Literary Vibes - Edition CXXVIII (28-Apr-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) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
OUTING AMONG THE BUSHES
02) Dilip Mohapatra
THE FIGHTER COCK
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THE ELIXIR
04) Ajay Upadhyaya
AI: ABSOLUTE INTELLIGENCE
05) Chinmayee Barik
RADIO
06) Ishwar Pati
A PRECIOUS DAY
07) Anasuya Panda
ONLY YOU CAN PAINT THE WALL...
08) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
THE END
09) Prof. Avay Mohapatra
A JOURNEY TO JANNAT
10) Hema Ravi
FREEDOM IS LIMITED
11) Ruchi Pritam
THE LITTLE BROWN GIRL
12) Lathaprem Sakhya
WATER BABY
13) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT THE VAIKOM MOVEMENT
14) Sumitra Kumar
LET’S CHANGE THE INDIAN GARBAGE STORY
15) Sujata Dash
LOVE IN ITS PUREST FORM
16) Sheena Rath
SITA
17) Ashok Kumar Ray
KALI
18) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A NIGHT OF TWO LETTERS
Tarun Bose arrived at the modern part of the city and checked into Amrapali, an upmarket guest house with lodging and boarding facilities. A house hunt started from the next day. Tarun had plans to live in that city for a minimum stint of four years, and staying in Amrapali would not suit his long-term budget. Pinion-riding on the bike of one of his superintendents, Bhavesh, he set out to have a look at each of his superintendent’s many choices of residential houses for him. His subordinate showed him a few houses with three to four rooms, plus hall, kitchen and garden.
Tarun looked at Bhavesh with consternation in eyes followed by a sad and sardonic smile and the clever man understood Tarun’s dismay. He was apologetic to Tarun, “Sir, to me these houses looked suitable to match your status and make you comfortable.” Tarun mildly rebuked, “I clearly remember I informed you I needed a house for myself only preferably one sizeable room with washroom and a door and window opening to outside with a low rent. I would live alone without family. What do I do with all that space?”
Bhavesh expressionlessly mumbled, “That depends. You can do a lot of things with that space” he paused and added, “of your choice.” Tarun’s soft sarcasm had died on the clever man.
He now reverted to something that a man from the material city would understand, “Can I afford, my dear man, the big rent?” The superintendent replied with a deadpan face, “That’s not your bother sir, that part is my worry. See sir, I am not worried. I tell you, none of your predecessors faced any problems ever regarding affordability. They all liked to live in big houses.”
Tarun put his foot down, “Whatever, but the things have changed. Your boss has changed. Please look for a self-contained one-room accommodation for me and show me such rooms to me for my choice if you can manage time. Take a week.”
On the next Sunday, they started again with new enthusiasm. The superintendent took him home before the house-hunt for breakfast. His docile and pretty wife had prepared a nice spread of local dishes for Tarun. He tasted and complimented her on each of her cooking. He felt humbled for the affection she showered on him and more so, when the comely lady asked him to stay with them. The most humbling were her words, “Tarun ji, consider me as your sister, and stay in your sister’s house without hesitation.”
While Tarun moved to the drawing room, his colleague stayed back in the dining room to help his wife clear the breakfast table. That impressed him immensely and he thought to himself, “Even this man, Bhavesh, talking and walking and inclined so materially in attitude, has a latent softer side.” But what fragments from the talk between the couple he overheard, and what he would later hear that day would take his breath away.
“You have a nice boss, Bhavesh.” the wife complimented Tarun behind his back, but his superintendent whispered back to her, “Kanjus!” What he meant, “My boss is a Kanjus, or miser.” Tarun associated his superintendent’s impression to his own uncouth behaviour. He had walked into his house for breakfast empty-handed. But he felt helpless as Bhavesh invited him for breakfast when he was pinion-riding his two-wheeler. Yet he repented that he should have stopped on his way for buying a bouquet of flowers or a box of sweets.
But a few more exchanged whispers confirmed that walking into his house empty-handed did not earn Tarun the sarcastic epithet ‘Kanjus’ but it was his looking for a cheap one-room accommodation.
They went out to see the first house the superintendent had arranged for their survey. It was a large well-furnished room in a bungalow. The room was fitted with a lavish double bed, large working table and a swivel-chair with cushions and armrests, a wardrobe, a comfortable sofa set and two swing chairs. The room was attached to a sizeable washroom with a jacuzzi tub. A modular kitchenet was provided with trolley-fitted-drawers, covered shelves, cooking range with hotplate, microwave woven, dishwasher, and smoke-exhaust, besides quite a stock of crockery and cutlery.
The landlord informed Tarun that the room was fitted for an American couple who lived in it for two years. He quoted a very high rent and Tarun expressed his reluctance with apologies, “Sorry boss, yours is a very comfortably furnished one-room affair. But the rent is beyond my affordability. Sorry.” He overheard a few words from the whispering between his colleague Bhavesh and the landlord, “Constipated Kanjus.” He now understood the full import of ‘Kanjus’. A man behaving miserly even while on his commode.
They went to check with the next landlord. Stopping before a broad iron gate fitted to the low boundary walls of a bungalow, they went through it and entered the property. The main door of the bungalow stood fully ajar but not a soul was in sight. He thought, “Ah, really a trusting lot. Wonderful people!”
The superintendent pressed the doorbell. A lady, aged and gracefully clad with a freshly laundered cotton sari came out of the house and asked them their identity and purpose of visit. Bhavesh spoke to her. It transpired that the superintendent had earlier talked to her on phone and she was the landlady. She brought out a bunch of keys and took them behind the bungalow to show them the room.
She unlocked a room opening to the back side of the bungalow. From across the open door the room looked cosy, furnished warmly for one person. A single-bedded cot with mattresses and sheets by the window overlooking a meadow of intermittent irregular growth of shrubberies. A nice green patch behind the bungalow and beyond the low boundary wall stretched as far as Tarun’s eyes could reach. It was a feast for his eyes. What impressed him more was the rent quoted, quite within his budget.
A study table and by its side a straight-back chair and an empty book rack standing by were his next attractions. The elderly landlady was amused to see the twinkles in Tarun’s eyes. She beamed with a beatific twinkle in her eyes to match his and informed, “It was my son’s study room. But he refused to study beyond his eighth standard. But my Jignesh was good at business.”
She went nostalgic, “I gave him a wad of currency notes to set up a startup type business. He instead bribed his way into Canada using that money and joined a laundry there as an apprentice and helping hand to the owner. He in no time owned that laundry replacing its Canadian owner. In five years flat, he owned a chain of laundries in the town and today, over the last twenty-years in Canada, his ownership company has hundreds of outlets in many cities.”
“Very fast, really fast.” Tarun commented with appreciation. Then asked, “How did he rise so fast on a foreign soil?” She was now patting Tarun’s back in a condescending manner, “You are my son’s age. I heard you want this small room to live. So small a room! Your wants are small. Because your ambition is small. Had it been my son, he would have wanted to hire the entire bungalow. He thinks big, you know, very big. He is over ambitious, the opposite of you.”
Tarun was still curios, “But how did your Jignesh rise so fast in a new line of job, I mean, ‘Laundry’ was not your family business but ‘Trading in Hing (asafoetida)’ was, and still is as Bhavesh tells me, as well as tells the odour that wafts from inside of your bungalow. That’s besides, he succeeded so fast in an alien country, where he entered with forged papers what I gathered from your talk, madam? You just said, he bribed his way into Canada’. What was his secret?”
The landlady preened with pride, “Dikra (an affectionate way of addressing juniors), it is no secret. We as a community call that as ‘the art of topi pahnao or takia badlao’(Tarun knew that the literal meaning was, ‘Put your cap or blame on some one’s head or steal someone’s pillow or advantage, and do these exchanges when the victim is trusting you and is oblivious of your intention. But idiomatically it meant outright cheating).”
The lady continued, “The topi or pillow are to be exchanged when when someone is peacefully asleep. My son inherited that art in his blood. My son found that the people of Canada were a simple and trustful lot. They sleep very peacefully after their daylong hard work. That helped my son. He crawled up the ladder of success when they slept over losing it.”
Tarun was no more listening to her compliments for her son in Canada. He had lost respect for the respected-looking lady. But the affordable room rent was still his priority. He wanted to hire the room if found otherwise ok.
He looked at his superintendent who looked away in the another direction, perhaps out of embarrassment for his own people’s self-admitted ‘Topi pahnao’ art. Tarun looked along the little lane running by the front of the house. A few passers-by were passing by. They seemed each clutching a pillow under his or her arm that was stolen from someone else when the latter was sleeping peacefully. I suddenly panicked for my imaginary pillow.
The spell broke as the landlady snorted. Tarun could not hazard why she had snorted. He wondered, a community he had complimented minutes ago as a trusting lot for keeping doors of houses ajar and unguarded, now had lost their trustworthiness. He decided to be on his guard all the years he would live in that material city.
He brusquely asked, “May I madam, have a look at the room’s interior?” “Sure, check for yourself if you don’t trust me.” I entered, she followed me and my superintendent followed her. I saw another door connecting the room to the sprawling drawing room of the house. I looked for the door to the washroom but found none. I asked, “Washroom?”
The lady replied, “My son never needed one.” Tarun demanded, “But I or any tenant would need one. Or, am I expected to use a washroom on your side through this connecting door? It will be a bit inconvenient but I would manage.” She was equally rude this time, and shook her head, “No, I won’t allow you to use ours.” Tarun found it humorous.
He couldn’t help, but joked, “Then madam, where do I go for my nature’s call?” She looked out of the back window like a prospector. Her limpid eyes even in that age looked pretty and black. Those beautiful clear black eyes surveyed the large stretch of bushes behind the house, as if prospecting it for Tarun’s use during his nature’s calls.”
He couldn’t supress a tongue-in-cheek, “You mean madam, I will take nature’s call among those bushes….” Tarun spread his arms wide to indicate the full vista of bushes and meadows behind her bungalow. But her repartee was alarming, “I won’t object to that. You may go ahead and have outings into those bushlands whenever you need.”
She went nostalgic and dreamy, “How amazing it would be, meeting people there and making new friends. And what friendship! How deeply would those friends relate to one another who make friendship in a space as private as a washroom, but as large and airy as miles of bushland and meadows of Savanna…..And at your age, and in your shoes, I would enjoy doing that. Getting up in a morning and taking refreshing strolls into those bushes with a pail of water in hand… and…. and….” She slowly turned and her disembodied voice petered off to a whisper as she saw us walking away.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
Someone was ringing the door- bell repeatedly. Mrs Neelam Kapoor in her dressing gown came rushing to open the door. She squinted her eye to see through the peep hole. There stood her husband, Colonel Karan Kapoor, sweating and puffing almost looking like an infuriated rhino about to charge at her. She opened the door carefully and stepped aside to let him in. Col Kapoor flush with visible anger made his way to his recliner and plonked himself into it and started rocking vigorously. Mrs Kapoor knew all the signs and walked quietly to him and ran her fingers through the scant hair that was left on his crown. He took some time to cool down and become steady.
‘What happened, my dear?’, asked Mrs Kapoor cautiously.
‘The future of the world is doomed. And you know who’s responsible? It’s the new generation, this new breed of kids who would ultimately take our civilized world to extinction. I really don’t know whom to blame. Whether it’s them or their parents who do not inculcate the right value system in them!’
‘It’s quite late in the evening. What did you see at this unholy hour? Normally your after- dinner walks are uneventful. What happened today? ’
‘You see, as usual I finished my three rounds around the society perimeter and went for my final few rounds in the society garden. While I was rounding off the eastern corner, I saw some movements on the big swing under the gazebo. The light bulb was flickering in that corner and in the ambient light I took some time to make out the silhouettes of two human forms on the swing. It was quite eerie and ghostly. I walked slowly closer to the swing and guess what did I discover?’
‘What did you see?’, asked Mrs Kapoor excitedly.
‘The two human forms, one male and the other female were locked in a tight embrace and were smooching passionately, totally oblivious of my presence. When I coughed loudly to announce my arrival, they separated and the boy stood up. Before I could say anything, he took to flight. But I recognized him. Meanwhile the girl got up and stood opposite me, glaring at me. She didn’t make any effort to run away and faced me squarely. Guess who could that be?’
‘Tell me who?’
‘It will shock you. She’s none other than Leena, our neighbour Sachin’s 14 year old daughter. I still remember when she was born and how she used to play with me the teacher-student game as a child. How was she thrilled to give me zero mark as my teacher for my deliberately given stupid answers!”
‘Oh my God! Tell me what happened?’
‘She confronted me and asked me what the hell was wrong if she kissed a boy and accused me of being an old foggy who doesn’t know how to respect one’s privacy. In fact, she started explaining the pleasures of kissing and told me to go home and try it out with you now to re-discover the joys of kissing and revitalize myself!’
‘Oh, that brat! How could she? I can never imagine her being so insolent! I must speak to her mother about it.’
‘When I tried to reason out about the wrong choice of her boy- friend, she told blatantly for me to mind my own business and not to give any moral lecture. She told me that she was old enough to decide for herself and only her parents may have rights to guide her and advise her but who the hell was I to interfere.’
‘Who was that boy?’
‘Rafique, son of Mohammed Shaikh staying in Marigold building. That boy who was in the news recently for having been apprehended by the police for eve teasing at the Season’s Mall. Police had also suspected him for being a druggie. His father had to use his political connections to get him out on bail.’
‘OK, now you cool down. I am going to make you your favourite cup of hot chocolate. You have it. Relax and take rest. Take it off your chest. I will speak to her mother and ask them to spend some quality time in parenting their daughter.’
Col Kapoor’s last posting before his superannuation was at the Army Southern Command Headquarters at Pune. On retirement he decided to settle down in Pune, like most veterans do because of its salubrious climate. The veterans’ community at Pune continues to live in a life style that the members were used to while in service and enjoys medical and health care support, sporting facilities like golfing, swimming, tennis and services officers’ clubs created over time. Col Kapoor used almost his entire life’s savings to acquire a three bedroom flat in a newly constructed and gated housing society called Brindavan Enclave in Vimaan Nagar area. The society consisted of five seven- storied buildings, named after common flowers like Marigold, Jasmine, Astor, Adenium and Laburnum. The builder of the society had offered some concession to the defence officers in the rates and thus the society had a considerable number of veterans as its residents. Col Kapoor moved into his apartment couple of years ago with his wife Neelam. His two children who were in their late twenties were independent and lived separately at their work places, Delhi and Bangalore.
Col Kapoor took some time to adjust to the fact that his active and fast- moving Army life was losing its sheen and becoming rather routine and sluggish. He was looking for avenues that could keep him gainfully busy. He thought of getting involved in the housing society’s activities and promote a healthy and secured community living. Since the society was new, the administration continued to remain with the builder and the responsibilities were yet to be handed over to the residents’ management committee. But a voluntary residents’ committee was formed temporarily to take care of the society. The Col volunteered to be a member. The first thing the Col did was to set up a WhatsApp group for the residents, a platform to share society related information and administer various social functions. Though initially it took off well, soon it became contaminated with unwarranted and biased posts on politics and religion, congested with unverified forwarded messages leading to unending debates resulting in creation of conflicts and bad blood amongst the members. The Col as the administrator of the group took stringent action against the perpetrators by admonishing them and blocking them from the group. These people were his first set of detractors.
Quite a number of incidents followed over time which gave a distinct identity to the Col’s image in the society. He hardly resembled to one as portrayed in Hindi movies: a character invariably gun-toting, loud-mouthed, red-eyed, pipe-smoking, one with a handle bar moustache, sporting a trouser with suspenders and a rough and tough shirt with shoulder straps, a combat beret, completed with heavy ankle boots. He was rather lean and thin, with very unassuming looks but he quite often sported a hat and carried a well- polished baton in hand, a reminder of his days when he commanded a battalion.
Unaccustomed to indiscipline, he had very low tolerance for people not following rules and codes of conduct. In the process, he had several encounters with the society residents on several issues. One such incident that flared up to an ugly confrontation, when the Col tried to prevent a lady resident from plucking flowers from the society gardens. The society had a nice garden in its premises which had variety of flower plants meticulously tended and nurtured by the society’s gardener. Myriad flowers bloomed around: hibiscus, marigold, periwinkle, adenium and the like. But the flowers were plucked by some residents for personal use and the plants always presented a denuded look. No one could pinpoint who were plucking them away. One day Col Kapoor woke up early and positioned himself on a bench in the garden and discovered that a lady from the nearby Jasmine building was surreptitiously gathering the flowers in cloth bags. The Col got up and confronted her, requesting her politely not to pluck the flowers since it was prohibited by the Society’s rules. He read out the notice from the board nearby. The lady argued that she was a resident of the society and she too had claims on everything that is common to all residents. She also justified her action by stating that the flowers were for puja and the purpose defeated her action. The arguments became louder and soon her husband joined the fray, accusing the Col of being rude and indecent to the lady. Before the scuffle could flare up further the Col withdrew with apologies but later took up the matter with the management committee and added a monetary fine clause to the notice on prohibition to pluck flowers. This intervention though could not completely eradicate the misdeed it certainly reduced the incidents.
