Literary Vibes - Edition CXXX (30-Jun-2023) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEWS
Title : Gaia 4- The Green Woman and her denizens (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in offering to you the 130th edition of LiteraryVibes. It is a beautiful issue, complete with forty wonderful poems, eighteen entertaining short stories and nine thought-provoking essays and anecdotes. There is also a very nice review of a biography-cum-autobiography of Dr. Bidhu K. Mohanti, a member of the LV family. I have had the privilege of going through the book and found it immensely interesting, replete as it is, with priceless nuggets from the depth of history. It also offers valuable insight into the state of health services in India, and the rarefied universe of cancer care and treatment.
When I had introduced a separate section of young magic in LiteraryVibes two years back, I had hoped that young, adolescent poets and writers would jump at the opportunity of showcasing their talent and grow in their literary journey. The response has not been exactly overwhelming. I would like to appeal to the readers to encourage their young offsprings to experiment with writing. I will be happy to provide the LV platform to the youngsters.
We are happy to welcome five new contributors into the LV family in today's edition of LiteraryVibes. Ms. Sheba Jamal from Patna is a bilingual writer who excels equally in poems and short stories, contributing to many national and international anthologies. Shri T V Sreekumar from Puducherry and Shri Bankim Chandra Tola from Bhubaneswar are long-standing bloggers in Sulekha. They are prolific writers and have the capacity to enthral the readers with their writings. Shri Keshab Das, from New Delhi, is a well-known writer in Odiya literature, whose stories are greatly admired by readers. The English translation of one of his successful Odiya stories has been included in today's edition. Shri Dipak Samantaray from Cuttack, Odisha, is another bilingual poet-cum-writer with a massive fan following in Odisha and outside. All of these new entrants to LV family are hugely gifted and some are literary celebrities in their own right. We are lucky to have them with us and wish them a lot of success in their literary career. We look forward to having their contribution in all our future editions.
In last month's LV129 I had written in the editorial about the indifference and callousness of onlookers to mishaps on the roads or railway tracks. Little did I know that I would be proved wrong within two days of the publication of LV129. I wish I didn't have to go through the images of one of the ghastliest train accidents in history to realise that there are good Samaritans everywhere, proving me wrong. The horrific accident on 2nd June at Bahanaga Bazar of Odisha, involving three trains, two of them carrying passengers to their full capacity, left 291 dead and more than a thousand injured. The first batch of people rushing to rescue the passengers trapped inside the mangled compartments was the local villagers. Soon the government machinery swung into action as did more than a dozen NGOs. Massive rescue and relief operations were launched. The entire country stood in prayer for the dead and the injured. What was heartening was the way the local villagers, volunteers from far and near and the NGOs received widespread appreciation and admiration from everyone for their relentless efforts and dedicated service.
The horrific train accident reminded us how transitory life is - here now and gone in the next minute. There were heart wrenching stories about entire families getting wiped out, infants surviving and their parents gone to the other world and relatives waiting for their near and dear ones who would never return. The tragic story of a young man among the dead, a daily commuter between Balasore and Bhadrak, who had called his young, newly wedded wife not to cook at home because he wanted to take her out to dinner, moved many hearts, as did the torn pages of a diary where a lover had scribbled some beautiful lines of poems for his beloved. It drove me to tears. I have attempted a short poem in today's edition "Taj at the Train Tragedy" to celebrate the spirit of love, without in any way trivialising the magnitude of the sad disaster.
The mishap is also a reminder of the many challenges in life. And the selfless service rendered by multitudes of government employees, private citizens and NGOs is but a testimony to the fact that what sustains us during these trying times is our basic tenet of humaneness, faith in God and compassion to fellow beings. I came across a few anecdotal stories in social media in the past week or two in celebration of these time-tested attributes. Let me present them here:
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1. THE SECOND VULTURE
In the 1990's, there was a widely circulated photo of a vulture waiting for a starving little girl to die and feast on her corpse. That photo was taken during the 1993/94 famine in Sudan by Kevin Carter, a South African photojournalist, who later won the Pulitzer Prize for this 'amazing shot'.
However, as Kevin Carter was savouring his feat and being celebrated on major news channels and networks worldwide for such an 'exceptional photographic skill', he lived just for a few months to enjoy his supposed achievement and fame, as he later got depressed and took his own life!
Kevin Carter's depression started, when during one the interviews (a phone-in programme), someone called in and asked him what happened to the little girl. He simply replied, "I didn't wait to find out after this shot, as I had a flight to catch..." Then the caller said, "I put it to you that there were two vultures on that day. One had a camera."
Thus, his constant recollection of that statement later led to depression and he ultimately committed suicide. Kevin Carter could have still been alive today and even much more famous, if he had just picked that little girl up and taken her to the United Nations Feeding Center, where she was attempting to reach, or at least take her to somewhere safe.
Today, regrettably, this is what is happening all around the world. The world celebrates stupidity and inhumane acts at the detriment of others. Kevin Carter should have taken the girl away from that place, which would cost him nothing, yet he didn't. Here is the inhuman posture,
Thus, we must all understand that the purpose of life is to also touch other lives. So are you too a Vulture. In whatever we do, let humanity come first before what we stand to gain out of the situation. In all we do, let's always think of others and how we can be of benefit to humanity, how we can lend a helping hand and wipe away tears. Hence, when we seek knowledge, wealth, fame, skills, or even positions, let's think of how we can use it to benefit the people and society at large.
Today, there is a lot of poverty in the land, so if God Almighty has blessed you, be a blessing to others, extend a helping hand to those in need. Remember, your giving is also a way of appreciating Divine Blessings, Bounties, and Favours of God Almighty upon you. Therefore, it is very important that we should always help the poor and needy, the orphans, widows, and weak amongst us. Please don't be a Kevin Carter, be human and think humanity.
Beware, we humans are not humans if we lack humaneness in all we do.
2. THE LITTLE GIRL'S PRAYER
Every day early morning a little girl would come to the temple and stand before the idol, close her eyes and with folded hands, murmur something for a couple of minutes.
Then she would open her eyes, bow down, smile and go out running.
This was a daily affair.
The temple Poojari was observing her and was curious about what she was doing.
He thought, she is too small to know the deeper meanings of religion, she would hardly know any prayers.
But then what was she doing every morning in the temple?
Fifteen days passed and Poojari now couldn’t resist but to find out more about her behaviour.
One morning, the Poojari reached there before the girl and was waiting for her to complete her ritual.
He placed his hand on her head and said, “My child, I have seen since the last fifteen days that you come here regularly. What do you do?”
“I pray,” She said spontaneously.
“Do you know any prayers?” asked the Poojari with some suspicion in his voice.
“…No ” Replied the girl.
"Then what are you doing closing your eyes, every day?” he smiled.
Very innocently the girl said : *“I do not know any prayer, but I know a,b,c,d….up to z. I recite it five times and tell God that I don’t know your prayer, but it cannot be outside of these alphabets. Please arrange the alphabets as you wish and that is my prayer.”
And she ran, jumping on her way out.
The Poojari stood there dumbstruck, staring at her for a long time as she disappeared, running outside.
This is THE UNCONDITIONAL belief in God that we pray.
3. THE POWER OF A SMALL GENEROSITY
Can we imagine how a little generosity towards someone could change their whole life?
It was 1943, when Dr. R. H. Kulkarni was a young doctor based in Hubli. When he was 22, Dr. Kulkarni got a job in a hospital in Chandgarh village near the Maharashtra-Karnataka border. The village was sparsely populated and surrounded by dense forest.
It was the month of July. On a stormy night with heavy rains, Dr Kulkarni was reading a book. Suddenly, he heard a loud knock on the door of his house. He wondered who could it be at this time of the night. With a tinge of fear in his heart, he opened the door. On opening the door he saw four men wrapped in woolen clothes with sticks in their hands. They called to the doctor in Marathi, "Take your bag and join us quickly."
The doctor thought he could not oppose them, so he quietly took his bag and went with them. Afraid, he asked, "Where are you taking me?" When he did not receive an answer, he sat silently. After an hour and a half, the car stopped.
There was darkness all around. The men with the sticks got the doctor out of the car and brought him to a kaccha house. One of the rooms was lit by a lantern, and a pregnant woman was lying on a cot. An old woman sat next to it. Looking at this scene, the doctor was shaken from inside and was unable to understand what was happening. At this point, he was informed that he had been brought to deliver the child.
Seeing that girl moaning in pain, the doctor's heart melted. Although he had never delivered before, he determined that he would definitely help this girl in that stormy night, and asked her, "Who are you? How did you get here?"
