Literary Vibes - Edition CXXIX (26-May-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) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THE COLOUR RAINBOWS WHISPER
02) Chinmayee Barik
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
03) Ajay Upadhyaya
THE CONSUMMATE CONFIDANT
04) Ishwar Pati
HOW TO GET A MAID
05) Meena Mishra
A LETTER TO MY MUSE
06) T. V. Sreekumar
MERI JAAN
I WOULDN'T DARE
07) Sujata Dash
INVINCIBLE
08) Snehaprava Das
ZERO
09) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
A LOVE STORY
10) Ashok Kumar Ray
GANGASAGAR
11) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE LEDGER
YAMRAJ AND HIS BIG BUFFALO
12) Gourang Charan Roul
A VISIT TO GOHIRATIKIRI...
13) Satish Pasine
THE SONG OF LIFE!
14) Sumana Ghosh
MOTHERS –A SPECIES BY THEMSELVES
15) Sudipta Mishra
SAVITRI BRATA: WHY...
16) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY...
THE COLOUR RAINBOWS WHISPER
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
Even though I was extremely tired from the previous day’s journey, I woke up at the first ring of his mobile. I had been in Kanpur for three days attending a conference of journalists. So much work would be waiting for me at the office. My colleagues would have tried to help and made it worse.
I got up and sat on my bed and looked around. The mobile might be in the study. I called Anandi to bring it over.
“Might be from the office. They would have found that you are back home,” Anandi didn’t sound very happy.
I had come home by noon the previous day but had not yet contacted the office. I wanted to have some rest and peace of mind before I put my nose back on the grinding wheel.
The call was from an unsaved number. But from the voice, I immediately knew who it was. Saritha Rani.
“What is going on? I couldn’t reach you for the last three days. Too, too long for me.”
I explained to her my Kanpur sojourn and other things.
“Good that I finally got you today. I am going back tonight. One more headache is over. This one lasted three full years or even more.”
“Don’t be too happy about it. More headache is on the way. Just wait for this biography to come out.”
“Come on, who is going to read it? I wanted to write it and now I am finished with it. Even if Reghuraman had not asked me, I would have written it someday.”
“So, you have done the packing and all. Ready to fly?”
“There was nothing much to pack. I finished all that yesterday itself. Couriered my books and clothes in one bid bundle. I am left with what I am wearing and my laptop. I like to travel light. I wanted to visit that orphanage. But that won’t happen this time. By the way, if you are free we can have lunch together at the same old place. There are a few places want to visit if you can take me. I don’t want to be alone there.”
“Hey, why do you have to ask? This is not anyone’s last supper. I will pick you up at eleven, OK?”
I said eleven, but I was there by ten thirty. Even then I did not have to wait. She was all set to go out. She is always like that. Takes care of things in advance. She never takes any time to apply makeup. The fact is, she doesn’t even apply any.
She was rather reticent even after a few minutes in the car. She was in some other world. Even when the car stopped outside the library, she just sat there.
“You said, you have a book to return.”
“Oh, yes. Completely forgot about all that. Just five minutes. I have to return only these ones.”
She gave me a new book by Carbera Rosetti and walked away towards the library with a large paper bag.
As she walked away, memories crowded into my mind.
Saritha was relatively plumb when I first met her in Chennai. Neeraj was also with her then. It was just one year after her marriage.
Our newspaper wanted to book Neeraj for a Sitar concert as a part of our golden jubilee celebrations. Usually, he wouldn’t agree at short notice. But thanks to the reputation of our newspaper, he readily agreed.
It was during the dinner after the concert that he introduced his wife to all of us on the committee.
“I am not boasting, but believe me, my wife is not at all interested in music. So, music is one thing we neither discuss nor disagree about. We do that about practically everything else. She goes on punching the keys on her laptop round the clock. She writes and writes endlessly. I am amazed that someone can do that while I don’t even reply to letters. The good thing is that she never asks me to read anything she writes.”
“Really! What do you write? Poetry or fiction?!
Saritha just smiled at my question.
“O, she writes long fiction and, what is it called, right, fan fiction. Only her fan fiction pieces are longer than the originals.” Neeraj chuckled. “You know, I once got lost in her room. Man, it is a jungle of papers, folders, notebooks and hefty volumes.”
I was more interested in music than in literature. So, I didn’t talk much to Sarita but went on talking to Neeraj. It was past midnight when we parted. I found that his best was yet to come. He had travelled all over India picking up bits and pieces of lost traditions in music with a view to reviving them and enriching his own rendering with them.
For our next special edition, I asked Saritha to write a story only to keep in touch with the music maestro. In fact, I didn’t ask her directly. I asked through him.
But she didn’t concede, probably because I did it through him. They were on the brink of a breakup. I didn’t know that. Later I heard that he married someone else. It was not true. He didn’t get married to anyone. He was simply living with a singer. And that too didn’t last.
Even his music didn’t last long. He was found under a pile of snow in Arunachal and no one really recognised him. He was rushed to the local clinic and was declared dead. It came as a shock to the music lovers. His best, which I always longed to hear, was never heard.
Three years after his death, our newspaper started publishing a series about him. It was a collection of random memories penned by Saritha. She knew him only for a few years but there was no other person who had known him that well. All other people, both men and women were only his passing interests. The series was an overnight hit. Phone calls and letters poured in from all over the world complementing Saritha for her poignant portrayal of a great singer’s troubled life. Her penmanship was much praised. Everyone said that her writing was like Neeraj playing his favourite ragas on his sitar. Both made the connoisseurs’ eyes moisten with vaguely recalled moments of oneness, separation, self-indulgence and selflessness.
Even before the last chapter got published, publishers were vying with each other tp get her contract for the book. She chose the one who gave her the biggest offer and she was now in Bangalore for its finishing touches. She had forced the publisher to make me do the editing.
It was when she knocked on the car door that I woke up from my reverie.
When she sat near me in the car, I senses a strange fragrance. She had been to the washroom to refresh herself. She didn’t smell this nice in the morning. She was still not in the right frame of her mind. But a lot could be read on her face. I was sure there was so much she didn’t pour into the book and those things were now choking her, things which she wanted to say but shouldn’t say.
Even in her book, there was a lot to read between the lines. Editing her book was both easy and hard. There were passages which I wanted to rewrite but my better judgment told me to leave them as such. Her style had that deceptive simplicity about it. Like a pristine pool, it hid its depth. Even when she had reasons to be highly excited in real life, she was rather cold and inexpressive. But when she writes, she can create a bizarre and weird world of sensation like a surrealist painter.
“Can you park somewhere here? I have a bit of shopping to do. You too have to come with me.”
She bought some sweets which are available only in Bangalore. And some handloom products too. The streets had come alive after the day’s scorching heat. While we moved with the crowd like two dry leaves in a rivulet, trying as much as we did, we had no idea what was going on in each other’s minds. Were we storing words for a farewell?
While reading her work, I often replaced Neeraj with my own self. Though very rarely, I did give her a few suggestions about penning her reminiscences and they had never failed to surprise her. Once, after reading a chapter I had edited she sent me a message: Neeranj could never read my mind. But I won’t say that about you.”
Light was fading in the western sky and the street lights were getting brighter. The darkness which lingered in nooks and corners was getting thicker. At a busy signal, when I got tense about manoeuvring my car, Sarith grabbed my left wrist. Then she slid close to me. Her hold on my left had loosened but it was still there. Even when we reached her hotel, my left hand was not free. Her breath was heavy and I imagined I could hear her heart pounding.
That night, in her hotel room, as she lay close to me, my hands around her, she winked her eyes as if browsing through images in her mind. I too was rather quiet like figuring out the missing pages to give more clarity to her book.
Later that night, as her flight taxied on the runway, its lights blinking like her eyes did a few hours before, I thought that my life’s trajectory had suddenly changed like the flight was doing right now. A few words she had never penned but saved for a beautiful night like this were still fresh in my ears.
Tell me, how good is the fragrance of my heartbeats, how colourful is my breath.”
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
(Translated from Odia story, “Barsha, Rati o Geetanjali” by Ajay Upadhyaya)
Anshu can never get that unseasonal rainy night off his mind. Every now and then, it barges in from the recesses of his memory to his mind’s forecourt. Each time, it ushers a new awareness and offers a fresh perspective.
That day, ignoring all his objections, Ritu decided to set off for her parent’s house. Although it was only six in the evening, the untimely shower coupled with the blanket of dark clouds made it feel like late night.
“Ritu, please, don’t embark on the journey in this terrible weather. Heavy showers are forecast for tonight. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow morning?”
“Why not tonight? You think, I am scared of the rain? Neither am I scared of the rain nor of you.”
“You have got me wrong, Ritu!” I faltered, “Never mind, let me at least join you in the journey; I shall drop you at your parent’s place.”
“You don’t need to; I am quite capable of travelling alone.”
Ritu’s snappy retort was acerbic enough to shut Anshu up. He had no choice but to quietly accept her decision. Next day was the birthday of her nephew. Although he had promised to accompany Ritu for this family celebration, now he was not in a position to keep his word. His leave application had not been approved by his office. Because, unexpectedly a senior officer was scheduled to arrive on deputation tomorrow and Anshu’s attendance at work was deemed to be essential for getting clearance of some necessary document. In his position, he had little say over such matters; after all he was a lowly clerical officer.
Ritu changed her clothes grudgingly; replacing her loose house gown with leggings and a top. She hurriedly got their son, Google, dressed for the journey, totally disregarding his mild sobbing. Reluctantly, Anshu hired an auto rickshaw for the station and saw Ritu and Google off in the train. On his return journey home, he could visualise Google’s face, lying in Ritu’s lap, fast asleep, with his mouth open. He could imagine how he would wake up after a while and when he wouldn’t see Anshu around, he would start wailing, calling out, Papa, papa…. His crying would enrage an already irate Ritu and she would snap by slapping him hard. She would next go on to admonish him, “You are the not the only one with a father. There are millions of children who have fathers but no one is crying for their papa. What is wrong with you?” Then she would thrust the feeding bottle in his mouth to quieten him. But it would not be easy to pacify Google and he would continue crying even louder, thrashing his limbs in protest at the same time. At this point, Anshu dragged himself out of his inner thoughts, that was becoming too painful to continue. For Ritu, the journey from Bhubaneswar to Berhampur would take two hours. He said a silent prayer, let them at least have a smooth and safe passage. His eyes were getting moist with emotion.
He was caught by the heavy downpour while returning home, and got thoroughly soaked. In stead of taking an auto rickshaw he had decided to walk back home. The house felt lonely and silent. Generally, when Ritu and Google would be away, he would find the empty house quite depressing. But that evening, he did not mind the solitude. Somehow, he found the emptiness rather welcoming. He realised, a retreat like this was desirable; it offered him an opportunity to explore his inner world in peace and perhaps a rare chance for self-discovery. Lately, Anshu had lost the sense of his own being. As he looked into the mirror, his reflection appeared hazy. Outside, the pounding of the rain was relentless.
After a prolonged gap, Anshu was taking his old books out of the almirah, dusting them one by one. Before marriage, about half of his salary would be spent on books. That is the time when all his books were bought. Since his marriage his life had changed drastically; struggles to make both ends meet had defined his existence. The challenge of meeting all of Ritu’s demands and the needs of the household left him with little time or money to think of books. He pulled out from the book shelf, Geetanjali, the masterpiece by Gurudev, Rabindra Nath Tagore. Geetanjali (literally meaning offering of poems) has been his all-time favourite. Although he had read it countless times, as he was dusting it, a desire to spend the night with Geetanjali soon took hold of him.
By the time he had reached page sixteen of the book, the calling bell on his front door buzzed. He wondered who could that be; did Ritu change her mind and return? On opening the door, he found an unfamiliar lady. Anshu’s best guess was that, she had probably landed at the wrong house. She took out from her purse, a piece of paper with an address written on it, asking in broken Odia, if she was at the right house. To Anshu’s surprise, the paper carried his correct home address.
He lifted his head to take a close look at the lady’s face. She had donned a raincoat but her face was drenched with rain water. In her hand was a small bag and an umbrella. She introduced herself, again in broken Odia, as Arpita, wife of Abhi.
“I had no choice but to come to you for help.” She said and stood quietly.
There was a trace of anxiety on her face as she waited for Anshu’s reaction to her unexpected visit. For Anshu, however, Abhi’s name was enough; there was no need for questioning her further.
“Please, come inside.”
As she stepped into the living room, Anshu felt, there was something odd about her. She walked effortfully, with her feet wide apart, supporting her waist on either side with her arms flexed at the elbows. Anshu offered her a chair to sit on. She first took a look at the chair, then at her soaked body and remained standing. Anshu got the message; he realised underneath her raincoat her clothes had got thoroughly drenched in rain water.
Anshu was in a fix; he had no idea what to do in a situation like this. At this juncture, she said, “I don’t see your wife; is she not at home?”
“No, she is away; with our son she is visiting her parents.”
“Ah, that is rather awkward,” she hesitantly continued, “If you don’t mind, can I stay here tonight? Please!”
This threw Anshu into a real quandary. He didn’t know what to say: Yes, No, or something altogether different? The situation was too delicate for him; should he say anything at all? He couldn’t figure out what would be a decent response in keeping with propriety of the occasion. In his indecisiveness, he simply nodded his head. He was indicating his assent, without his full awareness.
“Where is the bath room? I need to change my clothes.”
“Without a word, Anshu pointed to the bathroom. She walked into it without any reservation.
Outside, the rain showed no sign of subsiding. The book, Geetanjali, was lying open at page sixteen. Anshu’s heart beat was getting faster, waiting for Arpita. As she walked out of the bathroom, she looked like a different woman. In the place of the raincoat she now had a nylon dressing gown on her. Her wet and loose hair was scattered all over her face, covering most of her rosy cheeks. With a half smile on her face, she waddled her way across the room. In stead of occupying the chair, she lowered herself on the edge of the bed. Effortfully, she dragged her expanded girth towards the wall, so that she could lean against it. Then she took a deep breath. In the process of settling down, her gown was pulled up halfway onto her calfs.
All these activities of Arpita were making Anshu increasingly uneasy; there was something about her, that did not feel quite natural or proper.
Anshu’s reluctant eyes were roving on Arpita’s body. It was different, when she had the raincoat on. But, now with the flimsy gown, her entire body was almost out in full view. He noticed her complexion which was the colour of light ochre. With an oblong face she was of respectable height. Most prominently, her enormous belly stood out. With her gown dragged upwards, her swollen feet were clear to see.
Anshu realised, Arpita was in advanced pregnancy. By now he had gathered his thoughts and was ready to speak. “I know, you are Abhi’s wife. I have heard a lot about you, although I had not seen you. In your present state, travelling all the way from Rajasthan is no joke. Perhaps, you should have contacted me by phone.”
“I tried to phone, but could not get you. My pregnancy, you can see, is quite advanced; it is into the eighth month now. Doctors have advised me to rest. But health is not my only concern; I have a host of household worries. My finances were getting critically low. Whatever little money I had with me was dwindling. Until now, there is no sign of Abhi’s outstanding pension or payment from his GPF. I tried my level best to resolve the issue of outstanding payments over the phone. Following my repeated phone calls, the relevant office finally summoned me to physically present myself with some documents; these needed clearance for further processing of my application for Abhi’s funds. You know how these offices work; files don’t move until they are lubricated by bribes. After paying the officials their dues, I am now left with just a total of thousand rupees. I did not have the guts to check into a hotel. I had got your address with me; so, I turned to you for help. Tomorrow morning I have my return train at 5 AM, when I will leave. She took a deep breath as she finished the long explanation for this unannounced visit to Anshu. Next, she rummaged her handbag, and scrambled to pull out a packet of biscuits; it seems she was rather hungry.
Anshu was gazing at Abhi’s wife, Arpita. She was devouring the biscuits like there was no tomorrow; there was no hint of hesitation or any trace of inhibition. At the same time, she was stroking her belly gently. Anshu was feeling increasingly uncomfortable watching Arpita’s antics. He never imagined he would meet Arpita under such circumstances. Abhi was a good friend from his college days; they shared a hostel room for some years. Abhi was a champion badminton player. His game was good enough for him to play at state level and he was awarded many medals. As a badminton player, he was visiting Rajasthan where he met Arpita. They fell in love and after two years of courtship they got married. Tragically, he was killed in a road traffic accident within two years of their marriage.
“Oo..” Arpita let out a faint shriek.
“What happened Madam? Are you all right?”
“Oh yes, Don’t worry about me. The baby kicked.” she said with a smile of contentment on her face.
To be kicked can be so pleasurable, only mothers with babies would know. Anshu was pleased to see the smile on Arpita’s face.
“Please, don’t address me as Madam. I will love to to be called by my name, Arpita”
“Then, you must call me Anshu.”
That did the trick; it cleared the air between them. Anshu felt relaxed and their conversation flowed easily. Arpita turned out to be a gifted narrator of anecdotes, who needed little prodding. It seems, she knew Anshu’s habits and tastes rather well. For example, sleeping was Anshu’s favourite pastime; he could sleep anywhere and anytime. He was known to be snoring even while watching movies. His favourite food was south Indian. Meena Kumari was the heroine of his dreams. He loved to read, particularly poetry. And, he enjoyed getting soaked in rain. One of his life’s ambition was to build a grand library. Arpita went on to talk about the role Anshu played in getting them united in matrimony. Apparently Anshu had impressed upon Abhi of the magical powers of an amulet from the local God man, Bhola Baba (Baba is a local term for people gifted with spiritual powers). Abhi had been brainwashed to believe that if he somehow managed to get the amulet round Arpita’s neck that would guarantee her consent to their marriage by divine intervention.
Arpita, at this point, picked up the amulet hanging round her neck by a string, and turned to Anshu, “This is the same amulet; do you remember? I still have it on me, but Abhi is no more.” As Anshu stared at the amulet, Arpita continued, “Anshu, can you get me another one which will bring Abhi back?”
Anshu felt overwhelmed and he gulped hard to steady himself. His eyes were getting heavy too. Under the pretext of making a cup of tea for Arpita he dashed into the kitchen. He placed the saucepan on the cooker to boil. Next, he splashed some cold water on his face; he had to repeat this action several times, until the last drop of tear was washed off his face. He could hear himself calling out for Abhi; it was an automatic utterance deep inside him. It made no difference anyway; the kitchen was filled with a deathly silence.
The wall clock announced the time as eleven. Handing over a cup of tea and a plate of noodles to Arpita, he told her, that was all he could manage that night. This was the limit of his cooking skill anyway. Arpita smiled at him reassuringly and polished off the last strand of noodle with relish. By then Anshu had finished his tea.
