s inside? Father preferred to keep it from me when he was alive. I felt my heart flutter as I opened it.
The closed doors of my father’s mind opened. A piece of paper lay neatly folded inside the envelope. My father’s handwriting – like letters in pearl. The letter began with my name. “Pari,” Father confided everything to me. What could still have remained unsaid? I read the letter full of curiosity. The more I read, the more I slipped. My feet gave way, my mind drew a blank. It seemed as through the ground beneath my feet had been removed. Father, how could you bottle up so much resentment and grief in your heart? You could have shared this with me. You laid bare everything in this letter just because you didn’t want to die discontented. Ah! I am at the root of all your sorrow, Ah, I can feel that. I now know my boundaries - just how limited were my claims, my rights.
You wrote this letter, father! You could hurt me in this manner? And yet, I miss you. I wish to lay my head on your shoulders and cry. I felt secure that your hands of affection were always over me. How foolish I was. Did I not know that a woman was always lonely? She thought of everyone - her father, her husband, her son - as her own, but none were hers. She took the illusory relationships as true, walked the path of heart-breaks through thorny lanes of self-delusion. I traversed so much of my life journey in utter delusion, I - Paridhi Mohanty.
In our childhood, our mother remained perpetually ill and bed-ridden. We turned to our father for all our demands. He looked after our house, our mother and us. We grew up under his care. When I was doing my post-graduation, our mother passed away, my father and brother loved me even more. My brother got a job in a company in Calcutta next year and then he got married. My marriage followed. I had never been away from my father so far. I had felt quite secure swaying in the swing of his affection. How could his beloved daughter, who was always dependent on him in day to day matters, manage herself away from him? When the date of marriage was fixed. I cried my heart out. Father consoled me, “Every girl has to make her own home. She’s to leave her father’s house and live as a wife and a daughter-in-law at her in-laws’ place. It’s the tradition of our country. You’ll have to follow the same, Pari. I’ll harden my heart and bid you farewell.”
My wedding was celebrated with great pomp. I left my father’s home and went with Punya, my husband, a complete stranger till then. My brother and sister-in-law bade me farewell and went back to Calcutta. My father was still in service. He lived all alone. I would ring him frequently. Every ten or fifteen days. I would visit him. I would implore him to take care of himself.
Father would smile and say, “Pari, you’re like your mother …”
I slowly got acquainted to living at my parents-in-law’s house, but my relationship with them didn’t grow strong. I couldn’t win anyone’s heart there, not even my husband’s. There were frequent quarrels between us. We didn’t have anything in common in our nature. We didn’t find ourselves in love with each other. I was so much pampered as a child; I had become obstinate, too. I could not let my self-respect down. My conjugal life floundered in no time. I could not carry on and one day I put all my clothes in a suitcase and came back to my father’s home.
“I won’t go there ever. I don’t want to live my entire life with a man so selfish and loveless. I’ve no freedom there.”
It seemed blood drained out of father’s face. He gave me a lecture on the ups and down of conjugal life. I persisted,
“I understand all that but I can never be happy there. Do you want me to suffer day and night?”
Father had thought that such differences arose between couples but got sorted out in course of time. He had hoped that I would return to my husband or Punya would come and take me back. He spoke to Punya over phone and requested him to take me back. I didn’t like the whining tone of his voice while requesting him. He hoped against hope that we would change our minds. But that never happened. My brother and sister-in-law came and tried to persuade us. All their efforts were futile. My relationship with Punya severed forever. I stayed with father and took up the job of a lecturer in an evening college that had been opened recently. I tried to forget that I had ever married and that my surname was changed from Mohanty to Patnaik for one year. Again, I became Paridhi Mohanty, daughter of Jagdish Mohanty.
Father appeared grave and disturbed for some days. He would keep sitting by the window and look vacantly at the sky. He took time to accept my separation from my husband, but gradually he resumed his usual self. We started looking after each other as before, a little more if that was possible. Father appeared much larger and expansive, even the sky appeared smaller in comparison.
I never had any keen interest in household matters. Little by little, I gained an understanding of housekeeping. “Father, you’re free now.” I would say. A smile would spread on his face, radiant like the sun, and balm my wounds. I lived with renewed hope. I prepared new recipes, planted varieties of plants in our garden, decorated the living room in a new style. I brought books and journals from the college library for him. Both of us would sit and discuss politics, sports, T.V. serials, as though we were friends. Before I went to the college in the evening, father would return from the office. After tea and snacks, we would go to the garden and tender the plants. By the time I returned from the college, he would keep the dinner ready. If I ate less, he would admonish me. If he didn’t eat properly, I coaxed him. At times, at nine in the night, father would dial brother’s telephone number and talk to him for a long time. He would be eager to listen to the babbles of Litun, my nephew. He would ask them to come on a longer vacation during puja. When they came during the vacation, our home ovefrflowed with joy. Father would go to bazaar, brought fish, mutton and fresh vegetables. He would hold Litun close to his bosom and tell him many tales and soak him with kisses.
“I am your father’s father, your grandpa. Call me jeje..” They would leave after spending the vacation with us. Father would remain glum and absent-minded for two, three days. He would not take his meals properly. After some days, brother would call him over the phone, “We reached well. Litun goes on repeating Jeje…” Father would be his usual jovial self again.
“Pari! You couldn’t adjust with Punya, but would you spend your entire life alone? Don’t you have any friends?” while leafing through the newspaper, he would ask me.
I could clearly read his mind. He wanted me to marry again. He wouldn’t object to my choice. But all men, to me, appeared like Punya, all seemed untrustworthy. I stayed away from my male colleagues; I didn’t let anyone be close to me. My brother once brought a proposal; I rejected it outright and declared my resolve to live my life as my father’s daughter.
Time passed. Days, months and years rolled on. Four years after I came back my father retired from service. The last day of father’s service his colleagues bade farewell to him and he bade farewell to his job. That day he returned home and sat unusually quiet in his formals. He looked pitifully at the garland he had received at the office, then rang up my brother and told him in a voice that quivered with emotion: “Beta, I retired from my service today.”
Brother must have invited him to visit them.
“I also miss you all terribly, my dear.” I heard father mumbling these words, “but how can I go there? Pari’ll be alone.” Tears welled up in his eyes as he said this. I had seen tears twice in his eyes - a the time of our mother’s death and at the time of my wedding while I was leaving for my parents-in-law’s. I thought he seemed so anguished because his service had come to an end. I now know the language of those tears, why father appeared so anguished. Oh, father! Why didn’t we understand the import of your feelings at the right time? If I had understood the language of your tears that evening, you would not have to write such a letter. How stupid I was, I failed to read your mind.
After four, five months of retirement, father’s health broke. Lots of complaints surfaced. While he was treated for one disease, another disease would invade his body. I didn’t neglect him in the slightest manner - consulting doctors, administering medicines, and looking after his diet - I did everything I could do.
He would say, “Pari, I give you so much trouble, don’t I?”
I would gently stroke his forehead. “No, no. Perhaps, I should do more. I am not able to lessen your pain a bit.”
Father told me about the envelope at that time. “There’s something important, open it only after my death. I feel not many days are left for me.”
“No, I won’t let you leave so soon. We’ll plant jasmine and chamomile plants in the garden.”
But father didn’t recover; his health progressively deteriorated. He remained bedridden. It became difficult for him to utter even a few words. He would look around him blankly. He had difficulty in breathing and he could not pass urine. My brother and sister-in-law came to see him and went back as they had no leave left. My anxiety grew. As I observed him sinking, I began sinking within. How would I live in this house? I was apprehensive all the time, my heart palpitated. I was afraid his breath might stop any time. Death had already issued its warrant. Father had given me measureless love, what had I given him in return? The debt of paternal love cannot be repaid, that account can never be settled. Nevertheless, I must do something to calm myself down. It may be something unusual, something inviting criticism. Yet I must do it, yes, I would perform his last rites.
Our family friends and relatives paid their visits as they came to know father was dying. Everyone advised that his son and daughter-in-law should be present at his bedside. I telephoned brother.
“He’s been in this condition for so long.” My sister-in-law said, adding. “How long shall we wait there? What’s the point? You’ll perform the last rites, won’t you?"
“Yes, I’ll. Still you’ll have to come.” I put down the receiver. Three days passed. I knew how these days passed in apprehension. My aunt, father’s sister, arrived. She poured holy basil water in his mouth, her eyes brimming with tears, recited a few lines from the Bhagavata Gita. I telephoned brother, “If you come this time you won’t have to wait." The whole night I spent in great anxiety, sitting up with aunt, our eyes fixed on him. Early in the morning, he blinked at the ceiling, the doors and windows. He rolled his eyes and then closed them. I thought he would open his eyes again and kept calling him and shaking him up, but he didn’t respond. I sent for the doctor.
“He’s no more.” The doctor declared.
I melted into tears burying my head in my aunt’s lap. Everything was over. All around, there’s a void. My father would never come to life again. I would have to arrange everything, all the requirements before his mortal remains were taken to the cremation ground. I’ll accompany the hearse on my father’s last journey. He departed even without glancing at his Pari. How cruel! Sobbing inconsolably I suddenly remembered about the letter. I opened the envelope and started reading the letter.
“Pari,
I have suppressed so much grief in my chest for years. The grief grew and tormented me day and night. Many times, I thought I would lay bare my grief before you, but I couldn’t. Hence this letter. If I left this world with this secret buried in me, it would torment me even after my death and my soul would not rest in peace.
I showered all my affection on you. I fulfilled all your wishes and demands. I gave you in marriage to an eligible young man. I had thought that I became free from responsibilities. But what did you do? You couldn’t adjust at your parents-in-Law’s house. You couldn’t live with your husband. You were so obstinate, you left your in-law’s house and came back to stay with me. I reasoned with you and tried to persuade you, but you didn’t pay heed. Tell me Pari, which father wanted his daughter to come back to his house leaving her husband? I never approved of your decision in my heart.
After you came back, people asked me odd questions. I couldn’t walk with my head high. You stayed with me. I had to guard you all my life. I couldn’t even visit my son. I had to keep myself away from his beautiful world.
After retirement I could have stayed at Pranay’s house and spent my time with Litun. When did you let me go there? I so much missed them and kept looking at their photographs when you weren’t home. I longed to hear Litun’s call, ‘grandpa’. My heart became heavy. I was the father of a successful son, but you made me the father of a divorced daughter. My dreams and desires turned to ashes in the blazing fire of paternal responsibility. You committed the mistake, but I got the punishment. I suffered silently. How strange! I’ll die with unfulfilled longings and desires in my heart. I would like to be born again, but I wish to be a father of sons only in my next birth. I must end here.
Jagdish Mohanty
I am Paridihi Mohanty- separated from my husband, I am trying to run the race of life alone. I wonder how a woman bestows her love and affection on men all her life and exists only in relation to them. Has she not got her own identity? Does she always have to live only with the identity of a man, be it her husband or her father?
When I was under the sky of my father’s affection, clouds seemed within my reach. I didn’t feel overwhelmed through the vicissitudes of life. Even though I was defeated, I had no regrets. But now I felt so utterly dejected. I realized that there was no place for me in the sky of his affection, it was always dry. I rose and kept the letter in the wardrobe. Would I still cling to my decision and perform the last rites of my father?
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
Love is a summer sky, dappled with clouds, and friendship is a grey sky replete with a sweet and sour monsoon breeze. There is a thin line between this summer sky of love and the grey sky of friendship - a belt of pink, evening sky. This boundary must always be maintained.
It all begins with fluttering, feminine eyes, blushing cheeks, elegant wrists wearing one bangle extra and a smile that extends in a wider and more prominent manner. It begins with averted gazes, continues with furtive glances, and concludes with an essence so close, so incomprehensible and abstract - something like the blur of tears between eyelashes, like the sun in the rain kissed eyes. In such a scenario, the Universe begins to work its magic.
The relationship between a male and a female has been glorified since time immemorial. While history calls this relationship the most intricate, philosophy and spirituality insist on a more abstract perspective. How a woman views a relationship is different from the way a man views it. To sum it all up, this relationship is absolutely magical.
When the Universe works its magic, it orchestrates your meeting with someone who affects your mood physically, emotionally and spiritually, and you feel he is the ultimate man. His eyes morph into oceans, and instead of the typical ‘I feel as though I will drown in the ocean of his eyes’ feeling you just wish to swim through the waters of his eyes with him by your side. It is a beautiful feeling. Your dopamine level jumps and you feel euphoric.
Did this ever happen to you?
It happened to Niharika. The moment she saw Sumit sitting next to her on the bus during the field trip, she knew there was something different. Firstly, his almond brown eyes kept gazing at her, making her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. Most importantly, his way of gazing was absolutely different. Usually, the stares of boys would make her feel uncomfortable, but his gaze was a different kind. It made her feel important, special, loved and like the most important girl in the world.
They were in the same group. Thus, they had the berth next to each other on the train, too. She had many boys on her friend list who were physically more attractive than Sumit, but he was different. Both of them were pursuing their masters in Archaeology from Banaras Hindu University. This was their field trip to Sarnath. They were going to visit the Sarnath Museum, the oldest site museum of Archaeological Survey of India.
“Do you know the history of the Sarnath Museum?” Sumit asked Niharika after exchanging pleasantries. “I had read about it once,” she replied. “The museum has 6,832 sculptures and artefacts. To keep the antiquities found from the site a decision was taken in 1904 by the Government to construct a site museum adjacent to the excavated site at Sarnath. The museum was created due to the initiative of Sir John Marshall, the then Director-General of Archaeology in India. These plans were prepared by Mr. James Ramson, the then Consulting Architect to the Government of India. The building was completed in 1910 to house, display and study the antiquities in their right perspective. The building forms half of a monastery (Sangharam) in the plan,” he said. “This is exactly what I had read on Wikipedia,” she said. “Me too,” he giggled and continued.
“The museum contains five galleries... prominent among them is the earliest Buddha image found at Sarnath and many images of Hindu Gods dating from the 9th to the 12th centuries,” he paused. “You sound like a guide who has crammed up the information and wants to impress the visitors,” she said. Both chuckled.
After returning from the trip, they started spending lots of time together. Sumit was an average-looking boy but too brilliant a student. He was the topper of BHU in B.A. Archaeology. He had a strong personality with a bewitching smile that made him a charmer. All the students would love listening to him when he spoke in the university. Tall, strong-built, husky and deep baritone voice, positive attitude coupled with a great sense of humour made him the much sought-after student of the university.
Niharika was smitten from the moment she met Sumit. Her heart was blinded by the shine of his persona, and she would try to search for glimpses of him in all the boys on the campus, trying to compare them with him, but he was unrivalled. She found his flamboyant confidence galvanizing. She was love drunk.
Meeting, talking and chatting over the phone increased. She started sharing day-to-day activities, thoughts, feelings and emotions with him. He would act as a patient listener.
