Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXII (25-Aug-2023) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Conjugal Metamorphosis (Picture courtesy Ms. Ritika Sriram)
Ritika likes to find an unusual angle in the usual things. Her work is mostly written in hindi and english, but she likes experimenting in other languages as well. Her articles are often published in the newspaper ‘The Hitavada’. Her poems can be found under the pen name ‘Rituational’ in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rituational and in her blog: http://songssoflife.blogspot.com/ & Her Contact: ritika.sriram1@gmail.com
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
ON STAGE
02) Chinmayee Barik
SIGNATURE
03) Ishwar Pati
THE ELUSIVE TOMATO
04) S. Sundar Rajan
CHANGING TIMES
05) Sreekumar T V
WRONG WRITING
06) Jayshree Tripathi
IT’S ANOTHER KIND OF LOVE
07) Rajroopa Bhattacharjee
THE LAST JOURNEY
08) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
TRUTH
09) Bankim Chandra Tola
LIFE AFTER RETIREMENT
10) Sujata Dash
A GENTLE NUDGE OF SPRING
11) Hema Ravi
GOSSAMER THREADS...
12) Snehaprava Das
ROSE IS A POEM IN RED (1)
ROSE IS A POEM IN RED (2)
13) Sunanda Pradhan
RESOURCE MOBILISATION ( SERVICES)
14) Ashok Kumar Mishra
BHOOMIKA
15) Sumitra Kumar
TOMATOES PERCHED HIGH
16) Ashok Kumar Ray
DURGA
17) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: STORY ABOUT THE SCG
18) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
HIGH COURT AND A HIGHER COURT
(Thanks to Sreeja Sree Kattuppara and Varghese Antony)
The hall is full of people. My husband would have been very happy to see this. He is one of Mom’s big fans. He has asked me to record it all for him. I checked my phone’s charge. Thirty per cent. Good, Mom will be singing only for five minutes. It is a very short poem.
I have never seen such a crowd before when Mom sings. The function is a book release. Some minister is releasing Antony Sir’s poetry collection. And we have been waiting for him for an hour now.
My mother has insisted that I record it and send it to my Dad. Dad is just a number in my contact list. I don't remember him much. The noise of people conversing is building up in the hall.
It is difficult to sing on an open stage. When the voice rises, the pitch also rises on its own. It's hard for Mom. I didn’t want to think what would be the consequences.
An announcement came over the speaker. Someone has parked a car too close to the gate. I listened to the details. Not my car.
It's only been a week since I bought the car. After six months, the job was confirmed last week. I was too eagerly waiting to buy a car. I had offered to drive Mom to the town hall. But Mom won’t listen. She said she would come by bus. She should not be allowed to go back by bus. Should insist on dropping her. This was a familiar scene at home.
"The bus is a luxury for me, I'm used to walking." Mother would explain.
"Should I walk on all fours since that is what I am used to?" I would ask.
The program started. The minister hasn’t come yet. There were a few speakers on stage. Mom looked pretty in her yellow sari and olive green blouse.
Mom kept smiling at me. There's a lot of nervousness in that smile. There has always been a lot hiding behind that smile.
When I was studying at a music college, one holiday Mom requested me to take her to my college. I asked her what was there to see on a holiday. Immediately Mom withdrew her request.
She is like that. She would change her mind immediately if she felt that she had put someone at an inconvenience.
It was after a lot of insistence that Mom agreed to come to college that day. She walked through the verandah of the college and looked at every pillar and post. When Mom didn’t return, I searched for her and found her sitting on the steps of the old music hall.
She was crying but she didn’t admit it.
The minister arrived and released the book. Other speakers took their turn. An uncle spoke at length introducing the book.
“Anyone can write a story or a poem. If you have the voice to sing, you can sing. If you practice for a few years, you can become a dancer or a painter. But for art to be great, experience is essential. A heart that has gone through it all is the sea of that experience. All of us here know what our poet has been going through after his dismissal from service…..”
Another speaker supported him when his turn came
“There is no other reason why the poems of this poet resonate in the hearts of the readers. Pain is not something that can be learned from books.”
Hearing all that, I looked at my mother and made sure she too had got a copy. I decided to read at least one or two of the poems in it. By now, Dinesh and the kids must have reached home after tennis. People in the audience and on the stage are feeling restless. The hall is also very warm.
Finally, they called Mom to recite a poem from the book. Mom took the mic from the stand and thanked the speaker. Then she put the mic away and coughed a little. She is looking at me now. There is no smile on her face now.
“........I was a little yellow flower all wrapped up in grey mist……”
Mother is singing in her melodious voice. It is a magical voice. The whole hall went silent. Her powerful voice is filling up the hall. Some people loitering outside ran in to see who it was. I still remember those stormy nights when our little hut would sway in the wind in a rhythm totally different from the lullabies my mom would continue singing.
Several young men were recording Mom’s song on their mobiles. I felt so proud. I wanted to tell those men that her daughter was here, right behind them.
The poem has reached its last line. Amma is able to add so much
Her life experiences are ingrained in her singing. There is a subtle strain of emotion on every note she renders. I once asked what was the saddest experience she ever had. She smiled. Then she laughed as if she invented a prank to play on me. She always warns me before she pulls my leg.
“O, my saddest experience.. Well…it is seeing a brand new steel vessel.”
I was puzzled. What did she mean? Did she mean she was jealous since she never had that luxury? The story she told me was even more bitter. The previous evening her father had taken away every vessel and utensil in their home and sold them to the scrap collector to buy a drink. The family had no vessel to cook their evening food. Her mother went to the neighbour's home. A lady teacher there gave her an old vessel which didn’t look very clean. On her way back her mother went to a stream and washed it thoroughly rubbing it with sand. Her father staggered by laughing at her mother.
That night they cooked some rice. Even the salt jar had been sold. She found it hard even to put a morsel of rice in her mouth. Her mother told her not to worry since they were there for each other. Suddenly the rice became a delicacy.
“The next day, on my way to school, I went to the neighbour’s home to thank them for the vessel they had offered.
“Their dog was on the porch and it was eating from a brand new vessel. I passed out.”
I held my breath. The song was getting louder and more and more emotional as it reached the last lines. Mom’s face is glistening with sweat. Her eyes are sparkling with the thought of a good job well done.
“And why was the wind allowed to whisk away my memories and souvenirs and leave me alone, depressed, lost and clueless….”
Mom stops singing and wipes her face with a handkerchief. Non-stop clapping. Mom bowed her head with a big smile and thanked the audience.
She turned her head to glance at me. Was she pointing out to me the accolades she was getting? No, no way. She would be feeling bad her eyes had not been on me for a few minutes. Such a caring person!
The audience thinned out. Mom came down from the stage with a bouquette in her hand, an envelope placed like a bookmark in the collection of poems. A not so heavy cheque for sure, but a cheque all the same. If she offered it to me I will take it. Just to make her feel happy and avoid a fight.
My mother called me closer to the podium and introduced me to everyone. I remember the author and one of the speakers.
They had come to invite Mom to sing in this programme while I was there to visit her. She told them to give the chance to me. She insisted and I sang. The poet said he would prefer not so young a voice. Finally Mom had to agree.
The poet said, "Even if you get a job, don't give up singing. I am sure you have inherited your mother’s skills."
Mom smiled,
"She likes classical music. She doesn't like melody and poetry."
The speaker who had come with the poet to Mom's house came over.
“Hey little one, how are you. You too sang well that day. I didn’t get to compliment you then since I was in a hurry. But singing a poem calls for more emotional expression. It comes from what you go through. Ask our poet. He is so good at it. So is your Mom, you can learn all that from her.”
"Sure, I will give it a try."
When I was with my mother in the car, I felt that I shouldn’t have given them such a false hope. I was not going to try. It won’t work. The way this pretty woman in yellow and green brought me up, I will not have that emotional expressiveness in my voice.
I took my left hand from the steering wheel, lifted my Mom’s hand and placed it on my right cheek. So warm and so cold at once.
"....As I opened my eyes it was scorching summer all around…..”
Is Mom still humming it?
Or is it me.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
(Translated by Ajay Upadhyaya)
My friend’s name was Soubhagya. Translated into English, it means good luck. Although we were quite fond of each other, our relationship was hard to categorise. Whether to call it love or by another name is debatable. For, neither of us ever declared our feelings with phrases like “I love you”. Defying all expectations, he never brought me presents; this was unlike many of our friends. For this reason alone, the nick name I I had coined for him was Mr Miser, rather than Mr Lucky.
We, nevertheless, enjoyed each others company immensely. In college, he was a student of Arts whereas my subject was Science. This divide in our field of study, did not detract us; in fact, our psyches complemented each other. My rational mind and its faculty of analysis took us quite far in our discourses but they had their limits. That is where his poetic flight of fancy would take off into the boundless realm of imagination. What kept us glued, most of all, was our love of a good argument. When we met in the local coffee house, we would get so engrossed in our discussion that we became almost oblivious to our surroundings. It was not uncommon for the shop keeper having to politely interrupt us for ushering us out of the stall.
We would meet regularly after our classes. As such we both were chronically short of money and we would scramble to collate our funds in order to pay for our rickshaw fare. We would offer the rickshaw-puller whatever we could raise between us and ask him to take us as far as the money would last. The surprised rickshaw-man would nevertheless question, “but where do you want to go?” Our reply used to be, “Wherever you wish really.”
As if the rickshaw-man could read our mind, he would take us on the path by the local river bank. And, this would be our opportunity to engage with our favourite pastime. We would be covering the entire range of topics under the sun. We would start with the world affairs, hoping to talk about our personal lives next but by the time their turn came, our money would have invariably run out. We would be asked to get off the rickshaw to manage the remaining distance by foot. But that would hardly bother us; we never felt the pinch of the distance. Our antics were not limited to rickshaw rides; we would follow the same routine in bus journeys. We would get on a bus and ride it to its last stop and, in stead of getting off, we would continue on the same bus on its return journey. We would even repeat this whole routine, if we could.
Our conversations flowed smoothly only when we were in the coffee house or in a moving transport. Somehow, the flow faltered in other locations, like in a park. With an inexhaustible list of topics and a diverse range, our discussions used to be endless. By evening, when I would reach home, two sets of eyes would be watchfully waiting for my return. My mother’s eyes would have a hint of horror whereas my father’s gaze would be deep and probing. I would simply choose not to give any explanation and quietly head straight for my room.
Nonetheless, I could hear from the kitchen my mother’s taunts to my father, “This is the result of the freedom you have given her. I don’t know what secret shenanigans she is into. This is all your fault. Watch my word, one day, she would tarnish our family’s good name and ruin our reputation.”
My mother wouldn’t dare to directly ask me about my affair. But I knew, she would sneakily look into my books and check my mobile phone, for a confirmation of her suspicion. Finally, I decided to put an end to this charade of unspoken interrogation and announced openly that I was in love with Soubhagya. That set off the most dramatic reaction from my mother. Starting with several rounds of wailing it led to a spell of hunger strike. But I dug my heels and held on to my resolve, waiting for the drama to subside. My father showed little outward reaction, acting like a mute spectator, but I was certain, he was suffering silently. Superficially, this dramatic episode seemed to conclude without any obvious resolution. I too was disturbed by this outcome of my act of declaration. But, no matter how hard I tried, I could not get Soubhagya out of my head.
xxxxxxxxx
One day, after our classes, we met, as usual, heading for our favourite haunt, the coffee-house. There was a surprising scene waiting for us. Several policemen had gathered in front of the shop. The customers looked on bewildered at the presence of police, wondering what had happened. I waded my way through the crowd to get to the shop. I saw the owner of the coffee-house sitting on a chair with his head slumped on the table, with two policemen hovering over him. He was tearfully explaining, “I am telling the truth Sir. I have no idea what actually transpired. I loved my wife dearly. I might have said something under the influence of drinks last night, which she probably took offence at. I can’t even remember what it was. But in the morning everything was back to normal. She was her usual self and her mood was fine. Everything happened after I left home for the coffee house.” I could not quite follow what he was talking about. From one of the customers, I gathered that the wife of the owner had killed herself by hanging at home. The neighbours discovered her dead body and informed the police, who had come to take the owner to the police station for interrogation.
I was shocked at this tragic news about the owner’s wife. I clearly remembered meeting her on many occasions. I also knew, theirs was not an arranged marriage; it was a love marriage. Moreover, they came across as a happy couple. We had several conversations with his wife in the coffee-house, when she would talk about love and marriage. She would also help her husband in the running of the shop. She was smart, amiable, and chatty. She would talk about her plans of turning their modest coffee-shop into a grand coffeehouse, and her dream of making it the best coffeehouse in the town. They seemed to be happily married and probably one of the most content couple on the earth. But, it seems, in an instant all that came to naught.
I found it hard to take things in; my head started to reel. Soubhagya sensed the fragile state of my mind and immediately took me by hand, leading me out of the scene. That day, we did not go on our usual rickshaw-ride and I straight returned home. Throughout the night, I could not help thinking about the owner’s grief and his wife’s suicide. Soubhagya phoned me that night, urging me not to think too deeply into the events of the day. As he put it, there are many facets of love and it goes through phases. What we saw that day was one of its varied outcomes.
“You mean, like life, love has its own death?” I questioned.
“I don’t know for sure. Of course, for love, life is a pre-requisite. You must remember, love thrives on an optimal level of sentiments. Otherwise, it can self-destruct through a slow corrosion of body and mind from within. Finally, love can only flourish on a foundation of love for ones own life.
I could not get my head round his lofty philosophy. What kept springing to my mind was the picture of the hapless couple from our coffeeshop.
The coffee shop was shut down after this incident. We had lost our favourite haunt. Somehow, we did not fancy visiting other coffeeshops. Soubhagya, however, once said, we would perhaps return to this shop, if it ever opened again. But such an occasion never came. Our college course also came to an end. After our tests were over I stayed at home busy in coaching classes, preparing for job interviews. Our contacts remained limited to chatting on mobile phone.
xxxxxxxxx
For several days, my mobile phone was out of operation. One day, one of Soubhagya’s friend was visiting me. Before leaving, he secretly passed a piece of paper on to me. I was not prepared for this but the slip turned out to be an urgent message from Soubhagya. It was a brief letter.
“Shweta,
I have been stuck for days, unable to talk to you; I can’t make contact by phone. Hence, this message in my friend’s hand. I have been offered a job and my posting is in Delhi. I am leaving for Delhi tomorrow by train. I have got two tickets for tomorrow’s night train at nine. I shall be waiting for you.
Yours Subhu”
I was thrown into a quandary by this bombshell from Soubhagya. My body was trembling from an unknown dread, The thought of confronting my parents with proposal of our marriage sent shock waves in me. I knew, for them our love was doomed. Our social backgrounds were poles apart and any thought of our marriage was a mere fantasy. My father never voiced his objections directly to me, nor did I have the courage to confront him openly. I was, however, in no doubt about his implacable position. Through my mother, I have heard him saying, “What has love got to do with marriage? For these kids, love is a fleeting fancy. What they call love is an infatuation of adolescent minds arising from their raging hormones. In any case, marriage is for life, meant for mature adults.” I was also aware of his veiled threats of suicide, if I did not drop my dreams of a life with Soubhagya. I had no appetite for a repeat of the high drama, I had not forgotten, from my last standoff with them. I had no-one else to turn to for sharing my dilemma. This was, after all, no ordinary crisis; the next step, I was contemplating, involved the most crucial decision of my life. I finally convinced myself that the best course of action for me was to elope. I secretly packed a small bag with two sets of clothes and some essentials and waited for next night. But overnight, father’s condition deteriorated. His blood pressure shoot up. He was also sick, he threw up a few times. I could not sleep that night; pondering over my ordeal and father’s health. Doctor’s opinion on father’s health was to watch and wait. In the mean time he needed rest. The next day passed without major events. But my tension kept mounting.
As the evening progressed, the time for action was nearing. My mother had an exhausting day, running around with household chores and attending to father. She had slumped on the bed near his feet. My father was fast asleep on the bed facing the ceiling. I could see him breathing through his mouth and his chest heaving. There was no one to watch me or hold me back. So, the coast was clear for me to elope. I gathered enough courage for the most decisive step of my life, out of the house.
As I started to walk away from the house, I could sense a shadow following me on my way. I paused briefly before resuming my walk. The feeing of the presence behind me was getting stronger. But, when I turned round I could not see anybody. As I continued on my path, there was a strange pull on my legs, as if the ground had grown tentacles to ensnare my feet. The urge to break free off them by running grew inside me but I simply couldn’t. Thee was a bunch of stray dogs by the roadside looking at me, as if they were poised to bark. What followed next was really scary; I could feel a pair of hands from behind grabbing me. I could smell them; I knew, they were my father’s hands. I let out a faint cry, “Bapa” and turned round, again to find no-one behind. It felt dreadfully eerie. By now, I felt drained with little energy left in me to proceed further. I turned round and ran back home, almost in one breath. As I stepped back into the house, I found my parents sleeping exactly in the same position as I had left them behind a few minutes ago. I looked at my father and could see dried tears on his face. I felt, I ought to say something to him but words eluded me. I sat down, holding his feet in my palms, weeping silently. My father opened his eyes to look at me and closed them again without a word. I spent that whole night, sitting next to my mother.
I knew, my fate was sealed.
