Literary Vibes - Edition CXXX (30-Jun-2023) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Kafka on the Shore (Picture courtesy Ms. Ritika Sriram)
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 COSMIC DANCER
02) Chinmayee barik
TO TOIL TILL THE END
03) Dilip Mohapatra
REVENGE
04) Ishwar Pati
MOTHER’S TEARS
FROZEN MELODY
05) Sheba jamal
UNFINISHED DESIRE
06) Keshab Das
THE TEACHER
07) T.V.Sreekumar
DOLLAR DUDE
POET-PARTNER
08) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
CHITRALEKHA
09) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
GOOD SAMARITAN IN A DISTANT CITY
10) Arpita Priyadarsini
THE SIN
11) Sujata Dash
NO GUT, NO STORY
12) Ashok Kumar Ray
MY MOM
13) Bankim Chandra Tola
JAI JAGANNATH
SELF PURIFICATION
WRITING BLOGS
14) Gurudas Brahma
UTOPIA OR DYSTOPIA-TO WHERE ARE WE HEADING?
15) Gouranga Roul Charan
SAINT’S PROPHECY
16) Dipak Samantarai
RAJA: FESTIVAL OF FERTILITY
17) Sumitra Kumar
LANGUAGE VANGUAGE!
18) Sudipta Mishra
IS INDIA MOVING TOWARDS GENDER EQUALITY?
19) Avaya C Mohapatra
A VOYAGE INTO HISTORY
20) MMrutyunjay Sarangi
ANJIE, PAT AND INDIA'S POOR
THE FOURTH MONKEY
JASMINE GIRL AT HAJI ALI AND OTHER STORIES
A TRAIN TO KOLKATA
21) Shruti Sarma
THE MEADOW OF FIREFLIES
From galaxies to galaxies. From nebulae to nebulae, to solar system-like planetary clusters, spanned her fame as a dancer, leaving her no time even to change her anklets.
Using what his father, an inter galactic salesman, left him, he had bought a small planet, PL 502. X#CT@ LHMH which he renamed Lavanya. He built a beautiful house there and also a music hall where great artistes from all over came to dance or sing. His two yeas’ experience as an interstellar cultural coordinator was thus put to good use. No multidimension projection would match a live performance.
He was a key person in her virtual team for PR work. A strong bond had developed between them over the years, even though they had never met in person. He just waited with the strong belief that someday she would dance in his music hall for an audience from as far as KH88 nebulae. In those three decades she had graduated from a mother to a grandmother. Her dance kept itself young even as her body struggled against aging.
Today was that day. She has agreed to stop over at his planet to dance at his music hall today. She was on her way to another galaxy after a performance near his home planet. Two consecutive sessions would be hectic for her at this age. But age, after all, is only a number, he had told her and her response was that hers would be a three digit number soon.
He was very happy that she was coming with her family. All those faces are familiar to him. But he was meeting the whole family including her for the first time.
This may be their first and last meeting. There is very little scope for a second chance.
Even those who lived light years away reached the music hall well in advance. In fact, the facilities were quite inadequate to meet the demands of such a humongous crowd. The loud non-stop clapping at the start and the end of each dance was a first for that little planet.
He got to know her family during the break. Without any fuss, her granddaughter, a six-month old baby leaned over into his arms when he offered to carry her around.
He held the baby close to his chest as he went around meeting the other family members.
He noticed it when the baby's nape was reflected in a mirror on the wall of the dance hall. A black mole.
After the dance, there wasn’t much time left. They were all set to board the teletransportation capsule.
Just a nanosecond, they were gone.
Sitting on his easy chair, he stared at the celestial illumination far away and breathed the fragrance of jasmine growing wildly in his home garden.
Straining himself, he almost sprained his right arm, trying to reach the nape of his neck and fondle a black mole there.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
(Translated by Ajay Upadhyaya from Odia story, Sramana)
My hands are tremulous, but the weather isn’t cold.
Earlier, it was the turn of my legs. They started to tremble and then they turned jelly. I had to pause my walk and suddenly I flopped like a rag doll. It happened when I was on my way to the college. When I attempted to get up, I found myself on the ground again, with my face down. There were people, who saw me falling but walked away. They looked rather amused. One amongst them, I thought, was, a well wisher of mine but she too kept to her path. I was intrigued by her indifference; did she really find it funny?
Then, I could feel a pair of hands on my shoulder. Someone picked me up by my arm, aiding me in my efforts to stand up. But my body failed me again and I was about to slump but he pulled me up. When I was finally up and standing, I saw his face. He happened to be the least favourite of all my class mates. For all practical purposes he was a stranger.
I realised, for the first time, how lucky we were to have amongst us such unsung samaritans. Indeed, it is the kindness of strangers, which makes the world go round.
His name was Sramana. Unlike many names which are merely fanciful combination of syllables, Sramana has multiple meanings. Its literal English translation is: One who toils. Depending on the context, it refers to anyone engaged in endeavours, ranging from menial labour to spiritual penance. The reason for my dislike of him was never clear to me.
My name is Ila. Although I had just enrolled on the Arts stream in the College, I was well-known, as the reputation of my prodigious talents had preceded me. I was the object of enormous pride for my parents. My mother had begun to dream of my golden future as a renowned writer. But now, my hands go shaky when I start to write.
At first, doctors thought it was a minor ailment and there was nothing to worry. They sent us off with the reassurance that it would probably pass in no time. But as these bouts of tremor and falls became frequent, their opinion shifted to something ominous. Soon, the specialists confirmed that it was far from a self limiting condition. My disease was indeed quite serious and frighteningly so. It would worsen steadily and cut my life short. And, there was no cure. Mama (my mother), however, would refuse to accept the doctors’ verdict with its sinister implications. She would keep the diagnosis a secret even from my father as she believed that my superlative brain power would be sufficient to triumph over my physical frailty. “Many a disease of the body can be overcome by a gifted brain. Moreover, science is advancing all the time. If it came to that, a cure is bound to come by.” She used to say. Baba (My father) would continue to consult multiple doctors from diverse specialities in the vain hope of some favourable news about my illness, While my condition deteriorated relentlessly, my mother remained adamant in her views. As my falls and shakiness became evidently worse, she urged me to turn to meditation. Her strategy was to sharpen my will power to its finest. And her trump card was her faith; she believed in miracles.
It was not only Baba; none of my three siblings had any idea, how serious my malady was. All they knew was that my limbs occasionally became shaky and weak. They were given to think that with tonics and exercise, I would eventually grow out of this temporary problem. My younger sister, nonetheless had used the situation to her advantage; she had grabbed my favourite doll, claiming it as her own. I knew, where she used to hide it. It was probably just too risky for me to retrieve it from the height of the top shelf in the ward robe. I might have succeeded if I tried but I had somehow lost interest in the doll.
Baba used to come home from his day’s work late in night. He ran a modest hotel and the income from the business was meagre. He would spend little on himself, he rarely bought new clothes. If Mama would offer to buy him new clothes from her savings, he would put the money away towards our tuition fees. He would ask her to repair his worn-out clothes for extending their life. At the same time, he would dote on me, bringing home special snacks and varieties of cakes for me. This would set off among my brother and sisters, ripples of discontent, tinged with envy at my privileged treatment from Baba. I could sense, my youngest brother would be wishing to fall ill so that he too would be pampered by Baba, who might buy him the expensive bike he always dreamt of.
My illness made me to miss my classes from time to time. Sramana started visiting me at home to go over the lessons to make up for the missed tuition. As my condition progressed, his visits became more frequent. Soon, he was at our house, almost every other day. This is when my mother took an interest in Sramana and enquired about his background. As he did not belong to our caste Mama was not too welcoming to him in the beginning. But Sramana’s sincerity and genuine helping nature gradually won Mama’s heart. My own stance towards him also shifted in his favour. He would encourage me to remain optimistic about my condition. While I was in his company I would temporarily forget about my illness. He brought with him an air of cheer and hope; I could imagine myself eventually cured one day.
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My health, nevertheless, continued to slide. One day I had a fall in the bathroom. Only my youngest sister was home at the time and she had to rush to my rescue. As she picked me up, I found myself drooling and my undergarment was wet. I did not have the strength to change my clothes on my own. My sister lovingly helped me take my clothes off and with great care made me to change into a gown. Then she supported me to walk back to the living room. By then my brothers had returned home and were eagerly waiting for me. Immediately, they came running to give me a hug. My sister quietly washed my wet clothes and put them up for drying. As she returned after finishing the chores, I could see her face was downcast. She had a morose look, something I had not seen before. I gently stroked her head to comfort her. I also told her that she did not have to return my favourite doll; it was for her to keep. She simply burst into a flood of tears.
The other day, when I was looking out of my window, I I noticed a tree, covered in flowers not far from the house. The ground around it was also strewn with flowers, I assumed, had fallen from the tree. It was remarkable that the tree remained loaded with flowers all the time, seemingly unaffected by the profuse shedding. So, new flowers must be blooming continuously to replace the lost bounty. Alas, the exquisite beauty of the flowers didn’t come with a long life. In my despondent moments, I wondered if my departure from this world would be likewise filled quickly with a new arrival. No matter how gifted I was, it would be powerless against the cycles of nature. May be, Mama is capable of producing another child, more gifted than me!
My birthday fell on 28 February. For this birthday, I received not one, but four sets of new clothes. Special cakes were ordered for this occasion. Never had my birthday been celebrated in such grand style. All my friends were invited to our house. As Sramana handed his present, a bouquet of flowers, I got a chance to look into his eyes. I could see his feelings, rising like the waves in the sea, to break gently on the shore before ebbing away.
After all the guests left, Mama asked Sramana to stay back. He was invited to join us in our family dinner. After we finished our meal, Mama helped me to my room and laid me in my bed to rest. She thought, I was exhausted by the end of the party and would go off to sleep soon. But I was awake and could hear the conversations in the adjoining room where everybody had gathered. I could also see some of them through a chink in the door.
Mama cleared her throat, gathering her innermost resources to make a special announcement. As if she needed to bolster her strength for the ordeal, Baba took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then Mama began her delivery. She introduced my illness as an incurable disease, which would progress relentlessly. The medical opinion on its terminal nature had been unanimous. There was no cure and I would not be around for long. Therefore, it is high time everyone in the family knew about it. There was little hope for improvement with treatment. It would gradually paralyse my body. I would lose my strength to stand or use my hands to hold anything. Eventually I would lose complete control of my body. My diagnosis thus was no less than a death sentence, with an open date for execution. Even more agonising was the prospect of watching me dying bit by bit before the final date. She ended with a plea to all in the family for taking turns to keep a watch on me and assist in my daily routine.
By the time she finished talking, everyone were sitting completely still, frozen to the ground. Whilst their eyes were brimming with tear, Baba was standing like a statue with glazed eyes. Then, Mama resumed her talking. As medical science offered no hope whatsoever, she had made an extensive study of religious texts and allied literature in search of a remedy for my condition. It seems, the situation was not totally hopeless; a cure was still possible by a collective force of our prayers and will power. If each of us renounce something precious or dear to our heart, and pray for my cure, providence may grant us our wish and give Ila a long life as a reward for our sacrifice.
As soon as Mama finished her pronouncement, my youngest brother offered, for my sake, to give up cycling, the passion of his life. My other brother vowed never to tell lies ever again. My sister took an oath never to touch her favourite dish, rice pudding. Baba and Mama did not speak but I have no doubt, they made their sacrifices silently.
Sramana too sat motionless and tightlipped. Then, all on a sudden, he left the room. Mama tried to stop him but to no avail. We hoped he would return but he never did. After such an emotionally charged session, I was left dazed. In return for all the sacrifices, perhaps, it behoved me to do something special. But with my frail body what could I promise? Perhaps, I should strive to fulfil my mothers dream by excelling as a writer. That was the least I could aspire to and strive for.
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Next morning, I woke up to see my favourite doll lying next to me on the bed. My three siblings were all standing near my door, wide eyed, silently telling me they were ready to embark on the path of curing my condition. By a flicker of my eyes, I acknowledged their gesture. But I had to avert my gaze quickly. By a swift swing of my hand, I wiped off my tears by way of straightening my ruffled hair on my face before anyone could see my teary eyes.
Sramana was seen no more in our house. But I never stopped waiting for him.
Mama brought for me a note book and some writing material. I started my writing, with short stories. Gradually, the stories grew in their length and scope. I then turned to writing a novel. The protagonist of this story was Sraman. In my idle moments, I could see Sraman’s face. He had a dark complexion and short stature. He had a flat nose and protruding teeth. His facial features were obviously not his asset. He had no physical attributes, which would endear him to anyone. Was my initial aversion to him was influenced by his looks. As I got to know him, all these superficialities meant nothing any more. I missed his company and his words of encouragement. The grief of losing him added to my woes over the fading strength in my muscles. It overwhelmed me at times, which did not escapee Mama’s attention.
She spared no pains in searching for Sramana but there was no trace of him. No one knew his whereabouts. We discovered that he did not have a home or family to speak of; he had grown up in an orphanage. He had suddenly gone missing and nobody knew where he had disappeared.
I wondered if Sramana would ever come back; more worryingly, whether I would still be around by then. So, I might never see him again. Strangely this gave me the determination to finish the book I was writing on him.
As time rolled on, my body became really feeble. I could not move around without my wheel chair. Writing also became progressively difficult and my written text became increasingly illegible. My sister had to practically stop her schooling for she had to devote so much of her time, taking care of me. Mama continued tirelessly working on her sewing machine to raise enough money towards my medical treatment. Baba looked older than his age, from the strain of overwork in the shop and worries about my fading health.
I remained in a mood of anticipation, waiting for something to happen. I was not sure what would come first, my death or Sramana’s return.
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One night, when I looked out, the stars appeared to drop off the sky. I rubbed my eyes, to check what I had just seen. But my vision went blurry. It felt as if my end was nearing. The novel, I was working on was yet to be finished. That night I could not rest. In stead of retiring to bed, I sat down to write. I worked through the whole night and by day break the draft of my novel was complete.
Next morning, I presented my finished manuscript to Mama. The novel was titled, Sramana. She gently caressed it with her hands. Next, she kissed it before rushing into the Puja room to offer prayers to our family deity. My manuscript found its proud place alongside all the holy texts, she used to recite in obeisance to the Lord.
For Mama, the next step was to get my book published. She drew all her savings and approached several publishers in the town. But her meagre funds failed to attract any reputed publisher. She eventually found someone who was aware of our financial constraints and offered to undertake the publishing at a nominal sum. In ten days flat the printing was over. Thus, Sramana, the book, saw the light of the day.
The gloom over my imminent death was temporarily overshadowed by the rejoicing on the birth of my book. In a long time, our home was filled with a festive spirit. The mood was upbeat. My mother’s pride knew no bounds. She had widely publicised the inauguration of my book. Messages of congratulations were pouring in from my admirers and well-wishers. But I was eagerly awaiting the news of someone special. I was silently calling out to Sramana, “Where have you disappeared to, Sramana. Please come back from wherever you are….”
Mama had arranged a small party at home for celebrating the inauguration of my book. She was busy ushering the guests in and serving them food and drinks. It was quite a gathering, with my friends from my school and college days, some of our neighbours and lovers of literature in the town. The publisher of the book also attended the inauguration ceremony. But Sramana was missing.
Everybody was gushing in their praise for my debut novel. I could however sense some of them at the same time pitying me at my truncated life. A few of them were audible enough for my ears. I wish I could tell them, “Look, for all your love and admiration for me, you can’t prevent my imminent death. Can you?”
But, what could I really say? My feelings were so jumbled that no words could convey them accurately. Nether could I indulge in crying in public. Fortunately, I had mastered the technique of weeping silently through my facade of smiles.
By the time the book inauguration was drawing to a close, I was feeling restless. I was finding it hard to breathe. My mother could sense my state and gauge my distress. She took me inside away from the crowd and gently laid me on the bed. My entire family gradually drifted in to surround me. But my father kept standing in a corner, leaning against the wall. It felt as if the last day of my life was approaching. As I was contemplating the last hour of my life, my mother came running and crying excitedly, “Ila, look, who is here. Yes, Ila, Sramana has come!”
With these words of my mother, my heart skipped a beat. My breathing quickened its pace, I focussed hard to make sure of what I was seeing. Is it really him? Oh, yes, Sramana made his graceful entry.
But, he was not my old friend, Sramana. He did not have the familiar features, I had grown accustomed to. The new incarnation of Sramana was donned in saffron, his head tonsured. His face radiated an unusual calm.
Standing before us was a monk. True to his name, Sraman had converted to an ascetic.
The sight of this new Sramana left us stunned. There was one question, swirling in the mind of us all. It was visible on our faces, which was hard to miss. He glanced at me and lowered his head before speaking, “It was on Ila’s last birthday, when I vowed to renounce the material world in pursuit of spiritual growth. That was my sacrifice, offered for the sake of Ila’s long life.”
Mama burst out wailing, “You poor wretch! What have you done Sramana?”
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.
One of the stories which almost every child across the world would have read is the one about the thirsty crow’s ingenuity. The story finds its origin in a poem by the first century CE Greek poet Bianor. But its popularity is attributed to Aesop who featured this as a story in his famous fables. The story is about a thirsty crow in search of water who comes across a pitcher having a little water at its bottom, out of its reach. Then the bird picks up pebbles and drops them one by one into the pitcher, until the water rises to the top and comes within the reach of its beak. There have been many interpretations of this simple story. Starting with the virtue of ingenuity, the story illustrates the crow’s persistence and intelligence. Proverbs like, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’ and ‘Where there is a Will, there is a Way’, etc. are also quoted with the story’s moral. I, as a child was in awe of the crow when I learnt about Archimedes’ principles. I wondered how did the crow know that the trick would work only for liquids in a pot and the pebbles would sink rather than float? How did the crow even guess that the liquid will be displaced by the submerged pebbles to make it rise? Why do we call a stupid and silly man as a bird-brain? Over the years I was always inquisitive about the crow and any story that involved a crow always intrigued me.
Then there was this Panchatantra story about the crows and a serpent that I had read in a children’s magazine which had left an indelible impression on me. The story is about a crow couple which lived in a nest on top of a tree. In that tree also lived a snake in the hollow of its trunk. Whenever it got the chance it used to slither up quietly and gobble up all the eggs that the mother crow laid in her nest. The crow couple watched helplessly as their eggs were eaten up by the villainous snake. They couldn’t fight the serpent directly since it was bigger and stronger. They sought advice from their friend the jackal. The willy jackal came up with a plan and advised them what to do. The crows put the plan into action. They flew to the nearby palace and picked up a costly necklace which belonged to the queen while she was taking her bath in the palace pool. The queen’s guards followed the crows, who led them to the tree where the snake and they lived. The crow carrying the necklace dropped the necklace in the hollow of the trunk where the snake lived. The guards tried to retrieve the necklace from the hollow and found the snake there. They killed the snake and recovered the jewellery. And the crow couple lived happily ever after without any fear of the snake. The story certainly illustrates the crows’ intelligence and witty strategies to get rid of their enemy.
If the above story was concocted to drive home a lesson about survival in the face of a stronger enemy through use of intelligence and wit, in real life, the crows are known for holding grudge on their perceived enemy for a long time. Recently in September 2019, a story titled, ‘Crow Vengeance’ that appeared in few online news bulletins like News 18 and Indiatimes, attracted my attention. This pertained to a man in Madhya Pradesh, one Shiva Kewat who had been a target of a flock of crows who attacked him every time he stepped out of his home. As the news item goes, almost three years ago Shiva found a crow chick stuck in a wire mesh near his home. He tried to untangle it and save its life but unfortunately it died in his hands. He tried his best to revive it but couldn’t.
Ever since this incident, the crows in the neighbourhood identified him as the killer of the chick and targeted him for an attack. Whenever he stepped outside in the neighbourhood they would surround him from all sides and some swooped on him to attack his face with their sharp beaks and claws. They would literally wait for him to step out of his house and launched their aerial attack. Shiva has scars to show how ruthlessly they have left their signature on him till date. He ultimately had to carry a stick to ward them off whenever he ventured to move out of his house. There is no follow up report on this story to tell us how long this lasted.
But the news bulletins surmised that researches conclude that the crows do have a lasting memory and they can remember the faces of humans whom they feel have harmed or offended them. They even have the ability to gather the other crows and launch a coordinated attack.
I am giving these preambles only to pave way to my narrative depicting my very own experience not very long ago.
Before I come to the incident proper, let me give a brief description of our residential society. Our society comprises of a total of seven blocks of buildings and boasts of two well-groomed gardens. The buildings are circumscribed by a perimeter road skirted with trees like almond, gulmohar and rows of Silver Oak. The residents use this road extensively for their morning and evening walks. The trees are well inhabited by variety of birds including crows. The mornings start with the roosters crowing (pun intended). Crows and other birds join the band soon after. One always feels closest to nature, as one walks along with the birds chirping away, the crimson rays of the morning or evening sun filtering through the green leaves of the trees standing as sentinels.
In one such glorious morning as I was walking on my usual track I saw some fallen object near the boundary wall, under a Silver Oak tree and a murder of crows attacking it with their beaks and claws. I closed in and shooed the crows away with my Captain’s baton that I normally carry during my walks more out of an old habit reminding me of my Navy days. The crows took off and I discovered a young cuckoo lying almost lifelessly, bleeding from its small head. I picked up the limp bird and found that it was still alive but perhaps was counting its last breaths. I brought it to our main gate and with the help of our security staff tried to revive it. After we managed to feed it little water followed by milk, it showed signs of recovery and after about five minutes it flew away. I was feeling really happy to see the young cuckoo perched on a tree in the garden.
The next day after my walk I returned home and picked up the newspaper to engage in the next event for the day. As a routine, after walk I go to the balcony of my apartment to read the newspaper while sipping tea. On this day as I sat down at my usual place in the balcony, I found one crow sitting on the scaffolding that was rigged for the repainting of the buildings that was underway. This crow literally scanned me for some time and then burst into cawing repeatedly. Soon few other crows flew down and perched next to the first crow and joined the cacophony. Within no time the entire scaffolding was filled with rows of crows, all joining the melee. I immediately realized that I was being marked by them. They started flying randomly, crisscrossing my building but could not access me since my balcony had a bird mesh to prevent pigeons to enter.
I came inside and closed the sliding shutter that connected the balcony to my living room and after few minutes the crows flew away. I spoke about this to my wife and she just laughed it off, saying that I was being paranoid about the crows.
The next day I was watering the potted plants on the outer balcony, which was open to the sky. Soon I realized that a crow flew from the garden area and perched on the ledge of my building. Then it started cawing loudly. The scene of yesterday was soon repeated. Again, a flock of crows congregated around, perched on the ledges and the scaffoldings and started cawing loudly. As I was assessing the situation, I suddenly felt a whoosh of wind over my head. One crow had swooped down on me but missed my head by inches. I became alert now. Another two crows made attempts to fly low and across my head. I left the balcony and rushed inside.
Now I was almost sure that they had put me on their cross-hairs.
During my next morning walk as I was crossing the spot from where I had rescued the cuckoo, I heard a crow frantically cawing from a nearby Silver Oak tree. Soon there was the expected chaos. Quite a few crows were crisscrossing over my head, few trying to deep dive. I warded them off with my baton and continued to walk, while trying to figure out the logic why had they marked me as their target. I had not harmed any one of them. Why then did they perceive me as their enemy? Maybe they used the logic, ‘friend of the enemy is to be considered as enemy.’ Also, I realized that the starting call was always being given by the same crow. It was not so difficult for me to identify it, since that crow had a ruffled feather sticking out of its left wing like a thumbs up sign. Once I identified the ring leader of the attacking party I named it as “Ruffled Feather” or in short RF.
Then we had to travel away from home for about a month. When we returned I thought the crow menace would be over for me. But to my chagrin there was no such luck. After a brisk walk I was sitting under a tree in one of the society gardens. Soon I heard a familiar cawing sound. I looked up to find RF perched on a branch of the tree. And in a few minutes in response to his call I found a number of crows joining the melee. Fortunately, no one tried to attack me as I was sitting. Then as I started to cross the lawn I found few attempts of aerial attacks. Then I realized that they need clear air space to launch their attack. As long as I am under the tree or close to the buildings while walking along the perimeter road, they won’t find clear air space to dive in. This strategy worked. They surrounded me alright but couldn’t take a pot shot at me.
I wanted to find a permanent solution. I remembered the Shiva Kewat case and how he was harassed for more than three years. Here also the assault continued. I thought of the carrot and stick strategy for them. First, I offered them some glucose biscuits on my open balcony when they surrounded me. But they just ignored my offering. The biscuits continued to lie there untouched. I was wondering if they thought I had plans to poison them! After few days I left for them some butter cookies on the balcony and watched them from inside the room behind the curtains. I saw RF cautiously picking up a piece and relishing it. Then others followed and all the cookies disappeared in no time. I thought my strategy had worked. But alas, the next day was no different. Although they couldn’t launch their aerial strikes on me during my morning walks, as I chose to walk close to the building walls, they were there watching me and communicating with one another. The only respite was that they stuck to the North end of the society and didn’t follow me to the other sides.
Again, I had to leave home on a vacation with my family. This time however when I came back, I didn’t encounter similar attacks. I was wondering what could have happened. Intentionally I made myself visible in their usually inhabited area but didn’t see any coordinated action against me. I kept on searching for RF but there was no sign of him. I am yet to solve the mystery of his disappearance and with it the end of their campaign against me.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
If my father loves to laugh, my mother moves to tears at the drop of an eyelash. She is one of those rare natural ‘criers’ who can open the floodgates of their eyes without having to peel an onion. No flower is too mean and no thought lies too deep that can fail to ignite her tears. In fact, she rarely thinks before letting her crying do the talking from her heart.
Her warmth envelops all those who move into her orbit. She cannot bear anyone close to her getting hurt and fusses over him like a mother doe over her delicate fawn. Her warm tears wash away the injury like magic. No balm in the medicine cabinet could be more soothing.
But being too close to her has its uncomfortable moments. How often have I been embarrassed by her sentimental outbursts at bus stands and railway stations! Parting is an even tailor-made for her tears, whether she comes to see me off or I have to bid her good-bye. In my childhood, when my emotions were tender and vulnerable to the infectious nature of her crying, both of us often ended up in a heap, even as my father looked on with amusement. Later I learnt to steel myself like a man, watching her carry on with her solo act as I awkwardly patted her diminutive figure.