“Listen,” she would begin.
“Say,” he would reply.
And then she would go on and on with her childhood stories, time spent at her native place Narayanpatty - a small village in Madhubani district - her interests, hobbies, likes and dislikes. In front of him, she was an open book where all the chapters were displayed to the reader. Like a seasoned reader, he would use all four reading techniques: skimming, scanning, active reading, and detailed reading, depending on the time available and his mental framework. But whenever she would be disturbed, he would give her his hundred percent attention and ensured her nerves were soothed, had a clear mind and a peaceful sleep.
He was consciously committed to helping her grow and hence, started helping her prepare for tests that would get her a good job later. He stood with her through the inevitable tests, and trials that affected her emotional health while she was away from her family staying in a hostel and would feel very low. She was a strong girl now, truly transformed and confident. While having kullad chai at the BHU campus, he looked into her eyes and said, “Did anyone tell you that your eyes reflect the beauty of your soul? Your intense blue eyes are like the ocean any man would die to dive into. One can peep through it into your heart. Did you know this already?” he asked her holding her hands with his face close to hers. “You are kidding,” she chuckled. “You should participate in Miss India Contest. Look at your physical attributes - your emerald-like alcoholic eyes and your porcelain smooth skin. In fact, your eyes are like caves, and it seems as though they are preserving a special emerald stone! In addition to that, you have a wonderful, lilting voice,” he added. “Many people had suggested this in my hometown too,” she replied with a naughty smile. “But I do not want to become a part of the glamour world. It is for the people who enjoy the limelight. I become a chatterbox in front of you but have you seen me sharing with others in this manner? I want to maintain a low profile in public,” she responded. “Okay! My Beauty Queen, do not feel offended. It was just a passing thought with the sipping of tea,” he moved closer and pecked her on the cheek. This was such a stroke of unexpected luck for her. So many girls were desperate to get closer to Sumit but with no luck. She felt as if she was the luckiest girl in this university. She wanted to return it but withheld herself from doing so.
This was just the beginning. They would steal private moments from studies, projects, submissions, and form filings and kept each other entertained. This was something they had never before felt for anyone else, and it was way beyond physical attraction. They were attracted to everything about each other; their heart, body, mind, soul, personality, nuances, and habits. Both of them started complimenting each other. They became the topic of discussion on the campus. Bhavin, the cousin of Sumit, who was in the same class, once asked him about their relationship.
Before Niharika could utter a word, her heart screamed, “Our world is a world that is carved away from reality. It is a pause between the day and night, a fistful of twilight. It is mysterious, like the crimson shades of a blood moon picked from the heart of an eclipse. It is a world where snowflakes and raindrops quiver together, and sunset-soaked clouds clothe bare shoulders. It is a world that is a point in the bubbling brook of infinity, a nameless netherworld. It is a world where our souls have no boundaries, and we are one living energy. It is a world that dwells in the fist of the divine. A fistful of life, in the palm of the divine.”
She was brought back from her reverie with Sumit’s response, “We are Just Friends!"
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets. She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines.
She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
AN AMBIVALENT DO-GOODING
Satya Narayan Mohanty
The nameplate on the door read ‘Divya Swaminathan’. It rang a bell. The girl in my neighbourhood in Hyderabad had a name like this. Her father’s name was APBN Swaminathan. “She must be the same ‘Divya Swaminathan,” I thought. She was a couple of years older than my daughter and they hung around together. So did four other girls of similar ages. In fact, they grew up together. If this woman is the same girl, I knew her from her fifth or sixth year of age. All kids used to go to the swimming pool, including my daughters. Divya was an athletic swimmer who picked up swimming very quickly, and there was an athletic push to her skill. She swam as if she belonged there.
I was coming back to city after thirteen years from Delhi. Memories had dimmed, connection weakened and the ability to synthesize objective data became weaker still. One of the earliest things I did was to rush to the British Council library and renewed my cards. I headed to the fiction section then. To my left were a set of rooms. One of them read: ‘Divya Swaminathan’, Dy. Director. I wasn’t very sure whether this person was the same girl. I proceeded to the fiction rack, picked up a couple of books by Julian Barnes, a book of Harold Pinter, a volume of Seamus Heaney poetry, and I was heading back. I saw a woman wearing saree from a distance. Then she went into her room. By the time I reached the place, the same name board stared at time. On recollection, I thought there was some similarity in the frame. Tall and slender. But I hadn’t seen Divya as a saree clad woman, ever. I thought I would just check. Maybe I could knock and get into the room. After all, I was armed with enough books to invent a question regarding the library. The director was a British woman, so going to an Indian staff would make sense.
I knocked, and heard, “Come in.”
I went in. Lo and behold, it was the same girl of my colony which I left thirteen years before. But there was no recognition in her eyes. “Are you Divya from Banjara Hills Officers’ colony?”
“Yes,” she replied. But there was no recognition yet. “I was in your colony. My daughter was your friend. Aparna, Sravanthi, Anjana and you were all together.” I said.Now her eyes lit up and face beamed.
“Yes, uncle. Sorry I couldn’t recognize you. It has been such a long time. You left for Delhi eons ago. We thought you wouldn’t return. How is Anjana?”
“She is in the US, doing her Masters in Law in Chicago Law School. But you guys should be in touch.”
“In a way, yes. But I thought she might have come back. Last she told me she would continue in Delhi.”
“That’s right. She will go back to the Supreme Court where she was practicing. We came back because this is home. Where are you staying?”
“After Papa passed away we continued on in the colony until my Mom retired. Now we are in an apartment in Banjara Hills.”
“I am so sorry about what happened to Swami. It was so premature and untimely. I sent a condolence message to your brother. Are you married?”
“Not yet. Would you care for coffee?”
“I won’t mind.” I had all the time in the world. There was no teaching engagement then. I was yet to get into the rhythm of writing, which was my mojo.
“Then let’s go to the cafeteria.” I hadn’t bargained for it. Having spent a life time in the Government, I thought coffee would be served in the room. But I had already taken the bite. It was impossible to back out now.
We went to the coffee house, took a table and I resumed the conversation. I enquired about her mother, brother and their welfare. But I came back to the question.
“Are you married now, or what is afoot?”It was an avuncular interest. Girls at that age were usually married. She must be 31, if I added two years to Anjana’s age.
“Uncle, after Papa passed away the question got placed on a back burner. Then I got the job. I got my freedom. For the first time I was leading a life with freedom.” The Coffee had come now.
“What do you mean, you had freedom for the first time?”
“You had a role in it.”There was sadness on her face. “You remember how you told my parents to be careful about my movement?”
In a flash it came back to me. It was an evening. The small knot of girls were moving together in the colony road in front. I was waiting for my driver to come to take me the airport. I think I was travelling to K.L, Malaysia. I could see a bunch of boys moving ahead and they took a fork. The girls took a turn to the right just after the boys. Out of curiosity, I came out and followed them. Lo and behold, Divya was talking to one of the boys and the boys were not from the colony. Other girls were a little away, maybe ten feet, but they were intrigued. I quietly came back and told Swaminathan to take care. It escaped my attention thereafter. I instructed my wife to tell my daughter to be careful. Then the car came and I left for the airport.
“Luck. It is all luck. Do you know I was shut up in the house for seven years? You left for Delhi after three years. I lost my freedom. I was only allowed to go to the college and come back. For seven years I didn’t meet anyone. I wasn’t allowed to go out, not allowed to move around the colony. I stopped talking to Anjana for the preceding three years.” Then she gave a smile. I thought it was a sad smile. Recognition of one’s small peeves and unintended consequence of the original action of mine.
“I am so sorry. I told Swaminathan to be careful. I didn’t know it would result in this.”
‘ I know you meant well. So did my parents. But the problem is when there is a challenge, you all felt it easier to shut us up, rather than counseling, empowering and guiding. I remained shut for seven years. By the time I was given some freedom, ten years of my life had gone by. After I got a job, I tasted freedom for the first time. I didn’t want to lose it. Someone else to lay down rights and wrongs, dos and don’ts, I did not want that. I didn’t want to marry in a hurry. Now with Papa gone, no one is there to steer it. Praveen is busy with his own life. He has been married for a couple of years. ”
“I am so sorry. I wanted to alert your parents. In the same colony, I witnessed another young girl being murdered by her unrequited lover from outside. My driver Afzal intervened, but it was too late. The worst was that the family decided to keep quiet so calumny wouldn’t hit the family. The girl wasn’t in the wrong at all. She was such an innocent kid.”
“I knew you could be having good reasons. But whatever is meted out to us wasn’t fair. Denial of life can’t be life. We will make mistakes. It’s the job of the elders to guide us. If training us in karate helps, we should be put to training. But that doesn’t happen. We are just shut out, because that is the easiest thing to do. Have your coffee, it will get cold.” By this time my head was working overtime, rolling what might have been and what had been. But I had lost my craving for coffee.
I took a couple of sips. I was disturbed that I was instrumental by creating such a mess.But my mind went back to my childhood. In a new location and in a new school, I was also ordered to stay at home. The problem arose because my father’s deputy’s son was my classmate. He didn’t like comparison and showed me a paper knife once. I overreacted and informed my father about the happenings in the school. My father instructed me to stay in the Bungalow as he was travelling often. He was smart enough not to broach it but it shamed his deputy and I lost the small joys of being a child for about three months. I was still selected for the scholarship exam depending on my earlier performance and it was good that we left the place after the exam.
Was my past playing a role? Was I being too risk-averse because I knew about the stabbing incident of Sastry’s daughter?
“Uncle, I have also heard about Soumya Sastry’s stabbing,although around that time we weren’t in the colony. But do we all deserve to sacrifice our freedom because one incident happened. You will not understand what being a recluse for ten years means? I lost my teens in guilt, discrimination and privation. But now it is in the past. But maybe it has changed me forever. I didn’t talk to Anjana for long. Then we made up.”
We had finished coffee then.
“Well, Divya. Aunty and I will visit your house. We haven’t met your mother for thirteen years.” We exchanged cards. I came out the library. During my walk to the car, I was wondering whether we ever did anything good to youngsters by imposing our worldview? Or we inflicted our weaknesses and limitations on the next generation without trying to figure out the problem this generation faced. The collateral damage of this or the unintended consequences could be unfathomable. I started walking toward the car instead of calling the driver on mobile.
“Sir, our car is there.” My driver had come from behind and stopped me as I passed the car in my absentminded thoughts.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delh
The footsteps approached the door agonizingly slow, as if the person responding to the door bell was coming from inside a cave after a deep sleep. Yet, a death had occurred in the house only two days back, and Ramakant was expecting some activities. The events like birth and death are seldom allowed to be solitary activities. The man who opened the door stood like an apparition, with a crutch in his hand, totally unrecognizable at first.
Then recognition dawned in. It was, of course, Himanshu, it had to be beyond any shade of doubt. Even though the slightly stooping figure, ravaged by Arthritis, was a distant shadow from the athletic build of the sprightly young man he knew him to be! How could he have doubted, even if for a moment? Ramakant castigated himself.
Agreed! Almost- or more than- twenty years separated their previous encounter from the present. Time causes enough ravages of its own, even without Arthritis! Enough time to turn your hair white, get your skin loose, shriveled even; but a bent frame, walking with a slow gait, with that stooping posture! No, he could no way associate this shocking apparition with Himanshu, that he knew from his college days. And his memories spanned a good deal of years thereafter.
Ramakant recollected the arrival of Himanshu in the college, located in a place he called his home town, like a comet during his graduation years. Midway, to be exact, to take admission in the most- or, least, depending on how you look at it- sought after honours course after doing his I.Sc. in a premier college of the state. In those days, his home town was known as a little mofussil town, famous for its swampy marshes, mosquitoes, and bamboo bushes- not necessarily in that order- to earn the opprobrium of a punishment posting for govt officials. A few senior lecturers who had the misfortune of being transferred to this college after having served in more reputed institutions, often rued their fate at the prospect of having to live here, which was far removed from the civilization they were used to. No cultural events, no musical extravaganza, not even regular political protests of any kind! It was a tired, sleepy town- hot and humid! It had almost nothing to offer by way of entertainment, excepting two ramshackle cinema halls, in close proximity of each other. It hurt when they made jokes about the mosquitoes of the place and the bemused students had to endure. At those moments, Ramakant often had felt sorry, apologetic even, for having to study in that small college, out of financial constraints. His inherent pride at his home town being at the forefront of a linguistic movement long back appeared misplaced at such moments!
Ramakanta had concluded that everything about his college was mediocre, just like his own academic credentials had turned mediocre after a superlative performance in his matriculation.
At that point Himanshu had joined his class as a BA student seeking the same honours course as his. He had felt elated. After all, his college could attract bright students from premier institutions of the state who were rank outsiders!
The comet had appeared on the scene; but stayed in his firmament like a star- a permanent fixture. They became close friends. Himanshu had tastes in poetry and almost everything else connected with music and literature. He could sing the songs of prevailing doyens with ease, and remembered the lyrics well. He gathered friends around him wherever he went. He could write poems in profusion which got published in the students’ magazines, and earned him an enviable reputation of being a budding poet. Everyone predicted a great future for him particularly in the literary field. He was a good debater, too. He attracted the attention of teachers within no time.
Of course, by that time the real reasons for his admission to this college had been known, at least to his close buddies. It had transpired that though he had done exceptionally well in his matriculation- having achieved a rank within the first ten from the top- he had fared miserably in his I.Sc, and was on the verge of losing an academic year. For this somersault in his career he would often rue his decision to join the science stream thrust upon him. He had failed to secure a honours subject of his choice in the college to which he was attached because of poor marks. But that might not have the whole story either. Possibly, Himanshu had lost interest in his studies at a crucial phase of his career owing to some love interest to which he hinted in his poems.
Though a rank outsider, he soon became a leader of the students’ Union and won the college election and went on to become the president. Ramakant had often felt humbled and belittled in his presence. But both had continued as close friends, sharing the same books, same notes n his BA, as well as in their MA courses. Himanshu studied less but somehow managed to secure better marks even while spending his time with fat novels of authors who were esoteric to him.
Thereafter, both of them had acted as perfect vagabonds for a few years before Himanshu entered into the state civil services. Ramakanta had managed to join as a police officer, and had been promptly posted to a remote district after his period of training.
But, they had remained good friends, nay close friends, despite pursuing different careers.
Himanshu had married Smita, a lovely girl, who was his classmate in MA, albeit pursuing a different subject. Then it had transpired that most of his poems were addressed to this hazel eyed lanky girl, who used to remain silent in her classes. Nevertheless, she attracted attention wherever she went. Through his success in winning the hands of this girl Himanshu had proved- for once, at least- the efficacy of poetry in matters of heart. Smita, being a good student herself, had casually walked into the teaching profession, and secure a stable job herself. They could be as happy as they could be in their conjugal life. What more could they need?
