Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXI (28-Jul-2023) - SHORT STORIES & MISCELLANEOUS
Title : The Third Eye - (Picture courtesy Ms. Ritika Sriram)
It describes my emotions when I meditate.... The forms of yoga are also portrayal of the random forms visualised with eyes closed..
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
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
PLANT PARENTING
02) Chinmayee barik
ANOTHER FACE OF HAPPINESS
03) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
RE-LIVING THE ‘PEEPLI [LIVE]’ MOMENT
04) Ishwar Pati
THE CHAPPAL SYNDROME
05) Ashok Kumar Mishra
UDGARA
06) Malabika Patel
THE WAIT
07) Snehaprava Das
ROSE IS A POEM IN RED
08) Sujata Dash
A TRYST WITH HAPPINESS
09) T. V. Sreekumar
KIDNAP
SOUND OF LOVE
10) Sheba Jamal
CLOSET
11) Ashok Kumar Ray
POVERTY
12) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
RETIRED, TIRED
Table of Contents :: MISCELLANEOUS
01) Ajay Agnihotri
DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER
02) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
POETRY - A MEDITATION
03) Bankim Chandra Tola
WHAT IS TRUTH
04) Gourang Charan Roul
A DESTINATION WALK ACROSS THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE
05) Ravi Ranganathan
GURU – SERVICE – GNANA – HUMILITY -- MOKSHA (MUKTI )
06) Avaya C Mohapatra
DRAMA, THEATRE AND THE SPECTACLE AND THE ANCIENT WORLD
07) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
EVOLUTIONARY POSSIBILITIES IN THE MINOR CHARACTERS OF MANOJ DAS
08) Sundar Rajan S
THE COSY NEST
09) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY...
SHORT STORIES:
No one noticed the garden until it completely disappeared one day. There were traces of it left behind on Yohannan’s courtyard but the hollowness or emptiness overflowed the entire plot around the house.
We all tried to rebuild it in our minds, and recalling it gave us immense happiness. Our minds danced like Wordsworth’s when he recalled the daffodils. Strangely, we can recall things that we never noticed.
Thus one day, returning from a relative’s funeral, I decided to confront Yohannan about the strange case of the vanished garden.
I knocked at the door once and waited.
Yohannan, in his working clothes, opened the door and stared at me.
“I live at 172- B. We never met. May I come in?”
He turned around to pan the room as if looking for a space to deposit me. Behind him was a small forest of indoor plants. There were a couple of garden chairs but no sofa. A small mandapam-like wooden box stood in the middle. That too was occupied by a plant.
I stared at it for a moment.
“Zantedeschia”
It was Yohannan. I was staring at the plant and he was staring at me. His dog was standing very close to me looking at both of us. I had no fear of dogs. After all, this was a small one, a local breed. Very loyal.
Without responding to that, I settled on a garden chair which he moved towards me.
It was very cool and humid inside the room. He had rebuilt the roof to let the sun in. The room was full of indoor plants. A few bore flowers and their scent lingered
in the room, not wanting to go out.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Neither, some cold water would be good. It is too hot outside. This is good, so cool,” I said pointing my chin at the plants around me.”
“Yes, yes, I measured even yesterday, a full 2.3 degrees lower than outside,”
He ambled to the next room and brought out a bottle of water. He didn’t bother to offer it in a cup, I noticed. Cool, informal guy. Strange, I never paid him a visit before.
“Actually, I was missing your garden. I didn’t know you had brought it in.”
“Yes, very hard to go out and water it all. I brought them all in. Did it slowly. Took me a couple of months.”
He sounded very enthusiastic. I knew he was a widower. He had a son.
“Your son?”
“He went abroad. And the one you see in the centre is a Calla Lily, I call her Lily, sometimes Lillikkutty or little Lily. What I told you is its original name, Zantedeschia.”
I found that he was unwilling to talk about his family and all too willing to talk about those indoor plants. Listening to a lecture in botany was the last thing I wanted then. So, I very politely cut short the visit and returned home.
That evening when I met my usual evening chat group outside the local library, I proudly related my daring adventure that afternoon. I added a bit of frills to make the report worth listening to.
The others were not totally unaware of Yohannan’s bio. Everyone offered their bit and then we had before us a complete picture of the old chap. Most of it was rumours and all the more interesting for that reason.
His wife died of cancer a few years ago when his son was a medical student. Soon he took voluntary retirement from a bank he worked for. His son went for a management degree in medicine. His son married from a rich family of stock brokers.
Listening to his son’s advice the old man pawned his property and invested in stocks and lost it all. There was some fight over it between him and his son. He was under the impression that his son had invested his own savings also in stocks. But the clever guy had not. Soon the son went abroad with his wife and baby and settled there. There wasn’t much communication between the father and the son.
Knowledge is power and information is empowering. Now that we had a clear picture of the plant guy, we thought we should bring him in and make him feel like all of us, one of us.
“Wretched, old recluses,” commented Elias. “High time someone coined a single word for that.”
Being a linguist with an amazing vocabulary and a tedious passion for etymology and linguistics, a champion of pure languages, like the ones who frown at you if you say someone was ‘killed’ in an accident. Elias explained it to us. ‘Killed’ as a verbal abstract signifier is grammatically a transitive verb which needs a doer, covert or overt. A die-hard atheist, Elias argued that there is no one that kills us, we just simply die when we have a certain physical atrophy which results mostly in the heartbeat and lung movements going out of sync. He didn’t use the word sync. He used its full form, synchronisation.
Anyway, to cut a tail short, sorry tale short, we visited Yohannan two days later. Yohannan had a master’s in English Language and Literature from Madras University where Elias had been a research fellow. They had never met but could recall some mutual friends now.
In the weeks that continued the five of us, me, Elias Mathew, Radhakrishnan Nair, Shanavas and Yohannan met frequently. Yohannan was physically present only when the chat group met at the courtyard outside his residence. He was stubborn about not coming out.
When we met him at his residence, we sometimes wondered whether he was really the wretched, widowed recluse we thought he was. He loved the company of the indoor plants and talked about the Calla Lily, (Lillikkuttyfor him). He would refer to it sometimes as his daughter and sometimes, in jest, as his daughter-in-law whom his son had brought from abroad. He was really obsessed with that plant which never seemed to give a damn.
He came out only once when Ramakrishnan Nair’s daughter eloped with their domestic help, a Bihari. Ramakrishnan Nair was heartbroken and it took a great effort from all of us to console him. On that occasion, Yohannan said something about his own son. I don’t remember what he said.
It was on that day that I learned the word elope. As usual, it was Elias who explained it to me. He said it was archaic. Archaic was also a new word for me. Elias explained archaic and obsolete to me quoting several examples.
Yohannnan enjoyed our company rather than our chat. When we met at the library, Yohannan joined us via video call. He never missed a meeting. We were a bit concerned about his not contributing to the conversation. So, we came up with a plan. We decided that when we met at Yohannan’s house he should enlighten us about plants, for he knew a lot about them. So the next time we met we introduced the plan to him. He was happy about it till something happened during the meeting.
Elias was talking and something he said rubbed Yohannan the wrong way. He didn’t open out about it. Elias could not figure out what in his words was offensive. Of course, as usual, when Yohannan referred to his hobby as indoor nursery, Elias corrected him. Nursery was a common concrete noun. It cannot be used to refer to a hobby which signified an action. A gerund would be fine. So, he suggested plant parenting and added that there was great YouTube hype about it now.
Hearing this, Yohannan got up and walked to the washroom. When he returned, he said he had a sudden headache and would like to take some rest. He asked us to continue with the meeting but we were not in the mood to do so. We were sure that it was not a headache which was troubling him. Probably he was hurt by the crude way Elias corrected him. Anyway, we left it at that. Elias too was offended and skipped the next two meetings.
Slowly things got better and Yohannan and Elias took the lead roles in organising our library’s annual celebrations. We had not done that for two years because of Corona.
Two days after the celebrations, Yohannan left us forever. He died of a snake bite. His dog sat near his body the whole night. The next morning, as he had not answered our calls, we informed the police and broke into the house. His dog was unhurt. His master was found dead in his drawing room, close to the Calla Lily.
A snake catcher came and caught a krait. Elias said it was an elapid which uses neurotoxins to effect an instant kill.
The bank took away the house. Ramakrishnan Nair said he would adopt the dog. Yohannan’s son sent his heartfelt condolences.
We didn’t hold a meeting for a couple of months. When we finally met, we all how the snake was never noticed before. By creating a cool humid room Yohannan had inadvertently invited the snake in and allowed it to stay in.
“We say that the dog is a faithful animal. That is the wrong way of saying it. A loyal animal is the signified and the word dog, the signifier. This helps us to apply the same term to anyone who has that quality. It is the same with snakes also. We say a snake bites the hand that feeds it. Wrong. Here the word snake is a signifier and its quality is the signified. Snake is the signifier we use for that which bites the hand that feeds it and thus it remains a signified and so the term can be appalled to anything with that quality.”
We all knew Elias had a deep affection for Yohannan after that fight was resolved. We knew Yohannan’s death was too much for all his friends, especially Elias though he was the one who showed it the least.
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.
(Translation by Ajay Upadhyaya )
The last customer had left the restaurant. It was about eleven in the night. Michael cleared up the tables and tidied the kitchen, all set for going home. But his feet were reluctant to advance. He stopped, in front of the boss, the restaurant owner, for a few moments. The boss had no difficulty in reading the signal; he knew what was coming. Michael was about to ask for a favour. He turned to Michael with questioning eyes.
“Saab, Can I borrow five hundred rupees?” Michael said in a timid voice.
“Five hundred! What for?” The boss snarled.
“To buy a party dress for my daughter; she wants it for a school function,” Michael said meekly.
“What do you take me for? A bank? Five hundred is not a small sum!”
“Sorry Saab!” Michael tried to sound apologetic.
“Now, get lost. It is not possible to come up with such an amount, certainly not today,” was the final decision, before Michael could speak anymore.
A crestfallen Michael, hit the road on his bicycle after this point blank refusal from the boss. Pangs of hunger were gnawing his inside but he was disturbed even more by the thought of his daughter, Lily, who had set her heart on a party dress, for an upcoming school function. He could see her disappointed face. Lily is only seven but in sensibility she could match children well above her age. Lily is acutely aware of her parents’ tight financial situation. She quietly accepts her old school uniform, mended many times over, as she knows her parents are strapped for cash and could not afford new ones. She never makes a fuss about what she eats or wears. Ironically, even the absence of complaints or demands from Lily pricks them, like a thorn stuck somewhere deep in their flesh. But what can they do, except cursing their fate for blighting their lives by poverty. In a long time, Lily had made her desire known and spelt out her wish. So, it was imperative that her wish for the party dress was granted, no matter how. Michael was determined to see this through. But, all he had in his pocket was a total of fifty rupees.
While peddling his bicycle back home, Michael remembered his close friend, Sibu. Surely, Sibu would come to his rescue at his hour of need. He made a detour towards Sibu’s house, which was about three kilometres away. The dark and narrow path to his house did not dampen Michael’s spirits; the thought of Sibu’s generosity kept his hopes alive. While he was peddling away, thoughts about his wife, Rumi, sprang to his mind. Lately, she had not been keeping well, suffering from headache and morning sickness, pointing to the strong possibility that she was pregnant. Sadly, this was not a welcome development for either of them. At the same time, the prospect of Rumi aborting the unborn baby was dreadful for Michael, who viewed abortion as a sin. Rumi on the other hand, was trying to console him with her reasoning that returning the life, they were incapable of supporting, to God’s hands, in principle, could not be a sin. Obviously, preventing a life’s entry to this cruel world was less reprehensible than atrocities like burglary or robbery. Rumi’s logical analysis was some comfort for Michael, and he had decided to go for a medical check for Rumi, immediately after the next month’s pay day.
When Michael reached Sibu’s house, Sibu was surprised by his unexpected visit at this unearthly hour. Michael asked him to step out of the house; he was not very comfortable asking for money in front of his family. But Sibu was alone; he had sent his wife away to her parents house, earlier that day with the last rupee he had. He was sympathetic to Michael’s plight; yet, he had to disappoint Michael, as he had no money left for him. Sibu felt rather ashamed to see Michael return empty handed, but he had no choice. Michael was back on the road, cursing his own fate, all the way. He thrust his hand in his pocket, to feel the crumpled fifty rupees note, mocking him. Feeling overwhelmed, Michael wanted to have some liquor, which surely would drown his distress, at least temporarily. Looking up to the sky, he let out a sarcastic laugh at his own predicament. All he could see amongst the twinkling stars was Lily’s sad face. He changed the direction of his cycle ride again, this time towards the nearest country liquor shop.
Today, Michael understood the irresistible lure of liquor. Paradoxically it grabs us hard when we can least afford it.
The dinghy and dark country liquor shop looked rather inviting. Michael was drawn towards it with a heavy heart. There were a few customers in the shop, barely visible in its flickering light. Michael proceeded towards it like an automaton, with scant regard to the consequences of his action. About half way down the road to the liquor shop, he was startled by a faint human voice, coming from behind the trees. He didn’t know what to make of it. Was it a ghost or a spirit? Out of fear, his body gave out a shiver. As he flashed his torch towards the tree, he spotted an injured young girl, huddled up and sobbing softly. A surprised Michael tried to ignore what he saw and continue on his path towards the liquor shop. In the current state, he was in no position to help anybody; his plate was already full with his own woes. Furthermore, what if the girl, he saw, was a ghost! Supernatural stuff like spirits scared him to bits. He had heard of ghosts, posing as little girls in distress, to lure unwary strangers, to their blood sucking orgies. The mere thought made Michael’s hairs stand up. He tried to pedal his bike harder, in order to get away fast but something inside him slowed him down.
Soon, he came to a complete halt, when he heard the indistinct soft sobbing again. Now, he could hear the girl’s voice; she sounded like Lily. Dropping his bicycle, Michael rushed towards the tree. His sudden approach frightened the girl all the more, who was already shivering from cold. From her scared look and shaking body, Michael figured out, far from being a threat to others, she herself was in danger. Extending his arms to her, he offered to take her to his house. Initially, she was reluctant to move forward. Michael reassured her saying, at home he had a daughter of her age, who would keep her company. This appeared to put her at ease and she relented.
Michael wanted to carry the injured girl home on his bike. However, sitting on the carrier of the bike was not comfortable for her. Michael took off his shirt to make a cushion for her to sit on and cycled at speed to reach his house.
Rumi and Lily were taken aback to see Michael at the door, shirtless. With him was a strange girl, looking battered and bruised. Rumi’s first reaction to seeing them was one of fright. Michael carried the girl inside the house, indicating to both Rumi and Lily to keep quiet, so as not to unnerve her.
“Let’s get inside the house first, I will tell you everything” Michael told Rumi. “I just did not have the heart to leave her behind,” Michael whispered to Rumi. His pleading eyes were enough for Rumi to understand what had transpired. Rumi knew, the first thing she had to do was to make the newcomer feel comfortable, in the best possible way. She promptly boiled some water for the girl to have a hot bath before dressing her up in one of Lily’s frocks. She fed her the special dish, that was meant for Lily. After polishing off Lily’s share, the girl was still hungry; she had probably been starving for some days. Rumi and Michael gave up almost all of their dinner, so that the girl could have a hearty meal that night. With a warm bath and a full stomach, the girl dozed off in Rumi’s lap.
Lily had been silently watching her mother, taking care of the newcomer, so lovingly. She finally spoke up, “Ma, Why not let her sleep in my bed tonight? I can sleep with you.”
Michael was moved by the warmth in Lily’s welcome to the girl, bringing tears to his eyes. Lily made no mention of the party dress. Should he feel relieved by Lily’s silence? Even if she had somehow forgotten about the dress, Michael could not. When he started the day, like any good father, he was determined that nothing could stop him from raising the money to get his daughter what she had set her heart on. But what did he end up doing? Not only he failed in his mission, he had compounded their curse of poverty by bringing home a destitute girl. His lapses in making good his promise kept rankling him. He was at a loss as to what Lily made of the new situation at home. How does a child, as young as Lily, handle the hurt from broken promises and dashed hopes? What lasting damage could it do to her budding mind? Can she really put it all behind her? In stead of wrestling with the imponderables, perhaps, he should gracefully acknowledge this as another example of her precocious maturity, he concluded. Suddenly, Michael felt famished; his stomach was rumbling. But there was no cooked food left in the house. That night they had to scrape by a bowl each of puffed rice mixed with sugar.
Finally, it was time for the family to retire for the night. With the young guest sleeping comfortably on the cot, Rumi, Lily and Michael laid themselves on floor, on a mat next to the wood fire stove. Michael’s tired body hit the bed but sleep eluded him. His mind was restless with thoughts, all jumbled up. “How unlucky it is to be so poor?” he thought, staring at the ceiling. He can’t fulfil a simple wish his only daughter had made in years. By rescuing the girl he has added to their pot of misery. He wanted to say something to Lily in his own defence but words escaped him. Lily’s eloquent silence on the dress was weighing heavy on his mind. Perhaps, he could unburden himself by sharing his thoughts with Rumi.
Before he could say anything to Rumi, she lamented, “Out hearts melt when we see someone in distress. How can Lord be so heartless to overlook our suffering? Has Lady Luck truly forsaken us? Are we are not entitled to even a modicum of happiness?”
Stroking Lily’s head lightly, Michael said, “How can you say, our life is devoid of happiness, Rumi? It would be ungrateful of us to grumble about our luck. Think of it, Almighty trusted us to shelter this forlorn child. Of all the people in this vast world, it is no mean feat to be chosen for this virtuous deed. Just look at the calm written all over her face.”
Rumi turned her head towards the new member of their family, resting peacefully on the cot nearby. She was fast asleep, without a care in the world. The bliss on her innocent face filled Rumi’s heart with a rare contentment.
Original Odia story: Bhinna Eka Sukha
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.
RE-LIVING THE ‘PEEPLI [LIVE]’ MOMENT
Peepli village was an awakened area at the recent time we would speak of. It had progressed into a semi-town during the twelve years after the stark movie ‘Peepli [Live]’ was screened all over India. It was a black-humour as well as a box office success. The movie by its powerful visuals had brought out Peepli village’s abject poverty, its destitute inmates, and their real-life resemblance to a tragic farce.
It was watched by the awakened national and international audience with bated breaths and goggle eyes, stunned and shaken to their cores. “Unbelievable”, they said, “A man could give his life for a single square meal of sumptuous rice and meat-curry for his family that the administration would give in routine compensation for his suicide, besides a handpump. This was only the tip of the iceberg of Indian misery in her villages that the movie tried to project to its audience.
Coming to the present, roughly more than a decade later, that morning, the lower Criminal Court in Dhatura Town, the headquarters of the Dhatura district of which the village Peepli was a part, was in full attendance. The bar, the bench, court clerks, court-usher, and agents from the plaintiff, his lawyers, and the defendant with his lawyers were present.
In addition to those essential members of the court, the room was packed to its gill with audience belonging to various stake holders like different political parties represented by their party workers fishing in the troubled waters, the activists from the upper castes and the lower castes, and a few local intrepid journalists.
Also, were present the three protagonists, the so-called victim Bauri Dama, a member of the low-caste sweepers, the poor Dama Community; Bhima Pandit, a rich Brahmin priest and one of the henchmen of the local MLA belonging to a high caste of the Brahmin Community; and another man from the so-called low-caste Dama Community, Manohar Dama by name.
Manohar was a small-time social activist. The issue was reported to be that Bhima Pandit, after beating Bauri Dama black and blue, had urinated into his mouth as the ultimate punishment. But the so-called victim had no problems with the urine discharge on him, but the sentiments of Manohar Dama of Bauri’s sweeper community was hurt. Also was hurt his Dama Community. So, he had filed a case against Bhima Pandit who had hurt his sentiment and the sentiment of his Dama community.
The journalists present were feeling puzzled to see the victim, Bauri Dama, all smiles and speaking in an undertone with Bhima Pandit, his persecutor. None, present in the courtroom, could guess, who, among the three protagonists: Bauri Dama, Bhima Pandit, and Manohar Dama, was the hero, or villain, or the dark-hero of the court drama.
Manohar Dama stood behind his lawyer Saroj Das looking grim and hurt. He was more hurt because none seemed paying him any attention though it was his case. The insensitive public behaviour hurt him further more. These were deductions of journalists, of course, for the sole reason that a season was about and around when people were easily hurt for even the fall of a hat.
Surprisingly, Bauri, the victim did not look a wee bit hurt by being given the most insulting treatment a man could digest, a urine drink and bath directly from the source in full public glare at that. He rather beamed all along as if enjoying a big joke. The honourable judge also apparently wore a sad smile for apparent the absurdity unfolding in his helpless presence. Deep down his psyche, he was stirred by a dilemma how to fish out a solution from the troubled waters that was going muddier every hour in his courtroom.
The younger brood of lawyers behind their sitting seniors appeared to enjoy a joke as their suppressed titters were breaking as an irritating relief into an over-charged atmosphere. Bhima Pandit, the perpetrator, was rich and had the backing of the local MLA of the ruling party and so, he had employed a very expensive senior lawyer, Bhanu Prakash. The lawyer was famous for winning cases by the tricks of his trade, including even unethical twists. He was supported by several junior lawyers as money flowed unlimited from Bhama’s pocket.
Manohar Dama, the complainant, who was fighting for the cause of persecution of his low-caste peers including himself, had little money, had therefore, had appointed Saroj Das, an honest and efficient straight forward senior lawyer, reputed for winning cases by fair means but charging little. Though all the opposition parties had ganged up behind Saroj Das to earn some political brownie points from the low-caste vote bank in the election only a month away, but financially they could not do much as Saroj Das rejected all their selfish tricks.
The hubbub and noise were increasing in the courtroom. It compelled the honourable judge to pound his gravel twice, ordering, “Silence in the court.” The court usher took the cue from his boss, and shouted “Silence” twice. A silence prevailed. The judge looked pleased and said, “Proceed”.
Bauri enjoyed himself every minute by anybody’s guess. He was already ushered into the dock meant for the accused and the witnesses. He stood there as a defence witness of the lawyer Bhanu Prakash. He looked very pleased for unknown reasons. He took oath keeping his right palm on the scripture to tell the truth.
Bhanu Pratap recalled with satisfaction the deposition of the accused and his client Bhima Pandit the previous day. He had tutored Bhima thoroughly before his deposition. Bhima’s deposition had deflated the senior lawyer Saroj Das of the complainant, Manohar Dama. Saroj Das was looking like a punctured balloon. Also, Bhima’s previous day’s deposing had founded an edifice for the case that was difficult to demolish. He had also tutored Bauri Dama appropriately. Over confidence of Bauri made him uneasy.
Before proceeding with Bauri Dama, he could not take out of his mind his previous day’s walkover of sorts over Saroj Das, his rival in the case. He recalled with satisfaction, what all had happened in the court:
Bhima Pandit had simply stated before the judge, “Milord, Bauri Dama requested me to urinate on his face.” Bhanu Prakash had taken over from there to elaborate to the court, “Milord, my client Bhima Pandit only fulfilled the wishes of Bauri Dama, nothing more, and nothing less. Bhima Pandit’s statement is therefore aina ke tarah saf hai, (clear as a mirror).” Bhanu Prakash was speaking at a higher decibel than usual, using the formal language and style prevalent in most Indian lower courts where less of law but more of tricks were a practice.
He had passed on his client-cum-witness Bhima Pandit to Saroj Das of the complainant, Manohar Dama, for cross-questioning after that. He sat with three words “I object Milord” on his tongue-tip, ready for barking. But it was not necessary, he observed with a mixed feeling of joy and sadness. Sadness because he had no chance to impress on the spectators his expertise on twisting the law.
Manohar’s senior lawyer, Saroj Das, questioned Bhima Pandit, “Who did request you to urinate and where?” Bhima answered, “Bauri Dama himself sir, begged me to urinate on his face.” He was asked, “Why and how?” Bhima promptly answered “Why I don’t know sir. But how, I will tell you. With folded hands Bauri requested me, ‘Please Bhima sir, don’t beat me more. I may die. You may urinate on me as in many earlier occasions.’ So, I fulfilled his wishes. Stopped beating and urinated on him.” There was applause from the Brahmin Section of the audience for Bhima Pandit’s clever deposing.
Manohar Dama’s lawyer Saroj Das had looked harassed to watch the twist of the facts. He never heard that sort of drivel in courtrooms. Also, he was never told of that happening by his client Manohar Dama. He was never informed Bauri had made such a weird request to a priest. Bauri Dama admitting to have asked Bhima Pandit to pass urine on his face knocked out the bottom of his case. Though Bhima indicated Bauri had asked urination in the place of severe beating, but beating was not the crux of the issue, rather urine was. Bhima’s beating had not hurt Manohar Dama and his peer’s sentiments, but urine had.
Saroj Das quickly reassembled his shattered wits and changed the track of questioning, “Didn’t you, Mr Bhima Pandit, with the wisdom of a brahmin, have the common sense that urinating on a human being was an abuse of the first order? Such behaviour did not behove your status as a priest of the village temple, and that again in full public view. Were you never taught by your parents that such an action was demeaning and inhuman?”
Lawyer Bhanu Prakash knew the tricks of the opponent lawyers. The lawyer in this case was invoking the dignity of the man in the dock, Bhima Pandit, and also confusing him on moral grounds. But before calling ‘Objection, Milord’, he was overwhelmed to see how smartly his tutored student Bhima was tackling the complainant’s lawyer.
He heard Bhima Pandit saying, “No sir, I wasn’t taught any such things what you say. My father used to joke in our family gatherings that as a kid when he took my little pecker in his mouth, I urinated into it. Everyone that heard him there would laugh and say ‘What a clever kid!’ I felt like repeating it and proving to all how clever I had been.”
He paused, and added, “Bauri Dama went one step further than my father. He explicitly requested me to urinate on his face. Then only I did it. Shouldn’t I fulfil the poor man’s wishes because he was a poor, low-born Dama, and not a rich brahmin like my father?”
By then, the honourable judge wore a sardonic smile and everyone else in the packed little courtroom were in splits and the combined titter was rising in volume every passing second. The judge now controlled his own sardonic smile and shouted, “Silence in the court”. He sounded aloud his gravel once and ordered, “Bhima Pandit, you can now go back to your seat. You have explained your position enough.” He then called Saroj Das near him and out of everyone’s earshot, whispered, “See Saroj, you cannot stoop Bhanu’s malicious absurdity and I had to stop that rascal who had been tutored to humiliate you.” He then pounded his gravel once more and ordered, “Proceed”.
The other witnesses were examined in a lacklustre manner by a junior lawyer of Saroj Das from the plaintiff’s side. Honest lawyer Saroj Das felt unequal to devious Bhanu Prakash. All understood who had been the culprit but knew law was a play of tricks and twists of language in Indian courts and the farce had little to do with justice.
Compared to Bhim Pandit’s spicy deposition, what the following witnesses stated were tepid and watery soups like dishwater, that none in the courtroom relished. The courtroom had been emptying out, leaving only the essential guardians of law, besides the prevalent foul smell of musty carpets, the deposited grime and dust of injustice gathered both on the bar and the bench, and the habitual human evils.
