Literary Vibes - Edition CXXVII (31-Mar-2023) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Ritika likes to find an unusual angle in the usual things. Her work is mostly written in hindi and english, but she likes experimenting in other languages as well. Her articles are often published in the newspaper ‘The Hitavada’. Her poems can be found under the pen name ‘Rituational’ in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rituational and in her blog: http://songssoflife.blogspot.com/ & Her Contact: ritika.sriram1@gmail.com
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Iti Samanta
THE COUPLE
02) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
KRISHNA AND HIS UNCLE KANS
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
TEAR JERKERS
04) Chinmayee Barik
MONSOON WEDDING
05) Ishwar Pati
THE WAR THAT WAS
06) Shri Aravind Bhatikar
KARMANNYE … YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW
07) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
MAYA
08) Amita Ray
ENGLISH MEDIUM
09) Bibhudutta Sahoo
NEVER ENDING WAITING
10) Sujata Dash
THE RAVISHING RAINBOW AND THE COCKTAIL OF MEMORIES
11) Dr. Molly Joseph
INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY 2023
12) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
THE MANGO SHOWER
13) Gourang Charan Roul
A PEEP INTO MARITIME HISTORY OF PURI
14) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
ABANDONING THE APSARAS
15) Sumitra Kumar
IS CHATGPT MAKING YOU QUEASY?
16) Nikhil M Kurien
UNICORN
17) Ruchi Pritam
THE LITTLE BROWN GIRL
18) Dr. Sudipta Mishra
A SOJOURN TO THE SPIRITUAL PATH
19) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT A MAN OF THE EARTH
20) Ashok Kumar Ray
LIFE
21) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A PRISONER OF DREAMS
My morning sleep was jarred by the loud thunder from our neighbouring house. I knew it was the usual shouting by Rangi Khudi at her husband Kamal Kaka - my father's cousin. It was nothing new. For the past many years hardly a day passed when we were not woken up by the loud noise of Khudi raining abuses on Kaka.
Only for the last few days there had been a small respite. The volume of Rangi Khudi's shoutings had gone down. My Bou said it was because the doctors had asked her not to exert too much. They had warned her if she did that her heart would burst. Everyone was concerned at the doctor's warning and advised Khudi to be careful. For a couple of days she was a bit quiet, but she resumed soon after. She could not live without shouting at Kaka, as if it was her energising tonic. The intensity of the shouts hadn't come down, only there was a slight reduction in volume.
"Bou, why are you shouting again? Have you forgotten what the doctor had said, if you shout too hard, your heart will burst."
Khudi's daughter pleaded with her mother, but she couldn't care less,
"Arey, jaa, jaa, get lost. Today I won't listen to anyone. Let me see how the heart will burst."
Khudi's volume of shouts raised, she hurled the choicest abuses at Kamal Kaka.
In disgust I covered my head with the blanket and murmured, "old habits die hard."
But sleep eluded me, thanks to the rising crescendo of Khudi's shoutings. I opened my eyes and found Bou standing near the door.
"God knows what has come over the witch, she makes our mornings a hell." Bou was not too pleased. I was furious,
"Right since my childhood I have been hearing Khudi's early morning shouting. Every time I come home I can't escape it. God knows when it will stop."
I again tried to go back to sleep. Bou asked me to close my eyes and ears, ignore Rangi Khudi's noise and get some sleep. She got busy in sweeping the courtyard, scared to go out, lest she is grabbed by Khudi who will pour out her usual grievances to Bou.
In a few minutes, I woke up with a start. There was a sound of heavy wailing by ladies. I tried to decipher what it was and called out to Bou,
"Bou, Bou, where is this wailing coming from?"
Bou was nonplusssed,
"Looks like someone is taking Rangi's name. Let's go and see."
We hurried to Kamal Kaka's house. The wailing was growing in volume as more neighbours poured in. Rangi Khudi was no more. Her voice had fallen silent. For ever. Bou and I burst out crying, the bitterness of the early hours forgotten.
The wails got louder, all neighbours gathered, shocked at this sudden death. Nobody could believe Rangi Khudi would leave so suddenly. In two hours Rangi Khudi was made ready for the final journey from which there would be no return. Her daughter Suli Dei gave her a bath, put on a new saree on her, applied kajal on the eyes and vermillion on her forehead. Between sobs everyone was commenting on how lucky Rangi Khudi was, dying as a "sadhabaa", her husband still alive, how her death was sudden and painless and how she left the world on the most auspicious day of the month of Kartik. Her son, nephew and the two sons-in-law acted as the pall bearers. Kamal Kaka led the funeral procession to the cremation ground scattering sacred rice and kowrie cells. The main street of the village reverberated with the cry of Ram Naam Satyahe, Hari Naam Satyahe.
I leaned on the pillar of our veranda, my mind still unable to accept that two hours back I had woken up to the loud shoutings of Rangi Khudi, and now she was no more, gone from our lives forever. My Bou, standing by my side, was inconsolable,
"So many times we had told her not to shout like a crazy woman, the doctors had warned her, the heart might collapse, but she never listened. How long the body could have taken all that strain?"
A few neighbouring ladies had joined us by then, all equally shocked at the sudden departure of this vocal lady. One of them added,
"There is no one in the village who could have shouted louder than Rangi, no one more bitter with life than her. Poor Kamal had to put up with her shoutings, the scoldings and insults. Right from the day of marriage she kept on scolding him as an useless fellow, a nincompoop, worse than a penniless beggar. He would be sitting in the courtyard, listening to her, never shouting back."
Lata Khudi, who believed in plain speaking said,
"Good for Kamal dada, at least he will live in peace now."
Everyone was shocked, asking Lata Khudi not to speak ill of someone who had just departed.
My Bou, being the immediate neighbour had more experience of Rangi Khudi's tantrums than others,
"You remember the morning she crossed all limits? I rushed to her house hearing loud wails from her. She was shouting, "He is gone, God has finally relieved him of all misery and taken him away." I was shocked, looking at her, she had worn a white saree like a widow, wiped the vermillion from her forehead and taken out her bangles. And poor Kamal was not dead! He was sitting at his usual place, leaning on the pillar in the courtyard. Why, some of you had walked in hearing her wails, remember? I asked her to stop being crazy, I scolded her for acting like a widow when Kamal was very much alive. Her shouts got wilder. "Nani, ask this useless fellow, the shit-eater where was he last night? Why was he not at home? Where was he?" Kamal looked at me and said, "Bhauja, don't listen to her, she has gone crazy." Rangi was furious, "So? I am crazy, and you are all good? You want me to die, so that you will marry another woman and bring her home?" Kamal murmured, "Who knows I may leave before you!" Kamali flew into a new rage, "Aha, you never gave me a bit of happiness in life, now when I want to die a sadhabaa, with my sindoor intact and the bangles in my hands, you want to go early and deprive me of my little bit of punya?" Remember, we all returned to our homes and in two hours Rangi was normal, wearing a colourful saree, the sindoor and bangles restored, walking on the village street like a newly married woman?"
An elderly neighbour was all sympathy for Rangi Khudi,
"The poor thing suffered throughout her life, living in poverty, the husband hardly earning anything. Finally their condition had recently taken a better turn. The son is earning a decent income from driving a taxi, two daughters married and happily settled, the daughter-in-law is a gem of a girl. Rangi would have tasted some happiness after a life of struggle, but the poor thing left so suddenly, the loud shouting taking away her last breath."
Of all the neighbours, my Bou was the closest to Rangi Khudi who had a lot of respect for Bou. She never shouted back at Bou and poured her grievances to her. Bou had told us how Rangi Khudi had come to our village as a new bride and won everybody's heart. Kamal Kakas' father was a rich landlord, plenty of land and money had ensured a happy, care free life for him and his only son, Kamal Kaka. Kaka lost his mother when he was just a child. The father poured all his love and affection on the motherless son. He himself developed some wrong habits. Alcohol and cannabis became his constant companion. The son went to school, but never gave any attention to studies. Somehow he finished high school but never took to any profession, never earned a pie. Fond of good food and lazy life he became a good for nothing fellow. Playing cards and chess for hours with other lazy youth of the village became his primary occupation. Gradually the money got depleted, father and son kept spending without earning anything. In a few years, nothing was left. Kamal Kaka's father desperately looked for a daughter-in-law for his wayward son, but no decent father was prepared to give his daughter to a wastrel.
Rangi Khudi's family used to be in a neighbouring village. They were poor. She also had lost her mother in early childhood. Her father used to drive a cart and earned a little bit to keep the family of himself and his two daughters away from hunger. Rangi Khudi used to manage the household, her younger sister went to school. Khudi was a sweet, hardworking woman, decent to everyone and known to be a good prospect for marriage. Kamal Kaka's father heard of her and wanted to bring her as the daughter-in-law to manage his rapidly tottering family. He bore the marriage expenses and Rangi Khudi came to her husband's house with just a couple of sarees, no jewellery, but lot of affection for the new family. At four and half feet height, with her new red saree, vermillion in her hair and a dozen bangles in her hand she dazzled the village with her beauty. Gradually everyone started talking of her good and hardworking nature and the way she took over the management of the household.
But the joy in Kamal Kaka's household did not last long. His father passed away within a year of marriage. Rangi Khudi found to her dismay her husband was totally reluctant to go for any work. The savings were rapidly dwindling, there was no income at all. They got a son and three daughters in quick succession. Within five years of marriage Rangi Khudi was staring at acute poverty. The lands were sold away in bits and pieces to pay for the wayward habits of her husband, who wanted to eat well and spend money on buying expensive clothes. The children got neglected, sometimes Rangi Khudi had no money to buy groceries or medicines for ailing children. She frequently started losing her temper, shouting at her husband for being a totally useless person, incapable of doing any work and earning any income. Her shoutings had no impact on Kamal Kaka, he spent his entire days sitting at home, demanding good food, playing with children, telling them stories in the evenings. Sometimes we used to join in the storytelling sessions. We found Kamal Kaka to be pleasant, agreeable and often wondered why Rangi Khudi was shouting at him all the time.
But somehow Rangi Khudi never gave up, goading, pleading with her husband to do some work and earn income. There was a recruitment drive going on for Army and she took Kamal Kaka with her to the recruitment camp. Kamal Kaka had a good physique, thanks to the good food he had been eating since childhood. He cleared the test and joined the army. Those were the happiest days for Rangi Khudi and her children. Kamal Kaka used to send his entire salary home and they had a comfortable living. However whenever he came home on leave he was reluctant to go back. He was looking quite handsome, thanks to the good food and exercise in Army. Rangi Khudi was happy to have him back, she didn't shout at him. She always persuaded him to return after leave but it was an uphill task.
Bou said, Kamal Kaka somehow managed to work in the Army for over three years. By that time Rangi Khudi's father had died and her younger sister Rumi had come to stay with her. Kamal Kaka used to write letters to Rangi Khudi, who of course did not know how to read. Rumi used to read those letters to her and wrote back to Kamal Kaka whatever Rangi Khudi wanted to convey. And then the Indo-Pak war came and one day suddenly Kamal Kaka apppeared at home, determined not to go back and risk his life. He had applied for leave on the ground of severe mental stress. His leave was refused and he was asked to join immediately, but he never left home. After the war was over Rangi Khudi kept on persuading him to go back to his job, but he refused. Rangi Khudi was furious. Her shoutings became more bitter, scaling new heights. Nothing moved Kamal Kaka. She started abusing whoever came home, blaming her fate for all the miseries of life. Till one day the doctor told her in no uncertain terms, her heart would collapse if she continued to shout like the house was always on fire. Rangi Khudi would confide in Bou that she didn't care, she had no interest in living, she would find peace in death, it was better to die than live in constant penury. The savings from the money sent by Kamal Kaka while in Army were all gone. Rangi Khudi had reached a deadend. She started working, collecting grains from the villagers for cleaning, paddy for thrashing and making rice, dehusking cocnuts and making coir ropes to sell them for a paltry income. Her three daughters helped her. They lived a miserable life. Still Kamal Kaka was not moved, he never stirred out of the house, Khudi's scolding had no effect on him.
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We were tired, the day's mourning had exhausted us. Kamal Kaka had returned from the cremation ground and gone off to sleep. In the evening Bou made a cup of tea for Kamal Kaka and asked me to take it to him along with a plate of puffed rice. I found him sitting at his usual place, leaning against a pillar and looking vacantly at the sky. He took the cup of tea from me and unlike other days, when he would have finished it in half a minute, he put the cup down. His eyes were moist, his voice heavy, "The person who would have made me drink the tea is gone, her shoutings silenced forever. Poor thing, she never found happiness in life, always taking out her bitterness on me. But she never understood me. And now she is no more. For whom should I live...." I tried to console him, but I knew it was impossible. I felt we could never understand the equation between this odd couple - a frustrated loud mouth and a quiet wastrel.
I returned home and asked Bou about the many enigmas of Rangi Khudi's life. How was it that she would keep shouting at Kamal Kaka in the mornings, yet in the evenings they would be sipping tea together, chatting like old friends? And despite all the bitterness, she never allowed him to stay away from home even for a night? The only night he had left home in a huff because of her shouting she kept waiting for him, awake in the night, sitting near the main door. And when their son found him in the neighbouring village next morning, she took him in and acted like a widow, warning him never to stay away from home.
Bou thought for a while. She told me there were a few things Rangi Khudi had told only to Bou and to no one else. She was a good woman at heart, but the cruel dealings of fate had made her bitter. She wanted Kamal Kaka to do some work, live with honour, not as a confirmed wastrel. It hurt her that the villagers thought of him as an useless nincompoop. That's why she had dragged him to the Army recruitment camp and forced him to join the Army, although it involved the risk of dying in a war. She had lived with pride when she told everyone her husband was in the Army, fighting for the country. But fate had something different in store for them. It seemed when he used to write letters to her from his place of posting, Rangi Khudi, being an illiterate, had to depend on her sister Rumi to read out the letters to her. Rumi also used to write back to him whatever Rangi Khudi wanted to convey. When the war broke out Rumi, out of concern for her brother-in-law, wrote to him not to risk his life and to return home. She hadn't consulted Rangi Khudi because she knew her sister would not approve of such a cowardly act. Kamal Kaka didn't think twice, he just submitted an application and came away. Rangi Khudi never forgave him for that. She also did not forgive her sister for asking Kamal Kaka to desert the Army at the time of war. For Rangi Khudi a person who deserted the army and failed to serve the country was worse than a traitor, he was not fit to be called a man. She sent back her sister to her father's village and kept on shouting at Kamal Kaka in harsher words, giving him no peace at home. She called him an imbecile, a good-for-nothing wastrel, she asked him to return to Army, but he refused and eventually was thrown out of Army.
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The next morning Bou again gave me a cup of tea to carry to Kamal Kaka. I went into their house. His daughter-in-law had already got up and started sweeping the courtyard. There was a shadow of sorrow hanging in the air. Kamal Kaka was sitting at his usual place, leaning against a pillar, his legs stretched, eyes closed. I wondered if he had slept in the night. I offered the cup of tea to him, asking him if he had washed his face after getting up. He didn't reply. I kept the cup down and touched his shoulder, to wake him up if he was asleep. Kamal Kaka tumbled to one side, his eyes closed in eternal sleep. No one knew when his life had come to an end.
Dr. Iti Samanta a well-known short story writer, novelist, researcher, eminent editor of the famous family magazine ‘The Kadambini’, and national award-winning film producer and entrepreneur occupies a significant position in contemporary Odisha. Despite being brought up by her mother single-handedly in abject poverty, she successfully overcame many obstacles in pursuing higher studies and carrying forward her love and passion for literature. She even went on to get a senior fellowship as a scholar from the Ministry of Culture, Government of India for her innovative and influential research. She is a popular household name today for being an eminent writer, journalist, editor, and national award-winning film producer. She is the editor of the monthly magazines ‘Kadambini’and ‘Kunikatha’ which have set new benchmarks for the promulgation of Odia Language and Literature. And to support traditional handloom weavers to earn their living and promote Odisha's own art and culture not just in the country but across the globe she has started the Shephalee Designer House. Her life itself exemplifies women's empowerment and she relentlessly pursues her mission to empower women through her conglomerate organizations.
Ekant would recall his late father as his guide and philosopher. He was his final resort for resolving his doubts and confusions during childhood. Ekant heard an episode from the great epic of Mahabharata from his class teacher that Krishna had been the God incarnate, and as a child he had killed his tyrant uncle Kans to establish the reign of virtue on earth.
Ekant had a doubt. Why should God incarnate have to kill a senior relative of his family, his own maternal uncle, to bring peace and prosperity on earth? Why couldn’t he convince his uncle to walk the right path as his father would do with obstinate neighbours going wrong? He put his doubts to his father.
His father pondered over his question, chuckled and replied, “As far as I know, Krishna did not kill his maternal uncle Kans. He was quite at a distance from him when Kans collapsed and died. The belief in certain quarters that the tyrant king and his nephew Krishna had an eye-lock from a distance and Krishna sucked away his uncle’s life through that eye-contact, appears to me as preposterous. I have a feeling it was a rumour only. Pay attention, my dear Kant (Short and sweet address for ‘Ekant’), when I will tell you the build-up during the previous few days that led to that fateful incident. You would then derive your own conclusion.”
Ekant’s father narrated the events as if he was present there at the ‘ground zero’ and saw it all with his own eyes and heard all with his own ears. Ekant would recall what his father had narrated -
What Ekant’s father narrated - Krishna was hardly twelve years old, a spring chicken in matters of state craft or politics of adults. He was a prince of Mathura and by royal mandate and tradition, he was the heir apparent to the throne of Mathura as he was Kans’s sister Devaki’s son and the incumbent king Kans was childless. But for certain unfortunate developments he was in hiding in Gopa.
Kans, Krishna’s maternal uncle, had usurped the throne from the king Ugrasen, his father, by force, putting the old benevolent king in jail. The usurper Kans ruled Mathura with an iron feast and was hated by almost all subjects for his tyrannical and roughshod cruel ways.
For personal reasons, Uncle Kans was after his nephew Krishna’s blood. Krishna therefore stayed in a safe house in Gopa, a rural town across the river Yamuna and connected by a bridge over the river to the city of Mathura, the capital of the state of Mathura. Gopa was about thirty miles from the Mathura city.
Some of his soothsayers and hench men for their own vested interest had been diverting Kans’ attention from major bothersome state-related issues, like poverty, epidemics, pandemics, shortage of portable water for drinking and irrigation because of silting of the riverbed of Yamuna, etc. To divert the tyrant’s attention, they had years ago woven a cock and bull story as an oracular prediction. They had predicted that Devki, the king’s pregnant sister, was carrying a male child that would be his nemesis and killer.
Kans, as would happen to any unethical usurper of a very powerful position associated with a royal throne and great wealth, was insecure, restless and jittery. In panic, Kans jailed Devaki along with her pious husband Vasudev, and decided to kill the new born boy at birth within the four walls of the prison.
But the good old elders in the palace of Mathura had other plans. They had a liking for Kans’ father Ugrasen who had been dethroned by force. They were conspiring against Kans, the usurper and tyrant, to bring the benevolent ruler Ugrasen back to power.
They gave wind to the spark of fear in Kans’s mind about Devki’s pregnancy and she carrying Kans’ killer. They put exaggerated stories in local rumour-mills, adding that the infant would be born with miraculous powers and bring the end of Kans in his childhood itself. The prediction appeared to them as their proverbial last straw on the camel’s back, their only hope. They wanted to keep that last straw, the child in Devki’s womb, safe and away from Kans.
