Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXIII (29-Sep-2023) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Canna in Bloom (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THRONES
01) Chinmayee Barik
SALVATION
02) Ajay Upadhyaya
THE CROW AND THE CROCODILE..
03) Ishwar Pati
SOMETHING WRONG?
04) Snehaprava Das
THE DREAMS SHE NEVER TOLD
05) Asis Pati
LET’S GO HOME
06) Sreechandra Banerjee
THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING DIAMOND
07) Pankhuri Sinha
ALLAH HO AKBAR
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
TRUE LOVE
09) Sujata Dash
A PAIR OF GLOVES
10) Ashok Kumar Mishra
DOSVIDANYA
11) Anasuya Panda
WHEN DEFEATED YOU ARE SMASHED
12) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE WAIT
Table of Contents :: MISCELLANEOUS
01) Pradeep Biswal
JAYANTA MAHAPATRA: CONNECTING..
02) Hema Ravi
TRYST WITH RIVER HAWKS
03) Sreekumar T V
LIVING FOR LOVE
04) Pramod K.Padhy
DOWN THE MEMORY LANE.
05) Bankim Chandra Tola
UNSOCIAL AND ANTI-SOCIAL
06) Satish Pashine
LIFE A CONFLUENCE OF AGONY AND ECSTASY!
07) Gourang Charan Roul
A NOSTALGIC TRIP TO HISTORIC..
08) Sheena Rath
THE NICHE
09) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT ..
The students sat waiting for Juna's words. She was their favourite English teacher. All the information about the lesson to be taught today was told in yesterday's class. The children felt proud of the teacher who chose February 14 to start that lesson. She never does anything without thinking.
Juna could read children's minds like the textbook in her hand. She found it a great relief that they could not read her mind like that.
They were given a detailed description of the lesson. The story of Edward VIII abdicating the British throne to marry an American woman named Wallis Simpson. The British king would have to forget his throne if he married his American girlfriend. He accepted his girlfriend and abdicated the throne. The text is a transcript of a speech he gave on the BBC about it. One can read those words only with tears of joy. Anyone will cry, especially when he proudly says that his girlfriend never asked him to abdicate his throne. Words that would make any Taj Mahal lose its sheen. That is why she chose to teach this lesson on this special day.
But Juna's mind was not fixed on that. She was shaken by an incident that happened in the staff room. She had always felt that she should tell someone about her relationship with Prashant. Two of her close friends had died suddenly during Corona. How trivial human life is, a truth that we recall only when someone dies. That's why she told Sally teacher about Prashant. The shyness and joy on her face, despite her guard, told Sally more than she wanted to. When everything was over, Sally asked her for Prashant's number.
Hearing that, a chill went down Juna's spine. She consoled herself the next moment. If she didn’t give it, Sally teacher would get it from someone else. Didn't she also keep many people's numbers for various purposes? What is the point of not giving the number?
She picked up the phone to dial the number. Suddenly she felt a pain in her stomach and her heart started pounding. She ran to the toilet. There she cried her eyes out. She wondered what had happened to her generally unshakable mind. She couldn’t even figure out why she was crying.
By the time she got back to the staffroom, Sally had already gone to her class. Maybe she got upset. The bell had not rung. She thought she should ring up her daughter. She had gone to work that morning with a stomach ache. Juna finally decided not to call her. Her office has phone restrictions.
Since then, Juna’s mind has been very turbulent. Prashant had many friends. She had joked that they were all women. She never felt that any of them could be her rival. But today, when this pretty Sally teacher asked her for Prashant's number, it was as if Juna’s throne was wobbling a little or maybe more than a little.
She decided not to postpone the lesson for another day. She didn't feel like teaching. She could not give a proper answer to Sally teacher. It's fine anyway. Why make enemies for nothing?
When she got up to give the children a topic to write about, she noticed them feeling bad. When she wrote "The Essence of the World" on the board, many students asked their neighbours what she meant by that. She thought of making them deduce the meaning. She was always good at it.
She chose Sanusha to do that. She's a poet, witty and insightful. Juna remembered how she had made the class laugh the other day when she had the courage to ask the teacher if such fools like Edward VIII still existed. Juna just managed to retort by saying that Wallis Simpsons were not rare even now.
Sanusha did not disappoint her. She argued by quoting a Malayalam poet that the essence of the world was surely love. Then she won much clapping by adding that it is not just love but romance, at least for this day. Suddenly the whole class was happy. A perfect topic to write about on Valentine's Day. At least a few children clapped at that time. Their teacher would never let them down, they knew.
After spending some time watching the children write, Juna felt that teaching a lesson would have been a better idea. Then she would not have thought about Prashant. The moment she thought about him, she always rang him up. She picked up the phone. Calling him in front of children is risky. She sent a message. 'See you in the evening'. Immediately two blue tick marks appeared under it. For the first time, she felt that they had the look of two courting birds.
She made two tick marks on the table with the chalk she had in hand and tried to make them look like birds. She has a special talent for making animal shapes out of letters and signs. Soon the table was filled with birds, a flower tree and a garden. It was only when the bell rang, that she knew that an hour had passed. She cleaned the table with a duster before the children saw it. She thought she should have taken a photo of it. Everything is like this. You only know the value of something when it is gone.
She didn't have to face Sally teacher again that day. She decided to lie to Sally about the photograph. She would tell her that Prashant said no. She didn’t want to talk about it to Prashant but she was always a different person with Prashant. With him, she would overlook her most firm decisions. Even if she didn't want to tell Prashant about this, everything would be told the minute she saw him. She recalled that it was the lyrics of some song.
Prashant had texted her.
'Surprise. Meet at coffee day after class. He has chosen coffee day, surely something big.
*********
"Got a job. Some distance away. In Canada. Good offer. PR included." Saying that Prashant kept looking at her face. Afraid that the silence would speak volumes, she asked for details. She was sure that Prasanth could also hear her heartbeat. Is it just a coincidence that a similar situation happened in the morning? Was it a foreshadowing of this? She decided to go to the toilet like she did in the morning. She wanted to cry. Unlike in the morning, now she knows why.
When he returned, her coffee was on the table. Sipping it, she said, "See, it has come through your best friend. Should be a good chance. Don't waste it."
She remembered the fine lines between tears and smiles. Prashant kept staring at her face.
She felt as if the sun outside had suddenly faded and darkness had fallen. Prashant is someone who has suffered a lot in his life. His wife has been dead for a long time. A man with his own dreams like everyone else. If he went abroad, there was very little chance of him coming back soon. There would be new relationships and new paths. It would be like that and it had to be like that. She wouldn’t be able to leave her family and go with them in the near future. She couldn’t expect him to wait for her indefinitely.
Prashant still hadn't taken his eyes off her face. If he stayed there any longer, he would read her mind.
"Where do you have to go? Won't the visa be delayed?"
"The visa has been sent. I only have to let them know whether I am taking it or not."
She patted his shoulder, “Then do that fast. Don't be late with this too, you know. You're the kind of person who never gets anywhere on time. I was here at half past four. When the person I was waiting for showed up, it was five o'clock."
"Sorry"
"You just say sorry for everything. Please reply today."
Prashant left without saying a single word. He got into an autorickshaw and left without even waving a bye. She stared at the auto. Then he put his head out and gave her a flying kiss.
The next day, Juna did not find it difficult to teach the lesson she had postponed the day before. It seemed like a myth to her now. Stories are usually more mind-blowing than ordinary history. But this is the opposite. It made her laugh when she thought of it as a story and not history. His- story, she smiled. Sanusha’s question is right. Her answer is also correct.
At noon the peon came with an envelope. She thought it was a book from some publisher. But the peon said it was brought by Prashant just before lunch.
She found the envelope very light as if nothing was inside.
Flustered, she tore through it and the contents fell off.
Strangely they all landed on her feet.
She picked them up.
A visa card torn into four pieces.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
(Translation by Ajay Upadhyaya)
If regret were a rodent, free to rummage in the attic of our minds, imagine the havoc it can cause. You can hear it, however faint, nibbling away everything it finds on its way. In the darkness of night, it does not care where its teeth land. It chips away at your past actions, as if to destroy all remnants of your mistakes but in its blind pursuit does not spare your dreams either. Everything is reduced to a rubble, leaving your peace of mind in tatters.
She was like a portrait, I had begun painting on my mind’s canvas. I simply can’t work out, what happened to it. It is in a state of limbo; it is somewhere deep inside me, not easy to access but equally hard to erase. The faded picture comes alive, in the dead of the night. From the walls of my dreams, she initially smiles at me. Then her eyes blink, her face turns sad and tear starts to roll. Exactly, at this time, the rodent of regret goes on its nibbling spree. Now, it targets my heart, at its most tender spot. It uncannily finds the corner of my heart, which does not bleed but is left heavily sore. The pain is severe enough to rattle the painter in me. The painting brush starts to shake and my fingers go into a cramp. I soldier on; attempt to prepare the colours on the easel and finish her portrait, only to fail miserably. All my attempts end in a classic case of painter’s paralysis: the picture is vivid in my mind’s eyes but hopelessly beyond the grasp of my brush. It drives me crazy; and I wish, I could just disappear into thin air!
The name of the lass was Yaana. I first saw her on the banks of River Dauki, during my photography trip to Meghalaya. While I was engrossed in photographing the enchanting natural beauty, her sweet voice brought me back into reality. “Sir, would you care for some berries?” She asked in Hindi. When I turned round, she came into my view, facing me with a plastic box full of berries. The box was rather tiny, for which she was asking a princely sum of two hundred rupees. “It is worth no more than thirty rupees,” I chuckled to myself. As if she could read my mind, she quickly added, “Sir, these berries are specially pickled to give them a long life, up to two years.” I, nonetheless, shook my head, indicating my disinterest in her berries.
She was of medium height. Her face radiated with a glow of ripe guavas, with twinkling eyes and rosy lips. The rest of her body was covered, the head hidden by a scarf and her delicate frame fully wrapped up in clothes, making it hard to make out the configuration of her dress. All I could see was the bottom part of a sky blue skirt, just above her ankles. She had carefully draped her entire torso with a long piece of cloth, securely tied into a knot near her shoulder.
The young woman walked off and seated herself on the smooth rock , dangling her feet in the flowing water of Dauki. Her eyes were darting, perhaps scanning for prospective customers. Suddenly, two young men, vendor of fruits and berries, approached her, talking in a language, which sounded like a mixture of Hindi and local dialects. They were also laughing, which had a vulgar ring to it. She kept looking around, turning her gaze to me a few times. Watching their interactions, I felt, they were probably harassing her. I walked up to her to ask in Hindi, if she would sell me her berries. The male vendors saw me approaching her and quietly left the scene. She appeared grateful at my intervention, handing me the berries.
I enquired about the men, who had just departed.
“They are from Bangladesh”
I know Dauki River marks the border between India and Bangladesh. I thought permission was mandatory for all to cross the border. “Have they got the official permission to cross the border and enter India?” I asked.
“Unlike tourists, local people are free to cross the border; they don’t need a permit. It is a special allowance, granted for the purpose of selling their merchandise to tourists”
“What were they saying to you?”
“It is too obscene for words, Sir,” she lowered her face and her voice.
“What do you mean!” I wanted to pursue this conversation, but was interrupted by the boatmen, who were selling their service, offering to give a half kilometre boat ride for up to four people in the river, for a sum of seven hundred rupees.
I wanted to go for the boat ride; the opportunity to photograph the beauty of the river life was beckoning. Dauki River was enchanting, its clear water and the serene atmosphere had cast a spell on me. While walking behind the boat men, I turned round to find that she was following me. Behind her were the same two men, who were now pestering her, perhaps with obscene proposals. This made me angry, but I was not sure if or how I could reprimand them. When I asked her if she was interested in a boat ride with me, she promptly agreed and jumped into the boat after me. The boat plied on, tearing through the clear river. The air was crisp and the scenery was captivating. The intoxicating ambience brought out the poet in me.
She had reclined herself on the edge of the boat, hanging her hand down to ruffle the water. She was smiling to herself, as if she had been transported to her private paradise. With the slim contour of her wrapped up torso and her inclined posture, she was the perfect image of a mermaid, who had emerged from the water to keep me company. It was a scene from the fairytales, I never dreamt of experiencing in real life. The white pebbles from the river bed, shining through the transparent water, looked like the glistening teeth of Dauki, who had broken out in a rapturous laughter, taken in by the mermaid’s charm. She was so engrossed in her own world that she was barely aware of my camera busy snapping her in different poses from several angles.
I was full of glee, imagining her wonderful photos as my prize entries in next month’s photography exhibition. Soon, the boat trip came to an end. After paying to the boatman for the boat ride, I turned towards her. By now, my curiosity about her had grown and I wanted to know her better. She also took me for a gentleman and handed over her remaining berries to me before parting company. I was not prepared for such an abrupt departure and wanted to call her to stay back. But, all I could utter was, “Hey, what is your name?” She briefly turned her smiling face to give her name, “Yaana” while continuing her walk. Her gait was so graceful, I could not help clicking some more photos of her while she was walking away.
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Over those few days, I could sense a closeness creeping into our relationship, creating a bond between us. She had a cheerful disposition, with a smile on her face almost all the time. The calls of Dauki were irresistible, making us to return to her bank again and again for a meet or a boat ride. That the sight of our boating together was possibly an eye sore to the local vendors, did not matter to me.
One day, all of a sudden, Yaana appeared at my hotel, unannounced. I could catch from the corner of my eyes, a knowing glance, the hotel manager threw at me. Unperturbed, I invited her to my room, to show her the pictures, I had taken of her, without her knowledge. After we shared the photos, when I commented on how pretty she was, a flicker of delight flashed on her face, quickly replaced by a sombre look. That day, she departed as abruptly as she had arrived at the hotel.
Following this incident, we did not meet for a number of days. I was curious about her no-show, but there was no easy way of enquiring into her whereabouts. So, I was left with no choice but to wait for her to appear. But there was no sign of her for several days in a row. One day, the weather turned chilly, as if the sky was getting ready for a snow fall. Soon, dark clouds hovered over the fields, giving way to a gentle shower. The weather was enticing enough for a motor-bike ride. I took off on a bike aimlessly and after driving quite some distance, I landed in a totally unfamiliar area. I stopped by a bridge, when the enchanting view of the mountains across the bridge caught my attention. Partly hidden by the cloud and the mist, the distant mountains looked as if they were hanging in the air. I took out my camera to capture the ethereal beauty of what was a photographer’s paradise. Then, I spotted some tents in the field, across the bridge. There were some young children, busy selling roasted sweet-corn to tourists, probably at inflated prices. That was another opportunity for a session of candid photography, catching all the actions in their natural setting. As I approached the tent, I could see a number of children huddled inside and I spotted Yaana in their midst. With the excitement of sighting her after the long wait, I found myself rushing towards her, but was struck by the look of indifference on her face.
“What are you doing here? I have been looking for you by the river.”
Her silence surprised me, making me repeat my question.
“I have been selling roasted sweetcorn.”
“Have you stopped selling picked berries?”
“No, the berries season is over. I managed to sell off my entire stock of berries”
“I see, let me have some sweetcorn then”
“ Sorry, I have none left for you. The roasting is also finished”
I looked at the bed of burnt charcoal, used for roasting sweetcorn. The fire had already gone out. Switching subject, I enquired if she would like to look at some of the photos I had taken, since our last meeting. This brought a glimmer of interest to her face and she moved closer to share the photos with me. She next asked to be photographed with the children and showed genuine pleasure at posing for photos with them. I was delighted to see her so happy, for a change.
I wanted to prolong our chat. But dusk was setting in and she indicated, it was time to leave.
“Where is your home?”
“About five kilo meters from here.”
“How would you get there?”
“We rely on timbre-carrying trucks here, they regularly ply on this road.”
“What about a change today? Let me drop you off on my bike.”
She hesitated, saying, “No, Sir, leave it.”
“What are you scared of?”
She let out a guffaw in response to my question and immediately perched herself on my bike. Of course, she had to dismount for the bike to be started, and when she sat back she kept a distance from me. The bike kept rolling ahead under her direction. The clouds in the sky hang over us like a canopy. The jaunty bike ride with Yaana sitting behind me was an erotic experience, new for me. Her humming of songs in a language, unknown to me, added to the pleasure of the journey. Suddenly, she indicated by extending her arm over my shoulder to stop near a hut, which was her home. She invited me inside and I went in without hesitation. There were two rooms, one had a wood burning cooker, with some food stuff, and the other room had a small bed. Yaana lit a fire to roast some sweetcorn for both of us. “That’s all for tonight”, she said, which was an indication for me to leave. But a downpour had started by then and Yaana pleaded with me to delay my departure until the rain stopped, as the roads would be too muddy for a safe bike ride back. I had no choice but to oblige.
We resumed our chatting. In the process, I volunteered details of my small family, consisting of my wife and our daughter . I learnt from her the tragic circumstances under which she lost both her parents long ago. I gathered she somehow managed to get by with the paltry sums, she earned from selling small items, like berries and sweetcorn. I was surprised all the more when she told me that she was, nevertheless, content with her life. Her story somehow did not sound entirely plausible. Perhaps, she was hiding something from me, as it did not all add up. At the same time, while she was talking, I was struck by her youthful face, which had an innocent glow. “Perhaps, she is telling the truth,” I told to myself, “if not the whole truth.”
“I have to relate her sad story to my family upon returning home,” I thought, “And if I ever visited Meghalaya with my family, I must introduce her to them.”
Yaana had gone quiet, in the meantime, with her gaze fixed on the rain outside, which had gathered pace.
My next question was, “Have you given some thought to your marriage?”
This sparked off a dramatic response in her; she moved really close and thrusting herself on me she looked straight into my eyes, asking flirtatiously “Do you fancy me?”
Her voice had turned serious; I asked myself if my question was somehow inappropriate. In absence of a response from me, she went on, “What do I make of your silence?” Her tone was now stern.
Her question had obviously flustered me, as I had no easy answer for her. “You are very nice and pretty too. I have obviously grown quite fond of you,” was my reply.
I was not sure how she interpreted my answer but she immediately clasped my hand. In the heat of her hands, I could feel the seduction in her advance. I was convinced that it was best for me to leave her place. As I attempted to get up, she tightened her grip on my hand. I had to push her away hard, to release myself, for my hazardous journey back to my hotel in heavy rain.
Upon reaching the hotel, I breathed a sigh of relief. But my heart was heavy; I felt so sorry for Yaana. I was in no doubt, by then, that she was a sex worker. It neatly explained why the Bangladeshi vendors were making such indecent gestures. The scenes from last few days kept flashing in my mind, the whole night. I kept tossing and turning in my bed for a long time before I eventually dozed off. But it was a restless night. My sleep was broken by Yaana’s tearful face, appearing in my dream. I felt an urge to paint her sad face, as if to assuage my guilt and atone for the grief I had caused her. I picked up the brush several times to make a start but it was all in vain. My heart ached with feelings for her but it was hard to tell what I felt: loathing on account of her trade or pity for her predicament. I was lost in my thoughts until next morning.
For the next two days, I lost all interest in going out. I finally decided to return back to my home town. It was troubling me that I could not find Yaana during those two days. I desperately longed to meet her at least once before departing. I visited Dauki River repeatedly, hoping to find her there. I also returned to the site where I had seen her selling sweetcorn but it all drew a blank. Finally, I was compelled to visit her hut. It was locked and she was nowhere to be seen.
While I had given up all hopes of finding her, I noticed two human feet, visible through the dense shrubs beside her hut. I wondered if they belonged to Yaana and on moving closer, my guess proved right. She was sitting on a rock, with her legs stretched out, gazing at the sky. She showed little reaction to my approach. Her gloomy look came as no surprise; I knew, how deeply I had hurt her by rejecting her amorous advances. But, alas, I was in a bind, that day. I was simply incapable of a plausible justification of my actions, that would satisfy her. It would have been futile anyway, I surmised. Now, all I could hope for was to placate her.
On moving close to her and looking around, I saw that we were all alone. I told her about my plans of my imminent departure. I was returning to my family and I could not leave without bidding good bye to her. Life had been obviously too cruel to her. I had plenty of contacts in the town; through them, I could arrange some respectable work for her, if she wanted. I also offered to help her financially for tiding her over the transition to town life. In my monologue, I couldn’t hide my abhorrence for prostitution as a profession; my disapproval of her choice of sex work for subsistence was loud and clear.
She listened intently and turned towards me with an ironic smirk her face, “Sir, sex trade is not the only service bodies are meant for. Nor every body hankers for money in exchange for sex. I can easily manage my meagre needs, without resorting to prostitution for my upkeep.”
I looked at her quizzically.
“Perhaps, I was not sufficiently clear, Sir.”
“No,” I shook my head.
What Yaana did next, in order to make her point, rather graphically, was bold beyond all imagination. Casting away her last shred of inhibition, she undid the knot on her shoulder and flung open her draping, to expose the front of her body.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked at the sight of her heavily scarred belly and chest, my entire being shaking in horror. I was expecting to see a smooth, flat abdomen and shapely breasts of a young woman. But her front resembled a patch of mud, left to dry after a vigorous trampling by wild boars. Staring at me were glistening ridges of scars, with frowning furrows to accompany them, interspersed with uneven patches of skin, whose form defied description. A shocking scene so grotesque that it would haunt me for ever. Its sheer savagery forced my eyes shut.
Yaana calmly rearranged her clothes and went on to narrate how she sustained this horrific scarring in the hands of her lover. A young and handsome music scholar from the city had travelled to Meghalaya for studying folk music of the North-East. Yaana was assisting him in his research into the music of Meghalaya. They spent a lot of time together, singing and talking about music. He, in turn, rewarded Yaana with money, for the time and effort, she put into his research. But their intimacy raised her lover’s suspicion that their relationship went far beyond their mutual interest in music. Eventually a sense of sexual jealousy grew in him, culminating in a heated incident when he flew into a rage. It ended in him throwing a bottle of acid at her, which burnt the entire front of her body. He fled the scene, immediately, to evade the police. Fearing for the worst penal fallout from his barbaric assault, he has been absconding since, without a trace, leaving Yaana, to fend for herself, all alone. Miraculously she survived with her life, but was left with her savagely scarred body. She also lost her precious feminine attributes; the scars decimated her nubile allure and from the medical complications, she became incapable of bearing children.
After listening to Yaana’s story, I realised how gravely mistaken I was about her. How wrong were my assumptions about her activities! She was frozen, like a statue and I was totally at a loss for words. My curiosity about this barbaric episode of her life raised too many questions in my mind but I didn’t have the courage to even broach the topic. I was paralysed into inaction, totally unsure of my next move.
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Next day, Yaana arrived at my hotel to bid good-bye. She had brought some pickled berries and fruits for me, insisting that they were gifts. There was hardly a trace of bitterness in her manners over the recent events. My taxi was ready to take off. Yaana again surprised me by suddenly moving close to me. Tenderly pressing herself against me, she said, in a teasing voice, “What you considered a sin that day, would have been my salvation.”
Yaana’s words stabbed me with pangs of guilt, jarring against her cheerful profile while she was waving me good-bye.
Original Odia Story: Moksha
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.
THE CROW AND THE CROCODILE - A STORY FOR OUR GRANDCHILDREN
Long ago, there lived a crocodile in a river. His home was close to the river bank. The river was enormous, it was like a sea. The crocodile had no clue as to how far the other bank was. The crocodile had a mouth as wide as a cave, jaws full of teeth with a snap more powerful than the grip of a vice. He could easily crush most animals in a matter of minutes. The river was teeming with animals. As the crocodile fed on all kinds of animals, he had no shortage of food. No wonder, the animals in the river were scared of him.
His superior strength and enormous size, nonetheless, did not make the crocodile happy. For, he had no friends. In fact, the very features, which gave him the grand look also made him so fearsome that most animals kept a distance from him. What they did not know was that he was actually a gentle soul. He longed for friendship of some kind but had no ways of telling anyone that he would never hurt a friend.
Something strange happened one day. Out of the blue, a crow flew across and perched himself on the crocodile, cautiously. The crocodile was pleasantly surprised by the crow’s brave move. The crow was nervous too but was determined not to show his fear. He put on a smile and they started to chat. As they got talking, the crow began to realise how friendly the crocodile was. He found him pleasant company. So, the crow returned to the crocodile next day and soon, they were meeting almost daily.
The crocodile loved to share his experience from his explorations into his world under the waters and talk about all the exotic things that lay in its depth. They ranged from the colourful plants and fishes to the intricate tangle of the wrecked boats in its bed. The crow would listen to his adventures with rapt attention. Soon, his curiosity into this fascinating underwater world grew and he sighed, “I wish I could see all these splendid things for myself!”