Bauri Dama was now ready in the dock to depose and the honourable Judge directly asked him, “Bauri Dama, though you are not the complainant, yet the whole case revolves around what Bhima Pandit did to you. He urinated on you, on your face to be specific. Can you explain why did you not go before the Police or come before this court with your complaint? At least you should have done that much for your caste-peers, Manohar Dama and others who are fighting for your social rights.”
Bhanu Prakash, the senior Defence Lawyer was agitated to hear what the honourable judge was saying and was rising to point out his legal lapse, browbeating the witness, Bauri Dama. The learned judge understood his intention and not to embarrass the court further, he raised a hand to stop Bhanu Prakash on his track.
He thundered, “I know the law my dear learned counsel. I know what all the deals you hatch under the garb of law. Before being your witness, Bauri Dama is the main plank for the court to give me the facts. Just sit down or I will get your licence for practising in the court suspended, here and now, for contempt of the court and malpractice.” Bhanu Prakash subsided like a wet cat. The honourable judge rose for lunch break.
Saroj Das, the lawyer of the plaintiff side met the judge in his chamber. Before he opened his mouth, the clever judge understood his predicament, “Sorry Saroj. The terrible Kali Yug is ruling the present generation. We can’t help even if we realize Bauri Dama and Bhima Pandit are talking not the truth but the false texts tutored by the corrupt lawyer Bhanu Prakash. But both are speaking under oath. Technically that is truth. Neither you, nor I can deny it.”
Saroj Das went to Hawa Mahal, the only good restaurant in the vicinity. He found Bauri Dama cleaning three consecutive plates of chicken biryani with shameless satisfaction at the expense of Bhima Pandit.
Finally, Bauri Dama took his stand in the dock and Bhiama Pandit’s lawyer, asked, “Yes Mr. Bauri Dama, what was your role in this case? As the hero of the drama unfolding before our honourable judge sahib, I request you to throw light on what happened and how you felt about it.” Then turning to the judge, “Me Lord, I have no questions.” The judge looked at Saroj meaningfully.
To the questions of Saroj Das, Bauri Dama spoke, “Yes sir, on my request beating stopped and Bhima Pandit pissed on me. It was warm and burned like iodine lotion on my wounds. It tasted salty like fish curry my wife cooked. But what followed was sheer good luck. I never knew this aspect of brahmin urine. "
The plaintiff’s lawyer raised his voice, “Bauri Dama, we are not here to hear the glorification of brahmin urine.” Bhanu Pratap shouted, “Objection, Milord. Saroj Das is browbeating my defence witness.”
Before the honourable judge could say, “Objection overruled or sustained”, Bauri Dama had a quicker response to Saroj Das, “No sir. I was not glorifying brahmin urine. It was glory incarnate. I will tell you how. It brought me good luck, happy tidings. From a non-entity, I rose to be a hero of my village. After the news with photo became viral and the event became a subject of national shame, I really don’t understand why, the DM of our district took me from my home to his office, washed my feet and dried them with a snow-white Turkish towel. He took selfie with me and had lunch with me. A delicious meal, fit for a VIP.”
He closed his eyes as if recalling sweet reveries, but in fact he was recalling his lines taught to him by Bhanu Prakash. He opened his eyes and added, “A posse of police officers guarded my house since then and gave me security against the crowd disturbing my family consisting of Tom, Dick or Harry from political parties, the riff-raff of the media, and the people from my low-born community who were jealous of my good luck.
He paused for a sip of water and added, “Yesterday, a minister came, hugged me, praised me for my clever decision regarding the urine bath, took selfies with me and my family, and gave me a check of ten lakhs. I have been promised a pucca house under Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana (PMAY). They have dug and fitted a borewell with handpump by my existing hut. Even a gas stove with cylinder has come from nowhere, with utensils for my kitchen. Electric poles are being erected for electricity to my house. A concrete road is being laid connecting my house to the main road. Obviously, all the goodies are the outcome of the holy urine.”
He went into a rapture, “Milord, my family is proud of me that I earned this exceptional privilege of being urinated by a high priest of the society. Many of my neighbours have confided in me how they all wished to be urinated upon.”
An embarrassed judge now pulled himself together, cleared his throat, and silenced the courtroom, stirred by now with supressed laughs, by hitting the gravel hard two times. He stopped Bauri Dama on his track of creating history, and announced that the depositions would be considered closed and he was going to announce his judgement. He started scribbling on his notepad.
After a minute, the honourable judge announced in his clear voice, “Having heard all the witnesses and knowing the facts of the case in details, I dismiss the complaint made by Manohar Dama as frivolous and baseless. No one should feel hurt as Bauri Dama never had felt hurt by the brahmin’s urination on him. Having eye to all the sections of the IPC under which the case has been registered, and the proofs produced before me, I have found the complaint unsustainable against Bhima Pandit, the brahmin priest of the village temple. The case stands dismissed. The detailed speaking order would follow. The aggrieved party may file appeal.” He hit his gravel hard.
After minutes the judge was sharing tea with the lawyer Saroj Das in his chamber. The room mas silent except the low slurping noise of the tea. The tea looked sad, tasted miserable, and smelled hopeless.
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.
By the time I discovered that I had lost my chappals, they had gone far away. Someone had ‘lifted’ them at the marriage hall. It was not exactly a loss but more of a swap since, in exchange, I got a pair of second-hand shoes! They didn’t exactly fit me. But what could I do? I had no choice but to hobble my way home.
Such incidents of chappal swapping are quite common at social gatherings, where chappals of similar make and size are dime a dozen. They have a yen to roam around freely when removed from the care of their owners. Shoes and chappals become footloose and rove like vagabonds. But their short-lived ‘good time’ comes to an end when the party gets over and it’s time for the people to go home.
Everyone starts looking frantically for their truant footwear and there ensues panic. It’s so embarrassing to walk home barefoot! Then there are the awkward questions posed by the smirking wife and children: Can’t you even take care of a pair of shoes?
This phenomenon doesn’t happen in temples, where footwear is monitored and chappals are tagged systematically at the time of deposit, thus ensuring that they return to their rightful owners when they exit. Chappals lost or exchanged in the hustle and bustle of a function are a loss for the owner. But in reality the chappals simply change hands—sorry feet. They continue to serve their new master if they are in good shape and nothing is lost. A real crisis looms when the pair of footwear is separated and one is left holding only the left shoe.
What to do with a single chappal? It cannot be used, nor can it be thrown away. Not everyone is a visionary like Mahatma Gandhi. When one of his chappals fell down on the platform as he was getting on a train, he promptly sent the other one flying to join its partner. Of what use to me is a single shoe, he told an inquisitive fellow passenger. Let someone else have both and put them to good use.
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.
Kusumgarh Naresh Dig Bijay Sumer Singh's mood was ecstatic when he came to know Colonel Harcourt Saheb has sent exclusive message for him from Fort William, Calcutta. Special messenger brought the message to Kusumgarh fort at dusk and reported that Col Saheb has remembered Sumer Singh. This is definitely a matter of great pride for Kusumgarh and will definitely bring lot of good name to his state. Other princely rulers, paying taxes to the British Government will feel jealous of Kusumgarh and Sumer’s standing among kings will go up manifold. Harcourt Saheb has shown keen interest to visit Kusumgarh during Dussehra, leaving grandeur of Calcutta Puja.
Sumer was so excited he did not want the preparations to welcome be postponed till next morning. He felt it would be proper to call Dewan now itself and discuss about the ensuing visit of Colonel Harcourt. He called for Balwant, his personal bodyguard and immediately, a strong and handsome teenager appeared at the entrance of Sumer’s luxurious Royal Recreation hall. Balwant being Sumer’s personal bodyguard, he always stays close. During other time he stays at the Royal stable and takes care of the horses. When Sumer and royal family members or their guests embark on horses, Balwant kneels on the ground on the left side of the horse to help them ride on horseback comfortably. He controls the reigns of the horse by running alongside the horse and shows his back to help when they disembark from the horse. During nights Balwant’s job is to run side by side with horse holding lanterns and showing light. He is obedient and does his work silently without opening his mouth and waits for the next order.
Balawant was standing near the door seeking orders from the king. Sumer ordered "it is very urgent. Run to Dewan Saheb's kothi(residence), convey my orders to come and report to me immediately. Wait there till he embarks the horse and bring him to the fort without wasting time." Saying "Jee Hazoor", Balwant left without further delay.
There was no limit to Sumer’s enthusiasm and anxiety that evening. He ordered the attendant to pour him another drink. A beautiful young girl handed a sparkling glass filled with expensive liquor to Sumer. Women of Kusumgarh have a name all over the country for their beauty, and Sumer has filled his royal bar with beautiful young damsels. As soon as they got the hint from Sumer the young damsels came around immediately and started comforting him.
Sumer recalled that Harcourt visited Kusumgarh six years ago and camped for about two weeks. The fortnight passed by with indulgence and luxury, liquor flowing and young beauties comforting, musicians and dance performance by performing girls brought from Calcutta, hunting expeditions, fireworks etc. During that time, Kusumgarh was flooded with expensive foreign liquor. Every evening Major Harcourt enjoyed water sports for hours with young girls in underground pool of the Royal garden. Major Harcourt was a junior officer then. But after promotion to the post of “Colonel”, Harcourt, now is a senior and powerful white Officer in Fort William. Harcourt loves and enjoys merriment, but his bad temper and hatred towards Indians is well-known. He treated Indians as slaves, always shouting at them using filthy language. Angry at slightest mistake he shouts “You native, scoundrel" and tortures them kicking, whipping and beating at will. So with proper care Harcourt’s comfortable stay needs to be planned in detail.
In the mean time Dewan Saheb reached apprehending there will be serious discussion on state affairs, seeking his advice regarding security or some other important issues. But after coming to know the reason for the summon and seeing the enthusiasm of the king, he could guess the impending trouble ahead. The financial health of Kusumgarh was not so comfortable due to consecutive droughts and now to meet the long list of expenditures as per Sumer’s order, such as - silt removal from Royal pool and beautification, modernisation of Royal house and State guest house in Royal garden, welcome flower decoration, lighting, fireworks, foreign liquor, hunting expedition expenses, bringing performing girls from Lucknow and other related expenses are too much to bear for Kusumgarh. Dewan expressed his opinion that it will be difficult for the royal treasury to bear this financial burden.
"If necessary, impose more tax on the public, but organise grand reception of guests without any compromise” ordered Sumer. He further suggested to organize a beauty pageant ( Kusum Queen) among young girls during Harcourt’s visit.
Sumer asked Balwant to leave and cautioned Dewan about the bad temper of Colonel Harcourt. He also ordered to consider proper care of guests as it’s a matter of pride for Kusumgarh. Looking around, Sumer reminded Dewan in a low voice about the mishap during hunting expedition on the last visit of Harcourt saheb to Kusumgarh. “Yeah, I remember that. After consuming lot of liquor, drunk Harcourt fired bullets on hunter Bachawat while hunting tiger and immediately Bachawat lost his life. Thank God the situation would have gone out of control had this incident not been kept a secret from the public. People of the state know that Bachawat was mauled, killed and eaten by the tiger in spite of all efforts by you and Harcourt to save Bachawat from tiger.”
“Well, it was an accident. Don't let this matter spill over to public’s ear and keep it a secret from public by keeping it to yourself. Rather spread the message that Colonel Harcourt is coming to Kusumgarh to avenge the murder of Bachawat by killing that maneater tiger.
“Do you understand, Dewan Saheb?”
Dewan saheb nodded his head and got ready to leave the royal palace.
Time passed by and Kusumgarh dressed up like a beautiful bride to receive the guests. Harcourt reached Kusumgarh with his entourage a week before Dussehra. Huge welcome gates with flowers were erected followed by a grand welcome with fireworks. A week passed by as per plan with Royal feasts, drinks, water sports with beautiful young girls in Royal pool, Kusum beauty pageant was organised and Dance performers and musicians from Lucknow performed every night and the visit went on as per plan.
Harcourt urged to go hunting on Dussehra. Selected hunters were sent ahead for prior arrangements and preparation for hunting accessories. King Sumer Singh and Harcourt were to leave on Dussehra morning with the rest of the hunting team. Balwant was ready to kneel down as a horse on the ground by the side of the horse and help Harcourt embark on the horse. Colonel Harcourt came out and as soon as he put his foot on the back of Balwant, who was kneeling on the ground Balwant suddenly moved to a side and Colonel Harcourt fell down. Before anyone could understand what is happening Balwant pulled out a sharp knife and stabbed Harcourt repeatedly and Harcourt was in a pool of blood and in no time his body became still. It was so unexpected that Harcourt didn't have time to get his hands on the revolver. Sumer Singh took out his revolver and fired several rounds at Balawant and he fell down then and there and closed his eyes.
Time passed by. After a few days, Sumer Singh was sitting on a cosy chair and looking down through a window. He was trying to recollect the incident and was trying hard to find out how Balwant came to know that Harcourt was the killer of Bachawat, who was his father. Balwant was only twelve year’s old when his father passed away. Sumer showered pity and offered the orphan work in the Royal stable. During his visit to Kusumgarh six years back Harcourt selected Mala, Balwant’s sister as “Kusum Queen” in the Beauty pageant and forced her to participate in water sports with him and have physical relations. Bachawat strongly opposed this. So Harcourt and Sumer shot him dead in the pretext of hunting. Harcourt took Mala to Kolkata along with him and sold her to a brothel after enjoying thoroughly and sexually exploiting Mala for quite some time. But did Balwant know all this and if so who told him ? Before he could know anything, three rounds of bullets from the revolver was fired from behind and Sumer fell down still and silent immediately.
Dewan Saheb was standing behind.
Ashok Kumar Mishra, Retired as Dy General Manager from NABARD-
Did his MA and M Phil from JNU.
-Made pioneering contribution in building up Self Help Groups in Odisha
-Served as Director of a bank for over six Years
Has authored several books and written several articles on micro credit movement
Four tele films were made on his book titled “A Small Step forward”
Written Short Stories in Odia and English, several of them published
It was the bank’s Board meeting and Mr Mehra, Chief General Manager was chairing it. “Yes honourable members what action do you suggest against this loan defaulter?” One member started dishing out homilies, when Mr Mehra’s phone started vibrating. It was Jaya his wife on line. He let it pass. She can wait, but not the Board meeting which was geared up to help him in his next promotion to the post of Managing Director. The entire proceedings will be minutised and that would be the best proof of his executive skills which certainly will attract the attention of the top management. He was carefully listening to the Board member’s long diatribe on the issue of bad loans and jotting down his responses when, the door opened and his Personal Secretary, coming a tad closer whispered something long into his ear.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, kindly excuse me. An event of utmost gravity has befallen me. I have to rush immediately. I trust you will not grudge me this absence. I give the Board full freedom to propose the plan of action to which I shall give my wholehearted consent.”
Leaving behind the hushed murmurs, he rushed out of the door, walked past the long corridor briskly, got down the lift, came to the lobby and quickly got into the waiting car. The driver saluted him and he seemed in no mood to acknowledge. Every second seemed an eternity. He went all numb to call back his wife, when the phone almost burst with her scream, “Where are you?”
“I will be at home within 30 minutes. When did you notice this?” his own voice sounded feeble to him.
Loud sobs followed... “As soon as I returned from office”
“Was the door locked?”
He should not have asked, as he knew, his wife normally opened the door with her own key.
The voice on the other end was howling with incoherent words in between.
“I opened the door. She was not at home. I called up the school. They have no idea. The bus driver said he had dropped her at the scheduled stop. I called up her friends....” the voice wailed and trailed off.
His heart started beating faster.
His mobile showed 4.30 pm. It has been almost 3 hours since Mitali was dropped at the bus stop.
Harsh Mehra sternly asked his driver to speed up. With the car speeding his thoughts started racing.
Would Mitali have gone to her teacher’s house where she is taken to once in a while for extra tuition? Yes he has her number. But then something stopped him to dial the number. His wife Jaya must have already called her up.
What about the neighbours? Mitali plays with some kids in the evening. But they were strict as to her playtime and with whom she plays. Only 1 hour and that too has not started. It is from 6 to 7 in the evening. Each house owner’s name and contact number has been saved in his mobile. Shall he call them one by one? The neighbouring couples are all office goers. And most of them have nannies at home. But they did not like to employ one though money was never a concern. They did not want a nanny as they thought it may not be a good influence on their daughter. Both he and Jaya have brought up Mitali as per their wishes and they always took pride in their good parenting. Taking care of her nutrition, hygiene, physical exercise, helping her with her home work, telling her bed time stories, taking her out on weekends, they have left no stone unturned in raising Mitali properly. As a couple they have taken all possible care to give Mitali a safe and disciplined childhood.
So suddenly what happened today? Where could she have gone??? Or someone...Harsh tried to push away the horrific thoughts that were seeping into his mind. Does he have enemies??? Has he unwittingly created enemies while discharging his duty as the Chief General Manager of the bank? Going hard on the loan defaulters? Has Jaya as the HR head of a private company created enemies? Yes he remembered her saying many employees were fired recently. So many were refused promotion. But what has that got to do with Mitali’s disappearance??....No... No..these are stupid thoughts ..nothing can go wrong.
Mitali is only 10 years old. She has not entered that age of attraction for opposite sex. But why is he thinking all these stuff? Have movies watched on Netflix stayed buried somewhere in his mind? But they have never watched adult movies in Mitali’s presence. And they have child lock in their TV. So what could have gone wrong with Mitali?
Will he take the help of the security officer to file a complaint in the PS so that her picture is flashed in the TVs? He shuddered. No that would be too premature. Let him first talk to Jaya and then if needed he will take his bank’s help to contact a police officer. But that would make the whole thing public. And then his next promotion to MD ? Work life balance??...His head started reeling. No he has to take control of his life, he can take the help of a private detective, if need be, who can keep the things under wraps.
The 30 minutes drive was like an eternity for him. He again called up Jaya to soothe her. But she was almost howling over the phone. Yes she had called up all the neighbours whose kids were Mitali’s evening friends. But they say she has not told anyone anything. Even her best friend Ankita has no idea of where Mitali would have gone after the school.
His next thought was to again check with the bus driver. The bus driver was clueless “Hanji stop pe to choda tha flat ke samne” and snapped the phone.
Who is the go-to person for him in such a crisis?? Not a single person’s name came to his mind. He had no relatives no friends in the city. He had only colleagues; some friendly some not so. But not a single face came to his mind. His parents are old and in the village. They don’t stay with him as they are not comfortable in a big city with its high rise apartments. Or have they as a couple not been very inviting to them? He only sends the money. Jaya’s parents too are old and stay with Jaya’s brother in another city. Their old age health issues were also discouraging enough.
Would he call the child help line? The child helpline would ask thousand questions on parenting. As parents, they know they are the best judge of their child’s future and they take all care to achieve that goal. Mitali is also a submissive child. She doesn’t protest much or throw tantrums. She has always fallen in line with her parent’s wishes. What a lovable child she is. His heart sank. He checked his mobile. It was almost 5 o’ clock. In an hour it will get dark. He shuddered and mumbled a prayer within.
“Driver take me to Bhimrao basti”. The driver grumbled “Saab ulta padega. Aap ghar nahi jayenge?”
“No do what I say. Take me there.” The car screeched in front of Bhimrao basti. “Wait here till I get back.”
Mehra stepped into the bylane... A row of ramshackle makeshift houses were lined up in a haphazard manner. What a contrast to the sleek ones they live in. Many had blue tarpaulin tied as their roof. The roads were muddy; some children were loitering and some playing with the stray dogs. Some adults were playing cards sitting on charpoys. It was afternoon tea time. Some tea stalls had lit their stoves and tea was boiling. He asked one chaiwala about Parvati’s house. He showed the direction.
Jumping on puddles, skirting the overfilled trash boxes, the piled up debris, he reached the house as directed. The tin door was shut. He knocked at it repeatedly. Each second was like an eternity for him.
Parvati’s voice could be heard from inside. “Darwaza kholo Parvati”. His voice sounded nervous to his ears. The door creaked open. In the dimly lit room he could see Mitali squatting on the floor and slurping some liquid stuff while an old woman was hovering around her and fanning her from the flies and heat.
“Saab chhe baje main Mitali ko apke paas chodne wali thi. Woh khud school se mere ghar chalke aayi. Phone karne ko mana ki. Saab andar aiye na “
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
Chirag waited in the platform for the train. It was sultry and irksome there. He was not interested to travel on that day. But father had insisted. There were some important documents which he wanted to get to his uncle who lived in another town, some three hundred kilometers away from his own. Father could not get leave from the office. So, Chirag had to carry the documents to his uncle. He knew Chitra would wait for him in the park that was at the far end of the town and would finally return home, disappointed and angry. Whenever Chirag was in the town, they usually met at the park in the afternoon when there were very few visitors. The rendezvous were not very frequent these days since Chitra’s college was closed after her final examination. She was preparing to join her postgraduation course in the university which was nearly five kilometers away from the main township. But they were always in the lookout to for an opportunity to steal away one or two magic hours of their own from the vastness of time. And the park at the other end of the town was their choicest hangout, where no one knew or no one cared to know them, where their blessed privacy was not interrupted. Chitra had called him last night and asked him to meet her at the park.
But the plan of the journey to his uncle’s town came in the way quite unexpectedly.
He had tried to contact Chitra in the morning to call off the meeting but it said that the person he tried to contact was not reachable at the moment.
Chirag tried Chitra’s number once again but the call could not be completed. The mechanical voice at the other end repeated the same message, ‘the number you are trying to contact is currently out of reach,’ as it had been doing since morning. ‘What is the matter with Chitra’s phone? Where is she? Maybe she is at some place where there is no network. But she should have informed him if she was visiting some such place.’ Waves of restlessness were sweeping over him, but he had no alternative other that wait for Chitra to call him back. He unzipped his backpack and took out a glossy looking diary and opened it at the page where a beautiful picture of a rose was painted. Under the picture was written a short single-stanza poem. His lips parted with a secret smile as his gaze roamed above the lines.
**
He remembered the day he had seen Chitra for the first time. There was a slight drizzle. Cradling her books in her arms she stood at the stop waiting for the town bus. Call it a coincidence or a thing preordained, he too waited at the same stop because one of his friends had borrowed his bike. They were the only two people at the bus stop. He cast a furtive glance at her. There was an overpowering charm in her face that was difficult to resist. He felt instantly drawn towards her. He moved a bit more into the shade and gave her a small, shy smile. But she did not smile back and held the stack of books more closely to her chest, looking embarrassed. ‘Where will you go?’ he ventured to ask finally. ‘Market Chowk’, she replied shortly. ‘Do you study in college? Which year?’ Chirag continued, feeling encouraged. ‘The Government College of Arts.’ The girl answered shortly.
‘Which year?’ Chirag repeated his question. ‘Third.’ Came the monosyllabic reply.
‘I am not much acquainted with the geography of this town since I live at Delhi. I have completed my postgraduation there. I am preparing for the civil services My parents live here. I have come here for a break. I will be staying for a few months and then back to Delhi.’
If the girl had heard him, there was no visible change in her expression.
‘Do you commute regularly by the town bus?’ Chirag said, intending not to discontinue the conversation.
‘Most days.’ Another short reply.
The girl now looked more embarrassed and discomfited.
Chirag wanted to know more about the girl but the bus glided in just at that time. The girl hurried out of the shade and climbed into the bus. Chirag followed her into the bus. She took a seat by an elderly woman and Chirag had to move to a seat that was more inside. He longed for a more informal conversation with the girl. Sitting in a back seat he could not even catch a brief glimpse of the girl. He would meet her at the bus stop the next day, Chirag decided. The girl got down at her destination and his eyes followed her till she disappeared out of the sight.
He waited for the girl at the bus stop the next day but she did not show up. A couple of days passed. There was no sign of the girl. ‘Did she lie to me that she commutes by the town bus?’ he thought despairingly. The beautiful face of the girl haunted him day and night like a nagging ache. It was more than a week before he saw her again. She was in the bus stop. Chirag stopped his bike and got down. ‘Hi there! Long time since we met. How are you, by the way?’ The girl did not say anything but her lips curled in a small smile. ‘How silly of me, I have not yet told my name. I am Chirag. The girl did not say anything. Chirag unzipped his backpack and took a neatly folded paper out of it.
‘This is for you.’ he said holding out the paper to the girl.
She regarded him suspiciously.
‘Nothing you should worry about. Only a picture I have sketched. A small gift. I will be hurt if you refuse to accept it.’ Without saying a word, the girl took the paper and got into the bus that stood waiting for the passengers.
She did not come to the bus stop the next day, and the day after. Chirag was feeling restless. ‘Did she feel bad because he gifted her the painting of the rose without knowing who exactly she was?’ After a week’s torturous waiting Chirag decided to take a chance to meet her in her college. ‘It must be somewhere near the bus stop,’ he thought and went searching for. It took a little effort to locate her college but he managed to find it. After waiting across the road for some more days he saw her finally. That day too there was a light rain. He saw her coming out of the college gate, her face partially hidden by the umbrella she held over her head. Chirag dismounted the bike and walked towards her. ‘Hello, how did you like the picture?’ The girl swung back, startled. Then her face lit up with a knowing smile. ‘It was very good. Did you paint it?’ ‘Yes,’ Chirag smiled back, feeling elated at the girl’s unexpected response. ‘Here is another one.’ He said, offering another folded paper to her. The girl took the paper without hesitation and unfolded it. There was a gleam of admiration in her eyes as she looked at the picture of the red rose. ‘How beautiful!’
‘I have written a few lines under it. It is not actually a poem, but the words are straight from my heart.’ Chirag added.
Her gaze swept over the lines written in a neat hand just under the picture of the rose.
When I saw her first time that day
A red rose bloomed in my garden of grey
A slight flush mounted to her face. ‘Like it?’ He asked guardedly. ‘A lot’ she said not looking at him. ‘Shall we meet tomorrow?’ He looked eagerly at her, desperately hoping her to say yes. She did not say ‘yes’ but her lips parted in an amused smile. Her smiling response was like a tacit assent. Chirag’s heart soared.
‘If you don’t mind, I will gift you the painting of a rose every time I meet you.’ Chirag said. She lowered her eyes. An autorickshaw cruised to a halt near them. She clambered into it and told the driver the address. Then she turned to look at Chirag. ‘They are wonderful! The rose and the poem,’ she said with a smile. The autorickshaw had begun moving. ‘I am Chitra,’ she said above the loud revving of the engine and waved at him. Chirag waved back. The exuberance of emotions had set his heart throbbing erratically.
He met her again the next day and the day after, and the following day. The rendezvous turned out to be a routine matter.
Every day they would meet at the gate of her college or at the bus stop. And every day he would give her a picture of a rose which he painted on a page of his diary. There will be a couplet or a four-liner written under it that vented out his emotions.
‘It is really amazing that someone could paint so beautifully and write such enchanting poetry at the same time.’ She said once. They had grown relatively closer by that time and she had shed much of her earlier shyness and hesitancy. ‘I was not,’ he teased. ‘You made me so.’
‘How very romantic!!’ She laughed.
‘I have heard boys used to gift real roses to their loved ones. Why do you prefer a painting instead of the real rose?’ Chitra asked one day as they walked down the road to the bus stop.
‘God makes the real ones. But I make these and I pour my love into them. God’s roses are for all. Any boy can get them and gift to his beloved. They are not special like mine. My roses bloom only for you.’ Chirag explained.
Chitra looked at him, her eyes heavy with emotion.
**
‘When will you be leaving for Delhi?’ Chitra asked one day. They were standing at the bus stop.