“You better rest now, Arpita, here, on this bed. I am in the study. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.” Anshu picked up his book, Geetanjali, and walked across to his study. As he resumed his reading, however hard he tried, he could not focus on the poem. Through the words of Geetanjali, he could clearly see Abhi’s face. He turned on his phone and opened the photo gallery. It had several photos of Abhi; for quite some time he had deliberately avoided looking at them. All the barriers were broken that night and he kept stroking the photos of Abhi on the screen of his mobile phone.
He was interrupted by sound of foot steps from behind. When he turned round, it was Arpita, She stood there leaning against the wall, asking, “Do you have any balm in the house. My feet are really sore; I can’t go to sleep because of the pain.”
“I have only this,” he offered the bottle of Amritanjan (a common astringent ointment, found in households). “You have to manage with this.”
Arpita took the bottle of balm and left the study. Then, Anshu remembered how Ritu too suffered from swollen feet during her pregnancy, when he used to rub Amritanjan on her feet. Arpita must be going through the same pain. Thinking about Arpita’s sore and swollen feet, he felt uneasy. He got up and returned to Arpita. She was sitting on the ground, her legs spread out, struggling to rub the balm on her feet. It was no easy task because of her protruding tummy preventing her from bending.
“Let me rub the balm on your feet; I can see how difficult it is for you. Ritu suffered from the same problem when she was pregnant with our son.”
“No, thank you. I can manage on my own.”
Anshu was returning into his study, when Arpita called from his back, “Listen, I can’t go to sleep.”
“What to do?” Anshu blurted out.
“Let us spend the rest of the night chatting.” was Arpita’s unhesitant proposal.
Anshu knew, talking was not his forte; he was a much better listener. But seeing the eagerness on Arpita’s face, he could not say no to her. He pulled up a chair and sat next to her.
Arpita talked and talked. She delved into her own past, recounted events from her brief life with Abhi, and talked about her unborn baby in her tummy. Nothing was left out, as if she was chatting with an old friend. With her continuous monologue, as her throat felt dry, she would sip some water before resuming her talk. Anshu listened to he intently, delighted by her flow, admiring her natural charm. There was a simplicity about her which was most beautiful. He had no idea such people were around in this world. He was silently congratulating Abhi for his taste in women. Suddenly, Arpita turned to him, “I heard, you write poetry. Why don’t you read me some of your poems?” I really love listening to poetry.
“No, I am not a writer, but I enjoy reading poetry. If you permit, I would love to read to you from my all time favourite, Geetanjali.”
Anshu spent the rest of the night reading Geetanjali, while Arpita listened to him spellbound, leaning against the wall. Anshu appreciated how different Arpita was from all the other women he knew. She exuded a refreshing simplicity which was so appealing. After spending the night with her, his spirit had soared and his enthusiasm for life rekindled.
That night, Anshu felt, Arpita was like his favourite Geetanjali, whose charm never fades, no matter how many times you read it. It had not occurred to him that some women indeed could transcend to the level of poetry, eternal and ethereal. Arpita was one such example.
There was an affinity between them, Anshu could not quite work out. Perhaps, it was a resonance of sorts, at some level, he could sense, during the course of the night they spent together. Something, subtle but profound, had clicked.
xxxxxx
By morning, the rain had stopped. Anshu dropped Arpita at the station, as planned. He handed her some cash, that was apparently Abhi’s money, which Anshu claimed, Abhi had left with him sometime ago. Arpita looked at him quizzically and stroked her belly before saying, “I think, you are lying. But, never mind.” By then the train bell began to ring. Anshu took Arpita by hand and seated her in the train on a window seat. He picked up some fruits and a bottle of water for her and slipped them through the window. The train started to roll, slowly pulling itself out of the platform, while Anshu had his gaze fixed on Arpita. Her face was slowly changing, gradually transforming into a living poetry.
The train was poised to leave. For Anshu, something exquisite was about to vanish from his sight. Exactly at this time, his mobile phone started to vibrate. Ritu was shouting at the other end of the phone, “Tell me the truth; who was with you in the house last night?. Mrs Mishra just now phoned me with the news that a woman came to our house after I left. I can well imagine what happens when a man and woman spend the night together under one roof.” He could feel the venom in her voice.
Anshu was undecided on what to say. Actually, last night in the house, Arpita was not the only other person. There were four of them; Anshu was with Arpita, Abhi and their unborn baby.
But, Anshu felt no need to reply to Ritu. He simply disconnected the call.
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.
“Is something bothering you?” my friend, Prabhat, was astute enough to read my mood.
We were en route for our college reunion at a hill station. We were seated comfortably inside Prabhat’s plush car, perhaps luxurious by some standard. This car was his recent acquisition and he took obvious pride in its latest gadgets. He paused after his short lecture on the car’s technical specifications.
Prabhat is my friend from our school days, It wasn’t difficult for him to sense my lack of excitement at his praises for his car.
“Don’t take it to heart, Prabhat, I said, I simply did not mean to interrupt your flow. You have got a nice car.”
“Don’t be so formal, yaar (A common local term for friend). Our friendship is beyond formalities. I know, you are hard to be impressed. But it is not just your lukewarm interest in my car. You have been rather quiet from the moment we got into the car.”
“Of course, I am not talking a lot. I feel a bit tired, perhaps from my long flight. It is the jet lag.”
Prabhat and I have remained in touch although our lives have taken different routes and followed divergent trajectories. He joined in the posh Civil Service and stayed in India, while I went abroad, initially for a brief stint but eventually stayed on. Our college reunions bring us together on a regular basis. The pandemic and the ensuing shutdown had disrupted our routine and we could not meet for about three years.
Prabhat has always been curious about the attractions of life in the West, powerful enough to pull people away from their motherland. He would often tell me “It can’t be a simple matter of money. With your skills, you can make even more money in India. No matter what you choose to pursue you are guaranteed a life as comfortable as you have over there.” He made no secret of his fascination about western life style and how it differed from that in India. He would quiz me how I struck friendship with the locals and what sort of common interest kept us as friends. He would ask me on the composition of my social circle and if the majority of my friends were from Indian background.
He had heard of people there pursuing weird hobbies. He found it hard to believe anyone can find excitement in watching birds and insects. He thought it was crazy for someone to enjoy sitting idle holding a fishing rod the whole day. He would ask me how I spent my leisure hours and what we did to entertain ourselves. For example, he wanted to know the topics we talked about among friends and what songs or jokes we enjoyed in gatherings.
On this ride, he would continue with his exploration into his favourite field of enquiry. I did not mind giving him my perspective in general terms but somehow, I was not comfortable in naming people or citing their activities. Something was holding me back. The reason behind my hesitation became obvious to me when we stopped on the way for a cup of coffee.
As we sat down with our coffee, I realised, I needed this privacy to feel free to talk. In the car, the driver’s presence did inhibit my flow.
“I must come clean, Prabhat, I told you a white lie, when I said I was too tired to talk“ I started.
“what!”
“Yes, the real reason was quite different. It was your driver, Shankar.”
“But what did he do? He has been my most trustworthy and reliable driver. That is why I sent him to pick you up from the airport. Did he make any mistake?”
“Oh no, he did nothing wrong.”
“Then, how did he stop you from talking?”
“It is simply his presence in the car.”
Prabhat gave me a puzzled look as if I had uttered something preposterous.
I realised, my opaque statement was muddying the water in stead of clarifying the situation. I owed him a more explicit explanation. But before anything else, I must certify Shankar’s impeccable driving skill and testify to his conduct, which was beyond reproach.
“You have a very able driver in Shankar. The problem lies with me, not with him.”
“Now, you are confusing me even more. If he is a capable and courteous driver, what is your problem with him? “
“No, Prabhat, he did a sterling job in receiving me at the airport.”
“You must stop talking in riddles.”
“Let me start at the beginning. Unlike you folks in India, I am not used to be chauffeured around. I drive my own car and when riding with friends or family, there is usually no stranger in the car. We have got so used to the privacy of riding without a chauffeur that presence of an outsider hampers talking about personal matters. Your luxury of being driven around comes at a price of this outsider in the group.”
“But drivers do not join in our conversation, unless you want them to.”
“Even if they don’t participate, they can hear you…….”
So what if they hear our conversations?
“Well, somethings are best kept within close friends or family, Don’t you agree?”
“Ah! Are you worried about drivers passing on your secrets to others?”
“What they actually do is not the issue. But it is the possibility, which puts a break on open conversation in their presence.”
“Now, I know what is troubling you. It seems, you believe in everything you read in novels or see in movies.”
“What novel are you talking about? Which movie….?”
“I have not read the book but I have seen the movie based on the novel. The book got some sort of award. I thought you would know.”
“Oh yes, You are talking about the Booker Prize winning book, The White Tiger by Arvind Adiga.”
“Yes, that story is about a murderer, who happened to be a driver. But he is one of a rare breed of rogue drivers, far from the average.”
“I am glad, you have seen the movie. We can at least talk about it. What did you make of the plot?”
“Well, it is an amusing story. Nonetheless, it is fiction. Real life is quite different. Most Indian drivers are loyal and certainly not killers. Some become part of the family. You must not tarnish all drivers in the same brush because one of them turned out be a murderer.”
“Of course, not every Indian driver murders his master. I agree, events are dramatised in fiction to make a point. But murder of confidentiality is staple game for them. They must be boasting in their circle of drivers, of all the secrets in their master’s household, they know of.”
“A real outsider might be tempted to do that . But the driver is hardly an outsider.”
“Too many personal matter divulged in private exchanges are best kept out of public knowledge. It may be unintentional but what about the driver inadvertently passing them on to others?”
“Now, I see the real problem. It is your obsession with privacy, which is making you paranoid. Like everything in life, a bit of privacy is a good idea too much can be toxic. You in the West claim to be civilised and boast of your progressive thinking. But your morbid preoccupation with confidentiality makes you a prisoner in your own private world. You miss out the simple joys from mingling with others and all the fun of gossip. No wonder, it makes you emotionally recluse.”
“But you go to the other extreme and trivialise confidentiality, as if privacy is a dirty word!”
Before I could go on to make my point, he interrupted me, “Anyway, come to the point now. What did you want to ask that you could not do because Shankar was present in the car? Now, can we talk?”
In our close circle of friends, we have a common friend, Gagan, who is a confirmed bachelor. Over the years, we have chatted about his choice for a life as a single man and would tease him with endlessly on what he was missing out. He would shrug off our banter, with his favourite line, “Marriage best suits the mediocre.” Rest of us, all married friends, would quote the statistics of married men living longer, he would rebut it by saying, “Longer perhaps, but not necessarily happier.” When we used to taunt him by quotes in favour of marriage, “By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you'll become happy; if you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.” He would laugh it off and counter our jibe by “Look at some of the greatest human achievements across the globe. Many of them are bachelors. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out why. You can pursue your passion and follow your life goals without distraction or interference from the yolks of marriage.”
“What is Gagan up to these days? What is his latest amorous adventure? I could not wait to talk about him and hear of his latest amorous adventure. But I did not dare mention his name while we were in the car. I had to remind myself that we had an outsider in the car, who must be kept out of Gagan’s private life.”
“Oh yes, there are steamy stories about his romantic escapade. Have you not heard of his recent fling with someone half his age?”
“I heard about the affair. But you call it a fling. So, perhaps, it is not serious. Confirmed bachelors are not immune to the trap of feminine charm. There is no dearth of examples of such avowed advocates against marriage falling for a femme fatale late in life.”
“He has been too possessive of his personal life lately. We rarely see him in public.”
“I suppose, you could ask his driver.”
“No chance. His driver is not a character from Adiga’s novel. Anyway, Gagan is attending the Reunion. Why don’t you ask him directly?”
It was time for us to return to the car for resuming our journey. Shankar greeted us with his customary courtesy. As I sat in the car, I was reminded of the conversation we had over the coffee about drivers. Shankar certainly did not have a profile of a murderer; he looked too mild mannered for that. But what about betraying confidence and spill the beans? There was no way of judging that.
As our car rolled on, I remembered my first meeting with Prabhat’s driver, Shankar, when he drove me from the airport. As we got into the car, he asked if he should play music on the car’s stereo system. I found his politeness refreshing as in my experience, most drivers turn it on without asking. Do they assume that it would be welcome by all without exception? To break the ice, I started with general enquiries into his background. His parents had migrated from a village to the capital city of state. Although his father had basic schooling, getting a job was out of reach. Without any land to speak of, he subsisted on working as a labourer. In the village, making two ends meet was a challenge. But life in the city was not much easier. Jobs were hard to come by and competition was fierce. Frustrated at his failure in getting a job, he opted for self employment. With the little money he had saved, he bought himself a rickshaw. Although city life was changing fast, there was still a demand for cycle rickshaws those days. He managed to earn enough to put Shankar, his only child, in school.
He narrated a funny anecdote he heard from his father as a rickshaw puller. Whereas most rickshaw pullers were illiterate, his father could converse in English. Once, he was bargaining the fare with a couple, at the end of their rickshaw ride. They thought they could keep their exchanges on what would be a reasonable fare to themselves by talking in English rather than in the local language. To ensure absolute privacy, and keep their conversation totally out of his father’s grasp, they spelt the amounts in stead of pronouncing the words. But my father surprised them by spelling out, again in English, the amount he thought was right. While one of them said, T-W-E-N-T-Y F-I-V-E and the other suggested T-W-E-N-T-Y, his father piped in: “No, No, No, at least T-H-R-T-Y. Embarrassed by being caught out, they offered him thirty-five rupees.
Shankar proved to be an able pupil, clearing his examinations with scores, high enough, to get a college admission. When he passed out, he was the first one from his family to boast of a University degree. Despite all his academic achievements, securing a steady job remained an unachievable goal. He was certainly too educated to pedal a cycle rickshaw. More importantly it was no longer possible to earn a decent living from this anyway. Motor cycles and four wheelers had become the standard conveyance for the bulk of city folks.
As Shankar gathered from our conversation that I was living in America, he asked, “Sir, how much do drivers earn in America?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Surely, you own a car. I hear, people in America have more than one car; some have a fleet. Do you mind telling me how much you pay your driver?
“I wish, I could afford a driver. I don’t have the luxury of having a driver at my beck and call.
We had just stopped at traffic lights, waiting for the light to change. Shankar looked at me with disbelief. But he tried to hide his true feelings by a polite grunt and said, “Oh, I heard from Prabhat Sir, you have been settled abroad for long. I hope, you did not mind my question. Forgive my inquisitiveness.”
“Don’t worry. Your question did not upset me, let alone offending me. But tell me, why do you ask about it.”
“I am sure, you have guessed it Sir.”
“Not really.”
“I don’t want you get the wrong idea Sir. Prabhat Sir has been very kind to me. He pays me quite handsomely. Most drivers, I know, make much less money than me. He is also a generous employer. But, I hear, there are opportunities for drivers abroad.”
“Do not worry; you have nothing to fear from me. I won’t let Prabhat Sir know we ever had this conversation at all. In fact I won’t tell anyone. I can assure you of complete confidentiality.”
It seems he believed me and opened up, “I am told drivers over there earn a lot more than what we make here. As you have lived abroad for so long, you must have friends and contacts. Perhaps, you could fix me a job in America.”
I was not sure, how to answer his query on employment in America. I knew, a simple yes or no would not go down well. It was clear from his naive question that the had no idea of the complexity around immigration, employment and visa requirements for America. A quick attempt to explain all this was fraught with the risk of him interpreting it as an unwillingness to help.
Conveniently for me, we had reached home by now. The journey’s end gave me an opportunity to shelve this conversation, “You see, the process is complicated and it would take quite some time to explain the details. We would have to leave this for our next car ride.”
Before getting off the car, I reassured him, “Remember my promise to you: I won’t tell anybody about what we just talked and I I won’t forget to have a chat again.”
In Prabhat’s house, I was half expecting to see his wife, Archana. Prabhat had told me about Archana’s deep involvement in charity work, which brought with it frequent social engagements. She had such a packed schedule of her own that she was not able to join us in the ride to the venue for the reunion. She was due to be dropped off at the Reunion later in the evening. She managed to steal a few minutes from her busy diary to speak to me briefly over the phone. “I need to talk to you about Prabhat at length.”
“What is it about?”
She remained silent. I continued, “Is it about his health?”
“The matter is rather delicate to talk on phone. I fear, Prabhat is undergoing a midlife crisis.” Archana sounded weary, “ Anyway, you would be here with us for a few days. We must find some time to talk. This will have to done in private and face to face. Please, don’t mention my concerns to him. Wait until we have a chance to talk about it first.”
By then Prabhat had arrived home. Archana ended the call abruptly, saying, “We will talk soon.” I was left guessing what it might be about.
Back in the car, we were approaching out destination. It’s a popular resort in a hill station, which was our favourite venue for holding our reunions. Prabhat’s phone rang and he spoke briefly , ending the call with, “I can’t talk much now. Can I call you in a few minutes?”. He turned to me to say, “We have reached much earlier than planned. We have at least a couple of hours before our friends would be arriving.” I just remembered, I had to meet someone today. It has not been possible due to one reason or another. You would have to excuse me for a couple of hours. I have to complete this unfinished business in the spare time we have in hand.
“Oh yes, it is just as well that I wanted to visit the Tibetan sanctuary nearby. I know, you have little interest in it. So I was planning to do it on my own. This would also take a couple hours, while you can have your meeting. This will suit both of us fine.”
“That sounds perfect. Shankar will drop me at the hotel and then drive you to the sanctuary and back. See you then.”
Prabhat got off the car promptly and Shankar drove on. On the way to the sanctuary, I received a message on my phone from Archana. It read, “My request may surprise you. I can’t explain my reasons, until I meet you. I can’t talk about it now. Can you keep an eye on Prabhat’s movements at the holiday resort?”
“Of course, I will, if you want. But what should I look out for?”
“I believe, he is on a secret rendezvous with a lady. Follow him discretely but keep your eyes and ears open. Get me any information, you can manage, about her.”
I was least prepared for this bombshell. I also felt, Archana’s faith in my detective skills or my ability to spy, to be more precise, was overdone. It occurred to me that, perhaps I could get a lead from Shankar; I was certain, Shankar would know the secret behind this last minute meeting of Prabhat.
I turned to Shankar and reminded him of our last conversation about jobs for drivers abroad. But as we were reaching the sanctuary in a few minutes time I suggested we should do it in our next drive, when we would have more time in hand.
“Shankar, you have been working for Prabhat Sir so long. He does not go anywhere without you.”
“Sir, I am very content in this job. My enquiry about working abroad was out of pure curiosity. At present, I have no plan to leave my job with Sir. He must not get any hint of this conversation, lest he misinterprets it.”
“Of course I understand your position. Spirit of ambition and aspiration suits a bright young man like you.”
I paused for a moment before putting my proposition in a controlled voice, “You have my promise, Shankar. Can I ask you for a favour, in return?”
He looked at me surprised.
“Shankar, we are all entitled to our quota of curiosity. I am wondering what this sudden meeting, Prabhat Sir came up with.”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“You are so close to him. Even if you are not sure, you can make a guess. You have my guarantee; anything you tell me stays with me, not a soul will find out.”