By next morning, disaster struck. Father’s condition had worsened. His right side had been paralysed and he had ben drifting in and out of consciousness. My mother’s state of mind was difficult to put in words. I had no idea what Soubhagya did on the previous night. In one stroke, all thoughts of Soubhagya and my plans of elopement went out of mind. All my past, present and future simply evaporated in the frenzy of activities that followed in treatment for my father. His health, however, did not improve and he descended into a coma. But before that happened, my marriage with Atul, son of my father’s friend, was fixed.
That changed everything.
Soon after my marriage, my father expired. My world now was fully occupied by my husband, Atul, and our daughter, Swapna, leaving little space for anybody else. Periodically my mother visited us and brought with her some memories from my college days. That is when Soubhagya would come to my mind. Otherwise, I lost track of him and his whereabouts. At times, I thought, I should perhaps locate him and ask for his forgiveness. But somehow all such thoughts stayed in the back of my mind. As time passed, it became increasingly unlikely to ever happen.
xxxxxxxxxx
After a long gap, I was visiting my mother in our old town. I had taken our daughter, Swapna with me. I had a chance to met all my old friends and we had a gala time. One day, in the local bazaar, I met with the owner of the old coffeehouse. He too recognised me and as we got chatting, he updated me about his situation. After considerable police investigation and legal wrangles, he was exonerated of any wrongdoing in the matter of his wife’s suicide. Nevertheless, he was a broken man at the end of it. But with the support from his well wishers and the encouragement from old patrons and customers, he rebuilt his life. His business plans had taken off and the coffeehouse had been doing well. He extended me his open invitation to his coffeehouse. His offer had a sincerity, which was hard to refuse. I promised , I would visit his coffee house before my departure. We reminisced about our olden days and chatted about old friends. In the process, Soubhagya’s name came up.
He was surprised to discover that I was in the dark about Soubhagya and went on to give me an update on him. Soubhagya had got married in the meantime and incidentally he had been posted to the same town some time ago. He had been to the coffeehouse a few times with his pretty wife. I gave the convenient excuse of my responsibilities of married life, which came in the way of keeping in touch with old friends. But Soubhagya was not just any old friend; the mention of his name did trigger in me a rush of emotions.
After the owner left I found myself standing near the coffeehouse for a while. After returning home, I remained preoccupied with thoughts of Soubhagya. My absentmindedness did not escape my mother’s attention. I did open up to her as I had to share my turbulence with somebody for some relief from my agitated state. My mother’s reaction was surprisingly calm. She listened patiently to my outpouring of emotions. She could sense my deep desire to make contact with Soubhagya again, and she gave her blessings for me to go ahead.
My feelings for Soubhagya were a jumbled lot. Thinking about him gave me a strange sense of unease. Was it primarily a sense of guilt for letting him down? I was unsure if it would be enough to seek his forgiveness. But, in any case, how do I approach him? How should I broach the topic? What should I say in opening? I was not sure what his feelings for me would be by now? What if he acts like a stranger? How do I introduce myself? I made several plans to seek him out and meet him but every time I stopped myself. Only a couple of days were left before I was due to return to my home town. I hadn’t forgotten the invitation from the coffee house, and decided to visit the coffeehouse at least once. It had been renovated in grand style with stylish decor and impressive fixtures. The owner was visibly pleased to receive me at the coffeehouse and warmly ushered me in.
What grabbed my attention first was a large framed photo on the wall behind the cash counter. It had two pictures, one of the owner and the other of his deceased wife, side by side. Strikingly, both the photos were adorned with garland of flowers. I could not help pointing at this break from the standard practice of garlanding only the photos of the departed. He replied with a wry smile, “You see, a part of me died with her; I have never been the same since.” The pathos in his voice was hard to hide and I was left mulling over his words as he retreated into the kitchen for some errands.
Slowly but steadily, memories of our coffeehouse days kept rolling into my mind. I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in my reverie. Suddenly, I felt as if Soubhagya was standing behind me. As I turned round, I got a mild shock to actually see him in front me. Without any word of greeting, he pulled a chair and sat down next to me. I was shaking inside and feeling sweaty. The owner of the coffeehouse had informed him of my visit to the coffeehouse, and he had taken this opportunity to come round and meet me.
We were seated opposite each other. He too looked uneasy and took out his pen from his pocket and started fiddling with it. His face looked stern and his brow was furrowed. From his look, I guessed, he was preparing himself to unleash all his pent up anger any second on me.
I found this encounter unbearable. The tension was palpable and it was reaching fever pitch. I had to excuse myself and rushed into the toilet. I splashed some water on my face and inhaled deep a couple of times, gathering all my inner strength to face Soubhagya. As I returned to my chair, I found two youngsters had gathered in the meantime round our table. Soubhagya explained to me that they were after his autograph and he was signing his name on a book for them, He could see the surprise on my face and quickly added, he had got some of his poems published recently in form of a book. He himself had been taken aback by its unexpected popularity. He spoke with the autograph seekers for a few minutes before they left.
“So, you have been writing all along, I see.”
“Not in any big way, though. But, I managed to get my first book out. Here is a present for you, the first copy of my first book.” As he handed his book to me.
I took it to look at the cover and opened it to glance at a few pages before putting it in my bag.
“Have you had any children, Soubhagya?”
“No, not yet.”
We chatted about our present lives. Amongst other things, he was openly singing praises of his wife. But his talk sounded contrived and his words lacked depth, as if he was biding time before he could bring himself to speak his mind. Something was seemingly holding him back from delivering what he was dying to say.
I decided to break the impasse by straight coming to the point and ask for his forgiveness. But before I could say anything, the owner of the coffeehouse returned to the scene. He reminisced about our college days. He wanted us to have our dinner there and discussion shifted to the topic of food. I simply could not find a private moment to open up or talk of my feelings. Soon, it was time for us to say good bye. As we stepped out, we could see a commotion. The auto rickshaw drivers had got embroiled in some tiff and there was none ready to ferry me back home. I was in a fix. Soubhagya could see my plight. He knew me well; I would be scared to return home all alone. He offered to accompany me and drop me at home.
We were seated in a rickshaw again, after so many years. We were back on our usual path, the road by the river bank. But we were like two strangers, sharing a rickshaw ride for convenience. As the rickshaw kept rolling, our bodies kissed each other a few times. It felt rather awkward and every time I pulled myself away. He kept looking away all the time. He lit a cigarette and my response to its smoke was a mild bout of coughing. He looked at me and threw the cigarette away.
Finally, I asked, “Are you not going to ask me anything?”
“What is left now to ask?” His voice was coarse.
“That day, my father’s condition was really serious.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you know that he was first afflicted by paralysis. Soon after that he kept drifting in and out of coma?”
“Yes, I also know that your marriage was fixed in a matter of days.”
A bunch of stray dogs, by this time, started howling on the street. Their barking scared me. I reflexly clasped Soubhagya’s hand; it had the same warmth I could remember from our old days. The familiarity of our touch gave me some comfort but Soubhagya suddenly pulled his hand away. His brusque move startled me, although it did not entirely surprise me. Perhaps, he was justified in his rebuff. I recoiled and sat up straight. Next came his anguished scream, “Where was the hurry Shweta? Why did you do this to me? Could you not wait for some more time?”
His voice was harsh, which alarmed me. I was not sure how to respond to his rage. The rickshaw puller could sense the tension building up between us and suggested that we better covered the remaining distance on foot. We got off the rickshaw quietly and started to walk. I was still uncertain how to address his accusation. As my father’s image came to me I started to weep. He turned round to say, ”Now, what do you expect from me, Shweta? I can no longer ease your pain by giving you a hug or taking you in my arms. You better comfort yourself by your tears, as I find my solace in shouting at you.”
“You have to forgive me, Soubhagya. Can you?”
“Forgive! He let out a laugh of derision. Perversely, I too burst out laughing. But as our eyes locked, they were glistening with tear.
We were getting close to our house. The moonlit sky, partly covered by shifting clouds created a dramatic spectacle on the ground as if light and shadow were chasing each other. As our house was approaching, I knew, this was my last opportunity to bare my heart to him. I felt a strong urge to hold him in my embrace and have a good cry. Plucking all the courage I could muster, I grasped his hand. I was hoping he would reciprocate my feelings; they were a mix of tenderness and regret. I was full of apprehension, at the same time, over how he would respond to my move. Would he again push me away? But he did nothing of the sort. He pulled me violently to him and said sternly, “Why do you keep tormenting me Shweta? Please spare me this torture; I despise you!”
His last words shook me down to my core. I cringed in a fit of guilt. His sarcasm struck me like a thunderous slap on my face.
I pulled myself away forcefully and ran back home without even saying good bye. Seeing my state of mind, my mother did not dare ask many questions. After changing my clothes, I straight went to bed. Strangely, I felt a sense of liberation. His loathing for me had freed me from my cage of guilt and prison of penance. I thanked my stars for this opportunity to own up my frailty and seek his forgiveness. In a perverse way, I congratulated myself for pushing him into this depth of abhorrence. I deserved nothing better from him anyway. Perhaps, this was my chance to draw a line under our affair. I hoped, this would hasten the process of driving him out of my life.
xxxxxxxxx
I returned to my place and once again got engrossed with my life. Soubhagya’s book remained in my sight but untouched. Perhaps, I had made a deliberate decision against reading it. But I could not discard it either. Eventually, it was added to the row of books on my book shelf. I thought, this would help to banish him out of my mind. Well, until one day while dusting my room, the book caught my attention; I felt an instant urge to read it.
I noticed his hand-written lines on the first page of the book, which had escaped me so far. It read, “By a stroke of bad luck, I failed miserably in my efforts to embrace you into my life. Nonetheless, you are an indispensable part of who I am. My signature here remains my ultimate identity.”
Below these lines figured his signature. As I looked at it closely, a discovery sprang on me: his inscription contained not only his signature but also had my name mingled with it.
Soubhagya’s declaration on my place in his life was a revelation. Is this how he sees our lives - inextricably intertwined? What a tender gesture! I could not imagine a more intimate gift; it moved me to tears.
At this point, the image of the coffee shop owner came to my mind - the combined photo of the couple, garlanded and hung on the wall.
It occurred to me that perhaps, love is a retrospective; it is all about reflecting on shared moments of joy.
So was I engaged, busy reliving my precious past.
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.
I bounced out of bed in one leap, so vivid was the strangest of dreams! For someone who is used to watching dreams in black and white—at times dark and sinister and at other times light and fleecy—it was an unusual experience to spot bright reddish blobs dancing before my eyes—in Eastman colour! It was fascinating to watch the bloody shapes moving like screensavers on a computer. “Come on, come on, come on!” They were provoking me with insistence, “you don’t want to lose your tomatoes!”
At the mention of tomatoes, I jumped like Mark Twain’s ‘Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County’ and ran to the bathroom. I brushed and then rushed to the vegetable market. I had to be there before the daily quota of tomatoes disappeared. Yesterday our domestic errand-boy had returned empty-handed without a single tomato. So I could take no chances and invite the displeasure of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. I was so focussed on grabbing the elusive vegetable that I skipped my ritualistic morning constitutional! I had to be an early bird at the market.
“How much?” I enquired as I approached a vendor and his tomatoes.
“Rs. two hundred,” he replied.
“What? Per kg?” I was shocked and awed.
I was about to pick up a ‘specimen’ for examination when he growled, “Don’t touch!”
Discretion being the better part of valour, I gently quit the scene without creating a scene. The next hawker was more helpful and volunteered the info that it was Rs. 50 only per pao! I was beset by Hamlet’s dilemma— ‘To Buy or Not to Buy’. Finally, I paid for one pao of tomatoes with great reluctance and quickly turned homeward with my trove.
“What happened to your glasses?” My wife asked me when I reached home.
“What!” I cried out. In my anxiety to please my wife’s craving for tomatoes, I had left my glasses at home. “Gone with the climate change!” I replied and hurried to put the precious cargo in the fridge.
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.
It was the first Saturday of August. I was leaving my office a bit early. It was a much needed break, after a strenuous schedule to adhere to the deadlines of filing of the Income tax returns.
As I started my car for the long drive ahead of me, a car had stopped at the curve on the road in front of me. So I too slowed down. A couple of ladies opened the back seat door and settled down in the car which then moved off.
As I slowed down, I noticed a smart lady in her thirties on the opposite side of the road, taking a brisk evening walk. Her hair was well trimmed, with her goggles perched on her forehead and a small bag across her shoulders. She was talking animatedly over her mobile but her eyes were very watchful on the road.
On seeing me slow down, she stopped, turned around and nodded her head. I noticed that a maid who was pushing a pram had also stopped. There was a sweet looking child on the pram, with loose fitting colourful dress and a cap over the head. The child looked so charming that for a moment I felt like picking up the child from the pram and cuddling the baby. I guessed this must be her child because of the concern, writ large on her face and her immediate reaction.
My mind rolled back to the earlier decades, when either the parents or someone from the family, carried the child, placed lovingly across the shoulder, close to the body, with warmth and affection. When tired, another in the family took turns to joyfully carry and cuddle the child. Baby carrier or baby carrying bags soon found takers in the next generation. It reminded me of the primitive cradles that the gypsies straddled across their shoulder to carry their child along with them. The pram came in handy for the child to be put to rest at home or to take the child for a stroll, with the support of a family member.
And now the fast paced culture has led to childcare being outsourced, in the guise of multi-tasking, not realising that the primary prerequisite for a growing child is emotional bonding and care.
With the changing times, it will not be surprising when very soon child care gets to be handled by AI.
Are we in the right direction? Time alone will answer.
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.
Some movies before start say “This movie based on a true story” and it arouses the curiosity of the viewer. The story here true and should be read as it is a lesson.
I liked her and she liked me. It was but natural for it to happen for reasons many. We studied in the same college same department and our interests almost common like reading, arts, sports and topping all was our sense of humour. We enjoyed jokes and even laughed at ourselves many a time talking about some foolishness we did. Friends labelled our relationship “Different level” which it was in reality. It was on a different level with none questioning us with an iota of doubt. As of now our career was more important and we stood a supporting pillar for each other.
Days passed by good and bad. Difference of opinion on various subjects and logical arguments. At times it ended on an agreeing note and many a time remained unresolved. It was a battle of brains which enriched us and made us wiser. It was during one of these days that my phone started giving trouble. It went dead for moments and self-revival. On many needy occasions it played its dead game and I knew death was imminent.
To add I write stories out of self-interest which a few maybe to encourage me say it’s good. I fall for that flattery and write again which to me was a mental relaxation pouring my mind out. The foreseen death of the phone brought forth ideas buried deep in me and a thought not to go for another phone creeps in.
I had earlier written about the aged lady living all alone in the deep forests of Wayanad, Kerala. She came out into the human world after many months to buy essentials and her life mostly with birds, bees and the wild animals. She spoke about the elephants and tigers she often encountered and how they keep to their space without even looking at her. A life all alone cut off from the human world sounded very curious and exciting to me.
There was this couple with high paying jobs in the US and all of a sudden decides to give up everything and lands in the country. They buy land in the vicinity of Madhumalai hills and starts farming in a slow way and hard work pays and self-contained they are now. Besides that, uplifting the surrounding village people, educating their children are part of their extended life. The skill of the villagers in handicrafts are marketed and the world is coming to know of this small cut off world within the forest.
All these true stories of life different had an impact on me and I treasured them within. A life without gadgets and away from the sophisticated world.
The phone losing its life brought these thoughts into the fore and my inner feelings flowed and ended in a writing titled “Cut off”. Wanted to convey the thought that life could go on without added additions. An experiment to live differently stood tall. Cutting off from people near and dear was the harsh reality at the tail end but my wide thought diluted the relationship factor.
The aftermath of the writing was damaging beyond words. She wouldn’t talk to me and I could gauge that I had tripped somewhere. Assumed that it was connected to the writing where I had written about being without the phone. Had been depending on it to a level that life would become still without it. Wanted to be non-dependent on this tool and that was the prime thought I wanted to convey.
Many days later she opened up in a way harsh and loud. “If you want to cut off from everything, go ahead, why loiter around here”
“That was not exactly what I wanted to say. Wanted to highlight a life different” I said
She wouldn’t allow me to complete
“I don’t want to hear any of your explanations” and walks away.
Walking past me I heard her murmur
“Selfish”
That was a stab harsh and hard as that word was never in my dictionary. It hurt very badly and hurts still.
She addressed me earlier in the most affectionate term which made me stand tall and the frequent phone calls were educating and enlightening. All frozen for a writing significant and insignificant. Life is a tight rope walk to be treaded with utmost caution. After the fall no use reversing thoughts which helps in no way.
Looking back my thoughts into words and its interpretation, the travel had taken a wrong route. I had erred and “To err human and……...” are big words not meant for the ordinary and the consequences to be faced however painful it is.
Confused mind and my thought bangs on one point.
Was it a case of writing gone wrong or
“Wrong Writing”?
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..
The nearest our grandmothers may have got to saying “I love you” in Oriya was “I like you!” And even that would have been said with a blush.Dad’s mother, Ma, left us too soon. We were away in England in the sixties and I used to conjure up her smiles from black-and-white photographs fitted into triangular corners, pressed lovingly in the few surviving albums, with tissue paper overlays that rustled each time you turned the pages.