"Doctor, I don't want to live," the girl said in a painful voice. She narrated her ordeal, saying, "I am the daughter of a big landowner here."
She further said, "Since there were no high schools in our village, my parents sent me to a distant city to study. I fell in love with a classmate...and got pregnant. When I found out, I immediately told the boy. But he left me and ran away. By the time my parents found out, it was too late. That's why they sent me here, so that no one comes to know about it." The girl started crying loudly as she completed her story.
Dr. Kulkarni started preparing for the delivery. With his efforts, the woman gave birth to a girl child, but the child did not cry. When the young woman realised this, she started saying, "It's a daughter! Let her die or else she will also have to live an unfortunate life like me."
But Dr. Kulkarni still tried his best to save the baby girl, and after his consistent efforts, the child cried. When the doctor left the room after the delivery, he was given 100 rupees, which was a large sum of money at the time. Doctor Kulkarni was then earning a monthly salary of ?75. After taking the fee, the doctor realized he had forgotten his bag in the room. On the pretext of taking the bag, Doctor Kulkarni once again went to that room and put the 100 rupees on the girl's hand, telling her, "Joy and sorrow are beyond a human's grasp, sister, but you can forget everything and take care of yourself and this little life. When you are able to travel, then go to the Nursing College in Pune. There I have a friend named Mr. Apte. Go and meet him and tell him that Dr. R. H. Kulkarni has sent you. He will definitely help you. Think of it as a brother's request. Right now, I won't be able to do anything more for you." He placed his hand on her head and left.
Years passed since this incident. Dr. R. H. Kulkarni later became specialized in female obstetrics. Once, he went to Aurangabad to attend a medical conference and was deeply impressed by an exuberant and brilliant doctor, Dr. Chandra's speech. During the same program, someone called Dr. Kulkarni by his name, and he found it was Dr. Chandra. She went right up to him and asked him, "Sir, have you ever been to Chandgarh?"
Dr. Kulkarni: "Yes, I have, but that was years ago."
Dr. Chandra: "Then you need to come to my house."
Dr. Kulkarni: "Dr. Chandra, I have met you for the first time today. I thoroughly enjoyed your speech, and I appreciate your knowledge and research. But I won't be able to join you today. I will surely come some other time."
But Dr. Chandra insisted, "Sir, please come with me for a little while today, I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life." Dr. Kulkarni could not refuse Dr. Chandra's loving invitation. Finally, Dr. Chandra took Dr. Kulkarni along, reached her house and called out, "Maa, look who has come to our house!"
Dr. Chandra's mother came out and on seeing Dr. Kulkarni in front of her, at first she could not believe her eyes. Her eyes filled with tears, and she somehow held herself together, bowed to him and fell at his feet.
Doctor Kulkarni was confused and panicked. But before he could comprehend anything, she recalled the old story and said: "Doctor, I am the same girl who you helped in the middle of the night in the village near Chandgarh, while I was in labour pain. Then I went to Pune and became a staff nurse as you advised.
I encouraged my daughter to study a lot and made her a gynaecologist considering you as an ideal. My daughter Chandra is the one who was born at your hands that night."
He was immensely surprised to hear all this and was very happy. He asked Chandra, "But how did you recognize me?"
Dr. Chandra said, "I recognized you by your name, Sir. I have heard my mother chanting your name all the time."
In awe, Dr. Chandra's mother said, "Sir, your name is Ramchandra. From that same name, I have given my daughter her name, Chandra. You've given us a wonderful new life. Chandra also considers you an ideal and helps poor women by giving them free treatments."
Dr. R. H. Kulkarni was the father of the prominent social worker, renowned writer and Infosys chairperson, Sudha Murthy.
Sometimes a little motivation and encouragement is enough to get people to their goals.
We must share our plenty with those who cannot afford it. Generosity is our natural condition.
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Dear friends, what lovely anecdotes these are, teaching us universal, ever-lasting values! Let us strive to move away from being a vulture, practice kindness and compassion as if they constitute the very essence of our life and when in doubt, in moments of desperate need, stop pretending before God about how big we are. Let us offer all the alphabets of life to the Supreme Being to mould them into small small blessings for us.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in today's edition of LiteraryVibes and share LV130 with all your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/493 (Poems and Book Reviews).
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/492 (Short Stories, Anecdotes and Miscellaneous Articles).
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/491 (Young Magic)
There is also a medical related anecdote by the famous Gynaecologist Prof. Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/490
Take care, stay blessed and keep smiling till we meet again on the 28th July, the last Friday of next month.
Wishing you happy rains and with warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Friday, the June 30th, 2023
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
RAJA
SNAPSHOTS FROM DAWN
02) Haraprasad Das
THE BODY (DEHA)
03) Jayanta Mahaptra
A MISSING PERSON
A HINT OF GRIEF
04) Dilip Mohapatra
YET AGAIN
05) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN - 13
06) Sheba Jamal
SCARS
DEAR DEPARTED
SLUMBERED PASSION
07) Hema Ravi
ATITHI DEVO BHAVA
08) Abani Udgata
RATHYATRA
09) Amb Arun Sahu
THE MIRROR
10) Aparna Suresh
MOMENTS
11) Gita Bharath
BANGLES SPLENDOR
12) Madhumathi. H
LETTER TO YOUR FUTURE SELF
13) Kamalakanta Panda
THE RAINS (VARSHA)
14) Snehaprava Das
TELL ME THE DREAMS
15) Sangeeta Gupta
FIVE SEA SOAKED POEMS
16) Ravi Ranganathan
SECRET TWIGS
17) Gopal Lahiri
RAIN IN THE WILDS
18) Soumen Roy
CALCUTTA
YONDER GAZE
19) Aneek Chatterjee
STARES
20) Manjula Asthana Mahanti
A ROSE BUD
21) Dr. Molly Joseph M
DEPLETION
22) Seethaa Sethuraman
CLOUD OF LOVE
23) Tandra Mishra
THE WAVES TURNED BACK
24) Priyalakshmi Gogoi
A GARDEN OF JOY
25) Setaluri Padmavathi
WARM WINGS
THE DOOR TO TRIUMPH
26) Nitish Nivedan Barik
MY KIND MOM
27) Bipin Patsani
THE PASSIONATE PROTOTYPE
28) Pankhuri Sinha
CATCH THE LIGHT
29) Anjali Sahoo
HUNGER
30) Krishna Tulasi
FLOWING TEARS
31) Sujata Dash
I AM IN NO HURRY
32) Sukanya V. Kunju
HOMECOMING
33) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
TAJ AT THE TRAIN TRAGEDY
Table of Contents :: BOOK REVIEW
01) Dr Ajay K Upadhyaya, MD
Father: a policeman and Son: an oncologist. By Bidhu K Mohanti
02) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
a) ANJIE, PAT AND INDIA'S POOR
b) THE FOURTH MONKEY
c) JASMINE GIRL AT HAJI ALI AND OTHER STORIES
d) A TRAIN TO KOLKATA
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
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Trishna Sahoo
SUMMER VACATION
02) Anura Parida
THE ELFIN HEAVEN
03) Mrinalini Mallick
ONCE
POEMS
A lovely festival of sweets and stuffed
rice cakes, swings, young hearts
warming up to flirt, secret eye-contacts,
whispering hearts and hugging mates
Its literal meaning brings to mind
the sacred bleeding that ushers in the tidings
of fruition in seasons of a young female body,
ripe for motherhood, for bearing fruit.
Three days of commemoration and
holding aloft the flag of fecundity
of the mother earth and the living beings,
our mothers, sisters and daughters
but more often than not our wives,
mates, girlfriends, and soul mates,
a world altogether different
but a part of our flesh and our bone.
Swings mushroom like motifs,
swishing sinuously like fruits hanging
in trees, flowers swaying in breeze,
shuttle-cocks weaving the tapestry of life.
Rice cakes bring home the sense
of plenty, satiation, the cool after
the baking heat, the sense of fullness,
a feast, a tryst quietly met, requited.
Three exquisite days of fun and frolic
pass like three minutes of feel and
taste, like holding their first newborn
by parents. It's over before it started.
(Raja Festival, unique to Odisha, is celebrated over three days with Ashadh Sankranti in the middle, falling in the month of June. The festivities mark the happy tidings of monsoon after the scorching summer heat and also the soil getting ready for raising the paddy crop. ‘Raja’ stands for menstrual blood, obviously of the earth,)
In bed, he would put into his little mouth
a shrunken fig from grandma’s chest,
her undone grey strands
playing like a lullaby over his visage.