‘Why? Are you fed up with me?’
‘Do not ask silly things. You know your absence will be tough on me. I do not know how I will bear with it.’
‘Same here. I will miss you terribly.’
‘Do not go!,’ she implored. It was a husky whisper.
‘I do not want to go either, Chitra. But father will insist. He has great hopes in me. You know it is one of the most ideal places for preparing for the civil service examinations.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ Chitra looked glum.
‘We will remain in touch constantly. And I will try to come every month. If things clicked in the way I expect them to, we will be together forever in a year or two.’ Chirag sounded hopeful.
‘Be it so!’ Chitra said and smiled.
**
‘My father has got a scooty for me,’ Chitra announced happily.
‘Really? You do not have to wait for the town bus or an autorickshaw anymore.’ Chirag said enjoying her excitement.
‘Yes, and it will also give me a freedom of movement.’
‘Nice. Will you give a treat or I shall do that for you?’
‘Let’s do it together,’ Chitra said, happiness spilling out of her voice.
They went to a small restaurant that also housed an ice cream parlour, at an apparently less peopled section at the outskirts of the town and had ice creams. Then they went to a nearby park and sat on a bench partially hidden amidst a group of topiary plants, holding hands, relishing the closeness. It was Chitra’s first day out alone with Chirag.
Earlier they were used to meet either at the bus stop or near the college gate. But this was the first time she was alone with Chirag in a secluded place. She was slightly disturbed, wavering between excitement and apprehension.
The big park was lonely at that hour. A slight breeze carrying the fragrance of the spring flowers swept about the hypnotic solitude. Chirag took Chitra into his arms and touched his lips to her cheek. Chitra did not object. She buried her head in his chest and remained still, not wanting the moment to end.
A cuckoo cooed in the dense foliage breaking the silence. A flock of birds, as if they were waiting for a signal from the cuckoo, flew above them chirping loudly.
The spell lifted. They moved away from each other. Chitra rose to her feet. ‘Let us leave,’ she said tremulously. Chirag looked deep into her eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said after a long pause, and got up.
**
Days glided on. Spring soon slipped into summer. Chirag went to Delhi for a month and came back. It was getting more and more difficult to leave away from Chitra.
They took care to meet at unfrequented areas of the town. The park at the outskirts of the town was the most ideal spot for their clandestine meetings.
Chitra’s college finals were over and it was not easy for her to meet Chirag every day. He wanted to be with her all the time whenever he came from Delhi but despite their yearning for each other their meeting was not a regular thing.
She had to make different excuses at home for coming out to meet Chirag. She rode to places far away from her house, where she would not chance upon any known face and called Chirag to come over there. But every time they met, mostly in the same park at the far end of the town, Chirag would bring her the painting of a rose and a micro poem, as he called it, steeped in love.
Both of them had taken meticulous care not to be discovered together. Each had kept the relationship a heavily guarded secret even from the closest friends. It was sheer luck that their secret trysts were never discovered by any of their friends or family members.
**
The first announcement of the train’s arrival was made. Chirag regarded the painting in the diary fondly. He had spent a large part of night in drawing the rose and writing a poetic caption. He would have gifted it to Chitra this afternoon, but the plan was foiled because of his unexpected journey. He had tried to call Chitra, but the call could not be completed. It said that the number he was calling was out of the range of network. He texted her in WhatsApp but it seemed the message did not reach Chitra. He wondered what was the matter with Chitra’s phone. But there was no time to think about that now. The third announcement was made and the train juddered into the platform the next minute. The train was packed with passengers. People shoved one another frantically trying to get into the train. Chirag, using an effort that could have been no less than superhuman, pushed himself hard through the jostling multitude and scrambled into a general compartment. And it was almost a miracle that he found a space in one of the upper berths. He climbed up to it and squeezed himself between a fat elderly man and two young men who appeared to be college students. The train whistled and pulled out of the station. He tried to put through a call to Chitra once again, but there was no ring. The repeated beeps got into his nerves. Exasperated, he disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket. He took out the diary again and opened it at the page he had painted the rose.
He read and re-read the lines he had written under the painting.
A few patches of clouds float above
And there is a light drizzle,
Unsaid words, unrevealed thoughts
Still, love in the heart sizzles;
He sat holding the diary, visualizing the joy in the big black eyes of Chitra when he gifted her the painting.
**
The train halted briefly at a nondescript station and then began to move. A few minutes later it gathered momentum. Chirag had no way to see out of the windows since he was on an upper berth. The two young men were watching something on a mobile and laughing. The fat, elderly man sat leaning on the wooden partition and dozed. His head moved from side to side keeping pace with the rhythmic movement of the train. Evening had settled. It was hot and stuffy inside the compartment. He wished the train would reach his destination soon and spare him of the discomfort. As if it heard his wishes the train began to move in a great speed. The wheels rattled and jangled noisily as they hurtled along the rails. One of the young men looked up at him. ‘The train is moving very fast. We will reach before time,’ he said. A coach attendant and the TC moved lurching past the aisle, followed by a passenger who was requesting the TC to conform a RAC seat for him. A sweeper scuttled in and began sweeping the floor with a long-handled broom. ‘Why is the train moving in such a great speed?’ A passenger from the lower berth asked another.
‘Yes, it is moving unusually fast.’
‘It is odd, the train moving in such a speed.’ Another from the window side seat remarked.
‘What is odd about it? Superfast Expresses move in this speed.’ The young man sitting in his front seat countered.
Suddenly the train began to sway violently from one side to the other. ‘What is happening?’ Voices cried out as the luggage began to fall and fly across the compartment. ‘Look at the sparks on the track. God Almighty, save us! The wild screams of passengers resonated around as the train leaped forward, climbing high up into the dark emptiness at a demonic speed and the coach was wrenched off from the train and went toppling over the track. The lights went out at that moment and the coach was shrouded in a blanket of blackness. Pandemonium broke loose. The frenzied howls of people combined with the ugly, loud clanking of metals hitting one another with a gigantic force and the wild rattling of the wheels that rolled like crazy made it a horrendous hellhole. The upper berth was unhinged from its place and came crashing down. Passengers were falling over one another. Something cool and hard hit the back of Chirag’s head as he fell. The diary he clutched went flying out of his grip. There was a red- hot explosion inside his head. The only thing he thought about as the stifling darkness engulfed him was that the diary was gone and he could not give Chitra the rose he had painted with so much love when he met her. An earsplitting noise pierced the thick darkness around as the coach took another turn and skidded off in to the rocky field. He felt he was falling down and down, plunging into the bottomless depth of some dark, surging ocean.
And then there was total silence.
**
Chitra parked her scooty by the gate of the park and wandered in. She had called Chirag last night and asked him to come over there. She glanced at her watch and looked back at the road expecting him to drive over to the park. There was no sign of him. She took out the mobile phone to check if he had called. To her utter dismay she discovered that the battery had discharged. She cursed herself for forgetting to put the phone on charge before leaving for college. She had nothing to do but wait. She waited. A quarter of an hour passed. Still there was no sign of Chirag. She got up and paced about the park feeling strangely edgy. Then she sat down again and took out the plastic folder from her sling bag. She opened it with a tender hand as if the stuff it contained would suffer a damage if she did not take absolute care. In the folder there were the loosened pages of Chirag’s diary where he painted the roses. Chitra had asked him to paint the roses on drawing sheets but Chirag would prefer to paint them on the pages of his diary. ‘This way every painting will have a date printed on it, noting the progress in our intimacy,’ he would say. Chitra would smile at his childishness.
She took out a page carrying the painting of a rose Chirag had given her when they had met last and looked at it intently. There were the inevitable poetic lines under it… She read the lines again and again.
Not just a rose but it is my Love, dearest
Touch it with care,
It will bring me to your intimate world
When I will not be there!
She ran her hand lovingly on the rose and the poem and put it back. The grey of the twilight had given way to a wispy darkness. It was not wise to remain alone in the park after evening. She rose to her feet feeling vaguely disturbed. What had held Chirag back? He would never miss a meeting with her unless there was a strong reason. Perhaps he had called her in the morning but her phone had run out of battery. She was in a hurry to go back home and charge the phone. She drove back home wondering all the way why Chirag could not make it to the park.
She noticed the missed calls when she switched on the phone. There were five of them. Then she saw the text message, where Chirag had mentioned about his unplanned journey. He apologized for missing the date and promised to see her immediately after he returned. A sigh of relief escaped her. She laughed at her own foolish mind for imagining a hell lot of negative things.
She saw the news of the train mishap an hour and half later on the television. The visuals were so gory and macabre that she shut her eyes tight. Her heart was pounding violently. It was the train Chirag was travelling in. Her head began to spin as a curtain of dark draped everything around. She slipped onto the floor, unconscious. had
**
Chitra opened her eyes slowly and looked. They were all there, her parents, her sister, and a stranger who she guessed must be a doctor. There was apprehension and concern in each pair of eyes.
‘She is in a shock. Perhaps the news of the train mishap had made a great impact on her mind. But she will be all right.’ The doctor assured. ‘Sensitive people react to such things more strongly than others. Be careful not discuss it before her.’
Her father went out of the room with the doctor to see him off. Her mother caressed her head. ‘Do not think too much my child,’ she solaced. ‘How can we help to prevent things that are pre-ordained?’ She brought a bowl of hot soup for Chitra and coaxed her to drink it. Chitra’s mind was in a turmoil. ‘What has happened to Chirag? Where is he? Is he alive?’ Tears streamed down her eyes. ‘O God! Please let nothing happen to him! Help him, God! Help me!’ She kept saying under her breath, chanting it like a litany. She drank the soup because she did not want to worry her parents. Her mother slept by her that night, afraid her daughter might have another panic attack if she was left alone. Chitra lay awake, staring at the electric fan in unblinking eyes, feeling stiff in fear.
**
She left for college next morning ignoring the advice and admonitions of her parents. But she did not attend the classes. Instead, she drove straight off to the railway station. They had opened information centres at the railway stations to help people to know about their kins and relatives travelling in the misfortunate train. The station was crowded with people who ran here and there frantically inquiring about their loved ones. There was a mad rush at the information centre. After making several futile efforts to get in she sought the help of a fellow who wore the uniform of a TC. ‘
‘Sir, could you please help me find about a passenger named Chirag Sharma? He boarded the train from this station.’
The man wearing the uniform of a TC regarded her with sympathy. It is still too early to know about each and every passenger, daughter. The picture will be clear by tomorrow.’
‘I can’t wait till tomorrow.’ Chitra said, agitated beyond control. ‘Please do something.’ She urged.
‘Wait here,’ the man said and pushed his way through the frenzied beehive of anonymous humanity in front of the information centre.
Chitra waited, her heart in her mouth, praying and hoping that the man would bring some positive news about Chirag. She saw him coming towards her after what seemed an eternity and ran forward to meet him.
‘Did you find something about Chirag Sharma?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I am sorry. No reservation was made against that name. He must be travelling in a general compartment.’
‘So?
‘You have to wait a while before we can give you any specific information.’ He looked sad. ‘The coaches nearer to the engine were the worst hit. Hope he was not in one of them’ he added, making an effort to sound assuaging.
Chitra looked blankly at him for a long moment. Then she turned and walked out of the station dragging her feet that had turned unusually heavy. She had no idea how she was going to find some news about Chirag. She did not know exactly where his parents lived except for that his home was somewhere in the centre of the town. She cursed herself for not caring ever to ask Chirag about the exact location of his home. There never was any need for that.
She started the scooty and drove to the park.
She sat in the bench where she used to sit with Chirag and took out the mobile. The social media sites were noisy with the news of the train accident. The pictures posted were morbid and repulsive. They made her feel like throwing up. The news reporters narrated about the accident in an ominous voice, each in his own style. There was a tightness in her chest and her heart felt horribly heavy as if something of an unusual weight was stuck inside it. She wanted desperately to cry out loudly, to get the choking lump dissolved and flow out of her heart. But no tears came to her eyes that were burning dry. She did not know how long she sat in the bench, still and numb, looking at the sun going down the west, seeing nothing. It was only when the security guard came in to tell that it was time to lock the gates, she came out of the trance. Moving like a zombie she came out of the park, started the scooty and rode off.
**
She saw it the day after. It was there in one of the popular and widely watched social media site. One news reporter narrated it as if he was reciting a poem, in a voice professionally modulated to display the faked emotion suited to the occasion, to make the piece sound sensational and palatable. ‘The search operation for the missing passengers is going on in war footing,’ he said. ‘On the twisted track was found a diary where a poem was written in red. A poem in red,’ he went on with an artificial lilt in his voice, ‘a diary was found on the track, stained in blood, that carried the picture of a rose and a romantic poem underneath the picture… but the owner of the diary is missing. Is he alive or not? Where is he? It is heartrending! What a tragic end of a budding love story!!’ then he showed the closeup view of the page. A lovely red rose between a pair of lush green leaves on a green stalk. Under it was written a short stanza.
A few patches of clouds float above
And there is a slight drizzle
Unsaid words, unrevealed thoughts
Still, love in the heart sizzles.
The page was stained in red at many places. Chitra knew what it was.
Blood!
She stared at the zoomed-in picture of the page, a chill creeping through her spine, her heart hammering against her ribs. The hard rock like thing that was stuck inside her melted and flooding waves of pain climbed up to her eyes. She flung herself into the bed and wailed her heart out.
(TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2)
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)
Neela's sojourn to the farm house this time is not a pleasure trip. It has a purpose. Her hands are full with a variety of tasks. From revamping of the backyard, where they have coconut plantation, flowering plants, a pond that offers a soothing sight with an array of lotus in pink and white hues, to supervising construction of boundary wall and pruning of the sprawling lawn. The list is longer. She has done her homework while traveling from Mumbai. However, after reaching the destination, her roving eyes opine- the meticulous planning would be futile without proper execution.
Her head is bowed on chest in grave thought and procures no desired respite as she is a bit skeptical about the efficacy of the carpenters, masons and farm workers here.
" Will they be able to finish work within stipulated time?"
She is keeping fingers crossed.
Watching hummingbirds darting about the trees , the sun sinking in a blaze of red dying the tall trees, fishes in the pond merrymaking- all these subtleties and many more , were so exciting a year ago!
She shrieks at the very thought of the vacuum that is surrounding her now.
Her loving and caring husband Nitin is no more.
The far-away look in her eyes clearly elucidates her feelings.
She and Nitin spent most of their holidays here. Nitin used to arrange his official tours in and around this place. The piece of land Nitin inherited and developed subsequently. A part of his income he used to keep aside to build a house and develop the rest of the land for farming. The house looked like a bedecked bride under his supervision. It was his wish to spend time after superannuation at this place. Unfortunately he passed away a year ago after a dauntless battle with cancer.
He used to tell-
" Neela! The day I retire from my job, I will settle here, away from the maddening crowd of the city. It is up to you to continue with your job or quit and accompany me. Else, we will meet off and on. Raman is there to look after me. He is a good soul."
Some wishes are never granted.
To honor his desire of settling down here, she has planned to solemnize the first death anniversary at his cherished place. As a mark of love and respect for the departed soul, she wants everything from décor to ambience to be perfect for the occasion.
Neela is trying her best to match up to Nitin's eye for details.
She could manage only two days leave this time as examinations are drawing near. The school authorities where she serves have made it a point not to allow teachers to go on long leave as revision classes are made compulsory for weaker students.
She could have delegated the work. But no. Not this time at least.
How can she evade Nitin's cursory glances from above!
The tedious six hour journey to reach is well compensated by the spread of vintage delicacies during lunch. “Homecoming is worth the pain” …she muttered , looking amazingly at the spread. Raman , their caretaker, takes special care to appease everyone with exotic dishes. Homegrown organic vegetables and fish from the pond add soul to food.
In Mumbai, she hardly gets a chance to savor such mouth watering dishes.
Nitin was a foodie and like a cat, easily traced the place where good food was stored. He would slurp all without information. When Neela encountered him about pilferage and blared-
“Stop Nitin! I have invited a few guests. I cannot cook twice. It is time consuming. Have mercy on me. Don't behave like a glutton.”
He would dismiss her apprehension by saying-
“ Why do you worry Neela! I shall order food from restaurants. Your treat will be the best one ever.”
Sighs! Gone are those banters and quips. What remains is memory.
Nowadays,she abhors ordering food from outside. She gulps down for the sake of survival without allowing her tastebuds to get intimate with the flavor. Life has become dull and drab, more or less mechanical for her. Melody of life is missing for sure.
But today's spread was both authentic and elaborate. Thanks to Raman for taking so much pain to gratify her.
Having traveled all night to the farm house, she wanted to relax. In fact, she dozed off twice after spreading herself on the couch. The heavy meal had smeared magic on her tired self. She opened her bleary eyes when a big cat, all of five pounds of squirming flesh, climbed onto her belly, disturbing her afternoon siesta. Her face contorted into a hate filled terrifying grimace as their eyes met.
“Oh God! It has been years, I was blessed with a chunk of afternoon siesta, if not deep slumber and this cat came from nowhere to disturb me! What a double whammy!”
Squinting into the sunlight streaming in from the open window her hard eyes popped out of enraged face to indulge in distraught. She discovered that she is now the weary possessor of a pounding headache. Losing her nap after a heavy meal was something she abhorred. She cursed the cat, wanted to thrash her. But, like a fistful of sand, she gave a slip.
Neela wished the sun was a bit weak, clouds veiled the radiance and she was able to ease till it was dark. But it was not to be. The blaze did hurt her eyes and the devil pinched her to remind-’The loss of tooth and the well-like gap caused due to its absence.’ Her tongue remained engaged thereafter, finding the gap and feeling its depth.
“Omg! Have I not been punished enough? Do I not have the right to do things as I intend and wish, then why do things and situations encroach upon my sanity?” Neela asked herself.
The creaking sound of the aging couch, as she was about to alight from it, made her agitated self all the more distressed.
But forcing a smile on her faded lips, and faking ease, she began to consolidate and straightened up as an afterthought.
We are endowed with 'Finding lapse' syndrome. The degree of possession varies from person to person. Such is human nature. Neela is no different from such normal behavior.
In her bid to overcome the disgust, she called out for Raman, the caretaker.
“Serve me, hot coffee and some snacks Raman…O hello! Are you listening?”
"Yes Amma! I am carrying them in minutes. Coffee is brewing, I have added cinnamon . You would love the flavor for sure. Just wait a bit."
Evening dawned on the horizon to escort the Sun. Chirps and twitters filled the atmosphere . Slowly quietude pervaded , so also darkness.
Raman served coffee along with lip smacking onion fries and chutney. She traveled back in time as her taste buds started appreciating the platter. Her palates got a new lease of life after a lapse of months.
Nitin’s thoughts kept pouring in... How he slurped and splurged on evening snacks with a loud vacuuming sound, when they visited their farm house. He was all praise for home grown herbs that the backyard had in abundance. Those added loads of flavor to the hot meals. He was very liberal in granting tips to Raman who would cook and serve as per the demand of his master. He had the knack of judging Nitin's mood meter. Also, he took care of the garden and nurtured the flora and the fauna.
From Nitin to Neha then to Naman, Neela's thoughts soared like a kite to encompass the entire family in her mindscape.
Neha, their daughter is settled in the USA and son Naman is having his final year course in psychology in London. Her children visit once a year, as per their leave schedule and convenience. Till Nitin was there, she did not miss them so dearly. She does now. She has kept her fingers crossed about their attendance during the first death anniversary of their father.
"Well, they are at liberty to decide and drop in as per their convenience. The layoffs and the visa issues have made things sore. Things are not easy as before." -she mumbled, hiding tears.
After Nitin's demise she lived alone. Her rented accommodation of a decade or more in a suburb is full of nuggets of memories. From the graduation of their children to daughter's marriage, arrival of grandchild- their bundle of joy -each corner of the house unfolds a story. The house has been their lucky charm .
Things are not the same now. On weekdays, she remains busy rather keeps herself busy. Weekends are empty, dreary and unbearable. She hates to be alone and often takes small trips for sightseeing with her neighbors and colleagues. When she is not going out nor visiting friends, she goes to the nearby park, fondly watches children taking rides, playing hide and seek and indulging in activities dearer to them .
The very sight of bubbly children reminds her of Raja, her grandson. His pranks and funny ways are imprinted in memory. She fervently wishes to be with him. But, that seems impossible.
Her heart and mind do not function in tandem when she has no proper engagement. Giving a blank look, staring at the roof and swallowing sobs are the things she has been adept at and indulges in.
Though life to her is an edifice of intrigue, and runs in scampering motions, open ruminations are a big “No” for her.
She poses bravely, for she has to manage things by herself in a vast city like Mumbai.
Vicissitudes of life have taught her to maintain a tough exterior. She has been delivering the goods with earnestness. But, the pinch of emptiness makes her moan and wail silently.
Her daily routine hovers around a set pattern . She leaves home early, commutes by local train and comes back late in the evening.
Her fatigued limbs do not permit cooking after that.
Rather, she never felt the urge to go to the kitchen since Nitin left.
For her two principal meals, she leaned on dabbawalas- lifeline of the metro.
But, when Nitin was there, she could make time in spite of her tight schedule. Watching him savor his favorite dishes was purely a delight. Most of the time, he would overeat like a glutton and then would fondly chide her "How can you be so perfect, dear chef? You have almost forced me to have a plate full of stuff, have some mercy on me, I beg of you. What do I do now? My stomach is aching."
In reply she would giggle and say, "Next time, I shall add more salt , so that you won't be able to have a morsel even, and be safe from overeating."
She was a bundle of energy when her children came home. From cooking their choicest dishes to helping them shop, she did it all. She wondered sometimes, when alone, why she became weak and pale on her indulgences!
Perhaps, she knows the answer well. Doing things for self, is boring and lacks excitement. Doing things for family is always a pleasure and gives a lot of satisfaction. Bold splashes of hues of life stir the energy bank to spin like a top.
Mothers are made of such stuff....
To this universal phenomenon she is no exception.
She laughed mirthlessly as a motley gamut of thoughts raced up and down making her surrender to the ways of fate. Raising a toast to the fond memories, she remained in two minds-whether to continue with her posture or digress a bit.
It was evening by then. Raman had switched on the lights. Chanting from nearby temples made the atmosphere replete with spiritual fervor. The transition at sedate pace acted as a coolant. Neela sat still with her eyes closed, asking God, why things have been unfair to her? Knowing well, time cannot be recalled and God will be in mute mode.
After serving her coffee, Raman was back in his favorite place i.e the kitchen. The cat, sensing some nice meal, had started purring. Preparation for fish curry with coconut milk and tamarind paste, raw banana fry, jeera rice, and bitter gourd stuffed with mashed potato had already begun. She could hear the sound of vessels in the kitchen. Raman was like a family member. Having lived there, serving the family for decades, he was more than kith and kin. He knew the age-old formula - "Way to the heart is through a person’s stomach". His culinary skills supported the adage.
The age-old TV set in the living room has been the only source of entertainment available. With nothing else to do, Neela decided to watch some programme and sat on the sofa. The sofa was sturdy but the covers were tattered. She had purchased a set of covers to drape it but forgot to bring. She was in a hurry and her mind was burdened.
“Raman, could you get me a bed sheet to cover the tattered sofa please, it smells ". Raman at once obliged. Nitin’s obsession with cleanliness had kept things in spic and span condition. Every nook and corner wore a smart look as he personally and periodically supervised.
But, now it is difficult for her to maintain the way he did it.
There was a big pause, when she spoke next, her voice was soft and matter of fact as longingness was brewing, waking echoes of the good old days.
“I am not getting the remote of this TV set, could you please find it for me. I want to watch some musical programmes.” There was no response from Raman as her voice was overpowered by the hissing sound of cooker. He was preoccupied with preparations for dinner.
She got up and walked towards the kitchen crossing the courtyard. Aroma of the night queen had filled the entire corridor with a soothing fragrance.Nitin had chosen this place to plant a bunch of the plant. They have done justice to his love and care by putting their stamp on the souls of those who pass by.
She decided to slow down and inhale the fragrance for a longer period, as no perfume would offer such divine experience.
She walked into the kitchen repeating “Could you get the remote of the TV set for me?” But, Raman was entirely engrossed in his act, humming tunes of popular Marathi numbers and chatting with the cat. The cat seemed to be ecstatic and added an array of varieties to her purring, each time she responded to Raman. Her nimble movements around the pot filled with shallow fried fish, majestically wagging her tail, expressing utter joy, was a sight to behold.
"No no Pari, you will not get even a morsel of the items that are cooked today. Sit there quietly. You have been disobedient since morning."
Pari, the cat obeyed her master’s instructions. Neela was amazed to find the two friends intensely engaged in bantering, sharing feelings, and their moments of happiness.
She could not but mutter "What a bonding!"
Her nerves, frayed at the edges, had started losing crease looking at the intimacy.
"Raman, can you hear me, I need the remote to watch TV, and could you please?"
"Oh yes madam, I have kept it behind the set. The battery is a bit weak and you may have to hit it gently to get started." "Ok, I shall. Everyone needs a gentle slap to gear up , why would this remote be an exception?" said Neela.
She came back to the living room to take stock of the remote and the TV set, and regale her distressed soul. As she flipped through the channels in her bid to have something interesting to watch, she stopped at the telecasting of the evening news.
"There is going to be a 24 hour bandh due to a riot near Mumbai. No bus, train would run during the period. Shops and establishments are to remain closed''.
The news brought her a mixed bag of feelings. She was sad for not being able to return in time as per her promise to school authorities. Happy for the fact, she would be able to spend one more day supervising the work.
In two days time, she had forged a peculiar bond with the house, the flora and fauna, culinary skills of Raman, purring of the cat, the out of fashion TV set and the remote that needed constant hammering to deliver goods.
No wonder, Nitin came here as often as he could to be rinsed with the earthy and the divine. Her nostalgia blurred like that of a smooth caramel pudding melting in the mouth. She was transported to the cherished realm of happiness and joy.
Raman was ready to serve as it was dinner time. He had neatly arranged all the items on the dining table. Her eyes gaped in wonder at the presentation.
"Wow Raman! All for me?"
"Yes mam."
“This looks so enticing, Raman. So much pain you have undertaken just to feed me? No one has taken such care of me till now. I am sure they will taste heavenly. The aroma is playing in a loop on my palate.I am so fortunate.”
Her phone rang as she was to take the first bite.
"Must be Geeta, wanting to know how I am to travel back during bandh and hartal. I shall surprise her by saying, "I just do not want to go back".
Lol! It was Neha on the other side from the USA and not her colleague Geeta.
Neha wanted to know the itineraries of the ensuing function, so that she could book her tickets and plan things.
"Are you sure you can travel? Raja will miss his classes no? Is Somesh coming?"
"Of course Ma. All three of us are coming. Somesh is quiet by nature that does not mean he has no commitments. He loves Pa so much, how can he miss this occasion? We all shall be there and make it grand, don’t you worry about it. Just forget about Raja’s missing classes. I will manage to convince the school authorities."
"Oh God! Can’t believe it. Such good news is in store for me!”
Her panic stricken soul got a breather. She groaned in a fit of ecstasy, thanking God profusely for the streak of bliss in the form of her children’s arrival.
Chastened by loneliness, her battered bruised self had curled up tightly to hold all hurt feelings till now. The dark clouds seemed to be evanescent and the sky brightened up.