Ma
My maternal grandmother Aaee has been gone a decade now. But I can still see her, smiling endearingly, licking her paan-stained lips, chuckling over our torrent of questions on the silliest of topics including love, her eyes crinkling in amusement. As she sat to clean the fish to be served for lunch she’d say, “Haan, you better know how to clean the insides of a fish. Or else it will be so bitter that love may not save you from the comments!”.As for us, young teenagers, we would talk endlessly of falling in love, drinking champagne, daring to have a “love-marriage”. All Aaee would say was, “Bhack! Watching too many cinemas.” Yet she would always pull open the corner of her pallu, hand over some crumpled rupee notes so that we could go for the first evening show in the only cinema house in Dhenkanal — furtively, so that our grandfather Aja would not spot us. An uncle owned the cinema hall. He refused to take money for our tickets and even rewound the movie reels for us if we were late and had missed the trailers. Aja did not want to be obliged to his wife’s nephew, so he would frown heavily, shaking his head in despair!
Aaee
Then I turned 17 and it was time to say goodbye before leaving for Delhi University. Sad to think about it even now, the tears they shed, my elderly grandparents, as if I would never see them again. There were no lectures about getting married. Aaee would say, “You must study. I’ll come stay with you when you are in the IAS.” She had been a child bride and became a very young mother. What had she dreamt about as a little girl? I should have asked her.
Author at 19
My husband Sibabrata and I reached 50. Two strong personalities, almost the same age and 20 shared years of worrying about the children, from school to college, through sickness and through sadness, watching them grow and recede from our lives. We learnt to confront financial problems, resolve conflicts, balance opinions. Think about medical care. Grow old.We acknowledged and accepted our imperfections. We realised that, in the end, it may be just the two of us. We learnt to accept each other as time changed us — the expanding waistlines, the dental bridges, the need for reading glasses.
Author and husband Sibabrata, High Commissioner for India in Kenya
It’s another kind of love.
(First published in The Indian Express, updated in 2022 for exObjects, following the demise of Jayshree’s husband in 2017.)
Jayshree Misra Tripathi calls herself an 'arranger of words' and includes her maiden surname in her writing, as the eldest of five daughters. She lived a nomadic lifestyle from the mid-1980’s till 2015, an Indian Foreign Service spouse and wrote periodically, from across three continents. Jayshree followed up her Master’s Degree in English from Delhi University (1978), with a Post Graduate Diploma in Human Rights Law, from the National Law School of India University, Bengaluru ( distance education programme) in 2001. She has also taught English Language and Literature, been an examiner in English, for the International Baccalaureate Organisation Diploma and was their trained Consultant.
Jayshree's books include The Sorrow of Unanswered Questions, Trips and Trials: A Selection of Poems and Songs, Tales in Verse for Children Everywhere, Uncertain Times, written during the pandemic, and What Not Words, short stories on journeys through diverse cultures. Folk tales from her home state of Odisha are in Amar Chitra Katha. Her poems have been published in the Journal of the Poetry Society of India, online The Punch Magazine, Muse India, Huffington Post (now archived) and News18. Jayshree resides in Delhi, India and Bhubaneswar.
The journey started from the small town of Pondicherry in south india in the month of April in the quaint hours before dawn. We had to catch our flight early in the morning for Silchar, another small town nestled in the edge of Assam. We started when the shadows ruled the night, and strangely everything appeared mystical through an untimely fog. The road was curvy as we went through some paddy fields and meadows, and these sceneries I could make out from the swerving car light which flashed upon the paddy ears. It would have been a beautiful scenery in broad daylight, but at that unearthly hour it did feel eerie at times.
We reached the airport on time and everything seemed to cooperate with us, that is to say the flight was on time and we did a through check in to Silchar. The first leg of our flight was to Bangalore and it was a short flight, spent the whole way catching up on the missed sleep. We didn’t have a long wait between our flights, so a quick breakfast was all that we could do. Our flight to Silchar was quite a long one, and I was very excited to fly over Bangladesh, the land of my forefathers. It was absolutely amazing to see how rivers ran through the entire country splitting it into strip like islands, well, that’s how it looked from up there amongst the clouds. The best part of our journey was that the flights were on time.
We collected our luggage and walked out of the very rudimentary defence airport shared with the domestic sector. Outside the airport my aunts and my cute nephew were waiting for us. The ride was absolutely beautiful through the tea gardens of barak valley. The rest of the day we spent at my cousin’s house in Silchar, chatting with my Boudi, my nephew and my niece.
The next day we drove down to a smaller town called Karimganj on the banks of the river known as Kushiyara. This town is in the border of India and Bangladesh, and probably the only part of Sylhet left back with India. I have grown up hearing stories about Sylhet from my grandfather, and it has the aura of a magic land etched in my memory. The land of khals, beels, pukurs, haors and so many other water bodies, no doubt strips of land on water bodies with lush green paddy fields and some hilly regions making it a tourist destination in Bangladesh today.
The next morning, I woke up early and had a bath and carefully pulled out a very light container that I had brought all the way from Pondicherry. It was probably the only reason why I took this long journey, because in that container I had brought the Asthi of my grandparents and I wanted to immerse it in the Kushiyara river which flowed passed my grandfather’s village in Sylhet.
Accompanied by my father I went to the river front, and saw some boats waiting on the bank. I asked them if they could take me to the center of the river so that I could immerse the asthi there. They said that I would require permission from the BSF to do so. I went back up and met the BSF personnel and told him about my wish to immerse my grandparents Asthi in the river. He thought for a while and then said that I could take a boat and go to the center of the river.
Reaching the boatman was quite an effort as we had to climb down the bund with rocks and mud. I got into the tiny katamaran like boat, hardly any space to sit on it. The boatman steered the boat slowly towards the center of the river, the water was in a calm flow, with a prayer that would take my grandparents’ asthi to their village I let the container into the river, as it was light it floated merrily with the flow. I waited until it disappeared into the distance, with a tinge of sadness but a lot of satisfaction I returned back to the river bank. Somewhere I felt the joy of completing a circle, probably that of my grandparents’ lives as they floated back to their homeland.
Rajroopa Bhattacharjee did her M.A in Mass Communication from Hyderabad Central University. She worked as a senior technical writer for 10 years, and now she is a full-????me mother and a volunteer at Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry.
Samar comes from office in a gloomy mood. He is undecided. Not about what he should have done in that particular circumstances but about what he is made of. He suddenly looks into his own mind, becomes conscious of his inner self. He has told a lie. So what? Is it such a terrible crime? Everyone tells a lie. This is a fact. Samar argues with himself. He has told a lie to his young and beautiful secretary Twinkle that he is a single man. The truth is he likes Twinkle. Her beauty, her smartness has smitten him. Though he is her boss and a married man with a devoted wife at home, he can never help being in love with this girl. He remembers the broad, charming smile Twinkle gives him every morning when he steps into the office. when she learns that he is a single man her face just glowed in satisfaction! An unexpected hope danced on her face. And Samar loves to bring that image before his mind's eye again and again.
But... why this pang at the core of his heart! Why so many promptings of the thing called conscience. When his wife brought him tea with snacks he could not even look at her. Oh! this feels terrible. Samar rummages through his book case. Brings out a book, Tales Told by the Mystics".
The story is about a Baba who got angry when he heard a lie and plucked a hair from his head. When there was only one hair left on his head the king, who was a follower of the Baba, brought him to his palace garden and comfortably settled him in a cottage. He instructed everyone in his palace not to disturb him and telling lies before him. One fine spring afternoon when relaxing in the garden with the queen the king playfully threw a flower at her who feigned to be faint. Immediately a fiercely angry Baba came out of his cottage and shouted towards the queen, " You lier, you were a poor girl living in the jungle, when ripe fruits were falling from trees you were bending to let them fall on your back to stop them from being shattered and now you are acting as if you are hurt by a flower, shame on you !" Before the king could stop him the Baba had already plucked his last hair from his head.
Truth.. , thinks Samar, the term is very ancient, perennial but absolute truth is still illusive. The truth that he understands now is that he is attracted towards his secretary which is purely physical. For his wife, he has love and respect, yet cannot reveal to her about his infatuation with Twinkle. Because, he knows his wife won't understand. So he decides to maintain secrecy as long as possible.
He continues thus living a lie. Twinkle has trusted his honeyed words. Both of them are living in a makebelief world of love and romance. That one lie has led him to tell many more lies. Yet, he doesn't care. His life is full. The faint voice of conscience has died long back.
The day his daughter was born Samar was not home nor in the hospital. He was on a tour with his secretary Twinkle. Spending day and night in her arms. The mobile phone showed fifty missed calls. Hurriedly he called back. It was her mother-in-law who responded. "Where are you Baba, Rina had a difficult delivery. You are now father of a daughter, but..."
Samar felt a sting in his heart. What happened? What happened to his wife? "Is Rina.." he paused. But for his small assurance Rina's mother said, "Don't worry, she is critical but alive." Come back home as soon as possible. "Coming", he cut off the phone. Called his travel agent for an immediate return ticket. Catching the next flight he returned. Twinkle would come later.
By the time he reached another surgery was being conducted on Rina. His family members looked at him with indignance. He was perspiring. He consulted with doctors. Prayed with his heart. His daughter's little, innocent face made him cry. No, this child must not have a lier as a father. He must tell the truth to his wife, to Twinkle. He could brave their hatred but cannot claim the love of this divine child as he is now. His heart was heavy before. Now it becomes light. He prays again with all sincerity for Rina's wellbeing.
It takes a month till Rina is herself again. A trustful, loving and sweet wife. Something prompts Samar to continue his life as before. But this time with a strong will he throws away that voice, goes straight to Rina, kneels before her and in one breath tells everything. His head is bent down. He could not lift his eyes to meet hers. Rina puts her frail hand on his shoulder. He feels assurance, solace and a balmy touch in it. Tears flows down his eyes. "You are repentant Samar, that is enough. Truth has cleansed your mind of all impurities. Now go and tell Twinkle too. I know, it would be disheartening for her. But she may forgive you." Rina speaks softly.
Everything turns out well for Samar. Twinkle only gives him a sad smile after listening to his confession. She doesn't make a scene, nor blames him for what he has done to her. Samar is surprised though, yet feels a great burden being lifted out of his heart and soul.
Next day, on his office table he sees Twinkle's resignation letter.
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.
A sincere, honest, punctual, assiduous, industrious, alert, and loyal employee of Government (either Central or State) or of public sector undertaking or Private sector hardly finds time to enjoy leisure during the tenure of service or even makes it to relax free from anxiety other than taking occasional leave for urgent domestic work. More so, if such a person is placed in a higher position, he/she has to remain awfully busy even forgetting his/her regular meals. He/she must be on toes always to face various urgent official tasks including meetings, conferences, presentations, negotiations, budgeting, drafting, and finalizing policy guidelines, completing projects, interaction with public and press, reporting and compliances and above all the challenges lined up before him/her apart from taking due care of family, friends, and relatives. It is natural for him/her to feel overburdened and exhausted. After all, he/she is a human being with flesh and blood and for that matter rest is necessary to keep internal metabolic system in order thereby enabling physical fitness.
Rest or leisure for the people of this class becomes a rare commodity barring a few hours of sleep at night that too not deep but disturbed one owing to hang over effects of official pressure. Again, when these people become straight forward added to their extreme honesty and integrity, they at times, become the eyesore of higher authorities as well as some political bosses like PM, CM, Ministers, Parliamentarians and Legislatures owing to ideological differences. When opinions fall apart, the resultant effect may be frequent transfers even without information or assigning any reason. Poor fellows are compelled to pay heavy price for their honesty and straightforwardness. In spite of all this, they sail the ship of their lives against all odds with ineluctable encumbrances being nonchalant until they attain the age of superannuation. They are the true dedicated captains of a ship which seldom wrecks.
Again, when these officers are wrenched by nerve eating family problems, they are helplessly sandwiched between official tension and domestic problems. Ultimate effects are exposed in the form of peevishness and irritation. In some cases, attitudinal changes are exposed through unwarranted capriciousness, petulance, irrational behaviour, falling out with others including near and dear ones, showing lack of steadiness and consistency, repugnance, indifference, rudeness, pessimism, and typical paranoia. If this condition becomes chronic, people of this nature lose peace of mind and start disbelieving everyone around them and think that all are inimical to them. In someother cases, it is also seen that people going through this trauma suffer from frustration, dejection, bewilderment, nightmare, and depression. Most of these people eagerly wait for early retirement having failed to acclimatize themselves with the inclement weather of job. In certain cases it is seen that one has lost all patience and proceeded to quit job either by seeking voluntary retirement or by putting in papers for laying down the office. In extreme cases happening of suicide by some retired officials under intolerable pressure is not also ruled out. Well, this is not the case in general but the corrosive effects of unbearable stress affect many people of this category who feel over-run out and out.
Officers under irresistible stress envy retired persons having seen them relax with no duty and responsibility on board and no tension either to achieve target or fear of being taken to task for under-achievement or poor performance. Again, some people of this category but not all, having failed to absorb stress, suffer from hyper tension, diabetes, severe headache, and chronic insomnia. Obviously it is natural with a person of this nature to think that perhaps retirement will see an end to all these mental tensions and it may ensure undisturbed rest and peace of mind.
There is another class of service holders who are, by nature, insincere, sordid, unpunctual, careless, irresponsible, dishonest, and more or less thick skinned. These people are impervious and resistant to all kinds of eventualities in service life. They go on leading a carefree life remaining insensitive to external onslaughts. For them retirement is an anathema and some of them even long for continuing in service until death. These people are considered cancer to an organization or Govt. departments for they can neither be disciplined easily nor be rooted out when desired. Therefore, it makes no difference for these people to have a different life after retirement.
But there is a major group of service holders who carry on their lives with pressure and relaxation taken together or on rotation. They consider that official compulsion and stress are inevitable in every type of job and so, those are either to be withstood or be overlooked. This group may be termed as the real sailors of ship. The people of this category are not anxious for getting retired but wait for the final day under the terms of employment. They heave a sigh of relief when retired from service and look for undisturbed rest and recuperation. Retirement from service, as it were, comes on the appointed day for everyone in service whether one hankers after it or not unless one has opted for voluntary retirement or resignation. What happens after that? Do all happiness, peace of mind, undisturbed rest, and deep sleep accrue as longed for? Perhaps it is not the case with all retirees.
In general, many retired persons enjoy the cream of retired life with family and friends. They pass on time in various domestic as well as social, political and spiritual activities. They are always honourable senior citizens who are considered to be the invaluable assets of a nation. But there are some retirees who are thrown from frying pan to the fire. All their rosy dreams of enjoying an unencumbered life free from anxieties, tensions and stress vanish within no time for several domestic constraints and unexpected attack of fatal diseases which remained suppressed until then.
Instances of this category of retirees are countless. They stay infested with the problems like children not employed, daughters not married, no house of own to stay or even if a piece of land is there, house is not built, mal-treatment from son and daughter-in-law if staying together, brothers with arms to capture all ancestral properties, wife bed ridden, attack of Diabetes, High blood pressure, paralysis, cancer, or other fatal diseases etc. etc. In some cases, it is also seen that unemployed sons have forced father to hand over all retirement benefits to them for starting new business and after some time, the business fails and father is forced to share his pension with them for maintenance.
In case of some other retirees even if all these problems are nonexistent, the old men are either unable to pass time in the absence of sufficient work which they used to do before retirement or not getting compatible friends or companions of his liking to gossip freely. Some retirees mostly the bureaucrats in Govt, and large companies who enjoyed unchallenged authority in the corridor of power lead a lonely life after retirement having failed to make adjustment with their neighbours, friends and relatives being driven by self-conceit and hubris in the absence of alternative engagement to stay busy. Retired life for all these people turns out to be a curse and burdensome instead of rest and recuperation. Some retirees of this category lament for having not thought of these eventualities and not getting themselves groomed or prepared for this situation much before attaining the age of superannuation.
Again, some other retirees having been disgruntled with this type of living, eagerly wait for ultimate departure from mundane life. Where a retiree of this nature is not pensioner, one can well imagine the magnitude of misery to which he is subjected in regard to his maintenance and medical care when his children neglect him treating him as worrisome burden.
The indelible facts of retired life as presented here are not rare incidents. At least I am an eye witness to horrors of retired life of some persons in different towns, cities all over India during my service life. Perhaps it will not be out of place to cite one or two extremely grievous cases which are not outlandish. In one of such cases, the retired old man of a well to do family was seen groaning with excruciating pain lying in a pool of his own excreta because of paralysis which forced him to lie down on bed without movement. Initially for some days his son cleaned his bed but as the days passed he overlooked and the old man suffered helplessly as if thrown into the Hell. When I asked his son as his father was known to me to engage someone on payment to nurse his father if he or his wife has no time to attend upon him. He agreed but I did not know what happened thereafter; I heard that the old man had passed away. Poor fellow had to live like a corpse as long as he was alive.
In another case, I saw a wayward son sealed his old father in a gunny bag after beating him mercilessly to death for not giving all benefits of retirement to him for his drinking and merry-making. This gruesome incident I saw in a city where I was posted long ago when the Police recovered the corpse and arrested his son. If one takes a close look into the cause of action of this type of horrible condition or for that matter any other condition of the like after retirement, it will surface that barring some selective cases and attack of fatal diseases, in most of the cases the retirees facing such undesirable situations, conditions are self-made and the concerned retirees have either not preplanned their retired life anticipating probable hurdles for a smooth and easy go of life immediately after a busy life or not taken ample precaution to avert the problems that would emerge after retirement.