The elders conspired with a few jail-staff loyal to them, and smuggled the baby boy at birth out of the Mathura jail to Gopa, a small rural principality. They left the new born boy in in the lap of unconscious Yashoda, the wife of chieftain Nanda of Gopa. Yashoda had gone unconscious by her sudden and severe labour pain, and had given birth to a baby girl in her unconscious state. So, she could not make out when her baby girl was exchanged by a baby boy. Yashoda’s girlchild was placed in Devaki’s lap inside the prison.
Kans was scandalized to know that as against oracular predictions of a boy in Devaki’s womb, Devki had given birth to a girl. But as extreme precautions spurred him to try killing the girl child.
Here Ekant’s father paused and said to Ekant, “In fact, Kans failed to kill the little new born girlchild. Why? It is another narrative, and I would tell you, my son, at some other occasion. Let’s not digress from your question.”
But Kans came to know from his spies that a cross-smuggling had taken place and his nemesis and nephew was safely growing up as the son of Yashoda in Gopa.
An earlier rumour was spread by the conspiring palace elders that there had been a curse by a rishi and the principality of Gopa was inaccessible to Kans, or his worriers. It had been predicted, an entry or even a remote attack on Gopa by Kans would bring the tyrant’s end. Kans therefore remained at arm’s length from that principality, ruled by one of his vasal chieftains Nanda. The principality of Gopa thrived on milk business, its people maintaining large herds of cows, and Gopa overflowed with milk.
The boy of Yashoda would be fondly named as Krishna by his parents (in fact foster-parents). Krishna was a handsome child and had a delicate look with dusky complexion. Kans would make several secret attempts through guised assassins to kill the so-called miracle-child, but each of his attempts failed for some reason or the other.
Taking the failures as cue, the conspiring palace elders of Mathura spread more rumours about the miraculous powers of the wonder-child Krishna that put more panic in Kans’ heart. Krishna was in fact growing up as a happy cowherd boy, a lively and lovable child to the inhabitants of Gopa.
Krishna was growing up, showing the signs of a precocious child-prodigy. He proved himself to be a natural leader and led the growing children of Gopa of his age-group in games and rudimentary statecraft that he had learnt from his foster-father Nanda. He grew up as a good wrestler and martial artist, learning the fine arts of bare-hand-combat from his elder brother Balaram (who was also in hiding and was known as Krishna’s older cousin), an expert in those lines, rather experimenting with new and advance techniques of bare-hand-combat.
Once torrential rains inundated Gopa threatening life of its inhabitants and livestock. Krishna, once while roaming aimlessly, had discovered a huge cave with an elevated floor area of around a few square miles beneath the mountain ‘Giri Govardhan’ adjacent to Gopa. He knew waters of the river Yamuna, even when in spate even out of a cloudburst, could not reach the high level of the huge cave. Krishna led all the people and livestock of Gopa into the safety of the cave. All were saved from the deluge and thunder storm.
Later, the clever palace elders spread the rumour that Krishna had lifted Giri Govardhan on his little finger and the entire Gopa took shelter under it. They did it to put panic into Kans’ heart that his nemesis had extraordinary powers.
Another time, a wicked serpent called Kaliya made the sweet-water lake Kalindi its home and made it inaccessible to the people of Gopa and its livestock who had used the lake’s water for drinking earlier. Krishna with his tricks of martial art technique and fast reflex, caught hold of the serpent by its neck and defanged it. Kaliya, the water-cobra ran away from Kalindi Lake out of fear. Kalindi Lake became a safe watering-hole thereafter for the cattle and people of Gopa. However, the conspiring palace elders of Mathura exaggerated the whole episode in rumour-vine as Krishna jumping onto the hood of the large wicked serpent and dancing there, tiring the proud snake to almost death.
Such rumours, likes of Giri Govardhan and Cobra Kaliya, made Kans develop cold feet and a mortal fear for his nephew Krishna. Kans therefore decided to do a final attempt to kill his enemy.
Dhanus-Puja (the worship of a Bow-arrow-combine) used to be an annual lowkey festival in Mathura. But Kans arranged a big fair called Dhanus-Yatra (festival of the bow and arrow) on advices of his soothsayers. Dhanus-Yatra was set up in the huge palace ground with great pomp like lighting, firework, music and other items of fun for a full week’s time.
Dhanus-Yatra had stalls, stages, and rings with items of entertainment. Large crowd started visiting the much-advertised fair from far and near. Among other attractions, like fancy food stalls, crystal gazers, shops selling ornaments and household implements of stone and metals, small circuses and magicians, Kans had introduced two innocent looking fatal items: a mock wrestling ring with instructions to its royal wrestlers to kill Krishna, and a ball-game with a trained tusker, the royal mahout secretly instructed to make the tusker trample Krishna to death, if he emerges unscathed out of the wrestling ring. In both cases Krishna’s death was to look as accidents.
The palace elders were aware of Kans’s double standards and designs, and had not only kept Krishna abreast of the dangers of Dhanus-Yatra but also passed on the weak points of the wrestlers and the elephant for Krishna’s advance preparations.
At the last reaches of the Dhanus-Yatra arena, a huge pedestal was erected, on which the king Kans sat with his wives, courtiers, family elders, flatterers and heralders. The platform was temporarily set up with logs and bamboo rafters and was decorated with colourful textile material. Flags and festoons heightened the effect of its beauty.
Kans sat at the highest platform on a throne like seat. Heralders were announcing with their practised mega-voices the important proceedings around and about. Every few minutes, shouts of ‘Hail our king Kans’ by heralders rent the air.
Unknown to Kans and his staff, the highest pedestal on which the tyrant sat, was sawn at strategic places of the rafters and logs that supported the weight of him and his throne and down below the covered pandal a man had been hiding to pull a string causing the collapse of Kans to the ground from the great height. On the ground below, under the cover of decorative textile material, were planted hidden knives to impale the falling king to guarantee his death if he survived the great fall.
The whole thing was secretly pre-planned by the conspiring elders. Proximity of Krishna to his uncle Kans by shouts ‘Hail to Krisna, Hail to Kans’ shouted by a conspiring elder on the stage would be the signal to the man to pull the string to make Kans fall to his death.
Kans sent his faithful charioteer Akrur with an invitation to bring Krishna, his so-called killer, out of Gopa, his safety hole, to vulnerable Mathura city. His invitation was to watch Dhanus-Yatra. Krishna and his elder brother Balaram were eager to see the much-advertised extravaganza of Dhanus-Yatra. Krishna also wanted to see and judge for himself if his uncle Kans was really a tyrant or was the victim of rumours. If he found him really unethical, he had plans to convince him to return to the path of virtue.
Krishna used to go everywhere with his big brother Balaram. He discussed everything with Balaram and fixed a strategy to outwit all if bad luck befell them during their Mathura visit as he was secretly informed by the palace elders. So, Krishna boarded Akrur’s chariot along with his elder brother Balaram, saying bye to his foster parents and dear ones of Gopa. They reached the city of Mathura in a few hours by the late afternoon.
The eyes of Krishna and Balaram were dazzled with the pomp and wealth of the capital city. Mathura was made up like a bride going to climb the wedding altar. The two stayed in the house of Akrur as the king’s honoured guests and enjoyed his family’s loving hospitality.
The next morning, they set out to meet their uncle Kans and his family, and have a look at Dhanus-Yatra on their way. A guide-cum-heralder was provided to the boys who kept alerting people to make way for the king’s nephews. The people of Mathura kept staring at the two handsome boys.
The boys stopped at various stalls and events of Dhanus-Yatra on their way to enjoy the fun. They sampled food dishes of strange cuisines. They listened to their future from an old crank of a woman who kept gazing into a crystal ball and pretended to be an oracle. Balaram and the crowd enjoyed the humorous exchangebetween the Hag and Krishna:
- The hag, after staring into her crystal ball, “Your name is Krishna. You are dusky in complexion.”
- Krishna’s amused response, “Ha, ha, I really never knew? I would never know, had you not told me.”
- The hag seriously declared, “I can see, you are the King’s nephew.”
- Krishna pretended amazement, “O my God, I did not know this also. Thank you to tell me!”
- The hag stared deeper and long into the crystal ball, called the two boys closer and whispered, “My beloved boys, I can see dark clouds hovering on you both. Be on guard, my sons. Let the blessings of this cranky crone protect you from evil eyes.”
Saying this, the hag left her tent hurriedly with her crystal ball as if she had completed her mission in life. Others tried but failed to hear the last words of the crystal-gazer. This time, the boys were not taking her prediction jokingly. They seemed to have turned moody and were no more smiling.
When the wrestling ring came into the view, the boys were passing by as wrestling was of no interest to them. But two powerful wrestlers invited them from behind for a mock combat and teased them as cowards. When they refused to respond, Chanur, one of the wrestlers pulled Krishna by hand into the ring. Mustic, the other one, much bigger in size, followed suit with Balaram.
In a minute the audience of Dhanus-Yatra saw two large bodied wrestlers rolling on the mat with the boys, and they could sense that it was no mock-combat but a blood-thirsty fight to the finish. They shouted their resentment for the unequal match, but the heralder silenced them at the point of his lance.
Krishna saw his brother Balaram break the neck of Mustic by a special trick of bare-handed combat he had invented a few days ago. Mustic was totally incapacitated and lay whimpering and writhing in pain on the ground. Krishna applied the same trick on Chanur but before applying the killer-jerk, he felt Chanur’s blader had gone loose.
Chanur was wetting the ground beneath Krishna out of mortal fear. Chanur had seen what had happened to Mustic by the new surprise-trick and was in a panic when he sensed Krishna following his brother in applying the same on him. That had unnerved him, now his bowel seemed not far behind.
Now Krishna took pity, loosened his grip and said, “Rascal, run for your life.” Chanur bolted from the ring surprising all the bystanders. Only the heralder understood the real developments and also bolted from the spot to keep his boss Kans informed of the developments.
Kans received the news with a grim and deadpan exterior but his insides were turning watery. Now his only hope rested with the liquor-drunk ill-tempered tusker Kuvalay during the ball-game.
He thought, if the tusker Kuvalay and the bouncers surrounding him proved no good, and if ‘the push came to shove’, forgetting all ethics and propriety, even without a bother for his queens and elders sitting with him on the platform, he had to pull out my mighty sword and behead the unarmed dirty dusky boy personally even before he had time to lift a finger, might that look the most cowardice act for a warrior of his fame.”
The heralder having run away, now the brothers were on their own, walking along the broad avenue surrounded by the cheering crowd of Mathura. The boys no more looked well-dressed nephews of the king, but looked dirty with grime and blood from bleeding noses, split lips, and bruised elbows and knees from rough scuffles.
But the people’s mood-spoiler came from nowhere, a big, enraged and drunk tusker blocking the path of Krishna and Balaram. The elephant was supposed to play ball with them for fun, but now it was aggressively charging at them. The crowd parted, out of fear, to make room for the rogue elephant. The two boys appeared like scuttling rabbits running helter-skelter before the big enraged tusker.
The brothers surprised the mahout and the elephant by applying a trick of dodging. They would run separately at the lightning speed, whistling and teasing the drunk animal. The elephant would change course, again and again, to catch and crush the boys, or trample them underfoot. But its heavy body made the tusker’s movement clumsy, no match for the fleet-footed boys. By moving forward-backward, and left-right, the tusker was confused and was getting tired after chasing the brothers for some time. It stood at a spot out of breath looking for the boys, when unknown to it, the boys were hiding under its belly.
Balaram knew that the moment had come to experiment with one of his latest new moves. The trick was meant for a very heavy-bodied opponent. He had noticed the elephant had a limp on its left hind leg. Now, he had to apply it, a first-time record case of barehanded combat against an animal. He made an eye signal to Krishna, and both brothers came out from under the tusker and joined forces to push the elephant to its left flank. The huge elephant got disbalanced on its left limping hind leg and fell on its left flank with a crunching noise. The tusker lay in a deathly silence with eyes closed, not a muscle on its huge body moved.
The boys gave a sympathetic look at still body of the elephant and walked on along their way to meet their uncle who had arranged such lovely little killer games for his loving nephews. The brothers with grim faces tried to bring forced smiles. Kans in the meantime had the news of Kuvalay’s miserable defeat, and been totally shaken. His phobia made him sweat and his breathing grew shallow and difficult.
Suddenly, Kans heard his herald announcing that Krishna was climbing the steps of his high platform, followed by Balram. He found all the occupants of the royal platform standing up and craning their necks to have a glimpse of the boys, the living legends. Kans’ eyes seemed gone out of focus and he could not locate the dusky boy.
Kans had a panic attack. He sweated profusely and his bowels seemed to lose grip. Suddenly his panic was so great that everything went black before his eyes and he could see a dusky boy standing face to face with him and his bright eyes piercing like skewers into his in that darkness. Kans collapsed and his body rolled down the stiff steps until a bouncer stopped its rolling down hardly a few steps from Krishna. The Raj Vaidya, Kans’ personal physician, ran to his side and examined Kans’ pulse. He shook his head, and a sad howl of grieving cries rose from the Kans’ flock of queens who hovered on his body.
The man sitting quietly under the tall stage to pull the fatal string had gone dozing. But the weeping queens woke him up and he ran up to enquire what caused the queens cry. He asked his employer, an elder on the pedestal, and the latter told him, “That dusky boy whom they call Krishna sucked away our king’s life through his eyes. See for yourself, he is lying dead.” That’s how the myth about ‘sucking away life with eyes’ took roots in people’s mind, most probably.
The elders heaved sighs of relief that Kans had died but their hands were still clean of regicide. They found Krisna howling and weeping the loudest and smiled to themselves, “The dramatist little rascal!” They grew sober to see Krishna took control of the situation and consoled his aunties, “My dolorous aunties, who can understand better than me of your great loss. I am so unlucky. My uncle met his death by falling down the steps even before giving me a hug.”
Ekant’s father finished his story about Krishna and his uncle Kans with his last remark, “See, Krishna never intended to kill Kans, rather to reform him if he was found to be a real tyrant. But the so-called great tyrant had such an insignificant death. A real pity.”
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.
I do shopping mostly after seven because the market is much less crowded at that time. But all the young girls and boys, the salespersons, in the shops may be exhausted by then. Centuries of fatigue get imprinted on their wilted faces. Thanks to them, someone in a faraway village is eating at least one good meal per day.
Where vegetables are sold, the situation isn’t any better. The price of farm produce has come down drastically. Moreover, after Corona, people look for whatever is cheap and avoid expensive items like broccoli or fresh spring onions. Most of the vegetable shops have very low turnover. Many shops have closed for good. This is such a bad time for casual labourers. The salaried ones fare better. Seeing all this, the lights at the market have gone dim. The shadows of people milling around twist and slither on the cobbled path.
That day I bought a lot of onions. So much was not at all necessary. But 5 kg was only 100 rupees. Onions have medicinal properties, I had read somewhere. And you can put it in almost any dish.
Still, it felt bad to buy it at such a low price. Worse, if you wouldn't buy it. If they lug it here from north India and sell it this cheap, the farmers might be getting only half of it or even less. That is ten per kilo. Too low.
I checked it on google. OMG! Farmers are getting only 1 to 2 rupees per kilo. The super-rich can buy it at low prices to keep them in gigantic warehouses and sell them at high prices when the season changes and make a kill.
Jayanthi frowned at me when she saw those big onions.
"Why so much?"
“The price was low and it goes with anything.”
She laughed at me. God, this is what happens before she picks up a fight.
"One more reason for you to see my tears.”
"Like you need reasons to cry.” I made a wrong move.
"Like you don’t give me any reason to cry.”
She was not the person who was laughing a minute ago. Now she would sulk and go quiet.
I put away all the items I had bought in the fridge. I threw the onions into a fruit basket. Each is about the size of a small pumpkin. Nice dark violet colour. Some may dry out or rot away. Since I had got it so cheap, I thought it wouldn’t matter.
For Jayanthi, it didn’t dawn even the next morning. But to my relief, Komal, our domestic help arrived earlier than usual. She and the onions come from the same place. Only the onions look well-fed and watered. She looks thin and sick. We don’t ask her to do any cooking. She just sweeps the yard and the rooms and leaves to work in two or three other homes.
Moreover, only Jayanthi knows how to communicate with her. I never picked up that skill. but, that day, I managed. I had to. Jayanthi still had a chip on her shoulder. mostly through gestures I explained to Komal how to chop the onions lengthwise and add grated coconut and chilli to make my favourite curry. Jayanthi was laughing mockingly at me and Komal was hiding a smile.
That day at the office, at lunch, I found the dish too salty. I had to throw it away.
Jayanthi was the main suspect. When Komal and I were not looking, she would have thrown so much salt into the pan. What a psycho! Komal could not be this wrong.
The next morning I called Komal and told her about it. I stayed around in the kitchen watching Jayanthi.
But the story was no different even that day. Then I was sure it was Komal's fault. Maybe she didn’t care.
The next day Jayanthi who didn’t even taste the dish was laughing when I scolded Komal.
When this was repeated the next day too, Jayanthi also took it seriously. She too scolded Komal. I had to prevent her from slapping Komal
Having taken out her anger on Komal, Jayanthi cooled down and it gave me a chance to get her help to give fresh instructions to Komal. I asked her through Jayathi not to add any salt at all. “If necessary, I will add it later when I eat,” I told her.
To make sure, Jayanthi hid the salt jar in the bedroom which was out of bounds for Komal.
That afternoon at the office, I took a little bit of the curry and tasted it before adding any salt.
God, it was already salted. Strange. How did she manage to do that? Was she some kind of a psychopath like the one I saw in the movie Bhool Bhulaiyaa? What if she added something else the next time? Was this some kind of a trial for a murderous plot which was yet to hatch?
That evening, to clear every doubt before confronting Komal, I tasted a bit of the raw onion left in the fruit basket.
Strange, it had a strong salty taste. Was it salt or some chemical, I wondered. Not wanting to take chances, I threw them out. They lay around at the foot of our tall coconut tree like surgical waste from a hospital.
Both Jayanthi and I felt bad for what we did and said to Komal. The next day Jayanthi gave one of her sarees to Komal as soon as she arrived. Komal looked puzzled.
After listening to our explanation and apology, Komal ran out to grab an onion. She came back in, munching it.
“Hey, spit it out. It might be poisonous.”
But Komal didn’t care. She had closed her eyes and was in a trance. Tears were rolling down her cheeks but an angelic smile lit up her lips.
Komal whispered to Jayanthi a few words which made Jayanthi move to the bedroom biting her lips to hold back her tears.
Totally lost, I followed Jayanthi and asked her what was happening.
"She said it has the taste and smell of her husband."
"His sweat?" I asked.
"No, his tears," Jayathi whimpered.
I hugged Jayanthi and wiped her tears.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)
After downing a peg of whisky, Mr Shah took a break from his canvas to look out of the window. Not far from his hotel stood Raghvan’s timber depot. It was about ten o clock at night but he could see through the window Raghvan sitting up, next to a kerosene lamp. It seems, the electric supply was out. The lantern light was faint but Mr Shah could make out the profile of Raghvan’s face, matured with age, though it was somewhat hazy.