“Raman, feed the cat her favorite dish, she has been sitting with her eyes glued to the food. You too, keep enough for yourself. I shall have a very light dinner, I am almost done."
She spoke those lines as if she was on the verge of breaking into giggles.
He had never heard anything as amazing as that of a satiated voice.
“What has happened?” Raman mumbled with a tinge of concern.
The cat could sense the bonanza and started purring gently, wagging her tail. From hate and curse for disturbing sleep to sharing delicacies from her plate, Pari seemed to have traveled a long way.
"Amma, you have not even tried bitter gourd, the stuffing is really good, and you have only taken a spoonful of fish curry. Every time I prepare, you always have three to four servings. What has happened?" Raman implored.
"Nothing dear, the evening snack was heavy so I cannot have more. Early breakfast to compensate, remember. "
"I need not tell you about my preferences. You know me so well. I love each dish that you cook soulfully and serve. Good night."
Raman’s naive logic could not comprehend the reason behind her landlady’s sudden change in behavior. Gaping at her in sheer disbelief , waving vaguely he said-
"Sure mam, anything for you. I am at your beck and call. Good Night."
Tearing the veneer of despair, perhaps her tryst with happiness thus began.
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.
One Sunday Subramanian, affectionately called Subbu, was on his morning walk. In spite of being warned about the dangers of going that early Subbu would say, “I don’t have any enemies." True, he never had any enemies and, a very humble soul, was loved and respected by almost all the folks in town.
His business was doing well and a philanthropist, he was doing his mite to serve the needy whenever the opportunity arose. The best thing about Subbu was that he never gave publicity to his good deeds and many a time insisted that his name should not be revealed.
Life was fairly smooth with two children in professional courses and business doing well. Subbu’s only worry was the fate of his business. . The children would go their way and anyway, his business had never been to their liking. He had to leave very early in the morning at times according to requirements but the loyal staff who had been with him for years made his work easier. In spite of his business prospering his lifestyle remained the same; his attire was dhothi and long shirt and he walked to his workplace.
“Why is he late today?” His wife had been murmuring that morning.
The murmur grew louder. She woke up the children and said
“Appa isn’t back, go find out why he is so late and where he is.”
“He will be back now, Amma. Must be chatting with someone.” Two voices that emerged as one.
“Go!” - and that was an order
After the boys returned with blank faces, the atmosphere got
panicky.
“Call Viswam uncle and your Appa's friend, Praveen.” Amma had taken charge of the situation.
It had to reach the Police and it did within no time. The Police paid a visit and wanted to know about any enemies Subbu would have. The
hospitals checked for any accident case but there was none.
“It looks like a kidnapping case,” the inspector was heard telling his
subordinate, “and kidnapping is always for ransom”.
The search squad focussed on the kidnapping angle and was on the
lookout for clues. CC TV along Subbu’s walking route was checked. A suspicious movement of a car slowing down and a hazy image of a man were seen. The man was not to be seen after the slowing down followed by the speeding of the car. The police were certain that it was Subbu who had been
pushed into the car. The number plate was covered with a tape
confirming the assumptions.
With limited evidence news flashed with pictures of the car to all
check posts and exit points in the town. The phone at home was linked to the cyber cell to trace any ransom calls.
Reports came that the car described in the picture had not crossed the border and the kidnappers must be holed up in the town itself waiting for the ideal time to demand ransom.
Time was precious but it was moving without any fruitful
information. Amma had almost collapsed unable to take the stress.
With the house full of well-wishers and Police on their toes, an auto stopped at the gate and there stood Subbu in flesh and blood.
He smiles and a sigh of relief goes up all around. Keen to know what
happened all surround him and Subbu opens his mouth
“Give me a glass of water”
After drinking the water, he pauses intentionally to build the suspense.
Did I tell you that Subbu was the top vegetable wholesale dealer in the town?
Think I missed it.
And Subbu starts talking.
“Yes, I was kidnapped.”
“But why?” that is a chorus.
“They wanted ten kilograms of tomatoes.”
The title I chose with a lot of thought. “ The Sound of Music” we all know and all of us loved it. The movie, the songs and so on. Music we can relate to love and it is but natural the sound that emanates is love enclosed. To sing is a gift and hearing is a blessing. What if one is not blessed with hearing?
I was in my fifth standard when the story begins. We were into a few months of classes and that morning our Headmistress walks in with this sweet-looking young girl and introduces her. Her dad, a government official, got transferred and she had no choice but to relocate. We were told that she was a good singer and that we the students should make her comfortable and make her adjust to the school on a war footing.
The Head said that with a smile as she knew how mischievous we were. The new entry hailed from the Tamil land and would have a problem with the local language, the Headmistress continued. While this talk was going on my eyes were on that wire which extended from her ears.
She was given a seat next to me and that gave me an opportunity to satisfy my curiosity.
“What’s your name?” even though it was announced, just to begin a conversation I asked.
“Amritha.”
“Oh! Honey you are ! no, not honey, much above that - you are Nectar” She laughed and that was a friendship starting with a laugh.
“What are those wires in your ears”?
“Hearing aid. I have a problem with hearing right from birth”
I looked at her with surprise as it never occurred to me that it could be compensated with a device.
“Do you use it at home too?"
“No, at home I communicate in sign language.”
That was another surprise for me. There was another language where one could communicate in silence.
It was then she asked me,
“What’s your name?"
“Geetha”
“Oh! So, you are music”?
That was the beginning of a friendship which was lost and found in between and still holds.
She became popular instantly and her singing talent also helped. To all who were curious about the additional fitting she said,
“You people are not gifted. I have an extra from above,” followed by a loud laugh.
She was the darling of all spreading love and joy in abundance.
Together sailed the classes and it was in the tenth class that she told me that she might leave as her dad was likely to be transferred. That came as a shock as she was my best friend and her leaving would be heartbreaking.
She passed with high grades and continued her higher studies in the big city far away. Communication was frequent. It tapered down with the years, with our higher education, my marriage and other responsibilities.
I tried to contact her when my wedding was fixed. But the one available phone number I had returned a message - " This number does not exist."
Years later I chanced upon an advertisement connected to an NGO and the director's name was given as Amritha. Thoughts flashed through my mind and a strong feeling that it was the same Nectar forced me to make a call. My feeling turned true and we got connected after many years. My work was taking me to her city a month later and we promised to meet then.
We met. Both of us had changed a lot in appearance. But she radiated the same charm and the cords in her ears were still intact. When a question about her marriage came up, she laughed loudly and said, “Does anyone need a faulty vehicle? No regrets as my organisation compensates for anything lacking in my life”.
After a long pause she revealed an inner pain. “My parents were cousins and in spite of medical facts known and advice from many they went ahead. At one point my dad even confessed to me that this is the reason they never went in for another child”
Her organisation took care of underprivileged children, most of them with speech and hearing problems. Many children fared much better than the normal students at school and contributions from many and government support took her work to higher levels.
“A touch and go game with cancer in between has made me stronger,” she said.
This too she told me with a laugh. I heard it with a shock. What a woman! A winner against all obstacles. I wondered if this attitude and courage would have been hers if she had not been aurally challenged.
She was “Amritha” or Nectar from top to bottom. The sound she heard with and without aid was of love and compassion. I had held her close to my heart at school and now seeing her achievements and boldness I held her even closer.
Amritha, the one who always carried within her the “ The Sound of Love”
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..
Wow! What magnificent models and pictures of showcases, wardrobes and mantelpieces, I screamed when I searched google. There were numerous designs and artifacts of almirahs which could be considered. Oh, why did you scream childishly? My husband remarked in the hushed silence prevailing in my drawing room. I settled down to search as many closets as possible in Google, as I needed a big almirah with showcase. I’m a working woman, I need two pairs of dress every day. My present two almirahs are filled to the brim. Sometimes the edge or the corner of my chunni hangs out as if it’s laughing and its mouth is mocking at me.
Whenever I have to select my dresses it becomes a Herculean task because some dupatta is in iron almirah, and the kurta is in wardrobe. It’s like a battlefield - mostly the dresses are piled up on the bed next room and I have to select them one by one and match the kurtas with the chunnis.
It becomes extreme when the sweaters, shawls, cardigans and mufflers remain in big polythene bags and everyday I have to take them out and then put them inside. The whole house becomes messy and presents an ugly look.
So finally the wait was over. I selected one, my husband chose another and the carpenter pressured us to choose the design which he brought in catalogues. There is a great discussion on the designs and the selection of the wardrobes.
Madam, your thinking is very high, you never select a cheap one, your selection is top class - told Binodji, a carpenter who has been serving us for the last ten years.
Sheba, look at your budget, we can’t invest a large sum of money as we have to perform hajj next year - interrupted my husband Hassan, who always discourages me whenever I try to bring some changes in my home. O. come on Hassan, I remarked - you always go against me, when I prefer cats you admire dogs, what is this?
Sheba, Sheba, chalo you draw your own design, show me your jalwa - says Hassan teasingly. Ok, ok I accept your challenge, what do you think of me? A weak woman? Actually I’m the best, I’ll show you my jalwa. By the way I’m thankful to your for giving this opportunity.
Both the carpenter and my husband gave a hearty laugh. I drew a rough sketch and then the fair one. It took hardly one hour to complete the sketch. Finally the design was approved and it was a simple design, extracted from my younger sister who lives in Kolkata with her son, daughter and doctor husband. After all the efforts in commencing the Project Almirah, it was summer vacation and I had to go to Delhi, my usual and customary annual trip.
My husband had taken the task of monitoring the whole affair in my absence. We spent all our savings as it was a very costly affair to get an almirah done at home.
‘See the framework’ - Hassan showed via WhatsApp. It was a routine on the part of Hassan, my husband, to showcase the day to day development in the making of the much coveted almirah.
On the contrary, in Delhi I was impressed by something else. Instead of so many almirahs in each room and showcase in the drawing room, the beautifully arranged and neatly put clothes in a stack mocks at me
Are you there Sheba! Can’t you see the neatly organised stacks in the wardrobes?
I wondered and looked here, there, everywhere. No one was there. O, these wardrobes seemed to laugh at me. The master of these almirahs had arranged everything with a great warmth and fondness. She had crafted each nook and corner with her own hands and with proper precision and accuracy. I’m afraid as she was not here, in her absence the almirah was in a mess. The neatly designed and modernally crafted showcases burst into laughter - look at the condition of the almirahs now. I bet it will never be the same again.
I burst into laughter until my eyes started streaming and tears rolled down my cheeks. Oh!
the transience of life and the immortality of things
Hysterically I threw all the leftover clothes and into big shoppers bags and plastic bags. Now it’s nothing but a clutter and dumped inside the deewan of the bed.
Never to open again, when the mistress and the owner of the dresses is nowhere, what’s the use of this almirah?
After returning back to my home, I lost all the enthusiasm and excitement of the almirah, which is erected in my drawing room with great dignity and pomp and show.
Heartlessly I dumped all my clutters inside it.
Grieving at the mortal nature of human lives.
All human things are subject to decay.
When fate summons monarch must obey.
(Mac Flecknoe by John Dryden).
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.
I had neither a train ticket nor the money to buy it. I was sitting on the floor of a sleeper coach of an unknown train. Neither did I know its name nor its destination. It was running cutting across the darkness of night.
I was consoling myself silently … My life, body, and the unborn baby are still safe, though I lost my husband and left Bombay (Mumbai) for an unknown land for my safety.
My sorrows and sufferings were killing me. My heart was weeping. My eyes were streaming. My pregnant belly was bulging.
I had nothing to eat and drink. But I had no money to buy food and water. I have been starving since last night. I was looking at the mouths of my co-passengers while they were eating and drinking.
In hunger and thirst, my hands started begging for food and water and to give nourishment to my unborn baby. Of course, some of them were kind enough to give me their remnants,
At midnight, I was sitting on the floor at the door side. A young T.T.E.entered our compartment and asked me, "Show me your ticket."
Though I stood up in fear, I had nothing to show him, except my tears.
He asked me, "Where would you go ? Pay me money with a penalty for booking a ticket up to your destination."
I had no money or reply.
He - "Do you have anyone of your own ?"
I remained silent in fear and apprehension.
He asked me, "Are you a dumb beggar woman?"
My mouth was shut in sorrow.
All were sleeping on their berths. No one was there at the door side in the faint darkness at that time. He whispered in my ear, "What a beautiful pregnant lady you are in spite of your poverty !" He silently went away smiling at me.
I was thankful to God for his help in my train travel without a ticket. I was feeling… all are not that bad and some good people are still there. Someone may come to my rescue.
While sitting on the floor, I couldn't know when sleep came to my eyes, mind and body..
In the early morning I woke up. The train was running ahead and the landscape was moving back. The Sun was yet to rise. The eastern horizon was smiling in its rosy hue. The birds were chirping and flying across the sky.
I went into the washroom to attend to the call of nature and came back after finishing.
A beggar woman came, looked at me in curiosity. She bought two cups of tea and gave me one. While sipping tea, she asked me, "Where would you go ?"
"I don't know where to go. I have no home, no family, no money, nothing except my body and life " I said.
"Who conceived you ? Where and how would you give birth to your unborn baby?" She asked me.
Me - "My husband died in a road accident after conceiving me. In fear of molestation and rape in Bombay, I got into this train and it left the station."
She - "I have been begging since the death of my husband, too. But you are young and beautiful, so there is a possibility of risk to you. Your youth and beauty are your own adversary and enemy, unlike me since I am ugly and old, too. At this period of your pregnancy, you can't do anything either. However, pray to God to save you. She, who has none, has God to save her. Have faith in him. This train is going to Howrah, Calcutta (Kolkata). It would reach there at night. I would also go with you, but I would get down at Kharagpur junction. Learn from me how to beg on the train. It may help you in earning your livelihood. Thousands of women are begging like us, too. You are a young widow. In Calcutta, all types of professions are there. You decide what to do."
The train was running and we were busy begging in it.
Bombay was left behind. The train was running ahead leaving behind my past memories of Dharavi slum and its acquaintances. I was weeping.
When I had left my native place, I came to Bombay with my husband. When he died, I was left alone.
My body was open to the lustful eyes of my neighbors and my house owner. To ascape from their torture, molestation and rape, I left Bombay. I got into a train.
I was thinking of where to go and where to stay in this world. I had no money, no food, no shelter.
My past was sorrowful. My present was tragic. My future was uncertain, unseen and unknown.
Except for my body nothing was left to me. Gazing at my tragic and pale face, the beggar woman consoled me, "Don't get disheartened. I am an old woman beggar. Still I am living. No one is mine in this world. Still I am living, begging for my belly and life. Life is life till our death. When death will snatch life from the body no one knows. We feel pain in life. After life, our dead body can't feel pain. You have to accept life as it is. Otherwise, you can't live. Your frustration will persuade you to commit suicide. But suicide is no solution. Some beggars like us can't bear the helplessness, and hopelessness. Sometimes they commit suicide under the wheels of the train. They don't know what happens to the body in the hands of the railway staff and police. They may cremate it or bury it; or it is eaten away by unknown vultures, crows, dogs or foxes. After death, no one bothers you, nor do you feel what happens to your dead body. Better accept life as it is. It may be starving, but life is there in the body. Hence, start begging with me without thinking of the past, present and future.
I asked her, "How to live my life, to earn my livelihood and fill my belly to sustain my life and my unborn baby?"
She said, "The train is our shelter, begging is our livelihood, and the passengers are our near and dear ones, though they are unknown strangers to us."
Me - "Won't anyone drive us out from the train?"
She - "The railway staff, police and passengers are accustomed to us. Begging is not a crime in India. On the other hand, what punishment can be given to beggars? Begging is the last option for poor people like us. Accept it gladly. Again, you are a pregnant woman, what physical work can you do in this advanced stage of pregnancy?"
Me - "What would happen to my unborn baby?"
She - "God is good. Have faith in him, who created life in your womb will take care of your unborn baby. Begging is also an art. You are a new beggar. Start begging with me to know its difficulties. I would get down at Kharagpur junction. You will be alone in your life."
I accepted her advice. We started begging in the train singing songs of life. Life was getting easier. Coins were dropping into our begging bowls from the hands of passengers. Its sound was giving me solace. Some people were also giving us their remnants of food, which were 'prasad' (holy food) for our starving belly. Tap water of the train was quenching our thirst.
At Kharagpur junction, the train halted for sometime. She caressed my body and got down from the train.
I was alone in my life. The Sun set in the western horizon. Darkness was coming down the landscape. The stars started twinkling in the dark sky. The train was moving ahead.
It was night. I was begging for alms from passengers. The train was running ahead with its usual typical sound.
I was alone in my life. My past was going away leaving behind some memories both sweet and sour. My present was horrifying my life and living. My future was uncertain and unknown.
To save my life and body from starvation I was begging.
I was anonymous, and my anonymity was my life. The passengers were unknown to me. In every station some of them were getting down and some others were coming in. Unfamiliarity was the law of nature. But for a beggar like me strangers were my own people in my new life. Really, I was lost in the crowd of strangers.
It was around 9 o'clock at night. The passengers were eating their food. A kind passenger looked at me, and gave me some roti and dalma. I ate it and drank tap water to quench my thirst.
After 10 pm, they started sleeping in their berths, and I was sitting near the door. I counted the coins I got from begging, and it was around 200 rupees, and that was my earnings.
When sleep came to my eyes, I couldn't know; But I was asleep on the floor of the running train near the door.
It was dead of the night. The horn of the train broke my sleep. I got up. The speed of the train was slow. All the passengers were waking up. The railway line came to an end, and the train stopped.
All passengers were getting down, and walking away. I was following them. I asked a passenger, "Which station is it ?"
"It's Howrah, Calcutta." He said and went away.
But I had no home, no family, no husband, no child, no parents. Where shall I go?
However, when I came outside, I saw the large, tall Howrah Bridge across the Ganga (Hooghly) River. Though I have heard about it, I have never ever seen it in my lifetime. I was amazed at its architectural marvel made by the British. Though its beauty was spectacular, what is it to a beggar like me ?
The roads and Howrah Bridge were almost lonely. There was less traffic. In fear and apprehension, I came back to the platform.
The poor and homeless were sleeping on the floor. I was feeling tired and drowsy. I laid my body flat on the floor. A dog came to me, looked at me, licked my feet waving his curved tail. The beggar in me felt his hunger, and I gave him a piece of bread I got from begging. He ate it, and licked my face in love and affection. I slept and he was watching me. He was my partner on my lonely night.
A sudden pain broke my sleep. But I couldn't know the reason for it. It was once in a lifetime. No near and dear ones were with me. My pain was increasing by and by, never to diminish. I was feeling helpless and crying in pain.
The dog that was sleeping with me, felt my pain. He was licking my belly, and looked around barking at other passengers. All of a sudden he ran to an old lady, caught her saree and dragged her to me.
She looked at my belly, smiled, and caressed my body, and legs in sympathy, and affection.
She asked me, "Where has your husband gone ? He is such an irresponsible man, who has left you alone on this platform in your advanced stage of pregnancy. Call him at once, please. Your medical examination, and treatment is immediately required.
I was thinking silently without any response to her, "How can I call him from Heaven…from where none has ever returned to Earth !"
Hearing about my husband's irresponsibility from the helpful old woman, I was dumbstruck. My memories were going back to him…How deeply and densely he loved me when he was living with me. He had left his parents, native place, near and dear ones. for his love towards me. He was driving a taxi day and night to earn more for me and our future child.
She asked me, "What are you thinking so seriously without responding to me ?"
The tragic memories of my husband were overwhelming me and my mind. No words were coming out of my mouth.
She said seriously, "Your husband's presence is badly necessary. If he doesn't come instantly, your treatment will be delayed. Medical expenses are to be met. Who would bear your treatment cost ?"
My sorrowful choking voice told her, " He is no more in this mortal world. Can't you help me in my distress ?"
She gazed at me with blinkless eyes for a few seconds, "Do you have anyone to come to your rescue in your critical condition?"
"No, Aunty. Except you and this dog no one is there in the world whom I can call my own."
The dog was barking at Aunty. We couldn't understand his words. He was dragging Aunty holding her saree in his mouth. She looked at me and the barking dog and said calmly, "Let's go to the nearby hospital."
I got up slowly resting on the dog in spite of my pain in my belly. Aunty was walking ahead, I was following her holding her hand. The dog was coming by our side holding my torn begging bag and bowl in his mouth.
When we came outside, she called a rickshaw. We sat on it, the dog slept at our feet. The rickshaw was moving ahead crossing the Howrah Bridge over the Hooghly river.
Kolkata was unknown to me. I was looking around in amazement. It was totally new for me.
Aunty asked me, "Do you have money for your treatment ?"
"I have around Rs 200 and also two gold bangles in my bag which are not necessary for me as I am a widow now."
She - "What's your age now ?"
Me - "Around 20 years."
She - "Why did your parents marry you off at such a young age? Was there any compulsion? Now you are a young widow. Entire life is left in your beautiful body. Beauty creates its own adversaries. How would you protect your body from the lustful eyes of men?"
"I don't know."
"Would you like to stay with me ?"
"I have no shelter, no livelihood except begging for living, no man to support me. So it's better for me to stay with you for sometime as my baby is growing in my belly. After its birth, I would decide what to do in life for our sustenance."
"As I feel from your belly, you may deliver your baby today. Though you feel labor pain, your body condition is okay as per my presumption. God is there to help you, too. I would take care of you and your baby, if you agree to do what I say." She asked me.
I had no option except agreeing to her. So I nodded my head in my positive mind as she was the only human in the world who helped in my helplessness.
Our rickshaw was entering the government hospital. The dog jumped from the rickshaw, and was running ahead, searching for someone in his watchful eyes. We paid the fare to the rickshawala and walked ahead towards the outdoor counter of the hospital for medical admission.
To our astonishment, the dog was sleeping and crawling at the feet of a lady doctor and was licking her feet. She gazed at his weeping eyes and felt his hearty request. In the meantime we reached there. The lady doctor looked at my bulging belly, and felt the appeal made by the dog, and asked me and Aunty, "Is he your pet dog ?"
I nodded my head at her. She called me to follow her. Aunty got me admitted to the labor ward. We were following the lady gynaecologist and the dog was coming with us. She told him, "Dogs are not allowed in the labor ward. You stay outside. I would do the needful as per your earnest request."
We entered the labor ward and the dog slept outside with his watchful eyes.
My labor pain was increasing. The doctor and nurses took me to the labor bed. By their due treatment and care, my baby was born within a couple of hours. Aunty was with me as my guardian.
My baby daughter and I were sleeping in my medical bed. She was crying. The nurse came and told me, "She is in need of your breastfeeding. Give her your milk. It's made by God for her only. Give her breastfeeding at least for a year. God has not given her teeth now to eat anything else. Your breast milk is her food and nourishment. For her good health and growth, you have to eat proper food; otherwise she may fall ill."
The nurse went away. Aunty was with me. She was unknown to me. The innocent loyal dog had brought her to me. Of course, she was helpful to me. It was God's wish and blessing. Now everything was okay for me. I was eating medical food and medicine as per doctor's advice.
Aunty was going out to have her meals in an eatery. I told her, "Aunty! The dog might be waiting outside to hear the good news. Tell him…me and my baby daughter are okay. He might be hungry. Please give him food."
Aunty went outside. I was alone. My emotions were overwhelming me and my thoughts. The memories of my loving husband were haunting my heart. His daughter came safely out of my womb to see the light of the world in his absence. He might be seeing his only daughter from Heaven.
My husband's injured bloody body and his pale face before his death and burial were tearing my heart and soul. His last words… take care of my baby with all your efforts…were echoing in my heart.
My tears were rolling down my eyes and lightening my heart and mind. Whatever happened in my life was beyond my control. Like me, millions of poor destitute women are living. I have to live like them. I have to make my heart a stone so as not to feel the pain. I have to do a job befitting me for the upbringing of my newborn baby.
Aunty came in and said, smiling, "Your dog is so loyal…it's beyond anyone's comprehension. When I reached outside, he came running to me and looked at me with his crazy eyes, and licked my feet with his tongue to know about the good news. I told him… a baby is born. He was so happy that he was crawling at my feet. I am now astonished… he is a dog or man! I think the spirit of your husband has come to his body. I gave him roti and he ate in a joyful and jubilant mood."
In the late afternoon, I was discharged from the government hospital. Aunty and I came outside. The dog came running and barking. I put my newborn baby before his face. His tears were dropping down his eyes on my baby.
The Sun was setting in the western horizon. We sat on a rickshaw. But he didn't leave us. He slept at our feet. The rickshaw was going ahead as told by Aunty. I had no shelter. Aunty and the dog were my own people in this world.
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.
Right from his childhood Sarveswar had been fed the myth that he who lived to be sixty in Kaliyug was a hero. It was a feat akin to scaling Mt. Everest or at a slightly terrestrial level, disrobing Marilyn Monroe. When he was a student in school and college his friends and cohorts used to imagine the thirty-forty years old teachers to be really, disgracingly aged. They often used to harbour a secret hope that one of the days some of the old fellows, preferably the relatively stricter ones, would kick the bucket and students would have a much sought after holiday. But the old folks looked impressive - weighed down by abundant wisdom, sagacity and an eagerness to distribute it in large dollops.
In due course Sarveswar and his friends reached that exalted age and found to their surprise, far from feeling old, they were bubbling with new energy, the all-important hormones trying to ooze out of them in shameless abandon. Instead of shaking in fear for impending death they were in a perennial state of anticipation for new pleasures, gastronomical delights being their never-ending obsession. They were thrilled to discover that there were many new avenues hitherto untraversed, many new games left unplayed.
Their wives, as wives are won't to do, would often pour cold water on their enthusiasm by pointing out their ever-expanding girth and the rapidly receding hairline. And to add insult to injury they would remind the husbands of the great achievements of their friends and neighbours - how so and so's husband is taking the family on pilgrimage to char dham, how such and such's husband has toured over the whole country with family. To rub salt over the wound, Sarveswar's wife Sushila would tell her husband,
"And look at you, of the four dhams spread over the four corners of India you have taken us only to Puri. And whenever we ask you to show us the tourist places, you would take out the map from the wall, and point to Taj Mahal at Agra, Qutub Minar at Delhi or Marina beach at Chennai. Is that all you can do? Show us the tourist places on a measly map?"
Sarveswar would smile at her,
"Wait, once I am retired I will take you everywhere. If I go on leave now the section I am heading at the Secretariat will collapse, government will come to a standstill. Do you want that to happen? Do you want to be responsible for an unprecedented catastrophe?"
Sushila had a lurking suspicion that her husband was only fantasizing about his importance in office. If he was actually so powerful, people would be visiting their home with gifts and with suitcases filled with cash, like it happened in her neighbour's home. But she knew there was a point up to which she could finger her husband, beyond that he was out of bounds - like a tortoise hiding its head inside the body, impervious to all insults, all innuendos. She would often chastise her husband,
"Look at my miserable life. The zeal you show in buying tons of vegetables for the humble home vanishes, when it comes to buy a saree for me. And jewellery? I have not the seen the shadow of an ornament from you ever since I married you. You have even taken away the jewellery I had brought with me at my wedding and mortgaged them in the bank for the housing loan. Will I ever see them again? Do you have the capability to release my poor jewellery from the dark dungeon of the bank's secret chamber?"