“ I have no idea Sir.”
“Do you any inkling, whom Prabhat Sir is meeting, right now, as we speak.” I asked Shankar.
Sheepishly he replied, “Sir, I know my position and my limits. I dare not stray beyond the boundary of my remit. My job is to drive Sir around, not delve into his private world.”
Hm, everyone is entitled to their quota of white lies, which come handy in the unwritten civic code of confidentiality!
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.
“OH, I’m so happy that Lakshmi’s husband has been arrested for murder!” My wife announced gleefully. “Now my endless troubles will come to an end.”
I was shocked. What had happened to my wife that she was talking like this about a murder? It was not like her. Perhaps, I thought, her sympathies for the murder victim had been aroused.
If so, who was this victim and how did he come to command a soft corner in my wife’s heart, may be rivalling my own place there? I eyed her with a frown.
She observed my quizzical look and realised that her strange behaviour called for an explanation. “Lakshmi, you know the maid-servant we had a few months back, who left us suddenly?”
Yes, yes, I recollected Lakshmi. She had been one more in the long procession of servants who had entered our portals only to bow out. Only she had not left in disgrace.
She had been an epitome of efficiency-cum-humility, so much so that even my wife could find no fault with her.
So it was quite a jolt to my wife when, one fine day, Lakshmi stopped coming to our house. She had not even taken her full wages.
“Did I tell you,” my wife continued, “that Lakshmi was in the habit of working only when her husband was away?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Doesn’t the husband stay with Lakshmi?”
“Why, of course. But only when he is out of jail.”
My puzzled look made her laugh. She explained, “He is a real bully. So his activities often land him in prison and Lakshmi is then free to work. But whenever he comes out, he never allows Lakshmi out of his sight, leaving the poor woman with no choice but to give up her job.”
“What a pity,” I observed, “another MCP true to form.”
“Yes,” My wife gave a sigh and added wistfully, “I think we had come to like each other, Lakshmi and I. She is a gem. That’s why I kept hoping that she would still come back.”
“Hm,” I nodded, remembering the procession of maid-servants after Lakshmi, as forgettable as the electric poles zipping past a running train.
“But wonder of wonders,” she resumed, “her husband stopped going to jail. He seemed to have turned a new leaf. You know, he came one day to me and demanded Lakshmi’s back wages. I threw him out, of course. “Breach of faith,” I told him”.
“You mean, breach of contract.”
“Whatever ... ‘it’s simply not done,’ I told him. And all he did was just walk away, like a mouse!”
“Then how did he get into this murder business?” I inquired.
“That’s what baffles me. Well, who cares? It’s destination jail for him and welcome Lakshmi for me!” My wife was understandably radiant after getting this piece of news. “I hope he gets a long sentence this time.”
“How long do you want it to be?” I asked her innocently. “I know a few policemen and a couple of magistrates. I can always put in a word to stretch it to a life sentence.”
She fixed me with her eyes. “You and your wise ideas of match-fixing!” was her closing salvo before she entered the kitchen to take up cudgels with her latest recruit of a maid-servant.
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.
Dear Muse,
You are woven out of a series of handwritten letters resting on the fair cheeks of paper, and as I caress your elegant selves, I feel sunlight pulsating in my fingertips. I remember the day I had my first rendezvous with you, and the day you first spoke to me. Beneath my fingertips, you seemed to quiver and tremble with a newfound, excited life. It was that day I realized, that you pulsate with life. It was that day I realized, that you are living. Little did I know that on that auspicious day, I had found my dreams folded into the souls of your words. Little did I know that on that auspicious day, I had found myself tucked into the hearts of your words.
Truly, it is so difficult to express what you mean to me.
Since childhood, my idea of an ideal man has been influenced by my first crush - Amitabh Bachchan. As a teenager, I would spend days glued to the television, letting my heart soak in the essence of ‘Big B’. I would take in his perfect, broad-chested figure, and close my eyes to listen to the sound of his deep, baritone voice. I had this wayward teenage mind, which drew prompt and abrupt conclusions, and was as wild as an agonized steed, which did not know where to go. I would visualize Amitabh Bachchan mounting a horse, and riding towards me with shining, star-crusted eyes – and I would imagine him as my Prince Charming, carrying me away.
Truly, my idea of Prince Charming is someone who is tall, robust, handsome with a strong throw of voice. Someone who is intelligent, smart, kind, loving and has a solution to all the problems of life. Someone who can walk extra miles to bring happiness in the lives of the people he loves. The great poet – Rumi, once said, that what you are seeking, is seeking you. I was seeking so much more than just a Prince Charming, and now, I have found you. You live in the realms of paper, but whenever I need you, you extend a hand towards me, a hand stitched out of clouds and stars, and pull me into your world. You hold me close, run your twilit-ridden hands over my aching temples, and tell me that all will be well.
You have always been so busy with your poems and stories, but whenever I have felt the need of seeking advice or sharing my sweet and sour day- today experiences you are always available. You speak to me in a language that the common man cannot comprehend. It is a language – whose script is known to only us. But I’d like to call it the language of the wind and the dew. The dialect of the birds, the song of the clouds.
Time and love are the most precious gifts that any woman would ask for and you have showered these gifts upon me in abundance. I took you by my hand, led you to my favourite tapri on a pleasant, monsoon evening where the wind was heavy with the fragrance of petrichor. We sat with two cups of tea between us, and enjoyed, or rather embraced the true essence of tapri ki chai. You would trouble me – pinch my elbow, and snatch my cup of chai.
From the day I met you, the poet in me raised her head and started breathing. She crept out of the hidden, dusty dungeons of my soul and positioned herself beneath the bright sky. She filled her lungs with spring breeze, and let the colours fill the whiteness of her heart. You helped me unearth a part of my soul, that I never knew existed
The day I decided to have my own publishing house my husband didn’t approve of that but you trusted my decision. I remember how I stood before the looking glass, adjusting my sari for my first book launch. I was nervous, and a little reluctant. I closed my eyes, and looked at the mirror again. The mirror was tinted with faint, yellow sunbeams. Suddenly, you emerged from a folded piece of paper. “Smile, my Impish Lass. Smile. Don’t you remember how your editor from Delhi, told you that your smile was the brightest and most beautiful thing she has ever seen? Look at the way your smile lights up every corner of your face – like the sun lights up the sky. Look at the way it reaches your eyes, outlining it, softly, tenderly, settling on every eyelash”, you said, holding my hand. That day, with upright shoulders, I released so many anthologies, and won so many hearts. I am what I am today because you took time to mould me into a confident and independent woman.
And, my muse, am I just an independent woman?
I am a CEO, a mother, an editor , an author, a poet , a teacher. a role model,an inspiration to so many.
Today, I dedicate my success to you. You have taught me how important it is to adjust our needs for the benefit of the people who matter to us .
In the crowd of faces on the virtual screen, I quest for you. And, I see you.
You are the light in my editor’s eyes, as she unties the ribbon.
You are the melody in the applause of my writers.
You are the soft turn, the crinkle of the pages.
Dear Muse, you are in us.
You are in me.
With Loads of Love,
The Impish Lass.
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets. She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines.
She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
Mujhe jaan na kaho meri jaan...”
This song from “Anubhav” has been my favourite since my school days. The lovely romantic scene in black and white with Sajeev Kumar and Tanuja and the exquisite voice of Geetha Dutt are etched in me. Fully aware of my voice constraints I dared not sing; humming or whistling were the maximum. Once, in a highly romantic mood with my partner, I daringly sang my favourite number and what a fall it was, my countrymen!
“Kill me - but not this slow killing. Have some mercy please,” she said almost pleading.
How could I be merciless to my life partner? My “Jaan” in vocal had to be plugged.
Years flew past and I became one left alone by destiny. One day I forcibly broke the promise and revived my musical passion with “Meri Jaan”. With none to grade my vocal quality and being that day in an excited mood, I sang it loudly in my deep-throated voice.
Believe me, it was not an illusion but reality in colours right in front of me. I looked at them in disbelief as the colourful ones vied with each other putting their best face forward to capture my attention.
I have an eye for beauty and beauty it was in full glory dangling in front of me. When my eyes fell on one my wandering eyes caught another and I felt that was even better.
If you want to know what a confused mind was, it was I at that point. Thoroughly indecisive my eyes started shifting from one to the other and their antics attracted me worsening the situation. A lovely one with the brightest treasures was right in front. I couldn’t resist my call to “Meri Jaan” and the situation was slowly getting out of hand.
The scene of Menaka dancing in front of Viswamitra and other captivating stories flashed across my mind.
My mind may be strong but I knew it was vulnerable; so I prayed “Lead us not into temptation.”
If prayers could lead one away from temptation the world would have been very different was another thought but in a helpless situation there is always a leaning towards the unseen superpower and I did just that.
I sat there caught in the web of the colourful ones in utter confusion unable to choose. Judging beauty is not an easy task as they say “Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder”.
So for each one, the best-looking one may be different with no space for arguments or justification.
Sitting there and pondering over their looks was taking my time and I had an appointment to keep. I was dressed in pale blue attire and my choice narrowed down to that one and I knew I would have to disappoint the other colourful damsels with their seductive steps right in front of me.
I picked up the pale blue mask and was off to my destination tightly clinging to
“Meri Jaan”
On school days and most weekends, Valsalam teacher used to come to our house. The teacher was not a teacher alone but one of my mother's best friends and the story goes that they were very close right from their school days. Teacher always spent a lot of time in my house and it was during one such visit that the subject of tuition came up. My arithmetic score lagged and Valsalam teacher being a master in the subject suited all. So weekends it was tuition at her house. What I enjoyed most was the cycle ride along those lonely roads full of tall trees and the distance made my ride a pleasure on my newly acquired cycle.
The tuition progressed well. It was on one such day that I was held up in her house due to some extra arithmetic problems. It was getting dark and Teacher asked me if anyone should accompany me. I took it as a joke and rode away homewards presenting a loud laugh to my teacher. As I said, the lonely stretch with those tall trees was my love. There at one portion of that stretch stood a tall tree which almost covered the road like a canopy. It was so thick that the sky was not visible and there I stood for a while watching the wonder. As I was about to leave I heard it loud and clear - my pet name "Mohan" being called in a tone full of grief. Certainly an illusion and the fluttering of leaves in that mild breeze might have misguided my hearing. No, that was not to be, I was called again and it was not the breeze but clearly a female voice. Fear crept into me and I almost fled from the place. The next day when the tuition was over I told Valsalam teacher about the incident. She asked me the location of the tree and I heard "My God". She went into a frantic mood, got dressed immediately, hired a rickshaw, telling me to leave my cycle there and came along with me to my house taking a different route.
Discussions went on with my mother and I could see she was very upset. The next morning I was taken to this priest. It was from there I heard the interpretation of the happenings. The tree known as a "Pala" tree is associated with spirits. They reside there it is believed and on some special days they get liberated. It was on one such day that I had passed by. It had been my beloved in a previous birth who had called out to me. She had met with an unnatural death there with the craving of love unfulfilled...
A sacred thread called "Raksha" was wound around my wrist and I was issued a strict a warning not to travel along that road ever again.. My mother was so worried that my tuition was discontinued and for many nights she slept with me, her arms embracing me tightly.
Years passed by and after becoming a professional I was posted in a far away city. Once during leave, I was back home and visited my friend. Returning I took the forbidden route unknowingly and only when I was near that tall tree did old memories flash into my mind. Now there was no turning back as I was almost there. The old incidents made me nervous. On a two wheeler, the thought that I could speed off gave me courage. It was late in the evening and slightly dark.
For some strange reason right at the tree my vehicle stops. The road is deserted and it makes me frightened. I put all my energy to kick start it but it doesn't yield. I am sweating, trembling. The words of that priest years back ring in my ears, "Never take that road". Here I am disobeying him and facing the consequences. After repeated attempts the scooter comes back to life and relieved, I climb on changing gears. It is at that moment that the old female voice falls gently from above.. It is almost a pleading call. My pet name is lengthened out and the tone is grief-stricken. I am trembling violently. Luckily my vehicle is alive. I flee from there...
Fortunately Mother never noticed my fear. I never told her about the incident as she would have become very worried.
Years later, after I got married, we paid the mandatory visit to Valsalam teacher's house. While returning along that lonely road some force forced me to stop the car near the tall tree. She looked at me surprised.
"Any problem with the car?"
"No, I have to tell you something serious". I don't know how a newly- wed took my words and actions but I had to confront the situation lest it become more complicated later.
"I have a lady love".
My words took her by shock and she looked at me wide-eyed. Pointing to the tree I told her all that had happened. She sat in the car silently listening to all that I said. Then the unexpected happened. She got out of the car indicating to me to stay back. She walked towards the tree and disappeared from my sight. Extremely worried I was but bound by her instruction, sat in the car. She returned after a while and I could see that she was weeping. Her distraught looks prevented me from questioning her. Back home, I never raised the subject.
A few days later we were at the beach enjoying our private moments. It was there she told me...
"I talked with her."
I looked at her with anxiety and she continued " I prayed kneeling before her and pleaded with her to give you to me for this birth and promised I would take care of you with all my love and care"
I listened to her in silence. Her words sounded strange and mysterious to me. I am not an atheist but remain somewhere between a believer and non believer.
Years have gone by with many visits to my hometown. Till today I have not gone along that road for one reason:
"I wouldn't dare."
T. V. Sreekumar is a retired Engineer stationed at Pondicherry with a passion for writing. He was a blogger with Sulekha for over fifteen years and a regular contributor writing under the name SuchisreeSreekumar.
Some of his stories were published in Women's Era. “THE HINDU” had also published some of his writings on its Open Page..
It was a Sunday. We siblings, along with other friends, had gathered in the playground for the game of Kabaddi. Sunday being the only holiday in a week, we played for long hours.
It was my turn to enter the arena and chase the opposite gang. As I desperately tried to touch the demarcation line after the tussle, I saw an unknown boy whistling at me. I ignored it initially, as my focus was to be out of the danger zone in the game. However, my stern look after his repeat exercise was enough to shoo him away.
The next day, I found him stalking me while coming home from school. He seemed to be cold and callous with no remorse.I was scared and thought of sharing my apprehension and concern with Amma. I did after a bit of hesitation.
After listening to me at length, she reprimanded me, for having ignored the very first such instance of advance and cautioned me to take care.
On the next Sunday, both the teams of kabaddi came well prepared as the referee had announced rupees one hundred as prize money. We contributed five rupees each for the event though. Five rupees was quite a sum for non earners then. Still we managed from our pocket money. As they say- It is difficult to bypass lure- each team was eager to lay hands on the money and win the game of course.
The tempo of the game was set.
During the climax, I was distracted and petrified. I was bewildered to the sound of a high pitched warbling tone that irritated me and digressed my focus. Before realising what was happening, I fell to the ground . I was tossed out of the game. Everything happened within a flicker. Remorse filled my being as I watched my teammates' faces reddened with anger and disgust.
As a team, we lost.
I could get the heat of cursory glances of my teammates for having nipped their hopes of winning in the bud.
I was dejected and vowed to punish the culprit abundantly who was at the helm of failure. I rose with all vigor to teach the idiot a lesson.
As I took a closer look, I could figure out that the boy did not belong to our colony.
Before I could reach to slap him, he rode his bicycle and sped away. I had to espouse the grudge till some suitable opportunity.
Sighs! He slipped out of my hands.
Just then, I could sense some commotion in the adjacent lane. As I turned to take stock of the matter, I found a lady in a saree, running after him, chasing him like a hurricane.
Five minutes later, the boy was on the ground, the bicycle was on his top, and Amma was seen hitting him with a stick, hurling abuse at him for his misconduct. She was roaring like a lioness. He had collapsed like a sack of wet flour.
"What business is it of yours to tease girls, you harebrained sod? How dare you tread on the privacy of our children and poke your ugly nose into their personal matters and lives?"
Poor thing! He must be at his wit’s end as he found himself in a soup. He could never have imagined, his flirting act would cost him this nightmarish experience!
It was a sight to behold. I remained static, my limbs remained in a frozen state and I skipped a few lifeline beats. My heart leaped like a drunken ape afterwards and I clamped my jaws in bewilderment. It was no less than a “fist of fury” enactment. What I proposed to do, amma performed way better.
There was pin-drop silence in and around the field . No one seemed to be interested in the fate of the game, nor with the prize money any more.All attention shifted from the game to the sorry state of the vanquished.
Staring down at the ground and kicking gravels his meek self remained profusely apologetic for his behavior.
Slowly people gathered and the boy was freed from Amma’s clutch but not before, saying “sorry” ten times in a loud voice holding his ears as per her instructions.
He was threatened with dire consequences if he strayed further into the compound. The security guard too was summoned and cautioned, not to let outsiders inside without proper identification.
Back home, when I narrated the incident at length, my younger sibling said, “Didi, I saw the fellow thrice before. He watched each movement of yours intently. Somehow, I ignored his moves as I thought, it was nothing to be worried about.”
“The boy had been stalking me for a while and I was not aware of it !”-I mumbled.
Amma shouted at my younger sibling- “Milli, why could you not inform me before? You people have started the practice of sidelining me, it seems !”
With papa’s intervention, things could be sorted out.
“Just let go, my dear! We should thank God that nothing untoward has happened. The way you handled the ruffian, is no less than any heroic deed!” Papa spoke very gently and fondly to appease Amma and restore normalcy. He is an initiator of truce and repertoire of small solaces.He pampers ego with generous flattery. He is a master blaster who can dissolve dissention in no time. I love him for this.
“Rescue operation has been completed. Now, could you please arrange some evening snacks Lata, we are very hungry.”-Papa tried to strike a conversation and rib her with some dignified humor.
Looking at Amma’s grumpy face papa modified his request, “Could you please bring plates, spoons, forks my dear children! I have ordered pav-bhaji, samosa, burger, and pastries. The delivery person is coming. I have paid online.”
“Papa, is there any special occasion?”
“Are we celebrating?” The chirps, inquiries, and twitters of siblings went on.
“Yes, of course! Your Amma has won the battle after a prolonged fight with the enemy. This is the cause of celebration.”
"More or less Mother's Day celebration"...he chuckled.
The entire atmosphere was filled with peals of laughter. We enjoyed both the snacks and the fun.
When I sit to contemplate my life’s sojourn, this episode flashes very often. I remain flabbergasted, how that day, the otherwise meek and mild person like Amma became a virtual lioness, bold undaunted to protect her cub!
Incredible she has been.
Incredible she is.
Incredible- she will remain.
“Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we’ve ever met!”
This is true both in letter and spirit.
What do you say?
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.