But within her soft exteriors, my mother is as strong as steel. No one can take her for granted. She can resort to her copious deluge at will, making potent use of her quivering lips and swimming eyes to telling effect. Like when she divines her son (or sons) leaning towards the “bahu” beyond the acceptable angle of tilt, she puts her tear ducts on “full alert” to overrun and drown the adversary.
The son scurries back to comfort his mother and be comforted by her open arms, leaving the wife to comfort herself till the flood recedes. My father once shares with me the influence her “tear” power had on vital decisions in their marital life, big and small. Like the time she confined herself to a diet of tears simply because he spent his evenings with friends and came home very late. The real bone of contention, my father confided, was not how late was “very late”, but how he dared to choose his friend over her! Needles to say, he had to tear himself away from his friends.
I myself learnt, quite early in life, that she could be as tough as nails, when my mischief drove her to give me a real taste of her “nails”. Though now I like to think of what I did then as a trivial indiscretion, she continues to maintain that in that day and age the grave misdemeanour on my pat warranted such a punishment. Times might have changed and Japan might have said “sorry” for having attacked the Allies in the World War. Yet my mother refused to spare a tear of sympathy for me for what she did long ago.
But then, that was a rare exception to her natural bent. The pool of her brimming eyes is ever willing to spill over at the slightest touch of sentiment, especially from her grandchildren whose turn it is now to fall for her aura of tears.
Funny how the most unlikely object can transport one to a faraway world from the past, not physically but through an uncanny presence. It happened with me that, one day, tired of hearing the same, monotonous answering “tone” on my mobile phone, I wanted to change it to something else. I listened to several pieces of music before choosing a soft and pleasing melody. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it immediately.
That evening, as I lay on the sofa in a colourless mood, the ring of the mobile startled me. The shock was not because of the suddenness of the ring but because of the jolt to my memory sparked off by that particular musical tone. Suddenly its familiarity came flooding back, almost a decade after I had left London.
My 10-year-old daughter, a fluffy, innocent lamb then, had just started practising on the recorder. In London schools, playing an instrument was an integral part of the curriculum and my daughter selected the recorder because she liked it. She had to carry out regular practice on the recorder as part of her homework and, as our house was small, I spent the evenings trying to drown her off-key notes, short of putting offending cotton in my ears! That would have hurt her delicate sensibility. I couldn’t also just get up and go for an evening stroll in the London winter when she practised. She would have guessed that I was trying to avoid her musical sessions and burst into tears. An indulgent parent myself, I could not bear to see her cry. So I suffered her screeching sounds in silence, as she blew on her instrument in the next room.
I don’t know exactly when it happened. One evening, at the end of her lesson, it suddenly dawned on me that I actually liked what she played! Practice may not have made her perfect, but it had certainly helped her in honing her musical skills. It became a treat for me to listen to her mellow notes on the recorder, though her short breath still made her play it haltingly.
The high-water mark in her career was when she was selected to represent her school on an all-schools orchestra that was to play in London’s Royal Symphony Hall. We were her proud parents that evening, sitting in the audience, as she took her place in the 40-odd strong band.
But she could not go far in that direction. After a year or so, we had to wing our way back to India, with bag and baggage. The demands and equations of school life in India were vastly different for our daughter, and so the poor recorder was neglected.
Her favourite tune, as long as she had played the recorder, was “Lara’s Theme”, which was also my favourite. When she played it, with her own genteel strain, the entire house became quiet. The crisp notes of the stirring tune would pierce right through my senses, like dewdrops from tree leaves cracking the still surface of a stagnant pond at the break of dawn.
It was this tune that I had, unwittingly, “fed” into my mobile phone’s answering service. So when the phone rang, it melted the frozen image of my 10-year-old girl from its hibernation in the recesses of my mind. I could hear, and actually see, my little one intently blowing on her recorder. The little recorder had been irretrievably lost in the corridors of time, along with my daughter’s childhood and her brief romance with music.
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.
Jhanak jhanak tori baaje payelia, preet ke geet sunaye payelia..........
The soft melody of old classical song enwraps the entire house of Mrs. Kashyap and Mr. Kashyap. In a melodramatic voice making the serene musical atmosphere rather bitter and alkaline. The cacophony jerked the mother in law of the house.
"Radha, Radha, O Radha, stop this nonsense, you have have made this house a mess. Is this a house or a theatre. We are used to living in quiet, you have broken the silence and prestige of this house. You have turned this place into a brothel. God forbid!"
The blabbering, cursing and wailing kept pace with the music.
It was Mrs. Kashyap - a middle aged woman of 53 or 54 with a slightly plump figure, wheatish complexion and an average height but sharp tongued, touring the house accompanied by a battalion of maids in a great rush. Suddenly there was a soft knock on the door with a musical doorbell going off simultaneously.
"Mrs. Kashyap, Mrs. Kashyap, someone is there" announced one of the maids.
Mother in law of Radha, Mrs. Kashyap instantly rushed to the door to welcome and greet the guest who was expected. The guest Mrs. Arvind was on time. A lady from the neighbourhood, she was plainly dressed with a simple cotton saree and a little ring in her ear lobes with a single pearl chain as a neck piece. Mrs Arvind who was known as Guddi Di throughout the colony, always wore a smile on her face.
"Hello Mrs. Arvind" - greeted mrs Kashyap with warmth and closeness, "come inside, please have a seat." Hi! It was Mrs. Arvind who embraced Mrs. Kashyap with full zeal and enthusiasm. Mrs Arvind has been a lifetime favourite of Mrs. Kashyap. Both partied and went out for a walk or shopping sprees. Being a shopaholic, Mrs. Kashyap always wanted a company with whom she could roam and spend comfortable time. "You look awesome Guddi Di, as usual your milky complexion and sparkling eyes mesmerises everyone." Mrs. Kashyap gushed. At this Guddi Di burst into laughter but her cheeks blushed and eyes lit brightly. "You also look gorgeous Mrs. Kashyap!" She mumrmured..
As they were busy talking the thrilling music of ghungroo fell on Mrs. Arvind’s ears too. She asked Mrs. Kashyap, "who is singing in such a melodious voice and dancing wearing gungroo?" "No, no, nothing like that," stammered Mrs. Kashyap. She felt someone has smeared her face with mud or she fell into a pool of swamp. Her voice shook and she was full of sweat. Mrs. Kashyap felt more shaky and embarrassed when suddenly out of nowhere Radha, her daughter in law emerged bearing a sweet smile in a simple chiffon saree with anklets on her feet. Her nose pin shone like bejewelled stars and her charismatic eyes sparkled brightly.
Radha touched Mrs. Arvind’s feet with complete allegiance. Auntie Namaskaar, said Radha with proper smile. "What a pleasant surprise my darling, Radha, you look stunning in this dress. I heard your voice, you sing musically and you dance also! This is an added beauty to your personality", said Mrs Arvind in a tone of appreciation. Mrs Kashyap could hold herself no longer, she intervened in between and asked Mrs. Arvind to follow her to their garden. Guddi Di followed her nonchalantly. Mrs. Kashyap almost ran and crossed the veranda within a second. Hey Bhagwan, today’s generation is really out of control, they don’t listen to their elders, moaned Mrs. Kashyap. "What is bad in following one’s passion, each one of us must have the liberty of follow our passion", said Mrs. Arvind prophetically. But Mrs Kashyap changed the topic, she started admiring her beautiful garden with lots of different varieties of flowers, plants and trees.
Mrs. Arvind also felt enchanted and happy on looking at the lovely garden. It was almost twilight - both of them had rich and sumptuous snacks in the evening. Now it was time to bid farewell and Mrs Arvind took leave at 7 30 pm. Radha was happy that after a gap of long time she had rehearsed and practiced. It was the passion of Radha to sing and dance. Actually she didn’t want to marry so early. She desired to make this passion her profession, but her parents and Rajesh’s family were eager to marry in a hurry.
As a dumb girl she couldn’t resist and surrendered to her elders' wish. Her parents convinced their daughter to get married and to embark on her journey of music and dance after her marriage. But could this happen in the house of the in laws? No chance! Radha was anxiously awaiting the day to come and follow her desire, but it was just a wait. Engrossed in her thinking and lost in her dreams, she suddenly felt a slipper hitting her. OUCH! She screamed, her dream shattered to pieces. When she looked back, it was none other than her husband Rajesh who was holding another slipper in his hand! What! She wailed and burst into tears. It was her husband who she adored like a god.
"You! Rajesh, it is you!"
"Yes it’s me," shouted Rajesh.
"Listen, you moron! Listen carefully, if you have to stay in our house, stay away from your so called ghunghroo!" Hissed Mrs. Kashyap.
"Don't dare to touch it again! What have you thought of this home? Is it a brothel?" added Mr. Kashyap who suddenly emerged from the living room.
With sinking heart and flowing tears, Radha collected her anklets and put them inside the box, never to open again. Deep inside the box and in the deep core of her heart she buried her unfinished desire forever. She sang a lullaby in her heart and finally put her childhood dream to an eternal sleep
Sheba Jamal is a prolific writer in English and Hindi. She works as an English teacher in a high school in Patna. Her mother is a literary genius in Urdu literature.
Sheba has a penchant for creative work. Despite her hectic schedule she finds the time for creativity. Her writings include poems and short stories - both in English and Hindi - which are published in various national and international anthologies.
We were at that corner of the street where five lanes criss-crossed in a manner you went mad. There was not a landmark or a sign to hang on to. The mistake we made was to set out from our hotel to meet our teacher whose exact home address we didn’t know. But he was a famous teacher and surely the city knew him. We were certain to find his place anyway. We alighted from the autorickshaw and looked around for a kind soul – to ask the address.
To our surprise, an elderly lady was just behind us at the gate of a small bungalow. “Who are you looking for?” she asked.
“Professor Pathak, the famous teacher of the university here,” my friend Saroj said.
“Oh, our old Sir! You go left and after five houses there’ll be a small red gate. Just go in. There’s no dog or anything to stop you,” she showed us the way.
We thanked her and walked up smiling.
Let me tell you a few things about the teacher, before we reach the small red gate. Professor Pathak never taught us as we belonged to a different institution in another city. But his reputation had traversed wide as a masterly teacher and sharp analyst. His many books and articles were read by students and teachers across the country. He advised governments, politicians and activists in economic matters and beyond. Known for his frugal lifestyle and truthfulness, he was not the one to impress someone. If he thought you were taking a step that would not help the poor or destitute he would say it on your face and oppose it fiercely. He would be on the student side always, hoping that the young ones would do better if treated kindly. He allowed poor students to use parts of his house, often paid their fees and taught them outside the classroom to help improve their studies. As a popular speaker he gave lectures in public events, universities and colleges all over the country. He was almost fabled.
We saw the red gate, unlatched it and slowly walked the small grassy garden. The house had two floors and jasmine and bougainvillea plants ran loose to the roof, competing and cooperating. There was none noticing our presence. We stopped at the verandah and pressed the worn-out bell. In a minute there appeared a tall old man, looked in his late sixties, slightly bent though at the shoulders, with sharp eyes and a dry smile. Maybe he was reading the newspaper which he still clutched. He wore a decoloured green T-shirt and a pair of white trousers and appeared a bit frail, but that might be our misreading the looks.
He asked us to come inside and sit. It was an okay-sized drawing room with a set of old and somewhat-sunken-at-places cane sofa chairs and a centre table. The table cloth was a crocheted piece of a time gone by and the cushions had hardened thin. There hung a few framed photographs on the walls. Most of these pictures were black-and-white and some hazed. The curtains hung like unkempt flannels. There were cobwebs hanging here and there. The skylights allowed as much light as they blocked.
“This is an old house, built in the sixties. I had just joined the university department and a small group of friends insisted that we live close to each other. In old age, we would be each other’s support. This was a wasteland and the government wanted a housing colony to come up. But there was never any planning and maintenance. Always some problem or other would crop up. The roads go bad, power and water supply are irregular and there’s nothing like waste management,” the Professor narrated the situation in clear terms.
“But, Sir you were the top economist of the state and held top advisory positions with the government. How can they neglect your area?” Saroj put it plainly, or, rather undiplomatically.
The Professor smiled and said, “Yes, you’re right. The state must attend to citizens’ basic services, not just those of elites. It’s a corrupt state. Bureaucrats, politicians and capitalists have all demoralised the state and discredited welfare of the masses. There are honest taxpayers, workers and professionals. But the system has sidestepped them.”
“So, Sir, what is to be done?” I asked the million dollar age-old question conjecturing what is to be asked.
“See, there are many without any job and there are those working with low wages in bad situations. They should come together along with concerned intellectuals and activists to shake up the indifferent state, not to dismantle it but to make it aware of its societal responsibilities towards the downtrodden, the proletariat. We have millions of degree and diploma holders but there are few jobs on the offer. Moneyed people are opening technical colleges here and there as this has become a big business now. Rich parents are no less ready to pay huge donations for their wayward kids to get a certificate. No one is bothered about standards and quality in teaching. The skills and techniques taught in engineering and business colleges are not what factories require. We have made a grand mess of our education system,” the Professor spoke this softly but with a rare intensity.
“That’s true, Sir. In fact, as you know, we have come to you for your advice and writings on creating jobs for the youth through promoting small firms even in villages and small towns,” Saroj joined in.
“Yes. I will give you whatever articles and reports I have here. It’s nice that you are doing relevant research. Going to the field and talking to people. You must be tired. Let me offer you something to eat,” the teacher changed the topic.
“No, Sir. Please don’t bother. We had good breakfast in the hotel,” before my words were over the teacher had slowly got up and moved towards what we thought was the kitchen. Saroj and I were looking at each other.
“Such a nice man, isn’t he? No showing off, frank and friendly. You don’t feel you’re talking to a great personality,” Saroj said. I agreed with him in full.
The teacher returned with a somewhat longish plastic jar with a red cap. You could see a bunch of thin arrowroot biscuits through the transparent jar. He also carried a small plate. As he was putting these two on the round table he said, “I was looking for the salted peanuts jar, but that’s over. Please have some biscuits. I am sorry I can’t make some tea for you. I just never learnt a few life skills. See, my classroom lectures are of no use when friends arrive. Don’t worry, we will have tea,” he laughed out loud and turned the ambience lively.
A young boy of about three walked in slowly and stood close to the teacher, holding his fingers. He looked at us intently but was quiet. The teacher said, “He’s Boblu, my grandson. Say hello to uncles, they have come from afar.”
“Hi, Boblu! How are you? No school today?” I tried to be a bit friendly, but Boblu kept looking at us without saying anything and snuggled up close to his grandfather.
Just then a pale young lady, maybe in her late twenties, appeared from behind the curtain holding a small tray with two cups of tea. As she kept the tray on the table, she said very softly, “Papa, here’s the tea.” She took Boblu back and vanished behind the curtain.
There was some silence and a bit of unease. The teacher sensed it and resumed the conversation, “She’s my daughter-in-law. They live upstairs.”
“Sir, you won’t take tea?” Saroj asked as there were two cups for three of us.
“No, no. I don’t take tea, coffee or even any soft drinks. Left all these almost ten or eleven years now, after my wife became paralytic. Please have your tea while I bring you the papers and reports,” with these words, the teacher got up and walked up to the next room.
We sipped the tea and munched two biscuits without uttering a word. We heard no other sound coming from within the house. It was as if we were in an empty house. I stood up and moved closer to the wall that had a number of photo frames hanging. There were pictures of the teacher with his colleagues and students in several universities and colleges. There were two photos of Boblu; in one, Boblu was seated in the middle of the teacher and his wife.
The teacher was back with a bunch of papers and three reports. “Here is what I could place my hands on. I think, these will be of some help in your research.”
“Thank you so much, Sir. These would be very useful,” Saroj said while having a quick glance at the titles. “Sir, let’s leave now. It may be your resting time.”
“Are you sure, you want to leave now? You could have had lunch here, some simple meal,” the teacher made the offer.
“Please don’t bother, Sir. We have promised to have lunch with a common friend in the city,” with these words from Saroj we started to move towards the gate.
The teacher stood tall, albeit with a slight bend at the shoulders, at the verandah and waived us gently. We folded our hands and bid goodbye to him. The small red gate remained behind us as we slowly paced on the lane.
We were now back at the intersection where we had got down in the morning. Hoping to find an autorickshaw we stood there under a marigold tree.
“Did you meet Sir?” this question came from the lady we had met earlier. She was in her garden and saw us waiting.
“Oh, yes. We spent some real good time with him and his family,” I said relieved to see the lady who had helped us in the morning.
“Family? I don’t think his son is there now,” her tone was a bit heavy. “He’s back in jail, I heard.”
“Jail!” Saroj was as startled as me.
“Oh, you don’t know? It’s not the first time that he’s been jailed. He had been arrested several times since he was eighteen. He was a good student in school, good in mathematics always. But he fell into bad company,” the lady began the narration.
“I remember the first time it happened was almost six years ago, when Sir was holding the chief economic advisor post with the government. There were so many people coming to meet him. One evening, I was standing at my gate, a police van stopped here. The officer asked me for Sir’s house. Out of curiosity I asked him what was the matter and he told me that they had come with a warrant to arrest Sir’s only son. I was really taken aback by that and told him that Sir is a famous teacher and a big man with the government. How could they arrest his son?” the lady kept us engaged.
“So, what did he say?”, I interrupted her.
“The officer told me that he had high regard for Sir, but the son was part of a gang of goons involved in extortion and several cases of assault on businessmen and foreign tourists. This had been going on for several months then. They had already arrested two accomplices and there were reports in the newspapers blaming the police department for not taking action.”
At that point, Saroj asked impatiently, “So, what did the officer do? Did he arrest the son from inside Sir’s house?”
“Yes, they brought him out handcuffed and took him in the van. I saw Sir at the gate and he stood silently as his young son was picked up. Later, when we asked him about it, he said he and his wife were very sad about it. But Sir was clear that if his son had committed a crime he must accept the punishment. Many persuaded him to have a word with the minister and big officers, even the DG-Police to get his son out. But he did nothing of that sort. His own relatives and colleagues often ridiculed him as a hopeless teacher unable to influence the system. His wife hoped that marriage would make the son responsible. But her hopes faded faster than we thought. The boy was in and out of jail in so many cases. The son had strayed forever.” The lady let the topic to rest with these words and as she leisurely walked back to her garden, assured us that some vehicle would turn up sooner or later.
In about fifteen minutes we could see an empty autorickshaw coming in our direction. It was time for us to leave that intersection.
Please Note: The Odia version of this story titled ‘Sir’ had appeared in the September 2022 issue of Katha magazine published from Bhubaneswar.
Keshab Das is a Visiting Professor with the Institute for Human Development, New Delhi and a former Professor with the Gujarat Institute of Development Research, Ahmedabad. He holds M.Phil. (Applied Economics) and Ph.D. (Economics) degrees from the Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi (through the Centre for Development Studies, Trivandrum). He is a recipient of the prestigious VKRV Rao Prize in Social Sciences (Economics) awarded to the best young scholar below the age of 45, nationally. He also holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism and mass communication and had a brief stint with Indian Express as a journalist.
He has been a visiting research fellow/professor at universities and institutes in the following:
Pretoria, South Africa; Varese, Italy; The Hague, Netherlands; Brighton and Manchester, UK; Chiba, Japan; Bordeaux and Paris, France; New Delhi, Patiala and Bhubaneswar in India. He is the Editor-in-Chief of the Odisha Economic Journal and former President of the Odisha Economic Association (2022-23). With over 10 books and 110 articles his research and policy engagement concern issues in local and regional development; industrialisation strategies; informal sector; MSMEs, industrial clusters, global production networks; innovation; labour; infrastructure; and politics of development.
He has published several short stories in Odia.
This is a true story of how a Dollar can behave in situations different. With all respects to the currency Dollar, it appears that it can take other forms and can become a dude to the extent that it can cling on to one very closely with utmost protection and comfort. Eyebrows are bound to go up but it is true, it is real and it happened.
Far away in our family resort protected from the summer heat and away from the mad crowd, life was peaceful and relaxing. With plenty of fruit bearing trees blooming and vegetables waiting to be plucked and the thick greenery paradise for the birds and butterflies and the river flowing alongside the remain a dream come true for the nature seeker. For the creative mind it is a fertile ground with ideas crowding and the creator smiling with achievement.
Ten plus elderly people from the family and closely bonded and to us the memorable get together should remain a pleasant memory except for the Dollar. The collective effort into cooking with no intrusion from outside was another fun corner. The culinary skills of many who never contributed when at their home was tapped and the hidden potential came into the open.
Good things as said never last and it was time to part. Left in batches and a few remaining to leave next day when this phone call comes from the senior who had left the day earlier.
“Left my Dollar there. Do send it by courier immediately”
None could understand how a Dollar had come there and the courier part.
The senior who had held a very high position in a public sector undertaking claims an administrative expert as more than thousand employees he controlled and always strict directions without waiting for a reply. The very same situation here with the instruction of Dollar to be couriered and the call cut. None could decipher the code and the only solution was to clarify. There also senior a terror as he never likes to repeat an instruction already conveyed. But Dollar and its value had to be revealed. The call goes and without giving a gap the question comes from the other end in his loud thundering voice.
“Did you get the Dollar”?
“That’s exactly we want to know Anna, what is all this about the Dollar”
“Dollar, my underwear” The voice was louder,
Hands all held tightly to the mouth lest our laugh is heard.
“Send it immediately”
“Isn’t it better to buy a new one”?
“No way. It is a branded one and costly”
This man was never going to let go his faded Dollar for anything.
“We will do something immediately Anna”
The ones remaining had solved many burning issues in their career but dealing with an old underwear put all in a fix.
When such issues arise, it is common to pass the buck. It becomes easy to give sound suggestions putting the responsibility on the other and the Dollar wrapped up in thick paper is handed over to me with others washing their hands of this burning issue.
It remains with me to be handed over to one who is about to travel to Dollar’s destination. In between calls in plenty from Anna impatiently asking for the status of the Dollar.
All these happenings and my thought
“If a Dollar can create this havoc what if it had been a pound”?
It was an arranged marriage without my suspecting the poetic angle. Even if known earlier it was not going to matter much as some in my circle could be heard rendering it in their deepest passion enjoying the beauty hidden by the poet. I used to look at them in a puzzled way as I couldn’t understand their mode of thought and always considered them a species different.
When asked “Hey, how are you?" they sometimes replied with a long statement leaving me to guess the head and tail of it and to prevent another long one I pretended to have understood. Then came the bomb.
“You, understanding poetry?"
We had come to a peaceful understanding then that they could have their way except when we were having a bottle party. Poetry being Greek to me the rule was sincerely followed and I had my drinks peacefully.
Well, the marriage and the aftermath are what we are talking about. When I had a talk with her before marriage she had asked
“Do you read”?
“Of course; without reading the paper, my day wouldn’t start.”
“Not newspaper. Books, literature?"
“Not much. Comics were my favourite in school.”
She had a PG in English Literature and was teaching in a college.
“My students enjoy my classes and sometimes other students sneak in to listen to my flow.”
“Flow”?
At that moment a call came from the drawing room and the flow had to end.
Never gave it a thought then. Afterwards on our first night it flowed:
“The woods are lovely…and miles to go before I sleep”
“Don't you know it?"
“A vague memory of hearing it somewhere.”
“Those lines of Robert Frost that Nehru wrote down before his death. It is so apt when we start our life's journey together.”
I was getting confused. The feeling of the frying pan to fire was creeping in. Was this what she had meant by “Flow” when we spoke and her words remained incomplete because of interruption. It certainly was poetic flow she had meant.
“Are you fond of poetry?” I asked brokenly struggling and in a way trembling.
The response was spontaneous,
“It’s my breath, it’s my life, it’s my everything.”
The reply was also half poetry. Almost the whole night she was in the recitation mood and in between I heard Keats, Shelley and a few others whom I could not remember.
I pretended to enjoy her presentation and it energised her further to make me happier.
If anyone asked me about my first night the reply was ready,
“Poetic”.
Life flowed along with the poetic tantrums and with time I got used to it and let me confess that thinking out of the box as they say poetry the nut was difficult for me to crack. But slowly it started cracking. The poets’ thoughts and illusions slowly started to vibe with me and I started enjoying it slowly, steadily. It was a world colourful and romantic. Watching the rainbow and giving meaning to each colour was my feeling with poems. It gave a different meaning each time and an exhilarating experience it was.
Once sitting by the sea shore, I heard her reciting
“I wandered lonely as a cloud…
And it went on. There were clouds above and the words were meaningful and I made her repeat it.
Both of us with the sea in front, the waves lashing in a rhythmic style and light breeze flowing and meaningful poetry added.
Can it be more romantic?
She skipped her period after a few months and it was celebration time. She became a spontaneous poet and I started manufacturing poetry on my own with minor corrections from her side. It was fun, it was laughter all the way.
Nearing delivery she told me
“If it is a boy, you name him, if a girl it is my chance.”
I nodded happily as whichever way I was going to leave it to her.
Minutes before being taken to the labour room she called me and murmured
“I am in pain but
You there with me
It is no pain
But joy immense.”
She was and is like that. A critical situation made light by just a few words. A girl was born and as if she had known all along, she named our daughter “Akshara” which means word.
“Words create the world of poems” she told me holding my hand with a satisfying look.
Years have passed by and on my lips
“I took the road less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference”
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..
Somnath Babu was sitting in his study when his only daughter Chitu rushed in. "Papa, I have found out your secret", she said in a jubilant voice. Somnath looked startled for a moment and regaining his composure the next he asked lovingly, "Okay, darling, open it out then." Chitu's laughter rang through the room while she said, "I know your first love was a girl named Chitralekha, a love you carried in your heart always, which Mom doesn't know, and my name is given Chitralekha to immortalise her name, your favourite." This time it was Somnath's turn to laugh heartily.
" Well, dearie, you are best at assumptions, I must admit."
"Am I wrong Papa?" Chitu alias Chitralekha asked curiously.