Although decades ago Govt. of India started a novel scheme for taking care of senior citizens who are either staying alone or abandoned by their children by opening Senior Citizen Security Cells in designated Police stations in different cities to take care of old helpless people in case of need, these cells became defunct in course of time for several reasons.
Having noticed the miserable plight of many retired persons across the country during my service life, I planned for having a smooth retired life before two years of my retirement. I made it a principle to modify my mental make-up that after retirement I will simply be reduced to an ordinary man walking next to a daily wage earner in the street. I have to shed off all ego and vanity that enveloped my person because of superimposing effects of positional advantage and power that I was enjoying. With this mindset I came out after retirement to settle in my house that I built with much care out of my hard-earned money. But the only problem I experienced in retired life is passing of time even if I get myself engaged in various social and spiritual activities apart from reading, writing, and travelling within the country as well as abroad. The main reason is that all these works are not like the chain of activities undertaken by me while in service. I think identical situation might be there with many retired persons.
In this context, I remember the immortal advices of my spiritual guide, Sri Sri Swami Swarupananda Paramahansa Dev who says when mind is unrest, time sits heavy on it to fuel rapid distraction causing serious instability, at that time mutter holy name of God silently until mind comes to rest. This is the only panacea for getting immaculate peace. I have experienced its excellence and I think this technique is applicable to all who are struggling for restraining mind going berserk and unstable to tell heavily ill on concentration, peace and above all health.
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 gentle nudge of spring, if not more. Ah! Love oozes out of the hidden chambers of winter and sweeps me off my feet in a fountain of ecstasy onsetting fun and laughter. Such is the power of the season. It brings back all fond memories on one platter.
My being gets swathed in nostalgia. A million stars bloom and sparkle in the garden of the sky, transporting me to a world of fantasies. No more I shy away from my soul's promptings.
I bask in the glory of hushed whispers of the bygones. They distinctly ring in my ear with discreet promptings: “You are unique, dear. Your eyes do all the talking when your lips act mute for some reason.”
I lit up like a Christmas tree, then and there, blush deep pink like any sensitive mortal. Suddenly, everything comes alive in life. The intricate weave of happiness and exaltation comes of age to regale modest living.
The pleasure from the hearth of feelings is immense and immeasurable. The lingering effect still echoes in my mind.
"The quickening of breath in the presence of someone I craved to meet and share thoughts, the coquettish grin- still titillates my cranium. Ah! The frail boughs of life quickly gathered shards to be laden with a bouncy crop of emotive exuberance. The euphoria lasted till the sun sunk in a blaze of red.
This was not the only one of its kind-let me confide.
In our college, there were only a few girls. I stood out by my blonde curls, which were blessings of my genes. My eyes were big with long lashes and portrayed character. Neither was I scared, nor was I ill at ease when I spoke to boys (Those days, it was a taboo to be friendly with the opposite sex). So, in some ways, I was above ordinary. The icing on the cake was that I was comfortable in my skin all the time and gave patient hearing to boys and girls alike.
Oh Spring! How gently you ascertain your presence each year and make me crave for the trills and thrills of yore....
A standing ovation and three cheers to the memories of those who helped me believe that “ A few things are forever”.
Otherwise, how and why do I get goosebumps, get intoxicated as the season pokes and prods?
My contemplation needs some elucidation-
"From Inhaling crisp morning air at the advent of spring crackled with excitement as the sun became lousy and took time to rise to spending time with someone special in the shades of orchards during spells of oppressive summer, elongated hours of chats over a cup of hot tea that eventually got cold as small talks prolonged"- are the barest minimum of a great deal of happening.
"Sitting quietly by the riverside, watching hummingbirds darting about the trees till creeping shadows enveloped. Their tiny wings whirred fast like my thoughts, merging into audible exclamations"- are like loud whispers as the brilliant season unfolds its myriad hues.
"The beatific feeling of pouring over knick-knacks in a souvenir shop as a young crowd on Valentine's Day is priceless. Especially when hunting for goodies, surveying over a thousand options as if participating in a holy crusade. What made the event special was- my acquaintance stood rock solid by my side validating togetherness as I carefully chose souvenirs." These are a few instances that I crave to visit again and again in the memory lane.
One fond memory which I adore is the way Sumeet wrapped me in his coat when I started shivering and squirming in the freezing sea air of early spring night during an excursion trip. I had wished for time to halt while basking in the warmth of love. But, time has its own rules and terms.
Many such ventures shroud my psyche when winter starts receding.
Ramesh, my batchmate and friend of yore, came to my assistance often when my aching lungs troubled me during winters. He carried my satchel to school, placed it neatly on the desk. Poured me water and held my palm fondly to allow calmness to settle in. He would insist on carrying my satchel all through the year. But, was not permitted to do so beyond the snowflakes and blizzards.
Sharman was one of the last benchers. He was the wittiest but never scored enough. He had little interest in academics, but his general knowledge was too good. He took part in quizzing events and won many laurels. He was shy and rarely spoke a word, but remembered my birthday year after year. He quietly passed a bunch of pink roses to me and never defaulted . A cute and shy pal, whose diffidence I still cherish. The reminiscence is stubborn. It does not budge even an inch like my pet cat eyeing fish fry, each Sunday. I learned later that he cracked the toughest examination of the country and joined administrative services. He deserved it. I blush at the site of pink roses …even today. The good old days are so overpowering.
Harish, my neighbor and classmate, was the class topper all through. He was never friendly with girls but always stole a glance or two before leaving the classroom. Mom mentioned the other day that he went to the USA for further studies and settled there. But, my mom is not aware of the fact that he wrote letters delineating his fondest feelings, lavishing them with heart emojis. It did not happen once or twice but many times. I never had the inclination to write back. Was it inane on my part not to respond, I still juggle up to find. Did my sanctified silence wilted his interest in me or he curled up tight, and distanced himself suo moto ....I am yet to procure a valid reason for it.
These are the things my contemplative mood often finds solace in. You may find me old fashioned -so be it.I don't mind. For, I strongly believe in 'to each his own"
“Ah! To be in love and be loved-" are such wonderful cascades of emotions. Thank God! I had plenty of them. Rather, I am blessed to be drenched in such a divine perspective to acknowledge each nugget of emotive outpouring. I keep loving and cherish a desire to be loved(keeping fingers crossed) to be in a state of pure bliss.”
Having marched into twilight with ease… mellowed with experience and expertise, having tolerated harsh winters, torrid summers, incessant piercing blows of rains, spring as of now, holds a deep meaning for me, both literally and metaphorically.
Not only because it brings hope, exuberance, strong belief and validation of life, but also for the innumerable sentiments, good times and vibes associated with it.
I become nostalgic, as the first gentle stir of spring smooches me, kisses my demeanor, caresses and fondles my soul. Often, I raise a toast to each bit of nostalgia that engulfs me at the hint of this peachy season, even otherwise.
I pinch myself twice, to get into the feel, to test the truth and its validity. Let me confess-I am a diehard romantic.
“Whether I am living my life? Enjoying it to the brim? Or, just carrying on and surviving?”
The above thoughts keep running round my head at spring's subtle awakening.
Isn't the ponderings amazing!
An emphatic 'yes' from me.
My growth as a human from an egoistic being to all giving, from a mother, onto a grandmother, has given me the finest and fondest memories. Most of them are bunched to the wall of my living room. The vivid captures span from stealing moments from time’s fist with pals, heaping life with indulgences, and procuring attention with dainty strokes. Impressing many and bullying a few others. The list is endless as it captures a gamut of cognitions.
Spring has never sprung a surprise as it has never jumped parole and diligently followed harsh winter every time to appease my soul. I am never disappointed nor careened around the curves for the ultimate feel of the splendid season.
I wait with bated breath to be infused with warmth, and the essence of festivities bringing extended families to fold. Partying, playing cards, fishing, or even the morning walks in dew draped pathways dust off the differences and whine in no time.
The blend of springtime is both exotic and profound to me.
IT WHIPS ME WELL WITH THE PUREST AND FONDEST OF MEMORIES.
My personal opinion is,
WE ARE NOTHING SANS MEMORIES.
They last a lifetime.
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.
Come, dear friend, let’s talk more over a meal
As things stand, the time is right to get back
We’ve endured with courage; with nerves of steel
Come, dear friend…let’s catch up on how we feel.
Little did I think that we’d meet again...Come, my dear friend, let’s take a walk through this deserted space, and walk down memory lane.
Oh, that terrifying day in February! The dreadful scars still linger….
It seemed as if it was yesterday that we walked together to the nearby school. We used to be all ears in Miss Ann’s geography classes as she brought the world into the classroom. What a contented world we lived in. And Ms. Francis’ English lessons. Remember, she encouraged us all to unleash our creative urges through poems, anecdotes, and short stories.
I still remember the short piece you’d written in elementary class:
“Solving puzzles is an activity that all children enjoy.
One evening, Mom prepared a maze and placed Mother Goat
on one end,
and the goat kid on the other.
She demonstrated how one had to find ways through the gaps
on the path,
turn out if there was a block, and find another route to reach
the other side.
Without any hesitation, the three-year-old picked the Mother Goat,
flew it atop the maze and made it land next to the goat kid
and clapped in glee.
Isn’t this thinking out of the box? Is it adults who complicate the simplest of things?”
How Ms. Francis applauded you for that writing. You were always my go-to person for doubts in all subjects. You were such a bright student… And in middle school, how we both enjoyed our respective roles in “The Mittens….” and “Chaff Goby.” From school and from our parents, we understood the importance of family, value of friendships, purpose of caring and sharing and gathered that one was not to cause harm to any creature unless it was a life and death issue.
It seems that these autocratic rulers haven’t had favorable and secure environments when they were children, hence, haven’t understood that life is also about ‘letting live.’
All until…. Sigh!
Suddenly, your family went missing!!
Yes. No sooner than the rumors of the bombing surfaced, my dad bundled us and a few of our belongings and drove as he had never driven before... providentially, we survived and managed to lead a modest life in the company of innocent peasants in a distantly remote town, several hundred miles from here.
From those sons of the soil, we gained insights about simple living; devoid of luxury and gadgets…most importantly, how important it is to protect the earth’s natural resources, and never exploit them…
Under their guidance, we grew flowers and vegetables in small patches, sold them in the nearby markets, and bought food and necessities.
Oh, I do recall your mom’s fascination for flowers; in that tiny cottage, she had a green patch with colored beauties. The humming birds, the butterflies and the bees visited your home…
Yes, she and others learned much more… the simple folks taught us self-sustenance and self-reliance…
The battle is a stalemate… have wars ever resulted in victory for anyone?
Little do these narcissistic rulers know that flowers will continue to bloom, and birds will begin to chirp…and they will go just as the way other arrogant rulers have gone leaving behind
“Wreck, boundless and bare” while the “lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Sadly, they’ve not understood the summum bonum of human birth…
Hmmm… unlike yours, my parents chose not to leave the land that rightfully belongs to us. That morning, we were having breakfast when the convoy passed by. At first, there was nothing to panic, then we heard the firing of machine guns in the distance. Quick as lightning, Dad pushed us all into the basement and into another secret chamber below. We were all cramped in one room. The bombing sounds were still heard, we just prayed that it would get over. Intuitively Mom had stored some foodstuffs in the basement, which came to our rescue.
After what seemed an eternity, the bombing stopped…
Petrified, enraged, and fatigued – yet Dad did not give up his resilient spirit. When he emerged out from the little opening, all around were mangled, rusty vehicles, shrapnel, and rubble. Most of the houses had been razed to the ground, others were partially pierced by bullets. The roof of our ground floor home was partially intact.
Dad boomed: We will not be cowed down! We will rebuild with the support of our friends and well-wishers…
But …. who will help, how do we seek help?
And what if the attack began again?
The Damocles’ Sword gleamed for long… through the spring sunshine, warm summers, colorful autumns and continued into the bleak winters.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
………And never stops at all.”
Other families had chosen to stay back just as we did.
Salvaging the remnants from other buildings, Dad and the other men and women took up the daunting task of rebuilding our homes and lives. Survivors from the underground shelters were located.
First and foremost, the trauma of children had to be tackled. Unfortunately, they were victims of a few callous adults. ‘Calming” and “snuggling” them, and “sharing age-appropriate information.”
Everyone had to learn to cope with the stark reality, which they did in time.
Together, the patriotic elders mobilized funds and manpower and trained the civilians to move on, holding on to the gossamer threads…
We have continued to live, not merely exist... The war is now behind us.
And now, it is such a joy to see you in flesh and blood… on many dark nights, my thoughts raced out to you. Something in me said you were well somewhere…
Pleasantly shocked… not really, though I’m surprised, to see you in this gas station, of all the places…I shudder as I recall how our peaceful existence took such violent turns in the prime of our lives.
Come, dear friend, let’s talk more over a hearty meal…
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
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.
Wispy figures of white floated around him like apparitions and then drifted away into space whispering softly in a language he could not understand. His head felt as if it was stuffed with cottonwool. The ghost like figures that moved in and out, up and down and around somehow had kept him strapped to a flat metal like thing that felt cool and hard against his body. It was good, he thought, to remain fixed to it, because he felt the earth spinning round through space and feared he would fall off the planet otherwise. He could hear the rustle of the blood as it rushed in and out of his brain, like a raging river of red, and the strokes of his heart that sounded like an enormous drum beaten by giant hands. A hard white light from above penetrated his eyelids and entered his brain blinding him. He felt all his muscles were alive in constant motion, like a hissing swarm of snakes under the skin.
**
The elderly man sat on a metal stool by the bed where his son lay motionless, his head swathed heavily in a bandage, several tubes fitted to different parts of his body and connected to a number of electronic devices that let out a constant beeping sound. It had been a week since he was lying there after the NDRF team rescued him from under a pile of dead bodies trapped in the badly dented coach. They had given him up for dead but it was a miracle that he was still breathing. The rescue team had discovered his identity from the Adhar card he had in his wallet and intimated the family. He was taken to the local hospital but later was referred to this hospital. The doctors said he had suffered a brain injury and had little chance of survival. But his mother’s prayers had made him return from the door of death.
A nurse in a white uniform came in and took the readings on the monitoring machines. The elderly man looked expectantly at her but she went out as silently as she had entered without glancing at him.
After an hour or so the doctor strode in followed by the nurse. He looked closely at the figure lying still in the bed, wrapped in white. He said something to the nurse who nodded. ‘How is he, doctor?’ the father of the young man asked anxiety dripping from his voice.
‘Your son is lucky Mr. Sharma. His vital signs have become stable . He is in a semi-conscious state now. Hopefully he will gain full consciousness in a day or two.’ The doctor replied with an assuring smile.
‘Won’t there be any complications?’
‘Everything looks okay as far as his physical response is concerned. But we cannot say how his mind is impacted until he comes back to sense. He had suffered a concussion. It might have affected his memory. But nothing can be said at this moment. We have to wait and watch.’
‘What does that mean, doctor? Will he be mentally unstable?’ the father sounded alarmed.
‘Nothing can be said for sure. He might forget the incidents immediately before and after the accident. Certain time-segments might get erased from his memory.’
‘Permanently?
‘How can it be predicted now? We have to wait, as I said.’ The doctor wandered away to examine another patient. Mr. Sharma sat back on the metal stool and looked at his son, his eyes heavy with unshed tears.
**
Roses … Roses ..everywhere. Red roses, in the colour of blood. It was a jungle of roses.
He wandered aimlessly in a vast patch of a jungle filled with roses. His body felt very light as if he was floating in the air. He touched a big one that looked velvety and very fresh. Something pricked his hand and blood oozed out. Then he saw the thorns, pointed like needles. He let out a muffled cry of pain and all the roses began to swing crazily, and dropped the petals till the ground was carpeted with them. He saw a figure standing at the other end of the jungle. It looked like a girl. She was trying to come to him but the roses turned into a red liquid, blocking her. Suddenly a strong gust of wind began to blow and the waves of red liquid rose in angry surges spraying droplets of red around. The girl opened her mouth to scream. But no sound came. She was bathed in red and as he looked on her body broke into petals of rose, thousands and thousands of them. He tried to call her but he did not know her name. He stepped into the red liquid, but his feet slipped and he fell, smeared all over by the red slime.
His eyes snapped open.
They looked at him anxiously. ‘Call the doctor,’ Mr. Sharma cried. ‘He seems to have come back to sense.’ The nurse who stood by another patient taking his pulse swung on her feet to look at him. ‘Please call the doctor,’ Mr. Sharma urged her. She hurried out of the room. Mrs. Sharma moved close to the bed and called.. ‘Chirag, darling! Say something my baby!’ She whimpered through her sobs.
‘Move away from him, please.’ The doctor cautioned as he strode in. He examined the young man, studied the readings on the monitoring screens for a long time.
‘Chirag,’ Can you hear me?’ he asked in a raised voice.’ ‘Blink your eye lids if you can’
They stared anxiously at him for a breathless moment. Then they saw him blinking his eyes. Almost simultaneously the fingers of his right hand moved.
The doctor turned to look at the worrying family. ‘He has gained consciousness. Do not disturb him at all. Let him rest. The more he rests the sooner he will recuperate. I will be examining him from time to time.’ He called the nurse and gave her some instructions. She nodded obediently.