One day, when they were chatting near the bank, the crow’s sharp eyes spotted something at a distance, which alarmed him. He could see a man pointing a gun at the crocodile and he instantly knew the crocodile’s life was in danger. He immediately took off and pecked at the man’s head. The man lost his balance and in the process missed his aim. Frustrated, he dropped his gun down without shooting and simply walked away. It all happened in a flash and the crocodile did not know what was going on. But when the crow later told him how he foiled the man’s attempt to shoot him dead, the crocodile was deeply touched by the crow’s quick thinking and kindness.
The crocodile had grown quite fond of the crow by now and this latest incident sealed their bond of friendship.
“Now that you have saved my life, I am going to share my secret with you,” the crocodile told the crow. He went on to describe the pouch he had in his neck, which he could open and close at will. “I could take you under water in my pouch,” he added.
The crow did not quite believe him. The crocodile could sense the crow’s anxiety about going under water. “It’s big enough to shelter you fully and protect you from drowning when we go under the water,” the crocodile reassured.
That was the beginning of the most wonderful adventure for the crow. He saw so many new creatures; they had the strangest of shapes and the most vibrant colours he could ever imagine. The scenes underwater were beyond his wildest dreams. They went on many such trips and each journey opened up a new world for the crow.
Now, it was the crow’s turn. He would tell the crocodile all the things he had seen while flying in the sky. The crocodile found it fascinating and lamented, “You are so lucky, you are small and you can fly. I am too unwieldy and have no wings. I wish I could see all these things for myself!”
The crow revealed, he also had a secret power, which he had never talked about. Now that the crocodile was a dear friend, he could share the secret with him. The crow had the magical ability to reduce the size of any animal, at will. He also knew, the power was so special that he could use it only once. It was a rather scary thought , which made him quite hesitant to test it. He was not quite sure if it worked. He had never tried it; he had kept his special power in reserve for a special occasion.
The time to test the secret power had come.
As the crow invoked his magical power, he was taken aback by the transformation in the crocodile taking place before his very eyes. The crocodile became so small that he could comfortably sit and cling on to the crow’s back with his claws. They were set for flying together in the air.
The pair now embarked on a new round of adventures. Flying was an altogether new experience for the crocodile. So, the crow started off gently. As they rose in the air, the feeling of escape into the wide open sky thrilled the crocodile. Gradually the crow picked up speed and the swishing of breeze brushing against them filled the crocodile with exhilaration.
They flew through a variety of clouds, which came in a range of colours; some were dark and thick while many were fluffy and white. For the crocodile, they all were a novelty. The first cloud they encountered looked like a huge rock to the crocodile. It was dark and menacing. He did not know what to expect when they hit upon it. To his amazement they pierced through it and after a spell of what felt like swimming in a haze, they were back again in the open sky. It felt like game of hide and seek for the crocodile.
With the miniature crocodile on crow’s back they flew across gigantic mountains, lush jungles, sandy deserts and busy towns. Each landscape was different but no less interesting than the other. The crocodile found it bewildering at first but with help of the crow’s running commentary, the crocodile learnt to enjoy his trips .
In the midst of all the excitement the crocodile had a problem. He did not find enough meat which had been his staple diet while he lived in the water. In its place, there was an endless variety of trees in his new world. They came in all shapes and sizes imaginable. Some were straight and tall while others had the most crooked shape possible. Some spread out like dense clouds. But they all had one thing in common. They were adorned with the most dazzling flowers and covered by an abundance of fruits.
In the beginning the crocodile did not enjoy eating fruits. But he had to survive and was forced to give fruits a try. The fruits had an appealing array of colours and an enticing smell, which added to their taste. As he got used to them, he found them no less delicious than meat. Eventually, he settled for this new diet and did not miss meat much. His new life offered him so much excitement that he forgot that he once lived exclusively on meat.
The only stuff close to meat, the crocodile was used to in his life in water, were small insects, swarming in the foliage. He no longer craved for meat and was content with an occasional dose of insects. He was getting increasingly comfortable with his new land life. He did not miss water either and was happy to call land his home.
But, his diminutive size and his new habits posed a new challenge. The old term crocodile did not suit him any more. So, a new name had to be coined.
Thus, the lizard was born.
(Author’s Note: This story was conceived as a bedtime tale for my grand daughter, who has grown out of listening to bed time stories from books and now insists on being told stories at bed time. The plot for the story came to me during one of our sessions of looking together at pictures of animals. Pointing at a picture of a lizard, when I asked her to name it, she called it crocodile.)
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.
According to Murphy’s Law, anything that can go wrong will go wrong. I have lost count of the times I have faced such an eventuality. One incident in particular stands out in my memory as an epitome of Murphy’s Law.Years ago I was posted in Berhampur and wanted to visit nearby Phulbani to enjoy its natural beauty. So when my friend invited me to spend a few days there, I jumped at his invitation and hopped onto a bus. Being a government bus, it suffered from its own inadequacies. To start with, the ‘sarkari’ bus was late in starting. It was dark by the time we started climbing the ghat r oad. Added to that, I observed a blanket of menacing dark clouds rolling down from the horizon. The bus was equipped with nothing more than canvas flaps as protection against the rain. Even as I looked on, thunder broke out across the sky, followed by torrential rain. I had never witnessed rainfall of such intensity! The canvas turned sodden in no time. Soon all of us were drenched to the bone. Water flooded the bus and started flowing like a rivulet under our feet. But oblivious of the poor visibility, the gallant driver drove on, up the twists and turns of the ghat road. My heart leaped into my mouth every time the bus turned a sharp corner. But the driver continued to whistle nonchalantly.
Mercifully, the winding road came to an end when we reached a plateau. But if I thought my worries were over, I was in for an aftershock. The bus, which had run so unfailingly till then, suddenly conked off. It refused to respond to the tickles and kicks of the hapless driver. In desperation, he cajoled us to get down and push the bus. But for how long could a handful of passengers, women and children included, put their shoulders to the task? We soon gave up and retreated into the bus, praying for deliverance.
It was pitch dark inside and out. There were no mobile phones then to throw light on our ‘situation’. So all I could do was to take a seat and lose myself in the crescendo of raindrops falling on the forest of Sal trees. It was symphony music like no other I had heard and remains tuned in my memory. Instead of cursing the elements, I learnt to be grateful for nature’s musical offering.
I was blissfully lost in my own world when the sound of a jeep impinged into my thoughts. A local passenger had taken the trouble to walk a couple of kilometres to the house of a government official and woke him up. The latter took out his jeep to rescue us. But the jeep could accommodate only a few of the passengers. The rest would have to wait till morning. The women stayed in the bus, which they considered a ‘safer’ bet than a stranger’s jeep! Rain continued to plaster us even as our jeep entered the town. It was almost midnight. One by one, my companions got down from the jeep and melted into the night. As for myself, where was I to go in an unknown place at that unearthly hour? I scanned the deserted roads for any sign of my friend, but in vain. When the jeep reached the local bus depot, the driver suggested that I spend the night in the shelter of the waiting room instead of roaming the town aimlessly. In the event, I spread myself on a long table in the hall and closed my eyes. But I was not alone. The buzz of mosquitoes kept me company through the night.
Dawn loomed bright and clear. Everything looked so fresh after the overnight shower. Plop! Plop! Water drops rolled down the leaves and fell to the ground. Plop! Plop! With airbag in hand I tripped down the road in search of my host. Phulbani is a small place and I found him after making a few enquiries. We greeted each other and narrated our own adventures of the night. While I had been busy fending off the mosquitoes, he had been peddling his cycle in the rain, calling out my name every few minutes. Then he too tired and retired, consoling himself with the thought that I must have found shelter somewhere. I learnt the truth of Murphy’s Law: things do go wrong. But from it sprout memories that are more long lasting than any law.
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.
The mobile rang stridently. Muttering a curse Asit scuttled out of the washroom, wiping his face and hands with a towel. ‘Oh, no! Ma again!’ ‘Yes Ma,’ he spoke into the screen.
‘Are you still in the office?’ His mother’s voice sounded anxious at the other end of the line.
‘Just got back. What’s it, Ma?’
‘I called to remind you that you have to meet the girl this evening.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember. You need not worry,’ Asit said trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘Take a gift for her, a book or a painting or something fancy.’
‘Sure, I will buy the Taj Mahal for her. You stop advising me like I am a school going boy.’
‘You need not be sarcastic,’ Mother sounded hurt. ‘You are still a child for me and I think you will mess up things unless I guide you. You have to handle such delicate matters very carefully.’
‘I am sorry Ma,’ Asit said feeling a bit guilty. ‘I will take a decent gift for her.’
‘OK son! I am sending her photo to your WhatsApp. She seems to be good looking and decent. But you can judge her deportments only when through a face-to -face interaction. Take a look at the photo. Bless you,’ Mother disconnected the phone.
Asit slumped into the small couch that stood by the window, like an abandoned soul, carrying the muted memories of its past in the gray and off white stuffings that revealed themselves unabashedly through the tears on the once glossy upholstery. Mother had asked him to reach in time The Rainbow Garden, a place little away from the area he lived. It would take him, at a guess, about ten to fifteen minutes provided the traffic was not too heavy. He was feeling a bit ill at ease. It was the first time he would be meeting a girl who was a total stranger, in a public place. He had met the earlier two prospective brides at their own homes and that too accompanied by his mother and uncle. The thought made him nervy and disturbed.
‘What if the girl was not up to his expectations? What if she thought the same way and rejected him? the girl worked as a fashion designer in some garment company, mother had said. Asit believed that the fashion designers were over smart and ultramodern in their outlook. Not that Asit was prejudiced about smartness, nor was he a hardcore traditionalist. But, like many others, given a choice would prefer to have a nice, well-educated and decent girl, for a wife. He hoped the girl would not be too bold or loud in her deportments.
He got up to his feet and held open the wardrobe, and stood undecidedly there scanning the dresses, not sure which outfit would place him in a category that is not too modern or too conservative. After a lot of deliberations he settled for cream coloured shirt and a pair of black pants.
He examined the reflection in the mirror and felt was satisfied. He glanced at the table clock. it showed twenty five minutes after four. He was to reach the spot latest by a quarter to five. A girl should not be kept waiting. A small amused smile hovered on his face as he brushed his hair hurriedly.
Asit had joined a multi-national-company as a software engineer and moved in to this city some six or seven months before. He shared a room with two of his colleagues in a two bedroom cum hall and kitchen apartment not far from the office. It appeared to be a nice settlement in the given situation since all three of them were new in the city, and missed their hometowns and needed a little relaxation from the monotony of the long working hours in one another’s company. All put together Asit found the stay in the new city not too harrowing and unpleasant as he apprehended it to be, even though he missed his mother a lot. He had decided to compel her to come and live with her as soon as he settled in the new place.
But mother had her own plans for him. She had assiduously engaged herself in searching for a suitable alliance for him soon after he had got the job. Not satisfied with her individual pursuit she had asked her brother to join her in her endeavour to find a bride for him.
‘What is the hurry, Ma?’ Asit had asked trying to dissuade her from the act. ‘It is not even a year since I joined the job. You should wait for at least a year or two before enfettering me. Let me have a little fun.’ He had jested.
Mother was in no mood for his light hearted jesting. ‘You have a life ahead to have the fun and freedom. I must discharge my parental duty while I am alive and fit. I will be free of a major responsibility after I find a befitting match for you.’ She said adamantly.
‘Freedom and fun after marriage!!’ Asit chuckled inwardly. ‘What a strange paradox!!’ But he disd not say anything aloud.
Nor did he want to argue with or disappoint his mother. What is the big deal? If she believed seriously that she would be happy to see her son married at an early age, then he must not deprive her of that happiness. And he had agreed to visit the house of the prospective bride with his uncle and mother. But the girl appeared to be very smart and modern to mother since she was not in a saree, even if she entered the room with the plate of tea and snacks and stood in a humble posture waiting to be asked to sit. The next girl they went to see was short in height and looked aa little plump in the glamorous silk sari. She walked clumsily, her feet getting caught up from time to time in the heavy border of the sari and there was a frightening moment when she almost dropped the tray she was carrying in a pair of nervous trembling hands. Asit hid an amused smile with an effort.
Mother was quiet upset at the consecutive failures of her exercise and shifted the sole responsibility to her elder brother, who readily accepted it.
And so, here was the girl of his uncle’s choice, the daughter of a fast friend of his, in this very city working in some private insurance company, and the irrefutable injunction from his mother to meet her this evening.
**
The mobile gave a soft beep announcing a notification. His mother had sent the photo of the girl he was about to meet in the evening. He looked at the photo. The girl was averagely good looking and had standard features. She could be passed as any other girl of her age, common and mediocre.
Asit heaved out a sigh. Mother would not leave him alone until he met the girl in the evening. It is the third time he would playing a part in such a ridiculous charade and the earlier experiences supplied him enough stimuli to look at such incidents skeptically. But he did not have the heart to decline and hurt his mother’s sentiments. He knew the hardships his mother had gone through to raise him after his father’s premature death. She had taken up the job of a teacher in an elementary school which was extremely demanding. She had to work extra hours since the school had a staff shortage. He realized how difficult it must have been for her to make the ends meet with the meagre amount she received as her salary from the school. But she had managed quite efficiently and got him and his sister educated at good institutions. Her sister was married off to an IT professional last year and is now settled comfortably at Bangalore. The one person who had always extended his help to her be it money or other material needs, and stood by her as a strong emotional support-system in her hours of distress was his uncle, his mother’s elder brother. It was he who had negotiated the marriage alliance of her sister and hence mother pinned an unwavering trust on his choice and discretion.
It was his uncle who had brought this proposal, and the two earlier ones. In both the earlier cases he had met the girls at their place. in both the occasions the girl had entered carrying awkwardly a platter of tea and snacks the room where he sat sandwiched between his mother and uncle, shifting on his seat uncomfortably, anxiously waiting for the farce to be over, visibly embarrassed at the mockery people make of a delicate and sensitive issue.
As he was picking up the key of his bike from the table the phone rang. He flicked an exasperated glance at the screen. It was his mother again. ‘Do not forget the gift,’ mother’s voice sounded anxious at the other end. ‘Yes, Yes… Don’t you worry. He tossed the phone back to the bed and inspected his wallet to ensure he was carrying enough cash along with his debit card.
He cast a last glance at the mirror, gave a final touch to his hair with the brush and hurried out of the room. He locked the front door and hopped down the stairs, two at a time.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was heading fast to the west. Patches of stray clouds, like boats with slaty awnings bordered by a gleaming crimson and gold, drifted wandered aimlessly in an ocean of smoky-blue.
He started the bike and drove off.
**
‘No, Mama, I cannot wear a saree.’ Rhea spoke into the screen, an obstinate ring to her voice. ‘You know how clumsy my movement becomes in a sari. It will only make me an object of ridicule.’ She added.
Priya raised her eyes from the book she was reading and looked at her roommate and friend, a flicker of a smile in her face.
‘I can help you in draping one.’ She volunteered.
‘Keep the idea of social service to yourself,’ Rhea retaliated as she threw the mobile phone back to the bed. ‘You too are a traditionalist like my mother. It beats me why wearing a saree can impress someone more. What is the harm in a decent modern outfit?’ She exclaimed flopping into a cushioned chair by the study table.
‘Well, well! Do not get so worked up. Drop the idea of saree if it is such a big discomfort, or else you would be constantly conscious about it while interacting with the prospective groom,’ Priya said solicitously.
‘Why don’t you come with me, Priya? You know how inept I am at such things. I will surely bungle up the meeting. Besides, I am not interested to go ahead with a marriage plan at present. I have my eyes fixed up on that big project on interior designing at Sweden. I am sure the boss will suggest my name as the project manager. A marriage will spoil everything. I want this to be relayed to him somehow, not hurting his feelings. He happens to be the nephew of my father’s close friend.’
‘You can frankly explain that to him. I am sure he will understand. Ask him to give you a year’s time to work out your future. I am sure he will understand.’
‘But why can’t you come with me? You know I will feel comfortable and easy if you are with me. you too have passed through such ordeals more than once. That makes you more experienced.’ Rhea urged.
‘I will only be a spoilsport,’ Priya laughed. ‘Haven’t you heard about ‘two’s company and three is crowd’?’
‘Do not feed me that stuff. You are coming with me or else I will call mama and ask her to cancel the meeting.’
‘You could be so oppressively insistent at times!’ Priya smiled at her friend’s childlike obstinance. ‘No need to drop the plan. I will come with you.’
‘That’s my girl’, Rhea bent forward and hugged Priya.
**
The two girls sat discussing in what kind of an outfit Rhea would look most attractive and presentable. After a long deliberation Rhea selected a pair navy blue slacks and a white, full sleeved top. Priya suggested a string of black beads to go with the dress. ‘Simple but glamorous,’ she remarked. ‘And wear your hair loose.’
Rhea, a fashion designer working with a branded garment company had big hopes in life. An only issue of the doting parents she was a bit haughty and adamant and wanted to live life on her own terms and conditions had not contemplated marriage with any seriousness. She shared a room with Priya who was a data analyst in an insurance company, in a working women’s hostel located in a relatively less crowded section of the city. Both the girls had joined their respective institutions a couple of months back and found the hostel a decent and safe place to settle in an unfamiliar city. The room was cozy and comfortable and the other inmates too were quite friendly and agreeable to put up with. The food was good and the matron was a generous, kind hearted lady with a plump, motherly built up. All put together she was happy under the new found dispensation. The only snag was her parents’ constant prodding to enter into a marriage alliance and relieve them of their filial responsibilities, since, they harped on unstoppably, they were getting old. They had opened accounts on more than one matrimonial site and been examining marriage proposals. That seemed to be their most fascinating engagement, Rhea creased her nose in disgust as she thought about it. She had made it clear to them that she would not be entering into the bondage of marriage until and unless she had proved her worth in her professional field, and representing her company abroad as the managerial head of a project, would be the best possible scope to achieve her goal. All the same she did not want to make an outright denial and had agreed to meet the young man who was an IT professional or something, just not to hurt her parents’ sentiments.
Her father had advised to reach the Rainbow Garden which was at quite a distance from the hostel by six in the evening. ‘Just meet him and exchange small talks about your job and your hobbies over a cup of coffee and try to make an overall appraisal. It is not that he is the last person left on earth for you to marry. You know we will never force you into an alliance unless you give your wholehearted consent.’
And so, she was to dress herself decently and elegantly, she thought irritably, for someone who was a total stranger and set out on an adventure!
**
A cool breeze was beginning to blow when Asit pulled up at ONE OF the big, wrought iron gates of the Rainbow Garden. There was a sizable crowd in the garden, men women and children strolling about enjoying the resplendent display of colourful lights and the fragrant air of the early evening. He looked around, feeling ill at ease, not decided whether to wait for the girl by the gate or move inside. He held the two books he had purchased from the bookstore, Shravya Bhinder’s SOMETHING I NEVER TOLD YOU, and YOUR DREAMS ARE MINE NOW by Ravindra Singh…wondering if she had any interest in reading novels.
Young men and women of these days, he thought resignedly are not the book-reading type. This is the era of internet and the world has gone digital. But Asit nourished an old-fashioned hobby of reading books, a hobby passed on to him as a valuable legacy from his mother who is an avid and voracious reader.
An autorickshaw cruised to a halt a few feet away from where he stood and two young women climbed down. They looked here and there as if searching for someone and then one of them caught sight of Asit who swung back on her heels and spoke something to her companion. The other one turned a quizzical gaze to Asit and nodded to her friend. After hedging a little they moved to the spot where Asit shifted uneasily on his feet feeling awkward. ‘There are two of them,’ he thought looking askance at them, ‘Which one of them he was supposed to meet?’ He rummaged through his pocket for the mobile phone to take a look at the photo his mother had sent and went to the WhatsApp site. The message of his mother was there but the picture of the girl did not come on the screen. Obviously the network was poor. He tried more than once but the picture did not show. He looked vaguely at the approaching girls. He remembered the name, Rhea. ‘That will do for the time being, ‘ he thought and smiled at the girls. ‘Rhea, I suppose,’ he exclaimed looking at the girl who was in a blue white salwar suit and had big black eyes. Both the girls looked similar in a way but the girl in blue had a magnetic pull in her eyes. The girl in the red top and white pants looked elegant enough but she did not have that ‘thing’ about her the other one had. ‘Hello, there! I am Rhea. She is Priya, my friend and roommate,’ the girl in the red and white said.
‘Oh yes. Shall we go inside?’ Asit said trying to keep the embarrassment out of his voice. He was confused between the names. What was the name mother had said, Rhea or Priya? The girl in blue was silent and shy, a gesture suited perfectly to the occasion. ‘Maybe, she is the one, and the smarter girl has accompanied her to extend some emotional feed back to her friend.’
They moved towards a comparatively less crowded spot and sat down on two steel benches. After the formal introduction they sat exchanging talks about the weather, their job profiles and things like that keeping the conversation noncommittal and impersonal.
Asit went to one of the food courts and got them coffee and sandwiches. It was the girl in red and white and who told her name was Rhea did most of the talking. She narrated her experiences as a fashion designer, her future plans and how she was waiting for an opportunity to visit abroad as the team manager representing and advertising the products of the company. She seemed to be one easy to go along with, frank and friendly and could prove a compatible partner. Rhea was a person, Asit guessed, who knew how to make her point without being offensive. She had revealed her wish not to commit herself to any binding relationship before she was settled in her career as a fashion designer. Asit liked her frankness. He was inwardly relieved that Rhea would not feel insulted if the negotiation was postponed for a while.
The girl in the blue suit sat a little aloof and uninvolved, though not exactly indifferent, looking around and deliberately keeping herself out of the conversation. Asit doubted if she was the girl his mother had wanted him to meet.
‘Are you an interior designer, too ?’ he asked, fixing his gaze on her. The lurid display of lights in the garden lent an enigmatic charm to her face, and Asit grew increasingly interested in her, hoping secretly she was the prospective bride.
‘Who, Priya? No!’ Rhea broke in before a response could have been drawn out from the girl in blue. ‘She is a data analyst in the Oriental Insurance company. Contrary to the nature of her profession she is a romantic at heart, loves to read bulky novels and listens to songs.’ Rhea chuckled. ‘Don’t’…Priya made a feeble protest.
‘Data analyst? Mother had not mentioned a data analyst,’ Asit thought slightly disappointed. But mother had not mentioned the nature of the girl’s job clearly. Perhaps uncle had not discussed the details of the candidate’s job.
Rhea seemed to have quite an agreeable personality and easy to talk to. She could prove a decent and compatible partner for anyone with a broader outlook and a liberal mindset, Asit told himself. He, too had nothing to complain about her deportments. But Priya was a reserved, self-contained person. She was silent all the while Asit chitchatted with each other. But her silence was a voice in itself, she did not have to open her mouth to express herself. There was some kind of magic in her eyes that could articulate her emotions with an exactness which a vocal expression could not have. Time and again his eyes rivetted on her face as if they were was pulled by a mysterious, magnetic force. There was an intense, indecipherable look in her eyes that kept his gaze fastened every time he turned towards her. And every time their eyes met Priya would turn her face away.
Rhea’s mobile rang. ‘It’s my boss. Excuse me, I will have to take the call,’ Rhea picked up the phone and moved out of earshot while speaking to the phone.
Asit looked at Priya, who sat silently browsing on her mobile phone.
‘So, you love to read novels,’ he said, smiling. ‘What sort of books are in your choice list?’
‘I am not very selective about that,’ Priya said, ‘But I would prefer romances and thrillers.’ Her voice had a deep husky note which was almost seductive. It sent an electric vibration through him. His mouth felt dry.
‘I have a small gift for you,’ he said through lips that suddenly felt stiff. ‘I think they are of your choice,’ he held out the books to her.
‘How can I take them?’ Priya shifted back a little on the bench. ‘You have bought them for yourself.’
‘That is no issue at all. I can get them back from you when you have finished reading. It will give me a chance to see you again!’ He looked deep into her eyes. Priya lowered her gaze.
The evening has deepened. Some lights at that patch of the garden were switched off leaving it partially dark. A gibbous moon sneaked from the clouds that sprawled randomly like flimsy sheets of silver-gray muslin. People had started moving out of the garden and the crowd was slowly thinning. Rhea had not returned. She was perhaps still on the phone speaking to her boss.
‘Take them, please,’ Asit said again. Priya reached out for the books, and her fingers touched Asit’s. It was one of those hypnotic moments that makes one forget all proprieties. Asit, driven by an impulse that he could not and did not want to comprehend caught hold of Priya’s hand. Priya gave a little shiver but she did not pull her hand out of Asit’s hold. A long moment passed. And then Priya gently disengaged her hand and stowed the books away into the sling bag that hung over her shoulder.
‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. My boss happens to be a hell of a taskmaster,’ Rhea said as she walked in. Asit rose to his feet. ‘It is late in the evening. We must leave. I think you have my contact number with you. Or else just give me missed call so that it can be saved in my phone,’ he said to Rhea. Thanks to both of you for making this evening memorable.’ He smiled and gave his number. Asit wanted desperately to ask Priya for her number but something held him back. She may or may not be the girl. If Rhea was the girl, of which he was now beginning to get more and more sure, she might not take the gesture in a cordial way and report it to her parents who would in their turn tell it to his uncle. Priya rose to her feet and walked ahead of them towards the gate. Rhea walked with Asit, still chatting about the excitement of the fashion designing career. Asit waved at an autorickshaw that was passing by and the rickshaw rolled towards the spot they were standing. Priya said a soft ‘bye’ and smiled her enigmatic smile before she climbed into the rickshaw. ‘Nice to meet you,’ Rhea said, her face lit up with a warm, cordial smile and got in beside her friend. She waved at him as the rickshaw revved away.
Asit stood looking at the disappearing vehicle for a few minutes, weary and slightly disturbed. How he wished Priya were the one his uncle had chosen for him. But he knew instinctively that it was not so. And that filled him with a sense of loss. Then he started the bike and drove back to the apartment.
**
‘Well,’ Rhea asked. ‘How did you find him?’
‘ He is okay.’ Priya said shortly.
‘What kind of an answer is that? Tell me if he would prove a good husband to an ambitious girl like me.’ Rhea persisted.
‘How could I guess that? You have made your point clear. He appears to be a reasonable person. I think he will not have much objection to give you some time to explore the possibilities in the career of a fashion designer.’
‘Do you think so? Well. I will ask father to relate to his friend what all transpired this evening. It is well and good if they agree or else, they will have to look for a homemaker for his nephew.’ Rhea laughed.
Priya sat wordlessly a faraway look in her big black eyes Her hand inside the sling bag, closed in on the books Asit had given her.
Rhea’s phone rang again. ‘Yes mama,’ she said into the phone. ‘He seems to be a gentleman. But I have told him about my future plans.’
She listened to the blurry voice at the other end of the phone for a minute.
‘Your voice is not clear, mama. We are travelling back. I will call you when I reach the hostel.’ She put the phone back in her handbag.
Priya cast a searching glance at her friend, and looked away at the trees that lined the road receding rapidly as the rickshaw moved forward.
**
The first thing Asit did on reaching the apartment was to check the photograph his mother had sent. The girl that smiled at him from the screen was Rhea alright. He felt a tightness at his chest as if something hard and solid stuck in his heart. There was a silver lining however in the gloomy horizon, he thought hopefully, Rhea was not ready for marriage now. She wanted to give some more time to her career, and that would be quite a plausible and convincing pretext to persuade mother to shift her focus to some other proposal, possibly Priya!!
He did not call his mother that night. As such it was late by the time he and his colleague returned after having their dinner and he knew mother would be in bed by that time. He went to his room and lay down on the bed. A sheet of silence, punctured at places by the sporadic blares of automobiles hung over the place. Asit lay awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that whirred softly above, recollecting the happenings of the evening. He felt possessed by an uncanny emotion which would not let him out of its grip despite all his logical debating with himself. The memory of Priya was like a obstinate, nagging ache that refused to go away. He wondered I finally f Priya felt the same way he felt about her. He closed his eyes trying to contemplate an approach to convince his uncle and mother to consider Priya as a prospective bride.
The night was beginning to fade when Asit finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
**
He was feeling slightly dizzy after the sleepless night and found it difficult to concentrate in the work. He logged in to the system and sat staring vaguely at the screen of his laptop.
He called his mother at the lunch break.
‘What made you take so long?’ Mother sounded accusing. ‘I have been waiting for your call since morning.’
Asit narrated about the meeting with Rhea and added that he did not want the progress in her career be impeded by a hurried marriage.
‘Would you like to wait for her?’ There was a faint note of disappointment in her voice. ‘Why is so bent upon pursuing a career, after all?’
‘That is her choice Ma. It is not right to force the marriage on her if she does not want it now. It will not work out to the end.’
‘Tell me what do you want, son. I will go along with you if you have decided to wait and if at all she is a girl worth waiting for.’
Asit took the opportunity to open his heart to his mother. Guardedly, careful not to sound too eager, he told her about Priya, described her as briefly as possible.
‘Are you truly interested in her, son?’ Mother asked. She seemed to be glad to know about the developments.
‘It could be Ma,’ Asit did not want to upset his mother again because he was not sure what was in Priya’s heart. Besides he did not know anything about her except that she worked as a data analyst in an insurance company. ‘I think she is not of our caste.’
‘That is no problem. You know I am not a conservative person to mind the caste. You inquire about the parents of the girl and I will ask your uncle to approach them. Do not overburden your mind and take care of your health. God willing things will work out finely.’ She gave her blessings and clicked the connection off.
A heavy load that had made breathing difficult was lifted off Asit’s chest after he talked to his mother. Now he had to find the details about Priya. But how?
It was only Rhea who could help him to connect to Priya. Rhea was a lighthearted and jovial person. But he was skeptical about asking her for another girl’s number, when he was supposed to have been asking about the details of her own plans for future. Despite her amicable nature Rhea could take it amiss, his inquiring about Priya’s family and home.
He did not call Rhea that evening. He went to bed early, hoping some solution would crop up before he fell asleep. He kept on pondering over the matter, dithering, inventing and dropping ideas.
That night too sleep eluded him.
He spent the next couple of days contemplating several possible ways to seek the help of Rhea without offending her.
The sleeplessness nights and the worry and anxiety that nagged him all through the days were taking their toll on him. His head ached badly and he found it difficult to focus on his work.
His mother called him twice to inquire if he had made any progress in contacting Priya or her family. He had asked her to keep patience and not to rush things.
‘Why don’t you meet Priya at the working women’s hostel and speak to her? Mother said. ‘She would have no objection in meeting you if she really liked you.’
‘I will try some other possible means to contact her Ma,’ Asit tried to sound convincing. ‘Ok son, but do not take a lot of time. Delay could prove disadvantageous in such delicate issues.’
**
It was Friday night. Asit and his colleague ate out on most Friday nights and watch a late-night movie.
They had a good dinner at a posh restaurant and later they watched a movie. Asit was feeling exhausted and wanted to sleep early, but his colleague would not listen to Asit’s excuses. ‘This is weekend night buddy! We have to have some entertainment to overcome drudgery of our job.’
Asit did not have the heart to decline. But he slept through most parts of the movie.
He flopped into bed without changing his clothes and was fast asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
The constant ring of the mobile phone jerked him awake. Asit stretched his hand out to pick up the phone. He squinted at the screen wondering who could be calling at this ungodly hour. The screen displayed no name. It only showed a number. Must be a wrong number, Asit guessed.
‘Hello,’ he spoke groggily into the screen.
No one answered.
‘Hello! Who is this?’ Asit asked, his voice rising a shade higher.
He was greeted by an uncanny silence at the other end of the line.
Asit, his drowsiness totally vanished now, sat up on the bed, feeling a bit shaken.
‘Why don’t you tell me who do you want to speak to?’ he demanded in nervous anger.
He heard it then!
It was so muffled and so low a sound that he first mistook it as some disturbance in the network. The sound became a bit distinct. It was like a faint gasp, as if someone was breathing hard. The phone slipped from his grip, but the sound was still there, soft, mysterious and spooky.
He disconnected the call in a trembling hand and tried to regain his calm. He sat staring at the phone for a long time, frightened to touch it. Nothing happened for a while. Asit closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, and the obstinate rings of the phone echoed through the room, startling him. It was the same number.
He wanted to click the phone off. Someone is playing an ugly prank with him and he was now curious to know who it was. There was no need to fear, he assured himself, it was after all only a phone call! The one at the other end, who may he or she be, had to be taught a lesson for disturbing him in this manner at the dead of the night.
‘He touched the answer icon. ‘If you do not tell me who you are this time, I am going to report this number to the police. Then you will have to answer them,’ he said.
‘I am sorry if I woke you up…..’ a voice said. Asit’s grip tightened around the phone. He could know that voice anywhere.. deep, husky and seductive. It gave him goosebumps.
Priya!! ‘Hello, Priya!’ Asit found his voice was quivering uncontrollably.
‘I loved the evening,’ Priya’s voice came indistinctly over the line. It sounded smothered and hollow as if coming from some tunnel or from somewhere in the depth of a cave or something.
‘I loved the books. I will return them after reading.’
‘You need not, Priya. I have gifted them to you,’ Asit said fumbling for the right words.
‘I know. I also want you to know something I never told you.’ Priya laughed, it was a strange, enigmatic laughter, and it sounded weird in the silence of the night. ‘I have never told you but remember that your dreams are now mine!’ He could hear Priya’s irregular breathing now, as if she was finding it difficult to speak. ‘Something I Never told You’, ‘Your Dreams are now Mine’… the titles of the two books he had given to her. She had joined both the titles to express her feelings.
‘Priya,’ he said.. ‘I want to meet you tomorrow. Are you in the hostel?’
‘No, I am not there.’
‘Where can I meet you then?’ he persisted.
‘I cannot meet you,’ Priya sounded sad and broken.
‘But why?’ Asit was confused. ‘Why can’t I meet you? Where are you?’ He demanded.
‘Nowhere. Goodbye.’
‘Hey, Priya, don’t cut the call please. I want to speak to you, Priya!!’
But the line was dead. Frantic now, Asit called the number from which Priya had made the call. ‘The number you are trying to reach is switched off now. Please try again later,’ the mechanical voice said. Asit sat on the bed, still gripping the phone in clammy hands, shocked and confounded at the abrupt manner Priya had cut the connection off. He tried the number more than once but every time it said that the number was switched off. ‘I must call her at the hostel tomorrow,’ he decided and lay down, preparing himself for another sleepless night.
**
It was a little before nine in the morning when Asit stood in front of the gate of the Working Women’s Hostel, feeling not so sure of himself. He had left his apartment early, hoping Priya had not left for her office. He was still perturbed by last night’s call of Priya, a call so odd and untimely that it haunted him all through the night, keeping sleep far at bay. He was determined to find out if it was Priya who had called last night or it was some kind of a delusion, a figment of his imagination. After waiting for a few minutes, he moved inside the gate, emboldening himself against his dwindling confidence and stepped onto the lounge. At one side of the hall a young spectacled girl who wore her hair tightly in a ponytail, probably deliberately to look severe and inaccessible Asit thought, sat behind a table on which there was a laptop. She cast an indifferent glance at Asit as he approached her.
‘Excuse me,’ Asit said without a preamble, ‘I am Asit. I am here to meet urgently an inmate of the hostel, Miss Priya. Could you please ask Miss Priya to come down here?’
‘Have you informed her over phone that you were coming?’ The girl sounded dispassionate and bored.
‘I had tried, but her phone seems to have switched off.’
‘The girl lifted the receiver of the intercom and spoke into it. She listened for a while and then looked up at Asit.
‘Priya madam is not here. She has left for her home at some place in Chhattisgarh day before yesterday and is expected to be back in a week. You could try her again on her cell phone if the matter is that urgent,’ she said and turned her gaze back to the screen of the laptop.
‘Can I speak to Rhea madam, her roommate?’ Asit asked not ready to give up.
‘Rhea madam had left just a while before.’ She said without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘Thank you, ‘ Asit said and came out to the open. He walked to where he had parked his bike wondering why Priya had called him from her home? Is she being forced into some unwanted alliance by her parents, or there is some other reason? She had fused the titles of the books he had given her to hint that she had some secret to reveal. ‘Something I Never told You and Your Dreams are Mine …’ Still wondering and feeling slightly edgy at the intriguing developments he started the bike and drove to his office.
**
The apartment looked lonely and empty when Asit returned from the office at about seven in the evening. His roommate and colleague would be spending an evening out with a distant cousin who lived in the same city. Asit had brought some light dinner and a bottle of cold drink for himself. He had asked the cook to take an evening off.
He made himself a cup of coffee and sat by the window sipping it leisurely. The silence that hung in the apartment was heavy and had a volatile quality about it. Asit switched on the television to relieve the depressing loneliness. He returned to the chair by the window and sat down. as he was about to pick up the coffee mug on the table, his mobile rang startling him. ‘Must be Ma, ‘ he thought as he got up to picked the phone. ‘She is early today. She usually calls after dinner,’ Asit said to himself looking at the screen. It was the number Priya had called from. his heart skipped a bit and then began to race.
‘Hello,’ he spoke to the screen. His voice was hoarse and shaky.
No one answered. ‘Hello! Is this Priya?’ His voice sounded unusually loud to him in that eerie silence.
There was no reply from the other side. He could hear the sound of a laboured breathing as if some one was gasping for breath. It was a like a muffled hiss and it gave him goosebumps. Sweat beads formed on his forehead and he felt a hot rush of blood climbing to his brain. He disconnected the call and sat down on the chair, his legs trembling.
‘What is all this? Why is Priya making these mysterious calls? Why isn’t she answering him?’ He was getting more and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. He decided to call Rhea to know where Priya actually was and what was the matter with her. Rhea answered immediately. ‘Hello Asit? How are you?’ She said. did not sound very cordial and encouraging. Asit wondered what was the reason.
‘Sorry for disturbing you, Rhea. But I have a bit of a problem and I need your help.’ He spoke cautiously.
‘What is it, Asit?’
‘Actually I want to speak to your friend, Priya but I do not have her number. A friend of mine who has a policy in the insurance company she works for is having some problems regarding the payment of the premiums or so. I am not exactly aware what it is. If you can give me Priya’s number , of course with her permission, my friend could contact her.’ Asit heaved out a deep breath after blurting out the lie.
‘Of course I can give you her number. But she has gone to her home which is in some town in the district Rajnandangaon in Chhattisgarh. And the most worrying thing that she has not reached home even though she had boarded the bus the night before last. At noon I got a call from her father who is panicky and is at the verge of crying. I think he must have informed the police by now.’
‘Do you say Priya is missing?’ Asit asked, shocked at what he heard.
‘You could say that. There might be an accident or something, God forbid, and the bus might have been stranded in a jungle road. Anything is possible. I will let you know as soon as I hear something.’
‘Ok. Thanks.’ Asit’s heart pounded so violently that he could almost hear the loud thuds. ‘Who was calling him if Priya is missing? And why she did not say anything except mentioning the title of the books in an enigmatic way and promising that she would return them?’
It was going to be nine. Asit had lost his appetite. He kept the food packet in the refrigerator. The television was blaring cacophonously, and he changed to a local channel.
Then he heard the news. It was given a short coverage. A bus travelling to Rajnandangaon night before last carrying forty passengers were ambushed by the Naxalites in the jungle road. Two of the passengers were killed and two girls travelling in the bus were missing. The local police doubted that the girls were kidnapped by the Naxals.
Asit sat staring at the screen unblinkingly, his mind numbed.
‘Where is Priya? Where from she was calling him?’
He was still sitting stiff in the chair when his roommate came back at about midnight.
‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ he asked eyeing Asit curiously. ‘Just watching something on the television,’ Asit mumbled and bidding an indistinct goodnight to him went into his room. He switched off the light and lay down in the bed.
+++
The next couple of days were nightmares for him. The hands of the clock refused to move with a rigid obstinance. He was not aware of when it dawned and when the night fell.
The news of Priya came at last, grim and shocking. The police had identified the body that was discovered at the outer fringe of the jungle from the I card in her handbag. It was Priya all right. She was believed to have been gang raped and brutally killed by the Naxals.
Rhea called Asit. She sobbed hard over the line. Asit listened to her sobs, his heart bleeding inwardly.
***
It became impossible for to live in the city with Priya’s memory haunting him incessantly and he made a request to his office for a transfer.
The next month he was transferred to another office in a city nearer to his hometown.
**
A year passed. His uncle and his mother were sympathetic about this loss, but they were people with a pragmatic mind. They knew brooding over the memory of Priya who had not even expressed her love for Asit openly would not be of no use. His uncle had still not given up on Rhea who had in the meantime had made her trip abroad and had settled in her job.
It was Rhea’s father who made the first move. He called Asit’s uncle and requested for a fresh negotiation. After much deliberation they sought for the opinion of both Asit and Rhea. Rhea had no objection to the alliance now since she had accomplished her mission. Asit’s mother never stopped persuading her son until finally he gave his consent.
Asit and Rhea were married next year.
It was not a very grand affair since both Asit and Rhea wanted to keep the event simple and modest.
**
More than a week had passed after the marriage. Most of the kinspeople who had come to attend the wedding had left. The house was now quiet and peaceful. Asit and Rhea sorted the gifts presented by the friends and relatives.
‘Let us first open the packets with shiny wrappers, ‘ Rhea suggested as Asit picked the packets one after another. He laughed. ‘You are still a child at heart,’ he remarked affectionately.
‘You can say that. But I am naturally inclined to glamour.’ Rhea agreed.
‘Okay,’ Asit agreed. Let us separate the gifts by the looks of the packets. The glossy and glamorous packets are for you to open. I will go for the unassuming looking ones.’
They had opened all the gift-wrapped cartons and packets except for two when Asit’s sister came searching for Rhea. ‘What are you doing Bhabi? Come with me I will show you something very interesting.’
‘Really?’ Rhea smiled and got to her feet. ‘Take a look at the last few of the gifts and keep them back.’ She said to Asit and followed his sister out of the room.
Asit turned his eyes to the remaining two packets. He turned one of them in his hands pressing it slightly to make a guess about the thing inside. it felt soft and fluffy. Carefully he removed the wrapper and tore the paper cover. Out came a lovely lady’s purse in black and gold. Keeping the purse aside Asit stretched his hand to the last one. Dumped under a few snazzy ones the packet looked oddly out of place. He could see the outline of something rectangular in shape through the paper wrapping. And the paper too looked a bit soiled, as if it was smeared faintly by dry mud or something like that. A small leaf that must have been once very green but now was paled to a graying brown stuck to one corner of the packet. Asit wondered who could be using a such a soiled newspaper to wrap a wedding gift? He pulled the packet out to the open.
An electric shiver ran through his hand and spread out into his entire body. The book throbbed in his hand as if it was a living thing. He snatched his hand away and springing up to his feet stared at the packet in astonishment.
Lying there crowded by its shiny companions, it looked innocent and harmless, and dull.
He stood looking at it for a minute or two, waiting to calm his agitation.
Driven by a curiosity strong enough to overcome his apprehension he picked the packet up and tore open the newspaper wrapping.
Inside was a book that looked familiar. He blinked his eyes.
He recognized it then. It was one of the books he had gifted to Priya. ‘Something I Never Told You.’
He gingerly lifted the cover flap. There was something written in a neat and clear hand on the first page. He let his disbelieving eyes run over the writing. ‘There is something I never told you. But your dreams will be mine forever. Love… Priya!’
She has combined the titles of the two books he had gifted her in an uncanny, mysterious way to express her emotions.
Asit froze.
The book slipped from his hand and hit the floor.
The gentle thud sounded like a tiny explosion in the thick and creepy silence of the room.
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)
Old Balaram couldn’t contain his nervousness when the telegraph peon handed him the telegram. Somehow sensing that it contained something ominous, his hands trembled when he put his left thumb to the stamp-pad that the peon opened up for him. He looked about him stealthily to see if anyone was around. Realising that his wife, Rama, had gone to have her evening ablutions, he heaved a sigh of relief. Tucking the yellowish paper into the waist of his dirty dhoti, he hurried to the school to catch Sahoo Sir before he left for his home in one of the nearby villages. It wasn’t 5 o’clock yet and Sahoo Sir would most likely be packing up his things to leave. From a distance he noticed Sahoo Sir’s green ‘Hercules’ bicycle parked near the school gate and hastened his pace. There were others in Balaram’s village who could also read English but he just couldn’t trust them. They were all rather loud-mouthed and he knew that the whole village would be gossiping about the contents of the telegram – whatever it was – in no time. As he reached the school gate, Sahoo Sir was about to mount his bicycle.
Surprised to see Balaram there at that hour, he asked him, with a slight trace of impatience, “What brings you here now, Balaram?”
Balaram was, of course, a nice and simple fellow but, at times, he got to be a bit of an annoyance. Moreover, as the sun was about to set, it would soon be getting dark and chilly and he had quite a long way to go.
“Sir, Sir…,” Balaram was breathless from his effort of running, “I’ve…I’ve… just received a telegram. It’s, in fact, the only one that I’ve received in my whole life.”
“Well, but what’s the problem?”
“Sir, you know I’m illiterate and I don’t know what this telegram is all about. So could you please read it out to me? Please, Sir,” Balaram begged.
“There are so many others in this village who could do that for you, couldn’t they?” Sahoo Sir sounded exasperated. “So, why come all the way to me?”
“You know the folks here, Sir. They’ll make a mountain out of a molehill and the whole village would know about the telegram in no time. I wouldn’t mind if the news is good but what if…?” Balaram’s voice trailed off.
Sahoo Sir could understand Balaram’s predicament and asked for the telegram. “It’s from the Principal of your daughter’s college at Cuttack,” he said, glancing at the sender’s name.
‘Why at all would she send me a telegram?’ Balaram wondered to himself. “What does it say?” he asked, aloud.
Sahoo Sir first went through the telegram silently –
YOUR DAUGHTER BHAGYASHREE MISSING FROM HOSTEL SINCE SECOND INSTANT. PLEASE MEET UNDERSIGNED IMMEDIATELY. PRINCIPAL.
As the seriousness of the matter sunk in, Sahoo Sir was at a loss as to how to divulge the news to poor Balaram. He mentally groped for words to convey this to Balaram, in the gentlest manner possible.
As Sahoo Sir hesitated, Balaram could guess that something was troubling him. Nevertheless, he was quite anxious to know what the telegram was all about. “Please, sir,” he beseeched, “tell me what it says.”
Sahoo Sir felt terribly helpless. Unwillingly, he translated the contents of the telegram into Odia for Balaram to understand.
Balaram felt as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt! His mind went blank and he didn’t know what to do. Without uttering a word - even one of thanks to Sahoo Sir - he snatched at the telegram and ran back home.
As he entered his home Rama had just finished her evening prayers and was heading towards the kitchen for preparing dinner for them. She was startled to see him in such a dishevelled state.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
Balaram fumbled for words. ‘How do I tell her about Bhagyashree?’ he thought. ‘But it’s better that she gets the news from me now rather than from someone else in this damned village.’
“Bhagyashree is missing from her hostel… Her Principal has sent a telegram… I got it read by Sahoo Sir,” he informed her in one breath. “I’m leaving for Cuttack now,” he added.
Rama was stunned! She felt the earth slipping away from under her feet as she swooned and slowly sank to the floor.
Balaram was alarmed. As if Bhagyashree’s disappearance wasn’t enough trouble, he now had to revive his unconscious wife. He rushed in to bring a mug of water from the bathroom and sprinkled it on Rama’s face. As she regained consciousness, she feebly pleaded with him to take her along to Cuttack too. Realising that, in the present circumstances, it would not be a good idea to leave her behind all alone in the village, he acceded to her request. Gathering a few of their belongings they hastened to the bus-stop and were barely able to catch the last bus leaving for Cuttack. Though there were no seats available when they pushed through to board the bus, they managed to find some space to sit on the way. The tension and anxiety had tired out Balaram and he sank into a sort of half-sleep as the bus trundled along. Gradually, his thoughts went back to his past.
He had come up the hard way. With barely an acre of irrigated agricultural land passed down to him by his father he had to struggle to make ends meet. But he was hard working and resourceful and, in a few years’ time, he had saved enough to take the village pond on lease. He released fresh spawn in the pond and fondly saw the fish grow into large and healthy creatures. His wealth, too, grew substantially. It was during this period, after he was well past his prime, that Balaram got married and was blessed with a daughter the following year. As he strongly believed that his new-born daughter was responsible for his prosperity, he named her Bhagyashree, after Lakhhmi, the Hindu Goddess of wealth. Despite his new-found affluence he never forgot his roots and toiled hard in his fields and at the pond. He tried to inculcate these values in his daughter too but, having got used to getting whatever she sought since her birth, he met with stiff resistance from her. His wife’s pampering of her also didn’t help matters.