But human greed is an altogether different arena that knows almost no bounds. That’s the first lesson he had been taught in the Anti Corruption Bureau(ACB) to which he got inducted after years of service in the field.
A posting in the ACB – otherwise known as Vigilance Directorate- after being selected through a rigorous screening process implied some prestige. Therefore, he was elated at this posting, which was basically a 10 to 5 job without involving the stress and excitement of a field office, where the day starts at 5 and continues thereafter without any limit. His wife and daughters were, especially happy because he had little dangers of getting killed in Naxalite encounters anymore. They were relieved.
But the initial euphoria had evaporated in a short while. It had a dark belly of its own. You are supposed to keep your mouth shut, and act with perfect nonchalance even if your own brother is under investigation by the Bureau. Even those who come to meet you, either at office or at your residence, are thought to cause trepidation in heart. This was the impression he got after a few days in the new organization though it might have been a hugely exaggerated notion to think that everyone was under 24x7 surveillance. But for the first time in his life, Ramakant learnt to control, himself from blurting about the day’s happenings before his wife and children, like he used to, after a hard day’s work at the police station.
He had encountered many interesting criminals in his career of varied hues. He had often to his embarrassment liked a few. He was especially sympathetic to first time criminals even those who were guilty of serious crimes. He had realized quite early in his career that he was not going to be an ideal police officer.
The file about Himanshu that was put to him one fine morning had literally shocked him. Himanshu was at that point of time working as a Revenue Officer in a major city and someone wanted to trap him while accepting a bribe for passing favorable orders relating to some prime land. The informant who happened to be the aggrieved party had raised serious allegations of corruption, of money being demanded to get his work done. The amount mentioned as bribery demand was not particularly hefty, and Ramakant had his doubts as to whether thespecific charges were genuine! But there was hardly any time to lose and investigate. All the traps had already been laid at different levels. He was simply to approve the proposal and depute his staff kept ready for such purpose. Quite routine affair in course of the day!
Perhaps, he made a grave mistake of his life, by not pointing out his close friendship with the accused to his boss. Frankly, his friend was not yet an accused since nothing had, prima facie even, been established, and there was every chance that he would not fall a prey to the trap being laid. At least, he hoped so! After all was it not the same person who was outrageously generous during his college days, who never was stingy with his purse sharing his last rupee with friends like him. Naturally, he had earned the sobriquet of being a spendthrift!
Now, at least technically, there was a clash of interests. It ought to have been informed to his higher authorities to be spared of consequences, any personal blame in the matter. He was a bit confused and chose to remain silent. That might have been his undoing. Once he chose to remain silent things moved on like a juggernaut, and he had hardly any control over the subsequent events.
The trap as per report was neither a success, nor a failure as per the technical jargon used in the official report. In layman’s terminology the findings were ambivalent enough to demand further action. As per standard operating procedure a cash trap, if successful, leads to a house raid, in most of the cases. Whatever might have been the original allegations, his seniors decided on a house raid, to be carried without slightest loss of time, to detect properties acquired beyond his known sources of income- otherwise known as disproportionate assets. He had to sign an order, and he did. The residential quarters of Himanshu were to be raided, before daybreak.
It hardly needs to be mentioned here that there was little chance of a leak. Even in the absence of mobile telephony in those days his house would have been under constant surveillance from the evening itself.
Himanshu must have been an absolute fool therefore, or a perfect simpleton, to arrive at his gate in the Police Colony that evening with Smita in tow, and ask for a meeting. Ramakant was flabbergasted at the sight of his friend and his wife, and after having a look at their disheveled look from his windows. He was in absolute dilemma, and took the decision to refuse them entry, which he thought to be in their own interests. He refused to see them and asked the peon to convey the same in the hope that he would be able to dispel the dark clouds of misunderstanding that were bound to affect them.
That was obviously his great mistake numbered two. He was due to suffer a lot of sufferings. And, pain! He could hardly forget the look of hurt visible on the faces of Himanshu and Smita even in the deem street light.
That had been last time he had seen those two faces together. From close proximity. That had been the end.
The next morning had dawned as usual. The house raid which must have come as a shock to the couple. But, he was relieved to know that the raid had failed to detect any thing slightly suspicious, that could have through any remote chance led to any conclusion about acquisition of assets disproportionate to the couple’s known sources of income. The trap case was dropped and Himanshu was in course of time fully absolved of any wrong doing. Much to his relief and joy, his friend stood fully exonerated.
But, that occasion had turned out also to be the end of their relationship.
Not that Ramakant had not tried to dispel the misunderstanding. On the first available opportunity he had taken all the steps which could. First and foremost, he had confessed about his friendship with the accused before his boss in the ACB. It stood revealed that a conspiracy had been hatched by some unscrupulous land mafia in collaboration with his office staff to trap him. Himanshu- as it turned out- was an upright officer, and quite unyielding in his decisions to allow any type of nefarious activities in his office. That had proved to be his undoing. His case had also proved to be a turning point so far as ACB was concerned, who issued new set of guidelines regarding procedures to be followed in trap cases. Henceforward, mere verbal allegations regarding demands for bribes were not to be accepted without some cross verification of evidences adduced. There had to be corroborative evidences as well.
He had also visited Himanshu, who was staying in a city about thirty kilometers away. But this time it was his turn to be driven away. By Smita- of all persons- who taken it upon herself to come to the gate and ask them to leave, coolly, but firmly. Ramakant had failed to even start to explain his constraints before Smita, and he was never more at loss for words as he was before Smita.
He had of course tried repeatedly. Made entreaties through common friends. But all his efforts came to naught. More than Himanshu, it was Smita who had chosen to rebuff all such overtures. She was not, after all, expected to remember or recollect the days the two friends had spent, or shared the meager pocket money coming out of a common purse. Gradually the overtures had stopped. Both of them retired in quick succession on attaining their respective ages of superannuation. Himanshu had settled down in the capital city, Ramakant had gone back to his home town.
The chasm had continued unabated, un-bridged.
Then yesterday he had learnt of Smita’s death in a city hospital from a common friend. How her cremation was to take place after arrival of her children staying in foreign lands, how Himanshu was devastated, how he was all alone in the big house he had built in the capital city with so much loving care etc.
Ramakant had decided immediately to visit his friend’s house at the earliest opportunity, even though it was 200 km away. He was not particularly sure if he would be welcomed, and not turned away by the family. He had become a persona non grata for the bereaved family long since. In fact, his own wife- very practical in such matters- had dissuaded him from making this visit. He had ignored her advice.
But Himanshu was cordial, almost at his earlier incarnation.
“I just came back from the cremation ground. Reached a moment ago. Children are expected to arrive shortly after collecting ashes of their mother. Won’t you sit?”- Himanshu asked with imploring eyes. Perhaps unknown to himself, tears had already started forming in his eyes.
They remained silent for a while. No words came to the fore. Silence, as they say, has sometimes a better way of communicating feelings, thoughts even, without there being any needs for words. Audible, or written!
“ I had heard that Smita was ailing for some liver ailments. But she was fast recovering, isn’t it ? And you were planning to visit USA shortly- as I had heard!”
“Cancer! Duodenal cancer of a most aggravated variety. She didn’t suffer much towards the end though. Almost remained peaceful. My son wanted to take her USA for further treatmentBut. I had my doubts, whether she was going to make it! That was not to be! She deteriorated all of a sudden, beyond all chance of recovery”- Himanshu haltingly blurted out in an agonizingly slow manner. Almost lisping!
Ramakant looked around the room. There was a photograph of the dead body on a wooden platform, with a garland of flowers, and a ‘diya’ burning below. He went near and shuddered at the sight of the sunken dead face that greeted him ! Was this the same vivacious girl who had been crowned as the college queen at some distant point in the past? The same girl who had mesmerized an entire college including his friend and kept him under her spell! What ravages can be caused to a frail human body? Ramakanta wondered!
“Are you still sore with me, for what I did to you? I hope, you realized my delicate position in the Vigilance ? I, really, couldn’t have helped even if I had liked! Hope, you know that yourself already!”
“Well, the case was a pure torture for me from the word ‘go’. But, we knew- in our hearts- that nothing would come out of it. But Smita was devastated. The house raid was too much for her to bear! But we recovered.” Himanshu reminisced.
“ Do you consider me to be responsible for your ordeal, in any manner, whatsoever?”- Ramakant was direct, almost blunt in his query. The guilt had sat heavily on his heart all these years.
“No! None of us blamed you! Not even Smita, who was sure the case was thrust upon you! But being turned off at the gate, your refusal to see us on a crucial day of our life, was too much for her to bear! She never recovered from the shock of the viginance case, and blamed me for entering a job that could only bring disrepute of this kind. In fact, from that day onwards, she was never her true self. She became schizophrenic and started suspecting everyone. Even me! We had to pay a heavy price.” Himanshu replied.
Ramakant stood up and went near the garlanded photograph again. He desperately wanted to leave the house before the children returned from the cremation grounds.
“Has she not excused me for my abominable foolishness that day- Ramakant asked without looking back towards Himanshu? “After I had explained my mistakes to you- mistakes that had appeared perfectly proper, advisable course of actions even, for your own benefit? Why I had to refuse to meet you that particular evening? Is there no chance of being excused ?”- Ramakant continued.
“ She will, most likely! Nay, almost definitely! That is, in case, she has not done so already, after your present visit! Her spirit must be hovering over here you know! But for that you shall have to attend her 11th day obsequies with your family. At this house of ours! You promise?” Himanshu questioned sitting on his chair without moving.
“I will. Definitely”. Ramakant turned back and left abruptly. He had to hide back his tears that never look nice on someone of his age. He had to maintain his composure.
Dinesh Chandra Nayak (b 1952) is a Post Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University, Vani Vihar. He entered the State Civil Service in Odisha and held many important positions before retiring in 2010. His present pastimes include reading, titles like "Joy Of Laziness" among others. Although he did not earlier feel any spring of creativity strongly, LiteraryVibes has inspired him to "try to burst forth in geysers". He hopes the transformation of the dying ember into a new life will lead to a creative splendour. LV wishes him the very best in this new journey.
"Even at the last step from "Thamas " she looked back once again for your call "
"But you do not see, you do not listen "
He just looked at her.
Few minutes passed.
"My dear poet, Please listen her painful story." Isra said to him.
"She was only fourteen years old, when her father left her mother and her three children. Her mother gazed at her with tearful eyes, as she was the eldest girl. she has two brothers and the youngest boy was in the cradle. From her father she inherited only tears and fear. Her mother loved her children very much. As she was very pretty and lovely her mother called her "Lovely ". Lovely took care of her brothers when her mother was in sewing work. Lovely sang beautifully with cuckoos, and helped her mother in cooking and tailoring. When she began to grow, her days are winged with hopes and nights are blossomed with dreams. But her mother laughed with her at day, and sobbed in grief at night. One day, when the fear of uncertainty embraced her through the toe she began to read, "For I was hungry, and you give me to eat, I was thirsty you gave me to drink, I was stranger and you took me in :
Naked and you covered me :sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.
Then shall I just answer, saying, Lord when did we see thee hunger, and feel thee thirsty and gave thee drink, But when did we see thee a stranger and took thee in, Or naked and covered thee, or when we did see thee sick or in prison and come to thee "
Tears wet her cheeks. Her voice and lips quivered. She stood on her knee, and took an other page.
She did not wakeup at the next morning.. Her spirit flew away with the white wings of death.. Lovely
closed her opened mouth and Bible with quivering fingers. After that day Lovely never sang with cuckoos.
She worked hard to look after her brothers. Like her mother, lovely began her days with Bible.
"Look at the birds in the sky. They do not sow or reap. They do not even store grain in barns. Yet your father in heaven takes care of them. Aren't you worth more than birds."
Then she gain confidence to live. Like her mother, she always kept a Bible in her hand.
Even though, two months later her little brother flew from the cradle to his mother's lap for milk. But she did not cry, because the greatest sorrows will never come through the mouth.
The whole expectation of her latter life was upon Joy. She earned money for him, and cooked food for him. She taught him and helped him with home work. But he didn't like to be mastered by any one.
He was becoming like his father. He was striding off through the crimes and filth. His bizarre life was tuned with the echo of shrieking voices. He forgot his sister and neglected her advises. His devious life lead him to the prison. Actually his unhappy child hood was leading him to seek pleasure in wailing of his enemies and rages of blood. "
She stopped for a while.
"I was ignorant of her past "he whispered.
"Yes. You are ignorant " Isra shouted "you are ignorant. You did not allowed her to say any thing."
After a minutes silence Isra continued.
"His wailing life of deception and deceit caused her to leave the house. At that time she was alone in her home."
"She is an orphan "
He inturrepted.
"No, "she argued."Actually she was thrawn into the street as an orphan. Broken relations in life will make us orphan. All her expectations dug in the wounds inflicted by time. Her monotonous life persuaded her to come this city."
"i met her in this beach."he said.
"Yes " she replied. "I brought her….and got a job here."
"You have given promises to her "
"No" He denied.
She said, "You greeted her gently. You talked her in a bewitching manner. And you welcomed her to your life."
"Yes " He shaked head.
"She trusted you. You talked her with an enchanting voice. Only then she think about her life,"
Both were silent for a while.
After a long sigh, she said,
"But, You saught elation in her pain. You persecuted her emotions with out any fear and humanity."
"Without humanity " he laughed loudly.
She murmured with anger,
"Yes, without humanity. After your living together,....you treated her without humanity. You insulted her with harsh words. You crushed her mind.,.... Her feelings….her body."
"She left me " he sighed
"But I loved her" he whispered.
She looked him in disbelief.
She continued "even at the last step from "Thamas "she was looking back with hope, for your call back.
But you closed your door "
"Where is she " he cried
"She was waiting for you…..for days and days…….. At your same meeting place….. On the sea shore."
She sobbed and continued.
"Lovely opened the Bible. "Can worry make you live longer?. Why worry about clothes?. Look how the the wild flowers grow. They don't work hard to make their clothes."
"She reached at the edge of mental disorder."
"She walked towards the horizon. Even… Until the last minute...she was looking … For your call back…
And her arms stretched out….. Towards you."
" surely she would have done even more for you"
He stood on his knee.
She closed her eyes for a long time with a long sigh.!
Aboo Jumaila is an upcoming and prolific writer in Malayalam. She is a bank employee from Alapuzha, Kerala.