**
He gazed blankly at the anxious faces leaning over him. There was a glazed look in his eyes. Some of the faces looked familiar. He closed his eyes and wrestled with his memory to place the faces correctly. He opened them again and glanced at the disheveled woman with teary eyes. ‘Ma,’ he mumbled weakly. ‘Yes, my darling!’ the woman broke into copious tears. He looked at the other faces. He recognized his father and his sister. There were two strangers, both of them in white, a man and a woman. He tried to close his eyes, because everybody seemed to be unsteady and shaking like live portraits floating in space. But the man snapped his fingers to draw his attention probably and he looked at the face of the man. The lips of the stranger moved as if he was saying something but it was very indistinct. Then he could hear the stranger. ‘Chirag, can you recognize this man?’ He pointed at his father. Chirag blinked his assent. The performance was repeated with his sister. The doctor raised his face to look at the father. ‘He is recovering nicely. But it remains to be seen how the incident has affected his memory. Let him rest now. Do not disturb him. He nodded at the nurse and brisked out of the cabin.
**
The room was blanched in the light from the big, overhanging bulb when he opened his eyes again. He could hear voices, muffled an unintelligible, around him. But no one was near the bed. It was difficult to know if it was day time or night. He tried to recollect, gathering the random memories that seemed to have scattered in his mind like pieces of a complicated and difficult jigsaw puzzle. It needed much effort and his head began to ache. He let out a soft groan and the nurse who seemed to be waiting and ready, hastened to him. ‘Time for your injection. She loaded a syringe and pushed the needle into his arm. The aching lost its acuteness after a while and he drifted into a sound, comfortable sleep.
**
Mr. Sharma looked at his son who seemed to be sleeping soundly. The tubes and the monitoring machines were removed. But he had to remain under observation for weeks, the doctors advised. They were not sure of the degree of damage his brain suffered on account of the injury and the nature of the resulting amnesia. But he was physically stable now, they said.
**
His head no longer ached. He wanted to go home, to his parents and sister. He failed to understand why he was in this hospital bed when he should have been in his hostel preparing for the civil services. He decided to ask father why they had to put him in a hospital first thing in the morning and went to sleep. But it was evening when he woke up and father was not there by his bedside. And he forgot to ask him when father and mother returned in the morning. The problem was he could not distinguish between the mornings and evenings, and he seemed to have lost count of the days.
He tried hard to remember the incidents of day on which he supposed he would have come here. Suddenly it struck him. It must be the Saturday on which he and his friend Kaushik was returning to the hostel after a group dinner. Kaushik was a novice at driving a two-wheeler. He remembered he had cautioned Kaushik to drive the bike with caution. But Kaushik had laughed. ‘Do not get so worked up. I will not bring any harm to your bike. But the road was slippery because of the rain and the bike had skidded throwing both of them into the pavement. He remembered people gathering around them and talking loudly. He felt his body trembling badly from the nasty fall. He had tried to get up but could not move his leg which seemed to have come under the rear wheel of the bike. He could hear Kaushik calling out his name loudly.
He could not recollect what happened after that as if someone had put a bold full stop there, blocking the flow of memory. He must have passed out, he guessed and was brought to this hospital. But how had he got back here, at his hometown? He was supposed to have been in Delhi. May be his father had got him shifted to this hospital because it was not possible to continue his stay at Delhi. It was difficult to focus. His head began to ache again and he shut his eyes.
He groped under the pillow to find his phone. It was not there. He peered at the bedside table and inspected under the bedcover. The phone was not in either of the places. He wondered if the phone was at home. He must ask father when he returned, he decided and closed his eyes.
‘Where is my phone?’ he asked eagerly when his father came.
‘It is gone, my dear. It was not with you when you were brought here.’ Mr. Sharma said, picking out his words carefully not to stress his son.
‘Someone must have snatched it from the accident spot,’ he said.
Mr. Sharma looked sharply at him. ‘What accident spot?’ he asked warily, not sure what to expect.
‘Where my bike had skidded, obviously. Where else? How is Kaushik by the way? It was all my fault. I should never have let him drive in the first place.’
‘Everything is okay, now. Kaushik is fine too. Do not worry about the phone. We will get another.’
Chirag regarded father fondly. ‘He must have gone through a traumatic time,’ he thought.
**
‘He is connecting the earlier accident to this one. The train hazard is wiped off his memory. So also all the events that had occurred after he had met with the bike accident.’ The doctor said. Mr. Sharma looked helplessly at the doctor. ‘ What do we do now? How long will we have to wait for him to get back it all?’
‘No one can say that. He is in a trauma. It is a tricky issue, this temporary amnesia. He may be able to remember things in a day or two or weeks or even months or he may not remember them at all. Chances are fifty-fifty. Take care of him. Do not mention now about the hazard he had survived by sheer miracle. Ask his friends and others not to try to remind him anything. That will put him under stress. Trying too hard to recollect things might have a harmful impact on his brain. You have to be patient for the time being. You can reveal it slowly when you find him strong enough to take it.’ The doctor advised.
**
He sat by the window in his bedroom, gazing at the street beyond the garden. Nearly a month has passed after he was discharged from the hospital. He was now able to drive the bike. That was one piece of good news in months.
He had reconciled to the fact that he had forgotten certain things because of the head injury he suffered in the bike accident. But a small doubt haunted him. He had had the bike accident around mid-February. Now it was August. Had he been in the hospital all these months? He was getting confused. Was he admitted in the hospital for the second time because of some complicacies developing from the bike accident? what happened in between the two admissions?
The doctor had repeatedly advised him not to think deeply about anything and remain relaxed. He drank a glass of water to calm his nerves.
And he saw them again. The roses, countless roses in red, blooming thickly all around. The air was fragrant from their scents. Chirag was filled with a strange elation. He wanted to move close to the roses, to touch and smell and be engulfed in the velvety red. But the girl appeared at the other edge of the red vista at that moment. She climbed off the two-wheeler she was riding, and walked into the terrain of roses. Chirag could not see the girl clearly since she was at the far end of it, and had a helmet on. He felt a tight band pressing across his chest as he saw the girl moving towards him. He peered into the distance to have a clear view of her, but it was not possible to get it from the spot where he was. The girl moved closer and closer towards Chirag squirming her way through the roses, scratching herself badly by the thorns. He wanted to stop the girl and opened his mouth to call out, but was shocked to discover that he had lost his voice. He stood up abruptly as the girl moved in to the range of a better view and waited in bated breath to have a clear glimpse of her. The girl was about to reach the edge of the rose-tract on Chirag’s side when storm wind began to blow. The roses swayed crazily. The rose bushes got entwined into one another and the flowers, as if slashed by a razor blade, were torn off them. Then they began to swirl above in a spiraling mass of red. The girl screamed wildly as the red vortex sucked her into its center. Chirag closed his eyes and ears tightly.
A few minutes passed. A motorbike vroomed down the street jerking him back to reality. He opened his eyes cautiously. The jungle of roses had vanished. So too the girl. Everything looked normal. Who was that girl? And why were there so many roses, in such a brilliance of red? Why does he see them time and again? Chirag had no answer to that.
He tried hard to remember the months that were erased from his memory. What had happened in those months? His family did not want him to take any stress in trying to recall the past. ‘You will remember them slowly. Do not put much effort. It will harm you more than help by doing so.’ His father and mother would advise.
Random patches of memory floated in and out of his mind as time progressed. He could see a garden filled with trees and flowers and hear a koyal’s cooing. Then suddenly the sky will be overcast and it will start raining. A girl, her face partially hidden under an umbrella would come out from behind a tree and walk out of the gate. She would stop for a brief moment at the gate and turn. Chirag tried to get a look at her face but the umbrella hid it.
There are times he would hear an earsplitting metallic sound like a thousand bullets hitting at the same time a huge wall of iron. It would be followed by the loud screams and wailings of people, and the blare of several automobiles.
The picture of a small shade like structure would come returning to him. A bus will glide in and a girl clutching a stack of books and copies to her chest would climb into it and wave at him. Chirag would struggle to get into the bus but it will roll forward flinging him back to the shade, the girl would hide her face behind the books and giggle.
Scattered, haphazard, amorphous images swimming aimlessly in and across the flow of his thoughts. Each one of them is a piece of a baffling jigsaw puzzle, looking strangely familiar but never falling into the right place.
Another week passed.
Sitting at home all the time was making him claustrophobic. He knew he was now physically strong enough to move about. ‘I may find about the clue to unravel the mysteries of my hidden past outside this house.’ Chirag thought. It took a lot to persuade his parents to let him drive the bike but they agreed in the end. But he was strictly warned to get back home before it got dark.
And so, after more than a month, Chirag drove out of the seclusion of his home to the outside world to explore new meanings of life, to search the key that would open the lock to the closed chamber that held his lost days.
It was a pleasant experience, to move out to the open, to have the feel of the sunshine and the fresh breeze across the face. He was not well conversant with the roads since he used to live in Delhi. But it was his hometown and held a special attraction for him. He drove around for some time, undecided, and then without thinking, swung the bike to another road that looked familiar. He drove slowly along, guided by an unexplainable urge. There was a shade like structure to his left, and the picture of a bus on a circular board was fixed to one of the posts. Must be a bus stop, he guessed. There were a few steel benches inside the shade. At that hour there were no passengers waiting for the bus in the shade. He stopped and looked at the empty benches. He sat astride the bike for a longtime, looking around, not sure what was he waiting for and then moved away from the place. He took a turn and drove along a wide road. He drove nonstop for half an hour or so, and noticed the traffic was thinning gradually. There was a restaurant and an ice cream parlour on the left side that looked familiar. He stopped by the ice cream parlour and looked around uncertainly. A young man came out, his face beaming. ‘It is a longtime since you visited here last, sir. Were you not in the town?’ he asked. Chirag looked closely at the young man, trying to recognize him, eager to ask him how did he know him, but decided against it. It was a queer experience, he thought, to stand facing someone you do not know saying he knows you. The young man waited expectantly for an order. Chirag asked him to get a chocolate ice cream, just to escape the embarrassment. ‘Chocolate?’ The young man looked surprised. ‘But you always preferred the strawberry flavour,’ he said. ‘Yes, but now I like the chocolate flavoured ice cream. Get me one, please.’ He said, not interested to linger on the subject. The young man regarded him briefly and nodded. He went inside and brought him the ice cream. Chirag was not keen at having an ice cream at that time but he finished it just because he did not want to make the young man suspicious. He paid for the ice cream and drove off. The sun had set. It was getting dark. Chirag decided to go back home.
**
He lay in the bed, his gaze fixed at an invisible point in the ceiling ruminating over the incidents of the day. Why was he automatically drawn towards that small bus stop? Is it connected in some way to his past life? Then there was the young man in the ice cream parlour. Chirag was sure he did not know the young man, but the young man knew him. He even knew Chirag’s choice ice cream flavour. How? When did he visit the ice cream parlour? It was all so very disturbing. The doctor had strictly advised him not to overthink. He took a pill which the doctor had said, he could use to calm down his jittery nerves. A little after sleep overcame him.
**
His head was heavy when he woke up in the morning. But there was a restlessness in him that urged him to go out exploring. It was early morning and he doubted if the ice cream parlour was open at that hour. He was urged by an irresistible desire to inquire from the young man about his earlier visits, to know more about the days that had gone into oblivion.
He moved out after taking his breakfast promising his mother that he would return by lunch time. But he did not drive straight to the parlour. It was at the other end of the town and it took nearly half an hour to reach there. He wondered what was the need for him to visit a shop so far away just to have an ice cream. It was odd.
He drove around for a while. Suddenly, as if led on more by an instinct than conscious wish, he turned the bike to a road that was lined by tall trees on both sides. There were not many people on the road. Nor were there many shops or office buildings along it. He drove along till he reached a sharp bend to the right. He swung the bike into the bend. He saw a large arched entranceway. Boldly embossed and painted on the arch, was the name of the institution. ‘Government College of Arts.’ Chirag let his gaze travel beyond the entranceway. A gravelled path led to the main building of the college. Groups of boys and girls in college uniforms, most of them carrying sling bags over their shoulders were moving about the campus. Chirag stopped by the entranceway and looked around, puzzled why the place appeared vaguely familiar to him. Students were moving in and out of the entrance way. Chirag felt awkward. He hoped, he did not know why, to see a known face but there was none. He started his bike and moved off the spot.
**
The next stop was the ice cream parlour at the end of the town.
The parlour was crowded by young men and women. The young man whom he had met the previous day gave him a welcoming smile. ‘Would you have a chocolate ice cream, sir? Or any other flavour?’ He waited for Chirag to make his order. Chirag smiled broadly at him. ‘It has been indeed a long time since I came here. I was not here. When was it I last visited your parlour?’ Chirag asked trying to sound casual, careful not to rouse any suspicion in the boy’s mind. The boy thought for a brief moment. ‘It was in the month of May, sir. Last week of May. You and madam had come together. I had served you cup ice creams. You had given me a twenty-rupees tip.’
This was strange. Which madam the young man was talking about? Did he visit the parlour with some girl? Who was she? He had no way to know. The waiter boy might be suspicious if he asked more about it. He decided to let the matter drop at that.
He had the ice cream, made the payment, gave a tip to the young man, and left. ‘Come again sir,’ the young man called from behind.
**
Chirag took out his phone from the pocket and checked the time. There was enough time left for the lunch hour. The weather was pleasant. A gentle wind ladened with the wet fragrance of monsoon rustled through the leaves of the trees the road was lined with. The fields that stretched beyond the edges on either side of the road were lush green. He looked up. There was no sunshine. Grey clouds sailed merrily across the sky. The cool breeze lifted his spirit. He decided to drive forward, and enjoy the blissful serenity around.
He spotted the park to his right after a five minutes-drive down the partially deserted road. Without thinking, he pulled up in its front, and getting down walked towards the gate. It was a big park, but was tastefully designed and well looked after. To the left of the entrance there was a cabin like structure with a sloping roof, its incline extending over the small porch in its front. A man in the uniform of a security guard sat in a straight-backed chair, his eyes glued to the screen of a mobile phone. A wooden table stood to his left on which there were some notebooks and a sheaf of paper. A stone, that was kept on the notebooks and papers, served the purpose of a paperweight. The man cast him an indifferent glance as he entered the park and then went back to watching the mobile screen.
Chirag moved inside, looking here and there, impressed by the way the park was maintained. There were big leafy trees along the walking track and around, and swings and stone benches painted glossily in white, orange and green under the trees. At the far end of the park there was an open gym fitted with several equipment for physical workout.
The park was almost empty at that time except for the gardeners who tended and watered the plants. A couple of labourers worked at a seedbed with a soil sifter, and another one was cutting the grass with a pair of gardening scissors.
The environment was familiar. He seemed to know his way around the place. Chirag wondered if he had ever come here earlier. He seemed to know the place well, had seen everything there were before. He even knew which area in the park was the most secluded.
He stepped past the gardeners into a shady spot in the depth of the park, partially hidden by a group of topiary plants. There was a bench painted in green and white. Chirag sat down. He felt at peace, sitting there, in the silence of the solitude, listening to the soft murmur of the leaves. A lone koyal, that had perhaps outstayed its visit cooed from a nearby tree. There was a melancholic lilt in its voice and it filled his heart with a strange sadness. But the restlessness of the previous day was gone. The soft breeze caressed his tired limbs and lulled him to sleep. He dosed off.
The phone rang, jerking him out of sleep. It was his mother. She sounded worried. ‘Where are you son? It is after one o’clock. I am waiting for you. Come soon.’
He got to his feet. The koyal was still there repeating at intervals the melancholic note. He felt mysteriously connected to the place. He decided to return to the place the next day and moved out to the road, to the place where he had parked his bike.
He drove to the park the next day, and the day after and again after a gap of a couple of days. He felt more and more drawn to the place after each visit. He thought the security guard, like the waiter at the ice cream parlour would recognize him had he visited the place earlier. But there was no sign of recognition in the security guard’s face. The young waiter at the ice cream shop had mentioned a ‘madam’. Who was she? Chirag racked his brain to remember but drew a blank. It was not possible to inquire from the waiter without raising his suspicion.
And why did the park at the far end of the town, as if by some inconceivable magical power, pulls him towards it?
It puzzled him.
But he did not stop visiting the park. He felt restful and calm there, filled with a contentment he had never known before.
**
It rained hard that afternoon. Chirag was about to start for the park when the rain came accompanied with a strong wind. It was sunset time when it stopped raining. Chirag dropped the plan and sat down by the window. The air that carried the scent of the post-rain wetness had a deep-set pathos in it. it made him depressed.
He decided he would drive to the park early next morning.