“Ah, how long are you going to toil like this, poor Raghvan? Time is running out; it is high time, you now grant yourself some rest and allow some comfort. When are you going to enjoy life?” As Mr Shah was talking to himself, he realised, he too was in the same boat. He has continued to dream of enjoying life after a certain age, but it keeps eluding him. Then, it occurred to him that perhaps, neither Raghvan nor he was alone in this predicament; this dismal fate was shared by the entire mankind. Humans never get to enjoy life to the full, something that is granted to birds, animals and plants in abandon. We keep aspiring to happiness, but rarely achieve it. Even the happiness, we sometimes think we somehow managed to acquire, turns out to be not the real thing!
Raghvan, in his youth, worked as a tourist Guide. He earned a decent sum from conducting tours for holiday groups. Alongside, he also ran a modest timber business. Their acquaintance started when Mr Shah met him as a Guide, while along with his sweetheart, Subhangee, they used to visit Shimla as tourists year after year. They would book the same room, number 110, in the well appointed ho-tel, with a fancy name, Monsoon Wedding. From this hotel, they explored the local forests and hills, soaking up its natural beauty and serene ambience. A visit to this Shimla resort, at least once a year, became their annual routine. Raghvan, the Guide, was a constant fixture in their programme, who saw to the smooth operation of their itinerary. Thus, their association went back a long way.
Today, after thirty-five long years, Mr Shah is again back in Room 110 of the Hotel, Monsoon Wed-ding. In fact, he has been booking into this very room on the same date, every year for last five years, waiting for Subhangee. For, she had promised to meet him in this hotel after she had dis-charged her family responsibilities when she could take some time out for herself. But it seems all this wait over five years in a row has not been enough for Subhangee to make her appearance. May be, she is yet to be freed from her domestic obligations. Mr Shah even wondered whether she was no longer in this world. But, this very thought made him jump out of his skin; “No, he must not allow such inauspicious thoughts to take hold of him. Life, after all, is built on hope. She is bound to deliv-er on her promise, even if she is late.” Mr Shah reassures himself and returns to his unfinished painting.
The canvass is bustling with paints of multiple hues, Subhangee smiling through them in her youthful allure. The painting is complete in parts, where the paint has dried up, but it is still in need of a few highlights to finish it. In the painting, her pretty feet stands out as the epitome of beauty. Mr Shah could not help tenderly stroking her face on the canvas. Then he turned his attention to her feet. These feet were so precious to him; he has written numerous poems in their praise and done sever-al paintings to capture their ineluctable charm. How he dreamt of adorning these feet with nuptial anklets, the symbols of matrimony! But, his hopes were dashed by circumstances and all such dreams were relegated to the realm of his imagination.
Subhangee looks almost alive on the canvas; she is shifting her position, as if she is ready to walk out of the easel. In the painting, her limbs looks enticingly lithe, her skin shining with the lustre of youth. “But, how would she be looking now?” Mr Shah wondered. Would the ravages of age have robbed the shine off her skin, leaving it wrinkled and droopy. Perhaps, the hair on her head has thinned and her slim frame has expanded from masses of unwanted deposits. Nevertheless, she remained in his eyes, his eternal beloved. The thoughts of Subhangee sent a wave of warm excite-ment down his whole body.
There was a knock on the door; it had a familiar ring to it. It must be Raghvan; who else could it be so late in night? He has unfettered access into this hotel, thanks to the close friendship, fostered with the hotel owner, over the years.
On opening the door, Mr Shah found Raghvan standing in his winter attire. He has in his hand something wrapped in sheets of paper. After coming inside, he unwraps it to hand some roasted sweet corn over to Mr Shah. Ah, Raghvan has not forgotten Mr Shah’s favourite snack. He remem-bers how in old days they used to enjoy roasted sweet corn. Raghvan had again freshly roasted them, generously lacing them with salt and lime. They were still hot, best eaten before they cooled down. Mr Shah looked at his watch; it was midnight. “Is it not too late?” he thought. “No”, he told himself, “this unearthly hour is rather the perfect time.” He had fond memories of them enjoying roasted sweet corns while watching movies late into the night.
Raghvan was about to turn round to leave. Mr Shah asked him to stay back and share a glass of whisky with him. He offered to arrange dinner for both of them in the room. He also suggested that they could chat late into the night, catching up with all the news. Mr Shah was set to return after a couple of days; who knows when he would return to Shimla again.
“How is Subhangee Madam now, Sir?” Raghvan asked as he lowered himself into the sofa.
“I have no idea, Raghvan. I have been visiting this hotel regularly for the past five years in the hope of getting some news of her. But so far, I haven’t got a clue.”
“Can I ask you a personal question, Sir? I hope, you won’t mind.” Turning his gaze to the unfin-ished painting on the easel, he continued, “I can see your love for Shubhangee Madam. She too was madly in love with you. Why did you not marry?”
“Marriage was no big deal for us. Without marriage our life was sailing smoothly. Our love was pure and our life was in complete harmony; our relationship satisfied both our mind and body in full meas-ure. But it was far from perfect in the eyes of society. She was the only daughter of an enormously wealthy household and I was the son from an ordinary family. Shubhangee had to yield to her fa-ther’s demand that she marries someone of their stature. So, our marriage was out of question. Faced with this unsurmountable opposition, we had to give in to her father’s wish and alter the course of our lives. She married an affluent businessman; from an established business family. Re-signed to my fate, I married an ordinary school teacher. My married life was nonetheless peaceful and after our marriage I tried to put her out of my mind.
But one day, I got a call from her with a weird proposition. Apparently, she too was happy with her marriage. Nevertheless, she maintained that our love was not dead. She proposed that, after thirty years, assuming we were still alive, we would meet again in this very hotel. I was baffled by her proposition and could not quite fathom her feelings. Perhaps, in her marital life she did not feel safe to meet me any more. I couldn’t also work out the logic behind this arbitrary moratorium of thirty years. Nonetheless, her promise of us meeting again, no matter after how long, was the best gift I could ask of her. I was however sceptical about her promise and did not take her seriously at the time. Although I made a deliberate decision to distance myself from her life, I never forgot her prom-ise. I waited for thirty long years before I returned to this hotel. For last five years, I have been check-ing into this room every year on the appointed date, but so far there is no sign of Shubhangee. My interest in painting and travels has kept me going. Now, my wife has left this world. I have to con-tent myself with my lonely life, waiting for Shubhangee.
As Mr Shah was talking to Raghvan, he turned to the painting. He picked up his brush to add a stroke of grey to the curl of hair on Subhangee’s head and asked, “Telll me Raghvan; is this how Subhangee Madam would be looking now?” Raghvan took a close look at the painting. How realis-tic her picture looked! On the canvas, it seemed as if Shubhangee Madam was resting, in flesh and blood, about to turn her side! This life-like painting reminded Raghavan of his own wife. He loved her dearly, but she rejected him and they separated years ago. Now Raghvan too had a lonely ex-istence. He kept himself busy throughout the day, running the timber depot by himself. His solitary evenings were spent in drinking which ensured him a sound sleep for the night. He chose not to an-swer Mr Shah’s question. In stead, he let out a sigh and gulped the remaining whisky in his glass.
Most of the remaining night passed with both of them, drinking. Stoned with whisky, eventually they fell fast asleep. Soon, they were in left in no state to chat; their minds were obliterated by alcohol. One was sleeping in the bed and the other lying on the sofa. The clock on the wall kept ticking away as if to break the monotony of the silent night.
Mr Shah, by now, had practically given up all hopes of meeting Subhangee this year, preparing him-self to wrap up another disappointing year. Next day, he was startled by Raghvan, who came run-ning to Mr Shah, crying out, “Sir, Shubhangee Madam has arrived. She is here, now, walking to-wards Room 110. Mr Shah could not believe what he heard; was it for real? Has she really come, finally? Did she remember her promise despite the long gap of thirty years? Does he still occupy the same place in her heart? Even if Subhangee was actually there, Is it possible that she might be on some other business?
The more immediate and pressing dilemma for him was how he would be receiving her. Would he hold her in his embrace or simply greet her with a smile? Too many questions were swirling in his mind in those brief moments. Raghvan had the sense to simply walk away from the room, to allow them the privacy for this long awaited rendezvous. Mr Shah waited with bated breath, imagining the Room 110, to be again filled with Subhangee’s fragrance, after such a long time. He momentarily turned his head towards the canvas. His eyes were welling up; he had no idea, the intensity of emo-tions would remain undiminished after many decades. He realised, pure love remained ever green. It never ages; its bloom does not wither with time.
There was a knock on the door. Mr Shah promptly opened the door. Subhangee was standing be-fore him, with her ever radiant smile. Mr Shah could not believe his eyes; she showed no sign of ageing, looking exactly as she did thirty-five years ago. She had the same doe eyes, sharp nose and smooth forehead. She looked like a perfectly sculpted goddess from the scriptures. Before Mr Shah could say anything, she opened her mouth, “Uncle, do you recognise me? I am Shimran, daughter of Subhangee Bhatacharya. You are Shah Uncle, I am sure. I can recognise you from your photo, Mama had shown me.”
Mr Shah stood stupefied. So, she is not Subhangee, but her daughter, Shimran! He was totally un-prepared for a situation like this. He simply could not imagine facing the daughter of his beloved; the very first encounter with her could be so unpredictable. Who knows, what she has been told about him and what she thinks of him. It is almost impossible to guess what her agenda might be. While he was resolving his dilemma on how to receive her, Shimran entered the room without a trace of hesitation. She sprawled herself on the same sofa, where Subhangee used to sit in her customary casual flair. She wore a long blue overcoat covering her entire frame from neck down to her ankles. Matching ear rings with blue azure stones dangled from her ears and she wore a mid length neck-lace with blue stones. Mr Shah on the other hand sat erect on the chair with a serious mien on his face and a matching tension in his body. He had so many doubts and questions concerning Sub-hangee on his mind. He did not know where to start or how to begin the conversation. Perhaps, he was dreading the prospect of receiving some bad news about her. Confirming his worst fears, Shim-ran announced, “Mama is no more, uncle. She died in an accident last year. I was with her at the time and both of us were caught in the accident. I survived the injuries but she succumbed, after a month long hospital treatment.” She took a deep breath after she finished her message.
This news dealt a devastating blow to Mr Shah. Perhaps, he would have been better off never knowing about the tragic fate of Subhangee. The finality of Subhangee’s demise was unthinkable for him. Processing the news of her death left him cold and numb. Shimran again started, “Mama had told me all about you. All through my childhood, I had been hearing of you. I had a fervent wish to meet you but Mama forbade me from doing so. She showed little interest in making contacts with you. There was a powerful force behind her decision not to meet you. It was all the doings of the man, whom Mama married at the insistence of her father. Sadly, her husband, my father, turned out to be a debauched drunkard.
His ill treatment of Mama on a regular basis amounted to nothing less than torture. Mama bore it silently and resisted him for a long time; eventually she divorced him and returned to her parents. But the fallout from her decisive action turned out to be too tragic. He employed some hitmen to as-sault my Mama grievously, causing acid injury on her face. Through sheer grit and will to live, she managed to survive her extensive burns injury, as she was pregnant with me at the time. I was born six months later. I grew up without a father and with a mother who had to reconcile with a disfigured face. In fact, I had no desire to see may father. My Mama endured the best part of her life, hiding her hideous face, for the sake of bringing me up. As I grew up I learnt from her about her love life; she would become visibly emotional when she spoke about her affair. She would often become tear-ful talking about you. In her tears, I could feel your presence in my life. Although Mama wished to meet with you something held her back from making the contact. Perhaps, she was afraid, you might loath her because she rejected your marriage proposal. But she eventually relented and on my insistence she agreed to meet you. With high hopes and great expectations, we set out on our trip to Shimla exactly on this date last year. On the way, our car had a head on collision with another vehicle. By the time, we regained our senses we found ourselves in the hospital. Despite intensive treatment for a month she died from her injuries. Although I survived and returned home alive, it it took me almost a year to recover fully from the serious injuries.”
“How are you managing now, Miss …..?” Mr Shah’s voice was trembling.
“You don’t have be so formal, uncle. Please call me Shimran. Mama had started a fruits business, which I now run. Business is good; financially my position is secure.”
“Who else lives with you, Shimran?”
“Oh, I have my Mama with me, and also you and God. That is how I see my situation,” Shimran re-plied in earnest.
Mr Shah had been trying to control his flow of tears all along. Finally he had to give in to his inner urge. How little did he know of Shubhangee’s tragic life, riddled with humongous hurdles, Shimran responded, “Yes, uncle, shedding tears at least lightens the heart even though it can’t bring back the dead and gone.
Raghvan was probably standing behind the door all this time, listening to their conversation. His gaze was downcast and he had something in his hands. As soon as Mr Shah saw Raghvan, he beckoned him to come inside, “why do you stand outside, Raghvan, don’t you want to meet Shimran; she is Subhangee Madam’s daughter? She is here to meet me. Raghvan seemed uneasy and while he was hesitantly retreating his steps, Shimran called out, “Raghvan uncle, I am famished; won’t you get me some roasted sweet corn? It is my favourite snack too.”
Raghvan could not restrain himself. Wiping his tearful eyes, he handed over the sweet corns he was carrying and left.
While munching sweet corn, Shimran looked at the painting of Subhangee and said,”My Mama was really pretty, uncle. May I keep this painting of her?”
As Mr Shah turned towards Shimran, he felt he was looking at Subhangee. She had exactly the same looks and identical mannerism. How he wished he could hold her close to his chest and had a good cry! That would certainly lighten his heavy heart. Shimran, however, looked nonchalant. She was busy talking about her life and business in a matter of fact way. She next proposed they should spend a few days together doing fun things like picnicking and horse riding. In the course of next two days, spent in her company, Mr Shah tasted an intimacy, he had not known for years. Although it was their first meeting, it felt as if they knew each other. He forgot his age and in his mind he had returned to his cherished youth. On the last night, before retiring to her room, Shimran announced her plans of departure on the following morning; she had her pending business affairs, waiting for her attention. That night, Mr Shah’s sleep was fitful. It felt as if Subhangee was about to disappear again for another thirty-five years.
xxxxxx
Next morning, the bright sunshine brought little cheer for Mr Shah. He felt an apprehension of sorts, as if he was about to lose something precious again. While sipping his coffee in the garden, he seemed rather preoccupied. Shimran would be going away today. What would it mean for Mr Shah? How painful would it be for him to be on his own again, spending most of his time waiting? The mere thought left him rather disturbed.
“Uncle,” Shimran’s voice from his behind made him to turn round. Shimran was standing, draped in a pure white saree, looking radiant. With a smile, she said, “I am ready to leave, Uncle.” Mr Shah kept quiet; he could not decide what to say. Should he be asking her to stay back for a few more days? What claim could he have over her? Did he have the right to make such a request?
“Are you not going to say something?” Shimran prodded.
“Oh, yes, Of course. Keep well and take care. If you need anything at all, please let me know.” Mr Shah uttered these words with great difficulty, controlling his emotions.
“You must visit me sometime soon, Uncle. There are times, whenI feel alone.”
“Sure, I will.” Was Mr Shah’s clipped reply.
“Here is my visiting card, uncle. When you come, we will plan a holiday in Shimla again. It would be so much fun fun to go for horse rides and picnics etc. Promise me, you will come…….”
Mr Shah’s gaze was fixed on Shimran, while she was rattling off without a pause. She then stopped to catch her breath; she looked somewhat uneasy, as if she wanted to say something more, but could not get it out of her mouth. Mr Shah patiently waited without interruption or questions.
“We should meet again soon.”
“Of course,” Mr Shah’s voice was faint while he handed over his painting of Shubhangee to Shimran.
“Thanks, Uncle. Won’t you say something more?”
Mr Shah was dying to say much more but he was chocking on his emotions. His voice was faltering and he could not utter anything at all.
Shimran was walking away but she suddenly stopped. She turned around to ask, “Are you not for-getting something?” Mr Shah was startled by her words. In Shimran’s question, he could hear Sub-hangee again. The dialogue was unmistakably Subhangee’s style, delivered in her unmissable teas-ing tone. Every rendezvous of theirs used to end with these exact words from her when Mr Shah’s would lovingly plant a kiss on her lips by way of saying good bye. How uncanny is it for Shimran to copy her mother! Mr Shah stood there speechless, lost for words.
Shimran stepped back to touch his feet as a mark of respect. She then held him in a close embrace as if she was entitled to the parting hug. Before letting go of him she slipped a pink envelope in his hand and immediately got into the taxi. As she sped off, Mr Shah stood silently watching her car gradually disappearing behind clouds of dust on the horizon. With Shimran’s departure, once again Room 110 in Monsoon Wedding Hotel felt deserted.
Mr Shah’s eyes had welled up, blurring his vision. He found himself on the threshold of a brand new phase of his renewed life. Its surreality left him dazed. His head was reeling and he felt drained. He stood there silently with the pink envelope in his hand, searching for the strength to open it.
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.
“Company, saabdhan!” barked the Under Officer and the NCC cadets fell in line, stamping our feet in response.
“Company, beeshraam!” he called and we relaxed.
The Indo-Pak war of 1965 was at its most intense. Physically fit college students like me were drafted into the para-military to assist the army. I was thrilled no end to don a khaki uniform and patrol up and down the streets. Our duty was to ensure that people followed the wartime restrictions. Streetlights were turned off and vehicles shaded the upper part of their headlights with black paint. Since the road traffic was sparse due to the war, it felt eerie to walk on the deserted roads late into the night. But we were not lonely as we patrolled in pairs. The shadow of the deadly war didn’t deter us from amusing ourselves with jokes. In fact, the smart uniform and boots fired me with a patriotic zeal I never thought I possessed. I was ready to take on any enemy!
It was a real war we were facing; but not armed with real weapons. Too dangerous for a novice to carry a rifle, they said, but not too dangerous for him to face a rifle! We had to be satisfied with the standard army baton, which I twirled in my hand as we ambled on the road. In normal times I would have given a wide berth to a drunkard on the road. But the war had turned us into conscientious citizens. I didn’t hesitate to march up to him and poke him with my rod. “Move on!” I barked, imitating my Under Officer. Intimidated by the sound of our boots, even the dogs became silent and receded into the shadows.
It was so biting cold that we shivered even with the woollen coats provided to us. Thankfully, bonfires had been lit at regular intervals for our benefit. We literally skipped from one fire to another to keep our limbs warm! It was fun to exchange stories with other cadets while standing around the blaze. As the night wore on, it was time for us to leave the scene and hand over the duty to the regular army men. I winded my way home and fell flat on the bed, utterly exhausted. Tomorrow would be another day. It was a taxing and testing period for us, but all for the sake of the nation. Still, I felt sad when the war came to an end. I still miss the discipline and rigour of those wartime days.
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.
KARMANNYE … YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW
“So, how long do you think we will have to stay in the guest house?” asked Meera.
“Seven days at the most, but I can’t say for certain. If Jindal decides to stay on at the bungalow, we may have to stay longer at the guest house,” Mahesh responded with a yawn.
Every time they moved due to Mahesh’s transfer, Meera had to manage all the packing. Of course, there was enough domestic help, but she had to supervise them in order to get the work done to her satisfaction. She always complained that she ended up doing the work herself. Their flight to Goa, having departed from Chennai at 10 am, and after half-an-hour stop over at Bangalore, was now slowly taxying on to takeoff for Goa. Mahesh, despite the lack of any important work, had only ended up going to bed at 2 A.M. the previous night. He began dozing off in the midst of their discussion about what needed to be done immediately upon their arrival in Goa, whose place to visit, whom to meet and other such trivial matters.
“Good morning, Sir and Ma’am, welcome to Mormugao Port. I am Damodardas Patel, a shipping agent.”