For the first time in over a month, Sona Mohanty found her surroundings little more familiar. She was sick of the constant motion of the steamer ship she was travelling in. Ever since the ship left Bombay about two months back on a winter morning, she had not seen land. For a simple village girl who never set foot outside her mofusil town in Ganjam district of Odisha, the experience was nothing less than traumatic. SS CLYDEN, the steam ship she was travelling in was considered one of most luxurious of the time. But this didn’t help Sona any bit. Her ship was passing through the Suez Canal now. Sona looked out of her cabin window and could see the canal bank at close quarters. The very prospect of setting foot on a solid land mass and walk without swaying elated her. The ship had started its voyage on 3rd December 1894 from Bombay. Not sighting land after a month-long tortuous journey in a steamer ship with constant rolling, yawing and pitching had driven her to sickness. She could not eat the strange foods served by the ship’s kitchen. She was throwing up even at sighting the food served to her on table. Luckily for her, her father had handed her a box full of puffed rice, flattened rice, jaggery while she started her journey from Aska, a remote river side town in Odisha. She has been living for over a month purely on this diet.
Looking at the passing land outside the window, she felt like crying. Her idyllic days grazing goats and cattle in her village on bank of river Rishikulya seemed like a distant dream now. Sona!!! That’s what her parents fondly called her. Blessed with a golden white complexion, she dazzled like gold, her mother would often say. But since her mother died untimely and a step mother entered into their family, her life became miserable. She went half fed or even hungry on days. Her father loved her the most as before but was often helpless to make Sona’s life a little better.
Sona looked beautiful. Even the most bitter and unforgiving critic of the village would agree that she was the most gorgeous looking girl in the village. This fact didn’t go well will Sona’s step mother. She was fair like no other girl in the village. The village astrologer long back had made a prediction that Sona would one day be a queen. The step mother made elaborate arrangements to make Sona’s life as bitter as possible. The neighbors always spoke how Sona’s beauty would definitely invite a prince some day and all her miseries would be gone. Sona was not very optimistic about a prince coming and taking her away to make her a queen, but the astrologer’s predictions were partly true, as she was now being taken away to be trained at becoming a better housemaid for her master Frederick Minchin, who was also travelling with her.
X X X X X X X X X X X X
Frederick Minchin was the owner of Aska Sugar Factory in Ganjam District of Odisha. The factory, one of earliest in whole of South East Asia, was famous for its excellent Sugar, Wine and Rum which was in great demand all through South India and also exported to Burma, Java, Borneo, Sumatra and Thailand. Minchin was amongst the rich and famous of the planet.
Frederick had wished to marry a native Indian girl like many of his British friends who served in the Colonial Government did in those days. There were not many marriageable white girls in India as travelling from England was a time consuming and painful experience in those days. Very few white girls dared to endure the grueling travel to India by ships those took roughly six months time to make one way journey. Opening of Suez Canal in 1859 had reduced the time to almost half and ships could complete the journey in three months time. Many white unmarried girls were now accompanying their parents, travelling to India. But Frederick Minchin’s hands and mind were busy building the sugar factory. Minchin took training in Germany and had installed German Machines to produce best quality Sugar, Wine and Rum. Minchin had no time to think of marriage.
Minchin had a huge bunglow on banks of river Rishikulya close to the sugar factory. Often he would sit on the balcony overlooking the river and survey the area through his binoculars. He had many a times seen a very fair complexioned girl grazing cattle and goats on the other bank of the river. He had sent his men to enquire about the girl and call the father of the girl. Minchin was the most influential man of the area and was a respectable Industrialist in the British Raj of India.
Sona’s father could only happily agree when Minchin proposed to engage the girl as a maid. Sona’s father wished to see her darling daughter outside the miserable life created by the step mother. Minchin sahib had assured to take care of the girl such that she will never feel the pangs of poverty again.
X X X X X X X X X X X X
After a year or two of working in Minchin’s house as maid, Sona could now speak a few words in English, take orders from Minchin and convey to other servants of the house. She was never given any hard task and her main duty was to assist Minchin in his morning rounds of the garden, pluck flowers and arrange them in the vases. Greet the English visitors to his master’s house and serve them refreshments.
But her master Minchin was impressed with Sona’s honesty and working style. He wished to transform Sona into a perfect English Lady and for that he needed to take Sona to London for some days and get her trained. Minchin had called Sona’s father and sought his permission to take Sona abroad. Sona’s father looked uneasy at hearing the proposal.
“What can I say Sahab, you are now her father, but…” Sona’s father murmured hesitantly with folded hands before Minchin.
“Look Mahuti (Mohanty), I only mean well for your daughter. She will serve me for as long as she wishes. I will keep paying her wages to you as done till now.” Minchin said.
“She can’t go saheb, it will be difficult for her to go by ship. White people working in your sugar factory tell us about the tough journey by the ship. My daughter will die in a few days” Sona’s father looked uncomfortable.
“Mahuti, those are things of past, now that Suez canal has opened it has become so easy to go to England and France” Minchin said.
“Another thing saheb, traveling by ships and crossing the seven seas is treated as blasphemy in my religion, we shall be frowned upon by my society. She will be an outcast for rest of her life”, Sona’s father finally blurted out his mind.
“Mahuti, I will pay double the wages you are now getting. Do you not wish to see your daughter do well in life?” Minchin tried to infuse some confidence in Mohanty.
Finally Minchin convinced Sona’s father to agree to the proposal and started on the voyage to London.
X X X X X X X X X X X X
“Why are you crying Sona?” Frederick entered the cabin and found Sona looking through the window and lost in thoughts.
“Nothing Saheb, just I was missing my village, my people. Shall I give something to you?” Sona tried to become normal. Frederick was the only person she knew at this alien place. She had great trust in this fatherly person who was also her benefactor. If it were not for him, Sona would still be grazing cattle and collecting firewood on the banks of Rishikulya.
“Sona, have patience and faith on me. You shall one day be the pride of your village.” Frederick said.
Frederick forked out a folded map from his pocket and sat reading it on the table. “Look here Sona, you are so lucky!!! Our journey has become lesser by three months due to this canal!! You can’t imagine how tough it was to go around Africa and then to London". Sona looked at the map where Frederick has placed his finger. But her looks said it all, she didn’t understand one bit of it.
X X X X X X X X X X X X
It was a hot and humid day in Aska, a small town in Ganjam district of Odisha. The local church had been decorated for a special occasion attended by all the high and mighty of British Administration of the District. The owner of Aska Sugar Factory, a prominent industrialist with overseas trade in many far off countries was getting married to Emily Minchin.
Many local people who also were invited to attend the wedding waited outside the church gate to have a glimpse of their own girl Sona now turned into a Mem Sahib. They watched with awe as Emily Minchin waved at them and then greeted them with folded hands. Wow, she looked every bit like a Mem Sahib. The crowd greeted Sona and Frederick with a call Sona Mem! Sona Mem!! Sona Mem!!!
As Frederick and Emily Minchin entered the Church hand in hand all eyes were fixed on the couple. Fair skinned Emily Minchin looked as gorgeous, as charismatic as any other European white lady attending the wedding.
Frederick and Sona Minchin proceeded to a palatial building Frederick had built for Emily on the banks of Chilika Lake. The couple also had many such buildings at Gopalpur-on-sea beach, Aska, Madras.
When Frederick Minchin died in 1908 Sona was crestfallen but carried on with the Sugar Factory for several years till she could manage it no more. The Minchin family had undertaken many philanthropic works in and around Aska.
The Minchin Story is almost a page out of fairy tale book. The tomb stone of the couple can be seen at the State Museum in Bhubaneswar. Aska Sugar Factory is still operational today. But the Minchin legacy is slowly fading out of public memory.
Sunil Kumar Biswal is a Chartered Engineer, Town Planner, Energy Auditor, Renewable Energy Consultant & Zero Defect Zero Effect Consultant for MSMEs. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha and is an Entrepreneur. His other interests are HAM Radio (Callsign VU2MBS), Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups), Photography and has a passion for writing on diverse topics including fiction (in both English & Odia). He loves communicating science to common man in simple language and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput. He can be reached at sunilbiswal@hotmail.com and Cell No.7008580528
It was early morning. The Sun was yet to rise. The crows and roosters were crowing sorrowfully. The melancholic chirpings of the small birds had made the ambience grieving. Dogs were weeping. Sita, mother of missing Krishna, was crying and crawling in the cremation ground. Stray bulls were roaming there. Most of the people, young and old, were searching for Krishna.
The slabs were removed, revealing the drain. Rainwater had flowed away. Less water was running down the drain. The dogs were searching for missing Krishna in the drain, since they were playing with him and licking him as his friends from the days he started running on the streets. They loved him. Now in his absence, they were looking for him.
Another two drains joined this drain at a distance under a culvert and from that place the three drains were flowing together to the main drain that was connected to 'Gangua', the rivulet. People also removed the slabs of that drain and also the big drain that was going down from the culvert.
But neither the body of Krishna nor his chappal was found anywhere. People were puzzled and perplexed.
A missing case for Krishna was filed in the local police station. The ACP told us - The police squad would reach there after a while.
The media people came with their camera. It was the trending, breaking news of the local TV Channels.
Our local stray dogs were going under the culvert and coming out and barking sorrowfully at people repeatedly, as if something was hidden under the culvert. Its length, width and depth were around 30×5×5 feet and it was the converging place of three drains. People were gathering near the culvert. The place was crowded.
The sweepers of our apartment complex felt the dogs were very sensitive and they might have smelled something inside the culvert. Someone should go inside it to see what lies therein.
The culvert was dark inside and full of dirty, foul smelling sewage water, broken stones and bricks, mosquitoes, etc. No one was ready to go inside it. Something was seen faintly in the focus of the torchlight. But what was it ?
The secretary on behalf of our apartment society paid one of the sweeper five hundred rupees to go inside and see what's inside the culvert.
He went inside it with a torch light and came outside crying.
We asked him - Why did you come back ?
He said - You take back your money. I cannot lose my life for money. Poisonous snakes are there. I have seen their hoods, eyes and bodies. They started moving towards me. I ran out to save my life.
Another sweeper went to the drain and looked inside the culvert from a little distance and said - A rotten foul smell is coming out. It's too suffocating to go further inside. One can't go inside without proper protection.
In the meantime, the ACP reached there with a police squad and dog. We informed them about the situation, snakes and foul smell. They called for the fire brigade and the snake helpline. Within half an hour, they reached there, went inside the dreadful, deadly culvert with required protection and caught hold of the poisonous snakes.
They found a body in a corner of the culvert. They brought it out. It was the body of Krishna with his chappal in his right hand. They laid him on the culvert. But his body was still and senseless.
Keeping his body in the van, the police rushed to the Capital Hospital with a hope of his survival and rescue. But no life was in his body to be saved by the doctors. They declared him dead on arrival.
Sita was weeping and crawling in the cremation ground and asking all of us about her only son. But who would tell her the saddest truth? We went to her. All of us were sorrowful. Our faces were gloomy with tearful eyes.
She asked us in her delirium, in melancholic voice - I can see clearly … how my Krishna is playing and floating his paper boats in the rainwater! Do you see him? His father has also come from Mumbai with a car for us. Now we would go back to Mumbai in his car. Can you hear the horn of the car ? Please give farewell to us. If we have committed any mistake, please forgive us….
In the meantime, the police brought the body of Krishna and laid him on her lap. She was caressing, fondling, embracing his body, kissing and smelling his nose. His body was breathless and still. She was sprinkling water on his face to wake up her only son. But he was not getting up!
She was staring at us with questions and tears in her eyes and heart.
Everyone in the crowd was crying.
She laid her son on her breast as if she was breastfeeding him and held him in her loving hands tightly. She was now breathless and motionless, with her unbreathing son, Krishna on her bust.
The crowd was crying for the untimely demise of the cute, lovely, naughty Krishna and for his mother. They remembered his father had also died in a road accident.
The sun was setting in the Western horizon. The dogs who used to play with Krishna were now weeping.
In the same cremation ground near the deadly drain, the funeral pyre burned the dead bodies of Krishna and his mother to ashes at last.
In the darkness of the late evening, the people of the locality were feeling the spirits of Krishna and his parents.
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.
Dear readers, have you ever experienced the strange pain of a jolt from the blue, which sends you staggering? Just imagine, you spot a familiar face in the crowd, your face breaks into a smile. You rush to greet your friend and gather him in a friendly embrace. The smile gets wider as you come closer to your friend and then the heavens fall with a bang, He looks through you and walks on. You feel someone has punctured your balloon, you shake your head, wondering what hit you.
Jayant had a similar feeling on an evening which had no business to go wrong. He had come to meet his old friend Natabar, the owner of the paan shop at the street corner where the wall of the middle school ends and the two diagonal streets meet in an apparent bon homie. He was returning to the shop after six months, having left the town on a sudden transfer to the far off town of Nabarangpur. As an officer in a small cooperative bank he had no choice, there was no way he could have stopped the transfer. The day he got the order, the Manager relieved him. Jayant rushed to Khorda to spend a week with the parents, his wife and son. On the way back he spent the day at his old, rented room, gathered his stuff and paid off the rent to the owner. He was to leave for Nabarangpur by the midnight bus. He hurried to Natabar's paan shop, his favourite hunting place during the two years he spent in Cuttack. He wanted to take leave from Natabar, who had enlivened his evenings every day with his enending torrent of gossips, but he saw a big lock on the shutters. For some reason Natabar had closed the shop early and left for home. Jayant had left for Nabarangpur with a heavy heart.
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Jayant had lived alone in Cuttack for the two years he was posted there. His wife and son had not joined him, preferring to stay with his parents at Khurda to ensure uninterrupted schooling for the kid. Jayant took a small room on rent and made arrangements with a nearby eating house for his meals. Every evening he would return from the bank around seven, go to the eatery for his dinner and then leisurely ambled to Natabar's shop for a dose of paan and a drag of Wills Filter. Natabar would be eagerly waiting for him to open his bag of the day's gossip, of all that happened or was supposed to happen but did not. Often Jayant would linger on and Natabar would chastise him,
"Jayant Babu, it's going to be nine. go home. You are in no hurry, but I have to go back to a family, my wife will be waiting to have food with me. My two sons would have returned from their tuition and would be eager to share their day's happenings with me. Let me close the shop, I don't think I will get any more customers. After ten this lane becomes dangerous, drunkards and goons move around waiting for easy prey. I hope you don't move out of your room after ten, don't. You look like a gentleman with money stuffed in your pocket, these bastards will loot you, then cut you to pieces and throw them in the municipality drain".
Jayant would laugh,
"Arrey Nata, do I look like a rich man to you? An officer in a cooperative bank is as poor as a street mouse. We are not like the officers in State Bank or big banks, their allowance is often more than our pay."
Natabar's eyes would pop out,
"Announce? One can get money by announce? These guys who go on bicycles and rickshaws to announce sales and promotions, they get more money than you?"
"No, no, not announce, allowance. These big shots in big big banks, get a fat pay and on top of it an allowance for everything - an allowance for visiting clients, allowance for entertaining guests, allowance for attending meetings, I sometimes feel they must be claiming an allowance for sleeping with their wives.....he....he....I hope you understand what I mean.....he he...he he he...."