The ring of smoke came rolling towards him. Twelve years old Krishna tried to run faster but his feet seemed to have stuck in the ground. The smoke circle rushed at him and he was smothered in the thick smoke in the next second. It was like sinking into a bottomless depth of wispy grayness. Moaning loudly he sat up on the bed sweating all over. Mother and father slept peacefully. His father's gentle snoring filled the silence of the room. He slid off the bed and went to the kitchen, drank some water and came back to the room. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes and the picture of his examination paper came floating back. The monthly test in English was held a day before and and he had secured a zero out of 10.
The English teacher had reproached him in front of the entire class. Added to that his elder sister who was one year senior to him in school and who never got tired of making fun of him had got hold of the paper somehow and showed it to his parents. Not only that, she fluttered the paper time and again in his front, laughing her tickling laughter, teasing him. At the same time she made a proud display of her own paper where she had secured 10 on 10.
Tears of humiliation ran down his eyes. Often his performance in the examination were poor but he had never got a zero like this time. The red 'zero' in the test paper crevolved around him like a ring of fire, closing in on him at every circling, eating slowly in to his self esteem. It was an emptiness that swallowed his confidence. He wanted to do something which would take away his frustration. But what and how?
Krishna was not much interested in studies. He loved to play. He had made friends with a few slim urchins who never went to school nor did do any work at home, and were available all the time. He played cricket with them. He would rush to the open field a little away from his home the moment he got back from school without waiting even to change his school uniform. It would be evening by the time he returned home. He would say his prayers and sit down to read. His sister was a studious child and serious about her studies. Hardly she was ever distracted during the study hours. It was not so with Krishna. He would ponder over the strategy of scoring more runs in the next day's game. The letters looked like blurry unintelligible figures of some mysterious message. The effort to decipher them made his eyes heavy with sleep.Nothing entered his mind. He would begin to dose.
And the consequences were writ large on the test-paper, a big, bold red, empty zero.
How was he going to change it, to rebuild his image before his parents and more particularly before his jeering sister?
Krishna thought and thought until his head began to ache. The solution came two days later, from his friend cum counsellor Madhav.
'Have you heard of the miracke monk who lives in the temple on the top of the bald hill?' Madhav told him when they were alone in the classroom during the snack break.
'What monk? I don't know '
'Yes, he has supernatural powers, people say, Madhava said confidentially. 'He can make the impossible possible. I think you should meet him and seek a solution to your problem. If he wishes he can turn your zero to a ten or hundred.'
'The bald hill?' Krishna sounded uncertain. It is not easy to climb up to that height."
'It is a small hill. We can reach the top in less than half an hour. If we bunk the post lunch classes and start at 2.30 in the afternoon we could reach the top by three o clock. We will start back in ten or fifteen minutes and reach home before 4 P.M. '
Krishna was in two minds but the temptation /allure to score full marks in the next monthly test was an irresistible motivation. Finally it was decided that the mission bald hill would start after lunch break the next day.
The time was about three in the afternoon. The winter sun was heading fast towards west when Krishna and Madhav reached the foot of the hill. They began to climb. A soft wind blew from the north and touched past them gently. They climbed effortlessly for sometime enjoying the mild sun and the cool breeze. They saw men moving downhill in ones and twos carrying bundles of firewood over their heads. Some cowherd boys were sitting under the trees keeping watch over their cattle grazing nearby. They had no idea why the hill was called bald because there were trees and also patches of grass here and there. Mission baldhill at that point looked easily accomplishable.
As they climbed on the slope upwards grew steep making the journey less easy. There were no trees up there, no grass patches.... only rocks and boulders and thickets of thorny shrubs. Tiny flowering creepers peeped at them shyly from under the cruel looking boulders. There was no sign of a human being around. It seemed as if they were the only two humans hanging between the sky and the earth. They began to feel a bit breathless. Krishna looked at Madhav,
'How far from here?'
'Just ahead,' Madhava did not sound very convincing.
'I think we should go back. The sun will set in an hour or even less than that. It will be difficult to find our way back,'
'We have covered more than three fourth of the way. It would be foolish to return without getting g the blessings of the monk.'
So they climbed, dragging their steps up, panting.
Suddenly the slope appeared to have flattened making the climbing easy. They could see the trident on the temple Crest from there.
'We have arrived.' Madhav said breathing a sigh of relief.
'Let's go to the temple a d find out the monk' Krishna said.
They walked towards the temple.
There was no one in the temple, not even a priest. It looked lonely and deserted. The door was latched from outside. The boys turned their eyes around but there was not a soul in sight. The place was wrapped in a mysterious silence.
'Where is the monk?' Madhava asked, more to himself than his friend.
'He must be meditating somewhere'
'How are we going to find him?'
They stood undecided outside the closed gate of the temple, their anxious gaze travelling around, searching for the monk.'
Suddenly from nowhere a wave of an exotic fragrance floated in. They heard a small sound of pitter patter as if it was raining. In the fading light of the late afternoon the place looked a little eerie..As they looked at each other in surprise something that looked like a big wheel of light came hurtling from the opposite direction and rolled into the temple through the closed gate. An involuntary scream escaped Krishna. 'Run' Madhav shouted and they blundered down the steep slope as fast their legs could carry them. They scrambled through the thorny thickets scratching themselves badly. After half an hour or so that seemed like a lifetime they reached the place where they had seen the cowherd boys. The boys had returned with their cattle, but they saw some men still moving downhill. They ran on, panting, soaked in sweat. The sun has set and the twilight has spread its grey draping all around when they finally reached the foot of the hill. They stopped for a while to breathe properly and rest their legs. A man moving down, an axe and a bamboo basket in his hands, looked curiously at them.
'What are you doing here, boys?'
He asked coming a bit closer.
'Nothing' both Krishna.and Madhav answered in unison and strode forward. As they passed by the field they saw the slum boys playing cricket there.
'Hey, Krishna,' one called out loudly, 'Where had you been all the afternoon? We have been looking for you. Come , let's play. '
Krishna looked at Madhav.who nodded his assent. They played. Krishna hit the ball and the ball raced across the field towards the edge of the field. 'Krishna has hit the boundary' his team mates cheered loudly. His eyes followed the ball. Suddenly it assumed the shape of a burning circle rolling away in a great speed towards the bushes beyond the field. The bat fell off his hand and his heart began to beat faster.
' I am late for home. I won't play any more. You carry on,' he said and walked out of the field followed by Madhav while others watched them, confused.
'Is it the time to come home? It is already dark. You are never tired of playing, aren't you?' His father, who opened the door for him reproached.
Krishna did not say anything.
'Now, don't stand there like a statue. Go, say your prayers and sit down to study. You would be collecting more such red zeroes if you keep on whiling away your time in playing. It is high time you realized that,' father said sternly and moved aside to give him way.
He went inside without uttering a word, washed his hands and feet, changed his uniform and said his prayers. His mother brought in a.glass of milk and some biscuits for him. But he had o appetite. He was not finding it easy to come out of the hangover of his secret expedition.
He sat down to study. His sister cast her a strange look and turned her face. Everyone seemed to be treating him like a pariah, and all because of he had secured zero in the monthly test. Helpless tears blinded him.
Careful not to draw his sister's interest Krishna took out the monthly-test sheet from inside and holding it under the table stole a glance at it. The smoke ring that distributed his sleep, the fire wheel that rolled across the top of the bald hill that afternoon, the burning circle of the cricket ball all merged together to become the one small red zero on the sheet. And his fathers words rang in his ears. 'You would be collecting many more of such zeros unless you study seriously.'
He would have to replace this zero with a digit, any digit, to escape the ring of fire that was eating into him. Even a 'one' will do to make a start. He cast a furtive glance at his sister who was writing something in a notebook. He opened his school.bag, took out his books. And he began to read trying to learn more by rote than understanding. But he did that with a seriousness he never knew he had as far as studies were concerned. He was still studying, his eyes glued to the page of the book when his mother called him for dinner.
+ + + + + + + +
The expedition to the bald hill and the studying had so exhausted him that he was soon fast asleep. He woke up with a start when the ring of smoke came back to his dreams. It rolled towards him with the ferocity of storm wind and raced past him. But it did not engulf him like it did last night. He kept awake for a long time trying to recollect the lessons he had studied in the evening. He had no idea when he went back to sleep. But the dream did not return that night, or the next night. As he became more regular in his studies the visit of the smoke ring in his dreams grew less frequent.
Days moved on and it was time for the next monthly test. He tried to remember all the mathmatical formulae the teacher had written down on the blackboard and the summary of the English poems. It was late in the night and his eyes were heavy with sleep. But he wanted to be sure that he did not miss out on any important question. And he slept a sound, dreamless sleep that night.
++++ ++++ ++++ ++++ ++++
It was result day. They all sat on the classroom waiting for the class teacher to come and announce the marks of the monthly test. The usual bustle was replaced by a nervous hush hush. Krishna sat in the last but one bench with Madhav, his heart in his mouth. The teacher brisked into the classroom with the bundle of the evaluated papers and there was pin drop silence. He placed the bundle on the table and took out the roll sheet. He.began calling the names. 'Arun, Amar, Arpita, Binayak, Bijay..............
The students went one by one to him and collected their papers. Some looked happy, some looked sad and grim. Madhava too got his test sheet. He had secured 5 out of 10. He was happy. 'Krishna prasad' the teacher called. Krishna's heart skipped a bit, then began to race. He got to his feet slowly and walked up to the teacher's table. He held the test sheet in trembling hands as if he was holding an explosive. The teacher smiled. 'You have done well this time Krishna,.you have secured five this time'. It took sometime for Krishna to realize the meaning. Then his heart leaped in joy. He ran back to his seat and showed the paper to Madhav, 'I too have got 5,' he said excitedly to Madhav.
'Your labour has borne fruit. You have defeated the 'zero'.'
His father was very happy. 'Keep studying hard and try to do even better.'
Even his sister smiled at him. 'Well done'
She said. Krishna was very happy. He decided to give more time to his studies than playing cricket.
That night he took his dinner early and went to bed.
And dreamt.
The smoke ring was there. But it did not rush at him as it was doing earlier. It remained still. He gaped at it in awe, as it grew bigger and bigger. A figure, tall and lean wearing his hair long, garbed in a robe of spotless white stepped out of it.
A smile glowed in his serene face. 'The zero is defeated for now. But it waits to return to its place. You have to see it doesn't do so. Keep it blocked in its right place or it will move to the wrong place again. A zero is good as long as it is in its right place.'
The figure vanished, so also the zero.
Krishna sprang up on bed, his heart pounding.
Who was that? His mind was in a turmoil. Was it the elusive miracle monk of the bald hill? What did he mean, by 'keep the zero in its right place' , and 'block its movement'?
He remained awake the rest of the night. When the dawn broke he brushed his teeth and sat by his study table. His sister was still asleep.
He had begun looking at studies differently now. He was more interested in scoring more marks in examination than scoring runs. He played cricket but only for limited
hours, after the school or in the holidays. He looked upon his sister as his role model and was determined to score full marks in the school tests like her. He was determined not to give up at any cost. And his hard labour bore fruit in the end. The miracle happened a few months later. After scoring between 5 to 8 consecutively in three tests 10 he secured out of 10 in the last one.
His heart swelled when the teacher patted his back and said 'well done, Krishna'.He wept tears of joy when his father kissed him on his forehead. Even his sister who he thought was an enemy to him hugged him.
'I knew it brother. I knew you could beat them all.'
It was a triumph over his poor confidence that had earlier weighed heavily on him.
And that night the miracle monk returned to his dream.
He emerged out of a mass of white smoke and smiled at him.
'You have now reached the top of your bald hill and trapped the zero at its right place. You have discovered the miracle monk inside you!' He said.
Krishna did not wake up when the miracle monk disappeared into the smoke. He turned on his side and drifted into a sound, dreamless sleep.
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
Once in our village there lived two young people, one boy of 16, one girl of 12. They were not considered as boy or girl anymore by the then society. They had already reached rather crossed the age when they should have got married and started their own family. This youngman was Chandramani and the young girl was named Ratnamani. Their houses were close. They were playmates. They learned alphabets together. Often Ratna goaded Chadra to teach her swimming, climbing jamun and guava trees. Unknown to themselves their friendship bloomed into love one spring day. They were sitting together in the garden enjoying the bright spring season when Chandra asked, "well Ratna, what do you think of your future?"
"No idea", Ratna said quite casually.
Chandra didn't pursue the topic but he felt a great sadness in his heart without knowing exactly why. Ratna on her part felt drawn towards Chandra at the very moment. She felt like putting her head on his shoulder but modesty wouldn't allow her. Both of them sat quietly listening to distant cooing of a cuckoo.
They might be cousins from family point of view though distant. Yet, these two young hearts were innocent of the feelings that remained hidden inside. They just were happy with eachother, they have grown inseparable without knowing rules of the society or family. One day a Jyotishi came to Ratna's house with a marriage proposal. The proposed groom lived in the city, studying in a college, he is from a well-to-do family with farmhouse and agriculture land. He is searching for a girl of good family and some education. Ratna's father, uncles and aunts held secret meetings. They asked the Jyotishi various questions, and at last got pleased with such a prospectus proposal. A day was fixed for visits of elders of each side to know each other's status, check hospitality etc. Ratna was quite in the darkness about such advancements. But Chandramani heard about this from his mother. He was dumbfounded. He didn't meet Ratna that day or the following day. It was the thought of Ratna not being around that shocked him. On the third day Ratna rushed into Chandra's house calling his name. Chandra came out of his gloomy mood seeing her. They talked quite pleasantly again.
"Do you know Ratna, you would soon be getting married?" Chandramani asked her.
"No, who told you?" Ratna seemed terrified with the news.
"You will know shortly", snapped Chandra.
Both of them became silent. What should they talk next? This unexpected news had startled Ratna. She could not just imagine such a destiny so soon. She left for her home without even looking back. In her large joint family nobody needed her help in domestic work. She was living like a princess. No one except her mother saw her closing her bedroom door untimely. Ratna cried a lot. All the happy memories danced before her. The festivities, play, abundance of love. How could she leave everything back!
Mother knocked on her door, asking her to open it. When she opened her mother was surprised to see her face. She understood the reason somehow. She put her palm on Ratna's head and stroked her hair gently. "This happens in everyone's life dear, every girl gets married. In your case it is already late."
After a few months of preparation Ratna got married to Aditya. She did not have to go to her in-laws's house after marriage as she had not attained her puberty yet. The groom spent all 8 days in the bride's house and left. Their married naturally was not consummated. The ceremony had to wait another couple of years until Ratna gets maturity. During her marriage Chandramani had worked day and night. He talked to Aditya too who was quite an amiable guy. After her marriage Ratna's demeanor changed. She was no more childish now. She even started learning household works, cooking, knitting etc. The big vermilion mark on her forehead and parting of the hair was inspiring awe in Chandramani. They were talking, joking sometimes but with restraint. Chandramani mostly teased Ratna about her new look, changed manners. Ratna's coyness at that moment was adding to her beauty which made Chandra to stare at her with unblinking eyes. At rare moments their four eyes met. A shiver of pain runs through Ratna's body. Her heart as if got churned with a mighty pang of sorrow.
One and half years later just after she became fourteen Ratna got her first cycle. It was observed ceremoniously. Words sent to her in-laws's house. An auspicious day was fixed. Now they prepared for Ratna's bridal journey to her husband's home. Furniture, utensils, expensive clothes for all there, alongwith other household items were packed. Sweets of various kinds were made too. It took almost 15 days for preparation before the day of her leaving. As usual everyone saw Chandramani taking an active part in this grand preparation. Sometimes he skipped his breakfast or lunch to work. Everything was done meticulously.
The big day arrived. The sky suddenly became downcast. The bullock carts laden with gifts got well-covered. Ratna was wearing a Banarasi silk saree. From head to toe she was adorned with gold and silver jewellery. Before she entered the Palki she looked around earnestly to see someone but she could not find him around. With a heavy heart and tearful eyes she quietly sat in the decorated Palki and before the downpour started reached her destination.
In the rush of this bidai ritual nobody noticed the absence of Chandramani. When his widowed mother was shutting the windows to prevent rain she found Chandra's bedroom empty. She immediately went out to search for him. But he was nowhere to be found. Inspite of heavy rain all men in the village ran here and there to search for him only to return disappointed. One week later Ratna got a letter by post, the only letter from the man she had loved. It read: "Ratna, I have lost all interest in life. Thought of ending it but it won't make your new life peaceful. So leaving village and everything to become a mendicant. Perhaps this is my destiny. Wish you a happy and joyful life- Chandra.."
Ratna lied to her husband that this was the letter from her father. She burnt the letter secretly. When her uncle's daughter who had accompanied her to her in-laws's home left for the village she sent word with her to Chandra's mother that Chandra had left home forever to become a sanyasi.
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.
It was the beginning of my job in central government just after completing my formal education. My posting was in Kolkata. I was happy with my new service life, and new career. I was staying alone in government quarters.
I was a bachelor at that time. I was satisfying my hunger in hotels and restaurants. On working days I was busy with office work. On holidays I was traveling to tourist destinations, as I was fond of traveling.
I had a colleague. She was also unmarried. Her name was Anamika. A friendship was developing between her and me. One afternoon she told me to accompany her to Gangasagar, and I agreed.
It was early Saturday morning. Anamika reached my residence and we left for Gangasagar in Sagar Island.
The sky was clear. The weather was fine. Anamika was driving her car on the Diamond Harbour Road towards Sagar Island.
I was sitting by her side. Our journey was pleasant. It would take around a couple of hours by car from Kolkata to reach the jetty to cross the holy waters of the sea by ferry.
She was a talking machine, asking me so many questions and telling me so many things from love and romance to religion. So I was not feeling bored in her loving company.
I told her, "Though I have not seen Gangasagar Mela in my own eyes, I have heard about it and also about the Kapil Muni Ashram. It is next to Kumbh Mela. Lakhs of tourists and devotees across India and the world gather here for their holy dips in its holy waters to wash away their sins and also to attend 'Moksha' (salvation). It's also a tourist attraction due to its spectacular splendor, serene atmosphere and pleasant ambiance. As you are a native of Kolkata, can you tell me about the mythological significance of Gangasagar ?"
She started telling the story of Gangasagar as per the folklore :
"Once upon a time, Sagar Raja was performing 'Aswamedha Yagya' for his own glorification in the universe. By his success in it, he would beat the ascendancy of Lord Indra. In fear of losing his importance, Indra Deva cunningly stole the sacrificial horse of Sagar Raja and hid it in the ashram of Kapil Muni. Sagar Raja sent his sixty thousand Sagar Putras (sons) to search for the horse and they found it in the Kapil Muni Ashram. They presumed that the sage had stolen the sacrificial horse. So they disturbed his tapasya (meditation), and destroyed his holy ashram ( cottage) in a fury. Being enraged, Kapil Muni looked at them with his angry eyes, and the Sagar Putras were burned to ashes and their sinful souls went to Hell by his anger and curse. In remorse Sagar Raja died, and years passed by. His descendant, Raja Angshuman saw the same sacrificial horse in Kapil Muni Ashram and came to know that the souls of Sagar Putras were passing their painful time in Hell for their sins. Angshuman pleased Kapil Muni by his devotion. The sage told him to do 'shradha' with Gangajal (Ganga water). But what to speak of Gangajal, even seawater wasn't available as Agastya Muni had swallowed it, and people were dying for water. So Angshuman and his son Dilip failed to do 'sradha' (funeral rituals) to free the souls of Sagar Putras from Hell.