“Good morning, Sir; I am John, a stevedore. Welcome to Mormugao Port.”
Two middle aged gentlemen of average height, approached Mahesh with broad smiles on their faces. Like the strong gusty winds that herald the monsoon, the news of a Goan I.A.S. officer, Mahesh Prabhu, taking over as the new Chairman of Mormugao Port Trust, had already spread through the Mormugao township.
“Thank you, thank you! How did you recognize us?” Mahesh smiled and asked both of them.
“I had seen Madam when she had earlier visited Mormugao Port for her counselling programs.” John replied with a smile.
“Excuse me……,” the air hostess interrupted John and Patel, asking them to return to their seats.
Both gentlemen returned to their seats after assuring Mahesh and Meera that they would see them later.
Mahesh never liked the word, “Hawayee Sundari”, an epithet used by vernacular media to refer to Air-Hostesses. In his view, the use of ‘hawayee’ to indicate ‘air’ was fine, but not all air hostesses are ‘sundar’ or beautiful. In fact, he thought that some of them probably resembled the female demons one might find in the demon king Ravana’s palace. Mahesh chuckled at the thought of calling them ‘beautiful’.
“I hope you remember that we are having lunch at Mukta’s place today,” Meera reminded Mahesh.
Mukta was Meera’s sister. Her husband, Dr. Suresh Kamat was a medical officer at the Port hospital. When he learnt that Mahesh was going to take over as the Chairman of Mormugao Port, he had called them to suggest that they drive straight from the airport to his place for lunch. He was most insistent that Mahesh and Meera’s first meal in Goa should be at his place. Mahesh was perplexed by Suresh’s persistence. Meera not only brushed aside his skepticism, but also expressed her displeasure over it with her refrain, “you I.A.S. officers are unnecessarily suspicious about everything and look for hidden meanings everywhere!” Mahesh had no desire to begin his stint in Mormugao on the wrong foot and hence accepted the lunch invitation.
“Who were those two gentlemen who walked up to us and welcomed us?” Meera asked Mahesh.
Mahesh responded, “One of them is a shipping agent and the other, a stevedore.”
“What does that mean?” questioned Meera who was not conversant with those terms.
“I am not very sure myself. Give me a couple of weeks of working at the port, I should be able to answer all your queries,” Mahesh gave an evasive reply in an attempt to put an end to Meera’s questions.
Not to be deterred, Meera retorted, “You people are quite something! Taking over new assignments every two to three years without having any knowledge of that area and then getting transferred to the next assignment. What is more surprising is that people actually commend you for doing a great job!”
“Not everyone receives accolades; there are some who are abused and cursed too.” Mahesh made yet another attempt at educating Meera about the ways of the administrative services, just as he had done several times in the last twenty-five years.
“Didn’t the person who called himself a ‘stevedore’ mention something about counselling?” Meera asked.
“Yes.” Mahesh replied.
“My classes were attended only by Port officers. Is he one among them?” Meera wanted to know.
“In a township like Mormugao, why would one need to be a port officer to know about you? You stayed at the guest house whenever you visited. He must have noticed and asked about you during his visits to the Port guesthouse for his own work,” Mahesh responded.
“Gosh! He must really be having a lot of free time to waste it on inquiries about unknown women!” retorted Meera, visibly annoyed.
“As soon as we disembark from the plane, I will call and ask the gentleman to clarify your doubts!” Mahesh replied.
“Leave that aside! I want to know what happens to my counselling classes now that you are going to take over as Chairman of the Port. Will I still be permitted to conduct the classes?” Meera was keen to know.
“Well, that remains to be seen. If it constitutes a conflict of interest as far as my work is concerned, you will not be allowed to conduct your classes. But, right now, you don’t have to worry about it.” Mahesh clarified.
“I do hope there are no port events requiring my presence during next week. All my special silk sarees are packed and locked in suitcases. I will not be able to unpack them until Jindal leaves and we move to the bungalow.” Meera said.
“I will be officially taking charge tomorrow morning. In the evening let’s go and meet Jindal and I will check with him about his plans,” Mahesh replied again with a yawn and shut his eyes as he rested his head against the back of his seat. Meera pulled out a magazine from the pocket of the seat in front of her and began glancing through it.
An inflight announcement informed all passengers that the refreshment service was about to commence. Meera slipped the magazine into the seat pocket and woke Mahesh up. Since they were seated in the third row, their turn came pretty soon. Meera requested the air hostess for coffee and Mahesh for black tea.
They were served with a cutlet, a small slice of cake and beverages. Both Meera and Mahesh, chose not to have the snacks since they were going to have lunch soon at Mukta’s place.
(The original Konkani novel “Karmannye….. Kaal, Aaj, Faalyan” was published in 2021. The English version will be published by the end of 2023. This is an excerpt from the English version.)
Aravind Pandurang Bhatikar was born on 8th December 1938 in Margao, Goa. After his primary education in Marathi in a Private School and S.S.L.C. through Bhatikar Model High School in Margao, he completed his B.A. (Economics & French) from Karnatak College Dharwad in 1958. After taking a break for a year, he joined the School of Economics, Bombay University, in 1959 and finished his M.A. (Economics) in 1961. He then joined as a research scholar in Agricultural Economics in the same University but changed his career path by appearing for the All India Services Examination in 1965 and getting selected for the I.A.S. in 1966.
Between 1961 and 1964, when he was a research scholar, he was a frontline activist in public agitations in Goa against Goa’s merger with Maharashtra.
During his career in the Indian Administrative Service, he served under Govt. of Tamil Nadu and Govt. of India and also did a short stint as a consultant to ESCAP (Economic and Social Commission for Asia & Pacific).
After retiring from the I.A.S. in 1996, he worked as a freelance management consultant to a few corporates in the country till 2003. He was one of the leading activists in various socio-political movements in Goa Viz : Goa Bachaao Abhiyaan (Anti Regional Plan movement), The Anti-SEZ (Special Economic Zone) agitation, The Medium of Instruction (MOI) agitation and various activities for nurturing of Goan identity and development of Konkani language. He is currently associated with some cultural and socio- political N.G.O’s.
Presently he lives in Caranzalem along with his wife Snehalata, who is a psychological counsellor. Their son Yugesh lives with his wife Veda and two daughters Nina and Mira in U.S.A.
He has written over 200 articles in the Herald, The Gomantak Times and The weekly Goan Observer.
His first book ‘Vounllam’ in Konkani on his life and experiences was published in 2011. “The Rudderless Democracy”, an English book on mining industry in Goa was published in 2015. “Karmannye… Kaal, Aaj, Faalyaan”, a Konkani novel on the challenges faced by an honest and sincere I.A.S. Officer, was published in 2021.
Sangharsh (Konkani novel about Women’s rights), Lokshaay Haai Haai, Lokshaay Kitem Tem (both collections in Konkani of satirical essays and skits on politics in Goa and elsewhere in India), and Karmannye… Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow (the English version of the Konkani novel) will all be published during 2023 and 2024.
Among the awards he has received so far are the Goa Konkani Academy award for lifetime service of Konkani language and literature, the late Vimala Pai Jeevan Siddhi award for service to Konkani language instituted by the Vishwa Konkani Parishad in Mangaluru and the Konkani Bhasha Mandal Goa award for lifetime service to Konkani language, to name a few.
Every year well before the Christmas holidays daughter urges me to go there. She books room in advance in the one sea-facing resort. Now since past two years we are regular visitors in this beautiful temple city with her bustling crowd of tourists, winter carnival, water sports and other adventures. More than anything we just love to sit on the cane chairs of the balcony watching the sea from this quiet corner. To watch the shining waves, the glory of the sky, sunrise and sunset is really a treat for our eyes and soul.
Our room overlooks a beautiful duplex with a well maintained ground in all sides with low boundary walls. We can see their lovely flower garden with winter flowers surrounded by hedgerows and flowering bushes. The house and the inhabitants both seem very cheerful. There was particularly a girl of seventeen or eighteen whose name we hear more than twenty times during a day. She is the centre of their family orbit we think. Even the name plate fixed to the iron gate is in her name- Maya Agrawal. Sometimes we watch them. There are an elderly couple, could be Maya's parents, three sturdy men between 25 to 35 who we think Maya's brothers, two young married women who must be the wives of the first two brothers, and two kids aged three and six respectively. Maya is often seen feeding the kids, taking them to the beach for play or watering the plants in the afternoon. Her own room is upstairs, we see light in that room until late night. She must be studying. There is a SUV parked in the portico, a flamboyant red scooter which Maya rides, a Royal Enfield bullet motorcycle also is parked there on the side of the gravel driveway. It seems to be a newly constructed house.
This year we had an earlier plan to visit this place as on 26th December we have a family function to attend. So, we decided to come during Diwali. We arrived there the day before Diwali and checked into the hotel. After a hearty lunch we occupied our sea-facing balcony seats, watching the glistening waves with new eyes. Beach was crowded already. A family was playing football with their doggy. Atmosphere was quite warm. Children were enjoying being overtaken by the waves. During the sunset sound of floating prayers reached us and we looked towards that direction. It was Maya, putting the earthen lamp near Tulsi plant and singing in a sweet voice. She looked just aglow in the lamp light as the sky looked by the glow of the setting sun. Their house was lit with colourful litchi lights. As we were looking we saw Maya going out on her scooter towards the main road that runs into the city. We sat there another hour before retiring to our room to watch on TV a popular Prime series.
After dinner we came to the balcony again, when a commotion attracted our eyes. There was crowd in front of Maya's main gate. Some family members, some policemen, and many local people. 'What's the matter?', I silently asked looking towards my daughter. She did the same.
'Something wrong', she said anxiously pointing her fingers towards the police van. Maya's elder brothers alighted from it and they carried a person carefully. Looking closely we saw Maya. Police had driven the crowd away, yet we could not see anything clearly. They carried her into the house and we could not see further. A doctor arrived in a car and rushed inside the house.
"Road accident?", daughter asked.
"May be", I replied vaguely.
Maya was nothing to us, yet we both felt a strange sadness in our hearts. That teenager girl was so lively and lovely, so loved by her family that we loved her too, unconsciously. Everyone had left except two policemen on guard. 'Doesn't seem like a road accident', I murmured. That night our sleep was intruded by incoherent dreams.
Early morning next. I got up first. Woke up daughter and both of us decided to go to the beach to enjoy sunrise. The private beach of the resort is quite secluded then. While returning we took the path that runs in front of Maya's house. Their main gate was open but front door was still closed. An awkward silence hung there. The litchi lights were still twinkling. Policemen were seen nowhere. We reached our room. Started the TV for regional morning news. There it was. The answer to our untold question. A teenager girl was gangraped last night. While passing through an alleyway she was stopped, gagged, taken to a deserted dilapidated house nearby and... Police found her after a rapid search of three hours. The perpetrators are still to be nabbed. We were stunned.
It was the Diwali day. We had lost all interest. Daughter was very restless. We decided to cancel our stay, checked out and returned home by a cab. Before we left, I did look towards Maya's house. The dead silence was still hanging there.
I was not sure whether next year we will go there. The tragic incident had really affected us. When we cannot find any solution to a problem our inner tormoil aggravates. I know my daughter must have imagined herself in Maya's place. I could not dare imagining such a fate for her though. Because, that incident has made her even more silent than before. In my small world I have no one except her.
It was the first of October. Diwali is still 15 days ahead. At 5 in the morning daughter woke me up. "Momma, we'll go." She said. "Okay darling", I said in a sleepy tone, "when?"
"This Diwali Mom", she looked shocked because she thought I didn't understand her. With a short 'Ok' I entered washroom. So many questions were surfacing my mind.
All arrangements done, before the day of Diwali we reached the same resort by lunchtime. After a quick lunch we hastened to balcony. Sea was a little agitated as if reflecting our mood. Daughter first looked towards their house. I followed her eyes. There it was. Maya's house. Same house with a big change since our last memory of it. The house was decorated by flowers and Rangoli for Diwali. It was painted anew. Garlands were hanging from the portico terrace. The lawn was bedecked by beautiful flower pots on all sides. Slow music could be heard. We just couldn't believe our eyes and ears. 'Is this the same house which was immersed in darkness of sorrow last Diwali? What magic has transformed it?' I thought. The same nameplate newly painted with the name Maya Agrawal was there on the gate. I saw daughter equally surprised.
Bell was ringing outside. I opened the door thinking perhaps the hotel boy came to collect plates. But there stood Maya's elder brother with hotel manager. The manager spoke first. 'Aman Sir has come to invite you Ma'am to celebrate Diwali with their family.' The gentleman nodded with folded palms. 'Please do come Aunty with your daughter'. Keeping my astonishment aside I said, 'Sure, sure, it would be our greatest pleasure.' Aman and the Manager left satisfied. I stood there a minute when daughter called. When I told her about the invitation she got obviously excited as if she was going to meet an old friend after long years. Though we are still strangers a familiarity has been established between us over these two years in silence.
Well before evening we got ready. We ordered a packet of sweets to our hotel, a celebration pack and a bouquet of flowers. This would be gifts for Maya's family. Curiosity to know about Maya, how she and her family were able to overcome that sinister incident was still lurking in our minds. They welcomed us near the main gate. We were walking with Maya's mother along the driveway. Maya was lighting the lamps near the entrance of their house. She came to us with her sweet, enchanting smile, hugged my daughter before touching my feet. Tears glistened in their eyes. We went into the house. The entire family gathered there. Gifts were exchanged. Sensing the questions in my mind Maya's mother told me, ' Maya has cleared medical entrance this year. We are so happy. Her wish to become a doctor will be fulfilled now. After that incident she was heartbroken. We supported her. But the greatest inspiration for her was your daughter...' She took a pause. I looked around. Maya has taken daughter to her room.
How can my daughter be an inspiration to Maya who was in a horrible mental trauma? I looked askance towards her mother. She took me to Maya's room. Both the girls were talking and laughing like two close friends. There, on the wall, was hanging a painting, a painting of Maya's smiling stalwart figure, with a victory symbol. The caption was "The strongest Girl".
"This picture, Auntie', Maya spoke, "has changed me. I came out of the Cocoon of my own sadness, depression whatever it was. My family was with me, loving, caring, supportive. Disha has attracted my mind since I first saw her. Now, this painting and her letter which she had sent with it made me determined, encouraged me to achieve my goal. Her sorrow was no less than mine. If she could make her life meaningful, why can't I?"
I looked admiringly at my daughter, my crippled daughter Disha, who had lost one leg in an accident. Who is a successful entrepreneur now. Painting is her hobby. I blessed Maya with tear-filled eyes. Tears of gratitude.
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English in the Higher Education Department, Govt. of Odisha is a bilingual writer writing both in Odia and English with equal flair. Her poems, stories and articles are published in many state, national and international magazines and journals. She has three published anthologies of poems to her credit. Besides, she has published many research articles in different research journals. She contributes regularly to Radio Bulbul.
“I will take leave for three months Madam.”
When this resounding declaration was made by Anima abruptly, I was in the midst of the euphoric climax of a novel which I was reading. Quite reluctantly I inserted the page mark and closing the book looked inquiringly at the speaker, my household help for ten long years. Problems mundane especially if it had to do with running the household needed immediate attention and interrogation on high priority. The climax of a fictitious crafting despite being explosive could wait!
Anima stood at the door of my bedroom deferentially. She said, “Madam, my son has fared miserably in his test. I was summoned by the Principal of his school and advised to take proper care of his studies failing which my son will not pass the final board examination.
A hurried discussion with Anima revealed the crux of the problem. Her son was very weak in Maths and mediocre in other subjects. So a rigorous practice of numbers round the clock was required under strict vigilance and guidance. The boy attended two tutorials for guidance but getting feed backs from the tutorials and coordination by the guardian was absolutely lacking. And monitoring activities for a mother away from home twelve to thirteen hours a day was almost next to impossible. So Anima had decided to take leave, become a stay home mother for three months before the exams to cater to the twin needs of monitoring and coordination.
“Fine. But who will take care of my household chores dear? Winter is here and you know my poor bones creak with pain at this advanced age. I had somehow managed during your absence of the lock down period. But two added years to my age have taken their toll.”
Pat came the heartening reply, “Yes Mam, please don’t worry. I have arranged for a proxy for these three months. I will bring the girl tomorrow. You can talk to her.”
Fortunately, that resolved matters for the time being.
*****
Anima Ghosh had been with me for over a decade. The first day when I met this frail coy young girl little did I conjecture she could have so much spunk in her. Unlike my other household helps whom I had employed previously she started calling me ‘Madam’ instead of ‘’didi or ‘boudi’. I was indeed surprised by her demeanour; she was exceedingly respectful and courteous. As days passed by I came to know a lot about her. She confided in me in morsals while having her cup of tea and breakfast which I offered her. Married at the age of eighteen when she was in class eleven she found herself in the vortex of chaos and domestic violence just after stepping into her in law’s home. Her in- laws had promised to let her continue with her studies after marriage. But it all proved to be a hypocritical gesture as post marriage, Anima landed up in an inferno of torture and abuse. Her husband who worked in a factory was a reprobate indulging in gambling, boozing and the mandatory offence of wife bashing. The money that he earned was thus dissipated while the family suffered. Gone were Anima’s aspirations and her wish to pursue studies sealed for ever with a son being born. She had expressed her desire to take up a course in nursing as she had completed her secondary schooling. Needless to say it fell on deaf ears. With the addition of a tiny member in the family financial demands escalated. Her heart broke when she had to take up the job as domestic help at the insistence of her in laws and husband. Holding her little son close to her bosom she banished her frustration and despair. Her dreams now centred round little Pickloo whom she pledged to give a good education together with a bright future.
*****
When the little boy was of school going age one day Anima came up and said, “Madam I wish to put him in an English medium school. I want your advice.”
I wasn’t at all surprised at Anima’s proposal. This was expected from a girl who chose to address me as ‘Madam’ may be because I was the teacher of a college. Though she belonged to a humble family her upbringing and the education that she strove hard to achieve behoved such a daring thought for the education of her child. So I said, “That’s fine! But it will involve a lot of expenses. Will your husband agree to bear the financial responsibility?”
“I have discussed the matter with him. He has asked me clearly to go ahead with my ‘crazy venture’ only if I could provide for such an education.”
I mildly tried to convince her that English medium schools do not always cater for good education. But her choice of the medium was distinct and unyielding. I found that the propensity to send children to one of those burgeoning English medium schools had infected this class of people. Risking the affordability factor she eventually got her son admitted to an English medium school run by missionaries.
One day her face glowing with happiness Anima turned up with her son in my house and said, “He needs your blessings Mam.”
“My blessings are with you and your boy for ever. May he grow up to be a good human being!”
The little boy had bright eyes and picked up a smart conversation with me in no time. I fervently prayed that the child would live up to his mother’s dream of taking the world by storm with an English medium background once he grows up.
The boy did quite well in the primary school much to her mother’s pride. Anima could keep an eye on her son’s class work and guide him since she had completed her school education and could tutor him. Once the child was in class five she felt the urgent need of a good tutor for him.
*****
“Madam from tomorrow I will come a little late for my work as I had to accommodate a new work in the morning. I have also decided to take up two more jobs in the evening as a cook in two households. Pickloo’s father doesn’t contribute a paisa towards the education of his son. But he has enough money to squander on liquor and gambling as you know. I have to fend for myself for the mounting expenditure of his studies. An English medium school was exclusively my choice.”
