Title : Inscape (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,

I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 126th edition of LiteraryVibes, studded with excellent poems and enchanting stories. Hope you will enjoy them.

We are happy to welcome in this edition the young poet G. Saratha Kamakshi, a brilliant student of 6th grade from Chennai who has a great passion for classical music and poems. Let us wish her the best of glory and success in her literary career.

We also have two new writers of eminence with us this time. Ms. Ruchi Pritam from Chennai, a recognised authority on our heritage and author of the bestseller A Journey Through India's Heritage, also writes short, sweet stories soaked in life's beautiful colours. I have presented three short chapters from her book 'The Little Brown Girl' which is guaranteed to bring smiles to the readers. The book is so good that the Principal of a reputed school in Chennai read it and immediately ordered 500 copies for her students. Isn't that absolutely wonderful, a sort of dream for every writer?

The other new contributor is Ms. Sudipta Mishra from Puri, Odisha, who has authored many bestsellers and is a prolific writer of more than 500 articles on various topics of general interest. Her three short articles in today's edition reflect deep thoughts and present veritable bridges into a saner life. She is also an eminent poet, a social activist and a coordinator of a number of literary organisations. We do hope that Ms. Pritam and Ms. Mishra will continue to contribute to LiteraryVibes.

Last week we, the LVians of Chennai, had the pleasant opportunity to meet in an excellent get-together organised by Mr. Sundarrajan on the terrace of his office. It was nice to see more than twenty poets and writers whose common thread is an association with LiteraryVibes and Chennai Poetry Circle. What struck me the most was their simplicity and commitment to a fulfilled and happy life. It won't be an exaggeration to say, positive vibes pervaded the air. When we parted after more than two hours of happy interaction, the heart was filled with overflowing joy and a rare bonhomie.

After I went home I wondered what made the heart so joyous. I realised that minimum expectations and simple living are the key to a happy life. I was reminded of the story of a simple man and his small family of a wife and two kids. He used to go to work, return in the evening, the family would sit and chat over dinner. Life went on in smooth idyllic flow till one day the wife felt the house was too small. She goaded the husband to earn more so that they could move to a bigger house. The husband worked overtime. The son wanted to travel in a car in stead of an old two wheeler, the husband worked even harder. Then the daughter, the apple of everyone's eyes, pleaded for a big screen TV. The father started working in the weekends and the family burst into joy when a huge TV was delivered at home.

But gradually life changed in big ways for the family. The father used to return very late in the night, they hardly had meals together, they had no occasion to sit and chat among themselves, the TV kept them occupied in the evenings. Father's absence in the evenings was no longer noticed. He slogged even harder, to earn more money and provide more comforts to the family.

In due course his hard work was recognised, he was promoted to the post of General Manager in the company. The family wanted to celebrate, but he had no time, he had to leave for Singapore on an official trip the same night. They postponed the celebrations by a week. The moment the man came back he rushed to the office from the airport to attend to the piled up work. His son and daughter booked a table in the best restaurant of the town for the next evening for the long awaited celebrations. The father returned home late , had his dinner and went off to sleep

Next morning the wife was excited, the children were thrilled. After many years they waited to have the father of the house join them for a dinner. They waited for the man to get up so that they could break the good news to him. He never got up, lost to eternal sleep, beyond money, riches, houses, cars, televisions and dinner celebrations.

In today's edition there is a very intersting article on ChatGPT by Shri Sunil Biswal, one of our regular contributors. This AI tool is currently making waves all over the world as a great means of creating literature of various hues and forms. Readers feel ChatGPT writes perfect poems and stories. For us, poets and writers, we are amused to see the personal touches missing, the overflowing emotions of the heart not soaking the pieces of art, as they should. But we also know ChatGPT is here to stay and the all pervading tentacles of machines are going to grip literature in a way as never before. But does it mean we will stop creating?

Somehow meeting my LV friends in Chennai gave me the impression they all have lived happy, contented lives, and are bubbling with creative energy to write more, create more dreams for the readers and make everyone's life richer by simple smiles and sweet joy. It convinced me that no matter how perfect ChatGPT is, it will never stop us dipping into the pure bliss of creative joy, smile at the memory of daffodils or revel in the overpowering impact of woods that are lovely, dark and deep.

Hope you will like the offerings in LV126. Please share the following links with your friends and contacts:

https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/476 (Poems, short stories, anecdotes and travelogues)

https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/475 (Young Magic)

There is also an interesting medical related article from the prolific Gynaecologist Dr. G. Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/474

I am happy to remind you that all the 126 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes

Please take care, keep smiling. We will meet again on 31st March, the last Friday of next month.

With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Table of Contents :: POEMS

01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
AN MCP’S KUMBH DIP
02) Haraprasad Das
JAYAGAN (THANKSGIVING)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE AGGRESSOR
BORDERS
04) Bibhu Padhi
INFANT, CRYING THROUGH THE NIGHT
05) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN
06) Abani Udgata
THOSE DAYS
07) Anadi Charan Pradhan
WE ARE THE ROOTS
08) Pradeep Biswal
TREMORS IN TURKEY
09) Sundar Rajan S
MUSINGS OF A BIRD
10) Meera Raghavendra Rao
IF ONLY ..........
PINK STRIPED SHIRT.....
11) Hema Ravi
PRACTISING HUMANITY
12) Padmini Janardhanan
SUPPLICANTLY YOURS...
13) Gita Bharath
EASTER ISLAND OR RAPA NUI
14) Madhumathi. H
GROWTH...
15) Molly Joseph
VALENTINE'S DAY
16) Pradeep Rath
BANISHED YAKSHA TO HIS VALENTINE
17) Seethaa Sethuraman
WITH ALL YOUR HEART
18) Setaluri Padmavathi
GIFTS OF NATURE
CHOICE
19) Namita Rani Panda
A MATTER TO THINK OVER
20) Umasree Raghunath
MY DINING TABLE!!!
21) Arpita Priyadarsini
THE THEORY OF A BIRTHDAY
22) Professor Niranjan Barik
WONDER OF THE WORLD
23) Binsha Anaas
ON THE WAY TO HOLENARSIPUR
24) Sukanya V Kunju
PAIN
25) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE TOWN BEYOND

POEMS

AN MCP’S KUMBH DIP

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

A chicken leg on his plate -

fresh, grilled rare, succulent,

he awaits the other leg.

The legs of dancers swirl around,

turn the dance floor into a predator,

setting fire to the flesh.

A bargirl by his side, entwining

her under-table-feet shred by shred,

receiving tips bite by bite.

An epiphany: the slain chicken leg,

thrashing in death pangs on his plate

morphed into a butcher's slab.

In shock he leaves food;

the waiter apologetic, "Sorry sir,

has the leg gone stale?"

He walks back stage, a secret garden,

touching a bud, smelling a flower,

trying to cut his teeth on a fruit.

He gropes a bar dancer,

"Do you like me?" With half-flirt,

half-truth, she replies, a cool elbow.

He listens to bargirl’s sad tale till late night,

wakes up from wife’s side groggy in the morning,

mother-in-law berates, “Again, at your game?”

In bed from his IT job

in air-conditioned office,

returns home via a dance-bar,

chicken legs, gyrating hips

to the lurid music. His tired wife home:

her daylong drudgery.

The hell-hole of a kitchen, changing

smelly diapers, breast feeding

the baby, doing mom-in-law's bidding;

listening to her berating, “How tirelessly

my son toils to feed you. Do give him

some restful nights, massage his feet

with your relaxed hands.”

The massage makes his mood, not hers.

Yet, she submits for a Kumbha dip.

Footnote: Satire on the World Women’s Day.

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.

JAYAGAN (THANKSGIVING)

Haraprasad Das

Start the day being beholden

to them who boosted you this high...

Not to pretences -

Chest pain

Body ache

Fever or cough.

You, the cunning brute, know-all rascal.

Don't you say, "Lying is a cardinal sin."

Or, "Truth, my armour with no chinks."

Then start the day with white lies:

That truck carries contraband

The turn ahead is perilous

A hill pass with wild elephants

Is it the new Lexicon,

not coined but conned..... ?

Sin is straw

Armor is of cork

Contraband is junked tin

Turn is a straight stretch

Hill pass....

Rampaging elephants....

Lurking perils.... all false narratives

Be beholden to that false narrative

that made masses repose

trust in you longer and longer.

Hail that narrative.

Be beholden to that make believe dream

that sloshed hungry people to sleep,

making them dream more dreams.

Hail their dreams on empty stomachs.

Go to that meek man, silent and bent

under self-pity, growing his guilt,

from molehill into a mountain,

blessing you with more power;

loving to stay poor, making you the king.

Be beholden to and hail that meek man.

Go to the man who dies

for want of an oxygen cylinder,

leaving scientists baffled,

politicians red-faced, but he holding

his sins and divine curses responsible.

Hail him and hail his silence in death.

Watch a tear drop that has oozed

but before rolling down it holds,

is stuck to the eye like a reminder,

that would roll down any moment

to liquidate even the hardest of rocks.

Fear that drop. Hail that drop of tear.

(Jayagan is an Odia poem of the poet Haraprasad Das, trans-worked into English by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)

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)”

THE AGGRESSOR

Dilip Mohapatra

Out of the confines of

my mother's womb

I struggle my way out

to see the daylight

in its glory

and the vast space stretched

before me that they call

the world.

I remember my grandpa

telling me that the world

belongs to all of us

to all the creatures that

our Creator had created

and we all are but a big family

as he chanted

'Vasudhaeva Kutumbakam.'

I set off on my journey

with no destination in mind

with no ulterior motive

not to usurp another's harvests

but to wander on

footloose

through the hills and valleys

crossing streams and seas

across territories and terrains

that do not belong to me

and perhaps to no one else

for at some point in time

they also wandered into

the land that belonged

to some one else

the land they call their own

and put a seal of sovereignty on it

and guard its frontiers

till the last drop of their blood

snatch away my right to

the five elements

granted free to all

and call me the intruder

the encroacher

the invader

and the aggressor .

But I see a distant light

flickering at the end of the tunnel

the day will surely come when

the walls will fall

the stones will crumble

the barbed wires will melt away

boundaries will vanish

camaraderie and humanity

would flow undeterred

and my grandpa's

belief will not be belied.

BORDERS

Dilip Mohapatra

We sleep on the same bed

you on your side and I on mine

we don't even remember

who drew the line.

We mark our territory

and squat on a site

to stake our claim

and eventually hold domination.

We build fences and walls

draw barriers based on language

racial and facial features

sometimes on genders or wealth

only to divide we delineate.

Twilights are boundaries too

but only punctuations in a continuum

and so are the zodiac signs

which only demarcate the space

into thirty degree sectors

but there are no change of guards

or stumping of the boots

no reveilles

and no last posts

no infiltrations

and no bloodshed

while we are captive of

a cosmic Matryoshka doll

that ensconces layers of

smaller and smaller minds.

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.

INFANT, CRYING THROUGH THE NIGHT

Bibhu Padhi

It’s once again a story of sleep.

Narrow on the eyes, even as

you urge them to accept

its weight and shape.

You count time, let out a prayer

into the night’s dubious

privacy, change your body

each passing minute

to suit sleep’s fantasies.

In the neighbouring house,

an infant you know through your

heart and anguished time,

is looking for sleep, too,

in the lap of its mother,

asking for something that we know

is close to rest.

Well, it might be asking for other things—

familiar fingers landing light

on its forehead, moving over its body

in circles, to find the place where

it suffers from a loss of sleep,

its small toes and heels.

But we know it needs its sleep too,

and all that come with sleep

and enclose us with kindness and love—

the reassuring feeling of being loved,

finding ourselves for the first time,

a gift of things that might

stay with us for centuries,

even as an infant is waiting for

something, the great warmth

of an older body that knows

what it so badly needs.

A two times Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published seventeen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the world, such as Contemporary Review, The London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, Wasafiri, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poet Lore, Poetry, Rosebud, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, Xavier Review, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Dalhousie Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Bombay Review, and Indian Literature.

They have been included in several anthologies and textbooks. Six of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poet s, Language for a New Century ( New York: Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins),The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry, Converse: Contemporary English Poems by Indians ( London: Pippa Rann Books), and The Penguin Book of Indian Poets.

EVERYWOMAN

Part 9 (of many such)

Jairam Seshadri

Her father was a high court judge -

His righteousness - all exclusive!

Thought very little of women

In that and in this, world of men!

From Mother - nary a tinkle,

Even her gold bangles, smothered

Beyond the eyes’ periphery,

A presence, in the smoggy distance

To be fair though, the lone daughter-

Never openly belittled

Only - Judge’s Righteous Eyes veered

When swaying left-brained equations.

She will, to one, betrothed, a day,

What was her real need for logic?

And so-

Judge’s arms for brothers alone!

Mother’s - a distant black ‘n grey

Thus daughter’s face, narrowed a pinch,

Her head grew red horns abrasive

That helped forge in her ‘calling’

And how she did! With a seething!

A blazing trail, at the local

Away she tilted, left or right.

Her breath invoking sharp elbows!

She twisted paths into her way

Over years though, she lost her way

Seething - no more a positive.

The ‘point to prove’, spluttering thin

Drive for heights - petering fuel.

She was bettered by those, who once

Global, became hyper local

And her past bubbled a dark brew!

‘Then she learned of a deadly, true!

The power to cast eerie spells!

The power to wreak hell, strafe strife!

She did not look the part

Outwardly diminutive, all heart.

Yet, deny enamour craved

From the Sun, Trees, the Soil, Breeze,

Inward Hisses! Humans in her way

Out of her bandwidth!

For the the lava flows toward.

She was cussed into cussing!

She was cursed into cursing!

She - the mould

Of Patriarchy’s

Clawing!

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.

THOSE DAYS

Abani Udgata

Those days stretch

like a lonely path

to the river-bed,

a drop of tear down

the cheeks of morose evening.

To-day,

even in solitary confinement

the white shawl of old moon

in fond caress reaches in

the lonely hours of the night.

Your fragile body, the seasonal cycle,

from the days of paper boats to

the dusty eyes of monocles

the relentless passage of words….

the waves retrace their steps

in to the depths of the night.

Distance is measured

in sighs, legends coagulate

below the eyes.

The gridlock of unkempt light

and shadows, strange puzzles,

beads of interrogation marks-

-neither at the story’s beginning

nor at the end, was any assurance.

In the free flow of river water,

the rocky chest of mountains,

the slender waist of the garrulous

jungle brook, a deep secret trembles

like a smiling bud in open air.

Their breathless wait is endless.

In some bemused hour the dark wings

of each bird may return from distant sky

dripping with light, the scattered bits of light

may coalesce in to a resplendent Diwali.

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

WE ARE THE ROOTS

Anadi Charan Pradhan

The tree stands on the support of its roots

Sucking water and minerals from the soil

Through their veins,

Grows luxuriantly with dappled green leaves

That whistle and whisper to the tune of the breeze;

Looks resplendent laden with lovely flowers

Of myriad colours,

Spreads fragrance so pleasing;

Bears fruits of delicious tastes

For all creatures on earth;

Prepares beds for the birds

Who chirp and sing creating a bedlam of music;

Makes room for the tired travellers

In its shady bowers;

The tree to the pride and pleasure of the roots

Stands as a symbol of philanthropist.

They too flower and flourish like trees

Sucking sap through our veins with glee

We sweat and bleed like oxen

To feed the callous millions

But our children die of starvation

We build big building and hotels

But live under leaking roofs in our hovels

We go on feeding their insatiable desires

With the hope that we’ll be lifted up from the mire

But they grow brilliantly so tall

That beyond their notice we’re insignificantly infinitesimal

We too are the roots of the society

Sans a life of dignity

Can they ever be asked to be like trees:

Philanthropists and sincerely sober?

Anadi Charan Pradhan, M.A.(Eng) M.Ed, is a retired Vice Principal from Navodaya Vidyalaya Samiti with teaching experience of more than three decades as TGT and PGT English in different JNVs. He has a keen interest in literature and he writes poems and short stories related to life and nature in both Odia and English with equal flare. He is co-translator of Rivulets of Reflections, a collection of translated short stories.

TREMORS IN TURKEY

Pradeep Biswal

Just within seconds

The skyscrapers

All the high rises

Everything collapsed

Like a house of cards

Cracks appeared

Everywhere

The walls

The surfaces

The sky

The skull

The bones

The heart

The veins

Had fractures

Inside them.

Fire and smoke

Engulfed the area

Heart wrenching cries

Chocked voices

From inside the debris

Filled the air.

The men in sleep

Woke up to see

The horror in sight

Panicked

The birds left their nests

For unknown destinations.

Life hung in balance

Amidst chaos

And confusion

With endless waits

For rescue and relief

Man proved helpless

Before the fierce

Wrath of nature.

Many perished

In the catastrophe

Only few survived

Miraculously.

Near and dear ones

And many more lost

In the milieu

The tears on the cheeks

And the blood clots

On the body

Dried up in the meanwhile.

The carcasses around

Got removed and buried

Life is returning

To normalcy once again

Dispelling the fear

Of death and deluge.

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

MUSINGS OF A BIRD
(RHYME ROYAL FORM)
Sundar Rajan S

My second home is nestled in a tree,
Along with rustling leaves with top gear,
With a river calmly flowing, carefree,
Brings scintillating music to the ear.

So refreshing, that one could aspire,
The sky is bereft of smog on our flight,
The Earth presents a heavenly sight.

With humanity all gone underground,
On our flight from home, such empty scene,
There is a strange quietness all around,
Never in our earlier days, we've seen.

An unpolluted environment, clean.
Nature has again spelt it out,
Co existence is the best way, no doubt.

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.

IF ONLY ..........
Meera Raghavendra Rao

If only I knew to sing and sew
And enthrall listeners I knew
Who would give me a standing ovation?
At the end of every presentation
Go gaga at my hand work
Embroidery and Kutch work
Know that I am not joking
And give no cause for ruing!

PINK STRIPED SHIRT.....
Meera Raghavendra Rao

It was a colour I loved
Displayed on the shop window
Luring passers to buy.
Tempted I picked up
Paying a fortune.
Heading back home
Noticed the cabbie
In an identical shirt.
Curious I asked him
When learnt what he paid
Felt absolutely dismayed!

(The above two poems are from the Poet's book Pinging Pangs)

N. Meera Raghavendra Rao , M.A.in English literature is a freelance journalist, author of 10 books(fiction, nonfiction) a blogger and photographer .Her 11th. is a collection of 50 verses titled PINGING PANGS published in August 2020. She travelled widely within and outside the country.She blogs at :justlies.wordpress.com.

PRACTISING HUMANITY

Hema Ravi

You are born in it, therefore, are you proud?

Well…..I am blessed to be born in Bharat,

the land of sages and saints, the lofty Himalayas

and the Ganges…the land of languages,

cuisines, traditions and customs, and

the land of rulers righteous.

Harmonious existence had been our mantra

until invaders from the West swarmed

one after the other, and together

for centuries –

The land of plenty fragmented

beyond recognition, until this bhoomi

gained Swaraj once again.

Seventy four years hence, flicker at the end of

the tunnel is visible; no longer can

the divisive forces divide and rule.

Tackling challenges in the ‘light of Indian spirit’

is the way to recover the ‘spiritual knowledge,’

experience the ‘splendour, depth and fullness’

all over again……….

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.

SUPPLICANTLY YOURS...

Padmini Janardhanan

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. Inspired by these verses,the poem 'Lament of an aspirant' was earlier published

As a sequel to that, these verses are inspired by verses 16 to 30 of Thiruppavai.

Supplicantly yours....

Have come from afar cleansed in body and mind

Yet, doors made of the mundane shut me out

Oh! Dwarabalakas¹, Gyana and bakthi,

Open the doors to krishna-anubhav.

With Baldeva's abundant compassion

Yasodha ma's brilliant radiance

Nandhagopa's benign munificence

Surely, Krisha-anubhavam is assured!

Taravelling afar seeking HIS dharshan

This weary seeker comes, Nappinai Nangai,

Trusting your divine purushatkaram¹

Have mercy, pray, grace this weary seeker

With the Lord, within his heart always

Napinai pirati, our only hope

Do grace us, just a glimpse of Krishna

Suffice 'twill be. Our Sadhana fructified.

Oh! Devi, We've come trusting only your enduring grace

Grant us the mirror that reflects only HIM

Grant us the fan that breezes only HIS name

Grace us,, Napinnai, now, just now, RIGHT NOW

I Come not as a scholar singing eulogies

I Come not as your vanquished out of fear

As a calf trusting the cow's abundance

Surrender at your feet with only faith and trust.

The abundance of Maa Ganga flows on

Can only enjoy the little my cup can hold

Krishna, this naive and humble devotee

Seeks just a stria of your gracious glance.

My plea perhaps shortsighted, unworthy?

My prayer selfish, fear ridden, shallow?

Make no plea, nor prayer, just surrender

Make me fit to receive what THOU deemeth fit.

Ram quelling Ravan; vaaman, Bali

Today, here, as RajaKrishna you stand

Whatever the form, wherever, forever,

We seek to remain supplicantly yours.

Oh! Devaki Putra, Nandakumara

Kamsa samhara, Panchali Rakshaka

Slayer of our sins, suatainer of joy

Grant that I dissolve into your munificence

To blow shrill the conches of your splendor

To waive your flag high with pride and honor

To drum beat far and wide your grandeur,

What more could a devotee desire !

Oh! KRISHNA our satsang just sings your praise

Our Sadhana fructfies with your grace

Pervasive abundance global wellness

Individual within the collective.

Love, smeared with ignorance, innocence

Yet, dipped in deep devotion, we've come

Please ignore faults, accept only our

love

We humbly await your benign Grace.

We Lounged in comfort zone, lost in ignorance

You came as³ AnDAL to awaken us

Mahalaksmi, thaaye? you've redeemed us

Please don't let us stray away again.

With AnDAL's abundant anugraha

Sought the mundane, received the divine

The supreme blessing, Krishnanubhava

Remain forever supplicantly yours....

Note:

¹ celestial gate keepers

² purushatkaram - a srivaishanavite faith that believes that the Lord's consort recommends a devotee to the Lord such that HE cannot refuse.

³ we beleive that AnDAL is an incarnation of it is Mahalakshmi herself,

? O Mother

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.

EASTER ISLAND OR RAPA NUI

Gita Bharath

Shrouded in mists and mystery,

An ancient island called Rapa Nui

In the vast blue Pacific floats alone.

On it,massive monolith heads of stone

Stand silent and majestic all around.

But who had set them here

At least two thousand years ago?

Perhaps we shall never know.

Modern men, much later, dug around

These stone heads the explorers had found

And discovered gigantic bodies under

The heads that had once caused great wonder.

A team of islanders would have taken a year to complete

Each 90 ton statue from topknot to feet.

How long must they have laboured to complete them all!

Then the wind blown sand, over centuries

Had completely buried many of these.

The isle abandoned to the cold sea breeze.

In Polynesian, Rapa Nui means “navel of the world”

Was it here in the Pacific, where the blue waves swirl

That protoplasm once arose to give birth

To all lifeforms that exist on our earth?

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,

GROWTH...

Madhumathi. H

Crossing hurdles, unfriending fear

Growth is the glow in your eyes, from

The light of hope you carry in your heart When the world mocks at your fall...

Growth, is the unfolding of a bud

In its own time

The unhurried steps, mindful journey

One day at a time

Growth happens, when you save yourself

From the rat race

Killing the urge to prove your worth

Wearing a cape, abandoning your dreams...

Growth, is seen when

Life finds you sipping your morning coffee

After a good night's sleep Smiling, gazing at the Sky

Gratitude brimming

For all the rewards your passion, patience, perseverance received...

Growth, is hard work for one's own dreams

Reminding self, "Success, happiness are personal"

Growth, is chiselling oneself with love.

A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi. H is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry, Photography, Music. Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), CPC- Chennai Poetry Circle's EFFLORESCENCE, IPC's(India Poetry Circle) Madras Hues Myriad Views, Amaravati Poetic Prism 2015, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes - LiteraryVibes, Storizen, Science Shore, OPA – Our Poetry Archives. e-Anthologies Monsoon moods - Muse India, Green Awakenings - On Environment, by Kavya-Adisakrit.