In a terrace corner, he would join
his friend Gunjan, play family,
imitating adults. She, his wife,
pretending to go to bed with him,
delivering children, her dolls.
He ploughing and irrigating the fields,
sowing seeds and waiting patiently
for flowering, fruition and harvest.
Contented, tired, he would go back
to the cool sanctum of grandma’s bosom.
At times, parents’ bed
would be his endearing retreat.
He felt secure to hear
his mother whispering into dark,
“O dear, it feels heavenly.”
That would lull him to sleep.
But some nights, visited by
nightmares, he would feel
guilty of playing ‘family’
with his female friend, Gunjan;
feel guilty of eavesdropping
on his parents in bed;
but would dream and urinate happily
into grandma’s lap, his ultimate cesspit.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra )
Go ahead, touch it,
it’s tangible, it is sentient;
a pretty paradox
from the birth to dust;
an enigma
enough to chew for a lifetime.
Hack it to pieces
to your heart’s content;
burn it with lust’s tinder
all your prime.
To satiate the dead forefathers
offer it as Pinda, tire it with penance;
the ritual rice-ball offered
on a platter of banana leaf,
a leaf withering in hot sun’s fire,
a fig-leaf for penance.
Consign it to water
to float away to the other world;
consign it to fire
to rise as smoke to heaven;
consign it to earth’s humus
to salvage the soul to eternity.
Your body,
your slave,
a wishful star,
caught in desire’s sooty cobwebs,
sleepwalking with you
until the last curtain.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
In a darkened room
a woman
cannot find her reflection in a mirror
waiting as usual
at the edge of sleep
In her hands she holds
the oil lamp
whose drunken yellow flames
know where her lonely body hides
The rain is home, clinging
pitifully to the Orissa countryside.
Orioles turn on their wings of gold
where the sky falls into darker cloud.
Beyond the wood fence grow lotuses
and wild hyacinths of the wetness.
Again, from somewhere,
one calls back the love
of what one hungers to be touched by,
so I can call you by your name – Orissa,
as the wind returns again
for those empty voices it nurtures
in the thick-leaved mangoes and cashews,
and rain’s frightened hands
drop the comic book of our history
unto the weathered stones.
Trained as a physicist, Jayanta Mahapatra has read and published his poetry throughout the world. His work has been anthologized, among others, in The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry (Random House, New York, USA.)
He lives in Cuttack, in India, where he edits the literary magazine Chandrabhaga.
The sun seeps through
the translucent curtains
and dances in the teacups
to the tune of tinkling spoons
and the rustle of the newspapers
while sparrows chirp on the meadows
and long shadows appear,
their outline becoming
sharper and sharper.
The clock ticks and soon enough
the diminutive shadows
kiss your feet again
to grow eastwards
till they lose their identity
and merge
with an umbral infinity
yet again.
As the sun moves on the ecliptic
from tropic to tropic
back and forth
like the pendulum of a clock
Summer enters
with its flaming Gulmohars
and on its wake
the Rains come in
to paint a brown earth green
Fall follows
and the leaves change colour
and then ensues Winter
wrapped in its white shawl
and the denuded trees cast a ghostly spell
that is broken by the advent
of the golden Spring
as the cuckoos sing in joy spreading
the smiles and cheers around
yet again.
They say that the winner takes it all
and the seed is planted to start the journey
from womb to tomb
and as the body crumbles under the earth
or turns into ashes in the pyre
a new journey begins once again
and in repeated beginnings and ends
the soul lives on
and moves on its unending voyage
with commas and colons may be
but never with a period
till it reaches the Absolute
never to be born
yet again.
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.
So festering, so frothing, so fuming?
Congenital?
Were you born to bitterness?
Induced by circumstances?
Beyond control?
As a baby, everything is
Beyond control.
Were those that overlaid
The template of seething,
Impel your ache as an axe?
Perhaps physically,
Perhaps not
Red-eyed,
Swathed (ostensibly) in rectitude.
Was it your parents
Who considered you
The chalice
For their individual, collective
Yew-juice
Coursing their veins ?
You know,
The yew-juice comes from Manu, Adam and Eve.
Do you realise
Your spewing-yewing,
Only keeps it flowing
In your veins?
Harming
You.
Oh your spraying
May acid-burn others,
Scar lives.
But you too burn in the wake,
Like deadly acid corroding
Piping that carries.
The Yew-Juice-you,
You can neutralise
By a dose of acceptance,
First and fore.
From there - growth.
The means - positive vibes
Through Prayer.
Sincere. Everyday. A ritual.
That a mundane ritual
Works wonders!
Prayer is your breath.
Jairam Seshadri is the author of MANTRA YOGA ( 2021 Rupa Publications) WOOF SONGS & THE ETERNAL SELF-SABOTEUR (2019 Partridge) and JESUS SAHASRANAM - THE 1,008 NAMES OF JESUS CHRIST (2018 Authorspress). He is a CPA with an MBA from the US and has worked in the U.S, Canada and England for over 30 years before returning to India to take care of his father.
He founded the India Poetry Circle (IPC)) six years ago, which has seven anthologies to the group’s credit, in addition to two more in the pipeline to be published this year. IPC, through its offshoot, IPC PLAYERS, has also produced and staged several skits, as part of its ‘POETRAMA’© series, including a production of Shakespeare’s MACBETH online. Shakespeare’s KING LEAR will be staged online this Christmas 2022.
Jairam lives in Chennai and can be reached at 9884445498 or jairamseshadri@hotmail.com.
Scars dotted visible invisible
Its profound imprints invincible
Its blemish, speckles seeable and discernible
Its far reaching consequence, a glutton unimaginable
Scars deep set deep skin
Bleeding wound, bled heart skin
A gift of scar by kith and kin
Loving deep discreet clan is not sin
Scar in flesh, bruised inside skin conciliate
Wounded by heart can’t reconcillate
Haunted throughout as awful fate
Cut a sorry and ugly figure, in desolate state
Biting criticism, harsh remarks, stingy tongue
Slit heart, pierced stature as scorpion stung
Unstringing string of love’s beads unstrung
Mind and body writhe and wrung
Quite a few, sacrifice an altar of honour killing
Their love for honour more than blood spilling
The scars given their daughter more than killing
Incessant flow bleeding almost alive killing
Leaving this world surprised shaken and go away
We moaned bewildered shattered in a great dismay
Never born to say God bless you !
You loved and cared us partied us ya hoo
O Gulmohar you fade so soon, bloom in a single moon
What brings you doom ! even sings in starry bassoon
Why in a haste to embark to neo moon, leaving the world swoon
Quite a few perked n enchanted, yet shifted as sand dunes
O! My departed soul, ever been an angelic soul
Arrival is pleasant but departure is sad, ever life’s prime sole
Living without you is living in gaol having no life’s role
As if you are needed most , leaving here the world whole
May we meet in next world, keeping aside human trash
Where no human errors no miseries no lust or greet, no heart’s smash
Let us hope to meet again where no dreams crash
Colours of Holi lights of Diwali and sweatmeats of Eid splash
Scented parchment awake my slumbered emotions and passions
Delicate ink erupt like molten lava of Ignesius rock over parched sea in shower
My whole existence writhed in agony, strived out from desolation
Soberly reinforced my shattered, frail stature
Tracingly I transported to salvation and reincarnation
Felt no regression for my mistakes
Folded my short comings sorrows and mistakes
Which now seemingly imperfect
Perfectly becalmed my tumultuous feelings
In these times of detached delusion and chaotic monotone
Once being part and parcel, finally agreed to depart and apart
Write me if my love tear you part and part
Or awake you whole night
Write me when your heart misses a beat or two
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.
(Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi)
Strains of ‘Panduranga Vittala’ floats in
amidst an assortment of sounds at daybreak–
honks, clanks, whistles, screeches, thuds and bangs.
A flock of parakeets perch atop a tree
laden with luscious green mangoes
Chattering and chirping, they partake of the feast
Squeaking squirrels join in the merry-making
Soon, half-eaten mangoes lie strewn beneath the tree.
The melodious sounds from the harmonium - ‘Vittala Vittala’
now right outside. The ochre-clad man sings ‘Pandariche Bhoot Mothe!’
“The forests of Pandari are immense, anyone travelling there - Beware!”
A gentle nod, as she offers him a meagre sum, some rice and pulses
Good Samaritans join in. Tarrying no more,
the wandering minstrel walks on.
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!’
The Sermon on the Mount comes to mind as the music fades…….
(**Athithi Devo Bhava - aka Guest is akin to God- Such practice of hosting guests, feeding crows and dogs continue to exist in a reduced manner, perhaps?)