"Do I dare declare you wrong? Okay tell me how your day was!" Somnath obviously avoided the topic to be discussed further. Chitu felt it, as she has been feeling it since her childhood days. She has heard from her mother that her father was quite keen on naming his only daughter as "Chitralekha", an old, traditional name rather than a modern one to fit her time. She was often asked the question by her friends and teachers about the origin of her name, the meaning. She has been asking this question so many times to her father, but he just laughed it away saying that during that time it just occurred to him. But when before her 10th Board exams Chitu tried to change the name her father protested it vehemently. "Changing this name equals to changing your father", he had said. With time of course Chitu has adapted herself to this old fashioned name, but her mind never failed to think why this name was so dear to her father. Mother scolds her, "What is there in a name, can't you just go on with it?" 'She doesn't understand', Chitu sighs.
Chitu's father Somanath Babu has shortly retired as a promoted additional Tehsildar from their hometown. He mostly navigates his time between reading and gardening. In his study he has kept a small library of books, in Odia, English and Hindi. Often Chitu has marked him secretly reading a book. Secretly, yes. Otherwise why he behaves awkwardly when Chitu enters when he reads the book, why he hides it immediately and speaks as if he is feeling nervous. Chitu has been noticing this strange behaviour of her father since she was five and learnt alphabets. Why so, afterall? When she grew up, she nurtured a thought that her father reads a porn book, therefore so cautious. She has asked her mother about the book. But she could not answer satisfactorily. Her mother is never curious about her husband's ways. She just plays the role of an obedient and dutiful wife perfectly.
Today Chitu's mind has become restless. Two things bother her. One, the secret of her name, another the book her father is so passionate and secretive about as if it is his personal diary, she has never seen her father keeping a diary though. In her restlessness she stumbles upon an idea. Perhaps these two things are interrelated. Chitu thinks upon different plans to unravel this mystery. Two days after there is a marriage ceremony of a cousin. They have to go. Chitu thinks of returning home before her parents and search her father's table drawer where he has hidden the book. First she has to obtain the key from his wallet. All planned, Chitu falls asleep peacefully.
The day arrived. They were getting ready to leave for the function. When Somanath Babu closed the washroom door to take bath in the morning Chitu took away the particular key from the keyring which her father had kept in his wallet. Fortunately her father didn't not check the wallet before leaving home. They reached the venue in time. During the hustle of wedding ceremony Chitu slipped out quietly and returned home by an autorickshaw, it was only two kms away from the venue. She turned the key on the front door and directly went to her father's study.There she stood motionless for some time. Something prompted her to go back, return her father's key seeking his pardon. With a strong argument she suppressed that hesitation. She opened the closet. Now the secret was lying before her. Her name in bold letters was staring at her. She stared back too. It was not any porn book rather a Hindi Novel titled as "Chitralekha". The full book was not visible. So, Chitu was going to pull it out from the closet when she heard a grave, shocking voice, "what are you doing?" Chitu turned about with a start. Her father was standing there, with unbelievable surprise in his look. Chitu overcame her own shock. She has to settle this issue now.
"What do you want? You had stolen the key from my wallet, like a thief you came here and opening my drawer, why Chitu?" Somanath Babu asked in wounded voice.
"Because you kept it a secret from me, because I wanted to find out."
"What??" Somanath Babu feigned ignorance.
"My name Papa, why you have named me Chitralekha afterall. And here lies the answer, this book."
"You silly girl, why should I keep it a secret from you? Chitralekha is an intelligent woman, the protagonist of this novel, during my younger days I loved this character so much that I named you after her. Now, satisfied?"
Chitu said nothing. Her eyes were downcast already for making a mountain out of a molehill. She hugged her father. She promised herself never to think about this. She is quite happy now. Chitralekha, her father's fictional heroine. She felt proud about her name and her father too.
Chitu really forgot this matter eventually. She was not that fond of reading books, that too a Hindi book. Somnath Babu's Chitralekha by Bhagawati Charan Verma was smiling mysteriously in that closet till oneday Somanath Babu consigned it to fire mixing with it two drops of tear. Now, Chitu can never know who Chitralekha actually was!
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.
GOOD SAMARITAN IN A DISTANT CITY
It was early evening. The busy thoroughfare of Bengaluru was as pleasant as it could be, at the peak of its summer that was definitely milder compared to the heat wave I had faced in my home town not that many weeks earlier. The subsequent reports had confirmed my worst fears of a heat wave raging in the hometown of my own state I had escaped from. Seemed, it was at the nick of the time I had escaped!
-I normally enjoyed walking the distance of about two km from the market to where I lived- which was my daughter and son-in- law’s place. It was an apartment building, just like the hundreds of others dotting the the city skyline- stacked together like finely engineered match boxes. Getting away from the confines of those concrete beehives for a leisurely stroll on one plea or other had become a pastime. I enjoyed those walks across busy streets, though crossing them called for dexterity and a pair of nimble feet. I lacked both. For this alone I invited periodic admonitions from my daughter. She never failed to remind me that I was not getting younger- if not exactly older- to tackle Bengaluru traffic on weekends, while perched above a pair of much used legs. She was also firm in not letting me drive - not even a two wheeler, for fear that I shall get lost while taking, or not taking those u-turns. The young lady has conveniently chosen to forget that I had once acted as her driving instructor not that many years back. In a role reversal she has usurped the role of being my guardian of late, particularly when I am in her city. I can do nothing but meekly comply to her desires.
-So, walking for me was fine, and was alliwed so long as I confined myself to just around the walkways around the apartment.
-This day, I had ventured outside to the market – almost two km away- without letting anyone know of my plans. Almost surreptitiously, with a bag in my hand I had started on my adventure!
-The day had started with a disturbing piece of news in the morning newspapers how a young girl had been stabbed to death on a busy street of Delhi. The assailant had turned out to be a jilted lover, angry because the girl, of late, was trying to spurn his advances. The girl was stabbed as many as 35 times. The news was in headlines on the front page. What nauseated me- as also, quite possibly, a multitude of readers like me- was the fact that the crime happened on a fairly busy street, but not a single passerby had come to the rescue of the hapless victim. Few had stopped for brief moments near the sight, but those few who had halted, had run away after being threatened by the assailant raising the knife. Can people be so nonchalant to the sight of a young girl being stabbed near a busy street? Could the passers by be so heartless? I had kept on pondering throughout the day!
-Didn't realise that the shopping bag was getting heavy. Yet, I couldn’t resist the temptation of the luscious mangoes of this exotic variety that caught my fancy. The mangoes managed to increase the overall weight of my shopping bag, by at least a few killos. I had conveniently forgotten about the sprain to my ankle received the previous day. The resultant pain was gone, and so I had thought mistakenly. I was, somehow, confident of easily covering the distance from the market. It would, anyway, more than suffice for my quota of evening walk- so I presumed.
- What I had failed to take into account were my aged legs made worse through a sprain to the ankle. After about 300 meters I was definitely limping. I rued my decision and was in two minds about hailing an auto, but none was available. Besides, I was on the wrong side of the street. Public busses whizzed by almost empty, but these were of no use to me.
- Suddenly a young man accosted me and offered to carry my heavy bag. He was already holding one of his own. He was rather plainly dressed, but appeared strong. I tried to refuse his overture, but he wouldn't listen. He insisted on carrying my bag to my apartment gate, which was adjacent to his own residence- as he revealed in clear terms.
- I had to give in! In course of our walk back home, I gathered that he hailed from the state of a neighboring state working as a security guard, somewhere. After learning about the place I was from, he disclosed that he had a large number of friends from my own state, who worked as security guards in the same firm as his. He appeared to be well conversant in Odia from his long association with his colleagues, as he admitted.
- We reached our destination. After taking back my bag, I searched for words to thank this angel of a man. I mumbled something to this effect. But his response caught me on my tracks. " Uncle! Wouldn't you have done the same thing when you were younger? Would you have passed by nonchalantly without offering help in a similar situation?"
- That made me think! Would I have acted like this man if I had been younger and had confronted someone like me? I had doubts! I was not too sure if I would have even noticed another passerby walking ahead with a heavy bag. I felt rather small.
- That reminded me of the incident reported in morning newspapers with all the gory details. That city could not have been bereft of good samaritans like this !With people like this found everywhere, how could someone not come to rescue of the young girl being stabbed on a street of another city like this? Was the city different? Were the people different there? Do unarmed people behave differently in a crowd, than what they would do in individual spaces? Many questions assailed me, which could be better explained by psychologists !
- I reached the lift door. Tried to recollect the face of the youngman who lived somewhere in the vicinity, to be able to recognise him- if by chance we cane face to face in future. Yet, there was little chance of bumping into him in this big city where I was a seasonal, temporary guest. That much I was certain of. There must be good Samaritans everywhere! Even if they at times fail to take upon the roles of Knight Errants and come to the rescue of damsels in distress. I felt happy, definitely less doubtful.
Dinesh Chandra Nayak (b 1952) is a Post Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University, Vani Vihar. He entered the State Civil Service in Odisha and held many important positions before retiring in 2010. His present pastimes include reading, titles like "Joy Of Laziness" among others. Although he did not earlier feel any spring of creativity strongly, LiteraryVibes has inspired him to "try to burst forth in geysers". He hopes the transformation of the dying ember into a new life will lead to a creative splendour. LV wishes him the very best in this new journey.
Mariah was a very young, intelligent,optimistic and adorable girl. She was the only daughter of her parents. Being born into an orthodox catholic middle class family she was raised with utmost care and affection. Her father was a government employee and mother was a housewife who spent most of her time teaching Mariah the rules and regulations of Christianity. They were the residents of a beautiful city named Puducherry which is in the eastern coast of India.
As Mariah hit her puberty,she was all curious to know about the pros and cons of it and what her religion thinks about it. But like most conservative Indian families, her mother couldn't answer all the questions that Mariah had in her mind. But her mother had warned her not to get very close with the boys of her class as she used to study in a co-ed convent school.
Teen age being a confusing time of life , everyone gets attracted towards the things that they were told to stay away from. With the hormones acting weird and thousands of questions oozing out of minds, we mostly tend to lean towards the wrong things to find the answers of our questions.
The same happened with Mariah. The peer pressure made her do things she otherwise wouldn't have done. She started going out with her friends without informing her family. She started listening to her friends more than her parents. Her parents noticed the strange behaviour of their daughter and were concerned. So they took her to the church and made Maria consult the father.The ritual of taking Mariah to the father continued on every Sunday. The father was a middle aged man with 2 kids and a loving wife.
Days passed by, nothing seemed to change.
Mariah was noticing the hormonal and physical changes and was getting more curious to explore the idea of being an adult. In between all these, she met a guy named Fredrick, who used to study in the college nearby her school. Fredrick approached her for friendship but as all girls do, Mariah was also concerned about this friendship but somehow Fredrick managed to win her trust. Their bond grew stronger and their friendship turned into an immature bond of infatuation which they named as love. Both Mariah and Fredrick were on cloud nine. They used to meet regularly and spent quite a lot of time. After some days, Fredrick approached Mariah to move further in their relationship. Mariah couldn't understand what Fredrick meant but Fredrick made her understand that in order to achieve the highest form of love, they need to get close with each other physically. The idea of getting physical at such a young age was foreign to Mariah. She was all sceptical about this but Fredrick somehow managed to convince her and got close to her. Days passed by, Mariah missed her monthly cycle of periods. She was all concerned and anxious. When Fredrick got to know about this, he somehow managed to break the relationship with Mariah by blaming her that it was not his fault but she must have done some sins. Mariah tried to contact Fredrick many times but failed. With no other way ahead of her, Mariah told her mother about all these. Her mother couldn't believe anything and fainted. The coming Sunday, they again took her to the father. The father assured Mariah's parents that he'll take care of her and wash away all her sins.
Mariah was also relieved by listening to what father had said.
Father suggested Mariah's parents to perform a ritual where only Mariah and the father will be present in a sacred secluded place. The parents agreed to what the father said.
The day and place was decided. Mariah's parents left Mariah with the father and came back home. Mariah was afraid being all alone there. Father approached her and asked her to remove all her clothes as he needed to perform the ritual. Mariah got nervous while the father assured her of getting rid of her sins. She, trusting the father, removed all her clothes. The father then approached her by saying that he's going to perform the ritual. Mariah was sensing something strange. Suddenly her mouth was taped and her hands and legs were tied. She was raped brutally by the father for the next few hours. The father threatened Mariah that if she revealed what had happened there then he'll ruin her parent's life. Mariah was crying for help on the top of her voice and was pleading for mercy but all her prayers went unheard. She was mercilessly raped and when she finally lost her consciousness the father put the clothes on her body and informed her parents that she was free from sin now and they could take her back home as everything had settled down.
Her parents came to receive her and by seeing their daughter unconscious they were concerned but the father assured them of her safety and well being.
When Mariah regained her consciousness, she was in her room and she saw her parents feeling relieved discussing about the so called rituals of the father. Mariah was clueless about what to do next, she wanted to scream on the top of her voice but she couldn't. She wanted to hold her mother and tell everything to her but she couldn't as she was scared of the father's words. The words of the father echoed in her head continuously. She became schizophrenic and started seeing things around her. Weeks passed by. She couldn't get out of her bed. One night,when everyone was asleep. She finally got up from her bed and started walking towards her closet. She got her favourite scarf from the closet. She cried for the final time and hanged herself from the ceiling.
The next day when Mariah's parents entered her room, they found her dead. There was a paper which said "THE SIN"
Her parents were shattered by seeing what their daughter had done. Without informing the police, they ran straight to the church to inform the father about the incident. The father had a faint smile on his face and said unapologetically, “I had washed away all her sins but it's the Lord who had punished the sinner. She wasn't a good Christian."
Arpita Priyadarsini, a final year Post Graduate student of Department of Statistics in Utkal University, has keen interest in literature. She loves reading fiction and poetry. She started writing poems few years back and has been published by an international publication house twice. Her Instagram handle is @elly__.writes, which is solely dedicated to her love for poetry.
“NO GUT, NO STORY"... CHRIS BRADY
The above played in a loop and kept ringing when I bought my first car- a Maruti 800, out of Bank's finance.
The four wheeler was supposed to ferry me to the office as public conveyance did not suit my timings. Hiring a taxi entailed expenses beyond budget. So, buying a car for commuting on a day today basis was the only left out option.
The car remained parked in the portico like a horse in a stable since there was no taker after its welcome to my rented accommodation.
I had not learnt driving then.
My hubby was posted in another corner of the nation and the transfer season was not due.
Every morning I would diligently wipe dust off the car, open it... gently touch and fondle the seats, the steering wheel, then shut doors, give a fond look and come back. I lacked the confidence to drive.
This was the time I missed my husband dearly and realized this fully-
“A husband in need is a husband indeed!”
A few of my colleagues were curious to have a look at my new acquisition. They persistently asked me to bring the car to the office.
" Na re... you know I can't drive. I am even afraid to learn driving. At this stage I cannot afford a driver either. So, please wait for some more time."
The above was my standard reply.
" Then, why did you buy it? "
" Try to learn mam, it is easy. There are a few driving schools, get enrolled, you will drive confidently in a month's time. "
" NO GUT, NO STORY " was pinching me hard as time ticked past landing me nowhere near accomplishment. With much hesitation I ambled slowly to
get over the stubborn transition.
" BOLDNESS BE MY FRIEND”- I mumbled to eschew everyday inquiry, such as-
" When mam? "
" When are you taking us for a treat and for an experience of a ride? " Etc.
I got myself enrolled in a driving school.
It took time to dispel apprehensions and fear. As time rolled by, learning became a pleasure.
I was a slow learner, but acquired skills steadily with utmost passion and devotion.
As they say... " A driver without miscalculations and accidents is not a perfect one"... I too had my share of cranky experiences negotiating twists, turns and puddles.
Even when curtains of rain blinded me from vision and I jumped a red light, eventually paying the penalty. My car one day hit a scooter. The rider tumbled off his seat from the impact of the collision. He breathed heavily and his chest thumped , making me nervous all the more.
I ran to rescue him from the puddle in frantic haste where he had landed after the fall. Onlookers gathered, but nobody offered help. Rather a few of them had started recording the collision and the accident in their mobile phones to take stock of the minutest of details and sensationalize the news.
Such a despicable mentality!
With the intervention of traffic police, the matter could be quelled. I paid for the damages and bore the medical expenses of the victim.
Thank God! The man had no fatal injuries. The doctor let him go after a quick checkup and prescribed a few medicines, including an analgesic.
With frantic hands I clawed the steering wheel after the unfortunate incident.
My stomach churned with something bitter, a feeling arising out of embarrassment. I lowered my eyes to see my feet before leaving the place and gathered my sense of remorse to flicker confidence levels like damp firewood sizzles and emits smoke and scope. I learnt to be cautious and be mindful while driving.
As they say- a rolling stone gathers no moss. I neared perfection with constant practice.
My everyday driving has come of age. The skills too, have chiseled with experience. No more puddles, tricky turns tickle me nor daunt.
I am as confident as I feel to be.
I learn everyday.
Still I am learning the nuances of driving.
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.
My Mom's tears were rolling down her cheeks, like a cascading waterfall unrestrained by any barriers.
Her heart was breaking down into pieces like glasses under the pressure of decades of pains and sufferings unknown to me.
She had kept everything secret in her heart. No words were coming out of her sad and shivering mouth.
Of course, I was feeling the unexpressed pains of her tragic heart.
Breaking the sorrowful silence, I told her in anguish, "Okay Mom ! Please don't tell me about my cruel, callous father whom I have never seen in my life and who doesn't bother to see us at least once in my lifetime. You are my father and mother; and I am happy with you; I feel no need to know about my unknown father."
My Mom's sorrowful, emotional heart unraveled the secrets of my unseen Dad : …..
"Please don't think of your father as cruel and callous. He is the man who fathered you. Otherwise, you could not have the chance of seeing the light of the beautiful world. His soul will feel pain in heaven for your harsh words. He is no more in this world."
My mind was changing. My heart was now full of love for my deceased father. My curiosity was rising high. I was impatient to know about my unknown father.
I told Mom, "I am now well educated and fully grown up, reaching a marriageable age with your affection, love and care. Please tell me all the details of my Dad's life and love for you and me without any shyness or shame."
Swallowing her sorrow, my Mom went on narrating their tragic fate : ….
"Your father and I were from the same village of two different rival, and antagonistic communities after the partition of India on religious and communal grounds. He was Muslim and I was Hindu brahmin. But we were loving each other deeply in our separate conservative societies. All of a sudden, a communal riot raised its ugly head on our love. Consequently, we couldn't meet each other. Our hearts were pining for each other without our meeting. In the darkness of one evening, we met each other on the lonely bank of our village river. We sat together. Our bodies, minds and hearts were coming closer. Our love and romance were getting wilder after our separation from each other for some days. We were so instinctive, impulsive, and passionate in lustful love we couldn't control ourselves. We were simply impatient and hysterical in our carnal pleasure. We were in our teenage years. Our mind was immature. After our desire was satisfied, he told me, "Let's go away together, leaving our native place to establish our loving relationship elsewhere."
"How can we live without money?" I asked him.
"I know how to drive a taxi. We would go to Bombay. I would earn our livelihood by driving. There may not be any difficulty there. Otherwise, if we live in our village our rival communities may burn us alive. Neither you nor would I live to love each other." He said sorrowfully.
"The river is full of water. If we cross the river by ferry we would be caught by our villagers to receive rigorous punishment from them. How can we cross the flooding river to get out of our village ?" I asked him.
"We would swim across the river, if you agree and cooperate with me." He told me.
Me - "We may die, drowning in the high current and whirlpool of the river."
He - "We may escape from the danger of the river, but not from our warring communities. I am an expert in swimming. You please lie on my back. We can cross the river at this lonely place in the darkness of the evening."
And accordingly, we swam across the river with his support and assistance, and reached the other side of the river.
We walked all the way in the darkness of night and reached a railway station, and to our good luck, a train was halting there. We got into it and the train left the station. In that dark night, none of our kith and kin, friends and relatives, our warring communities and villagers could know about my elopement with your father in our youth. We were going by train without a ticket. Of course, we had no money or time to buy a ticket. To our good luck, no TTE was daring to enter our crowded general compartment, since there was no place to put his feet.
It was my first train journey in life. We were sitting together skin to skin on the floor of the packed general compartment full of unknown passengers. No one knew who was going where. On the way stations were appearing and disappearing. Some passengers were getting down and some others were getting into it and our compartment was always full. There was no space to sleep at night. Your father asked me, "Do you feel any difficulty or inconvenience in the crowded compartment?" "You are with me means all the comforts of the world are with me. To get your love, I swam with you across the dreadful, deadly, flooded village river, and also left my parents, kith and kin, friends and relatives as well as my native place. What more is required in my life? Your love is my life." I told him in satisfaction. He smiled and we sat glued to each other. We were treating each other as wife and husband without wedlock. Other fellow passengers were either asleep on one another or drowsy. No one was in a mood and mind to feel jealous or angry at our love and romance in the darkness. After a long train journey, we reached Bandra railway station in Bombay. We had no money. We walked to Dharavi slum where he was working as a taxi driver some months ago. His friends smiled at me and asked him funnily, "Where did you get a beautiful girl? Did you elope with her?" He told them politely, "Please don't make fun. I married her recently. She is my wife. We came here to earn a living." They told me, smiling, "Welcome, Bhabhi! (sister-in-law) We wish to get dinner from your sweet and loving hand, please. " "Okay, please arrange a job for your Bhai (brother) so that we may get a livelihood." I told them earnestly. "He is an expert driver. There is no dearth of jobs for him." They said in a jolly mood. His friends arranged a driving job for him and a hut for us in Dharavi slum to enjoy our conjugal life. We stayed in Dharavi slum as wife and husband without our marriage. He earned his livelihood by driving a taxi."
My mom paused, recollecting her happy days.
"We lived in love. No difficulty was there for us. We had no religion, no community. He was the son and I was the daughter-in-law of the Almighty God, who is above religion, community, ethnicity, caste, creed, etc. Love and humanism were our identity. We were living far away from the warring communities of our native area and so there was no fear or apprehension for us from that angle. When your father told his friends and acquaintances that I am his wife, there was no question of marriage for us, lest others might think otherwise and your father would be treated as a liar. Of course, we were well aware of the fact, privately and secretly, that we were not married to each other. However, our conjugal life was loving and blissful. I was the homemaker and he was the earner of our livelihood. Our life was self-sufficient and peaceful, too. Time was passing by silently and smoothly. Only for our love, we left everything in our life … our native land where we were born and brought up, our parents who gave us life and upbringing, our friends and relatives amidst whom we were playing and enjoying life. In our new conjugal life in Dharavi slum in Bombay, of course, our love got feathers to fly. Really love was such a turning point in our life that changed and transformed everything in our life. Your father was going to work in the morning having breakfast from my loving hand, and I was waiting for him with my sweet heart to feed him lunch in the afternoon, and at night, he was returning from his work to me with his romantic mind and body. Our new life was fulfilling, self-sufficient and self-sustaining. What more did I want from life".
My mom was happy to tell me about my arrival"One day, I told your father shyly, "Our conjugal intimacy is going to ring a new baby into our life.." He told me, smiling, "I am happy that our love bore fruit. Please be careful and cautious in developing my child in your womb. I have to earn money for my would-be child, whom I shall groom up like a princess or prince as the case may be in future." My child was growing in my womb, and my belly was bulging day by day. He was kissing his child in my womb thrice a day in love and affection.
Months were passing by smoothly. We were expecting you within a couple of months. Everything was okay as usual. It was a stormy midnight. Rain was pouring like cats and dogs. Light had gone out. The sky was roaring in thunder. Lightning was flashing across the cloudcast dark sky. We were in a happy mood. All of a sudden, we heard a knock at the door. He opened the door. He saw one of his friends crying. He asked your father, " Won't you please help me in this dreadful, deadly night? My wife has been in labor pain since the afternoon. She can't give birth to my child in spite of all the efforts of the local midwife.The child's position in the womb is very difficult. Now her life is at stake. Her position is deteriorating moment by moment. To save her life we have to go to a hospital. Otherwise, she may die. No vehicle or ambulance is available to carry her in this deadly stormy night. Please take my pregnant wife and me to the hospital immediately." Your father took them in his taxi on that dreadful dark night. The streets were flooded in rain water. Trees were uprooted and fell on the streets closing the way ahead. However, he was driving his taxi to save a mother and her unborn baby in womb. I was waiting for his homecoming all night. But he was not returning. So many fears and apprehensions were coming to my heart and mind. But I was doing nothing except suppressing them in my sorrowful heart and mind.
My mom shuddered recalling the horror of the night.
"The deadly night was ending. Darkness was going away slowly. The twilight of the dawn was touching the rain soaked Dharavi slum. Rain and storms were receding. In the early morning, I rushed to the neighbor's hut on the narrow streets full of rainwater and enquired about them. Some of the acquaintances told me in a calm and quiet voice, "They had gone by taxi to a hospital last night for the birth of their child. It may take time to return after delivery of the child." I said sorrowfully, "The taxi driver is my husband. What shall I do if he does not come early?" "Wait for sometime, please. He might be returning." They consoled me. But my mind was not convinced by their consolation. My heart was disappointed and in panic without my husband. Though there was no heavy rain or storm, it was still drizzling slowly. But, my husband did not return to me. My heart was pining for him and weeping silently in sorrow. My mind was impatient. I was walking on the streets in search of him in my tearful eyes. A known man came to me and said "A large tree was uprooted last stormy night and fell on the streets making it impossible for a smooth thoroughfare. No vehicle is passing on that street due to the traffic jam. Your husband may be waiting there to come after the clearance of the road." In an impatient mood, I was walking towards that uprooted big tree with a heavy heart full of pain, fear, anxiety and anguish. At last I reached there. Hundreds of people were standing there in fear and apprehension. Rainwater was still flowing downward. The big tree had fallen there. The BMC people were cutting the branches of the tree carefully, since a taxi was submerged in the rainwater up to its punctured wheels and the branches of the tree had broken the taxi and were lying on it. Cutting across the crowd gathered there, I reached the accident place. The taxi was bloody and the glasses were completely broken to pieces. My tearful eyes did not fail to recognize the broken taxi and its number plate. It was none other than our taxi The earth below my feet was sinking. My head was reeling in deadly panic. I was unable to walk further in fear and apprehension. I fell down there. I was crying and crawling to reach the taxi. But the police and BMC people were not allowing anyone to go to the broken taxi. They were calling for an ambulance to rescue the casualties from the accident. They caught the taxi doors and brought out three bodies. The ambulance came. The police and BMC people took the casualties into the ambulance. I got into it with the permission of the police and saw the wounded and bloodstained bodies of my husband, his friend and his pregnant wife with her unborn child in her womb. My heart was collapsing in deadly fear. But with a hope for the survival of my husband, I was sitting beside him and caressing her head and forehead. Your Dad opened his eyes and lips. I put some drops of water in his lips with all my hopes, aspirations and ambitions. He looked at me in his tearful eyes and told me in his shivering, trembling lips in a choking, stumbling tone,"Take…care…of… my… unborn…child…" I was on his wounded, bloody body, crying loudly. But his lips and eyes were shut again. In a hurry, the ambulance was running on the streets cutting across the traffic with its typical sirens and light and reached the nearest hospital after a while. They were taken to the ICU for the last attempt by the doctors for survival of my husband, his friend and his pregnant wife with the unborn child. I was waiting outside the ICU with my broken heart and streaming eyes. Time was passing by in its saddest cruelty and heartlessness."