Ignite Poetry, Breathe Poetry, Dream Poetry, Soul shores that have 10 of her poems published, Soul Serenade, Shades of Love-AIFEST, Arising from the dust, Painting Dreams, Shards of unsung Poesies, are some of the Anthologies her poems, and write ups are part of. (2020 to 2022). Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, to create awareness, break the stigma, believing in the therapeutic, transformational power of words. Contact: madhumathi.poetry@gmail.com :: Blogs: https://madhumathipoetry.wordpress.com :: http://madhumathikavidhaigal.blogspot.com/?m=1

VALENTINE'S DAY
Molly Joseph

when my heart
grows tender
with thoughts
of you,
the valentine
feel
precipitates...

you my valentines
who made
my life green...

though
out of sight
you all
not out of
my mind...

how my
heart throbbed
those days
in thrilled
anticipatation
of a glimpse,
that fond
look, care
that made me
feel special...

how I trotted
with a sprint
on my legs,
the wild
mountain roe...

your rainbows
beckoning..

hah!

how times fleet
leaving behind
lasting memories
of many a
rendezvous...

no, you are
not gone...
you still
light up
the mundane
its montonous
repeats..

love you all dears
be it
the friend,
with fond
concern,
the avid reader
with admiration

or the one
who left unsaid
more than
the said...

those batting
eye lids
the quivering
lips...

this
not to make
you jealous
my life long
valentine,
sorry,
no pretences
between us...

despite
all the crankiness
you and I
throw at each
in these
twilight years
of our lives
aren't we like
the supporting
staff for each
emotions growing
deeper in
shared joys
and sorrows ?
the mountains,
valleys
we traversed
through misty
terrains,
where shadows
grew longer
as we walked....

yes, Valentine
is the feel
when the
sweet sorrow
seeps in
the pain of
too much
of tenderness

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

BANISHED YAKSHA TO HIS VALENTINE

Pradeep Rath

I swim in your translucent eyes,

find no path,

falter and drown.

You are a sachet of perfumes

cloistered in secret chambers,

a string of rose blossoms

from the enchanted garden of Mughals.

I was at Kashmir years ago,

sat at the shades of apple trees,

plucked fresh apples

as the watchman nodded,

how sweet they were!

As clouds leaped across

the mountains

at Gulmarg,

roamed the vale on horse back,

saw the house

where Rishi and Dimple

were locked and searched key singing the song,

what a romance!

In years of sojourn,

wandered listless as a cloud,

sometimes gales swept me from my feet,

I was destined to drift, wait,

I'll return one day

and keep the pledge.

(Dedicated to our brave soldiers at Frontiers)

Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor is an author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry in English, 'The Glistening Sky', two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His dramas, compendium of critical essays on Modernism and Post modernism, comparative study on Upendra Bhanja and Shakespeare, travelogues on Europe and America sojourns, Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim. He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.

WITH ALL YOUR HEART

Seethaa Sethuraman

(Rangoli art by seethaa Sethuraman)

Love yourself,

With all your heart.

Be yourself,

It's the world's greatest art.

Shine bright,

With all your heart.

Be your own beacon light,

It's the world's greatest art.

Dance that belly flutter,

With all your heart.

Be your own choreographer,

It's the world's greatest art.

Sing that musical number,

With all your heart.

Be your own composer,

It's the world greatest art.

Laugh with abandon,

With all your heart.

Be your own comedian,

It's the world's greatest art.

Curve that smile ear to ear,

With all your heart.

Be your own happiness creator,

It's the world's greatest art.

Be that sonata player,

With all your heart.

Be your own musical orchestrator,

It's the world's greatest art.

Write that sonnet,

With all your heart.

Be your life's poet,

It's the world's greatest art.

Love yourself,

With all your heart.

Be yourself,

It's the world's greatest art.

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

GIFTS OF NATURE

Setaluri Padmavathi

Raindrops fall like pieces of pearls

Slowly, slowly, and gently to the ground,

Sunshine lights the lamp in the sky

Wherever you find the heat and warmth!

Moonlit nights illuminate the globe,

The stars and heavenly bodies

stare at humankind gladly

to make life beautiful and joyful ever!

Different trees in the garden

Filled with green leaves,

Colorful flowers cover the floor

Leaving a scent that we truly adore!

One nature, one sun

One moon and one God

This is the life of us, only one!

Nature blesses us with its enchanting beauty

We gift it back our true love and loyalty!

CHOICE

Setaluri Padmavathi

“Father, I’d take up the branch of business,

and can’t opt for the branch of Science!”

“No, my child, you must join the medicine.

Have I ever asked you to be a man like Edison?”

“Oh! Father! I aim for the field of marketing.

Isn’t it unfair to compel me on your target?”

“Dear! Among all professions, it’s the best choice

and in fact, don’t move against my voice!”

“I wish I could become whatever I want to be

Why can’t he realize the precious prodigy in me?”

“I paced into the dentistry with his zeal and force

I seldom have any interest in medicinal courses!”

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

A MATTER TO THINK OVER

Namita Rani Panda

Heart aches

For fear of losing a source of pure pleasure

When we see a withered flower

So lovely just before an hour.

Worry engulfs

For fear of darkness all around

When a candle glows its final flicker

That was burning bright a little ago.

Heart bursts in piercing pain

For fear of losing someone dear and near

When we witness someone dearer intolerably suffer

Waiting painfully to bid goodbye forever.

But how painful it would have been

For a flower

Whose fading petals wither and fall

As if limbs amputated and blown into the air

And its wish to live a little longer is cruelly crushed forever,

For the candle that burns for others

And silently sheds drops of hot tear

As if mourning due to the demise of its dreams forever,

For a dear and near

Who has spent each moment of his/her life for your welfare

Writhing in perennial pain waits for the final call

Like a dry sapling burnt in scorching summer,

Bereaved of the soothing touch of rainfall.

Both suffer:

One who withers

And the other who watches the withering flower

But can you say who is the worse sufferer

And who outshines the other?

Namita Rani Panda is a multilingual poet, story writer, editor and translator from Sambalpur, Odisha. She has five anthologies of poems to her credit: Blue Butterflies, Rippling Feelings, A Slice of Sky and A Song for Myself and Colours of Love. She is co-translator of Rivulets of Reflections, a book of translated stories from Odia to English. She has co-authored Radical Rhythm Volume I to IV with the credit of editorship of Radical Rhythm II. She is co-editor of two anthologies of poems Resplendent Rainbow and Durga the Invincible. Her signature words are love, optimism and self-confidence. Presently she is working as Vice Principal of Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya Cuttack, Odisha.

MY DINING TABLE!!!

Umasree Raghunath

Theme – Spring

My zen place to rekindle my senses

Sitting through the morning coffee in recess

Is the time watching the sun onsetting the spring

The glory of life’s best times it does bring

People call it a dining table

I call it a place for conversational

As a mom, daughter, and friend

When I sit there to talk, it never ends

There are times, I sit there silently

Watching the windowpane bashing violently

Just like the life’s tides that come and go

My table, remains constant to let me bow

I sit there, eating my every meal in peace

It takes the burden of my life till the lees

Sometimes, it bears the tears I shed

And shared with me the fears I dread

People call it a dining table

It shares all thoughts that enable!

For me, it’s the best place in my house

Where my mornings take a rouse!!!

Umasree Raghunath is a Senior IT Professional/ Author/ Blogger/ Poet/ Lawyer/ Diversity & Inclusion Social Activist/ Motivational Speaker, Past President - Inner Wheel Club of Madras South, Vice-President-eWIT . Umasree has close to 400 poems across various themes, subjects, situations and emotions and been writing since she was 13 years old. She is the Author of the Book- Simply Being Sidds and also has a live blog in her own name.

THE THEORY OF A BIRTHDAY

Arpita Priyadarsini

A new year

Brings the possibility of a not so predictable future

That in terms is a good thing

As the denial of the past

Makes us ponder about our future

And the acceptance of present

Is the gift that we receive

The fact that another year's gone

Just in a blink of an eye

Is another miracle

Of how this world works

Without getting old

And how the forever young moon

Remains occupied

Every single night

The breaths that we're grateful for

Are actually a reminder

Of how we should never look at things

The way they've been portrayed to us

And what the eyes always see

Might not be the hard truth

We wake up

And feel the constant need of attention

For that one particular day

Which in terms

Does nothing but add another year of experience

To the resume of your life

That's gonna be presented infront of the one and only

The almighty

We all are miracles

Draped in different fabrics of cotton and silk

Smelling of moonlight and petrichor

Engulfing one entire world

Into us

Birthdays are nothing

But a constant reminder

Of how you've been able

To find yet another miracle

That bloomed all over you

Making you wiser and smarter

And a year older

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.

WONDER OF THE WORLD
Professor Niranjan Barik

Heart pounds to wonder about the world‘s wonders
Is it the snow capped Himalayas?,
The ever flowing Nile or the amazing Amazon ?
Taj ,the signature of love ?.
The Leaning Tower of Pisa?
The Grand Canyon ?
No , you may add names and numbers,
My vote is for my village Pond,
The small pool of waters
That has made me wonder,
Its still water, a mirror in winter
To puzzle , to bewilder the bird on its bank,
Leaning from a tree’s bark or branch.
In the rain it muddies itself,
To spring a smiling Lilly in a corner from nowhere,
How does it matter to you?
If it grows a rosy Lotus to fill your heart,
Without your labour of flinging a single piece of mud;
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars
All have their pursuit of pleasure and manoeuvre,
At the small, silent, but not stoic pond,
There the wind has its field day
Playing with its water,
Creating a flutter, ripples on its surface and border,
The fish swims,
The frog does a somersault,
From water to bank and bank to water,
The crow cocks ,
The grasshopper chirps ,
I see the year round celebration,
Cookoo sings there in spring weather,
But on a quiet afternoon ,
I see myself there ,
The pool is silent, I am still and sober ,
We look at each other
Who can go to the root to find all root causes?
The snow on the Himalayas and mud in the Pond ?
We go deep and deep and reflect,
No mountain cave for a craving prayer
That is the best of wonder,
No looking upward to break one’s neck,
To see the Empire high riser
Nor the Trump tower,
My pond is my mirror
Looking down to see is unmixed pleasure
World’s the best wonder!
It is so close, so near!

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.

ON THE WAY TO HOLENARSIPUR
Binsha Anaas

When I looked outside the train window,
Under the scorching sun,
Near clear blue waters of the Hemavati
Stands a man unknown
His brown shirt tattered
His red pants torn
But he was smiling
Sending a selfie to his beloved
Sitting far away from him, in their native.

He toils day and night, in an estranged land
Where no one cares if he eats or drinks,or dress good
What matters is just his sweat, his work.

And these are his happy moments,
With his beloved he shares
Could be his lunch break,
The only free time he gets
That he spends for her smile
That cut shorts their distance of miles.
For he knows, He matters to her,more than he knows.

Binsha P A is a postgraduate in English Literature and is an aspiring poet. Her poems have been a part of antholgy 'The Unsung Thoughts' in 2020.She is a passionate reader and loves penning down about what she reads. She writes book reviews and poems in her blog literarydrops.blogspot.com and in social media.

PAIN
Sukanya V Kunju

Pain is everywhere,
Here and there.
Sometimes found concealed
within a smile,
Sometimes drops down with a tear.
I always feel pain by the words of someone.

No one is yours, nothing is yours.
Utterly or fractionally, wittingly
Or unwittingly,
I, you, and everyone are responsible
For someone's fear.

At times the pain creates interspace,
Or maybe the glue for soulful attachment.
It can restore and destroy,
By cause or blessing.

It's never an ending journey
On the way from illusion to devotion
From birth to death,
From the Poor's cottage to the King's palace.

With emotional stress,
There can be a weak point to the strongest power.
So let the pain move closer to your way,
Don't mind it let's go
To make your achievement.
Time-honored.

Sukanya V Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Michael's College, Alappuzha.Most of her poems have been published in Literary Vibes as anthology. She is a aspiring poet. She is the Co author of the book Dusk and Dawn.

THE TOWN BEYOND
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

I will go down the street tonight
When the town would be fast asleep
The moon in the sky dozing off
And the stars twinkling their sweet smiles

I know my other self would be waiting there
Meditating under the benign shadow of the huge tree
That stands leaning on an ancient wall
Its branches cascaded like streams of wisdom.

We would talk in soft whispers
Our deep sighs curling towards the sky
Like vapours from an ancient vessel
That will hide the many twists and turns.

I have many questions, unsolved queries
Together we would traverse life's path again
Crossing the many bumps and ditches
The lost opportunities, the missed goals.

I am sure many unanswered questions will still remain
But I would have at least posed them
Baring my unending agonies, the manifold regrets
Together we will cry over a meaningless life.

I would still carry the questions in my cluttered mind
And walk the tired path of life
Till I find my other self in some far away town
Under a tree that would beckon me with a new hope.

Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.

BOOK REVIEW

‘EFFLORESCENCE 2022’ by CHENNAI POETS’ CIRCLE, CHENNAI

Ravi Ranganathan

AN ECLECTIC COLLECTION OF VERSES FOR EASY AND REFLECTIVE READING

This is an excellent anthology of poems containing 112 poems, with detailed reflections and profound thouhgts. The book starts with a brief but elegant Preface by Ms.Hema Ravi, Editor and Secretary of Chennai Poets’ Circle (CPC) with Dr.Thirumeni ( Chairman), Dr.S.Kannan ( President) and Ravi Ranganathan ( Treasurer ) as Editorial Advisors. Dr.S.Radhamani is the Vice President.

The book is beautifully designed with a fine cover page picture of a colourful red coloured solitary Tulip flower and is published through Annai Prints, Chennai.

As Hema Ravi rightly observes in her preface, ‘for more than two decades, CPC has been encouraging and empowering poets from diverse backgrounds in their creative endeavours’.

There are in all 112 poets who have contributed their works to embellish the anthology and this includes, veteran poets, senior poets, and poets of all age groups. A special section ‘Young Poets’Corner’ contains poems by 9 students who are budding poets with tremendous potentials.

Topics and themes of the poems are wide ranging and include poems on love, romance, environment, nature, festivals, stars and rays, loneliness and death, of the divine and the mundane.

One page is allotted to each poet with their photo and Profiles of Poets are given in details at the end pages.

Before I go briefly into the contents of some of the poems, I must mention here that the highlights of this anthology is the contribution of student poets. When we attended/organised the seminar conducted on 22nd January 2023 at Tag Auditorium, Ramakrishna Mission Higher Secondary School, Chennai when this anthology was formally released, I could actually see the infectious enthusiasm of the students ( either from Bala Vidya Mandir – BVM or DAV School) when they were given a platform to recite their own poems!

Each and every poem in the anthology is well composed. Since mentioning each of them will make the review too lengthy, I shall briefly dwell on some of the poems and particularly some of the lines that caught my fancy and thought.

‘It is not the things we do/ It is those that we leave undone’ says Dr.R.Ahalya in her poem ‘ when small things becomes significant’. ‘To this world that sings out of tune/will the koels return to coo’ queries poet Anju Kishore. ‘This is when nobody thinks about you’ muses Dr.Brinda Bala Sreenivasan in ‘Mindfulness’ when she wants ‘the transient journey towards the inscape’. Star struck young poet S.Geetha dreams ‘ Aren’t we like stars?’. Veteran poet Geetha Bharath says ‘ Stardust is the stuff we’re all made’. Poet Prakash K Rajchandran asserts that ‘We are the Children of Stars’.

Dr.Jernail Singh, a doyen among poets says in his easy yet inimitable style that ‘We poets feel too much/Think too much and see too much’. H.Madhumati laments that just a phone call ‘can burn bridges, make memories sour’. For senior poet Dr.Molly Joseph, Life is a ‘cauldron of memories’ when you return after a funeral service. We feel sad and join her prayers when Padmaja Iyengar pens a Requiem to pay homage to her Akka. Pankajam Kottarath’s The Fire of Passion allows her ‘words to dream of a romantic pilgrimage’ and acts as a ‘panacea for all my festering wounds’.

For the seasoned poet Geethanjali Dilip, a ‘Perfect World’ is not ‘impossible to envision’. Priya Kannan says ‘Be a Giver’ for souls who do/It enriches their spiritual journey. N.Ramamani Sampath hears sadness in a lullaby while for Dr.G.Rangarajan philsophises in his poignant poem ‘Destiny’ that ‘They say time heals/ But not until one’s time is up’. For poet Saranya Francis ‘Home is where the verse is’.

There’s a touching poem by Sauvik Acharjee where a ‘Blind’ can smell the morning and feel the colour while we choose to remain blind. Shashvathi S Hariharan has written a beautiful ‘Existentialist’s Love Poem’ while Sheeba Rajan is seeking to ‘walk this lonely path’. Dr.Shephali Chitre says ‘Chessboard; with white and black squares is a war of players while S.Sundar Rajan’s ‘Raindrops’ is a clarion call to save Environment. Dr.Usha Sridhar wonder if ‘Life is a Mirage’ and VInod Kumar PSV ruminates that ‘Change is not always philosophical.

There are some lovely haiku poems by Mallika Chari. ‘ foreign land/among unknown sounds/ my mother tongue’ is one such. For a change poet Padmini Janardhanan has tried her skills with her own haiku poems. P.Mohan Chandran is at his wittiest when he says in his patented MohanSutra ‘ Wife and life are always in conflict with each other; when one goes smoothly, the other doesn’t! There’s a poem in Kyrielle form also in this anthology.

Finally, coming to the poems of students in Young poets’ Corner, we have M.Girbargavi’s ‘Cloud’ and she rejoices saying ‘Oh cloud, you are so cute/I’ll come to you in a parchute,’. A.Ashmanth has written a beautiful verse on eyes saying it is ‘The Black Pearl in White sheath’. S.Sudarshan is overawed by the most amazing ‘single apple tree’ in the town and young R.Ria is so delighted to watch her ‘Adorable Pussy Cat’.

There are so many other wonderful poems which I am unable to mention due to paucity of space.

On the whole, this wonderful anthology emerges with messages of peace, goodness and harmony. The poets visualise a world without discord, without discrimination and without environmental destruction and firmly believes in the power of the PEN to usher in such a world.

Summing up, you will find in the anthology all the beauty, grace and poetic sensibilities that one looks forward to while reading poems and you will in them words and lines emerging like a quiet and steady stream, and the thoughts taking the reader to a higher plane . You can sit quietly and reflect on some lines and verses again and again for easy and reflective reading…

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.

CONFLUENCE VI: THE AGO EDITION WITH COLLABORATIVE POEMS

Editors: Jairam Seshadri & Anju Kishore

Reviewer - Sumitra Kumar

No ordinary book of poems, this. Do people amid busy lives pull out old childhood albums unearthing memories lost in a complex mind maze further convoluted by the speeding of time?

Well, many would, wouldn't they?

They would even want to talk for hours if only they had listeners, as emotions crave release.

But what if none is around to lend a ear, or those who stand by you are super busy addressing life/work pressures that seem humongous? Given this, how many would alternatively consider penning thoughts on the spur to indulge themselves? And how valuable would that experience be—living a perfect child again! Can one write prose or poetry seeing childhood pictures?

Well, flashbacks inundate our minds. Let it run and overflow until the heart scribbles it out! The warmth, family ties, and friendships kick in overwhelming nostalgia, nudging the ink to flow!

The old, withered album (our current muse!) is a luxury exclusive to generations of the previous century, ending perhaps with Gen Y! Gen Z belongs to the digital age. Any physical representation of memorabilia could be a single wedding album, as the rest, well-captured in their devices, are available on demand.

This newly released book, Confluence VI, is an anthology of segued collaborative poems and individual 'AGO' poems inspired by celebrated yesteryear pictures of the poets who wrote them. These cherished scribblings, called 'AGO' poems, came as a novel idea proposed by Jairam Seshadri (founder of India Poetry Circle), whose member poets and writers are from across the country. The book has them reminiscing sad, happy or mischievous moments and abounds in art from poets who couple as seasoned artists.

Released in January 2023, the cover page painting by doctor-poet artist Nithya Sridharan is vibrant and stands out. Edited by the meticulous Anju Kishore and Jairam Seshadri, both established poets and editors, the book is available on Amazon.

The collaborative poems in this edition comprise curated lines set in motion by a few lead poets as cues for other poets to explore further. Some themes covered here are the uniquenesses of individuals, the dissolution of 'I', life's uncertainties and so on, and lighter poems on peoples’ trysts with tea, their most loved beverage. Innovative extensions to the lead verse or subtle deflections from them bring varied human perspectives to appreciate its different truths. The editors have done a fabulous job coalescing these diverse, non-linear thought streams into one whole.

People frequently travel down memory lanes. But the magic of reliving happens when we write, a superlative experience even for regular poets and writers. For folks who don't write often, the book could be a trigger, a starting point for expressions, sorting emotions and accepting the trajectories of their lives. It navigates the heart through nostalgia, acceptance and contentment, leading to reconciliation and sparking thrill in the present humdrum. As nostalgia gushing straight from the heart has a quality of the purest waterfalls from mountains-tops for readers to drink, get drenched, and bond with the known or anonymous, who cares, for when the perception is one, the universe too represents one predominant force.

In these 'AGO' black and white pictures, apart from its classic charm, the colours of the clothes people wore come flashing to the writer—perhaps new clothes that came rare and precious! A surprise gift from an uncle or aunt could have us on cloud nine, making her pink Sharara relatable and nostalgic! Even the reader fears the child getting her new apparel messed up by a fast melting ice cream cone!

Let's take a peek into some more themes in these poems. A stubborn six-year-old refusing to cut a birthday cake, waiting for a father working away from home to arrive instantly. That alone makes her all six and not the months that rolled by. An anguished child wants to look like an adult, weary of being called a baby! Young sisters become best friends, allowing their mutual trust and bond to flourish with age. One calls himself a dreamer, wanting to reach his highest, complete self! In some, you find melancholy; the heart is swallowing pain little by little and pushing away the rest to remain in control and observe like an outsider.

Many poems have sharp and sensitive humour—a hint at a condescending father or a not-too-supportive family. A lost dream of becoming a television news reader but content as a poetry reader, commanding words of choice, escaping the bland script he otherwise ought to parrot! Condescending parents! There were many. Can we blame them entirely? Societies of yore lacked the awareness of sensitising these issues. Books became the (better!) alternative if one couldn't travel the world. It would be worth having that sensible friend—books—particularly with evocative thoughts such as 'books don't disappoint as people do'.

Some poems shine with astounding wordplay, intertwining life, sports, and resilience. Some reflect on the mysticality of physical changes, overwhelmed, despite knowing that change is constant and inevitable! But our emotions rebel and then reconcile, undergoing their processes! And as always, the spirited human who enjoys the game of life rises above winning and losing! Another voice confesses hiding stress from restrictions and financial burdens faced with her boisterous nature, possibly working as a constructive coping mechanism!

Some grew up in the lap of nature, climbing mango trees and staring at the brave monkeys; snakes and scorpions, too, were their companions, as some slept on floors, while others on terraces ended up romancing the moon! Some vouch for hostel life as essential for growth. Living with friends for the first time after stepping out of secure homes enriches life, enabling close connections outside the family, respecting cultures and adapting to situations.

Reading them all, I feel the same upbringing could work differently on different people. There is no one standard best model. An idyllic childhood may or may not make a contented adult, and vice versa. An idyllic childhood is what any child deserves, but reality, sadly, could always be different. Life perhaps does not rest on these alone! Some humans thrive in all situations; some get complacent, some chase dreams or some get bogged down by miseries. What's important is how an individual learns to control inner thoughts, optimise resources, and respond to the environment. But how a young child is to know beforehand remains a humble question forever posed to the universe!

To sum it all up, after a universal struggle for survival, there is an 'accumulation of energy' as stated by a poet. Is that why being older has its merits? Despite health issues, there's an energy burst sprouting from memories, universal love, willingness/willpower and pearls of growing wisdom. 'AGO' poems mull over these and explain the emotions of life, plant or animal. When we look at their similar growth patterns and built-in emotions, it reminds us of being ONE. Emotions come full circle for the readers who make round trips of their own! Life comes full circle when one writes.

A disclosure: I am proud to have been a contributing poet in this edition!