Fortunately, though Bhagyashree was rather spoilt, she had a keen interest in studies and did very well in school. The previous year she had passed her High School examination with flying colours and Balaram thought it was the right time to marry her off to a suitable educated boy of their community. But Bhagyashree was adamant in her stand that she would continue her higher studies at Cuttack and that too in the co-educational Ravenshaw College. In this she was whole-heartedly supported by her pampering mother. After a good deal of arguments, tantrums and sulking, Balaram had to finally give in to the demands of the headstrong mother-daughter duo. However, they acceded to his one condition that she would not study in a co-educational college and Bhagyashree was, at last, admitted to the Sailabala Women’s College at Cuttack. It was just two days back that he had come back from his first visit to her.
“Hey, mister, wake up! Your stop’s come,” the bus conductor jolted Balaram out of his thoughts. Nudging his wife to follow him, he picked up their things and got down as the bus halted. Even though it was pretty late in the evening the old couple made their way to the hostel. Luckily the lady superintendent was still in her office.
“Yes, can I help you?” she asked, looking up from the chart she was studying.
Balaram glanced at his wife questioningly and, taking out the crumpled telegram from the knot in his waist, extended it to the lady.
“Madam, I got this telegram this evening,” he said, with folded hands. “Please help us. She’s our only child, Madam. We’ll be lost without her…” He could not speak further as his voice faltered and tears welled up in his eyes. Rama, too, could not hold back her tears and started sobbing loudly.
“Now, now, don’t cry,” the superintendent said, moved by the sad plight of the girl’s aging parents. “Don’t worry. Bhagyashree’s been found and is now recuperating.”
“What? She’s been found!?” the old couple exclaimed in unison as their eyes lit up. “What happened and where is she now? Can we see her?”
“She suffered from some sort of shock and lost her balance for a while,” the lady continued. “She was found at the bus depot trying to board a bus to Kolkata. She hadn’t had any food for three days and had no money on her. We’ve admitted her to the government hospital.”
“Can we see her?” Rama repeated their request, anxiously.
“I’m sorry you’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning. Of course, you can stay here in our guest room for the night.”
Both Balaram and Rama slept fitfully throughout the night. Around midnight Rama woke up with a start and shook Balaram by his shoulder. “Did you in any way offend Bhagyashree when you met her last?” she asked.
“No, no, she was perfectly okay when I saw her,” he replied. “Now get some sleep, will you? You’ve been so tired today.”
It was still dark when Rama got up, had her bath and sat down cross-legged for a prolonged pooja. She was still sitting silently before the tiny statue of Lord Ganesha that she had brought along with her when Balaram rubbed his eyes open.
“What’s the time?” he asked.
“It’s not yet 6 o’clock,” she replied. “Will they allow us to see her now?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, let’s go. We can wait there at the hospital.”
Balaram was ready in about 15 minutes and the old couple set off for the hospital in a cycle-rickshaw. At the hospital it took them some time to locate the ward where Bhagyashree had been admitted. Rama spotted Bhagyashree in a bed in the far corner of the ward and rushed to her. The girl was still asleep under sedatives and her parents had to wait by her side for what seemed to them to be ages. In the meanwhile, the doctor came on his early morning rounds.
Balaram bowed before the doctor and asked him, “Doctor Babu, how’s my daughter?”
“Don’t worry. She’s much better now,” he replied with a smile.
“Can we take her home today?” Balaram pleaded.
“I don’t think that should be a problem. I’ll arrange for her discharge after I finish my rounds.”
After these reassuring words from the doctor the old couple breathed a sigh of relief and waited for Bhagyashree to wake up. At last, after about an hour or so, the girl turned on her side and slowly opened her eyes. Seeing her parents standing by the side of her bed she panicked, shut her eyes and turned over again.
“What’s the matter, my child? Aren’t you happy to see us?” Rama asked her.
Bhagyashree didn’t answer her. Instead, she muffled her sobs in her pillow, away from the sight of her parents.
Rama was concerned. “Why don’t you answer me?” she persisted. “Why did you run off from the hostel?”
Bhagyashree slowly turned her tear-stricken face towards her father and, between sobs, mumbled, “It’s…it’s… all his fault.”
Rama looked accusingly at Balaram. “What have you been hiding from me? What’s happened between you two? Why haven’t you told me anything till now?” she started crying.
Balaram’s face fell. He looked down sheepishly at his feet and began-
“Remember the basketful of fruits, sweets and pithas you had given me for Bhagyashree when I came here three days back? Well, when I got down at the bus-stop I didn’t take a rickshaw and decided to walk down to Bhagyashree’s hostel. After all, it wasn’t that far and I could save the rickshaw fare. The basket posed a bit of a problem, so I wound my gamuchha into a sort of a turban on my head and placed the basket there. I was, as usual, wearing a dhoti. As I was afraid I might trip, I hitched the dhoti above my knees and, balancing the full basket on my head, strode down to the hostel.”
“What has all this got to do with Bhagyashree’s problem?” Rama sounded irritated.
“Do wait, will you? I’m coming to that,” Balaram said. He then continued with his narration.
“I was excited that I’d be seeing Bhagyashree for the first time after she left home last summer. ‘She must be missing us’, I thought, ‘but she’ll be thrilled to see me and to get all these goodies her mother has sent her. Her friends, too, would be delighted to see what caring and doting parents she had.’
“With these thoughts on my mind, I went up to the lady at the entrance of the hostel and asked for Bhagyashree. Motioning me to sit down in a corner, the lady went up to call her. After some time, I heard a group of giggling girls coming down the stairs. Bhagyashree was in their midst. The lady who had gone to call her was following the girls. As Bhagyashree couldn’t see me in the corner she asked the lady, ‘Mausi, where is the man?’ ‘Oh, he’s there, in that corner,’ she replied, pointing to me. Seeing Bhagyashree, I started to get up, grinning at her, but was taken aback by the expression that crossed her face the moment she spotted me. Rather than beaming with joy at seeing her old father there after such a long time, she glared at me.
“Suddenly she switched on a put-on smile and said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? How’s mother?’
“I was shocked by Bhagyashree’s reaction. I’d expected her to come running to me to touch my feet but, instead, she appeared to be ashamed of me. Sensing that I wasn’t welcome there, I pointed at the basket of goodies and rudely said, ‘Your mother’s sent these for you.’ With that I draped the gamuchha across my shoulders and made my way out of the hostel. As I was slipping on my slippers near the entrance, I could overhear her friends asking her, ‘Who was he?’
“Perhaps Bhagyashree thought I was out of her earshot or perhaps she just didn’t give a damn, but her reply stunned me. ‘Oh, he? He works in our fields,’ she said.
“ ‘But how did he have the audacity to behave so rudely with you?’ they persisted.
“ ‘Well, he’s been with us since before I was born and almost treats me like his daughter.’
“I couldn’t believe that my own darling daughter was saying this about me. For a moment I stood paralysed on the spot, seething with rage. Then I rushed back and…” Balaram paused.
“And what?” cried Rama, who was following Balaram’s account closely. She sounded impatient.
Balaram turned red in his face and did not reply to Rama’s question for a long time. A distressed Rama turned to Bhagyashree who was still sobbing. “What did your father do? Did he hit you?”
“No, no…” Bhagyashree sniffled.
“Why don’t you tell me? Did he scold you?” Rama almost screamed. “If you don’t tell me, I’m leaving this instant!”
“No, please…” Bhagyashree mumbled. “He… he… said, ‘Yes, yes, I work in their fields, but I’ve also kept her mother.’”
Rama glared at an embarrassed Balaram in utter disbelief. She felt as if she had lost her voice. “How could you say such a thing to your own daughter?” she almost whispered.
Suddenly realising that the tide had turned against her father, Bhagyashree cried, “Maa, how can I now face my friends after what Bapa has done? How can I go back to the same college? I’ll now switch to Ravenshaw College.”
“No, neither do you need to face your friends anymore, nor do you need to switch your college,” Rama suddenly seemed strangely composed. “Your Bapa was right - my love for you has utterly spoilt you. Now pack up your things and let’s go. I have a boy in mind for you and we’ll get you married off next month,” she said with finality.
Asis Pati, a post-graduate in English Literature and Linguistics from University of Bombay, joined State Bank of India in 1979. After retiring from the Bank in 2017, he now lives in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. He has had a keen interest in reading short stories, especially of O'Henry, Maupassant and Saki, amongst others, and started penning stories himself in his mid-forties, some of which have been published in his Bank's house magazines and also Kadambini.
THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING DIAMOND
“...Dida, one diamond is missing!” screamed my granddaughter, Hira.
“Must have fallen somewhere, search the room and am sure you will get it” I tried to assure her, though I was apprehensive that if such a small diamond fell, it could never be found!
Some of the other guests started looking for the diamond on the floor.
“But why did you take off the hairclip, my dear?” I was curious!
“They were hurting Dida” Hira exclaimed. She called me “Dida’ as people affectionately call their maternal grandmother.
“But you were comfortable with that clip, suddenly what happened?” I was worried.
“Don’t know Dida” Hira was quick to reply.
Hira and some others were standing on the side of the room beside a showpiece sandcastle.
It seemed that Rai, our maid’s daughter, wanted to move away, but couldn’t find room. So, as she tried to move away, she was about to fall but somehow managed not to fall.
Probably during this scuffle of Rai’s trying to move away, Hira was hurt, her hairs got dishevelled and the hairclip started hurting.
It was Hira’s sixth birthday and I had arranged a party for the occasion and had gifted this hairpin with diamond setting.
It had two diamonds, and now one was missing!
My daughter Meena, her husband and their little six-year-old daughter Hira had come here to Puri like they do every year when Hira’s summer vacation starts.
We have been living here ever since my husband got transferred to Puri. He was working with India Government’s Tourism Department. I too, left my job as a psychoanalyst in Kolkata and took a job here.
Meena was only five years old then and my son nine years old. How much she liked the golden sea beach bordering the legendary Bay of Bengal, known as “the largest Bay on the Planet”, formed some 120 million years back because of the Gondwana split.
During this era of splitting, the large landmass Gondwana broke to form different topographical forms. It is said that this era also witnessed the end of dinosaurs.
I still remember the day when little Meena started making sandcastles on the beach.
“Ma, see what I have done” she had exclaimed”, the first day she had sculpted the castle on the sand.
“Oh, my dear, it is really beautiful”, I felt so proud of my daughter.
And then everyday when we went to the beach, she started making different castles.
..but alas! The next day there was no castle. So, one day I told her, - “I will take some sand home, and this time you will make a castle at home”.
So, we brought home some sand and Meena made a bewitching castle. She even decorated the castle with some stars that were used for Christmas decorations.
Meena was good at craft and also liked decorating everything. She liked ornaments too and often embellished herself with all those that I bought her.
“Let us make a glass casing for this castle” opted my husband. And so, we preserved it inside a glass casing on a table at one side of our otherwise-not-so ornate drawing room.
Only recently, after so many years the casing broke. The maid was carelessly taking a metal clothes hanger to the veranda and the metal collided with the glass!
“Oh My God, Ma, my…my castle will disintegrate”, this year when she came, Meena was shocked to see her castle exposed to the vagaries of weather!
“Don’t worry dear, we will make another casing soon. First, we will have to carefully take out the glass titbits of the casing from the sand grains. And now that you are here, you can repair the castle, if in the process parts get damaged” I told her.
Every year Meena and her family come here during Hira’s summer vacation in mid-May.
It was in 2019, before the pandemic.
I didn’t invite many people but only our neighbours Sunita and her daughter, Ruma and her husband, my friend Neera and Hira’s friend Samira, who lived down the lane. Samira was Neera’s granddaughter.
But this year my son’s family had come too from Kuwait. My son Manik, daughter-in-law Mukta and their son Jahar all had come.
“Your diamonds were sparkling, if they fell on this brown floor, we might be able to spot them” chirped in Sunita’s daughter Soma.
Soma was eight-year-old and had become good friends with Hira. However, every year when Hira came, Soma used to play with Hira’s things! I never liked this. After all Soma was a child and what if she carelessly misplaced something!
… or worse if she liked something and took it! Being a psychology professional, I knew some children had this stealing tendency even if their parents could afford to buy them what they wanted.
Is it Soma then, who had somehow taken the diamond off when she hugged Hira wishing her a very happy birthday.
Oh! What am I thinking! They are very well to do and why will Soma take off a diamond and not the clip! Besides, how can she take off a diamond from the clip if the diamond was well secured!
May be…
May be…, she tried to take the clip as such, but a diamond was not well grouted, and it came off which she quickly kept aside in her small side bag.
“Missing! Where will the diamond go? So many of us in this room and none have noticed it falling! But maybe, it has rolled down somewhere, it is so small”, my daughter Meena sounded worried.
Why will Meena say this! Is it Meena then? She knew very well that if a diamond was missing, I couldn’t but gift her another ornament.
Two years back, her husband quitted his job and started a new business. I heard that the business was not prospering. Ever since, Meena started requesting me to send this and that.
And ornaments she always liked! Yesterday I overheard her telling Hira, “Ask Dida to gift you the gold chain that she is wearing. If you ask, Dida will give it to you”.
So, when Hira came and said, “Dida, why don’t you gift me this chain too?”, I was prepared and said, “No, dear, this chain I cannot, I have sentimental attachment to this, will give you some other ornament”.
No, no, No, no… what am I thinking!
“Must have fallen somewhere, we have to search the room”, I tried to comfort them.
How on earth could the diamond come off! Was it not well secured?
May be the claws were too small to firmly grip the gem.
Thought of going to the jewellery shop the next day to ask them about the setting.
Worries kept hovering in my mind.
It must be Rai who had taken those, I couldn’t but muse that it was Rai.
Rai was our maid Radha’s teenaged daughter. I had invited Radha’s husband and daughter too.
“I too thought of gifting Hira a diamond necklace. But in haste didn’t have time to bring one from my father’s shop. But the diamonds on that hairclip were sparkling!” my daughter-in-law Mukta was worried too.
“I noticed them when I hugged her, they were still there”, she continued, “…must have fallen afterwards! That lady and this girl, we were all standing beside the sandcastle. I was stroking Hira’s beautiful curly hairs…when that girl standing beside me suddenly started moving and I came to this side, it must have fallen after I came here”, my daughter-in-law Mukta referred to the scuffle that occurred due to Rai’s trying to move away.
My son met Mukta when he went to Kuwait for a job. Mukta’s father had a jewellery shop in Kuwait. Though they came here for their wedding, Mukta had never lived here with us.
“What are diamonds, they are found here in Puri?” my grandson Jahar was curious to know more about Puri.
May be Jahar had seen the diamond on the floor and had thrown it away in the dustbin thinking it to be something useless. But how can it be so, it was sparkling. His mother too was wearing jewellery, his grandpa had a jewellery shop and so he ought to have known what diamonds were.
But maybe, he was not interested in gems and jewellery!
“No, not found here but I bought it from a shop here”, I told Jahar.
“I want to know more about Puri, Thammi (paternal grandma). When in Kuwait, I heard that Golden Beach of Puri is the only beach in Asia to get the Blue Flag certification.
I was Jahar’s paternal Grandma or ‘Thakurma’ and he affectionately called me “Thammi”.
“What is a Blue Flag Certification, Dada” Hira was now curious too.
Jahar was older than Hira and I had asked Hira to call him “Dada” as an elder brother should be addressed. My son and his family don’t come here often, so Hira and Jahar hardly knew each other. But this time, it was heartwarming to see Hira and Jahar playing together as cousins ought to do.
And Jahar started explaining what a Blue Flag Certification was.
“It is a world class certification given to beaches which are environment friendly, clean & green beaches”, Jahar knew a lot.
“Oh really!” I exclaimed as I didn’t know too, trying to supress my anxiety for the missing diamond.
“Puri, you know is famous as it has a long golden beach”, I tried to focus on the importance of the beach itself.
“Also, the world-famous Shree Jagannath Temple is here. Its construction is unique, as the structure does not cast any shadow at any given time of the day”, chirped in my husband, basically a very reticent person.
“It is one of the four main holiest places” he continued in reverence.
“What are the other three places?” this time it was our neighbour Ruma.
Inwardly I was worried about the diamond. Knew once lost -it would be very difficult to locate the small diamond in the crowded room.
“Well, the other three are Dwarika, Badrinath and Rameswaram”, my husband elucidated.
“I have been to Dwarika, but not Badrinath and Rameswaram. Don’t know whether would be able to go these places” Ruma continued.
Was Ruma trying to divert the conversation?
They were not well off and they usually avoid going to a party too lest they have to bring a gift. I had told her “You needn’t bring a gift; your blessings would be the greatest gift”. So, they came to the party assuring to bring a gift the next day.
In fact, Ruma and her husband were very close to that sandcastle where Hira was standing. May be, the diamond came off and Ruma took it quickly. A diamond would mean a lot to them.
Oh God! What has become of me, now suspecting almost everyone!
“I have been to all these shrines” said my friend Neera. She had come with her granddaughter Samira who was Hira’s friend too. Samira was in the same standard as was Hira.
Neera’s husband held a high post in the Indian Army, and she always liked to boast of her status. She dressed immaculately in costly saris and ornaments. Her granddaughter Samira didn’t like wearing ornaments!
Samira was a bit shy and sat beside her grandma. Her parents had gone to Kolkata to attend a wedding.
After some time, the party finally ended. The guests went home. We cleared up the room. Radha and Rai did the lion’s share.
Rai was sweeping the floor. I told her “See if you can find the diamond, tomorrow I will take it to the jeweller and check the other mounting too”.
She didn’t reply but went on sweeping. Why is she saying nothing! Must have taken the diamond.
She was very near Hira all through, standing on the other side beside the sandcastle.
…and then, suddenly she tried to move out and was about to fall. Somehow, she managed not to fall but quickly moved away. But her hands slipped on the sand beside the castle. Good that the castle was not damaged, neither did she wound herself in the glass titbits lying on the sand!
But then she might have taken the diamond when she searched the room!
Sweeping was complete. It was well past midnight. I was about to retire to my room when Rai came after me and said: “Dida (grandma) I have something to say”.
So now she has come to confess or to find some excuse to take the diamond away!
“Yes, tell me” I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say.
“Come to the kitchen, my mother is also there, we will close the door and I will tell you something”.
“Tell me here”.
“No, this is the common passage, anybody can hear!”
What nonsense! Committing crime of theft and so, wants no one to know!
So, I followed her to the kitchen, Radha was also there, she brought me a chair.
… and then Rai started in a low voice: “I don’t know how to say this….and whether you will believe me…
I was standing beside Hira and saw that aunt was stroking Hira’s hairs. She was taking off a diamond and I quickly nudged her as if I was about to fall when I tried to move away briskly.
I quickly managed to drift her hands towards the sand bay of the miniature castle so that the diamond fell on the bay. I then quickly manoeuvred my hands to hide the diamond amidst the sand and shining glass titbits. It was when Hira found that her hairclip was hurting, and she took it off! Ruma-aunty was also there but don’t know whether she has understood what was going on.”
“Oh, my God” I exclaimed and then realized I shouldn’t have had exclaimed! If the sound carried me to the other rooms nearby!
By aunt, Rai referred to my daughter-in-law Mukta! Just couldn’t believe this!
“What rubbish are you saying! How can Mukta do this?” I reprimanded Rai. I didn’t believe her or maybe I didn’t want to believe my ears? It must be Rai herself who tried to take it off, Mukta was beside her and so saying that it was Mukta. What audacity!
Then I remembered that a little while ago, it was Mukta who told me: “Sack Radha and Rai, they are not good”. I was busy, so had no time to ponder on this, but was worried why Mukta said this as I had known Radha for quite sometime now. May be Rai was not good and Mukta had seen something!
Then Rai took me to the drawing room and showed me the sand bay of the miniature castle. I could see the glittering gem amidst the broken glass titbits. Rai brought a plate and took out the diamond. Thank God Mukta’s room was upstairs. So, the gem was right there in the room and in front of us all!
“Be careful, don’t hurt yourself”, I cautioned. If it was Rai, then she could have easily taken this out in the night! Nobody would have known! Maybe Mukta had understood that Rai had seen what she was doing and had asked me to sack Radha and Rai.
No, no, it was not so. I, being in the psychology profession could tell that Rai was speaking the truth.
No, am not a psychiatrist or a Doctor of Medicine specializing in mental diseases. But I am a psychologist who specialized as a psychoanalyst. As a psychoanalyst I had to focus more on subconscious memories of the patient to find a solution to the current problem.
This stealing habit was indeed a mental disease that Mukta was suffering from! But strange, why was she suffering from Kleptomania?
I never knew that Mukta, whose father owned a jewellery shop in Kuwait, was such a kleptomaniac! My son must be knowing that she had this mental illness and has this urge to steal, which she cannot control! Why didn’t he take her for some necessary counselling for a better mental health.
… and she was quite deft too! How well she managed to take out the diamond with her pointed nails. Probably she was adept in the technique of removing gems from their secured seats.
Well, Rai was deft too in manoeuvring so that the diamond could be retrieved.
What to do? They would be here for a week!
If only I could do my exercise of psychoanalysis and treat her! Worried that I was, I couldn’t sleep that night and decided to share and consult my friends if they could suggest something. Anyway, I would have to talk to my son.
I kept wondering what a gem she was to remove a gem from its setting!
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
‘Promise me the last bullet will be yours’...
‘Promise me, when it comes to the end of the shooting, there will be a bullet to kill yourself’...
‘Promise me, you will never be captured alive’....
The voices from the training camp were coming as loud as the footsteps of the soldiers. One of the world’s elitest police force was on its way.
They had carried it out, the bombing at the airport. The wreck, the carnage, scattered pieces of human bodies, were on the television.
She had transported the bomb very cleverly. Placing it in the ladies washroom, after assembling crude explosives concealed in a million cell phones, she had quickly slipped out. The detonation of that sophisticated handmade bomb, was so powerful, it had shaken the ground underneath her even a kilometre away. But someone had noticed something odd about her, perhaps the way she walked, as though in a hurry, almost about to run before the explosion. She knew the directions or something like that. When he reached for his gun, startled, she ran! She ran as fast as she could.
The officer fired bullets like ice rain from the sky. One hit her right leg, it hit her right in the calf. But she ran, and she ran away.
She ran past the checks where the guards had been shot, into the street, removed the cover of the drain and jumped. She was in the subway, but the drain was uncovered. There was no time to dangle from the roof and cover it back. She had been spotted, followed. The sirens above her head were deafening. But she could hear the footsteps coming closer each second. She readied the trigger to be pulled, and brought it to her forehead. She could not even stand. This was the end of the road.
She paused and felt the thin, sleek metal piece underneath her finger. She thought of her mother. They had all given up on her. Perhaps, they will never even look for her. No one will claim her body. Perhaps, this elite force....... “Got you”, he very strongly took the gun from her, from behind, with the ease of a much more powerful enemy, and her sentence about being fed to the dogs, turned into a wishful dream. She had been captured.
While she had waited for the footsteps to come closer, clinging on to that another minute of life, a few of them had snuck up on her from behind. They had taken off their shoes.
“Sadat, they are here to see you again. This is your last time. If there is again an incorrect report about torture in prison, you will have no more visitors. Do you understand?”
She had nodded twice like an obedient girl agreeing to take a test fairly. She had no idea where she was. She did not even know if the so called friends, visitors would agree to her requests!
“We are trying to get you out! Along with the others. That’s why we say, the things we say. We have said that they are pulling the nails from the fingers of the detainees, and leaving them without bandages, and making them eat with their hands!”
Sadat looked at her fingers, as though an electric current passed through them really. “But”, she said mildly, and her voice was drowned in that of the visitors. “They are doing this to some, if not to you”. Sadat did not know, if she could believe them. Or even, if she should believe them.
Her visitors wore burqas, with veils covering their faces. Sadat looked at them dazed. And that really was the last visit. She did not get the opportunity to say to them, thanks for giving them ideas! Indeed, the interrogations had begun after the visits had stopped.
Very politely, they had placed her palms on a steel plate where electricity could run through them, now and then. Very mildly. But what is mild electricity? She had jumped like a ball in her seat, when it did. And then, she had begun to jump more often and shake like an old woman.
Sadat had been the beauty queen in her school. Why did she ever immigrate?
Cause the national capital hadn’t been cosmopolitan enough! It was a joke! Being a Kashmiri meant being an outsider anywhere! What did the Azadi slogans mean anyways? Oh chill out Sadat, lots of people had migrated from the happy un-occupied provinces of this country! People were migrating all the time. And they had not even read Braudel. And a professor had not been following any other Indian student, in any other American University! Both on campus and outside of it. In the gym, in the book store, in a theatre called four seasons, where she had gone to watch the movie the Da Vinci Code, all by herself! There were just two more people, when he had walked in. She had looked at him dazed. He had looked back at her dazed. All of these chance meetings, this surprising bumping into each other, could not be by chance. She wanted to ask him right then. But she did not. She did not greet him either. Simply went and sat where she had been sitting, and had kept her backpack.