Sarveswar would be all smiles and sweetness,
"Wait, the day I retire, the first thing I will do is to pay aff the bank loan out of the GPF and Gratuity amount and get your ornaments released from mortgage. And Sushy, my dear, why do you worry? We have only a son. Won't your daughter-in-law bring some fantastic ornaments as gifts for her mother-in-law? And what will I do with the left over money from my GPF and Gratuity? They will all be yours, to spend as you like - sarees, ornaments, you can do the whole the whole zing bang shopping. Just wait for a few more years. You will be rich, super rich!"
With a mixed dose of hopes, assurances and fantasies Sarveswar managed to weave a magic for Sushila. Sambit, the son, just out of college after doing his M.A., could guess the emptiness of the promises. In the internet age he had all information at his finger tips and knew how much his father earned and how little would be his pension. But like a good son to a doting mother, he didn't want to break her heart. His relationship with the father was like a roller-coaster ride, bumpy, stormy and nerve-wracking. He had refused to do a job, on the ground that he was preparing for competitive exams, but he knew, as did his father, it was an euphemism for enjoying a care-free life and stretching it as long as possible at the father's expense. He remained away from home throughout the day and returned late at night, claiming to be toiling at the library for the exams. The fact that his mouth emitted a foul smell of cigarette, often blending with alcohol, did not escape his father's notice. Long lectures stretching into midnight would follow and the son's resolve to leave home at the earliest would get progressively stronger.
At long last the blessed day arrived when Sarveswar hung his boots, rather his worn-out chappals, and retired from thirty seven years of toil and turmoil. The first day after retirement he slept till ten and kept on announcing loudly that he didn't have to go to office anymore. He was no longer a slave of the system and was prepared to deal a few kicks on its ass. To say that he felt liberated will be a gross understatement. The whole neighbourhood knew that Sarveswar had retired, he stood in the balcony displaying his bare body to whoever cared to look at it, refusing to take a shower till two o' clock. He bought a bottle of his favourite whiskey - Royal Challenge - and sat in the balcony till midnight drinking and making a raucous when Sushila asked him to come in for dinner. The next day was a repeat of the previous day, except that he was joined by two of the neighbours in the drinking session.
Soon Sushila saw a new avatar of her hitherto nondescript husband. Earlier she had half a husband at home and his full income came to her, post retirement it was full husband at home with half income. And that too a constantly nosey husband who found fault with the towels in the bathroom going for wash too early or too late, the cleansing liquid getting exhausted too fast, or the sofa set creaking too loudly for his comfort. He started questioning Sushila whether there was really a need for a fourth dish in lunch when they could manage with three, reminding her of his hard-earned pension. On top of it he demanded a cup of tea every two hours, a habit picked up from the office.
Sushila got exasperated. She had been warned of this unenviable predicament by her cousin whose husband had retired a year back - "Sushy, whatever happens, don't let the old blighter stay at home during the daytime after retirement. At 9.30 give him his usual tiffin box packed with lunch and ask him to leave home. Tell him to go anywhere he wants, the parks, cinemas, libraries and temples, and not to return before six. Otherwise you will go crazy." Sushila didn't have the heart to do that, she had been a devoted wife all her life, she couldn't suddenly turn heartless merely because her husband asked for a cup of tea every two hours! She did try to persuade him to take up a job somewhere,
"Look, your friend Bata Krishna Babu has taken up a job as a teacher at the Coaching Institute, and Suresh Babu has started looking after the accounts at Ghanshyam Seth's rice mill. Why don't you try something like that. There will be some additional income and you will find some engagement to keep yourself busy." She didn't add, although she meant it, "And you will cease to be a nuisance at home!"
Sarveswar felt scandalised at the idea. Working for a private person after serving the government for thirty seven years? Absolutely unthinkable! Yes, he admitted that he had not fulfilled Sushila's dream of floating on an obscene quantity of jewellery, but he assured that the daughter in law will do justice to that desire. The day after retirement Sarveswar, Sushila and Sambit had sat down to calculate what to do with the the post-retirement booty of fifty five lakh rupees gleaned from GPF, Gratuity, Leave Encashment and Commutation of pension. Twenty three lakhs went to repayment of the bank loan and retrieval of Sushila's precious jewellery, another two lakhs for paying off the scooter loan and computer loan. The pension amount was around forty thousand rupees. So it was necessary to put the remainder of the booty in Fixed Deposit to supplement the income from pension. Hopes of Sushila to buy heaps of jewellery and of Sambit to graduate from a bicycle to a motorbike were dashed to the ground. Sarveswar didn't care. He knew whatever amount came to the bank account will go into Sushila's hands and so long as he got his fish curry for lunch and snacks for whiskey in the evening, he was happy to be a domesticated pensioner.
Within six months of retirement Sarveswar found to his horror he had acquired a new status - an unwanted old slob who should be avoided like plague when sighted. His wife of thirty six years vintage wanted him to only eat, drink, sleep and leave her alone. The son always made it a point to leave home before the father got up in the morning and return only after the old man went to bed. In the company of his drinking partners Sarveswar competed with others to boast of what great things he had done in his career. His friends, all retired government officials, revelled in talking of how they had tortured their bosses, how so and so MLAs were insulted by them or how the Chief Secretary patted them on the back, terming them as jewels in the crown of government.
Gradually fantasy melted into reality and Sarveswar actually believed that he had done many wonders during his official career. At any gathering, in family functions or occasions like wedding receptions he went to great length in telling others how he was one of the leading architects of modern Odisha and if the government had any sense he should be honoured with at least a Padmashri. Friends and relatives, afraid of long lectures of meandering nonsense, tried to run away from him in such gatherings and he would often sit and eat alone, his mind in a turmoil, looking for eager listeners who were elusive. Within a few months he also found that there was no pleasure in eating fish curry and drinking whiskey every day. Mysterious rumblings in the stomach kept him awake at night.
Sarveswar took out his frustrations on his poor wife, finding fault with everything she did. His words pinched her, and she gave him back, word by word. He kept telling all who would listen, that every woman had two small sacks in her mouth - one was filled with honey and the other with chilly powder. Whenever she talked to anyone other than the husband honey would drip from her words. The moment she opened her mouth to speak to the old faithful - the poor husband, chilly powder would come flying with blinding effect. In due course she remained glued to the TV and he sat on the balcony on a rocking chair, looking at the passing traffic.
In about a year's time Sarveswar found he had lost interest in everything. Even sleeping till late morning, his dream come true
post-retirement, no longer attaracted him. Often he would get up early, make his own tea, try to read the newspaper, but very little would register in his mind. He would sit in the balcony sipping tea and looking outside, without seeing much. On one such morning, sitting in the balcony, bent over a newspaper he was startled to hear a lady crying. Thankfully it was not Sushila. Curious, he went inside to check. It was Sushila's friend Archana, whose husband Digambar had retired a year before Sarveswar. They were colleagues in the Secretariat sharing many cups of tea and samosas in their sunny days.
The way the poor lady was crying Sarveswar got a shock - did poor Digambar kick the bucket in the early hours of the day? But Sushila assured him that it was something less disastrous, although quite unprecedented in the history of the holy institution of matrimony. She prodded Archana to pour out her story to Sarveswar. Between muffled sobs she told him the cause of her grief. It seemed Digambar had woken her up in the morning and asked, "Dear, I have forgotten your name. Can you please tell me what is it?" Archana had thought he was joking, but no, he assured her he really had forgotten her name. Ever since their marriage he had called her lovingly as Baby, but knew that was not her real name. Her heart broke to pieces and she ran to meet her friend Sushy to pour out her grievance.
Sarveswar had a hearty laugh and retreated to his seat at the balcony. The two ladies kept chatting over tea. Sushila assured her friend that it was quite normal for oldies to forget things, although forgetting the spouse's name was a record-breaking feat.
"Look at my husband, he forgets names, places, events at the drop of a hat. The other day we had gone to a wedding reception, he pulled me aside and asked me,'That man in blue shirt there, drinking soup, what's his name? I know he is the husband of one of your cousins. But what the hell is his name?' I smiled and told him, ,'O, that man with the thin moustache wearing the blue shirt? He is Sadanand, my cousin Sumati's husband.' Fortified by this knowledge my hero went to the man with a big grin, 'So, Sadanand, how are you? How are the kids doing? Is your son Biswanath still in Bangalore or moved to Bombay-Fombay? Sadanand glared at him, 'Bhaina, you are confusing me with someone else. We have only one daughter, Ananya, since last year she is in US doing a Masters in Computer Science.' With a dirty look thrown at the surprised oldie, he walked away."
Archana laughed at the story, yes, indeed, there were people who forgot things, but forgetting one's wife's name, wasn't that unforgivable?
Sushila was not finished,
"You know what happened two months back? We were at another party. My husband walked to a man and said, 'So, Kuna (his name was Tuna), how are things with you? How are Uncle, Aunty doing? Where are they? Are they staying with you or moved to the village?' Tuna gave him a hard, burning stare and moved away. I was present there and gave my soulmate a hard pinch on the arm, he shrieked and couple of people looked in our direction. I didn't care. I told him, 'Why don't you ask me before saying something? His mother had passed away two years back in Corona, have you forgotten? How will he know where Aunty is, upstairs in heaven or downstairs in hell? And his name is Tuna, why did you address him as Kuna? When will you improve? Will you improve at all?' He looked at me in an embarrassed way, 'Sushy dear, I am already sixty two, you think I will improve? In Kaliyug, if you live till sixty you have scaled the Everest. I am retired, tired. Why do you want me to improve? For whom? You know me, I know you. At least I remember your name, isn't that enough?"
Archana thought, yes, that was enough. If only her husband Digambar could do it!
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.
MISCELLANEOUS
The diamond is more than just aesthetically beautiful—it’s an enduring symbol of love, romance, and commitment. The stone’s name is derived from the Greek word adamas, which translates to ?unconquerable and indestructible.? Diamonds have been sought the world over, fought over, worshipped and used to cast love spells.
Diamond History
The earliest diamonds were found in India in 4th century BC, although the youngest of these deposits were formed 900 million years ago. A majority of these early stones were transported along the network of trade routes that connected India and China, commonly known as the Silk Road. At the time of their discovery, diamonds were valued because of their strength and brilliance, and for their ability to refract light and engrave metal. Diamonds were worn as adornments, used as cutting tools, served as a talisman to ward off evil, and were believed to provide protection in battle. In the Dark Ages, diamonds were also used as a medical aid and were thought to cure illness and heal wounds when ingested.
Surprisingly, diamonds share some common characteristics with coal. Both are composed of the most common substance on earth: carbon. What makes diamonds different from coal is the way the carbon atoms are arranged and how the carbon is formed. Diamonds are created when carbon is subjected to the extremely high pressures and temperatures found at the earth’s lithosphere, which lies approximately 90-240 miles below the earth’s surface.
Until the 18th century, India was thought to be the only source of diamonds. When the Indian diamond mines were depleted, the quest for alternate sources began.
Although a small deposit was found in Brazil in 1725, the supply was not enough to meet world demands.
In 1866, 15-year-old Erasmus Jacobs was exploring the banks of the Orange River when he came across what he thought was an ordinary pebble, but turned out to be a 21.25-carat diamond. In 1871, a colossal 83.50-carat deposit was unearthed on a shallow hill called Colesberg Kopje. These findings sparked a rush of thousands of diamond prospectors to the region and led to the opening of the first large-scale mining operation which came to be known as the Kimberly Mine. This newly discovered diamond source increased the world’s diamond supply substantially, resulting in a significant decrease in their value. The elite no longer considered the diamond a rarity, and began to replace this ?common? stone with coloured gemstones. Emeralds, rubies, and sapphires became more popular choices for engagement ring stones among the upper class.
In 1880, Englishman Cecil John Rhodes formed De Beers Consolidated Mines, Ltd in an effort to control the diamond supply. Although DeBeers was successful in their efforts to control the supply of diamonds, demand for the stone was weak. By 1919, diamonds were devalued by nearly 50%.
The History Of The Engagement Ring
The use of rings as a symbol of commitment dates back to ancient history, specifically to the betrothal (truth) rings of the Romans. These early rings, often formed from twisted copper or braided hair, were worn on the third finger of the left hand. For Romans, betrothal rings were given as a sign of affection or friendship, and did not always represent the rite of marriage.
The history of the engagement ring began in 1215, when Pope Innocent III, one of the most powerful popes of the Middle Ages, declared a waiting period between a betrothal and the marriage ceremony. The rings were used to signify the couple’s commitment in the interim. It was around this same time that rings were introduced as a major component of the wedding ceremony, and it was mandated by the Roman government that all marriage ceremonies be held in a church. In addition to serving as symbols of an intention to marry, these early rings also represented social rank; only the elite were permitted to wear ornate rings or rings with jewels.
For the last 3000 to 4000 years, diamonds have held special magic for Kings, Queens and their subjects. Diamonds have stood for wealth, power, love, spirit and magical powers. Kings in olden days would wear into battle heavy leather breast plates studded with diamonds and other precious stones. It was believed that diamonds were fragments of stars and the teardrops of the Gods. The diamonds possessed magical qualities of the Gods and held powers far beyond the understanding of the common man. Because of these beliefs, the warriors stayed clear of the Kings and others who were fortunate to have the magical diamonds in their breast plates.
Until the 15thCentury only Kings wore diamonds as a symbol of strength, courage and invincibility. Over the centuries, the diamond acquired its unique status as the ultimate gift of love. It was said that cupids’ arrows were tipped with diamonds that have a magic that nothing else can equal.
Since the creation of diamonds they have been associated with romance and legend. The Greeks believed the fire in the diamond reflected the constant flame of love.
For millions of people around the world, the mystery and magic, the beauty and
romance shining out from a simple solitaire says all the heart feels but words cannot express. It wasn’t until 1477 when Archduke Maximilian of Austria gave a diamond ring to Mary of Burgundy, that the diamond engagement ring was introduced. Placing the ring on the third finger of the left hand, dates back to the early Egyptian belief that the Vena Amors, vein of love, runs directly from the heart to the tip of the third finger. This symbolic meaning lends itself well to the diamond’s historic commemoration of eternal love.*
Discovery And Making
The first river-bed (alluvial) diamonds were probably discovered in India, in around 800 B.C. The volcanic source of these diamonds was never discovered, but the alluvial deposits were rich enough to supply most of the world’s diamonds until the e that led to the discovery of diamonds in Brazil, which became the next important diamond source. Beginning in l866, South Africa’s massive diamond deposits were discovered, and a world-wide diamond rush was on. The South African diamond output was unravelled until major deposits were found in Siberian permafrost in l954. And currently Western Canada is the site of the world’s newest diamond rush.
Throughout much of history, diamonds were mined from the sand and gravel surrounding rivers. But in South Africa in 1870 diamond was found in the earth far from a river source, and the practice of dry-digging for diamonds was born. More sophisticated mining techniques allowed deeper subterranean digging, as well as more efficient river (and, most recently, marine) mining, than ever before.
Cutting
The cutting of diamonds into the complex faceted forms we now associate with these gems is actually a relatively recent practice. For centuries, rough diamonds were kept as talismans, and often not worn at all, though natural octahedral (eight-sided stones) were sometimes set in rings. A Hungarian queen’s crown set with uncut diamonds, dating from approximately l074, is perhaps the earliest example of diamond jewellery. The royalty of France and England wore diamonds by the 1300′s.
In sixteenth century England, fashionable lovers etched romantic pledges on window-panes with the points of their diamond rings, known as ?scribbling rings?.
The earliest record of diamond-polishing (with diamond powder) is Indian, and probably dates from the fourteenth century. There are also contemporary references to the practice of diamond polishing in Venice. The earliest reference to diamond cutting is in l550 in Antwerp, the most important diamond centre of the period, where a diamond-cutters’ guild was soon to be established.
Diamond Routes and Centres:
Indian diamonds reached Venice by two Mediterranean routes: the southern route was by way of Aden, Ethiopia, and Egypt, and the northern route was through Arabia, Persia, Armenia, and Turkey. Then, thanks to the Portuguese discovery of the direct sea route to India, Antwerp flourished as a diamond centre, as the city was well-situated to receive vast supplies of rough from Lisbon as well as from Venice.
After Spanish attacks on Antwerp in1585, many diamond cutters relocated to Amsterdam. And the Netherlands, with its liberal civil policies, attracted diamond craftsmen (including many Jews) who were fleeing religious persecution in Spain, Portugal, Germany and Poland.
In the late1600′s, as the English fortified their interest in India, which was still the world’s central diamond source, London became an important cutting centre. Later, London became the primary world market of diamond rough.
Today, there are cutting centres all over the world, most notably in Belgium, India, Israel, South Africa, and the USA.
Diamond Magic
Diamonds were once believed to hold many magical, mystical and medicinal properties. The phosphorescence of certain diamonds (their ability to glow in the
dark) was considered a proof of the stone’s extraordinary powers. Diamonds were thought to calm the mentally ill, and to ward off devils, phantoms and even nightmares. They were supposed to impart virtue, generosity and courage in battle, and to cause lawsuits to be determined in the wearer’s favour. A house or garden touched at each corner with a diamond was supposed to be protected from lightning, storms and blight.
The ancient Indians believed that the human soul could pass through various incarnations, animating gemstones as well as plants and animals. Plato, the Greek philosopher, shared the belief that gems were living beings, produced by a chemical reaction t o vivifying astral spirits. Later philosophers divided precious stones into male and female specimens, and even claimed that they could ?marry? and reproduce!
Minerals were among the first medicinal ingredients. In the middle ages it was believed that a diamond could heal if the sick person took it bed and warmed it with his body, of breathed upon it while fasting or wore it next to the skin. A diamond held in the mouth would correct the bad habits of liars and scolds. And diamonds were worn as a talisman against poisoning.
Diamond powder administered internally, however, was a legendary poison. The Turkish Sultan Bajazet (1447 – 1513) was perhaps murdered by his son, who slipped a large quantity of powdered diamond in his father’s food. In l532, his doctors dosed Pope Clement VII with fourteen spoonfuls of pulverized gems, including diamonds, which resulted in death for the patient, as well as a very high bill for his treatment. In the same century, Catherine de Medici was famous for dealing out death by diamond powder, and Benvenuto Cellini, the famous s Italian goldsmith, described an attempt on his life by an enemy who ordered diamond powder to be mixed in his salad. But the lapidary responsible for grinding the diamond filched the stone, replacing it with powdered glass (thereby saving Cellini).
A Modern-Day Resurgence
In 1947, DeBeers commissioned the services of leading advertising agency N.W. Ayer, and the slogan ?A diamond is forever? was coined, later immortalised in the James Bond movie, ?Diamonds are Forever.? The premise of this large-scale marketing campaign was the suggestion that diamonds should be the only choice for engagement rings. The DeBeers advertising campaign was wildly successful, and was a contributing factor to today’s widespread embracing of the tradition of diamond engagement rings. In today’s fine jewellery market, more than 78% of engagement rings sold contain diamonds.
With the surge in popularity of the precious stone, many companies and organizations began campaigns to educate jewellers and consumers about what to look for when selecting a diamond. As jewellers experimented with ways to enhance the diamond’s visual appeal and presentation, new cutting techniques were adopted to help increase the stone’s brilliance. Over time, several prominent shapes emerged as the most popular varieties, including round, oval, marquise, square (princess), and rectangular (emerald).
Today, the world’s diamond deposits are slowly becoming depleted. Less than 20% of the diamonds mined are of gem quality; less than 2% are considered ?investment diamonds.? 75-80% of mined diamonds are used for industrial applications, such as grinding, sawing, and drilling. Typically, more than 250 tons of ore must be mined in order to produce a one-carat, gem-quality stone.
The diamond’s rarity, beauty, and strength make it a fitting symbol of the resilience and longevity of marriage. In addition to engagement rings, diamonds are traditionally given as gifts to commemorate the milestone of the sixtieth anniversary. With their rich history, sense of permanence, and lustrous brilliance, diamonds are a natural choice to signify a lasting union.*
History of the Koh-I-Noor
MYTH-The origin of the diamond is unclear. According to some sources, the Koh-i-Noor was originally found more than 5000 years ago, and is mentioned in ancient Sanskrit writings under the name Syamantaka. According to some Hindu mythological accounts, the Lord Krishna obtained the Syamantaka from Jambavantha, whose daughter Jambavati later married Krishna. Krishna was blamed for the theft of the diamond from Satrajith's dead brother, killed by a lion (itself having been killed by Jambavantha). Satrajith accused Krishna of having killed his brother. Krishna fought a fierce battle with J?mbav?n to restore his reputation and gave the jewel back to Satrajith. In shame, Satrajith offered Krishna his daughter, as well as the Koh-i-Noor. Krishna accepted his daughter Satyabh?m?, but refused to take the Syamantaka.
The diamond originated in the Kollur region of Guntur district in present day Andhra Pradesh, one of the world's earliest diamond producing regions, sometime in the 1200s during the Kakatiya rule. This region was the only known source of diamonds until 1730 when diamonds were discovered in Brazil. The term "Golconda" diamond has come to define diamonds of the finest white colour, clarity and transparency.
They are very rare and highly sought after. The diamond became the property of Kakatiya kings who installed it as one of the eyes of the presiding Goddess in a temple in their capital city of Warangal.
The Khilji rule at Delhi ended in 1320 AD and Ghias ud Din Tughluq ascended the throne. Tughluq sent his commander Ulugh Khan in 1323 to defeat the Kakatiya king Prataprudra. Ulugh Khan’s raid was repulsed but he returned in a month with a larger and determined army. The unprepared army of Kakatiya was defeated.
The loot, plunder and destruction of Orugallu (present day Warangal), the capital of Kakatiya Kingdom, continued for months. Loads of gold, diamonds, pearls and ivory were carried away to Delhi on elephants, horses and camels. The Koh-i-Noor diamond was part of the bounty.
From then onwards, the stone passed through the hands of successive rulers of the Delhi Sultanate, finally passing to Babur, the first Mughal Emperor, in 1526.
The first confirmed historical mention of the Koh-i-Noor by an identifiable name dates from 1526. Babur mentions in his memoirs, the Baburnama, that the stone had
belonged to an unnamed Rajah of Malwa in 1294. Babur held the stone's value to be such as to feed the whole world for two and a half days.
The Baburnama recounts how Rajah of Malwa was compelled to yield his prized possession to Alaud din Khilji; it was then owned by a succession of dynasties that ruled the Delhi Sultanate, finally coming into the possession of Babur himself in 1526, following his victory over the last ruler of that kingdom. However, the Baburnama was written c.1526-30; Babur's source for this information is unknown, and he may have been recounting the hearsay of his day and mixed up the Emperor of Warangal with the Rajah of Malwa. He did not at that time call the stone by its present name, but despite some debate about the identity of 'Babur's Diamond' it seems likely that it was the stone which later became known as Koh-i- Noor.
Both Babur and Humayun mention very clearly in their memoirs the origins of 'Babur's Diamond'. Humayun had much bad luck throughout his life. Sher Shah Suri, who defeated Humayun, died in an accident. Humayun's son, Akbar, never kept the diamond with himself and later only Shah Jahan took it out of his treasury. Akbar's grandson, Shah Jahan was overthrown by his own son, Aurangzeb.
Shah Jahan had the stone placed into his ornate Peacock Throne. His son, Auranzeb, imprisoned his ailing father at Agra Fort. Legend has it that he had the Koh-i-Noor positioned near a window so that Shah Jahan could see the Taj only by looking at its reflection in the stone. Aurangazeb later brought it to his capital Lahore and placed it in his own personal Badshah Mosque. There it stayed until the invasion of Nadir Shah in 1739 and the sacking of Agra and Delhi. Along with the Peacock Throne, he also carried off the Koh-i-Noor to Persia in 1739 and who is attributed, allegedly, to the name Koh-i Noor since there is no reference to this name before 1739.
The valuation of the Koh-i-Noor is given in the legend that one of Nader Shah's consorts supposedly said, "If a strong man should take five stones, and throw one north, one south, one east, and one west, and the last straight up into the air, and the space between filled with gold and gems, that would equal the value of the Koh-i- Noor."
After the assassination of Nader Shah in 1747, the stone came into the hands of Ahmed Shah Abdali of Afghanistan. In 1830, Shah Shuja, the deposed ruler of Afghanistan, managed to flee with the Kohinoor diamond. He then came to Lahore where it was given to the Maharaja of Ranjit Singh; in return for this Maharaja Ranjit Singh won back the Afghan throne for Shah Shuja.
Passage from India
Maharaja Ranjit Singh willed the Koh-i-Noor to the Jagannath Temple but after his death the British administrators did not execute his will. On 29 March 1849, the British raised their flag on the citadel of Lahore and the Punjab was formally proclaimed to be part of the British Empire. One of the terms of the Treaty of Lahore, the legal agreement formalising this occupation, was as follows:
The gem called the Koh-i-Noor which was taken from Shah Shuja-ul-Mulk by Maharajah Ranjit Singh shall be surrendered by the Maharaja of Lahore to the queen of England.
The diamond is now set into the crown worn by the female consort to Monarch of the United Kingdom.
The Curse of the Koh-i-Noor
It is believed that the Koh-i-Noor carries with it a curse which affects men who wear it, but not women. All the men who owned it have either lost their throne or had other misfortunes befall them. Queen Victoria is the only reigning monarch to have worn the gem. Since Victoria's reign, the stone has generally been worn by the British Queen Consort, never by a male ruler.
The possibility of a curse pertaining to ownership of the diamond dates back to a Indian text relating to the first authenticated appearance of the diamond in 1306: "He who owns this diamond will own the world, but will also know all its misfortunes. Only God, or a woman, can wear it with impunity."*
The gem called the Koh-i-Noor which was taken from Shah Shuja-ul-Mulk by Maharajah Ranjit Singh shall be surrendered by the Maharaja of Lahore to the queen of England.
The diamond is now set into the crown worn by the female consort to Monarch of the United Kingdom.
TEN FAMOUS DIAMONDS
The Great Star of Africa
530.20 Carats - the Cullinan I or Star Africa diamond is the largest cut diamond in the world. Pear shaped, with 74 facets, it is set in the Royal Sceptre (kept with the other Crown Jewels in the Tower of London). It was cut from the 3,106-carat Cullinan, the largest diamond crystal ever found. The Cullinan was discovered in Transvaal, South Africa in l095 on an inspection tour of the Premier Mine. The Cullinan was cut by Joseph Asscher and Company of Amsterdam, who examined the enormous crystal for around six months before determining how to divide it. Legend has it that immediately after applying the hammer, Asscher fainted fearful that he may have broken the diamond. It eventually yielded nine major, and 96 smaller brilliant cut stones. When the Cullinan was first discovered, certain signs suggested that it may have been part of a much larger crystal. But no discovery of the "missing half" has ever been authenticated.
The Orloff
300 Carats when found, colour: slightly bluish green, clarity: exceptionally pure, cut: Moghul-cut rose, source: India.
This gem may be found in the Diamond Treasury of Russia in Moscow.
There are so many historical episodes involving the Orloff. First, it may have been set at one time as the diamond eye of Vishnu's idol (one of the Hindu Gods) in the innermost sanctuary temple in Sriangam, before being stolen in the 1700s by a French deserter. However, the deserter just dug one eye from its socket, because he was terror- stricken at the thought of retribution, so he couldn't take the other. He went to Madras, and sold the stone quickly to an English sea- captain for 2,000 pounds.