Natabar would nod in understanding,
"I didn't know you were so badly off, no wonder you cannot afford to keep your family with you. But remember Jayant Babu, if you ever need emergency funds for something you can always count on me. I can give you fifteen twenty thousand without a sweat. And don't kill yourself with worry, I will not charge you any interest, I am not as heartless as your banks......."
With that Natabar would break into a loud laughter, Jayant would join him, marvelling at the large heartedness of the paan wala.
Natabar was undoubtedly a class by himself. If he was not a paan wala, he would have been a good teacher, or may be a preacher. A non-stop talker, he had an opinion on anything and everything. Everyone for him had his own space, but in different ways. The country according to him, was in good hands, but corruption was the cancer that was eating away the innards of Bharat Mata. Easy money through dubious means was the bane of the society - look at the way the upstarts were roaming around in big Boleros. They were nothing but street ruffians a few years back, somehow got into the good books of the local MLA, helped him in booth capturing, collecting extortion money, and lo, in five years these goons became corporators, councillors, siphoned off money from road work, construction projects. From motorbikes they got promoted to Boleros and SUVs, a few chamchas following them in bikes all the time.
"But tell you what Jayant Babu, these guys have big hearts, they throw money like water. Look at that Dilbar Mian, the local MLA's right hand man, every time he comes to my shop he would be followed by ten fifteen fellows, he will order paan and cigarettes for every one and throw a five hundred rupees note at me. When I open my box to return the balance to him, he would laugh it away, 'Keep it Nata, give me paan for free next time I come.' And he would forget all about it. That's how he is, a big heart, a real big heart he has."
Jayant would smile,
"Nata, don't get carried away, fellows like Dilbar get easy money so they go easy on spending."
Natabar would shake his head,
"No Jayant Babu, I get all kinds of people here, I have analysed their character, all are not same. Policemen come here, so also lawyers, fish merchants, butchers, teachers.....all kinds of people. I can tell you who is what."
"O, what can you tell about them?"
Natabar's face would screw up,
"These policewalas are the worst, they will grab everything, paan, cigarettes, biscuits, small cakes, and will pay for nothing. The teachers will always pay for their paan and cigarettes, but will be scared to be caught smoking by the students or the head master. The fish merchants and butchers smell for a mile when they come here. I can't say no to them, they spend a lot, but the moment they leave the shop I have to burn a dozen incense sticks to drive away the stench. God knows how their wives stand the stink!"
Natabar would smile slyly at Jayant hinting at the hidden meaning behind the loaded statement,
"And the school kids! Jayant Babu, you won't believe, eleven-twelve year old kids will come here, pretending to look for toffees, they would nudge each other, and one of them would look to all sides, then whisper to me, 'Mausa, how strong are these cigarettes? Will our heads reel if we smoke a couple of them? Will they give a feeling of intoxication? Can we try some? Please?' I would shoo them away, 'You monkeys, this is not the age for you to smoke cigarettes or chew paans, go and study, become big officers, then you can smoke as much as you like. Here, take these toffees, and go back to your class.' They would make faces at me, 'Mausa, toffeees are for girls, bulls like us would like to smoke a cigarette or two. If you don't sell us cigarettes, someone else will, but don't give us lectures, we get enough of them from our teachers. Don't try to turn bulls into bullocks'. They throw some abuses at me also."
Jayant would feel scandalised,
"What? Don't tell me? Throwing abuses at you? Such small kids! What is this world coming to?"
"Small kids? You don't know what these small kids are capable of! It's too embarrassing to tell a gentleman like you."
Natabar would look expectantly at Jayant, waiting to be goaded,
"Array Nata, I am a married man, you don't have to feel shy with me."
Natabar would resume with great gusto,
"You remember the heavy rains last week? When the heavens opened up like a river gone wild? Somehow the school was open that day. Suddenly there was some movement at the corner where the wall of the school ends and I peered through the sheets of rain. Two girls from the school came along with umbrellas above their heads. They were talking and giggling like soft balloons dancing on a slippery floor. Suddenly two boys came running and got under the two umbrellas. They thought nobody could see them. And Jayant Babu! What should I say! I have not seen something so hot in my life! The boys and girls hugged each other and soon the hands of the boys got busy over the bodies of the adolescent girls. I started shivering in shock and anger. Gradually they started moving away from the wall and came towards my shop. I thundered at them in my loudest voice. I threatened to catch them and hand them over to the head master. They got scared and ran back to the school. Imagine Jayant Babu, hardly twelve years old, and doing such dirty things! If they were my kids I would have choked them to death. All this is the evil effect of Kaliyug, I am telling you Jayant Babu, we are staring at collapse of the universe!"
On a Sunday evening Natabar was in an expansive mood holding forth on many topics,
"Array Jayant Babu, what is this I hear? Government have introduced a new milk scheme in the market through OMFED? They are removing fat from the milk and selling it? Hah, another devil in disguise in this Kaliyug. Ever since the days of Krishna Bhagwan milk was always with fat, what is the point in selling the milk after removing the fat? They may as welll throw it in the drain, our drains are built to take everything in them, all kinds of muck. Just add fatless milk to that. No one will notice. Hai, hai, what a pity, milk without fat, now government will start selling paan without beetlenuts! Then I should close my shop and go back to the village! What a great injustice!"
Jayant tried to reason with him,
"Nata, there is nothing wrong in removing fat from some of the milk. It's not like Government is removing fat from all the milk. There are some people, like those with heart problems, high blood pressure or obesity, who should not consume excess fat. For them fatless milk is good. Milk is mainly consumed for its protein content, not for fat. One can get fat from other sources also. You don't worry about closing your shop. Even if you go away to your village we will run after you and bring you back."
Natabar was not convinced, he still thought government was cheating on people by removing fat and selling the fatless milk,
"Jayant Babu, only educated people like you will be fooled by government, not rustic owls like us. Our brains have been sharpened by fat and cream from milk. Jayant Babu, milk without fat is like body without soul. Government is an expert in cheating, right since the day Chacha Nehru built all those dams and released water after removing electricity from it. Electricity is what generates power, so if you take out the power from water what will remain in it? What will the fish eat? How will grains grow? Where will they get power?"
Jayant was shocked at the poor fellow's ignorance,
"Nata, are you really so ignorant? We need electricity, look at the bright bulb in your shop, how is it running? If there is no electricity we can't develop as a country. And producing electricity from water is one of the safest and cleanest ways to do it. Water after generation of electricity loses no power at all. In fact haven't you noticed how our farmers are producing more grains per acre than before, how our fish are getting bigger and fatter over the years. If there was no power in water, how that would be possible?"
Natabar would start a mild rebuke,
"What Jayant Babu, doesn't your college education reveal the reality to you? It is chemicals and fertilisers which are helping in producing large quantities of grains and fish. If it was so good to have them why more and more people are getting all kinds of diseases, why there are frequent cases of food poisoning? Since the water is thoroughly useless after power is taken out of it, the evil effects of fertilisers and pesticides lead to illness and sometimes untimely death. Ask your parents and grand parents, did they ever hear of people dying of cancer or heart-bursting? These were unheard of when the water retained all its power and no one thought of taking fat out of milk. Jayant Babu, people like you have to unlearn a lot from all the wrong things you have learnt in your schools and colleges. It is all government's fault - giving you a degree and leaving you more uneducated than before."
Jayant would have been joined by a few more customers by then and they would laugh at Natabar, making Jayant wonder if they were agreeing or disagreeing with the paan wala.
The day the communists came visiting his shop Natabar was in a conspiratorial mood - waiting eagerly for Jayant for the evening visit, bubbling with the story within,
"Array Jayant Babu, you know what happened today? A group of communists came to my shop around ten o clock, about twenty of them. They were talking animatedly, walking towards the maidan to participate in some procession against the government. It seems government is planning to take away lots of land from the farmers to set up some factory about seventy kilometres from here. The communists want to stop it. Looks like the lands are all fertile, irrigated and the government is offering some fallow, useless land in exchange. They were talking of someone called Mamata Banerjee in Bengal who is doing an agitation against government taking away farmers' land."
Jayant had read about the Singur project from newspapers. Before he could enlighten Natabar on that the paanwalla looked to all sides and whispered,
"You know Jayant Babu these communist fellows were talking of doing some big agitation, they want to gherao the Collector's office and sit in dharnaa in Bhubaneswar. I got scared, they were looking serious. I almost thought they would start shouting slogans in front of my shop and draw people's attention. But tell you what, these communist fellows are real gems. They bought cigarettes not in packets, but only one per person, same with paan also. Each one paid for his purchase, not like some big leader flashing big notes and throwing them at me, the way our councillors and street leaders do. I think they are very honest people, some of them even had small holes in their shirts. I never thought some netas in our country would be so poor, I always imagined them to be fat, pot-bellied - floating in money."
Jayant shook his head,
"No, no, Nata, in West Bengal where communists are in power, their chief minister lives in his two bedroom flat. Some ministers are bachelors and because they don't have a family they prefer to live in the party headquarters. They lead a simple life."
Natabar's mouth fell open,
"Aaan, what are you saying? Chief minister living in a flat and ministers in party office? Don't they have big bungalows with seven-eight rooms and ten acres of land like our ministers here? I can't believe it."
"It's true. I have a classmate, Prasanna, who is an IAS officer in West Bengal. He says when the ministers go on tour to districts nobody makes big arrangements for food in circuit house for them. They go to the local party leader's house and eat their usual rice and fish curry. But you know what, simple living is good only when it comes with high thinking. Communists have brought no development to West Bengal, people are still very poor there. That way we are much better off in Orissa."
One evening Jayant was delayed in the bank. By the time he went to Natabar's shop for his customary paan, cigarette and gossip, it was almost closing time. Nata was waiting for him, a smile on his face, eager to pour out some good story,
"Jayant Babu, you won't believe what happened today. There are still some good people around us. One of them is young Munawar, a local dada who had come to my shop around four o clock with a few of his chamchas. The school had just closed. Some five-six students came and asked me, 'Mausa, how much is the Kurkure packet?' I told them ten rupees. Their face fell, they looked at each other and started walking away. Munawar noticed it and called them back, 'Hey, boys, you want to have Kurkure? Come here.' The boys stood still, hesitating. One of the chamchas went to them and led them here. Munawar took a hundred rupee note from his pocket and gave to me, 'Mausa, give a packet of Kurkure to each of them and out of the balance, give them lots of toffeees. Let them be happy.' The boys were scared, 'No Bhaiya, our parents will beat us if they knew we took Kurkure and toffeees from an unknown person.' Munawar laughed, 'Hey, boys, don't be scared. What's happening to our kids, always scared! Scared of parents at home, afraid of teachers at school, wary of cars and bikes on the road! You should not be scared. Live life bindaas yaar! Take the Kurkure and enjoy. It's a gift from your Bhaiya.'"
Natabar's face broke into a huge smile at the memory of it,
"Jayant Babu, you should have seen the way the faces of those boys lit up, they grabbed the stuff and ran away, happy, repeatedly saying thank you Bhaiya, thank you Bhaiya. And Munawar? He looked at me, grinning, as if he had just won an election of our municipality ward."
Jayant felt bad to pour cold water on Natabar's joy,
"Munawar should not have done it. He has only made the boys crave for things which they cannot afford. Today he gave Kurkure to the boys, tomorrow who will give? Day after tomorrow who will give? Can their parents afford so much pocket money for their kids? And where does Munawar get his money to throw around? It's all ill-gotten income. I don't like it Nata, I don't approve of it."
"Oho, Jayant Babu, why are you hung up on such a small thing? Tomorrow there may be some other Munawar to give Kurkure to the kids. Munawar wanted to be happy, kids wanted the Kurkure. All were happy, why are you making a long face?"
Jayant smiled,
"Yes, all were happy, but you must be the happiest, whether Munawar spolis the kids or some other dada does it, they will come to your shop, the profit is all yours, you get richer."
Natabar's face froze, a cloud of pain enveloping it, like he had just been struck by a bolt from nowhere. He fixed Jayant with a hard stare,
"After two years of friendship, this is what you think of me? Jayant Babu, you may not know what a brutal kick you gave to my heart with that cruel statement. Just because we are uneducated, don't think we have no heart. Now, go home, I have to close my shop. And see, I am taking a few packets of Kurkure and some toffees for my two kids, just to spoil them for a day and see the happy smiles on their face."
With that Natabar got up and started pulling the shutters, his face grave with a hidden grief, as if he had just received the news of some close one's death. Jayant felt bad and slowly dragged himself to his small den, regretting all the while the insensitive comment he had made. He wondered if working in the bank had made his heart turn into stone, trying to be suspicious of everyone and everything around him.
The next evening he apologised to Natabar, who had of course forgotten the rancour of the previous night, like just a bad dream. They kept chatting, sharing gossips, speculating on who would win the next round of state elections and how prices were rising, making life difficult for the common man. A fortnight later Jayant got his order of transfer to Nabarangpur, the remotest corner of Orissa. His successor, who came from Nabarangpur was already waiting in the bank to join immediately. Jayant was relieved by the Manager and he left for Khorda to spend a week with his family. The day he returned to clear up his one room den and catch the night bus to Nabarangpur, he had gone to Natabar's shop in the evening after a frugal dinner. He had found it locked. And he had returned to Cuttack after six months to attend to some audit in the branch where he had worked for two years.
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Today on his two days' trip to Cuttack Jayant was eager to meet his old friend. He had come with the hope of spending a coiuple of jolly hours catching up with all the gossips of the last six months he was away. He saw Natabar sitting at his usual place, waiting for customers. Jayant let out a big shout and greeted his old friend. But he was shocked at the way Natabar ignored him, refusing to even recognise him, sitting with a stony face, not even a flicker of smile in memory of the good times they had. He was aggrieved,
"What Nata, you forgot me so soon? It has been just six months since I went away and you are behaving like I am a stranger?"
Natabar did not look at him, he just shook his head,
"It's a very cruel world Babu, even one's own relatives turn their faces away when bad time comes visiting, what can one expect from customers?"
Jayant felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. Customer? Natabar thought of him as just a customer? Nothing more than a mere customer? All the balmy evenings they had spent together with gossips on all subjects under the sun had no meaning? Natabar's indifference shocked him. Ever since he left Nabarangpur he had been eagerly looking forward to this meeting. He felt let down, a slow anger rising in him.
"Ok, give me two paans and a packet of Wills Filter."
Natabar said nothing. He started making the paan for Jayant. The ensuing silence was insufferable for Jayant, he wondered if he made a mistake coming here. Natabar didn't look at him, bent his head and pretended to be busy. Jayant looked at the goods in the shop. Some new items had been added on the shelves since he left. His eyes were drawn towards three battery torches lying on a shelf. They were attractive, in three different colours. He liked the one in green, he needed a torch at his small flat in Nabarangpur.
"Nata, please take out the green torch and show me, I might buy it."