**
The park was crowded with the morning walkers and joggers at that time. Kids were playing at the merry-go-round, the seesaw, the swings and the slides in the playground area. It was not so peaceful as it used to be at the later part of the morning. Chirag made his way to the bench amidst the topiary plants and sat down. He took out his new mobile phone and studied the social media sites of his choice. Two girls of around six or seven, giggling happily, each carrying what looked like paper on which some picture was drawn, ran to the spot where he sat. They sat down on a nearby stone bench and looked at the pictures. ‘This one is better than yours, ‘ one of them said. ‘Mine is better,’ the other protested. ‘Show it to me,’ the girl who looked a bit older than the other tried to pull the paper from the hands of her friend. ‘No,’ the younger girl squealed and snatched her hand away and lifted it high, to keep the paper out of reach. Chirag cast a cursory glance at the paper the girl held above her head. And his heart gave a lurch. Drawn on the paper was a beautiful red rose, on a stalk that sported two young leaves painted in green. He felt his head spinning. He knew the picture and the person who painted it. Vague patches of memory, blurry and indistinct, sliding out as if from a mystery-montage, began to drift around, frantically struggling to move to the right space. He was sure now that he had painted the picture. But when? And how did it reach this place? Who had brought them here? Questions and questions, several of them, without answers. He could feel the sweat beads on his forehead and behind his ears. He stood up and moved to the bench where the girls were sitting. His legs were unsteady and his breath came in irregular gasps.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asked them pointing at the pictures. His voice was a croaking whisper. The girls looked up at him, wide eyed. But they did not say anything. ‘Where did you get the pictures?’ he repeated, running out of patience. ‘From the guard uncle,’ one of the girls said and ran away from the place, her friend at her heels.
**
Chirag returned to his bench, shaking badly. He waited for his legs to get steady and his breathing normal, and then moved towards the guard’s cabin. The security guard was in his chair watching something in his mobile phone. He regarded the disheveled Chirag who walked clumsily towards the cabin, curiously. Chirag waited for a moment before speaking, trying to regain his composure. He was not sure if he could trust his own voice.
‘I saw two little girls playing there,’ he said pointing towards the depth of the park. ‘They had a couple of papers, a red rose was painted on each. On asking they told me that you gave them the paintings. Where did you get those paintings of the roses?’
The security guard stared at Chirag, puzzled.
‘Someone visiting the park perhaps had forgotten them here. The guard who works here the day shift might have found them and brought them here. They were on this table when I arrived in the night. The girls saw them in the morning. They asked me for the pictures. I had no reason to decline.’ He paused and looked questioningly at Chirag.
‘What is so special about them?’ He asked.
‘Who had left them here? Do you know him?’ Chirag asked anxiously not caring to reply the guard.
‘I wouldn’t know sir. I came here at about eleven last night. I do the night shift here. Perhaps the other guard would know.’
‘When will he come?’ Chirag was impatient.
‘Not till eleven, sir. We both are new appointees here. We work in rotation. He, from eleven in the morning to eleven in the night and I, the other way round, from eleven in the night to eleven in the morning.’
Chirag checked the time in his phone. It was only nine. There were still two more hours before the other guard arrived. He took out a fifty rupee note from his wallet and handed it to the guard. ‘Please get me those paintings from the girls. They are very important for me,’ he requested. It might be the sincerity in Chirag’s voice or his distraught looks, or the money, but the guard looked influenced. He nodded and moved into the deep inside of the park.
Chirag stood waiting, his thoughts racing, crazy and directionless.
The guard returned after a few minutes with the papers. ‘It took some effort. But I managed to coax the girls to part with them.’ He said smiling broadly. He handed the pictures to Chirag.
He decided to get back home and return after having lunch. His mother would be worried if he remained out of home till long. He folded the papers and put them in his pocket. Nodding his thanks to the guard he came out of the park. He could sense the curious gaze of the guard fixed on his back.
**
Chitra counted the paintings for the third time. There were fifty-one of them. But now there were only forty-nine. Where are the rest two? She had treasured them securely in a folder. They were the only mementos of Chirag she had with her and were priceless. She valued them more than her life. The paintings of the roses somehow, filled the grey emptiness in her. Her lips parted in a doleful smile as she remembered the painting of the rose he had gifted to her for the first time, and the lines written under the rose,
When I saw her for the first time that day
A red rose bloomed in my garden of grey;
She was feeling desperate now. Where had she lost the pictures? Not in the PG department of her subject in the university, she was sure of that. Then she remembered. Must be in the park. She visited the park most of days, after her classes were over and sat on the bench amidst the topiary plants till sunset, ruminating over the sweet moments she had spent with Chirag there. She carried the folder containing the paintings with her to the university, and to the park, not willing to part with them. She would take out the paintings and read the poems again and again, and tears would stream down her eyes.
It was more than two months after the train hazard that snatched Chirag away from her.
She was coming out of the trauma very slowly, and the corroding pangs had lost a bit of their acuteness, but the passing time had not helped any to fill the vacuum in her caused by the loss.
**
She remembered clearly that she had all of them with her, securely kept in the folder, when she last visited the park. It was on the day the storm came. She had taken them out of the folder when the strong wind began to blow. She was sure that the wind had blown them away. They must be lying somewhere in the park, provided the sweeper had not thrown them away. She hoped to God that the pictures would be still lying under the bench or somewhere near it, out of the sight of other visitors.
She would go to the park today after the classes and inquire from the guard, she decided.
**
Chirag took out the folded papers from his pocket in the seclusion of his bedroom. He did not have any doubt now that he had painted the roses and written the lines too. He read and re read the short poems under both the paintings.
The poem is a rose that blooms for you
In the garden of my love,
Soft and bright, like a passion sweet
It smiles in its red orb;
There was another:
Not raindrops but they are the tears
The lovelorn sky sheds,
When they touch its drooping petals
The rose also weeps in red;
The lines of the second poem were smudged, as if someone has wiped away a drop of water that might have accidentally fallen on them.
The disjointed pieces of the puzzle were stumbling into place, slowly, haltingly. But the image in the puzzle was still wrapped in a haze of smoke. Then, there was that girl on the outside edge of the jungle of the roses, and he was sure that he knew her, closely and intimately. Her face was blurred, making recognition difficult.
What was the smudge on the poem? A drop of water? A drop of tear??
He did not know why but the picture of the roses and the poems filled him with a deep sense of loss. His heart felt heavy as if he carried a century old sorrow there, and his eyes brimmed with tears.
**
It was after two when he returned to the park. The previous guard was gone. There was another one, who stood in the small porch looking into the park. He turned as he heard Chirag opening the front gate. ‘It is hot in the park now, sir.’ He said smiling politely. He appeared to be an amicable character. Chirag took out the papers and showed it to the guard. ‘Did you find these?’ ‘Yes, the guard answered, looking a bit surprised. ‘What….’ Chirag did not wait to listen to him. ‘Where did you find them? Who had brought them here? His voice rose a pitch higher in excitement.
‘A madam comes here often. She sits alone for a longtime on a bench there,’ he pointed towards the topiary plants in a distance. ‘I have seen her more than once looking at such pictures. She was here the day the storm came, leafing through a bunch of pictures like these. Perhaps these two were blown away by the wind and she had not taken note of it.’
Chirag listened intently, his eyes staring into the guard’s, a shiver creeping into his nerves.
‘Does she come here every day?’ his voice was scarcely above a whisper.
‘She comes often, and at a particular time, about three thirty in the afternoon.’ The guard answered. There was an odd gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
‘She was not here yesterday. I think she will turn up today. She is a frequent visitor of this place. You may meet her if you wait till that time,’ the guard added, trying to be helpful.
‘Yes, I think I should do that.’ Chirag said and turning, strode into the inside of the park, leaving the guard staring at his back.
**
Chitra arrived at a quarter past three and moved towards the guard’s cabin.
‘Hello there.’ She called looking at the guard’s cabin. No one answered. She was about to step on to the porch when she saw the guard approaching from inside the park.
‘I was here day before yesterday.’ She said without a prelude when the guard neared. ‘I had some pictures with me and I was putting them in a folder when the storm wind blew. Some of them were blown away in the wind. Have you come across them by any chance? They are really important for me.’
‘Were they pictures of roses?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Chitra nodded excitedly. ‘Do you have them with you?’
‘I had. But a young man had taken them away just now. He too said they were important. It beats me what is so special about the pictures.’ The guard said.
‘Young man? What young man? Do you know him?’ Chitra asked desperately.
‘Do not worry madam,’ the guard said quickly, moved by her anxiety. ‘He is still inside the park. You may find him by the topiary plants.’
Without waiting, Chitra turned on her heels and brisked into the park.
**
Chirag sat in a bench and looked ahead at the path leading to the spot amidst the topiary plants. His heart was beating fast. Half an hour passed.
He saw a girl approaching. She looked vaguely familiar.
And the truth struck him like a bolt of lightning. It was the same girl outside the terrain of roses.
The girl, now without her helmet on, was moving slowly towards the bench Chirag sat on.
Chirag sprang to his feet. ‘Chitra!!!’ He cried out hoarsely.
Chitra stopped dead, and stared ahead of her.
Then she ran towards him, flinging her sandals away, her hair blowing crazily about her face, tears rolling down her eyes.
He trembled violently and his head reeled.
He lurched forward to get closer to the figure of the girl running towards him.
All the elusive pieces, now out of the smoke haze, hurtled to their places in a blink, making it a whole and bright picture.
He stumbled and fell into the embrace of Chitra, sliding down and down into the luminous alley of his missing past.
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)
RESOURCE MOBILISATION ( SERVICES)
"Consecrate your life to the realisation of something higher and broader than yourself and you will never feel the weight of passing years ."
These lines of Mother always make me think of doing something differently .
Having stayed in bungalows for many years after marriage developed a habit of not becoming very social. After coming to Bangalore we stayed in a gated community where atmosphere is very different. Moreover doing a special service like this, which I had never imagined in my wildest thought, is altogether a different experience.
20 days prior to Rathayatra in a pleasant evening ,we four, me, my husband , our daughter and son in law were discussing in a lighter mood celebration of Rathayatra in our complex where it has never been celebrated in the last thirteen years . My husband suggested to do it in a smaller scale . But on the contrary my daughter and son in law wanted to make it big. But where from Lord will come and where from money will come, were two big questions ?
A meeting was organised among odia community and few other devotees, to discuss about the implementation of the idea . Very few attended. Apart from arrangement of celebration , collection of fund was main topic of discussion along with where from Lord will come.
Somehow through some source our daughter managed to get some assurance from a committee from where Lord can come . The place is 30 km away from our society complex. And they would provide pujariji along with Lord who would prepare Anna bhoga and other bhoga for the Lord .
Regarding fund ,the younger group including my daughter suggested to keep donation box in each tower so that whoever will desire can donate. Somehow the idea did not appeal to me . I mentioned my view point of collection by going door to door. Many objected because of previous experiences during Ganesh ustav, Holi and Lohri collection. But the time was too short. Organising sponsorship were not practically possible. Only option was left to touch each door since there are around 3000 flats in 23 towers. A good amount can be collected, that was our expectation. My daughter was still not in favour of door to door collection . Then she gave an idea of inviting people to join by giving them a small packet of prasadam and a booklet containing awareness about Rathayatra. In the process if people feel like, they can contribute. But still there was reluctance among many. But somehow I wanted to start as early as possible because of the time constraints. Many warned me by saying " you don't know the behaviour of the people since you have never collected before.” For the shake of Lord any kind of misbehaviour is acceptable to me" I told.
At the first instance 1000 booklet were printed , 2000 khaza prasadam purchased and approval for door to door collection was taken from the Managing Committee. Since no one showed any keenness for collection drive , I wanted to start first alone. My daughter suggested to take my grandson along for assistance. But I did not want to disturb him since he is in class 10 and his examination was around.
12 days prior to Rathayatra day, at 8’O clock in the evening after dinner
I started my debut venture of collection with 40 prasadam packets, 20 booklets, a receipt book and a pen to write name and donation amount .
I was little apprehensive . But what a pleasant surprise !! The apprehension of misbehaviour turned in to a warm welcome from the first person from whom I collected. First day I could do two floors from our tower. Next day 4 floors. On the process collection was Rs 22000 in two days. My husband posted this collection amount in rathayatra volunteer group though against my wish because I never wanted to show off. But this post in the group acted as stimulant. Couple of elderly ladies along with many young ladies came forward to do the service. Few young ladies requested me to teach how to approach people and few other wanted to assist me for the remaining days of collections.
Subsequently it has become a competition like who has collected more though a healthy one.On the
process we collected a huge amount, little more than 15 lakhs. Which was totally unexpected.
In this door to door fund raising service I came across many types of people ( Majority were warm and hospitable ), so many beautifully decorated flats. In few flats it appeared as if I am in a different world. I could sense the harmony between space and decor . Few people were so warm and hospitable that an atmosphere of divinity and satyug was felt . Few ladies who assisted me were not only very enthusiastic but energetic too. Very sweet and soft as well
Apart from fund raising seva my daughter put me in two more services. One was chhapan bhog preparation and the other was bhajan singing. Since Lord stayed for nine days, a cultural programme was organised in the weekend followed by dinner prasadam for more than 1500 people. A few senior Government officials were invited as Chief Guest and special guests
In cultural programme bhajan singing was a part. A team of 10 ladies were there in the group. After listening to voice quality of mine the group suggested me to give a solo performance besides a chorus. What a great pleasure indeed !!to sing before the Lord .
The third seva for me was
chapan bhog offerings which was done in two occasions, first on Rathayatra day when Lords were welcomed with chhapan bhog and second time on the cultural programme day. In chhapan bhog 20 items were dry fruits and fruits . Rest 36 were cooked ones. To make the bhoga 4 swastik kitchen were available only among volunteers including mine and my daughter's. So I did 6 items like , kheera gaza, kakara, podapitha both salt and sweet malpua and suji manda etc. each in both the occasions. In addition, I prepared suji halwa around 10 kg for evening bhoga on two different occasions, which was distributed among the devotees who used to come during evening arati time all the 9 days.
Many volunteers worked tirelessly in different sevas to make it a great success .After the bahuda day many people of our society felt a vacuum in the atmosphere. They talked about their nice feelings of 9 days to our volunteers .
While doing these services specifically while making chapan bhog i was remembering my mother who once out of sheer sadness told me "my daughter has joined ICS ( Indian Cooking Service) ". Now I am smiling
at myself thinking probably Lord has designed my life in such a manner that one day I would serve Him like this way. No wonder , I felt privileged .
What an amazing experience it was altogether!!
,
Sunanda Pradhan is an enterprising lady who keeps interest in various facets of life. She wants to be amidst nature whenever given an opportunity, whether it is on top of a calm mountain or beside a tranquil sea beach. Perhaps those moments help her in expressing herself the best. She likes to spend her time taking care of her balcony garden and reading books on philosophy. She also enjoys the fun moments spent with her two grandsons and teaches them the values of life.
The noisy Loud speaker was echoing about the new play of Sankhashubhra Opera Troupe "Chhanchana nela suaku teki" (Eagle snatched away the parrot) and about its chulbuli hot and bold actress Munni, who is the cynosure of this play. Double shows every night, during last seven nights were staged, yet there was a long serpentine queue in front of the advance booking counter. Huge hoardings of Munni stood tall in every square of the city, besides continuous advertisement in OTT platform, display of posters on every strategic street walls, review of her performance in all leading newspapers, and her bold performance becoming a hot topic of discussion in every nukkad tea stalls.
Munni does not care about all the gossips about her. She says people look for blemishes even in the moon and those having name and fame only get defamed. Actor’s job is to act and entertain the audience and it is the job of the critics to criticise. Each one’s job is defined differently.
Munni is the queen of the stage, empress of audience's heart . Munni's sublime presence has intoxicating effect on the audience. As she crosses the green room and puts her steps on the stage, like a butterfly moving among flowers, she gets buried with huge applause. The delusion of mirage she creates around her acting, takes the audience to a different world. Spectators forget, for a moment the reality of their existence and pains of the daily grind of their mundane living. Life looks brighter under colourful bright stage lights. Professional actress Munni’s superb modulation sets the stage on fire. When Munni moves around the stage with her super duper dancing numbers, the eyes of the audience forget to blink.
Munni's magical acting skill is so unique, it creates an ethereal world for the audience. On some day her royal gait as princess of Kashi, on another day Tulsi like cultured veiled daughter-in-law or as queen pimp’s favourite dancing girl, college beauty or mafia queen, she reigns supreme on the stage. No sooner she sets her feet on the stage, Munni forgets her mundane existence and sinks in and blends with the character. Whether it is the artificial love appeal of the hero, coated with sweet lies while his arms embraces her or co- actor’s false glycerine soaked tears or excited high pitched dialogue of the co-actor, all look so typical to her. She sometimes feels that life is a sum total of many such dramas.
Co-stars have started crowding the green room for the next show. Tonight Munni is not feeling well and lacks any enthusiasm whatsoever. Something is bothering her.
She has not stepped into this profession by choice. As if she was born to act and does not imagine world outside acting. Mother Nalini was a successful professional actress of her time. Love of acting dragged her mother to the world of theatre. During her acting career, she fell in love with Alok, who was a renowned front line artist of his time. Further, Alok worked outside the theatre for cine-advertising and modelling. After marriage Nalini and Alok had seen many dreams together. But ambitious Alok’s carefree extravagant lifestyle always used to cross the perimeters of his income, major part of it spent in drinking and smoking. He used to say cigarettes and liquor adds to strengthen his acting. With passing time this became the cause of family feud, that slowly turned to family violence, by the time Munni was born. Every night Alok abused and tortured Nalini and it soon crossed all limits. After three years of marriage, Hemant Sarkar, the owner of a Yatra Troupe, took away Nalini with him, putting vermilion on her forehead, along with two-year-old Munni. Hemant used to bestow her love on little Munni who used to call Hemant “Baba”. Besides her studies, dance master used to come and teach dancing to Munni. Hemant’s harem was full with many such actresses. He used to take care of everyone but Nalini was special. Soon, Nalini became the lead heroine of the Yatra company. With support of Hemant, Munni first became a child artist and gradually transformed to a dancing star.