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
On the street, the ocean surges back and forth all day,
till the daylight wanes on
the flanks of myriad tired legs.
The trampled earth wells up like
a pair of eyes swimming with tears.
The raindrops estranged from the clouds
descend to rub shoulders with millions
just as someone deserts his closets
to look around the town today, only today.
A time to spread the roots deep in to
the earth, to let the flowers burst open
on the crumbling boundaries our smiles
fail to conquer; the monsoon fails to
paint green, love-less deserts choke the eyes.
Every crack on the temple wall wraps
within the vagrant bull’s vague rumination.
Deep sighs of the widows’ whitened soul
imbues the drift of the restless wind.
Now the wind touches its deep ravines.
In the eye of this perfect storm, the still
black orb of the charioteer’s eyes, vast
and timeless like the limitless sky,
we fly, tiny little birds, looking for meaning
Abani Udgata lives in Bhubaneswar. Writes poems both in English and Odia. Udgata has been awarded in all-India poetry competitions and published in anthologies. He has been a regular contributor to LV. Email: abaniudgata@gmail.com
Is there something wrong with the mirror?
From whatever angle I see,
Left, right or centre,
My face appears distorted a bit.
Has it cracked?
Somewhere in the middle
And spread to one corner,
In tremors during last winter
That had destroyed a few homes.
Is it under any spell?
It was a mirror of truth and trust
Every time at a crossroads
It gave an honest answer.
Oh no, mistaken as I am
It is not the mirror that I am looking at
It’s your face.
Arun Sahu is a diplomat and a writer. He was India’s High Commissioner to Trinidad and Tobago, India’s Deputy High Commissioner to Canada and Deputy Director General of the Indian Council for Cultural Relations (ICCR). He served as a Board Member on the US-India Educational Foundation and the Canada-India Centre for Excellence in Science, Technology Trade and Policy at Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada. As a diplomat, he has served in Indian Embassies in Beijing, London, Tehran and Ottawa.
He writes poems, fiction and non-fiction in English and Odia. His recent publication is “Trinidad and Tobago: A Diplomat’s Cultural Expedition”. His previous publications are Iguana and Other Poems, Shunyara Shantulana (Balance of Zero), Jajabarara Jatra (A Mandarin’s Journey), Chira Malata (The Torn Cover) and Akashara Luha (Tears of the Sky).
At present in Delhi as Joint Secretary (Central Europe), Ministry of External Affairs.
Knowing the scheming ways of destiny
Vigilant and cautious was my soul
Not letting anyone peep inside
The confines of my heart
But the core of my being
cried and longed for a fantasy!
Universe has omnipresent ears
hears not the wails
But the whispers of a longing heart
Shut doors guarded trespassers
And when love gently tapped
It opened to the vistas of ecstasy
Constellations dancing in the ether
My milky-way oozing love
Butterflies flapping around
Unicorns galloping
Creating a bliss
The moment when you uttered
‘I would like to live a life with you’
The world stopped still
Recollecting the moment
Moments melting into memories
I treasure every drop of the moment
Though it slipped out of reality!
My well of thoughts holds it safe!
Aparna is a poet, writer, academic and a lover of literature. “Speck of a Soul" was her first published anthology of poems in 2019. Her poems have also been published in several anthologies of repute. She coauthored and published “Painting Dreams" - yet another anthology of poems in 2020. She was the Editor of “Metamorphosis”, a book devoted to Art and Poetry.
Asian Literary Society conferred “Poet of the Year Award” on her in the year 2022. She received “Poet of the year” award from Ukiyoto Publishing House in the year 2022. She was awarded the “Best Poet - Editor’s choice” by Spectrum Awards in May 2021. Her poem *Saviour’s Destiny* was long-listed for IPR Annual Award 2020.
The Altrusa international Madras club on the occasion of Women's day (March,2020) awarded her for her service in the field of education and writing. Her latest collection “Snippets of the Soul”(2021) is a book of quotes. Aparna lives in Chennai, with her tag line,” She lives a life of Poetry”.
Delicate tinkling circles of glass
Once were used to encompass
A whole range emotions.
Once they signalled festivity, love and hope
Some were of thick wrought gold,like the heavy rope
Of those weighed down by wealth.
When broken, they signified grief and loss
Circles of gold and glass.
Shaped in furnace and fire
Of different shapes and colours
Lie forgotten in dark cupboards now
Like the setting glow
Of light on once-great cultures.
Gita Bharath has enjoyed five years of teaching middle school before starting on a banking career that lasted thirty four years. Now, happily retired, she focusses on writing and trying out kolam art. Her first book Svara contains three hundred poems, comprising narrative, humour,and philosophical verses. Her work has featured in international anthologies, and won prizes from Literoma, Asian Literary Society, Story Mirror, etc,
Hey Wanderer,
I hope your wings are healed now
And you have explored more skies
Spent time with all the flowers you wanted to meet…
Listened to the music of the ocean
Under a starlit Sky…
I love to hear, your heart is light
Free from pain, fear, frustration…
Please tell me you are not still hoping
But living your dreams
Less worries, more smiles, love, and laughter…
I hope you don’t break down often
Tired of challenges, tired of being tired
And no more lonely moments faced
Stopping yourself from sharing
Feeling numb to repeat the same story of pain
Fearing the aches, and wounds of not being understood…
When did you buy that pretty backpack?
I love the pastel shades, floral prints
I love what you have packed in them…
Travel, explore, breathe peace, plant poetry
Date Nature, find your nourished self
Stop sighing at the things you didn’t do
You couldn’t! You trudged alone
It’s OKAY if you had paused for a long time
Hibernating was all you did…
Let there be no long to-do list…
Every night, before sleeping, make a list
What all you did with love, that made you happy…
My dear best friend! Yes you!
I know you adore life, and moments
I know you went through innumerable tunnels, but
Please know, I love you the most
You never failed to hold on to the light within
You still made a few souls smile, and hope
While searching for your own…
Loads of love,
Your own Sunshine, Anchor.
A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi. H is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry, Photography, Music. Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), CPC- Chennai Poetry Circle's EFFLORESCENCE, IPC's(India Poetry Circle) Madras Hues Myriad Views, Amaravati Poetic Prism 2015, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes - LiteraryVibes, Storizen, Science Shore, OPA – Our Poetry Archives. e-Anthologies Monsoon moods - Muse India, Green Awakenings - On Environment, by Kavya-Adisakrit.
Ignite Poetry, Breathe Poetry, Dream Poetry, Soul shores that have 10 of her poems published, Soul Serenade, Shades of Love-AIFEST, Arising from the dust, Painting Dreams, Shards of unsung Poesies, are some of the Anthologies her poems, and write ups are part of. (2020 to 2022). Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, to create awareness, break the stigma, believing in the therapeutic, transformational power of words. Contact: madhumathi.poetry@gmail.com :: Blogs: https://madhumathipoetry.wordpress.com :: http://madhumathikavidhaigal.blogspot.com/?m=1
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
THE RAINS -1
A playful puppy,
the rain, lunges to the lap
of our lawn.
The shower.
You pour on me
your mood’s smoldering coals,
joy, passion,
and loud tantrums.
In our bodies’ wild terrain,
minds repose
before the heart gallop footloose, keel over
again, and again. And it rains.
Never say - never ever feel -
the innocuous flirting
may breach limits.
And it would rain slivers of lust.
THE RAINS – 2
A sudden hush in your
multi-presence childish hubbub,
cooking mock food in a mock kitchen,
raising a mock family.
None made it happen,
there was no commitment
to keep, it just happened, an unseasonal
shower; did not pour but cooled the earth.
None had asked
for the half-bloomed kisses,
or the floundering flames, but etched
in memory, those would go with me to pyre.
.
THE RAINS – 3
She comes from an alien land,
the first rain, bringing an aroma,
the petrichor of raw flesh.
Or was I a musk-deer, it is mine?
She enters my parched land
drenching it with passion;
I, starved of love, enter home
to keep a tryst, together.
Who is she? What’s her identity?
Could she be a pubescent cloud?
A much-missed shower
that turns body’s glades wet and lush?
Or the sweet cornucopia,
the platter of bounties
to the body’s eager humus,
wafting maddening scent of Kadamba?
RAINS – 4
The earth, wet and cool,
dust settled, the rains having
a light mood; it’s a joy to listen
to her mild tap-dance on the roof.
She makes a call
at the despondent heart’s door,
bringing in wet aroma of earth,
trotting about like a musk deer.
She heals the sunburns,
gives the feel of joy of a cow
spared of the butcher’s knife, left
in a wet meadow with new grass.