In another incident, the Col confronted a resident, a real estate agent who regularly parked his second car in the visitors’ parking. The society had facilities for both covered parking and open parking for the residents, which were allotted to them. In addition, there were few slots for each building earmarked for the visitors. Still some additional slots were available with the society on rent to residents if they needed space for their second car. When the Col identified the habitual offender and requested him to rent a space for his second car rather than usurping a space assigned for visitors, the guy almost came to fisticuffs and challenged the Col’s authority to confront him. The Col called the security staff and got the car pushed off from the slot. Finally, the offender removed the car but threatened the Col with dire consequences. After few days the Col found his parked car badly scratched with a sharp object.
Nothing deterred the Col from intervening in affairs which he considered inappropriate. The society was divided between dog lovers and others. The dog lovers insisted on allowing strays to be fed and accommodated within the society premises. The others objected to such practices since they could be a menace to the small children and senior citizens. There had been heated debates between the two groups on the internal WhatsApp platform. One of the dog lovers fought with the security personnel who drove away one stray which had entered the society premises and got it back into the society. Later that stray delivered few pups in someone’s garage. When the gentleman entered his garage to get his car out, the stray attacked him. This incident brought the residents on the road and the two groups assembled on both sides of the battle line. The Col, though himself a pet lover and who had a pet dog at home, argued in favour of the injured, with the premise that when it comes to human safety any threat should be eliminated. The Col was vociferous to prove the point and the majority supported his views. The dog lover who was in favour of the strays accepted to get the pups adopted and the stray spayed.
The Society celebrates two religious festivals with ardent fervour: Vinayak puja and Navaratri. Every resident contributes lavishly to the events. All residents with the family members congregate in the central garden and participate in various events arranged for the occasion. One of the undesirable fall-out of these celebrations, centres around unrestrained blaring of music leading to noise pollution. Although the local laws in force prohibit playing of music below a specified decibel level, in practice the revelers care too hoots and exceed the decibel level by few times! There is also a time limit laid down which prohibits celebrations beyond 10 PM. Brindavan society was no different. Generally, the senior citizens of the society take a stance of ‘grin it and bear it’. But on one such occasion during the Navaratri, while the ‘dandia dance’ session was in progress, when the decibel level touched extreme right, the Col could not tolerate it any more. Earlier he had requested the organisers to keep in mind the discomfort to the senior citizens who would like to go to bed rather early and who need peace and quiet, and they had agreed to keep everything under control. The Col went down and requested the organisers to reduce the sound volume. They smiled and brought it down. But as soon as the Col was back home, the volume again was turned up to its peak, as if to tease him. It was nearing 10 PM. So the Col kept quiet hoping the dance to finish in few minutes. But to his dismay the dancing continued with the sound level as high as ever. The Col decided to give a call to the Police Control Room and seek their help. In few minutes the Police came and impounded the sound equipment.
Through many such similar incidents, the Col earned a nick name for himself amongst the disgruntled: The Fighter Cock. The senior lot however regarded him as the conscience keeper of the society and respected him. But the black spot against the white always remains more prominent.
Col Kapoor was again on his after- dinner walk, around the society campus, followed by the rounds on the joggers’ track in the society garden. As he walked on he saw the dilapidated swing and again the scene flashed across his mind: the young 14- year old Leena cosying up with Rafique. What really hurt him most was the way Leena had spoken to him. He had carried the girl in his arms as a baby, and played numerous games with her as a child on his iPad. How could she show him such disrespect?
Suddenly he woke up from his reverie as a sharp cry ‘help, help’ pierced his ears. He rushed towards the swimming pool from where the cry emanated. As he closed the pool he found some noise in the change room area. As he entered the shower area and the change room he found Leena on the ground spread eagled, two boys holding her legs and Rafique on top of her. The Col leapt on Rafique, pulled him apart, while the other two boys pounced on him. They freed Rafique from his hold and all three ran away. The Col picked up Leena and made her stand. He then held her arm to steady her up and slowly made her walk towards her apartment. Leena was gasping for breath and sobbing profusely, thanking him in an undertone when they reached her door. He pressed the door bell and as Leena’s mother opened the door and Leena rushed inside, the Col collapsed and fell to the floor in a heap. The attackers had plunged a knife into his chest and he was gasping for breath. Soon every-thing was still. The Col had breathed his last. The brave-heart who had survived two wars while in uniform, finally attained his martyrdom in the war of life.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
He had never travelled to this part of the country. He didn’t even care such places existed. He had to book a taxi, board two buses and catch a train, all in a day. He found the taxi driver disagreeable, and the co-passengers in the bus loud and dirty. The train ride was fine. An old man returning from one pilgrimage and going on another was a great solace. He seemed to know all about how to be on a train.
Maheshwar heaved a sigh. What if he was not lucky enough to have had such a companion? How could he find out where to get water to drink and where to buy food?
Maheshwar would not have gone on such a long and hazardous journey had it not been for his wife. His love for her was not much but her headache had become too severe for her to give him any peace of mind. They had consulted several specialists and surprisingly it was one of them who told Maheshwar to try a tribal cure. The tribals living in the Western Ghats had strange elixirs for a few chronic illnesses and this kind of headache was one of them.
And here he was. He got off the bus at a desolate place which he thought was at the foot of the hill where the Adivasi Mooppan, the tribal chief lived. He was believed to be more than a century and a half old. When many people half his age could no longer see or hear, this medicine man had no such issues. If all he heard were true, his wife’s headache, which was his headache too, would be cured forever.
Maheshwar was shocked to find that he was nowhere near the foot of the hill where the medicine man lived. There was no way he could reach there and return that day. He had to find a place to stay and continue his journey the next morning. Find a place to stay in a village like this? Nobody seemed to have a place of their own there. What people called their homesteads were not even eligible to be called huts. He was not surprised or notably thankful when almost everyone in that village offered their place for him to stay. There was nothing much in the offering anyway. But that was not the case with the food they brought to him. He had never had anything so tasty. When one is hungry, anything tastes great, he remembered. He told them he would sleep in the open, under a banyan tree outside their tiny temple.
He was unceremoniously woken up the next day by a dog whose place he had usurped the previous night. However, he was ceremoniously greeted by two people each of whom had brought him a cup of tea. The super strong tea was mostly thick milk. They said the tea was homemade. He thought of buying some on his way back. He told them he was sorry he could not accept their invitation to breakfast. He wanted to start before sunrise. They said it was a wise choice. They showed him a mud road which disappeared into the morning mist.
He said bye to them and took the mud road. He took a stick with him just in case something wild stood in his way. He was still tired and using the stick to support him made him look pretty old. As he hurried down the path, he could hear the villagers laughing out loud. Why were they laughing while saying bye to him? How mean! Wasn’t that the right path? Was it possible that they would play such a prank on him? For all these reasons, he felt relieved when they left him alone. He enjoyed his solitude. He was one with nature now. He sensed the blood of some wild animal streaming in his veins. He felt unwound. He could be what he really was. He thought he was the wild animal which might impede the path of another living being now. He threw the stick away and flailed the mist swinging his arms. He dropped all his inhibitions and engaged in fist fights with the low branches of trees and kicked with his boots every stone as big as his foot, like a coach passing the ball to his players.
He met five people at different spots along his way. They all assured him he was on the right path. Could he trust them? What if this was a trick the villages played on anyone who intruded into their life? Checking with four to validate the information given by the first was sheer stupidity. If one could cheat, all of them could cheat him. Still, he hoped for more people to get their assurance too.
By noon he reached the top of the hill. He looked down the steep cliff on the other side. Trying as much as he did, he could not recall the name of the madman who rolled a stone up a hill and let it go down the other side. The face of one of his old colleagues came to his mind, a cantankerous fellow who used to carry a heavy load of files from the office shelf to his desk in the morning only to carry them back to the shelf in the evening without checking even a sheet in them. His name was Narayanan. Where could that drunkard be now?
He felt a jolt as a frail hand fell on his shoulder. He suddenly turned around and saw a weak old man, in tattered clothes, facing him. He looked exactly like the picture of the madman in the comic book he had read as a child. Could this be the real Madman of Naraanathth? He was amused to see how the name came to him when he was in the least trying to recall it.
“Are you mad to stand there carelessly on this cliff?” asked the old man with an air of authority which one could least expect from such a figure.
“I am sure I am insane. Not because I stand here carelessly on this cliff. But because I climbed this hill in search of a medicine man. No one seems to be living here. Are you from around here? Do you know such a medicine man?”
“I know who you are talking about. But I don’t know him that well,” said the old man and laughed for no apparent reason. “But if you are here looking for a herb, maybe I can help you.”
“Forget it, I am going back. It was a waste of my time. I don’t want to waste your time too.”
“Remember, you can’t go back without the herb you have come here to collect. Your patient will be mad at you. And what else is time for, unless it is to waste like money? Come on, tell me. Is it backache or tummy ache or cramps?”
“None of them. It is my wife. She has a really bad chronic headache. I heard that there is an elixir here, some herb known only to the Adivasi Mooppan.”
“So sorry to hear that. I am the only Adivasi Mooppan here. There was such a herb.
Very hard to find nowadays. I used to collect and distribute it. Now I don’t do it anymore. I don’t even mention it now. You will have to go back empty-handed.”
Instead of feeling sad, Maheshwar felt that he was much relieved now. He had kept his word to his wife. He had travelled for a day and a half. It is her bad luck. What else?
“Sorry. But you look very tired. Come to my hut, it is a few steps down the hill. Have some food and drink and then you can roll down the hill.” The old man laughed out loud.
Hut? Maheshwar was sure he had seen no hut on his way up. But as they walked down the hill by another path, he spied a small hut. This was not the way he went up. Even if this was the way, the hut was so much in sync with the wilderness, one could easily miss it.
The food and drink the old man offered was nothing less than a feast. He wanted to give something to the old man but there was no way the old man was going to take something from him. Proudly the old man told him, “The rich should not take from the poor.” Maheshwas chose to ignore that comment.
In every other way, the old man was very nice to him. He told Maheshwar that he had made arrangements for his stay down in the village. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” said the old man.
“And even though I didn’t accept your money, I thank you for offering it. From the way you offered it, I think you are not used to such things. So, this is a start. Try not to take that money home. I don’t take any money home since it gives me a headache if I do.” Again the old man laughed for no reason.
Maheshwar didn’t want to stay on that hill any longer. He feared the old man might push him down the hill to see him roll all the way down. Exactly then as if he had read Maheshwar’s mind, the old man said to Maheshwar, “Have no fear.”
,Maheshwar walked down the hill rather slowly. He had decided to throw the money into any waterbody he saw on the way. He didn’t want to take it home. What if it was evil like the old man said? He didn’t want to take the risk. He wandered into the forest at several places looking for a pond or a rivulet. He couldn’t find any. He saw all the people he had met on his way up. They all smiled at him knowingly.
There was no need to hurry. No matter when he reached the village, he would have to spend the night there. When he finally reached the village, he found that the old man was as good as his word. Everything was taken care of. The village people decorated a hut with palm leaves and oil lamps to make it look like a temple. All of them looked so happy and peaceful like the old man on top of the hill. He purposely avoided mentioning the fool’s errand he had. He was sure it would make them sad. Why should it make them sad? He was a total stranger to them, just a wayfarer. But soon he remembered the stories he had heard as a child, stories about how people used to be kind and nice to lost travellers and wayfarers. In his mother’s home, there was a huge earthen pot which was used to be filled with water and placed outside the gate for pedestrians to drink from. Later it was replaced by a street pipe. It broke and was never fixed. He decided to get it fixed on his next visit.
The next morning, he woke up late and rushed through his morning routine. He was buttoning his shirt when he heard the bus honking. He rushed out without buttoning his shirt properly. The villagers had stopped the bus for him. Seeing how he was wearing his shirt, they all laughed. They laugh at anything, he noticed. He boarded the bus and said a hurried goodbye to the villagers. They laughed again. As the bus moved, he realized that he had not left his address with them. He had written it down but was still holding the paper. He rolled it into a ball and threw it at the villagers. Some boys ran after it. Then the conductor lugged a bundle toward his seat. A gift of fruits from the villagers. He picked a few half-ripe ones and gave over the rest of it to all the passengers. Travel light, he told himself. But he doubted whether that was why he gave away the fruits. He suddenly remembered the money he was supposed to part with before he went home.
Like Kuchela back in his home, he found that his house looked different. Like the village hut he was given the previous night, all the lamps were lit and his wife was right in the courtyard, with no trace of a headache. Seeing him, she laughed like the villagers laughed when he said bye to them. She had not laughed like this for ages. What was all this celebration about? It was not his birthday, he was sure. It was not their wedding anniversary, he was damn sure.
“Happy Birthday!” greeted his wife.
“Whose?”
“Why! Yours, you lunatic! Where is the sweet?”
“I had no money.”
“Sure you had enough when you left home.”
“Yes, but I gave it away. I had to. I was supposed to.” He could not express it properly.
“How is your migraine now?” he managed to ask.
“I gave it away, I had to, I was supposed to,” she mimicked him and laughed at her own performance.
****************************
Two years later, one morning, three young men from that remote village came looking for Maheshwar. They had brought a bundle of herbs. He thanked them and told them he didn’t need them anymore. He and his wife had breakfast with them. His wife offered them some money but they did not take it.
“The rich should not take from the poor” Maheshwar told them.
His wife was puzzled, but the young men smiled.
Maheshwar told them they could sell the bundle of herbs at a shop.
“No, we were told to throw it in the waste bin if you don’t need it.”
For no obvious reason, Maheshwar started laughing.
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.
Do you want me to tell you a story? Pinged my laptop.
Every time I turn on my laptop, a message appears on the screen. It usually reads, “What is on your mind today?” or “What is the joke of the day?” I ignore such inane messages and move on.
“Do you want me to tell you a story?”
This message today was slightly different; it had a personal touch. I might have been tempted to oblige but it was definitely not the day for stories. My head was bursting with more serious stuff. My brain was saturated with facts and figures, leaving me in no mood to indulge in fiction.
As a scientist, research grant is my life blood. My professional progress is predicated on a succession of successful grant applications, which secures the salary for my staff including myself. Even before one project gets under way, I would be already working on the next study and busy drafting the application for the grant money. Fortunately, I have never had a fallow period for long. The spree of grants guaranteed a seamless stream of studies for years without interruption. My research career had not merely survived, it had flourished under the thrust and excitement of this frenzied rush. Well, until now, when my luck seemed to have run out. I have been stumped by the current grant application.
For months, I have been grappling with the application for this grand project on which I am the principal investigator. Its scope has made it the most ambitious study so far involving collaboration of a team of researchers across a number of disciplines. But as its scope expanded, the progress of the project slowed down.
The atmosphere in the team started off as collegial when disagreements could be ironed out easily. As the team expanded with other disciplines joining the project, the group became less cohesive. Differences in view point turned into disputes and varying perspectives depending on discipline became discords. Soon, cracks started to appear in consensus on key steps of the project. Call it turf war or fight for supremacy, it became increasingly harder to settle differences. Steering the project gradually demanded less scholarship and more skill in conflict resolution. The atmosphere turned increasingly acrimonious and the study stalled.
The project underwent several revisions and the application correspondingly had to go through a series of drafts. But the end was still nowhere in sight. It was a race against time to meet the deadline for submitting the application and my patience was wearing thin. It was a mammoth study, spanning a period of ten years and the funding it attracted was huge. By virtue of its extent in scope, duration and most importantly the quantum of funding, this multi phased study was a crucial step for my progress on the academic ladder. Certainly, this project would decide my future. It was no exaggeration to say that my life, at least my professional life, hinged on its success.
The crunch time had arrived for finalising the application. Reluctantly, I concluded that the collaborative team project had to be disbanded. I had just called an emergency meeting for the group and made a snap announcement that the grand project was off. In its place, I decided to go solo, with a modified project. But this was easier said than done. Now, I had the daunting task of rewriting the application in a matter of days.
As I contemplated redrafting it as a slim-lined study, it did not sound so exciting any more. It was no longer ground-breaking in its scope nor novel in its design. In fact, it seemed so insipid that I would have rejected it for funding it if I were the judge on the approval panel. It was soon dawning on me that perhaps, I had killed off the project in my fit of fury.
As I closed the page on the computer screen, the message about the story pinged again. This process kept repeating and by the third or the fourth round, in stead of closing the page I responded by a “No”.
And I thought, that was the end of it.
Annoyingly, the message refused to go away. I was once again staring at the screen, with the question: “Do you want me to tell you a story?”
I was dying to make a start on my fresh application for my research grant. But I was trapped; it seemed, I had no choice but to listen to its story. The persistence of the computer was exasperating. How dare this goddamn machine force me to listen to some stupid story. Don’t I have the brains for deciding what I need? Can I not have the last word on what I want to do?
This affront to my autonomy, I had taken for granted, enraged me. How can this story be more important than the draft of my research grant, anyway? The more I thought about it, firmer became my resolve to defy it. By now, I was determined to challenge the machine’s insistence on telling me a story.
I was ready for a fight and replied by a capital “NO”.
The next message on the screen set my blood to boil. It was once again the same stupid question about some silly story.
This drove me insane. In an impulse, I picked up the laptop and smashed it on the ground with all my might. The computer split open, with its components broken into pieces and its screen fragmented into smithereens, strewn across the floor.
I sat stupefied on my chair, horrified at the enormity of my mistake, staring at the catastrophic result of my rage. But, what happened next was miraculous. I didn’t know what to make of what I was seeing.
The splintered components of the laptop pulled themselves together, as if drawn by an invisible magical force, to reassemble back to the original structure.