And then there had been that conference. An Italian girl had pointlessly picked a fight with her, enraging her instead of encouraging. What’s the point of pushing someone to ask a question, putting the spotlight on them when they are already so vocal in class? What is the point of putting someone on spot like that, after saying something nasty to them in class? And that too something that could be about their history, about their leadership!
That’s when she had written the emails. To the professor, who had been the first to begin following her, following her from the first day of school! She had asked him if he would like to meet her in Starbucks? Tell her, what was going on?
The following by the Indian professor had become the nastiest. It seemed to be coming from or going into an M Night Shyamalan film! Well, no body was going to give her a role in a movie! When she had become the beauty queen, the entire school had walked out of the auditorium!
What Sadat did not know, was how badly could these people problematize her existing and her incoming job. She did not hear back from him on email, but was being followed everywhere. She went to Starbucks nonetheless. A man in a pink shirt walked in, wearing thin white headphones. It was a very noticeable pink, but there was more to his gait that told her, he was carrying a message.
Only, she didn’t know, what the message was. Imagination fails us. “I want pink”, she naively heard her own voice, from when she had found a white list of schedule for the upcoming conference. Was it in her mailbox? Was it in someone’s hands? She could not recall. The cell she was held in, was absolute concrete. Not even a streak of sunlight could come into it or in the courtyard, where they dined. Even memory begins to fail the best of minds. But she remembered after her pink insistence, Megan had asked her many times for a conference paper. She thought, after she had sorted out this ‘being followed’ mess.
She had finished her blueberry muffin, her chocolate mocha and stepped into the washroom again. It was when she was washing her hands, with the double helping of the fine liquid soap, and actually thinking of the dettol smell, that the door broke open. “What the hell is that?” she turned and nearly screamed, but before her voice could reach anywhere outside, his hands were on her mouth. It all happened with electric speed. The washroom mirror did not reflect the door, and she did not know, if the lock had been fiddled with or it was a forceful break-in achieved with a single blow.
The grip on her mouth was so tight, it was making her teeth hurt. She looked into his eyes, in the mirror. They looked blackish brown, inside his gold framed specs. Almost like hers. It was the professor. She could see him holding her, tightly, by the waist. One of his hands crossed her stomach, one of her hands was twisted behind her. She couldn’t see any weapon. He didn’t seem to need any.
He had easily overpowered her on the floor. Could she resist a little more? By now, both her hands had been tied behind her. It was killing her to be lying on her arms, her wrists, her palms. After a few minutes, she couldn’t decide if they were facing up or down. The one kick she had attempted with one of her legs, had resulted in a fist landing on her jaws so bad, her ears were ringing like a cell phone, or a fire alarm or both or perhaps something more dangerous. But where was her cell phone? Why wasn’t it ringing? If it rang, endlessly, it would draw public attention. Where were her friends? Did she have any? A strange darkness was descending upon her.
She both heard and felt the lifting of her dress, the pulling down of her panty. She heard the unzipping of his trousers. She felt him inside her, in a huge surge of pain. There were no kisses, no touching, how could she think that? His turn-on had come from the violence! Her humiliation! The abduction that could be done right here! Why was he doing this? A first generation German Immigrant, who had studied Kennedy’s legacies in Germany! Well, hundreds of people had studied Kennedy’s involvement in Germany. But he was a reputed professor of International Affairs. Was he a political agent? Sadat was trying to control the pain. His wife was Yugoslav. Or she was from the former Yugoslavia. She was a Christian. He must be politically very well connected! Oh my God, a thunder of hatred was raging inside the man. Sadat was going dizzy with pain. She was screaming into the handkerchief, now stuffed inside her mouth. She had been dating a Pakistani guy till a while back. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes had become blurry with water. But she knew, it could have been worse. Much worse. She had not seen him wear a condom. And could not decide, if what she was feeling inside her was his skin or plastic so thin, it could protect him from his identity, as a rapist! Could it? She did not know, how were these rape tests done?
A sea that was going to overthrow its shores upside down, was churning and twisting on top of her. A lightening that was going to tear the sky and fall onto the earth, was cracking on its edges. A silence was roaring from his entire body like guns are silenced before a shoot.
The sound was coming from her landline. It was the old Verizon phone, now sold to the idea guys. Well, the phone wasn’t Verizon, the landline was, had been. The phone had been bought during a vacation in Arizona, on the insistence of the American she had then been dating! Her life had turned into a war since then. All her phones had been hacked since then. Her cell phone had been put on a silent mode, by a hacker yesterday, while, she was in the ladies room. The washroom! “Hello”, she picked up, the cordless. “Hello, is this...Ms. Sadat Asmah Khan?” The voice said, after a pause before her name, as usual. “Yes”, Sadat said, in a voice as usual as possible. “This is officer Yates from the campus police. There is a case filed against you, a case of harassment, you need to come in”, “What?” Sadat sat up jumping, in bed, interrupting the Officer. “Professor Shroeder has filed a case of harassment against you. You need to come in and talk to me at the earliest.”
‘Unbelievable’, she muttered to herself and turned the cordless off. She threw it beside herself on the bed and lied back down. She lifted both her arms together, her wrists rather in front of herself. They still had the mark from being tied up. They were swollen, bruised, red and they were still aching. Amazing, how much could be achieved with a strong silk tie! Same with her ankles! Two ties had been able to restrain her completely. They must be very strong. Or she must be very weak. He had opened the ties, taken them with him. He had set her hands and legs free, and asked her to hand over the handkerchief to him. She had done so. Then he had very pointedly, raised an index finger and kept it on his mouth. Finger on the lips! Then he had raised it, and shaken it in the air in a gesture of no, do not scream, and had walked to the door, facing her. And then, he was gone! The back door of Starbucks was right there. She had stood there dazed. Then, someone had knocked. There was unrecognizable pain in between her legs. She could barely feel her legs, but she had taken a step, then another, and walked out slowly.
She had come home and taken a shower. “Do you think the shower might have erased all of his traces?” She had heard herself, asking officer Yates and then many others. None had given her a satisfactory answer. But all of this was later. “Is there a possibility that had Professor Shroeder been interested, there might have been an amicable, consensual sex between the two of you?” “Did you have a crush on him then? Do you have a crush on him now?” But a crush was a very light thing. Lighter than an infatuation. There were rapes on date all the time, and this was not a date at all. Its very troubling to be followed. Sadat was dazed. “You see, Professor Shroeder told us, you entered the men’s room of the Starbucks you had invited him in, along with a friend and sexually assaulted him, while another of your friend stood guard at the door. The complaint was filed as soon as he managed to get out of Starbucks. He called from the car. He claims to have been disrobed and beaten. He actually has a blue eye. I just met him.” Nobody was believing Sadat’s story of her brutal rape! “And he said, your wounds are self-inflicted. He has placed a restriction order against you.”
The medical examiner was callous. So callous that Sadat had cancelled any further medical examinations. It looked like, she would not be able to prove what had happened, what actually had taken place. The campus police was biased, why had she not gone to the town police? Did she think they were dangerous? They had called her many times, asking for donations. And their phone had always rung right after her shower. But it was the campus police that surprised her again. Sadat had not thought, the phone from them would come so soon again. And the news would be so bad. She had actually missed the call. They had left a voice message. “This is an urgent message for you. There is a ban on you on Campus. We hope, you understand, do not come to the University. If you do, you will be arrested for criminal trespass. Please contact us.” The ending beep of the answering machine left a hole in Sadat’s heart. “And watch your dreams burn in a neon sign.............” was this the last song playing on the car’s radio? The apple tree was in full bloom right outside her window. This tree was her sole friend, and the single reason she tolerated this neighbourhood. But New York apples are so different from the Kashmiri ones. How could they place a ban on her? In her own Campus? Where she was a student, where she studied, where so many of her dreams resided. She would appeal. If he had left her tied, silenced, to crawl till she got to help, would she have gone to the town police?
There were meetings and meetings and endless interviews, where she was asked questions like “Why do you want to be on Campus?” “What is your goal Sadat?” Her endless repetitions about her desire to finish her studies, write papers, research, and possibly teach, seemed to fall flat on deaf ears. That is when she braved it. A walk to the Dean’s office. She had emailed and emailed him and there was no answer. She had requested the Campus police and the officers of Campus life to consider, review, investigate. But it seemed, the conclusion, had been arrived upon.
It was in her favourite cafe, that she was stopped. She had sat down to ponder the map.
“How did you get into the jihadi training camp?”
“Sadat, I asked you a question.” The interrogating officer had walked very close to her. Her face was raging with the red of anger.
Yes, exactly, in that all familiar chair of hers, had Sadat sat down and was looking at the campus map online. The moment was alive with possibilities. Yes, she would go to the dean and tell him how nastily had the professor been following her, and how he had raped her, and what kind of stories had he made up! Now! Just now! She would go and tell him the whole truth, blurt it out, even if they ask her to prove it. “Stand up”, she didn’t know if she recognized the officer, if she had seen him on patrol or at the station, but she recognized the Uniform. She had violated the trespass order, and had been caught before making it into the Dean’s office. She had thought, once she had walked into the Dean’s office, he would be able to interfere! It was unbelievable, a ban on her on Campus after being raped! It was a reference to the Islamic law, an insult to the independent identity she had built. “Stay where you are”, no, he wasn’t pointing a gun at her. “Turn Around”, handcuffs were dangling from his hands. They did not hurt, but it felt like a steeled, tattooed, bombed moment in her existence. “Do not touch me, I am coming with you”. An officer had grabbed her forearm.
The maples were just bursting into the most beautiful shade of green. Spring was in air. The branches were laden with buds of leaves. She had just driven past that beautiful curve on the road, where newly planted maples seemed to be nodding in rows of agreement with the changing weather. There still was the freshness of mulch in her breath! There was something very artificial and at once unbearably painful about the clamping of steel doors around her. She seemed to have been caged inside walls of steel, and genuinely feared , she was going to die. The air inside seemed dirty and polluted, with the breathing of real criminals, on million pills without alcohol and drugs, and with corrupt armed officers tormenting innocent captives like her. Just the sunlessness was punishment enough. There were many kinds of politics added to the rigorous prison routine.
The campus police had called border patrol. Once the border patrol came in, they brought in steel vans, windowless walls, airtight rooms, and endless arguments of very unfair and dominating nature. But she resisted. Contested. They finally let her out in fall. The world was teeming with colors. Her eyes warmed up with sunlight and tears. She had been blinded by a constantly lit light bulb, or a tubelight. Her ears had gone deaf with terrible sounds of people’s talk, their filthy cussing, closed inside a giant container. Her fingers itched to touch the ground, the soil, the grass. The breeze was already in her hair. Sadat was a true nature lover. And she thought it was very pristine here.
They had let her be here. She had won it for herself. There was going to be no deportation, like the professor had wanted, demanded. But everybody knew her. They knew about her operation. It wasn’t a cancer operation. Not even a hip replacement. She had actually just slept a lot in her cell, the semesters always took a lot out of her. But it was no minor thing to have been to a prison. To have been imprisoned! It was a huge mark, specially, for her own community. After that, it seemed, she could not be amalgamated. The community’s well settled, the black monied people, were not nice. She had never liked them. They just got away with crime, like the professor.
“Sadat, you are not listening.”
“Sadat”, she heard her name being called out very loudly, and then, god knows what happened, she blacked out or an earthquake hit Japan or a hurricane blew across Florida! Tornadoes ripped the two Carolinas apart, and a cow flew inside the prison crushing the glass window.
A glass of extremely cold water was thrown on her face. It felt like a bucket. It felt like cubes of ice. The interrogating officer might as well have thrown it on her own face! It was leaning towards maroon, her cheeks having crossed the threshold of red.
“I have been asking you Sadat”, she towered over her, bending her shoulders a little, “how did you get in touch with these jihadis? How was the contact established?”
“I have told you Mam, I got an email. When I got out, there were some goodwill messages from strange identities, full of Islamic greetings. They kept coming, till I was totally alienated in the world of the unstained people, and then finally came a recruitment offer. I was told to meet them at an intersection right outside town. The moment I got into the SUV, I was blindfolded. I don’t know where I was taken at all. We were dropped back into the town for business. Blindfolded all the way, back and forth.”
“But the email, none of the ids you gave, work. You are lying”, the officer was beyond herself.
“No mam, I am not. I told you, they change all email ids, every 10 minutes. They deliberately confuse, mingle. And since I was captured, there must have been a total reshuffling in the database!”
“Ok, Sadat, a male officer is going to talk to you soon. He will get the info out. He will send electricity not into your fingers but in other soft spots of your body. You will have to tell us something. Only it has to be right!” and she marched out shouting, “Keep her up at night. Keep her standing. She can change legs too. There are no spare beds of feathers here!”
Sleep deprivation can be a very painful thing to endure, Sadat found out. It becomes impossible to carry out orders. One feet gives way to the other. Legs begin to shake, knees crumble, people cave in like sand dunes. This was only the second night. After Sadat fainted, they let her lie down. And they said, “Try to recollect. You might as well save memories of how you look right now!”
Sadat had heard that cramps are induced, shock causes heart attacks, anger leads to ruptures, pressure to hemorrages. She began to both pray and frighten herself. She could do it. She had never surrendered to the evil forces. And precisely, at about 3 am in the morning, Sadat peacefully passed away of heart failure. Her eyes remained open, they say, for a long time, cause it is customary to close the eyes of the dead.
One could end, saying, she had been released from prison. But that would be unfair. Her body still lay in there, waiting to be claimed. The Mujahideen, don’t come to state prisons for their dead. And it is always hard with the Mujahideen, to find out, who really belongs. Its kind of like the ongoing chaos in Immigration politics. They say, the State gave her a decent burial.
Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual poet, story writer and translator from India. Two poetry collections published in English, two story collections published in Hindi, six poetry collections published in Hindi, and many more are lined up. Has been published in many journals, anthologies, home and abroad. Has won many prestigious, national-international awards, like the Girija Kumar Mathur Award, Chitra Kumar Shailesh Matiyani Award, Seemapuri Times Rajeev Gandhi Excellence Award, First prize for poetry by Rajasthan Patrika, awards in Chekhov festival in Yalta and in Premio Besio Poetry competition in Italy, Sahitto award in Bangladesh, and Premio Galateo in Italy for poetry in mother tongue. Has been translated in over twenty seven languages.
She has studied in Delhi University, Symbiosis Pune, SUNY Buffalo, and the University of Calgary, Canada. She has worked in various positions as a journalist, lecturer and a content editor. Has done writing residencies in Hungary and Bulgaria, and attended the Tranas Literature Festival in Sweden.
Kanaka was impulsive, idealistic and romantic to the core. She thought she learned the meaning of romance when she was in the eighth standard when she started reading romances mostly pulp fiction her friends smuggled to class having borrowed them from the lending libraries which flourished like mushrooms during her schooldays. Kanaka became addicted to Mills and Boon series of novels which were all built on a particular formula. A young girl about eighteen meets a man somewhere between 35 and 40 whom she detests for various reasons but at last finds that she loves him and the novel ends with their proposal, almost a fantasy fairy tale ending on a happy note. An incurable romantic she thrived on these books which she read during free periods as they had to be returned in the evening to the next one who had reserved it. The real meaning and depth of the word romance she understood only much later in life.
As a healthy adolescent she dreamed of marrying a broad shouldered, dark man, tall and handsome like the heroes she came across in the Mills and Boon romances, but with an Indian touch. When a girl, she had come across such a man in her Indian History lessons. It was none other than the Rajput Prince Prithviraj Chauhan, who dared to carry away the Princess he loved on the very day of her Swayamvara. Deep in her psyche she nourished this image. The image of a man- a prince- who would be the best of men not in position or stature but a good human being, loving, courteous, chivalrous, understanding, strong, gentle and totally protective. In his arms she would be safe. She believed she would meet him one day. He would, like Prithviraj Chauhan, carry her away into a world of ideal love.
But real love and romance she learned in her home itself, a nest full of love, care, accomodation despite diversities. There she learned what Shakespeare sang in his sonnet. Love is long suffering, it does not change in the face of adversities and impediments. Her parents were the supreme models. Her Appa was an introvert who hid his emotions and feelings, her Amma an extrovert who never could hide anything. Appa was reserved, amma was gregarious and talkative. Appa from the old school was a staunch congress, amma a pucca communist rebel, having been active in SFI while a student of politics during her college days. They had their own agenda when it came to the Party. No amount of love or threat could coerce her to vote for congress. Appa knew it, but he let her be. For Kanaka the little girl it was all a puzzle. She could not understand. The thought, how two people strong in their opinions and ideals could live so harmoniously -often tormented her girlish mind.
Her amma often referred to Appa as "Kallu Manushan" (stoneman) whose facade never expressed any emotion. She was more comfortable with her amma who was open like a book, full of elan, fun and laughter, anger, screams and tears, which she could relate to. If she was angry everyone knew, her whole body and her huge round flashing eyes reflected it. She would never mince her words too. So of course there were arguments, quarrels and sometimes even fights. And the children would always rally around her. One day after such a fight Appa went back to his den and all the children swarmed around amma consoling her. Wiping her tears and finding her darlings around her she perked up. But her words were a lesson for Kanaka which helped her to open her eyes and look at her father more closely.
"Dear Mackalae ( children) when we fight please don't rally around me, don't take sides. If at all you want to take sides, stand by your dear Appa. He needs love and support. I can stand for myself. Not your Appa, he is so soft inside and so lonely, he will crumble down."
For Kanaka it was confusing. Yet from that day onwards when an argument cropped up and the pitch of Amma's voice rose Kanaka would walk off with her siblings so they could thrash it out and if it continued she would side with Appa saying, "Amma please be quiet and listen to Appa." It was like following the leader, her siblings would take it up even the youngest would lisp "Amma chumma iru". And the whole argument would lighten up and sometimes stop too.
Then there were days of cold war when Amma would not speak to Appa then Kanaka and her siblings became Amma's and Appa's mouth pieces conveying messages to each other. Appa hardly sent any messages, all the messages would go only from amma. Kanaka would then spy an amused twinkle in Appa's eyes. What really shook her girlish heart was the gift of jasmine he gave her everyday in the evening, even on the days they quarrelled. On those days one of the kids would be the swan, taking the flowers to Amma which she would accept with both her hands in deep reverence.
Kanaka could never understand this offering and this acceptance. To her girlish mind it was totally confusing."How could one give anything to a person with whom one quarrelled or even receive anything. Years later she understood the nature of such love and the deep rooted romance behind it. Maybe it was this steadfast love despite quarrels and misunderstandings that taught her the great lessons of romance and true love Shakespeare celebrated in his sonnet on true love.
Sonnet 116: Let me not to the Marriage of True Minds
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Thirty-five years into marriage and none of us has spelt out -
" I love you!"
Nor have we vouchsafed something like this...
"I shall hold your hands till my last breath. I shall never let you down or act likewise. This is an ardent promise, a never ending tryst till the last leg of our journey."
Perhaps, we read lip's quiver before whispering serenades of utterances fill platter. We possess this uncanny habit of skimming through and deciphering silence.
That is our patent, propriety and the cadence of a quaint relationship.
In our opinion- staying together under one roof for such a long period is no mean feat. This small act sanctifies how close we are. There have been meanders and inclinations for a rainbow of colors in our lives. Distraction in small measures, digression from life's sepia tones once in a while is ok for both of us. We are more like two parallel lines, do not intersect each other's path, yet run for miles, decades like a quaint saga of romance.
But, saying " I love you" is a taboo, for both.
It has not happened till now.
Ah...those three magical words on which Bollywood blockbusters are made, flirtations occur, love ensues are eons away from us. It is not because we abhor its spellbound charm and efficacy but somehow we are not very comfortable with its tutored nuances. Perhaps 'respect' plays a more stellar role in our lives than falling for swanky words to impress each other.
We are distinct in our choices and preferences. We possess a strong sense of likes and dislikes too. We do not compromise easily . You may call this 'Bizarre' or "reticent" attitude, but that is our constitution that no amendment can alter.
Under the wide blue yonder we blink in unison. Appreciate nature's myriad hues and role as a teacher , guiding us to remain calm at the junctures of transition, be it eventide and twilight or hovering darkness binding radiance and shimmer. We chime well when the chirps and twitters fill the atmosphere with happy augury and a bit of soul searching.
Coming to our preferences in life-
He is a connoisseur of food.
I can manage with anything edible.
He lives to eat, loves to try exotic dishes but fusion food is a big 'no' for him.
I am in stark contrast with the above.
I eat to live. Food occupies the least importance in my life as the entire process of 'gulping down' takes seconds. To me, eating should be hassle free. I find it strange when people spend hours cooking and slurping food and keep on discussing the lacunae of any dish, especially when my hubby indulges in such flimsy matters. For, there are a thousand other things to be done in life. My attempts to convince him falls on deaf ears and he acts more stubborn with each piece of lecture delivered. The show ends up with a grimace and swollen face. To bring him back to normalcy, I order some of his favorite items and it douses the rage in him.
In spite of our difference in opinion, perception, we understand each other well. For, we are so much unlike yet so similar.
A day has not passed when we have not quarreled or had no difference of opinion.
yet we emendate our ways at the end of each session. We dissent heavily on small nuggets of everyday living. Yet, we are together a patchwork quilt that adds hues and warmth to life. Silly jokes make us laugh and giggle, we share winks in a gathering to fiddle on secrecy. From dolorous singing to foot tapping numbers, we enjoy them all. "Music is therapeutic"-we concur on this.
I am a chatterbox. He is a man of a few words. He would not utter unless warranted. This makes me crazy. I compensate for his silence with my babbling. He raises his brows in sheer astonishment till it reaches the receding hairlines, and then I lock my lips, so as not to irritate him further. See...I have the knack of gauging people well. Isn't it amazing?
We both nag each other a lot, especially when I am late from the office and he skips meals .
I keep reminding him to have food on time in spite of my busy schedule. Afterall health matters.
He keeps on worrying till I am home from the office. Loneliness bites like a dengue mosquito.
Perhaps! We validate our needs for each other in our own subtle way.
We are shy of public glare, hence celebrate privately. We make occasions as per suitability and convenience to avoid rush, hustle bustle of frenzied mass during festivities.
He orders vodka.
I order lemon soda and both get drunk at the same time.
Isn't it cool!
Life is intoxicating and existence has never been pointless for us.
Togetherness entices too.
We are like a pair of gloves...cannot be sold in pieces.
Hence we are definitely soulmates.
If you have any doubt after this broad depiction then I shall make him pronounce " I love you!" in a charismatic way, this valentine's day- not far away.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker. She has three published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm-all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit. She is a singer, avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
(This love story with Russo-Ukraine war as the background was written on 23 February 2022, the night before the actual war broke out and was uploaded on facebook. The story in vernacular Odia was published in well-known Odia magazine “Kadambini” in their June 2023 edition. The story has been translated for Literary Vibes and its readers.)
Walking past Ukraine State Museum on Lavraska street Amrita moved towards Motherland monument, the famous war memorial in Kyiv. Mikhail beside her, keeping company, both took a few quick steps together, in silence. It is snowing profusely and streets are fully covered with snow. Occasionally one would find a tall tree here and there, as if raising its head and looking for a little sunlight. Huge snow blowers and snow throwers are busy clearing snow on roads. It’s hard to find a few souls on this otherwise busy road. Amrita and Mikhail kept walking, their mind pre-occupied, heavy with anxiety, and uncertainty with a quiet unease. Amrita was finding it difficult to stop the few tear drops from rolling down her cheeks. It is dark like evening even at noon. Everything is hazy and blurred like the prevailing situation in Ukraine. Expecting peace from the uncertainty of the ensuing war is like waiting for the sunrays on this overcast noon by the leafless trees. Occasionally, roaring fighter jets, sound of sirens and advisory through public address system to quickly move and take shelter in the nearest bunkers is audible.
Amrita is a final year student from Kanpur in Kyiv Medical College like many other Indian students, pursuing career in medicine in Ukraine. Mikhail is an officer of the Ukrainian Army. Initially when Amrita came to Ukraine from India for medical studies, acquaintance and friendship with instructor Mikhail developed while learning Ukraini language in language camp organized by the Army. The acquaintance has further grown into love. Mikhail and Amrita spent several evenings sitting on the lawn among flowers in the garden of St. Sophia Cathedral. Mikhail also knows Russian and picked up a few Hindi words from Amrita. Amrita loves listening to his imperfect Hindi. Amrita and Mikhail have spent many evenings on the banks of Ukraine’s largest river, Dnipro, in spring. That’s where Mikhail first said “Ya tibya loveliu” ( I Love You) one day and asked if he has her consent. Amrita agreed by uttering “Tak Tochana" (I agree).