Sumitra Kumar is a frequent writer for a lifestyle magazine called 'Women Exclusive' or WE, which has published many of her articles, poems and travelogues. She is a passionate blogger and poet; a constant love for writing saw her contribute as an editor in Rotary bulletins, which extended into a magazine in her time. She has won many awards in national writing contests conducted by Inner Wheel, a branch of Rotary. Her first published book of poems, Romance with Breath, was launched in April 2022. A second poetry collection and a first novel are on their way. Her varied career stints include being a software programmer, a flight attendant in Air India in the early nineties, and later self-employed as a fashion boutique owner and futures and options trader. Sumitra presently makes her home in Chennai, India, working jointly with her husband as Directors in their packaging and automation business. You can reach her at sumitrakumar.com and follow her on http://www.instagram.com/writer.poet.sumitra https://www.facebook.com/Writer.poet.sumitra/

SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

Sreekumar Ezhuththaani

187 rupees. Like O Henry’s Della, I counted it again and again as if recounting them would make them multiply.

Only I wasn’t buying a Christmas present for my wife. It was the last week of the month (like it made any difference).

Alex had called me that morning. He asked me whether I would like to have some plants. Of course, said I.

Someone he knew was shifting his residence and had 15 potted plants to give away. I asked him whether we shouldn’t pay for them. He said it wasn’t necessary. The man was giving them away. The owner had asked him all of sudden to move out. Why? I was about to find out.

Alex came over in an hour. I told him I would like to give him something in return for the plants. It was a Sunday, a dry day. What gift would be good for his friend? I also revealed to him that all I had was 150 rupees. He said it was all right but lent me hundred repeating his pet phrase, ‘just in case’. Finally, we decided to pay in cash.

I found an old cardboard box in the storeroom. But it won't fit anywhere on the scooter. So, I took my taxi and let Alex drive.

On the way, we talked about the new plant nurseries which had come up in the city. Most were selling only indoor plants in ceramic pots. I asked Alex what plants we were getting. He too had no idea. Flowering ones, of course.

He stopped on a narrow lane and I looked around. He said we had to walk some distance. The place was a bit familiar to me. But Alex took me down a narrow lane past an old lady who stared at us, the strangers.

The man lived on the first floor of a house which was obviously built as a service apartment for bachelors. Not plastered, no courtyard, small windows and no car porch.

I said I didn’t want to climb those stairs. Too narrow. It was risky for me. I wouldn’t trust my foot anymore.

Alex went up and the man came down. From where I was sitting, I first saw his legs. Scary. Advanced varicose veins. They looked like an old house with makeshift plumbing turned inside out.

He came down the steps, greeted me and we entered a chat about his work. He was a video editor. Not making any money now. Not married. Thank God!

Alex came down in half an hour. Within that time I had to know more about the man. I am sure he too got an idea about me. I didn’t let him know I was into film production. He might ask me for favours. I myself was not doing so well.

Alex had brought down the cardboard, packed and sealed so well I could not get a glimpse of the plants.

I gave the man, his name was Gopan, the money I had in my hand. As much as I tried, he refused to accept it. I had to take it back.

When we were back in the car, Alex told me Gopan and his friend were planning to order their dinner. Suddenly I told Alex to buy food for them. We went to the nearby hotel and bought two packs of biriyanis. It cost exactly 250.

Alex took them to the guys and we returned home. I told Alex that I decided to buy them because I was impressed by the man’s concern for the plants. Being a tramp, he could as well throw them away. Why should he care to find a home for the plants when he himself had none? He went out of his way to save them. Exactly what a plant lover would do.

I arranged the potted plants neatly on the side of my small garden. They were some kind of creepers. They may or may not survive. May or may not flower. Who cares! He had done his bit and I had done mine.

The next day was Monday and I left home early as usual. I made sure that the plants got their fair share of water. It was too early to have a good look at them. As much as I tried, I could not spot buds or flowers.

That night when I returned home, I threw a glance at them and heaved a sigh. No flowers but the plants looked healthy and lively. So much for that.

This went on for days and still no flowers or buds. By Saturday, I had a doubt about whether I should water them anymore. Stupid creepers. That bloody cheat!

The next morning I woke up late. Sunday, 10 Am, said my mobile. I casually, still sleepy walked into the garden and was greeted by a flower show.

I found that they had been flowering by ten o’clock every day. By the time I came home, they would be wilted and gone.

Today they were all tossing their heads and dancing as if they too had read Daffodils and knew what to do when meeting a poet. It was more like how my pet dog behaved when it had missed me for a week.

I rang up Alex to ask him where Gopan was now. I wanted to thank him. Alex told me that there had been no news about him. He was always like that. He had disappeared from the lives of many friends like this and surfaced only to be missed again.

I sincerely hoped that he might be wandering where there were lots of flowers.

“I shall remember this moment: the silence, the twilight, the bowl of strawberries, the bowl of milk. Your faces in the evening light.[...] I shall carry this memory carefully in my hands as if it were a bowl brimful of fresh milk. It will be a sign to me, and a great sufficiency.”

- Ingmar Bergman, The Seventh Seal

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.

TOPSY-TURVY

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Ajay Mitra was in cloud nine. He drove his second wife’s car with his daughter, Honey, the youngest of his three children, his favourite one, all the three of them from his first wife. He was going out with Honey for dinner. His second wife Avni had wriggled out of their evening papa-daughter love story over chicken curry, fish fry etc. with some sort of a cock and bull story. She had told about having an important thing to settle later in the evening with her art-critic friend over telephone. So, she was sorry to miss the great treat.

Avni, Ajay’s second wife, was like that. A little different from the normal lot of wives. He would recall their courtship days. She had proposed marriage to Ajay, not the normal vice versa way in male-to-female order. To her proposal to marry, Ajay had tried to be witty, “Avni dear, as a friend I can’t allow you to marry the guy, Ajay, a pauper and tramp.” But she had a quick repartee ready, “Dear friend Ajay, I love paupers and tramps.” That counter-wit had settled the matter.

Avni, in such occasions, that cropped up once in months, would feel she would be a kabab me haddi (the fly in the ointment) in a father-daughter guftgu (chit-chat) over fish and meat. Another valid reason - she was a suddh shaakaahaaree (pure vegetarian), and her presence in ‘once in a blue moon non-veg soiree might make the chicken-fish eaters feel conscious and hesitant and would insult the fishes and chickens who had sacrificed themselves on the butcher’ slab.

Avni was a woman of substance, in other words, not only a self- driven woman of many qualities with a social standing, but a reputed painter-cum-artist. She earned a bit of money by selling a few of her paintings exhibited in her own studio and art exhibitions and galleries organized by their owners. Her paintings were regularly advertised in social sites. Her sale of paintings at regular intervals made her the bread-earner of her house consisting of her husband Ajay and step-daughter Honey besides herself, though Honey had recently moved in her father Ajay’s flat just next door.

Presently Ajay was jobless and depended on Avni for all his running expenses. He shared in housekeeping with his wife in addition to cooking a meal often if Avni was busy. He was a good cook. He had separated from his first wife roughly eleven years ago. He met Avni around four years ago, had a short and sweet affair with her for a few weeks, got engaged to her and after a passage of a few months, they became man and wife by a private function with a few friends from both sides. Only rituals were the exchange of rings and a hug, their first hug, claps and shower of rose petals by friends, and a few photos for memories.

Ajay had only separated from Anita, his wife, but not yet divorced. For marrying Avni, when he had asked for a quiet mutually agreed divorce, Anita had begged not to insult her socially by a divorce suit. His two grown up sons, Tawny and Bunny, also resisted the idea of divorce. He could not refuse her that privilege, because she had been his college sweet heart before marriage.

When divorce was denied, Avni came to Ajay’s rescue, “It is OK with me Ajay. Are we not already married in souls? You know well, like you, I don’t care for rituals, marriage on an altar, in a temple, or in a courtroom. People create evidence by those rituals for legal settlements if that arose, but do we need such evidences?”

Ajay and Avni had met in an exhibition of modern paintings by reputed painters of Mumbai where Avni’s paintings were also exhibited. Ajay had just walked in out of curiosity as he had all the time in the world after he was thrown out of his job. He would have retired honourably in a few years, reaching the Eve of his 66th Birth Day, with a respectable package of retirement benefits.

But his boss, the company’s chairman’s wife’s brother, thought Ajay knew too much about the syphoning of company’s funds to his personal account and thought he was an impending threat. Ajay was one of the senior accountants of the company and in fact, he had smelled a rat in the dealings involving his boss and a colleague of him in account section. So, Ajay was framed to have caused a big loss to the company in a contractual deal, and was fired from his job with a niggard package of final settlement.

His meeting with Avni was electric and filmy in a way. He had entered the Artists Centre at Kala Ghoda near Gateway of India to have a look at the paintings advertised in The Times of India. While looking at random he was impressed by a painting, titled ‘Desire’ inscribed Avni, the signature of the artist at a corner.

He liked ‘Desire’ so much and was so deeply inspired by the painting that he scribbled a poem on the spot on his mobile phone’s notepad.

DOVES OF DESIRE

In a daze you ask

for the price of the woman

without eyes; three doves

taking off from the regions of her lips,

midriff and thighs.

The Painter states, “…the ‘Desire’

is not for sale.”

Writing poetry was his hobby. After scribbling his poem ‘Doves of Desire’, Ajay called attention of the visitors in the exhibition hall. When the visitors surrounded him, he, pointing to the painting ‘Desire’ by painter Avni, introduced her from the short narrative profiling her art-career on a billboard kept by the side of her series of paintings. He then introduced himself as a dilletante poet and an accountant by training, jobless at that specific time. He told the gathering how the painting had inspired him to scribble a poem. Urged by the audience he read the poem, he did so. The painting and the poem went together so well that, it resulted in many things.

There was clapping all around and it appeared to go on and on for minutes. All the visitors came crowding at the painting ‘Desire’, poring over it and on Avni’s profile-note on the billboard. Ajay was requested to read his poem again. He read it this time deliberately slow with stresses and pauses to communicate better. The rapt silence of the listeners and the beatific looks on their faces said volumes about the success of the ‘Jugalbandi’ between the painting ‘Desire’ and the poem ‘Doves of Desire’.

A senior looking art-prospector was among the spectators. He was examining ‘Desire’ with sort of a pair of toothpick-eyes, and was heard saying ‘wah!’ to himself many a time before turning around like a man in a daze and asking for Avni the painter. A lady in her late forties, Avni, was also in the gathering of listeners to the poem. She said, “I am Avni. I painted this watercolour. May I help you, Sir?”

The dazed man asked, “Dear young lady, quote your price, I would buy this and add it to my collection. Please quote your price. Don’t bother. I will take, sky is the limit.” It was Avni’s turn to smile with pride, “Sorry Sir, as you heard the poet saying ‘Desire’ is not for sale.” The art-prospector looked crestfallen and melted into the crowd. The bystanders heard Avni continue, “Definitely not after hearing this poem. This poet, who read my mind from my painting so accurately, is a magician. I would like to know him better.” She looked at Ajay and their eyes locked for a second.

That was how they met. It would appear later she was in love on the spot with the poet she didn’t know. She would realize ‘love’ was like that. It would happen like a ‘zap’, like being struck by a lightening as would agree the Italians of the old school of thought.

She took Ajay for coffee and declared her love even before the coffee mug touched her lips. She couldn’t afford any accidental slip between the cup and the lips. Ajay was taken aback with a ubiquitous question that strangers would ask, “But do we know each other, Avni ji? Except a painting and a poem between us, there is nothing to reveal our true selves to each other?”

Avni liked his frankness. She continued, “I know my love is one-sided. But it is ‘love’ all the same. We would know each other and in full over some time. I will wait for your reciprocation and I won’t mind to wait for a life time. If finally, you don’t like me, don’t reject me, just move away. I will not like my tender first love to feel hurt and insulted. Wouldn’t you allow me that much, dear Ajay?” Ajay gave a little involuntary shrug, and felt bad about his manners. He mumbled, “Sorry Mam, I didn’t shrug deliberately, that was just out of bad habit. Please don’t feel hurt.”

To smoothen the effect of his shrug he said, “I think you would appreciate my predicament. I have separated from my wife, who was my college sweetheart before marriage, but not yet divorced.” Avni responded, “Give a break to me Ajay ji. I mean a coffee break sometimes when you are free. Just the formality to know each other better.”

Ajay’s response was frank, “Any time Mam. Why should I behave like an old fool, a prude, to avoid the company of a pretty woman? You know I live around here in a flat inherited from my father with my little one, Honey, all of twenty-one years old, a spritely young lady herself. For now, being jobless I have all the time in the world to be with you, but no money. Carry on Madam, I am sport for coffee breaks..”

Avni averted her eyes and smiled. She felt like touching and caressing his hands but controlled her urges. She thought she would share her this urge to touch him only after Ajay declared his love for her.

Ajay’s much acclaimed patience to keep Avni at a coffee-table distance proved to be very short. Her one-sided affair, shortly drew him into that whirlpool of passion. It happened over a few weeks only. Ajay extended his tenderest admission of love by touching Avni’s hands with both of his, and choking over his words, “I am in love again. I love you Avni with body and soul.” Without waste of time she proposed marriage. She produced a gold ring from a little box she carried in her purse and implored, “Would you, dear Ajay, accept me as your wife?”

Ajay’s response was very practical, “A affair was one thing, but marriage was a serious one. You are much younger than me, Avni. A virgin. An absolutely first-hand marriage material. A woman of substance. I am a single man because of separation from an estranged wife, not yet divorced, an out and out old hurtling junk in marriage market. Besides, I am a pauper and a tramp. I live with my youngest daughter Honey. I depend on her even for buying a cigar. I don’t do anything except writing a poem now and then. Why should you marry a tramp and a pauper?”

He continued, “My life is in a mess, Avni. Give me time to settle my mess, and then, if you insist to take in this tramp and pauper, we will live together as man and wife. Let me take a divorce, otherwise, our marriage would be unlawful.” After a pause, he added, “I accept your ring as a mark of our love. It would sit on my finger all the time as a symbol of your love.”

But unluckily that divorce did not come through and on Honey’s advice, he moved in with Avni in a live-in arrangement. Honey had just rescued and adopted two helpless street dogs in recent times and she needed the full house for them to play around. She behaved like a fulltime mother to her furry babies. After living a few days with them she moved to Ajay’s flat, almost adjacent to Avni’s. But she would join them in all food sessions.

He had separated from his first wife on personal grounds. They had three children. Tawny, Bunny and Honey in that order with three years interval, two boys and a girl. Ajay was happy, even if he did not have a high position in his company or high salary. But sufficient to buy a house, manage a family, bring up children and save a little in wife’s name for the rainy days. His house rolled in slow ambulation in a mercury lake of life like a happy houseboat. But an eclipse but was waiting.

His comely wife grew comelier but as another person, a bit mental. She found fault in everything about Ajay and Honey. She couldn’t punish Ajay for his minor mistakes but Honey she would not spare her even over childlike slips, like ‘your slip is showing’. She punished her badly. Ajay found Honey, his youngest girl who was turning thirteen, going disconsolate and hankering for mother’s love. No discussion helped him or Honey. Ajay felt disturbed to see his child persecuted in various ways for no fault of her.

Bitter and continuous quarrels ensued in the family and continued day and night, over weeks and months without a respite. Their marriage seemed on the brink of breaking down. One day, Anita ran away to her parental abode lying vacant and locked over years after their deaths. She left behind her college and school going children with Ajay. She then decided never to return but settle down there.

Ajay looked after the children as best as he could with a house-help. In the meantime, his sons, Tawny and Bunny, finished studies. As an Engineer, Tawny started a business. Bunny started a dental clinic. Both married their girlfriends and lived in separate flats. Only Honey, his little persecuted girl, lived with Ajay. She finally, finished her MBA with flying colours and got a managerial job in a firm. But the bitter daughter-mother relationship had left a legacy of scars, a split personality disorder combined with depression.

She after bad academic results, anger tantrums and one suicidal attempt, was given a robust medical help and showed stability. Soft and loving help of papa Ajay, according to her psychiatrist, had been her last straw in all her crises and was the most soothing balm for her mental health. She continued on a maintenance dose prescribed by her psychiatrist to hold her depression to minimum and manageable level.

But the high pressure in her managerial job of cut-throat competition triggered her depression again. Because of her temper tantrums she jumped from job to job as bosses didn’t adjust with her like papa was doing. Finally, she started working for a company from home with a PC, and that suited her to some extent.

Only Honey was the oasis in his desert. Ajay loved her the most. One fine day his job was sabotaged by his boss. He was made to retire without prewarning or preparation, or notice with a small settlement money.

His savings were exhausted in bringing up children, their education, marriages, and settling them down. The pittance of funds that came because of forced retirement was also taken away by his eldest son as loan that he refused to return. All his imploring ‘that is my last money for Honey’s marriage’ fell in deaf ears.

Rather, Tawny’s wife had said, “Why do you need that money Baba? Stay with us like a king. I guarantee, Honey with mer mental state would never marry. Don’t worry.” But Ajay knew that he as the ‘king’ had to buy grocery, drop and bring the older child to and from school, babysit the second child, toddler the whole day when the parents were out for work or parties. That was too much of a kingdom to take care of.

Also, he wanted to be by the side of his sick child, Honey, who was lonely. He thanked himself for the sagacity of creating a distress joint account for Honey with himself as a second holder, to help her in bad days and a good amount was secreted away from the two sharks, his sons.

That was the little world of Ajay that had crashed unceremoniously when she met Avni. But Avni proved to be the panacea for all his wounds, the most soothing balm.

Avni’s noble gestures had no match. Whenever Avni would remain out of the evening parties of Honey and Papa, like that evening, she would put some cash and her Visa card into Ajay’s pocket behind Honey’s eyes, though the sweet gesture would not escape Honey. She liked such secret but warm exchanges between husband and wife. In a way it gave her a sense of security. She would feel, “Papa is in safe hands at last.” But she never accepted Avni as her mother. Her hankering for mother-love, Anita’s love, kept her ever depressed.

Ajay took a secret peek at Avni by his side. In spite of brooding, she looked lovely. A little scruffy like a girl in her early teens though she was twenty-four already. She smelled of a good fragrance, smell of her pet dogs mixed with a good perfume he had gifted to her a few days ago. A sweet mix of smell of animal and human.

The car windows were down for a change. The breeze was balmy. The quarter-slice of a jubilant moon ahead of them hung low on the top of buildings playing a peek-a-boo. The steering in his hand felt supple and obedient, different than its regular petulant hardness. He felt like humming a tune but refrained, looking at Honey. She looked moody and brooding. Something was bothering her, for sure.

He used to take her out once in a while for a treat or chat or just to sit and look at a lake face or a sunset in silence. In a few such occasions Avni would join them if it was not a non-veg lunch or dinner. A practice from days of his first wife after the mutual the mother-daughter relationship had soured.

That evening Avni had proposed to him that he gave Honey the treat at Raj heritage, an upmarket expensive restaurant, serving Rajasthani Sahi (royal) dinner over a buffet spread, costing four thousand rupees. The buffet had most Rajasthani delicacies, vegetarian and non-vegetarian. A ticket to the buffet had to be bought in advance at the counter set up in the spacious and comfortable Sahi Lounge and wait there for the call to go to the buffet area.

As they were approaching the booking counter, Honey took Ajay aside and said, “Papa, I am sorry. I have a stomach ache. I can’t eat. You carry on, as you are hungry. I will give you company, sit by you and chit-chat.”

Now Ajay hazarded a guess what was behind Honey’s gaunt and distant look during their drive to Raj heritage. He was sure he had not heard her full story. What she said was only the tip of the iceberg. Stomach upset sounded untrue. Why should his child take such a fragile alibi to make her point. He led her by hand to a remote corner of the Sahi Lounge and comforted her, “Eating and stomach upset can wait, my child. Tell me your full story. What is bothering you? What did make you tell me a lie my child? What you really need is a heart-to-heart talk with papa. Tell me.”

Honey broke down. When consoled and put back to her collected self, she whispered, “I am broke papa. My job has almost tanked. Because of my lack of concentration and bad performance, the company has reduced my monthly remuneration to half of its earlier amount.” Ajay reacted, “That’s OK child. May be, I would talk to another company and arrange another job. We would manage. But why shouldn’t you eat dinner, my child?”

Her avalanche broke. She melted in silent tears and whatever Ajay gathered from her tear-choked voice, “Papa, the cost of my food ticket here, it should be a good amount for an expensive restaurant like Raj Heritage, I badly need that money for buying food for my children, my big puppies until my next cheque comes through. I know, you have no income, no saving. So, this dinner-ticket money is my last straw.”

Ajay felt like dissolving in tears himself. He felt a strong urge to take Honey in a hug and cry together with her for their life, that had gone topsy-turvy. Had Anita not decamped with all the family money saved in her name so lovingly, it would be a different story today. Ajay also could not consider breaking the distress-fund saved for Honey for her help when he would not be there.

He steeled himself like a real strong papa for his daughter. Instead of breaking down himself, he put his arm on Honey and led her out to a corner of the big lawn outside the Sahi Lounge. They sat silently for long minutes. The jubilant evening now looked bleak and bereaved. The little slice of smiling moon an hour ago now looked lifeless before dipping down behind the treeline.

He took out the wallet and started counting his cash. It totalled to eight thousand nine hundred and ten, including the cash Avni had handed over to him a little ago. He handed over eight thousand to Honey. He used Avni’s Visa card to withdraw nine thousand and odd amount to appear debited by the restaurant. He gave that cash to Honey also. He would reveal the truth to Avni later.

She drove Honey to a Shetty managed restaurant serving cheap but fresh and delicious dishes of fish cooked in Mangalorean style. Earlier, in many occasions when Ajay suffered from financial hardship, they had visited it to pamper their fish-tooth. Honey had a hearty meal and packed some for her puppies. The bill presented totalled to within five hundred including ten rupees towards the waiter’s tip, a princely sum in standards of that downmarket Mangalorean eatery. Still he had money to buy a cigar for himself and an ice cream for Honey.

While eating, Ajay was deep in thought in spite of looking jolly over the fish curry and rice. Their grocer recently had confided in him, “Sir, I am looking for a reliable accountant who would write my accounts. A work of a few hours, two to three days a week. I will pay him fifteen to twenty thousand a month. He should know the postings to meet the requirements of recent GST. Do you know anyone sir?”

Ajay was seriously thinking of writing the grocer’s GST account himself and earning that twenty grand monthly payment for his unwell child. Though paltry, but a lordly amount in their present circumstances to take care of Honey’s children. He also decided to give up smoking expensive cigars and save from his pocket money given to him by Avni.

MAA’S WALKER

Ishwar Pati

For a moment I was puzzled not to see my mother’s walker resting against the wall. She never went anywhere without it. How could she have left behind her indispensable companion? Then it struck me. She needs it no more! I have just returned from the crematorium after conducting her earthly remains to the elements.

Looking at the lost walker, it occurred to me that I couldn’t call out to my “Maa!” She was gone forever. The sight of the walker sent events from the past flashing before my eyes. I could still feel the warmth of Maa’s endless hugs, heavenly because of her ultra soft flesh! There had been times when she had rewarded me for good work, and also incidents when she had meted out punishment for my mischief. The memory of those episodes remains as deep-rooted as the pain.

Once as a boy I wandered off in a fair and got lost in the crowd. My mother was distraught beyond words and cried her heart out till I was found and reunited with her. Far from rebuking me for my waywardness, she embraced me with even greater vigour. For me she was the world’s best cook, because she took great care to cook the dishes I loved. When I fell ill, she sat by my side through the night and nursed me back to health.

She was with me like a shadow as I went to school and then to college, urging me to put in my best at every stage. Whenever I stumbled and lost out in the rat race of life, she was there to console me. “It is not the end of the world,” she would tell me. “There’s a silver lining to every cloud.” I had to credit her for her relentless scrutiny in ‘catching’ a marvellous wife for me!

Years went by and her hair turned grey. Gradually her gait slowed. She had to hold on to a stick to help her to walk. It became her constant companion. But she continued to be sprightly and playful with children, telling them stories from her treasure box.

In the evening of her life I spent many an evening on her balcony, counting the number of planes taking off from the airport. All the time she would be twiddling with her walker. Planes are still taking off and flying across the sky, but Maa is no longer there with me to count them. She must be doing that in her heaven.

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.

STRAWBERRY CAKE

Chinmayee Barik

(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)

“Why is tonight so oppressively silent?” I asked myself.

This road is not new to me; I have travelled on it numerous times. Of course, it is quieter at night. But there was a deafening silence that night and it seemed the air had been stilled under its sheer weight. Even the road had opted to keep mum, enjoying its freedom from the hustle and bustle. It felt eerie, as if nature was playing a melody of silence, which had permeated the entire atmosphere.