My mom's sobs got louder.
"Your father did not return to me alive and breathed his last in the ICU. All the attempts failed ultimately and the doctor declared them dead at last. The reddish-yellow sun was going down the Back Bay of Bombay, and your father's deceased body was going down the grave in the sorrowful graveyard. I was losing everything in my life, and nothing was left to me, except my growing unborn baby in my womb. The man who had brought me to Bombay, couldn't stay with me. Now his soul might be roaming in an unknown world, where none has reached in life. The taxi that gave us livelihood took my husband's life at last. His body, whom I was loving so much and for whom I left everything, was buried in the grave in front of my streaming eyes, broken heart and crawling body. I came back to the Dharavi slum alone and stayed in the hut hired by your father to give you birth and groom you up as it was the last wish of your father. The nights couldn't give me sleep. The last deadly stormy night did not take his life, rather it destroyed my life. In the sleepless nights, the last words of your deceased father …Take…care…of … my … unborn…child was echoing and reverberating in my pining heart. They still do, although you have become so big!"
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.
The great idol of Lord Jagannath, the living God consecrated and worshipped in Puri Jagannath temple, Odisha is known to and worshipped by many in India as well as abroad. The most distinguishing feature of the idol is that Lord Jagannath who is believed to be the symbolic form of Lord Visnu, the syncretic Almighty is seen without many vital parts of human body though the idol of Lord is assumed after human form for public Darshan. The reasons behind such incomplete form are many as per legends depicting manifestation of eternal wills of Lord Visnu who is believed to rise in Kali Yuga as the Kalki Avatar from the great shrine at Puri to destroy and demolish “Asatya and Adharma”, falsehood and vice and establish “Satya and Dharma”, truth and virtue on the eve of commencement of “Satya Yuga” and for that matter without giving any indication to human understanding the Lord Himself said to have directed Indradumna, the king of Puri in his dream when and how to shape and consecrate His symbolic idol to be known and worshipped as Jagannath until the end of Kali Yuga.
Nobody knows in certain about how Lord Jagannath Transformed from His earlier form of Neelamadhava to this state of an incomplete form of human but as per legends many turn of events took place from the day Indradumna, the king of Puri deputed his emissary, Vidyapati to Sabara Kingdom of Viswavasu to bring the idol of Neelamadhava with honour to his kingdom for formal consecration in the famous temple built by his predecessors, King Chodogangadev and Anangabhimadev. When Vidyapati failed in his attempt, the king Indradumna being undone, meditated on Lord Visnu who directed the king in his dream to collect a log of Neem wood floating near Bankamuhana in Puri sea beach and shape His idol and consecrate in the temple for worship as Jagannath.
Accordingly, Indradumna brought the log to his palace and engaged highly skilled carpenters of his kingdom for the job but all of them failed. Not being disappointed, the king once again tried to invoke Lord Visnu by meditation whereupon the lord was pleased to direct Viswakarma for doing the job. Thereafter several turns of events took place involving Gundicha, the queen of Indradumna. Viswakarma left the job half done and the idol remained incomplete for which people blamed the queen Gundicha and the King Indradumna for violating the promise made by them to Viswakarma not to open the room for 21 days set by him for completion of making of the idol. This might be a placebo for common men but it must have been the wills of Lord Visnu, beyond human perception to accomplish the purpose of His appearing in that form only for public Darshan in Kali Yuga.
Now it will be a matter of mere stupidity on my part to make an interpretation on why the Lord has been made to appear before all in this form in Kali Yuga because “Tarka Apratistha Shrutaya Bibhinya Naikamunirjasya mata Pramanam” that means arguments are multifocal having no definite direction, so they are unfounded for many men many minds; so making any comment on what had happened at that time is of no use. I presume, perhaps God Himself wanted to demonstrate what He in His incarnation of Lord Krishna had said to his charioteeer Uddhava in Uddhava Geeta in Dwapar Yuga when Uddhava asked Srikrishna to clear his doubts about mismatch in what He spoke and did in the whole episode of Mahabharata.
The most prominent part of Srikrishna’a reply to Uddhava’s queries on why He being the dearest and most intimate friend of Pandavas and always guaranteeing His company with them in all circumstances did not dissuade Judhisthira from entering into an unholy contest of playing the game of dice with mischievous Shakuni and many other subsequent dangerous pledges made by him while losing the game, Shrikrishna’s reply was simple and pointed. He said, “Answer to all such queries are hidden in His words only; when He says that He is present with all as a companion but acts as a mere spectator and does not interfere in anybody’s thoughts and actions unless invoked. Why did Judhisthira not realize this and invoke me. Yudhisthira while entering into the game of dice and for making subsequent pledges neither did he apply his vivek nor invoked me for help. When Duryodhana applied his Vivek to engage his Uncle shakuni to play on his behalf why did then Judhisthira not seek my help. So it happened with Draupadi too. When Dusashana was forcefully trying to unrobe her in the court of Dhritarastra, she out of panic appealed to all present there but forgot to call me to come to her rescue. The moment she raised her hands to invoke me, instantly I saved her modesty.”
Perhaps that might be the principal tenet behind God’s assuming an incomplete human form in Kali Yuga as his idol projects two large round eyes only without eyelids on the face being the prominent feature of His image (as shown above) possibly to watch everything relentlessly without a blink as the sole witness of total activities undertaken by human beings so that nothing goes amiss.
His large round eyes without eyelids convey that “Look, I am always present beside you and see everything what you do. So be careful in doing every action, every thought and every speech you make for none can escape unnoticed. I am Omnipresent and omniscient. You are only the person to enjoy or experience the effects of your own actions whether pleasing or painful. How can you dare doing mischief, wrongful and unholy deeds when you are aware that I am standing beside you as witness? In such case if any of the effects earned by you by doing something wrong is unpleasing or painful, you cannot defy or deny for not having done anything wrong for which you are being penalized because I am the sole witness for what you have done. I stay always awake to take care of you whenever you call me, but you forget me and go on as you like for which you invite miseries for yourself. So always think of my eternal presence by your side and amend yourselves to do good, talk good and think good only. You are not going to gain anything for your lying or doing misdeed or thinking bad of others. Ultimately you are going to reap the fruits of your own actions and experience them.”
In this respect it is said in Rig Veda, “Karma phalam Agre Dhabati Dhabati” that means the fruits of one’s actions run in front of one’s soul. At appropriate moment they come upon to deliver the effects.
To explain this concept I would refer to my recent suffering for months together from an accidental fall which as far as I guess might have been the fruits of my own actions whether done in this life or in previous lives. I am yet to perceive my lapses, flaws or faults done in this life for which I was subjected to such unbearable suffering in the last leg of my life. After a lot of self-introspection and assessment of life’s total chapter I arrived at the conclusion that it might have been the carried over unpaid effects of bad actions done by me in previous lives. In support of this concept let me unfurl a chapter of my life here.
Long ago say during 1974 or 1975 when I was doing very fine with my job, out of curiosity to know about the future prospects of my career, one day I called on a renowned foreteller of our locality named (Late)Bhagaban Mishra of village Sarat Sashan situated at a distance of just 22 K.M.s away from my house at Bhubaneswar. The man was so popular and famous that he happened to be the key advisor to many in the corridor of power in the state capital, politicians, business men and many others. When I reached his house at about 10 A.M., I was surprised to see that as if a fair is sitting in front of his house with a large number of people coming from different places. I was hopeless and thought that I might not get a chance to meet him on that day. But for this purpose I had taken a leave so I thought, I shall not return home rather try my luck to see him at any cost that day even if I am required to wait for the whole day.
Luckily at about 12 noon he called me in and asked me to put a piece of chalk given by him on any one of the twelve houses of Rashi chakra drawn by him on the floor by thinking of my problem for which I have called on him as he never used to ask any visitor about their problems. As I did so, instantly he opened his key book written with a stylus on palm leaves and read out that I have come here to know about the future prospect of my career. Then he noted down a number for reference and asked me to wait until my turn comes. I was simply dumbfounded to watch the proceeding that my problem which I did not disclose was found written on the key book, called the master Pothi.
For some time, I was relieved on thinking that I may have a fair chance to know my future on that day as initial process was over but I could not imagine that several other aspirants were already in queue before me. In spite of this I did not feel bore and sat down to hear the proceedings going on for other persons coming in the queue. The first one as I saw was a Police officer coming from a distant place. As per the number noted against his query from the key book he searched to find the relevant Pothi written on palm leaves from a large heap of Pothies stored in a number of trunks arranged in rows in his house and came out to read. To our surprise late Mishra chided the police officer saying that why he was sitting there rather he should run back home instantly for his bother has met with a serious accident. Out of fear he went out to collect details via wireless from the local police station and came to know the authenticity of the news broken by Mishra. On returning from the police station he laid prostrate on the feet of Mishra and after taking necessary advice left for his home.
The second case was more interesting mostly had some resemblance with the sufferings I have faced now. As per the key book that fellow came to Late Mishra to get an answer to his accident for which he was not responsible. His ribs were broken by devilish attack from another person for no fault but suffered lying in the hospital for six months facing a number of surgeries. Late Mishra collected the relevant Pothi from the store as per the key number found from the master key and started reading. It was written that in his previous life he pushed a man working on a high stool mischievously for which the poor fellow fell down and broke his chest and ribs from which he died. The effect of his past deed has been handed down to this life and so was his suffering. As remedy he suggested doing several rites, oblations, fasting and prayer for alleviation of his sin.
Likewise, cases of many others in queue were heard which I found interesting to watch. Finally, my turn came at about 12 p.m. He collected the relevant Pothi as per key number from a trunk and read out. I was simply taken aback to hear certain truth about my life happened until then and everything about my future of which more than 90% came true in course of time. The most revelling part was that he said my extreme honesty shall be my greatest enemy which came true to words. He advised me to exercise abundant caution and patience in dealing with critical cases that will be encountered in life so that I do not loose cool to commit mistakes that would fetch miseries in later life because many people invariably think like Duryodhana that what they do or think is nothing but right and that should be acceptable to all. But none can become as steadfast, honest and determined as Duryodhana was because, Duryodhana never repented for any of his words or actions which others took them as harmful and humiliating but he never thought even for a while that he was wrong.
Before leaving for home I asked the foreteller about my safe return at midnight, particularly over the bridge on a river named Daya coming on the way where at night thieves were used to wait for prey by stretching a wire across the bridge so that bikers fall down and they snatch all belongings. At this, late Mishra said to me, “You can go safe, none will dare coming near me as his watch guard will lead me home but I cannot see him.” Thank God! Relying on him I returned home safe on my motor bike at about 1 A.M. So, this was my experience, not a fictitious tale but a reality. Therefore, whatever is happening in one’s life is one’s Karma phalam which is predestined and can never be avoided or erased. There is no other go except accepting whatever comes on life’s undulating course for the next step in our day to day life is unknown and invisible to us.
Whatever I have talked of so far is about reinforcing our unshattered faith in God even if we have not seen God. In this context a small story of a father and daughter teaches volumes. One day a man went to a temple to pay homage to God and seek blessings along with his very young daughter. Just at the entrance of the temple the girl saw the statue of two big lions looking live to pounce upon. The girl screamed and said to her father, "let us go back lest the lions will kill us."
Father said, "look, these are not actual lions but statues made of stones. They cann’t do any harm to us."
The daughter instantly asked her father, "In that case why we are going inside the temple to seek blessings of God who is also made of stones, a statue only according to you?"
At this father was speechless and tried to console his daughter talking of trust and strong belief which bring in God’s blessing. It is not known how far the little girl was convinced but the question rested on belief only. So what we hear, what we read from Puranas and also the legends must have some truth in them and those have to be trusted without entering into arguments which end in zero.
We as human beings have come to this world to populate the planet, to work to live and let others live. We do not know wherefrom we have come and what for; how long we will be here and where would we go after death? As it were, we are just known as the son or daughter of so and so who also did not know that we, the particular persons be born to them. Is it not a total enigma or in other words, an illusion? But it is the reality and Universal manifestation that we are physically here to survive, perform, make an identity of our own before we perish. Though mystery looms large on the purpose of our coming, the consciousness implanted in us hints at our need for furtherance of the creation and for that matter we, instead of breaking our head on looking for its cause, have to join the flow of time which will guide us what to do, when and how to do without deviating from the right track laid open before us.
A clinical observation of the purpose for which we are let loose on Earth shall reveal that we are here on Earth to concentrate on our action or “Karma” not for our survival only but for others without causing harm to any not by disturbing environment or distorting the nature. When we live in a society and of course, in a country in larger perspective, we are, obviously bound to function within the boundary of certain rules and regulations set by the local administration for peaceful coexistence in a heterogeneous complex society having a mix of different religions, culture, languages, class and creed and more or less, we do that to live a tension free life. Over and above this there is a natural Law which is unwritten but handed down to generations by virtue of human wisdom and dealings to bear a spiritual bent up. This virtue leads us to perfection so as to pave our smooth way to join the main source from where we are emanated. That main source is perhaps God or the eternal supreme power.
According to Stephen Covey, ‘we are not human beings in a spiritual journey but spiritual beings in a human journey’. Exactly our souls or ‘self’ called ‘Atman’ are spiritual symbols and we, having been manifested with human form in this mundane world, have to perform not for self appeasement but for self amelioration so as to smoothen our journey to reach the whole and for that matter the concept of ‘SELF PURIFICATION’ has due relevance. How do we translate that concept into action to make it applicable in our life?
Guidelines, procedures of self-Purification have been laid down by many Maharshies, Sages, Incarnations, Religious preachers and also given in numberless mythological books and puranas. Perhaps all human beings across the world might be following some process or other according to their understanding, adaptability and convenience. Though late, I have picked up some easy steps from some of these sources and more so from the eternal words of advices of my revered Gurudev, Swami Sri Sri Swarupananda Paramahansa Dev for practising purification of self. I think it may not be redundant to share the same with all readers of this small write.
First of all I thought perhaps spiritualism might have emerged from our basic scripture, Vedas. The first one of them is Rig Veda. As far as I understand there is no mention of God anywhere in Rig Veda rather the creator of the Universe has been assumed as the supreme power which is Formless, All Pervading, Omni present, Omni potent and Omniscient. This Veda begins with invocation of FIRE “Agni mile purohitam” with special mention of OM which reflect the main powerhouse from where everything radiates.
Under 10th of 18 Ruks in 3/62 Sukta of Rig Veda Gayatri Mantra has been alluded to stating “OM Bhurbhuba swa Tatsabiturbarenyam Bhargodevasyadhimahi Dhiyo yonoh Prochodayat OM.” That means – “O the Existence Absolute, the creator of three dimensions – the Earth, the nether world and the heaven, the Past Present and Future, the creation, existence and destruction, we contemplate upon your self-manifested divine light that gives us intellect, wisdom to bestow upon us true knowledge.” This is the core knowledge and essence of human confidence to lead one and all to perfection.
So, as a first step invocation of the supreme Lord, I mean God, utterance of this Gayatri mantra every day with steadfast devotion should be a routine work at the day break. Then before resuming daily work it should be mandatory to review all actions done in the previous day to know how much good or bad work done on that day just like drawing daily profit and loss statement in any business. On doing this we can find the position where we stand whether we have gained by doing some good work or lost by our bad actions or both good and bad work are equal. Self purification starts the moment we find that our bad actions are more or just equal to good work done. This is like a self appraisal. If followed religiously we will definitely have the awakening for doing good by preventing us from slipping into wrong track that will hinder our journey for attaining perfection. There is a few other processes which I think common to all, so I do not mention them simply for the reason that once when we go for daily review, the whole picture comes clear to modulate our future actions.
Finally, holy Nama of God serves as strong catalyst in the process of attaining perfection that leads one to be extricated from the thralldom of births and deaths.
Writing is an art; not a gamble to be picked up for frolic. It is, by and large a spontaneous overflow of human emotion that emanates from within of its own accord to present something that may either be a fiction, a poem, a drama, a story, a novel or anything of creative literature. As long as human habitation exists on this planet, a perennial flow of the art of literature engineered by eminent writers, poets and authors together with influx of melodious music, innovative art & sculpture and amazing scientific inventions will be there. World does not rest with a handful of creators in any field in making history but it goes on producing more and more and sanctions positions for them in society.
Writers/Poets are, of course among the gifted creators for whom the art of literature flourish. Everyone cannot become a writer or a poet of standing overnight. Even then many people do often evince their interest in writing nevertheless they are aware that their writing may not attract attention in the melee of human complex. Some such people, who are not being poets or writers by nature, go for writing blogs, short stories, biography or some go in for reproducing spot news or reporting events according to respective ingenuity grounded on their liking. Writing news items or reporting events does not come under creative literature as they rely on facts and happenings where they have little choice to incorporate own contribution except harnessing the report with profundity of their vocabulary skill; but writing of stories, poems, fictions, creative blogs is not confined to any boundary or any defined discipline rather it solely hinges on writers’ imaginary faculty with regard to the subject matter chosen.
In this context, blogging refers to exposition of bloggers’ conceptual ambit on a particular subject, may be quixotic or figmental. The sublimity of such creation is enriched by precision in paraphrasing the concept in a precise manner unlike writing of novels, fiction or drama where sequencing of total concept is synchronized following grammatical discipline. In that respect bloggers do have the liberty of making presentation of their own concept on divergent issues which may, at times, have dichotomy of thoughts.
Now if we examine the section of the people in general who resort to blogging, it is seen that most of them may be either retired persons, housewives, old or unemployed persons who go for writing blogs may be for passing time in order to control their mind from hovering around stray thoughts or for communicating their novel ideas, experiences and feelings. This section of people being not professional writers, do not, by virtue of nobility, bother about whether their writings are read or liked by others. Indeed they have a bonafide interest in producing something new. This is their contentment and they revel with the time merrily. Well, these people as a matter of fact get added encouragement and extra zeal for producing more and more when their writes are read and appreciated by others. When a piece of write is sublime, readers very often comment or contribute inputs through their observations but when the same appears loathsome or controversial readers may go in for criticisms through comments or may overlook altogether. Now it is with the bloggers to accept such realities and digest.
When I think of myself, like many other bloggers in different forums as I came across after retirement, I was enthused to write blogs in addition to doing other activities to make an optimum use of time available with me for having no official compulsions as I used to have while in service. To begin with I posted a few blogs in Rediff.com, Word Press and finally I settled with Sulekha.com which later converted to Sulekha river. Like many other esteemed blogger friends I have tried to create something consummate but for the lack of my expertise in writing, I was, many a time, stranded in cross roads of divergent thoughts in selecting a topic for translating ideas into a presentable form. In this process sometimes all my enthusiasm gets frozen and I retreat from the mission. I have read famous poets like William Wordsworth, Alfred Tennyson and Kalidas who had the gifted calibre to create anything instantly by just looking at an object, a scene or a situation. For example William Wordsworth while walking with his sister Dorothy near Glencoyne Valley encountered some tiny flowers daffodils and so he scribbled the famous poem, Daffodils “…..when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils ……..”. Similarly the great poet Kalidas looking at the clouds in the sky flying from South to North by gentle breeze created the famous “Kavya” (a conglomerate of Slokas in Sanskrit) called ‘Meghdoot’, beginning with the stanza, “Atha uttarasyam dishi Himalaya nama nagadhiraja …..” which became the famous poetry in Indian literature.
So is the case with many other eminent writers, poets and authors who are instant creators unlike a common man like me. I was happy to observe in the Sulekha river portal that some of the bloggers who are adept in creating either novel suspense stories or highly educative and informative blogs or some emotional exposition of reminiscences of past events by virtue of their strong power of contemplation and literary skill but when I think of myself about writing something, I fall flat to imagine anything new that would attract readers’ attention. Then I realized, writing is a gifted skill which cannot be acquired simply by one’s effort or merit. It is indeed spontaneous and like perennial flow of a spring and not like seasonal flow of some rivers.
Whatever may be case, it is in fact difficult to restrain one’s emotional outflow of writing something oozing out of its own that may or may not be relevant. So is the case with me albeit I was never a writer even in my halcyon days in service from where I exited after superannuation about two decades ago. Let the tempo of creating something goes on, rest “Que sera sera” as sung by Famous American singer and actress Ms Doris day in the film “The man who knew too much”.
Octogenarian Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker having rendered forty plus years of service both in Govt. of Odisha and thereafter in erstwhile United Bank of India in its Top Executive Grade, is a resident of Bhubaneswar. He has a passion for travelling for which he has travelled across all the states and Union territories of India and also in several other countries of the world in addition to gardening in the morning and evening. When retirement freed him from all sorts official compulsions and loads of responsibilities, he felt time is abundant in his disposal. To make an optimum use of time he thought of writing something to engage his mind roving on stray thoughts. But he was neither a writer nor a poet who can produce something spontaneous. Incidentally he was introduced to Sulekha blogging portal by a friend one day. Thus, writing small blogs and posting them in Sulekha.river.com turned into one of his old age pastimes.
He continued writing blogs for more than one and half decades in Sulekha river and in the mean time he published three books, viz, 1. A Man In and Around, 2. Man is beautiful But, 3. Echo unheard as the conglomerate of his choice blogs. Of late, after withdrawal of the free blogging portal by Sulekha.com, one of his close blogger friends, Mr. Suchisree who is known as Sri T.V. Sreekumar from Puducheri advised him to contact Dr. Mrutyunjay Sadangi of his home state, Odisha for joining Literary Vibes which is a wonderful platform for writers, poets, painters and so on to exhibit their excellence. Instantly Bankim visited the site of Literary vibes and after having been fascinated with the creations posted therein together with a host of erudite creators behind, he came in touch with Dr. Sadangi who encouraged him to join forthwith. That is how he is here and rest Que Sera Sera.
UTOPIA OR DYSTOPIA-TO WHERE ARE WE HEADING?
Futurism- an overview
Human history is replete with literature on future of humankind which can broadly be classified as Utopian or its antithesis, Dystopian. Whereas the Utopian variety envisions a perfect world with an improved version of real life, Dystopian view of future is a macabre portrayal of life where everything has gone wrong. 20th century witnessed great works of futuristic visionaries of both varieties who have presented us with glimpses of the future with great accuracy. In the large body of futuristic literature that emerged from late 19th century onward, one can also see a remarkable connect between the visionaries ‘ prophetic imagination and their actual fruition in future years. Heralded as the father of futurology, the visionary author H.G Wells set in motion the current field of futuristic studies with his spot on predictions on future technological innovations in a wide spectrum like Lasers, Atomic bomb, Wireless communications, Moon landing , and Genetic Engineering to mention a few which eventually saw the light of the day after many decades. One wonders whether the author of the famous book “Time Machine” really time travels to make such accurate prophecies? Prolific science fiction writer and biochemist Isaac Asimov’s short story “Three Laws of Robotics” in 1942 laid the conceptual foundation in the field of robotics and a framework for the future development of artificial intelligence (AI) which are now realities. His prediction that the world will slowly replace human driven vehicles with “Robot Brains” vehicles has paved the way for driverless vehicles in recent times. He was also the first to envision the domination of the sight –sound smart phone and internet in human lives when both the technologies were far away from the realm of human imagination and became game changers much later.
Dystopian Futurists
Futurist literature like George Orwell’s epic novel “1984” and Aldous Huxley ‘s magnum opus “Brave New World” are powerful dystopian novels warning readers of a future world where the authoritarian state machine exerts complete control on human life- dehumanizing and decimating the most cherished liberal value of free will. Huxley presents a nightmarish picture of a stratified society of unequal classes, artificially created through embryo and hormone engineering . Margaret Atwood predicts a dystopian future based on the present day signs and what they could mean for the future society if left unchecked. In her book “The Handmaid’s Tale”, she presents an eerie future characterized by misery, catastrophe , isolation and the threats posed by authoritarianism, bio-engineering and sex robots. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 published in 1953 foretold the tension in society which modern technology would entail. His warning about the unprecedented rise of fake news and the so called alternative facts (which was introduced much later into the political lexicon in 2017) engineered by the biased media has become the order of the day after more than six decades of this prophecy. Though such dystopian writers present a very sombre and often exaggerated view about the future of humankind, it creates an awareness about the perils of a unfettered explosion of technology outpacing and outperforming human lives in the absence of effective regulatory mechanisms.
21st Century- Promises and Perils of a dynamic future
When we think about how the present century will unfold before us in the future, there is a general belief that most things will by and large remain similar and trends will continue in a linear fashion as in the past. But according to some great minds of this century, we are heading for a dramatic change which will completely overhaul the present, ushering a new world. We are now in the cusp of an epochal transformation and unexpected events which will revolutionize human lives in next couple of decades. It is a truism that the biggest drivers of change today is the exponential growth in technologies; from Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Multi planetary civilization (Colonies in Moon and Mars); accelerated genome sequencing and genetic engineering to a giant leap in information technology and machine learning. On the flip side, threat of a possible climate apocalypse and the scourge of a virulent pandemic will continue to loom large with far reaching consequences on human civilization. 21st century presents many promises and at the same time throws up many challenges. A host of eminent writers of 21st century predict a paradigm shift in all facets of human life as a consequence of the technological revolution which will warrant strategies to prepare for the world of the future. Eminent sociologist Mauro F. Guillen proclaims in his book “2030: How Today’s Biggest Trends will Collide and Reshape the Future of Everything” that the future will be radically different from the present and that will change the way we live, work and play. The celebrated historian and thinker Yuval Noah Harari goes a step further by saying that the present century may be Homo Sapien’s last century of dominance in the world. According to him, given the current pace of technological advancement and the upheaval it engenders, it is possible that we destroy ourselves in an ecological calamity or nuclear holocaust. The most likely possibility however, is that we use genetic engineering or artificial intelligence to either upgrade ourselves or create a totally different kind of being christened by him as Homo Deus ( human god) to take over as the dominant specie.