Lovers long for each other,
hearts miss beats over and over
as the lovers meet, make
the rains momentous, unforgettable.
Kamalakanta Panda (Kalpanta) is a renowned Odia poet lives and writes from Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, over the last forty years. He is often referred to as Kalpanta (meaning the ‘ultimate’) in Odia literary circles. He is a poet of almost legendary repute in Odisha and if one has not read Kalpata, then, he hasn’t read the quintessence of Odia poetry. He is famous for a quirky decision: he would never collect his poems into books himself. However, one may not find an Odia literary journal, or an anthology not enriched by his poems. His recent passion is to re-discover quaint and musical Odia words, and use them in poetry to enhance its nuances and contours. He is shy and quiet by disposition and believes to serve his muse, the deity-poetry, away from humdrum and razzle-dazzle of poetic forums. (He can be reached at his resident telephone No.06742360394 and his mobile No. 09437390003)
Tell me
The defeated dreams
Of your no-moon nights,
Tell me the dreams of
Your twisted truths,
Curving down from
Their drunken heights,
Tell me the dreams
Of spring colours
You have treasured
Under your autumn gaze,
The dreams so fondly woven
Into your ecstatic maze,
Tell me the dreams
Of your dark sunshine
Tell me the the dreams
You never dreamt
but lived them
In your secret shrine;
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
1. IN THE BOSOM OF THE SEA
In the bosom of the sea
I have cremated
an unfinished story of love
some stories have no age
lifelong commitment
is not everyone 's cup of tea
Poems, inscribed on paper
drown them in water
water will wash away
even the stains of ink
If time was on my side
I would have written
my poems on your breaths
give away my voice to the wind
it will at least enhance
the hoarseness
of some far away barren land
you are free now
from my voice, poems and words
I have come away
from your finite range
I have become infinite.
2. YOU MAY HAVE WRITTEN MY NAME
You may have written my name
with your fingers
on the sand
In which lifetime
I do not know
and the sea must have
washed it away
but it's inscription mark
on the chest of the sand
is still there
when my feet touched it
with a shiver I saw
your reflection still around
I could feel the touch of your fingers
from my body to soul..
3. SEA RETURNS
Sea returns in seconds
after washing away
our story as if it was
a name written on sand
You lost that moment
which I have kept with care
in my bosom
' that moment'
when you found me
and I got you
Each one has a nature
each one has a destiny
at times a century is filled in a moment
at times that moment
is not destined
to be found in a century
I still continue
to write stories on the sand
sea continues
washing them away
neither I stop writing
nor the sea stops
washing them away.
4. IT MAY SO HAPPEN SOMEDAY
It may so happen someday
I may write my poems on clouds
who knows someday
in the monsoon season
they may shower on you
I may write my poems on wind
who knows someday
they may touch you
and convey my unsaid message
I may write my poems
on the waves of the sea
Who knows someday
they may embrace you
inscribe poems on sand
who knows someday
they may come under your feet
and finding your mention in them
You may go still,
shiver from inside
and in that one moment
in your thoughts
only I be there.
5. EVERY TIME A WAVE GOES CRAZY
Every time a wave goes crazy in love
it hugs the bosom of the sea
and everytime it becomes restless
and breaks down
because of the indifference
of the uncaring sea
it rises, goes crazy again
and breaks down again
this process is incessant
Neither the craziness of the waves reduces
nor the heart of the sea gets compassionate
each has one's own ways
Who changes ever
for anyone.
Delhi based bilingual poet Sangeeta Gupta has 25 published books to her credit, it includes a collection of short stories and 14 anthologies of poems in Hindi. Ten of her books of poems are translated in German, Greek, Mandarin, English Bangla, Dogri, Tamil and Urdu.
She also has held 36 solo exhibitions of her paintings and has directed, shot and scripted 30 documentary films, seven of them are in the collection of Library of Congress, Washington
In the morning
Sunlight was like twigs
Scattered here and there
Flying and running and walking
The birds
Tried to pick them
The more they tried
The more the twigs spread
Not knowing what to do
They threw away whatever they picked
And flew away
And then the night came
The sun picked up all the twigs
Without leaving anything
And moved away!...
Ravi Ranganathan is a writer, critic and a poet from Chennai. Also a retired banker. He has to his credit three books of poems titled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Writes regularly for several anthologies. His awards include recognition in "Poiesis award for excellence" of Poiesisonline, Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and’ Master of creative Impulse ‘award by Philosophyque Poetica. He contributes poems for the half yearly Poetry book Metverse Muse . He writes regularly for the monthly webzine “ Literary Vibes” and “ Glomag”.He is the Treasurer of Chennai Poets’ Circle.
I walk leisurely in the rain, in the nameless forest.
looking at everything.
The green mosses, the wild bushes are going
crazy with happiness.
And then erasing themselves at the very moment
in the blinding rain.
Its all bleary, misty, and murky.
The tall trees holding up its wet leaves,
standing to attention in the unshaven anguish.
It’s only the silent confirmation.
I’m going to give back to the leaves
to the fallen feathers the bird,
With my footsteps,
I like to plant seeds and stones in pulses.
It isn’t the darkness after all as so much
with soft lights slowly wrapping within.
Everything is now cleansed, startling, elegant, alive.
Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual, Kolkata based poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 29 books published, including eight jointly edited books. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems are translated in 17 languages and his works are published in 14 countries. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize, US for poetry in 2021. He is the recipient of the Setu Excellence Award, 2020, Pittsburgh, US.
Calcutta
City of joy
Colorful canvas
Crippling birds
Candid Ganges
Candor smile
Canopy of cantata
Canter cantonment
Capacious caption
Cartography literary Calcutta.
Fussy roads
Overcrowded rush
City in dark sails the tale
of agony and rush
Yonder gaze over the dholaks
and mridanga
Agony wears the smile with the beats,
ta thai thaai ya
Literatures beyond specks,a rollercoaster down
fall the valleys
Bipolar song of doom swings in between trust and lies
Guffaws squirrels over the crimping darts
Tandav groaning,fallen syllabus.
Soumen Roy is a professional writer, best selling author and a tri-lingual poet. He has been vasty anthologized. His novel and poetry books have been part of International Kolkata Book Fair as well as Newtown book fair. He is the receiptent of Laureate Award 2022 along with many others. His poetry has been a part of international poetry festival 2017 and Panaroma international Literature festival 2023. He has published in different newspapers, magazines and web portals. He has been part of a web series named Showstopperzz, a cinema for a cause. He loves photography, painting and music.
We are under a lot of stare
when on road, at the citadel,
or at home.
A white owl stared at me
inside the citadel.
Mother said, it was holy.
On roads at night, yellow
lights stare at me. Under sunshine,
the side glances of humans color me.
In my childhood, I was scared
of stares of elders; and let me
also say, of dogs.
In my adolescence, I was scared
of the neighborhood aunt, lest she
felt I stared at her daughter.
In society I feel scared of the
big eagle, if it lifts me anytime and
dumps by bones in the local dustbin.
Aneek Chatterjee is a poet and academic from Kolkata, India. He has published more than five hundred poems in reputed literary magazines and poetry anthologies across the globe. He authored 16 books including four poetry collections titled, “Seaside Myopia” (Cyberwit, 2018), “Unborn Poems and Yellow Prison” (Cyberwit, 2019), “Of Ashes and Persiflage” (Hawakal, 2020) and “Archive Avenue” (Cyberwit, 2022). He also co-edited the “Poetry Conclave Year Book 2022” (Authors Press). Dr. Chatterjee received the prestigious “Alfredo Pasilono Memorial Panorama International Literary Award 2023”, conferred by the Writers Capital Foundation. He was a Fulbright Visiting faculty at the University of Virginia, USA and a recipient of the ICCR Chair (Govt. of India) to teach abroad. His poetry has been archived at Yale University. He can be reached at: akchatjee@gmail.com
Misty, foggy ambiance
Enjoyable coolness
Rejoicing breez
Picturesque scene to gaze
The same used to relish every day
But a rose bud, specially, attracted today
Charming, soft, uniquely folded,
Who can unfold !
Layer by layer, without destroying
The delicate rose bud, now smiling
Can I ? no, no, no
The skill of parting petals softly, don't know,
I guess, only almighty God
As if, somebody gently unveiling bride
Can spread one after another
While we fail to transform a bud into flower,
We humans boast of having immense power
Yes, God is superb arranger
Universe's capable manager,
A very tiny bud is shining example
That we are nothing, don't have power ample
We may observe, admire & learn
The mercy of Supreme power must earn
We can aquire knowledge, skills,
But possibility depends entirely on His will....