I was least prepared for such drama. Nonetheless, my first reaction was one of instant relief to see my precious laptop intact again. But, it was spooky to watch my laptop’s behaviour, as if it had acquired a new spark of life. The unearthly scene jolted me, pushing me back on my chair. It felt like was watching a video clip of an exploding laptop played backwards.
“Is it real?”
I rubbed my eyes to make sure of what I was seeing. The next thing that happened was even more scary. The laptop flew back to sit on my desk, as if it was simply reversing its trajectory.
What I saw on the screen sent shivers up my spine. The reassembly of the laptop was a miracle. But I assumed that was enough for a day. I did not expect it to function any more. Spookily,It had the same question, that had provoked my fury and the cataclysmic act of destruction. Now, I knew what to answer but I was paralysed with fear.
As if it could sense my fright, by way of soothing my nerves, the message on the screen changed to, “This story is highly recommended for you.”
This placatory message appeared to have the desired effect; I could feel my customary composure beginning to return. I was nonetheless intrigued by the machine’s assertion. Where does it get the authority from? How does it know, what is good for me? Nevertheless, I had collected myself together to be able to respond with a firm “Yes”.
From my laptop’s mysterious behaviour today I did not know what to expect next. Somewhat dazed, I remained glued to the computer screen, as if my gaze would somehow tie it to the table top and stop it from flying back to the floor.
The story started with a rather drab beginning.
There was, once, a professor, working in a prestigious University. He was highly regarded in his field and was a world authority in his area of study. He was held in awe in the scholarly circle for his academic prowess and acerbic wit. But, only people in his inner circle knew of a serious character flaw he had, a foul temper. He didn’t suffer fools gladly and didn’t mince his words if he was crossed or questioned without sufficient grounds.
At home, his temper was at its most vile. He had a broken marriage and lived with his long suffering servant, who unfortunately was at the receiving end of his short fuse. The slightest mistake by the servant would set him off; he would shout at him in the most foul language. And his abusive behaviour didn’t stop there. If he did not get his way, he would not hesitate to resort to physical violence. The poor servant tried his best not to upset the professor and stuck to him perhaps out of loyalty.
One day, the professor returned from work earlier than usual. But he expected his dinner to be ready by the time he reached home.
“Why is the dinner not ready?” He screamed.
“Forgive me Sir. I was busy today tidying up the house. The joint of lamb is already in the oven and will be ready in forty minutes.”
“Forty minutes wait!” the professor thundered. He was incandescent with rage and he struck the servant with a mighty blow. It was so violent that the servant collapsed instantly on the spot. The servant was in fact dead from that massive blow. The professor was least bothered by the grotesque incident. He was so callous that he made no attempt to revive him. He calmly proceeded to bury him in a shallow grave in his garden.
Surprisingly, the professor went on with his routine, totally unperturbed. Next day, he went to work, as if nothing untoward had happened. When he returned home, a rather gory sight was waiting for him. His servant dug himself out of the grave in the garden and walked into the house. He greeted the professor in his customary way and announced that the dinner was ready. As the professor sat at the dining table, he calmly pulled the joint of lamb out of the oven and put it in front of him. The professor ate it without a word.
The story’s macabre plot was beginning to give me an eerie feeling. I could sense a gripping horror as I visualised the battered servant rising out of the grave, and trundling along the garden towards the oven. I could imagine him taking the dish out and serving it to the professor.
Strangely, the professor’s household routine rolled on as if everything was normal. But, everything was not the same. The meat from the oven, that was served to the professor, day after day, started to shrivel up. It dried into a dark leather like stuff. It tasted horrible too.
“But the professor did not have to eat it. Couldn’t he say no?” I piped in.
“No, he had no choice but to eat it.”
The meat soon got putrefied and it smelt rotten. But the professor had to eat it silently without a word of protest.
Several days passed and this routine was repeated until there was hardly any meat left on the dish. It had decomposed into a miasma of organic matter swarming in maggots with a horrible stench. For a dish of food, it was the most revolting sight imaginable.
“Surely, the professor could not eat that.”
“No, he had to eat what was put on the table, because that was the dinner he had demanded.”
“But, how many days more did he continue with eating the decomposed food? Clearly it was no longer edible.”
“No, you are mistaken. The mild mannered servant still looked meek but under the circumstances his unspoken instructions were too imposing to ignore.”
“So, how long could this go on for?” I could not help asking.
“Till he dropped dead.”
Then the computer screen went blank. And so did my mind. The chilling story by now, had frozen my thought process. It felt as if I was watching a horror movie.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the contraption on the table, intently watching for the next flicker of activity, or should I say, sign of life. It had mysteriously metamorphosed into this enigmatic creature with paranormal powers. Underneath its inert exterior, I could imagine an intricate array of frantic actions in its inner organs, working furiously towards launching its next show. But in today’s freaky backdrop, I did not have a clue as to what might spring from this strange specimen. I sat petrified on my chair, dreading the next wave of terror in this grisly spectacle.
I had goose bumps wondering if the next ping would read: Do you want to hear another story?
Author’s Note: The plot of the story (of the professor) within the story is not my own. I heard it in a radio play while driving to work. Although I want to acknowledge it and give credit to its creator I simply don’t know the source of this story. I have taken the liberty of using it as a parable for my story, which was triggered by an interview of Bill Gates, I heard subsequently, again on radio, with him extolling the unparalleled potentials of Artificial Intelligence (AI).
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya )
Every morning, the radio blares to wake me up. I try to block its deafening sound by thrusting the pillow against my ears, muffle the annoying noise by turning side, hoping to get back to sleep again. But, nothing works. This puny contraption is powerful enough to ruin my morning. Call it an overre-action, if you like. In my desperation, I turn to the Lord begging for divine intervention. I pray for the radio to pack up, so that my mornings are left in peace.
This anecdote from years ago, trivial though it seems, is hard to forget. The touching story behind it, still vivid in my memory, intrigued me at the time. As it springs to my mind from time to time, it per-turbs me till today. I am transported back in time and can recall when the poignancy of its human drama hit me; it blew my mind, reducing me to a helpless mental wreck.
It was my first posting in my new job. The place was in the tribal district and I had never heard its name before. The news left me with mixed feelings. The joy of getting a job was marred by the pro-spect of being banished off the civilised world. With rudimentary infrastructure and barely basic amenities, the tribal zone in Odisha is so rustic that I considered rejecting the job offer. Nobody, I knew, in their right mind, would opt for such a God forsaken place. But the combined circumstances of my chronic unemployment and a desperate need for a steady income forced my hand. Half heartedly, I packed some clothes and a few essential items of toiletry and set off for my new world. Leaving the familiarity of home for the unknown wilderness had depressed my spirit. But, it got a lift en route. As my bus rode through the hilly terrain of the tribal belt, I could feel my spirits buoyed by the bucolic beauty. I hadn’t seen anything like this before, except in pictures. Now, I was in the mid-dle of this enchanting landscape.
As I got off the bus, I was greeted by a genial gentleman of mature age in khaki shorts, “You must be Akash babu. Am I right?” (Babu roughly means Sir. It is a suffix added to names in addressing an-yone older or senior as a mark of respect) I quickly glanced around to scan my surroundings and acknowledged him. He gave me a big grin and said with a glow of satisfaction, “Sir, I rarely go wrong in recognising people. From your clothes and manners, I could easily make out you are a town gentry. I am the gardener from your office. The Big Boss at the Office had shown me your photo with instructions to pick you up from the bus stand. Our office is not far from here. It is a walk-ing distance.”
He lifted my bag to his head and started walking. I followed him like an obedient child. From his ini-tial description of “not too far” I expected to reach the office soon. But after covering about a kilome-tre, there was still no sign of the office in sight. “Sir, how much farther do we have to walk to reach your blessed office?” I asked, half-teasing.
Without turning back to me his nonchalant reply was, “Not much really. It is over there; you can see it soon.”
I was relieved, when we finally reached the office. After completing the formalities of signing up in my new job and taking up of my post, I enquired about my accommodation. Without looking up, the Big boss replied from behind his glasses, “The gardener uncle (It is common to refer to older men as uncle, as a mark of respect for their age) has managed to arrange a suitable rented accommodation for you. It is close to his own house. The office jeep is out on business now, due to return any time. As soon as it comes back, it will drop you at your accommodation. The gardener uncle will look after you and help you to settle in your new home.”
In a short while, we were driven to my rented house. The owner of the property did not live in it. The main building comprised two large rooms, with an attached kitchen. The bathroom and toilet were situated behind the main building. There was a large barren garden in the compound of the house. The gardener uncle told me how he had eyed this spacious property for me since he learnt of my posting a month ago. He had negotiated quite favourable rental terms with the property owner in anticipation of my joining. Conveniently, gardener uncle lived close by so that he would be available to attend to me quickly. If I chose to cook for myself the kitchen would come handy. Otherwise, he could take on the task of cooking for me.
Soon after he left, the tiredness from the bus ride and the walk hit me. After munching a couple of biscuits, I dosed off to sleep. I was not aware, for how long I was asleep until I woke up with a knock on the door. I found the gardener uncle standing at the door with a plate of food. He said, “I am sor-ry Sir for the delay in getting your food ready. You must be hungry. Please eat it without delay, while it is still hot.” I looked at the food, it was rice and chicken curry, carefully wrapped up with a protective cover made up of leaves from the local jungle. The freshly cooked food, still steaming on the plate was inviting and I devoured it in no time. Soon, I was fast asleep on the bed like a log.
xxxxxx
Next morning, I was rudely woken up by a loud noise. Its intensity almost rattled my sleepy head. I concentrated hard to make out what the sound was all about. I figured out, it was a radio blaring somewhere close by. It had the usual crackling noise of the radio, mixed with some music and sing-ing, punctuated with an assortment of sounds, which defied description.
The sound was loud and raucous enough to irritate anyone. It certainly annoyed me to no end. Who listens to radio in this age of Internet? I had practically forgotten what a radio sounds like. The last time I listened to radio was ages ago. These days, no-one plays such loud music anyway. With headphones, one can listen to music at ones own convenience without disturbing the people around.
I looked out of the window, situated at the head of my bed, trying to work out from where the radio sound was coming. Next to my house stood another property, somewhat smaller. One of its win-dow, perhaps, that of the kitchen, was opposite my bedroom window. I could spot a lady there, whose waist and hands were visible through the window. Her palms were covered in dough. I could see her alternately dipping her hands in water and kneading the dough. Probably she was preparing breakfast. The sound of radio was wafting from there. I suppose, it was meant to be music, but it was closer to noise. Its high volume certainly qualified for noise pollution.
I tried to go back to sleep by turning my side. But sleep eluded me. So, I finally sat up on bed. When I looked out, the lady had gone. I got out of bed and brushed my teeth. Next, I shaved myself to prepare for office. All along, my attention was on the house, next door. I saw a lady coming out of the house with some clothes. She busied herself hanging them on the clothes line. I could not clear-ly see her face, which was hidden behind the clothes. In fact, all I could see now were her two feet on the ground.
Even the vague sight of a neighbour gave me some comfort. Thank God, I was not all alone in this deserted land.
The other day, after finishing my day in the office, I went out shopping for some necessary house-hold items. I opted for a pedal bike for commuting to my office as I could not afford a motor vehicle. By way of economising, I also decided to cook my own food. My household began with a five litre gas stove.
The radio, in the meantime, never stopped blaring. It would drive me mad first thing in he morning. I enquired with the gardener uncle, who appeared helpless against the loud radio. “Sir, I am sorry, it is impossible to stop the radio. I have tried pleading with the lady next door many times to get rid of this noise. She has simply ignored all such pleas and has remained defiant. Nothing You or I can do to make her to change her mind.”
I had no choice but to get used to this dreadful noise every morning. As time passed, I guess, I suc-cessfully conditioned my brain to ignore it. It hardly mattered to me any more, if the radio was on or off, and whether it was crackling or spluttering. I managed to continue sleeping, despite the radio, until nine in the morning. As I mastered this hurdle, the new place gradually grew on me. The sur-roundings were serene, the air pure and refreshing. I hardy ever felt tired, even after long walks. Biking to work was a source of pure pleasure, I eagerly looked forward to. The path to my office was mostly on a downward slope, so that I could free ride on my bike. Speeding down the slope, with the crisp mountain air swishing by was exhilarating. On the way back, of course, I had to pedal hard to pay for the thrill on the outward journey. At places, where the climb was steep, I had to get off the bike and cover the distance on foot.
xxxxxxxxx
One day, while returning from office on foot with my bike, I spotted a lady on the road, busy picking up some stuff from the road. As I came closer and saw her clearly I realised, she was my neighbour. Her carrier bag had snapped and the vegetables, she was carrying in it, had scattered on the road and she was collecting them back into the bag. Out of courtesy, I gave her a hand. After all the vegetables were picked up, I introduced myself as Akash Das, her new neighbour. As our quarters were adjacent, I I offered to carry the bag on my bike to her house. She turned to me and handed the bag and we began to walk back. She did not seem too keen to chat. So, I started our conversation and I told her about my job. I gathered, she worked in a nearby school as a teacher and managed with a meagre salary. She was returning from work and had bought some vegetables for her cook-ing. Her answers to my questions were clipped, with little elaboration. There was an air of sadness about her and I felt, it wasn’t prudent to probe into her personal life. She was of dusky complexion, with a slim frame, an oblong face with short hair and she wore a long skirt. I guessed her age to be around 40. From her manners she appeared to be educated and from a cultured background.
As we reached our quarters, I handed her the bag. She took it off me, without looking at me. Oddly, she did not even utter a word of thanks. How could be so indifferent?
Next, I met her at the local church, where she was quietly mumbling something with folded hands. I assumed her to be of Christian faith and I guesses, she was praying. She looked somewhat frail. I did not want to interrupt her praying and quietly walked past her. As I was passing, she called me from behind. She wanted me to hail a rickshaw for her as she was too weak to walk back home.
I promptly got a rickshaw lined up for her . She got into the rickshaw and was soon off on her way. Again, there was not a word of gratitude from her.
Her behaviour struck me as rather odd. She was all for taking favours but lacked the minimum cour-tesy of a Thank you.
Our next meeting was in the market place. She was in the process of buying yarns of wool. I was not too keen on meeting her as I was not sure what favour she might be asking this time. So, I was sneakily walking past the shop, hoping to avoid her altogether. Then, I heard her voice, calling out my name. As I turned round, I saw her running towards me with some bundles of wool in her hands. It seems, she was knitting a scarf and was undecided on the colour for the wool she was purchasing. She wanted my opinion on a colour combination for the scarf. I gave her my choice of colours, which evidently pleased her. In this meeting, she came across as less aloof and we began to chat. She told me a bit more about herself. She also enquired about my background and family. Seizing this opportunity, I casually quipped, “You seem to be quite an avid radio fan.” Her colour changed at my remark. She looked at me embarrassingly. Her expression turned evidently sombre as she spoke, “Oh yes. You see, I don’t have a Television in the house.” She probably could see through my at-tempts at being subtle and correctly read my thinly veiled complaint over the morning noise. But her sensitivity was striking; I could scarcely expect my cleverly couched comment to give her so much grief. Unnerved by her reaction, I decided to switch topic. I went into details about my life and family in the city. We kept chatting all the way back to our quarters. But I was careful to make no mention of the radio at all. Having broken the ice, I was hopeful that she would invite me into her house. I was, after all, her new neighbour and it wasn’t too much to expect at least a welcome cup of tea. But once again, she departed quietly without any hint of an invitation; her parting present was a pensive silence.
I was left disappointed.
It was a late Friday night, around one o clock, when I heard knocks on my door. It threw me into a panic. At this time, I did not expect to see anyone other than the gardener uncle, but the lady stand-ing at the door was my neighbour. She looked flustered and her lips were tremulous. Without any preamble she said, “I desperately need two thousand rupees and I need it now. Please don’t say No. I promise to return it very soon.”
Two thousand rupees was not a small sum. I had to think carefully before deciding on what I should do. My instant reaction was to turn her down but the look on her face made me think again. I re-versed my decision quickly and without a word took out two thousand rupees from the salary I had collected recently. As I handed her the money, she almost snatched it from my hand and disap-peared in a flash. She did not give me even a glance of gratitude.
I let out a sigh and plumped on the chair. Everything transpired too quickly for my mind to process. “How ungrateful people can be!” I wondered. That night, in my eyes, she had fallen from the position of esteem I had held her in. I was disconcerted by a sense disdain for her, rising inside me.
Now, let me tell you the most wonderful thing that followed. Next morning, there was no sound of radio; it was replace by absolute silence. The noise was so conspicuous in its absence that I was once again startled. I looked out of the window and found her kitchen window shut too. My immedi-ate reaction was a sigh of relief. As I set out for my office, I saw her door was locked.
I remained in a state of suspense for the rest of the day. I waited for next few days, anticipating something new to happen but fifteen days passed in status quo. I was getting a bit gloomy over the situation for two reasons. Strangely, I was beginning to miss the radio noise and secondly I was la-menting the loss of my two thousand rupees. To my annoyance, my mind would be filled with auto-matic thoughts of what all I could have spent this money on, including one month’s grocery or two pairs of clothes. I gathered from the gardener uncle that her name was Shobhna and she was also a tenant like me.
Although I did no get to see her, she appeared in my dreams. Intriguingly, contrary to her real life glum face, she would be bubbling with smiles in my dream. What could be behind her new persona? I could not deny the possibility that she was gloating at her success in fleecing me. May be, she had taken me for a ride. Was she mocking at my naiveté?