Threats and Challenges
Specter of Nuclear War
There is a general consensus that there are three major threats facing humanity in the 21st century namely nuclear war, ecological apocalypse and technological disruption. Since the time of Cold war in 1950s and the stand-off between Soviet Union and USA in the Cuban Missile crisis in 1962,there have been a number of occasions when the super powers came perilously close to the precipice of a nuclear holocaust. Nuclear deterrence and perhaps ‘luck’ protected the world for the last 75 years. But the indefinite combination of human fallibility and nuclear war still hangs like the proverbial Sword of Damocles. Such risks have been exacerbated manifold because of possession of nuclear warheads by few rogue States and the dangerous possibility of the warheads falling into the hands of terrorist organizations. Now, questions are being asked about the efficaciousness of nuclear deterrence in preventing nuclear war. Martin Hellman, the inventor of cryptography used a quantitative risk analysis and his erstwhile collaborator Vinton Cerf , the co-inventor of internet architecture used a qualitative technique on the probability of nuclear war and both concluded that the risk of nuclear war is highly uncertain because of a large number of unpredictable variables. The only hope is that sanity prevails and all the stakeholders agree on its self-defeating nature. As said by Reagan and Gorbachev in a joint statement, “a nuclear war must never be fought and can not be won.”
Ecological Apocalypse
“Where as war is a future possibility , ecological degradation is a present reality”. We are already in the throes of ecological degradation manifested in climate change, rise of zoonotic pandemics, and destruction of bio-diversity causing serious ecological imbalance. Rise of global temperature with extreme weather conditions, expanding deserts, disappearing ice caps and glaciers and rising oceans are ominous signs for the future unless a combination of global idea exchange and ecofriendly technologies like clean energy, electricity driven cars and lab produced clean meat etc. are proliferated. Climate change is a global problem and it requires urgent global action. But, unfortunately threat of the menace tends to be glossed over as a preserve of nationalist right in favour of unfettered economic and industrial growth. Climate change will be the most imminent defining issue of our times and our survival as a specie will depend on addressing the issue before it is too late.
Technological Disruption- Trends, Possibilities and Strategy
Exponential advancement of technology in 21st century poses a great paradox before humanity. On one hand, it has the potential to be a great benefactor catapulting the quality of human lives to a new high and on the other it can be our greatest adversary. Either way it is going to revolutionize human civilization throwing up new challenges. Harari in his book “Homo Deus- a brief history of tomorrow” outlines how new technologies will cause disruption in human life with unprecedented challenges and how humans have to adapt to the epochal changes for their survival. According to him, we are entering into an era where there is a likely possibility of people being hacked similar to hacking of a computer or your e-mail and bank account. It means that the algorithm which the super computers use will understand us better than ourselves, predict our choices and manipulate our desires. As a matter of fact, it is happening even today in many fields without we realizing that we are snooped continuously. We trust Facebook to tell us what is new, Google to tells us what is the truth, Amazon to tell us what to buy and Netflix to guide us what to watch. They dominate our lives by guiding and influencing our choices and manipulating us at the expense of our free will. With better understanding of biology particularly brain science and enough computing power, days are not far off when the algorithm will become immensely powerful to erode human authority. Harari says merger of biotech with infotech with big data and computing power will lead to shifting of authority from humans to the algorithms. Algorithms will not only guide and control humans they might replace them in the job market by outperforming them. If 20th century was an age of exploitation , 21st century will render humans redundant and irrelevant in many vocations like health, transportation, banking etc. We now know how IBM’s super computer Watson can have complete knowledge about our health with access to our biometric data and diagnose health conditions and give clinical solutions with the help of biometric sensors 24/7. Such efficient AI based health care systems will be our future doctors available on our smart phones round the clock. AI based self-driving vehicles will dominate the transportation sector by eliminating large number of road accident deaths caused by human error estimated at 1.3 million per annum in the world. Thus, human doctors and drivers are likely to be reduced to the status of “useless people”.
To retain their value in the social and economic systems, humans will have to reinvent themselves and stay ahead of the algorithms. They have to upgrade their skills from time to time with life- long education to keep pace with fast changing technologies and a volatile job market. In short, to remain relevant every individual will have to create his own renaissance. Algorithms , per se are safe; they are incorruptible and free from biases. But, the danger arises when the software engineers programming the algorithm have their own biases or are influenced by the biases of their owners or the government .To obviate the risk of such biases creeping into algorithms, it is imperative that the engineers engaged in programming and computer coding have strong ethical grounding and uncompromising moral fiber. Apart from self-regulation, every AI systems should be checked for bias by independent and reputed third party verifiers. Active public opinion, customer awareness and strong governmental regulation are the sine qua non of effective bulwark against its misuse. With human adaptability and effective system of checks, future job market can be characterized by human- AI cooperation rather than conflict. Time may come to liberate humans from the drudgery of repetitive and uninspiring process oriented jobs and unlock their potential and aid them to lead more fulfilling work lives. Harari goes on to say that focus for the governments and the new elite class heading the unicorn corporations should be to fulfill the basic needs of the jobless ,protecting their social status and self- worth. This will not only protect the jobless from unemployment but also avoid a serious economic dislocation by sustaining their purchasing power while protecting the new rich elite class from public rage.
Other Trends – Demographic & Economic forces
Technological forces intertwined with two other forces namely demography and economics are poised to revolutionize human life in a radical way in near future. Mauro Guillen in his book “2030-…”envisions a tectonic demographic shift in the world by 2030 with far reaching socio-economic consequences. While the population of Africa and South Asia including India will be expanding with baby booms and improved life expectancy, population in China, Europe, USA and other developed countries will be either shrinking or stagnating with reduced fertility and birth rate as more and more women are entering the job market resulting from improved access to education. By 2030, women will come to own about half of the net worth of wealth and will constitute a big consumer segment. Demographically expanding countries will enjoy higher demographic dividends with a much younger population compared to the developed countries which will witness increasing proportion of older people due to higher longevity and shrinkage in the size of the young millennial generation. Another striking demographic phenomenon is the emerging middle class in China, East Asia, India and sub-Sahara Africa with greater purchasing power than many other countries. By 2030, Chinese middle class will be stronger than the middle class of USA. Their consumption of consumer goods will be the highest. This will lead to new and emerging markets in these countries. The most alarming demographic trend today is the large scale urbanization with serious ramifications on earth’s ecology. About 1.5 million people are migrating to the cities every week and it is estimated that by 2030, about 60% of the world population will live in cities which make up only 1.6% of the world’s land mass but generate 75% of the carbon emission. Guillen explains how profoundly the changing demographic profile will influence world economics in terms of new markets, consumption patterns and emergence of new consumer segments etc. He also predicts how the world is moving towards a shared economy in a society divided by two generations, the elderly and rich, owning assets and the new millennials without assets wanting access to them.
The global trends are symptomatic of how rapidly the world is changing . To cope with the dynamics of change , it is imperative that the challenges are addressed with the help of lateral thinking and adaptability. We have to reinvent ourselves continuously to be relevant in the emerging new world and evolve strategies to address it’s pitfalls , so that we find ourselves in what the futurist Kevin Kelly describes as “a Protopian society”, a halfway house between Utopia and Dystopia.
References
1.Homo Deus-A Brief History of Tomorrow- Yuval Noah Harari
2.2030:How Today’s Biggest Trends will Collide and Reshape the
Future of Everything- Mauro F. Guillen
3. 21 Lessons for the 21st Century- Yuval Noah Harari
4. Articles on the works of Ray Bradburn, Margaret Artwood and Kevin Kelly,
An ex-railway man, Gurudas Brahma loves to read and re-read the classics in English, Odiya and Bengali literature. His favourite writers among others include Charles Dickens and Tolstoy in English, Tagore in Bengali and Fakir Mohan Senapati in Odiya literature. He is also an avid fan of the the writings of the modern day historian,Yuval Noah Harari. He is passionate about railway history and heritage and Satyajit Ray’s films and Tagore’s poems. Presently, he is associated with few social service organisations working for the destitute and the disadvantaged. Brahma has retired from Indian Railways as Chief of Operations of East Coast Railway and has settled down at Bhubaneswar. He occasionally dabbles in writing short essays and anecdotal stories.
Jagatguru Sri Sri Thakur Abhiram Paramahansa Dev of Santidham Karamala, Puri was a leading saint, mahapurusha and philosopher of 20th century India. He occupied a high position in religious world. His teachings on Indian Philosophy and its critical analysis were expounded by the Thakur Abhiram in simple but forceful language for easy understanding of the general public .He was not only a spiritual leader but also a freedom fighter, a prolific writer, a composer of religious hymns and social reformer. He was a visionary who could foresee future events that would unfold in the world particularly in India.
Thakur Abhiram’s prediction about the Khandagiri Hillocks has been proved to be a reality, as he had a vision in the early part of twentieth century that sages and noble souls will be preaching and worshipping there at Khandagiri. According to Thakur Abhiram Paramahansa Dev, Almighty God is one, and one should not be confused with the so-called diversification of different religions such as Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, Jainism, Buddhism and so many other religious faith practiced by the people all over the world. Thakur in his religious text-Sanatan Dharmartha Geeta, has explained that religion is one and so also God is one. In order to realize God there are different paths to reach Him. He has called Khandagiri as Naimisharanya where many a mind stirring opinions will be discussed by the sadhus ,rishis ,pundits professing different philosophies and a synthesis will come out, and the ardent devotees will have the glimpse of all Pervading Supreme Lord. As a result there will be restoration of peace, bliss and empathy at Khandagiri amidst the total devastation of this human society and values. Spiritualism will give a vent to the social relevance and peaceful coexistence.
The twin hills –Khandagiri and Udayagiri situated in the western part of Bhubaneswar have been in the public reverence since the reign of Mahameghabahan Aira Kharvel of the 200 BCE –about 2400 years ago. During that period caves of Khandagiri and Udayagiri –called Lena , in the inscriptions were dug out for the abode of Jain ascetics. The most important of these caves are Rani Gumpha and Hati Gumpha. These caves have assumed much historical, archaeological and religious importance since 2nd Century BCE. The annual Khandagiri Kumbha Mela used to be held at the foothill of Khandagiri since time immemorial in the month of Magha. This Kumbha Mela takes off every year on the occasion of Magha Saptami, the seventh day of the second quarter of the holy month Magha . Large number of sadhus (sages) from across the country particularly from the Himalayas, Kasi, and Ayodhya used to throng the holy caves in the twin hillocks of Khandagiri and Udayagiri. The Sadhus after taking holy dip early on Magha Saptami morning at Chandrabhaga beach of Bay of Bengal near Konark ,proceed towards Khandagiri to participate in the rituals of the lighting of the holy fire(yajna) ,conducted in the lap of the twin hillocks .The historic Mela continues for nine days . The beautiful hill side reverberated and echoed with sacred chanting of saffron –clad sadhus who perform yajnas here for world peace. The radiating aura and energy of the saints have become the centre of attraction every year. Mysterious looking Babas – such as Standing Baba, Doctor Baba, Scooter Baba and Pilot Baba used to draw huge crowds and become the centre of attraction and discussions among the umpteen numbers of devotees and visitors.
Sri Sri Thakur published his first Magnum Opus, at a tender age of 25 –a philosophical text ‘KALI BHAGABATA’in the year 1929 in which he has predicted that India will achieve independence under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. In this sensational and epoch making book, Sri Sri Thakur indirectly attacked British Raj by his forceful pen saying that King George V is none other than ‘PanchaMana’ and the British Force (Gora Palatan) as the twenty five Prakritis who are responsible for the colonial misdeed and untold miseries in Punya Bhumi Bharata Varsha and Mahatma Gandhi is none other than Mahan Atma or ‘Great Soul’ who will be able to drive out the colonial British from the Indian soil. The revolutionary book created furor among the British administration. As the book was published at a press ‘ DAINIK ASHA ’ edited by Sri Sashi Bhusan Rath - journalist , social reformer and freedom fighter from Berhampur , the Collector of Ganjam under the Madras Province proscribed the book ‘KALI BHAGABAT’ and a sedition case was instituted against Sri Sri Thakur on 30.4.1934. By that time southern part of Odisha was under Madras province till the formation of a separate Odisha province on 1.4.1936. The book was banned and Sri Sri Thakur Abhiram was imprisoned for one year. Though , Sri Sri Thakur gladly accepted the jail term , a team of leading personalities headed by Pandit Nilakantha Das –Politician and Educationist of Satyabadi Banavidyalay Fame ,Pandita Vinayak Mishra –Eminent Vedic Exponent, Sri Jagabandhu Singh – Shrimad Bhagabata Teekakar , and an eminent advocate of Berhampur Sri Bachu Jaganath Das effectively defended the writings of Thakur Abhiram after a prolonged and proper interpretation of ‘KALI BHAGABAT’. The above named eminent scholars and advocate properly explained employing spiritual similes and metaphors very effectively and Sri Sri Thakur was honorably acquitted and absolved from serious charges of sedition before expiry of the jail term of one year in 1935, but the ban order on the publication of the book ‘KALI BHAGABAT’ was lifted after 7 years by the Govt. of Madras Notification –G.O., M.S 114 DATED 16.01.1947. The book was republished on the strength of Govt. of Odisha ,Home Department notification no 207C dated 26.1.1947.The prophecy of Sri Sri Thakur became a reality on 15.8.1947 when India was freed from British Yoke and became world’s largest democratic Independent Nation .
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.
Celebrated in the month of June, from 14th to 17th, after a spell of dry summer, Raja marks the onset of the long awaited monsoon. Odisha, a predominantly agrarian state, celebrates this festival with rare gusto. Unmarried girls mostly participate in this with youthfulness & passion. During the four days that this festival is observed the fields are left undisturbed, the girls are not allowed to walk barefoot, lest they defile mother earth during her menstrual period.
A period of feasts and merrymaking, a time for special sweet delicacies in homes everywhere, it signifies a way of life, as thousands of people assemble in temples scattered throughout Odisha to pay homage to Mother Goddess.
This festival of the rains commemorates the fertility of the earth. All decked up, girls swing wildly on the swings hung on the branches of the trees, sing songs of love, marriage and their partners.
Raja Doli
Girls dressed in vivid sarees- brilliant reds, electric blues and bamboo greens evoke the erotic hues of peacock feathers the rims of their embellished feet with red dye, their foreheads decorated with floral designs in sandalwood paste. Filigreed pendants hang from there ear lobes. They swing on the decorated swings hanging from the low branches of the trees.
During this celebration women are given a break from household work and it’s a time to play indoor games. Including the curtain raiser, Raja Parba or Mithuna Sankranti is spread over four days. Paheli Raja (Day One), Raja Sankranti (the Main Day), Basi Raja (the Day After) followed by Vasumati Gadhua or the ritual bath of Bhudevi, wife of Vishnu. A silver idol of whom is there in the Puri temple, near Lord Jaganath. Various Pithas are made of which Podopitha and Chakuli Pitha are common. The Raja geeta, a folk song sung by the people is:
Banaste dakila Gaja, barasake thare aasichhi Raja,
asichi raja lo hoi nua sajabaja !!
Meaning the Raja carnival has come with the freshness of the new, a promising start.
This festival is celebrated in a completely relaxed, laid-back ambience. No one goes to the fields. Not only girls, women, men, children all mingle with gay abandon during the festivities. Songs, drama, dance, Jatra, Gotipua dance performances keep them awake throughout the nights. Initially confined to the coastal districts, now-a-days Raja ‘fever’ engulfs the entire state of Odisha.
In an attempt to popularize the age-old Raja festival, Odisha Tourism Development Corporation (OTDC) has started Raja Mahotsav at its Panthanivases located at Bhubaneswar, Chandipur, Konark, Gopalpur, Barkul, Paradeep, Cuttack and Puri. Many clubs hotels, restaurants, malls join in with special decoration, menu and attractive packages/offers.
Traditional Odia Pithas a special kind of delicacy like Poda, Manda, Arisha, Kakara, Chakuli and other dishes are available at reasonable prices during the festival. Other items include Muga Bundi, Khira Gaja, Dahi Vada and Chhena Poda. OTDC has introduced special sugar free Kakara Pitha, Poda Pitha and Bhaja Manda. Raja Pana (betel- nut) is, of course, a special attraction. Raja Pana and Raja Doli are the major attractions of the festival.
In the jungles of Odisha’s hinterland, Adivasis (tribals) celebrate the festival in the age-old tradition of wine of the palm and of the mohul flower, they drink their fill and dance late into the night to the echoes of songs and beats of drums.
On a serious note, Fredrique Affel Marglin a scholar, has critically presented her account on the menstruation festival of the Goddess in Odisha. The Goddess is variously known as Harchandi, Prithibi, Thakurani, Basudha, Draupadi. Marglin says that menstruation, the sine qua non aspect of a women’s being is the focal point around which the conception of the Goddess and the relationship of women to the Goddess is formed for both women and men. It is believed that the human body is not only a biological entity, it encompasses a larger reality which is inclusive of the women, earth, and Goddess. This point can be illustrated with reference to conception of the places of pilgrimage and worship (Sakta-pithas) as presented in the Hindu literature.
Come to Odisha during Raja Parba to soak in the unique festive spirit of this agrarian society and monsoon magic.
Dr Dipak Samantrai is a former public broadcaster, media educator and heritage enthusiast living in the millennium city of Cuttack. He is the Convenor of Cuttack Heritage Walks.
Cross the borders, and language is different. But the emotions are the same. Then what’s in a language? Learn as many as you can!
Language is a mode of expression for the human species. If animals rely only sight and customised, monosyllabic sounds for communication, far more advantaged are enterprising humans having discovered a generous, geographically unique and fascinating tool called language!
Unlocking volumes of ideas and artistry, it has heralded a world full of crisp and colourful articulations. These soft or hard-hitting expressions can be persuasive, emphatic, manipulative, or aggressive. A widely spoken language keeps growing and evolving with time. Diehards of older versions have to relent at some point to embrace trends.
All humans easily learn the language of the land they inhabit. Migrants with a different mother tongue are luckier, becoming bilingual from a young age. While those growing up in their native land speedily absorb the local language that couples as their mother tongue. Given to an instant connection, it ensures a strong, emotional bond with their motherland. If they are unexposed to other languages, it makes the mother tongue the sole language for communication. Proximity to their roots strengthen loyalty, stirring passions that might regard themselves as the true-sons-of-the-soil. If they may write stories, lyrics for songs or poetry, it springs from the heart. Imbued with authentic flavour, it’s received with the fervour needed to create an impact, further enriching the language, popularising regional culture and pride. So each person relates to language in ways that are directly related to circumstances.
But there is another side to the human story and discovery of languages. It creates and preserves history books. Factual and meaningful history is always welcome. But sometimes, matters unfavourable to free, unbiased existence in modern scenarios could rise as “monsters” occupying the limelight. These could be grievances or prejudices from the past that we ought to shed to start life on a clean slate. Animals are fortunate in that respect! Language is the key to preserving both the good and bad aspects of history. And not to forget, a mastery over it may even find unfair usages to comfort, confuse, confront and manipulate people in social situations.
When we read something in any language that stands out in its excellence, it gives us instant goosebumps. Certain writings feel best in a particular language because they have already made their influence early on and stay with us through life. Or because we read and hear about it first in our language of comfort, it has greater appeal, just like the original version of a film often seems far more superior to its remake. If freedom of expression is valued, then the language or medium chosen to express the same should also enjoy the same privilege. But a language’s popularity and reach are important questions one needs to ask and answer for themselves if they are seeking a wider audience and want a head start. Of course, popular work in any language is always in demand and gets translated by experts.
A child is dying to speak at the earliest. Its babbling efforts are cute beyond words. The inborn urge to chatter is so compulsive that the child’s brain mimics the properties of a sponge, absorbing every syllable uttered by the adult. He or she can learn more languages at a young age; not so easy for adults. Let’s not deny such an exceptional talent from finding a fruitful outlet in every child. Hence, third and fourth language offerings in schools are beneficial as options. Interested students can choose from them. The first and second, in any order, are the inevitable native language and English; the latter enjoying a shared history in the Indian context. Offering a third and fourth as free-for-all options is desirable too. Those who wish to learn more languages can make use of them.
Let’s give students the freedom to choose a popular non-native language or reject it. Some may oppose it, yet embrace it for their children, acknowledging its significance in commerce and career prospects in the era of globalisation and free-trade; let’s not play games here for the sake of politics. Let’s support an unbiased approach to the idea of becoming multilingual for individual growth. A state and its people are like the children of a Nation. Let’s give them freedom through the availability of options. Therefore, it serves people well when every State provides third or fourth language options alongside the mandatory mother tongue and English.
Learning languages in childhood nurtures the mind to creative thinking. It also helps appreciate different cultures, understand sentence structures, and express oneself accurately; aren’t we always desirous of getting better at these things? It makes learning other subjects like science or mathematics a breeze. Math involves word problems where simple statements appear twisted, baffling bright kids.
With sufficient language power, great orators have strongly influenced mindsets. To sell wares, intellectual or material, one must hone their language skills to forge ahead. Capturing attention is the first step in any profession. The best orators have become well-known politicians and earned a devoted following, regardless of their ideas. Even spiritual masters use language power. A message delivered with the right choice of words can move people. You can choose whether to be moved or to make a countermove. But what will make heads turn are simple or profound thoughts of substance embellished in apt language!
Don’t underestimate the power of languages. Human minds, nevertheless, are creative, but clear and artistic expressions are awarded quick recognition, encouraging further creativity. Love your Mother Tongue by all means and learn it with Love; it’s too special beyond words as the first and best tool for minds to work on. But jump to learn as many languages as you can when opportunities knock! In time, you will thank yourself and your State policies that enabled free learning.
Starting as a blogger and poet, Sumitra Kumar became a frequent writer for a lifestyle magazine called Women Exclusive or WE. Her first published book, Romance with Breath - the story of aspiring Indians through simple poems - was launched in April 2022 and listed on Amazon. She has contributed to the anthologies of India Poetry Circle or IPC, and The Soul Scribers Society.
Her varied career spells saw her as a software programmer, flight attendant in Air India, and later, self-employed as a fashion boutique owner and futures and options trader. Sumitra presently makes her home in Chennai, India, working with her husband RR Kumar as Directors in their packaging and automation business. The joy of writing precedes all when thoughts flash, impelling her to delve deeper at bedtime and early mornings.
You can reach her at sumitrakumar.com and follow her on http://www.instagram.com/writer.poet.sumitra
IS INDIA MOVING TOWARDS GENDER EQUALITY?
Sensitization means making someone sensitive toward an existing issue. But gender sensitization means a process where people of all genders are instructed to respect everyone irrespective of gender differences. There has been a stereotype, a bias around us regarding gender rights. In our country, gender inequality is a stigma that has been very conveniently continuing for ages. It sounds odd, but gender inequality begins at home.
Why are women in India subjected to an unequal burden of care and household chores?
Most parents knowingly or unknowingly discriminate between their kids. We usually think that the woman is a homemaker and the man is a breadwinner. Mostly, the male characters are strong and female characters are portrayed in the film as weak. Children begin their life with such a mindset. They believe what they see or hear.
The ugliest aspects of gender inequality lead to serious issues in the workplace. Such insensitivity leads to sexiest comments and inconsiderate behavior towards the opposite gender. It fuels harassment of a woman at the workplace or home. In our country, many women are victims of workplace discrimination and sexual oppression. Such evil and dogmatic practices are still reigning in the corporate sector. If we are empowered, then why is such discrimination ruining the dignity of our women? How many companies pay equal salaries to all their labor force? They always discriminate between female and male workers.
The deep-rooted dowry system has already prevailed in our society for ages. In India, we are subjected to regressive social conditioning. Here women assume an unequal burden of care and household chores. High levels of stress and workplace-related traumatic events make a woman vulnerable to suicidal thoughts. Sexual harassment-related trauma in the working space leads to a serious threat and remains a menace to women's empowerment.
So, changing the behavior by instilling empathy towards other genders is the easiest way to bring a revolution in gender inequality issues. Women's empowerment is a vast and multidimensional concept. A monetarily equipped and educationally empowered woman becomes a decision-maker in a home as well as in society.
The constitution, which is the heart and soul of our country, renders privileges to women. Article 39 (A) and (D) enjoin the state to provide equal means of livelihood and equal pay for equal work. Article 42 enjoins maternity relief. Article 51 A imposes Fundamental Duty on every citizen to renounce the practices derogatory to the dignity of a woman. One-third of the seats are to be filled by direct elections in every Panchayat and Municipality election and in such a manner as the Legislature of a state. Article 14 of the constitution provides equal rights to a woman.
The supreme lawmaker of our land, the Supreme Court has safeguarded certain guidelines to protect women from habitual sexual predators in their workplace and also strengthened their monetary position. Not only in society but also inside the homes, the rights of a woman are often violated. So in 2005, the Hindu Succession Amendment Act conferred equal rights of inheritance to Hindu women along with men.
Gender discrimination is very much evident and has existed since time immemorial. It is no doubt that a patriarchal mindset reigns high in our society. Still, I think education is the right sword to cut the monster tongue of gender disparity. Educational enlightenment will be the only glorious revolution to ruin the dogmas.
But unfortunately, I guess it will take several decades to completely root out this bias from the base of our societal structure. A complete awareness of rational behavior and a radical makeover from such prejudices will be a gateway toward a gender-balanced workforce. By nurturing the inner bud of half of the population, society will be heading towards the true revolution of women’s emancipation.
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.