I stared at her in disbelief and said “That means you will be away from home and your son almost the whole day. Will your mother in law agree to take care of your son throughout the day? And don’t you think your absence for long hours will tell upon the mental well-being of your child?”
“There is no way out Madam, no options in sight. The financial demands of the school are on the steep and I have to arrange for a couple of tutorials.”
I offered to take care of her son’s books, stationaries and school dress. She turned down these offers from me; such was her self-esteem in trying to raise the child single handed. But at my stern insistence she agreed eventually and it made me happy.
The years passed by in Pickloo’s high school and Anima was away from home a great part of the day. Returning home at about 8 p.m. she had to cook and attend to other affairs which required her attention. The mother in law and her son did not spare her from their sacred duty of finding faults with her and hurling abuses at periodic intervals. As Pickloo grew up there was a marked change in him, he became provocatively demanding. He tried to emulate the ill- bred brats of rich parents in his class. His grades in class deteriorated though he managed to scrape through in the final exams of each class. Anima tried to reason out what had gone wrong with her son. Was it after all her fault? Was her decision to admit him in an English medium school an irrevocable blunder?
When the days of Covid arrived and virtual classes started Pickloo was in class eight. Equipping her son with a smart phone became a necessity; the demand could not be kept in abeyance. But Pickloo spent more time on playing digital games and chatting with friends than the virtual classes attended. Such alluring deviations and many more in the adolescent’s life could not be reined. Moreover, after a brief hiatus of three months during lock down phase Anima had to bounce back to her work. This worsened matters. One day Anima broke down in front of me, “Madam I am afraid my son has changed radically. His grades have gone down and he is going astray.”
*****
That day when Anima took leave for three months I sincerely hoped that the wretch would mend his ways and fulfil his mother’s dream. I prayed to God that justice be delivered to Anima who had toiled indefatigably for the sake of his son and family. Anima’s proxy arrived the very next day and I found no reason to freak out over household chores.
The Board examination ended. One day I received a phone call from Anima, “Madam…” A lull after the first word was followed by muffled sound of sobbing.
“What’s the matter Anima?” I demanded impatiently.
“My son is now in hospital convalescing after a mental break down.”
“What about his exams?” I almost wailed.
“Madam, can I meet you now? Are you free?”
Within an hour Anima was at my doorsteps, looking pale, dishevelled while I held myself on the periphery of self-control.
I gathered from Anima that when she started staying at home to guide her son his initial response was that of resentment and revolt. Pickloo had changed a lot down these years. When Anima contacted his tutors she was scandalised to know that most of the days he had not turned up in the tutorial classes and had left his assignments mostly incomplete. The mobile which Anima was compelled to buy for him proved to be a nuisance fuelling his adolescent instincts of foraying into forbidden domains; a corollary to this was keeping bad companions.
“But what did his grandma do…being at home all the time? Couldn’t she at least keep an eye on her grandson?” I was flabbergasted on hearing what she had to say about it.
“Madam, she and her son were bent on taking a revenge on me. None of them wanted to send Pickloo to an English medium school to get proper education. They wished to syphon all my earnings to their advantage. But my son’s education involved a lot of expense. Naturally this was the utmost they could do to come down on me.”
As the days of the examination drew near and Anima grew sterner in her attitude the boy who was initially adamantly revolting became somewhat inert and brooding. He would sit with his books for hours with a groggy expression on his face or idle away on bed. Anima had confiscated the mobile as a precautionary measure. Was it then a withdrawal symptom of an inordinate addiction?
Despite of the mother’s encouraging words, care, cajoling and coaxing the boy seemed to sink into depression. On the morning of the first day of examination Pickloo was struck with a severe nervous breakdown which needed immediate hospitalisation.
Anima said with teary eyes, “I can now only pray that he recovers and overcomes this bout of depression. I wish to get back my son in a sound frame of mind and body. Only then can he prepare for the next Board examination. And I am now sure that my son needs me more than an English medium education to grow up into a true human being.
I prayed for a rejuvenating chapter to start for the mother and son duo. What a revelation for Anima! If only this had dawned upon her earlier.
AMITA RAY, a former associate professor in English and Vice- Principal of a college is based in Kolkata. She is a translator, short story writer, reviewer and poet. She has four volumes of translations to her credit. The titles of her translations are KHIRER PUTUL(The Doll of Condensed Milk), TREATS in TRANSLATION, LEGENDS SPEAK(Co-authored) and DWIPANTER KATHA(The Story of Transportation). She is a widely published short story writer and poet. Her collection of short stories TRAIL OF LOVE AND LONGINGS published in 2020 has received rave reviews. She is a published poet and has a collection of poems UNTIL BIRDS SING. She is an executive Council member of the Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata and in the editorial team of The First IPPL Poetry Anthology. Her translation of Abanindranath Tagore’s KHIRER PUTUL(The Doll of Condensed Milk) has been inducted into the postgraduate curriculum of English literature in Burdwan University, West Bengal. This book was also shortlisted for the Sahitya Akademy award for English translation 2022.
It was a chilling winter evening in the Eastern Ghats mountain region. A slim girl of wheatish complexion scurried home carrying a bag full of grocery . She was outspoken, like a parrot. Her mother told in a heavy voice, "You are already grown up, don't consider yourself a little girl" . The mother reminded herself, the parents of Raju had already fixed the wedding date. New sarees, silver bangles, two goats, a pearl white dhoti and a pair of shining shirts had already been arranged.
Aarati got married last December in 2019 at the age of nineteen The marriage was solemnized with simplicity with a little educated daily wage labourer named Raju. They chose a small home in an unknown village as the safest place to live in and carry on a blissful marital life. Nobody poked his nose in their day to day affair. Two mud wall rooms and a kitchen with free electric supply was more than enough for them .
They lived together for fifteen days very happily, enjoying mutual sharing and caring. Although they were not rich, they were happy.but happy. They wove so many colourful dreams. They were made for each other. Raju convinced Aarti that he had to earn extra bucks as responsibilities piled up and he also had to look after his old parents. Aarti asked, "Why are you thinking like that?" Raju answered, "You won't understand , my simpleton wife. Life has its own perennial course dear. I've to go to Surat to sweat in a factory for better earnings. I'll return in March."
Aarati got an inner jolt but she was a newly wed toothless tigress, and a bit shy. She sobbed and bade farewell with a heavy heart to the love of her life. They were regularly talking over cell phone at night. When she received ten thousand rupees on 2nd february, her joy knew no bounds. Her heart jumped in ecstasy. Immediately she bought two new chairs of five hundred rupees each so that her in-laws can relax in the verandah. Happiness returns where there's money but temporarily. Her mother in law became a proud lady sitting in the chair and buying vegetables. Their standard of living rose with ujjala gas stove. Aarti was counting the days for the month of February to end. Her husband would return. She planned for a disc connection for TV and air coolers for the rooms. When Aarati heard about lockdown, the simple girl got confused, asking each and everyone, "What and who is lockdown ?". She was worried, since she was No longer not receiving any phone call from her husband.
The brass water pot was being regularly refilled early in the mornings. Aarti had been washing her face four times every day since lockdown and silently scolding her husband looking at the horizon. Her eager waiting for the darling husband was going on with never-ending waiting. Still there was no news from her husband..........
Bibhudutta Sahoo,MA (English) B.Ed., a multilingual poet who hails from Batharla, Bolangir. Presently working as Headmaster, Government High School, Buromal, Bolangir. Poetry is his only passion.
Mr Sahoo is Founder of international literary forum Eternal Flame in english, on Facebook . He has been awarded in World Poetry Festival at Ramoji Film City Hyderabad, Poetry festival in Calcutta, Poetry Meet in Mathura , His poems have been published in different national and international anthologies
THE RAVISHING RAINBOW AND THE COCKTAIL OF MEMORIES
"Leave me alone maa! Today is Sunday. Let my mane be unkempt for a day at least. "
I used to blurt out at mom when she was rigid with her weekly oil application regime.
Even I acted like a stray dog shooing away pigeons, when she tried to tie my hair in braids and put a ribbon to arrest my curls, fix them rather...so that they behaved properly for a longer period.
Colorful matching ribbons remained fashion accessories and fashion statements during those days- I am recounting my experience of five decades and more.
I had a whole lot of them. My platter was full of sheen. Bundled up, they looked like a ravishing rainbow.
They were of different shapes and sizes.
There were bows, thin ones, wide ones. The make too varied from cotton, rayon and satin to suit and appease all kinds of occasions. I was lucky to possess so many varieties.
I still have a few, neatly wrapped up in my closet. They are my trinkets of memory and nuggets of bliss in life's sojourn. They beckon mystical skies and billowing clouds amid dancing hues of horizon . I eventually get besotted by nostalgia one more time as I palpate them.
It makes sense all the more because... no more I sport long hair.
I have cut it short.... rather had to after spells of medication and chemo.
Well... that is a long sad story.
Here goes the synopsis-
" I have been through hell. Some are lucky. I have not been. But one thing let me share... I fought it with might. Never lost patience nor hope. I needed to defeat the dread and I have done it. So far, there have been no symptoms of precipitation. "
I am no more drenched in mom's love. I have been away from home to take care of my own hearth after marriage.
That does not mean…she has left us.
I shudder at the thought.
She is very much alive by the Almighty's blessings and good wishes of many.
She is full of love too... but cannot translate it into action anymore.
How would an octogenarian be able to?
She tries but fails. Her limbs do not support her desire.
I miss my luscious locks, she too misses the grueling combing sessions.
Our talks elongate when this topic comes to fore. She weeps and I console her by saying-
” God has been kind to me. I could survive. Many don’t. “ Then she stops weeping.
Gushes of smoky nostalgia and hypnotic charm of yore make me scout the box of ribbons.
We feel it together. I try to initiate a smiling act. She follows like an obedient ward....releases her toothless smile gently and slowly, seeks her happiness in my overflowing eyes.
I listen to her carefully now. Wish time stammers and i get more time to spend with her to make amends for my discourteous behavior.
I have tormented her a lot.
A shift in time has made me brave enough to compose ballads of unspoken truths. I do them with ease. The sky, dressed in blue and the moon's pearly hue appear to me more enchanting than before. I have started ordering my life to suit me…may be at a sedate pace.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has three published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm-all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY 2023
How much of water had flowed under the bridge since women started raising their voices, carving out their own space! Feminist band wagons had
spearheaded with many a trumphet and flourish. The atrocities against women had been brought to book by many a stringent laws. But could we bring on a qualitative change in the society's mindset towards the treatment of women giving them their due role in the scheme of things.
Against feminist, liberalist outcries treating maternity as a vantage point of subjugation, for man's, society's exploitation, I always argued, maternity is our strong point in establishing our right as the creative principle of life, as moulders of future. Infact I would prefer the term "womanism" over "feminism." There is no need to clamour for equality, but we need gather the confidence to carve out a niche of our own as a woman, which no man match but envy.
Yes today, portals are open, career wise, talent wise, choice eise for women. Those who aspire and persevere climb up the ladder. Those who meekly succumb to circumstances still suffer. Gone are the days of wallowing in self pity, sympathy.
Women, we need rise above the platitudes and complacence. Vast is the sky that unfolds above us.
The conversation with a young mother- professional today, her pangs, made me write this. Here is a smart girl, much talented, bright in studies, being the only daughter, one among the twins whom her parents lost. She grew up sensing the sorrow of her parents over the lost child and was struggling all throughout bringing cheer and happiness to them. For that she was ready to sacrifise her own choices for marriage. But it only made the parents mount up more and more of expectations on her, tailoring even her care and concern for her husband and family. I could see
her struggle caught up in between. But she managed, was smart enough to do the tight rope walk. She pursued her studies,did research work, managing household, minding her babe, appeasing her husband and families on both sides. Yes, her life was a constant process of redefining the word 'adjustment.'
Isn't it the fate of many a working woman of our times? If she needs an outlet for her passions, be it her choice profession, art or writing how much of condescension she has to avail from the environment around? Life grows into such a strenuous fight against odds!
Today what upset me more was her telling me, her husband who shared some understanding and support, was now turning against her, flouting her survival struggle or management mantra. The fact was his frustration with his job and its challenges for which he was making her the punch box.
Her earnest questio to me rent deep.
" Mam, am I that much of a failure, who cannot satisfy my parents, my husband and others? "
For the first time I felt a tremor in her voice as if from one on the verge of a precipice.
To lose faith in oneself is the worst disaster you can run into.
I reassured her " O, no dear...believe in yourself.. You are the best! The best of a Woman,daughter, wife, mother, professional. Buck up , Don't falter.."
When the immediate environment devours the woman like this, how can the woman of our times be happy? They mount up heaps and heaps of expectations on her stifling and suffocating her. The inner tensions that she carries hold potential danger of explosion, self destructive, annhilative..
Does the society realise that? No laws, external interventions can prevent this, excep a more inderstanding treatment from all. Woman is not a punch box to be pummelled against, taken for granted, every where, every time!
World !
Give woman her the space to fly, to thrive. She will work wonders, cheering the world!
Three cheers to "Womanism " Happy Wome's Day!
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
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
A young school boy Anirban loved cycling. After school his favourite pastime was cycling. He got a thrill in riding his cycle through the narrow lanes of Central Kolkata (then Calcutta). Especially on weekends he used to get up early and cycle down the whole area, going around the market place. He went around the vegetable or fruit vendors who used to sell on the sides of such lanes.
Central Kolkata has lanes and by lanes. These lanes meander like serpents, in fact one such lane is also called Serpentine Lane. There are residential houses about three to four storeys lining the lanes on both sides. There are some grocery shops and tiny little saloons and beauty parlours as well as medical stores in between the houses. The lanes are quite crowded…driving a car in these lanes is an arduous task. Even while walking in these lanes you have to be very careful…any moment a cycle or a hand pulled rickshaw might hit you.
Anirban studied in a well-known Christian Missionary school nearby. It was summer vacation and quite hot in Calcutta then but for a 14 year old nothing mattered. He used to cycle from the morning. That generation did not have TV, internet or mobile so playing outdoors was the only option for children. It was the season of mangoes. Fruit sellers were selling mangoes everywhere. Even the sides of the lanes were decorated with pyramids of mangoes. The aroma of mangoes was everywhere. Some orangish green, some yellow and some reddish yellow mangoes. Langda* and Himsagor* aam (mango) was everywhere. It was as if the fruit sellers have forgotten to sell any other fruit but mango.
One morning while cycling Anirban met his two other friends. Their school was nearby so many friends lived in that area. The two friends jumped onto his bicycle. Anirban went on cycling through the lanes but it was quite difficult to cycle with two riders behind, especially one boy was very fat. But Anirban tried to keep his balance on the cycle…at that age these tiny challenges have a thrill. Suddenly a bike was coming at great speed from the other side. The lane was very narrow and the sides were filled with fruit sellers with pyramids of mangoes.
All of a sudden Anirban didn’t know what happened but he drove straight into a pyramid of mangoes. There was a shower of mangoes on both sides. Many mangoes were squashed to pulp. Mangoes were scattering all around. People were getting hit with mangoes, shopkeepers were screaming. Hell had broken out. At last Anirban banged against a wall and stopped. Thankfully none of the boys were hurt. He then maneuvered his cycle towards the direction of his house and rode away. The shopkeepers had come out of their daze and had then realized what had happened. They all started running behind the boys and shouting.
Anirban put on high speed and vanished into thin air.
*Langda and Himsagor----varieties of mangoes
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist, a national scholar transformed into a globally loved, award-winning poet. Her poems have been translated into 40 world languages and she has published 9 books. A globe trotter she loves calling herself a global citizen. Not only does she write poems but she promotes peace poetry, multilingual poetry, global poetry and passionately promotes indigenous poetry. Paramita believes that by promoting indigenous languages, she can bring some endangered languages into the main stream. In 2019, she got the Gold Rose from MS Production, Buenos Aires, Argentina for promotion of Literature and Culture. Apart from many awards like the Sahityan Samman in 2018, Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore award in 2019, Poetess of Elegance 2019 and many more she was one of the recipients of the prestigious Panorama International Literature award from Greece in 2022. Paramita is the President and Initiator of the Mumbai Chapter of the Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) and also the Cultural Convenor and Literary Coordinator (West India) of the International Society for Intercultural Studies and Research (ISISAR).
A PEEP INTO MARITIME HISTORY OF PURI
In the year 1976 when I joined the Customs and Central Excise Range Office at Berhampur, I visited Gopalpur on sea on the very first Sunday after my joining, along with Sri Gagan Behari Panda my friend since Vani Vihar days, who had joined there 5 months before me. At Gopalpur on sea we could see a huge dilapidated abandoned building in ruins to our utter bewilderment. It was our Customs house, once upon a time, about 34 years ago, near the light house on the sea shore. We also found some pottery and cutlery of Sheffield make in our Range office of that customs house. Besides the documents about the Gopalpur Port, some references about anchorage port facilities during 1865-68 at Puri were available from old records. During British India some shipping activities were with Rangoon port of Burma through the Gopalpur Port, managed by the British Indian Steam Navigation Company under the supervision of Customs House located in this huge building in ruins. During the Second World War, the business of the port was greatly impaired. The Japanese war lords occupied South East Asia and entire Burma and a part of the Bay of Bengal including Port Blair in 1942. Thereafter, the Gopalpur Port was closed forever. However, new port of Gopalpur is coming up at Aryapalli and is under expansion since 1987.
During 1987-88 when Sri A.K.Saha was our Commissioner Customs, he submitted a proposal for construction of a holiday home at Puri, over the land of old customs house, to the Central Board of Excise and Customs, New Delhi. Due to his sincere efforts the Central Board of Excise and Customs accorded sanction with allocation of funds for establishing a holiday home at Puri over the dilapidated Customs house next to the Metrological office on the sea beach. As directed by the commissioner, the Intelligence Officers of Bhubaneswar Customs Commissionerate, visited Puri number of times to get clearance from Forest and Revenue Department for cutting some trees and getting NOC for construction of a Holiday Home over the old customs house which was buried neck deep in sands due to its vantage position fronting the sea near the metrological office popularly known as Digabareni Khumba. On enquiry about the customs house and its activities, we came to know that in between 1866 -68, a customs house was operating to conduct the supervision of imported rice from Burma to fight against the great famine - Naa Anka Durbhikshya of 1866-68. Being inquisitive, I researched on the maritime activities of Puri and some adjoining places like Manikapatna, Khalkapatna, Harishpur, Marishpur and other places. It was very Interesting to find out that trade with Roman empire was carried by boats through Daya-Vargavi-Kuakhai-Prachi river route to some of the old sea ports of Odisha like Konagar (Konark) of Ptolemy or Charitrapur (Che-li-talo) of Huen Tsang. The holy Town Puri from Arab period (10th century CE) was a sea port and developed during Portuguese influence over east coast. The navigating sea faring European nations had full knowledge about local shipping activities at Puri. The existing temple of Lord Jagannath (since 1161 CE) was known to international sailing community as white pagoda - an important landmark while moving in the Bay of Bengal. Sailing directions and ship logs did mention about the exact location of the temple from a distance of about 20km from shore. Captain Krempthton (1679 CE) has given the exact course of coastal navigation no 136-68 which mention that from Maneclapatam now Manikapatna to Jauggernaut course was East-North East and a distance was 10 miles (16 km). It could be safely concluded that most likely, Puri was a port during the period 10th to 17th Century AD. There are several references found in the ship log of Captain Talbot (1680CE), Captain Hide (1681) and captain Lake (1683CE). All these captains were mostly coming from London via Cape of Good Hope to Calcutta and mentioned about the landmark to approach Orissa coast - Mahendra Girl in south and next important was Jauggernaut; Maneclapatam was also an important landmark. However, some of these records are kept in British Museum, London, according to historians D.P.Pati, G.N.Mohanty (Maritime and Cultural History). Professor Dr. Arnold Toynbee of London School Of Economics and King’s College in the University of London, historian of International repute had for the first time described the route in his sketch of History of Orissa during the British occupation of Orissa in 1803. There was not a road in the modern sense of the word in existence. What were then called roads were fair-weather cart track without bridges and proper ferry arrangements for crossing numerous water courses.