I am not used to this deathly silence; in fact it unnerves me. If everything around me is hushed into a state of absolute soundlessness, I have to create some noise from inside me, as if I need it for my survival. So, I started humming audibly, imposing my unmusical singing on my captive audience on a deserted road, the reluctant neon lamp posts on the roadside.

I looked up to the sky; it was covered in dark clouds hanging heavy. It seemed, rain was not far off.

Tonight the road felt desolately empty. I had been delayed in returning from my friend’s birthday party and it was rather late into the night. I estimated the time to be around 10 PM. My head also started to hurt. Ah, this is perhaps the worst time for my migraine to strike. I knew, it could come any time; its only fixed feature was its unpredictability. Ordinarily, I carry my migraine medicine with me but that day, I didn’t have any. I decided to buy some so that I could take them before returning home. The first pharmacy, I came across did not stock my medicine. In stead of waiting for an auto rickshaw, I set off on foot for the next store . How awkward was the timing was for my headache to start its torment! I might have to walk all the way back home as the chance of finding an auto rickshaw at that time was next to nil. I reckoned, it would take about an hour, at the most.

The sky above was suddenly lit up by a bolt of lightning followed by the roars of thunder. Unfortunately I had also forgotten to carry my umbrella that night. And, I did not have the mobile phone with me either. So, I began to quicken my pace. As I looked around, I found most of the shops had already drawn their shutters in anticipation of the downpour. There was hardly any other vehicle around either. I realised, I was all alone on a deserted road.

I don’t get scared easily. Neither am I afraid of ghosts or spirits. The only creatures which frighten me are those who are personification of evil, masquerading as humans. Luckily, I do not have many encounters with such characters.

Suddenly, I felt the first few drops of rain on me. Ah, this seemed to be the perfect opportunity for the rain to settle scores with me! Perhaps, I should take shelter somewhere until the rain subsided, I thought. But, standing all alone in a deserted place, late in night, did not feel very safe either. Perhaps, reaching the next pharmacy sooner would be a better strategy.

While I resumed my walk in the rain with renewed vigour, I remembered the pending order for six cakes to be delivered by next morning. They were birthday cakes, whose delivery could not be missed at any cost. I could certainly finish the cakes overnight, if I took my medicine and got down to work on the cakes upon reaching home. It was critical for me to deliver them as promised. Otherwise, I would lose the trust of my loyal customers. Although, they wouldn’t perhaps desert me anyway; they value my expertise in cake making and my skills in decorating them.

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All on a sudden, the rain gathered momentum and started pounding. I felt totally helpless. My saree, by now thoroughly soaked in rain water, was getting into a tangle. It was clinging to my legs and hindering my walk. As I spotted a banyan tree, I decided to take shelter under it. Standing under the tree, I realised how deserted the Capital city was that night. Normally, these roads have constant vehicular traffic, with throngs of people moving around, even late in night.

A sound from the branches above startled me. I was no longer comfortable standing under the massive tree, even though I was unsure what to do next. By then, I had given up my quest for the pharmacy and was keen to get back home fast. When I started to walk, I could feel the presence of someone behind me. In stead of looking back to check I kept walking faster. As I carried on, I could feel, someone was following me. When I quickened my pace, the footsteps behind me also became faster and louder. Although I did not believe in the supernatural, the first thought that sprang to my mind was: “Is it a ghost?”

As I was about to turn round to check what was behind me, someone suddenly appeared in front. I was about to shriek in fear but I could clearly see a young man before me, who was holding an umbrella over my head. I took a close look at his face; he was young, perhaps in mid twenties. With a disarming smile on his face he said, “You are such a fast walker. I must admire your guts, walking all alone on this deserted road in torrential rain, that too without an umbrella.”

“But, who are you? I don’t think, I know you.”

“Neither do I. I had taken shelter from the rain under the tree. I saw you walking all alone in the rain without an umbrella. I thought, why not put my umbrella to good use for the benefit of both of us. So, I kept walking behind you. I am sorry, if I gave you a scare. But, now that you know the truth, I hope, you don’t mind walking with me.”

I examined his face minutely. The young man was fair in complexion and he sported a french cut beard. He had thin lips, a prominent forehead, thick dark brown hair and sparkling eyes. With a gentle laugher he said, “Madam, I have been watching you for a while. You have been busy singing. You are lost in your private world, oblivious to your surroundings. I guess, you enjoy singing.’”

“Oh no, I am no singer. Nonetheless, I often sing, in order to create company for myself. Who cares, if I am not endowed with the singing gene. At least I am no longer alone; my singing converts my singular status into plural.

“Ha, ha……. You made an interesting point. Anyway, tell me now, where are you headed so late in night, alone?”

Without replying, I took a closer look at him. It did not seem proper to disclose much about myself to a total stranger. It is hard to judge, in this day and age, who you could trust. As if he could read my thoughts, he quickly added, “Don’t fear. You can trust me; Look, I am about your son’s age. You were thoroughly soaked in rain. So, I felt duty bound to come to your aid. But, what about the answer to my question?”

“I was in search of a pharmacy for buying some medicine. I was on foot because I could not find an auto rickshaw. After all, this is a familiar road for me; I thought I could manage it on foot. But, now, I am getting late and I think, I should be returning home without further delay.”

“Buying medicines? So late at night? All alone in this torrential rain?”

“No, I was on my way back home from my friend’s place. I suffer from migraine, which comes abruptly without any warning. The headache started unexpectedly after I had set off on my journey. I was hoping to pick up my medicine on my way.”

“Bravo, it seems, you are also not afraid of dark rainy nights.”

“Why should I be afraid? What for? For an old hag like me, who is past the prime of life, there is no reason to be afraid. I am not wealthy either. So, I have got nothing to lose; In fact, I have nothing that would be of interest to anybody. Luckily, my circumstances work in my favour; it makes me fearless” I heaved a sigh after my detailed explanation.

“But, you still have your life to safeguard. Aren’t you scared of dangers to your life? There are plenty of criminals around who might be after your life. You should always be alert of such characters.”

The young man sounded sincere and his words made sense, dispelling my deep suspicion of him. My attitude towards him softened somewhat as I found him concerns genuine. I had no hesitation in asking him, “Can you fetch my migraine medicine for me? You see, I need to work thorough the night and finish my task of making six cakes by tomorrow morning.”

He turned his head in both directions, by way of scanning the road and said, “I don’t think, you will get your medicine tonight. I have just walked the entire length of the road from this side and I did not find any medicine store open.”

“So, it had been futile to walk all this way!”

Looking somewhat thoughtful he said, “Never mind, without wasting more time, you better head back home now.”

“Sure,” I started to walk and he simply followed me. By then, the downpour had given way to a drizzle.

Walking under one umbrella, half of our bodies had been already soaked in rain water. As we kept walking, I could not avoid sniffing the stranger’s smell; there was an unusual fragrance about him. He kept stroking his wet hair, pulling them back from his face. He wore a dark coloured full sleeve shirt, with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and a pair of Denim jeans. His shoes looked expensive.

There was nothing in the stranger’s looks and manners to indicate any sinister motive in him. On the contrary, there was something about his face which inspired trust and confidence.

All on a sudden, a vehicle zipped past us on the road, splashing muddy water all over my saree. The speed of the car did startle me and I was visibly shaken. He steadied me by his hand on my shoulder, pulling me away from the road. In the process, my body had moved closer to his, and my face was next to his chest. I could smell him even better; it was an unusually scent. This sudden turn of events unsettled me, and as I was trying to compose myself, I found my saree had got into a twisted mess. Looking down, I found a thorny twig had got entangled with folds of my saree. Before I could bend down to straighten my saree, he handed the umbrella to me and quickly got down to extricate the thorny twig from my saree. As he squatted to untangle my saree, I kept watching him. I could see the rain water noisily dripping on his shoulders.

“So, you make cakes?” He asked without looking up.

“Yes, I always enjoyed experimenting with exotic dishes from recipes . After my retirement, I have simply turned my hobby into a profession. Now, it’s my business and a comforting remedy for my boredom.”

“I love cakes, specially strawberry cake, with chocolate flavour. As a child, I used to stealthily eat lots of cakes. But, I would often get caught and I had many sound thrashing for my mischief. You can understand why I was in trouble; I would insist on eating cake in stead of usual food, rice and lentil. I don’t know who invented cakes. It is my weakness number one. While my craving for cakes totally overpowers my mind my body can’t simply handle them. Now, I have cut down on my cake consumption; I have become conscious of my weight.”

“Then, you must come to my house. Once, you taste my cakes, you will be hooked for ever. You would never order cakes from anybody else. You will forget all your concerns about your figure.”

“Ha Ha. Then, I shall become plump again, which will be terrible. You know, my weight was 120 kilos; with concerted efforts it is now down to 75. I had to spend hours on end, training in the gym for so long to get myself back in shape.”

I found his cravings and concerns amusing. We two were enjoying our conversation so much that it made walking home rather pleasant. My headache had also faded.

“So, where are you going?” I asked .

“Nowhere in particular. I had just left home for a stroll, for some fresh air. I was feeling rather suffocated indoors. It is so much more peaceful outside.”

I could sense, the young man was hinting at his troubled life, perhaps due to personal problems. But I refrained from probing into them for sake of propriety. We kept walking and as we approached a hoarding with a film poster, he asked, “Do you watch films?”

“Ah! Mine is not the age for films; I am not young any more. Film and frolic are for the young lot like you. The last film I watched was ages ago. I have no interest, whatsoever, in the film world. ”

“Now, you sound exactly like my mother; her viewpoint was similar. She always saw herself as an old woman; for her the film world was disgusting. She kept herself busy praying, reading religious literature and singing devotional poems.”

“You refer to her in past tense. Is she not around?”

“She is probably somewhere up there,” he looked up to the sky, “Sometimes she appear as stars to take a peek at us.” The sky that night was pitch black.

“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed.

In response, his body shifted drawing itself really close to mine. The sense of intimacy from our close proximity was an experience, new to me. I never knew, such feelings towards a total stranger were possible.

My house was approaching. The rain had stopped too.

“Here is my house, round the corner, not far from here. I must thank you for keeping me company. Chatting with you made the walk such a pleasure, I did not feel the distance at all. Tonight, it is rather late to invite you into my house. But, you must visit me sometime at your convenience. Not only I specialise in cakes, I also cook many exotic dishes. I will prepare for you dishes which, I am sure, you would have never had before. My name is Indrani Das and I live in Plot number 62. I am well known in this colony for my cooking. You will have no trouble locating my house; just ask for Indu Auntie.”

“Are you really going to make cakes specially for me?”

“Of course, Baba (an affectionate term of address for children). You are like my child. Well, first tell me your name and give me your address.”

“I am Gautam Chhotray” he stammered. “My address is: Golden Villa, Plot number 55, Airport Road.”

The words carried a gravity, as he uttered them. Although the urge to invite him into my house was strong, the timing was not right. I thanked him again profusely for his company and turned round towards my house. Unexpectedly, he grabbed my hand and moved closer. He looked straight at my ruffled wet hair, focussing his gaze on the centre of my forehead. He said, “Please don’t mind, Madam. But I have to say this to you. If you put on a large “bindi” (coloured dots worn on the forehead by Indian women), in place of the small one, you are wearing, you would look exactly like my mother!”

I was too close to him to miss his overpowering scent. It was an unearthly fragrance, wafting all around us. I had an overwhelming urge to hold him in my embrace. But for some reason, I couldn’t. I wished, I could tell him, “From now on, you can call me Mama.” But somehow, I could not utter these words; they remained stuck in my throat.

“You must visit my house, Gautam. Won’t you? I will be waiting for you.” This was all I could say, with the utmost affection, I could gather.

“Yes, Of course. Strawberry flavour cake is my all-time favourite.”

He walked away. The retreating figure in a dark shirt and blue Denims gradually disappeared out of my sight.

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That night, I sat down to finish the cakes, ordered for the next morning. Throughout, I kept thinking of Gautam; his words kept ringing in my ears. Poor boy, he had no idea, he had awakened my maternal feelings. As I was finishing the last cake, I was seized by a desire to make a strawberry cake. It was already late night but I was no longer feeling sleepy. I was in a jubilant mood; the thought of Gautam’s delight while savouring my cake made me blissfully happy.

Although I knew the recipe for strawberry cake quite well, I surfed the YouTube channel to get ideas for the best ever strawberry cake. My aim was to make it an unforgettable experience for Gautam.

By daybreak, my cakes were ready for collection. My customers were pleased to get their orders in time. But I was exhausted from working through the night, fatigued by my missed sleep of previous night. I laid myself on bed for a snooze. Soon, my eyes were closed. But I could still see Gautam. He was standing outside my door. I woke up from sleep, startled. I opened the door promptly; there was nobody. How silly of me! I had forgotten to collect his phone number. Thank God, I still remembered his address; So, I decided to go to his house and deliver the cake.

It was not difficult to find his house. It was a prominent bungalow. But there was a big gathering outside. I was bemused by the crowd assembled near his house. A gentleman, amongst them was reading a newspaper. When I enquired with him about Gautam Chhotray, he stared at me in disbelief. “Don’t you know about the tragic news? The upcoming actor, Gautam Chhotray was murdered last night.”

“What! When!”

“Around 10 O’clock last night.”

“No! It’s impossible? I shrieked, “Are you talking about the Gautam Chhotray, the young man in his mid twenties?” My voice was tremulous.

“Yes, Madam. You can see his photo in the newspaper,” he replied, pointing at the paper in his hand, “The police has just removed his dead body from the house.”

The gentleman handed the paper to me, but I did not bother to take it off him. I had no interest in reading it. There was absolutely no point; I didn’t need any paper. Last night between 10 and11, Gautam Chhotray walked with me all the way to my house. How could he be murdered at that time? I can still feel his touch on my body. The smell of Gautam is still fresh on my nostrils. This is rubbish, utter rubbish!

Strangely, I remained unperturbed by this newsflash. My faith in Gautam Chhotray was absolute. He had given me his word and I was confident, he would not renege on his promise. I was in no doubt, he would turn up to taste my strawberry cake.

Then, it occurred to me, perhaps, I have mistakenly landed at the wrong address. That is still a possibility!

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.

THE EDUCATION RAT RACE: “WHO WE CHASE AND WHY WE DON’T KNOW”

Sudipta Mishra

In a rat race, we all are chasing our progress. Who we chase and why we don’t know. That so-called imaginary progress is also a myth. Due to our vague expectations and dreams about an unknown future, we start to plan and plot our schemes. We seek someone to fulfill our dreams. That someone is none other than our offspring in most cases.

To meet such a huge end on the scale of high percentages, students face traumatic depression and pressure. To score such a high level of marks, they strive towards only percentages and value the marks.

Particularly due to faulty educational systems, our knowledge is based on our marks in our society. Due to societal pressure and unnecessary dreams, we often pressurize our kids to pass with flying colors in the examination. Marks are not everything. But unfortunately, we don’t realize it. Top colleges in our society demand excellent results by creating cutoffs. Even relatives and neighbors are somehow responsible for these unethical expectations of Indian Parents.

So to meet such a huge end on the scale of high percentages, students face traumatic depression and pressure. To score such a high level of marks, they strive towards only percentages and value the marks. Instead of gaining knowledge, they become mark oriented in their life. Hence, a minute failure leads to suicidal thoughts.

We have to realize that the most successful person in our society is not always a topper. From time immemorial, we have witnessed this in our society. All legends who have excelled in their lives always hate conventional educational systems. They always chase their dreams. They explore what their souls demand. If they had crushed their inner voice, they would have never succeeded in their lives.

So all parents should nurture the creative side of their wards. Marks are, of course, vital. But it is not an end in itself. Life is much more important than marks. A kid should flourish their inner beauty and spirit. They should be taught in school the ways to handle pressure.

Emotional growth is as important as the structural growth of a kid. Social, spiritual, and cognitive growth will serve the holistic health of a student. Parents, as well as teachers, should safeguard the emotional and psychological interests of their kids rather than marks.

HOW TO CELEBRATE THE JOY OF LOVE IN TIMES OF SOCIAL MEDIA

Sudipta Mishra

Every moment, we exhale negative vibes and inhale the goodness of life-saving oxygen. This, in turn, gets reciprocated, and one starts living their life ahead in a hope of exhilaration and good energy. It also exuberantly enhances one’s life.

Just like we inhale oxygen, we crave an intense desire to be loved every one-zillionth of a moment. Yes, it is correct and scientific. We as human beings enjoy the statutory status of being the most distinct and distinguished species who can logically and rationally solve a problem. Even an animal wants to be pampered but is unfortunately unable to express this desire.

In the same way, we want to get pampered by our immediate family members daily. Unfortunately, the desire to get true love remains unexplored and unexpressed in this cut-throat world. Nobody has the time to stand and stare for a while, even for themselves. We lack communication problems in a family, as a result of which the distance between the members only gets accelerated.

The digital world and social media are primarily responsible for replacing interpersonal relationships between family members. Work pressure and peer pressure are further creating more havoc, for a person to render flawless affection for their family members.

“Social media is distancing people from their primary relationships. People are distracting themselves and indulging in social media.”

As a result, we all are suffering from a serious mental and physical crisis of profound love. and care. Togetherness and informal relationships have amazingly vanished from the dictionary of our lives. We all are trying hard to even survive in this fatal society where no one seriously cares for the other. This lack of intensity creates several mental illnesses and physical disabilities in people, leading to suicidal tendencies.

So, to recreate the lost love in our life, we have to follow certain golden rules.

Rebuilding Mutual Interdependence: Yes, we have to be mutually interdependent in a family, so that we can get each other’s help in the time of need. Hence, the emotional support system can then be rebuilt.

Discarding Social Media: Social media is distancing people from their primary relationships. People are distracting themselves, even from their spouses, to indulge in social media. They are living in an illusion. So, they have to come out of this deceptive world to their real life.

Rejuvenating platonic love: True soulful love has disappeared from our lives. Physical love is transient and whimsical. So, to attain a transcendental experience in love, we have to mentally merge with our partner.

Last, but not least: Just like food, shelter, and clothing, love is also a primary desire. The only difference is that we cannot openly disclose this hunger to the outer world. Everyone is on a quest to find pure, blissful love. So, we just need to distinguish this unquenchable mental quest for platonic love from the filthy world of physical love.

MATERIAL PLEASURES ARE TEMPORARY, LET’S BUILD A LIFE OF A LARGER VALUE

Sudipta Mishra

Everything is temporary. At present, the entire world has been seized into a restricted boundary. Lockdown and shutdown have completely squeezed our freedom. Public transportation, high-yield communication, globalization, and modernization have resulted in futile consequences for our society. Due to technologically advanced movements, we are already committed to residing in a very small world. Virtual and online communication has transformed the largest world into a very closed and intimate community. So, our life is revolving around the virtual world. Computers, tabs, cellphones, iPods, and social media are reigning in our lives. For commercial purposes, we rely on flights, trains, buses, cars, and many more.

Conveniently, we had forgotten that these things are man-made and transitory. Even we have immunized ourselves with these temporary amenities. Our life has fallen prey to the gym, malls, movies, water parks, clubs, and many more. Not a single day in our life is accomplished without these facilities. We have made our life a mere victim of this luxurious fiasco. The basic core values of life have long been lagged and left out. The intricately woven traps of lavish things have created a void everywhere. The waves of modernity have created havoc inside a family. Families are losing their vitality. "We touch and use our cellphones 76 times in daily life, according to a survey."

But, we don’t need the same urge to feel the presence of our loved ones in our family compared to our cell phones. This is the sad reality of our present life. We are valuing things more than relationships. The current pandemic situation in which we all are sailing so ferociously and dangerously has taught us a lesson. The threat of life has unveiled the deception which we all have been floating through for several years.

Rich or poor, all are going through the same sense of threats and fear for life. Nothing is stagnant. Everything is momentary. Now is the high time to realize the gravity of the situation to unite towards a larger value of life. Nowadays, humanity is the ideal virtue to cast our human spirit towards society. We should not isolate ourselves from the basic ideologies of life and those are none other than love and compassion for others. At this point in life, we have learned a lesson that negligence, ego, and unmindful perspectives have shown us such a vicious circle of life where we are fighting a battle against unknown enemies. Rather it is a righteous war against health crises for survival only.

The entire world is swelling towards isolation and desertion. It has happened because of our thoughtless actions and careless exploitation of nature. It is high time to review our past deeds and revive a new vision toward the enrichment of ancient culture and traditions. The pain and suffering which we all are witnessing currently witnessing are the reveries of our actions.

Overexploitation and manipulation of technologies are the results of the current illusion and ignorance. So lets us pledge from now on to be alert, aware, and conscious of the present issues and crises. Overconfidence and extreme curiosity to acquire materialistic pleasure has led us towards assured devastation of the entire community. So, as aware citizens of our society, we should behave rationally to avoid further destruction of humanity.

Sudipta Mishra is a multi-faceted artist and dancer excelling in various fields of art and culture. She has co-authored more than a hundred books. Her book, 'The Essence of Life', is credited with Amazon's bestseller. Her next creation, 'The Songs of My Heart' is scaling newer heights of glory. Her poems are a beautiful amalgamation of imagery and metaphors. She has garnered numerous accolades from international organizations like the famous Rabindranath Tagore Memorial, Mahadevi Verma Sahitya Siromani Award, an Honorary Doctorate, and so on. She regularly pens articles in newspapers as a strong female voice against gender discrimination, global warming, domestic violence against women, pandemics, and the ongoing war. She is pursuing a Ph.D. degree in English. Her fourth book, Everything I Never Told You is a collection of a hundred soulful poems. Currently, she is residing in Puri.

THE LITTLE BROWN GIRL – a collection of short stories

Ruchi Pritam

( Introduction: This book is a compilation of short stories about the adventures of a little Indian girl who goes to a foreign land. The funny and sometimes challenging incidents will keep the readers engrossed and asking for more. The incidents refer to universal emotions and anyone can identify with them. The stories portray a vivid description of a child’s innocence helping her to navigate through the challenging landscape of an alien land )

Chapter 1 - I AM GOING TO FLY

Summer of 1975

Hi! My name is Baby and I am a 4 year old girl.

It is the summer of 1975 in Patna- capital of the State of Bihar. If one personifies India into Mother India, then Patna would quite well be her heart due to its geographical positioning.

Patna has been submerged under 3-4 feet of water due to the heavy monsoon rains and overflowing of the rivers. There is water everywhere and no one is able to come out of their homes. The occasional helicopter drops food items onto the roof of buildings. Flood waters have entered many homes and so people are visible on house roofs. Flood water has not entered my grandparent’s home, although the garden area is submerged. For the past few days a boat comes to pick up my Nana (Mother’s Father) to take him to his office. Everybody seems worked up but I haven’t been this excited in a while! It is interesting and scary at the same time to see the water alive with insects, black wriggly things that look like baby snakes and the occasional fish that bring lots of excitement.

To my annoyance, the water recedes and life goes back to normal. To make things worse, school reopens. My Nana’s house-helpdrops me to school on his cycle. I quite enjoy these cycle rides.

I don’t like school. You have to listen to the teacher and keep sitting on your bench. How boring! I am taught Hindi and English and I don’t even know proper Hindi. All I know is the language of my Nani (Mother’s Mother) and that of the house-help, which is Magadhi (Magahi).

There has been one good day in school, when a magician had come to perform. How did he pull out sharp blades from inside his mouth? How did he pull out length after length of streamers from his throat? This was not at all boring but got me thinking as to how one could do such acts. Conclusion- Well, he is a magician so why bother as to how he did what he did.

My father has gone very far to study something big. It has been almost a year since he left for his studies. My Mother, 6 year old elder brother, 2 year old baby sister and I are living at my mother’s parent’s place. It has been fun!

One day there is some kind of serious talk of my mother and us siblings going to the place where my father is living. My father has taken a loan to purchase our travel tickets.

Nani seems worried. How can my mother (just 28 yrs old) take her three kids by herself and travel to a far off land, the land where my father has gone to study.

Nani suggests that I be left with them. I love this idea, but my Nana objects. He says that all three kids should go with their mother. And that was that.

I am fearful of change. I love my freedom.

From Patna we travel east to Calcutta to get our ‘Visas’ for a country called the United Kingdom. So much effort! It is then that I get to know that we will be flying on an aeroplane to reach London. Wow! This is going to be fun. I haverecently seen helicopters in the sky and now I am going to fly in the sky.