Satellite Image of Santorini (Thera): Courtesy NASA, 202
It was the summer of 2011. My wife had retired from service the previous year and had expressed a desire to see Europe as a parting shot at Public Service and beginning anew a legal profession, albeit part-time. So, we did the necessary arrangements with one of the oldest travel agencies of the country and picked the best package, about a 3 week guided tour all inclusive from Athens to London. We were lucky, the USD was down to 45 INR, Euro to 65 INR. Whatever, we departed on May 19th morning from IGI, Delhi and the same day reached Athens at mid-day via Doha by QA. After sightseeing at Athens including the Acropolis and Parthenon, plus plus and overnight stay in a reasonably good hotel, next morning we boarded the Cruise Ship Majestic (for 3 nights)—but, but I had no clue what that entailed, though I knew about just the Aegean cruise as part of the itinerary. And, then the voyage into history commenced.
The voyage started from Port Piraeus (Attica, Greece) and after brief tour of Mikonos, the iconic Island paradise we reached overnight the Turkish west coast city of Kusadasi (Kus: birds, Adasi: place of congregation; imagine the etymological origin of the Bengali place called “adda” from the Turkish term, so significant to the culture of Calcutta!) to visit the Mycenaean 14th century BCE historic city of Ephesus (Ephes in Turkish, south-western coast), nearly a whole day tour—but that’s for another day. By the evening, we headed overnight to Port Heraclius, the largest and farthest south-eastern Greek Island of Crete and the 2000 BCE Minoan Civilisation, but that’s too, for another day. By the mid-day of May 22nd 110 Km north of Crete our Cruise ship anchored in the middle of the Caldera of Santorini—the voyage back in history over 3500 BP to a volcanic eruption, in the middle of the Mediterranean that possibly changed history of the ancient world—Plato lamented 1100 years after the event, the loss of the Civilisation (and Island of Atlantis) and the raging fire in the middle of the Mediterranean, stories about which he had acquired from popular Greek legends and folklores.
We are at Island of Thera, year 1627 +/- 2 BCE, now the Caldera of the volcano that engulfed Thera, the days and months Thera erupted and sank 400’deep into the sea floor, leaving the 65 Km perimeter caldera today, the up-market holiday destination of Santorini (from Saint Irene)—the thriving and the most prosperous of Mediterranean Civilisation of the Minoan Era, had ended, destroying even the Knossos Palace of Crete, 110 Km to the south by the shower of tephra and other molten materials.
The Thera (Thira/ Fira) Eruption:
Therasia (modern, Santorini) was a volcanic island in the Cycladae volcanic arc in southern Aegean Sea, 110 Km to north of Crete, the latter being the southernmost boundary of the arc (geologically at the subduction zone of the African Plate below the Eurasian Plate and therefore, a very active earthquake and volcanic zone. During the second half of 17th century BC, the Island blew up in a massive volcanic eruption, perhaps, the largest and the severest known in the past 10,000 years. The central part of the Island was completely destroyed and (the caldera) collapsed into the Aegean and filled with a lagoon, 300-400 ft deep (perimeter 65 Km, diameter 15 Km) and only the 1000 m high rim of the caldera remains (including, the remains of the settlement of Akrotiri, buried under hundreds of feet of Tephra-volcanic ash); the main Island is present day Santorini with a population of about 15000, with Fira (or Thira) as the capital of the territory (Gr).
Recent scientific research estimates (2006) indicate Dense-Rock Equivalent (DRE) of 603 km was ejected, much larger than the original estimates of 393 (in 1991) and the volume of ejecta over 1003 km, placing the eruption in Volcanic Explosive Index (VEI) of 6 or 7. This was approximately 4-5 times larger than the Krakatoa (Indonesia) that erupted in August, 1883. The eruption was in possible 4 phases, the earliest (B01/Minoan A) was associated with earthquakes but minor tephra deposits, allowing the population to flee, since no human remains are found under the 200-300 ft tephra deposits on the Island. The main eruptions (B02/ Minoan B and B02/ Minoan C) resulted in ash plumes 30-35 km high, into the stratosphere, not only resulting in insitu tephra and pumice showers, but deposits as far away as in Turkey (1200 km away), in Palestine and in Egypt (850 km), with pyroclastic flows that came in contact with sea water, adding huge plumes of water vapour. The eruption is estimated to have generated several tsunami waves ranging from 35-150m in height (especially, after the collapse of the caldera dome), which probably decimated the naval fleets and ships of the Minoans, submerging large tracts in coastal Mediterranean and finally bringing to an end the great Bronze Age culture of the Minoans in Crete (Minoan, from the name of King Minos—Indo-European lang. Fish, the royal symbol being the fish depicted on the frescoes on Knossos Palace). The explosions must have been heard all around the Mediterranean. Greek legends refer to fire in the Aegean Sea and Plato’s lament of the drowning of the fabled Island of Atlantis in a single day—perhaps, referring to the collapse of the Thera Caldera. Even in the sparsely populated Bronze Age world, the event would have been known all around, since the Minoans were a vibrant trading civilization with close connection with Eastern Turkey, The Black Sea Area, the Levant (Palestine) and Egypt. The exact dating of the event has been more or less settled now, to have happened between 1627-1600 BCE on the basis of radio-carbon dating of a buried (under 300 ft of tephra) olive tree, perhaps at the time of eruption as compared to earlier estimates to the middle of 16th century BC (Walter L Fredrich et al, 2006).
The Climatic Impact:
The global climatic effects of such massive volcanic eruption 3500 years ago have been a matter of speculation and evidences, either very scanty or are indirect only. The other comparable eruptions in recent history are the Mt. Tambora eruption in April, 1815 and Mt. Krakatoa in August 26/27, 1883 (both in Indonesia), measuring VEI of 7 and 6, respectively. Tambora event was decisively larger, with estimated ejecta of 1603 km, resulting in direct deaths of around 10,000 due to pyroclastic flows over neighbouring areas, but subsequent deaths totalling upwards of 70,000, due to starvation (resulting from crop damages) and diseases in Islands of Sumbawa, Java and Bali. 1816 was the coldest winter in northern hemisphere after 1400 CE, global average temperature dropped by 0.510 C in 1816, 0.440 C in 1817 and 0.270 C in 1818, resulting widespread perturbations in global climate. In June 1816 frosts were reported in New England region, in Quebec city there was 30 cm of snow (June 6-10), cool temperatures and heavy rains ruined summer harvests in UK, Ireland and there were food riots in Germany—it was the worst famine in Europe in 19th century. Indian monsoon failed for 3 consecutive years (1816-1818) leading to famine, starvations an outbreak of Cholera (in Bengal). The Krakatoa eruption in 1883 is better documented due to scientific advances. The event was similar to the Thera—after the eruption the caldera collapsed into the Sunda strait. The explosion itself was heard at Perth (3110 km) southwest Australia and Mauritius (4800 km away). There were 37000 deaths as per Dutch records, but others estimate over 120,000. Apparently as observed, sun and moon appeared blue and green through volcanic particle filters; and sunsets were vividly red. Over the next three to five years, global temperatures dropped on the average 0.50 C, with brilliant sunsets (Tennyson's "blood-red eye"), halos, coronas, and other atmospheric manifestations. The position one could take is that Tambora eruption of 1815 was as large as the Thera eruption (by ejecta comparison), but yielded a caldera size of 7 km diameter, whereas Thera yielded 15 km and therefore, the VEI of Thera could be much larger, perhaps 8. The global climatic effect would have been many times larger than normally ascribed by geologists. The records from Babylon and Egypt have been found to be unsatisfactory. However, Chinese sources record unusual weather phenomena, cooler temperature, aridity and crop failures around 1620 BC.
Points to Ponder:
It was not the Thera event itself, which undoubtedly was the most significant in the Bronze Age world, but its aftermath, its climatic consequences over the whole northern hemisphere which is our principal concern here. The ash cloud from the eruption is expected to have travelled around in upper atmosphere blocking insolation. The impact of the eruption must have been worldwide, with significant dip in global temperature, perhaps for decades. For Bronze Age agricultural civilizations, especially in the Middle East, Anatolia, Greater Iran and Indus Basin it would have been catastrophic. But people did survive, though there must have been many deaths, and decline of cultures and urban civilizations, as evident from archaeological records. I have no doubt in mind that the event eventually triggered the decline of Mature Harappa stage in IVC. The onset of cooling of the global climate on Central Asia would have been disastrous for still quasi-farming, but steppe cultures of herding, with probable mass deaths of animal herds and food scarcity, prompting the Steppe communities to move southward, towards Anatolia, Mesopotamia (the defeat of the Old Mesopotamian Empire by Hittites in 1595 BCE) and towards the Murghab and Amu basin (Marginia) and Bactria (in Eastern Afghanistan). It may be noted that most of the Steppe cultures were Indo-European speakers, horse-riding charioteer-archers and could move vast swaths of areas in short period of time. It may also be pointed out most of these cultures were fire and sun worshipers (much like the Avestans and the Rg Vedic people themselves)-fire and Sun symbolizing life for cultures in colder areas. The situation might have somewhat stabilized within a few years to a few decades, after devastations across the entire Eurasia. But it unleashed cultural and historical processes from Middle East to Iran and to the Indian subcontinent of far reaching consequences. The situation could be summarized as follows:
(i) The size of Thera caldera in comparison to Tambora and Krakatoa (1815 & 1883, respectively) may indicate a much larger volcanicity in Thera eruption than as normally attributed to. This, of course, needs more precise estimates than currently available. But, given it was the largest known eruption in past 10 KA of human history, its climatic impacts could be much larger than generally assumed.
(ii) The “drought hypothesis” of decline of the Indus Valley Culture (Harappa) is further buttressed once the Thera eruption is connected with climatic effect over the Bronze Age world, particularly over the Middle East, Greater Iran, Indus Basin and Central Asia and even, China, where the “Bamboo Chronicles” quite precisely record the persistent failure of crops associated with baffling weather events, though the eruption itself was unknown to the Chinese of end 17th century BCE.
(iii) The same process that led to the end of the Mature Harappa Stage, perhaps can be attributed to the arrivals of the Steppe culture from the north to Mesopotamia, Greater Iran and finally, into north west India, that finally shaped Indian history. It is generally assumed that events as far and distant as Aegean eruption of Thera, could do little to the Chinese or the IVC and therefore, there is little connection established between the eruption and its effects on climate and cultures in Central Asia and IVC.
There are no eye-witness accounts, no written records (except indications from Chinese records on strange weather events and crop failures) of the eruption—even the date was in dispute until recent times. Measuring its impact at even pan-Asia scale is partly speculative and given to rational reconstruction in mind only. But, there is no doubt that the impact of Thera in 17th century BC was a significant global event and it contributed in no uncertain way the contours of the Bronze Age world.
Endnotes
MaLeish, Todd et al. Santorini eruption much larger than originally believed. Mass: University of Rhode Island, 2006.
The Minoan civilization was not entirely destroyed, though was decimated, with the Knossos palace having been damaged severely by both the associated earthquakes and tephra showers. Some population survived, to be finally occupied by the Mycenaeans in 14th century BC.
Fredrich, Walter E, Kromer,B., Fredrich, M., Heinemeler, J.,Pfeiffer, T. and Talamo, S. Science (312)(5776) p.548, (April 28), 2006.
Oppenheimer, Clive. "Climatic, environmental and human consequences of the largest known historic eruption: Tambora Volcano (Indonesia) 1815". Progress in Physical Geography 27 (2): 230–259, 2003.
Ibid.
Winchester, S. Krakatoa: The Day World Exploded: August 27, 1883. New York: HarperCollins, 2003.
Foster, K.P, Ritner R.K,and Foster, BR. Texts, Storms and the Thera Eruption. Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 55(1), p.4.
“A few months to two years later, a small precursory ash fall heralded the dramatic, Plinian phase of the eruption, during which a column of pulverized magma shot 30 or 35 km into the air. The Aegean flowed into the crater and over the exposed magma in the vent, whereupon the eruption increased greatly in violence. Fresh volcanic material surged out laterally, succeeded by horizontal flows of gas-rich clouds laden with ash, pumice, and blocks. The entire eruption took eighteen hours at a minimum, more likely lasting several days. The accompanying atmospheric disturbances included periods of darkness, wind, lightning, rain, and deafening noise.”—in Karen P Foster et al, Ibid., p.4. It may be noted that Foster et al assumed (on the basis of Egyptian evidence) the eruption to have taken place in mid-16th century BC and thus, the reference to Pharaoh Ahmoses’s rule (Eighteenth Dynasty in Egyptian chronology), which on the basis of radiocarbon dating is now established to have taken place in the last quarter of 17th century BC.
Possible corroboration comes from the Chinese Bamboo Annals, which report in epigrammatic style odd atmospheric phenomena and summer frosts at the beginning of the Shang Dynasty; this linkage depends on taking 1620 BC as the fall of the preceding Xia Dynasty, and on attributing the abnormalities in China to the Thera eruption (K. D. Pang. “Three Very Large Volcanic Eruptions in Antiquity and Their Effects on the Climate of the Ancient World”. Eos (66), p. 816, 1985.
It may be noted that there are no large evidences of mass graves, which is obvious from the fact that the event itself did not result in mass deaths, not even in Thera (which was perhaps, evacuated a few months prior to the main event)—it was the subsequent decades, cooler climate, increasing aridity and recurrent crop failures which must have resulted in starvation deaths as well as outmigration to relatively warmer areas and general dispersal of these cultures, especially from Indus Basin to southeast into mainland India. The possibility of large flooding in Indus basin could not be discounted—many such volcanic eruptions are associated with heavy precipitation followed by subsequent temperature decline and aridity.
NB: Post Script: I had no clue about Thera eruption prior to the visit in 2011. But the spectacular sight of Santorini and the magnificent Caldera encouraged me to look into the subject next year and half—the outcome an unfinished and unpublished draft from which these excerpts have been taken.
From Eera Village Santorini, the view of Neakameni (the new Island with magma-dome, permanently hot ground below and the Cruise Ship Majestic.
Avaya C Mohapatra is a Retired Professor, Served North Eastern Hill University, Shillong (July 1976- September, 2017). He is a freelancer in academic writing and a blogger (acmohapatra.blogspot.com). He can be reached via email: acmohapatradr@gmail.com.
Retired Sr Professor in Geography, North Eastern Hill University, Shillong 793022. Email: acmohapatradr@gmail.com; Blog: acmohapatra.blogspot.com (Science, Society and Life) (Educated at Ravenshaw College, Cuttack; Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi; North Eastern Hill University, Shillong; Central School of Planning and Statistics, Warsaw and University of Oslo, Norway. Books edited and authored:7, Research Publications over 100 in journals and edited chapters, Supervised 27 Ph.D 23 M.Phils and completed 15 major and minor research projects. He also worked in collaborations with UNICEF, New Delhi, 1991-94, AusAid, 1993-95. Latest publication is Tryst Indica: Reflecting on the Republic, Blue Hill Publications, Patna, Dec. 2021. )
LEAD STORIES FROM THE FOUR BOOKS OF MRUTYUNJAY SARANGI
JASMINE GIRL AT HAJI ALI AND OTHER STORIES
Author: Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Published by Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Month and Year of Publication - Feb 2022
Price - Rs. 225
Contact details for buying the book : Mrutyunjay Sarangi, +91 99307 39537 or mrutyunjays@gmail.com
THE JASMINE GIRL AT HAJI ALI
Girls in Mumbai are delightfully bold. Nothing unnerves them. They are fearless, going out for coffee at one o' clock in the night in the neighbouring Baristas or for kulfi at Chowpatty. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can beat their chutzpah.
The girl in this true story was a wispy, sprightly Mumbaikar of fifteen or so, selling strings of Jasmine flower flitting from car to car near the traffic signal at Haji Ali. My friend's wife was driving her car along with three of her colleagues from the office and stopped at Hazi Ali to have a bite of Ice cream. The jasmine girl came running to them offering the flowers accompanied by a sweetly mischievous, out of the world, smile:
- Phool logey Auntyji? Lo naa, aapkey gorey gorey cheherepey khub jamegaa! Ekdum jhakaas!
(You want flowers Auntyji? Take them; they will shine on your fair skin. Just fantastic!)
- Kya bhav hai?
(How much for the flowers?)
- Sirf tees rupaye! Aap ke liye pachees! Ley lo naa! De doon char?
(Only thirty rupees per string. For you twenty five rupees! Should I give you four strings?)
- Chal hatt, nehin chahiye! Pachees rupaye mey itna thodaa saa phool?
(Get lost! So little flowers for twenty five rupees, we don’t want.)
The girl was about to run away when one of the ladies hollered after her,
- Aey, ice-cream khaaegi kya?
(Hey, you want to have some ice cream?)
And the ladies started laughing. Before disappearing behind a car the girl shouted back,
- Ice-cream laa rahey ho to merey liye Cassata lana....mujhe achhi lagti hey...
(If you are buying ice cream, get Cassata flavor for me. I love it!)
My friend's wife got down to buy the ice cream. Her friends were rolling in laughter, "Look at the rajkumari, she likes nothing but Cassata!"
In five minutes they were eating their ice cream in the car and looking for the jasmine girl. She suddenly appeared from nowhere, the strings of flower hanging from her shoulder. They gave her the ice-cream. And my friend's wife turned the ignition to start the car. Suddenly the girl took out four strings of flower and gave them to her through the open window.
The friends were taken aback. One of them took out a hundred rupees note and offered to her. She waved her away. The sweetly mischievous smile was back, "Ye phool meri tarafsey! Aap ney mujhe ice-cream diya, mera phool qubul kijiyey!"
(These flowers are from me. You gave me ice cream, please accept my flowers!)
And she ran away in an incredibly sweet way only a Mumbai girl with loads of chutzpah can do!
Glossary
Kulfi - Cone shaped traditional Indian ice cream
Rajkumari – Princess
Author: Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Published by Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Month and Year of Publication - Feb 2022
Price - Rs. 225
Contact details for buying the book : Mrutyunjay Sarangi, +91 99307 39537 or mrutyunjays@gmail.com
A TRAIN TO KOLKATA
After two days of incessant rains, the sky cleared on the July afternoon in Bhubaneswar. But the air was still damp and a light drizzle kept people indoors. With a heavy heart, which matched the melancholic weather, I entered my compartment in the Kolkata-bound Dhauli Express. The train was to leave in twenty minutes.
The wet weather must have discouraged people from travelling. The compartment was empty. I felt scared. Is it safe for a lady to travel alone all the way to Kolkata? I looked out. Rats were scampering on the adjoining track looking for bits of food. From nowhere a cat jumped in and caught hold of a rat and shred it to pieces. I shuddered. The macabre scene added to my depression.
A shadow fell on me. I looked up. A man walked in to occupy the opposite seat. With his back to me, he took out a couple of magazines and newspapers, and lifted his stroller to put it on the overhead rack. Then he turned and sat down. A tall man of middle age, he must have been four, five years older than me. Decently dressed with nice glasses, and a soft, handsome face, the gentleman was a picture of quiet dignity. Without a glance at me, he took out a newspaper and his face disappeared behind it.
I felt relieved to find that he didn’t want to start a conversation. Feeling low by the burden of sadness, I was in no mood to talk. But I was happy that there was company and I wouldn’t have to travel all alone. Suddenly my mobile phone rang. It was my daughter.
“Mummy, Papa is asking if you have reached the station?”
“Yes Mamuni, I am already in the train. It will leave in five minutes. Please remind Papa, I am not like him. I always reach trains and buses in time.”
Mamuni must have spoken to Anang, my husband. I knew it will take time for him to convey his answer. He will have to write it on a piece of paper in his shaking hand.
“Mummy, Papa says you are always the best, No one can be like you”
“And what do you say? Will Papa say everything? Not a word from you for your mummy?”
“Mummy, what can I say? You are my best Mummy, now and forever!”
I felt happy. Mamuni continued.
“Mummy, you know, Chinu cried yesterday, after returning from school”
My heart sank.
“Why, what happened?”
“Leave it, Mummy, I will tell you when you reach here”
“No no, please tell me now. Otherwise I will keep worrying”
“One of his friends told him that Papa’s illness is hereditary. So he will also become paralytic when he grows up”
For a moment I was speechless. Oh my God! Who is this insensitive friend? How can he say something like this?
“Don’t worry Mummy. I told him his friend was wrong. Papa also drew pictures on a piece of paper and explained to him how he had a stroke because of high blood pressure.”
“Please Mamuni, tell him not to believe the words of such worthless friends. Give the phone to him. I will explain to him”
I could hear her talking to Chinu.
“Mummy, he doesn’t want to talk to you now, he is busy drawing pictures. He is asking what have you got for him?”
“Tell him I am bringing a beautiful painting box for him. And what about you? Don’t you want to know what I am getting for you?”
“I don’t want anything. I only want my Mummy near me, always. Please come early. I have already missed school for two days. Of course I got the school notes from Sanghamitra and finished the home work. But I am lagging behind. From tomorrow I will go to school.”
A brief pause.
“Mummy, you know, I had prepared noodles last night. Papa liked it. Chinu relished it so much that he polished off everything!”
“Thank you Mamuni. You are the best daughter in the world!”
She felt embarrassed by the praise, “Mummy, no one can cook better than you. In two days we are missing you and your cooking as if you have been away for ages! Please come soon. Ok Mummy, love you, bye!”
“Love you too.”
My depression grew. How could Chinu’s friend be so heartless? And the friend didn’t even know the full facts! I felt as if someone was hammering a nail into my heart and I was becoming totally helpless. I could never see tears in my children’s eyes. I have become even more sensitive after Anang’s illness. Both the kids have adjusted so well with the adverse situation. Now there is no vacation, outing, eating out at restaurants or new dresses for them, but they don’t complain. Earlier, Chinu, the eight year old son was a bit unreasonable, but he has also become very understanding of late. Mamuni, my twelve year old daughter, is incredibly sweet and loving. Anang says her nature is exactly like that of mine!
Anang always has so much praise for me! After suffering a paralytic stroke he has been confined to bed for the past two years. His job in a private company was terminated within six months of his illness. We survive solely on my salary from my teachership in a private school. Mamuni shares the burden of household work, Chinu sometimes helps in cleaning. It is no more like the old days for them, they have no friends and no games, yet they never complain.
Tears welled up in my eyes. Before Anang became immobile, he was very active and believed in good living. He enjoyed our eating out, watching movies every week, roaming around in the mall, buying things recklessly, wandering around in the park – life was on a roll. And one day our blissful world crashed like a palace of glass. I always used to tell Anang to be careful, not to be obsessed with oily and spicy food, but he never listened to me.
These days Anang looks at me regretfully, and tears fill up his eyes. His left side is paralysed, and the movement is slow on the right side. He is not able to speak, only I can understand his grunts and whimpers. Sometimes he holds my hand with his trembling right hand and tells me through his imploring eyes, “Pray for me. Ask God to give me just one more chance. I will never stray again from a simple, healthy life.”
I pat his head, “Don’t worry. All of us are praying for you. God will listen to our prayers. You will be alright. We will go on vacation again - may be on a pilgrimage, to Badrinath and Kedarnath, and bow before the Gods and Goddesses.”
The phone rang. It was Mamuni again.
“Mummy, Papa is asking if you have wrapped yourself with a shawl. You had told him it is raining and he is worried you might catch cold”
“Mamuni, tell him I am ok. Can you give the phone to him?”
Mamuni must have put the phone next to his ears. I heard a grunt. I knew what he was asking. I had not spoken to him since last evening.
“No, Bhai did not agree.”
Another faint grunt.
“He is not in favour of dividing the land now. He says he has his constraints. I folded my hands and implored him. I told him we need at least fifty thousand rupees for your surgery. But he was unmoved.”
Anang’s grunt bore a clear mark of anguish. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his elder brother also told me, “Bahu, why do you want to waste money on him? His problem is beyond cure. Just leave him to his fate.”
Mamuni came on the line.
“Mummy, what did you tell Papa? Tears are coming out of his eye. Please speak to him.”
Unknown to me, I started crying slowly. I tried to hide my face from my co-passenger, but could not succeed. I found he was discreetly looking at me from beyond the newspaper, his eyes curious and sad. I was embarrassed but helpless.
I wanted to reassure Anang, to give him some hope.
“Please don’t cry. We will find some way. Trust in God. It is only a matter of fifty thousand rupees. I will take a loan from the bank. Dr. Sen has assured us the surgery will be a success. Once you become all right, you will take up a job and we will pay back the loan. Please don’t lose hope. Now stop crying and take some rest. I have to stop now. We have just reached Cuttack station and there is too much noise. People are getting in. Wait for me. I will make your favorite rice pudding when I come home in the evening. Bye.”
Suddenly I found a lady trying to stash her baggage at every available space near us. Hers must be the seat next to the gentleman sitting opposite me. She had two suitcases, two huge fruit baskets, a big steel carrier stuffed with food and two big bags with packets of sweets from Cuttack Sweet Stall.
The lady must be my age, but quite fat. Every inch of her body, the swarthy face, the huge necklace, the earrings, the costly saree and her general bearing bore the unmistakable sign of opulence. Sweating heavily, she had stood up to switch on the fan. The gentleman opposite me wanted to dissuade her and raised his hand, but stopped midway. Because the lady had blurted out at me, like a loud cracker bursting,
“Anjali! You are Anjali Acharya, right?”
I was struck by her massive presence, and by the avalanche of loud noise she had made. I nodded.
“Anjali! Don’t you remember me? I am Bina! Your classmate! Remember, that idiot History lecturer used to call me ‘the Bina with the runaway mind!’ Because I was always absent minded in the class! How the class used to laugh every time he said it!”
I peered at her closely. Yes, she was Bina, my classmate in the college for the first two years of B.A. Those days also she was quite plump, but not as fat as now. She used to be a playful, garrulous girl, known for the heavy make-up on her face. She was the daughter of Sudhakar Mahanty, the super-rich hardware dealer of Cuttack.
She was one of the three girls in our class who used to come to college in their cars. Those three had their schooling in the English medium convent, and formed a gang of their own, something like the rich men’s daughters club. The rest of us were from lower middle-class families and were not very comfortable moving with them. We used to keep our distance from them.
“Hey, Anjali, where are you lost? Are you not able to place me? I can never forget you. If you had not lent your notes to me, I could have never cleared my exams. I was not interested in studies. I didn’t have to, you know. Only middle class girls like you needed to study hard, so that you can get a job. But thanks to your diligence, girls like me could pass in the exams. Gosh, how jealous I was of you, and how angry, when my daddy used to see your notes and tell me to be half as bright as you!”