The great Orissa famine of 1866-68 in Orissa during the time of the then Commissioner of Odisha - T.E.Ravenshaw, threw up challenges to manage the outbreak of the disaster. As it occurred during the ninth Regnal year (Naa Anka) of the Gajapati King Divyasinghadeva, it was popularly known as Naa Anka Durviksha. The famine of 1866 affected the east coast of India from Madras northwards, an area covering 180000 square miles and containing a population of 47,500,000. By that time Ganjam was under Madras Province. The impact of famine, however, was great in Orissa which was quite isolated from rest of India. In Orissa 1/3 of the population died due to famine. Efforts to transport food to the isolated districts were hampered because of bad weather and bad road. There was no rail link to Odisha until the year 1879. The commissioner T.E.Ravenshaw (1865-1878) didn’t predict the catastrophic famine because his collectors of some coastal districts complacently reported that there were enough paddy cultivation only superficially seeing some wild grass (Suan) and the brass bangles used by the rural women folk thinking them as bangles made of gold, reported to the commissioner not to panic. That spelt disaster. But when some shipments did arrive from Rangoon in the Orissa coast, the rice could not move inland. The British Indian government imported some 10,000 tons of rice which reached some of the affected population in September 1866. Although people died of starvation, more were killed by cholera before the monsoon and by malaria afterwards. In Orissa alone at least one million people, a third of the population perished in 1866 and over all in the region approximately 4 to 5 million died in the two years period. The British imported approximately 40,000 tons of rice at 4 times the usual price. However, this time they over estimated the need and only half the rice was used. The summer monsoon of 1867, followed by a plentiful of harvest, ended the famine in 1868. During the height of famine when shipments had arrived from Burma at Puri coast there were no experts in handling the unloading as there were no jetties for smooth unloading. Therefore, as suggested by the chief engineer of roads some seafaring Nolias (fishing tribe) from Andhra were requisitioned and pressed into service and somehow major portions were unloaded and kept in government stores, and Emar Mutt granary without proper and timely disbursements to the affected inland areas. As a result some 6000 sacks of rice were allowed to rot instead of distribution due to bad communication. Lessons learnt from this famine by the British rulers stressed on the importance of developing an adequate network of communications or mechanism for disaster management, the latter of course a 21st century concept, and the need to anticipate disaster. During that tumultuous period of 1866-68 the Customs house at Puri was supervising the import formalities, housed in the tile roofed (Khaparli) customs house by the side of Metrological survey office popularly known as - Digabareni Khumba – locally, the present site of Customs Holiday Home- an impressive three storied building on the sea beach.
The philanthropists of that time including Princely States, Kings of Gadajatas, had donated huge amounts to the famine relief fund which remained unspent, as by that time the catastrophic famine had waned by the middle of 1868 with plentiful of paddy cultivated and harvested in that season . After the great famine, the good natured commissioner T.E.Ravenshaw and some liberal Britons were inclined to adopt some benevolent and sympathetic policies and wanted to start a college at Cuttack with the unspent relief funds. Due to the efforts of T.E. Ravenshaw and financial support of Maharaja of Mayurbhanj Sri Krishna Chandra Bhanjadeo, the benevolent Maharaja (father of Sriram Chandra Bhanjadeo), the college department of Collegiate School was converted to a full-fledged Degree College in 1876. Initially a college at Cuttack was founded to spread education in Orissa with the unspent money of relief funds. Maharaja Sri Krushna Chandran Bhanjadeo though contributed Rs 20,000/-for the college, his equally benevolent son Maharaja Sriram Chandra Bhanjadeo proposed to name the Cuttack college after T.E.Ravenshaw as a mark of gratitude. After the devastating famine, a Famine Commission was formed which subsequently recommended for development of roads, railways, ports and navigable irrigation canals which constitutes an important mile stone in the economic history of Odisha. Rail link between Chennai and Calcutta was expedited and completed between 1868-79. Puri was connected by the opening of a branch line of S.E.Railways from Khordha Road Rail Junction in February 1,1897 and was opened in 1901. A major contribution of Ravenshaw saheb was the irrigation project over River Mahanadi- the Jobra Annicut (Barrage).The British administration took up the work of excavating the coastal canals to counter the effects of drought. The multipurpose barrage began its construction in 1869 and was commissioned in 1874 with canal facilities like Taladanda, Kendrapara and Pattamundai canals which were navigable. Steamer Boat facility for journey to Chandabali port from Cuttack was established between 1872-74 through the Kendrapara canal . At that time the access to Kolkata from Cuttack was only through a journey on river Mahanadi to the False Point near Paradeep and through Kendrapara canal up to Chandabali Port and from Chandbali to Kolkata by ships. The Odisha State Maritime Museum which has 10 numbers of galleries at Jobra, houses and exhibits naval art and artifacts, navigation machinery and maritime maps at the iconic museum on the right bank of Taladanda canal.
Puri’s maritime history has not been adequately dealt by researchers so far. Puri being on the Bay of Bengal was well connected with all over India and South-East Asia since historical days. The sea ports like Manikapatna, and Khalkhapatna were very active during different periods of History and the internal communication system of that age, made the city one of the Cultural Capitals in India. Communication facilities in many navigable rivers flowing in the area made it possible for the medieval kings to build innumerable temples, and to mention a few most important among them – Sun Temple at Konark in the Prachi River Valley, Madhab Temple (Madhab –the maternal uncle of Lord Jagannath) at Niali; Lingaraj Temple at Bhubaneswar in the Daya River Valley and Jagannath Temple at Puri. It is an established fact in Indian history that like most of the religious cities, Shrikshetra Puri (Jagannath Dham) had strong trade, commercial and maritime background.
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.
In the dreamy nights sleeping beside our father, we listened to many stories from Puranas. Later I read such stories in the books to find one thing in common. When some sage or a “Sadhaka” King did severe penance, Indra, the King of God used to send his dancing damsels, the beautiful “Apsaras” to create disturbance in their meditation.
I never questioned the process; it was so usual in each story. But as I grew up and dug into the spiritual path, could crack the mystery of these dancing damsels. As our revered Gurudev says, a Sadhaka trading on the spiritual path has to be extremely cautious and should withdraw his/her five-sense telephones, severing connection from the outer world. One should internalize his/ her mind as much as they could, making it gradually thoughtless. “Swargaloka” is a lower plane of ‘Siddhi’ may be similar to the realm of ‘Mooladhara and Swadhishthana chakra’ where the material and sensual pleasures are obtained. Apsaras are nothing but the lures of the mundane world that eludes from your chosen path to ascend the chakras. Many sadhakas do get entangled at that point, allowing the Apsaras to be successful in their assignments.
With due course of time Indra’s place has been replaced by “Internet” (one can read Indra Net) and the lures are not the Apsaras like Urvashi, Menaka, Rambha but social media like Facebook, WhatsApp, other chatting apps, even the non-stop news channels having raucous discussions over current affairs (giving the pleasure of cock-fight to the audience), the newspapers and the like. Different researches have shown that chronic use of these social media not just waste time but activate the opioid receptors in the brain and one behaves as a drug addict, difficult to resist the urge of accessing them.
And the result?? Lack of concentration, alienation from the immediate environment living in their own virtual world, pseudo-satisfaction of knowing things whereas all the informations are half-baked, barely analysed in a proper manner, highly partial at times, language redundant to a contorted English using SMS text, at times a mixture of many languages.
If we consider the medical problems, they can affect acutely making you suffer from muscular pain, burning of eyes, muscular spasms to chronic problems like obesity, polycystic ovarian disease and various neurotic diseases. Performance of a student proportionately falls down with social media usage.
Now these Apsaras become “active” making all the buttons go green on the right pane of the screen as the night grows and beyond midnight exchange of texts, photos, dialogues go on. Though many people utilize the social media in their favor and gains, most others really fail to gain anything out of it. Like PHOOL KE SAATH KAANTE (thorns of the rose) the youth mass is easily falling prey to it. They start surfing the internet for study material but finally get glued on social media, YouTube videos and the likes.
The period of study is nothing less than a staunch ‘Sadhana’ and the students, the sadhakas. They too should be aware of these Apsaras of IndraNet ? and should stay away when study demands intense focus.
Once a mother brought her small kid to Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and requested him to tell the kid to quit sweets. But Sri Ramakrishna asked the mother to come after 1 month or so. On the subsequent visit he asked the kid not to refrain from sweets. Astonished, the mother asked, why didn’t he tell the same thing on the first visit? Sri Ramakrishna explained that he himself took lot of sweets and how come he sermon the child when he himself didn’t have control over his desires and senses! Since he quit sweets himself, he qualified to sermonize the child now.
Thus, my article won’t have any impact on the society, especially the youth mass if I don’t show some amount of self-control myself. Hence, I keep WHATSAPP MAUNA (silence) and FACEBOOK UPAVAAS (Fast) for certain time period when I feel I am being controlled by social media rather than the other way round. Why silence and fast, why not complete uninstallation or deactivation! It’s because the Apsaras change form from one to another. It is up to us whether to forcefully suppress them or consciously live them and gradually ascend beyond them.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
Google’s heydays challenged.
Scary.
Ask me why!
My husband, who was travelling for the whole of the third week of January on work, excitedly registered on ChatGPT - the tech freak that he is - and demanded a poem on our business firm. He used to write poetry. And recently I had egged him on to write a poem on the owl that took shelter within our house compound. It was a nice piece and I followed it up with my lines, which I have shared in this issue.
So when he sent me a particular poem (a new one) by email, I had no difficulty in believing it was from him and applauded its brilliance as an ad for our company and recommended putting it on the company website. And he at once called me back to reveal the poet as ChatGPT, letting out a gurgling laughter. Here is the poem.
Poem on Starpac
Wrapped in plastic, sealed with care,
The products of our labor, packaged to share.
From food to toys, to tools and more,
The packaging machines at work, an industrial chore.
Efficient and precise, they seal and seal,
Making sure our products are fresh and real.
With touch screens and automation,
A technological sensation.
Heavy duty and compact,
They handle any product impact.
With Star Pac India Ltd, we can trust,
Their machines are a must.
So here’s to the machines that keep our goods safe,
In the packaging process, they play a vital role, in the industry and trade.
***
By the time you have read this article, I suppose many would have even asked ChatGPT to construct a poem on themselves and shared the same with amusement. I did receive a few and couldn't help smiling reading them all. It goes to show that having ChatGPT around, business philosophy and writing skills could easily get outsourced. But what’s worrying is people might have a tough time believing your true intentions even if you are alien to such technology, so much so, for example, when alone you might even struggle to use the TV remote to watch television. I am not a television fan, and when my father asks me to switch it on, I struggle for a while. It is not the simple remote I knew of in childhood.
This ChatGPT is, however, making me queasy; although I am no perfect writer and would need to edit my work, it flows from the heart. What's worrying is no one’s going to trust anyone's word or work for originality if ChatGPT is around. It might redefine Darwin’s theory of 'survival of the fittest’ to - survival of the most innovative and fittest to use new technologies.
Now that intelligence can be outsourced, perhaps what remains and cannot be outsourced is your physical prowess. So physically fit people like muscle men, dancers, singers and performers will sincerely rule with their innate talent. But that too will come under threat when we will make designer babies sourcing from the best gene pool. Racial discrimination must go at all costs, however it could become irrelevant if there might emerge a terribly startling inequality among the haves and have-nots, for the latter may not afford designer babies.
Discoveries are never a negative thing, but it will disrupt a lot of existing industries. If human intelligence is outsourced to ChatGPT, so many professionals and industries will now have to innovate more and stay in the race to make their livelihood.
Imagine people preparing their perfect speeches and emails. You cannot tell the difference between real or fake talents and intentions. But no stopping science and technology once something new is discovered. We have to adapt and mould ourselves to every scenario. Only people in their sixties and above can afford to be ignorant, as they possibly live from savings. Our children have to adapt to AI, putting up with the advantages and disadvantages. So here is wishing ChatGPT - and the likes of them that may surface - a close bond with humanity that will see us in happier and more informed times to help us survive, exist and coexist in peace!
In hindsight, should those of us who have published our books before ChatGPT breathe a sigh of relief as there is some proof to our credibility in a world that’s gearing up to become overly suspicious?!
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/
It was during the same time last year, during the Onam festival season, that Geetha affirmed to herself that she had oiled and toiled enough on the painting. She had decided that she was not going to work on it again and that she will frame and hang it on the wall as it is. She had even designated a space on the dining room wall long ago but the painting never got finished. It was still not over when she finally framed and hung it but she had enough of it and it was to her satisfaction. She came to a conclusion that she couldn’t satisfy every viewer and paint accordingly.
Throughout the last year Geetha had not done any correction nor could she do any modification on her painting of the Unicorn. Not that it was complete or perfect but it was just that she felt she had spent enough time on it and she didn’t see any scope for any improvement in it with the little talent she had. She wanted to move onto the other images that were pregnant in her mind which was just waiting to be delivered on to a canvas. But this white unicorn was standing in the way and creating a road block to her future endeavours. So the painting got promoted onto the dining room wall from the easel where it rested for the last 6 years. The picture of the Unicorn now had a glorified look with a glittering silver frame around it which kind of drew away the attention from the minor flaws of the painting.
Geetha was an amateur painter, who used to be a teacher by profession. It was to the end of her teaching tenure that she decided to pursue some kind of art to get involved in her retirement time. She attended a painting course which taught her the basics on lines, shades and mixing the colours. Thereafter she decided that she would pursue the paintings on her own, a kind of experimenting to seek her own kind of style with the brush.
It was with the small animals that she started first which she thought would be easy. She tried a portrait of her own cat and after two days she found she had a lion in front of her. She later tried a lizard on the wall and she saw a dinosaur emerging out of the canvas. It was perhaps then that Geetha had the revelation that size does matter and maybe it is the bigger animals that suited her brush strokes rather than the lesser sized ones. She was quite happy with the way an elephant matured in front of her and then later a camel. It was after gaining some confidence with few such animals that she started her work on a beautiful Unicorn which saw in a magazine. She dreamed of copying this beautifully poised Unicorn as such to her canvas and imagined how it would embellish one of her walls.
It took Geetha years to create her Unicorn. Every year during the Onam festival season, her son and family would come to spend a week with her. In the initial years, each time it was with a sense of pride that she would present the completed works to her family. It was much appreciated by her son and her daughter in law who encouraged an amateur painter’s enthusiasm though they knew the work faltered a lot. However it was her granddaughter Ambi that Geetha feared the most. She was a rude critic and the person who made Geetha work on this project for these years.
Every time when Geetha believed the painting was done, this seasonal critic would arrive and give some unkind remarks to make Geetha spend another year on correcting those discrepancies. Geetha knew Ambi was giving constructive comments but it irritated her too. There were times when Geetha had felt that painting on canvas could not be her hobby and a better option would be to paint the walls. But Ambi’s criticism had worked slowly. The comments of a high school student who herself did some beautiful pencil sketching had made a cow with a horn to a rudimentary pony and now almost into a rudimentary horse. Six years have passed thus and now Geetha herself could feel a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. The huge hippopotamus like snout was now a perfect horse snout and the lame legs were healthy and muscular now. The jumping creature was more of prancing now in elegance with an undulating mane.
In between Geetha did few works on the creepers in her garden and the sceneries she saw from her terrace, but she never could touch another animal without finishing this one. She ached to pain a white elephant but she had a mental block. She had to finish this Unicorn first but Ambi was not letting her. So Geetha decided to finish it once and for all and hang it on the wall before her cheerful but rude Ambi was on vacation again.
Ambi had now joined the fine arts college after her high school and Geetha was wary about this year’s Onam vacation all the more now. Geetha had a prudent plan on what she ought to do and she immediately framed the picture and hung it on the wall so that she would not feel like bringing it down again whatsoever the comments be. It would also be a statement to Ambi that enough was done on the painting and this painting was her own version of the great Unicorn. It was a myth and she had the space to experiment as to its actual shape or dimensions and appearance. The viewer had to accept whatever was the presentation.
Ambi came down for her yearly vacation with her grandma. Geetha had prepared Ambi’s favourite banana chips and other fritters to chew throughout the day, two different kinds of pudding for dessert, varied types of pickles to accompany the basmati rice preparations and a whole lot of other sweets for Ambi to stuff her mouth and stomach. Geetha was circumventing her way into Ambi’s stomach to bribe her into accepting the painting as it is now.
It was around noon that Ambi woke up after being repeatedly called for the lunch. She had arrived with her parents late night after a tedious rail journey. After freshening up, she came to the dining table and sat. Geetha generously served the aromatic biriyani onto her plate. Even as Ambi was enjoying the sumptuous lunch, her eyes were roving along in search of the Unicorn painting. Geetha’s eyes were tagged to Ambi’s. Ambi was surprised to find it nesting on the wall next to her seat. It was a painting she had loved and followed the most with her criticism. The silver frame looked as though the Unicorn was bound in a silver fence never to grow again.
Ambi studied the picture for a few minutes, forgetting to chew on the morsel which was still in her mouth. After her pause, when Geetha’s senses too paused, Ambi swallowed what was in her mouth. It was in a pleading tone mixed in frustration that Ambi asked Geetha as to why she framed it when there was still correction to be done. Even the suggestions which Ambi had given on her last year arrival were not done. Geetha courteously asked Ambi to continue with the lunch and even and while they had, Geetha explained her mental strife with the Unicorn. Ambi heard her and understood the creator’s wrangle. Her grandma had fenced the animal not to trouble her again. She was actually escaping from her frustration of not being able to cope with the beauty of the creature.
The lunch was over and the family was having a warm cup of green tea. Ambi was standing with her cup next to the painting as she talked to her grandma. “Grandma, you should know that this Unicorn was growing up with me for the last 6 years. I have never heard or have seen a painting which had kept on changing every year it was viewed. Every time I visited, I saw the animal moving a bit here and there. It made the painting so lively to me. All other paintings in this world are stagnant. It was this Unicorn which inspired me to take the fine arts course and I too will start an art sphere which will produce paintings that move and grow every year. I think it was the only moving painting in the world till the day you harnessed it in a silver cage. The moment you framed it lost its liveliness and now it is just the memory of a Unicorn.”
Geetha looked up towards the wall. She had to scale the wall again.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk
Chapter 4 - CUSS WORDS
Summer of 1976, Cardiff
Hi! I’m 5 ½ years old now. I go to a bigger school that has different buildings for differentlevels of schooling. My sister goes to a playschool that is in the same school complex.
My class teacher is a grandmotherly figure, who is very nice and loving. My classmates are all fun loving and we have a great time during lunch breaks.
I’ve learnt some funny rhymes. I’ll share one with you:
‘Tarzan of the jungle
Had a belly ache,
Went to the toilet,
……PHrrrrrrr… Too Late.’ (Put your tongue out between your lips and let air come out with some force. Try it. It’s fun) *
Are there any toilets in the jungle? Nah, I don’t think so!