Generations passed by. Their descendant, King Bhagirath satisfied Brahma, the Creator, by his tapasya (devotion) to free the souls of Sagar Putras. But Brahma told Bhagirath, "With the permission of Vishnu, the Maintainer of the universe, Ganga may come down from Heaven to Earth." By the austere devotion of Bhagirath, Vishnu was pleased to allow flow of Ganga from Heaven to Earth, but he said, " By the falling force of Goddess Ganga, the Earth including the flora, faune and mankind would be destroyed at once. Go to Shiva to save the Earth."
Bhagirath ran to Bholanath Shiva and pleased him with tapasya and he agreed to help him in his mission. Ultimately, by the divine wishes of Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshwara, Maa Ganga agreed to come down to the Earth to save the Sagar Putras and mankind from lack of water. Ganga's force was lost while falling on the knotty hair of Lord Shiva on the Himalayas and her sacred water flowed down to serve mankind and to meet the sea.
Thus Bhagirath brought Goddess Ganga from Heaven, and by his shradha (funeral rituals ) in Gangajal (Ganga water) the souls of Sagar Putras got salvation and mankind got 'Amrit' of Gangajal.
Flowing from Heaven to Earth, Gangajal filled the sea, and the sea is called 'Sagar' as per Sagar King and Ganga is called 'Bhagirathi' as per King Bhagirath. and the confluence of 'Ganga' (river) and 'Sagar' ( sea) is called 'Gangasagar'."
Our car was running on Diamond Harbor Road towards Kakdwip. The natural beauty on the roadside was spectacular and full of greenery. We were enjoying it to our heart's content. On the way we halted at a roadside eatery to have tea and snacks.
Then we reached Harwood Point in Kakdwip and kept our car in the parking space and went by foot to ferry point and booked our boat tickets for Sagar Island. The boat took around one and a half hours to reach Kachuberia jetty in Sagar Island.
We covered around 30 km by taxi to arrive at Gangasagar where Kapil Muni Ashram was located. This was the place where Ganga (Hooghly river) met Sagar (Bay of Bengal). The place was holy and the ambience was serene. It was around a couple of weeks before the Gangasagar Mela.
We went to the reception counter of a nearby hotel. The receptionist girl asked for our identity card, and we produced it. She looked at our faces in suspicion.
The Receptionist asked me, "What is your relationship with your partner ?"
I fumbled, saying, "She is my…family…relation. "
"What ? Speak clearly. It's a holy place. Only the wife and her husband are allowed to stay together in our hotel rooms. Otherwise you are not allowed."
I looked at Anamika in a disturbed mind and mood. The matter was complicated. To manage the embarrassing situation, Anamika told the receptionist, smiling,"He is my…newly wedded husband…but shy in nature, and not so smart. So he is stumbling around and also fumbling."
"But in your Aadhaar Cards your relationship is not indicated. How can you prove that he is your husband? "
"We got married a week ago. It was a love marriage. We came here for a holy dip in Gangasagar to have a happy conjugal life by the blessings of Goddess Ganga. Believe me, please. Why shall I tell you lies?" Anamika told her in a persuasive tone.
"Call girls from Kolkata are also coming with their boyfriends for dating and polluting the holy ambience here. How can I believe you ?" The receptionist said in a doubtful tone.
Anamika brought a small container of vermillion (sindoor) from her handbag and showing her sindoor, told her, "After our holy dips, I would use it on my head and forehead. Is my sindoor false ?" She asked politely.
"Sorry, Ma'am. Excuse me, please. I misunderstood you seeing your jeans, T-shirt and lifestyle. Pay me Rs.3200/- per day (24 hours) for an AC double bed room for your accommodation. How many days would you stay here?" She asked us.
"A couple of days only." Anamika told the receptionist.
"Okay, thank you. I am making your check-in entries for two nights and days in our register indicating your relationship as wife and husband, and accordingly pay the amount in cash or card now along with your ID. I would keep the xerox copies of your ID and return you the original." The receptionist said.
Anamika made payments from her debit card, and gave our ID for records.
Now our accommodation problem was solved and we were coming to our hotel room.
The Receptionist girl told us smiling, "Have a sweet honey moon here. Enjoy your new conjugal life. After your holy dip in Gangasagar take the blessing of Maa Ganga to make your conjugal life blissful."
We entered our hotel room and closed the door immediately for our privacy.
Anamika told me, smiling, "Oh, my dear husband ! Won't we start our sweet honeymoon now?"
"There is a limit to lies. But you crossed everything. How did you dare to tell blatant lies?" I asked her.
"But I had no alternative, as you were fumbling. However, our problem was managed." She said smiling.
"You committed sin by telling lies about our marriage. Now you are a 'papini' (sinner)." I said to her,
"All is well in love. So there is no sin in love. However, we would go to Gangasagar to wash away our sins." She told me in a funny tone
She put on her saree and I wore my shorts to have a dip in the holy Gangasagar. She also took our clothes to change after bathing.
We locked the door, handed over the key to the receptionist who said smiling, "Really, you are a happy couple."
But, I was feeling guilty by her words.
Anamika was smiling and walking ahead barefoot and I was following her in a worried mood.
We reached the holy confluence. The Sun was smiling overhead. We entered the sacred waters and we were having our holy dips there.
Hundreds of tourists, devotees, sadhus and sadhvis, both ladies and gentlemen, were also having their holy bath like us.
"Can I be a Naga Sanyasi?" I asked one Naga Sanyasini.
"But you have to leave your wife, family, home, food habits, clothing, comfort, etc. The most important thing is you have to maintain 100 % celibacy. You have to sacrifice yourself by giving 'pinda' to your life. If you are ready for this, come and join us and we will welcome you. You may now go to the temple to worship Goddess Ganga, Kapil Muni, and Sagar (king)." She told me.
The Naga sanyasini started walking to their temporary cottage made by the government near the Kapil Muni Ashram for the ensuing Gangasagar Mela as Anamika and I commenced our journey to the temple for worship of God.
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.
(Biswajeet dies of a sudden heart attack and in a jiffy goes to heaven. The peace and beauty of the place fills him with a sense of wonder. But even more wonderful is the discovery of The Ledger – the account of good and bad deeds people commit on earth. Buoyed by alternate jolts of joy and sorrow while going through his ledger, Biswajeet confronts God with some uncomfortable questions …………)
“Are you really annoyed with me, Biswajeet?”
Biswajeet folded his hands in abject surrender.
“God, Almighty, how can any one be annoyed with you? You are the Lord of the Universe and we are but specs of dust under your feet! My only regret is, if I had known all this earlier, I would have enjoyed life much better!”
“Biswajeet! Don’t tell me you have any regrets about your life! Don’t you remember the morning on August Kranti Road four years back, how the driver braked the car just a few inches from you when you were taking a walk? You got a new lease of life that day and resolved to enjoy life more intensely.”
God flashed a mischievous, all-knowing smile and continued,
“And Biswajeet, just imagine how much you have enjoyed life in the past four years! How you used to touch the soft petals of flowers while taking a walk in the Ansal Plaza park! How you used to stand under the window of Block Number seven and listen to the old songs, eyes closed, as if in a trance! And my son, have you forgotten how, despite your advanced age, you used to cast sweet glances at the young, nubile girls of Gargi College while taking a walk on August Kranti Road?”
Biswajeet did not show any surprise before God, nor did he ask how He knew all this. After his amazing experience of yesterday, he was aware there is nothing in our life that is hidden from God. He knows everything, absolutely everything!
* * * * * * *
Four days back Biswajeet suddenly died of a severe heart-attack. It was so sudden that he had no time even to blink before his last breath escaped silently. One moment he was awake, reading the newspaper sitting on the verandah of his Niti Bagh bungalow, and the next moment his head bent forward, his eyes closed and on a strange path of terrifying cold and blinding light he rushed towards a new abode.
In the fifty eight years of his life, he had come across death in many forms and on many occasions. He had seen his father struggling to keep himself alive, clinging to every little hope. His aged mother often used to wake up, breaking the silence of the night with piercing screams. She used to see shadows against the window on rainy nights and thought spirits have come to take her away! Biswajeet had seen some friends and relatives talking bravely about the meaninglessness of life, yet getting mortally scared in the face of debilitating illness, the fear of death making their eyes look like luster-less mirrors, reflecting nothing, no hope, no zeal, no life.
With experiences like this, Biswajeet thought the path of death was a long dark tunnel one has to pass through for days or months in an agony of dread, despair and hallucinations. But strangely, for him death was only a momentary transition – a shortdistance between two tiny dots in the circle of time. He reached heaven in a flash. For a very brief moment he was non-plussed, marveling at the new surroundings, missing his bungalow, the lawns, the flowers, even the long serpentine water-pipe lying lazily on the grass. He blinked and found himself in a breath-takingly beautiful landscape – green lawns everywhere, surrounded by white hillocks, blue springs sprinkling silvery water on the lawns. The air was light with a strange, exquisite fragrance. A mild stream of divinely melodious music reverberated, bringing a peace which can only be felt, but cannot be described.
Within a moment, his heart was drenched in a sweet joy, and an infinite bliss. This is a place of pure beauty; there is no want here, hence no despair. All the want and desire are left behind on earth. There is no competition with anyone, there is no one to talk to, yet one feels spirits moving all around, eager to touch others with selfless love and respect.
He moved on. At a distance he saw a beautiful cottage, its walls made of yellowish green leaves, the roof made of bright flowers of exotic colours. He went inside. His home? Was it his home? He wondered and the next moment laughed it off. A spirit doesn’t need a home – it roams freely in heaven, everything is his and yet he doesn’t possess anything! There is no hunger, no thirst, no desire for anything, and hence no frustration. There is only contentment, and bliss, there is God within and everywhere. There is no day, no night. In fact Biswajeet still had a sense of time, of a today or a tomorrow, because he had just come from earth and his spirit had not been totally liberated from its bondage of attachments. In due course, he will also overcome the limitations of time and merge into infinity. In a sense of bewildering joy, he had moved around, soaking in a feeling of joy and bliss, music and fragrance, wonder and fulfillment.
That was four days back. Gradually Biswajeet had settled down in his new abode. Yesterday Biswajeet had come across a large, shining building. Out of curiosity he went near it. The door was open, in heaven no door is ever shut to anyone. He entered and caught his breath in wonder. It was a mile-long hall with blue shelves lined up. And there were stacks of white books, thick ones, and thin ones, of all sizes, bound by a red ribbon. Biswajeet went to a shelf and tried to take out a book. It didn’t budge. He peered at the cover-page – there was something written in a strange letter, it looked like somebody’s name. He again tried to lift the book, it just didn’t move.
He suddenly felt a kind spirit whispering in his ears – “That one is not yours, you can’t open it. Come with me, I will take you to the right place.” Guided by the spirit he walked on and on. A long way down the hall the spirit bade him to stop. He looked at the book before him. Lo and behold, there was a thick, white book with Biswajeet’s name written in golden letters on the cover page.
Wow, this book has his name on its cover! What is it? What is inside? Can he see it? He lifted the book. It came off easily, light, like a bundle of feathers. Out of great curiosity, he opened the book. It looked like a diary – page after page – with a date at the top and rows of beautiful writing – who has written these lines?
Suddenly it came to him like a flash of lighting. Oh, this must be The Ledger – the book of accounts of one’s good and bad deeds! So, it is true! He had heard of it so many times in life. Everything that people do gets recorded in God’s account - the good ones as well as the bad ones! So this is what it is, for every living being on earth, God maintains a Ledger! Biswajeet wanted to see what has been written about him!
The first date was 16th May 1960. How old was he at that time? Eight years? And who has written about him? Vaishnav Mishra? Who was he? A class mate? Biswajeet had no idea; he didn’t recognize the name. What has Vaishnav said about him? And it is recorded in green ink!
“What a cruel chap Bijay is! I would have died today if Biswajeet had not rescued me. Why was Bijay so angry with me today – just because I threw the ball at Sumant and not at him? How can he be so heartless? May be his drunk father had thrashed him again at home. But why should he take it out on me! And what a cruel way of punishing me! He and three others dug a big pit in the sand and buried me in it, with only my head outside! And they just ran away leaving me there, to be mauled by the street dogs! It is Biswajeet who saved my life, standing near me with a stick to scare the dogs away. Luckily two persons passing by came and rescued me. I can never forget Biswajeet in my life. He is such a decent chap. We decided from tomorrow we will not play with Bijay and the bunch of rowdies. We will play on our own at a different place, may be at his home, or mine. Biswajeet has such good manners, I owe my life to him.”
Biswajeet tried to remember this incident, buried deep in his past. But he couldn’t recollect it. He started turning the pages and stopped at 10th September, 1961. Radharani Sabat. Who is this lady? His class-teacher? A neighbour? He failed to place her in the huge canvas of his past.
“Who was this young boy I met today? Didn’t even tell me his name and went away! My three year old son Naveen was crying when this boy saw him. I was busy in my work – digging earth for the road near Buxi Bazaar post office. This boy must be on his way to school. He stopped near Naveen and asked him “Why are you crying?” Naveen looked at him and started screaming loudly. He was hungry – I had given him some food two hours back, if he feels hungry again, what can I do? The boy looked at him, “Young boy, are you hungry? Here, take these snacks.” And he took out the tiffin box from his school bag and gave all the food from it to Naveen. I came running to him“Son, you gave all your food to Naveen, what will you have in school?” “Don’t worry, Mousi, I had a heavy meal before leaving for school, I won’t feel hungry. I will go home and eat later.” With that, he went away, leaving me in tears. What a kind soul, what unbelievable compassion in such a small boy? So many people were passing by the road, nobody stopped to check on Naveen. How did this small boy get such a large heart? God bless him. This boy will surely grow up to be a noble man.”
Biswajeet had no recollection of this incident. He must have been about nine years old at that time. He turned a few more pages and stopped at one. Here the writing was in black, in contrast to the previous pages in green. Why was it in black? He knew when he read the page. 24th July 1963 – Digambar Bhuyan.
“Can a small boy of ten, eleven years be such a big rogue? How could he do this? Cheating a poor vegetable seller for two rupees? I gave him vegetable for seven rupees. How did he run away by paying only five rupees? Such a black mind in a small boy! The scoundrel will become a thief or a robber when he grows up!”
Biswajeet remembered this incident quite vividly. In his life he had seldom done any wrong consciously, except for this black deed. He knew why he did it. He just couldn’t control the temptation to get the two rupees and spend it on ice-cream, chicken-chop and rasgollas. He was eleven years old at the time and there was no concept of pocket-money in his family – his father earned just enough to give the children a decent life and good education. That afternoon, Biswajeet paid the five rupee note to the vegetable seller and ran away when he was attending to other customers. After indulging himself with the ice-cream and other stuff, guilt set in.
With guilt, came an unsettling fear - the fear of getting caught. He avoided the shop for many months. One day the vegetable seller saw him from a distance and shouted, “Hey, hey, thief, where are you going? Wait, let me catch you and give you a good thrashing!” Biswajeet ran for his life. He was so scared, he started shivering. Somehow he ran through the lanes and by-lanes, reached home, rushed to the bathroom and bolted the door from inside. He half-expected to hear shouts from outside, may be a crowd would barge in and break his legs with big sticks.
Trembling with mortal fear, he decided that he would never commit such a black deed in his life again. The ice-cream, the chicken-chop and the rasgollas were not worth the pangs of guilt and stabs of fear he suffered for many months. He kept his promise and never knowingly did anything wrong in his life. His friends and relatives knew him as an honest, God-fearing man. Biswajeet felt he had got redeemed by paying a price in the form of the bone-chilling fear of that afternoon.
Seeing the page, he knew why God has put that ugly incident as a black mark of his life. His heart sank a little and he moved on, to a page in green letters. Must be some good deed of his!
22nd January 2006! He remembered the date. It was a frightfully cold morning. He almost got killed by a car while taking a turn in August Kranti Road. The narrator was Ram Lal Verma – must be the man under the flyover.
“Today an angel appeared before me and saved my life. It was bitingly cold and I woke up at 5 O’clock in the morning. A gust of cold air felt like a knife on the skin. My old tattered sweater was not enough to protect me, nor did the old blanket help. I gathered some sticks and paper lying on the road and lit a fire, but it blew out in the cold air. I started shivering, my teeth chattered, the hands and feet felt numb. I passed out. When I opened my eyes, there was a kind man standing near me, hands in his pocket and shivering slightly. He had taken out his long overcoat and covered me with it. When he saw me stirring, he came to me, patted my head and said, “Don’t worry, you will be alright. The worst is over. Keep this overcoat and cover yourself.” He looked for some money in his pocket, took out everything he had. It was eighty-eight rupees. He gave them to me – “Please go and have some hot tea, I can see tea brewing in the stall on the other side of the road. Have something to eat also. Don’t worry, trust in God, you will be alright.” I knew I could trust in God. Only He could make people like this kind soul who came as the Almighty’s messenger to save my life. Before I could touch his feet and thank him for giving me a new lease of life, he walked away briskly. I could see that his brisk walk was to fight off the severe cold. In a few moments he disappeared behind the tall building of Ansal Plaza. God has made such men to save others, he is a messenger of hope and faith!”
Biswajeet’s spirit was elated reading this narration. He clearly remembered the incident. The man had almost died of hypothermia. Biswajeet’s woolen overcoat saved his life. He turned a few more pages. Another page with black letters. What sin did he commit this time? 23rd October 2008 – Monica Talwar! Monica was the wife of his neighbour Sanjib Talwar who has a furniture shop in Amar Colony. For some reason Monica had taken a dislike to Biswajeet. She snubbed him all the time, putting him off.
“What is this uncle, is he a maniac? Why does he get so excited whenever he seesPinky, my four year old daughter? He snatches her from me and holds her in a tight hug, showering kisses on her cheek, making her squirm in discomfort. Doesn’t he realize Pinky hates him for that? Today he almost chocked her to death. She started screaming in pain. I shouted at him, ‘Uncle, what are you doing? Can’t you see she doesn’t like it? Why do you do this? Don’t you have some shame? Please leave her and go away’.”
Biswajeet was shocked! Pinky is exactly the same age as Juhi, his grand-daughter in Australia. Every time he looked at Pinky, he saw Juhi in her. He had tried to explain this to Monica so many times, but she always snapped at him, treating him like a pariah. But, why is this narration in black? What was his sin? He tried to reason with himself. May be he should not have been selfish and forced his love and affection on little Pinky. Only if Monica had given him a chance to explain! By hurting her feelings and disturbing Pinky’s delicate mind, Biswajeet had earned a black entry in his Ledger!