As time went by, my feelings for her took a turn. Inexplicably, I began to miss her. I would wish for her return, silently imploring to her, “Shobhna Devi, you don’t have to repay my money. Your return would be enough. Without you, it feels so empty. I also miss the sound of your radio. This loneli-ness is killing me. For my sake, please come back soon.”
I had to contain my feeling and carry on. Soon, I found myself doing something bizzare. Every morn-ing, I would prepare two cups of tea, in place of one cup for myself; the second cup would be for her. I leave her cup on the table to keep me company while I sip my tea, as if this ritual kept alive my hope of her returning. Deep down, I was certain, she would return one day and I could see us shar-ing a cup of tea together. So I carried on, living in hope.
To fill the void, I would listen to music on my mobile phone, sometimes on the FM Radio. But it was never the same. What was so special about Shobhna Devi’s radio? I would mull over it endlessly, hoping to get to the bottom of the paradox. But there was no satisfactory conclusion to my conun-drum. I began to document my inner dialogues in my diary. Each entry on it started with a message addressed to Shobhna Devi. Time rolled on.
Soon, the winter chill arrived. The plummeting temperature of the mountains froze me down to my bones. My physique, shaped by the heat of the plains, was unaccustomed to this cold. As the win-ter set in I decided to take a break from this unbearable cold and go away on leave. Over the next two days, I packed my bag with small gifts purchased for members of my family. That evening, while I was busy preparing for my trip, I could feel someone standing outside the door. I did not except any visitor at this time. I ignored such hunches and continued with the packing of my bags. Next, I heard knocks on my door. There she was, Shobhna Devi standing at the door, dressed in full winter regalia. She had the same smile on her face as I remembered her from my dreams. She handed me a bouquet of flowers and extended her invitation for a tea party at her house next Wednesday. Some of her friends would be attending the party and she was hoping I could join them. She was at her most mirthful, a sight which was so refreshing and puzzling at the same time. As she was leav-ing, she casually took out 2000 rupees from her hand bag. She handed the money to me with a Thank you.
Finally, a word of appreciation! It was a long time coming. While I was intrigued at her transfor-mation, my bewilderment was overshadowed by the joy of seeing her again. I was speechless. She could see, I was fumbling and asked, “Is there something you wanted to say?”
I regained my composure to say, “I really missed your radio a lot.” At this, her expression changed. “ You won’t hear the radio again, I am afraid.” She looked subdued and her tone turned serious.
“But why? Have you managed to get a Television ?” I blurted.
She looked into my eyes and said, “You have been a wonderful neighbour, who has come to my rescue at my hour of crisis. So, I owe you the truth about my predicament. However painful it might be, I can’t justify concealing it from you.” She then went on to narrate her daughter’s woes. Her daughter, barely 18 year old, had left home to marry her boyfriend. Being in love, she was blind to his flaws. Only after marriage, she realised the extent of his heavy drinking and gambling habit. As their marriage faltered, she returned home to her mother. But her husband also followed her. He would spend the whole day out drinking and return home to sleep off in a drunken stupor. But early morning, he would demand sex from her. If she resisted him, he would turn violent and abusive. Occasionally, when Shobhna Devi herself intervened, he would hit and punch her too. This commo-tion became a morning routine in their household. As a teacher, she enjoyed a position of respect in the locality and she had to maintain the image of respectability. To save herself from embarrass-ment, she resorted to playing her radio really loud to drown the commotion. Her daughter gradually descended into deep depression and needed medical attention. But treatment was no easy affair as they were chronically short of money. On that fateful night, her husband struck her head with a stick, which made her to collapse on the spot. She had to be rushed to hospital for emergency treatment. That was when she had to turn to me for money. Bu grace of God, her daughter survived the injury. As she realised that her daughter’s husband was not going to mend his ways, the marriage had to end. She had to stay away and arrange a lawyer to file for their divorce and end their marriage. She was hopeful that this would bring her daughter’s torture and their family’s suffering to a close. The Court had issued an order, restraining him to stay away from them until the divorce was final-ised.
“Now, we feel liberated, freed from the grip of this incorrigible scoundrel. And, so are you from the blasted noise of the radio. Hope, you can forgive us for what we inflicted on you for so long.”
As she was about to leave, she repeated her invitation, “You would surely come to the party next Wednesday. Won’t you? My daughter would be so happy to meet you.”
She turned round and I was left standing, stunned by her revelation.
I wanted to say, “Please, don’t stop playing the radio in the morning. The radio sound had become a fond companion in my morning routine. You can’t imagine how miserable I have been without your radio. Please keep playing it at least for my sake.” But I simply kept mum.
Most of that night I was restless and my sleep was fitful. Finally, I had fallen into deep slumber in the early hours of the morning. Then, again I was woken up by the radio music. I sat up startled, won-dering if trouble was brewing once again next door. I flung the window open. Then I realised my mis-take: there was no radio. In stead, I saw a young woman, draped in a shawl, singing morning pray-ers with her eyes closed.
Her voice was melancholic. It was full of pathos as if she was mourning a deep loss.
“Was she grieving the death of her love?” I wondered.
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.
Recently I spent a couple of days with my octogenarian father, precious days that I had managed to squeeze out of my demanding job after a gap of almost two years. All the more precious because I never knew, stationed at the other end of the country, when I would see him next — or at all.
His physical movements had become cramped, but his mind remained razor sharp. He could not only recognise everyone by name, but also recollect his brushes with them, much to their discomfiture. The whole day he tottered about the house, trying to help my hard-pressed mother, only to end in messing things up and getting a dressing down from her.
He was delighted to see me and pestered my mother no end to prepare my favourite dishes. Seeing his exuberance, I offered to take him out for a walk. A great walker in his day, he had been unable to stir out of the house alone. The impatient traffic outside had little respect for a feeble old man, whose halting gait was a confounded nuisance —another traffic hazard? But I assured him that I would be by his side to keep the hungry vehicles at bay.
So it was that one afternoon, when the road was not too busy, we set out for the nearby park. He used his stick to steady himself and inch his way forward, taking the support of my hand when the road became bumpy. I took care to warn him or stop him if any vehicle approached. It took us close to an hour to cover one km. What ravages time had wrought on him, from being a support to others to be the supported!
My father seemed exhausted by his sudden effort and we found a bench in the park to sit down. But his spirit was absolutely thrilled. He looked at the green grass moist with raindrops and admired the rose garden that had been so carefully tended to. He blinked at the film of water-spray sprouting from the newly installed fountains. He smiled at the chattering children swinging and sliding with excited abandon. “So nice!” he commented, as his wise old eyes took everything in with such a new sense of wonder. When he looked up at the sky and sighed, I wondered whether he was offering up a prayer.
We took a rickshaw to return home through the market area. My father was surprised to see so many new buildings in his town, and so many others changed beyond recognition. It was a voyage of rediscovery for him. He went to bed as soon as we reached home, tired but happy. “A memorable day”, he told me before he fell asleep.
“A precious day for me”, I whispered in his ear, gently caressing his wizened wrinkles. Tomorrow I’d be far away, the poignancy of this day with my father etched close to my heart.
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.
ONLY YOU CAN PAINT THE WALL OF YOUR HOUSE BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE!
"Understanding and being understood is the beauty of a relationship!" Suchitra named her painting after she gave a final touch to it. Might be this is her best piece of art until then! She breathed freely with a blossom of pretty easy smiles in her pinky curved lips.
A simple model house was surrounded by lush greenery and fresh flowers. Kids were playing with their parents happily. No one was hung up with electronic gadgets that connected less but created disparities between relationships.
While returning from her evening walk, Suchitra was able to visualise this scenario from the horizon of the low compound wall and the open iron gate of the happy home. The vivid picture was imprisoned in Suchitra's heart; probably this would be the most adorable home in the world it was like her dream house. She polished the portrait with all touchy colours to make it more vibrant.
She thought for a moment, If she could have done something similar with her parent's house! Her father was an iconic person with reputed business and had high status in the society. Her mother was a housewife. She indulged more in attending social functions, kitty parties, and meeting with friends, enjoying her life abundantly with the glamour world. She used to maintain her so-called dignity by wearing a cosmetic personality. Both the specimens (her parents) were happy when they were away from each other, whenever they met they fought like cats and dogs. Their mentality, their understanding, synchrony barely matched. It was like aligning the North and South Pole together.
They never bothered about Suchitra, her likes, dislikes, rather they were selfish about their fondness. She, being their only child, experienced their domestic frigidity and adhesive war every day. She restricted herself to react to the situation, opt for her choice, laugh or cry openly.
Her childhood was managed by caretakers. Her Dhai maa Basudha who understood her better than her mother. But what her Dhai Maa could do for her? Could her Dhai Maa repair the wings of the eagle who wanted to fly high by her choice?
Suchitra was provided with everything that her parents liked to match their status. Her food, clothes, play items, friends, everything should match their high society. All her choice, thoughts were suppressed. After school, in the lonely afternoons, she liked to play with her friends who were caring about her. But she was restricted as they were not equipped with equal social status.
Suchitra was greedy for love and affections from her parents, who were maintaining a life of their own in a parallel conditions which wouldn't coincide at all. What is the use of showy conditions where there is no true intimacy in the heart and everybody is a friend for your money?
She had private tutors for drawing to spend her afternoon leisure time. They engaged a well-known coach in teaching her badminton. Everywhere, in everything her life was controlled by her parent's wishes. Suchitra felt breathless as she wanted to live a laid-back life. Everywhere her parent's eyes were there to watch her sticking to a life of high dignity and status. She had a feeble interest in drawing. Instead she loved to put rangoli outside her house. She had less liking for badminton, she wanted to play hide and seek with her dear friends. But who cared about her likes, dislikes?
One day she found life in painting. Slowly she adapted her life to the world of colours and enjoyed the happiness of eternity. She used to fill colours in the paints as she wanted to see her life. Her childhood, her adolescence, her youth all had emerged with colours of her paints. Gradually she paid less importance to her parent's thoughts and choices.
She broke from her pool of thoughts when she heard the horns of Suresh's car. "Oh! Today also he left for office without having breakfast." He didn't even bother to bid a bye to her before leaving for office. For the last few days, she could feel the coldness in Suresh's attitude. His silence conveyed more bitterness than his words.
Suresh was a constant appraiser and motivator for her paintings. They met in an exhibition. By profession, Suresh was an interior designer but was a good human being. Their friendship started as a fan and an artist, progressed as love and ended with a pairing.
Suchitra's parents were about to make a hole in heaven when they heard about her own choice for selecting a life partner. It was a firm 'No' from her parent's side as Suresh was an orphan who was brought up by his uncle (mother's brother) after his parents died in a road accident.
Suresh's family status was not matching with that of Suchitra, even by a molecule. But this time Suchitra opened up herself to express her emotion and stuck to her decision to marry non-other than Suresh. Finally, she won and married her fan cum lover.
Suresh had proved himself to be a good husband. But Suchitra had neglected her relationship just because she wished to achieve excellence in her painting. Exhibitions, running her own drawing class, she entirely engaged herself in that sphere of life, ignoring Suresh's happiness.
Suresh respected her for what she loved to do, but he also wanted to spend time with her like eating together, going for a walk holding hands, going for a movie, eating dinner outside, counting the waves sitting in the sea beach, going for an extended vacation with Suchitra. But Suchitra couldn't spare time for that. Even after that, Suresh was ok.
On the occasion of their first anniversary, Suresh wanted to celebrate it with fun and excitement. He pulled his beloved wife out of her self- designed confined world. But Suchitra had to exhibit her paintings in an exhibition scheduled on the very day. It was an important exhibition which might change her life. She kept aside everything and worked her heart and soul to bag the award in the exhibition.
But was Suchitra following her mother in some way? Sometimes she thought, "A woman has all powers to build a life or destroy it. By the weapon of total acceptance, surrender, unconditional love, care, respect, she can win the world. It is for the woman to choose the path, nobody else can do it for her."
Suchitra accepted, her father prioritised his work over his family, but did her mother any day have some concern and care for her home? She lived in her own world ignoring everything.
Suchitra would never want her kids to repent in future, as she experienced in her childhood. Probably her painting would win the exhibition and might enrich someone's wall of the house, But what would happen to her home? Who could paint her home better than her? "Can't she afford love and time for a person who understands her?"
No regret could change the past, But the happiness and gratitude to accept the present could change her life. "Yes ! I can paint the wall of my house better than anyone else!" Her mind flew like a butterfly as if it just came out of the dark cocoon to coin the colour of the beautiful life.
She rang Suresh, "shall we go for a movie, followed by a candlelight dinner on the eve of our first anniversary?"
"Sure honey, but what about your exhibition, and the evening drawing class?" Suresh said in a feeble, careful voice.
"Everything is set for the exhibition, just forget it. Let's have a blast for our own sake," replied Suchitra with a hearty smile.
A software engineer by profession, Ms. Anasuya Panda is a voracious reader, a happy mother and a versatile writer, poet, essayist, translator and blogger. She has contributed to numerous magazines in Odisha and other parts of India, a daily article on women's empowerment to the online magazine Positive Affirmation being her signature creation. A recipient of many awards, she has published a popular collection of short stories in Odia in 2021. Anasuya has this to say about herself: "A traveller in perpetual search of life, to know self, to unlock the secret of who I am and why I am here."
He is tall and handsome. A little grave but when he smiles ( which is very rare), he becomes irresistible. The way he enters the class, holds the book, addresses the students, seems unique to Sarita, a highschool student. She learns less, watches him more. He steals her heart with his attractive personality. Sarita starts enquiring about this new teacher and comes to know these facts. He is Sanjay Acharya, an orphan since childhood, raised by a distant aunt. He lives in a one bedroom rented house adjacent to the field at the end part of the village.
Sarita is the only child of her well-to-do parents, on the threshold of sweet 16. She urges before her father to have Math tuition. She says that the new Mathematics teacher Sanjay Sir is just excellent. Everything is settled and Sarita starts going to Sanjay's lonely abode for tuition. It is in the fifties of twentieth century. Girls during that time usually get married early. Sarita's parents are looking for a suitable bridegroom for their daughter too.
Two months pass away. Nothing happens between the two young hearts. They remain the teacher and the student. Sanjay is sincere in his teaching. Greets her with a halfsmile when she enters. Allows her sit on the bed while he takes his seat on the chair facing her. He notes her progress. Tries his best to make her understand better, clearing all her doubts. When he finishes he simply tells her to leave in nonverbal language, sometimes with the wave of his masculine hand, sometimes just with the corner of his eyes. He never looks at Sarita straight while not teaching, all the more making the girl more curious. She cannot compromise her modesty though, cannot even give him a parting smile. She only wonders about the kind of person Sanjay is.
At Sarita's insistence her father takes the proposal for her marriage to Sanjay's only guardian, his aunt. The good old lady is so happy. Sanjay is informed. He agrees but denies to see the girl. Aunt's choice is his choice too.
So Sarita and Sanjay are bound in wedlock soon. On the marriage altar while putting vermilion on the parting of the bride's hair Sanjay looks into those eyes, that face, glowing in the sacred fire. He is simply shocked. He stands up suddenly startling everyone there. Unlike of his calm demeanor he speaks in a shrill loud voice, " this is cheating, you are getting me married to my student? Destroying the sacred relationship of a Guru and Shisya? I cannot marry her." But nobody listens to him. They argue that nothing is wrong as both are grownups and he has already put sacred vermilion on her forehead. Gods have witnessed. His protest gets subdued but he left the place immediately. They duly send the bride to his house that he has recently built in his village to live with his family after marriage. That house is now full with gifts given by Sarita's father.
Sanjay doesn't come home on the wedding night. He doesn't come for any post marriage rituals either. Sarita's parents are in distress. They come to take their daughter back. They are bent upon getting her married again. Many eligible bachelors may come to marry their beautiful daughter, heir to their property, a virgin still. But Sarita stays, sends her parents away. The foster aunt leaves for Kashi. Sarita stays alone with a maid servant in that new house. Every Saturday Sanjay comes, with bags full of provisions for a week, puts the bags near the door, asks the maid to empty them. Takes back the empty bags and leaves to show up again on the next Saturday. Sarita silently comes to the door. He neither speaks to her nor looks at her.
A year passes in this way. Sarita's father has passed away out of depression. Her inconsolable mother's body is found floating on the village pond two days after she has gone missing.
Yet Sarita lives. Does her chores. Keeps the house clean. Cooks, eats. She never gets near to the village women. She avoids them. Her only companions are books that give her hope, solace. Strangely those books are supplied to her by Sanjay. Alongwith vegetables and groceries he brings some new books everytime.
One Saturday Sanjay is late. Sarita looks through the window towards the road with anticipation. He is seen on the road at last with bags full in both his hands. His footsteps are staggering. He looks unsteady as if drunk. Sarita hastens to the door. Sanjay looks ill, very ill. His eyes are red, hair unkempt. Sarita came running to take the bags from his hand. But he shakes his head in denial. " Don't touch me Sarita, don't impure yourself." These are his last words, he falls down and dies there, at the threshold of his own house, with his bride watching stone- eyed, not daring to lift him up, stroke his hair even at the last moment of his life. She just stares and stares until her feet fail to hold her body anymore.
That night the kind villagers put the bodies of Sanjay and Sarita on one funeral pyre. On death bed they get united.
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.