After so many years I again felt uncomfortable in the company of Bina. Her comments on my middle class background unnerved me. I suddenly looked at the gentleman sitting opposite me. He was looking curiously at Bina’s excited face. Bina’s words were flowing like runaway water from a tap whose valve had come unstuck.
“Your group was so attentive in the class, trying to latch onto every word of the lecturers. Ragini, Himani and I used to giggle all the time, pinching each other, making fun of the strange English accent of those rustic lecturers. Those idiots were fit only for village primary schools. God knows who made them lecturers in college!”
We were aware of the contempt these three girls had for our lecturers. They were usually joined by a gang of upstarts among the boys who also had their schooling in the English medium Stewart school. These boys used to behave like bohemians and liberally sprinkled their talk with words like ‘yaar’, ‘shit’, ‘so what’, ‘bloody’, ‘bastard’. They used to be louder in our presence, just to impress us.
Bina was so carried away by her words that she didn’t sense my discomfort.
“What a coincidence Anjali, meeting you after so many years! You know, I never travel by train. But what to do? The national highway has breached near Chandikhol due to rains and there is no way one can travel by car. So! Where are you these days? And where are you going? ”
“I live in Kolkata, with my family.”
“Kolkata, the metropolis? Wow, what a big jump for you! But you haven’t changed a bit. In the college days you used to put on ordinary dresses, now also you wear the same kind of cheap sarees! And why are you looking so weak, almost anemic? Don’t you eat properly?”
“No, no, it’s not like that. Nothing is wrong with me. May be my constitution is like that.”
“Possible. In fact if you don’t have proper nutrition in childhood you can never pick up later. I remember in your group almost every one was like this - weak, painfully thin.”
I felt distinctly restless. Bina and I were meeting after almost twenty years. But Bina was not leaving any chance to remind me of my middle class background. My father was a teacher in a village school on the outskirts of Cuttack. Most of his income was spent on the medical expenses of my ailing mother. Both of them passed away five years back in quick succession, but Bina’s cruel words on my childhood brought back sad memories of my loving parents.
The gentleman opposite me was now constantly staring at my sad face and Bina’s garrulous mouth which was spewing unpleasant nuggets from the past. His expression was grave, but tinged with a hint of sadness. When he saw me looking at him, he felt slightly embarrassed at this intrusion into our personal talk. His gaze returned to the newspaper.
“So Anjali, what are you doing? Are you a big officer in Kolkata? After all, you were so good in studies!”
There was a hint of sarcasm in Bina’s words. I felt annoyed at this kind of questioning.
“I work as a Geography teacher in a private school near our home”
“Geography teacher? That’s interesting. And your husband? What does he do?”
“He was working in a private firm.”
“Was? What do you mean ‘was’? Is he jobless now?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
“Was he thrown out by the owner of the firm?”
I hesitated. Given Bina’s insensitivity, I was not sure how much I could disclose to her. This meeting with Bina was not exactly a pleasant experience for me. Bina had not changed – she remained the same snobbish, rich girl that she was twenty years back. Bina could sense my hesitation.
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. Sometimes, if an employee embezzles money, the owner throws him out of the job. We had an accountant like that. My husband Ranjit kicked him out. He threatened he would tell the whole world what wrong-doings were going on in the firm. Ranjit gave some money to a gang of ruffians. They beat him up so badly that the fellow became invalid and after three months vanished from the town. What happened? Why did you start? Has your husband also vanished?”
“No, no. Nothing like that, my husband is with us.”
“Then why did you start, like you have seen a ghost? What is the matter?”
I was in two minds, whether to tell the insensitive Bina about Anang’s problem.
She continued.
“You middle class people have this perennial problem. You give long lectures on honesty and integrity, but when it comes to your own failings, you want to hide from the world.”
Bina’s words hurt me badly.
“No Bina, my husband doesn’t lack integrity. Actually, two years back he had a paralytic stroke and has become partially invalid.”
“O my God, o my God! I am so sorry! Anjali, how unlucky you are. God has never been kind to you. Right since childhood you have led a poor life. I feel really sad for you. So if your husband is jobless, how do you manage? Your salary may not be enough to run the family?”
“It’s ok. We somehow manage.”
“How many children do you have? Where do they study? Hope you have put them in some good English medium school. Don’t tell me they are studying in some third rate Bengali medium school?”
“We have a daughter and a son, daughter is the elder one. They study in Central School, near our place.”
Bina wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Central School? I am told that is where the children of poor government servants, like clerks, drivers and peons study! What kind of culture will they learn there?”
I wanted to tell Bina, that Central Schools are meant for the children of all government officials, including high-ranking officers. And there is a quota for brilliant students from the private sector also. And our children were studying under that quota. But before I could speak again, the train reached Bhadrak station. The hawkers entered the compartment, selling tea, biscuits and peanuts. Bina bought two cups of tea and handed over one to me.
“Take a cup of tea. At least some milk should go into your system. You are looking really anemic. Look at me. If you poke my cheek with your finger, blood will spill out. Ranjit has engaged two maidservants only to give massage to me twice a day. Do you remember, just after I passed my second year B.A., how my father gave me away in marriage to the Shah family of Balasore, the famous owners of Shah Transport? They have a fleet of buses and trucks and half a dozen petrol bunks. See my good fortune, I was raised like a princess and now I live like a queen. That’s why when you girls were studying hard to get a job and a middle-class husband, we were waiting in anticipation for a prince to come and sweep us off our feet. Everything is pre-destined Anjali. Otherwise, what sins have you committed? Why should you suffer so much, that too right from your childhood?”
I cursed my fate. Why did I get this particular seat in this compartment? If I had got it elsewhere, I would have been spared the unpleasantness of this meeting with Bina.
Bina was not done yet.
“So, how old is your daughter? What have you named her?”
“She is twelve years old. We call her Mamuni. Her school name is Pratyasha.”
“Pratyasha? What does it mean? You know, I had my schooling in the St. Joseph’s Convent at Cuttack. So I don’t know much of Oriya. We have only one child, a daughter. Her name is Daisy. We had put her in a boarding school in Ooty. But she went out of control there. With five classmates, three of them boys, she went away to Goa without permission from the school. The principal rusticated all of them. We brought her to Balasore and married her off to a boy in the Tej family of Rairangpur. We had to give one crore rupees in cash, a Honda City car and one thousand grams of gold as dowry. We had no choice. You know how it is these days, if you don’t give enough dowry. Sometimes they set fire to the poor girl!”
The gentleman opposite to me suddenly exploded angrily.
“Madam, will you please stop talking? You have been talking non-stop ever since you entered the compartment. I have got a headache. Now please be quiet and allow me to take a nap.”
Bina got the shock of her life at this unexpected attack. Her mouth fell open and for a full minute she remained frozen in her seat. But she chose not to pick up a fight, because her destination, Balasore station, was only ten minutes away. Her eyes spewed fire and she kept on looking at the gentleman, as if like the sages of ancient Indian epics, with her gaze she will reduce him to ashes. He had closed his eyes and was trying to take a nap.
I was also surprised. How could this sober, quiet, dignified gentleman become so explosively angry? Looking at him, nobody could imagine him to be capable of such anger. But I was relieved, to be spared of Bina’s continuous harangue, and thanked the gentleman in my mind.
Balasore station was approaching. I helped Bina to gather her suitcases, the fruit baskets and the bags containing the packets of sweets. Bina shook hands with me.
“Next time when we come to Kolkata I will let you know. Ranjit always prefers to stay at the Park Hotel. Anything less won’t do for him. You must bring your kids. I want to see them. They will also get a chance to have Chinese and Continental food in a five-star hotel. With your small income, you will never be able to afford it. Ok, here we are at Balasore station. My two servants are already at the platform. See you at Kolkata.”
With that Bina dragged her fat body and gradually disappeared from my gaze and perhaps from my life. I realized she has no intention of meeting us at Kolkata. Otherwise she could have at least taken down my mobile number.
After Bina left, I was filled with a terrible sadness. I also felt angry at my cruel fate. Within the four walls of my life, I had learnt to live with my own joys and sorrow, fulfillment and anguish. Despite the difficulties, Mamuni’s selfless goodness, Chinu’s demanding affection, and Anang’s unstinted trust had given a new meaning to my life. In my small world I had learnt to face the harsh struggles in my own way. What right did Bina have to inflict such deep wounds and shatter my world of peace?
The failure of my mission yesterday to get money from Anang’s brother, and Bina’s merciless battering today, left me desolate. I lost control over my emotions. I knew my lean, weather-beaten body of a thousand storms was going to melt into a nerve-wracking ocean of tears. To avoid embarrassment to my co-passenger, I covered my face and body with a sheet and in no time, tears flowed from my eyes like a flood breaking a dam.
I don’t know how long I cried and when my tired eyes drifted off to sleep. When I got up, Howrah station, the gateway to Kolkata, was only fifteen minutes away. I realized I could not go to my small apartment with a face looking like a flood-ravaged ravine. I desperately needed to go to the bathroom and wash my face. But the station was approaching and it wasn’t safe to leave my bag unattended. I looked at my co-passenger.
“Please keep an eye on my bag. I need to go to the bathroom.”
The gentleman gave a shocked start, looking at my pale face and the dried up tears. He nodded his head.
When I returned from the bathroom, the train had reached Howrah station.
The gentleman was standing at the edge of the seat, his stroller in hand, ready to leave.
When I came near, he pointed at my bag and said, “Your bag”. I thanked him and he left.
I too got ready to leave and gathered my shoulder bag. Suddenly, I felt the chain of the bag was slightly open. I felt a little shock. Who opened my bag? I clearly remembered I had closed it. Was anything missing?
With trembling hands I opened the bag. A thick white envelope tumbled out from top of the bag. What is this? I had not kept it in the bag! How did it come here? I hurriedly opened it. Inside, there was a thick bundle of currency notes and a hurriedly written letter.
Dear Anjali,
Every year, the last week of July is a period of intense burning for me. I feel as if a raging pyre is trying to consume me by entering every pore of my body. Twenty four years back, on twenty sixth of July, my young, vivacious, beautiful sister met her end, set on fire by her in-laws for not bringing enough dowry. Night after night I wake up, suffocating on the thought of how her delicate body would have cried in anguish; how, in her dying moments, she would have silently called my parents and me to come and take her away, pour cold water on her and douse the fire that was trying to consume her.
I was in my final year of Engineering when she left us. If, like today, I were a Manager of a Tea Estate in Assam at that time, I would have put all the riches of the world in her little palms and saved her soft, innocent body from a senseless fire.
Every year in the last week of July I go to my village, sit under the banyan tree at the burial ground and search for her lost soul. If only I could bring her back, to hear her giggle again, get my ears pulled by her soft hands, or be teased by her thousand childish pranks! The solitude at the burial ground only makes me more frustrated and desolate! And I return with a heavy heart.
Please forgive me for shouting at your insensitive classmate. When she spoke of girls being burnt for dowry, I could not restrain myself. Looking at her, I kept on wondering why God has not cared to fit a small heart into that huge body! Then she wouldn’t have been able to hurt you with her cruel words.
Anjali, please think of me as your elder brother and accept this gift of fifty thousand rupees for the surgery of your husband. I pray to God, in the name of my dead sister’s soul, that your husband becomes all right, and happiness and bliss return to your family.
Your unknown brother
Tears started flowing from my eyes, tears for my unknown brother and his sweet little sister. I rushed out of the compartment and tried to locate him. It was no use, he had left a long while back. But under the dim, twinkling light of Howrah station, every retreating figure looked like my unknown elder brother, a messenger of love, compassion and kindness.
I looked up at heaven, at the infinitely merciful Supreme Power who is beyond all joys and all sorrows, unlimited by the boundaries of life, death, bliss and anguish, whose glowing touch brightens the darkest corners of every living soul and fills it with fathomless serenity. Overwhelmed, I lifted my bag and started my journey home. Tomorrow there would be a new dawn – promising a day of fresh hopes and dreams.
Glossary
Bahu: A form of addressing brother’s or son’s wife
Bhai: Elder brother
Dowry: The gift that a bride traditionally brings with her. However, it gets ugly
when such gifts are demanded by the bridegroom’s family and become a cause of
bickering at the wedding and afterwards.
Yaar: A form of addressing a friend
Author: Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Published by Notion Press, Chennai
Month and Year of Publication - May 2023
Price - Rs. 249
Contact details for buying the book :
1. Notion Press
2. Mrutyunjay Sarangi, +91 99307 39537 or mrutyunjays@gmail.com
ANJIE, PAT AND INDIA’S POOR
Pat pushed a hot cauliflower pakoda into his mouth and blurted out,
"We have to take a quick decision. Can't wait anymore!"
The next moment his face darkened, sweat appeared on his forehead and he opened his mouth to emit smoke like a steam engine. The pakoda was obviously hot and my American citizen friend, unused to steaming pakodas, had misjudged its impact. He cried out, like a man surprised by a stinging scorpion,
"Holy shit! Why didn't you warn me how hot this goddamn stuff is?"
Since it was addressed to no one in particular, his wife Anjie laughed her head off,
"Serves you right, you incorrigible glutton, the moment you land in India you start filling your tummy with food. As if I don't give you any food back home. All this fried pakoda will keep you awake tonight, your poor tummy filled with gas like a freaking balloon!"
Pratap, my old classmate from high school, who had magically transformed into Pat in the U.S., whimpered; his mouth stuffed with the third piece of pakoda consumed with a swiftness which would have given a kicking mule an inferiority complex,
"O, O, it is worth every ton of gas in the tummy, this heavenly stuff! And talking about the food you give me in America, let me tell you, even the prisoners in our jails in India get better stuff - at least they get freshly made rotis and sabji - not the grub prepared on Sundays, taken out of the freezer and heated up on rest of the days."
It was obvious to experienced eyes that a storm was appearing on their domestic horizon and before things went out of control my wife Kadambari dragged Anjana - Anjie to her friends and colleagues in America - to the kitchen to bring a plate of hot chicken pakodas which she knew would disappear in no time to make space for aloo pakodas as worthy successors in a grand lineage of the glorious pakoda clan.
Anjie and Pat, successful doctors in the U.S., had arrived from abroad in the early morning and checked in at Hotel Radisson near the Delhi airport. They usually did it every year on their annual trip to India. After checking in at the Radisson they would head straight for our government bungalow at Shahjahan Road and spend the whole day with us, catching up on all the gossip and stuffing themselves with the choicest dishes made by Kadamabari. Since I was indifferent to food and our son and daughter were away in their hostels, Kadambari used to prepare food fit for a royal feast for Anjie and Pat - dosa, idly, halwa for breakfast, chicken biriyani, fish fry and prawn curry for lunch and all kinds of assorted pakodas for the evening snacks. Dinner would be a 'light' affair with only mutton raganjosh and keema paratha. Pratap had an astonishingly gargantuan appetite and would do justice to all the dishes, sometimes openly and shamelessly licking his fingers, to squeals of laughter from Anjie, liberally sprinkled with endearing expletives. But Pat never cared and always ate with a gusto that bordered on exhibitionism. Obviously, both being doctors, they knew how to take care of rumbling tummies. They regretfully missed Kadambari's cooking on their return trip to U.S., preferring to go directly to the International Airport from the domestic one.
The first time Pat came to visit us around six years back, he took a long post-lunch nap and after getting up, gestured to Anjie to give him something. Anjie promptly handed over to him a roll of toilet paper from her bulging bag. Pat looked at me in embarrassment and murmured "Sorry, a dirty American habit" and ambled on to the toilet. Next year when he called to announce his impending trip I asked him not to bring toilet paper or mineral water from the US and promised to store them up before their arrival. Anjie and Pat never brought their two sons with them because on their first and only visit the kids had got frequent attacks of amoebiasis and copious mosquito bites had made their brown skin red.
Two years back, while munching on some puffed rice with mixture, Pat suddenly exclaimed,
"Satish, what's happening to this bloody country? Why is it deteriorating so fast?"
Curious, I asked him what happened.
"See, every time we land up at Delhi airport I hand over a bag containing a bottle of Black Label whisky and a carton of Marlboro cigarettes to the Customs official at the gate as a 'gift' and he lets us go. Yesterday even after I handed over the bag, someone else appeared, and asked me to open our two bags. He appeared to be the boss of the man who had taken the 'gift'. One look at him and I knew he meant trouble, so I took him aside, opened my wallet and told him, opening the bags is the same as opening the wallet. He took the wallet from me, extracted two hundred dollar bills and handed it back to me. When we left, you should have seen the way they saluted us, as if I was the President of India and had just signed their promotion order! Why Satish, why are they so unreasonable? Corruption within some norms is fine, but such open greed! Why this country is so wretched?"
I asked him why he had paid the bribe, was he carrying gold biscuits or some contraband?
Pat shook his head,
"Arey nehin yaar, no gold biscuit fiscuit, just a Nikon camera for my brother-in-law, a few watches for the nephews and nieces, some perfume and chocolates. The total worth may not be more than seven or eight hundred dollars. But after a twenty two hours journey who has the patience to go through a check by the Customs officials? And some of my friends have told me that once they open the bags, they will take out everything and take special pleasure in displaying your under garments to the wide eyed audience waiting in line."
We started laughing at this comic picture, but I continued,
"Why do you bring all this stuff with you, when everything is available in India?"
This time Anjie interjected,
"Everything is available here but the relatives want to show off the acquisitions from abroad. My Bhabhi takes special pleasure in giving away some chocolates to the lesser mortals with a warning 'to keep them in deep freezer, otherwise they will melt, having come from snowy climates like the U.S.'"
We had another round of laughter but Pat's frustration at the "deteriorating human values" continued to simmer within him. Like an obtuse Chinese philosopher he made a grand statement,
"Even if you are corrupt, maintain honesty in your dishonesty. If you lose your robe, heat and cold both are same for you."
That was two years ago. This time after the second cup of evening tea both Pat and Anjie expressed their rising sorrow over the growing poverty in India, and the falling standards of our roads and infrastructure. They had recently read somewhere about some starvation deaths in Odisha and their heart had melted like butter on a hot plate. They wanted to donate money for what they called the alleviation of poverty. Out of curiosity I asked them what was the amount they had in mind. Pat was about to say something, Anjie cut him short,
"Look Satish, money has no meaning for us. Both of us are well settled as doctors, our combined income is more than one million dollars per year. Both our sons are in Medical school and we have kept four hundred thousand for each of them in their bank account to cover their tuition fees and living expenses for the next five years. With a mansion in Chicago, a beach house in Tampa, Florida, a ranch in Texas and couple of apartments in La Jolla, San Diego, we don't need any more money. So we can spare about five thousand dollars a year for our poor countrymen."
I made a quick calculation. Five thousand dollars translated to something like three lakh rupees. What big change in poverty did Anjie and Pat want to make with this amount? But I waited to hear about their plan. Pat looked at me pointedly,
"Satish, why don't YOU do something for the poor? I can write a cheque to you for five thousand dollars now itself. Don't you feel for our poor?"
"Yes, of course I am pained by the widespread poverty in India, but I don't want to take your money. For the five thousand dollars you give me you will ask me fifty questions and keep on pestering me to know how I spent the money and how much poverty has been reduced by your kind gesture. I don't want that headache".
Pat exploded,
"See, see, this is the problem with you Indians! You don't want to act, just sit on your fat bottoms and give lectures!"
I couldn't contain my laughter,
"Hey Pratap, what do you mean, 'you Indians'? Since when have you ceased to be an Indian?"
Pat looked at me, embarrassed, and said,
"Sorry, just a slip of tongue! But tell me how to use our five thousand dollars for India's poor. They need it, you know."
"Give it to the Prime Minister's Relief Fund. It will be used to help the poor at the time of some natural disaster."
Pat shook his head in total disapproval,
"No! Why should we wait for a natural disaster for our money to be used for the poor? And we wouldn't know for whom the money has been used or for what. Tell me some other constructive way to do that"
I thought for a few seconds.
"Why not give it to some orphanage or Old Age Home?"
Pat looked at me angrily,
"You idiot, can't you think of some good use for our hard earned money? You want it to go for children or old people? With children we will have to wait for decades to see if someone who got the benefit of our money did anything meaningful in life. And with old people……."
Pat just wrinkled his nose, shook his head, and kept quiet.
I offered another suggestion,
"Give it to our school, you know the Salepur High School where you and I had studied? Ask the head master to buy a few computers and other modern equipment for the students."
Pat sat there for a few seconds, with his head bent in some kind of a silent despair.
"Five years back I had sent two thousand dollars to my uncle to hand over to the head master of our old school to construct a new modern laboratory for the students. You know what happened? My uncle told me that the head master had got the dollars converted to rupees and kept it at home. His son, a good for nothing scoundrel, somehow came to know that more than a lakh rupees was kept at home. He beat up his father and ran away with the money to Kolkata with a couple of friends and returned after a fortnight, all the money spent on liquor and whores. I don't want to waste my money again with those useless people."
I tried to persuade him,
"You don't have to give to the Head Master, just give the money to the BDO of Salepur Block, he will get the work done and give the completion certificate to you."
Anjana cut me short and exploded,
"BDO? You mean Block Development Officer? My God, BDOs are the most corrupt people in government. One of my uncles was a BDO. One day his house was raided and the police got papers for property worth ninety lakh rupees, seven lakh rupees cash, jewelry worth twenty lakhs, all made from loot of public money. We don't want to touch a BDO even with a barge pole."
Anjana was so emphatic that I suggested they donate the money to an NGO.
Pat made a big face as if he had just swallowed a baby python instead of an aloo pakoda,
"Brother! NGOs are pure poison. One of my friends in Philly gave a few thousand dollars to an NGO in his home state of Bihar. Later, it came out the NGO was a fraud and had no authorization to collect funds from abroad. An enquiry was ordered and some government officials made repeated trips to the U.S. and other countries to conduct the enquiry. I am sure with their frequent jaunts they spent more money than the amount involved in fraud. My friend was summoned by the Embassy fellows three times and had to go to Washington to attend the enquiry. I don't want to get into that kind of a mess."
That put me in a fix. I thought I had exhausted all options; suddenly my eyes were drawn to Kadambari. Poor thing, she was tired after a day's hard work and had dozed off on a chair. Looking at her I had an inspiration! Women's empowerment! Yes, we had to empower women, we had to awaken the sleeping lot, and make them a part of India's growth story. I snapped my fingers and announced triumphantly,
"Pratap, your problem is solved. Women's empowerment! We will spend that money on women's empowerment. It's a worthy cause and nothing is worthier than that. Moreover in India anything that has to do something with women draws attention like half-clad devotees to a non-clad Baba."
Anjie and Pat sat up, instantly electrified and shouted,
"Yes, you have hit the nail on the head. Our money will fly like a magic carpet carrying women to dizzying heights! Wow, such an exciting idea! But tell me how to spend it on this worthy cause?"
I shared their enthusiasm like a schoolboy returning home after winning a trophy, and blurted out,
"There are so many NGOs working for women's empowerment. We can work through them".
Next moment I jumped up as if a bomb had exploded under my chair, Pat shouted like an agitated headmaster disciplining a wayward student,
"NGO? Again NGO? Didn't I tell you we just don't trust those blighters? Why do you want us to get into trouble, just because we want to do something for our poor country?"
I was a little embarrassed, like an innocent schoolboy who was being scolded by his teacher for unwittingly wetting his pants. Even Kadambari woke up from her dozing at Pat's shouting.
Before I could say anything more, the doorbell rang. It was the taxi driver who had come to ask if there would be more delay and if he could go and finish his dinner somewhere. Anjie was annoyed. They had engaged the taxi for the whole day, hadn't they? So why was the idiot asking this stupid question? She was unusually aggressive,
"Yes, we will be here till eleven. You have some problem with that?"
The driver was taken by surprise by her harshness,
"No Memsaab, If you are going to be late I will go and have dinner in some dhaba nearby."
Anjie shouted at him,
"So? Go and have your grub and come, why are you asking for permission?"
The driver smiled obsequiously and kept standing there. Pat went to the door, took out two hundred rupees from his pocket and gave it to him and asked him to return by ten. The driver saluted him and went away. Anjie exploded like a Diwali bomb, and snapped at Pat,
"You gave him two hundred rupees? Two freaking hundred? Look at the bloody swine, we pay him four thousand rupees for the day's hire and he expects money for dinner? Why can't he spend his own money for his grub?"
I was speechless! These two earned an income of one million dollars a year. And cribbing for tips of two hundred rupees which was less than three and half dollars! I couldn't restrain myself,
"But Anjie, in U.S. you must be tipping the taxi drivers, the waitresses in restaurants? And that would be at least ten dollars? So why do you mind paying two hundred rupees to the taxi driver here?"
Anjie shot back, like a cobra spitting venom,
"Come on Satish, is there any comparison? America is America, the richest country in the world! But India is so cheap, everything is so cheap here! You don't need two hundred rupees to have a meal here! This idiot Pat is so freaking gullible! God knows what comes over him when he lands in India; he over-tips everyone, forgetting that this is such a cheap place!"
I winced, as if hit by cruel shots from a gun. A great sadness enveloped my being like a dark cloud covering the sky. Cheap? My country may be poor, but certainly not cheap! The poor in my country suffered as much from hunger and pain as the poor anywhere in the world, including America. Hunger had no nationality, no colour, no religion. It was expressed in only one language - the language of pain and of a miserable frustration at an uncaring God who kept people hungry. My people in India felt the same sorrow at a relative's death, their heart breaking into thousands of twisted pieces as anyone in a rich country like the U.S. If a nail bit the feet it caused the same amount of pain everywhere in the world, making people cry! There was nothing cheap about hunger, pain, tears! How heartless of Anjana to say India was a cheap country!
Kadambari could sense my sadness; she invited all of us to dinner and over food asked Pat,
"So, how are you going to empower the women?"
Pat smiled,
"Forget it, I can't go from town to town with a bagful of dollars and tell women, 'Come, come, I will empower you!' It will be like a barber going around with a razor calling men to come to him so that he can shave their beard!"
The comparison was so outlandish that we all burst out laughing. Anjie took a big chunk of the keema paratha, dipped it in Raganjosh and moved by the heavenly taste, looked admiringly at Kadambari,
"Look Kadambari, the only way out is to hand over the five thousand dollars to you to spend on some worthwhile cause. I am sure you as a woman will understand poverty better than thick-headed men!"