Everything was fine as long as Hemant Baba was alright. His tireless hard work and passion, management capability made his Yatra Troupe a business success. But diagnosis of blood cancer of Hemant at a time, when there was steep fall in company’s business was a spoiler. Hemant’s sons were useless and were drowned in alcohol and drugs. The treatment expenses were just too heavy for Hemant. Many lead artists left the troupe. Downfall of Hemant forced Munni and Nalini to look for other sources of livelihood.
Wandering from one troupe to another finally they landed in Sankhashubhra.
“You have not yet been ready with your make-up for so long today? Generally You get ready early, what happened today?” Pinky asked Munni.
Munni remained silent.
A mountain of suppressed emotions and anxieties made her breathless. To whom will she go now and share her emotions? Who is there to lend support? She experiences only artificiality in every relationship.
Nalini is getting older. With changing times the taste of audience is changing fast. She is no longer able to attract audience and rarely Nalini gets any role as dark circles around her eyes became prominent. Slowly due to hearing impairment she is not able to listen to finishing line of her co-stars. So far she never felt the necessity of having her own house as the troupe was always on the move. Now Nalini has no roof upon her head. Munni took a small house on rent, for mother. All day long Nalini stares at the salt-soaked walls and roof of the house & waits for Munni through out the night.
Pinky reminded “Are you not going to perform today?” She informed the director is informed that Munni is not yet make-up ready.
Munni took a heavy breathe and a feeling of helplessness overtook her. She smelled endless hunger following her everywhere, experienced artificiality like paper flowers and broken promises of love. As if so many vultures are waiting for an opportunity to snatch her flesh. Munni felt whether she will be able to do justice to her role to-night.
In her feeling of helplessness she decides today she will shed all artificiality and turn to her soulmate actor Ballabh, and tell him that her love is not artificial like sword fights in plats, nor fake like smiles or tears they display on stage. When Ballav takes her in his arms on stage and delivers his dialogues, she always desired Ballabh take her closer to him and she keep staring at her love. Munni could see in her Nalini eighteen years back.
Will Ballav become another Alok?
Director sent message to find out whether Munni is make-up ready or not? The opening instrumental music for the show was playing in the background. Munni enters the make-up room in a hurry and was ready by the time the director arrives.
Suddenly Munni felt as if the distance from green room to stage has become farther, the coloured lights fading and her feet getting heavier, her head spinning and the earth under her feet moving.
Ballabh came and enquired "Are you ready?”
A little "yes" with a nod came from her and the next moment they both were on the stage. Munni froze for a moment, and in the next second, there was a fluent flow of her dialogue. A round of thunderous applause greeted her. Munni couldn’t know whether the audience appreciated the viewpoint of the playwright or is it for the wholesome entertainment of the play or for her acting skills.
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
The luscious, ubiquitous tomatoes have always painted every kitchen red with their abundance. The more of these in food impart the needed tanginess and a deeper, visually appetising red colour, making people smack their lips in anticipation. But never get fooled by such colours in a budget restaurant. You see, it’s a fantasy world. If there was a slight hint of tomatoes in your soups and gravies before, it might be just the colour now! If in the past, tomatoes were stored in open ventilated baskets in our kitchens to be consumed frequently, it now fights for space in the refrigerator, to be used sparingly.
A race has begun. Vegetables are inching toward the price of fruits. Once upon a time, it was the onions that fought and rose as a strong contender! They have retired for now with no imminent threats of a comeback. However, the jolt from the fast moving and perishable tomatoes is hard to digest. What could be some possible outcomes of this situation?
Many Indian households may still not afford fruits, but satisfy their minimalistic needs with some seasonal vegetables, tomatoes being on the top of that list. Despite scientific explanations, one remains confused whether this wonder product is a fruit or a vegetable. It is categorised as a fruit but consumed as a vegetable! But now that vegetables and fruits are competing neck and neck on price, it makes the choice between fruits and vegetables easier with simple unapologetic reasoning—if we have to pay such a high price for daily vegetables, we might as well try out the hitherto unaffordable fruits now priced at par! Thanks to the unabated price-rice inducing people to voluntarily adopt a self-psychological arm twisting tactic, catapulting all into the affordability bracket.
Consuming fruits have fringe benefits too. We don’t have to spend time cooking, waste fuel, clean dishes and so on. All we need is a knife. Sometimes not even that. But, wash them well we must! For that is another story alien to none! I am referring to pesticides, cosmetic polishing of fruits, chemical ripening and the likes. Besides, if business houses can resort to cutting corners when prices of raw materials go high, shouldn’t so a homemaker, who in reality is a top-notch fund manager not only looking for cost-effective quality alternatives but also believes in enjoying less stressful times outside the kitchen!
And there is more, such as the fantastic possibilities of slimming down, and the extra dose of micronutrients granting new radiance to the hair, eyes and skin. So how about using this adversity to get on to a fruit diet at least for one meal a day? Just as mad-fad diets don’t last long, good and bad things don’t last for long either. And rest assured, the price of tomatoes won’t stay unfriendly for long. Till then, we might also strengthen our friendship with the not-so-healthy ketchup, perhaps that’s cheaper! Or, should we be warned that this partial goodness too shall pass, becoming price sensitive! Well, what might trigger the next goodness or madness is the eternal quest of true seekers.
The search is on. Only, the waiting seems endless! Patiently going with the flow for one’s own mental sanity may not be a bad idea but raising one’s voice for better price stability is a good idea.
PS: What if we grow tomatoes at home, even if only in small quantities in our balconies for our personal needs and minimise the purchase of this vegetable, er, fruit! It will, in a way, be similar to our independence struggle, where under Mahatma’s instructions we spun our own khadi to oust the expensive mill-made, imported cloth of the colonialists. Will it keep the prices of tomatoes in check?!
Starting as a blogger and poet, Sumitra Kumar became a writer for a lifestyle magazine called Women Exclusive. Her book, Romance with Breath - the story of aspiring Indians through simple poems - is listed on Amazon. She is a recipient of ‘The Pride of Inner Wheel District 323 Award’ for contributing to English Writing and Blogging.
Sumitra’s career spells saw her as a software programmer, flight attendant in Air India, and later, as a fashion boutique owner and futures & options trader. She presently makes her home in Chennai, working with her husband as directors in their packaging and automation business. You can reach her at sumitrakumar.com and follow her on http://www.instagram.com/writer.poet.sumitra
She was the daughter of nature, full of hills, ravines, valleys, creeks, streams, forests. She was flowing down like an innocent stream crossing the obstacles coming on her way. Her tone was as sweet as a cuckoo, though we were not understanding her native language. Her behavior was as modest as a holy cow in normal situations. She was winning the hearts of people of our city in her innocent simplicity.
She had no shelter, no clothing, no food, no kin of her own. Whatever others were giving her she was eating and drinking.
Her dangerous, sorrowful circumstances, and situations had made her bear all the hardships of life. She was fearless in abnormal situations.
Whatever she had was lost in her native place in communal riots and violence. She had nothing to lose anymore. Her body was her only property.
She was swimming across the river and climbing any tree, maybe mango, black berry, guava, or coconut. But she was not plucking or taking more than her immediate need. So no one was barring her or restricting her for anything.
Her body was accustomed to rain, sun and cold…nothing to worry her.
She was loving and affectionate to all of us.
But she was violent like Goddess Durga against injustice, misbehavior, rape, and molestation.
She was daring, running fast, and strong enough to fight for right. She was roaming like a wayward, and sleeping anywhere. Day and night was the same for her.
We were curious to know about her. But she was not disclosing her secrets, though we were coming closer to her as her friends.
One evening, I asked her, "Won't you like to eat with us in our home? I have no sister. My Mom would love you as her daughter."
She said sorrowfully, "When my home and parents were burned to death, and my brother was shot dead in front of me, while he was rescuing me from molestation; why would I go to your home to eat from your mother's hand to be her adopted daughter?"
"Won't you wear a dress kept for you by my Mom ?" I asked her.
"When I was stripped off, why would I wear other's ?" She said sorrowfully.
"For decency, modesty, decorum and social standards, you have to wear a saree or dress" I told her.
"Are not Naga Babas or Digambar Jain Sanyasis bare? Are you not worshiping them, my dear friend?" She asked me.
"Shall I worship you, when I treat you as my friend?"
She smiled saying, "God has made you good. I am fortunate to get you as my friend in spite of my nothingness. But I can't understand why God has made them goons and antisocials ?" She asked me.
"Who are they ?" I asked her.
Her smiling lips were shut. Her eyes were flooded with tears that were flowing down like an innocent stream from the hilltop.
To distract her attention, I said, "Won't we go by car to eat together in a hotel."
Hearing about the car, her eyes turned red. Her fists and hands were looking like hammers to break anything. Her breathing was stormy. I could understand her anger and anguish.
To calm her down, I brought her to my arms affectionately, and said, "I am now hungry. Aren't you? Won't we walk to a roadside dhaba near the river, away from the city to have our roti and dalma?"
She nodded her head silently. We were walking ahead cutting across the traffic.The city was left behind and we were approaching the dhaba near the river.
Darkness was thick and menacing. Nothing was visible. We heard screaming. She was lending her ears to it earnestly. She stopped walking abruptly. I looked at her. She was looking ferocious.
Again, the screaming was repeatedly reaching our ears.
All of a sudden, she started running like lightning in the direction of the screaming which was coming from the bushes of the river bed.
My legs started running following her, though I was lagging behind her. When I reached there, I was dumbstruck to see what was happening there. She was fighting with four goons with all her force to save a girl who was screaming, crawling and clamoring for help.
I asked her, "Shall I call the police?"
"Don't call the police. They may support the goons from their ulterior motives. You please take care of the unknown girl shivering in fear. I am sufficient to control and finish the goons, who were trying to rape a poor girl." She told me in her forceful voice.
She was fighting ferociously. Where she was getting energy, power, and force was unknown to me. She was also a stranger to us. We know nothing of her name, identity, or whereabouts. She was also fighting for an unknown poor helpless girl ... .For what?
But I was astonished to see her judo, karate, and wrestling skills while fighting with the antisocial elements to save the molested girl.
She was in an advantageous position as the goons were too drunk and too excited by her glamorous, amorous beauty. They were more interested to enjoy her body than to fight with her. They were trying to capture her beautiful body. Her legs and hands were moving like lightning and striking them beyond their imagination; and their hands and legs were breaking and they were laying flat on the sand being wounded and injured.
In the meantime, we heard police whistle, blank fire sounds, and torch lights were focused on us. The police were followed by people and journalists.
The goons were crying, crawling and clamoring for help, and saying to the police earnestly, "Please save us from that Durga. Otherwise, she may kill us. First, arrest her, please; or else she may break our bones to pieces."
Police asked her, "Are you Durga who injured them?"
She told the police, "I am not Durga. But I fought with them to save the poor girl from gangrape. You please ask her and examine her."
They asked the molested girl, "Who are you ? What's your name? Why have you come here ?"
"I am Sita. The goons kidnapped me in a car, dragged me here forcibly to molest me and they stripped me off to rape me in this bushy sandy lonely river bed in the darkness of night. You see the bruises on my body." She said sobbing.
"Where is your dress?" The police asked her.
"They have thrown it into the current of the flowing river." She said politely.
"Are you a prostitute or a call girl as your glamorous bare body indicates. Any one can be tempted to rape you. The fault lies with you, not with the injured guys, whom we know very well. Give us your identity and whereabouts. Otherwise, we would be constrained to arrest you on charges of prostitution." The police told her,
She said to the police, "To save myself from communal riots, molestation and murder, I fled from my native state and came to this city by train. I have no ID nor any proof to identify me. They lifted me from the station in a car saying they would help me. I believed them and sat in their car in good faith. They dragged me here to rape me, and stripped me off. They were on the verge of raping me. Durga appeared and saved me from the rapists."
"That girl, who fought with the guys, is saying she is not Durga. Do you know her, as both of you are of similar appearance." The police told Sita.
"Actually, I don't know her and her name or whereabouts. But as she rescued me and saved my dignity, I call her Durga in respect and reverence. She rescued me by fighting like Goddess Durga with the antisocial elements." She said politely.
The police asked Durga,"Please show us your ID."
"I have nothing except my body. My dignity was robbed by gangrape of the communal forces at gunpoint and I don't want any girl's dignity to be lost in my presence, whatever may be the consequences. I have taken a vow to save women from rape and molestation, even onto my death." She said to the police in a bold and emphatic voice.
Observing her actions, and forceful voice, the police were doubtful about her identity and whereabouts, and they told her, "Your appearance is different, and your activities are strange and non-typical. Are you an extremist or a Chinese secret agent or spy with specialized military training and skills who can even defeat the goons?"
She laughed at them, and said, "I am purely an Indian, though I don't belong to your state. So my appearance differs from yours. For my safety I learned wrestling, judo and karate during my college career, and that saved Sita today from gangrape."
The police asked her, "Can you give us the details of your identity and whereabouts, and your journey from your native place to this city ?"
"It's a secret for my personal safety. I can't divulge it to you, as I experienced from my life. You are not men with humanity, rather servants of people in power, and everything is possible in power politics." She said forcefully.
"Can you show us anything to prove your innocence so as to believe you in good faith?" They asked Durga
She said politely, "Everything of mine was burned to ashes: my parents, brother, and home. I was gangraped at gunpoint; and I ran away to save my life. How can I find my ID to show you? Thousands of young women and minor girls have been missing, and I am one of them. But it's a pity that the government or administration has no details of the missing young women. Can you say what they are doing and where they are staying now. Most of them might have been engaged in begging or trafficked for prostitution. Who bothers about them? If you have doubts about me, you may take me to your police custody, and I would be glad to get free food and shelter in my uncle's home (police custody), when my parents have been killed in the communal riots."
The police arrested Sita and Durga on charges of prostitution, attempted murder, lack of identity to prove their Indian citizenship, and shunted them to jail, while the rapists were left scot-free.
(Author's note: This is a work of fiction and has no relation to any actual incident)
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: STORY ABOUT THE SCG
Nitish Nivedan Barik
SCG , the shorthand of Sydney Cricket Ground is one of the most famous cricketing venues in terms of heritage, popularity and records made here. It is situated at Moore Park, Sydney, City’s east. Officially cricket is played here as well as Australian Football and Rugby Leagues. This ground has witnessed cricket from 1848. This stadium is home for New South Wales State team in their domestic cricket competition, Sydney Sixers of the Big Bash League, Sydney Swans for their Football league. The spectator capacity is 48,000 and it ensures the view from any stand is terrific and superb.
Initially there was restrictions for the females to visit the stadium and in 1896, a section in the stadium was built for specifically ladies’ sitting and they were not allowed to visit the other stands. But in the 1900s this rule was changed and now although this heritage stand still exists even after the stadium renovation, women can visit other parts of the ground also. Other notable stand is the Members Pavilion which is also a heritage stand built around 1878 which still exists. There is also Bradman stand which is named after the great Sir Don Bradman who had an average of 99 in test cricket. Recently gates are named after Sachin Tendulkar and Brian Lara who were the batting maestro of their era, on the occasion of 50th birthday of Sachin and 30th anniversary of Lara’s innings of 277 in this ground respectively.
When one talks about the Sydney cricket ground there is flash back of Sachin superb double century against Australia in a crucial test match. In earlier test matches of this series, Sachin was getting out caught behind, to the keeper or edging to the sleep cordon and when the Master Blaster (Sachin) batting came in Sydney test he made a conscious effort to not play drives especially the cover drives which was making him vulnerable to getting out through edging. He made a superb 240 odd runs and this knock will be remembered for the ages to come. Other important cricket events which have occurred here is Shane Warne made his debut here and interesting he played his last test match also here. Australia great pace bowler Glen Mcgrath and Justin Langer also retired at this iconic venue.
Sydney Cricket Ground is known for hosting test matches after the Boxing Day week, particularly post the New Year (i.e., in the first week of the New Year). Post 2008 it is known as the pink test, organized by McGrath organization and Glen McGrath to raise awareness of breast cancer. The third day of the test is known as Jane McGrath Day, named after McGrath’s wife who died due to the mentioned dreadful disease.
The ground is also infamously remembered for the death of Phil Hughes who died after being struck from a bouncer bowled by Sean Abbot in domestic game. Hughes was hit on the back of his head while pulling, this also questioned the percentage of protection a helmet provides to a batsman while batting, and immediately thereafter there was protection provided on the back of helmet as well, and many severe protocols came in to effect when a batsman got hit on the head. Batsman is asked to go off the field if the physio and the medical officers feel after examining the batsman after he is hit on the head. Now in the cricket there is a new rule, that a concussion substitute is provided.
Sydney Cricket pitch is said to be suited to the Asian subcontinent players as it is batting friendly, and spinner always have a say here. The playing surface soil is Bulli soil brought from Bulli, New South Wales. It suits subcontinent players as there is not much bounce like the Perth WACA stadium or the Brisbane Gabba.