Of course we all wish a journey to Jannat (heaven), not the final one of course, but something like Mahavira Arjuna of the Mahabharata fame did, while alive. Apparently there are two reasons, either of which one may adopt, not both together. First, the present stay on Martya Lok (Earth) has been a frustrating one, full of sour grapes, so we look for the most imaginative of places to be in and as we have heard from the childhood, irrespective of our faiths and idiosyncrasies. Jannat, Heaven or Sworg Lok is the place to go, not Kashmiri, Kanya Kumari, Maldives or Phuket as the ultimate Nirvana from all our sins and sufferings, the final and only salvation there in Jannat. The second of course, is what it is, the ultimate tourist destination of Jannat, eternal beauty, no loss of youth, immortality, no hunger and sufferings and of course, the limitless Hurrian, (of course, from a male chauvinistic perspective, and the handsome devas for the females of the species as well), the parrees, apsaain and angels. Either way, it would be a great choice—the only problem—no one can vouch for having made it while alive. Of course, after death, it is near impossible to find out if someone made it.
There could, as always a plan B, as all tourist managers would say. Create one here in the Martya Lok instead of all the struggles, years of penance with no guaranteed outcome or even a C one, discover one on this planet itself. As scientists say, after all extra-terrestrial life is still in the realm of speculation and then, least of all if, heaven with gods and goddesses and the parees, exists, after all. Some would even say, well this planet itself is the heaven with no sign of intelligent life, if at all anywhere around, found as yet and we are all hell bent to turn this great paradise into a veritable Hell!
With the introduction as above, let me tell of my personal journey to heaven, not to the Paradise or the Jannat no one has seen, but a little paradise on this planet I discovered by chance and in a sense, continue to live in still, nearly for the past half a century—to be very frank most of my adult life as well: Shillong, now the Capital city of the tiny North Eastern State of Meghalaya, but one time Capital of the entire NE province of the British and then the undivided Assam, from the time the British discovered it in 1866 and made it the seat of ruling the rest of the region.
It was end-July of 1976. (L) Professor Ram Chandra Sharma, of JNU who had taken over as the founding professor in the newly established Department of Geography at the still newly established Central University of NEHU (1973) had asked me and my friend (L) Professor R Gopalakrishnan to join the department to start the new department with admissions to PG from the month of August, 1976 itself at Shillong, which being geographers by profession we knew about, but none visited by then. This was both unprecedented and challenging assignment for two rookie lecturers fresh out of the University campus from Delhi, with no clue about Shillong, the people or what entails starting a PG department in a Central University, except some unwanted air about the metropolis of Delhi and plenty of dreams about the University life itself. My friend Gopal was a Ph.D student of Professor Sharma of School of International Studies, JNU and had just submitted his thesis on Afghanistan. In April the same year, I had just completed my M.Phil and during the defence of which, Prof Sharma had attended the presentation and after the defence asked me if I am interested to join NEHU as a lecturer. Till that time I had not seriously thought about looking for a job, only had some intentions of either sitting for the CSE or look for a teaching job, preferably in a University. The offer came as a boon, for otherwise my usual lazy dispensation. In fact, I was warned by some of my serious meaning teachers and seniors that one should not join in teaching at the place one had education at that may hinder independent academic growth of the youngsters. So, I was looking for moving out of the sedating JNU atmosphere to some other greener pasture. In the meantime, my M Phil supervisor and teacher/mentor Prof CRP had moved to IIT KGP and we had proposed a research project to ICSSR which was approved with a fellowship more than double that of the UGC offered me that time and second, I was selected too as a Ph.D candidate with fellowship, with IIT KGP. So, I fell for the third option of actually starting a teaching career with no clue as to what it entails.
Well as the case may be, around 5 pm on July 25, 1976 we both arrived at Old Delhi Railway Station to catch the Tinsukia Mail (renamed now Brahmaputra Mail) that connects Delhi to the Upper Assam town of Tinsukia (near Dibrugarh) and will pass through Gauhati (now, Guwahati), probably mid-day of July 27 and then, by road a further journey to Shillong, a hundred kilometre away.
With prior reservations, we checked into our three tier sleeper cabins, both mercifully on lower berths with our ample belongings, not so much personal stuff but my hold-all filled with at least a hundred books or there about, purchased from all possible book shops from Galgotia in Connaught Place to Darya Ganj which will be essential when we land in Shillong to start classes to the freshly admitted students into the first semester. We shoved in our stuff below the bare benches (no mattresses were there those days) being in the lower berths. After a while a Punjabi couple entered with reasonably well-fed bodies but three times more of their personal belongings, everything now shoved into their middle berths, hanging by the aging chains, ready to give way anytime and they perched themselves comfortably down with us on the benches, since dinner and night sleep-time was not very far away. Neither Gopal nor me had any clue about the Northeast, nor Shillong, except my former room mate (and now immediate neighbour in Periyar, 311, 312) a good friend Surajit had served one year at NEHU (the previous year) then returned gleefully to sit for CSE which he qualified next year. Well the famed Tinsukia Mail left on time 5.45 pm and chugged on, we both squeezed mercifully on the windows in the oppressive heat and humidity of end July of North India for a journey for nearly 40 hours plus. Luckily we were two together, Gopal with the defence forces family background, a dashing young man out to conquer the world and me, the timid, reticent type with some intellectual pretensions trudging along to an unknown territory. Luckily the train had a dining car, a luxury those days and we preferred ordering our evening meals for Rs.2.50 each (veg), had our meals by nine and with my friend having a few gulps of fortified coke, were quickly on the berth and fast asleep. Our middle-sleeper co-passengers had no choice but managed to squeeze into roughly 20% space left in the bare bunks above. Before dozing off, Gopal had seen the move, the heavier of the two, the lady in question was in the middle bunk just above him. I am sure he had legitimate apprehensions of the bunk giving way in the night, before dozing off for the night.
It was past mid-night and we were jolted up at a station, Mirzapur, those days a den of thieves and dacoits. Like a lightening, Gopal had ran to the door, being absolutely certain the bunk above has crashed and he crushed beneath the baggage and baggage owner above. Luckily nothing like that happened, it was a chain-pull stop at a non-stop station by miscreants and by the time people realised 46 boxes and bagages have been downloaded and supervised by one sitting in the next cubicle on the single seat near the window shouting “thieves, thieves” and then got down to catch the thieves, never to return. We were lucky, the jolt and Gopal’s lightening exit from the bunk had woken up the sleeping beauties. In any case, I was fearless, as my name suggests, and the thieves must have found what was contained in my hold-all and a burden even the railways baggage handlers’ refuge to touch. After half an hour of investigation, the railway protection forces and much hai-toba and tearful dispensations of the lost luggage passengers, we made a tearful goodbye to Mirzapur (the same place as the hot serial of a couple years back on STT). It was nearly morning and we entered the territory of Bihar...nothing much happened except we were temporarily dispossessed of our legitimately paid for seats, as was the practice in the state for about the six hours, till we were crossing Bhagalpur. By the time we were crossing Ganga at Farakka barrage it was evening and we entered into West Bengal. The night passed through in relative peace, did not much know when NJP came and went and lo, morning we were entering Assam, and by 8 am at New Bongaigaon, the last broad gauge station. Here we have to detrain, have our breakfast and board the meter-gauge connection to Gauhati in an hour’s time; not an easy task. The passengers of a broad-gauge train are to squeeze themselves with their luggage in to the smaller cabins of the meter-gauge, now no reservations that ended at Bongaigaon. So the infamous railway certified porters descended on us with their badges prominently shown, then charged 20 bucks each (twice the amount we spent on food from Delhi to Assam) to bundle us with luggage and shove into the precarious meter-gauge bogeys for next 6 hours run to Gauhati. So, that’s it. If you are with females of the species or with children, the charges doubled or trebled. I was told after the broad-gauge connection to Gauhati came in 1984, those porters were jobless, but had accumulated enough wealth to have their own businesses in the city and some went back to ‘desh’ to buy land and return to farming! So the largest employer of the country, the Indian Railways can, often legitimately accused of creating unemployment too by ushering in improvements in tracks and running stocks. Development has its prices too.
Finally, we arrived at around past 2 PM at Gauhati, the gateway to Northeast and as in the present case, Shillong—the supposed Paradiso L’anglaterre, another 3-4 hours by road journey, mostly by bus, which were far and few between, costing between Rs.5.40- to 6.80 depending on your class and by still rarer taxis, whole costing Rs.100/- to Shillong (now Rs.1500-2000) and per seat (5 pax) Rs.20.00, astronomical those days. But we had no choice, with evening approaching we boarded a reluctant shared taxi with our meagre possession and by about 7.30 in the evening were deposited at (the old) MLA Hostel where a room was mercifully booked by the University Registrar, a powerful and imposing Mizo Civil Service deputee to the University, Mr. Towchang, with an immense appetite and great rapport with Prof Sharma our HOD and Dean of the School (we were the only department). On the way, the Umiam Lake looked sublime, like the Dal, pines all around, smell of the mountain air and the cool breeze after the oppressive “loo” of the Indian summer, mid-days in which as the saying goes, you may find stray dogs or Englishmen on the street. But, we were battered by the two-days adventure in the India Railways of yester years, not yet Atmanirbhar, nor the Vande Bharat super-fasts whizzing around. So quickly we had a shower after dispensing with the two-day old rags on our back, and walked down to EECEE restaurant, about 50 meters away to have our dinner and my friend picked up a fortifying can, in which the city abounded around with and we made it back to our room and beds in one piece each and breathed the fresh ai,r of Jannat after the first time in three days. And as it would become, part of the Jannat, as it were, for the rest of my life.
Avaya C Mohapatra is a Retired Professor, Served North Eastern Hill University, Shillong (July 1976- September, 2017). He is a freelancer in academic writing and a blogger (acmohapatra.blogspot.com). He can be reached via email: acmohapatradr@gmail.com.
(Grey Headed Lapwing, Black tailed Godwit and wood sandpiper @ Pattinapakkam Backwaters ,Chennai)
Freedom of thought, action, conduct, dignity…Where does it begin and end?
“I am free to do what I like with my walking stick,” argued one gentleman.
‘Of course, you are,” said the other man, “but you ought to know that your freedom ends where my nose begins.” *
A tranquil spot in a lush landscape along a remote highway is not a place that one can claim to be one’s ‘own,’ (except when one has paid monetary compensation for its acquisition). Just as beautiful rainbows, spectacular sunsets and the first blossoms of the Spring are free for all to appreciate, every individual has the choice to soak in that beauty, and treasure the moments in the recesses of the heart.
Discretionary effort is a ‘conscious’ effort and offers the choice to act or ‘dive in,’ not ‘passively’ observe…… importantly, by exercising the right choice. For instance, you dare not stand atop a burning building hoping that a superpower will save you. If you must ‘jump’ to safety, do so…. Do not be foolish as the disciple who did not pay heed to the Mahout (Narayana), instead stood to face the mad elephant (Narayana) that seized him with its trunk, and hurled him at a distance, leaving him bruised and unconscious.
When the Guru asked, “Why didn’t you move away when you heard the mahout’s call?”
“You told us that Narayana himself is present in all living creatures.” “But my child, you could have listened to Mahout Narayana!”
Freedom comes with a caveat, with its own restraints….
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
Chapter 7 - CHANGE
My Mother.
My mother had just completed 28 when she travelled from Patna to London with her three kids to be with my father. There was an unforgettable incident on the flight to London. It so happened that the Boeing 747 airplane on which we were travelling, had to do an emergency landing in Kuwait, as a bird had hit its engine.
The incident was very traumatic for my mother. A lady who had led a shielded life was now all alone and with the responsibility of her three small kids in an unknown land.
The passengers of the flight had to register themselves at the help desk in Kuwait airport. We were to be provided a place to stay and food. The flight was to be delayed by at least 24 hours. At the help-desk my mother was asked for all identification documents. All 4 passports were handed over. The help desk person checked the details and then asked my mother ‘How many husbands do you have?’
My mother, who was already frightened, was now almost in a state of shock. She braced herself and answered – ‘one’!
The help-desk person then said that the three children have different surnames, not your husband’s surname.
Relieved; my mother and my brother helped explain that in India kids need not compulsorily take on father’s surname. We three kids were siblings and children of the same parents. My brother has one surname, me and my sister another & my father an altogether different one. It is more like we kids having two names and no surname. We kids were not given the family surname for reasons best known to the name givers!
We were then taken to a waiting room where the other passengers of the same flight were also waiting. There was a group of young women, who were dressed as if they were about to attend a wedding. Shiny clothes, lots of glitter and makeup, etc. My mother asked them if they were going to London to attend a wedding. One of them replied that they were being taken to England to get married. They had no idea to whom, but the grooms were definitely rich. Most of these girls said that they were from poor families.
My mother was petrified by now. She fought with the authorities and insisted that she had to talk to her husband, who was waiting for her at Heathrow Airport. She managed to talk to him about the enforced delay. That was a big relief for us.
Thereafter we were escorted to a big black car (taxi). We were to be put up in a star hotel for the night. This Taxi was blowing cool air inside. It was much laterthat I got to know about Air Conditioned cars. The drive to the hotel was long. There was sand on both sides of the road. Endless stretches of sand. No trees, no buildings, just sand. We arrived at the hotel. My mother had brought only one suitcase for the journey as Father had asked her to travel light. My mother took the three of us along with her suitcase to the allotted room. She ordered food. We ate and slept. I doubt that she slept. The next day we were escorted back to the Airport. Before we could leave the hotel, my mother was given a bill to pay for the stay. She didn’t have that kind of money. She told them that the bill will be paid by the airline authorities, as they were the ones who had put the passengers in the hotel.
Finally after a gap of 26 hrs we were back on the repaired flight, on our way to London. My father, who had been waiting at Heathrow Airport, for what must have felt like endless hours, finally got to be with his family. We then travelled by road to Cardiff, where he worked as a doctor.
My mother was in a new land now. She had to speak in English here. A language she was familiar with, but not conversant enough. For the first time in her house there was no house-help. Three small kids to take care of, along with the entire house work was a heavy burden.
My brother and I started going to school. My sister was a bit small to attend school.
My mother joined an English Learning School, quite like the one shown in the BBC serial “Mind Your Language’. This adult learning school was in the same building as our school.
She knew enough English to know what was being taught. She didn’t have to learn the basics. She only had to learn how to use it. She used to attend the class with my younger sister always with her.
Some days went by and the English Instructor, a lady, realised that my Mother didn’t need to learn the language as she already knew it. She ‘hugged’ my mother and invited her to her house. My mother was not accustomed to such displays of affection and felt uneasy. She wanted to visit the instructor’s house but it was not possible for her as she had two more kids, whom she had to pick up after school and then take them all home.
One day it so happened that a Japanese male student from her class came to her and asked her ‘Can be friends’?
Now how does a lady respond? She had no problems in being friends. She responded in the positive. But the question that troubled her was what did this fellow mean by ‘friend’. She got scared.
That evening she told my father about ‘the friend request’.
My father’s reaction was very clear – ‘You can’t be friends! You will meet many new people, but you can’t be friends with them. You don’t know them’.
She did make friends. Her neighbours were her friends, my classmate’s mother was her friend. Just not those who asked her ‘Can Be Friends!’
She had become independent enough to confidently take care of us and the house and household requirements. She bought a sewing machine and stitched so many dresses for all of us. She stitched full pants for herself too as winters in Cardiff were very harsh. Readymade clothes were very expensive. My mother could replicate any designer dress she saw in catalogues. She was not only very hardworking but extremely talented too.
A few years later when we shifted to London my mother started to work. She had enough confidence to take care of the house and work on the side. She had found time for herself.
With Change in life comes the inherent resolve to provide the best solution to many seemingly intractable problems.
Chapter 8 - THE FISH NEED A BATH
Summer of 1977, Cardiff. I’m 6 ½ yrs old.
Summer holidays have started. It is the best time of the year. The chill in the air has gone. Days are much longer, warmer and it is greener everywhere. The gardens are full of flowers. You can hear birds chirping throughout the day.
There is so much free time to play in the backyard. The apple tree is full of tiny apples. The huge magnolia tree is pink with big flowers. My mother has tied a temporary swing to a strong branch of the magnolia tree for us to swing on. The red/pink dog-roses are in full bloom and the garden walls are full of moss and something slimy. These are the garden slugs, not a pleasant sight, but we do not disturb them.
On some Saturdays we go to a nearby park that also has a stream flowing through it. My brother loves to fish there. He fishes with a small fish net and a fishing rod. The fish in the stream are very small. So the best way to catch fish is with the fishing net. Bhaiya (elder brother) would catch fish and keep it in a glass jar.
I love to watch the flowing stream, all the flowers and tall grass that grows on its bank.
When we brought the fish home, my mother would check the catch. She would explain as to which fish could be kept in the fish bowl. Sticklebacks are our favourite. The black leeches were always thrown away. The baby eels that looked quite like leeches were kept in another jar to be thrown back into the stream, on our next visit.
We have collected quite a few sticklebacks in the fish bowl. My sister and I spend a lot of time watching them swim around.
The house in Cardiff has three occupants on three different levels. We occupy the middle level. The upper floor occupants are from Iraq. Very often Iraqi aunty would stand in the kitchen while my mother cooked food. This aunty loves Indian food, especially rotis. She would eat the hot rotis as my mother made them. She loves them even without any accompaniment. Her daughter, Sarah is a year elder to me and Adnan is 4, just like my sister. They have black hair, just like us. We play a lot together. Sarahalways wanted her own fish bowl of sticklebacks.