Natabar looked at him, his blank stare unnerved Jayant. Natabar bent his head and continued making the paan.
Jayant lost his cool and exploded in an unusually fierce anger,
"Nata! What has happened to you? Have you become deaf? Why are you sitting there like an useless invalid? Why don't you get up and bring the torch from the shelf? Why are you ignoring me as if I am a nobody?"
Jayant was loud, as if a bomb had gone off inside him and came out in anguished words. Before Natabar could reply, a boy came running and stared at Jayant,
"Who are you? Why did you shout st my Baba? And did you just call him an useless invalid?"
The boy was obviously angry, his father tried to pacify him,
"Mohan, don't shout at him. He is a big officer from the bank, we are too small for him."
For no apparent reason two drops of tear appeared in Natabar's eyes, he tried to hide them. Mohan was aghast,
"Bank officer? You are Jayant Sir? Where were you all these days? Baba was looking for you desperately, asking for you almost everyday in the hospital."
It was Jayant's turn to be shaken, like a helpless leaf in a fierce storm.
"Hospital? Why was he in a hospital?"
Mohan showed surprise,
Don't you know? About six months back, Baba was returning home one night after closing the shop, he was hit by a motorbike and broke his legs. He was in the hospital for more than a month. You won't believe Sir, when he regained consciousness after three days of the accident he kept on asking, hasn't Jayant Babu come? Hasn't anyone informed him? Then again next day - how come Jayant Babu hasn't come to visit me, doesn't he know I am in the hospital? He asked me if I had informed you. Unfortunately none of us knew which bank or which branch you were working in. Baba had also forgotten the name of your bank. I enquired in a couple of banks but no one knew you there. After about a month Baba gave up, but he was worried something bad should not have happened to you..... The doctors could not save Baba's legs, they were amputated below the knees. That's why he can't get up without my assistance."
Jayant was shocked beyond belief,
"O my God, this must have happened when I had gone away for a week to spend time with my family. No wonder the shop was locked when I came to take leave from Nata before boarding the bus to Nabarangpur. I swear to God, I never knew about Nata's accident. Otherwise you think I would not have visited him in the hospital? Has God made a better human being than Nata in this whole world, can someone be more noble, more compassionate than him?"
His eyes blinded by tears, Jayant looked at Natabar who had collapsed on his seat, stricken by grief, for doubting his old, reliable friend. Jayant climbed onto the shop and gathered his friend in a tight hug. The old friends kept sobbing and dissolved into a torrent of tears.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
ANECDOTES
“You are as good as your last mistake,” remarked a colleague on hearing that I had missed my promotion. All my good work had come to naught, ostensibly because I had not handled my last client ‘properly’. At the end of the day, my friend said, it all boils down to how the boss perceives your ‘mistake’ and ‘convinces’ himself about the genuineness of a client’s protest. A grumble from a notorious customer nullifies all the appreciation that other clients would have heaped on you.
I used to watch an American TV serial on lawyers, ‘The Practice’, from where I learnt how ‘perception’ plays a big part in the scheme of things. A doctor and the hospital he was working at were charged with negligence for causing the death of a woman from a ruptured uterus during delivery because the doctor did not perform a C-section in time. The doctor pleaded before the court that he had performed hundreds of deliveries and this was the first case where the patient had died. He further stated that it was prescribed medical practice to encourage natural childbirth in the interests of both the mother and the baby—though unfortunately in this case it had resulted in tragedy. What no one was aware of, not even the patient's husband, was that the lady had an abnormal pre-natal condition which caused her death. The operating doctor had attributed her crying out in agony to labour pain. The court ruled ‘negligence’ and convicted both the hospital and the doctor. While the hospital suffered only monetary compensation awarded against it, the doctor stood to suffer much greater damage. No insurance company was now willing to grant him cover and without insurance cover he could never hope to practise again. A good doctor’s career was destroyed despite his track record because of a mishap ‘perceived’ as a mistake in the eyes of the judge or the jury, that too in hindsight. Like beauty, justice lies in the eyes of the beholder—and is just as fragile.
Sadly, bosses rarely give a second chance instead of condemning a person based on his last 'mistake'!
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.
‘Sir, you have a visitor’, announced the chaprasi-cum-phone attendant.
The young SDO had returned from a tiring, day-long tour of the dehat, supervising the work of the field officials: Patwaris, and other village level workers; it was already 8.30 PM on a chilly winter evening, and his wife was ready to serve dinner; and hence, he was mildly irritated. Why does the guard at the gate allow visitors to the residence at such late hours, he grumbled? But when he stepped out to the porch and the visitor greeted him with a polite bow, he knew why the guard at the gate couldn’t have stopped him.
‘Kalyan Singh Ji, kaise ana hua?’ he asked with his impeccable tehzeeb.
It was a polite way of saying hello. Kalyan Singh visited him, once or twice a month, always at the residence, and at a date and time of his choosing, which was usually late in the evening. Somehow, he always knew when the SDO saheb would be at home and he would have his undivided attention.
‘Aaj aap se nahin, Bai Saheb se milna hai,’ he said as if it was the most natural thing to demand an audience with the officer’s newly-wed wife, without appointment, and at this late hour. The young officer knew that Kalyan Singh was not one to take no for an answer, and there was no point in explaining to him the niceties of the protocol for calling on a lady.
After his two-year training, the young officer had been posted as Sub Divisional Officer & Sub Divisional Magistrate at Dabra, a small town at a distance of 44 kms from Gwalior, the district headquarters. That was his first substantive charge, and he was for the Sub Division what the District Collector was for the district. He had got married a few months earlier but his wife had stayed back at Lucknow to write her final examinations, and had joined him at Dabra only a few days ago.
He went in to the dining hall where his wife was waiting, and said, the visitor wants to meet you. Why, what for, asked his wife, why would a visitor like to meet me? She knew no one at Dabra and no one knew her. Why would anyone demand to meet her, she couldn’t fathom?
Don’t worry, it’s just a courtesy call, assured her husband. She stepped out and was startled to see a towering 6.5 ft tall, burly man with a handle-bar moustache, a large vermilion mark on the forehead, and a rifle slung on his shoulder. He wore a dhoti, a long kurta, and a jacket with a rough shawl draped over it, and had a humongous turban on his head.
Before she could say anything, the visitor bent down with some difficulty to touch her feet while ensuring to keep the muzzle of the rifle well away from her body.
‘Aap hamare ilake mein pehli baar padharen hain, isliye darshan karne ayen hain’, he said and without any further fuss took out a garland from under his shawl and was about to drape it on her neck when she flinched and stepped back. The visitor got the message and bent down to offer the garland which she accepted, joined her palms for a quick namaste before darting back into the house. Still in a daze, she asked, ‘Who was he?’
‘Oh, Kalyan Singh Ji. He was once a much-feared dacoit of the Chambal ravines, but hung up his rifle; and comes for a courtesy visit at least once a month to keep me posted about the movement of various gangs in the area.’
Note:
- Based on the narration by D.S. Mathur (IAS:MP:1971), Former SDO, Dabra; and Prof. Lalita Mathur.
- The dreaded Chambal dacoits with a hefty reward on their heads - Madho Singh and Mohar Singh - had surrendered, along with 200 dacoits, and had laid down their rifles at the feet of Jai Prakash Narayan before a crowd of 10000 people at village Dhorera, Dist-Morena, on 14/04/1972, only a year before D.S. Mathur was posted to Dabra.
- Phoolan Devi surrendered before Arjun Singh, CM, MP at Bhind in 1982.
Born and educated in Odisha, India, P. K. Dash taught in G.M. College, Sambalpur and had a stint in the State Bank of India before joining the Indian Administrative Service. He superannuated as Additional Chief Secretary to Government of Madhya Pradesh. He lives in Bhopal.
Books by the Author :: Short story collections:
- Tell A Tale and Other Stories
- Invisible Poet and Other Stories
- The Mysterious Ladies and Other Stories
- Fiction
- Kathapur Tales
- Essays
- Pink Diamond and Other Essays
- Self-Help
- How To Be an Author in 7 Days: A Beginner’s Guide to Self- Publishing
- Story books for children:
- Cave of Joy: Anand Gufa
- Two Tales, Three Tellers: A Fairytale & A Fable
Poetry
- O Krishna, O Son! Yashoda’s Sublime Song of Sorrow
- River Song and Other Poems
- Songs of Soil: Selected Poems of an Unschooled Bard: Padma Shri Haladhar Nag
*** Note: The books are available at Amazon.in, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai. Ebooks are available at Amazon Kindle.
RAY, RAILWAY AND A RETROSPECTIVE
(Celebrating Satyajit Ray’s “Apu Trilogy” on his Centenary Year-2021)
A plethora of films have been shot on trains and railway stations world over either as the central theme of the film, a trope or as a metaphor since the time cinema arrived on the screen in early 20th century. In fact, train scenes became an integral element of script in most of Satyajit Ray’s films exhibiting an enduring love story between them. But, this abiding relationship is best demonstrated in Apu Trilogy with the train scenes in the three- film saga regarded as the most epic sequences in the history of film making. In “The Inner Eye-Biography of a Master Film Maker”, Andrew Robinson aptly describes “The sights and sounds of railway trains as the woof of the Trilogy, drawing it together in to an epic work”.
Urbane and westernized, imbued with the ethos of Bengal Renaissance, Ray surprisingly chose Bibhuti Bhusan’s novel Pather Panchali set in rural Bengal of early 20th century for his debut film. Ray’s limited exposure to the rural milieu notwithstanding, this film turned out to be a cinematic masterpiece. “I chose Pather Panchali”, Ray wrote, “for the qualities that made it a great book: its humanism, its lyricism and its ring of truth”. The influence of ‘neo realism’ in Ray’s films is palpable from his first cinematic creation. A graphic designer by profession, Ray went to London on official business for a brief period. During this period he saw a myriad of films including the neo-realist film ‘The bicycle thieves’ by the Italian director De Sica which left a profound impression on his resolve to switch tack to become a film maker of substance. He developed a new genre of movies in India that portrayed reality in an objective yet humane and aesthetic perspective and not from a mediocre escapist fare of melodrama which hitherto typified Indian films.
The story of Pather Panchali aka ‘Song of the Little Road’ revolves around an impoverished Brahmin family, a priest- Harihar, his wife Sarbajaya , daughter Durga and his septuagenarian aunt Indir Thakrun- all born into penury. Harihar is often away from home in pursuit of work leaving Sarbajaya alone to run the household, raise her errant daughter Durga and take care of her ancient cousin Indir. We see Apu later in the film as a baby, rocked affectionately by Indir, from where he grows as a skinny, shy little boy, an apple of everybody’s eye in the family. On her mother’s instruction, Durga wakes up Apu in the morning for his first day in school by gently prizing open his reluctant eye lids. It brings out candidly the playfulness between the siblings and their intimate bond. Apu with his ravenous curiosity finds in his doting sister a friend, philosopher and guide. They live in their own world, sometimes separately but mostly together. The sequences of Apu and Durga exploring their little world and sharing secrets are the most beautiful aspects of the film. These inter alia include the discovery of the train in the field of the fluffy white Kash flower, the candy seller sequence and the most poignantly shot scene of the duo witnessing death of their dear confidante Indir Thakrun from close quarter.
One day, Durga and Apu stray away from their home to find themselves in a vast expanse of white Kash flower. They come across a power pylon whose humming sound mystifies them. Then, Durga hears the familiar sound of whistle from far and they run to the sound of a train as one, as if some unspoken truth has passed between them, free for a moment from the despondency at home. They catch a glimpse of a train for the first time as it chugs away fuming. Though their innocent eyes are struck with awe at the size and speed of the magical object, it offers a perfect moment for liberation. Ray used the sound and sight of the train as a metaphor signifying the curiosity and aspiration to know the unknown- and one that is far away from their world. It also symbolizes the conflict between the old and the new and represents a marked shift in the aspirations of independent India. Whereas, Apu has been presented in the trilogy as modern, eager to embrace change, Durga still remains a prisoner of the archaic world of tradition.
The scene of the train rumbling away to the distance leaving a swathe of black smoke against the fluffy white Kash bloom is considered as one of the most iconic scenes in the film. Five trains were used to shoot the scene. After the last train had departed, Ray noticed the unusual spectacle produced by the smoke. In Ray’s words, “Within seconds the camera was set up and the shot was taken in fast fading sunlight. But I think the last minute improvisation added a lot of beauty to the sequence”. Though the mesmeric train scene appeared much later in the film, Ray shot the scene first to show the footage to John Houston , the celebrated Hollywood film maker who was then visiting Calcutta for finalizing the locations for his film “The Man who would be King”. Houston thought it “a fine, sincere piece of film making”. Just before his death in 1987, Houston recalled, “I recognized the footage as the work of a great film maker”. This epic scene is considered as the most defining sequences in film history. Trains featured in all the three films of the trilogy, symbolizing a suspended space between the past and the present or the living and the dead. It is a contra symbol used as a double for both progress as well as death.
On their way back home after their fascinating tryst with the train, Durga and Apu meet something more incomprehensible; their first encounter with death. They find their great aunt Indir sitting crouched with her head buried in her knees. Thinking it to be a prank, Durga shakes her vigorously and to her shock,finds her dead. The whole sequence along with the train shot symbolize the death of tradition in the face of modernity epitomized in the form of a train. Like her great aunt , Durga also breaths her last from high fever in a stormy rain- devastated night symbolizing gradual withering away of tradition. Death of Durga devastates the forlorn family and they move to Banaras hoping for better days.
The second film Aparajito (The Unvanquished) opens with the camera looking out of the window of a train as it races across the steel beams of the bridge over holy Ganga heralding the arrival of the holy city of Banaras. Harihar , Sarbajaya and their teen aged son Apu live in Banaras with Harihar’s meagre earning from reciting holy scriptures on the river banks. Bereft of the tutelage of his sister Durga, Apu wanders and explores the city on his own and basks in its glory. One fine morning, Apu is woken up from his slumber by his mother to fetch the holy water from the river to put in his dying father’s mouth. Apu sees his father breathing his last after taking a sip of the holy water, putting to rest all his misery. Tradition licks the dust for the third time in Apu’s short life. Sarbajaya decides to return with Apu to a village where her great uncle works as a priest. A protracted shot of the moving world outside, taken from inside the train brings out a pensive Sarbajaya, lost in her thoughts pondering over the uncertainties of their future life. A wry smile surfaces on the corner of her lips when the familiar landscape of rural Bengal erupts before her eyes. In this film, Ray brings the railway line closer to their house in the village to use the train as a connection between Apu and his mother. The train stands as a symbol of a deeply experienced conflict between mother and son in respect of their incompatible world view and beliefs. Young, intelligent and ambitious Apu’s distaste for apprenticeship as a priest and yearning to join the village school becomes a cause of consternation for his mother. But she accedes to her son’s wishes and even allows him to go for higher studies to Calcutta. Apu grows away from her mother in the city when she battles her failing health alone.On a night sparkling with ephemeral fireflies, Sarbajaya down with fever hallucinates about the arrival of Apu with passing of a whistling train and breathes her last. Apu comes later to find his mother dead. He weeps bitterly. But,he overcomes the loss and moves to Calcutta with new hopes.