The day comes when I have to say bye to my class teacher. I could not have been happier.

The four of us, along with my grandparents, reach Delhi by train. Then we head to the Airport to catch the plane. My grandparents bid us farewell and tell us to be careful. My Nani gives me a hankie and I hold it tightly. My mother carries my little sister and my brother walks next to her. All of a sudden it strikes me that my Nana and Nani will not be there with us. I am a bit shaken. My mother understands my feelings and calls for me. I walk close to her and we start going from one checking point to another.

We then walk into a tunnel sort of route and then we are asked to get seated on chairs that are in rows. Time goes by and I am getting impatient as to when we will sit in a plane and fly high in the sky. (I had no idea that I was already sitting inside the plane). It is night time and nothing is visible outside. I want to cry. I wipe my tears with my Nani’s hankie. My mother’s hands were full, she cannot hold me. But I know I am safe.

Some more time passes by. There is an announcement that I don’t clearly understand. My mother seems worried now. All the people sitting on the rows of chairs are asked to leave their seats and walk out of the door. Just outside the door there are big stairs to climb down from. I realise that I am getting off a plane! We have been flying all this while! This was it? How could it be?

As it turns out, we are in Kuwait, not in London. Why, you wonder? Because a bird has hit the plane and the pilot has had to do an emergency landing. This is so absurd. The plane is huge! How could a small bird cause this? This seems absurd.

I sense a lot of tension on my mother and brother’s faces. There is tension everywhere. My mother is talking to this uniformed person in Hindi and broken English. My brother is trying to help in the conversation. My mother insists that she get to talk to her husband, who is waiting for her in London.

Soon we are escorted to a waiting room. It is full of people. It is scary. I would have preferred the zoo instead, at least animals are interesting to look at. Finally we are given a room to rest in.

I don’t know how many hours go by before we are again walking from one check point to another. Are all airports the same? This one looks slightly different from the one before. We walk through another tunnel and are given seats to belt ourselves into. This time I know that we are sitting in a plane. I’m excited again, the tension fades.

We finally reach London. My father is waiting for us. He has travelled from Cardiff to London to receive his family. He has been waiting for us for over a day in the Airport. The fear of losing his family evaporates. My parents are happy. I’m happy for other reasons too. Turns out that plane rides are quite boring.

I am so glad that they are over. As I brace myself for a big change in life, I realise that I am surrounded by more white than brown.

Chapter 2 - FOOD HABITS – From Tea with Puffed Rice to Milk

Autumn of 1975, Cardiff

Hi! I’m Baby.

I now live in Cardiff, Wales, with my parents and siblings. Autumn is here and there is chill in the air. Mornings start with an intake of a mug full of warm milk. Milk – white in colour, smelly and nauseous. I have to drink it despite my intense dislike for it. I can’t even throw tantrums! Why? Because my brother and sister have no problems in drinking it and I am too scared to make a fuss. My father appears to be very strict and he has an authoritative look about him. He commands strict discipline and respect. A man of few words.

In Patna, at my maternal grandparents’ place, my first morning food intake used to be a cup full of tea along with a bowl full of puffed rice. It was Darjeeling leaf tea – bought from tea leaf shops that sold loose tea out of wooden caskets. The best tea one could possibly get. I loved tea, but only that type of tea. Tea with less milk. It used to be yum.

Now back to Cardiff. There is no chance of getting tea with puffed rice here. My mother knows that I am having a tough time with this mug full of milk, daily. I once tried pleading with her to not give me milk as I just don’t like it. She said that I had no option but to drink it. She has changed from what she was in Patna, but at least she has given me some leniency in the time taken to drink this white smelly liquid that is supposedly good for my health.

I have another problem when it comes to drinking milk. After every gulp that I take in, one drop of milk just drips out of my mouth onto the dining table. Yes, Now I have to sit on a chair, something that is again not normal for me. I was used to sitting on a ‘Machia’ or a ‘Peedha' (few inches high, small, wooden seat), in the ‘Aangan’ (courtyard) of my grandparent’s home. I could drop food while eating. Nobody had problems with that.

But now, every drop of milk that fell on the dining table got me scared. My father once saw the drops of milk and said, “This is not to happen again”. No one had talked to me like this before. How do I stop the milk from dripping? It is not intentional.My mother understands that I am scared and that I don’t know how to respond to my father. When I am alone she tells me thatit is OK if milk drips from my mouth while I am drinking. She would clean up the mess as long as I drink up the mug full of milk. This is how we have reached an understanding.

I drink milk every morning. But I so miss my tasty brew of tea along with crunchy puffed rice. I miss the brown flavourful liquid. Lately, my mother has been considerate with me and I do get the occasional cup of tea in the evening, during weekends. Brown is back!

(Once sleepily, while trying to balance the mug of milk, I ended up hitting my chin onto the edge of the table and ensuring a little scar that lasts till date. That one incident ensured that I was alert and careful when I had a mug in my hand).

Chapter 3 - UNDERSTANDING COLOURS

September 1975, Cardiff

Hi! It is me, again.

I go to school now. The school here is very big when compared to my school in Patna.

My Father walks my brother and myself to school every morning, whether it is sunny, gloomy or rainy. It is a long silent walk. Father drops us at the school gate and then walks further to the hospital where he works as a Doctor.

I have an Indian friend in the school. Our parents know each other. We have been to each other’s house and have played fun games. I am really happy that she is my friend because she is also my classmate. My Indian friend has been in this school for some time now, so she is not new here.

School is interesting. My teacher speaks only in English. The students are English. All very fair in colour with different shades of brown hair and eyes of varied hues of blue and brown. I’m learning how to read and write in English. I realise that I already know a lot of what the teacher teaches in class. My school in Patna had taught me well.

I love the crayons and colour pencils. They are excellent. I love to stare at the different coloured pencils before I choose a shade to use on paper. I love to draw trees, the ground, grass, flowers, mountains, and the sky. I use black to draw the outline of my drawing. Lots of brown for the ground and mountains, tree trunks and flower stems. Then I fill in green for the grass and leaves, blue for the sky and all the other shades for the small flowers on the ground. I love nature in all its colours.

Lunch Break at school is rather long. Food here is very different from what I am used to at home (daal-bhat, roti-subzi). Food here is bland but very colourful. Green peas, orange carrots, red tomatoes, almost whitish mashed potatoes, brown buns, green spinach, pale boiled chicken slices, and silverysteamed fish (smells very fishy). There is so much to choose from.There is dark coloured meat as well. I did pick up a funny looking oblong piece of meat and tried it. I didn’t like it (had no idea what it was), so left it on my plate. I told my mother about the funny long fat finger shaped food that I left on my plate. The next day my parents gave instructions to the food lady not to serve me any meat apart from chicken and fish.

The best part about the lunch is dessert. One day cake, the next day custard, then eclairs, tarts, and then doughnuts. Sweet stuff that is different from Indian sweets and puddings. I love them all.

After lunch, all the kids at school play in the school ground. My Indian friend has many English friends. I also want to know all my classmates and play with them. I have introduced myself to them. We talk about the games we can play. – hide and seek, catch-catch etc. How I love to play in big groups. I’m good at all the games we play. I’m a fast runner, faster than most of the English kids and even my Indian friend.

The first few days at school has been a lot of fun. But now my Indian friend doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. After lunch we all go out to play in the big playground. I am asked by my Indian friend to wait on the side while all the other kids group up to talk about something. So I stand alone on the side. I impatiently wait for the talk to be over so that we can all start playing some game. Finally when their talk is over, I give them all a big wide grin. Now we can play.

The English kids grin back at me and so does my Indian friend. Then they all start calling me ‘Blackie – Blackie’. I’m puzzled. Is this some new game? Maybe this is a new game involving colours. I ask them to teach me how to play this game. My Indian friend laughs out loud and says – ‘No this is not a game, You are Blackie’.

Then an English classmate shouts out -‘We don’t play with Blackies’.

All the kids then run away to the other side of the ground. I am left standing alone. I look at the colour of my hands. It is not black but brown. I look at the English kids. They are almost white, like the colour of mashed potatoes but with a pink tinge on their cheeks. My Indian friend is light brown. Just the two of us Indians have black hair and black eyes. But our skin is brown.

I sit alone on the playground bench and start to think. Don’t these children know the names of colours yet? Haven’t they been taught colours in school? I knew the different colours even before I flew to this foreign land. Maybe these kids need more time to learn. After all my class teacher has recently told the class how bright a student I am and how fond she is of me. I hope my friends learn names of different colours soon enough to call me brown. But, I thought to myself, even if they think I am black, why don’t they include me in the games?

When school got over, my brother and I stood near the school gate waiting for Ma to pick us up. I looked at my brother. He is light brown. I wanted to ask him as to whether he was called ‘blackie’ or ‘brownie’ by his classmates. It just stayed as a thought. I’ll tell my mother about those kids and what happened at lunch break today.

I saw my mother walking towards the school gate. My little sister was in her arms. My sister and I smiled at each other.I looked at my mother and thought to myself – my mother is the best and forgot all that took place at school.

A new day has come and I’m hoping to play lots of games at school today. At playtime my classmates run to me, touch me and shout ‘Blackie’. I feel rather uneasy today. I want to go back home. At home I tell my mother about the Blackie incidents. My mother tells me that kids learn at their own pace. Some are fast and some are slow. Some are nice and some not so nice. There will always be some kid better than you and some kid not as nice as you. You need to be patient with the slow learners. They will eventually learn and be nice to you.

Some days have gone by and I have noticed that my classmates no longer call me ‘Blackie’ anymore. They don’t even call me brown. I am in the group games and when we have two groups in a game- both the groups fight for me to be on their side. Lunch break is fun again.

They have learnt my name. No, not Baby! My proper name.

Ruchi Pritam has always had a fascination for Indian art, temples, culture and traditions that has led her to travel and write on the various architectural wonders of India and beyond. She has worked as a Bank-empanelled lawyer and has taught at several MBA institutions as a visiting faculty.

Ruchi has been educated at various places and has done her high schooling from DPS, R. K. Puram; Graduation in History (Hons) from Miranda House; Law from Campus Law Centre, Delhi University and MBA from Madras University. She lives in Chennai with her husband, Jayant, an IAS Officer of 1992 batch. Her son, Aujasv is into project management and daughter, Tanvi is a software developer. Her roots are in Nalanda, Bihar. She has authored two books:

Journey Through India’s Heritage –
1. A detailed illustrative account of ancient Nalanda, Pallava and Odisha monuments
2. Grandeur of the Cholas
The Little Brown Girl: A collection of Short Stories

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF 4TH JULY IN THE AMERICAN HISTORY.

Gourang Charan Roul

Fourth July is considered to be a red letter day in the annals of United States Of America. On this day in 1776 the Proclamation Of American Independence was signed in the second continental Congress at Philadelphia’s carpenter Hall .On this day the second President-John Adams and 3rd President-Thomas Jefferson passed away in 1826 at the age of 91 and 83 respectively. Both were renowned lawyers, responsible for drafting the Declaration Of American Independence which was signed by the representatives of the 13 British colonies. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson shaped the History of America and changed the world.

John Adams was well known for his extreme political independence, brilliant mind and passionate patriotism. He was one of the delegates from Massachusetts along with Samuel Adams and John Hancock ( Sons of Liberty - No taxation without representation fame)and became a prominent leader in the second continental Congress for his diplomatic acumen. John Adams rose above parochial considerations and named George Washington over the nomination of John Hancock,to lead the continental revolutionary army, though his fellow delegate from Boston, Massachusetts; John Hancock who was presiding the Continental Congress wished to be the General Of the revolutionary army. He was regarded as a colossal figure among the revolutionary patriotic Americans.

John Adams headed the American diplomatic mission in Europe from 1779 to 1789. He was one of the prominent member in the 5 members of American delegation for Paris Peace Treaty signed on 3.9.1783. In the treaty of Paris the British Crown formally recognised American Independence and ceded most of its territory east of the Mississippi River to the United States. He was the first Vice President of America under George Washington being the First President in 1789. He was the 2nd President after George Washington from 1797 to 1801.

As a President he was the first occupant of White House in 1800 even though for four months only. Thomas Jefferson was the 3rd President of America who defeated John Adams in the 1801 presidential election. Jefferson authored the “Declaration of American Independence," with active support of John Adams and Benjamin Franklin. Besides the drafting of declaration of American Independence, Jefferson drafted the Virginia Statute Of Religious Freedom, which became guiding principles of the secular America. Though Jefferson espoused that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, he was dubbed as a benevolent slaveholder who hold 600 slaves in his life time. Despite working tirelessly to establish a new nation founded upon principles of freedom and egalitarianism, Jefferson and others owning enslaved people a visible contradiction to their much hyped principles all men are created equal. He was a statesman, lawyer,diplomat,philosopher and one of the founding fathers of America, who served two terms as President of America.

Thomas Jefferson was a great educationist and the only president who founded two universities - University Of Virginia and Buffalo. Both were responsible for production of formative documents and decisions of American administration. Because of politics,the two men had falling out that left hurt feelings and bitter resentment for many years. It was not until 1812, after both had retired to their farms (in Monticello, Virginia and Quency, Massachusetts), that they renewed their friendship through correspondence, the renewal lasting until the end of their lives. Though John Adams was defeated by Jefferson, they were good friends until their death. Till their end both used to make correspondence on various social, political and cultural topics. That is the beauty of American life.

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.

IS THE FUTURE OF CREATIVE WRITING DOOMED? A brush with ChatGPT

Sunil Biswal

(DISCLAIMER: I have not used ChatGPT to write this article. Wherever any extract is made, I have explicitly mentioned it and given credit to ChatGPT. Using text created by ChatGPT as own is ethically similar to plagiarism which this author never practices)

A new AI (Artificial Intelligence) tool that can mimic human interactions in natural language is making waves all across world in almost all fields of activity. Before we delve any further, let’s look at a possibility that we writers and readers at LITERARY VIBES can readily relate to:

If ChatGPT (A computer program/ system/ bot) can be fed all issues of LITERARY VIBES from its inception till the current issue and trained and then asked to publish next month’s issue on its own, it will!!!!

It will paint the cover page, write an inspiring editorial, create an index of stories, actually spell out the stories and poems and publish them for us all. The readers who will consume the issue will most probably not know the difference because the stories will carry the hallmark nuances, language skills, strengths and weakness of all authors as if it was written by them.

Scary????

Unfortunately that is the new reality.

Let’s read a sample poem by ChatGPT when asked to (Please remember that a computer which thinks like human has written the poem on the theme “God Lives in a Flower”.)

GOD LIVES IN A FLOWER!!!

Poem by ChatGPT,

(Photo by Sunil Biswal)

God lives in a flower, so delicate and fair,

A symbol of beauty and love everywhere,

Its petals so soft, its fragrance divine,

A wondrous creation, truly one of a kind.

The petals dance in the gentle breeze,

A reminder that God is always at ease,

In the stillness of a summer's day,

His presence can be felt in every sway.

And as the flower grows and reaches for the sun,

It’s beauty a reminder of God's never-ending love,

For all of us, each and every one,

A symbol of hope that shines from above.

So take a moment, pause and reflect,

On the beauty that God has created,

And know that in a flower, He lives and affects,

A message of love, to all indicated.

So let the flower be a source of peace,

A reminder of God's never-ending grace,

And in its beauty, may we always find release,

And bask in the glory of His loving face.

Impressive, isn’t it?

I wished to include a wedding scene set in a rural church of Odisha between a Briton and a poor Indian girl in 1899 for my story in Literary Vibes January 2023 Issue titled “SONA MEM”. Pressed for time and not having much idea about such an occasion, I let the story go for publication all along left with the dissatisfaction of not doing justice to my story.

I asked ChatGPT to suggest me some narrative of such a wedding and was amazed to read the creation as given below:-

My (Sunil) Input: The year 1899. Location; a rural church in Odisha State of British India. Vivian Minchin, a British industrialist is marrying a local Indian Odia girl Sona who was working as a servant in Minchin household. Write a narrative of wedding

ChatGPT: It was a beautiful summer day in the year 1899, and the rural church in Odisha State of British India was bustling with activity. The church was decorated with colorful flowers, and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of incense. This was the day when Vivian Minchin, a British industrialist, was to marry a local Indian Odia girl named Sona.

Sona had been working as a servant in the Minchin household, and Vivian had fallen in love with her. Despite the cultural and societal differences, Vivian knew that Sona was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Sona, too, reciprocated his feelings, and they had decided to get married.

The guests started arriving early in the morning, dressed in their best attire. The bride's family and friends had gathered at the church, and the groom's family and friends were arriving from the city. The church was quickly filling up, and everyone was eagerly waiting for the bride and groom to arrive.

As the time for the ceremony approached, Sona arrived at the church, dressed in a beautiful Odia saree, with her face covered by a veil. She was accompanied by her bridesmaids, who were also dressed in traditional Odia attire. Sona looked absolutely stunning, and her beauty took everyone's breath away.

Vivian arrived shortly after, looking dashing in his suit. He was accompanied by his groomsmen, who were all dressed in their best suits. The couple looked at each other with so much love and admiration that it brought tears to the eyes of some of the guests.

The wedding ceremony began, and the priest led the couple through the traditional vows. The couple exchanged rings, and the priest pronounced them husband and wife. The guests cheered and applauded as the couple shared their first kiss as husband and wife.

The reception that followed was a grand affair, with a lavish spread of Indian and British delicacies. The couple danced to the beats of a traditional Odia song, and the guests joined in. Everyone had a great time, and the wedding was a beautiful blend of British and Indian cultures.

As the night drew to a close, the couple departed for their honeymoon, leaving behind a trail of happiness and love. The wedding of Vivian Minchin and Sona had brought two cultures together and had created a bond of love that would last a lifetime.

Further impressed, right?

Well, now let’s try to understand what this whole Artificial Intelligent Computer system is. Till recently computers and the network of computers were largely a system of information storage and retrieval system. You got what you stored. But there have been consistent efforts to infuse intelligence into computers, so that they can mimic human beings in imagining, thinking, and taking decisions.

How do humans be intelligent humans?

We constantly learn to do things right from birth and keep on improving at our doing. A baby who once burns his/her finger won't put his fingers inside an open flame. Once falling down on a step will make it cautious on the next step. We learn to write the alphabet and soon to write sentences, passages and full-length articles, and stories. We are trained by our teachers, elders; own efforts and the cycle go on.

Right?

This experience is called a model. The model can be larger and larger and complex and more complex.

A mature man can take decisions in tricky situations and drive cars, pass judgments in a case, write novels, and trade in the stock market.....

We have seen low-level intelligent computing at work in speech recognition, image recognition, playing chess, camera focusing, and sensors...

Now, the next level of disruptive intelligence has become a reality with a recent system called Open AI(the name of an organization started by Elon Musk and his associates) which have a human-like natural language processing interface called ChatGPT.

ChatGPT has been trained on a very large base of text (books, articles..) to respond to queries in almost human-like language. It can even write stories by concocting situations, inventing characters, and mimicking known writers. The output is so coherent, grammatically correct, and precise that you will feel like reading a piece of writing by a human being.

It is the next killer app (disruptive technology) available for free for some time. The student community is making use f it to the hilt by getting it to write full-length programs for them.

Go and indulge yourself in ChatGPT and enjoy at https://openai.com/blog/chatgpt/

Now, that was bit heavy for us non-techies. We are at this point more interested to know if ChatGPT going to replace us human writers and rob the pleasure of creating a prose or poem and deriving undiluted pleasure from it ? Who is the best person to answer this million dollar question?

ChatGPT ofcourse!!! So I asked it

Sunil: Will ChatGPT adversely affect future of creative writing?

ChatGPT : ChatGPT is a tool that can assist with creative writing by providing suggestions and inspiration, but it does not replace the unique perspectives and personal experiences of human writers. It is ultimately up to human writers to utilize this tool in a way that enhances, rather than detracts from, their own creativity. Additionally, it is important to understand that GPT models like ChatGPT are trained on large amounts of text data and it may not be able to capture or replicate the complexity of human emotions, thought process and the cultural nuances.

Creative writing is an art form that requires imagination, creativity, and the ability to convey emotions and ideas in a unique way. It is the product of human experiences, emotions, and perspectives. While ChatGPT can help generate ideas and provide inspiration, it cannot replace the human element in creative writing.

In fact, ChatGPT and other AI models can even help human writers by providing them with more time to focus on the creative aspects of writing, such as character development and plot twists. Additionally, in the future, AI models like ChatGPT can help in editing, proofreading and formatting of the written work which can save a lot of time for the writers. However, the final product will always be a reflection of the human writer's unique voice and perspective.

In summary, ChatGPT is a tool that can assist with the writing process, but it cannot replace the creativity and unique perspectives of human writers. It has the potential to be a useful tool for writers, but it should be used in conjunction with human creativity and imagination.

Sunil: Thank you. That’s quite comforting to know.

ChatGPT: You're welcome. It's important to remember that ChatGPT and other AI models are tools created to assist human creativity and imagination, not replace it. As long as it's used in a way that enhances the human writer's unique voice and perspective, it can be a useful tool to help improve the writing process. If you have any other questions feel free to ask.

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

CORRIDOR OF BLISS

Hema Ravi

The two-day trip to Rameswaram offered a plethora of invigorating thoughts and experiences.

One of the 12 jothirlingam shrines, the island of Rameswaram attracts crores of people not only for its historical significance but also for its religious importance, which includes performance of obsequies to departed kith and kin. Any spiritual aspirant who has had several dips in the Dhanushkodi remains in bliss for a long time.

Among the smallest towns, Dhanushkodi borders Indian and Sri Lanka, it is just about 30km away from the island. The Rama Setu bridge, which lies at the confluence of the Bay of Bengal (Mahodadhi) and the Indian Ocean (Ratnakara) connects Rameswaram to the Mannar island of Sri Lanka. Dhanushkodi, as historical records reveal is the spot marked by Sri Rama for the bridge (across the seas) with one end of his famous bow (Dhanush-bow, Kodi –end!). Ghastly evidences lie partially submerged (deadly floods of 1960s), the area continues to be eroded by the spell-binding waves that lash gently and fiercely. Nevertheless, one gathers insights of the glorious past at the various places adjoining Rameswaram; for instance, the Navabhashana Navagraham at Devipattinam, Ramanathapuram District.

Navabhashana Navagraham at Devipattinam.

Picture Courtesy: Bhuvaneshwari R

The temple of Ramanathaswamy is striking not merely because of its long corridors but also because of its punya theerthams, 22 of which lie inside the precincts of the large temple. Devotees throng to get a shower in the waters of each of these wells (Mahalakshmi Theertham, Sethu Madhava Theertham, Ganga Theerthan,. Siva Theertham, Kodi Theertham among others…), from which authorized people draw water from these holy wells using small steel buckets. Chants of Mahadev ji ki jai fill the air, and without second thoughts, one can add that these ‘holy baths’ with their medicinal properties refresh the mind, body and soul.

One of the Theerthams:

Picture Courtesy: B.K. Raman

The sanctum sanctorum of Lord Ramanatha houses the lingam prepared by Sita and consecrated by Sri Rama. To the North of the Ramanathaswamy shrine is the shrine of Viswanatha brought by Hanuman from the Himalayas . On the right hand side, is the shrine of Goddess Prvathavardhini, consort of Lord Ramanathaswamy. Darshan at the shrines of Visalakshmi, Mahalakshmi, Nataraja, Ganapathi, Subramanya, Anjaneya and others further stills the clouded psyche with a blissful calmness.

Around seven kilometers or so, on the way to Pamban is the Villondi Theertham (buried bow), the place where Sri Rama quenched Sita’s thirst. Several other theerthams such as Hanuman Theertham, Sugreeva Theertham, Lakshmana Theertham are not mere reminders of the iconic warriors who once walked around on this earth, they transport us back into time- at various spots, it seemed we were travelling with them all!

Picture Courtesy: Swaminathan B

The elegant Kothandaramar Temple where Vibishana’s pattabhishekam was preliminarily done, the serene Ekantha Ramar Temple where Sri Rama stayed with the vanaras while the limestone shoals were being placed is unbelievably appealing.