I requested my bhaiya to give Sarah two sticklebacks and vouched that they would be taken care of.
Sarah and Adnan were so happy with their own fish bowl. I taught Sarah how to feed the fish and how to change the water in the fish bowl.
One evening Sarah called us to check on her fish as she was cleaning them. We ran upstairs to their bathroom. The glass bowl was on the floor- empty. The plastic tub nearby was dry.
‘Where are the fish’? I asked Sarah.
Sarah smiled and said, ‘the fish are taking a bath’.
That’s when I saw the washbasin. It was full of bubbles. The sink had been plugged and the fish were being given a ‘bubble bath’!
I panicked! The fish will die in soap water.
If I pull the plug then the fish will go down the drain.
I immediately put my hand into the sink to try to catch the fish. My sister started scooping out the soap lather.
We then saw two tiny fish floating on the surface of the sink. My sister and I turned pale. The fish were dead. Sarah and Adnan were gaping and not actually comprehending as to what they had done.
I explained to them that these were fresh water fish and that soap had killed them. Fish do not need a bath. They live in water. The water in the bowl needs to be changed as otherwise fish poop will dirty the water, unlike in streams, where water keeps flowing and therefore stays clean all the time.
So the soap bath led to the end of the two sticklebacks.
My bhaiya never gave any more fishes to any neighbourhood kid after that.
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
What child Am I? A water baby? How did I come to this world of human beings who are aliens to me? When can I go back to the water world? When I entered the womb and was floating in the water there, I never thought I would be delivered into a waterless world.
Oh...oh... oh... It is painful, 19 years have elapsed and many changes have occurred in my body. I have become a hulk of a man, an ungainly figure with a child’s brain.
Oh...oh...oh... My wails fall on deaf ears. I am always under constraints here. In the world of water, I was free to move without a stitch on. There we lived as water spirits with the frolicsome fish and fish tailed Mer-people. I slept inside the lotus flower like the other water babies and spent the whole day playing with them. Riding piggyback on tortoises or frogs or even fish. Clinging on to their slippery backs and sliding into the water was an exciting game for us. What fun it was!
I am a good, harmless water baby. I have never hurt anyone. But many among us are evil and torment human beings. If ever they come to the pond or lake or stream where we reside, that is their end. They are dragged to the bottom of the lake and hidden in some deep caves or crevices. It is a kind of revenge the water babies wreak on humans. You know we are the spirits of malformed babies discarded by our parents and the human community. So, we have very little love for human beings and harm them whenever we get a chance. But I, being gentle and good, was fated to be born again, and I entered the world of humans.
My life span was short in the water world I loved. I died when I tried to open playfully the mouth of the water snake with which I was playing and in agony she bit me and a minute dose of poison was injected into my body and I languished and died. I was sent to the netherworld by the Lord of the Dead, but in the world of shades I was very unhappy. So, he sent me to the human world. I revelled in the womb of my mother and hated to leave it but I had to. I was delivered one day into a dry world. The cloth that swaddled my body was so warm that I cried and cried until it was removed and my mother found out I preferred the coldness of water to warmth.
I enjoyed bathing and I would gurgle and chuckle and my grandma who bathed me would be tickled to laughter. She would call everyone and show my antics in the small tub in which I was bathed. She would lovingly call me "thannipillai" meaning, water baby. But as days went by, I was far removed from the world of water and was forced to survive on dryland which I couldn’t understand and I cried and cried non-stop. No one understood why I was crying.
Oh, oh, oh, this reincarnation as a human babe is torturing! How I wish I were back in the water and playing with the other water babies. When this urge to swim assails me, I dash out of the house and open the garden tap to splash water on my body and enjoy its coolness, until someone drags me into the house while I scream aloud and create a din.
Oh, oh, oh when can I be a water baby again? Ah...ah...ah... it is agony! There were no shackles on me in the beginning but slowly I felt restrained. What I hated most was the clothes my mother put on me. I would cry sprawling on the ground banging my head on the floor. My father would lift me up and remove the offending clothes and console me.
As I grew up my hatred for clothes increased. In order to appease me and to put an end to my tantrums I was often allowed to walk without clothes inside the house. When we had visitors, I was kept inside the room. But I allowed my father to dress me up and take me to school or to the nearby temple. As soon as I reach home, I wriggle out of the clothes and run to open the bathroom tap and play in the water to my heart's content.
I never understood my growth, as years passed by. My body grew and I was bigger than my age. I am tall and hefty but my brain did not grow. I remained an overgrown child. Because I hate wearing clothes, I am allowed only up to the front room which is always kept locked. I do understand certain things. I know food, but I eat beyond my capacity. I am always hungry and my father takes me out and buys me whatever I demand, pointing them out to him.
Oh...oh... oh... why is he lying inside this box? My only sister is wailing like me. My grandmother too...Open your eyes Acha (father), I am standing near you, dress me up and take me out...Wake up. I start banging on the glass box and two men came and dragged me away. I pestered my mother to dress me up and once more I went to where Acha was lying and peered into the misty box. I thought my father was smiling at me gently as he always did.
Oh, oh, oh, my gentle, loving father... Two hands pulled me away as I struggled, two more hands tightened their hold on me. I saw the box being lifted and taken out. I struggled and started howling. I felt cold inside, something sank inside me. I crumbled down. I sensed deep inside something had happened to my loving, smiling, father…
Oh...oh...oh...the house is silent. I ran out of the bed room my sister sat huddled in a corner in the hall. I have never seen her like that. She looked tired and worn out. I went to her and sat down in front of her and put my finger into my mouth. And she started sobbing loudly and hugged me. She got up and brought me some buns. I started eating hungrily and smiled at her but instead of smiling she started wailing loudly I couldn’t understand...I have never seen her like that. Just like acha, she was always gentle and kind to me and catered to all my needs. I huddled close to her…Suddenly I felt a weakness.
I had not eaten for two days after my father was taken to the hospital. When he came back weak and tired, I was happy. I never left his side. He would hug me and tell me I should obey my sister and that she would look after me. That evening he fell down and was taken away. Then he was put in that glass box and he was beyond my reach. I felt heartbroken and screamed my head off. No one could console me.
I moved closer to my younger sister and she put her arms around me. I felt as if my strength was leaving me. I was sliding down … with her loud sobbing pounding in my ears, I closed my eyes and slid into the world of sleep. In my sleep I saw myself walking out of the house. I crossed the road and entered the lane and walked towards the lotus pond a favourite haunt of ours. Acha used to take me there in the evenings, he would sit watching me while I played in the water to my heart’s content, when totally drenched and tired of playing I would go and sit near acha. He would towel me up and dress me in fresh trousers and Tee shirt which he always thoughtfully brought along with him when we came down for this evening jaunt. Somehow, he had guessed that this lotus pond gave me a lot of happiness and peace and made me calmer in the night. I reached the pond and stepped into the water. The coldness of the water was inviting. I lay down and curled up as if I were in my mother’s womb and went to sleep lulled by the gently rippling water.
I saw my Acha beckoning me with that same loving, yet sad smile on his face. I ran towards him and was gathered in his arms and I hid my face on his shoulders in peace.
I splashed and splashed the water on the water babies gaily, as they swam around me in glee. I felt I was home at last. This is the place I belong…The lotus flowers in full bloom stood waiting for us… And there in the distance I saw my Acha's shade as he entered the netherworld. Yes, at last we were in the world of shades together...
( Published in Cocoon Stories)
Lathaprem Sakhya (b. 1959) a former Asso. Professor of English, Marthoma College for Women, Perumbavoor), a poet, painter and self-styled green woman, working with pen, brush and spade as the mood takes her, is a published poet and a yarn spinner. A regular contributor to literary e-journals and anthologies, she is settled in Perumbavoor with her family. Her published works are Memory Rain (2008), Nature at my Doorstep (2011, A blend of prose, poems and paintings’), Vernal Strokes (2015) and a translation Kunjathol 2022( Translation of Shanthini Tom’s novel Kunjathol)
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT THE VAIKOM MOVEMENT
Nitish Nivedan Barik
Long back, nearly 130 years ago, Swami Vivekananda had called Kerala a lunatic asylum as there was so much of dehumanising discrimination among people on the basis of caste. The lower caste people , particularly the so called untouchables ,were not allowed to enter temples nor permitted to walk on roads adjoining places of Hindu God’s worship. In 1924-25 the Vaikom Satyagraha was held which cited how independence from regressive social practices was important before fighting for the independence from the British. This movement is said to have made Kerala a progressive state giving dignity to all individuals without discrimination. (It is said that the people of Kerala, who could take in Vivekananda’s caustic criticism with an open mind and in the right spirit, made use of the ‘lunatic asylum’ observation as an opportunity and inspiration for introspection and self-evaluation.)
The story relates to the Vaikom temple of Travancore and T K Madhavan, the great social reformer . Travancore was a princely state under Bristish suzerainty. The Kingdom of Travancore was ruled by the Travancore Royal Family from 1729 to 1949 AD from Padmanabhapuram, and later Thiruvananthapuram. At its zenith, the kingdom covered most of the south of modern-day Kerala and the southernmost part of modern-day Tamil Nadu . (The Vaikom Mahadev temple is now in Kottayam district of Kerala )
During this period ,the early 20th century , caste discrimination and untouchability was rampant across India. Some of the most rigid and dehumanising norms prevailed in Travancore. Ezhavas and Pulayas were the lower castes who were considered polluting. Various rules were in place to distance them from upper caste Hindus. These included preventing people from, not just only on temple entry, but even on walking on the roads surrounding temples.
While the pernicious caste system was not unique to Travancore, some of the most rigid and ruthless inhibiting social norms and customs were prevalent there. Significantly the idea of caste pollution worked not only on the basis of touch but also sight. As a Portuguese traveller Duarte Barbosa wrote in his memoirs, “When (upper caste Nairs) walk along a street, they shout to the low caste folk to get out of their way … this they do and if one will not, the Nayre may kill him.”
TK Madhavan , is said to be the architect of the Vaikom Satyagraha. As the editor of Deshabhimani, a Malayalam newspaper, he raised the issue of social discrimination and injustice in that paper first. He moved a resolution in the state legislative council of Travancore in 1918 for ending the discrimination. He received severe backlash from upper higher classes of Hindu community in the council.
He was able to move the petition after 5 years to a bigger platform in the Kakinda session of the Indian National Congress in 1923, a resolution for the eradication of untouchability.
It is widely acknowledged that T. K Madhavan’s influence forced Gandhiji and Indian National Congress to include the abolition of untouchability in their national agenda. Madhavan had participated in that Kakinada Session of the Indian National Congress and moved a resolution for the eradication of untouchability with the support of Jawaharlal Nehru in 1923. He became a prominent leader of Sree Narayana Darma Paripalana (SNDP) Yogam which was formed for social reform among the Ezhava community.
This gained a nationwide support and formed a committee which was chaired by K Kelappan. It had people from different societies and had strong members like TK Madhavan, Kesava Menon, VelayudhaMenon ,KNeelakantan Namboothiri and TR Krishnaswami Iyer. All of them laid the foundation for Kerala Paryatanam movement in February 1924, which aimed that temple should allow entry to people of all caste and creed , as well as public road can also be used irrespective of one’s social background.
It needs to be mentioned that T K Madhavan had got active support from Gandhiji in 1921 during a brief meeting held in Tirunelveli. Gandhiji had suggested that instead of demanding temple entry they should rather focus on access to wells and schools and later can take up the temple issue . But after discussion with Madhavan , Gandhiji said that Kerala was ripe for a temple entry agitation. To start the movement, the committee thought of putting all its attentions and effort on the Mahadeva Temple in Vaikom first , because of its Temple board had extremely strict rules regarding entry for lower castes. The oppressed caste tried to enter the temple in batches of three, but resulted in arrest by the police of Travancore.
On March 30, 1924, the Satyagrahis walked in procession towards the forbidden public roads. They were stopped 50 yards away from the place where a board cautioning the oppressed communities against walking on the road surrounding the Vaikom Mahadeva temple, was placed. Dressed in Khadi , Govinda Panikkar (Nair), Bahuleyan (Ezhava) and Kunjappu (Pulaya),defied the prohibitionary orders and attempted walking on the road. Stopped by police, in protest, the three men sat on the road and were arrested. Then, every following day, three volunteers from three different communities were sent to walk on the prohibited roads.
Gandhiji, Chattampi Swamikal and Sree Narayana Guru had backed this effort sincerely and the persistence and the continuous effort of the members of the Vaikom Satyagraha, these movement gained momentum and support started coming from different parts of the country and from different religions also. Akalis also started supporting the movement and even made camps at Vaikom ran langers for the Satyagrahis.
Still the upper communities refused to allow lower caste people to be allowed. The movement was paused for a bit on the advice of Gandhiji to open the door for discussion between the two parties, but it didn’t bring a fruitful result. The movement was renewed and came with stronger determination, this time the important members were arrested such as TK Madhavan the architect of this movement, Kesava Menon, the flag bearer of this satyagraha, EV Ramaswami Naicker, an important member who came from Tamil Nadu.
On Gandhiji suggestion, on 1st of October 1924, a group of people belonging to upper caste marched in a procession with a petition which had 25000 signatures for allowing entry of the temple for everyone. Led by Mannathu Padmanabhan Nair from Vaikom, the march initially began with approximately 500 people. Along the way, several people joined in, and by the time the procession reached Thiruvananthapuram in November, the strength had increased to a whopping 5,000. The 609-day long movement left an ever lasting impact on the society as the display of one of the most nonviolent struggles for the caste oppressed people but still there was no favourable result.
In 1925 Gandhiji negotiated with W.H.Pitt ,then Police Commisioner of Travancore and a settlement was signed between Government and Gandhiji . The Government agreed to nullify the prohibiting orders passed in February 1924 and Gandhiji gave his consent to withdraw the Satyagraha . The Government opened roads on three sides to all public except the eastern one that was reserved for the Savarna’ s ( higher castes ) only .
To the credit of this Vaikom movement ,a decade later the historic Temple Entry Proclamation was passed that did away with the obnoxious ban on the entry of marginalised depressed castes into the temples of Travancore .
It was a landmark achievement for the lower caste for defeating the hierarchical caste oppression. Today also Vaikom Satyagraha is celebrated as an example of struggle for the lower caste in gaining independence from oppression before gaining the final Independence from the Britishers in 1947. It was the first organised non violence movement against the repressive social norms that should always be remembered. The contributions of the satyagrahis such as TK Madhavan, K Kelappan and Kesava Menon should be written in golden letters. Without this India would have been a different place. In today’s time not getting allowed to a temple or not walk in a road would be difficult to understand and would be a violation of the Constitution and basic human rights.
The Vaikom Satyagraha (1924-25)was a great success story of Gandhian peaceful methods . The movement continued for over 600 days, non-stop. It is remarkable that through social pressure, police crackdowns and even natural disaster, it continued for so many days unabated till Gandhi called for a halt to do negotiation as mentioned above. It witnessed women empowerment as large number of women participated in the movement. Though it was a movement for the elevation of the lower depressed castes, higher class people from different parts did also join the jatra (journey ). The satyagraha saw previously unseen unity across caste lines. Interstingly big guns of Non-Hindu communities also lent their support to the movement, like barrister George Joseph and Abdul Rahman Editor-in-Chief of Young India .
As the year 2024 marks the centenary of the Vaikom Satyagraha, Chief Minister of Kerala and Tamil Nadu jointly inaugurated the centenary celebrations. It is heartening to see that T.K.Madhavan finds a place as an unsung hero in the Azadika Amrit Mahostav and G-20 portal of Government of India.
(Collected and pieced together from different sources )
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
LET’S CHANGE THE INDIAN GARBAGE STORY
(Aren’t we tired of the status quo?)
As Indians, we often take pride in our ancient wisdom and achievements, but I also wish we proudly reserve an equivalent emotion for the present state of affairs. We could have considerable control over the latter if we exercise our will, intelligence and creativity.
World over, plastics arrived almost simultaneously, and some countries dealt with them efficiently through segregation and recycling. But what about us? The most populous country in the world rapidly generates more waste than the rest. Let’s claim all our pride from what we do in the present, especially with a proper waste management routine, which is our need every minute from now on, until sorted with an efficient system in place. And not to forget, the adoption of a reduce-refuse-reuse-recycle philosophy remains and has to be soaked up with greater enthusiasm. Let’s look for fresh gratification from new found glories rather than historic ones!
How strict are we ourselves in keeping Mother Earth as pollution-free as possible? No matter what we do toward this end, we can get better, and some countries do far more to save the earth. Considering their technological advancements, we need not make comparisons, but seriously, there is always much to learn and incorporate into our lives with simple intention and commitment alone. Among those who seem aware, there is an intention to keep the earth clean. But sadly, the same is lacking in many others. They are more inclined to sit back and blame the government for lack of action or infrastructure than the ones who possess the intention and take self-action in doing whatever is possible.
I wish to recall a minor incident. We were being taken around a beautiful lake by a gentleman who restored it in six months straight from a pre-existing condition—full of sewage sludge, pollution, and the unabated growth of water hyacinths. Only a passionate man who reveres Mother Earth could have embarked on such a massive project garnering the support of corporations through CSR.
The water was now clean and transparent. An attractive hill stood beside the lake, created by scooping out the sludge and other rubbish from the water body. The new mountain developed its own wild flora, further accentuating the landscape. There was a pergola too constructed atop with benches for seating under it.