Kadambari liked the idea, particularly her superiority over thick-headed men. She jumped at the proposal like a child grabbing a handful of lollipops,
"Yes, give me the money; I will buy blankets for the poor and the homeless during winter which is just two months away. So many of them sleep under the flyovers and keep shivering through winter nights, some of them even die, unable to withstand the severe cold!"
Anjana sat up as if she had just swallowed a frog which had accidentally strayed into the Raganjosh. And like Katrina Kaif in the song Sheela Ki Jawani she said in a singsong voice,
"No no no no, no no no no; don't do that. No no, I won't allow that. I had read somewhere that these buggers sell off the blankets for a hundred rupees or so and spend the money on buying drugs or charas. We don't want our hard earned dollars to go up in charas smoke!"
With that I felt we had reached a stalemate. We had been discussing this subject for more than two hours and had reached nowhere, after traversing in all directions. We finished dinner and over a dessert of rasmalai I suggested to Pat that he should find a good, deserving institution like CARE or Oxfam International and donate his five thousand dollars to them. Anjie and Pat gathered their things and started walking towards the taxi. I opened the door for them. Pat turned to me and with deep hurt in his voice, said,
"Satish, how could you even think of such a ghastly thing? Hard earned money of Anjie and mine will go to institutions outside India? Why, are the poor in India so unfortunate? They won't get a penny of our charity? Please, don't speak like that, my brother. We are prepared to wait for one more year. Meanwhile, locate good recipients for our money. When we come next year we will finalise."
With that assurance they left. I turned, my heart weighed down by an indefinable sadness. I murmured to myself, "Pat and Anjie, you will go back to the U.S. after two weeks and get busy earning your million dollars and planning to buy another beach house in San Francisco or a ranch in Colorado. Till you come on your trip next year, India will add one more million people to its poor, the rich will get richer, the hungry hungrier. Our pompous and overfed leaders will give a thousand more heart-wrenching speeches on poverty and hunger in the legislatures. But within the next one year how do I locate deserving individuals, selfless NGOs or honest leaders for your donation of five thousand dollars?"
Glossary Arey nehin yaar - No, my friend
BDO – Block Development Officer
Charas - Cannabis
Dhaba - Roadside eatery
Keema - Minced meat
Memsaab - Madam
Pakoda, dosa, idly, halwa, biriyani, roti, paratha, sabji - Delicious items of snacks and food
Raganjosh - Delicious mutton preparation in Kashmiri style
Rasmalai - A popular dessert made of milk, cottage cheese and sugar
Author: Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Published by Notion Press, Chennai
Month and Year of Publication - May 2023
Price - Rs. 249
Contact details for buying the book :
1. Notion Press
2. Mrutyunjay Sarangi, +91 99307 39537 or mrutyunjays@gmail.com
THE FOURTH MONKEY
"What a disaster! What a goddamn, freaking disaster! Only an idiot will come to this place in October! And I am that idiot!"
Abhishek groaned, his frustration oozing out of every word like a starving goat's emaciated bleat. Kalyani, his wife, smiled,
"You should have checked the weather before booking tickets. No point in crying after the horse has bolted."
Her words touched a raw nerve.
"You think I didn't do it? Of course I did. No one told me Munnar would have this incessant rain in late October. Monsoons are supposed to be over by September. And Kalyani dear, my Pooja vacation doesn't go by Munnar's weather. Every year during Pooja I take you to different places - from Jalianawala Bagh in Amritsar to Kaziranga in Assam. Suddenly I became a nincompoop just because it rained in Munnar?"
This time Kalyani laughed,
"When did I say you are a nincompoop? You are the one who is complaining all the time about the weather. I am quite happy sitting here and watching TV."
"Hah! You and your TV! You will be happy watching TV even in Timbuktu! Do we come to Munnar to watch TV? We should be out in the greenery, holding hands and dancing in the beautiful tea estates...."
Kalyani's face lighted up,
"O, we can do that here also. Outside this room in the lounge, look at the rains thorough the window and dance, singing to the tune of Tere Mere Beechme........like Kamal Hassan and Rati Agnihotri in "Ek Duje Ke Liye..."
Abhishek stared at her. He was about to say, Kalyani, look at the mirror, at fifty two years of age you look like Rati Agnihotri's mother! But he applied the brake on his thoughts; what if she retorted with equally drastic remarks about him?
Abhishek was getting increasingly bored. At least, if there was some company, he could have taken a few pegs of whiskey. He knew in the neighbouring room there was a honeymooning couple who had not come out of their room ever since they checked in two days back. Kalyani cornered Hariharan, the room boy when he came to clear the table of tea cups and snacks plates and asked him a few questions about the couple. Hariharan, in his own way, was a freaking genius. He always thought in Malayalam and spoke in English. So his words came out as free flowing Engliyalam.
"Are the couple in the next room young?" Kalyani asked with a mischievous smile,
Hariharan first nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head,
"No, that Sir is old, like our Sir here, Madam is young like you."
Kalyani beamed, happy to be considered young at the age of fifty two, even though the considerer appeared to be a dimwit. She threw a meaningful glance at her husband. The import of the glance was not lost on Hariharan, who hastened to add,
"That Madam is little little young than you...."
"Is she beautiful?"
The coquettish smile had not left her.
Hariharan replied to the coquettish smile with a flirtatious smile,
"Yes, little little beautiful like you...."
Abhishek could not control himself, he laughed out loud. Kalyani threw a pillow at him. Hariharan fled outside and probably to his safe den downstairs. Kalyani cast a withering glance at Abhishek; she would have uttered something explosive, but from outside a loud, booming voice rang out,
"Waiter! Waiter! Koi hai!”
Abhishek and Kalyani jumped up and ran out. A tall, hefty man with a gigantic moustache was leaning over the stairs and shouting at the non-existent waiter. A young lady, fair, slim, beautiful, was leaning against the door. Their room was plunged in darkness. It was obvious the power supply to the room had got disrupted and the man was hollering at the waiter or the manager to fix the problem. In two quick steps Kalyani was near the young lady, holding her hand and greeting her,
"Hello young lady, so nice meeting you!"
Abhishek walked over to the hefty man and extended his hand,
"Hi, this is Abhishek Gadnayak, from Odisha."
The man grunted,
"Sunil Grover."
He looked pointedly at Abhishek,
"You are Gadnayak, not Patnaik? I had a class mate in college who was a Patnaik."
Abhishek assured him,
"No, I am Gadnayak, Gad as in God! There are all kinds of Nayaks in Odisha - Gods and Pots are the most common."
Sunil laughed out, the unmistakable smell of whiskey spread like a mild perfume and sat on the heavy air. Abhishek smiled, a soul mate!
"I find you have been enjoying the heavenly liquid in your room, no fun in drinking alone. Why don't you join me for a few pegs in my room?"
It is an unwritten rule in drinking ethics that an offer of a drink should never be spurned.
At that precise moment the light also came on in the room of the Grovers. Kalyani virtually dragged the young wife in, her inquisitive mind eager to see the inside of a honeymooning couple's room. Sunil Grover slowly ambled into Abhishek's room. Soon they were busy gulping down the Black Label whiskey in copious quantities and chatting like long-lost friends. Sunil Grover opened up after the first two pegs, undoubtedly add-on to his earlier ones. He was obviously a rich man and let out hyperboles as if he was Ambani's cousin or something like that,
"Arey Gadnayak, this Munnar Sunnar is like chillar for me, just small change. Mostly the summers I spend in Australia, South Africa or Europe. America toh is like my left palm, I scratch a line and I am in Las Vegas or Atlantic City, rolling dice on velvety tables...."
Abhishek felt jealous,
"How lucky you are, and how lucky Bhabhiji is, roaming around the whole world with you!"
Sunil Grover roared out a hefty laugh, as hefty as the man himself,
"Arey nehin, nehin, Bhabhis don't come with me abroad, there is no fun dragging them with me, they throw too many tantrums, headache today, body pain tomorrow, indigestion day after. One should never carry fruits from home; the local fruits in a foreign country are much sweeter."
Sunil Grover winked at Abhishek and continued,
"Last year I was spending a night in a hotel in Interlaken in Switzerland, next morning I was to catch the train to Jung Frau to see the Alps. In the evening I was taking drinks in the bar when a French girl came and sat next to me. I ordered a drink for her, she smiled and accepted it. She spoke only French but I had no difficulty in understanding the language of her mind and her exquisite nubile body. Soon we finished the drinks and went to my room. We stayed in the hotel room for three days; it never occurred to me that I should climb to Jung Frau! Instead the French girl, Valerie, made me roam around in heaven in slow, lascivious steps. They were the best three nights of my life, a close second being a week of passion with a tall, voluptuous Australian girl in Sydney. You think Bhabhis can give that kind of pleasure? They are good for desi Jain food. If you want to enjoy exotic dishes, you must eat the local fruits when you visit other countries…... "
And Sunil Grover kept on and on about his fruity adventures in Shanghai, Amsterdam and Johannesburg.
Around the fifth peg Abhishek fell into a deep depression. Look at the lucky rich bastard; he had tasted so many exotic fruits all over the world. And poor Abhishek had been sucking on the same mango for the last twenty eight years, and now nothing was left but a dried up kernel - a measly guthli!
Think of the guthli, and she appeared! Kalyani came over with the young wife in tow,
"Are you done with your drinking? Saloni here says she is hungry and wants to eat and go to bed early", Kalyani winked at Abhishek in a suggestive way, as if to say, honeymooning couples were supposed to do that.
Abhishek wanted to get the dinner to their room so that they could all eat together. To Abhishek's drunken mind, Saloni looked like an Apsara, a fairy, and he was eager to spend some more time in the company of the Grovers. But women, as is well-known, have a sixth sense and a third eye which can see through the thickest skin. Kalyani knew what was going on in Abhishek’s mind. She winked again and said, “No, no, we should not be Kebab mein haddi, let the honeymooning couple enjoy, there is a special pleasure when a spoon of soup goes into both the mouths in turn, it tastes better.”
The Grovers laughed and left. Kalyani wanted to talk,
"Very nice girl, simple and talkative. Initially she was reserved with me as if something was holding her back, but the moment I told her she is the most beautiful girl I have seen in my life and that her face resembles that of Juhi Chawla, she became unstoppable, like a municipality tap with a loose valve. She is a Himachali girl, that's why she has soft, fair skin. Doesn't know much English, but she is good in Hindi, speaks like a film heroine delivering dialogues. She has seen almost all the states, but this was her first trip to Munnar. Strangely she didn't say much about Grover Sahab, may be being newly married she doesn't know much about him."
Just before they fell off to sleep, Abhishek said in a drunken slur,
"You know Sunil Grover loves fruits, whichever country he goes to, he buys their local fruits and tastes them. Lucky guy!"
Kalyani was shocked,
"A heavy drinker, and Saloni told me they are fond of non-vegetarian dishes, but you say he loves fruits! Sounds odd!"
Abhishek laughed out loud,
"Nothing odd, those who eat lots of non-veg food have a craving for fruits, different varieties of fruits, from all over the world!"
"You are blabbering! Must have drunk a lot!"
"You know why the sexy Saloni didn't talk about her husband? She must have felt insecure. A beauty like you may give her competition! Sunil Grover might fall for you like a ton of bricks!"
Kalyani was aghast. She shrieked,
"What nonsense! How many pegs did you drink? You have lost your mind! Turn the other way and go to sleep! Yuk, your mouth is smelling like the gutter!"
The next morning Abhishek and Kalyani hired a jeep as they wanted to roam around the tea gardens the entire day. They packed lots of sandwiches and coffee so that they would not have to return for lunch. When they came out of the room Abhishek looked longingly at the adjoining room. Would Saloni be awake, should he invite the Grovers to join them in the jeep ride. Ah, the cascading rains, the green tea gardens and a dazzling Saloni to feast the eyes on! The day would be a rare gift from heaven!
Kalyani could read his mind, she had this uncanny ability to catch him and his fantasising mind,
"Come, come, let's leave, don't look at the honeymooning couple's room like a beggar waiting for alms. Let them enjoy their sleep, they must have been awake till late into the night! And don't even think of inviting them, let them go if they want, holding hands under big trees and cooing sweet nothings to each other."
Despite the rains they enjoyed the ride, the leaves looked fresh and washed, they spotted a few rabbits and sometimes the blinding rains made the serpentine ride too adventurous. When they returned to their room around five, it was already dark. Abhishek had been thinking of Saloni throughout the day, her beautiful face had refused to go away from his mind.
When Hariharan came with tea Abhishek was eager to know the programme of the Grovers. Would there be another round of drinks? May be Kalyani and Saloni would join them. The evening had the potential to be colourful!
"So, Hariharan, did the Grover couple go somewhere or did they spend the whole day in the room? As usual?"
Hariharan looked at them, a bit of sadness evident in the gaze,
"The honeymooning couple? They left, Sir!"
Abhishek was too shocked to absorb the news and shrieked,
"Left? What do you mean left? You mean fully left or little left?"
Looked like Hariharan's Engliyalam had infected Abhishek in his agitated state.
"Fully left Sir, here rain comes the time tourists not liking much."
Kalyani, amused by her husband’s shocked reaction, interjected,
"So, no tourists during the monsoons?"
Hariharan became animated,
"No, no, Madam, sometime rain comes the time tourists coming, but rain goes the time more tourists coming."
Kalyani, an MA in English, added for good measure,
"Rains may come and rains may go, but you go on forever."
Abhishek was in no mood to enjoy the quip. Somehow he felt a void; the thought that he might not see the beautiful Saloni again saddened him.
Kalyani fixed him with a stern gaze,
"Oye, for whom does the heart bleed? The tipsy husband or the pretty wife?"
Abhishek looked at her, his mind totally blank.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
That was two years back. This year the Gadnaiks were at Manali to spend their Pooja holidays. It was late October, the weather was excellent - balmy and cool. The hotel they were staying in was crowded, overflowing with guests. The evening promised to be boisterous, with music, dance and the inevitable drinks. There were round tables with chairs around them. A huge stage was at the centre, for people to dance. Abhishek and Kalyani came early, soft music was playing, waiters were circulating with soft and hard drinks on trays, and the hall was filling up. Exactly at seven, the DJ came up and greeted everyone; suddenly the mike started malfunctioning. The DJ moaned,
"Ah, I had asked the organisers if the mikes would be good, they told me mikes are like wives, one has to manage with whatever one gets. Ladies and Gentlemen, do you agree with this? Are wives like mikes? Yeah? No? I want a loud answer."
There was a big Yeah followed by claps and cheers. The DJ was just warming up,
"Yeah? You say Yeah? Let me tell you how wrong you are. Tell me, you can switch off a mike when you don't need it, can you switch off a wife? No? Yes?"
There was a loud No from the audience.
"OK! No takes the cake. And if a mike malfunctions you can borrow a mike, if the wife malfunctions can you borrow the neighbour's wife – ‘Sir, can you lend me your wife just for twenty four hours, till my malfunctioning wife becomes functional?’"
There was a thunderous applause,
"And sometimes if you have a big function you can use two three mikes, can you use two three wives if there is a big function in the family like someone’s wedding or an engagement ceremony? - Sasurji, give me your remaining three daughters; I need some extra wives, you know, I have a big function at home!’"
More applause, a couple of whistles, someone was getting excited at the idea!
"And you know if a mike gets upset, it will simply pretend to sleep, like a patient with high fever, but if a wife gets upset....Tobah, Tobah, I don't even want to speculate on it. All of you must have gone through that experience in life...."
The DJ had undoubtedly set the audience in the right mood; the songs started, loud and blaring, "Bachnaa ai hasino, lo mey aa gayaaa...;" a few over-enthusiastic couples went to the stage and started dancing. Soon everyone got up and joined them, some people didn't want to be too far from their drinks; so they got up and started shaking their legs near their table, holding a drink in one hand and the wife's waist in the other.
Kalyani was reluctant to get up and dance but Abhishek whispered in her ears, ‘come, come, who knows us here? And how many of the couples are big dancers, do you see a Mithun Chakrabarty or a Hema Malini here? All are same, jokers shaking their legs and ladies their hips.’ Soon Kalyani also got into the mood.
They started moving around the hall. A few tables away they spotted a couple who looked familiar. The next moment they whispered 'The Grovers!' They went near, the hefty man with the big moustache was undoubtedly Sunil Grover, but who was the young, dazzling beauty with him? Kalyani usually never forgot a face once she met someone. It was not Saloni, but someone even more beautiful than her.
They went up to the table. Abhishek extended his hand,
"Hi Sunil, fancy seeing you here, remember we had met in Munnar two years back? I am Gadnayak."
The man fixed Abhishek with a cold, withering stare,
"Sunil? What Sunil? You are making some mistake. I am Manish Chopra."
He didn't shake Abhishek's hands. He just ignored the Gadnayaks, called the waiter and asked for a single malt whiskey for himself and wine for the lady. Abhishek and Kalyani stood there for a minute like two idiots and returned to their table.
Somehow the incident disturbed them and took away much of the warmth of the evening. They took their dinner quietly and returned to their room. It was nearing ten o clock and they felt sleepy. But Kalyani's mind was in a whirl, she had no doubt that the man was Sunil Grover, but then who was the lady, it was definitely not Saloni. She asked Abhishek,
"Tell me if it was not she, then who was she?"
Abhishek was nonplussed,
"What is this she, she you are doing? What is in your mind? Just forget them, they have forgotten us, let's forget them."
"But where are 'they'? The man is no doubt Sunil Grover but where is Saloni, your favourite beauty?"
Suddenly she sat up on the bed,
"O, what an idiot I am! I should have guessed it. If this is not she, then she was that and this is also that!"
"Please, don't drive me crazy, what is this she, she, this, that? Will you please explain?"
A mischievous smile spread over Kalyani's face like a curling smoke,
"Remember you had told me that Sunil Grover enjoys different fruits wherever he goes? So Saloni was the fruit for Munnar and this girl is the fruit for Manali. Fruits, my foot! She was a slut and this one is also a slut."
Somehow her words had a tectonic effect on Abhishek. He cursed himself! What a life! Why do some people enjoy all the luck in the world? A ripe, luscious fruit at every new place! And look at him; he remembered how at Munnar he had thought of the same mango he was sucking for twenty eight years and all that remained was a miserable, dried up guthli!
Abhishek's face folded up at the unappetising thought. A terrible sadness enveloped him. It did not escape the gaze of Kalyani. Being a seasoned wife she knew exactly what had caused this change of mood in her husband. She pinched Abhishek on his thigh; it was a hard pinch, meant to hurt.
Abhishek shrieked in pain like a hen did when her head was severed by a merciless butcher. He looked in horror at his smiling wife,
"Why did you do that?"
"Oye, do you think I don't know what is going on in your mind? I pinched you to remind you of Gandhiji's fourth monkey."
Abhishek stammered,
"Gandhiji's fourth monkey? What is that?"
"O, you don't know? Gandhiji kept three monkeys in his drawing room, to tell everyone not to see bad things, not to speak bad things, nor to hear bad things. He also had a fourth monkey in the bedroom, because bedroom is where all men get their dirty thoughts. This monkey kept his two hands on the head to say, don't even think of bad things! So, do you understand now, Mr. Rangila Ratan, my evergreen hero? Don't even think of the exotic fruits, and the Salonis of the world. Just switch off the light and go to sleep. Tomorrow morning we have to wake up early and get ready. The bus for Rohtang Pass leaves the hotel at seven."
Glossary
Bhabhiji - Literally, elder brother’s wife, but it’s also a way of addressing a lady with respect
Guthli – The kernel inside a mango
Koi Hai - Is someone there?
Munnar- A beautiful hill station in Kerala
Malayalam – The official language of Kerala
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.
THE MEADOW OF FIREFLIES
Shruti Sarma
(Illustrated by Shruti Sarma)
It was 15th June and the summer holidays had begun. Ratna and her younger brother Kanak along with their parents had planned to visit their grandparents this summer.
Ratna and her family stayed in Guwahati far away from their grandparents’ village .Ratna and Kanak had been very excited to visit their grandparents and finally in 15th June, the family set off for their destination in their car. It was almost a three hours long journey. Ratna’s father was driving the car and her mother was sitting on the front seat next to him. The two children were enjoying this journey, singing songs, cracking jokes etc. Kanak told everyone that he was planning to go fishing with his grandfather. All four of them were enjoying themselves on their way and finally after a long journey of almost three hours, they reached their grandparents’ house.
An old man in his eighties with crisscrossed wrinkles all over his face and a toothless smile came out of the house with his walking stick upon hearing the sound of the car .He was wearing a light yellow shirt, white dhoti, steel rimmed spectacles and leather sandals. The old man with a twinkle in his eyes and a wide smile on his lips, hugged his grandchildren and smiled at his daughter and son in law. All five of them went inside the house together where grandmother had cooked Maasor tenga , an Assamese fish delicacy for them. The children relished the authentic Assamese cuisine a lot which brought a smile to their old granny’s face.
In the evening, the children sat with their grandfather around a small fire which he had built in the courtyard. He pushed some sticks into the fire while roasting dried fish impaled on a wooden stick and started telling them tales of his childhood. The children were fascinated by his stories when Kanak said to his grandfather, “ Koka, tumi kintu muk boroxi baabo xikabo lagibo. Moi kali tumar logot boroxi baabo jam. “ ( Grandfather, you must teach me how to catch fish. Tomorrow I shall go fishing with you.) Grandfather started laughing and said “ Hobo de, kali puwa mor xoite olabi.” ( All right dear, tomorrow morning we shall go.) Kanak got very excited for the next day while Ratna giggled, listening to the duo.
That night , when both Kanak and Ratna had been asleep, Ratna’s eyes suddenly to opened to the perception of a blinking light. She woke up to see a fluorescent speck of twinkling light floating around the room. Ratna rubbed her eyes to see that it was a a firefly that had entered the room . Ratna laid her head back on the pillow with her right arm flexed above her head, staring at the fluorescent light blinking beautifully amongst the darkness in the room and gradually fell asleep again.
The next morning after taking their morning bath, Kanak and Ratna got dressed up to go fishing. Kanak was excitedly leading the way with two fishing poles in his hand who was followed by grandfather and Ratna . It was grandfather and Kanak who was going for fishing while Ratna accompanied them because she loved to sit by the banks of the village pond and splash her feet in the cool, shallow waters of the pond. “ Here comes my big hunt ! “ Kanak exclaimed as he casted his fishing rod at a huge splash that appeard in the middle of the waters. And indeed, he caught a great Wallago catfish ( Borali maas) . Grandfather smiled satisfactorily at his grandson while Ratna too hurried near them to see her brother’s big catch. Both the children were born in an urban environment and fishing was something new them and catching such a big fish on the first attempt was no less than conquering the world for them .Ratna clapped her hands frantically while Kanak had a huge grin on his face. The three returned with million dollar smiles on their face .That afternoon, they relished their lunch with fish curry. After lunch, Ratna told about her experience last night to her grandfather. The old man smiled and lovingly told both the children “ Aaji xondhiya tohot duiyota mor xoite olabi. Tohotok eta bor dhuniya bostu dekham .” ( Today evening, you two shall come with me. I will show you something beautiful.) The two children were really excited for their next surprise and in the evening, their grandfather took them to the village meadow and in front of them,they saw a spectacular sight. In the darkness, under the starry sky with the moon having spread her silvery veil upon them were hundreds of fireflies, blinking and twinkling. With the rich smell of summer meadows in the air and such a beautiful sight in front, Ratna felt like dancing between amongst fireflies. Kanak tried to catch them in his hands while Ratna twirled gleefully amongst them with her arms stretched out .So many fireflies around her, it was as if the moon had sent down the stars to dance and twirl with her .
Seeing this beautiful sight, Ratna remembered, Shri Krishna’s Raasleela. Shri Krishna and Radha Rani too danced in Vrindavan on such a night. Ratna could almost see the dark complexioned Krishna playing his glittering golden flute enchanted flute, mesmerizing every creature present at that moment and Radha Rani dancing to the music of the flute, Radha Rani’s braid being decorated by the meadow flowers, her blue eyes twinkling like these fire flies and her face as radiant as the moon. It was as if nature had decorated the venue to celebrate the arrival of Shri Krishna and Radha Rani. Ratna imagined herself as a Gopi dancing with Shri Krishna and Radha Rani. Ratna’s fingers delicately brushing through the flowers in the meadow with pure happiness spread on her face. Never in her life, did she saw such a beautiful sight. She painted the scenic beauty of the moment on the canvas of her heart which shall remain imprinted for the rest of her life.
Delighted, the young girl said to her grandfather, “ Koka, pothar khon iman dhuniya dekhise . Guwahatit nu ene drishyo kot dekha pam ? “ ( Grandfather, the meadow is looking so beautiful. Where on earth will we ever get to see such a beautiful sight in Guwahati? ) Grandfather smiled and told her that during the days when he was young, it was a common thing to witness such a sight but gradually with urbanization and industrialization, there had been destruction of natural habitat of all the creatures and that is why, sighting fireflies had become very less. Nature keeps everything balanced . The world belongs as much to them as much it belongs to man. If this balance is disrupted then mother nature has her own way to maintain the balance which might sometimes be disastrous to mankind. Ratna understood what her grandfather said. She wanted these beautiful creations of nature to be preserved. So she decided to do everything she could to contribute in mother nature’s effort to preserve them. She had decided to plant saplings and keep the area around her clean and full of positivity.
After spending the week in their grandparents’house, it was time for them to return to Guwahati . The two children sat on the back seat of the car and waved their goodbyes to the old couple with a farewell smile on their faces. On their way back, Ratna remembered the lines of her grandfather and made a firm mind to help nature in maintaining the balance and also a promise to return back in the next summer holidays to the place where she experienced heaven.
To dance happily, to twirl merrily………..
Shruti Sarma is currently an MBBS student of IMS and SUM hospital, Bhubaneswar. She is from Guwahati, Assam and is also an artist, a Sattriya dancer and a writer. She completed her schooling from Delhi Public School, Guwahati and her higher secondary studies from Sai Vikash Junior college, Guwahati. She has also been awarded the Mofizuddin Ahmed Hazarika Literary Award in 2016 for the best junior Assamese author.
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