Picture Courtesy: Swaminathan B

A trip to Rameswaram is incomplete without a visit to Uthirakosamangai temple and the Thirupullani temple, of the Ramanathapuram district. At Uthirakosamangai, Mangalanathar, Mangalambigai and the maragatha (emerald) Nataraja are the predominant attractions. It is at this abode where Shiva is believed to have shared the vedic secrets with Parvati (Uthiram means upadesam and kosham means secrets). Apart from the magnificent sahasralingam, exquisite stone carvings of various other deities adorn this temple.

Sri Adi Jagannatha Perumal Temple aka Thirupullani temple is among the 108 divya desam temples dedicated to Lord Vishnu. The main deity is Lord Dharba Sayana Rama, with Goddess Padmasini, his consorts Shridevi and Bhudevi; Balagopal, dancing on a snake is bound to bring back fond memories of Krishna’s childhood antics.

Thirupullani Temple Picture Courtesy: B.K. Raman

An important component of the trip was the glimpse of the spatika lingam in the early hours and the spoonful of milk as prasad. Owing to time constraints, we could not visit two important landmarks - Sri Abdul Kalam’s Memorial and the Vivekananda Memorial Centre at Kundhukal, where Swamiji landed after addressing the Parliament of Religions at Chicago.

However, our eyes did not miss the large stone slab at the Koda Gopuravasal of Sri Ramanathaswamy temple, with Swami Viveknanda’s address at the Rameswaram temple on real worship: “It is in love that religion exists, in the pure and sincre love in the heart and not in ceremony…”

ABSOLVED

Snehaprava Das

It was freezing cold in Delhi. Christmas time. The climate, despite the cold, was festive . Shoppers thronged the roads of Delhi braving the chill and the smog. It was a tremendous challenge to drive through the moving mass of the enthusiastic and festive, celebrators. I let the car slowly worm through the crowd. Lina had repeatedly asked me to be home in time for the Christmas Eve dinner. Every year since we had shifted to Delhi, Lina has been customarily celebrating this occasion. We would invite the residents of the colony to our house for a formal dinner and drinks. Thereafter, of course, we would attend the midnight mass. Leena must be very busy and Soma must be running errands nonstop. I felt happy when I thought of Soma, my cute eight plus year old daughter. My parents in law were a little dubious about christening her as Soma, because, to them, it did not sound Christan enough. But I had insisted. She is not a hundred percent Christian, I had tried to explain. She is my daughter, too. Let it have an imprint of my name. Leena understood my sentiment. She had always been so understanding! So, finally my baby girl was named Soma, a more or less female version of my own name, Somen.

The traffic thinned a bit as I took to a turn to the right. I drove on for a while and reached the temple of Goddess Durga. My apartment building was in the next block. I used to stop by the temple whenever I was disturbed for some reason. I let the car cruise to the abandoned empty space next to the temple and got down. I had never entered the temple premises. It was the abode of a Hindu godess. We were not allowed entry there. I used to stand a little away from the big portals that opened to the temple premises, and join my palms, saying a silent prayer, recollecting the image of the goddess my mother worshipped, the goddess who looked as if she was hewn out of burnished gold, and held different weapons in her ten hands. We were told that goddess Durga is the destroyer of all evil, and all trouble. I do not know exactly how she does that but I believed strongly that if I was living a trouble-free life, it was because of her blessings. I took off my shoes and closed my eyes. 'Please, let nothing happen to my father. Let him come out of the illness smoothly and soon,' I repeated the prayer I did not know how many times, till I felt the wetness on my face. I wiped the tears and putting on my shoes walked to the spot where I had parked the car. I switched on the light and took out the letter from my pocket. It was written by Suman, my younger sister. 'Father is admitted in hospital, following a severe attack of asthma. Doctors say it is pneumonia. I have arrived yesterday only. Uncle is taking care of everything , but I am scared brother. Wish you were here!'

There was no request to come or extend financial help. She knew that father would not let him come inside the house nor would he accept money from him. He was a pariah there, as he was here, in the temple.

(2)

My father, who had retired a few years back from railway services, was a staunch brahmin and sincerely abided by all moral laws prescribed in the hindu scriptures. He took great pride in being a brahmin and more than that in being the son of my grandfather, who was a freedom fighter. In the early years of twentieth century my grandfather had given up his job of a primary school teacher in our village and greatly inspired by Mahatma Gandhi, had joined the non-cooperation movement. He had never looked back thereafter. He was bestowed with the prestigious Tamar Patra award for his significant contribution to the independence movement. The Tamar Patra ( copper plate insignia), bound in a frame still hung on the wall of our living room. A hardcore brahmin himself, grandfather had passes on the legacy not only of patriotism but also a mindset of rigorous and unswerving brahminism to his son. All major hindu rituals were practiced at our home with religious austerity. Nonveg food was never allowed admission into our home. Father used to get up early in the morning and perform the worship before sunrise. Special worships were performed on important religious occasions. Offerings were sent to the temple on.those days. The office where father worked had many Anglo-Indian employees. Father would take a bath every afternoon after coming home and purify his sacred thread, the well pronounced symbol of brahmin identity, by washing it with holy water of the ganga. We lived in the railway quarters. It was a cosmopolitan township because a large section of its population were railway employees belonging to different religions and castes. I and my sister studied in the railway school where children of all other castes and religions went. We were strictly warned against visiting non Hindu families. But my sister's best friend was a beautiful Muslim girl whose name was Rehana Khatun and mine was a boy from a Christian household, Robert, nicknamed.. Bob.

Despite the warnings we used to play together and sit on the same bench and shared the snacks we carried from home. I knew my sister Suman went to market with Rehsna and at times accompanied her to the threshold of the mosque which she visited every Friday during the recess hour. I and my sister had entered a tacit agreement not to disclose these secrets to our parents. I could vividly recollect the days when Bob taught me bicycle riding and we fell down into a dry drain scratching ourselves all over. Breathing hard from fear and the exercise we sat on a rock that lay close to the wall of the mortuary of the railway hospital. 'Do you know dead bodies were kept here for postmortem? Let's look inside,' Bob suggested. He had always been an adventurous boy, never afraid of anything. I was somehow timid in nature.

'We shouldn't do that.' I tried to dissuade him. I had an uncanny fear of dead bodies.

'Grow up, buddy. Dead people are most harmless,' he said and pulled me closer to the window. We peered through the frosted glass panels. Nothing was visible clearly. Suddenly, something like a white figure seemed to sit up on a slab. I let out a loud squeal and moved a few steps.back. Bob pulled my hand and we both ran towards the church that was a few meters away from the hospital. The path leading to the interior of the church was lined by thick growth of rhododendrons. To the right side of the big main gate there was a white statue of Virgin Mary installed on a marble pedestal. Thete was a look of serenity on her benign, beautiful face. Breathing hard from the running, we sat down on the pedestal. People were moving in out of the church. We felt safe there. ' This is God's abode,' Bob put a soothing hand on my shoulder. 'There is nothing to fear here.' We came out of the church when the sun headed towards the edge of the western horizon. Then I came face to face with my father. I had no idea what he was doing outside the church, may be he was just taking an afternoon stroll. It was a Saturday. Father had a half day in the office. May be he was visiting a friend or a colleague and was now returning home.

'Good Afternoon, uncle,' Bob greeted father politely. Father raised a hand in a gesture of blessing, but did not say a word. 'Come home soon,' he said without looking at me and strode away.

My heart was beating unusually fast as I reached home. Mother stood waiting for me by the gate. I gingerly stepped inside, my mind full of apprehensions. God knows what punishment father has in his mind for me, I thought as I moved towards the front door. Father stood at the door, spreading out his arms, his palms pressing the door posts on either side, his feet, one pressing the other, just at the middle of the threshold. It was a familiar posture. He used to stand like that blocking the door when he wanted to say something important to the person in his front. We could guess that he was not in a good mood when he stood at the door in that posture. My tongue felt dry. I stood stiffly holding my head down.

'What have you been doing in the church? And with that Christan boy?' He demanded angrily. I did not say anything. 'Why do you stand there like a statue? Answer me!'

'We were looking into the postmortem room. We got scared and ran into the church.' I stammered.

'Good heavens! Postmortem room? And then the church!' My mother said from the main gate.

Father glared at me. Then his face softened a little. 'Go and take a bath. Put out your clothes for washing. I am not going to spare you if I see you going to the church. Put that into your dumb skull,' he warned. He stood aside and let me in.

'Imagine a brahmin boy going to the church! No less than a sacrilege! Sprinkle some holy water on him after he takes a bath,' he advised mother and went out.

That evening, I sat at my study table looking at the open pages of the book, wondering why a brahmin boy cannot befriend a Christian boy, and cannot step into a church! Was it because the British people had ruled over us for years and induced a subaltern populism into the hindus? I had neither the age nor the knowledge to study or judge this mindset then. But I knew I had to keep away from the church. Though my father had not said it but it was quite obvious that he did not approve of my friendship with Bob. He knew that Bob was one of my closest friends, and hence did not exercise much restriction on keeping his company. But I was warned repeatedly not to go to his house. I did not want to dissatisfy father by going against his will. So I kept our friendship confined to outdoors. I was getting more and more serious about my studies since the school finals were drawing near. I was not going out for cycling or other sports after returning from school as I used to do earlier and spent most of the time at home,studying. I knew my father had a great hope in me. I was a good student and came first in the class examinations. Father had, he did not express it though, secretly expected an outstanding performance from me in the Board examination. The routine now had become from home to school and school to home. Mother cooked nutritious food rich with proteins and minerals for me, and father got fruits and health drinks.

And then Leena came to the school, and to my life, and everything was changed.

(3)

Somen saw Leena Thomas first time when she came to attend the extra class in maths. The board examination was a few months away and teachers were taking extra classes after school hours and on holidays as well. Later he learnt from Bob, who happened to be a distant cousin of her, that Leena's father was transferred to the railway office as the deputy superintendent where Somen's father worked. The first thing Somen saw of Leena was her well shaped left hand. She wore a tiny wristwatch with a silver band. The hand looked like skillfully sculpted out from white marble. He couldn't take his eyes off that lovely hand. Perhaps he had fallen for her, he recalled later, at that very moment. It was a Sunday and after the extra class Leena went to the church with Bob. He followed them at a reasonable distance. Suddenly Leena turned and smiled at him. It was the most beautiful smile, Somen thought, he had ever seen. In the slanted sunlight her face glowed like an angel's. Bob stopped and waited for Somen to reach up.

'She has to catch up with the course. I have told her you are the best person to help her.'

'Please Somen, ' Leena requested earnestly, ' I am lagging behind. I cannot clear the papers unless you help me a little,'

Somen was in no need of more persuasion.

So they began meeting every day after the class. Leena had a sharp brain and it did not take much effort to help her to update her. He could soon sense Leena's feelings for him.

And they began talking with growing intimacy.

The examinations were over and there was a long vacation before the result came out. They met at the gate of the church. Sometimes they walked to the foot of the small hill at the outskirts of the town. By the time the results came,.they were deeply in love with each other. Somen, not belying his father's expectations, secured fifth position in the state. His success was celebrated grandly in his family. His father wanted him to pursue higher studies and become a doctor or engineer, as most fathers do..But Somen had no interest in joining the science stream. Instead he got himself enrolled in the commerce course. Leena also secured a first division and she joined the humanities stream. Away from the stern eyes of their family -elders, Somen and Leena found enough scope to open their hearts to each other. Their love grew more intense as they grew in age and experience. They knew it wouldn't be an easy task to carry forth the relationship to marriage, the legally and socially sanctioned unifier. And they were afraid to voice it, to discuss it. The moments of love they spent together were enchanting tapesteries of truth, woven, ironically into a threadbare fabric of lie. They wanted to escape the reality knowing well that it was only an exercise in futility. But, sooner or later, the truth had to be confronted. Somen could guess the reaction of his parents, especially his father when he told him about Leena Thomas. The impact would not be much less than that of the dropping of a bombshell. It might be a bit easier for Leena. Her family was not so stringent about inter religion alliances, he thought hopefully. He waited for a propitious time to reveal the secret he had carried inside him for so many years. After much deliberation he decided to speak to Suman, his younger sister. Suman might help him out if she tried, he hoped to God. But it did not happen in the way he had expected. Falling in love with Leena put his life on a track that led him to a point of no return.

(4)

I stood before the mirror that hung on the wall of the narrow dining space, preparing to go out for an afternoon stroll. I had come home after a long time and was enjoying my stay at home. My graduation finals were over. I was waiting for the results, hopeful that I would clear it with an appreciable score. Leena too was at her home. But we discreetly avoided meeting each other in our hometown. We had grown serious about the future of our relationship and were desperately working out plans to get it sanctioned by our parents though we knew that it would be a next to impossible task to convince them.

I was awake most part of last night thinking how to tell my sister about Leena Thomas. I wanted to see her reaction first because I knew she was not much prejudiced about religions. Rehana was still her best friend, after all.

I could hear father's voice outside. He had returned from office. I knew he would go straight to the tap in the backyard and take a bath. Mother or Suman would hand him a towel to dry himself. This had been happening routinely for years.

'Hey, Suman, ' he called, 'Make a cup of tea for me. I have a bad headache,' he said and walked to the tap. He sounded a bit off key. I looked at his face closely. He looked upset, and angry too.

'What's the matter? Something happened in the office?' Mother asked, concern in her voice.

'That deputy superintendent is at it again. He doesn't let go of a single chance to humiliate me in front of my colleagues. A small slip, and he will be there, preaching sermons. These Anglo Indians are still thinking that the Britishers are ruling our country. Reprehensible characters!!' Father blurted out, his face flushing in anger.

My heart began to pound erratically. The deputy superintendent father was speaking about was none other than Leena's father. 'Here is another big issue!' I thought desperately. 'Father may consider, though the hope was distant accepting Leena as his daughter in law after converting her to a hindu, but being a man of an indomitable ego, he would never agree to get his son married to the daughter of a man he so despised!! My mind was in a turmoil. I thought to wait for an appropriate time before speaking to Suman.

The appropriate time did not come during the entire vacation. It seemed a terrible thing to hurt my father's sentiments. I thought I would discuss with Leena when I met her in the college. We were now in our post graduation and reasonably matured in our thoughts. 'Some solution will surely come out, I kept consoling myself.'

(5)

It was raining hard that day. Somen stood in the porch of the department of commerce of his University waiting for the rain to slow down. He had just presented a paper in a national seminar organized by his department and was feeling very satisfied with his performance. His professor s and the dignitaries from different states who had come to attend the event had admired his views and spoke highly of him. He was feeling confident about clearing the papers of the CA examination next year, and then a lucrative career in some international law firm.

He saw a girl walking fast towards the portico where he stood. He could not see the girl's face clearly since it was half hidden under the umbrella. The girl came closer and he recognized her. It was Roma, Leena's friend and classmate.

' Leena wants to meet you urgently. She would be waiting for you in the Modern Book Store at five .'

'Why couldn't she come here?' Somen asked, surprised a d anxious.

'She is preparing some report or something for our hostel superintendent. It will take her some ten fifteen minutes to complete it. She sent me here because she thought you might leave the department after your presentation and she would not have a scope to contact you.'

'Ok, thanks,' Somen said. 'I will be there.'

She was there standing in the bookshop by a rack, waiting for him, her face a mask of despair.

'What happened Leena? Why such urgency?'

'My father has written a letter to me asking

to come home immediately. I am leaving tomorrow. God knows what will happen!'

'Why are you so apprehensive? Has he somehow come to know about us?'

' You couldn't speak to your parents. So, I had asked Bob to broach the subject when my father is in a good mood. It seems he has spoilt the game through over-anxiety.'

Somen was worried. The time to reach at a decision had arrived. It might so happen that Leena's father would not allow her to come back to the University.

'Do not go now,' he advised Leena. 'Write a letter telling him that you are preparing for the last semester examinations. He will understand. Let's wait and watch how he is taking it. We will work out something in the meantime.'

'What can we do Somen?' Leena asked, her voice breaking. 'Neither of us has a job. We are still financially dependent on our parents. How can we manage?'

'Don't get so worked up. Let us wait. I am sure we can find a way out.' Somen said, realizing deep in his heart that he did not sound very convincing. He, however, tried to look confident.

He strode on the damp road aimlessly till it was dinner time. He came back to his room but did not eat dinner. He slumped on the bed, and reflected upon the discussion with Leena. He had somehow managed to infuse some confidence in her but he had no idea what he was going to do in the given circumstances. He spent a sleepless night tossing and turning on the bed.

He met Leena in the library in the afternoon. She had posted the letter, Leena said . She seemed to be thoroughly shaken by the new development. There was nothing to be done except waiting for the reply to the letter.

A couple of days passed.

Bob came on the third day. Somen had just returned after dinner and was leafing through the competition guides absently. A knock sounded on the door. He opened the door to find a grim looking Bob outside .

'Hey, Bob!' Somen was surprised to see Bob at that time in his hostel room . 'What in God's name you are doing here?'

'I will tell you. Let me in.'

'Oh, ' Somen stood aside.

Bob flopped into the chair and heaved out a big sigh.

'Matter is getting too serious, buddy. I do not know how are you going to handle it.'

Then he told about Leena's parents.

'Uncle was dead against the alliance . It was beyond his wildest dreams that his daughter would marry a hindu and to add to it, the son of a subordinate. They wanted to marry off Leena as soon as possible. I tried hard to convince him. He would ignore the 'subordinate's son' , factor, he said finally after a lot of persuasion. But the boy must have to be converted to a Christian. He would not show any leniency on that issue. They are planning to come here to have a talk with both of you. They will take Leena back with them if you do not concede to their condition.'

Somen sat still, shocked at the ridiculous proposition. Had he any other option? He asked himself when he thought seriously about it. His father will never give his consent to such disharmonious marriage.

Leena's father, at least, had a solution, however preposterous it might look. But, the stringent hindu principles which Somen's father so earnestly followed and practiced, did not allow any leeway for liberal thinking.

He decided to take one last chance. He would tell Suman everything and ask her to speak to father.

'I will leave for my home tomorrow morning. I will speak to my parents. Let's hope for the best. It won't be possible to meet Leena in the morning. You tell her.'

'I will keep my fingers crossed, buddy. Wish you good luck, ' Bob said and patted Somen.

(6)

Suman kept looking at me, wideeyed and unblinking, as I narrated the entire episode.

I knew I had spoiled her vacation mood by entrusting her with the responsibility of disclosing my secret to my parents. It wouldn't be easy for her. But I had no choice, nor had she.

'What have you done, Bhai? Had it have to be Leena and none else in the entire world? How am I going to stand in front of father and tell him all these?' her voice shook.

'You have to this much for me, Suman. You know I cannot afford to get separated from Leena. I will be left with no other choice than accepting the condition of Leena's father if you fail me.'

'I will try my best, Bhai. But, you know father. He will never agree for this alliance. Can't you wait for a little while?'

'Waiting will not solve the proble. Sooner or later we will have to face it. Why not now? Leena's parents are searching for a match for her. There is no time to wait,' I said with a finality to my voice. My heart went out to my sister. Poor girl! She will have to face the wrath of my father on account of me. I knew father loved Suman a lot. She could exploit that in this crisis and succeed in moulding father's heart. I said a silent prayer and hoping that Suman could sort it out positively, I went out to take a walk.

I wandered around aimlessly , my mind heavy with conflicting thoughts. I walked down to the foot of the hill at the end of our small town and sat there till the shadow of evening darkened. Then I walked back home, feeling uncertain and misgivings gnawing at my heart.

The house was in darkness. Usually by this time the lights were on. But this evening was different. I wondered if Suman had successfully influenced my parents. This was my own game. I had to play it in my own way. I opened the small wooden gate and walked inside, bracing myself for a showdown.

Suddenly the veranda was lit up. As if someone was waiting for me to open the gate. No one said a thing. No one was in sight. The verandah was shrouded in a strange, luminous silence.

Then I saw father. He came out and stood at the doorway adopting the familiar posture, his hands propped at the door posts on either side, his feet one over the other, at the middle of the threshold. Mother and Suman loomed behind him like two unhappy shadows.

'I walked up to him and stood in his front. My eyes travelled to his face for a brief second. There was hurt and anger in his deep set eyes. Then I looked down at my feet.

'Is it true what Suman says?' He asked. He sounded somber and grim.

'Yes father,' I said haltingly summoning up courage.

' I know these Anglo Indian girls. They have no character. These people cannot accept the fact that we are now an independent country. They are still up to their dirty tricks, shoving their shameless daughters at young men of decent Hindu families and getting them converted.' He said disdainfully.' I felt bad when he denounced Leena's conduct.

'It is not so father,' I tried to protest. 'Leena is a decent girl. It is wrong to bring such allegations against her. '

'Oh, really! ' he shot back at me. ' That is why perhaps she is asking you to adopt Christianity, I presume.'

The back of my ears were getting hot. It was difficult to stand there and listen to the abuses cast at Leena.

'It is not like that father,' I tried again to protest knowing well though it will not help to solve the problem in any manner.

' Alright, then. You decide who you want to be with. That Christian girl or your family,' father pronounced an ultimatum.

'I am going back to the hostel right now, ' Ideclared obstinately and moved forward to go inside. But father did not budge from his place at the doorway.

'We have no place here for a blasphemer.

Do whatever you like. I sever all my ties with you at this very moment. Never come back here , not even to see my dead face!' Father turned and strode inside. I heard the door of his room bang shut.

'Somu, my child! Don't do this. How can you abandon your family, your culture for a mere girl?' Mother said. Tears rolled down her eyes. Suman held my hand. ' Bhai, please think again before taking a decision.' She pleaded.

'I took my hand off her hold. ' I have already thought about it, several times. There is no alternative.' I put my hand on her head, ,'Look after father and mother ' I said, feeling guilty inside , 'Be happy,'

I went inside, stuffed my clothes and my personal effects into the sling bag and came out of the house . I touched my mother's feet who stood by the door, her face a mask of black agony and moved out to the street. Something pricked at my heart, urging me to take a look back but I did not.

I walked straight to the railway station and boarded the train. I glanced at the town from the window, the town where I have spent my childhood and my adolescence. It was here I was born. It was here where my home was. A montage of memories slid past my eyes. A few drops of tears trickled down my eyes. I squeezed them shut.

A breathless Leena came running to my department and pulled me to one corner.

'Why did you leave without telling me? What happened? Did you speak to Suman?' She asked me anxiously keeping his voice a little above a whisper.

'Hold it...' I said, stopping her. 'I have abandoned my home and family. They won't create any problem for us anymore. Tell your father that I will do whatever he suggests. '

Leena stood still, staring at me in disbelief.

'You must not do that, Somen.' Her voice shook. 'It is not fair. I cannot forgive myself for the rest of my life.'

'No time for moralizing Leena. Either I get converted or we forget each other. There is no middle course. I will tell Bob about it. You too write a letter to your parents informing them about these recent developments.'

'But, Somen.. how could you.......?'

'Let's not go into that again Leena. I have made my decision. Do what I say.'

Things happened in quick succession after that. Leena's parents came to the city where we studied. They had made all prior arrangements for the occasion. I went to the church with them, took the holy dip and was duly baptized. Other rituals were performed to initiate me into the community.

A ceremonial dinner was hosted by Leena's parents. Some of their friends and relatives who had accompanied them here too attended the dinner party.

' I am happy to have you with us, son,' Leena's father patted my back as he introduced me to his circle. 'We will soon fix a date for the marriage.'

I tried to smile. But my lips felt stiff.

Everything seemed to be happening in a dream, my religious conversion , even my marriage. The marriage was solemnized immediately after our final semester examination. Leena's father exercised his influence and got me posted in a reputed law firm at Delhi. We moved to Delhi soon after our marriage.

(7)

Suman's letter came a month we have shifted to Delhi. She had somehow collected my office address from Bob and wrote to me. Her letter brought back bitter memory of the showdown with my father, the hurt and pain in his eyes and the pathetic pleadings of my weeping mother.

The letter told me that father had fallen sick soon after I had left home and was admitted in the railway hospital for a few days. The doctors had diagnosed it pneumonia. He had applied for voluntary retirement from his job, since facing the probing questions of his colleagues was too much of an effort. He was now constructing a house at the plot they had at the end of the town and would shift there in a few months.

'Father is very hurt, Bhai. You shouldn't have been so rash! I have decided not to pursue post graduation. Father is trying to find a match for me. I will marry wherever he says. I will not disappoint him by any means.'

The veiled accusation in the last line was like a dagger-stab at my heart. At that passionate moment of defending Leena against my fathers allegations, my selfishness had so influenced my better judgments that I did not even try to understand the torment my parents would have to go through because of me.