As we approached this spot on the mountaintop, we saw a group of people leaving after enjoying some food, drinks and merrymaking. It sure looked like those scarce scenic atmospheres in the city, relatively unknown to many. They had thrown paper cups, plastic bottles, and disposable plates in a corner responsibly, as in their understanding of things. It was the naughty wind blowing the garbage around, and these wonder-pollutants soon reaching the edges, were set to tumble downhill and get trapped in the bushes growing on the incline. There were already some colourful plastic wrappers—a precedent set by someone as responsible—visible far below, as one gazed from the hill admiring the lake. These wrappers were an outright eyesore amid the beautiful wildflowers on the gradient, and determined as ever to disturb aquatic lives, their foreseeable future was a union with the lake.
We picked them all, and the fun-loving people who were leaving watched us, perhaps with some guilt, and complained about the lack of dustbins that resulted in the unavoidable mess.
As a population of humans, we expect dustbins everywhere we go, the consumerists that we are. But cannot ask ourselves whether a government can provide dustbins in every corner of the planet. Moreover, is it necessary? Is there feasibility of delivering a sanitation service in the remote area where few visit? Are the logistics in place for the garbage trucks to commute the distance? Without considering the above, we complain and never think or plan to carry back the garbage we generate and throw it responsibly in the nearest provided dustbin. Is it not our responsibility? Is it all that difficult to plan and carry a disposal bag with us (and also permanently in our vehicles) if there isn’t one around, which is often so?
If we have the intention to keep clean, we will find a way. And when every individual in the country commits to a cause instead of passing the buck, the government cannot sleep and may even build the infrastructure soon. That’s probably what people in the cleanest countries do, setting high standards for themselves first—create a mechanism to keep the trash until one finds a trash bin or simply not create waste!
Where the west, for decades, has efficiently managed to source-segregate waste, we are still grappling with it. It may be worth looking into if it were the government’s lethargy alone or people’s disinterest a contributing factor. As a group of well-meaning people, we should create awareness and help set intentions at every given opportunity. It is paramount because any restoration will slide back to its original disorder without a strong desire to promote and maintain the new order. It never costs money; only requires commitment. And it saves a lot of otherwise wasted money on redundant work. With such savings, we can build new infrastructure swiftly. Our dreams of a clean nation need not remain a dream.
Starting as a blogger and poet, Sumitra Kumar became a frequent writer for a lifestyle magazine called Women Exclusive or WE. Her first published book, Romance with Breath - the story of aspiring Indians through simple poems - was launched in April 2022 and listed on Amazon. She has contributed to the anthologies of India Poetry Circle or IPC, and The Soul Scribers Society.
Her varied career spells saw her as a software programmer, flight attendant in Air India, and later, self-employed as a fashion boutique owner and futures and options trader. Sumitra presently makes her home in Chennai, India, working with her husband RR Kumar as Directors in their packaging and automation business. The joy of writing precedes all when thoughts flash, impelling her to delve deeper at bedtime and early mornings.
You can reach her at sumitrakumar.com and follow her on http://www.instagram.com/writer.poet.sumitra
“Oh no!
Nahin
Yet again
I can't take it.”
Her sobs and muffled moans reached high decibels in no time. The temperature of the living room seared with the livid heat of her angry outbursts.
My father-in-law came running. He was halfway through his daily dose of shaving. His face was still covered with lather. He was frantic. But, the scene was not very unusual.
When his wifey dear (my mother-in-law) is in distress or appears to be so, he is always at her beck and call.If he happens to be in the washroom, he apologizes profusely for delayed response.
“So lucky for her!”
“Pure husband material... my dad-in-law is”. I mumbled.
“How I wish his son was half as conceding or even a quarter , for that matter.”
The above wish fructified in my mind, did not travel up to my lips in the form of a whisper even as I prefer to be away from rancor and unnecessary hassle.
"What happened? Why are you shouting? Whom are you yelling at, Basanti? "- my father in law inquired in his desperate bid to quell the commotion.
His comforting words, instead of assuaging her pitiful state, enraged her further.
"I am depressed and distressed, sore at your ways, especially when you hide things from me."-she replied. Her swelling nose had started emitting fumes of anger like a volcanic eruption.
"But, what did I hide, Basanti?"
"What not?" She jabbered on.
"To begin with, the surge in gold prices.You had promised me to buy a pair of bangles when the gold price came down. It took a nosedive last week, and lo! The price is skyrocketing today. It seems, I have forfeited my chance of getting a new pair. How will I face Mrs. Sharma now? She would laugh at me. Make jokes about me for not wearing a new pair.She is rude and offensive, I cannot bear her taunts. Her sarcasm would invite others to join . Together they will make fun of me."
This time, she looked like a poor, distressed soul.
“But, our TV set is blaring nonstop. You are hardly away from the arena and keep browsing channels nonstop. I thought, you must be knowing about the price surge"... retorted my father-in-law with a shudder of distaste. His voice carried a tinge of satire.
But my mother-in-law was not in the mood to appreciate the subtleties of this satire, nor could she summon words from her treasured vocabulary to respond.Her seething resentment made her forget her pet peeves and remarks.
Looking at her swollen face and cheeks aflame with indignation as if baked in quivering heat of a summer afternoon, my father in law made a pronouncement- “ I hereby solemnly promise to buy you a pair of bangles as soon as the price of gold drops.”
Thaw ensued instantly. My mother in law extracted her deeply guarded smile from the closet of her frowning demeanor allowing hubby dear to finish up the shaving ritual.
I was both amused and bemused by this hilarious episode of appalling conversations standing a few feet away, ironing my clothes for the office.
“Aww-So cute couple! They fight well but put things right before it slips out of control.”- I muttered.
Before switching off the bed lamp that night, I told my husband- “Dad loves mom so much. He fulfills all her demands. He always remains at her beck and call.”
"You are so much unlike him.”
He held me in a deep embrace and said, “Some can be ostentatious. A few like me are hardcore lovers, who do fulfill desires of their better halves before they are spelt out in bold letters... wifey dear! ”
My quaint “yes” lulled him to a good night’s sleep.Grinding his teeth and snoring, he was off to the world of bliss in minutes.I am not as lucky as he is. For everything in life, I need to put in an effort.
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 by Authorspress) to her credit. She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
Sita is said to have been found in a furrow in a field in Mithila region of Bihar and that is one of the reasons why she is known as the daughter of Bhumi Devi(goddess earth). The King of Mithila Janaka found her and adopted her.
Yet the birthplace of Sita is much disputed.The Sita Kund pilgrimage site which is located in Sitamarhi district Bihar is viewed as her birthplace.Apart from Sitamarhi, Janakpur which is located in Nepal is also considered as her birth place.
She is a personification of Earth, fertility, abundance and well being.
In Hinduism she has been portrayed as an ideal daughter,an ideal wife, and an ideal mother in various texts.
In Thailand too Rama and Sita are greatly respected.They believed Ramayana happened in Thai soil .In Thai Ramayana is called "Ramakien".Here Sita is supposed to be Ravanas daughter.He throws her into the sea, because she could be the cause of his death,but the sea goddess protects her and takes her to King Janaka.
In some versions of the epic,Mata Sita an illusion created by Agni takes Sitas place and is abducted by Ravana while the real Sita,hides in the fire ."Ramakien"is a Thai version of the Hindu epic "Ramayana". Ramakien is fascinating about good triumphing over evil following the battle between King Rama and Tosakanth, the King of Demons.Here Sita is "Nang Sida".
Sita in Indonesia is called Rakyan Wara Sinta or" Shinta". The epic Ramayana came to Indonesia around 8th or 9th century through traders,sailors,scholars and priests. Written in the old Javanese language it became known as "Kakawin Ramayana".It was used to revive Hinduism at a time when Buddhism was well established in Sumatra West and Central Java through puppetry (wayang kulit and wayang purwa).
While Indian Ramayana portrays her as a soft, beautiful,loyal and patient woman.Kakawin Ramayana portrays her as a bold, strong fighting with Asuras in Ravanas Lanka instead of waiting for Rama to rescue her.Bali is the perfect example of the living legend of Ramayana in Indonesia.Ine can see exquisite large statues of Arjuna,Rama, Hanuman and Sita at every nook and corner of the city.Indonesia has issued many Ramayana postal stamps on Rama,Sita till date.To them both are not just heroes but torch bearers of good values.
All Kings in the current Chakri dynasty of Thailand are often referred to as King Rama.In the 15th century, the capital of Thailand was a city called "Ayutthaya" which is "Ayodhya "in local language.All Thai Brahmins are Buddhist by religion but still worship Hindu Gods.The "Brahm Luang" belong to the family of Brahmins originated from Tamil Nadu.
Ravana is portrayed as ten faced representing..... emotions of anger,pride, jealousy, sadness,fear, selfishness, passion, ambition and intellect.Spiritual gurus have considered these emotions mainly to the elevation of the soul.
All three have similar stories, only some changes here and there such as names .
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
Kali was Kali. We did not know her real name and address.
She was neither Goddess Kali nor black in complexion.
My Mom and I were calling her Kali without knowing her name or whereabouts.
We knew nothing about her. My Mom had brought her from Kali temple. So we were calling her Kali.
Except for a piece of torn dirty cloth to cover her parental body, nothing was her own. We also had no idea of her parents or native place.
But she was loving us as her own kith and kin, and doing all our household work. My Mom liked Kali as her own daughter.
Of course, she was poor and begging for food in Kali Temple, we knew nothing about the cause of her poverty.
Also no one had any idea about her.
When we were asking about her, no words were coming out of her lips, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Sorrowful tears were her identity.
She was young and beautiful. I had brought jeans and T-shirts for her. But she was wearing my Mom's saree for what was unknown to us.
The jeans and T-shirts were kept unused in the cupboard of my bedroom.
We were compelling her to put on the jeans and T-shirt, she was declining.
So in the evening, my Mom sent her to my bedroom with me so that I would give her jeans and t-shirt.
But she felt shy to change her clothes in front of me.She went to the bathroom.
After a while, I asked her, "Did you change your clothes or not ?"
Kali said, "I am washing my body to put on the jeans and T-shirt, lest they may get dirty due to my unclean body. I am coming soon."
I was waiting to see her in her new dress. I heard the opening sound of the bathroom door.
She told me, "Look at me in the jeans and T-shirt you bought for me out of your kindness to a poor girl. Thank you for your kindness to a beggar like me, Sirji !"
I looked at her. To my astonishment, her appearance was totally changed. I was gazing at her beauty in my blinkless eyes.
She put her palms on her cute face in shyness. Suddenly she ran to my Mom in shame.
Her smartness in her jeans and T-shirt was clearly discernible and my Mom was staring at her immaculate beauty in amazement and took Kali to her arms in love and affection.
I asked her, " Though I had bought new dresses for you, why were you wearing my Mom's old saree?"
She remained sorrowfully silent.
In anger and anguish, I asked her, "Why are you trying to keep everything secret from me ?
We like you, whereas you are hiding yourself.
What's the reason behind it ?"
She said sorrowfully looking down - "Except for hiding, I have no other way."
Me - "For what ?"
She - "My truth is suicidal."
Me - "Are you a thief ?"
She - "No."
Me - "Are you a murderer?"
She - "No."
Me - "Are you a beautiful prostitute?"
She - "No, Sirji."
Me - "Are you a secret spy of Pakistan, America, Russia or China?"
In a choking, stumbling tone, she said, " No."
Me - "But your appearance is something different from an Indian girl.
Are you an Indian citizen ?"
Kali was weeping silently sitting at the feet of my Mom.
No words were coming out of her melancholic shivering lips.
I asked her again, "Can you prove your identity?"
Her head and hapless hands were touching my Mom's feet.
In anger and anguish my Mom told me, "You are asking like a police officer, as if she was a criminal.
What would she say ?
Her identity is … she is the daughter of Goddess Kali, adopted by me."
Kali's tearful eyes were searching for shelter as a parentless child and her streaming tears were drenching my mother's feet in her helplessness and hopelessness.
Next morning, I was busy reading the newspaper. My Mom was preparing herself to go to Kali temple to worship Goddess. She asked Kali to go with her.
Kali told my Mom, "I would be cleaning and washing the clothes of Sirji and I have to prepare recipes for lunch."
My Mom told me not to ask Kali anything and she went to the temple by an auto rickshaw as usual. Kali was washing my clothes.
I asked her, "Why are you washing my clothes ?"
She - "Who would wash ? It's my Duty."
Me - "Why did you not accompany my Mom ?"
She - "By your kindness I am now free from begging for my starving belly. So you are my owner, and I would do your household work as a maidservant. "
Me - 'Why were you begging instead of doing any job ?"
She - " I am either unfit or misfit for it. Begging is good for me. Now I feel a maidservant job is better for me and I am doing it and getting food, shelter and clothing. What more do I want ?"
Me - "Won't you get married and lead a happy conjugal Life with your husband."
She - "Who would marry an orphan beggar ?"
Me - "Are your parents not living now ?"
She - "If they are living, why am I begging?"
Me - "Shall I arrange a job for you ?"
She - "I have got a job in your home. No further job is required for me."
Me - "What is it ?"
She - "Can't you see it ?"
Me -" My Mom treats you as her daughter and she wants you to do a job and get married to a boy."
She -" Mom and you know nothing about me."
Me - "Why don't you tell us everything about you ?"
She - "If I tell you everything, would you keep me in your home ?"
Me - "You are good looking, well-behaved and doing all the household work. We need you. Would you change your mind and behavior?"
She - "Of course, no, since I love you as my own."
Me - "Won't you leave us in future?"
She - "Where shall I go, when the whole World has left me ?"
Me - "Before begging, what were you doing?"
She - "I was working in a beauty parlor."
Me - "Where ?"
She - "Delhi...."
Me - "Why did you leave that job?
How did you come to Kolkata ?
Why did you beg in the Kali Temple without doing a job here ?"
She - "Would you keep it a secret, if I disclose it ?
Even don't say anything to Mom, who has given me refuge, of course with your kind permission."
Me - "Okay, I won't disclose it."
She - "Can you accept my sorrowful truth ?"
Me - "Why not ? Without telling your life story, why are you losing your trust in me ?
I like you, tell me, I may help you, if possible."
She told her life story:
I had to leave the job for improper behavior and the girl's hostel for lack of money.
I had no food, no shelter, no clothes. Life was a nightmare for me. What to do ?
No idea was coming to my mind.
I came to the New Delhi Railway station. It gave me free shelter to sleep on the floor. I was hungry. But I was feeling shy to beg for food. Of course, I was getting free drinking water. But starvation was killing me and I was looking at the faces of rich passengers in the hope of getting food.
It was evening. A young passenger came close to me and asked me in his smiling face, " Do you want any help or assistance from me ?"
I nodded my head in hunger.
He asked me, "What do you want?"
I said, "I am hungry."
He took me to a nearby restaurant and gave me food. I was happy for his kindness. He took me to his residence in a taxi. I got a shelter to sleep. It was better than the Railway station. My exhausted body was lying flat on a bed in my deep slumber.
At midnight, I felt a touch on my body and I got up. He was trying to molest me. I ran to the door to go away. He grabbed me in his arms tightly.
He was drunk. His eyes were red. His mouth was smelling. His legs were tottering in hangovers.
I pushed him with all my force and ran away, opening the door.
And I was running across the streets of Delhi at midnight cutting across the traffic in my despair, frustration, helplessness, haplessness and hopelessness, lest that lustful man might catch hold of me to satisfy his carnal desires.
Though my throat was drying out in fear and apprehension. I kept on running in fear of rape or molestation risking my life to keep my virginity intact. At dawn, I reached New Delhi railway station. The crowd of passengers was my protection. I drank water from the tap. My life and virginity were saved. I laid my exhausted body on the platform floor. When sleep came to my eyes, body and mind I could not know.
When the Sun came overhead and sunlight touched my body, I woke up. My bladder and bowel were full, the call of nature was embarrassing my body and mind. I rushed to the public toilet on the platform, emptied my bladder and bowel and came out.
The TTC asked me, " Show me your train ticket or platform ticket."
I said, "I don't have them."
He told me, "Without a train ticket or platform ticket, you have to pay a penalty."
I told him, "I have no money."
He - "Are you pickpocket or thief?"
Me - "No."
He - "Show me your ID."
Me - "I have nothing."
He - "Are you a refugee ?"
I looked at him in my tearful eyes. His heart perhaps melted in pity.
He brought me out of the station and showed me G. B. Road near New Delhi railway station and told me - "You have a beautiful body. Go to G.B, Road and earn money. Never come here again."
My hungry belly was crying for food and I was begging for it at G.B. Road. People were looking at me.
An adult lady came and gazed at body and face, smiling from her rosy lips.
In expectation of food, I told her - "Would you please give me something for my starving belly ?"
She took me to a nearby eatery and gave me roti and dal. My hunger went away.
She asked me - "Would you like to work for your hungry belly ?"
I said, "It would be helpful for me. Thanks for your kindness. "
She said smiling, "Come with me. You would get everything in my room. But you have to work as per my instructions. Are you willing?"
I nodded my head in silent willingness. She took me to Room No-64 upstairs. So many girls like me were there. Young people were also coming and going.
I thought I would get food, work and friends by doing a job here.