The time passed, the stone arrived at Amsterdam where the Russian count Grigori Orloff, an ex-lover of Empress Catherine the Great was residing. He heard about rumours of the stone, and he bought the diamond for 90,000 pounds and took it back to Russia for Catherine's favour. The stone has been called the Orloff since then. Catherine received his gift and had it mounted in the Imperial Sceptre. She gave a marble palace to Grigori in exchange for the Orloff.
However, Grigori couldn't get Catherine's love. Grigori Orloff passed away at the nadir of disappointment in 1783.
In 1812 the Russians, fearing that Napoleon with his Grand Army was about to enter Moscow, hid the Orloff in a priest's tomb.
Napoleon supposedly discovered the Orloff's location and went to claim it. However, as a solider of the Army was about to touch the Orloff, a priest's ghost appeared and pronounced a terrible curse upon the Army. The Emperor, Napoleon scampered away without the Orloff.
The Centenary Diamond
273.85 Carats, discovered at the Premier Mine, in July 1986. The 'Centenary' diamond weighed 599.10 carats in the rough. Together with a small select team, master- cutter Gabi Tolkowsky took almost three years to complete its transformation into the world's largest, most modern-cut, top-colour, flawless diamond.
Possessing 247 facets - 164 on the stone and 83 on its girdle - the aptly-named 'Centenary' diamond weighs 273.85 carats, and is only surpassed in size by the 530.20 carat 'Great Star of Africa' and the 317.40 carat 'Lesser Star of Africa', both of which are set into the British Crown Jewels.
The Regent
140.50 Carats, although it is now surpassed in weight by other famous diamonds, the exceptional limpidity and perfect cut of the Regent give it an reputation as the most beautiful diamond in the world. Discovered in India in 1698, it was acquired by Thomas Pitt, Governor of Madras, who sent it to England where it was cut. In 1717 the Regent purchased it from Pitt for the French Crown. It first adorned the band of Louis XV's silver gilt crown (in the Louvre) at his coronation in 1722, going then to Louis XVI's crown in 1775. Later in 1801 it figured on the hilt of the First Consul's sword (Fontainebleau, Musée Napoléon 1st), and then on the Emperor's two-edged sword in 1812. In 1825 it was worn on the crown at the coronation of Charles x, and during the Second Empire it embellished the "Grecian diadem" of the Empress Eugenie. It can be seen today at the Louvre in Paris.
Koh-i-Noor (Mountain of Light)
105.60 Carats, an oval cut gem, now part of the British Crown Jewels. The name of this diamond means "Mountain of Light" and its history, dating back to1304, is the longest of all famous diamonds. It was captured by the Rajahs of Malwa in the sixteenth century by the Mogul, Sultan Babur and remained in the possession of later Mogul emperors. It may have been set in the famous Peacock Throne made for Shah Jehan. After the break-up of the Persian empire the diamond found its way to India. It may have travelled to Afghanistan with a bodyguard of Nadir Shah, who fled with the stone when the Shah was murdered, to be later offered to Ranjit Singh of the Punjab in exchange for military help (which was never delivered). After fighting broke out between the Sikhs and the British, The East India Company claimed the diamond as a partial indemnity, and then presented it to Queen Victoria in 1850. When the stone came from India, it weighed l986 carats; it was later recut to l08.93 carats. It was first worn by the Queen in a brooch. It was later set in the State Crown, worn by Queen Alexandra and Queen Mary, and 1937 was worn for by Queen Elizabeth for her coronation. It is kept in the Tower of London, with the other Crown Jewels.*
The Idol's Eye
70.20 Carats, a flattened pear-shaped stone the size of a bantam's egg. Another famous diamond that was once set in the eye of an idol before it was stolen. Legend also has it that it was given as ransom for Princess Rasheedah by the Sheikh of Kashmir to the Sultan of Turkey who had abducted her.
The Taylor-Burton
69.42 Carats, Pear-shape.
It was found in 1966 in the Premier Mine in South Africa. The rough, which weighted 240.80 carats, was cut into a 69.42 pear shape diamond.
Richard Burton bought and named this stone as a gift for Elizabeth Taylor. Richard Burton bought it $1,100,000. He also named this stone as an engagement. After Burton's death in 1979, Liz Taylor sold the stone for charity and reportedly received $2.8 million. She donated in his memory to a hospital in Biafra. It was last seen in Saudi Arabia.
Sancy Diamond
Little is known of the Sancy Diamond before the 14th century when it was most likely stolen from India. It was first recorded as measuring 100 carats when it was part of the dowry of Valentina, Galeazzo di Visconti's daughter in 1389. She married Duke d'Orleans who was the brother of Charles VI of France. This began a long history of the diamond being used as collateral and going in and out of pawn over the next few hundred years. Duke John of Burgundy acquired the stone as a spoil of war victory and passed it down through his family for several generations including Charles the Bold. Charles brought the stone into battle believing it was good luck. This turned out not to be true as he lost the battle and his life and the stone was missing for 14 years. It then turned up in the possession of Jacob Fugger who sold it to the King of Portugal.
When Phillip II of Spain Invaded Portugal he claimed the Sancy, however, the king escaped with several other jewels which he sold the French and English Crown. The Sancy found itself in the ownership of Elizabeth I, who also owned the Three Brothers stone which was also lost by Charles the Bold. Elizabeth secretly pawned the stone to finance a Dutch war against Spain. The diamond changed hands againand found a new owner Nicolas Harlay deSancy whose wife had an appetite for diamonds. Elizabeth I wanted the diamond back and Sancy who eventually went bankrupt was convinced to sell it back to James I of the English Crown. The diamond disappeared again for 25 years long enough for the statue of limitations to expire, when it surfaced to be purchased by Nicholas Demidov, who gave it to his wife. It was then sold to Sir Jamsetee Jeejeebhoy and eventually to William Astor in 1865. The Astor family kept possession of the stone until 1976 when they sold it for an undisclosed amount to the Louvre Museum where it still resides today.. Most experts agree that the Sancy was part of a much larger diamond that was re-cut at some point however there is no consensus which diamond it originally came from.
Hortensia Diamond
The Hortensia Diamond is a pale pink, orange diamond that was originally part of the jewel collection of the French Crown. named after the Queen of Holland, the step- daughter of Napoleon Bonaparte, this gem is part of the French Crown Jewels and may be viewed at the Louvre in Paris. It was lost/stolen with all of the other gems in Marie Antoinette's collection during the French Revolution. A man named Depeyron confessed its secret location while on the chopping block facing execution.
The diamond gets its name from name from Hortense de Beauharnais the Queen of Holland who wore the diamond. It was also mounted on the epaulette braid of Napoleon for a short time.
MORE FAMOUS AND HISTORIC DIAMONDS
Archduke Joseph Diamond: The Archduke Joseph Diamonds is one of the Golconda diamonds (an ancient Indian diamond mine), what makes it unique is its colour and clarity. It measures 74.65 carats and is rated a flawless D. The diamond is a family heirloom of the Hapsburg Family from Hungary. During World War II the gem was put in hiding in France. The whereabouts of the diamond were unknown until 1961 when it came up for auction. In 1993 it went on auction a second time and sold for 6.4 million dollars. It is set in a remarkable necklace and is quite often lent to celebrities for special functions. Celine Dion wore the necklace on her return performance on CBS in April of 2002 when she premiered "A New Day Has Come".
Allnat Diamond: The Allnat diamond is a cushion cut fancy vivid yellow diamond. Prior to 1950 there is no recorded history for this diamond although experts guess it came from the premier diamond mine in South Africa. In 1950 Major Allnat commissioned Cartier to make a setting for the diamond. The stone was re-cut from
102.07 carats to 101.29 carats and it was regarded as a vivid fancy yellow increasing its value. It's currently in the "Splendour of Diamonds" collection at the Smithsonian Museum.
Centenary Diamond:
The Centenary Diamond is the third largest diamond to have been extracted from the DeBeers mine in South Africa. Its 273.85 carats is internally and externally flawless with a D colour rating. It was displayed in its uncut form at 599 carats for the DeBeers Centenary Anniversary. It was displayed in the Tower of London for several years before it was removed. While no sale price was ever made public it was insured for over 100 million.
Darya-ye Noor Diamond:
Is one of the Crown Jewels from the country of Iran. It is well known not only for its large size of 182 carats but also its pale pink colour which is exceptionally rare in diamonds. Modern research also indicates this may have been part of a larger stone that was originally part of the throne of Mughahl Emperor Shah Jahan.
The Noor-ol-Ein is also part of the same stone.
Dresden Green Diamond:
The Dresden Green Diamond is the largest of the very rare natural green diamonds. It is 41 carats and its green colour comes from natural and not artificial irradiation. The diamond was discovered in 1722 before the technology for artificial irradiation existed. This diamond is currently part of a research project to help identify diamonds which are naturally coloured. The diamond is named after the Saxony Capital in Germany. For most of its history the diamond has stayed in Germany, except during World War II when it was in the Soviet Union.
Excelsior Diamond:
At the time of its discovery in 1893 the Excelsior Diamond was the largest diamond discovered at 971 carats. It was displaced by the Cullinan Diamond in 1905. The stone had a blue and white colour and was eventually cut into 13 stones ranging from 68 carats to 13 carats.
The Golden Jubilee Diamond:
The Golden Jubilee is currently the world's largest faceted diamond displacing the Cullinan I or Star of Africa by over 15 carats. The diamond is cut into a fire cushion shape and weighs a total of 545.67 carats. What's most remarkable about the stone is its yellow brown colour. It was presented as a gift to King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand to commemorate the 50th anniversary of his coronation. It is currently part of the crown jewels in the Royal Thai Palace.
Great Moghul Diamond:
The Great Moghul diamond is the most legendary diamond of the ancient world. It was first described by traveller Jean Baptiste Tavernier from a visit to India he made in 1665. The Great Moghul Diamond was said to have measured 240 carats, a size unheard of in the ancient world. However the stone disappeared and hasn't been seen for thousands of years. Experts are divided some believing that the Koh-i-Nor diamond is the Great Moghul Diamond other experts believe it's the Orloff Diamond.
Heart of Eternity:
The Heart of Eternity diamond is one the most famous fancy blue diamonds. It came from the premier mine in South Africa which has the largest production of fancy coloured diamonds. The heart of eternity is the sister stone of the Millennium Star which were both cut from the same stone.
They were part of the DeBeers Millennium Jewels Collection and were the target of an unsuccessful diamond heist at the Millennium Dome during the year 2000 celebration. The gem is 27.64 carats and is classified as fancy vivid blue.
Idol's Eye Diamond:
Where the Idol's Eye diamond originally came from is something of a mystery. Many claim it was the eye of an idol or statue from a temple in Benghazi. That is highly unlikely since that area has been Muslim since the 8th Century and devoid of idols. The diamond first appears in recorded history at a Christie's auction in 1865. At the time of the auction the buyer was anonymous, but history later revealed the buyer was the Ottoman Sultan Abdul Hamid II. Towards the end of his rule Hamid sensed he was going to be forced out of power and started to move his
wealth to a secure location, this included his collection of jewels. However the person responsible for moving the jewels stole them and turned up in Paris. The diamond was purchased by a Spanish Nobleman who kept them in London. The gemstone remained hidden until after World War II when a Dutch Merchant acquired them and sold it to Harry Winston. The Idol's Eye diamond is a triangular old mine cut measuring 70. 21 carats and has a slight bluish colour.
Incomparable Diamond:
The Incomparable Diamond was the fourth largest uncut diamond when it was discovered. In 1984 owners Marvin Samuels, Louis Glick, and David Zale of Zales Jewellers had the diamond cut. The largest stone was 407.48 carat triolette shape. There were also 14 smaller diamonds from the same stone. The largest diamond retained the name Incomparable diamond and is golden in colour. The smaller stones range from colourless to deep rich brown. The Incomparable diamond made an unexpected appearance on the internet auction site EBay in November of 2002 with a reserve price of 15 million pounds sterling but remained unsold.
Lesotho Promise: The Lesotho Promise is a new diamond that was discovered in 2006. It was discovered in the Letseng diamond mine in Lesotho. In its uncut format it is 603 carats in size and the diamond sold for 12.4 million in its uncut form.
Millennium Star:
The Millennium Star is the sister stone to the Heart of Eternity diamond as both were originally cut from the same stone. Unlike its sister stone Millennium Star is a colourless diamond rated a flawless D. It's also the second largest D diamond in the world measuring at 203.04 carats. This diamond is part of the DeBeers Millennium Collection and was part of the exhibit at the Millennium Dome. The stone was also the target of a failed diamond heist. When the police, security, and DeBeers officials learned of the planned robbery a duplicate stone was created and placed on display as a precaution. The thieves failed to get their hands on the real diamond or the replica.
Moussaieff Red:
The Moussaieff Red is the largest fancy red coloured diamond known. It measures 5.11 carats and has a trillion style cut. The stone was discovered in Brazil. The stone was originally known as the Red Shield until it was bought by the Moussaieff Jewelers Company. The diamond was also part of "Splendour of Diamonds" show at the Smithsonian along with the Millennium Star, Heart of Eternity, Hope Diamond, and Dresden Green.
Nizam Diamond:
The Nizam Diamond was an old world diamond from India. It was a convex shape with irregular facets measuring 277 carats. It was owned by Nizams of Hyderabad in the 1830's, however, it was lost, stolen or was re-cut as a result of becoming a spoil of war.
Noor-ol-Ein Diamond: this diamond is also known by the alternate spelling Nur-Ul- Ain Diamond. It's one of the largest pink diamond in the world said to have originated from India. It's an oval diamond brilliant cut diamond that measures 60 carats. It is currently set in a platinum tiara with other pink, yellow, and colourless diamonds. The tiara was fashioned by Harry Winston for Empress Farah for her wedding to the last Shah of Iran in 1957
Red Cross Diamond:
The Red Cross Diamond was discovered in the Kimberly Mines in 1901. It's a canary coloured cushioned shaped diamond that measures 205.07 carats. It is very distinct having a Maltese Cross visible from the top. The diamond was auctioned at Christies in 1918 with the benefits going to the British Red Cross Society and the Order of St. John. The stone later passed in an unknown member of the royal family of England and then to an unnamed American businessman who put it up for auction in 1973. The stone failed to meet its reserve price and the auction was removed and tried again in 1977. The stone again failed to meet the reserve price and was withdrawn, the current owner and location are unknown.
Regent Diamond:
The Regent Diamond has long past with many unexpected twists and turns. According to legend it was discovered by a slave in a diamond mine in 1692 in India. He stole the diamond and hid it in a wound inside of his body. The slave was killed on a ship and the captain took the diamond. It was sold to Thomas Pitt a well known merchant trader in India. He finally managed to sell it to Philippe II, Duke of Orleans in 1717. It was set in a Crown for the Coronation crown for Louis XV and then in another crown for Louis XVI in 1775. He gave it to Marie Antoinette who added it to her jewellery collection. The diamond was, stolen, hidden, and eventually recovered. It then found its way into the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1801. It was set into his sword until his death when it was sent to Austria. It was eventually returned to France and was set into the crowns of Louis XVIII, Charles X and Napoleon III. It was then set in a Greek style Diadem crown for Empress Eugenie where it remains today, and is displayed in the Louvre Museum. The diamond measures 140.6 carats and is a cushion style cut. It is white with a slight blue tint in colour.
Shah Diamond:
The Shah diamond traces its history back to India at about 1450. In 1591 it was given to the court of Nizam, who ordered that it be inscribed with "Burhan-Nizam-Shah Second. Year 1000″ on one of the facets. That same year Emperor Akbar seized the throne and the diamond. When his grandson took the throne he had another inscription put on the stone "The son of Jehangir-Shah Jehan-Shah. Year 1051.″ The diamond remained in India until 1738. That year Nadir Shah attacked and took the stone as a spoil of war back with him to Persia. In 1824 another inscription was made on the stone "The ruler of the Kadgar-Fath ali-shah Sultan. Year 1242.″ In 1829 Alexander Sergeevich Griboedov a Russian Diplomat was murdered in Russia. This put a lot of strain and pressure on the relations between Russia and Iran. The Shah of Iran sent his son Hosrov-Mirza to St. Petersburg where they gave the diamond as a gift to the Russian Government. The diamond remains part of the Russian Diamond Fund and is housed in the Kremlin. The Shah diamond weighs 90 carats, is 3cm long, and is extremely clear with a slight yellow tint.
Spirit of de Grisogono Diamond: The Spirit of de Grisogono Diamond has the honour of being the world’s largest cut black diamond, measuring 312.24 carats. There are only two other black diamond’s of noteworthy size the Black Orloff and the Amsterdam Diamond.
Spoonmakers Diamond: There are several stories surrounding the origin of the Spoonmakers diamond, however, here is the one
favored by most leading jewelers and gemologists. In 1774 a French officer purchased a diamond from the daughter of the Maharajah of Madras. The diamond was put up for auction and was purchased by Napoleon's mother. When Napoleon was sent into exile, his mother sold the diamond to try save her son. The diamond was purchased by an agent for Tepedelenli Ali Pasha. Pasha was sentenced to death for crimes against the state and all his assets were seized including the diamond. All of his possessions were moved to the treasury of the Ottoman Empire.
Lesser Star of Africa: The Lesser Star of Africa is the sister stone to the Star of Africa also cut from the Cullinan Stone. Also known as the Cullinan II this stone measures 317.40 carats. The Lesser star of Africa is part of the Crown Jewels of the tower of London and is mounted in the Imperial State Crown of Great Britain. The stone also has two small loops that allow it to be worn as a brooch, by itself, or with the Star of Africa.
Star of the South Diamond:
The Star of the South was the first Brazilian Diamond to achieve world recognition. It was found by a slave worker in a mine 1853. Her master freed her and also agreed to pay her an annual stipend. After passing through several buyers and sellers, the stone made its way to Amsterdam for cutting. The result is a stone that measures 128.42 carats and is a light pinkish brown colour. The stone was displayed in the London Exhibit in 1862 and the
Paris Exhibit in 1867, after which it was purchased for $400,000 as a gift for Sita Devi, the Maharani of Baroda. The stone was then purchased by Cartier in 2002 for an undisclosed sum.
Tereschenko Diamond:
While the Tereschenko Diamond was known to be in existence for 100 years, it wasn't known by most of the world until it went on auction in 1984. It was part of the Tereschenko family as a loose stone until it was set in a diamond necklace by Cartier in 1915. Just after its completion and right before the Russian Revolution in 1916 the stone was removed from the country for safekeeping and eventually sold to a private collector.
Tiffany Diamond: The Tiffany Diamond is one of the largest yellow diamonds ever discovered. It was discovered at the Kimberlite mine in South Africa in 1878 and was originally 287 carats. After being cut and polished into a cushion shape, it measured
128.54 carats and was classified as a fancy yellow. The diamond is part of the collection at the Smithsonian Museum. The diamond is also part of the promotion material for the film Breakfast at Tiffany's featuring Audrey Hepburn.
Hope Diamond
The Hope Diamond is the previous record holder for being the largest faceted diamond and is probably the most well known and historically interesting of all diamonds. The Hope Diamond was originally known as the Tavernier Blue which was a crudely cut triangular diamond. According to legend, it was stolen from an Indian statue of Sita and purchased by Jean-Baptiste Tavernier around 1660. The diamond was sold to King Louis XIV of France who had it cut into a
67.125 carat stone. It was renamed the French Blue and worn for ceremonial functions in France. The diamond was rarely seen until Louis XVI gave it to Marie Antoinette who added it to her jewellery collection. When the French Revolution started the diamond was stolen and resurfaced in La Havre four years later. The diamond disappeared for another 20 years (which coincidentally is exactly how long it took for the statute of limitations to run out on the crime) when it resurfaced in the hands of a London diamond merchant Daniel Eliason in 1812. Henry Philip Hope purchased the diamond in 1824, after his death his heirs fought over the diamond. It was eventually sold due to bankruptcy of the family
The curse of the HOPE DIAMOND
The diamond’s history, is fascinating. The diamond has been sold to many wealthy historical figures however the story of the curse started when it was sold to Pierre Cartier, one of the famed Cartier jewellers, in 1910. Cartier wanted to sell it to Evalyn Walsh McLean, the daughter of a successful gold miner, and told her a wild story about a curse to convince her to buy it.
According to Cartier's story, a French merchant traveller, Jean Baptiste Tavernier, stole the blue diamond from the eye of a statue of the Hindu goddess Situ in India.
Tavernier was apparently torn apart by wild dogs in Russia after he sold the diamond.
Cartier went on to say there were many deaths for anyone who owned the diamond, including French officials, it even caused the beheading of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette.
The blue diamond had originally been a roughly cut gem of about 112-carats when French diamond merchant Jean Baptiste Tavernier first acquired it in the Golconda region of India in the mid-1600s. At that time, India was the only known source of diamonds in the world; they hadn’t yet been discovered in Brazil or South Africa. There was a multitude of stories told about how diamonds were obtained, stories that went back to ancient times, and were retold by the likes of people like Marco Polo. But it was Tavernier who actually went to see the diamond mines first hand and who came back with the fullest descriptions of them. He also bought hundreds of diamonds, often trading them for pearls he acquired in the Middle East on the way.
The Indians had elaborate ideas about gemstones, believing that they had protective powers. They did not cut gemstones the way it was cut in the West. Instead, they tended to preserve as much of the stone as they could, only cutting out cracks and other imperfections. This, it was believed, maximized their ability to protect one from evil influences. The idea was that gems absorbed negative influences and contained them in the stone, kind of like a Pandora’s box. Rulers wore lots of diamonds and other gems—the bigger the better—and that would provide them the most protection. Indians wore smaller talismans with smaller and different gems for the same purpose.
Alleged Effect of the Hope Diamond's Curse
(as reported in newspapers of 1911 and/or in Maye Yohe's 1929 fanciful book - The Mystery of the Hope Diamond)
Many (if not most) of these events are unsubstantiated:
Jean Baptiste Tavernier
Steals the diamond from the breast of a "pagan goddess."
Is killed by wild dogs.
Louis XIV
Dies of gangrene.
Marquise de Montespan
Mistress of Louis XIV.
Wears diamond.
Loses favor with the king.
Nicholas Fouquet
Guardian of French crown jewels.
Wears diamond for a festive occasion.
Is executed by order of the King.
Louis XVI
Loses his head.
Marie Antoinette
Loses her head.
Princess de Lamballe
Wears the diamond.
Torn to pieces by a mob during the French Revolution.
Wilhelm Fals
Jeweler who supposedly re-cuts the French Blue to disguise its identity.
Stone stolen by his son, Fals is ruined.
Killed by his son, Hendrik.
Hendrik Fals
Commits suicide in 1830.
Francis Beaulieu
Sells the stone.
Dies in misery and want.
George IV
Supposedly buys the re-cut diamond.
Dies in great debt.
Henry Philip Hope
Owner of the Hope Diamond.
Suffers a long series of misfortunes, including the death of his only son.
Dies without a direct heir.
Lord Francis Thomas Hope
Dies bankrupt.
His wife, May Yohe runs off with an army officer.
Forced to sell the Hope Diamond to Simon Frankel for $168,000.
May Yohe
Wife of Francis Thomas Hope.
Dies in poverty.
Simon Frankel
Jeweler who buys Hope in 1901.
His company suffers financial troubles during the Depression.
Jacques Colet
Undocumented owner.
Afflicted with madness ands commits suicide.
Prince Ivan Kanitovski
Undocumented owner.
Murdered by Russian revolutionaries.
Mile. Lorens Ladue of Follies Bergere
Borrows the diamond from her lover, Ivan, then is murdered by him.
Simon Montharides
Greek jewel broker.
Sells diamond to Sultan Abdul Hamid.
Thrown over a precipice while riding with wife & child - all killed.
Habib Bey (aka Selim Habib)
Persian diamond merchant who buys the Hope Diamond for the Sultan of Turkey.
Drowns in the sinking of the French steamer Seyne of Singapore, November, 1909
Sultan Abdul Hamid II
Loses Ottoman Empire in an army revolt.
Abu Sabir
Polishes the diamond for the Sultan.
Imprisoned and tortured.
Kulub Bey
Guardian of the diamond for the Sultan.
Hanged by Turkish mob.
Jehver Agha
An official of the Turkish revolutionary government.
Attempts to steal the Hope Diamond.
Hanged.
C.H. Rosenau
Diamond merchant who sells the Hope Diamond to Cartier.
Pierre Cartier
Sells Hope Diamond to Evalyn Walsh McLean.
Evalyn Walsh McLean
Sued for $180,000 by Cartier (for payment of the diamond).
Mother-in-law dies after purchase.
Son dies in auto accident.
Husband dies in mental hospital.
Daughter dies of drug overdose.
Loses fortune.
Harry Winston
Purchases Hope Diamond
Donates it to the Smithsonian Institution.
James Todd
Mailman who delivers Hope Diamond to the Smithsonian.
Leg is crushed in a truck accident.
Head is injured in car accident.
House burns down.
Ajay Agnihotri joined IRS in 1977. He worked in Economic Intelligence Bureau for 12 years, 5.5 years in Ministry of Power and then went on to Work in Judicial posts in Tribunals before taking VRS in 2009. He set up a law Firm and ran it till 2016 before calling it quits. He is the pioneer in Forensic Accounting in Government and Detected number of cases of Corporate fraud.
Main passions are reading and music. A very well equipped library of both. He now spends time playing golf and writing on Stock markets and Music for close friends
The title, ‘Poetry: A Meditation’, may sound repetitive but it is true in every sense of its practice, manifestation and outcome. It needs concentration, deep involvement, and love while culturing it and searching for worthy material to swathe its core-thought with poetic elements; it expresses itself with serenity and liberation of the poet’s soul, and at the consequential level it exudes joy for the creator that also is shared by the reader-imbiber. Besides, doing poetry is cathartic and getting rid of the purgatory deep down one’s inner-self.
From general world view, coming to the first-person-singular, invariably I read a few poems almost daily, a diet of sorts for my soul. They include poems of reputed and not so reputed poets as well as new poets and dilettante scribblers. They happen to be of various genres - romantic, reformist, Naxal, political, bhakti, magical, absurd or other traits. Violent, sensual, erotic and shocking as well.
The poets and their poetry, I read, may be or may not be to my liking, but some essence of most poems invariably leaves behind a mark in my psyche. It could be an image, a symbol or a motif, a lovely line, an impressive word, a striking thought, an idea or usage, or something else that is arresting. Even a onetime scribbler may leave a profound impression.
Those patches of memory besides other impressions, I gather from my exposure to daily life experiences and reporting in media, hover like inspiring haloes over me when I sit down to scribble a poem, even they travel with me if I am on a short or long journey, inspiring me to start something around them in my own style.
Many of my poet friends have shared with me similar experiences, except a few poets like the ones I once met, when I was invited as a judge to look at their poems to select the best three of them for prizes. That was a novel experience worth sharing and I would not flinch from it or mince a word while doing so. It could be a learning point for many of us, the poets.
I got a call from one Indo-English Canon Poet (Jayanta Mahapatra, Adil Jassawalla, Gieve Patel, Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, Arvind Krishna Mahrotra, Keki Daruwalla, etc. were considered as the poets unofficially assumed to have set up, consciously or otherwise, a canon in the then Indo-English poetry). He informed me that he was invited by a lady organizer who had been organizing a poetry-workshop type of competition where poems were written by participating poets on the spot about a given theme. That he was sorry to decline as at the last moment he was called away by a serious development. “Could you do that job of reading and deciding about a few poems on the occasion?”