There was no way to repair the damage now. One scale must go up and another come down while balancing one's priorities, I said to myself, knowing well that it was a feeble effort to justify my action. I did not show the letter to Leena.

Time moved on. A year and half later little Soma came to complete our lives. I was getting preoccupied with the responsibilities of the family as well as a job that was growing more and more demanding. Leena's parents used to visit us during festivals and other important occasions.

It was not so that I never remembered my parents and my sister. But the memory had become dormant somehow.

The invitation card came one early summer noon, at lunch break time as I was sitting alone in my cabin. Most of the staff had gone out for lunch. The office peon brought it to me. Usually my secretary brought me the mails in the morning after sorting out the personal and official letters. But the card was delivered just then at the office and the peon, thinking that I was alone, had brought it to me.

It was Suman's wedding invitation. The marriage was in next week. Suman had written a short letter to me. They had shifted to the new house, she wrote. It took father a long time to find a candidate of his choice for her. Hence the marriage was delayed. Her would-be husband was a college teache and father was, according to Suman, happy about the alliance.

I too was happy, for Suman, as well as for father.

This marriage would help a lot to blunt the edge of the bitter humiliation his son has subjected him to by getting converted to a Christian in order to marry a girl whose father never let go of an opportunity to insult him, I thought.

I breathed out a deep sigh. At least one of us had been an obedient child. Let father be happy. Let Suman's marriage recompense the pain and suffering he had gone through.

I wrote a brief note to Suman, blessing her and wishing her a happy life. I requested her to look after father and mother and keep in touch with me. I wrote on the envelope the address she had given, glued it properly and asked the peon to drop it in the post box.

They had left the office quarters, Suman had written. I thought about the house where I was born and lived more than twenty years. I longed to be there for one last time , smelling the jasmines in the garden. My mother had tended the plants with great care and they grew bunches and bunches of flowers that filled the air around with an enchanting fragrance. I remembered pictures of the freedom fighters that adorned the walls of the living room. My grand father had hung them there . There were more than one framed picture of Mahatma Gandhi. My father revered Gandhiji. The photos must have been shifted to the new house. How must Gandhiji be feeling at the strange place, I thought nostalgically and the next moment smiled the thought off.

Lunch time over, the staff returned to the office and soon I got busy with work. I showed Suman's letter to Leena in the evening. She did not say anything but touched my shoulder . There was a deep sense of guilt in her eyes.

'Don't get disturbed. Didn't we know we would have to go through all these when we married defying my father? Why cry over the split milk? We have each other and we have our daughter with us. Let's be happy with that.' I took her hand in mine.

(8)

Somen sat amongst the crowd that had gathered in the front yard of the white walled one storied house. An old man sat on a white mattress on the veranda. He was bald, gaunt, and slight. He had a small white moustache and his eyes shone behind round rimmed spectacles. He sat in a peculiar posture, his knees folded under him, his right palm pressing the mattress. The man wore a benign smile. Then in one quick flash Somen identified him . The man sitting propped up on his folded knees was Mahatma Gandhi. He was addressing the gathering in his front. Somen gazed around, now with interest. Most of the men were in khadi clothes. They wore white caps which were pointed at both ends and had a wide band. . There were women and children too, listening in rapt attention to what the Mahatma said.

Somen shifted a bit forward to take a close look at the Mahatma. He had never seen him in person and that too from such close quarters. He looked intently at the Mahatma's face. Even as he looked the face began to change. It took the shape of another familiar face, that of his grandfather!! Somen felt a sudden dryness at his throat and blood raced fast in his veins. The man sitting on the mattress was now speaking in a clear and loud voice.

' These foreigners have invaded our sacred land. Not satisfied with that they are trying to encrcoach upon our religious and cultural space. They are compelling us to use the products manufactured by them, preaching their religious beliefs and influencing us to accept them, and treating us with a disdainful arrogance.

.We must not let that happen. We will not resort to any form of violence but fight with the weapon of truth and nonviolence. We will boycott them, refuse to use foreign products and stick our own religious morals. We are aware there are some traitors amongst us, who while professing their loyalty to our values and our mission, are secretly joining hand with them to sabotage ou purpose. We will pick out such sabotagers and try to dissuade them. We will publicly denounce them if they do not restrain from the deplorable act. We will carry forth our non cooperation to its ultimate level. The white blasphemers will be compelled to leave our land.'

A young man stood up and shouted a slogan. 'Go away you foreigners, go away you whites... You have no place here. We want freedom. Go away! Go away!!' The chorus rose to a deafening crescendo.

Somen pressed his hands on his ears.

Suddenly there was silence. Somen turned his gaze around. Every one was looking at him curiously. He could see the old man whose looks resembled Gandhi's, but who now looked like his grand father was pointing an accusing finger at him.

'You are the black sheep. You have tried to defile this place. You have become one with the enemy. You have no place here. Go away ..'

'Go away, go away.........' the crowd began to chant. Somen rose to his feet quickly and began to run. The crowd followed him shouting 'go away........go away,' Somen ran as fast as his legs could take him. He was bathed in sweat..His throat was parched..

They were closing in on him. 'No , please ! No!' He screamed.

A hand shook him hard. 'What happened? A woman said. It was Leena. Somen opened his eyes wide and sat up.

He was in his bedroom. Leena looked at him anxiously. 'What happened? A bad dream?' She asked. ' Yes.' Somen said briefly.

She poured a glass of water from the jug

and gave him. ' Here, drink this. It will calm the nerves.' He drank some water.

'Do not worry ' He said soothingly. 'Suman's letter had disturbed me all through the afternoon. The dream is the repercussion of that. I am fine. Go to sleep.' But Leena kept sitting, running her hand through his hair till he finally fell asleep. But the dream haunted Somen for quite a few days.

(9)

A car horn sounded. I was jerked out of the reverie. A car was backing out of the vacant lot. People who had come for the veneration of the godess were returning one by one. I cast a look at my wristwatch. It showed a quarter to eight. I was late. Leena must be getting worried. I started the car and drove out to the road. I headed

home.

Leena was waiting anxiously. She came hurrying to the front door as I tapped the horn.

'You are late, ' she said.

'Yes, I was stuck in a traffic jam,' I said and moved inside. Leena had decorated the drawing room attractively. The Christmas tree in the corner was aglow with multicoloured blinkers. There were fresh flowers in the artistically designed vases. I smiled at Leena. 'Merry Christmas' I said and brushed my lips lightly on her cheek. I lifted my daughter in my arms and kissed her. 'You must hurry. Get freshened up and change.The guests will be arriving. ' Leena said.

'Sure,' I said looking at her. Her face was glowing with excitement. Soma had curled up her arms around my neck. ' This is my happy family,' I told myself and touched the letter in my pocket gingerly.

I walked into my bedroom and closed the door. I took out Suman's letter from the pocket and kept it carefully under a stack of clothes.

The guests began to arrive and we got busy in entertaining them. Later we went to the church for the midnight mass.

We sat on the benches silently listening to the priest was at the podium. He was delivering sermons, elaborating upon the value of forgiveness.

I looked closely at the figure of Jesus Christ, his arms and feet nailed to cross. Suddenbly the hall was plunged into a strange emptiness and it felt I was the only one in the hall, alone with Jesus, in that vast impregnable silence.

I could detect a slight movement in the figure at the cross. I blinked and looked again. The face of Jesus creased, melted and merged into another. It was a familiar face, , almost like my own. And then, like a sudden shudder of an electric current, the truth struck me! The face was my father's!! There was the same hurt, the same sorrow as I had seen years ago in his eyes. I could feel tears running down my cheeks as I stared unblinkingly at the gaunt, pale face.

I have read somewhere that every one has to carry his own cross. My father, through the whole of his life carried the cross of love. And I will, for a lifetime, carry the cross of my guilt. I am the one who had crucified father. I am the sinner, the unredeemed, the doomed one!!

'Forgive me father, I whispered through my choked sobs. Forgive me for I am breaking under the weight of my cross!'

'Forgive me! Forgive me!!'

I closed my eyes and kept on saying it as a litany.

I felt a tender hand on my shoulder. Leena was standing near me cradling the sleeping Soma. She looked at me intently. There was a deep concern in her big eyes. 'Are you okay, Somen?' She asked, anxiousness dripping from her voice. I looked around . The hall was nearly empty. Most people have left. Mr and Mrs Daniel waited for us at the porch.

' I am fine. Let's go.' I took Soma into my arms and walked out of the hall. Leena followed me.

' I want you to see this.' I said when Leena came in to the room. She turned and walked up to the bed. I gave her Suman's letter.

'What must we do Somen?' She asked, a look of utter helplessness in her eyes.

'Father will never accept money from me . But I can guess well that they need help. Suman does not say it but there are enough hints in her letter. '

'Send a cheque to Suman and ask her not to reveal where the money came from. Shouldn't you write a letter to father? I have a strong intuition that he will take you back. '

I didn't have the nerve to write to father. But at that moment Leena's suggestion looked plausible. I decided to write a letter to Suman, urging her to plead in my favour and another one to father begging him to forgive me.

I felt a bit relaxed after I made the decision. Leena and I remained awake the entire night, pondering over the possible consequences.

I wrote the two letters, signed a cheque of twenty thousand rupees, put all three of them in an envelope and gave it to the office peon. I asked him to send it by registered post.

There was nothing else I could do other than waiting.

The acknowledgment receipt came next week. But no reply came from Suman. I wondered if she had at all given my letter to father. Another week passed. Nothing happened. I was torn between hope and anxiety.

'Is father alright? Has the operation been successful? Has he come back home or still.in the hospital? Misgivings and premonitions goaded me nonstop. Leena kept consoling me, but nothing other than a letter bearing the news of father's good health could have been solace enough to me.

Finding no other option to alleviate my fear I decided to visit the temple of Goddess Durga on my way to office . It was about nine thirty in the morning. There were not many devotees in the temple. I took off my shoes, stood outside the main gate and looked. Though the interior of the temple was not very clearly visible from that distance, I got a glimpse of the idol of the goddess decked with heavy garlands of red hibiscus and vermilion. And I prayed.

'I know I am a sinner O mother goddess! Punish me the way you like for the offence I have committed. But do not make my father suffer. It is I who has rejected his Faith. I am the defiler , not he. O goddess! Let him be cured. . Let no harm come to him.'

I could feel the tears on my lips as I muttered the prayers. I stood there looking at the goddess for some more time before walking back to the vacant lot adjacent to the temple where I had parked my car.

The letter came the afternoon mail. I held it in trembling hands, frightened to open it. I intoned a prayer and cut it open with a pencil knife. My heart beating fast, I took out the letter. It was a long letter. I breathed out a sigh of relief. The cheque had not been retuned. Tears welled up in my eyes as I read it.

Father was back at home after a successful operation and was recuperating nicely, Suman had written.

'He misses you bhai', she told. ' He does not say it but I can guess it unmistakably. I had not told him about your cheque and kept him under the impression that I and my husband had made arrangements for the hospital expenses. I had given him your letter, a couple of days ago after he came back home. I was afraid that he would be angry and not keep it. But he took it from me and put it under his pillow. Last evening, when I brought him his medicine and milk I saw him reading your letter. He looked up at me. His eyes were heavy with tears. I sat by him on the bed and touched his shoulder.

'Will he come home if I ask him?' He asked, his voice wet. I had never seen him like this.

I decided to tell him about your cheque.

' I want to tell you something father, if you assure me you will not feel bad, ' I said haltingly fumbling for the right expression.

'I know dear,' Father smiled ruefully. 'Now I know.......... He has taken care of the expenses of my treatment, hasn't he? He has been trying hard all these years to restore the relationship but I have been holding him at bay. I am a sick man now and I do not have either the strength or the will to do that. I know what he has done is unpardonable, and he has been punished duly. He has been living in an exile for all these years. What's the point on dragging the differences forth indefinitely? You are in touch with him. Ask him if he would like to come home. He has become a rich man I guess!'

'Bhai, ' Suman resumed, 'He is no longer angry with you, it seems. God willing we will meet sometime soon.'

I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and closed my eyes.

Will he take me back? After what I have done to him?

How generously he had showered his love on me! And how I had squandered that love away to accomplish my selfish end! I felt like a prodigal son......!! I had wasted his love and affection and abandoned him, and yet he is ready to forgive my offence and welcome me back!

I drove back home feeling skeptical, caught in the crossfire of battling emotions.

'Did Suman write to you?' Leena put a steaming cup of tea on the table and asked.

I looked fondly at my wife. She never failed to guess correctly the state of my mind. I handed the letter to her. Her face glowed as she went through its contents.

'I am so, so happy!!' She exclaimed effusively. We must immediately go home, to your father and mother and Suman of course! Wait, I will be back in a minute,' she said and hurried to the other room. I knew she would light a candle before the statue of Jesus. She did that when she was either in distress or felt grateful to God.

'Do not get so over excited,' I pulled and and made her sit beside me. 'Let me first go and find out how he feels about you. I do not want to put you to any embarrassment. I am going to meet him after such a long time. I do not know what exactly would be his reaction. I will drop you and Soma at your parents' house for a few days. It is not far from our homtown. I will come to fetch you home if things go well,' I tried to explain. Leena hardly disagrees with my suggestions. It was decided we would leave the next Friday. Suman was accordingly informed. I requested her to remain present when I arrived to make things easy for me.

(10)

The daylight had dimmed when the rain slithered into the platform. I looked out of the window at it . The platform wore a changed look but still had a familiar ambience. Getting down, I came out of the platform and walked along the deodar lined path to the rickshaw stand. I climbed up to a rickshaw and gave him the

address. I looked about the town as the rickshaw rolled along. I moved past my father's office, our school and the football ground. The church, the residential quarters and the hospital were on the other side of the town. I would take a walk about the place the next day, I thought. I was feeling quite unnerved at the prospect of meeting father after such a long time.

'You have to get down here, sir' the rickshaw puller said, stopping. 'The rickshaw cannot go further. The house is just ahead,'

I looked around. The rickshaw puller was right. The road ahead was a narrow foot track. Some six to seven houses stood scattered at irregular spaces. The land probably was yet to be officilay approved by the appropriate authority. Father had constructed the house in a hurry after applying for voluntary retirement. I paid the rickshaw puller and walked ahead, carrying my hand grip.

In the gathering darkness of the dusk the houses looked like silent sentries.

Following Suman's direction I walked up to the third house which was a little behind the others. I stood in its front looking at the white pillars on the small porch, and its white roof that slightly sloped upwards in a gentle gradient. Thick vines loaded with tiny violets that looked a bit purple in the deepening darkness covered both sides of the narrow pathway leading to the porch. A white platform like thing stood to the left. There was a statue on it, its face hidden by the vines. I squinted at it and a shudder ran through me. Even in that darkness I could undoubtedly guess that it was the statue of Virgin Mary.

'What place is this? Where is the house? It is a church, a replica of the one which was close to the hospital!!' I was soaked in perspiration in the still cool February evening. My gaze travelled to the door beyond the porch. Someone stood there. A figure in white, its hands propped against the door posts on either side, its feet joined together at the middle of the threshold. I blinked and looked again. It was the statue of Jesus on the Cross. But what was the statue, that was supposed to be on the altar inside the church, doing here?

I unlatched the small gate, and my heart beating unusually fast, stepped in. I took a few steps forward and stopped short. The figure of Jesus, detaching itself from the cross was advancing towards me in a slow floating movement. In a futile attempt to step back I staggered and fell forward.......into the spread out arms of the welcoming Jesus. And suddenly I felt at rest, all my agitation strangely calmed down by the gentle, soothing touch.

'Somu, my son!' The figure said.

I could know that voice anywhere. It was my father's!

Tears rolled down my eyes. I embraced my father's frail form tightly, buried my face in his bony chest and sobbed.

' After so many years !' My father said tearfully, 'You have come home!'

'Yes father, I have come home!' I said to myself, my head still buried in his chest.

'You should have brought Leena and my granddaughter with you.' Father added fondly.

I looked up.at his gaunt, benign face. In the dim light it shone divinely.

I breathed out deeply. I was like a wayfarer who, after a long, difficult detour had found his destination.

I had arrived!

And, redeemed!!

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)

A SWEET SUMMERFEST

Archee Biswal

It was a sunny Saturday in the warm month of May in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. The lemony sunlight was shyly peeking in through my curtains and attempting to caress my face. It was trying so hard to gently wake me up from my sleep and I have to admit, it was working. I was slowly starting to rise.

As soon as I woke up, a delicious, rich smell of baking wafted into my nose. I walked towards the kitchen, but really, I was just floating with the smell. Upon reaching the kitchen, I saw my mother looking at a freshly baked cake on the dining table. She had just taken it out of the oven. It was cinnamon brown in colour, a perfect rectangle. So fluffy, you might think you are simply looking at a chocolate-flavoured cloud.

“YUMM!” I exclaimed in delight, almost ready to dive in with a fork.

“Ah-han, wait my dear,” my mother told me. “This one is for the school’s bake sale. There is another one on the kitchen counter, that’s for you.”

“Oh yes! The bake sale!” I remembered suddenly.

I recalled the previous day’s events. I had come back from my school and hastily demanded my mother to bake a cake for the Summerfest taking place in my school today.

“I know it’s a little late to ask, but pleaseee can you bake a cake for the bake sale tomorrow? It’s for raising money for charity and all the mothers of grade 9 students are baking something!” I had told her.

“Okay sure, of course! I just have to check if I have all the ingredients.” My mother had readily agreed. I knew that she did in fact have all the ingredients since she was a pro at making cakes and regularly prepared them for our house parties.

I walked towards the other cake on the kitchen counter and cut a slice. It tasted as great and as sweet as ever!

Soon after that, I and my parents got ready to go to the Summerfest. We travelled by the U-Bahn, and then the S-Bahn, which are the metro trains in Frankfurt. As we were walking towards my school, I looked up at the trees canopying above us. The few leaves that clung to the trees in autumn used to be an auburn brown. Today, they were dense and happy, a bright green. It looked like they too were celebrating the arrival of summer in their own way.

As we reached my school, I saw the name ISF- International School of Frankfurt boldly written on the board above the entrance.

‘Willkommen zum Sommerfest!’ A banner read. It meant ‘Welcome to the Summerfest’ in German. We entered the school and a burst of activity greeted us. One could hear all sorts of languages from German, Korean, and Italian to even Arabic and Russian. It was truly an international atmosphere. We headed to the cafeteria and handed over the cake to the organizers of the bake sale at their stall. They greeted us with a smile and thanked us.

We then proceeded to enjoy the delicious snacks at the other stalls from various countries. There was sushi at the Japanese stall, spaghetti at the Italian one and Kimchi at the Korean stall. There was a burst of flavours at all the counters and I really couldn’t pick a favourite. As we were enjoying the snacks, I looked up at my mother. She looked a bit tense.

“What happened, mama? Is everything okay?” I asked her.

“Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just that, the cake I prepared is eggless. And as you know, everyone here prefers a cake with egg in it. Will my cake sell?”

“Yess mama, don’t worry. It's sooo tasty, people will definitely like it. Let’s go to the auditorium now, the performances must be starting!” I assured her and lead my parents in the way of the auditorium.

The auditorium was dimly lit, except for the light that was partially streaming in through the large windows on one side. We took our seats among the audience. As the clock hit 2:00 pm, the curtains of the window were pulled shut and the curtains of the stage were raised. It was time for the talent show!

There was a series of mesmerizing performances and a large variety of acts. Many students performed the traditional dance of their countries, and many even played musical instruments such as the violin and piano. Some students sang a cover of their favourite songs. There was even an energetic Korean drum performance by a group of South Korean students and a couple of Bollywood dance performances. It was so hard to choose a favourite since all of them had performed marvellously!

After the talent show, there was a break for thirty minutes during which the judges discussed and decided the winner. I went to the cafeteria during the break with one of my friends whom I had met in the auditorium. As we went to the bake sale, I noticed that my mother’s cake was nowhere to be found. I looked around the stall, and there it was- the plate- on which only a few crumbs remained! My mother’s cake was sold out!

I couldn’t stop grinning. My friend, Emily, noticed this and asked me what happened. I explained the story to her and she too was very happy to hear this.

When we returned to the auditorium, I asked my parents to come to the cafeteria without telling them the reason. They were confused but still followed me. When the sight of the empty container met their eyes, I saw their expressions change. My mother let out a sigh of relief and a large smile took over her face, and my father looked at my mother with pride and happiness.

We returned to the auditorium for the results, and saw that the winner had already been announced. But it didn’t matter to me, since I had just seen my mother win a few minutes ago and that was the real prize. The talent show’s results didn’t matter as much.

As we were returning in the train, I glanced at the sky. It was bright pink in colour with a tinge of golden yellow, and the sun was sleepily setting on the horizon. A reddish hue surrounded it, and it itself was painted dark orange.

Summer was right around the corner, and I couldn’t be happier.

Archee Biswal is from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is currently pursuing MA in Analytical and Applied Economics at Utkal University. Her dream was to be a writer ever since she was 9 years old. Her poems and short stories have been published in various magazines such as Chandamama and Kloud 9. She likes dancing, painting, and playing instruments such as the keyboard and guitar. She speaks 6 languages including German and Spanish, which she learnt while staying in Germany. Her favourite wish is to travel all over the world and collect new experiences.

THE RUSTIC DRIVER

Sheena Rath

When the driver told us that he was planning to go on a five day leave,we were totally in a state of shock, not because we didn't want him to go,but because we wondered how Rahul was going to behave without his car drives.More we thought of it,it bothered us even more.

Finally we made up our minds to understand that we are left with no choice and have to deal with this situation very bravely.I was not keen to keep a new driver for this short period as he wouldn't know how to handle my son and it could even worsen the situation by Rahul understanding that the driver had probably left.

Day one we realised he was quite calm and busy listening to music on his mobile with headphones.Sometimes i really wonder how he manages to trace the songs so independently, actually he is a visual thinker,he reads through pictures.Not once did he mention about car drives,nor he recalled the driver.He seemed relaxed and pretty much happy much to our relief.Looking after a special needs child can be really tiring and exhausting.

We had planned that when the man of the house comes over for lunch,he would take him for a short drive within the campus and rush back to work.

Similarly, day two and day three went off peacefully much to our hearts content.

Day four we decided to take him out for a short evening drive and treat him to McDonald's for his good behaviour,he freaked out on his french fries and fillet o fish burger,his father enjoyed a hot cup of cappuccino and myself was just happy that everything was moving smoothly as planned.

One of the day's after a sumptuous breakfast of toast, butter, omelette, sprouts and poha,quite a spread for the weekend though,i was feeling a little cold and realised I had left my jacket upstairs, didn't want to climb up twenty stairs.Suddenly my eyes fell on the jacket lying on the swing,it was Rahul's,i was a little hesitant but the thought of climbing up the stairs forced me to pick it up.I immediately wore it and started moving towards the entrance door,he gave me a strong eye contact and realised that I was wearing his.For a minute he froze , suddenly trying to get his words correct and shouted out..."jacket!!...jacket"!!.I was totally taken aback,it meant that he understood that it belonged to him,so far he has never reacted like this for his belongings.He wouldn't let me walk out of the door.Finally i had to remove it and give it to him.He snatched it and placed it on his lap most comfortingly.

I was extremely thrilled that another milestone had been achieved unknowingly.A proud mommy as i danced with joy and disbelief.

Meanwhile Hushkoo....."oh mommy i thought you were going to sit by my side.""what do I tell him now?......how i hate climbing up those stairs so frequently.

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 LIFETIME

Akanksha Murali

A lifetime feels too small to describe the number of days we felt alive. Yet, it feels too big to unfeel the things we once deeply felt. Nights and days bind slaves like you, but not unloved poets and vulnerable writers who feel deeply for their muse. Maybe, there are a few things left between those lips, and residing at the tip of the tongue those words remain unsaid.

The moonless night depicts the perfection of emptiness. There is nothing left to look upon, nothing left to wish for or wish upon. No thoughts, no memories and no pain. Amidst the chaos I found my solitude.

Keep yourself alive for another night, I promise the morning filled with lesser pain and more dreams will come alive, breathing and warm, the cloak of coldness will be removed with early lights. You are the only thing that matters. Someone I can claim to be mine. Fade away like the seasonal pain, before we attach ourselves to the permanence of those moments. I’m too tired to- begin again, unfeel in new ways.