Manjula Asthana Mahanti is a published trilingual poet, author, editor, translator and story teller. She has eight collections on her credit along with a long list of participation in national, international anthologies, e-magazines, Webinars and Lit. Fests etc.
She is recipient of several national, international awards, Samman Gujarat and Telangana sahitya akademy, Amongst many more, recent award I received," Icons of Asia " and B. R. Ambedkar award.Hind Shiromani and Global Achiever's award.
how fast
our villages
grow into
cities!
facilitating
access
to schools
hospitals
malls...
But who
is there
to benefit ,
to live,
save some
on return
for a holiday
from far...
the youth
have fled.
some grey
palsied heads
remain...
the riverbeds
dry up, as
greedy
construction
mounts.
flats and
sky scrapers
fill up
the empty
expanse,
meadows
where children
once played and
shouted..
where are
those children
gone?
caught up
in cyber cells?
the trees
mercilessly cut
the green
wiped off
its pristine
solace
gone
for birds
and flock.
spruced up
mini green
decking Mall
fronts in
synthetic
aura...
Inorganic
abounds
in attractive
labels...
how much
of this load
the earth
can hold
people !
behold
this wreck
no mere growth,
but
the ship wrecks
of a culture,
habitat...
don't tell me
'mum" is the
word, o, poet
unless
you turn
antique
anti progressive...
No, journeys
we need make
done with will
and vision
as progress...
see, you
are meddling,
putting at stake
the interest
of the common
who constitute
142 crore
while you
fill up
pockets
for the one
percent
who thrive
running roughshod...
Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published twelve books,10 Books of poems, a novel and a Story book for Children. She has won several accolades which include India Women Achiever’s Award 2020. She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. She can be reached at E mail- mynamolly @gmail.com ; You tube- https://www.youtube.com/user/mynamolly
(Oil pastel painting by Seethaa Sethuraman)
She knew the reality would paint everything into black and white
- Why did she visualize the kaleidoscope of fantasy, despite?
She knew it would come to a grinding halt someday
- Why did she get carried away?
She knew it would never turn into a possibility
- Why did she risk embracing an impossibility?
She knew it would never stand the test of time
- Why did she let her heart sway like swinging wind chimes?
She knew the bubble would eventually burst
- Why did she float in the cloud of love, in the first?
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
Beside the vast ocean Standing I was.
Beyond the horizon looking bewildered.
In the mood of going down,the sun too was,
Leaving in the heaven some reflection pink at dusk.
The broken clouds borrowed some rays
From the setting Sun, from the rising moon.
To continue the glory, to continue the grace.
Next morn they have to return them as drops of rain as a sage's boon.
All at once the waves made some plans,
They had been very far, nor close anywhere.
For long they had been waiting for a little chance,
Watching me, they started coming closer.
They touched my feet, enlivening meticulously.
Sitting on the shore I too heard their dire anguish.
Releasing all aches bearing from mid-sea ,
They turned back to their stations whence ushered in.
Leaving a shell for me as a memory of the meeting.
Leaving some grains of sand on my palm as a token of re-uniting.
Tandra Mishra is a poet from Raiganj,West Bengal, eastern part of India. She is an honours graduate and post graduate in English. She has been writing poems since her childhood. Many of her poems have been published in online websites, print magazines and anthologies. Some of her famous works are "Oh Lady!", "I, A Female Foetus", "A Heavenly Gift", "No More War, Please" etc.
She is a published author. Her first poetry book's title is 'Oh Father!'. She is a member of World Nations Writers' Union. She has received an award from FUREC, which was launched by our former President Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam. She writes on social issues, specially about women's empowerment. Her ironical and satirical works advocate peace and corruption free society.
I was nervous and meek once
I didn't know to swim the vast ocean
She labelled me as 'a strong creature'
Holding my hands, she showed me the way,
The way that is thorny, but a magical one
I learned to be wise, enthusiastic and brave
I always live in a dreamland, not on the real land
She paved a path to reach my goals
She held my hand, and patted me ever
My imagination has no bounds
I attained whatever I wanted
No more grief and no more regrets
She taught me how to use my wings
I'm on the road of triumph today,
Because I am under her mighty wings
it's true, I am protected under her wings!
She's the reason for my breath and growth
Yeah, I am blessed to have mom's blessings
Which are precious than anything in the globe
These stagnant tall mountains
Adorning curves and course lines
Signify the height of the path
That you trod every single moment
As an ambitious man, you see
The unending twists and turns
You feel unending destinations
At times, you get confused
And sometimes, you get astonished
O dear, the path of success is long
Thorny roads give you a challenge
Cursive paths inspire you ever
I know, you often feel depressed
And lose the hidden patience
You're challenging, daring and bold
As a trekker of the mountainous range
Walk forward with immense courage
Flowery path spreads a garland
Welcoming you with a pleasant smile
Stop not the journey of triumphant road
See, dear! Its like a high mountain
Let your existing feet step ahead
Reach the desired goals one by one,
Succes is unstoppable at every way
Your strenuous deed guides you
To the light at the end of the tunnel .
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com
From family album I see my mom carrying me home
In my school uniform,
And the load of school bag on her shoulder.
People in the neighbourhood would say that she toiled hard
Walked miles with smiles on her face
Braving the rain , summer or thunder that she did never care,
The frail woman that she was, carrying the weight on her back,
The job she did with love and care.
At times holding an umbrella over my head.
She would not sit in a rickshaw to save money
To buy me a kite or a quality Ice-Cream!
I didn’t know when did I grow up to be on my own
But she like an inseparable shadow has been with me in every step ,
For her as if I have not grown.
She keeps a watch on my wellbeing, my daily itinerary
Of waking up , breakfast , lunch, dinner and sleep.
She stays anchored in the same small town neighbourhood,
Leaving me to roam in the globalised world
As I do business of connecting the world through invisible wires;
A small instrument connects me and her wherever I am
Call and chats makes us feel closer to each other.
In my metropolis I see a competitions happening
Among the colourful young damsels
But in their midst I search for my mom.
She is conspicuous by her absence,
She is kind enough to leave the crown to others!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
They can’t write you off how much they try.
I don’t bother to know if you’re in heaven or hell.
You did your job well, setting standards,
intensely passionate and poetic as you are,
yet objective in your concern
without any alluring promises or pretensions,
sometimes, somewhere though you would fail.
Unable to see your honest impartial endeavors,
jealous rivals who can never ever scale the height
you reached by the beauty of your imagination,
your keen insight and plan, would question
your love for the country, your deep rooted love
for values dear to democracy, universal amity
and your unfailing integrity.
In our minds you dwell as much as you dwell
in the malicious minds of your detractors,
casting your spell in everything they do to belittle
your image and as they blame you all the more
to hide their stupidity when they fail.
Ideas born for universal good don't die.
In our attempt to kill the dead
we in fact revive it and hold it high.
Bipin Patsani (b. 1951) has published poems in many prestigious journals and poetry anthologies including Indian Literature, Chandrabhaga, Journal of Indian Writing in English, Indian Scholar, Kavya Bharati, Poetcrit, International Poetry and Prophetic Voices etc. He has been translated to Spanish and Portuguese. He has three poetry collections to his credit (VOICE OF THE VALLEY, ANOTHER VOYAGE and HOMECOMING). He is a recipient of Michael Madhusudan Academy Award/ 1996 and Rock Pebbles National Award in 2018. He did his Post Graduation in English at Ravenshaw College, Cuttack in 1975 and served as a teacher in Arunachal Pradesh for 34 years till his superannuation in 2012. He also received Arunachal Pradesh State Government’s Award in 2002 for his dedicated service as a teacher. He lives with his family at Barunei Colony, Badatota in Khordha District of Odisha, India.
Catch the light
The last rays of sunlight
After the downpour
On the leaves yet to be levelled
Yet to be trimmed! Of the curtain
Plant or that brave shrub
That stands as boundary
Or fence or like a fancy
Beautiful partition between the park and
The grass or between
The mud patch and the
Walkway! Or in the manicured leaves
Of trees in the palaces!
Catch the light in the nooks
And corners of and around trees
Shaped by human hands!
And then you will somewhat
Know what is confinement
Containment, restriction
Distraction , humiliation
De-moralization, de motivation,
Indoctrination! And fight all
Of these, tooth and nail!
Where ever you see it happening!
To whomever, you see it happening!
Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual poet, story writer and translator from India. Two poetry collections published in English, two story collections published in Hindi, six poetry collections published in Hindi, and many more are lined up. Has been published in many journals, anthologies, home and abroad. Has won many prestigious, national-international awards, like the Girija Kumar Mathur Award, Chitra Kumar Shailesh Matiyani Award, Seemapuri Times Rajeev Gandhi Excellence Award, First prize for poetry by Rajasthan Patrika, awards in Chekhov festival in Yalta and in Premio Besio Poetry competition in Italy, Sahitto award in Bangladesh, and Premio Galateo in Italy for poetry in mother tongue. Has been translated in over twenty seven languages.
She has studied in Delhi University, Symbiosis Pune, SUNY Buffalo, and the University of Calgary, Canada. She has worked in various positions as a journalist, lecturer and a content editor. Has done writing residencies in Hungary and Bulgaria, and attended the Tranas Literature Festival in Sweden.
Each hunger has its haunted house,
Where a snake of fire crawls
There are windows with no eyes,
God is a rusty stuff on walls!
An illusion is the grey roof top
As humanity’s shadow in a row,
The chimney hunts for bread or body,
May it be burnt or raw!
In the yard are broken scraps,
Is life collapsing near?
Beatitude bolted in the basement-
Death its name, seems dear!
Anjali Sahoo writes poems both in English and Odia. Her first poetry book A Tryst with Thunder (2021), published by Authors Press, New Delhi, sheds light upon manifold aspects of life. They take the readers to the world of imaginative vibrancy, unearthing hidden mysteries of the world. Her published works include three poetry books and two short stories collections in Odia.
The chill breeze flows through the balcony
The balcony of a child weeping
Acid rain leaks from her eyes down to her cheek
The acid is less diluted, it melted the december snow
The tears run all the way down from seventh floor
They flow, like perennial rivers, searching for the owner
They flow, all against gravity, failing physics, they flow
And it would be an obvious statement to say
That the tears knocked the front door of the child
The child opened the door, surprised to see an ocean
She stopped crying, and she spoke to the ocean
"Who are you, why are you here?'"
"I'm your tears, I've come her to talk to you
You have no one to consult to
I'm always there for you
You can pour out anything, I'll always flow for you"
This much care, she's surprised to see something give
This much trust, she could never give in to anyone else
She poured out everything
She was depressed, lost hope on everything
Her situation was good, but why was she crying?
She's just a girl at home, enforced to do everything
Spoon-fed, and was said no to everything she asked
A solid no, and some dejection to sprinkle on
She's loved, but has some unfulfilled desires too
The only one she could ever speak to
Was the one who said no to everything
The only thing she had left to do
Was cry in the balcony and speak to her own tears
S. Krishna Tulasi from Bangalore, studying 1st PUC in Presidency PU College. Her interests include reading, writing and music. She is an ardent fan of writing. She believes in giving social meaning or sharing her knowledge and experiences for the benefit of others.
The entire universe is desperate
to clinch a win and script a victory
but I am not in a hurry
to embrace a materialistic world
or amass more than necessary
for, I am busy smelling...
the pulsating, riveting essence of life
as less is always more for me
a shiver of pleasure runs through me
as I get to palpate earthy delight
be it buds , blooms , herbs , shrubs
or branches of humongous trees
my chest rises in excitement
as I watch the sunset and sunrise
these cosmic nuances fill my everyday life
with peace, bliss and serenity
twitters, chirpings, the medley of seasons
inundate life, enthrall my core
hone my galloping imagination
to pen some wonderful lines of verse
nature has impacted my well being
lowered stresses in myriad ways
I would be inclined to spend more time
in natural surroundings ...given a choice.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker. She has three published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm-all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit. She is a singer, avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
A child is like a flower
Let it bloom by itself
A flower blooms for its own self not for others.
Let's not compare them with one another
Pressurising them causes stress
That suffocates them to be on their own.
Let us take good care of them like flowers
Keeping them warm with our smiles
Showering upon them our good words
Nourishing them with good conduct and habits
That will one day fill up our hearts with joy
To see a beautiful garden blooming in full glory.
Priyalakshmi Gogoi from Guwahati, Assam is a teacher by profession and a poet by passion. She has been writing since her school days and her poems have been published in popular newspapers in her city. Her poetry has seen the light in blogs, Instagram, editorial, e-magazines and she has co-authored few national and international Anthologies. She has been awarded several times for winning Poetry contests in various literary platforms. She is a World English Saino Writer and a Gogyohka writer as well.
She has been awarded the 75th Independence Day Literary Honor 2021 and India Independence Day Global Literary Honours 2021-22 jointly given by Motivational Strips and Gujarat Sahitya Academy in "Recognition of Exhibiting Literary Brilliance Par Global Standards". She has also been conferred with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Honour, 2022 by Motivational Strips and Dept of Culture, Govt of Seychelles and its journal SIPAY.
She has been awarded Honorary Membership, The Gold Writers Award among others for her Poetic excellence by the prestigious Drukyul Writers Association, Bhutan.
This morning, the sun endured past dawn.
I realized that it was August,
The summer's last stand.
I am watching TV like a human bird,
the ebbs and flows of multifarious lineage.
Many of them wander here and there
and find peace after returning home.
Some need others
to accept their expression of love.
Some need a niche to share their achievements with loved ones.
Some people want to be free,
Assured of peace and love.
Homecoming is not merely
to find solace,
It is also to spread joy.
Because that is the best place to heal a wound of the inner self.
Witnessing sweet dishes,
Recollecting handmade meals,
sweet curries.
Different memories,
different games.
To welcome unblemished hearts.
Pouring here and there in front of
the veranda of the house.
Days where you can't walk or doze with floods.
The flood brought merriment and frenzy at first, then terror...
We managed to live by the hand of people we had underestimated. Acknowledgments!
Ah, only if God could hear the silent murmur of our hearts,
the sweet beats of gratitude!
Sukanya V Kunju is a postgraduate in English language and literature from St.Michaels College, Alappuzha. Most of her poems have been published in Literary Vibes. She is an aspiring poet. She is the co-author of the book Dusk and Dawn.
TAJ AT THE TRAIN TRAGEDY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
(At the site of one of the deadliest train accidents of recent times at Bahanaga Bazar, Odisha, on 2nd June, rescuers were bafffled by scattered papers from a torn diary with love poems written by one of the victims. Amidst all the heart rending sights these little poems stole the hearts of many, tearful tributes pouring in for the tragic lover. This short poem is addressed to the equally tragic girl who was the inspiration for the poems. The poems by the unfortunate lover are like small Taj Mahals for his beloved, shining with their own beauty and splendour.)
No one knows where you are at this moment
Thinking of your beloved, pining for him,
The one that poured his heart out for you
Little knowing he had only a few breaths left
Breaths that resonated with the fragrance
He carried of you, your love, your heartbeats.
"Alpo alpo megh theke halka bristi hoy
Chotto chotto golpo theke bhalobasa sristi hoy."
From little tales he wanted his love to blossom,
Tales that he made around you, sweet and soft,
Like the scattered clouds coming together
To sprinkle smiling rains on a mesmerised sky.
"Bhalobeshei toke chai sara khhon
Achis tui moner sathe..."
With love he wanted to wrap you around him
And keep you forever in his heart in sweet bondage
Time made no sense, nor the place
For, you were in his mind glued like a shadow.
His letters of love were found scattered
Where a train journey came to a deadly end for many.
Amidst mangled bodies, gasping souls,
Little dolls with limbs gone, open eyes with unseeing vision.
The poems shone like a Taj built for you by a dying emperor
Will you ever visit the monument to wash it with your tears?
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
Book Review
FATHER: A POLICEMAN AND SON: AN ONCOLOGIST.
Author : Bidhu K Mohanti
(English) (Paperback) (288 pages)
Har-Anand Publications, Delhi.2023
ISBN: 978-93-91504-86-1
The title of the book by Dr Bidhu K Mohanti is unambiguous; it combines a biography of his father with his own autobiography. The author, Mohanti Junior, the oncologist, is a friend of mine, from our Medical School days in 1970s.
For reviewing this book, I was concerned whether our close association might cloud my objectivity. On balance, any such constraint is outweighed by the benefit of knowing him over the years, specially when it comes to expounding, if not critiquing its contents. The interwoven lives of the father and the son are painted vividly against the backdrop of historical events, putting the characters' actions and decisions in context. His technique of recounting people and places through a decent dose of anecdotes has enriched the narration, adding colour to the characters and bringing the situations alive.