The Sydney Cricket and Sports Ground Trust is responsible for managing the cricket stadium and the Allianz stadium, both being next to each other. It is a must visit for a cricket fan. I was fortunate enough to see the stadium from outside as well as go inside it. I was in Sydney in May 2022, for some time. I was occupied with other stuffs but was determined to visit the Stadium, SCG before I left Sydney. On the last day of my tour, I was able to visit the historic Stadium. To tour SCG and see history from inside one has to book online some days prior to the visit. On the spot booking for that particular day was not available with SCG unlike MCG (Melbourne) where you can book online or can straight walk in to the stadium and pay for your tour at the designated counter, to avail on the same day opportunity.
Here when I knew that on spot, I cannot visit I was very much disappointed as it was the last day of my trip. I could not see any person present there or any gates open. So only with only outside view and visiting adjacent facilities, I was supposed to take leave. But I had a lot of patience which finally paid. There was a beautiful lake in front of Gate No1 and I spent some time there. In the lake there was black swans which are very rare to be seen anywhere as swans are mostly white. Have written a story on black swan moment previously in the LV. The swans were very friendly, I was sitting in a corner and they were approaching me stretching out their big beaks. I was scared at first but then I felt as if they were telling me to wait for a little more time, till the tide changes in my favour. I took some photos with these cute creatures, and unbelievably as I had waited for so much time, I saw some people who had gathered near a gate. I ran seeing them to that gate, I checked with them, they had booked for the stadium tour from 1 week back, I approached the security and the tour guide, and they were kind enough to allow me. I went into the stadium took pictures inside the ground, took picture in front of the members staff and got to know many fascinating stories how this ground has rich heritage. It was a life time experience which I will never forget.
Any one penning or speaking on SCG will fail in duty if he or she does not mention about the Australia legend Belinda Clark. The female cricketeer has been immortalised in bronze, with the Sydney Cricket Ground unveiling the world's first sculpture of a female cricketer. In 1997, she became the first person to score an ODI double century when she blasted 229 runs off 155 balls against Denmark and was subsequently named Wisden's Cricketer of the Year.
The well known Indian cricket commentator Harsha Bhogle was asked by his ABC radio hosts during Adelaide Test in 2015 to name his favourite cricket ground thinking he would say the one he was commenting from . "The SCG," came the reply after a brief pause. He cited the remarkable contrast of "modern stadium architecture, and the old members' and ladies' pavilions”. The two old stands at Moore Park somehow manage to be both curious and imposing, he had added. That observation still holds good!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
Suresh looked around in wonder. Very little had changed from the days he was a young student in the massive red coloured college on his right. This building was very close to his heart, as close as the school a few kilometres away, where he had spent six years of happy adolescence. And this town? The evergreen Cuttack - his eternal beloved? Nothing could be a match to its priceless memories that often flooded his heart, leaving it awash with a warm glow, a sort of suppressed euphoria.
He had just got down from the bus and walked over to his old colllege building. His father-in-law at Bhubaneswar had offered his car but he had waved him off. No, he wanted to travel by bus, like his young days. And he wanted to walk down the memory lane, travelling from his college to all his old favourite places. Just across the street was the South Indian Restaurant where the dosa, sambar-vada and halwa were the stuff dreams were made of. And a block away was the Malabar restaurant whose Samosa and coffee were probably the best in the world. He and his friends often wondered if Gods and Goddesses from heaven ordered these finger-licking snacks when they hosted parties for their friends and relatives.
And down the street one would walk towards Mangalabag. Some of the evenings when the mess in the hostel offered insipid, disgusting vegetarian fare, Suresh and his friends would walk down to Sher-e-Punjab and filled themselves with the wonderful dishes of Butter naan and Mutton curry. And further down was the famous lassi stall at Buxi Bazar, opposite to the head post office. For a mere eight annas one could roam around in heaven with slow, delicious sips of the divine drink.
On the way to Mangalabag from his College Square was the Cuttack Sweet Stall near Hind Cinema. At least once a year Suresh and his friends used to go berserk, sitting on its worn-out cushioned chairs and gobbling up sweets like there was no tomorrow. That used to be the day when he and a few others would have drawn the scholarship amount paid in a lump sum for ten months. A princely sum of six hundred rupees! The heart was on fancied wings, the pocket was in a free fall. And sweets used to disappear in lightning speed into the eager mouths. The earthen cup of sweet curd at the end of the bonanza was like the jewel in the crown.
Ah, so many memories. Suresh kept walking on the street abutting the college and stopped at a pavement book stall. The books in assortment of glossy covers were spread on a big sheet, just like they used to be fifteen, twenty years back. So, the stall is still there! Suresh peered at the books, the quality has obviously changed, there were many English books now, assorted collections of fiction and short stories. Some Odia books of celebrity authors were peeping from the stacks. He remembered the many evenings he had spent in this stall, rummaging through books, looking for jokes and funny nuggets.
Suddenly he was brought back to the present with a barrage of questions,
"So, you are back! After so many years! Fifteen years, isn't it? Where were you all these days? Didn't you ever think of me?"
Suresh was startled, as if a sudden gush of wind had just shaken him up. He looked up from the books and peered at the man who was the book seller. Suresh couldn't place him. For a moment he panicked, was it one of his classmates from college who couldn't find a job anywhere and settled down to be a pavement book seller?
The man could sense Suresh's discomfort and smiled,
"So you have really forgotten me! But my prediction has come true. You have become a big boss somewhere, your dress and manners show you are an important man. And true to my prediction you had left Odisha and didn't come back. So where are you, what job are you doing?"
"Ah, Bidyadhar Bhai! I didn't expect you to be here, sitting on the pavement selling books. What happened to your Palmistry books, the big black slate and the chalks? How come you are no longer a palmist and an astrologer, predicting people's destiny? What a great change!"
Bidyadhar was equally ecstatic to see his old friend, who used to be a regular visitor at his road side palmistry shop, eager to listen to people's woes and the exotic solutions offered by Bidyadhar.
"First you tell me where are you these days. Have you crossed the seven seas and gone over to America?"
Suresh shook his head,
"No, not America. I am in Mumbai for the last twelve years. You remember you had predicted I will be in a job dealing with finances? Well, after I finished my M.A. in Economics from Delhi University I joined as an officer in Reserve Bank of India and have been in Mumbai ever since."
"Where is your MemSaab? Have you come alone?"
"Yes I have come just for a week to Bhubaneswar on official work. She stayed back with the two kids who have schools to attend."
"Nice seeing you as a big man with school-going kids! It was like yesterday when I used to see you as a student, shy and decent, very polite and eager to know about life. Hope you are not in a hurry. Let me go and get two cups of hot tea and a chair for you. We will chat for some time."
Suresh was happy at the prospect,
"Bidyadhar Bhai, no need for a chair. I will sit on the big sheet with you and together we will sip tea, like the old days. See here, I have already sat down, I will look after your shop, you go and instead of tea, get some coffee from the Malabar restaurant. I have good memories of the coffeee from there. And the heavenly samosas. Here, take this hundred rupees, buy some coffee and two hot samosas. Let the treat be on me, for old time's sake. Please don't say no."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Bidyadhar took the money and hurried towards Malabar restaurant, a good hundred meters away. Suresh closed his eyes and inhaled the air of College Square. Ah, the heavy fragrance of old memories. There, just fifty feet away there was a thatched roof snacks stall, which was always full of students stuffing themselves with piping hot vada and watery tea. For many of them the vada was the staple food for breakfast, lunch or dinner and often there would be competition among friends on how many one could consume. Natabar, the owner of the "Draintop Taj", was a cunning chap who used to egg on the boys to get into the competition. Certain times of the day used to be the peak hour for the eatery because the girls would either be streaming in for the classes or going out afterwards through the main gate just a few feet away. Ogling at the girls and fantasising about them was the universal pastime for the boys. The benches at Draintop Taj gave the most vantage seats for looking at the girls with lust-filled eyes.
And Bidyadhar? He was an accidental entry into Suresh's life. Suresh had met him on the way to Jobra Ghat, the steps on the banks of the giagantic Mahanadi river which used to be a favourite spot for poets, thinkers and the serious type students. Suresh often used to go there alone and sit on the steps, philosophising on life. One cool evening evening he was suddenly stopped by Bidyadhar calling him,
"O, Student Babu, won't you stop here for a minute? You seem to be a quiet, decent type, let me see what the lines on your hand say about your future. Come here, sit and show your hands."
Out of curiosity Suresh had walked over to him. Bidyadhar had held both the hands and exclaimed,
"O my God, what extraordinary hands you have! What can I see here? There are hardly any lines, except the major ones which are clean and straight. You must be an exceptionally simple man, no clutter in your mind, your heart is as clean as a banshee. Young man, you should be very very careful, lest people take advantage of you. Tell me, do you have friends who borrow money from you?"
Suresh nodded.
"Do they return the money?"
Suresh felt embarrassed, he was not prepared to show his misery to this stranger, but somehow he was drawn to this palmist like magic. He shook his head,
"No, not often. And some of them come back asking for more, even before returning the borrowed amount."
Bidyadhar flashed a knowing smile, yes, he had thought so.
"See, I knew it, from your clean hand. You also seem to be a lonely traveller in life, not many friends, but those who become your friends are lucky, because you can give your life for them. Your family and friends will always lean on you. You seem to be a serious student. Keep studying well. Stay away from girls. If you fall into their trap they will ruin your life."
Suresh, who like his friends, was eager to fall into the traps of the girls, turned red in face and got up,
"Sorry, I can't pay you anything, I have no money in my pocket."
Bidyadhar waved him away,
"Am I asking you to pay anything? It's I who called you because I was getting bored. I really liked seeing your hands. You must drop in whenever you pass this way."
After that it became a habit with Suresh to visit the pavement palmistry stall of Bidyadhar at least once a week. He was fascinated by the way Bidyadhar captured the attention of his clients and mesmerised them with his sweet, persuasive talk. Suresh noticed that the palmist with his sandalwood and vermillion mark on the forehead was a convincing talker and made quite a lot of friends in the course of his mundane profession. Out of curiosity Suresh had once asked,
"Bidyadhar Bhai, how can you say so many things just looking at the lines on the hands of your clients. I find some of them come back for repeat visits. Do the lines really carry so much information in them?"
Bidyadhar had smiled,
"Yes, the major lines are indicative of life's longevity and general welfare. But lot depends on how much information I can extract out of the person. You must have marked, I spend a good ten to fifteen minute talking to them about their life, the economic background, education level, family responsibilities. Once I know that, it becomes easy to say a lot of things which the clients like to hear. Everyone is happy if you tell him he is a dutiful son as he carries a lot of responsibility on his head, that he is a simple man, his relatives adore him, or whatever good happens to him is the result of the noble deeds he carries out in life, and due to the blessings of his elders."
Bidyadhar would look pointedly at Suresh and smile,
"And you know what is the best thing that the young men like to hear? That when they marry, their wife would be strikingly beautiful, someone who would stand out in a crowd like an Apsara descended from heaven! Ah, my friend, you should see the way their faces light up. Isn't that a big dream to sell? For many days after that every beautiful girl they see on the street, they imagine their future wife to be like that! In a way I sell dreams to people, the possibility of a good job, a beautiful wife, good kids, a decent house, what more do you want from life?"
Suresh would nod,
"Do you earn enough to support your family?"
Bidyadhar got excited,
"O yes, I have no problem with that. You know what is my best payment? It's the prediction about the gender of the future child. Often couples would come, the wife in an advanced stage of pregnancy. They would all like to hear they would have a son and I tell them exactly that. They would be happy and pay a hundred rupees to me for a lucky prediction. When they get a son the father would come back with a packet of sweets and another hundred rupees as a gift. Sometimes some couples get a daughter and they would come and confront me, angry with my wrong prediction. You know what I normally do? Every time I make a prediction about a future child I write down the names of the parents, the date of consultation and the gender of the child as girl. When the upset parents come challenging I tell them they must be making a mistake. I show them the notebook and they keep quiet. I give them a pep talk about a girl child and look at the lines on their hands and predict the good luck the child would bring them. A new born girl is like Goddess Laxmi arriving at home. They prep up and pay some money, seeking my blessings on the baby girl."
Suresh had become a regular visitor at Bidyadhar's stall. Many customers used to think he was an apprentice trying to learn the art of Palmistry. In his final year at the college one day he asked Bidyadhar what was in store for him. The palmist smiled at him,
"Why, don't you know it? Your father is a rich man, he is going to send you for higher education to some far away place. You will get a good job after that. You are studying economics, you will be an accountant or work at a place where there will be lot of financial dealings. Don't worry, you will be a rich man."
With a mischievous smile he added,
"Your wife will be very beautiful, like an Apsara from heaven."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
That was fifteen years back. After finishing his B.A. in Ravenshaw College, Suresh had done Masters in Delhi University and joined the RBI a year later. He had come to Bhubaneswar a few times but never got the time to visit his college again or look for his old friends and aacquaintances. Today a chance encounter with Bidyadhar had brought back a flood of memories.
The hot, steaming coffee tasted as heavenly as it used to fifteen years back. And the samosa was just out of the world. Suresh remembered his friends from college and thought that Gods in heaven must be still ordering snacks from Malabar Restaurant and South Indian Reastaurant for their parties and get-togethers. Bidyadhar wanted to know more about Suresh - has he built a house in Mumbai? Are the kids as brilliant as their father? Are they the quiet type or boisterous ones?
Suresh was happy to talk about his wife and kids, but his mind was still on Bidyadhar's change of profession. As soon as he got a chance he broached the subject. Bidyadhar didn't answer immediately, he sat still for a few moments, as if some sad memory was knocking at his mind.
"You remember Narottam Swain, the lawyer who used to practice in the High Court? He was a frequent visitor, used to come to my stall on his way back from the court. He was not a big lawyer, just used to earn enough to survive. One day I found him a bit excited, took his hand and started reading the lines. 'Ah, Narottam Babu, your luck is going to take a turn, a big fish has already landed or about to land in your net.' He immediately took out a hundred rupees note and gave it to me. He told me that the son of a big zamindar had been booked for raping and murdering a girl. And someone had recommended his name to the zamindar. The lawyer had already been paid an advance of fifty thousand rupees."
Suresh was impressed,
"Fifty thousand? That's a very big sum!"
"Yes, Narottam Babu toiled day and night. And by a miracle he won the case, which everyone had given up as hopeless. The day the verdict was given, Narottam Babu went mad with joy. On the way back from the High Court he came to meet me. He was walking on the moon. He gave me a packet of sweets, a new dhoti and shirt and 1000 rupees in a packet. He said his luck had taken a somersault and from then in sky would be the limit. I was very happy for him. He became my most celebrated client, I used to tell everyone how my prediction turned his luck into something unbeatable......."
Bidyadhar was quiet for a few moments. Suresh wondered what was the connection between Narottam Swain's success and Bidyadhar's change of profession. His friend continued,
"Soon Narottam Babu became very busy, cases came to him from all over the state, making him rich beyond his dreams. He had his detractors also. I had read in the newspaper that the girl's parents had cursed him, the media had blasted the judicial system which let a heinous crime go unpunished. But Narottam Babu didn't care. With a big smile he used to say 'a High Court is a High Court, if they acquitted my client that should be final, no one has any business to question it.' Gradually his visits to me became infrequent, he couldn't find the time to drive down to my humble stall."
Bidyadhar took a sip from the mug of coffee and looked wistfully at the sky above,
"Time passed, years rolled by. A few months back one day I was sitting in my roadside stall waiting for clients. The sky was overcast, since morning it was threatening to rain. A shadow fell on my stall. I looked up and flinched. There was a fat, heavyset man standing there, his swollen face, flat nose and disfigured hands left me in no doubt that he was a leper. I thought he was waiting for some alms and was about to throw a coin at him, but I looked closely, the man had a good dhoti and white banyan on him. He was certainly not a beggar. The man's voice choked, 'Bidyadhar, don't you recognise me? I am Narottam Swain, the lawyer you had made famous......' I almost fainted in shock. I stood up and shouted, 'Narottam Babu, what are you saying? Am I in a dream? How can this be true?' He smiled pathetically at me, 'Yes, thanks to your prediction I won my biggest case in the High Court, but forgot that there is a Higher Court, the court of Dharmaraj up above in heaven. I lost my case in that higher court. Bidyadhar, what a wonderful prediction you had made, about the turning of my luck! This is where luck has brought me today.' He kept quiet and murmured, 'What a wonderful prediction!' With that he walked away........"
Suresh couldn't believe this astounding story, his heart melting in sympathy for the poor lawyer. He looked at Bidyadhar, who was almost on the verge of tears,
"I sat motionless for almost an hour. A client appeared from somewhere, I waved him away. The rains had started. I gathered all the books on Palmistry, my black slate, the chalks and a bag full of papers and walked in the steady drizzle to the river and threw all of them into water. I promised to God that I would never make a prediction for anyone again. I sat at home for a couple of months, brooding. And then Laxmidhar, my cousin from our village came to me, he was the owner of this pavement book stall. His wife could not adjust to the city life and they wanted to go back to the village. He sold this stall to me for two thousand rupees. That's how here I am. I made some improvements to the stall, stocked a lot of Question-Answer books, useful for exams, some good novels and fiction. I make a decent income and have no regrets......"
The coffee was finished, its taste lingered in their mouth, but some invisible curtain had fallen over the air, dulling their sense, turning everything foggy.
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 . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. 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
Viewers Comments