Thinking of Pinky and Monica, his heart became heavy. Why did he inflict pain on any one? He wished he had known about the Ledger and the account of good and bad deeds!
Suddenly his mood changed when he remembered the nice incident that happened just four days before his death. Is it there? He turned the pages and came towards the end of the Ledger. Yes, it is there! 10th July, 2010 – Nayana Majhi – must be the mother of the two cute kids.
“There are some kind souls who remind us of God. Today I saw an uncle who is like that. I had gone to the milk booth to buy a litre of milk for my employer. My son Bablu and daughter Dulari accompanied me – I wanted to stop them, but they insisted on coming with me. When I was waiting in the queue, Bablu and Dulari were excitedly pointing at the pictures of different varieties of ice-cream. Bablu was saying, “Cola-bar is the best. I don’t like cup ice-creams.” Dulari was trying to contradict him, “Arrey, jah, mango cup is the best ice-cream in the world. I will give my life for a cup of mango ice-cream!”
It’s then that I regretted bringing them to the milk booth. Why did I let them come with me? I had only a twenty-rupee note given by my madam to buy a litre of milk. And the kids were so excitedly pointing out at the picture of ice-cream bars and cups! What right do I have to make them dream of ice-cream when I can’t give them even two decent meals a day?
I paid for the milk, collected the packets and turned to leave. Suddenly there was a tug at my saree. I looked back, tears welling up in my eyes. His weak eye-lids quivering, Bablu asked me, “Mummy, won’t you give us some ice-cream?”
I felt as if my heart will burst in grief. I just shook my head and started to leave. Bablu and Dulari dragged themselves after me, looking back at the pictures of ice-cream bars and cups, their heads bent in sadness. Suddenly an uncle’s voice stopped me on my track – “Beti, why don’t you give them some ice-cream?” I couldn’t look at him, nor did I open my mouth to speak. I am sure I would have burst into sobs, if I tried that. I kept my face down and lifted my hands to show the two packets of milk.
The uncle came near me and softly whispered, “Can I make a request to you?” I nodded. “Today is my grand-daughter’s birth-day. She is far away from me, in distant Australia. Can I give some ice-cream to your children and to you?” I looked up and saw a kind, sweet face beaming at me. I nodded again.
The uncle asked, “Do you have a fridge at home?” I said “Yes, a madam had given away her fridge to me three years back when she vacated her house.” Uncle was very happy. He looked at Bablu and Dulari and said, “Come here, you know, I am an old man. I cannot remember names. Tell me which are the ice-creams you wanted to have?” The children felt shy and hid themselves behind me. When uncle asked again, Bablu said ‘Cola-bar’! Dulari wanted mango cups. Uncle looked at the Bhaiya in the milk-booth and asked him to give one cola-bar and one mango cup immediately to Bablu and Dulari. Then he asked him to pack four Cola-bars, four mango cups and two bricks of strawberry ice-cream.
Bablu and Dulari were mad with joy, when the ice-cream was placed in their hands. Uncle beamed at them and took out the photograph of a cute four year old girl – I caught my breath – such a beautiful child, with golden hair, twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks she looked like an angel. Licking his ice-cream Bablu looked at her photo and said, “Is this a girl, or a cute doll?” Uncle’s heart swelled with pride. He gave two hundred rupee notes to the Bhaiya at the booth, shook hands with Bablu and Dulari and left. He was an amazing man. How could he feel the pangs of pain in my heart and the pining for ice-cream in the children? He is an angel.”
The memory of that sweet evening came back to Biswajeet, he had been so happy seeing the ecstatic joy on the face of Bablu and Dulari. Only children are capable of such innocent joy! Remembering them, his heart overflowed with tremendous bliss. Away from earth, he missed his grand-daughter, his son and daughter and the numerous blessed souls that had touched his life. He knew, down there they would have been stirred by an unknown touch of love from him.
* * * * * * * *
Biswajeet looked up at God, who was still smiling benignly at him. He felt like asking God a basic question – “God, Almighty, the Ledger has opened my eyes to a secret, hidden from me and my fellow human beings. But how come, there is no mention of anything from my wife or my children? Didn’t they ever feel anything about me?”
“Biswajeet, do you remember, when your daughter Asima was so small, she used to sit on the pillion of your motor-bike, clinging on to you, putting her whole life and being on your shoulder? Have you ever seen her doing it with any one else? And your son, Sourav, when he used to fall down and hurt himself while playing, how he used to come running to you and your wife Geetika, to soothe him, to put balm on his wound. That is a balm of love, trust, and faith which can heal more than any medicine. And think of your wife and the implicit trust she has in you. With that she can stand up and fight a thousand demons, she can cross the oceans and soar to the sky. Where there is trust there is no need to show appreciation, nor there is any room for complaint. Your family is the flesh of your flesh and heart of your heart. How can they think good or bad about you? Whatever they feel about you is a part of you, your being, and your soul. There is no place for them in my Ledger!”
Biswajeet thought he understood, although he was not so sure! He was aware, God had given him a form and shape for this brief encounter. Before he got back into the form of a spirit, he wanted to confront God with the question that had been bothering him since yesterday.
“God, you have been cheating the people on earth all the time! If human beings knew of the Ledger you maintain, the world will be a much better place to live. Everyone will be doing only the right things to earn a good entry in the ledger. There will be no pain, no frustration, no bitterness and no sorrow in the world.”
God smiled benignly at him again.
“Biswajeet, if everyone did only good deeds, don’t you think life will be monotonous and boring?”
With a twinkle in the eyes and the naughtiest of smiles on His face, God asked, “and my son, if there is no pain, no suffering, and no problem, will anyone ever think of me? Imagine how unbearable my existence will be, if everyone on earth forgets me!”
(This story had already appeared in the 95th edition of LiteraryVibes, dated 20 November, 2020)
YAMRAJ AND HIS BIG BUFFALO
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
To say that we were shocked at the behaviour of our friend Sasanka on that sunny afternoon will be an understatement. It was much more than that. We were flabbergasted. Seeing him sitting like a demure bride unmindful of the chaos of welcome for her, we were reminded of a bull pooh-poohing the proverbial red rag. It was indeed unusual, very very unusual. We had come to his office room for lunch where we assemble daily. Happily keeping aside the dull, tasteless fare packed by our respective wives with the contempt it deserves, we devour with delight the samosa, vadaa and mutton chop so lovingly offered by Sasanka. What was unusual on this day was Sasanka's supreme indifference to these heavenly items. Normally he works with a double engine. By the time we eat a samosa or two he polishes off four of them. When we order one tea, he orders two. A big man, everything about him is big, big lunches and big mugs of tea to fill a big stomach of gargantuan proportions.
We, the Gang of Four - Sasanka, Vinod, Pramod and myself - all Section Officers in the Secretariat - are friends from our college days. All of us had joined as Junior Assistants and have risen to Section Officers, which as everyone knows, are exalted posts of important power and unlimited potential. Sasanka, being in Industries department has a big hall under his command and we usually assemble there for our lunch. Sasanka orders the delicious snacks every day, our offer to share the cost is pooh-poohed by him with visible contempt. It's not that he spends any money from his pocket for the snacks, he has a Man Friday who "arranges" everything, the cost being reimbursed from the pool of collection from sundry applicants who come for getting their files pushed up or their licenses issued after clearance at various levels.
Over dozens of vadas, samosas, mutton chops and prawn cutlets we spend the afternoon in gossiping about our bosses. Those who know how delicious it is to say malicious things about the bosses would know how our afternoons become colourful and enjoyable. Gossips are like dollops of chutney poured liberally unto the snacks, adding to their taste and flavour. But today everything was different. The very fact that Sasank was sitting like a chastised monk made us wonder if things were honkey-dorey with him. Pramod, whose favourite pastime is to pull everyone's legs smiled at Sasank,
"Abey fatso, why are you sitting there like a gorilla in meditation? And what is this abstinence from the lovely snacks? Have you become a disciple of Ramdev Baba, pledged to live only on sprouted moong and sliced laukis?"
I added for good measure,
"And why this glum expression on your full-moon face, as if on the way to office a dog has bitten off a part of your butt and is still chewing on it?"
Sasanka shook his head and continued with his sad-as-a-cucumber expression. That was too much for Vinod, the short-fuse little dynamo of five feet height,
"Don't tell us Mamata has finally decided to leave you and explore greener, thinner pastures in the wilderness. Of course she has every right to do that. Who can go on living with an over-grown elephant like you? Can you do anything at home other than munching on snacks, drinking beer and devouring tons of food? Which self-respecting wife will tolerate it, year after year? It's a wonder she has not left you so far. She has other needs also, you know, she can't be only your eating partner."
We all laughed at the lustful innuendo and were surprised that even this insult, which would have probably acted like a dose of Viagra on a dying bull, did not move Sasanka. That's how it finally dawned on us that things were very very serious, something was troubling our friend with the same intensity as a bomb-blast under his chair.
I mumbled, with as much finesses as a mouth stuffed with mutton chop would allow,
"Tell us my friend, we will find a solution to whatever bothers you."
Sasanka looked at me, shook his head and with a pathos that could melt a smiling statue, grunted,
"No one can help me. I am finished, sunk for ever."
Vinod was unmoved by the perceptible pathos. He screamed,
"What do you mean sunk? Sunk in what? A bucket of chicken soup? A pot of mutton gravy? Where are you sunk? Why are you sunk? Sunk my foot! Mamata must have given you boiled vegetable for breakfast today. That's why the light has gone out of your eyes and you are acting like a buffalo about to collapse into a coma."
I gestured to Vinod to keep quiet and tried to coax Sasanka to come out with his grim tale. He looked pitiably at Vinod and mumbled,
"Don't remind me of a buffalo. Particularly the one with two big horns. I am still shaken by a visit from him with his master sitting on his back."
The way he winced talking of it, we could guess it was something serious. We cried out in unison,
"A visit? What do you mean a visit? When? How?"
In a trembling voice Sasanka told us a strange tale, which shook us to our roots.
"Last evening I had a heavy meal at my wife's brother's place. You know my brother-in-law's wife is an excellent cook. So I had lots of mutton curry, chicken tikka and prawn fry. I spent a restless night, tossing on the bed. Towards early morning, may be around three o clock, I woke up at some noise in the room and my heart sank at the sight of a huge, dark man sitting on top of a gigantic buffalo with two big horns. The man smiled at me, although it looked like an ugly, frightening grin to me, 'Come, come, let's go, I am in a hurry. I have to pick up three more people from your town.' My dear friends, believe it or not, I peed in my lungi. I tried to scream, but a suppressed whimper came out of my mouth, 'Go? Where? Who are you?', I asked in fright, although I knew it was none other than Yamraj, the God of Death. The man rorared in laughter, 'I know you have correctly guessed who I am. Come, don't delay, let's go. Your time is up, no point in trying to linger here.' I started crying, 'O Lord, how can you take me away so early? I am only forty three years old!" Yamraj glared at me, 'Forty three years? You say forty three years? Don't you know in forty three years you have lived the life of eighty six years, eating, drinking and making merry recklessly? For all the food you have eaten have you done any exercise even for a day? For all the whiskey you have drunk, have you done a bit of jogging or even walking? Forty three years, my foot! Come, don't waste my time, let's go.' I fell at Yamraj's feet, 'O Lord, if you think walking is the atonement for my sins, allow me to walk to your kingdom, please give me a chance to live for a few more years, just walking on and on, drinking in the beauty of the earth, the sky, the oceans, breathing in the pure air which will do me a lot of good.' The huge man kept glaring at me, 'Do you know, it will take twenty five years of walk to reach my kingdom? You will have to follow a messenger of mine who will lead the way, you can't look back, no food, no drinks, just live on air and keep walking. Can you do that?' I said I can, and it appeared he was about to grant me the wish when I grabbed his feet, 'O my Lord, my great, benign, omnipotent Lord, if you can wait for me for twenty five years to enter your kingdom, why don't you leave me here to complete all my tasks, build a house for my family, get my two children educated, arrange jobs for them, get them married and then you can pick me up?' There was a big sound like a thunder, Yamraj was seething with anger, 'Too smart, are you? Too smart even for me! You want to live for another twenty five years so that you can loot more, eat more and drink till your tummy bursts? Remember when you had got your job and gone to seek your father's blessings, he had told you to be lead a pious life, an honest life? Did you do that? Have you spared any one from your insatiable greed? Have you allowed any file to leave your table without your palms being greased? You want to live for another twenty five years doing the same thing? Come, let me hold you by your greased palms and drag you to my kingdom, you will pay for all your sins there. Come, come with me.' Suddenly the buffalo with the two big horns lurched forward, as if to lift me and put me on his back. I don't know how I got the energy to let out a piercing scream, meant to shake the house to its foundation. Mamata who was sleeping in the next room, came running and switched on the light. I found to my relief Yamraj and his dark buffalo had vanished. I was shuddering like a goat being carried to slaughter. She pacified me, but the horror refused to leave me. At the breakfast table I kept looking at Mamta and my two sons, wondering what would have happened to them if the buffalo with the two horns had managed to lift me and carry me away, along with his master. My eyes were drawn to a vacant space on the wall, as if Mamta had already reserved that space for my photograph to be placed there after my death. Since then, I am in a state of panic, looking back from time to time to check if the big horned beast is coming after me to take me away.......My friends, I think my days are numbered. What I saw last night was certainly not a dream, it was a premonition, a sort of precursor to what is about to happen....I am gone my friends, it's probably just a matter of few days......"
We were too shaken to utter a word of comfort. Every time Sasanka had uttered the name of Yamraj, a chill had run down our spine. But finally I muttered,
"Don't worry Sasanka, a dream is just that - a shadow without sustance. Forget it."
Vinod, the perennial rabble-rouser, didn't want to let it go. Being the Section Officer in the Department of Health he was an expert in raising health-related queries,
"Did you have indigestion last night? After your light meal of mutton curry, chicken tikka and prawn fry?"
Sasanka nodded his head like an obedient student before a marauding headmaster.
Vinod continued,
"A burning in the stomach, an acidity type of feeling in the throat, as if someone had poured a mixture of chilly powder and black pepper into your stomach through the wrong end and cut the inside of your throats with a sharp blade?"
Sasanka, poor chap, was so frightened of what he had seen in the dream that he again nodded helplessly.
Vinod pounced on him,
"See, that's what I have been telling you, if you eat like a buffalo, belch like a cow and your stomach produces sound like a murmuring thunder in the night, won't you get Yamraj in your dreams? You think, with all that potent mix in the tummy last night you will see Hema Malini dancing in your dreams? Bloody idiot! Forty three and you want to become a photo on the wall!"
The way Vinod screamed at Sasanka, the poor chap almost burst out crying. Pramod and I tried to pour some soothing oil on the burning wound,
"Ok, ok, don't worry, forget the bad dream. We will take you to Mamalia this evening. Let's see what he says."
Mamalia was a classmate of ours who had entered the Medical college as a mild student and came out as a ferocious doctor. His only failing was, he could doze off to sleep anywhere, anytime. Most of us don't remember his actual name, because in our biology class one day the professor had woken him up and shouted at him, "Why are you sleeping in the class like a Mamalia on Anaesthsia?" The name stuck and it was an unwritten rule among us that whatever happens to anyone of us Mamalia would be our first port of call. By some contrived or uncontrived miracle Mamalia always managed to keep some stunningly cute girls as assistants in his clinic and we would be reluctant to leave the patient's chair in the clinic, hungrily looking at those beauties, till Mamalia would kick us out of the place.
Pramod and I accompanied Sasanka to Mamalia's clinic in the evening, partly out of concern for our poor friend and partly out of the desire to feast our eyes on the doctor's charming assistants. Mamalia listened to Sasanka's story and promptly wrote down a dozen of tests to be conducted in empty stomach, although he wondered aloud if Sasanka's stomach will,ever attend the blissful state of emptiness at any time. In the four minutes that we were in his clinic, we had stolen forty glances at Malabika, his shy, blushing assistant, when Mamalia was busy examining poor Sasanka.
The next three days we did not see Sasanka because he had taken leave to go for the different tests. After that there were three government holidays. With a Sunday thrown in, we could meet the human hippopotamus after a week. We trooped in at the lunch hour and imagine our shock when Sasanka, the shameless glutton, had already attacked the snacks with a vengeance, as if to compensate for the unfortunate abstinence of a week. He had already polished off half the mutton chops, vadas and samosas. Before the startled eyes of Pramod he was giving a demonstration of how to toss gulabjamoons into air and position the mouth in such a way that the gulabjamoons will fall into the oral cavity with unfailing accuracy. Vinod shrieked at him,
"Abey idiot, you forgot the buffalo with big horns with Yamraj on top, so soon? Have you gone crazy?"
Sasanka laughed in a loud way, shaking a couple of chairs and an old tottering table,
"All izzz well......All izzz well. Nothing to worry. Long live Mamalia and his two cute assistants. They bring undiluted joy to weary travellers."
We were eager to know how this magical transformation in Sasanka took place, how from a scared mouse he became a playful rabbit. Vinod, could not control his curiosity,
"Abey, what did Mamalia do to create this miracle? Did he put a medicated stent in your backside?"
Sasanka laughed at the idea and shook his head like a cobra about to unleash a sting,
"No no my friend, nothing of the sort was needed. He saw my report and found a slight rise in cholesterol and marginal increase in triglyceride. He said there is nothing seriously wrong with me. He asked Sonali, his cute assistant to pack some physician's samples and hand over to me. I was so relieved that I became emotional and when Sonali handed over the medicine I took her hand and planted a kiss on it, making her blush like a morning rose."
Sasanka became emotional again at the memory and kissed Pramod's hand in a fit of supreme relief. Vinod was not done. He glared at Sasanka,
"That's all? Are you giving us a full disclosure or holding something back?"
Sasanka showed no concern for the glare. It seemed he was feeling truly liberated,
"O, Mamalia also asked me to cut my food intake by half and double my present level of exercise. He assured me, with that my weight will come down sliding like a monkey on a greased pole." He smiled at the prospect. Vinod wanted to hit the iron while it was hot,
"So? What are you doing about it?"
"For the last three days I am eating half plate of rice instead of a full plate and six rotis from the twelve I used to eat earlier. Vegetables I have reduced by half, only chicken and mutton I did not reduce because if I do that I will feel hungry at midnight and will be forced to eat unhealthy snacks like mixture and biscuits."
Vinod pounced on him,
"And exercise? What about exercise?"
A flicker of an apology appeared and disappeared on Sasanka's face like a lightning which had forgotten its way. He recovered himself and threw a cute smile at us like a smart school boy who had just solved a big mathematics problem,
"Oh that? In a way I am following Mamalia's advice in true letter and spirit."