Parents of Amrita in India too gave their consent saying “Beti, we have no objection to your relationship and your happiness". Mikhail then took Amrita to his house several times. Father Borischo and younger sister Vera were at home. Borischo means warrior in Ukrainian and Vera means faith. Borischo asked what is the meaning of “Amrita”. She said it comes from the word elixir( Amrit) and mentioned about the story of origin of elixir from Hindu mythology. She said elixir is meant for Gods. Hearing this from Amrita Borischo said “Mikhail means one who is like God in Ukraine. It is natural for the elixir to reach him.” Vera and Mikhail burst into laughter and everyone liked the conversation.
Vera is studying in college of nursing. Borischo is one of the leading innovative farmers of Ukraine. He showed Amrita around her sunflower field. He informed Amrita that your country imports huge quantity of sunflower oil from our country. Amrita did not know this. She was surprised to know that sunflowers get enough sun rays in such a cold country. Mikhail finally broke the silence.
“Amrita, you are aware of the present situation in Ukraine. Separatists have started open revolt in the east and south of Ukraine. Our neighbouring countries are very powerful and are supporting them in every possible way. Crimea in the south was snatched away from us a few years back. Donex and Luhanx have now been recognised as two separate entities by Russia. Thousands of Russian soldiers are waiting for war in the border. Thousands of Tanks, machine guns, missiles are already piled up at the border, waiting for the signal to march towards Ukraine. Yet patriotic people of Ukraine are hardened fighters. They fought for their freedom with sweat and blood against Nazis and against Soviet Russia during the World War. They wouldn’t allow enemy soldiers an inch of soil without fighting till the last. This Motherland monument is a witness to that. Russian parliament has authorised its president to take troops to Ukraine. Emergency has been declared in our country too and military training has been made mandatory for all the citizens. There will be war at any time now for sure. Government of India has issued advisory to all Indian students to leave the country. So you should follow this advice of your government seriously and leave Ukraine and go back to your country soon. I have been requesting you this for so many days. But you are not agreeing to leave Ukraine at all. It will not be possible for you to return to India if it is too late and once the war begins.”
The roaring sound of jets tearing the sky and sirens are heard in between. Some hustle bustle could be seen as people started to run for safety. But amidst all this both Mikhail and Amrita are motionless as if they don’t have any fear for their lives. Tears kept rolling down from Amrita's eyes. Several times parents and everyone at home are video-calling and advising to return. Brother called last evening saying "Mother is not well and always worried about your safety “. Lots of advisories and messages are being received from Indian Embassy in Ukraine. Amrita’s friends are forcing her to leave Kiev and last night some friends were persuading the whole night to leave before boarding on the Air India flight. But Amrita has the same answer. She will not return to India leaving Mikhail. Mikhail and Borischo both have advised Amrita. They said it is our fight and we will do so. This fight is for the freedom of motherland and the pride of Ukraine. Who knows what will happen? Mikhail is a military officer. It's testing time for him. Borischo said in such time will it be possible for Mikhail to take care of her safety?
Amrita only listened silently. She kept on arguing with Mikhail, "I love you as much as you love your country. Just as you don't leave your mother land in the hands of the enemy at this hour of darkness, I can't leave you at your time of trouble. Just as you are willing to fight for your motherland and sacrifice everything, I am also ready to sacrifice everything for my love."
"Look Amrita, in a few days all flight services will be stopped, your hostel will also be closed, I have been ordered to go to the war zone. Look at this, Air India has got the permit to fly tomorrow's flight. My request is that you go back to your country tomorrow. I will definitely bring you back to this soil when the war is over. Your love will inspire me every moment and in case I don’t come back try to forget me. My father and Vera will be waiting for you at Kiev airport tomorrow to say “Dosvi Danya”. I have been ordered to report to Army immediately. Both of them were silent for a while and then both held each other for a while. Flowing tears only expressed their helplessness. Mikhail asked Amrita to have patience. After staying in each other’s arms for a while they said "Dosvi Danya" to each other before departing.
That night Mikhail went to the front location. Next morning Borischo and Vera were waiting for their last meeting with Amrita near the Kiev airport . Borischo picked up few fresh sunflowers from the garden and made a bouquet for Amrita. Students kept coming in groups. Time kept ticking, but where is Amrita? After some time, they both were happy to see a girl come running and they both waived. But what the hell is this? This is not Amrita.
Finally the plane took off. Borischo left the bouquet with a heavy heart and got ready to return. He told Vera to call Mikhail and let him know about this. At this time, a message came from Amrita on Borischo’s mobile. "Sorry I hurt you. I have already decided to be in Ukraine with my love. Don't bother for me. Medical College hospital is a safer place during war. I have some duty to this soil. I will try to repay the debt by serving the wounded soldiers. Abandoning one’s love is against the tradition of my culture. You all move to safety."
“Dosvi Danya”
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
I got up late today. Though I had a whole lot of chores to do, I had no enthu in tapping my biological clock to tick and spread the usual current in mind to execute all the tasks. Rather than offering my gratitude to God for another beautiful day of life on earth I started getting annoyed with life for handing over one or many impediments to face. Obviously, to come out of it I must have to push these down and stand upon it to take the next steps. But is life all about having bundles of problem on your shoulder to be solved - while taking my thyroid medicine I was thinking quietly.
The Sunday spirit also slowed down everything and all were still lying on bed. I pursued with my adorable thoughts to hurt myself... "why life is like this for me always?" The paper and salt combination of life is always beautiful and acceptable as life should be like that but only jumping over the hedge of hurdles all the time is not fair. Opening the big complaint box against life I was chanting about the few unfriendly chapters again and again in mind.
Mean time a hollering sound in the lane irritated me. "Anyone wants to sell old things like used news paper, broken AC, refrigerator, iron box or plastic things etc. " The man was using a mike to say it aloud. "Everyday who sells their old stuff! To get these old and unwanted things it takes time gather. Who has the time for that? And here we have a broken life, but who knows it.. " I murmured in my mind. Silently, I opened the door and went near the gate to see how the old stuff collector carried these many things like broken AC, refrigerator, fan, old papers etc. in his bicycle. After seeing me, he stopped and asked, "Madam, do you have any thing to sell? " I shook my head to say no. Then I asked meekly to him,
"Why do you like this business of collecting old things? You could have done some other prestigious business instead?"
"Na, maa! old things are special in their own way. " he replied while arranging his bag loaded in the back of his bicycle carrier without looking at me.
"Oh, yes! We may not get the same things again, so Japanese people don't throw their old broken things, rather they laminate it to keep for ever as a part of their memory but we immediately dispose them off to clean up our homes and buy new things. But don't we all have lots of broken things in our mind to be mended?" I mused to myself and asked unknowingly, "Do you also take people with broken hearts and minds?"
With a surprised look he grinned. Showing his betel-ravaged reddish teeth he said "Madam ji, I am also a man with broken heart and mind, what would I do with the crumbled people! "
He hopped on to his bicycle and started moving, calling aloud, "Do you want to sell.....?"
"If you are defeated you are smashed, no one can lift you up except you only. Take a pause, listen to nothing but silence and get ready for tomorrow, " I closed the gate saying this to myself with a smile.
""My mind too needs good thoughts to be nourished, like my body needs food. Always, it is always for me to feed my mind accordingly. When I belive an unknown person while travelling by a bus or while eating in a hotel or while taking treatment from a doctor, then why can't I believe in myself to move on the journey of life? What happens next is not in my control but thinking positive is in my control. So, let me think, "I am the source of all energy. What comes in my way, I will resolve and go ahead."
"Nothing then will upset me hereafter," I started singing the song of life with a new resolve to face the challenges of life as they come.
A software engineer by profession, Ms. Anasuya Panda is a voracious reader, a happy mother and a versatile writer, poet, essayist, translator and blogger. She has contributed to numerous magazines in Odisha and other parts of India, a daily article on women's empowerment to the online magazine Positive Affirmation being her signature creation. A recipient of many awards, she has published a popular collection of short stories in Odia in 2021. Anasuya has this to say about herself: "A traveller in perpetual search of life, to know self, to unlock the secret of who I am and why I am here."
Shefali came out of her hotel room into the balcony to dry the wet clothes and stopped on her tracks. The man standing on the balcony of the adjoining room, smoking a cigarette, looked familiar. Next moment, S he was shocked. Subrat! Or was she making a mistake? No. how could she forget the face from twenty years back, an unforgettable shadow from the past? It was Subrat, why was he here? Of all the hotels in this big city he could get a room in this hotel only, and that too the adjoining room of Shefali? She hurriedly put her clothes on the stand and turned to return to her room.
Subrat had not missed her presence. Surprised, he screamed,
"Shefali! Is it Shefali, or am I dreaming? What are you doing here, in this hotel?"
Shefali was scared, she didn't stop to answer Subrat. She threw a nervous glance at him and ran back to the room. She was in a hurry to get ready and leave for the hospital. In a few hours her husband Bairi Ganjan was to get operated. Her mind was wracked by a turmoil.
Subrat! After all these years! The last time they had spoken to each other - and that was the only time - it wasn't a pleasant experience. Her mind went back to a hot afternoon twenty years back. It was summer and school timing was changed to morning hours. By mid-day the heat was unbearable, students and teachers had to hurry home. Shefali was walking out of the school when she felt someone was following her. She looked back, the next moment her heart sank. It was Subrat, her much talked about ruffian classmate.
Shefali was a stunningly beautiful girl, her smile could win the heart of anyone who looked at her, but she was incredibly shy. She hardly spoke to others and was busy with her studies all the time. She was the topper of the class, was liked by teachers and classmates. Subrat was exactly the opposite of Shefali. A tall, lanky boy, he had got mixed up with a dubious company of friends, who specialised in loafing around, harassing others and making the lives of girls miserable, teasing them and occasionally molesting them. They were all goondas and even the teachers were scared of them. They were often seen smoking cigarettes and the classmates suspected they probably used ganja also in their cigarettes.
Subrat was the smartest of them all, but least interested in studies, he just managed to clear the exams. He was afraid of no one, the only person who gave him goose bumps and made him nervous was Shefali. He was besotted with her. She was the centre of her dreams and he would have given the whole world just to befriend her. Somehow the cute, charming beauty made his heart melt every time he looked at her. He waited for three years before mustering the courage to come near her. Time was running out. They were in the final year of school and Subrat could not wait to pour his heart out to the princess who ruled over her heart.
When Shefali looked back, Subrat stood still, his heart made a few somersaults. He approached her slowly, looked at her for half a minute like a dumb, frightened goat and finally bleated, "I love you Shefali." Shefali's face turned red, she could not believe what she had just heard. She kept looking at him, waiting for the words to sink in. Subrat was not sure what to do, looking at Shefali like an innocent, dumb animal he knew his time was up. He turned to leave. Shefali surprised herself, she could never know where she found the courage to scream at Subrat,
"Wait! Say that again?"
Subrat just looked at her, no words came out of him.
Shefali lashed out at him,
"Don't have the guts to repeat it, right? Haw dare you come to me and declare your love? You think I will fall for a goonda, loafer like you? What will you be ten years from now? A bigger goonda? A more dangerous ruffian, looting shops, doing dacoity in daylight? You want me to cover my face with a cloth going out with you? That's the future you are planning for you and me? Chhi! Have you lost your mind saying 'I Love You' to me? Don't you have any shame, a pinch of common sense?......"
Shefali had fumed and left.
Subrat was stunned. No one had ever spoken to him with such harshness, after all he was the uncrowned chief of the goondas of the school. Everyone was scared of him. He felt as if an earthquake had just occurred and devastated him. Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He stood there like a stone, rooted to the spot.
From that day no one saw Subrat in the company of his ruffian friends, he quit smoking and concentrated on studies. He would see Shefali everyday in the school, but would walk away without coming near her. At the end of the year Shefali cleared the high school exam with a high first class, Subrat missed first class just by five marks. She joined the local Women's College, Subrat took admission in Ravenshaw College. Two years later he got a seat in the Medical College at Berhampur, a hundred miles away. She continued in the Women's College.
Subrat had mailed a letter to Shefali in her home address. It was a short crispy note - "Going to join the Medical College. Please wait for me. I will come for you."
Shefali blushed, looking at the letter. It was like Subrat was proposing to her. It was the first time anyone had done that. She knew Subrat had corrected the course of his life after a tongue-lashing from her but waiting for him? What did he mean by that?
Shefali could not wait. By the time she finished her B.A. she was swept off her feet by Bairi Ganjan, son of a zamindar who was fabulously rich. They had heard about the dazzling beauty and sweet nature of Shefali from a relative and wanted their son to marry her. They came to meet the girl's family and were mesmerised by the quiet, nubile girl. Shefali had protested to her parents - she didn't want to get married so early, she wanted to finish her M.A. and get the job of a lecturer. Her parents kept pestering her. After all it was a zamindar's family, their house was massive with at least a dozen servants, personal maids, cooks and workers. She would live like a queen, the zamindar's son was an awesome boy, with a prince's looks and manners. And the best thing was they were so impressed by Shefali's beauty that they didn't want any dowry. That was the main attraction for her parents. With three more daughters to follow Shefali in marriage, the prospect of mobilising money for dowry was dreadful for the middle class family.
Shefali finally gave in. Her dreams of becoming a lecturer were buried forever. A letter arrived from Subrat - still a student at the Medical College - five days before her wedding,
"Came to know you are getting married. You didn't wait for me? But I will wait."
Shefali felt disturbed.
Wait for Shefali? What does he mean, waiting for her? In five days she was going to a new home, her in-laws were waiting to welcome her. In a week's time her body, heart and soul will merge with another young man. And Subrat said he was going to wait for her?
Shefali was welcomed into a loving family. Everyone adored her, the in-laws doted on her and for Bairi Ganjan she was the loveliest wife he could dream of. Although he was a tall, hefty man, he was a child at heart, happy to play pranks on his sweet wife. He took her everywhere with him. He was fond of eating heavy, sumptuous food. While studying at Puri college he had picked up the habit of taking bhaang and had graduated to hard liquor. Travelling in big cars, staying in five star hotels, entertaining his school and college mates with delicious food and finest liquor was his favourite pastime. Shefali gradually got used to it. At Cuttack or Bhubaneswar she used to go to meet her friends and relatives when Bairi Ganjan spent his evenings in the company of friends. At Calcutta or Delhi she used to go for shopping and enjoyed it thoroughly.
Time passed blissfully and when a girl child was born to them after two years Bairi Ganjan was delirious with joy. Celebrations continued for a full month, relatives thronging the zamindar's home to bless the new princess. After the arrival of the baby Shefali could not accompany her husband on his pleasure trips. Free from his wife's pleadings for moderation, Bairi Ganjan went berserk with his drinking parties. When he stayed at home also he used to consume a full bottle of whiskey starting at noon and drinking till late night. . The reckless drinking had a telling effect on his health. Before he turned forty five his liver got severely damaged. Shefali and her in-laws were worried. They consulted doctors at Bhubaneswar. Despite the medical treatment his condition deteriorated and finally the doctor advised a liver transplant. During all these troubling days Shefali stayed with her husband like a shadow and took care of him. She loved him like he was another child of hers. Even after fifteen years of marriage he could not get sleep without holding a corner of her saree in his hand in the night.
It took more than six months to find a donor and get the necessary permission for transplant. Bairi Ganjan got admitted in the hospital and the transplant surgery was scheduled on the day Shefali saw Subrat in the balcony. She had stayed at the hospital in the night, practically sleepless and watching over her husband. She had come to the hotel to take a shower and return in time before Bairi Ganjan would be taken to the operation theatre.
And of all the days, Subrat was to reappear in her life like a dark shadow of the past! She was depressed. She wondered why God played these tricks on His hapless victims. Why Subrat chose this hotel when there were dozens of hotels nearby, and why he should appear in the adjoining balcony exactly when Shefali would come out to dry her clothes? Her mind in a turmoil, she quickly got ready and left for the hospital.
Subrat continued to stand in the balcony and kept smoking. He could not believe he had just met Shefali across the balcony. She had not changed much from the school days, she still retained her captivating presence - probably a happpy family and fulfilled life has added more charm to her ethereal beauty. He almost thought of going and knocking at the door of the neighbouring room. May be she would call him in and ask him about his welfare. But he dropped the idea. If Shefali wanted to ask anything she would have done it from her balcony, she would not have run back to her room and shut the balcony door. Moreover who knows may be her husband and children would be with her in the adjoining room. It will be embarrassing for him and Shefali to meet under the full gaze of the family. He came back to the room and went out. A long day's work awaited him.
Shefali went to her husband's room and relieved her sister-in-law and daughter from their duty. She asked them to go to the hotel, freshen up and return. The nurse came to take her to Dr. Hota's room where she should sign the consent form and some other documents. Shefali looked at her husband, asked him to be brave and left the room. Dr. Hota was the surgeon who had been treating Bairi Ganjan for more than a year. He was scheduled to conduct the surgery today.
The moment Shefali entered the doctor's room she had the shock of her life. Sitting by his side was none other than Subrat. Her head started reeling, what was he doing here? Why was he chasing her like an unwanted shadow? She looked questioningly at Dr. Hota. Subrat was also equally shocked to see Shefali at the door. He stood up,
"Shefali? What are you doing here? What brings you here?"
Dr. Hota looked at both of them,
"It seems you know each other. Mrs. Baliar Singh. I have called Dr. Subrat Patnaik from Ganga Ram hospital in Delhi to conduct the surgery on your husband. Mr. Bairi Ganjan's case is quite complicated and I needed some expert surgeon to conduct the surgery. Dr. Subrat Patnaik, though young, is considered to be one of the best surgeons in India for liver transplant. Now please sign the consent form and the other documents lying here on my table. We will start the surgery in half an hour.
An unknown fear gripped Shefali. Subrat would conduct the surgery? Her face became pale and she started shivering out of nervousness. She glanced at Subrat. Seeing her so nervous Subrat had a small, tantalising smile. With a shaking hand Shefali signed the consent form, cast an appealing look at both the doctors and left the room.
In half an hour Bairi Ganjan was taken to the Operation Theatre. Shefali went with him to the door of the OT and then returned to her room. She sat before the image of Lord Jagannath and kept praying for her husband. As minutes ticked by and hours rolled on, her fear of the unknown grew. Her daughter and sister-in-law had returned from the hotel and joined her in the prayer. It took eight hours for the surgery to be completed. Bairi Ganjan was shifted to the Recovery Room from the OT. Tears streaming down her face, Shefali ran to the Recovery Room to see her husband sleeping peacefully under the influence of general anaesthesia.
Dr. Hota came out of the Recovery Room smiling,
"Congratulations, Mrs. Baliar Singh, thanks to Dr. Patnaik we could successfully perform a complicated surgery. It will take four more hours for Mr. Bairi Ganjan to come out of anaesthesia effect. We will shift him to the cabin tomorrow."
Shefali's eyes were looking for Subrat, she wanted to thank him for the success of the surgery. Dr. Hota could read her mind. He smiled at her,
"Are you looking for Dr. Patnaik? He had to leave in a hurry, his flight to Delhi is in two hours' time."
Dr. Hota took out something from his pocket,
"Here, he has left a letter for you."
With shaking hands Shefali tore open the envelope and started reading the letter,
"Got scared, did you? It was so clear from your trembling hands and pale face! Why did you get scared? Have you forgotten, twenty years back you had turned a demon into a saint? .........I never married, waiting for you. I will keep waiting, even if it will be for another birth, to make you mine."
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
MISCELLANEOUS
JAYANTA MAHAPATRA: CONNECTING THE DISCONNECTS IN LIFE AND POETRY
Jayanta Mahapatra is one of the brightest poets in Indian English poetry accepted globally. The fact that his poems are taught in many universities across the world testifies his international standing and popularity. Nonetheless he is dubbed as a most difficult poet to be taught to the students. Many professors admit that initially they were not sure of their understanding of his poems and years later they could decipher the true hidden meaning of the poems. In fact he had created an idiom of his own and was capable of turning ordinary things into an uncommon narrative. The complexities of his poems emanated from the complex life he had to lead from his childhood. Being born into a convert Christian family in a city like Cuttack with abundant presence of a vibrant Hindu culture he was perplexed to find an identity of his own. While his orthodox family rooted him to an alien faith, he was vastly influenced by the rich cultural diversity of his home city Cuttack and the State of Odisha. His sub conscious was haunted by the ill fated conversion of his grand father Banamali Mahapatra into Christianity in the wake of the Great Famine that visited Odisha in sixties of the nineteenth century and left many families embracing a different religion in the midst of abject poverty and starvation. His mother being very rude to her in his childhood days he had to leave house at a tender age but had to come back thanks to the attraction of a loving father.
In the college days he performed poorly in English and was advised by a teacher to read more English novels and he took it seriously. It made him an ardent lover of English language and he found himself quite at home in a foreign language. Although he studied Physics and became a lecturer in the same subject but his love for English literature was an undying passion for him. This led him from the world of Physics to the world of poetry at an age of forty, obviously late compared to his contemporary Indian English poets like Nissim Ezekiel, Ramanujan etc. who had got established by then. However, his distinct identity as a poet got acknowledged world wide within a very short period of time and he won the first Sahitya Akademi award for English poetry for his poetry collection’ Relationship’ earning him an enviable position in the pan Indian literary field. Even till then he was little known in Odisha as a poet. Rest is now history. Subsequently, he not only got Padmashree for his contributions to literature but also got nominated as a Fellow of Sahitya Akademi in recognition of his poetic eminence in Indian literature. He was not only published world wide but got invitation to many foreign universities. He had the rare company of many renowned poets in Asia, Europe and US and got a large fan following not only in India but also abroad. Many stalwarts in poetry world very often visited him in his Tinikonia Bagicha residence in Cuttack and it became almost a place of pilgrimage for budding poets.
I came across this great personality in early eighties when my poet friend and colleague Dipak Samantrai introduced me to him. At the first instance I developed a liking for the man. Very shy and polite as a person he had amazing sense of humour. Although he was ten years senior to my father but he behaved like a friend and cracked jokes with me. His better half, a nice lady not only entertained with tea and snacks but also joined us in the humours. Many evenings we spent like this but one thing I observed that he was very reticent about his poetry. He didn’t like to discuss about it publicly. Our relationship continued till recently. Last year I had written a piece on him and when he came across it his comment was that it was nice to read but does he deserve these words (? ).This is the humility of the person who inspite of his international fame as a poet never displayed slightest sign of ego or self indulgence. In last January we organised a literature festival in Bhubaneswar and I invited him to inaugurate it. But due to ill health he could not attend the inaugural session. The poets from outside the State and abroad were keen to see him. Finally, next day he came for a brief period but his arrival was such an event he stole the show and everyone was keen to get photographed with him or to get his autograph. It was a dream came true for many and I got thanks profusely from all and sundry. The short speech he delivered that day still reverberate in the minds of those who were present on that fateful day.
His remarkable works in poetry include A Father’s Hours, A rain of Rites, Waiting, The False Start , Collected Poems, Random Descent and Noon . Not only poetry, he was brilliant in prose writing as well. He has written many short stories and essays. His published works among others include The Green Gardener, Door of Paper etc. He has also translated many poems of Odia writers into English when he used to edit literature pages of some English journals. He proved himself to be an editor of international repute and ‘Chandrabhaga’ edited by him had a large number of contributors and subscribers from many foreign countries. He was so fascinated by the word Chandrabhaga that he named his house in that name and used to organise Chandrabhaga Poetry Festival in Konark and finally desired in his will to put the ashes in Chandrabhaga as a part of the last rites after death. Needless to say Konark was the confluence of Chandrabhaga and the Bay of Bengal and is considered to be a holy place as per Hindu traditions. In fact his life was a confluence of the the past and the present, physics and poetry and many things more to add in that way. He tried to connect the disconnects of his past with the present in a most poignant manner in his poetry. We find the disillusionment of his childhood memories juxtaposed against the present day realities of life. He connects his memories of Cuttack city bound by the twin rivers Mahanadi and Kathjodi on two sides and the glorious past of Odisha manifested in the ruins of ancient temples and architectural remains in Bhubaneswar, Puri and Konark. He travels from the past to the present in a splendid manner in his poetry.
He tried his hand in Odia poetry in his later years and candidly admitted that mother tongue is the best medium to express oneself. He had few poetry collections in Odia which got admiration from the readers for the freshness of his style of writing. His autobiography in Odia named ‘ Bhor Motira Kanaphula’ is a masterpiece and would go down as a brilliant piece of autobiography in Odia literature. It’s translation into English would serve better to reach a larger audience.