Somethings never change and others never stay. That’s when we begin to seek the warmth and comfort of someone new. A new soul to lay our burdens upon, a new pain to live through. We are addicts of the euphoric evenings and vulnerable nights. We are the means of impermanence of soulfulness. Yet, we are accepted for our flaws.

There is innocence in new beginnings that were denied in old endings. There is happiness and some laughter in the moments to come, those will replace the old ones in no time, you just need to hold on tight.

None of us are real, nor our emotions or apologies. We are dusty shadows, finding our abodes in each other’s thoughts, even after we leave our scars stay behind. Our memories haunt, we are more into each other’s souls than we are inside our hearts. That’s what makes letting go a miserable art.

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.

A LEAF FROM HISTORY : A RESILIENT BOY WHO TURNED ADVERSITY INTO OPPORTUNITY !

Nitish Nivedan Barik

Necessity is the mother of invention, so goes a proverb. Some have paraphrased it a little saying that ‘Adversity’ is the father of re-invention. The paraphrased statement may find justification in the life of Thomas Edison, one of the greatest innovators in history who struggled with adversity.

Thomas Alva Edison, undoubtedly is one of the greatest of history who has contributed a lot to science and its applications. His inventions made in the later part of the 19th century have a major effect in our lives today. With persistent effort, he developed many devices which greatly influenced life in the twentieth century and beyond. Popular work of his includes the invention of light bulb, the phonograph, the motion picture camera, as well as improving the telegraph and telephone.

Edison was born to Sam and Nancy on February 11, 1847, Ohio,USA. He was poor in health in his childhood and also poor in studies. Edison had started school late because of an illness. Three months later, he was removed from school, a schoolmaster calling Edison “addled”. His mother bestowed all love on the young kid and encouraged and taught him at home. He recalled later, "My mother was the making of me. She was so true, so sure of me; and I felt I had something to live for, someone I must not disappoint. “His/ belief in self-improvement remained throughout his life.

Edison at the age of 12, partially lost hearing capability. There are several theories regarding the loss of his hearing, one of them believed that it was the after effects of scarlet fever which he had as a child. While another theory says it was on a conductor boxing his ears after Edison caused a fire in the baggage car, an incident which Edison claimed never happened. Edison himself had a theory regarding his deafness that there was such an incident where he was lifted in a train by someone grabbing of his ears. But he did not let this disability to stand on his way. He treated the shortcoming as an asset, as it made it easier for him to concentrate on his experiments and research staying at home or lab. It needs no mention that his deafness made him alone and shy in dealing with others. Hearing impairment drove him to read more and more.

Thomas Edison when young was a hardworking enterprising man with high degree of determination and perseverance. He sold vegetables, candy and newspaper in trains. One day he saved a child from runaway train. The child’s father repaid him by training him in operating telegraph. As a telegraph operator Thomas became interested in communications, which would be the epicentre of many of his inventions later.

He built his research work in Melno Park, New Jersey. It was the first place where the only purpose was to invent. First there would be research and analysis, and then it would be implemented practically in a larger scale. There were lot of people working in this place who were tasked to invent and who would practically implement Edison’s idea into invention. He founded more than 100 companies and employed thousands of engineers, researchers, etc. He was the first inventors to apply the principles of mass production to the process of invention. At the time of his death, according to some estimate 15 billion US dollars of the national economy derived from his innovations alone.

The major inventions of Edison were the Phonograph, the Light Bulb and the Motion Picture camera. The phonograph was the first major invention by Edison which made him famous. It was the first instrument which was able to record sound and play it. Light bulb, although he did not invent the first electric bulb, but he made the first electric bulb that could be used in households (we may call it re-invention) , he also invented the motion picture cameras that helped in moving forward the progress of movies. To his credit, he holds 1093 patents. Interestingly his first two kids had the nickname of Dot and Dash.

There are many virtues or qualities we all can learn from Thomas Edison: having perseverance, working hard and using time wisely. If we learn and apply these qualities in our personal life and in our business life, we will be able to accomplish our goals and become more successful.

Edison was an extraordinary talented inventor whose creativity improved the quality of life for billions of people. His resolve was to take responsibility for practical matters more than spending time in theorizing. There are many lessons to be drawn from his life. One, the mother is the best mentor and words of encouragement can do wonder. Two, one can turn adversity into opportunity with true determination. Three, failure is the pillar of success.

But a few failures need not deter one from making another attempt and still another. Edison is believed to have failed myriad times- some put it at a thousand, while some say he failed ten thousand times - before finally being crowned with success in creating the light bulb, or developing the filament that would glow with current and hold it longer.

Importance of perseverance is made clear by Edison in this quote: “Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.” Against all odds, Edison’s mantra was perseverance , try one more time. If Edison did not always try one more time, he would not have invented the light bulb! People discouraged him saying that it will never work, but he didn’t listen to those negative minded people, he believed that if he persevered through it, he will see light at the end of the tunnel, and he did. So we have light to dispel the darkness of the night.

Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.

THE EAGLE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

The May afternoon was hot, much hotter than anyone in Kolkata remembered. Heat was pouring like molten lava from the sky scalding anything that was exposed to it. Raja was asleep, a dream playing hide and seek with him. In his dream the sky was gradually turning into a blazing oven, getting redder by the minute. A huge eagle hovered, its angry face silhouetted ominously against the red canopy of the sky. Suddenly it soared high and crazily pricked the sky with its sharp beak, drawing blood. And the blood fell, drip by drip, on Raja's face. He woke up with a start. His face felt wet. His hand went up, he wondered if it was blood that had turned his face wet. He looked at the hand and sighed in relief! No, it was not blood, just drops of water which must have dripped from the air-conditioner from the room above his, ricocheting off the window.

Raja always slept light, his mind in a state of constant alertness. As a professional killer he could never let his guard down, never sink into deep sleep. His subconscious mind always heard mild noises - the slow, sinister footsteps of approaching death. Often he heard them very close, sometimes from far away, but some of his waking moments were meant for death, locating the prey, watching his movements, planning the kill and finally pulling of the trigger of his favourite pistol - a 9mm beretta Ustaad had given him when he was initiated into the rarified world of professional killing.

With the pulling of the trigger one more life got extinguished, like the dying flame of a lamp blown away by a gust of wind. The icy hand of death gripped the prey and led him in the dark path of the unknown. And Raja returned to his one-room apartment at Beliaghat. He lived alone, brushing away Ustaad's suggestion to take Felu as a room mate. Ustaad thought there was safety in living with a room mate. A professional killer was always at risk, someone from the scene of shooting might follow him to his apartment and blackmail him, or some relative of the prey might come to know the identity of the killer and plan to kill him. A room mate would provide safety. Raja would dismiss him with contempt - no one could ever follow Raja to his den. After pulling the trigger Raja melted in the air, beyond the sight of ordinary mortals. Felu would be a liability, a burden. Although two years older to Raja, Felu was still immature. His aim as a sharpshooter was accurate, but he was prone to impatience, always in a hurry to pull the trigger and finish the job.

Ustaad also knew no one could be like Raja. A priceless gem like Raja is as rare as a Husain Bolt in athletics or a Sachin Tendulkar in cricket. Flawless, patient to the core, with a sharp sight and an unfailing aim, Raja was a genius and destined to rule the crime kingdom of Kolkata as a Badshah in a few years. He was a marvel - no bad habits, no paan, tobacco, alcohol or cigarettes. No visit to the red light area which was a favourite pastime of the other three killers Ustaad had - Felu, Krishna and Murad. Ustaad needed to have two teams - his portfolio had expanded in the last five years - since he could not expose the same team at all the killings. Raja and Felu formed one team, Krishna and Murad the other. Every team had a lead shooter and a Doosra, a duplicate, who would pull the trigger only if the lead shooter gets distracted or failed for some reason. Raja never failed, Felu was always his Doosra. That's why, although Raja had more than thirty victims, Felu was yet to open his account for Ustaad. Before he was recruited Felu had killed half a dozen fellows, not big shots but some drunks, some labourers, who had developed illicit relations with a neighbour's wife. The kind of fellows who would not be missed by anyone. But Ustaad's clients were high class, they paid good sums. Ustaad charged minimum fifty thousand rupees for a killing, kept fifty percent and gave fifteen thousand to the lead shooter and ten thousand to the Doosra. Ustaad never cheated his boys, he was a thorough gentleman, his only failing was an obsession with call girls on whom he spent lavishly.

Ustaad had dropped out of college at the age of twenty two and started his career as a small time thief and pick pocket. In five years he had formed his own gang of pick pockets, recruiting small boys with nimble fingers. He used to steal the boys from orphabnages and shelter homes, fed them well, trained them, allotted routes to them, made them familiar with their areas like the back of their palms so that they could escape uncaught when cornered. Soon he had five boys who had monopolised all the major routes of Kolkata. They would never repeat a route on the same day, never talked to anyone, made no friends, only their eyes were alert, hands itching to pick a pocket at the slightest opportunity. They scanned buses, local trains and crowded markets for a wallet peeping out of a half open pocket, a purse dangling carelessly from a dozing lady. There was competition from other gangs but Ustaad's boys were the best. They would start at eight in the morning and wind up around ten, come to Ustaad's house and hand over the day's earnings to him. They never cheated Ustaad who took good care of them, providing great food and sleeping space in his spare bedroom. He also paid them a salary of three thousand rupees a month which they kept in an account at the post office, declaring their profession as a daily labourer.

The sixth boy of the household was Khagen, everyone used to call him Khagoo. He used to do the cleaning of the house and cooked for everyone. Twice in a day - both morning and night - he used to give an oil massage to Ustaad who believed in maintaining a well-toned, muscled body to impress his numerous partners in the red light area where he was a frequent visitor. He spent most of the evenings there, but always returned home in the night. Khagoo would be waiting for him to give an oil massage, in turn Ustaad would give him some fish fry or chicken pakoda he would have got on the way. Khagoo was a big eater, proud of his protruding belly and round, chubby face.

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Ustaad would often remember, with a happy smile on his face, the day Raja came to his life. He had gone on his annual trip to Puri, the famous Jagannath Dham and was on his way back to Kolkata. The train had stopped at Khorda junction. Ustaad had just finished his bread pakoda and a cup of tea and got into his compartment. The train started moving and suddenly a boy jumped into the compartment and with the train's momentum lost his balance. Ustaad caught hold of the boy before he fell and steadied him. The next moment he pulled his hand back, his mouth fell open with shock. The boy's shirt had got drenched in blood. Ustaad's hand had become red. He locked the door of the apartment and caught hold of the boy,
"My God! What happened to you? Why are you bleeding so much?," Ustaad asked in Bengali.
The boy looked at him, his body in the arms of Ustaad. He was probably around fourteen or fifteen years of age, quite strong for a village boy. In a moment he broke down and started crying, loud, helpless sobs racking his body. Couple of passengers came running, they led the boy to a vacant seat.

Ustaad gave him some water and repeated the question. The boy shook his head, he didn't know Bengali. A passenger asked him in Odiya why he was crying and the boy's story came out, in a mix of sobs and incoherent words. His name was Raja, he was a fourteen year old from a nearby village, three kilometres from Khorda. His father had passed away a few years back and goaded by the relatives his mother married her dead husband's cousin. The new man of the house was a heartless monster whose aim in life seemed to be to inflict the maximum pain on Raja. Within a year of marriage his mother gave birth to a lovely daughter and Raja's misery piled up. His step father got angry with him at the slightest pretext and would beat him mercilessly, often tying him to a tree in the courtyard and breaking a long twig or two on his back. Raja's mother used to cry at her son's misery but she also was beaten up by her rogue of a husband. When her daughter Meenu reached the age of five she became an absolute fan of her step brother who used to love her like the best thing in the world, take her round the village, pluck fruits from the trees and feed her. But the moment the step father returned home the reign of terror started. Often Raja's mother and little Meenu would stealthily visit Raja writhing in agony in the small store room, gave him food and applied balm on the aching body. Raja would cry, hiding his face on the lap of his mother whose sobbing would hardly soothe the agonised boy.

The day Raja boarded the train to Kolkata, was the worst day of his life. For some reason his step father had picked up a quarrel with a couple of villagers, got terribly angry and came home to find the boy at home. Raja would have left to work in the field after his mother served him some food, but the merciless man lost his cool. He shut his wife and daughter in a room, tied Raja to a tree and kept thrashing him till blood came out on the poor boy's back. When one cane broke he brought another one. He had gone mad with anger. The loud wails of his wife and daughter finally stopped his beating and he left home in a fit of uncontrolled anger. The moment he left, Raja wriggled his bloody frame and somehow freed himself. He knew, this was going to be his last day at home. He knew the railway station was three kilometres away, he had gone there a few times to look in amazement at the colourful trains lazily leaving the station and chugging on.

Raja unlocked the room where his mother and little sister had been locked up. Before the wailing mother could gather him in her arms, he took a look at them and with tears streaming down his eyes he ran away. He was just in time to board the Kolkata bound train. Ustaad had rescued him at the right time, otherwise he would have probably fallen off the train. Once his story came out, everyone was all sympathy for him. One of the passengers asked him what he wanted to do, whether he had any relatives in some other place who would keep him. Raja stared blankly at the man. He knew no relative other than his mother, sister and step father. Ustaad asked him whether he would like to come with him to Kolkata. Raja looked at him, burst into tears and nodded. Ustaad got down at Bhubaneswar station and ran to the ticket counter to buy a ticket for Raja.

Raja settled down at Ustaad's place and in a few days would have received his training and joined Ustaad's band of thieves and pickpockets. But destiny had other plans for him. Two days after he arrived, the six boys in Ustaad's household ganged up against him, an unknown competitor from a far away land. They waited for every opportunity to corner the boy from Odisha and shower him with kicks and beatings. Raja, although stronger than all of them, put up with it for some time. On the third day, he flared up, he decided he had not come all the way to Kolkata to suffer fresh rounds of humiliation and beating. He gave them back kick for kick, slap for slap. On a hot afternoon Ustaad was returning home for lunch when he saw Chhelu and Montu beating up Raja on the street outside the house. The moment the two boys saw Ustaad they ran away. Raja was mad with anger. He picked up a stone from the street and threw it at them. They were already a hundred feet away. The stone hit Montu on the back and with a loud cry he fell down. Startled, Chhelu, a little ahead, looked back. The next moment another stone hit him and with a big cry of 'O Maa' he also fell to the ground.

Ustaad's eyes popped out. What accuracy - hitting two boys a hundred feet away! Didn't miss even once. He went to Raja and calmed him down. He was curious to know how Raja had developed such accuracy in throwing a stone. Raja told him his exploits in the mango groves where he would visit in the summer afternoons with his friends and pluck mangoes by throwing stones at them. With pride in his voice he announced he never failed to hit a mango. Ustaad took a nap after lunch. An idea had started in his mind. For a long time his friend Latif had been after him to give up the paltry pickpocket business and move on to the more lucrative and heroic profession of supari killing. He got up and took Raja with him and went to the nearby maidan which was almost empty in the summer afternoon. He gathered about twenty stones and asked Raja to throw them at a broken down wooden goal post about a hundred feet away. He could not believe himself when Raja succeeded in hitting the goal post eighteen out of twenty times. He knew he had hit a jackpot. This boy had the potential to be an excellent sharp shooter, he needed training and Ustaad had to wait for four more years before he could hand over a gun to him and ask him to shoot. For the next four years he let the boy roam around to know each and every nook and corner of Kolkata.

Ustaad started taking Raja everywhere with him, except the red light area. The boy was very sharp, had a good memory, was disciplined in eating and had no craving for food. He often took the name of his sister Meenu in his sleep and would murmur Maa, Maa, and then get up screaming. But time healed his wound. By the time he was eighteen, Ustaad bought a gun for him and asked him to practice shooting. Soon Felu, an experienced shooter joined. But Ustaad made sure Raja was the leader of the team. Ustaad sold away his pickpocket business to another small time criminal who took the five boys with him. Only Khagen remained with Ustaad to do the cooking and cleaning of the house. Ustaad had never made Raja do household work. He wanted to turn Raja into the Badshah of the crime world in Kolkata.

The first time Ustaad took a supari to kill a businessman, he was nervous. Raja, all of eighteen years, wanted to know why he should kill someone he didn't know. Ustaad told him the man was bad, he beat his wife and harassed everyone in his employment. Raja's face hardened, he agreed to killl the evil man. Ustaad helped him to recce the place, observe the movement of the prey for three days. He knew the man left his office around five thirty, walked down the street to the parking place and got into his waiting car. On the day of the killing Raja went to the office of the business man accompanied by Felu, his Doosra. Ustaaad waited a hundred meters behind, his heart beating violently, unsure if Raja would pull off the job. The prey came out of the office a little later than five thirty and started walking towards the car. Raja and Felu stood a few feet away, observing him keenly. The man neared the car, Ustaad waited, Felu waited. Both of them started sweating. Doubts sailed through their mind, would Raja pull the trigger, or would he develop a cold feed? When the prey bent to get into the car, Ustaad sighed, Felu gave up, he would have pulled the trigger had he not been strictly forbidden by Ustaad to do that. Ustaad wanted Raja to succeed at any cost, but he wasn't sure anymore. He blinked and the next moment the prey slumped forward, blood oozing out of his head. Ah! Raja had finally pulled the trigger and made his first kill! The future Badshah of crime kingdom had set his foot on his predestined path! Now nobody could stop him! Raja and Felu melted into the crowd. Ustaad smiled in satisfaction and walked away.

From then on Raja became busy, the first killing was followed by another in fifteen days and it went on till Raja lost count of it. He was always calm, steady, never lost his way, never failed to kill the prey with the first shot and always melted into thin air after finishing the job. His only fetish was taking a bath before going on the killing mission and after returning home. He would wash his body thoroughly, trying to clean off the guilt of the act. Or was it the agony, the anguish of his younger days he was trying to get rid of, with a scented soap and buckets of water? He was not sure.

Raja never forgot his mother and the little sister. He would often sit, pensive and nostalgic, seeing his mother bending over him, putting some food into his mouth, his little sister trying to soothe his pain by applying balm on his body. He would shudder at the memory. Ah, how old his little sweet sister would be? Eleven? Twelve? He longed to see her and to eat food prepared by his loving mother. Twice he wanted to go to his village to meet his mother and Meenu, but Ustaad dissuaded him. Raja was being groomed by him to be the Badshah of Kolkata's underworld. With more than thirty killings he had already become the biggest sharp shooter of the city, in a few years, he would move into the big world of organised crime, Ustaad would retire and hand over his business to Raja, drawing a fat pension from the conscientious boy. Why should he go back to his small, nondescript village, what was the guarantee his stepfather would even admit him to the house? His sister was no more the little girl he had left seven years back, what was the guarantee she would recognise him? And his mother? May be she would have become a slave to her cruel husband. Ustaad knew the world better than Raja. It would be wise to forget the past and look to the future. The kingdom of Kolkata's crime world was waiting for Raja, to welcome him as its master. Why should Raja take a risk by going back to his past? Raja was not fully convinced, but doubts assailed his mind. He kept postponing the trip to his village.

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Raja looked at the watch. Three thirty in the afternoon. He had to get ready, to leave by four fifteen. It was a long walk to Kidderpore, where his prey would walk out of his office exactly at five. His car would be waiting on the other side of the road. He simply had to cross the road when the traffic light turned red, walk a few feet and get into his waiting car. Raja had been watching him for the past four days, accompanied by Felu, his Doosra. They had identified the place where they would stand behind a big garbage bin about fifty feet from where the car would be waiting for the prey and Raja would pull the trigger. There was a small lane right behind them, after the prey fell to the ground they would escape through the lane.

Raja came out after a bath. Felu was waiting for him. They reached the prey's office a few minutes before five and mingled with the crowd, keeping an eye at the door of the building form where the prey would walk out, probably the last walk of his life. At exactly five he came out, looked to both sides and started walking. The traffic signal was twenty feet away, he stopped for the light to turn red on the big street so that he could walk to cross over to the other side. Raja and Felu had taken their position near the garbage bin, their hands on the pistols in their pocket, ready to shoot as soon as the prey crossed the street.

Suddenly a lady, accompanied by a young girl appeared on the side of the prey. They started talking to the man. Felu lost his cool. What were they doing? Why were they distracting the prey from his predestined walk to death? The man seemed to be giving some direction to them, showing which path to take after crossing the road. He probably asked them to accompany him while crossing the road. They nodded. The light turned red on the Main Street, it was time to cross over. They started walking.

Raja squinted at them. The prey was walking on the left, the lady and the girl to his right. The girl was probably the same age as Meenu, his darling sister. She held the lady's hand to help her crosss the street. Ah, a mother and daughter! Probably, in some other life, in another world, it could have been his mother and the sweet Meenu walking down the road to meet Raja! For the first time in his shooting career Raja got distracted. Anyway, he could not pull the trigger when the prey was shielded by the lady and daughter on his right. He would have to wait till they got separated and went in their different ways.

They crossed the road. The prey started walking towards the car, the lady and her daughter following him. Raja took the aim, but had to wait for the prey to get a little away from the two women. Felu was getting impatient, he whispered - Raja, shoot! Raja could not pull the trigger, his mind mesmerised by the two women walking behind the prey. Felu was angry, Ustaad had given clear instructions that the job had to be finished that day. Why was Raja wavering, it was so unlike him! Felu watched as the prey and the two women approached the car. In a few seconds the prey would get into his car and vanish. Felu looked at Raja who appeared to be in a daze. He lifted the pistol and took the aim. Raja saw from the corner of his eyes Felu was about to shoot. He was shocked! What if Felu shot the lady and the girl. He wanted to stop Felu and moved forward to wrest the pistol from his Doosra's hand. He was late by the fraction of a second, the bullet hit him right on the chest, drawing blood. He screamed and fell down. Horrified, Felu looked at Raja, but he could do nothing. In a moment he melted into the lane and escaped.

Raja's loud scream had startled the prey and the two ladies. The prey got into his car, the two ladies came running to where Raja was lying on the ground, his life drifting away in fits of agonised gasps. A crowd had started forming, but no one did anything.The lady screamed 'O Maa', and sat down on the ground, bringing Raja's head onto her lap. She shouted at the girl to fetch some water from the nearby shop. Tears streamed down from her face and fell on Raja. His vision blurred, Raja saw Meenu running away, his mother bending over him. Beyond her, the huge eagle he had seen in his dreams was hovering against the sky. The eagle let out a big scream and pierced the sky. Red blood started dripping over Raja. With his strength webbing away, he tried to hold the hand of his mother, crying in a feeble voice, Maa! He looked at Meenu who had come with a bottle of water and was trying to pour it into his mouth. As his life ended, he saw the eagle soaring into the sky, angry and crazy, its beak soaked in blood.

Viewers Comments

seethaa Sethuraman

Mr. Sarangi's poem "Beyond the town" is both soothing and moving at the same time. It lingers in the deep recesses of your mind and has an expansive effect in your heart. Enjoyed reading it.

Feb, 28, 2023
Sudipta Mishra

Ma's Walker is an extremely sensitive story that deals with the unconditional love of a mother and her kid. It makes me nostalgic by forcing me to visit the memory lane where I had lost my loved ones ...

Feb, 26, 2023
Narottam Rath

As usual the article of Sri Gauranga Ch. Roul is informative and educational. He has picked up a leaf from the history of America and shaped the leaf to a tree. He has elaborated certain small incidents which is generally not noticed by an ordinary reader. Here lies the depth of his reading and reporting the matter. His style is lucid and keeps binding the readers. I wish him all success ahead.

Feb, 26, 2023
Hema Ravi

Wow! this is to be devoured as hotcakes! Barely a few days since we met in Chennai, the issue is out with all the lovely images - fondly cherish the moments. Thank you, SIr, for your painstaking efforts in bringing out yet another wonderful issue. Kudos to all the contributors.

Feb, 24, 2023

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Literary Vibes - Edition CXXVI (24-Feb-2023) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

Table of Contents :: POEMS

Table of Contents :: BOOK REVIEW

Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC

POEMS

BOOK REVIEW

SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

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Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVII (29-Nov-2024) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEWS

Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVII (29-Nov-2024) - SHORT STORIES

Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVII (29-Nov-2024) - YOUNG MAGIC

TETRA PHOBIA

Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVI (25-Oct-2024) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEWS

Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVII (29-Nov-2024) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEWS

Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVII (29-Nov-2024) - SHORT STORIES