Sasanka and I have our official quarters in the same colony. So I asked him,
"Have you started jogging or even brisk walking? I have not seen you doing that inside our colony?"
Sasanka was visibly embarrassed at the interrogation,
"Actually it was an error on Mamalia's part. He asked me to cut my food intake by half and double the amount of exercise. Since my exercise activity is zero and double of zero is also zero, I am trying to figure out what to do."
Vinod exploded like a big Diwali bomb and uttered an expletive which we had not heard since the college days, throwing us into a momentous shock,
"Abbey &?@?&?@, do you want to die? Trying to be smart with Yamraj? You want him to come again with his buffalo and carry you away with him?"
Pramod and I also joined in the attack. Sasanka was visibly flustered,
"Ok, ok, don't be too harsh on me. I have already decided to start an exercise program."
Vinod exploded again,
"Program? What freaking program? When? Just go out today and start walking."
Sasanka tried to buy peace,
"Yes, yes, that's what I will do. But today is Monday, a vegetarian day at home, so I will eat some non-veg dinner in Pushpak Hotel and reach home late. Tomorrow morning I am leaving on three days' tour. Will return on Friday. Saturday we don't start anything new in my family. So on Sunday, if I manage to get up early, I will go to Indira Gandhi park by my bike. I am told there are good juice stalls there outside the park, I will fortify myself with juice and take a half an hour walk. That will make me hungry, so I will go to the famous Annapurna snack stall near the old bus stand and ..........."
Somehow we had no stomach for Sasanka's well laid out exercise programme. Vinod uttered another unprintable epithet which hinted at Sasanka's dubious parentage and rushed out of the hall. Pramod and I followed him with a speed which made it appear as if the black buffalo with big horns and his master had given up on Sasanka and started chasing us!!!!
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.
Chandan Purnima this year was a memorable day for me as I finally fulfilled my long-held desire to visit GohiraTikiri. Early in the morning, my family and I drove to the historic battlefield in GohiraTikir where the last independent Hindu king of Odisha, GajapatiMukunda Deva, lost his life resisting the advancing Afghan invaders under the command of his erstwhile general Rajib Lochan Ray, also known as Kalapahada. GohiraTikir is located near Jajpur, in Dhamnagar Block under Bhadrak District, which is approximately 121 km from Bhubaneswar. We drove on N.H-16 until we reached Bhandaripokhari, where we took a right turn and arrived at the historic site within half an hour.
Upon arriving at the site, I was disappointed to see that there was no significant development for promoting tourism, even though the Govt. of Odisha declared GohiraTikiri an important place of tourism in 2016. Apart from a small hall housing a life-size statue of GajapatiMukunda Deva, Shri Jagannath temple, a Hanuman temple under a big Arjuna tree, a Shiva temple, a Jajna Mandap, and a half-constructed tourist rest house amidst thick foliage on the bank of a rivulet called Genguti - a tributary of river Baitarini, there was nothing spectacular to see. There was a modest but clean Math (monastery) founded by Babajimaharaj Sitaram Dash way back in 1710 inside the temple complex, which is still run in a thatched hut on the west side of the temple complex by three old Sanyashinis. The head sanyashini, Saraswati Maa, manages the temple complex with the help of two Brahmin priests. According to the Malika prediction of MahapurushaAchyutananda Das, one of the Panchasakshas of 16th-century Odisha, the Kaliyuga would end after the passage of some centuries when a very loud and thunderous sound would be heard, and a sword of 12 hands' length would emerge from the soil underneath the Arjun tree where Lord Hanuman had been worshipped from Tretaya Yuga.
After gathering information from Saraswati Maa about the socio-religious activities of the historic GohiraTikiri, we learned that festivals such as Jagara (Sivaratri), annual Janja on Akhaya Tritiya, Rath Yatra, and Dussehera are celebrated throughout the year by collecting donations from nearby villages. No monetary help from government agencies has been received so far. We also learned that Emperor JajatiKeshari had performed AswamedhaJanjna at this place by bringing 10,000 Brahmins from Kanyakubja in North India in the 9th CE.
After circumambulating the temple complex, gathering information about the historical significance of the place, and taking some photographs, we were about to leave the site when Saraswati Maa invited us to have Prasad offered to the deities on the auspicious day of Chandan Purnima. We couldn't resist the temptation to have the Prasad, so we stayed. The Brahmin priests served us Dahipakhal (curd-water rice), Kalama saga bhaja (water spinach fry), Potalaalubhaja (Pointed gourd-Potato fry), and sliced mangoes. As it was lunchtime in a hot summer day, we enjoyed the mouthwatering dahipakhal recipe to our heart's content.
We were completely satisfied with the affectionate and motherly treatment of Saraswat Maa. After expressing our heartfelt gratitude and thanks, we left the historic site for Bhubaneswar. As my son drove, I closed my eyes and tried to recapitulate the past events in the canvas of my mind, including the historical site, the conspirator Ramachandra Bhanja stabbing GajapatiMukunda Deva from behind, and the happenings in the battlefield fought on the south bank of the river Genguti near the temple complex at GohiraTikiri. The tragic fall of the last independent Gajapati and the end of the Gajapati empire resulted in the power passing to the Turk-Afghans and then to the Mughals.
The soil of GohiraTikiri is soaked with the blood of the last independent king of Utkal and his brave soldiers, who laid down their lives defending their kingdom on this battlefield. It bears immense historical significance in the history of Odisha. The year 1568 CE is considered a watershed in the annals of Orissa history, as Mukunda Deva, the last independent king of Utkal, was backstabbed by his treacherous feudal chieftain, Ramachandra Bhanja of Sarangagada. The military hegemony and imperial status of Odisha, continuing from the past era of Somavanshis and Eastern Gangas, was lost after the ruling years of Prataprudra Deva, who died in 1540 CE. Although Prataprudra Deva had 32 sons and many daughters from his multiple wives, his elder son Kakharuadeva ascended the Gajapati throne in 1540 and ruled for only one year.
After Prataprudra Deva's death, his treacherous general Govinda Vidyadhar, who was eyeing to occupy the throne, usurped the throne of Odisha by murdering Kakharuadeva and systematically eliminating other royal successors. Six inscriptions of the reign of GovindaVidyadha have been discovered from the Laxmi Narsimha temple of Simachalm, in which he has borne the titles Gajapati King and described himself as Suvarna Kesari. He was the founder of the Bhoi dynasty. Then, his son Chakrapratapa became the king in the middle of 1546 and ruled for 12 years, according to Madalapanji. He was not a good king and was murdered by his own son Narasingh Deva alias Narasingh Jena in 1558 CE, according to historian Abul Fazal.
Narasingh Deva could not continue as king for long and was killed by MukundaHarichandan, who was a general at Barabati fort. MukundaHarichandan, after occupying the Gajapati throne in the year 1560, assumed the Deva title and thus famously became known as Mukunda Deva. As he belonged to the Chalukya dynasty bearing the title of Harichandan, who were ruling over Kassimkota of Telengana, he was therefore called TelengaMukunda Deva. Mukunda Deva had established an alliance with the king of Bhurishrestha(Medinapur-Hoogli) to avert any possible attack from the Bengal Sultanate. In the year 1565, Sultan Ghiyesudin Jallal of the Sur dynasty of Bengal attacked Odisha, but Mukunda Deva, allied with Bhurisrestha, fought valiantly and drubbed the Muslim forces in the battle of Triveni under the command of his commander Rajiv Lochan Ray.It is probably at this time, Mukunda Deva constructed the stone steps along the banks of the River Ganges which is still popularly known as Triveni Ghat and become a religious place for the Hindus who prefer to offer Pinda- daan(a ritual to offer homage to the departed soul) to their ancestors.
During the reign of Mukunda Deva from 1560 to 1568 CE, he undertook several remarkable works for his subjects, including the construction of the Triveni Ghat, which is still a popular religious place for Hindus to offer Pinda-daana ritual to their ancestors. In addition, Mukunda Deva built several temples and established the village MukundpurSasan near Pipili. Abul Fazal also mentioned the nine-storied building - Nabatala Prasad at BarabatiKatak (Fort).
However, Mukunda Deva's rule was not without its challenges. During that transitional period, internal treachery and ignorant policies against the strategic threat of Muslim Bengal resulted in the loss of significant southern territories to the Qutb Shahi dynasty of Golconda. Furthermore, the vassal king of Sarangagada, Ramachandra Bhanja, was secretly eyeing the Gajapati throne and hatched a conspiracy to occupy it. Ramachandra Bhanja played treachery by deputing two of his confidants, Sikh Mohapatra and Manai Mohapatra, to invite the Bengal Sultan to invade Utkal.
Faced with these circumstances, Mukunda Deva formed an alliance with Emperor Akbar as soon as he assumed the Gajapati throne at BarabatiKatak. This alliance was inimical to the Bengal Sultan, who harbored a grudge against Mukunda Deva and was waiting for an opportunity to attack Utkal. As soon as Ramachandra Bhanja's confidants communicated the secret information to the Sultan of Bengal, he dispatched his army under the joint commands of his son Bayzid and Kalapahad to invade Odisha.
Sensing danger from the Bengal Sultanate, Mukunda Deva sent his emissary for help to Emperor Akbar. However, the emperor was unable to respond to Mukunda Deva's call as he was preparing for the invasion of Chittor. Despite the diplomatic arrangements and exchange of ambassadors between Delhi and Cuttack, the alliance with Akbar proved to be futile. The reason behind Akbar's lukewarm attitude was due to his eye over Bengal. For Akbar, if the Sultan won, it would be easier to occupy the whole of the Bengal Sultanate and Gajapati kingdom up to Rajmuhendry.
During the 15th century CE, the rule of Kapilendradeva (1434-66) established a powerful Gajapati Empire that stretched from the Ganga to the Kaveri. The same military prowess was maintained by Purushottam Deva. However, Orissa's problems started with the advent of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu during Prataprudra's reign. Under his influence, the basically martial king, GajapatiPrataprudra, turned towards the Bhakti Marg and proved to be a weak ruler, neglecting the military tradition of Kalinga. The successive weak rulers were unable to maintain the military buildup necessary to uphold their vast territory from the Ganga to the Godavari. The seventh year of Mukunda Deva's rule witnessed a decisive battle at GohiraTikiri near Jajpur that changed the course of Odisha and resulted in transferring the reign of Odisha to the Turk-Afghans after the fall of Mukunda Deva.
According to Madalapanji, Kalapahad, one of the commanders of Suleiman Khan Karrani, brought havoc by destroying many Hindu temples, including Shri Jagannath at Puri and the Sun temple at Konark. The same Rajiv Lochan Ray, also known as Kalapahada, was the commander of the Gajapati army in the battle of Triveni in 1565, which defeated the Muslim army. Something happened in the middle, which led Rajiv Loachan Ray to ask permission from Mukunda Deva to convert to Islam so that he could marry the daughter of the Sultan of Bengal. The permission was denied in consultation with the Pandits of Muktimandap Sabha of Puri. Rajivlochan Ray rebelled and took the name of Kalapahada (Dark-hill).
In 1568, taking advantage of the break in alliance between Bhurishrestha and Gajapati, Kalinga was attacked by the Sultan of Bengal with the same Kalapahada as the commander of the invading army. GajapatiMukunda Deva resisted the invading Muslim army at the south bank of the RiverGenguti, a tributary of the River Baitarini, at GohiraTikiri, near Jajpur. However, he was backstabbed by his own aid-de-camp, Ramachandra Bhanja of Sarangagada. The treacherous Ramachandra Bhanja was caught up in the conflict and was murdered by Bayzid, the son of Suleiman Karrani. The village where Mukunda Deva was killed is now known as Mukundabindha. With the fall of the last independent king, the kingdom was completely subjugated, and all lands up to Rajmuhendry in central Andhra Pradesh came under Muslim rule for good.
After the fall of Mukundadeva in the Battle of GohiraTikiri in 1568, Kalapahada wasted no time in seeking revenge by destroying all historically and artistically significant monuments. In Odia, there is a popular saying: "Aila Kalapahada, BhangilaLuhar Bada, PeilaMahanadipani, SuvernThalire Hira ParasileMukundadevank Rani," which means that Kalapahada came, destroyed the Luhar gate, took away the Mahanadipani, and left Mukundadevank's queen in tears.
Kalapahada, with the help of two treacherous soldiers from Sarangagada, was able to locate the hidden triad near the north bank of Lake Chilika and took the deities on the backs of war elephants to GaudaDesh (Bengal), where he ordered them to be burned on the bank of the Ganga. Surprisingly, Kalapahada experienced a serious sensation of burning, and eruptions appeared on his skin. Seeing this, a Kaji said, "Since you burned the deity of Orissa, your body cracked." Upon hearing this, Kalapahada's son threw the half-burnt images into the River Ganga.
Bishara Mohanty, a devout Vaishnavite from Sarangagada, followed the marauding army when they were returning to Bengal, disguised as a Vaishnava saint. He stayed for eight months, playing the musical instrument mridanga, and witnessed the whole scene secretly. He collected the remains of the images (Brahmapadartha) and hid them inside his Mridanga. Upon reaching GadaKujanga, Bishara Mohanty handed over the Brahmapadartha to the King Raja Ananta Narendra.
In 1575, the Brahmapadartha was transferred to GajapatiRamachandradeva (first). Raja Ramachandradeva organized BanajogaBidhi at Khordha Katack in 1577 and constructed the images of Jagannatha, Balabhadra, and Subhadra. He consecrated the Trinity upon the Ratnasinghasana of Srimandira Puri. The Gajapati reestablished the Neelachakra, which was dislodged by Kalapahada, atop Srimandira, and was thus regarded as the second Indradyumna. The Gajapati honored Bishara Mohanty with the title "First Citizen of Utkal" and decorated him with a ceremonial saree. Bishara Mohanty was given the rare privilege of entering into the Tati (enclosure) during Anasara of the Trinity during the Rathayatra Festival.
After the tragic downfall of Mukunda Deva, his Kulaguru Bardhan Mohapatra refused to accept his two sons as the rightful heirs to the throne. Instead, he schemed to install his friend Ramei Rout, son of JanarddanVidyadhar of Bhoi dynasty, as the Gajapati. With the help of Kulaguru Bardhan Mohapatra and some sevayatas, Ramei Rout was crowned as Gajapati Ramachandra Deva. Mukundadeva's wife, finding no support from the Kulaguru, fled with some of the king's followers and her two sons, Telenga Ramachandra Ray and ChakkiBhramarbar Ray. They approached the Mughal Emperor at Delhi for help, but their efforts proved futile. In 1592, Mahanubhaba Samrat sent two Hindu kings, Raja Todarmala and Raja Mansingh, from his durbar to Puri to resolve the matter. During the Chandan Yatra, Raja Mansingh declared Ramachandra Deva as the rightful Gajapati and offered him the Gaddi Prasad. He also divided Utkal into three parts, giving Aul to Telenga Ramachandra Deva and Patia with Sarangagada fort to ChakkiBhramarbar Ray.
Since that day, Aul rose to prominence, prospering with Telenga Ramachandra Deva as its king. History tells us that the Aul kings always supported external forces and tried to protect their state, never cooperating with the Gajapati and his allies. Similarly, the king of Patia harbored a grudge and was always inimical towards the Gajapatis. Thus, with the tragic fall of Mukunda Deva on the battleground at GohiraTikiri, the military hegemony and imperial status that had lasted for nearly 500 years since AnantavarmanChodagangadeva (1077-1150 CE) came to an end.
As a result of failed state policies, forced rigorous military campaigns, and the influence of the Bhakti Movement under Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu during the reign of GajapatiPrataprudraadeva, the military status of medieval Odisha began a process of gradual decline, heading towards dissolution. This decline culminated with the fall of the last independent Gajapati, Mukunda Deva, and the obituary of the Gajapati empire was written by the two Hindu ministers of Emperor Akbar, Raja Mansingh and Raja Todarmal, in 1592 CE. The Gajapati empire was ultimately dissolved, reduced to a small strip of territory in eastern India covering parts of Coastal Odisha, Northern Andhra, and parts of Southern Bengal, and was vivisected into three parts - Khodha, Patia, and Aul, which remained as vassal kingdoms under the Delhi Sultanate.
Gajapati Ramachandra Deva received 129 killas, 31 Zamidaris, including SripurushottamKshetra Puri, and lands south of the River Mahanadi up to Khemundi, Ghumusara, and Mahuri. The elder son of Mukunda Deva, Ramachandra Ray, was granted the Aul kingdom with 24 Zamindaris, including Kanika, Kujanga, Kakalidwip, Harishpur, Marishpur, Chedra, Darpani, and 42 killas. The younger son, ChakkiBhramarbar Ray, was bestowed with 31 Zamindaris, such as Sarangagada, Bajigiri, Talagiri, Gualigada, Patia, Kalarabanka, Gadakana, Gadakantunia, Naharakanta, Raghunathpur, Balianta, and 50 Killas. In addition to these arrangements, areas excepting Aul and Patia kingdoms, other peripheral residual territories of Utkal were placed under the suzerainty of Khordha.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
Some say that Life is a song. Some say that Life is a poem. This might seem confusing to some and therefore calls for some clarification. Poems to my mind are rather scholarly in nature whereas songs make better use of words and tonal quality. Profound thoughts and sentiments are often expressed in poems. Songs, I think are far more direct and rather lighter in meaning. Poetry we would all agree is an expression of the innermost experiences of a poet, whereas song is often set to a pre-existing piece of situational music. It is easier to remember songs than poems.
So, what would you like your life to be? Poem or a Song! I prefer song over poem because I am neither scholarly nor a deeply sensitive wordsmith. I don't take life very seriously because I think life also doesn't take you seriously. I take life in its stride. I just want it to flow and meet ultimately like rivers in the oceans of nothingness. The music of life for each one of us is pre-set by 'Him'- the omnipotent and all-pervasive superpower we call GOD. We have little control over these divinely ordained tracks of music of life. We must only choose words to rhythm with the music he has set for us for various stages in our life of which we have no pre-knowledge. We must design words as the tracks play.
No Hate Songs Please:
In my selection of words for the songs in my life, there is no place for "hatred". Holocaust survivor Eddie who passed says, "Hate is a disease, it may destroy your enemy, but it will also destroy you in the process." I don't hate No One and like to think 'No One hates me’. If I hate, you and you hate me then wouldn't it be mutually self-destructive? Don't each one of us want to survive happily? Then hate can't be a part of our life song. If you feel extreme enmity towards somebody, then I bet you cannot be happy.
Go For the Happiness Song:
Select the happiness songs of your life. Happiness is a choice. Decide that you will be happy or as happy as you could be under the circumstances. If you aren't, better late than never. Make a start now. According to my tried and tested recipe to be happy one has to smile, be polite, be kind and be helpful to others. This four-pronged strategy will surely lead you to the happy path is my belief.