It was evening. She sent me with an unknown man to a small room. His mouth smelled of liquor. He closed the door. In the darkness nothing was visible to me in that closed room. He was pulling down my dress with a lustful mind. I pushed that drunkard, opened the door and ran down the stairs in my torn clothes and lost myself in the crowd.
Now I had nothing except my God-given semi-bare body. I rushed to the New Delhi railway station again.
An old beggar woman called me, gave me her dirty torn saree to cover my seminude body.
She heard everything from me and said - "Begging is better than selling your body.
The trains, railway stations are almost free for beggars in India. The rich people including TTE are generally generous to the beggars. You can go to any part of India begging in the train.
Your youthful beautiful body is your enemy. Cover it in a dirty torn saree and leave Delhi."
It was night. The kind hearted beggar woman took me inside a train. We were begging there and the train left the New Delhi railway station blowing its horn.
At midnight we slept on the floor of the train. There was no hunger and no risk to my body. In the morning, I woke up, but couldn't not find that generous beggar woman.
But I did not forget her words, "Begging is better than selling your body. Your youthful beautiful body is your enemy. Cover it in a dirty torn saree."
No TTE asked for my train ticket. I transformed myself to a professional beggar and began begging for alms on the train.
And at last I reached Howrah Railway station and came to Goddess Kali to beg for my safety and your mother brought me to your home.
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 NIGHT OF TWO LETTERS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE FIRST LETTER
My dearest Soumik,
By the time you see this letter, I will be gone. The bottle of poison standing a few inches from where I am writing this letter is a potent one and will not fail me. Well, I feel like laughing at the way I have started this letter, but I am beyond laughing, beyond any hope. Remember my friend Tandra? When we were students in the school this used to be the opening joke whenever we spoke to each other over phone. 'Tandra, by the time you reach school tomorrow ......... I will be in a movie hall watching the morning show with my naughty Aunty who specialises in adult films.........' or, 'Mousumi, by the time you keep the phone down, ................I will be dead on the floor, killed by an overdose of laughter.....' I never imagined one day I would be writing a letter to you starting with 'by the time........'. But this time it is no joke, the poison will work in a few minutes and I will drift into a timeless sleep from which I would never get up.
Seriously, Tandra and I used to think this must be the opening line of a letter written by a pathetic soul, defeated in the game of life, abandoned by a lover, rejected by hope and staring at a daily dose of despair. Did we ever know, one day I would be writing a letter like this - I, an apparently happy, rich, fulfilled woman? Did I ever think that I would be writing my last letter to you in the grip of excruciating sadness, waiting grimly for the cold hand of death to creep slowly and overpower me with its cruel touch? Am I the same girl who had stepped into a new world of hope and limitless wonder as a vibrant bride fifteen years back? The same feet with which I entered your life feel like slabs of stone at this moment wondering how I would walk the dark path of death.
The torrential rains outside are filling me with a painful sadness. I know I would never see a white night like this again, this beautiful tea estate of Assam's verdant hinterland shining in moonlight and soaked in rains. Ah, is there anything more beautiful on this earth? ..........And more ironic? The white sky contrasting with my dark soul? Soumik, from the first floor window of our bungalow I saw you and three others enter the clubhouse one hour back. I know only three of you will return alive from there. One of the four will lose his life, his restless soul will probably get locked up in one of the massive cupboards in the card room.
Standing at the threshold of death, just a few steps away from the world of the unknown, I cannot resist the temptation to look back, at a laborious path of a married life that commenced with my entering into your home as a vibrant, smiling bride full of dreams and hope. Soumik, do you remember that girl, your 'Rosebud' as you used to call me? How deeply we were in love with each other, how recklessly we explored the joys of a freshly married life! In a month you took me to your small tea estate where you had joined as a manger. You would, in due course, climb higher in the hierarchy of your company, managing bigger and yet bigger estates, but in the early days of our marriage the small estate in the interior of Tezpur was just enough. We wandered in the estate, hand in hand, miles and miles of greenery soaking our heart with beauty, the distant hills smiling at us in a gesture of abundant reassurance, beckoning us to renew our faith in each other and our allegiance for life.
Do you remember those days when you were reluctant to leave me and go away even for a few hours? You would always come back like a weary traveller temporarily losing his way and finding it back. And the days when you had to go for meetings at Guwahati? Or Kolkata? And I could not accompany you because of visiting relatives - you would call me in the night, your voice slurring with a few pegs of alcohol, and declare your abiding love for me. In a few hours you would be awake and call me again, "My Rosebud, let there never be a day in my life which wouldn't end with your sweet face smiling away in my heart, and let there be no dawn when I don't see you before my eyes, freshly bathed, a pure, virginal beauty, a Rosebud waiting to open its eyes and bloom into a smiling flower. Ah! How intoxicating were the days, how profoundly poetic, how sweetly lyrical! I wish I could gather them in my palms and lock them up somewhere, so that they would always be mine. Soumik, I had thought there was no couple in the world happier than us, more intimate or more devoted to each other, that my life will be an endless journey of unparalleled bliss, your arms my safest abode, your heart my sacred paradise.
Did I ever imagine, all happiness in life is transitory, moments of joy are just fleeting shadows? Five years back we came to this tea estate on your promotion. What a wonderful bungalow we live in! Your evenings are so lovely for you, playing cards in the guest house, getting drunk till early hours of the morning and the servants carrying your unconscious body upstairs and depositing you on the bed like a piece of precious log. Soumik, how you make fun of me, that I don't give you company in your drinking sessions! So many times you forced me to take a sip of whiskey with soda or gin with tonic, but every time I ran to the washroom and puked. Now you have stopped asking me to accompany you to your evening sessions at the clubhouse.
Soumik, in just fifteen years of marriage I became so lonely, depression eating away my soul. When Siddhant, our son of twelve years, went to boarding school at Shillong, I became marooned in this tea estate. A huge bungalow became a big dungeon for me. The first time Siddhant came here he spent all his time talking to me about his school, the teachers, his friends and about what a lovely place Shillong was. Gradually he also drifted away from me, his time was spent on playing tennis and going on long horse rides with you. And one day over lunch he said, Mummy you are such a bore, there is nothing I can talk to you about! You just smiled and kept quiet. You never told your son that there was a time I used to talk to you for hours and you kept listening to me in enchanted attention.
In just fifteen years I faded from your life, became as perfunctory as the calendar on the wall, the drapes on the window or the fragile china-bone cutleries adorning your dining table - things you knew existed, but never took notice of. I became a distant spec of dust in your life. Was it because I couldn't smoke cigarettes like Rina Haldar in your clubhouse or openly flirt with men, like Shyamali Bodothakur?
Soumik, have you ever understood the meaning of loneliness? Once I was about to explain, you stopped me saying it's all the fantasy of psychology which I studied in college. I know you would never understand how I feel when you keep sitting for hours before the internet in the study room or fall asleep on the dining chair in drunken stupor. You would never know how I shudder within myself when your drunk, almost lifeless body is carried to the bedroom or when on the few nights you are relatively sober I try to touch you and seek your love and you turn away from me. Should I tell you what loneliness is? It is when I spend sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, or keep walking silently in the living room looking at the patterns on the floor. Do you know Soumik, there are sixty four tiles on the living room floor? I must have counted them hundreds of times - the sixty four slabs of icy loneliness which turn my heart into stone. You have never tried to understand my loneliness. For the past few years all your spare time has been spent on buying stocks and shares or acquiring apartments in Gauhati, Shillong or Kolkata. Your life has been so full that there is no space there for my emptiness, my loneliness.
Soumik, will you ever believe that my short life has been given to you and entirely to you, and there is no one else in my life, that I did not allow even a shadow to come between you and me, that I worshipped you as my only God, despite the indifference you showed to me? Will you miss me Soumik? After I leave you forever?
Your Rosebud
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THE SECOND LETTER
Dear Anupam,
The best friend of my life!
I can't believe how easily, spontaneously you became a part of my life in the past six months. It's as if someone very close, very intimate from the past overshadowed the present. Once both of us were in the lawn chatting, you standing close to me and I suddenly glanced at the ground. The sun was at such an angle that our shadows had mingled and become one on the grass. A shiver ran down my spine, I moved away and stood a few feet away. It was as if to tell you that no matter how much I like your company, my love for Soumik is so complete that I didn't want even a shadow to come between him and me.
Anupam, when we first met, you told us you were my class mate in college. I tried my best to recollect seeing you in the college, but somehow I couldn't find you there. Why didn't we meet when we were students Anupam, when my heart was roaming around like a butterfly waiting to meet a Prince Charming? With your handsome looks, sweet smiles and deep, melting eyes you would have won the heart of any girl. Why didn't we meet then? For the past six months we have spent so much time together, talking of our college days. You know practically all my friends, but how is it I have no recollection of you?
Our chatting, gossiping and laughing have not escaped Soumik's attention. Jealousy has made him insane. He says he can't throw you out from your job because the head office has sent you here as the Chief Security Officer. Instead, he wants to end your life. He has shown me the bottle of highly potent poison he has taken with him to mix with your drink. He has promised me that tomorrow morning your dead body will be taken out and buried in some remote corner of the tea estate.
Anupam, I pleaded with Soumik to spare your life, I swore in the names of all the Gods that you are just a friend from the college and nothing else for me, that my loyalty is only to my husband, there is no question of someone else entering my life. But he is not convinced, he is determined to end your life. I sent a small note to you through the watchman of the bungalow warning you to leave the clubhouse. Soumik intercepted the watchman, took the letter from him, read it and kept it in his pocket. The watchman has come back and reported to me. Sorry Anupam, I could not save your life.
Anupam, isn't life strange? Isn't the world a highly unfair place? Why is the definition of fidelity so different for men and women? Soumik can snatch a cigarette from Reena Haldar's lips and drag on it like it was coated with honey, he can hug Poonam Borua and dance with her body glued to him, but if I talk to the Chief Security Officer of the estate, heavens would come crashing on him?
Anupam, I have decided to end my meaningless existence, this lonely life. I don't know how to face tomorrow morning, how to prove to the world I have nothing to do with your death, that my husband has gone crazy, he has driven me to an insane helplessness out of which I consider my death to be the only solution. My only regret is I had never imagined my life would end like this, in utter misery. What a night this is Anupam, neither you will survive it nor I!
Your friend
Mousumi
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THE CLUBHOUSE
The club house wore a sedate look, incessant rains dancing on the window pains made it look like a night of deluge. The four friends were quietly sipping their drinks and playing cards, but it looked like their minds were elsewhere. The torrential rains had drowned their usually ebullient spirit. Anupam kept looking at the watch, midnight was creeping in slowly like a panther at the edge of the tea estate. Ranjan and Prasant, assistant managers of the Brahmaputra tea estate of Tata Finlays were glancing at Soumik, the Manager and Anupam, the Chief Security Officer curiously. The languid atmosphere was a dampener for all. Ranjan could not control his curiosity,
"Anupam, why are you looking at watch repeatedly, as if you are waiting for someone to come knocking at the door at midnight!"
Anupam looked at everyone,
"Nothing serious. Watching the march of time, in step with the rising rains. Four minutes left before midnight........"
Prasant smiled,
"Why are you looking at the clock so eagerly? Are you waiting for someone?"
Soumik, more inebriated than others, let out a mysterious groan,
"Hah, it's as if death is silently creeping in with the minute hand of the clock...."
Ranjan feigned a shock,
"Death? Whose death?"
Soumik's face wore a hard, steely look,
"Someone whose death will bring a new life to someone else..."
Anupam smiled,
"Why are you talking in riddles, what...."
Before he could complete, the clock struck midnight and suddenly power went off, plunging the clubhouse, the manager's bungalow and the entire tea estate into total darkness. A strong smell of chloroform invaded the clubhouse, the sound of a gunshot, and a deathly cry echoed in the room. Someone ran outside, his footsteps sounding hurried, followed by the steps of a silent panther running after its prey. In just a minute after midnight everything fell silent, it was as if the clubhouse descended into a mourning.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
THE BUNGALOW
Two hours later, shortly after midnight, Soumik opened his eyes and found himself on his own bed in the bed room. Mousumi's inert body was on the next bed, her gentle breathing giving an eerie feeling to the tired, chloroform induced consciousness of Soumik. He turned and was startled to see Anupam sitting on a chair on his bedside, smoking a cigarette. Enraged, he tried to get up,
"You! What are you doing here in our bedroom? Get out! Now! Before I strangle you to death."
Anupam smiled,
"Relax Soumik, in your present position you cannot even strangle a mouse to death! The effect of chloroform has just started waning. It will be a few hours before you will be fully fit."
Soumik flew into a rage,
"Why did you put chloroform to my face? Why were you trying to kill me?"
Anupam took a long drag on his cigarette and shook his head,
"Not me, it was Prasant who put the chloroform on you. He and Ranjan had planned to kidnap you."
"Prashant? Ranjan? My Assistant Managers? Why should they kidnap me?"
Anupam laughed, a contemptuous, derisive laughter,
"A serious error of judgment by you Soumik. You have appointed Prasant Bhowmik, alias Manas Mandal, Ranjan Das alias Chittaranjan Paramanik, dreaded ULFA deputy commanders, as assistant managers in your estate seven months back. They have been sent here to kidnap you and Mousumi. In the last six months they have made three attempts on you and two on Mousumi, but I came to know of it and checkmated them all the times. Today was their grand design, two armoured jeeps had enetered your tea estate and were waiting near the power house. One of their top commanders with four other terrorists were in the jeep, they had switched off the power supply exactly at midnight. You and and Mousumi were to be carried to the jeep and they would have left for Burma in the night. My men have captured them and taken them into custody. It's a big catch for us. Unfortunately we couldn't catch Prasant and Ranjan alive. The moment Prashant put chloroform on your face, I shot him dead. Ranjan tried to run away towards your bungalow to kidnap Mousumi, I went after him, and killed him with my knife. I had no choice, anything could have happened in the dark."
Soumik was listening in rapt attention, shock had made his eyes widen,
"You shot Prashant and killed Ranjan? Who are you? Are you Anupam or you also have an alias?"
Anupam laughed again and lighted another cigarette,
"Yes, I also had to conceal my identity from ULFA. I am Vikas Kulshrestha, a Captain in the Army Intelligence Unit, tasked with the specific job of counter-checking ULFA."
"O my God! A Captain from AIU? And I never had an inkling of what you are! But why is ULFA keen on kidnapping me? And Mousumi of all the people? I can understand kidnapping me for a ransom of five crore of rupees which my company would have paid, it's a part of our job contract. But why has Mousumi been targeted?"
"About a year back we had captured three top commanders of ULFA in Burma. We have kept it a secret, no one except a few officials of AIU knows it. They are desperately trying to get these three commanders released. They knew the Army and the Government would not have allowed the wife of a top tea estate manager of TataFinlays to be a hostage in ULFA's hands. They would have negotiated the release of the three commanders in exchange of Mousumi. Thank God we foiled their plan."
Soumik looked at Mousumi, in the dim green light of the room she was looking calm and serene, her eyes closed, her face a picture of absolute peace.
Anupam startled him with a soft whisper,
"She is beautiful, isn't she? Don't worry, she will come round probably by morning, I have given her a very strong antidote for the poison she had consumed to commit suicide, the same poison you had carried with you to put in my drinks, remember?"
Soumik lowered his head in shame,
"I am sorry about that, but tell me why did Mousumi attempt suicide?"
Anupam pointed at a note on the side table,
"There, she has explained everything in her letter to you. Read it after I leave, I have to clear out of this place because my identity has been compromised. ULFA is too smart to know that the killing of Prashant and Ranjan could not have been done without the hand of the Army Intelligence Unit. Moreover, I suspect Prabir, the assistant cook in your clubhouse is an informer for the ULFA. Get rid of him tomorrow morning. Get the bodies of Ranjan and Prashant buried in some remote corner. Clean up the place Soumik, you need to restore sanity in your tea estate badly."
Soumik stared at Anupam,
"Sorry, I misunderstood you. But tell me,were you really a class mate of Mousumi? Did you know her before you came here?"
Anupam shook his head,
"No, actually I am three years younger to her. My assignment was to guard her closely because she was a more valuable catch for ULFA, they wanted to negotiate the release of their commanders in exchange of her. Moreover you always carried some security cover with you, a driver and a guard with you wherever you went. She was more vulnerable. I collected all information about her, her school days, college days and all her friends and relatives so that I could win her confidence and carry the role of her college mate convincingly. She had a small doubt in her mind, but was not sure."
"I am so sorry Anupam, I couldn't know you properly, when you were with us."
Anupam smiled,
"Soumik, there are so many things you have not known or you have chosen to ignore, that you have lost half the charm of life running after mirages. In your insatiable appetite for riches, stocks, shares and apartments you have forgotten that there is a quiet, beautiful life at home, which can give you all the joys of the world. You have ignored a wife who still thinks the world of you and worships the very ground you walk on. Read that letter, you will know what you have missed in life, you will rediscover your lovely, vibrant wife. Today she has got a new lease of life. Don't let it go waste."
Anupam stood up. He checked in his pocket to make sure that Mousumi's letter to him was safely tucked away there. Before leaving the room he lighted another cigarette,
"Serving in the Army I missed out on marriage. But Soumik, whatever little I know of life, let me assure you, if I had a wife like Mousumi - a simple, pure, innocent soul - I would not be chasing happiness in colourful bottles of worthless alcohol or fulfilment in fake images of nude women in internet, I would not be throwing away my precious, promising nights in the dustbin of time."
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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