When school gets over, we three siblingsstand near the exit gate and wait for mother to come pick us up. Many kids continue to play on the jungle gym near my class block. They would repeatedly say ‘F— you’ or F— off’ in differing tones. I would hear kids playfully reciting these words while I walked away from my block to the exit gate. I have no idea what that word means.
I eventually decide to ask my mother about these words. Maybe my pronunciation was not proper as she did not seem to understand what I was saying. So I pull her to where the kids are playing. She finally hears them using these words in various forms.
My mother then softly but firmly tells me that I am never to repeat these words as they are very very bad words. This is definitely serious, as it is the first time that my mother tells me not to say something because it is bad.
During my stay at my grandparents place in Patna, I was quite the villain when it came to saying bad words and getting away with it. I have been told that I could speak sentences before I could walk. That is, by the time I turned one, I was speaking short sentences, fluently. No stutters or stammers. By the time I completed two years, I was proficient in use of swear words like ‘kutta’ (a dog), ‘kameena’ (rascal), ‘pagal’ (mad), and many more. Except for me, no one swore at my grandmother’s place.I have no idea how I learned those words. Guess I had a knack of catching cuss words.
It was the era of Hindi Movies featuring action and revenge. The era of cuss words like ‘kutta’, ‘kameena’ and “khoon pee jaunga”. I was learning cuss words without knowing that they were not to be spoken as part of normal speech.
My sister was born by the time I turned two. It was then that I became the sole responsibility of my Mausi (Mother’s youngest sister). She was 17 years old then.
I had recently learnt another bad word. The female word for a dog, ‘kutti’. Why are bad words fun to say? I don’t know. Maybe it is thrilling to say something that should not be uttered. I started uttering this new bad word. My Mausi was shocked on hearing it and told me not to repeat it. I said it again and again and again. My aunt flicked me on my lips with her fingers. I said it again. She flicked on my lips again. This continued and my lips got swollen. Just then my grandmother realised what was happening and came to my rescue and scolded her youngest daughter. She said, ‘How can you do this to a child, who is without the care of her parents’. My grandmother had saved me. What a pampered, temperamental child I was. My aunt felt shame at her actions. I stopped swearing.
But today in this Cardiff school I learnt that there are some words even more dangerous as they are never to be spoken.
*(I still remember a few more limericks, which are unfit to be produced here. I had no idea about the meanings at that point of time)
Chapter 5 - RELIGION vs INNOCENCE
Autumn of 1976, Cardiff
Every Wednesday all of us school kids are taken to a church for the Wednesday Mass. We all queue up in a line and walk a short distance to the nearby Church. Going to Church is a new experience for me. The Priest, or Father as the kids address him, callthe Church, the ‘House of God’. There is a statue of mother Mary with baby Jesus in her arms inside the church. Ilike this statue. The roof of the Church is very high and the windows are coloured. It is not very well lit inside. The gloominess somehow makes us kids remain quiet.
Inside the Church all of us are made to sit on the rows of benches. We keep our hands together in prayer and sometimes even close our eyes. The father of this Church speaks in praise of God. He says that we are all children of God.
There is a section in the front portion of the Church where bigger children in flowery Gowns sing hymns during every mass. They sing so well.
After the end of every prayer service, the father would put a piece of white round edible item into the mouth of the students on the first bench. After that he would pour some liquid in their mouths from a shiny goblet. For the next mass, these students would be taken to the back row by the class teacher and the second row of 4-5 students would occupy the first row. This would ensure that these new students will get their share of the white piece of food and the drink. It will be a few weeks before Iget my turn on the front row and be able to taste the strange food and drink. I look forward to this day, eagerly.
Recently we that is my parents and my brother and sister had gone to attend a puja function. My mother explained that we are going to a big Indian function. There will be Bhajans and Kirtans and we kids must behave and sit quietly till these are over. After the Bhajans are over there will be Lunch for everyone.
The gathering at this event was the biggest I had ever seen. The men wore turbans and ladies were dressed in beautiful Salwar Kurtas. My father keeps his hair short and never wears a turban, my mom wears a Saree. I got to know that everyone was from India and the turban toting men were called Sardarjis or Sikhs. After the Bhajans everyone was served sumptuous food.
At home, during the weekends, my father would light an incense stick and say some prayers to a small statue of Lord Ganesh. He would tell us stories about how Lord Ganesh got the head of an elephant and that he is the son of Lord Shiv and Goddess Parvati. The stories are so captivating.
Some weeks went by and finally it was my turn to sit on the first bench in the Church. I had learnt that the piece of food was bread and the drink from the goblet was wine. I was so excited. I had my hands folded but could not keep my eyes shut during the prayer recitals. Finally the Prayers and Hymns got over and it was time for the bread and wine.
The Church father came towards the first benchers. He looked at us and called our class teacher. He asked her something, after which my class teacher asked me whether I was a Christian. I didn’t know what I was as no one had ever told me about religions. I spoke Hindi at home and was from India, so yes, I guess I was different from other kids besides being Brown. So I answered that I was “Hindi”. My teacher then gently took hold of my hands and asked me to leave the front row and come with her to the back row.
I controlled my tears and spoke to Baby Jesus:
I like all the stories I’ve been told about your miracles and greatness. But I do not like the MEN of God. If we are all children of God then how can I be different and not get the food and drink being given to every child. I cannot have faith in this Father or his likes but I believe you can teach them not to misbehave like this. Thank you!
Chapter 6 - THE CHRISTMAS PLAY
Winter of 1976, Cardiff
There is excitement all around. Christmas is coming. It has been snowing for the past few days. I love to watch the snow fall from the living room windows. It is very cold outdoors.
The walk to the school is a bit tough now. The air is cold and the pavements are often slippery due to sleet and sometimes snow. But school is fun. The class rooms are warm. There has been talk of a Christmas school play and other fun activities to be held before the winter school break. One of the Christmas plays is about the birth of baby Jesus. There is talk of who will be chosen to act in this play. The characters are, a shepherd boy, three wise men, Joseph and Mary. Joseph and Mary are the parents of baby Jesus. I have no interest in the school plays. I want to play during the lunch break. I want to play with snow and make snow balls.
The school stage is being decorated slowly. The stage and school hall looks better every day. The assembly takes place every morning in this hall, where our school principal Mr. Ball addresses all students.
This morning some of the class students have been asked to stay back after assembly. Teachers are going to select some students to participate in the school plays. My class teacher asked me to come on to the stage. I got onto the stage by taking the side steps. The teacher tells me that I have to play the role of Mary.
This is confusing for me. How can I play Mary? So I ask her again. She tells me that the role is very simple. I have to sit next to a ‘manger’. A doll will be placed in it and it will represent baby Jesus. I have to keep my hands on the ‘manger’ and look at the doll’s face. Some more kids are selected for the other roles. My friend gets to be the shepherd boy. Three boys from a senior class will play the three wise men.
There are some more senior girls on the stage. Two girls who were standing in the front of the stage called me towards them. I obediently go to them and stand near them. One girl asks me whether I was selected for playing the role of Mary. I nod my head in a yes. I then feel a hand on my back and I feel a sudden push that sends me tumbling off the stage. I fall from the stage and my left hand hits the floor first. My face is flat on the floor. My head starts to hurt. I try to stand up. Some students help me to get up. I look up at the stage but those two girls are not on the stage anymore. Why did they push me? Is it because I will play the role of Mary? They can play it if they want. But I could not find them. I could not even recall their faces. They were white girls with light colour hair and were much taller than me.
I went back up onto the stage and stood near the teacher, my left hand in severe pain. The pain in my wrist was increasing. All of us selected kids were given our costumes to be worn for the play. I was to wear a simple grey gown, not very interesting. The three wise men got brighter gowns and crowns to wear. There was glitter on their dress. How lovely!
We then go back to our classes. By lunch time I could barely move my left hand. I wanted to tell someone about the pain in my left hand. But whom do I tell? I told myself that the pain will go away on its own. By the time of school closure the pain has become very bad. My mother has come to pick us up. All three of us siblings were waiting for her. I wish I were with my Grandmother, so that I could tell her about the pain in my hand. How do I tell my mother? She is so busy. She has to take all three of us home. If I tell her then how will my brother and sister go home? My hand is stiff with pain. My mother looked at my face and asked me what was wrong with me. I said I am fine.
She looked at my left hand and asked me why I had kept it so stiff and why my face was all distraught with pain? She touched my hand and understood that something was wrong. How did my mother know? She immediately asked another lady, who lived near our home, to take my brother and sister home. Then she took me to the hospital across the road.
The doctor in the hospital checked my hand and wrist and put my hand inside a machine. A black and white photo of the bones on my hand came out of the machine. The doctor gave some instructions to my mother. He said that my hand will be fine in a few days. I would have to keep it tied up and move it as little as possible to give it rest.
My hand was fine in a few days. The Christmas Play day finally arrived and I played the role of Mary. The performance was applauded by the audience comprising of school kids and teachers. I was rather happy that the play was over.
I ended up with many questions in my mind though. Why did the teachers want me to play the role of Mary? I am a brown girl with black hair. I am not even a Christian. Is it because I am not white and have black hair? Maybe! Jesus was not born in England but in Bethlehem. Bethlehem is in Asia, India is also in Asia. Maybe Mary had dark hair and was not white, unlike the girls, who pushed me off the stage.
I have not told my teacher or my mother as to how I hurt my hand. I have learnt to be a bit more wary of my surroundings now and understand that some girls can be really mean, meaner than even the naughtiest boys in my class.
I have also learnt an important lesson that you cannot hide things from your mother. She understands you more than you think.
(I have played the role of Mary in two different Primary schools, three times out of my five years stay in England. It was much later in life that I got to know that Mary was not a Christian and she supposedly had dark hair. So I guess it was my dark coloured hair that got me that role again and again.)
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 –
- A detailed illustrative account of ancient Nalanda, Pallava and Odisha monuments
- Grandeur of the Cholas
- The Little Brown Girl: A collection of Short Stories
A SOJOURN TO THE SPIRITUAL PATH
Spirituality is not an influence that can repress the individual’s choices. Rather, an individual should choose the spiritual way to become closer to divine beings. How can one become spiritual? The path may lead to temples. But this is not the real conquest.
We can be spiritual only by reflecting on our conduct and analyzing our actions. We all are driven by our conscious actions. We have sense organs. Practices of mantras can merely lead a person on the path of religious awareness. The mundane chores regulate our actions.
The sense organs mostly direct a person to select their ways wisely or lustily. Having control over the sense organs can lead a person toward freedom of thought. Freedom from the restraints of one’s desires is the way to true religion. It can rekindle the spiritual growth of a person. The expectation of our senses always leads to suffering. Then to get rid of such tormenting pain we seek the channels of religious preachings.
We never seek to merge with cosmic vibrations through our natural passion. We do not desire to be one with heavenly beings by renouncing our hunger for materialistic things. It’s only our wrong deeds that find ways to repent through holy activities. Never spontaneously strive for ecclesiastical accomplishment. Always derive such a high level of preaching out of compulsion. This knowledge is of two types. One is to know the self. The second one is to comprehend the mystical essence. Without this knowledge, we blindly follow a religion.
We choose our sect. Then due to religious differences, we struggle with each other without any reason. A truly religious person is free from all biases. He never delimits other religions only because of his religious beliefs. He embraces all religions like a tree adores and becomes a shelter for all animals irrespective of their gender or habitat. Hence religion never exercises its dominance over a person to decide what is wrong or right.
On the other hand, a truly religious person always tolerates other religions with equal reverence and dignity. Religion means liberation from all burdens of this monotonous life. Religion opens many doors for salvation. The moment we discover our victory over our worldly allures, we unravel the magical ways to spirituality.
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.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT A MAN OF THE EARTH
These days when we get the news of forests burning or fire in the forests, what fires our imagination is about the man of the Earth. In recent years we have seen fires playing havoc in the forests of California in the US to that in forests of Australia and India being no exception. Unfortunately Odisha lost large tract of forest cover due to fire recently and some miscreants causing fire were arrested by the police. It is reported that though there may be natural causes for the forest fires, some of these infernos happen due to wilful human intervention , or in other words due to the selfish interest of the timber mafia.
The timber mafias were also active then ,when in the 1970s there emerged a Gandhian to be later known as a man of the earth, who saved the trees by leading a movement mainly involving ordinary women, the women of earth in their own rights who otherwise worship the earth , worship the trees and worship the nature in their distinctive ways. The man of earth besides leading the movement, created a consciousness about environment and the importance of the trees and forest in that. The movement as all school children would recall is the Chipko movement something unique in the history of social movements in human history.
Yes, it is Sunderlal Bahuguna who needs to be remembered every day, especially when our forests are on fire and trees get burnt. He was the main protagonist of the Chipko movement in the northern part of India. Chipko movement was a revolutionary, pioneering movement in a peaceful way to save the trees in India. Chipko, the Hindi word stands for hugging. It was an organized resistance to the destruction of forests spread throughout India. Thus, the name of the movement comes from the word 'embrace', as the villagers hugged the trees, and prevented the contractors' from felling them.
Sunderlal was known as the person who educated Indians to hug trees to protect the trees and the environment by that. A catastrophic flood in Uttarakhand in 1970 made the people there to wake up to understand about the links between deforestation and the floods. Bahuguna led the Chipko movement from front and called for more people to join this campaign. As a result many men and women in the Himalayas responded to his call for the protection of the environment, and formed a human chain around the trees to stop the loggers from cutting down the trees which they were doing on a routine basis , unhindered and in a massive scale. The tree huggers sent a strong message to the tree-fellers “Our bodies before the trees”. The hug-the-tree movement also brought to world’s notice the environmental crisis in the world’s highest mountainous region.
Bahuguna whose childhood was spent in the Himalayas depicted that deforestation not only makes the place vulnerable for calamities, it also leads to soil erosion and loss of fertility as a result of which many men in those areas are forced to leave the villages for the city or urban areas for their livelihood and earning. As a result of this migration of male folks to urban centres, their women are left behind alone with children and all responsibilities of collecting fodder, firewood and water. The Chipko movement became a catalyst in the fight to secure women rights. Many women joined in this fight and became an integral part of the movement, they tied rakhis (rakhi is a symbolic thread tied around the brother’s wrist on the occasion of Raksha bandhan). Women worked with purpose and strong determination risking their lives to save the forests. They took away the cutting tools from the loggers in their endeavour to stop the cutting of trees. That again talks volumes about the courage of our village and forest women and that of their mentor and leader Sunderlalji!
Slowly this movement gained momentum and now the youth also seeing the cause and importance of women’s save-tree actions, joined the Chipko Movement. Many college students along with women and other men staged peaceful demonstrations, did fasting and hugged trees. Bahughana the chief architect of this Chipko movement with his flowing beard and trademark bandana (piece of cloth tied in head) went from strength to strength. There was a fasting in 1981 for Chipko movement and it yielded positive impact. There was a 15 year ban on commercial cutting of trees. Two years later Bahugunaji marched 4000 km in Himalayas to draw the national and global attentions regarding environmental degradation.
Sunderlal Bahuguna was a relentless fighter who kept on lecturing , educating about environment and leading rallies against deforestation caused by forest officials and contractors . His heroic work and tunnel vision brought the movement to the notice of the then Prime Minister of India, Mrs Indra Gandhi . When Prime Minister Gandhi was asked about Chipko Movement, she said: "Well, frankly, I don't know all the aims of the movement. But if it is that trees should not be cut, I'm all for it."
Even after so many years ,the relevance of Bahughana’s work is still well and truly alive. In 2017, social activists hugged around 3000 trees to stop them from getting cut to make way for Metro railway passage in Mumbai. Sunderlal was a non-political, soft spoken person who understood the impacts of deforestation out of his own lived experience. He was very charismatic and a man of Gandhian principles. Sunderlal believed in self reliance and propagated it (now what PM Modi calls as ‘Atma Nirbhar’ meaning self reliant) . He like Gandhi believed in simple living and didn’t like wasteful materialism. He said that India needed to produce biogas from human and animal waste, harvest solar and wind energy and hydro power from the run of the river . Bahuguna called for Improved machines and technology so that there is less consumption of energy to make India an energy secured nation permanently in a non-conflict and non-violence way. Sunderlal died recently due to covid but he will be forever remembered as the man of earth, who did hardwork all his life to protect and save the environment.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
It was a wintry Sunday morning. I had no office work, no personal work, no wife or home. I got a government job after completing my education. So I had no tension in life.
I had time, but no work. I was feeling bored in my lonely life. I started my scooty and I was running on the express highway in Mumbai. I reached Marine Drive at last.
The weather was fine and sunny with a cold wind blowing from the sea. After one hour of a long drive from my residence, my mind was telling me to bask in the sun sitting on a concrete bench facing the sea. I was walking on the pavement after parking my scooty.
I saw an old man sitting alone on a bench. He was in his tracksuit and sports shoes. His appearance attracted my attention. I went to him.
His mustache, beard, and hair on his head were white and long. His eyes were shining, but sunken behind his glasses. Wrinkles were on his skin.
But to my utter surprise, I found him busy writing something on his smartphone. He was so engrossed and immersed in his writing, he was oblivious of my presence near him.
I greeted him with my folded hands - Namaskar Uncle !
He looked at me in his sunken eyes. His face was smiling in his parched lips and shining teeth.
He told me - My dear young man ! My blessings and best wishes to you.
You are looking young and energetic. Are you a student?
I said - I got a job here after completing my education. Today is a holiday. I was just roaming around on my scooty. I came here to enjoy the beauty of the sea basking In the sun.
But your extraordinary appearance and look dragged my feet to you. Actually you are something different from others.
He - How ?
Me - You look like a poet, philosopher or scientist in your lifestyle.
You seem to be carefree in life and approach to living.
You are alone and writing on your smartphone sitting on Marine Drive. Aunty and your grandchildren should come with you to kill your loneliness.
He looked at me. His smiling face became gloomy. His parched lips were trying to say something. But no words were coming out and his lips were shivering in sorrow.
I came closer to him in affection. His old and aging body was trying to lean against me. I caressed him in sympathy and empathy.
He gazed at me. I stared at him. Our eyes met each other. I saw drops of tears lurking in his eyes behind his glasses.
I told him - Sorry, Uncle. I said what I should not say.
His choking voice said - What I cannot speak I write on my smartphone in my loneliness, lest my life may leave my body untimely. I am writing my life story.
His gloomy face touched my heart. His sorrowful words were reaching my soul. I was simply spellbound by his emotional outflow. A bit of frustration was discernible from his choking voice.
But he seemed to be carefree from his appearance and get-up. Nothing to be worried about for himself or for anyone else.
I asked him politely with due respect and regards - Uncle ! If you don't mind …Are you alone like me ?
He smiled and said affectionately - It's the beginning of your life and you are staying alone as you have no family.
Me - Excuse me please. I have a family in my native village.
He - Who are they ?
Me - My loving Mom and Dad !
He - You are a part of their family. Your own family would begin when you get married to a cute girl blooming in beauty and youth. Then your life would be smiling in love and romance.
You completed only the first of your life. Your dreamy future is waiting for you. I bless you, my son, to be happy in life. Happiness is the essence of life and without it life is a living death …its a Hell on Earth.
Me - Are you a poet or philosopher?
He - I am a dying man living till my last breath lasts.
Me - I couldn't follow what you mean.