I could not say ‘no’ to my friend and then came the lady’s call inviting me appropriately. I reached the venue, a banquet hall in a three-star hotel in Mumbai suburb. I was surprised to see the hall choked with poets of all ages and sexes, all having registered for the workshop-cum-coffee-lunch-cum-poetry competition, and were waiting for me with bated breath. A discussion ensued before spot-poetry writing started that continued after the poetry writing and the lunch with the poets. What the discussion revealed was shocking, to me at least. A revelation of another kind.
All of them were practising poets and were taking part in that workshop-cum-competition for quite a few years. None of them considered reading other poets’ works to enjoy poetry, or learn and know about other poets was at all necessary. They considered that such reading would influence the purity of their thought, creation, and corrupt their poetry. Many of them were aggressive poets and put me down unceremoniously when I advised them to the contrary. The buck stopped there. The rest of the rituals there is none of my business to discuss here.
This incident is shared here for the reflection by poets who read this little article, my tribe in general, to know about a completely different view on poetry writing. Poets don’t read other poets or interact with them to maintain purity and virginity of what they conceive.
Each of my poems start with a Big Bang for me, impressing me as the profound beginning of a master piece for my poetic world, but most of them get frittered away as they progress, the starting emotion getting quickly diluted in the humdrum and hubbub around and getting drained away. I feel unequal to sustain the literary zeal and thrill. Only in a few occasions I succeed to finish a work to see the light of the day. But not all of them are liked by my readers and co-poets. Those that get passed by them are still fewer. That would to be the labour pain before the birth of a poem.
I save all my seemingly satisfying work, returning to them for retouching as I keep sharpening my poetic insight and fill my quiver with more literary weapons borrowed from my reading and research. Reworking, tweaking, surgically restructuring certain areas improving a poem from a cinder-girl into princess Cinderela in a few occasions is not rare.
My well-wisher-critics point out my slips and the poems become better with their kind suggestions. What is the point if one does not listen to the ground vibrations that those well-wishers cause, because most suggestions may have a positive effect in a poem’s progress to finality. But all my poems are not as lucky to come to their attention and literary sift. They have their own preoccupations and cannot give unlimited or undivided attention to every poem of mine.
Peer scrutiny and certification play a vital role in building my confidence. I admit, after writing poetry for about thirty-five years, I cannot dare an insouciant attitude and I take nimble baby-steps even today while crafting a poem.
After writing a poem I read it and read it again many times over, to be sure it says what I intended it to say and the artwork that has flowed into it as images, irony or epithets are not crowding the main-say. If so, even fond words and phrases are to be sacrificed. Economy of expression is a necessary tool in poetry, but personally I have experienced that it is easier to say than follow. Often, too much brevity, I feel, kills a poem. So expunging portions is to be carried out with utmost caution.
I return to my poems once in a few days, and believe me, often I feel I can’t reproduce a parallel. If a poem is lost on computer, mobile-notepad or on a page of longhand notebook, it never comes back. It is like the death of a dear one, a loss for ever. If it is written from hazy memory, rather a new poem materializes, better or worse, but not the same one. Some poets memorise their work, I have seen them during poetry reading platforms reading from memory. They must be a different herd gifted with photographic memory. Unluckily I am not as lucky.
If a re-visit after a substantial time period, when the ghost of the original arresting reflection has receded in the psyche, or forgotten, but the poem still reads good, I feel I have hit another jackpot. If the poem does not feel arresting and is found not to improve by re-touching, the poem is kept aside in a recycle bin and may ultimately be rejected into the dustbin if cannot be recycled into something with a hope.
A poem must read different than prose, must adopt a voice more fluid than a prosaic voice. Resonance, music, brevity and lucidity build the soul of a poem. Figures of speech, images, and symbols are a poem’s embellishments. Irony, satire and double entendre are a poet’s tools for crafting.
If a poem is written as a first-person singular (‘I’) narrative to transmit a strong association, a poet needs not be afraid of sounding confessional. I do not think any poet worth his pen ever writes a real confessional stuff. A so-called confessional style may contain minute personal experiences wrapped in poetic skill, but a reader should not have the satisfaction of catching a poet by his or her escaping tail (crudely speaking ‘pants down’). Such efforts may lead to form a bad convention for a reader or critic of poetry. While reading a poem, the reader or critic must not identify the poem-persona with the poet-persona. If the poet claims that way personally, of course, it would be another story.
The oft-repeated themes may be love, death, loss, grief, bliss, landscape, relationships, sex or societal upheavals etc. Thousands of poems might have been written on and about each of them. Profound ones as well as the run-of-the-mill stuff. A new one must not be a repeat. The cliched effect is the most irritating experience for a reader or critic. A poet worth his words must identify this effect and remain at arm’s length from it. This is possible only by reading a lot and from a broad spectrum of writers and poets; and writing a select few. One should never be afraid of getting influenced by reading other greats, say a Tagore or Mahapatra. Another Rabindranath or Jayanta would never materialize.
Dwelling in a poetic world may feel like a trance, rather surreal, meditatively preoccupied for periods, ranging from hours to days. At times certain social developments jerk them away the poet, he or she, being a social animal at bottom, and such disturbances kill a forming good monsoon of poetry like the under-current called El Nino. The poet watches his transcendental experience vanishing like vapour into space, that may be lost or saved in a cloud to reappear in some revealing lucky moment later.
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.
Truth according to English dictionary means ‘Accuracy, Correctness, Veracity, Agreement with reality’. Truth is also defined by others in various ways, for example, Greeks call it ‘Aletheia’ means to unhide or nothing to hide. In Hebrew, it is ‘Emeth’ meaning firmness, constancy, duration. Likewise, various meanings and definitions of truth have been laid out for common understanding. But in true sense the ambit of truth does not confine to the boundary of these definitions. Its real application in a person’s life is of paramount importance that indeed provokes deep contemplation.
In ordinary course of business it is observed that everyone on Earth advises others to tell the truth but it is not guaranteed whether he/she ever tells the truth only in all of his/her transactions made either verbal or physical. As it were, it is easy to advise than to practise. As far as I remember, in my childhood my parents used to ask me to tell the truth, in the school the teacher advised me to tell the truth and later when I approached my revered spiritual Guide for initiation, his first sermon was to tell the truth. But none of them did ever ask me as to whether I have understood the meaning of truth and how it was to be told or practised albeit they explained to me the effects of telling the truth and the evils of telling lies. With all regards to the advice of my parents, teachers, and the sermons of my spiritual guide I tried my level best to tell the truth and by doing so I got corresponding good results too but honestly speaking I could not stick to telling the truth always owing to uncalled for situations and extraneous circumstances which prevailed upon me to tell lies. I am not sure by telling such lies whether I have caused any damage to others, but I was happy that perhaps telling a lie was more appropriate than telling the truth at that point of time. Later when I tried to introspect, I could realize that this kind of explanation was not going to ratify my action of telling a lie.
Here, a big question peeps into my mind that why did I tell a lie and what would have happened had I told the truth and why did I not dare making an attempt to go by the truth irrespective of the need of situation or circumstance? I thought, perhaps at that moment I was convinced that telling a lie would be appropriate. This may be due to my inadequate knowledge of understanding the truth or lack of courage to face the consequences of telling the truth. I think this is a tricky conflict not with me alone but may be with many others in this world.
Now, before going to deliberate on the state of mind of a man whether telling the truth or a lie is appropriate, it is expedient to take a stock of scriptures, mythology and several other religious books written by a good number of enlightened great men and renowned sages in this regard. In all these great creations, it is apparent that a lot of emphasis has been given on telling the truth in all circumstances and in all situations arising in human life and the instances of sages and great personalities pursuing years of meditation in quest of truth and undertaking penance in practicing truth have been cited. Of course, a phenomenal presentation of truth and its typical application in real life has been candidly demonstrated in the Mahabharata which is worth mentioning. If we go through this great myth we find how the truth was understood by Judhisthira and Duryodhana when Dronacharya in his first lesson taught them to tell the truth. While Yudhisthira the eldest son of Pandu passed several sleepless nights on thinking of the meaning of truth, Duryodhana the eldest son of Dhritarastra, on the other hand, took it lightly and told his cousin brother Judhisthira not to break his head on this simple matter of telling the truth unnecessarily.
This was because both the princes received the word, truth differently and practised it in their lives according to their own understanding. While Yudhishthira cultured perpetual habit of telling the truth with resolute firmness throughout his life without bothering about any consequences thereof, Duryodhana considered telling the truth as a coined phrase made to suit to his interest and convenience only. According to him what he thought and did were the truth and anything that was not to his liking was mere falsehood. It did not cost him much rather he enjoyed the kingdom with enormous power and wealth merrily until he was terminated in the battle of Kurukshetra.
Although Judhisthira won the battle of Kurukshetra and was crowned as the Emperor, he had to suffer from incommunicable miseries and tortures for his sticking to the path of truth. Perhaps he might have discovered the very essence of truth but his discovery was neither shared with his kinsmen and subjects, nor handed down to the future generations. So, the truth remained as mystery as ever to mankind. I do not know how many people on Earth followed the path of telling the truth in their whole life as Judhisthira did but the understanding of truth as followed by Duryodhana in his life is commonly seen everywhere in the present age where there is a wild race for acquiring wealth and power and cutthroat competition in all walks of life. The practice of telling absolute truth in one’s entire life time in this era has been reduced to a symbolic proposition and as a result, the ideology of this concept has been pitted in the abysmal depth of obscurity nevertheless the word, truth has not been wiped out from memory altogether.
The application of truth in real life has become as symbolic as swearing in the court rooms where it is customary to swear in the name of God to tell only the truth and nothing but truth by touching the holy book Geeta or other religious books by the witnesses before adducing the evidence in front of a judge. Several reasons may be attributed to evolvement of one’s mental state in the today’s materialistic world to escape telling the truth but the most prolific one among them may be the erosion of courage and level of tolerance being blinded with the mania of acquiring name, fame, wealth, and power by hook or by crook.
In spite of all this, truth has not been vanished from human horizon altogether. There are people who persist on telling the truth living very much amid affluence or hardship. A live example is Mahatma Gandhi who practised truth and identified its infinite source of power which he could apply with brevity while fighting the struggle of freedom against the mighty British Rule. He has however handed down his precious experiences in his famous book “My Experiment with Truth” for the posterity.
In fact, in my youth I was enthusiastic to follow the path but I failed to adhere to it steadfast for obvious reasons. But I could be able to at least assimilate some of its essence by telling the truth for a brief period only in my life for which I had to confront with innumerable hurdles and painful consequences. What I have experienced thereby is that the truth is something like perpetual source of power and energy, provider of rocklike confidence, dispeller of fear and suspicion, a generator of indomitable courage. Truth is something discrete, infinite, eternal, unshakable that never gets eroded or tarnished with the vicissitudes of time.
This is my conviction of truth, even then I could not practise it unabated under the pressure of circumstances and obligations. Of course this is a wrongful act which has no excuse. Now let me correlate truth with the world we live in. We find that there are two main creations as prevalent on our planet, the living, and the nonliving. Nonliving is inert matter which is discrete and is neither created nor destroyed but merely changes its state and shape. This is the basic tenet of physics. The livings, on the other hand, comprise plants and animals. The plants turn into matter once they attain the maturity and get desiccated or withered. Similarly, animals also get reduced to matter on attaining certain period of longevity. At this stage both living and non-living are the same and this is the truth, the reality. Well, there is a difference with the live animals in which there is something supernatural and enigmatic force called the life. So far, no scientific research could have been able to discover what is life and how and where it travels? But it is a reality that once the life goes out of the body of human beings and animals the whole body turns into a lump of inert matter only. Therefore, living, and non-living do often converge at one point and that is the matter which is discrete. This is the truth.
Like the matter, the life of animals has also been assumed to be discrete. It is believed that the life which is also called “Atman” is neither created nor destroyed and it simply changes the position by travelling from one body or form to the other. Life as we know is beyond human reach but the matter which is the ultimate embodiment of both living and non-living as deduced above is very much there before us. If we make a clinical analysis of matter we come to rest at the atom. Further we divide an atom we can find a nucleus, electron, neutron, and proton. This is the source of energy and power. So is the truth which is immaculate and as nascent as the nucleus replete with enormous power and energy. As it were, the truth and the matter and the life are one and the same having closely related with each other. Once we perceive this relation, we may not hesitate to tell the truth in all situations and all circumstances come what may. Truth has no branching whereas lies proliferate multifold. To hide one lie, one tells a series of lies and even then, it is not certain that the lie shall remain under cover forever.
Before I conclude, it will not be out of place to cite an incident here that I witnessed personally sometime in seventies when I was Branch Manager of a Bank. In a routine manner once I was compelled to call at a defaulter’s residence with my Asstt. Manager for recovery of Bank loan. We saw a boy of about ten years old was playing in front of that man’s building and asked him to call the owner of the house to meet the Manager of the Bank waiting in his verandah. The boy ran inside the building and after coming out he said, “Papa told me to tell you that he has gone to market. He has asked you to come someother day.” At this we could understand the unholy intention of the defaulter but what we observed was monumental. How could a father tutor his son to tell a blantant lie of which the young boy is unaware of its consequences? What kind of citizen that boy would become having grown up on a foundation of falsehood? This goes to demonstrate that how reckless culture of falsehood is going to devour the halo of truth by degrees in this Kaly Yuga but truth cannot be camouflaged by the dark cloud of lie for long.
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.
A DESTINATION WALK ACROSS THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE
Brooklyn Bridge over the East River in New York, connecting Manhattan borough and Brooklyn borough has become a dream destination for me after seeing the iconic bridge in some good English Hollywood blockbusters. The bridge has already featured in some Bollywood movies too. During our second visit to America recently, we cherished to visit New York for the second time and focus on the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. Sensing our curiosity about the dream destination during our chatting before embarking the journey ,our daughter and son-in –law had chalked out an itinerary and booked accommodation in a waterfront hotel along the west shore of Hudson River in the neighboring Jersey town . We straightway drove to our river front Marriot hotel from the Newark Liberty International Airport and rested for the night, the stay was fabulous. Next day morning after refreshment, we headed for the nearby metro station and availed the metro, run under the Port Authority Trans-Hudson (PATH) transit system that connects the two neighboring states New Jersey and New York, and after a 25 minutes pleasure ride, we came out at the World Trade Center station –a terminal station, within the W.T.C Complex in the financial district of Manhattan, New York City.
New York City means freedom- the freedom to walk anywhere at any time of the day. There’s always something to discover on every street. Seeing lots of pedestrians on move and less vehicular traffic, we felt energetic and inspired and decided to walk through the Wall Street and the Freedom Tower areas up to the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. As such New York City offers so many historical landmarks, incessant cultural events, countless attractions, and vibrant nightlife until the wee hours of the morning. The first timer finds it very much challenging and baffling to choose which place to visit first among hundreds of popular sites to savor the uniqueness of the Megapolis for real understanding of how interesting and diverse this city really is. Considering our one-day program for New York visit before proceeding from my daughter’s house at Boxborough a suburb of Boston, we decided to visit few of the iconic and historical sites ,particularly to walk over the upper tier of the much visited iconic Brooklyn bridge .
The Brooklyn Bridge is about 1.5 Miles from lower Manhattan and taking a right turn we approached the bridge from 52-Chambers Street in the West end. As we proceeded through the Sprawling wide avenue from wall street ,we came across some historical edifice such as -New York Stock Exchange ,Charging Bull , Federal Hall , Trinity Church ,Alexander Hamilton U.S. Customs House, Freedom Tower (World Trade Centre),Trump Tower, and finally climbed up to the top of the 135 ft height ( clearance at center) two tier Brooklyn Bridge. The length of the bridge starting from the pedestrian walkway is 2.6 KM. Brooklyn Bridge stands as an Engineering Marvel over the East River connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn. It is a two tire bridge, the lower six lane tire is for vehicular traffic and the upper tier is for pedestrians and bicycles. This bridge has become an icon of New York City since its opening in 1883.
Brooklyn Bridge is a 140 years old much visited landmark in New York City. This steel-wire suspension bridge stretches over the East River, connecting the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn. It is one of the most recognizable bridges in the world. Although Brooklyn Bridge is no longer the largest suspension bridge in the world –as it was when it opened in the year 1883, still its attraction for international tourist has not been diminished. More than 1, 00,000 cars pass between the Gothic Towers every day, while the pedestrians and sightseers on upper walkway number in thousands. Whether you are travelling by car, bike, or on foot, you will get some amazing views of Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn heights. Brooklyn Bridge is perhaps the most picturised suspension bridge amongst all the bridges throughout the world. Over the years, the bridge has become a hotspot for runners, instagrammers, photo shoots, wedding proposals and movie locations. The fantastic and easily accessible pedestrian walkway makes this possible. The walkway used as location of various stunt and performances, as well as misused for several crimes and attacks over the years. Although there are countless movies that feature Brooklyn Bridge in the background , such as Anni Hall, The Perfect Man , I Am Legend , Godzilla, Gangs of New York, The Avenger, The Spiderman and ,The Amazing Spiderman -2 , only a handful of the Hollywood blockbusters are my favorite movies have scenes actually on the bridge. This bridge also features in Shahrukh Khan starrer blockbuster Hindi movies like Kabhi Albida Na Kahna, and Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham . As we enjoyed a walk towards the Brooklyn borough in the afternoon the slanting sun ray was an ideal for a photo shoot. The nice sunny weather was like icing on the cake .While walking across the bridge we enjoyed and admire the spectacular views of Manhattan landmarks like the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty in the New York harbor on the right side of the bridge. The vast blue expanse of water flowing down the East River emptying into the Atlantic Ocean and the Liberty Island with its iconic statue of Liberty are just feast for eyes. The calm blue sky with patches of snow white floating clouds looming over the river- that swells and shrinks with the tide and ebb and ripples created by steamers, statue of liberty cruise ,appears full bosomed and exposing the pebbled shores offers magnificent views. Visitors come in droves to admire the bridge’s dramatic neo-gothic towers and the stellar views of lower Manhattan and the Brooklyn waterfront. After spending some enjoyable and quality time beholding the emerging sky scrapers in Lower Manhattan, and taking few shots of the city, we leisurely crossed the bridge to the east end, and landed in Brooklyn borough.
The Brooklyn Bridge happens to be the first steel-wire suspension cable stayed bridge, spanning the East River between the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn in the world. The two large gothic towers standing on both sides of the East River were constructed entirely of granite and stands 84 meter tall, and firmly connected with four cables and capable of supporting a live load of 12,000 tons and are composed of 5296 galvanized steel wires. One reputed land engineer and architect firm- M/s John A. Roebling was given the contract to build the bridge over East River. Incidentally and unfortunately the chief architect Mr. Washington Roebling fell ill due to decompression disease afflicted due to undertaking several dives into the deep East River bed, during his active and physical involvement on site of construction, and was bed ridden for the final 10 years of construction. His wife, Emily Warren Roebling, became dedicated to the completion of this project. She began by getting instruction from her sick husband, and bringing the information to the workers on site. The courageous lady took it upon herself to become an expert in engineering during studies on her own of the technical issues, cable strength analysis, site visits and structural calculations. Emily Warren Roebling became so closely tied with the project, that people suspected she was the intelligence behind the bridge. Upon completion, Emily Warren Roebling was the first privileged person to cross the bridge in a horse drawn carriage. Since its construction, the bridge has become an essential landmark of New York City-an outstanding architectural accomplishment that is still revered across the world. Construction of the bridge began in 1869 and after 14 years of construction, the bridge was opened on May 24, 1883 in a dedication ceremony presided over by the then U.S. President Chester A. Arthur and New York Governor Grover Cleveland. It costs about 15 million USD then, which is over 330 million USD now. Brooklyn Bridge has been designated a National Historical Landmark by the United State National Park Service.
After strolling over the bridge and taking some photographs, we crossed over to Brooklyn side of the bridge and landed in Brooklyn borough. The historic Borough is packed with iconic sights, Brooklyn Bridge Park, as well as captivating tree-lined streets and 19th century classical homes of Brooklyn heights. As we were exhausted due to our continuous walk for more than 5 hours from WTC Station up to the Brooklyn borough, we hired a cab to reach the U.N. Headquarters before sun set. Fortunately the cab driver happened to be a Sindhi from Pakistan who communicated with us in fluent Hindi and we had a pleasant time with a man from our subcontinent. As soon as the cab proceeded on the spacious river side FDR=Drive (Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive) to the U.N. Plaza site, we were animatedly engaged with the driver who evinced extra enthusiasm and warmth to explain the landmarks that came on the way ,and evinced keenness to know much about India . Before dropping at the UN Plaza, he wished us all the best. We were overwhelmed at the warmth, goodwill and comradeship of the cab driver from other side of the globe –our subcontinent.
The United Nation is headquartered at midtown Manhattan within the International Territory on 18 acres of grounds overlooking the East River. Construction of the 40 (505 ft) storied building began on U.N Day -24th October, 1949 and was completed in 1952. Since then, the iconic buildings have gracefully ‘hovered’ over the East River, using the natural landscape to emphasize the brilliance of the ‘Glass curtain wall of the secretariat (the first of its kind in Manhattan) like a beacon of light to the world. At the first session in 1946, the General Assembly decided to accept an offer by the United States to locate the newly formed organization’s headquarters in the country. The site in Midtown Manhattan –a rundown area of slaughter houses, light industries, and a railroad barge landing-was purchased out of the donation (8.5 million USD) offered by John D. Rockefeller Jr. An international team of acclaimed architects came together in a ‘Workshop for Peace’ to design the UN Headquarters, a gem of ‘International Style’ imbued with meaning and purpose. The glass facades allow the public to look in to the building –representing transparency; the internal balconies from the public areas overlook the second floor, reminding for delegates that the UN is accountable to the people of the world. The U.N Headquarters was built to be home for whole nations, with no decorations or dominant colours, and with public access in mind.
During the United Nations Climate Summit, on 26.9. 2019 ,the Prime Minister of India Sri Narendra Modi ,along with U.N. Secretary-General Antonio Guterres , inaugurated Gandhi Peace Garden and Solar Park with installation of a statue of Gandhiji inside the green patch overlooking the East River , to commemorate 150 years of Gandhi’s birthday. This underlines the importance of Gandhili’s principles as a moral compass for the world which grapples with the challenges of climate change, terrorism, and corruption.
New York City is all about the hustle bustle, whether people are travelling for pleasure or business; the history, opportunity, and energy of the Mega polis is unparalleled. The captivating sightseeing in a free atmosphere infuses energy and positive vibes, and the marathon walking is never tiring. Though we had undertaken a jam packed site seeing, mostly on foot for about 12 hours, we never experienced boredom or felt exhausted. As it was 9 pm and time to return to our Jersey town hotel, we hurried to catch the subway Tube Train from the U.N. Headquarters Grand Central metro station. Grand Central is a commuter rail terminal located at 42nd street and Park Avenue in midtown Manhattan, New York City. After half an hour metro ride we arrived at our river front hotel and retired to our bed as we had already taken sumptuous dinner in a Cafeteria at Grand Central.
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.
GURU – SERVICE – GNANA – HUMILITY -- MOKSHA (MUKTI )
The other day I was listening ( thro’ You tube) a scintillating Anugraha Bhashana delivered by the 36th Shankaracharya Maha Sannidhanam Sri Bharathi Teertha of Sri Sringeri Sarada Mutt. The lecture was delivered years back in chaste Telugu at a function in Ongole, Andhra Pradesh and let me try to capture the gist of it to the best possible extent.
‘ In Sanatana Dharma, Guru is regarded with utmost Bhakti and Shraddha. Why so much importance given to Guru? --- because a Guru clears Agnanna and imparts Gnana. For all human beings, Gnana is so important. Even Bhagavad Gita stresses its importance. Gnana is pavithra, most sacred. Why? It leads to Moksha.. Mukti being the goal, in order to avoid rebirth from samsara sagara.
‘ Gnana is received thro’ service to Sadhguru and according to the Shastras, Guru seva is held sacred, so that one gets Gnanopadesa Anugraha thro’ the Guru. Who is a Guru? Quoting Adi Shankara, the Sringeri Acharya said. ‘ ko Guruh? Adhigatha tatvah shishya hitaayo’dyatah’ … A Guru is one who, apart from knowing Shastras well, always clears Shishya’s doubts and always keeps thinking of Shishya’s hita- welfare.
Sringeri Acharya elaborates – Adi Shankara is the epitome of Guru Lakshana… His Gnanam, his Karunyam, his constant concern that his shishyas and others should imbibe all the Gnana – all these are unmatched. Otherwise, why should he write so many immortal slokas, so many thought provoking Granthas and so many outstanding Bhasyas, including Veda Vyasa’s Brahma Sutra– that too in a short span of 16 years, an age in which ordinary mortals can hardly grasp and understand even the rudiments of Kalidasa’s Raghuvamsa… one cannot grasp the full import of Adi Shankara’s work in one’s lifetime.
Sringeri Acharya then goes on to explain How Ad Shankara was fortunate to explain all doubts in Brahma Sutra in person to none other than Veda Vyasa himself. Yes. The story is that In Kashi, Veda Vyasa himself came disguised as an old Brahmin ( what Sringeri Acharya humourously refers as ‘surprise visit) to the place where Adi Shankara was there with his disciples and queried Shankara whether he can ask about some doubts he had in Brahma Sutra. The reply given by Ad Shankara reveals his utmost ‘Vinayam’ (humility). Shankara says ‘I cannot claim to have understood Veda Vyasa’s Brahma Sutra fully. My namaskarams to all those who have understood it. I can clarify your doubts to the best of my ability’!. While talking about ‘vinayam’ Sringeri Acharya passingly mentions the vinayam displayed by Yagnavalkya, a vedic sage in King Janaka’s court.
It was an exhilarating debate which went on and on for seven days… All the doubts were answered and clarifications given and then it struck Padma padar, a disciple of Adi Shankara that this old man was ‘no ordinary man’ and must be Sage Vyasa himself! Finally, Veda Vyasa revealed his true identify. What a divine sight it must have been and what a divine occasion. On the one side was Veda Vyasa – an Avatar of Vishnu ( Narayana ) – ‘Vyasaya Vshnu Roopya’ and on the other side was Adi Shankara, an Avatar of Shiva! It is said that Veda Vyasa was fully satisfied with the answers of Adi Shankara and said he cannot expect anything better from the Shishya of Govinda Bhagavad pada. Vyasa blessed him with sixteen more years of life which helped Adi Shankara to travel all over the country not only to establish the Four Peetas but also spread his Advaita philosophy.
We mortals are so fortunate to have the presence of such eminent Gurus like Sringeri Acharyas to explain to us such noble thoughts and guide us to enhance the quality of our lives!
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.
DRAMA, THEATRE AND THE SPECTACLE AND THE ANCIENT WORLD
Theatre at Ephesus, 14th Century BCE
(by the Author, 21/05/2011)
Generally it is agreed that since emergence of modern Homo sapiens some 300, 000 years ago little has changed in their brain capacity and in a broader sense the level of intelligence. It is another matter that 95 percent of the time during this period (s)he was entirely dependent on resources provided by nature, a period of much struggle for survival unlike the common notion and myths about the abundance in the natural world, say the idea of the Garden of Eden and the first Man and Woman, Adam and Eve. This is evidenced by the fact of the head count some 10, 000 years, at the end of the Ice Age (11700 BP) would have resulted no more than 50 lakhs (5 million) humans from all around the world, as estimated by some of the best demographers and pre-historians. The breakthrough in the numbers came after the early humans discovered the merits of farming and grain culture that provided an insurance against starvation and the global population multiplied many times to around 250 million by the beginning of the Current Era, a jump of 50 times in 8000 years.