The life of Mohanti Senior is depicted in such detail in all its dimensions that you feel you almost know him. His rise from the position of a humble stenographer to the rank of the prestigious IPS (Indian Police Service) cadre attests to his extraordinary abilities, inner resolve, and self confidence. Being an exemplary policeman was not his only achievement; he was a man of many parts. I gathered from this book that he wrote short stories and was an amateur stage actor. No wonder, he was the natural role model for the author, who imbibed some of the same attributes.
One of the catalyst for conception of the book is a chance encounter that brought together the children of the two sets of families from the colonial era. This happened in 2010, when the daughters of British Police Officers, HN Hargreaves and Percy Gill, with whom Senior Mohanti served as a steno, visited India to retrace their childhood spent in India. The human drama that
follows this first contact between the daughters of the Raj (as they choose to call themselves) and the descendants of Senior Mohanti (the author with his wife and daughter) makes absorbing reading. It is a touching testimony of the fondness with which the British children of the Raj remember their adopted country. The moving gesture of them presenting the Indian memorabilia, collected by their fathers, as a gift back to the children of independent India beautifully captures this emotional bond. I can well imagine the overwhelming sense of surprise and the excitement in the very first contact and can feel the air of genuine warmth and affection permeating the subsequent meeting.
I enjoyed immensely the historical account of Odisha in the pre and immediate post Indian independence period. This is partly because my knowledge of the key events, alluded to in the text, was somewhat vague and I learnt many new facts from this book. Some of the folklore of Odisha, reproduced in vernacular, brought back my own childhood memories alive. I discovered from his book that the author and I shared a similar schooling experience. We moved around a lot and for a few years we attended schools in neighbouring towns. Reading his account of schooling in Nayagarh (while I was in school in Odagaon, eighteen miles away, around the same time) had a special emotional resonance with me.
The second half of the book covers his medical college days and his career as an oncologist. In these years our acquaintance grew increasingly closer, particularly over the last ten years through our annual College reunions. During this period, I had been most impressed by his sincerity of purpose and steadfast commitment to improving cancer care in the state of Odisha.
He stoically persevered in his mission, undeterred by all the odds, including the devastating diagnosis of his own cancer and the utter chaos unleashed by the pandemic. The successful Cancer Centre in Kalinga Institute of Medical Sciences (KIMS), Bhubaneswar, Odisha, finally up and running, is a testimony to his sheer grit and unflagging determination.
The text is generously interspersed with commentaries on the education and health policy of India, which shines a light on the author’s wide-ranging interests. Besides being an oncologist of repute, he is also a social commentator and educator at heart. His insights into the gulf between the muddled health policy of governments and the reality faced by doctors is quite illuminating.
The book is a commendable attempt to put a chapter of Odisha’s history on record. By necessity, the coverage is fragmented, patchy, and far from comprehensive. Nevertheless, this is for me, the most enjoyable section of the book. Packed with details, the narration style is engaging, and above all, reminiscing our childhood has a nostalgic charm, which is hard to match. Like all history, it is a partial picture, tinted by the colour of the author’s prism. Nonetheless, it is a valuable gift for the posterity as a historical document of Odisha’s cultural heritage. But, first and foremost, this book is a fascinating read as a loving tribute from an adoring son to his worthy father.
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.
FOUR BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES BY MRUTYUNJAY SARANGI
(Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former judge in a tribunal. Post retirement, his time is spent on editing the monthly eMagazine LiteraryVibes and writing poems and short stories. He has published nine books in Odia and four collections of short stories in English. He has received a few literary awards, the most notable being the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj in 2018.)
Comments by Readers:
** Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a great storyteller. His short stories are engaging and absorbing. I don't remember a single occasion when my friends and I have not been mesmerized by his amazing writing. He certainly knows how to grab a reader's attention. No words are necessary to describe him, just applause will do.
Aparna Deshmukh (Computer Professional, Socialite - Melbourne, Florida, USA)
** Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a phenomenal writer of the contemporary era who has a lifelike command over his vocabulary. With a deft touch, the master storyteller deeply delves into the core of the stories that directly imports a reader to feel the magic. All his stories are characterized by his instant wit and are packed with subtle humour. He has certainly revived the wonders of storytelling that had faded in this digital age. Suffused with the quill of imagination all his stories dance, and the characters spring from the fictional realm to appeal to the whole gamut of human sentiments.
Sudipta Mishra, (Best-selling Author, Poet, Essayist and Researcher - Puri, Odisha)
** The stories by Mrutyunjay sensitively portray experiences of a lifetime. These are stories one can relate to because they touch the heart and stir emotions in myriad ways. Mrutyunjay really bares his soul through each of his stories.
Arun Mathur, (Retired Civil Servant, Avid Reader- New Delhi)
** Always look forward to reading MS writings. They give fascinating insights into India as well as human behaviour in general. They definitely keep me engaged. Hope more readers can enjoy his refreshing tales.
Daun Jacobson (Computer Executive, Ardent Follower of Indian Literature and Culture - San Hose, USA)
** The indelible impact this cluster of stories leaves with the reader induces him to get back to it again and again, if not for anything else, for the sheer feel one gets as the characters come so alive before one's eyes, with all their passions, emotions, nobility or depravity. The writer must be a master story teller to have such a profound grip over his art.
Prof. R. Chakrabarti (Eminent Social Scientist and Former Vice-Chancellor, Netaji Subhas Open University, Kolkata)
** Empathy is at the core of these stories. Without taking sides, the author identifies with one of the characters in the madding crowd he sees or imagines around him and goes deep into the character to bring out his (or her) motive. In precise, concrete language, free from cliche, he brings out the complementary part of history without which the other half is sketchy, to say the least….Here is a writer who keeps R K Narayan's torch aflame.
Sree Kumar, (Poet, Writer, Essayist, Critic, Film Maker - Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala)
** Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a masterly storyteller whose writing is illumined with delightful humour, subdued satire and pungent social criticism. There is an appeal in his work that goes beyond entertainment. His stories make us reflect on and consider solutions to that perennial problem - "how to live".
Geetha Nair, G. (Poet, Writer and Editor, Trivandrum)
** Who says short stories are out of trend? Mrutyunjay Sarangi’s stories are a pleasure to read, with themes ranging from the whimsical to poignant, from ones conveying a moral to ones that make the reader wonder! Delightfully written, some with a tongue-in-cheek sense of humour, Mrutyunjay, with these stories, is India’s new find, a Prem Chand and Ruskin Bond rolled into one. Read his stories, and you’ll know.
Jairam Seshadri. (Founder, India Poetry Circle. Author of ‘Mantra Yoga: How To Increase Your Inner Power and Potential’, ‘Woof Songs & The Eternal Saboteur: Reflective Poems and Essays on Dogs’, and ‘Jesus Sahasranama: The 1008 Names of Jesus Christ’, Chennai)
** Mrutyunjay Sarangi spins stories with deceptive ease and admirable flair; his loom is the drama, conjured out of daily events from ordinary lives. The characters in his stories magically spring to life by the deft touch of his eloquence and imagination. Portrayal of their emotional encounters, framed in an array of settings, leaves you enthralled and buoyant. This collection of stories is a delectable sample of his prolific creativity.
Dr. Ajay Kumar Upadhyay (Writer, Psychiatrist, Hertfordshire, England)
** Here is an eclectic short story collection, with the right mix of humour, suspense, love, sarcasm, imagery, vocabulary and more! Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a natural storyteller; his stories with twists and turns will leave you asking for more, and more…..
Hema Ravi (Writer, Poet, Reviewer, Editor, ‘Efflorescence’, Secretary, Chennai Poets’ Circle)
** A smooth-flowing river with an estuary of lovely birds and bees, or whirlpools and crocodiles at unknown nooks, depending on whether it hides joy or shocking surprises, that's a typical story by MS; measured, controlled, balanced. Jolly or courageous, sad or tear-jerking, from the start his stories hide a surprising climax.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra (Poet and Writer, Editor ‘POIESIS’, the literary journal of The Poetry Circle, Mumbai)
** Mrutyunjay Sarangi’s stories span a very wide spectrum of themes narrated with his unique and inimitable storytelling style. Not only he paints the scenarios articulately and with minute details, he embeds life’s simple philosophies through dialogues and conversations elegantly. The characterisations are realistic and events appear to be slices from real life.
Dilip Mahapatra (Indian Navy Veteran, Award Winning Poet and Writer, Mumbai)
** Mostly rooted in past memories, the stories of Mrutyunjay Sarangi move spontaneously and flawlessly, defining human relations, unraveling mysteries and singing a long-lost song. Reading his stories is like embarking on an incredible journey.
Minakshi Padhi (Writer, Critic, Bhubaneswar)
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