The last part of his life was marked by tragedies one after another. She lost his beloved wife , then his son and finally Sarojini, the maid servant who served him for thirty five years, in quick succession . With nobody around to take care of him, he became a loner. The cruel fate disjointed him from his near and dear ones at a ripe age. The falling health due to advanced age accelerated by Corona pandemic led to his frequent hospitalisation during last couple of years. But he did not leave his creative passion die in such adverse situations . Rather he lived a full life with a childlike simplicity and youthful mischief of a poet till he breathed his last at the age of ninety five. In the hospital bed before few days of his death he released his last poetry collection in Odia, named , Jhanji, edited and arranged to dispatch the last issue of Chandrabhaga to the contributors and subscribers and even sent new poems to the editors from the hospital bed. With his passing away we lost our only connect with the rest of world in the form of poetry and our poet ambassador for the globe.
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
During my morning walk in the early Spring, I sighted a pair of large birds atop a tall communication tower on the sidewalk. With brown upperparts, greyish heads, and underparts, they looked like eagles.
While bald eagles have brown bodies with distinct white heads, yellow bills, and yellow feet with thick claws, these raptors – river hawks aka ospreys have dark brown bodies, grey-black bills, white underparts, and white feet; when they fly, the arched M shape on their underparts is easy give-away for a layman such as me.
Ospreys reside in places where there is a plenitude of fish; unlike eagles that are scavengers, ospreys feed on fish. This neighborhood is in proximity to a large beach park, and it comes as no surprise that these large birds have made their home on the perching platform atop the tower.
Cheep! Cheep! The low or high-pitched whistle emerges when they’re around, which is in sharp contrast to the cackle’ ‘kak-kak-kak’ of the American bald eagle.
At the onset of summer, I spotted this pair gliding, flying, and spending time together. In mid-summer, one of them was continually seated in the nest, while the other made its appearance from time to time – Family Time!
Most often, in the morning, the bird would be gone to fetch fish- the cliched early bird catches the worm (fish.)
Although I heard ‘cheep’ sounds, I could see little from below. With one adult constantly there, possibly the female, (which looks larger when viewed at close quarters!) I knew something interesting was happening.
One morning, as I was just stepping out, I heard an endless ‘cheep’ and saw the osprey flying hurriedly to its nest. A crow or a flicker was in hot pursuit, perhaps our hero was trying to steal one of their chicks. Eagles are well known for ‘kleptoparasitism’ (stealing young birds from others’ nests, fish from other ospreys!); this osprey was fleeing after an aborted attempt.
Although I could get to watch the birds from ground level only, their presence was evident as I heard the whistling sounds, and the flapping of wings whenever I passed by. In about three weeks or more, the fledglings were letting out queer sounds. Then, again in about five-six weeks or so, they were flapping their wings in the nest.
One morning, I was surprised to see three birds in the sky close to their nest. Apparently, the juvenile was getting flying lessons. I watched this spectacle for several days. I’ve not had the opportunity to watch them giving fishing lessons to the juvenile even though I have read that the juveniles can catch fish successfully in twenty-one days.
Summer is slowly giving way to autumn. The flying sessions are going on at regular intervals.
Soon, these raptors would head southward to warmer lands. I have read that adult ospreys tend to form small groups, but young ospreys are said to migrate alone. And continue to live in the ‘wintering grounds’ until they are about two years of age, and are independent enough, (after molting their juvenile plumage and developing adult plumage) to fly off and start their own lives, navigating through all challenges.
Watching these winged creatures has been a meaningful pastime for me. And I believe that reading this would be entertaining and edifying to others.
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.
At an age when life after its hectic travel through the rough and tough road one would wish to turn back and see the path through the eyes of the traveller. This piece of writing is one such look backward.
Smooth ride rare and for all there would be happenings pleasant and unpleasant. Life a mixture of what one likes and dislikes. The limit to which dislikes are accommodated or compromised determines the success.
My case has been one of accommodation and compromises almost throughout the period of togetherness which has resulted in a life unfulfilled and wasted. Thirty plus years of submission and now shudder to think of it.
Two highly qualified medical professionals and going by tradition go by parents’ choice are made wife and husband. Two strangers and the only common factor being profession and all else different starting from the way of talking and walking. The adjustment factor starts from the time of being together and the battle of minds begins then.
Man and woman from different surroundings become husband and wife in real and I will have to say that he was a genius. Widely read and reading still information technical and otherwise were at his fingertips. He, knowledgeable did not make me inferior. I was also intelligent and capable in my own way. The key factor is one’s quantity of knowledge does not determine the qualities as a human being.
Right from day one it was a challenge. A loving daughter to my parents and they would choose only the best for me was the sound belief. With that firm thought I had to make the best of the alliance and make the marriage a standing example where relationships can be strengthened with love, care and understanding.
Within days it was proved that I was living in a world of imagination far away from reality. He had decided that I never stood anywhere near his intellectual prowess. I was insulted, snubbed and neglected in private and public. Shocked at this unexpected behaviour dumb folded I became and was unable to defend myself. My silence his victory and became the fallen one in front of others. The marriage to work at any cost was my thought and swallowed the humiliation for years in silence. Two children in between with no change in attitude. His integration with all others with a different face and none could read the dark side. Had he corrected my follies if any sensibly with a tinge of love and respect the spectrum would have been different.
So true the statement that “Man proposes God disposes”. Life moved on with all its errors and pains with one sided decisions and dictations. My self-esteem took a beating of the worst kind and it started affecting my mental and physical health. What stood as support was my profession where I got indulged in full and the smiles from those poor patients when cured gave me the strength to move on. Helping the needy financially also gave me satisfaction extreme.
Thirty plus years of life wasted for being in the wrong company. A dream shattered beyond recovery and while brooding over the follies come the notice for divorce from him.
The papers signed without a word and without claims and the so-called sacred bond called marriage cut off with a signature. The changed life had to be built. Brick by brick I build a house with my ideas and needs in place far away from the din and buzzle of city life.
My “Koodu”(Nest) with the stray dog”Chekkan” (boy) who made my nest his home became my family. A life lonely and isolated and leaving the bitter thoughts behind, my body and mind craved for something I longed for. To love and be loved.
The word hate not in me. Just loved the humans, birds and bees around me unconditionally. The love in abundance remained untapped in my marital life and remains unfulfilled and surfaces as pain.
My nature to love and respect is a visible truth. The emotion in me remains virgin and is overflowing. I need to be loved and cared and the same reciprocated. It is a serious, passionate thought at a late age and wish and want it to happen. Never want to leave the good earth with an incomplete and unfulfilled life however short or long it may be.
I am at the doorstep looking far away at that hazy image with determination, hoping and as always
“Living For Love”
T. V. Sreekumar is a retired Engineer stationed at Pondicherry with a passion for writing. He was a blogger with Sulekha for over fifteen years and a regular contributor writing under the name SuchisreeSreekumar.
Some of his stories were published in Women's Era. “THE HINDU” had also published some of his writings on its Open Page..
DOWN THE MEMORY LANE: AN UNFORGETTABLE ENCOUNTER
In the kaleidoscopic panorama of life, one encounters a variety of situations and events . With the passage of time, most of these memories get blurred and often forgotten. Some of these memories, however, are so deep rooted in mind that they keep haunting from time to time. I have chosen one such unforgettable encounter that happened long ago. Needless to mention, this encounter represents a priceless experience of my life.
The backdrop of the event I am going to narrate dates back to 1984. I was then a young officer posted in Delhi and was selected for an Italian Government Scholarship to undergo a six month course in Naples, Italy. Those days, going abroad for study was not very common and had an aura attached to it. Naturally, I was quite excited about my participation in the proposed programme. Unfortunately, it began with a bad omen - the day I was to take the flight, (31st October,) witnessed the tragic assassination of Mrs. Indira Gandhi, then Prime Minister of India by her personal body guard. The event was followed by unprecedented communal violence in Delhi. My plight can be well imagined as I was scheduled to take the flight the same night. There was little time to consider postponing or even rescheduling the visit. So with a heavy heart amidst considerable uncertainties and safety concerns for my family (which consisted of my wife and a three year old son,) I set forth on my sojourn to Italy on the eventful night of 31st October, 1984.
On the following morning, the 1st November, I landed in Flamingo Airport of Rome. I was greeted with extremely cold conditions accompanied by intermittent rain making the entire atmosphere look terribly gloomy and depressing. From Flamingo airport I boarded a bus to the Rome Central Railway Station and then took a train to Naples. Finally, with some difficulty of communication (since English was understood and spoken by a minuscule percentage of the Italian population only), I landed up in the hotel, which was to be my surrogate home for next six months. By the time I completed the check-in formalities and got into the hotel room, my excitement for going to a foreign country had virtually evaporated and the stark reality of having to spend next six months in a not-too-friendly (euphemism for hostile !) environment was staring me on my face!
At this stage, I should perhaps start giving a brief account of the Course for which I was deputed to Naples, Italy. The Course had 50 participants drawn from as many as 30 countries, mostly from Latin America and Africa. Asian countries were represented by 10 participants of which India had two, while Pakistan had one. My co-participant from India was newly married and took the course as an extended honeymoon! Naturally, therefore, I came closer to the participant from Pakistan.
After reaching Naples I realised that language was a huge problem in Italy since English was barely understood, let alone spoken.The overall situation, therefore, made me feel all the more isolated, and homesick. On top of it, the communication system then was almost archaic which the present generation may find it difficult to believe. The most common mode of communication was through postal services and a letter used to take anywhere between 7 to 10 days from Delhi to Naples and vice versa. It may appear shocking today to believe that it took two days of continuous effort for me to finally succeed in having a telephonic conversation with my wife to convey about my safe arrival in Naples!
As mentioned already, the circumstances made me come closer to the Pakistani participant. I, however,soon realised that the Pakistani participant was as fine a human being as there was any. His name was Moghul who happened to migrate from Uttar Pradesh during partition. Moghul was in early 50s, and happened to be a very senior officer from the Pakistan Administrative Service. He was the senior most participant in the Course and sometimes used to feel embarrassed of this fact since most of the other participants were in early thirty’s only. Not withstanding his age and seniority, he was extremely amicable and friendly and a perfect gentleman. I had lot of things in common with Moghul which included language, culture, food habits and last but not the the least, sentiment and temperament which naturally made both of us come closer to each other. We developed excellent rapport on the first day of our meeting itself which became stronger as our stay progressed.
The circumstances, too, facilitated our friendship and we began to spend most of the time together.Our friendship was genuine based on mutual trust and complementarity. Both of us had lot of things in common which helped strengthen the bond further. To illustrate, both of us had deep family values and were missing our respective families dearly. Mr Mughal had three grown up daughters studying in college/university and missed them all the time. He used to carry photographs of his family in his wallet and every now and then whenever he was feeling lonely and missing his family, he would take out the photos and stare at them often becoming sentimental with tears in his eyes. As I too was passing through similar mental agony, we would often share our family details and giving solace to each other
Another factor which drew me closer to Mr. Moghul was his admiration for Indian music. He himself was an accomplished singer and had an excellent collection of Indian songs and music. He was particularly fond of ghazzals sung by the celebrated Indian couple Jagjit Singh and Chitra Singh and I still remember countless evenings both of us spent together listening to Indian music in his cassette player. He had absolutely no ego or hang-ups about listening to Indian music unlike most of the Pakistanis of his genre. He was an excellent cook and brought with him various spices from home and used to try different recipes from time to time. Thanks to his culinary skills, we could have excellent sub-continental food almost every weekend and this to a large extent helped us in overcoming the absence of our respective families. One admirable quality I noticed in him was his sensitivity and to respect my reservation for taking non vegetarian food, particularly beef. He turned into a vegetarian all throughout and would not listen to my pleadings that he need not restrict his food selection to suit my food choice.
Mr. Moghul was a brilliant student of history and would often narrate famous historical events making them quite lively and interesting. However, he was finding it difficult to cope with statistics and econometrics which formed a part of the course. Like an obedient student he would come to me in the evenings to study these subjects and through his perseverance he could clear both hurdles successfully.
Thanks to the wonderful company of Mr.Moghul, the duration of six months, which in the beginning appeared almost unbearable, became much less arduous as time progressed. With every passing day, we came closer to each other sharing each other’s happiness as well as personal and family concerns. For instance, when I received a message from India about the birth of my daughter in February 85, Mr Mughal was so genuinely happy with this good news that immediately he organised a party to celebrate bearing the entire expenses himself. There were numerous other occasions when we shared each other’s happiness and also concerns which made our bond stronger .
Finally, as time progressed, the completion of the Course was in sight. By then, both of us had developed so much of bonhomie that we began to loathe the inevitability of departure. When we entered the last week of our stay at Naples, the countdown had virtually begun. We were understandably quite happy to be going home soon to our respective families after spending six long months. Yet somewhere, the pain of the impending separation was weighing in our minds making the atmosphere terribly distressed and gloomy.
On the penultimate day before the schedule departure, I visited Mr Moghul’s room post-dinner with a view to spending some time with him. I was startled to find him almost at a breakdown point, finding it almost inconsolable to bear the idea of having to depart the next day. He was particularly distressed with the thought that we may not meet again during our lifetime. I tried to console him by saying that we are from neighbouring countries and can surely be in touch with each other. However, the administrator in him was fully aware of the fact that the relationship between the two neighbors had touched its nadir in the aftermath of liberation of Bangladesh and knew that howsoever one may wish, it may not be easy to renew our contacts. How prophetic!
At last the D-day arrived and it was time to bid good bye to each other. I could never have imagined that departing from a person coming from a hostile country with whom I came in contact barely six months ago could be so painful. Both of us were so much emotionally charged that we were finding it difficult to look straight at each other. Since our flight timings were in close proximity, we decided to take the same train from Naples to Rome Central. We hardly spoke during the train journey and I could see from his eyes that he would not have slept the previous night. So was my experience. In less than two hours we reached Rome Central Rail Station and from there shared a taxi to Flamingo Airport, Rome. He insisted in paying for the taxi and refused to listen to my request to share the taxi fare saying that he can not take payment from his younger brother. I had no words to express and had tears in my eyes.
Upon reaching the Airport,we had to part ways as our flights were from different terminals. As the moment to part finally arrived, Mr. Mughal gave me a tight embrace and wished the customary ‘Khuda Hafeez’ in a voice choking with emotion. Then he told something in a whispering tone which is still reverberating in my mind all these years. Said he and I quote “Pramod, I am a Muslim and do not believe in rebirth. But you are a Hindu and you believe in rebirth. If there is some thing like rebirth, I would like to have you as my younger brother in my next life “. As he completed the sentence, his voice was choked with emotion and he started walking towards the entrance gate of the Airport terminal. Flabergasted at the sudden unexpected sentimental out burst from Mr Moghul, l found myself short of words and kept on waving my hand till he was finally gone inside the Air terminal melting into the crowd. That was the last that I saw Mr Moghul.
After I returned to India,I got busy with my life, both on the personal and professional front. The memory of Mr. Moghul was quite intense during first few days. Gradually, with the passage of time, the memory began to fade. Yet there were moments when I remembered Mr Mughal and his unstinting affection for me which brought tears to my eyes. We shared a unique relationship which has stood the test of time. Today,in the autumn of my life, I continue to miss him dearly and his unstinting friendship. I have no doubt that if Mr Mughal is still alive, (I sincerely hope that he is, though he would be almost approaching ninety), there is bound to be a spot in the corner of his large heart reserved for me. Let me bid you good bye my dear friend with the same customary ’Khuda Hafeez’ that you wished me with, Moghul Saab. Thanks for the beautiful time we spent together in Naples, thanks for the unstinting love and affection that you showered on me and finally, yes Moghul Saab, I would certainly love to have you as my elder brother in my next life, if there’s any.
Shri Padhy is a retired Indian Economic Service officer, settled in Delhi. He loves to write short stories and anecdotes of human interest.
The renowned Greek Philosopher, Aristotle says, “Man is a social animal. He who lives without a society is either a beast or God.” That means the saying goes to convey, a man or woman living without a society is either not a human or more than human. Now, by social we understand when a man/woman maintains peaceful coexistence by preserving harmonious relation with all others around him/her. In that respect every human being likes to live a peaceful life in a society by creating individual identity in addition to upholding own image and dignity. But there are some people who behave unsocial or anti-social. Why so? To arrive at a satisfactory answer it is expedient to tear open these two terminologies which are, very often, being used to differentiate individuals behaving unsocial or anti-social from rest of the people in a society.
The term unsocial implies aversion to society, complete impervious to society. Persons of this nature distance themselves from others and also avoid conversation with people around them including own family members as far as possible. They remain unfazed about what is going on around them and how do others mean to them. In other words by nature they dislike socializing and love to stay recluse. But they are neither boorish nor pestiferous and not harmful in general. Nature of these people does not defy Aristotle’s definition of man not being social, rather it goes on to enrich the same by adding one more trait of man not being a beast or God for his keeping aloof from society. Number of such people in any society is very small. Their presence and activities are mostly innocuous and do not create any impact on others. So they are ignored.
The term anti-social on the other hand, denotes actions, dealings and conduct of individuals always being harmful and disastrous. This group of persons may be termed as aberrated unsocial. These people portray deceptive conduct living in a society. They are unsocial by nature but unlike unsocial their all actions, dealings and movements are doubtful and dangerous. At times they pretend to be social human beings only to gain confidence of others to fulfil their aim of laying disruptive traps in a society/country. As it were, activities, intentions and conduct of these people are always suspicious, dangerous, derogatory and detrimental to the interest and rights of others and so condemnable. Aristotle’s definition of man not living in a society as beast or God does not also fit into it wholly because of the fact that a man of this nature cannot be God, secondly if he is taken as beast, it is also not appropriate since no beast is perfidious and incomprehensible. So an anti-social individual is different.
Obvious question comes up; when all human beings are not unsocial or anti-social by birth and when everyone likes to live in a cohesive and amiable society, why then some people drift away from the main stream to become unsocial or anti-social? Several daunting reasons, interalia, unfulfilled desire of acquiring wealth and power, burning urge for taking revenge against some people who caused harm and defied their point of views, frustrated by the system and administration, insulted, tortured, humiliated by others in a society may be attributed to conversion of normal human beings to anti-socials but if we dig deep into the causes, the transformation in human behaviour and conduct leading one to become anti-social are mainly due to dearth of love and affection from own family and/or non cooperation, maltreatment and hatred from all others around them. Sometimes disappointment brewing out of failure in love affairs converts a man to become unsocial/anti-social. Last but not least one is the bad company/association that distracts a person towards going anti-social.
People born and grown up in an atmosphere of hatred, negligence, maltreatment, malnutrition and torture added with unemployment and poverty invariably turn rude, vengeful, rebellious, savage and stoop to doing any kind of immoral, anti-social acts with least hesitation to do harm, disrupt peaceful living of others and always pose a threat to safety and security of citizens as well as a nation. These people are abreast with the impression that when they are totally neglected, ignored, disliked, despised and humiliated by one and all in the society, why then should they care for others and what wrong is there if they retaliate? They stay convinced with their self drawn logic that if by their actions anybody’s peace is disturbed, it is not their fault rather the victim has invited such condition by provoking them to doing such acts.
Now the point is whether these people being a part of the society be left as such to commit more and more crimes like several other criminals thereby threatening peaceful life of citizens in a society? Certainly not. Though laws are in place to check the crimes, the procedure involved in this process is so lengthy and expensive that the criminals by taking advantage of this lag derive enough space to regroup and gather strength not only to commit more crimes but also to instigate many others to join them thereby expanding the web of crime. If at all, due punishment is awarded by any court to a criminal of this nature after a lengthy trial, it is also not guaranteed that further crime shall be contained for all time to come and immunity to peace of citizens will be ensured.
Crime is a byproduct of human behavior. Absolute eradication of crime from a society, state or country is impossible in this Kaly Yuga. But at least the crime committed by anti-social elements in a society may be checked by identifying these persons and by taking up preventive measures after having diagnosed the root cause behind their change in behavior that made them anti-social. All said and done, there is neither a magical stick nor an Arabian Apron to just swing and solve the whole problem instantly. This is indeed a very complicated issue grown over ages may be due to negligence of Government at the same time complacency and indulgence of all others in a society shown towards the anti-social elements. The task is indeed stupendous and poses a big challenge to the ruling dispensation as well as the public for bringing these misguided people engaged in anti-social activities into social stream.
The point is how to heal this chronic wound in a society? Obvious answer would be by way of awakening humanity in these people. All human beings do have the trait of humanity. This noble trait is visible in many people yet it is dormant in some. When humanity is dormant, the concerned individuals display unusual and strange behavior as if pervert without thinking of the consequences of what they do. They do not even bother going extreme to commit fatal crimes. By and large anti-social persons are motored by disastrous demeanour only for the trait of humanity lying dormant in them. If by virtue of persistent motivation, humanity in these people is aroused, their mindset may undergo a metamorphosis ushering in an aura of love and goodness whereby they would start disliking what they do.
What happens now? A lot of hulla bol is made everywhere in press, visual media and above all in Assemblies and in Parliament about disruptive and subversive activities of anti-social elements and Govt. machinery including police and army are made alert to control the crisis. Nowhere attempt is made to think of its preventive measures by discovering the root cause behind eruption of anti-social elements. Perhaps a positive step in the direction of launching motivational programme to awaken humanity in them would be helpful and productive. Trust both the Govt. as well as the public ought to make a serious contemplation and debate on this issue to discover an alternative measure to arouse humanity in anti-social elements instead of relying solely on the law and order to take its course to check the crime committed by them.
JAI HIND.
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.
LIFE A CONFLUENCE OF AGONY AND ECSTASY!
Let us first try to think over what LIFE is all about -not from a scientist’s perspective but poetically and philosophically. In five brief and poetic lines, Shakespeare defined life as impermanent (transient) , non-self-directed (we cannot direct our own life), unsatisfactory, limited (finite), everchanging (constantly evolving and developing), and ultimately insignificant code (inconsequential enigma or puzzle).
Of all the Webster’s definition of ‘life,’ the one that appeals to me the best is, “the influence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual is life.” Yes, life is an array of achievements, disappointments, discovery, problems, difficulties, dullness, sadness, pain, happiness and so on -Agony and Ecstasy being at the extreme ends of the spectrum. We cannot direct life. It is directed by the supreme power we call GOD. He composes the music, and we all have to write and sing our own songs. This is what I said in my last article, “ The Song of Life” published in the previous issue of the journal. The songs can be happy, ecstatic, not so happy, sad or even agonizing yet they must provide some solace and peace to our souls.
Getting on to the topic of “Pain”-Pain can be defined as being in a state of great trouble physically or mentally. I have currently what physicians call Sciatica pain caused when a nerve of this name is pinched/pressed or irritated by ageing spinal structure- in my case presence of a benign cyst I was told yesterday. This great debilitating pain makes me forget all the good times I had in my recent trip to England and Iceland. We take small things like getting up in the morning pain free and fresh as granted. Getting up is an ordeal for me at the moment. We must thank God for small things which make our life easier is what this pain has taught me.
A celebrated doctor neighbour – an experienced neurosurgeon -told me that if I accept this pain then it would feel less intense. Another morning walk friend from Pune suggested the same thing differently . He advised that I do pranayama three times a day and listen to or better still recite “Mahamrityunjaya mantra” also known as Rudra mantra ( a verse of Rigveda) in addition to other supporting therapy/medications. Yet a third one-a school friend has asked me to recite a Hanuman mantra, “ Om Shri-Shri Hanumante Rudratatamkay namh” in all my free time. I guess all of them probably meant the same thing. basically, I have to take my mind off the pain by acceptance helped by reducing mental stress through pranayama, mantrochar etc in addition to what physicians prescribe. Stress is known to aggravate pain and it can become agonising. We must do whatever helps us to destress. Good time spent with family and friend is a well-known stress booster. We all think differently and don’t have to argue if other people’s thinking doesn’t synch with us.