Of course, much happened during this periods, formation of political societies, states, territories, development of script, trade and commerce, building cities, Universities and mass teaching institutions, literature, art and culture, rise of material wealth, and of course wars and killings. But, much of this period was also periods of intermittent times of peace, perhaps extended stretches of time and especially for polities with powerful leaders, the Zhous and Mings in China, the Pharaohs of Nile Valley, a thousand year glory of the Indus Culture, the Hammurabi, Assurbanipal, the Achaemenids of Iran, the Greeks and of course, the Roman Republics and the Caesars. Much of these times of peace and prosperity were also times of relaxation, leisure and creativity and innovation, as Carl Sauer would say, ‘not necessity and times of struggles, but times of peace and relaxation were times when human creativity was the most pronounced, not the strangle hold of hunger or threat makes one innovative, it is times with a belly full of food and no threat to family and community that man could become his creative best’.
Of many of those creativities that coloured those cultures was dramatics—it is remarkable that our ignorance and lack of much material evidence or written scripts we think drama as art and entertainment has been invention of our times only. Clearly from 6th/7th century BCE both the Greek and Roman dramatics have survived, so too from 5th Century BCE (post-Panini) Sanskrit plays and of course, the Chinese shadow puppetry plays too. But it is assumed that this form of art was at least a 1000 year older than what might have survived as written documents. We do not have much evidence of dramatics from IVC (Indus Valley Culture), the Mesopotamian or Assyrian, or Levant (Phoenicians) or the great Nile Valley, but go into the Aegean, the Minoan Knossos in Crete (2000 BCE), the Ephesus at Kusadasi (West Coast of Turkey, not very far from the place Herodotus was born), or strewn around Attica where Athens (Etina, Gr) is located, or the Peloponnese, you have open air theatres, many predating the golden era of the Greek dramatics. After Emperor Hydrian’s victory over Greece (198 BCE) ended Hellenics Era (Post-Peloponnesian War, between Athens and Sparta Leagues, 431-404 BCE) but brought the rich Greek tradition of dramatics to the Roman Empire and that quickly moved around rest of the Roman territories in Europe, North Africa and the Eastern Empire (Constantinople) to a lesser degree.
What purpose did dramatics (re-enactment of events of past, real or metaphorical) play in ancient societies going back to some 3500 years as many experts would put it, or more and originating across many cultures separated by thousands of kilometres away from each other, though the methods of presentations, verve, genre and style of communication would differ? Was it just entertainment for a society in peace with itself, having enough time for leisure and creativity rather than struggling to make two ends meet? I have some hypotheses in this regard. Entertainment was the prima facie reason, as if it appears so, but the real reasons could be different. First, a society in times of peace develops a sense of social reflection of itself and thus, a sense of humour to look at its collective self critically through enacting events that allows self-reflection and perhaps, course correction. Second, through dramatics it can improve its social coherence by enacting glory and victories of its heroes that encourages its self-image and emulation of deeds by youngsters and development of altruistic motivations. Third, in the absence of methods of social communications, it provided an extremely important tool of social communication. Finally, as evidenced from artefacts and theatre arenas especially around the Mediterranean going back to 1500-2000 BCE, the probable time of origin, in most non-literate societies (essentially those without a written script) the verbal communication with theatrics was the most effective public communication and thus, its popularity and sophistication grew in leaps and bounds into the classical periods (500 BCE-500CE) in Greece, Roman, the Indian and Chinese theatrical performances, with pronounced codifications, grammar, styles and presentation methods.
Theatre at Knossos Palace, Crete
Origin of dramatics predates the Greeks in the West, the oldest Greek literature is Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, the ballad singer predates Herodotus too, 8thcentury BCE. However, ballad singing was common to all old civilisations, particularly the non-literate ones, from 2000 BCE to contemporary times, like the Bauls of Bengal, the Daskathia and Pala (Odisha), the Kathak and Katha in North India, the Natas in Rajasthan, the entire Nath/ Jogi community scattered all over India, the spectacular Kathakalis of Kerala and the Romas/ Gypsies in Europe, the list is endless. They served as entertainers, history keepers, social communicators and were patronised by the community and often by the ruling classes, including the royalties. The transition perhaps was gradual from individual ballad singing to group singing turning into opera performances with self playing musical instruments often invented by these community singers themselves, whether percussion, stringed or air (flute, Senai, Nadaswaram etc) instruments. The final leap was dramatics, the dialogs, singing, orchestra with several other elements—a total package of spectacle-spectacular—the Greek classics (6th century BCE, Thespis the first recorded actor 532 BCE—thus the English term Thespian), the Tragedies (5th Century BCE) the Comedies and Satyrs (4th Century BCE) onwards, once the play-writs have arrived. The Romans took the Greek plays to Rome and rest of the Roman Empire in Europe and elsewhere.
Around the same time the classical Sanskrit theatre has arrived, post-Panini (Panini mentions the text of Natasutra of dramatists Shilalin and Krishashva) with structured Sanskrit as the grammarised language of the educated and the elite from 5th century BCE and continued and flourished till the end of the Gupta period, over a thousand years (Kalidas’s Abhijnanashakuntalam—Identity of Shakuntala based on a Mahabharata love story of King Dushyant and Shakuntala, the others celebrated dramas being Malavikagnimitram and Vikramuurvashiiya.). There too is the Sanskrit dramatic grammar text of Natyasastra of Bharat Muni (2nd century BCE to 2nd century CE) and also Patanjali’s grammar text of Mahabhasya (140 BCE) that refers to the beginnings of theatres. The Pali suttas from the times of Gautama Buddha (from 5th century BCE) has references to existence of roving theatre troupes led by a leader of the troupe and performing on stage.
The Chinese too had started performances from around 15th century BCE, the Shang theatre that included music, clowning and acrobatics—more as method of entertainment. However, the Han and Tang theatres were more based on shadow puppetry in its most exquisite forms.
The one commonality of the Asian theatre has been its structuring around puppetry, though music, ballad singing were all there as a common heritage. The Sanskrit plays of the classical period always has a sutradhara—a thread bearer (as in the puppetry) who both conducts the drama on the stage and participating in singing and linking the different episodes of the performance into a coherent story.
The Greek dramatics, the Sanskrit dramatics and also the Chinese theatre (of a different style) all originated around 1500 BCE, and enjoyed their classical phase between 5th century BCE and 5th century CE (formally ended with the end of the Wn Roman Empire at the end of 5th century CE), for a thousand years and they were all stage performances greatly admired, cherished and celebrated in literary works. The open air stone paved galleries and stages (that could accommodate 2000-5000 spectators) of the Mediterranean, around the ancient Greeks survive till today. In Asia, no such theatres physically survive because of different material cultures and perhaps climatic reasons too, but many ancient texts, the whole literature and text of stage performances are there. However, the point I wish to make here is dramatics as a method of social communication was much older than the ancient Greeks, (who of course took it to great heights, especially the Athenians and the city states under the influence of the Athenian League). As evidence to the dramatics of pre-Greek Aegean, I have two plates below, one of the theatre adjacent to the Agora (market) of Ephesus, Western Turkey (of Mycenaean period contemporary to Troy, 14th century BCE) and the other of the theatre adjacent to Knossos ruins in Crete dating back to 2000 BCE!.
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. )
EVOLUTIONARY POSSIBILITIES IN THE MINOR CHARACTERS OF MANOJ DAS
“I have arisen from earth to the mid-world, I have arisen from the mid-world to heaven, from the level of the firmament of heaven I have gone to the sun-world, the Light,” says Yajur Veda. Evolution is the destiny of every human being born on earth, however slow it may be. Manoj Das, an avowed seeker and ardent believer in a glorious journey of mankind has never fallen back in this faith even in his writings when he creates his characters as humans with immense possibilities of growth, of evolutionary progress. Much has been discussed about the protagonists, the major fictional characters of his writings by eminent critics. It is quite obvious when we discuss about Sandip, Padmalochan, Mayor of Madhuvan, Sri Maharana, Kunja, Laxmi, Sita and others, of their psychic growth and sudden illumination, the situations leading to such progress. Yet, there are still a good number of minor characters who remain untouched by our critical focus though they linger in our memory for some uniqueness we yet to discover. This article aims at shedding some light on them.
By minor characters it is not meant that they have no visible role in the fabrics of life a story presents. They are as indispensable as the major characters. The only difference is our own perception of a character from both writer’s and reader’s point of view where major characters are having a foremost place in description, development and contribution to the flowering of the intent of the writer. E. M. Forster in his distinguished book The Aspects of a Novel has given us an example of the intricate framework of story where every single character, however small they may be, has been articulated with the same intensity as the prominent ones. Miss Bates in the novel Emma by Jane Austen is quite a minor character, yet she is ‘so like life’, each bit of her coincides with a bit of life we meet everywhere (1).
In his short stories Manoj Das has presented people of varied experiences and traits. They are not only taken out of life and put into the stories (2), they sit with us, mix with us and relate to us in many ways. At first they may seem ordinary but it would startle us if we probe a little deeper, to find out the hidden bliss under the cover of their so called mediocre existence. Abolkara, for instance, in the story, ‘The Submerged Valley’ is one such character. Abolkara has been presented in the story as an orphan, mentally unstable child of a mad woman. He is portrayed along with other aspects of the village taken for granted by the villagers like the trees, the hillocks, the Shiva temple, the lame crow etc. Like other elements of Nature he has free will. When the submerged valley which was once their dearest village and was drowned under the water reservoir when the dam was built becomes visible due to delayed monsoon all villagers rush to the hillock to satisfy their nostalgia. The boy who narrates the story has also gone there with his engineer father, mother and little sister. Their family is greeted by the excited villagers among whom there is also Abolkara, as unconcerned as he always has been. Villagers tell the engineer when he wants to know how is Abolkara there that he has remained upon this hillock since it was submerged. No doubt, the engineer laughs over people’s unreasonable belief. Rain starts, grows into torrents. The engineer warns the villagers to leave the place immediately and to take Abolkara with them. Every team urges him to come to their boat but Abolkara, who believes in the story floated by someone that he has stayed there for the last five years refuses to leave. All the six boats leave as the rainfall thickens. Abolkara remains unmoved. So, the engineer whose family is last to leave asks Abolkara to come with them by cajoling him, shouting at him for his obstinacy, threatening him of the dire consequences if he stays but to no avail. Finally they too have to leave as the engineer has an urgent meeting. Throughout the evening heavy rain and thunderclaps continue. The narrator boy and his sister feel anxious towards Abolkara. Their mother too is not less concerned. But she cannot connect with her husband as the telephone becomes dead. She waits for his return with a heavy heart. By midnight he returns and asks for some food, not for himself but for someone else. When mother goes to the living room, she sees a drenched Abolkara shivering yet smiling. The engineer knowing that the temple and hillock would get submerged fully during that very night, has again rushed to the place. Abolkara, who must have lost all hopes of survival as the water rises fast gives his rescuer a welcoming smile and boards the launch without a single protest. He is served food by the mother most lovingly.
In this story there is no mention of what Abolkara thinks or feels after this. Yet, here we find in him a great change. He who believed that he had stayed upon the hillock for last five years and didn’t wish to budge an inch from there readily comes with the engineer when he comes again. He trusts him. In the loving heart of the mother, in the care and concern of the family, he feels secured. Villagers, though sympathetic, had left him alone while the engineer risks his life to save him. This incident is like a life changing one for him. It adds love, trust, feelings of being secured to his experience. His life won’t be the same again. He may become responsible henceforth. He won’t remain the Abolkara who disobeys everybody. And, this is the evolutionary possibility we see in him. His heart has got the real touch of love now. How could he help a change in his consciousness?
Another character who is not seen in this light is Binu. His reputation grows because he has killed the greedy, sinful money lender of his village. As ‘the murderer’ he enjoys a high status, he inspires awe and respect in the children of the village. Even elderly people treat him seriously as someone who has done something important. Like most of Manoj Das’s stories here also the narrator is a boy. He and other children of the village have a great curiosity to see “the murderer”. As the description goes: “An orphan, Binu had grown up a lonesome young man. He owned a small patch of land and, at thirty, could boast of a saving of two hundred rupees. The father of a sixteen-year-old deaf-and-dumb beauty named Sati had agreed to give the girl in marriage to him for half that amount.” (Das 42-43)
But Binu was not that fortunate. His would-be bride was whisked away by Dabu Sahukar, the money lender, and the sad, lonely girl is found one day floating in the pond, dead. Soon after the incident famine strikes the village and Binu having no way out takes employment near Dabu Sahukar. During one of his regular trips with his master through Jungle path, Binu returns alone. Thus, he is believed to have killed the evil man to take revenge for Sati’s untimely tragic end and since then has earned the reputation of a murderer.
Years have rolled on. An old Sage appears in the village with his disciples. Late Jamindar’s wife recognizes him as the former money lender, the ill-reputed Dabu Sahukar, who is believed to have got killed by Binu. This transformed Holy man has no trace of the former money lender in him. After staying for a few days in that village when the Sadhu prepares to leave Binu, now an old man himself, appears before him. He clutches at the Sadhu’s feet. The compassionate Baba gently frees himself. Children are quite disillusioned seeing this sickly, meek murderer. They all laugh at his pitiable sight. This last part of the story is very beautifully written:
“Sadhu Baba looked grave. Raising his head for an expansive view of the
crowd, he said (he had never before sounded so loud and stern), ‘Who says
Binu did not kill me?’
There was a stunned silence. Said Sadhu Baba again, this time lowering his
Voice, ‘You have no business to laugh!’
Binu slowly revealed his face. He looked visibly reassured. His face
recorded the satisfaction an infant shows when an elder kicked the floor
on which it had slipped. Next, Binu hopped on to the Baba’s boat and
refused to budge.
‘Let him come!’ said Sadhu Baba. (48)
From the above description we are assured that Binu’s spiritual journey has started the moment Sadhu Baba accepts him. He was not the murderer, yet the simple satisfaction of doing something great (great indeed. He was the witness of what caused a sinner like Dabu Sahukar change his course and became a recluse) has added meaning to his living. Sadhu’s reappearance and being recognized as the former Dabu Sahukar has threatened Binu’s status. But Sadhu Baba’s reassurance of the metaphorical murder by Binu has been the key to open the secret door of his aspiring self. Binu is now prepared to walk along the path of truth.
Good and bad, virtue and vice, all these dualities vanish when Grace descends into the life of a human being. There lies always possibilities for an evolutionary transformation for every one no matter in what state of consciousness one is, at what stage of growth. Those seemingly negligible people in the stories and novels of Manoj Das lead us to this understanding.
Jayant Thakore, the liquor baron is a character in the novel ‘The Escapist’ who cannot evoke much critical attention. From beginning to end he is almost there in the novel, portrayed as a cunning, sensual, and selfish businessman who won’t hesitate to cross any limits to fulfill his own self-interest. He is responsible for the protagonist Padmalochan’s unintentional deceptive living as a Godman. After his mentally compromised wife Ranjita Devi’s death he uses Padmalochan alias Baba Padmananda to fulfill his own ulterior motives. His self-centered mean nature forces him to sacrifice his sweet and sensible daughter-in-law Sushie’s life. He sends goons to kill Padmananda. Yet, the writer never forgets to suggest his redemption through his utter helpless condition in the end. There is just one sentence which speaks loudly what this once formidable, arrogant person’s soul craves for. To quote Das from the pages of the novel:
“Thakore spoke with great difficulty. The first thing he asked me was whether or not I had had my tea, and the last was, “Can you take me with you?” This only question asked imploringly with the faint hope of redeeming himself through the blissful company of a hermit, which Padmalochan has become then, contains the craving of his inner self, with all possibilities of a sublime journey for his now awakened consciousness.
In his novel “Cyclones” such possibilities are obvious even in the least of the characters. The humble village Chowkidar, the helpful Police officer, ever obedient and dutiful Ravi, the girl Lalita of the whorehouse have all been able to recognize well meaning nature of Sandip, the protagonist. They trusted him in a completely hostile circumstance. Trust, love, gratitude are divine qualities. Manoj Das has endowed many of his minor characters with these traits enabling them to transcend their own conditionings and limitations,
There are examples galore. Manoj Das believes in an enlightened destiny of mankind. So every character minor or major has to undergo the evolutionary process of life to fulfil that destiny.
References:
1. Forster, E. M. Aspects of Novel. Electronic edition, 2002.
2. Ibid
3. Das, Manoj. Selected Fiction. Penguin Books India, 2001.
4. Das, Manoj. The Escapist. Ocean Books (P) Ltd.,2013.
5. Das, Manoj. Cyclones. Chandamama Publications, 1997.
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English in the Higher Education Department, Govt. of Odisha is a bilingual writer writing both in Odia and English with equal flair. Her poems, stories and articles are published in many state, national and international magazines and journals. She has three published anthologies of poems to her credit. Besides, she has published many research articles in different research journals. She contributes regularly to Radio Bulbul.
I happened to come across an article captioned "empty nest syndrome" referring to the inmates at home, after living together for many years, moving away due to various circumstances.
I tried to relate it to my routine. As usual, I spent my day with my office family and returned home late around 8 pm in the evening. My home was obviously dark as there was no one at home and appeared as an empty nest. I unlocked the gate, switched on the lights at the gate and foyer to open the main door. I heard some steady chirping and looked around at the ceiling from where I heard the sweet voice resonating. The greeting was from the red vented Bulbul that has built its nest over the lamp shade in the foyer. It was a pleasure to receive a warm welcome after a tiring day, navigating through heavy traffic.
A smile lit my face as I opened the main door and let myself in.
As I moved upstairs, to have a wash and a change, I again heard some babbling from the balcony. I brushed the curtains aside and found the little mynahs excitedly welcoming their maa. I realised the home was not empty after all.
I was greeted every morning and evening by the chirping Bulbul and I was very touched.
As the days sped, one morning, I heard additional chirping and found two little bulbuls peeping out of the nest, bidding goodbye to their maa. The number count was on the increase.
It was one Sunday when I heard continuous chirping, without a break and having got used to these, I found this chirping as a distress call. I opened the main door and peeped out. Yes. I was right. This time there was a pair of bulbuls, perched on a nearby tree chirping away without a break. I looked up into the nest and found the baby missing. I surmised , the male bulbul had also accompanied the female this time and obviously too. After some time the chirping stopped. I came out to ascertain the reason. The parent bulbul had located the young one at the foyer floor. The two birds pecked the little only very fondly and were teaching the little one to move. After some time there was silence all around. I found the little bird perched safely on a branch of a tree.
I saw before me first hand, the love and care extended by the parent bulbuls and how protective they were towards their little one.
I also realised very soon I will be left with an empty nest for some time.
S. Sundar Rajan is a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy. He is a published poet and writer. His collection of short stories in English has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, Kannada and Gujarati. His stories translated in Tamil have been broadcast in community radios in Chennai
and Canada. He was on the editorial team of three anthologies, Madras Hues, Myriad Views, Green Awakenings, and Literary Vibes 100. He has published a unique e anthology, wherein his poem in English "Full Moon Night" has been translated into fifteen foreign languages and thirteen Indian regional languages.
An avid photographer and Nature lover, he is involved in tree planting initiatives in his neighbourhood. He lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : THE MAN WHO BECAME THE FIRST TO SET FOOT ON TOP OF THE WORLD! .
"That's one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind." Neil A. Armstrong the first human to have put his foot on the surface of Moon is known to have uttered these words. Armstrong was the Commander of the Spaceship Apollo 11 that landed there on 20 July 1969. Two other astronauts with him in the same mission were Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins. Collins had remained in the Moon’s orbit in the Command Module while Armstrong and Aldrin had taken the Lunar Module separating from the Space ship for landing. But everybody remembers Armstrong for being first as the “man on the moon” or as first human to do the moonwalk. Aldrin was less fortunate being seconds behind to put his feet on the moon.
The same could be said about Edmond Hillary the star of our story here. He was the first person to achieve a feat in another great adventure on earth and human history, the first person to put his foot on the top of the Earth- that is on the tallest peak of the Earth, the Everest in the Himalayas. He is known as the first person to have conquered Everest, the highest peak.
Edmund Hillary was the first climber along with Tengzing Norgay to reach the summit of Mount Everest on 29 May 1953. News of their historic achievement, the world came to know a couple of days later, i.e., on the morning of June 2, the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, Britons hailed it as a good omen for their country’s future. Edmund Hillary belonged to New Zealand, a Commonwealth country, while Tenzing Norgay was a Sherpa of Nepal. They became the first known explorers to reach the summit of Mount Everest, which at 29,035 feet above sea level is the highest point on earth. But people remember Hillary, in the logic of being the ‘first’ one in anything, than they do remember Norgay. During past few days, major news papers of the world are recounting the story of this historic feat throwing light on the man and the spirit that was Edmund Hillary celebrating the 70th year of that adventure.
Hillary was born on 20th July 1919 in Auckland, New Zealand which I had the opportunity of visiting recently. New Zealand is Nature and full of hills and mountains. It is said that Hillary was initially smaller in height than his classmates in school. Later he grew to be 6 feet 2 inches. It is said that in his young days he was shy but after taking up boxing he became confident. When he was 16 years old, he had been to a school picnic where he became interested in climbing and wanted to venture into tough world.
The world’s highest point expedition in 1953 was done by Himalayan Committee which constituted Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club, in partnership with Times of London who sponsored half of the expedition expense in return for their press coverage. There was going to be separate attempts one by Charles Evans and Tom Bourdillon, and then by Hillary and Tengzing who were part of the ninth British expedition to Everest led by John Hunt. The former team reached the south summit but was unable to achieve the highest point peak as they faced oxygen issues and were forced back 300m from the climax. Then came the turn of Hillary and Tengzing. It is said that the night before their climb the temperature was unbelievably low -34 degree Celsius with hurricane force winds which Tengzing gave a metaphor that “it sounded like the roar of thousand tigers”.
It was at 11.30am on 29 May 1953 Hillary and Tengzing made history reaching the summit at 29,035 feet. Soon Tengzing raised the flags of the United Nations, UK, Nepal and India. He recited a prayer of thanks to Chomolungma, the more poetic name his people give to Everest, meaning “Goddess Mother of the World”. In the snow he buried offerings, including sweets from his daughter to the Buddhist deities, while Hillary buried a crucifix given to him. They spent 15 minutes on the summit before starting their descend.
Although the pioneers had been a New Zealander and a Nepalese, the expedition was British. In the photograph taken at the summit, the British, Nepalese, Indian and United Nations flags flutter, but Hillary's native country went unrepresented. That created a furore in New Zealand.
Despite both of them being successful in climbing this summit and achieving this rare feat still one irritating question existed in the mind of the people who were too interested for general knowledge and trivial stuff, that who really reached the summit first? Tenzing said that over the decades there was “a lot of nonsense” talked about the subject and in his opinion, this was a lame question and rather people should celebrate the success of these climbers reaching the top in the face of such hostile and challenging weather and dangerous slippery conditions.
The two climbers then had signed a joint statement saying both reached the summit almost together. The word “almost” did not satisfy the press and they asked: what exactly does “almost” mean? The men had been tied together by a 30ft rope, known to mountaineers as the “brotherhood of the rope”. Tenzing held the loops which meant they were separated by about six feet. It is said that he was under tremendous pressure in India and Nepal to say that he himself was the first to reach. But in fact, it was Hillary, although only by a few seconds as he was leading that day. Hillary being a modest man resisted saying so, for much of his life.
As reported, on reaching the summit of Everest, Hillary initially went to shake hands gracefully with Tenzing before the Sherpa threw his arms around him and slapped him on the back. "I wasn't extremely excited," he said in an interview. "I didn't jump around, but I had a pretty strong feeling of satisfaction. It was a very good moment in that sense.”
But irrespective of this who reached first claim there remained a very warm relationship between the two Everest conquerors. Hillary was in complete awe of Nepal and set up the Himalayan Trust, a charity for the Sherpas. The trust built many hospitals, health clinics and more than 30 schools in the subsequent years, bringing support to the needy of that country. As for Tenzing, he never climbed Everest again. His final years he was in depression and isolation and he died in 1986 aged 72. While Hillary served as New Zealand's High Commissioner to India and Bangladesh and concurrently as Ambassador to Nepal from 1985 to 1988.
In 2000 Time magazine named Hillary and Tenzing as two of the 100 most influential people of the 20th century. And throughout the decades Hillary’s colourful if irreverent phrase to his fellow New Zealander George Lowe, “We knocked the bastard off”, has continued to resonate with mountaineers everywhere.
John Hunt, the British army colonel who led the 1953 expedition, is said to have refused to talk about the "conquest" of Everest. He rather only used the word the "ascent" - a concession to Tibetan reverence for Chomolungma, the goddess mother of the Earth.
There was also speculation by some that George Mallory and Andrew “Sandy” Irvine in the 1924 British Expedition had perhaps made to the point of the summit from the Northern side. The Duo had no doubt come closer but disappeared during the summit attempt. After long 75 years of this attempt Mallory’s body was found in 1999 frozen in ice by a mountaineer Conrad Anker. Irvine’s fate is still shrouded in mystery. Whether Mallory and Irvine reached the summit before they died remains a subject of debate.
In this sport ascent and descent, both are important. As Edmund himself put it, “If you climb a mountain for the first time and die on the descent, is it really a complete first ascent of the mountain? I’m rather inclined to think, personally, that maybe it’s quite important, the getting down.”
It may not be out of place to mention that most early attempts on Everest ascent were undertaken from the north (Tibetan) side. Chinese Revolution of 1949 and its subsequent annexation of Tibet led to the closure of that route. Climbers began to look at an approach from the Nepalese side. Hillary and Tenzing were the success stories of this route.
At a recently held “Celebrating Everest 70” talk in Delhi organised by the Himalayan Environment Trust (HET) sons of the Himalayan heroes while paying tribute to their adventurous fathers revealed their concerns and approaches:
Jamling Norgay : “My father provided me with good life and education. He told me after climbing Everest that he climbs so that I don’t have to. This is the same thing that sherpas say to their children even today. Even recently, three sherpas died after falling into a deep crevasse on a dangerous section of Mount Everest.” Jamling was thus highlighting how climbing is hazardous and the sherpa community is vulnerable and susceptible to risky livelihood due to the nature of their work
Underlining the importance of cooperation and team work Peter Hillary said, “My family wanted me to become an engineer but I was drawn to what my father did… ...We are so focused on the mountains and the challenge to climb them. But it is really about the people and cooperation I would like as many people to go to the mountains. I think this becomes more important now because we are all becoming urban creatures.”
Hillary remained humble despite so many honours and accolades, including British Knighthood, Diplomatic Caps, membership of the Order of New Zealand, honorary citizenship of Nepal, and a portrait on New Zealand’s five-dollar note until his death in January 2008, at the age of 88.
Let us end the story with Hillary’s inspiring words , “Aim High! There is little virtue in easy victory”
Photo taken in Auckland (May 2023, in Edmund Hillary’s city)
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
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