Joy is love for what is and sorrow is love for what is not. Enjoy what you have and don't miss what you don't have. Focus on your breathing for a second. Are you breathing? Yes, you are! Then what are you missing? If you are breathing, you are alive and that is important- you are not missing anything.
We all can learn from a bank cashier. During the day he comes into a lot of cash. Cash comes in and goes out. He doesn't feel anything about it because he knows that he is not the owner. We are not the owner of this universe, but the tragedy is that we want to possess it and that is the root of most of our sorrows and unhappiness. If you want to encash anything, then encash your life and learn from it.
Many people have this fear of missing out (FOMO). They tend to believe that other people are living better, more satisfying lives or that important opportunities are being missed. Imagining this they become so unhappy that they cannot enjoy what they have. This feeling can give rise to depression and anxiety which might lead to a poor quality of life. It can also affect businesses. It can lead them to invest based on perceptions of what others are doing, rather than their business strategy. This is also at the centre of the "bandwagon effect" which is the name given to a tendency for people to adopt certain behaviours, styles, or attitudes simply because others are doing so. Suppose your morning walk partner wears a certain expensive pair of walking shoes and you become unhappy about yours and want to buy those or similar but can't afford them. Your happiness is gone.
Sing Along with The Family & Friends :
Family and friends matter. Be close to them. Treat your friend too as your family. Don't wait for them to come to you. Go half the way and you will surprise yourself. During the Covid pandemic, a college friend -ex-director of a prestigious management institution in Ahmedabad wrote on LinkedIn that suddenly people started connecting with him and he too started doing the same enjoying the experience. Even we started getting calls from long-lost relatives and friends and in turn, started connecting with them and others. This has now ebbed down with Covid under control. But ever mused why was that happening. The answer to this as the friend suggested can probably be found in a story from the Mahabharata.
Pandavas started living in exile in the forest. One day, Yudhishthira, the eldest of the five Pandavas, sent Nakula to fetch water from a pond. On reaching the pond, Nakula decided to quench his thirst before filling the pitcher he had taken with him. As he kneels to drink water from the pond, a Yaksha (elf) appears and warns Nakula, "If you want to drink the water from my pond, you must first answer my questions or else the water will turn into poison. Ignoring the warning, Nakula takes a sip of water and falls dead or perhaps unconscious.
After waiting for some time, Yudhishthira sends Sahadeva in search of Nakula. He doesn't return either. He then sends Arjuna to search for the two brothers. Arjun also doesn't return. He then sends Bhima to search for the three missing brothers. Bhima also fails to return meeting the same fate.
By now quite anxious and extremely thirsty, Yudhishthira set out in search of his missing brothers. On reaching the pond, he finds all four dead or perhaps unconscious. He goes down to the pond to fetch water to quench his thirst and revive his brothers. The Yaksha reappears and repeats his warning, "Dharmaraja (another name for Yudhishthira) if you want to drink water from the lake, you must first answer my questions. If you disagree, the lake water will turn into poison. I made the same offer to each of your brothers. But they refused to answer my questions. They drank water from my pond and are dead. Without any hesitation, Dharmaraj replies, "I am ready to answer all your questions. But promise me that if I answer all your questions, you will bring my brothers back. The Yaksha replies, "I promise that if you satisfy me with your answers, I will revive your brothers and return them to you."
This was followed by a long question-answer session between Yaksha and Dharmaraj. Dharmaraj answers each question patiently. The Yaksha finally appears satisfied and then goes on to say, "I will ask you my last question. If you answer this last question to my satisfaction, I will grant your wish. "I love my brothers very much," says Dharmaraja with folded hands. I can only hope that I satisfy you." The Yaksha asks, "What do you think is the greatest wonder in the world? Dharmaraja replies, "Each one of us knows that death is inevitable and yet we lead our lives as if we are immortal. There is no greater wonder in the world than this." The Yaksha introduces himself to Dharmaraja. He appeared before him. He was Yama, the god of death. He blesses Dharmaraja and says, "You have shown great wisdom in your answers. You will have your brothers." One by one, the brothers come back to life.
Coronavirus has shown us that we are not immortal and perhaps that is why we had started remembering forgotten people and relationships again. Do we need another pandemic to remind us that again?
Take A Breather-Pause:
Too many people around us are just too busy running – but not knowing where they are running to. Take time to enjoy life and understand and avoid naysayers and negative people. Spend time with family and friends. Go for a walk if you would- mornings or evenings or at any time and as many times in a week as your legs and schedule permit you. While on walks focus on nature and the sweet songs of the birds. This is absolutely free and provides meditative peace to battered souls. Say hello to the guys you meet during your walks even if they weren't known to you previously. Most will respond. They will know you now and you will them. It is so nice to hear people saying that they missed us when we were absent for a few days due to travels or other pressing engagements. Eagles fly high, hover around like a helicopter and take a good view of the things below. They focus their laser-like vision on the prey below and then just come down on it as if with a vengeance. The idea is not retribution here is that a pause helps us to take stock of things around us and focus better on our goals.
Tomorrow Will Come – But First, Enjoy Today:
In "The Happiest Man on Earth", holocaust survivor Eddie Jaku shares his perceptions and reminisces on how he has led his best possible life through the power of gratefulness, open-mindedness, and charity.
Life can be beautiful if you make it beautiful. Eddie shows us how. Filled with his insights on friendship, family, health, ethics, love, and hatred, he offers timeless lessons for readers of all ages, especially young people today.
Tomorrow will come but is never promised, so love and appreciate the people who are in your life today.
Life Is Sunshine:
Life is sunshine if you will! When our souls crave a little extra vitamin D, metaphorically speaking, there is plenty of light to be had. Couldn't we all use a little more sunshine in our lives? Agreed, on summer days, we might like to wet our feet in the water as the rays become harsh or, maybe, by lazing for hours in the diffused sunlight filtering through the leaves of a backyard tree. As the weather cools, the sun only grows more lovely—lower in the sky but brighter and more soothing.
Life Is Also a Cloud:
Life is like a cloud. Clouds come and go. But memories of their beauty never fade. Enjoy the beauty! There are whites and there are blacks and in-between several shades of grey. White clouds represent brightness in our life while dark ones offer us challenges. They are invitations to grow. Even when clouds grow thick, the sun still pours its light through that blanket earthward.
Life Is Hide and Seek:
Life is many things. It can be a game of hide-and-seek; we're lost if we no longer seek. Seek your self-seek your true self. Change something that you don't like about yourself or learn to forgive yourself and be comfortable with your flaws.
Life Is Unbound Sailing in The Deep:
Life is a journey seek not the destination(s) for it has none to offer. If you are looking for a destination, then you are doomed. Just enjoy the trip. Life is like the sky - unfathomed and boundless. Fly high and wide with an open mind. You will experience deep enjoyment even in uneven glide.
Life Is a Market:
We are here buying some and selling some. Some days you will lose, and some days you will gain. Don't keep an account of your profits and losses as when it is over you will take away nothing with you. What was others' yesterday is yours today and will be somebody else's tomorrow. If you sell(read giveaway) happiness and buy (read look for) happiness you will always end up surplus.
Sadness Like Happiness Is Never Permanent:
Happy music and or sad music tracks have been positioned for you by "Him" along pre-decided stages of your life. You can't do much about that. But you can always turn around the situation. Just Choose the right words and make a beautiful song out of the situation in rhythm with the music. Sad reactions would pass and give place to happier ones as unhappiness will soon pass.
Declaration: This article has a similarity score of about 20% as checked online which means it qualifies as original un plagiarised writing.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
MOTHERS –A SPECIES BY THEMSELVES
Come the second Sunday of May, and the commercial world gets highly busy with a flurry of activities – exotic flowers are styled in arrangements; cakes and cookies in new flavours and shapes are designed and displayed on the glass shelves; gift shops order shipments of designer objet d’art; not to mention the good ole’ greeting cards; special menus (read old dishes with new names) are quickly whipped up in restaurants; and parties are arranged and advertised in new, cosy event venues; last but not the least- the delivery boys rev up their bikes and zip across the city to deliver the special goodies.
Why all this, the uninitiated may ask. Well, the second Sunday of May happens to be the day when the Western world rings an alarm bell for all children, Hey wake up lazy guys, you have a mother who needs to be reminded that she is your Mom and you need to gift her something to show your love for her. It’s Mother’s Day! And then the flurry of activity trickles down to the kids who rack their muddled up brains in all possible ways to find a unique way of showing his/her love for the one who had shown him/her the first light of the hospital. Now would she like flowers? No, she has pollen allergy. A cake? There’s only the two of them at home and Dad has sugar problem. By this time two nails have been chewed off. What in the world shall I send her? The phone gets busy. The various sites are searched. At the end of a few maddening hours, a suitable gift is decided upon and sent. Thank God for the different time zones- the gift will reach before end of day! A phone call before that will at least reduce the guilt.
As the day progresses, the city mothers are well aware of this day and most of them start their day with the husbands stepping in to get breakfast ready or she may be given a surprise by a bouquet, a gift or a card handmade by a younger child. In some other homes the mothers would be pampered by their NRI children in more exotic ways – lunch booking at a 5 star hotel, a booking at the spa, not to mention the expensive gifts. The children go overboard in trying to make the day special for their moms.
In some other village, back of beyond, where even a whiff of modernity has not reached, the woman of the house wakes up to a warm sultry dawn, not having slept well after the squabble she had had with her drunken man over household expenses. She looks at her four offsprings – sleeping on the mat in different directions. The youngest is 11 months old and still has to be breast fed first thing in the morning but she has no energy left in her. She goes out of her house to begin her day- a day she knows that’s not going to be easy to handle. But she has been managing her home, her children, her maid’s job at Sarpanch madam’s house, her unpredictable husband, with smiles and tears for the past 11 years. Today is nothing different. She stands up straight, tucks her sari tightly round her waist and walks.
Flashback to twenty years ago- it’s the second Sunday of May and the mothers in most middle class homes are no differently engaged than on other days. She and no one else in the house has any idea it is Mother’s Day or for that matter any special day. She wakes up at her usual time, completes her daily chores, starts preparing for breakfast- its Sunday, so maybe something special; thinks about what to make for lunch, while reminding herself that the medicines for her father in law have to be ordered and some grocery items which she had missed out, have to be purchased. The kids are small and need to be woken up which is quite an exercise, especially on Sundays. She tickles the younger one and he wakes up with a giggle hugging her, while the older one holds her hand and in a sleepy voice says- good morning Ma! Thus begins the mother’s day - 365 days a year.
Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers- in all shapes and sizes, of all ages, of all species (yes!), in all countries and at all times for being so brave and strong and tolerant and forgiving and……..sometimes even being very strict and raising her hand for our own good, for hiding that sweet for us without others knowing and everything else that we forget to thank her for.
Sumana Ghosh, an educationist, is a former Principal of a city based High School in Bhubaneswar with a long and successful career as an administrator, Teacher of English, a teacher Trainer and currently a translator. She has enjoyed translating a few short stories and a novel of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo. Ms. Ghosh along with her varied hobbies, is also a voice over artist and has been doing the live commentary of Shri Jagannath’s Rathyatra in Bangla, over Doordarshan Kolkata, for the past 5 years. She lives in Bhubaneswar with her husband and enjoys the company of her three grandchildren from her two children.
SAVITRI BRATA: WHY DOESN’T A HUSBAND FAST FOR HIS WIFE?
From time immemorial, we have been fasting. “We” here means a woman and every woman who believes in the rituals and traditions of our country.
On this glorious day, a married Hindu lady fasts for her husband and takes as much as strains to maintain her integrity by letting no stone unturned. In this Amavasya Tithi, millions of women fast for the well-being of their husbands with great devotion and dedication.
For a long time, this has been continuing. I have never seen a husband who keeps a fast and wishes for the wellness of his wife.
Though, according to medical science, it’s fruitful to keep a fast for at least a day a week. Then why doesn’t a husband dedicate a day to the longevity of his beloved wife? I am not a feminist. I only desire equal treatment from society.
Let’s unveil the dirty scenario.
Breaking News: On the auspicious day of Savitri, a drunkard husband beats his wife and the wife succumbs to her injuries.
And there is another side of the story also. Hence, the moral of the story is a relationship should be valued and honoured by both parties.
Festivals are meant to enjoy cherished moments with your loved ones.
A good relationship always seeks parity with a tint of acceptance and respect. A lady who is fasting for her husband needs love and some percentage of attention. Nobody is forcing a husband to remain thirsty and hungry throughout the day. A lady only yearns for affection for the selfless sacrifice she renders for her family for ages.
Celebrate the festival with a flavor of compassion. Be empathic to your loved ones. Festivals are meant to enjoy cherished moments with your loved ones. Nobody should misinterpret the meaning of festivals.
Responsibilities also encompass sharing and caring for the burden of each other in a family. One should not accomplish their duties only by satiating materialistic things.
A festival always demands commitment from the members of a family. So when a wife wishes and prays for the interest of her spouse, in return, she should be offered some kind of loyalty from her better half. She deserves the kind attention of her companion only.
Let’s fix the pure meaning of a festival by celebrating a primary bond between our body and mind.
And a couple must understand the meaning of Brata Savitri. Why does our Goddess Savitri embark on an unimaginable quest? Why did she rebel against death?
Because she didn’t consider her husband and herself as two individuals and vice versa. Her spouse was also breathing with her essence. This mythical story has a lofty significance for our society. We need to realize it.
The idea behind this celebration is to glorify the oneness of husband and wife like Siva and Sakti.
Every festival signifies high cultural values in our country. Particularly, the idea behind this celebration is to glorify the oneness of husband and wife like Siva and Sakti.
It’s the celebration of the manifestation of Ardhanariswera, where two people merge into one entity. One fails to attach identity in the absence of the other one. This abstract and sublime kind of love is beyond the understanding of trivial people.
Hence, to stabilize and boost the importance of marriage and our rich heritage, we need to commemorate such a lively festival even once a year.
We need to brush off the archaic mindset of putting the burden on the shoulders of a lady to bear the entire pressure to justify her chastity every time. Her partner is needed to uphold the dignity of marriage by acknowledging the values of such festivals where both of them can display the same amount of love for each other.
Let’s shower the petals of care and affection for the women of our lives—daughters, mothers, and sisters, and each one to whom we can relate.
Support them by choice, not by force!
Sudipta Mishra is a multi-faceted artist and dancer excelling in various fields of art and culture. She has co-authored more than a hundred books. Her book, 'The Essence of Life', is credited with Amazon's bestseller. Her next creation, 'The Songs of My Heart' is scaling newer heights of glory. Her poems are a beautiful amalgamation of imagery and metaphors. She has garnered numerous accolades from international organizations like the famous Rabindranath Tagore Memorial, Mahadevi Verma Sahitya Siromani Award, an Honorary Doctorate, and so on. She regularly pens articles in newspapers as a strong female voice against gender discrimination, global warming, domestic violence against women, pandemics, and the ongoing war. She is pursuing a Ph.D. degree in English. Her fourth book, Everything I Never Told You is a collection of a hundred soulful poems. Currently, she is residing in Puri.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A SOLO ADVENTURER IN THE SEAS & OCEANS
There are people who leave lasting imprints on the sands of time, never to be erased by the vagaries of nature because of their adventurous indomitable spirit which forms a part of history for all time to come and continues to inspire youngsters to emulate such feats . One such person was Mihir Sen. Sen was the first Indian and Asian swimmer to conquer the English Channel from Dover to Calais in 1958. He was 4th fastest swimmer to do so, took 14 hours and 15 mins to cover.
Though Mihir’s name would be a house hold name in India for his extraordinary achievement in swimming in the treacherous seas or oceans, Many people would not know that as a young boy ,he grew up in the millennium city Cuttack that gave birth to Netaji Subash Chandra Bose and the another legend Biju pattanik among others.
It is said that Mihir Sen was born to a Bengali family on 16th October 1930 in Purila, West Bengal. He moved to Cuttack, Odisha at the age of 8 because Cuttack had better schools and his mother had a big role in this internal migration. Mihir went on to graduate in law from Utkal University in Bhubaneswar. He wanted to travel to England to prepare himself for the bar but had monetary constraints. With the help of Biju Patnaik ( to be later the Chief Minister of Odisha) in 1950, Mihir Sen was able to go to England for pursing his studies. In England, he was hired at the India House by the Indian ambassador Krishna Menon. He was called to the Bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1954.
Sen swimming career was inspired by Florence Chadwick, the first American to cross the English Channel in 1950. Sen wanted to repeat this feat for his own country. He had started his swimming journey in Kathajodhi river in Odisha but that was hardly any preparation for English Channel. He then enrolled himself in the YMCA, London to develop his skills and endurance. He had to prepare hard against high tides which a swimmer will face in English Channel, learnt to deal with the ever-changing weather which may have storms and other natural calamities, along with avoiding Jelly fish and dangerous creatures present inside the water. In 1955 he tried his first attempt, but luck was not on his side and weather forced him to abandon it. Three years later he was better prepared and with the experience of previous failure, he coated his body with mustard oil and finally achieved the feat of swimming the English Channel in 1958. In the same year he was awarded the Padmashri by the then P.M. Jawaharlal Nehru.
Then he achieved the unique feet of swimming oceans of five different continents in a single calendar year (1966) for which his name was registered in the Guinness Book of world record. He got two awards following this feat: Padma Bhushan and Blitz Nehru Trophy in 1967. Sen needed 45000 to pay the Indian army to record his Palk Strait swim. Half of the money he raised from the private sponsors and the other half was provided by then PM Indira Gandhi. Mrs Gandhi also ordered the Indian Navy to give full support to Mr Sen as it was a matter of pride for our country. The oceans across five continents which Mihir Sen swam in 1966 were: Palk Strait on April 5-6, Strait of Gibraltar on August 24, Dardanelles on September 12, Bosphorus on September 21, Panama Canal on October 29-30.
He was a lawyer, swimmer, and a well-known businessman. His company became the largest silk exporter in the country in a short spell of time. In 1977, Mr Sen was invited to join the Communist Party by the veteran politician Jyoti Basu of West Bengal , but the former turned down the offer. He rather tried his luck in electoral waters as an independent candidate but here the political waters were trickier than that of the Seas and Oceans. He was a free spirit and believed in freedom, both in the market place and the political space, as a result, it is rumoured that Sen perhaps suffered in business when Mr Basu and his party came to power in West Bengal.
Mr Sen died in June 1997 from a combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson's disease. It is a shame that Mr Sen today may be a forgotten name in Indian Sports, but the people, who know him, remember and acknowledge him very well as one of the finest sportsperson of India who brought glory for the country at the time where India was a young country, had just got Independence from British and didn’t have much opportunity to excel in any field due to very few investment in sports sector. His achievement in such context is certainly very spectacular and will always be written in golden letters in books on achievers and adventurers .
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
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