He said - I am telling you the truth of life. Sometimes life becomes a burden on the body. Loneliness kills life in the broad daylight. Life wants to leave the body to kill the pains of living in melancholy.
I asked him - Are you alone ? Don't you have your family ?
With a heavy sigh, he said sorrowfully - Yes, I had a smiling, happy family once upon a time.
Me - Why didn't you bind them with you?
He - It was beyond my control. I was a hapless puppet in the hands of bad luck and misfortune.
Me - Do you believe in luck?
He - What happened in life that is termed as luck which is beyond one's control.
What best can you do, if it's impossible on your part ?
Me - Can I see your life on your smartphone, my dear Uncle ?
He said calmly - If you take so much interest in my life, you may see. But don't disclose it to others, because I am a dead man.
Me - How?
He - Life is not meant for living in melancholy. Life should be running, sparkling, cascading stream with hopes, aspirations and ambitions; otherwise life is a living death.
While scrolling his photos and images on his smartphone, I was astonished to see his great success in life.
I told him - You had a brilliant past enviable to others.
He - I cannot speak about my life. You may see and feel it. But my loneliness is killing me now.
While touching his feet, two drops of tears fell down from my empathetic eyes and soaked his feet in respect, reverence and regards to his greatness and excellence in the field of science and technology.
He took me to his arms in love and affection and patted my head as if I were his own son.
We looked at each other in our tearful eyes. Our eyes were watching and catching each other and our hearts were coming closer without our awareness.
He told me - I see tears in your eyes. It does not look good for a young man who is left with his entire lifetime to excel and dazzle in life.
I said - It's not tears, but my joy and satisfaction flowing from my heart to meet such a great man inadvertently, miraculously.
He - Please don't shame me, my son ! I am simply an old and aging man waiting for my unknown death.
So many men have come and gone. Who keeps their history ?
Me - Still we remember great men like Mahatma Gandhi who gave us independence and we honor him as our Father of Nation.
He - But, we, Indians, killed him.
Me - But not all Indians, only one man killed him.
He - Whoever he may be, was he an Indian or not ?
Okay, only one man assassinated Mahatma Gandhi, others were supporting or encouraging him directly or indirectly.
Did they participate in the freedom struggle of India or indulged in partition of undivided India?
We did not feel pity for killing an octogenarian old man who would have met his normal death after some months or years due to his old age.
Our Father of Nation was not only killed within six months of our independence, but fatherhood was butchered; and now not only fathers but also mothers are suffering and waiting for death in old age homes of India hopelessly, helplessly, haplessly.
And now the morality, ethics, and humanism of the sons of India are dying with the passing time.
All are running after money, wealth, assets, personal pleasure and comfort, politics and the sons of the soil are now callous to the need and necessity of the old and aging parents.
Rather, their early death in old age homes would give them (children) access to the parents property.
Thanks to our cunning and shrewd thought process !
To divert his attention from the flow of his emotional speech, I told him in a calm and sweet voice - My dear loving Uncle ! I see your young age images of IIT Bombay on the gallery and Facebook pages of your smartphone.
I am jealous of your handsome images with beautiful girl students in your IIT campus.
He was saying sorrowfully - Past happiness has passed which would never come back in my dying age.
Memories are memories only however sweet they may be ! The only truth of my life is death.
I was scrolling through the gallery and Facebook pages of his smartphone in curiosity to have an idea of his life.
The more I was going through his images and photos, the more I was knowing about his brilliant career.
But he seemed to be a frustrated man though he was careless about his life.
My interest was increasing. But how can I ask about his personal and private life? He may think otherwise.
However, I asked him politely - Uncle ! Can you highlight your approach to life and living ?
He said in a calm voice - Life is merely a time period from birth to death. It's called lifetime and after it, nothing is left to a man and he is lost into the obligation simply.
Me - But life is also pleasant and memorable.
He - Life is a pleasure for those who are comfortable in life. Lives of kings, rulers and great people having success in life are kept on record or in history. Others are simply forgotten from memories.
So many people aim at the same target or success. But one would get success, though others have done the same work. Life is simply a marathon race and one may or may not get the gold at long last. Everything is unsure and uncertain.
Who would like to remember the hapless unsuccessful man ?
Me - Uncle ! I cannot catch your mind. May I be clarified please.
He - So many scientists are doing research work in the same field or domain of science. But one is getting the prestigious Nobel Prize for his first presentation. Others remain in frustration, though they are no less talented. Sometimes fortune favors the lucky.
Me - As I presume from your photos…
although you have come from a rural background, you are one of the alumni of IIT Bombay (Mumbai) and a great scientist of the NASA, after completing your MS and PhD in the USA.
I also see one beautiful lady who is so attached to you. But I cannot know your relationship with her.
As I observe, you had a pleasant and happy past.
He - What's the use of a useless, unsuccessful and bogus past ? It only hurts one's heart.
Me - I think your life and lifestyle are too eccentric, typical and emotional and your life is different from others. You are not a normal man.
He - There is, of course, no difference between a beggar and me. He is living, I am also living. Life is the same for all. No one lives more than others or less than others. Life is life only and It ends only in death.
Me - If you don't mind…why did you leave America and while most of the other NRIs are settling there ?
He - Life is not the same for all. It differs from person to person. It depends upon one's mentality and approach to life.
Me - Won't you tell me something about your greatness ?
He said sorrowfully - Of course, it was pleasant, but…
His lips were shivering, but no words were coming out. Some drops of tears were lurking in his sad, sunken eyes behind his glasses. He was looking at the vacant blue sky. Sound of the sea was coming to my ears only and his lips were shut. His melancholy was clearly discernible from his gloomy face covered under his thick and long beards and mustache.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
A PRISONER OF DREAMS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The evening was still young when the party started warming up. The gathering in the Chaudhury household was exotic, the sprawling lawn of their Safdarjung mansion provided the right backdrop for a grand party in early November. The food was excellent, the drinks superb. Men were in a pleasant, euphoric state; most ladies, having imbibed good Italian wine, were mildly tipsy. Someone suggested a round of singing. Among our friends Mrs. Nivedita was the only acknowledged singer. She rendered a few songs, some others joined her, the mood was getting livelier.
Suddenly, I stood up, in a mood to sing. My wife Madhusmita was shocked, she pulled my hand and tried to restrain me. I could hear her harsh whisper, "Where are you going? Don't be crazy! Are you drunk?" I smiled at her and went ahead. My hands were mildly shaking when I held the microphone in my hand, but my voice was steady,
"Friends, you must forgive me. I am not a singer, except I hum to myself in the bathroom, as most of you probably do. But today I will sing before you. There is something in this early November air that tells me that my long-lost friend, who used to sing this song for me, will feel its vibration and remember me. Someone had told me that a song that comes from the depth of the heart is like a wave which returns to the singer carrying the blue depth of the ocean and the music of the undulating sea. I don't know where she is now, but wherever she is, my song will touch her heart and return to me carrying a timeless love."
I closed my eyes and started singing, "Sandhya taaraa, nishitha batayane, jagu kaa patha chahin aakula nayane, sandhya taaraa ....." The song was about the evening star looking out of the celestial window with longing eyes for the unknown lover. I gave my heart, my soul and all my passion to the song and when it was over, my face had got drenched with tears. I started returning to my seat amidst a loud applause. The song and its background had touched everyone's heart, making them wonder how the calm, quiet Pranay Pradhan had transformed into a sentimental singer under a cool November sky. Friends did a thumbs up and I could see admiration in the eyes of the ladies - a tribute to timeless love rarely goes unnoticed.
My wife had left. I regretted, for the umpteenth time, that she had never understood me, nor I had been able to convince her about the feelings of many dreamers like me whose hearts woke up to unknown strings pulling them, who went crazy when flowers smiled, or trees swayed in gentle breeze or moonlight fell in white cascades on a mesmerised earth. We chased beautiful, sensuous shadows in the dim light of silent avenues, in search of poetry of love. But Madhusmitas of the world had no reason to feel threatened by them, they had no competition from the elusive shadows who only dreamers like me courted. Constantly in search of inspiration, we were harmless, yet incorrrigible. The high priests of society, the pillars of its success, busy in trading stocks and shares, buying and selling apartments, chasing heaps of wealth, would never understand us, the prisoners of dreams.
I found a girl sitting on the chair vacated by Madhusmita. She stood up when I came near, a smile lit up her lovely face. She bent and touched my feet,
"Uncle, I am Neeraja, Sunila's daughter."
That hit me like a thousand stones, I almost staggered, but recovered quickly. I put my hand on her head in a gesture of blessing,
"You are Sunila's daughter! How is she? Where is she? Here, in Delhi?"
Neeraja shook her head, a cloud of sadness descended on her face like a melancholic mist on a forlorn mountain,
"She is no more uncle, she left us six months back, her body ravaged by cancer, her soul shattered by sadness. Till her last day she used to speak about you with a deep tenderness. She had told me, "You must find Pranay Uncle, and ask him for forgiveness on my behalf. Tell him I always remembered him like a precious, uncut diamond that he was - simple and shining with rare qualities." I asked my mother how would I find you, how would I know you? In reply she closed her eyes for a few moments and a smile spread over her thin face. Then she hummed this song - Sandhya taraa, nisitha batayane.....I knew this was your link to my mother, this immortal song of timeless love, eternal longing."
I looked at Neeraja, my mind numbed by grief at the loss of Sunila, whose ravaged body and shattered soul must have struggled to make her daughter as lovely, as pure as her. Neeraja was exactly like her mother, the way Sunila looked when she was a twenty one years old, dazzling with beauty, and bubbling with youthful mischief. Memory rolled past me like the scenes of a movie, except that it was not a movie, it was my life, her life, the story of our verdant youth.
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Youth! The magical, mesmerising world of timelessness, when days were spent in languid thoughts and nights in lyrical dreams! How could one believe, in the blink of an eye the class room in the Post-Graduate department of Geography would turn into an orchestra of heavenly tunes the moment a tall, lissome girl clad in a green saree with yellow dotted flowers entered. A cute smile, a pair of bright eyes, and a face that could melt the sculpture of Venus - that was Sunila Mishra. A hush would spread over the class of fifteen students with her magical entry and the next moment she would speak to someone, break into a laughter, soft music would float in the room, an unseen butterfly flitting from wall to wall splashing them with a riot of colours. Sunila was the star of our class; in every departmental function she would join the chorus for a devotional song and then take over the singing of one magical song after another. But her signature song was "Sandhyataraa......." It was as if, listening to her, one could close the eyes, transport himself into the cool, dark ethereal space of the sky and feel the evening star melting into a melancholic wait for her lover. The heart would quiver, the soul lost in an ecstasy which could come only from soulful music stirring one's inner depths.
And then one Thursday evening, the unthinkable happened. I was returning to my room after dropping a letter in the post office. Sunila accosted me near the Ladies' hostel,
"What are you doing on Saturday afternoon? Can we go to watch a movie?"
I stood transfixed to the spot, no words came from me.
Sunila smiled, her cute face shone with a soft light,
"You think I don't know what goes on in your mind, when your face lights up at my entry into the classroom? Or the way your eyes keep staring at me when I sing "Sandhyatara...." or the way you keep looking at me, unmindful of Prof. Tarun Ray's lecture? Don't worry, I am not a man-eating tigress that you won't be able to return to your room alive on Saturday evening. Let's go and enjoy the movie, you and me. Will you come?"
I couldn't say a word to Sunila on that cool, autumn evening. I just nodded and she left, aware of how she had made me dumb-struck. It took me a minute to return to the real world from the magic spell of the most stunning girl of our campus. I started walking back to my hostel. Suddenly the road turned into a mosaic of colours, each colour painting my heart with a new thrill. The trees swayed in the cool air, bent their head and blessed me with a hitherto unknown joy. I felt as if I was a wandering mendicant till a few minutes back and suddenly the proverbial royal elephant poured the sacred water from the golden urn on my head to anoint me - Pranay Pradhan, an unknown, poor nobody from a small, hilly village of distant Sundergarh - as the new king of a vast, unending kingdom.
We went to watch the movie on Saturday afternoon. It was Milan, where Nutan and Sunil Dutt pledged themselves to be united in love in every birth. Sitting so close to each other in a movie hall, watching a romantic film, stirred our heart in a way we never knew existed. On the way back, sitting in a cycle rickshaw, our bodies touching each other we chatted like long-lost friends - of our childhood, our adolescence and the many dreams we had. We knew we had given our hearts to each other and there was no looking back after this. For the next six months we spent every evening together, sitting on a bench in the university park or standing under the Gulmohar tree near her hostel. Every waking hour of mine was spent in thinking about Sunila - what would she be doing at the moment, reading a book, combing her long, beautiful hair or dreaming of a colourful future? What saree she would be wearing - my favourite, the green one with yellow dotted flowers or her favourite, the light yellow with small green dots?
And then the most unforgettable night of my life arrived. It was Chaitra Purnami, the culmination of spring festival when a full moon shone the brightest in the sky and created magic waves in whatever it touched. We had the annual cultural festival. Sunila finished her two songs on the stage and came to sit with me. We watched the programme holding hands, the language of our heart reaching out to make us feel overwhelmed under the moonlit sky. After the function was over we walked together to her hostel. And stood on the edge of the big football field awash with the golden moonlight. The night was cold, Sunila came closer to me. She looked into my eyes,
"Do you feel the magic of the moment? Do you realise why the silver light of the moon has mesmerised us, why it has started a soft fire in the green field, in the blue sky and in our hearts? Do you know the moon has become awfully naughty, holding the fire in her hands and asking us to douse it with our love......" There was something in the air that made us forget ourselves. Sunila was looking more stunning than ever. Our faces came closer, she came into my arms and in a moment of helpless abandon our lips met. In those few moments I was transported to an ethereal world which defied a description. It was like flowers opening up to the rising sun in the blissful moments of dawn, it was like the moon everywhere, shedding her soft glow of light to sanctify whatever it touched - the green lawns, the university building, the tower of the temple and the minar of the churches. My heart filled with a joy which I had experienced only in dreams. Sunila's lips were like a streak of moonlight glued to my lips, emitting a warmth that flowed in my body like a soft current of love. For many years after that I would wake up in the middle of night with a warm feel of those lips and like the distant singing of a magic flute it would fill my heart with a melancholic pathos. It was no longer real, but it refused to leave me.
The magic lasted just a few moments. Suddenly Sunila removed herself from my arms and with a soft giggle, she patted me on the cheek and mumbled, 'Shameless!' and ran away to her hostel. I never knew that would be the last time I would see Sunila. I came to my room and spent a night in euphoric joy weaving many dreams with the soft and tender girl. I looked at the moon and felt as if it had entered into my room, got imprisoned in my fist and I was afraid to open It lest the moon ran back to the sky. The next day was a holiday. I drifted off to deep sleep towards early morning and woke up to a mild knock on the door around ten. I opened the door and the next moment I felt as if the earth was slipping from under my feet. The tall, distinguished gentleman in a spotless white dhoti and kurta could be none other than Sunila's father, their facial resemblance unmistakable.
I stood at the door rooted to the spot. He quietly entered my room and closed the door. And did something which was beyond my wildest imagination. He prostrated on the floor, grabbed my feet and kept sobbing,
"Please save me and my family from eternal damnation. We are among the strictest, most conservative Brahmin clans from Puri and cannot accept a non-Brahmin of lower caste into our family. Please spare my daughter, I have heard good things about you, I know you are of a sterling character. My daughter is stubborn, she will not listen to me. Please spare her. I won't get up or leave your feet till you agree to do that."
My heart sank, I had never thought I would face this after a night of endless dreams. I lifted him from the floor, touched his feet and promised to him that I would go away from Sunila to a far-off place where the shadow of my non-Brahmin lower caste would not contaminate her. In a fit of impulse I assured him that I would do it on the same day, Sunila would never see me again. He went away, wiping his tears, a heavy burden lifted from his heart.
I kept my promise. I spent the day collecting my certificates from the university office and boarded a train to Delhi the same evening. From there I went to Baroda and enrolled myself in the Geology department at MS University. I did well, determined to succeed in life. I got a job with the Geological Survey of India and brought my parents to live with me. For the past twenty six years I have not gone back to Odisha, the shadow of a tall, distinguished gentleman clad in a spotless white dhoti and kurta blocking my path every time I thought of doing that.
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Neeraja was looking at me with admiration and awe for an uncle, who was a memory from the past.
"My mother went crazy when you suddenly went missing. But when she came to know the reason her respect for you went sky high. It seemed one of her cousins studying at the university had seen both of you walking away, holding hands, late on the evening of the annual function. He had telephoned her father who promptly landed up at your door the next morning. My mother never forgave her parents for sending you away from her. She told them she would never marry, but they kept on emotionally blackmailing her till she gave in. My father was a sadist. Somehow he came to know about her love for you during the student days and tortured her mentally. Her marriage became a disaster and if I had not come to her world, she probably would have ended her life. In a matter of few years the bubbly, happy girl you had seen as a student became a mental and physical wreck. The prettiest girl in the campus of her university days was reduced to a skeleton, a dark shadow of the dazzling beauty she once was. Yet my father had no pity on her, he was jealous of you who had stolen the heart of his wife and left a permanent imprint there."
Neeraja stopped for a moment and looked away, drawing my attention to a dark, handsome young man sitting on a chair a few feet away,
"Uncle, do you see my husband there? He is from a far away state and is of a different caste. We came to know each other as students here at JNU. When I wanted to marry him, my father threatened to disown me, 'a girl as characterless as her mother.' My mother asked me to follow my heart. That's when she told me everything about you and her. 'If your friend is as good and pure as my Pranay, don't think twice, just marry him. Don't listen to your father and repeat the mistake I made, don't turn your life to a living hell. Live in love, that's the least you can give to your life.' Uncle, it's because of you I made the love of my life a soulmate."
Neeraja bent and touched my feet again, a tear brimming in her eye, in the memory of her departed mother. Her voice heavy with sorrow, she said,
"We didn't know at the time my mother had already cancer in her lungs, a disastrous married life had taken its toll on her. She lived only for six months after our marriage. We wanted to bring her here, but she wanted to spend her last days in Bhubaneswar, in memory of the best days of her life spent in your company. That's when she told me I must find you and ask your forgiveness. Uncle, for young hearts like ours we just can't imagine what magic had bonded you and her. But have you ever asked yourself, whether you did justice to her? Shouldn't you have visited her when she was in suffering, as a physical and mental wreck? May be your visit would have brought some peace to her anguished heart and her ravaged body would have got back some of its lustre?"
I looked at Neeraja, my mind in a turmoil. She was Sunila's daughter and it was as if the young Sunila was standing before me. How could I convince her, the Pranay Pradhan of twenty six years ago was a keeper of his word, this simple, uncluttered young man from the remote hills of Sundergarh could never betray the promise given to Sunila's father. How could I tell her that I was a prisoner of a dream, a dream where a young girl of immense beauty was constantly running away from my arms with a sweet word, "Shameless!" That image had got engraved in my mind and was the stuff of my recurrent dreams. I was a prisoner who had lost his freedom in a kingdom of love and like a slave sold off in a ruthless, heartless market of upper caste - lower caste distinctions, I could never stand up and bid for my lost heart again. This inability, this helplessness, was so personal to me, and to the root of my being, that it was beyond the understanding of the curious onlookers, the likes of my wife Madhusmita or Neeraja or the many friends in the evening party who wondered why my heart had shed tears for a never-forgotten love. It was as real as the moon which I held in my palms on an euphoric night and lost on a cruel, punishing morning.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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