In the final sequel of the trilogy, Apur Sansar (The World of Apu), Ray brings the train literally into Apu’s bed room. Said Ray, “When I decided to do Apur Sansar, I had this inspiration. I thought I would take away the lyrical elements of the train and have the couple Apu and Aparna living right on the railway track”. The railway yard of Chitpore with the Talla Bridge and the water tank dominate the back drop of the film punctuated intermittently by the shrill whistle of a steam engine. The train as a symbol of modernity and change becomes increasingly closer to Apu’s world as he grows from a child to a man and finally to a father through each successive film of the trilogy. The parting scene of Apu at the railway station with Aparna going to her parental home for child birth has been beautifully captured. Little do they realize that it will be their last meeting. The traumatic news of Aparna’s death on child birth makes Apu delusional and he makes a failed attempt at suicide on the railway track. Ray describes the sequence as follows - “Apu stands beside the railway tracks as a train approach. A veil of smoke drifts towards him as he lowers his eyes in despair, unable to take the final plunge”. He instead takes another train on an indefinite journey till he finds a meaning in his life and unites with his son after five years. A new journey of father-son duo begins.
In the Apu trilogy, train has been used in various ways by Ray, from its powerful visual presence to its many metaphorical nuances to delineate diverse themes; from a harbinger of death to a symbol of modernity. It embodies a set of expectations related to life, death and the inevitability of change. The theme of the train has also been used and developed for its sonorous elements like the theme of a symphony. It appears at all crossroads of Apu’s life with variegated shades of meaning.
References.
- Our films, their films- Satyajit Ray
- The Cinema of Satyajit Ray: Between Tradition and Modernity-Darius Cooper
- The Inner Eye: Biography of a Master film Maker - W. Andrew Robinson
- Portrait of a Director-Marie Seaton
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.
A friend of mine invited me to his farm in a village in Tirunelvelli, to herald the New Year 2023. My eyes widened in awe, as we marched through acres of well laid out farm with rich greenery, laced with a variety of fruit trees like coconuts, mangoes, guavas and sapotas, to name a few. My friend explained to me the basics of agriculture on how he has been nurturing the farm over the years, as he shepherded me across the vast terrain of rich green cover.
After a few kilometers, enjoying my communion with Nature, we sat down to relax under the shade of the coconut trees, mesmerized by the cool breeze flowing across the palm trees. We seated ourselves over a sheet of green palm leaves on the ground.
The manager in charge provided fresh tender coconut water, together with a green nature given straw. In this case, it was the stem of the papaya leaf, with a broad inner opening that served as a straw. Very innovative, I remarked, to which my friend smiled. It was a pleasure to taste the sweet tender coconut water, flowing through the Nature given green straw. It generated a "feel good" effect to relate to Nature and appreciate its fresh bounties.
I was quite eager to enrich my knowledge from my friend on how the yield is so good and whether it is sustainable. His eyes lit up and he explained to me in detail on how he maintains the trees and the resultant yield out of the trees.
As a first step, he said that he has adopted the "2 Ps" - Protective & Preventive measures. The protective measures are the Cultural and Chemical methods while the preventive measures are by laying traps.
He said that in the month of May, one kg of a mix of groundnut cake and DAP of equal proportion (50%) is placed in the pits created near the roots of each tree and then covered with sand. Before the onset of the monsoon in September, 20 kgs of cow dung with 4 to 5 kgs of hen/cock droppings, (available at government stores), is placed in the pits dug out near the root of each tree and then covered with sand. After monsoon, about 1 1/2 kg of mixture of inorganic matter consisting of Urea (20%), Potash (10%),DAP (60%) and neem cake (10%), is placed at the pits around the roots of each tree. If DAP is not available, it is replaced by NPK (17/17/17) or NPK (15/15/15). In such cases Potassium can be dispensed with.
As a routine, on the first of every month,3G insecticide of 10 gms for each tree, is sprayed at the sprout of each small tree. For the big trees, a V shaped cut is made on the trunk of each such tree and chemicals are injected through a gun.
In addition to this, efforts are taken to keep the surrounding clean, by removing and burning all dead coconut trees and all immature nuts fallen due to mite infection, in the farm, which are likely to serve as breeding ground for beetles and other pests.
The plantation has to be strictly guarded from pests, the most common being Rhinoceros Beetles (Oryctes rhinoceros), which create havoc by boring into the unopened fronds and spathes, which result in 10 to 15 % loss in yield.
The beetle population is maximum during the quarter June - September, coinciding with the onset of the monsoon. The damage to the trees can be detected through holes in central spathes or holes with chewed fibre sticking out in central spindle. At times triangular cuts on leaves are visible.
The adult beetle is stout, brownish black or black and has a long horn projecting dorsally from the head in male. Horn is short in female. This set me thinking whether the beetle is named rhino because of the horn.
As a protective measure, specific traps are placed on the trunk of the trees. While 5 traps per hectare is suggested to draw and effectively kill the beetles, my friend opts for a trap to cover 30 trees.
The trap is in the form of a plastic bin, with a cover, with openings on the circumference under the lid. One litre of water is filled inside the bin along with 2 to 3 pieces of pineapple and 5 gms of detergent. Insecticides, in the form of capsules are placed on the inside of the cover. These insecticides are classified as male (black in colour) and female (red in colour) and for every male insecticide, ten female insecticides are placed on the inside of the cover, in the ratio of 1:10, so that more males get killed, thus minimising mating.
At night, the beetles are attracted to the bins, drawn by the fragrance that spreads in the air. It is amazing to note that male beetles are attracted to the bin housing the female insecticide and vice versa. Further the fragrance does not attract any other pests/ insects and does not harm humans also. These insecticides are specially made for Rhinoceros Beetles. The beetles feed on the capsule and other ingredients and fall into the water, when the wings come off and they die.The dead beetles are periodically removed from the bins and burnt. The water is replenished frequently. The bins are replaced every ninety days through the year. The exercise is put on hold during the rainy season for three months.
I was of the view that not much care is required for fully grown trees. Now after my visit to the farm, I realise that regular maintenance is a must to protect the trees and ensure good yield in a sustained manner.
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.
In the year 2010, we had visited Mayapur for the first time on a tourism package from Kolkata. The enchanting spiritual place had cast a spell since then. Though we wanted to spend more time for exploring the much hyped place in eastern India, but returned back to Kolkata being in the one day tour package. Our dream to spend a night in the holy place - Nadia-Nabadwip remained to be fulfilled. This December an opportunity came when our family friend from Kolkata, Smt. Jayati Siddhanta and Sri Sama Pada Siddhanta personally called on us to invite to attend the marriage ceremony of their daughter Sushree Sritoma . Sritoma has done her BDS AND MS in dental science at Medical colleges in Bhubaneswar and I was her local guardian. With a hope that our unfulfilled wish to stay overnight in a kutira at Mayapur to explore the legends of Mayapur could be materialized, we decided to attend the marriage to be solemnize at Sriram Garden and Banquets, Teghoria , VIP Road ,Kolkata. I had the pleasure of meeting many of my departmental friends particularly Sri S. Ramesh Babu and his wife Sarojini from Vijaywada at the marriage reception on 15.12.22, after 34 years when we first met at Vizag. We could book online tickets in a Mayapur bound ISKCON Volvo bus ,for next day, from pickup point, in front of Bandhan Bank, Ultadanga More. On 16th December morning at 6.20 AM, we got into the Bus which has started its Mayapur journey from Minto Park ISKCON temple, south Kolkata. The bus advanced placidly without traffic jam in the morning hours. As the highway is lined with lush green flora and fauna mostly banana plantations- feast for our eyes, we have greatly enjoyed the journey. The bus took more than usual time to arrive at Mayapur as the National Highway -12 is under expansion from Barasat to Ranaghat for 4 lane drive. Our bus ‘Harekrushna’ arrived at its destination by 11.30 AM at its parking adjacent to our guest house- Ishodayan Bhavan, the most sought-after guest house in Mayapur.
Ishodayan bhavan is strategically located from a number of prominent tourist places some of which are within walking distance. Added to it, standby battery operated trolley cars are always available for the senior citizens like us. The guest house is surrounded by beautiful landscapes and flower gardens with a magnificently laid out campus. Ishodayan Bhavan provides perfect getaway for family, looking to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. Its scenic beauty is too photogenic and unique. You can’t resist your temptation to take selfie keeping the high rise Chandradoya temple in the backdrop or taking snapshots of your dear ones positioned amid the floral beds, green landscapes. Besides this, Ishodayan guest house, there are a number of guest houses such as –Gada Bhavan, Vanshi Bhavan, Chakra Bhavan, Sankha Bhavan, Gita Bhavan, Gouranga Kutira, Nityananda Kutira and so many other aesthetically laid out accommodations ,for the umpteen numbers of visitors who throng to Mayapur for relaxation and soul elevation.
Mayapur is a modern spiritual township situated in an area somewhere in the middle of the River Hoogly(Ganga) and Jalangi and is one of the main islands of the Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s dham Nabadwip. During the sojourn of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu ,in the early sixteenth century ,at Puri his friend and foremost disciple Sri Nityananda Mahaprabhu had predicted that after passage of centuries, a Bhavya Mandir- samkritan centre of the world, would be built at Nadia-Nabadwip dedicated to Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu –the combined avatar of Sriradha and Srikrishna . Incidentally the prophecy of Sri Nityananda Mahaprabhu has been fulfilled after passage of 500 years of his prediction, as an earthen temple was built over a plot of 3 acres of land in the pristine delta of river Hoogly and Malangi by Srila Bhaktivedanta Prabhupad in 1972, which has been gradually developed into a world famous spiritual township over 700 acres of land. Mayapur is located 130 KM from Kolkata and well connected by roads, navigable rivers , and railway networks from there. The holiest of all places in entire India, Mayapur Chandrodaya Temple of ISKCON is the major reason why devotees all over the world come to this sacred place. This temple of Vedic planetarium is unique in the sense that the Pujari floor is 2.5 acres and the temple floor is 60 meters in diameters. An enchanting 20 meter long Vedic chandelier hangs majestically from the ceiling of the mammoth dome which adds to the grandeur of the temple. Inside you can see the magnificent deities of Panchatattva, Lord Nrusingha, Guruparampara Vigrahas, Srila Prabhupada and Radha-Madhab with Gopies. This is a place flowing with devotion like no other place on earth.
Mayapur is a place for spiritual tourism and ecstasy. This place is for relaxation and rejuvenation of mind and soul .The ISKCON Mayapur campus houses several architectural feats including the upcoming largest temple of Vedic Planetarium. This mega construction project-400 feet height has been started in the year 2010, proposed to be completed before close of 2022, but due to Covid-19 which had impacted the ongoing construction, the temple will be completed in 2024. The project includes a Vedic planetarium describing the universe according to the Vedic cosmology, Vaishnav hospitality- in and around nine islands of Nabadwip Dham. Being here, one feels not just peaceful, but blissful. All the 4 directions resound with transcendental sound vibration. After enjoying mouthwatering Prasad at the spacious Prasadam Hall at Gada Bhavan in the afternoon of the day of our arrival , we visited most of the places, temples associated with Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu in Nadia . The most attractive was the museum displaying the journey of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu from Nadia to the shrine of Lord Jagannath with his friends Nityananda, Jagdananda ,Damodar, Mukunda Datta, and Rupa Goswamy and his sojourn at Puri.The saga of Gajapati King Prataprudra Deva and his minister Ray Ramanda’s initiation into Bhakti yoga-Achintya Bhrda Abheda under the tutelage of Sri Chatanya Mahaprabhu, through the good office of Sri Sarvabhouma Bhattacharya, are conspicuously in display. Also in display is the journey of Sri Chaitanya from Puri to Brindavan through Jharikhanda path -the wilderness abounded with wild animals.
Srila Abhay Charanarvinda Bhaktivedanta Swami (1896-1977) was an Indian Gaudiya Vaishnava guru who founded ISKCON, popularly known as the ‘Hare Krishna Movement’. He was regarded as the foremost Vedic scholar, translator, and teacher of the modern era. He is regarded as the world’s most prominent contemporary authority on Bhakti yoga, devotional service for understanding to the supreme person-Krishna, as taught by the ancient Vedic writings of India. He is also the founder Acharya of the ‘International Society for Krishna Consciousness’. Srila Prabhupada’s own spiritual master, Srila Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Thakur, was the leading proponent of Krishna consciousness in India during the early part of the twentieth century. He specially taught the philosophy of Chaitany Mahaprabhu , the divine avatar who revived Krishna-Bhakti all over India in the 1500s. Srila Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati was the son of Srila Bhaktivinoda Thakur (1838-1914) born Kedarnath Datta, was a scion of Zamindar family of Chhoti-Mangalpur in Kendrapara, Odisha. Srila Bhaktivinoda Thakur was a staunch follower of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu and was a spiritual reformer of Gaudiya Vaishnaism who accelerated its resurgence in India in late 19th century and early 20th century and was hailed by contemporary scholars as the most influential Gaudiya Vaishnav leader of his time. He is also credited along with his son Bhakti Siddhanta Saraswati, with pioneering the propagation of Gaudiya Vaishnavism in Western Countries.
As a leading social reformer and educator, Bhakti Vinod founded the Kendrapara High School with the local influential people in 1858 and was the first Headmaster of the School for some time. He was involved in the development of the Mufussil town Kendrapara which later became the first Municipality of British Orissa in 10.03.1869, to award self rule to the people of Kendrapara( Gazetteer of Cuttack in page no733). After relinquishing his teaching career, Kedarnath Datta alias Bhakti Vinod Thakur joind the Judicial service under British raj and posted at the spiritual center of Odisha, the holy city of Sri Purushottam –Puri. After he joined judicial service, Kedarnatha devoted much of his spare time for researching the works on Sri Chaitanya Mahabrabhu. After retirement he devoted time to propagate the Gaudiya Philosophy in and outside India. Incidentally, his son Srila Bhakti Siddhanta Saraswati met the young man Abhaya Charanarvinda Dey , educated at the prestigious Scottish Church College, Kolkata , later famously to be known as Srila Prabhupada in 1922. Abhay Charanarvinda Dey, was initiated into Sanyasa and christened as Srila A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada and took a vow of renunciation and started writing commentaries on Srimad Bhagavat and Vaishnav scriptures as per his guru’s direction in English. As per his guru’s advice who urged him to preach Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s message of Krishna throughout the English speaking world, in his later years. As a travelling monk, he became an influential communicator of Gaudiya Vaishnava theology to India and specifically to the west.
After 40 years of struggling within India to carry out his guru’s order, while maintaining family and business responsibilities, Srila Prabhupada boarded a steamship bound from Kolkata to New York City in 1965. At age sixty nine, with forty rupees and a trunk of his Bhagabatam commentaries-the first ever in English-his aim was to introduce India’s message of peace and goodwill to the western world. During the last 12 years of his life, Srila Prabhupada would inspire thousands of westerners and Indians to devote their lives to Krishna consciousness, launching one of the fastest-growing spiritual movements in the history of the world. He was regarded as a genuine, realized, and scholarly teacher of bhakti marg. His authoritative yet down to earth presentation of Vedas continues to inspire a worldwide audience. With the help of his students, he founded the ISKCON, popularly known as ‘Harekrishna Movement’ due to its member’s widespread practice of chanting ‘Hare Krishna’ mantra in public and greeting each other. Srila Prabhupada intended ISKCON to facilitate the association and education of bhakti-yoga practitioners and his followers continue to spread that mission. His first converts were the hippies in New York City, who would shave their heads and adopted Indian names and clothing as signs of membership. They took to chanting and dancing –a practice called kirtan and used to visit airports to sell their teacher’s books. In the process, they became one of the most visible symbols of the new religious movements in the 1960s.
The International Society for Krishna Consciousness, known colloquially as Hare Krishna movement is a Gaudiya Vaishnava Hindu religious organization. ISKCON was founded in 1966 in New York City. Hare Krishna , ISKCON popular name of semi monastic Vaishnava Hindu organization founded by A.C.Bhakti Vedanta Swami Prabhupada. This movement is a western outgrowth of popular Bengali Bhakti (devotional) yoga tradition, or Krishna Consciousness, which began in the 16th century Bhakti yoga’s founder, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu (1485-1534) advocated the pursuit of mystical devotion through repetitive chanting, especially of the Hare Krishna mantra.
“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna , Hare Hare .
Hare Rama,Hare Rama,
Rama Rama, Hare Hare.”
Our tryst with the spiritual centre-enchanting Mayapur, came to an end as we embarked our return journey, which was aesthetic, ecstatic and blissful. For our return journey, we have booked train tickets from Nadia-Nabadwip railway station. We availed the ferry across River Jalangi and Hoogly (Ganga) to arrive at the Nabadwip Dham Railway station with less expense and time. While cruising in the ferry launch across river Hoogly, we could see a huge bamboo raft comprising of thousand pieces of bamboos tied over pieces of timber logs used as a huge floating platform on the move downstream, manned by two skilled sailors with bamboo poles. I couldn’t resist the temptation to capture the sailing raft-a rare scene in my camera. In train to Howrah Junction, we tried to recapitulate the wonderful and ecstatic experience of our spiritual journey to the most famous place for relaxation and rejuvenation of our mind and soul. After an engrossing and soul elevating trip, we feel lots of clarity in our thoughts and our soul filled with spiritual energy. Really, Mayapur is a most enchanting spiritual place, best in the world. It’s like a religious empire, full of serenity and hospitality.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
Mumbai has been pretty cold this season unlike previous years with major fluctuations in temperature.
This is one season that everyone looks forward to, some respite from the scorching heat and extremely humid conditions.
One can enjoy long drives, leisure walks,hot tea along with pakoras,soups, plenty of greens and salads.
Despite my busy schedule,i make it a point to have my power nap that lasts only for fifteen minutes however I would love to rest longer, thanks to my ever enthusiastic son Rahul who would keep chasing me to fulfill all his demands,more of attention seeking bouts that follow.
Last weekend as usual after lunch i decided to put up my tired feet under the blanket and get cosy in its warmth almost going deep into sleep when I heard a giggle much to my relief that he was in a giggly mood.He had turned off Alexa- who these days many a times plays songs of her choice only.Whenever i ask her to play a particular song, romantic ones,she would immediately reply that the song doesn't exist in her list,but I notice that she gives correct answers to the man of the house very religiously much to my dismay.
Her constant reply is...."I'm facing internet issues right now""which of course is a constant issue in our society campus in fact a challenging task.
There are moments when my son demands a quiet space to the extent that even fans need to be switched off absolutely pin drop silence to be maintained specially when sensory issues are on the higher side.One can just hear the birds chirping, parrots and the greater ocural are the frequent visitors out here as it's surrounded by green foliage.
I could still hear him giggling and cheerful much to my relief but by now I was getting a little curious to know what had suddenly happened for this change of mood.As i mentioned that was the end of my afternoon nap that never lasts longer than fifteen minutes.I pushed away my blanket most unwilling and slowly tip toed towards the library which served as the office space during covid times.
Much to my delight i found Rahul had picked up his father's spects and was wearing them, this was the first time he had worn them and sure everything must have looked hazy around him,he kept turning his head to get a clear vision,he probably tried to imitate his father and was sitting too on his couch.
It was an experience for him.This whole episode kept him quite engrossed and he seemed to be enjoying the whole process with an infectious smile.
As a mom i felt my son was looking handsome and it brought a smile on my anxious face.
As special needs parents we just want our children to be happy at all times making significant progress in their life skills to enable them to lead an independent life ahead.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT THE MAN BORN WITH LARGE HEAD AND BIG EARS
Nitish Nivedan Barik
The child was born with a large head and big ears. Rabindranath Tagore who intently looked at the facial features and shape of the head and expression of the child quietly told the parents that he would become a celebrity.That came true.
APJ Abdul Kalam is known as the Missile Man of India. But Dr Vikram Sarabhai ,(who Rabindranath had predicted to be a celebrity ) rocketed high in achievements and reputation in a short span of time. We may call him the first Rocket Man of India . Born to a wealthy industrialist family involved in the freedom struggle at Ahmedabad, Gujurat in 1919 ,Vikram Sarbhai became a top scientist, physicist and innovator who also came to be known as father of Indian Space Programme. The story of the Indian space programme ,as it has rightly been said, is closely entwined with the story of Vikram Ambalal Sarabhai. He played a major role in establishment of Indian Space Research Organization (ISRO). His networking with NASA helped the creation of Satellite Instructional T.V. Experiment(SITE) in 1975 which brought cable television to India, though Vikram was not alive to see it . He was also one of the founder of IIM, Ahemdabad. Most significantly he mentored none other than APJ Abdul Kalam, who became the 11th President of India after an illustrious career in Aerospace science.
Mr Sarabhai earned his doctorate from Cambridge University. There he studied natural sciences and published many research papers. Later he joined the Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore and worked under the supervision of the great nobel laurate C.V.Raman. He founded the Physics Research Laboratory only at the age of 28 in Ahemdabad.
Russia’s Sputnik satellite launch made Mr Sarabhai feel the need of a Space Agency in India. He approached the Indian government to start a body for space Research with the following note:
"There are some who question the relevance of space activities in a developing nation. To us, there is no ambiguity of purpose. We do not have the fantasy of competing with the economically advanced nations in the exploration of the moon or the planets or manned space flight. But we are convinced that if we are to play a meaningful role nationally, and in the community of nations, we must be second to none in the application of advanced technologies to the real problems of man and society."
His ambition, efforts and dedication led to the establishment of INCOSPAR ( Indian National Committee for Space Research ).It was later named as ISRO. Vikram Sarabhai teamed up with Homi Bhabha to set up India’s first rocket launching station at Thumba, near Thiruvanathapuram in Kerala on the coast of the Arabian Sea. This site was chosen primarily because of its proximity to the equator. India launched its inaugural flight to space on November 21, 1963.The flight was a sodium vapour payload .
After Bhabha’s sudden demise, Dr. Sarabhai took over as the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission. He then started a project for the fabrication and launch of an Indian satellite. As a result, the first Indian satellite, Aryabhata, could be put into orbit in 1975 of course from a Russian Cosmodrome.
Beyond rocket science and technology , Vikram was also a lover and patron of art and culture .He had married Mrinalini, a classical dancer and choreographer. They both started Darpana Academy of Performing Arts in their native place of Ahmedabad.. Their daughter, Mallika, is an actor and activist.
Vikram Sarabhai passed away on December 30,1971, at a very young age of 52 . He died in the hotel room in kerala after witnessing the firing of a Russian rocket and the inauguration of the Thumba Railways station. Indian Postal department released a commemorative postal stamp on his first death anniversary (30 December 1972). A crater on the moon was named in his honour in 1973 by the International Astronomical Union in Sydney, Australia. Dr Sarabhai had been honoured with the Shanti Swaroorp Bhatnagar Award for Physics in 1962 and Padma Bhushan in 1966. He was awarded Padma Vibhushan posthumously.
APJ Abdul Kalam has paid tribute to his guru in the following words : “My relationship with Vikram Sarabhai was a deeply emotional and intellectual one . Time and again he placed his faith in me to lead teams that would design and develop mechanisms to take India further and further on her course to becoming a self- reliant nation, in terms of science and defence . He was a giant among men ,and I was fortunate that that I could grow in his shadow .”
In his book ," My Journey : Transforming Dreams into Actions " APJ has devoted a chapter to Vikram Sarabhai , entitled “My Mentor : Dr Vikram Sarabhai” .Here he has listed four leadership qualities of Dr Sarabhai : (1) Ready to Listen : (2) Ability to think Creatively (3) Ability to Build Teams (4 ) To look beyond failures . The book and chapter deserve every body’s attention as much as Vikram Sarabhai’s glorious life and work.
On India going to space, Sarabhai had famously said: “We are convinced that if we are to play a meaningful role nationally and in the comity of nations, we must be second to none in the application of advanced technologies to the real problems of the man and society.” This must resound in the ears of every Indian, especially that of the policy makers.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
CHAK DE BHUBANESWAR!
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I was a student of M.A. at the Utkal University, Bhubaneswar forty five years back. It was a sleepy little town at the time with gentle evening breeze, dim street lights, and two shopping areas offering limited goods at exorbitant price. For all major purchases (including for my wedding in 1979) one had to go to Cuttack twenty five kilometres away.
We used a bicycle to roam around the town on its up and down roads. There were stretches, particularly at Ram Mandir and Master Canteen where the climb was so tough that we had to often get down from the bicycle and walked up. If we decided to ride on, the huffing and puffing was strong enough to cause flutters in our young hearts. But once we were over the stretch of the climb the downhill slide was heavenly. Only those who have experienced a slide on a hill on a bicycle will know the gust of wind that cools you down and the young heart going dhak dhak in a pleasant sort of way.
A movie ticket was one rupee, a decent sum which could also buy a dozen Golgappeys. There was no burger-shurger, coca cola was unheard of. Even Chinese soups, noodles or chicken rolls were a few years away, as were momos and piñacoladas.
One of the highlights of our student days was the salaciously persistent story of a lady ghost (a ghostess?) preying upon late night travellers on the deserted road near the main burial ground at Satya Nagar. Her modus operandi was to deck herself with a bright saree and attractive jewellery and stand on the road. She fancied only the motorbike riders and used to stop them and ask for a ride. Once she was on the bike, that was the end of the enchanted biker, whose dead body would be found a few kilometres away in some deserted road the next morning. For some reason we the bicycle riders from the university hostels were not worth her trouble and that is how we have lived for all these years to tell this interesting tale of the ghostess and her hapless victims.
Bhubaneswar of those days with all her shining roads, uncrowded markets and sparkless street lights had the quiet charm of a shy, demure princess. I left Bhubaneswar in 1975 and by the time I returned in 2017 after forty two years, Bhubaneswar had changed irretrievably. It had become the centre of irresistible attraction for people from all over the state. It had transformed itself to a city by then. Beautiful bungalows had been razed to make spacious apartments. Roads, although wider, had become more crowded and malls had sprung up everywhere. Anybody and everybody wanted to move in to the capital city with its expanded markets, malls, well-lighted streets, flyovers, thousands of shops and restaurants, kiosks and food marts. The demure princess had transformed into an elegant queen proudly displaying her status as the capital city of a growing state.
These days the the queen is at her dazzling best, hosting the World Cup Hockey with players and officials of sixteen different countries including India. The streets have been beautified, lighted up and are brimming with road side stalls selling handicrafts, tons of delicious food, drinks, fruits and ice creams. There are balloons everywhere. Colours of different hue are spread all over the town, in the painted pavements, in murals-filled walls and guzzling fountains. Colours are spilling into the sky through the lighted buildings, and blinking lanterns made of decorated Pipili appliqués hanging from the trees. Vibrant Light and Sound shows at Bindu Sagar and Dhauli are creating quiet ripples in the heart of visitors who are likely to savour the memory for many years to come.
Bhubaneswar has been transformed into a city of dreams. A ticket to watch a favourite match is as much a part of the dream as entry into the crowded food stalls dishing out local and exotic food items. There is a maddening joy on the face of the people. They are ecstatic. Never before they had seen their cute little town turn into such a beauty! There is music in the air and an expectant buzz in the atmosphere, as if eighteen days of Hockey festival is going to turn their town into a fairyland! The mildly breezy winter and the insignificant but perceptible fog add to the eerie charm.
The Kalinga Stadium is a work of art. At the same time it is a technically perfect wonder, possessing every requisite to host a World Championship. The flood lights in the stadium radiate a spirit of pleasurable abandon. Anyone who manages to get into the stadium to watch the game experiences a quickening of the pulses, the sight of the ball moving from end to end at incredible speed makes the heart beat faster. Possession of the ball by the Indian team leads to a deafening roar, dispossession a collective oooh resonating in the crowded stands.
Yesterday I was in the spectators' stand, soaking in the excitement of an Indian encounter with the talented Belgium team. The electrifying atmosphere, the infectious enthusiasm and the cacophony had weaved a magic spell around the stadium. There was a teen-aged girl about ten places away in the row in front of me. She was a live wire, shouting, dancing, jumping up and down, climbing onto a chair and gesticulating to the players and the audience with equal abandon. For a moment I closed my eyes and imagined her in Buenous Aires, or Moscow, Seoul or Los Angeles. She was everywhere in spirit, in the cup of overflowing joy and excitement. I was filled with immense happiness that in Bhubaneswar, a little-known corner of India, Hockey was being celebrated in its most pristine form over endless cheer and joie de vivre. Hockey lovers all over the world, whether in a small hamlet in Argentina, or in a city home in Canberra of Austarlia or in a warm living room of a snowy Hepburn in Saskatchewan of Canada, must be seeing Bhubaneswar in all her regal splendour while watching their country playing against other Hockey greats. Bhubaneswar has become a household name in at least sixteen hockey loving countries, thanks to the leadership of a shy, soft-spoken Chief Minister and his band of dedicated officials who have made this possible. And my heart swells with pride at this magnificent transformation of my little princess into a splendidly elegant queen!
Chak De Bhubaneswar! Jai Ho India!
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.
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