Agony suggests extreme pain - too intense to bear. It must be extreme and generally prolonged physical or mental suffering to qualify as agony. ‘Agony’ for example is felt when someone very close separates from us or leaves us permanently due to death or we fear that the person may leave us. Recently after coming back from England and driving around the island country Iceland where we had ecstatic two weeks we were in Pune with our daughter and granddaughter. We were very happy visiting different places and gourmet restaurants. We were, if you will, ecstatic and drunk with life. Life seemed perfect. Suddenly one day while I returned home after a leisurely lunch with a dear school friend, I found that Archana’s-my better half- BP had started shooting up. She was feeling dizzy and had to cancel her spa appointment. We went down the building to the nearest doctor clinic. He measured her BP , took an ECG and gave some tablets. She did not respond to this medication. We panicked and took her to a corporate hospital. They transferred her to an ICU cubicle with few other critically ill patients. The atmosphere in Emergency was loaded. ICU with its coldness was rather unnerving. They would not let us remain there beyond visiting hours which ended at 9 PM. We were advised to go home and keep our phones on during the night. We couldn’t call ICU. “We will inform you if there is anything”- the doctor had said. That was most distressing for me. Archana often tells me jokingly that she will leave me earlier and then I will know her value in my life. I always tell her that women live longer and that she is being younger will have many more years and she shuts me up.
Loss of a spouse or even a thought of this is generally considered agonising but I never knew that it could be so intensely agonising. I came home, took bath and sat Infront of the TV unaware of what was going on it. My mind went blank and numb. The world did not exist for me in those moments. I was praying for my phones not to ring. That was a long night indeed agonisingly painful though there was no physicality in it.
Fortunately for us next day the doctors told us that it was basically on account of a kind of Vertigo which has to do something with the tiny calcium crystals in the inner ear responsible for balance going berserk. The hospital had however followed stroke and heart attack protocol and tested all her vitals which all were found good otherwise. But I still can not forget those tense and agonisingly painful moments which seemed like never ending -like ages. I promised to myself that I will never argue with her and will always bow down to her wishes and dictates. But women and especially wives are unpredictable, and I know that one can does not keep this promise- I am trying!
In the agony of death, the present definition of ‘a future’ becomes intolerable and revolting. Most people at the end of their lives are no longer certain that the future remains a necessity to give meaning to their present. Their lives than become agonising mentally. The future loses its meaning for these miserable and then they are in perpetual agony. The death is more revolting when the subject is younger. A friend who lost his wife rather young in a freak surgery procedure once told me that he did not wish to live any longer. Gradually acceptance dwelled on him, and he became as normal as he could be gradually. I am not sure whether he has started lighting the chandelier in his living room which both of them had selected so lovingly. Another friend after a few years married a second time more for partnership than any other privileges. I think that he did well as a new partnership reduces the grief and makes the loss feel less and less intense.
Ecstasy to my mind is an overwhelming feeling of great happiness or joyful excitement. One can be in ecstasy over an unexpected result of one’s efforts. My father died when I was 15 and was in class X. He died suddenly without any apparent illness leaving us financially very vulnerable. He had always wanted me to be an engineer. I focussed on studies and after XI bagged a seat in the Regional Engineering College. But we did not have the money to take admission. We were supposed to pay some four hundred and eighty rupees. We could just manage a hundred. Out of this ten would go for the return train fare and local bus tickets from station to the college which was quite out of the town. I was 16 and from a small town. I didn’t have any kind of fluency in spoken English. But nevertheless, I mustered courage and went to the college to try my luck. I met the registrar, Bhave. He was sympathetic but couldn’t help. “ Rules are rules”- he had said. The principal Dr Dokras was a busy man. But I was adamant.I stood outside his office without any food or water. The peon took pity on me and offered me his seat which also I refused as also the water that he brought. Finally, around 4:30 PM the principal saw me and heard my arguments as to why I should be given fee waiver. He was sympathetic and wanted to use funds from “Poor Boys Endowment”- but I refused this help as it made me feel inferior. A way out had to be found without making me feel small I insisted. I made some suggestions which were eventually accepted, and I got admission by paying only sixty rupees- eight times less than the original demand. That moment was ecstatic. I was as if flying- I was on the seventh cloud. I was in a frenzy -ecstatic. Later I begged scholarship for all five years.
Dr Dokras remembered me all five years and beyond. I went to my college later as an examiner. Dr Dokras was still there, and he called on me at the guesthouse along with the subject professor. It was very touching moment. I was speechless. Tears were in my eyes. I touched his feet- remembered that meeting several years back and cried like a child. Those were tears of joy and agony combined. Later I was offered paper setting assignment which I couldn’t accept because of personal reasons.
Ecstasy can sometimes be an emotional or religious frenzy or trance-like state involving an experience of mystic self- transcendence like as felt by cult members chanting and dancing together to the call of their guru. For example, in a certain Israelite prophetic groups, music was used to achieve ecstatic state, in which the participants, in their accompanying dancing, were believed to have been seized by the hand of Yahweh, the God of Israel. This feeling is so great that some directionless confused astray young people take “Ecstasy”- an amphetamine-based recreational drug having euphoric effects, typically taken in the form of a pill and particularly associated with clubbing and dance music subcultures.
In geography Confluence means union, convergence, coming together, flowing together or joining together. Confluence of rivers occurs where two or more rivers join to form a single channel. Life is like that. Different shades of happiness and pain flow together in life’s stream.
Celebrated poet and Singer Kavi Pradeep ( ye mere vatan ke logo fame) wrote thus:
“ Sukh dukh dono rahate jisme, Jeevan hai ek gaon, kabhi dhoop to kabhi chhao”
(Life is like a village in which happiness and pain both live together.
Sometimes there is sunshine, sometimes shade)
“Upar vala pasa fenke, niche chalte dao”
(God throw the dice up, we play the moves down here.)
“Bhale bhi din aate jagat me. Bure bhi din aate, kadve mithe fal karam ke yaha sabhi paate”
(We have good days and bad days in this world. WE get bitter and sweet fruits of our Karmas.)
Irving stone’s 1965 historical biographical novel describes life and times of the great sculptor and artist Michelangelo. It is a must read for artists and student of arts. Its one page is agony and next is ecstasy. Michelangelo-artist par excellence had to wear many hats. He was a sculptor first, but he also painted two famous frescoes. He quarried marble, built roads and even dissected cadavers for a living. He fell in love with men and women alike though he never married. He grew up to be a rich man but lived in near squalor and rarely changed his clothes. His life was really a confluence of agony and ecstasy, yet he went down in the history as a genius.
Michelangelo was a great artist but even for us commoners life is really a confluence of these two emotions at various scales of intensity.
A poet wrote , “Jindagi jeeni hai to har hal me chalna sikh lo, khushi ho ya gam har mahol me rahna sikh lo (If you want to live life, learn to adjust in every situation, be it happiness or sorrow!). Life has various shades. Seasons of life change. Sometimes it rains and brings deluges, sometimes it brings intense heat and sometimes too much cold. But all these seasons in life have their positive sides also. We should try to adjust in all situations and take on the vagaries of life as they come with full trust in God.
There is a famous film song from a “Shahrukh Khan” film. This song is for the lady’s lover and protagonist in the film. Just replace the protagonist by the God when you read, and it makes immense sense.
“Meri saansonmen tu hai samaya. Mera jiwan to hai tera saaya
Teri puja karun main to haradam, Ye hain tere karam, kabhi khushi, kabhi gam, Na juda honge ham, kabhi khushi, kabhi gam”
(You are in my breath. My life is your shadow. I will worship you always.
What is happening to me are your doings (due to my karmas). Sometimes
There is happiness, sometimes sorrow. Pray we will never be separated.)
“Subah shaam charanonmen diye ham jalaae.Dekhe jahaan bhi dekhe
tujhako hi paae.In labonpe tera bas tera naam ho.Pyaar dilase kabhi bhi
na ho kam.”
(We light the lamp in the morning and evening. Wherever we look we
find you. We wish that your name is always on our lips. Love for you
should never become less.)
“Ye ghar nahin hai mandir hai tera. Isamen sada rahe tera basera
Khushabuonse teri ye mahakata rahe.Aae jaae bhale koi Mausam.”
(This is not my home-this is your temple. You be in this house always. Let this house have your fragrance in every season)
While talking about confluence of agony and ecstasy poetically or philosophically one can think of these extreme emotions as converging, coming together, flowing together or joining together in life. These two emotions can also give birth to a new complex emotion, ‘agony in ecstasy’ or ‘ecstasy in agony’ if you would which is little difficult to understand and comprehend. Just think of the tears flowing down the cheeks of pastor giving a sermon to devotees while talking about Lord’s ordeals at the cross which he went through for his people. The pastor at that time is both in agony and ecstasy. He is in agony recollecting Christ’s pain and suffering and ecstatic because he is bringing his message to the devotees.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
A NOSTALGIC TRIP TO HISTORIC VARAHA KSHETRA AUL
After a gap of almost three decades, on the auspicious day of Ratha Yatra , I took to the wheel early in the morning and drove to the holy Varaha Kshetra located at Demal village in Aul in Kendrapara District of Odisha , which is 10km away from my native place Sahira . Aul is at a distance of 115 km from Bhubaneswar, and 93 km from Cuttack on the Cuttack-Chandbali Highway. The distance between Jagatpur , on NH-16 crossing, to Aul via Salipur, is 83km. After construction of a bridge over River Brahamani at Patrapur ,and widening of the two=lane highway, journey by car has become comfortable and less time taking to arrive at Sri Varahakshetra from Bhubaneswar. Temples exclusively dedicated to Varaha- the third incarnation of Lord Vishnu, are very rare. There are a few temples like Varaha Swamy temple at Khajurao, Madhya Pradesh, Sri Varaha Lakshmi –Narsimha temple at Simanchal in Andhra Pradesh, and Shri Varaha temple at Puskar in Rajasthan . These temples, dating back to 12-13th century, are most favorite destinations of tourists –national and international. Besides these iconic temples, Sri Yjna Varaha Swamy temple at Jajpur is the most ancient one, which dates back to the early 9th century. One may visit these places for a truly insightful experience of the ancient Hindu scriptures of Vishnu Purana and Dashavatara Katha.
Man’s instinct to explore, since the prehistoric period, has led him to land on the moon in twentieth century and efforts are still to scale beyond. Likewise, urge to visit historical places to know about mankind’s earlier generations, their way of living, their skills, and their knowledge, is an inborn instinct. Historic places showcase the rule, culture, and the faith in changing times which had impacted that particular area over the periods. A visit to historic places of significance, in a way connects us to other cultures, and helps in exploring new things. Historical places may evoke a feeling of pride, some make feeling of amusement and some also evoke a feeling of pathos and sadness.
A Temple is a building, Prasada , Harmya, or Mandira reserved for religious or spiritual rituals and activities such as prayer and sacrifice for reposing faith and gratitude to the Almighty God. The term Mandira for the first time occurs in Banabhatta’s Kadambari, a text of the 7th century CE. Gratitude for help received is a cardinal virtue. There are superhuman agencies which confer benefits on us. It is not everyone who can do Pooja at home and make offerings to God as per Strict Vedic rituals. Temples are designated places of worship where offerings are made to God on behalf of individuals or entire community. We must express our gratitude to those agencies in the manner prescribed in Scriptures, Puranas, and Vedas.
In chapter 4, verse (shloka) 7 of Srimad Bhagabat Gita, Lord Shri Krishna describes the process of Lord Vishnu’s descent as Avatara. He says that ,whenever there is decay in dharma, and rise in adharma, during that time he manifests himself in a particular form in this world to put in order all lapses and deviations in the practice of dharma.
‘Yada Yada Hi Dharmsya , Glaanirbhabati Bharata ;
Abhyutthanam Adharmasya, Tadaatmanah Srijaamaham .
Paritranaya-Saadhunaam , Vinaasaay cha Dushkritaam ;
Dharma Sansthaapanaarthaay , Sambhabaami Yuge Yuge’.
(Whenever virtue subsides and wickedness prevails, I manifest myself. To establish virtue, to destroy evil, to save the good I am born age after age)
Varaha avatar , the third incarnation among the ten avatars of Lord Vishnu, is the form of a boar. Varaha is depicted in animal form bearing a boar’s head on a man’s body. He has four arms; two of which hold the wheel and conch-shell, while the other two hold a mace, sword or lotus. The tusks of the boar hold the Earth. The Lord appeared as a boar to defeat Hiranyaksha , a demon, who had taken the Earth and carried it to the bottom of the cosmic ocean. The Avatar of Varaha signifies the restoration of the Earth from Pralaya (deluge) and the formation of a new Kalpa-Cosmic Cycle.
Somavansi King Jajati Keshari had organized a great yagna called Dasaswamedha Yagna in the early 9th century on the river bank of Baitarini . For this sacred job he brought 10,000 Brahminis from North India and got them settled in various localities later on. Before shifting the capital to Bhubaneswar, Jajpur was the capital of Kehari Dynasty and a breeding ground for both Buddhism and Jainsim . It is gathered that, Acharya Padmasamhava also later known as Guru Rinpoche was born near Jajpur (Oddiyana) ,and was a central figure in the transmission of Buddhism to Tibet. Accounts from Hieuen Tsang –the Chinese traveler in 639 A.D, go to prove the existence of Puspagiri Vihar and Lalitgiri Vihar –great centers of learning, in the precincts of Jajpur. A great revival of Brahmanism in India and Odisha happened with the emergence of the imperial Guptas and the Keshari dynasty respectively. Accordingly, kings were known to perform yagnas to preserve and consolidate their strength and glorify their reputation. In all probability Jajati Keshari also performed the Dasaswamedha yagna which was graced and presided by Adi Shankaracharya as Principal Yagna Acharya . In course of his spiritual conquest he had stayed at Puri and founded one of his four pithas called Gobardhan Pitha. Legend has it that, Shankar of Kaladi defeated the Buddhist Pandits Mandan Mishra and his wife Ubhay Bharati of Mithila by his vast learning and irrefutable arguments, converted most of the Buddhists to his own faith and proclaimed Jagannath-Buddha as identical with the great Brahamanical God Purushottam of the Shrimad Bhagabat Gita. This peaceful assimilation of Buddhism into the pantheon of Brahmanism strengthens the influence of Jagannath cult. During that time, Adi Shankaracharya implored the powerful emperor Jajati to retrieve the triad ( Shri Jagannath,Balabhadra,Subhadra) of Srikshetra Puri remained hidden under ground( Patali) at Sonepur Gopali almost 144 years, when Yavan king Raktabahu attacked the holy city of Puri . In accordance to the direction of Adi Shankaracharya , king Jajati could retrieved the deities from the hidden place of Sonepur, presently known as Patali Srikshetra at Kotasamalai on the foothill of Trikuta Parbata and consecrated on the Ratna Singhasana in the sanctum sanctorum of Srimandir by Adi Shankaracharya .
As per the legend, Lord Varaha appeared from the havan (yagna) kunda at the site of Dasaswamedha yanga at Jajpur . Since that period in the early 9th century, four deities namely Yagna Varaha, Vishnu Varaha , Adi Varaha and Lakshmi Varaha were worshipped in the ancient temple at Jajpur. Legend has it that the head royal priest (Rajaguru) of Gajapati King Prataprudra Dev , Pandita Kashi Mishra ,who hailed from Jajpur, had influenced the king to construct the present temple in the sixteenth century. The Bhatta kings of Aul were great devotees of Lord Varaha swamy . During fifteenth century the deity of Lakshmi Varaha was taken by the king of Aul , Raja Gobinda Bhatta, across Baitarani River to Aul. Raja Gobinda Bhatta , a staunch and paramount devotee used to ride horses and traveled 32 miles daily crossing four rivers on boat and changing horses to pay darshan and offer supplications at the shrine on the left bank of River Baitarini. Once due to incessant rain the king failed to go to Jajpur for worship of Varaha Swamy and was fasting remorsefully in his palace at Aul. The lord appeared in the dream of the king and told to accompany the king to Aul under one condition not to look back. When they were nearing the Aul palace, the Kathau (wooden sandal) sound of the lord was not audible and suspecting the Lord not following, the king looked back and then and there the Lord Varaha turned into a stone image in the sandy mustard field near Dhatriswar Mahadeb temple of village Demal to the south side of the royal palace. The Bhatta rajas were having their palace in the delta named Varunadia. It is gathered from folklore (Janasruti) that Raja Gobinda Bhatta, who was issueless and a staunch devotee of Lord Varaha committed suicide by jumping into the deep river Kharasrota as he wanted not to continue the lineage of his dynasty lest anybody could boast of the achievement of bringing the deity of Lord Varaha to Aul . After the fall of Bhatta dynasty, the territory was ruled by the Turk- Afghan Kutabsahi dynasty for a brief period up to 1592 A.D, only to be settled in favour of the elder son of Gajapati Mukunda Dev - Telenga Ramachandra Ray. After receiving the Killa sanada from Raja Mansingh , Ramchandra Ray accompanied by his mallas (soldiers) marched from Barabati Katak to Aul , defeating the petty local zamindars on the way to Aul through Derabishi . At Derabishi near Kendrapara the Yogi Raja Vasu Kalpataru offered a feeble resistance and fought a losing battle with the advancing army of Telenga Ramachandra Ray and settled for a rapprochement after defeat to retain his Mahantaship of a vaishnavite Math at Derabishi with limited power over the inhabitants of the Math and Vaishnava caste. A lengthy period of peace and prosperity ensued in Aul kingdom during the reigns of his successors who assumed the title Dev in place of Ray. His successors are eighteen in kingship succession order, up to the present incumbent Raja Braj Keshari Deb , who was crowned as the king of Aul on 24th March 1988 after the death of his illustrious father Raja Sarat Kumar Deb. His younger brother, Thatraj Pratap Keshari Deb , is presently the local M.L.A of Aul constituency and a powerful cabinet minister of the government of Odisha.
Among the illustrious kings of Aul , Raja Ramachandra Deb, Raja Nilakanth Deb-I, Raja Balabhadra Deb, Raja Gopinath Deb, Raja Nilakantha Deb-II, Raja Jadunath Deb, Raja Pitamber Deb, Raja Brajasunder Deb ,and Raja Sarat Kumar Deb are still remembered with mixed feelings by the people. The most celebrated and illustrious king was Raja Nilakantha Deb- II (contemporary of Aurangzeb), who had constructed the impressive 75ft high Sri Lakshmi Varaha Swamy temple in late seventeenth century defying the oppressive policy of Delhi sultan Aurangzeb (1658-1707) and sanctioned a zilla (corpus fund) of RS 8000 at that time for its maintenance and worship. During the reign of Raja Brajasunder Deb (1905-1946) the temple of Lakshmi Varahajeu , was renovated and refurbished, as it was worn out and in a process of ruin for the previous 300 years since its construction . The temple, built in Kalingan Pidha Deula style of architecture, enshrines the Varaha form of Lord Vishnu along with His consort Goddess Mahalakshmi , depicting Mahavishnu took the form of a boar or in an anthropomorphic form ,with a boar’s head and a human body, to rescue Goddess Bhumi Devi on his tusks , from demon Hiranyaksha . Annual festivals like Varaha Dwadashi( Avatar Divas), and Varaha Dola Yatra are the important festivals celebrated in Lakshmi Varaha Temple, Aul which attracts lakhs of devotees from far and near places. The temple also celebrates Raja parva, Rath Yatra, Vijaya Dasami, Makar Sankranti,Pana Sankranti, Subha Sunia,and Sree Panchami.
The benevolent king, Raja Nilakanth Deb-II, also established many smaller temples throughout his kingdom, including Nilakantheswar temple at Sahira , Dadhibamanjew temple at Baluria, and Derabisi . He had introduced into his kingdom many high caste Brahminis , Kshatriyas, Karanas and bestowed upon them lands for their sustenance so that they in turn could serve the society. Perhaps during that time, Brahman sasanas , such as Gopinathpur and Badamanga, were established. The high caste Khandayatas of nearby villages of Gohira Tikiri -the battleground where Mukunda Dev lost his life defending his kingdom against the Afghan invaders of Bengal Sultanate under command of Kalapahara, near Jajpur and Bhadrak were settled in the some villages around the palace and functioned as peace time farmers. The khandayatas with surname Jena came from Lunia off Bhadrak and Roul (Jena) came from Manjuri near Dhamnagar , and were rehabilitated in the village Sahira on the north bank of River Brahmani. As a temple dedicated to Lord Shiva was constructed by king Nilakantha Deb -II .The temple has been dedicated to Sri Sri Nilakantheswar in the eastern side of the village, about 350 years ago and since that time, the three Jena families who hailed from Manjuri were given the title of Roul as they were put in charge of managing the temple and worship of Lord Nilakantheswar. A large chunk of arable lands were granted as jagir for their sustenance and management of Sri Nilakantheswar temple.
Aul royal palace is located strategically on the delta formed by River Brahmani and its branch Kharasrota which formed natural boundaries and enormous embankments running about 44 km forming a ring shape (popularly known as Alie ring bandha) have been constructed to protect the land from periodical floods. This ring bandha was reinforced and developed during the Maratha occupation 1751-1803. The 380 –year old two –storied palace, with 30 rooms spread over a sprawling 32 acres of land on the pristine right bank of River Kharasrota - in Aul , has been renovated and converted into a heritage hotel for tourists to experience, and savour the taste of royal hospitality. Staying at the property gives tourists glimpses of over 433 years of history and information about the palace of the Deb dynasty. This facilities have been created by members of the royal family with assistance from state’s tourism department to cater to the need of holiday seekers- Varaha worshippers, and nature lovers , visiting Bhitarkanika National Park and Gahirmatha marine sanctuary-world’s largest nesting beach for Olive Ridley Turtles, at a distance of 20 -24km.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
Whenever I try and get ready for a saree photoshoot,"HE" has to be there first, even before I could occupy my cosy,warm,snug corner.The next thing is getting that perfect click, which I think I have never managed to achieve till date,off late have been thinking of getting a professional photographer, however hard I try.Moreover somewhere I have got stuck up with this same spot.Even when friends visit home,they would ask.."which is that balcony where you click your saree pics."Everytime I tell myself, not this corner next time,I must try something new,but that's yet to happen, either I'm not getting the time to think and work on it or just being lazy,but it feels as though the ???? mango tree and the jackfruit tree,that actually belong to our neighbour keep calling me who each passing day seem to be creeping right into my balcony, leaving an easy access to the garden rats who are doing the rounds these days,something that I really detest hence running to the nearest stores for a variety of mouse traps,the trees as they sway from one end to the other while the cool gentle breeze blows from the hills not far away.
Off late Hushkoo has been extremely naughty, I think I need to lock him up for punishment.
Ganapati Bappa has not given him modak this time, for his bad behaviour. Can you imagine he's been demanding modak stuffed with dentastick,he keeps opening the drawers just to grab one,how many can he have in a day,he has absolutely no control over his greedy appetite .Me toh screaming and chasing the man of the house, not to Amazon them anymore. No more "dentastick " at home,will have to look out for something more interesting. Will have to request Bappa for a variety of modak's for the next year for our pawfect friends , they too would enjoy a grilled chicken modak,cashew kiwi modak etc etc.Variety is the spice of life.
We decided to blow soap bubbles for him,which we had actually got for Rahul. As we blowed he started chasing them,burst them and you should have seen the expression on his face when they were no longer visible, he couldn't imagine that the bubbles didn't exist anymore. All this while he had thought that only he could get invisible by hiding under the table,behind sofas and behind curtains, who was this new creature giving him competition?well after a while he gave up,thinking he was better off chasing the cricket ball and showing off his batsman skills.
As for him,his mommy the prettiest, even more than his pawfect friends even more than the colourful butterflies in the garden,even more than that black crowy(crow)who at every possible opportunity empties out his bowl of choco cookies(pedigree)even more than the fatty black bumble bee buzzing every morning as he dances his way out from one flower to another quenching his thirst,even more than the sparrows ???? ????? who bathe themselves in the water bowl meant for him,it's ok, I know you all are part of my world , but no one like my dearest mommy ( really a bond which only he and me understand).
Ganapati Bappa Morya!!
Mangal Murti Morya!!
Agley Baras tu jaldi aa!!
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT AN ICONIC SACRED MOUNTAIN
The Sacred Mountain we are talking of here is Mt Fuji, the iconic symbol of Japan. Mountains are worshipped as God by some communities as the Dongria Kondhs do in the Niyamgiri Hills of Odisha. The Dongria Kondhs are one of the oldest tribal group who dwell there on the mountain slopes and consider the mountain as their God. They call the mountain NiyamaRaja who sustains them. But in case of Mt Fuji , it is not just those who live on the mountain, or just simply a community which reveres it, but rather the entire nation of Japanese people, who consider it sacred.
Japan, the country of the rising Sun is also a country of mountains. More than 70 percent of Japan is mountainous. The tallest mountain and the most famous mountain in Japan is Mount Fuji. The height of Mount Fuji is 3,776 meters (12,388 ft) high. It is an active volcanic mountain. It is said that it was formed by a huge eruption of volcano about some 100,000 years ago. The volcano has blown the mountain top many times. The last time it erupted was 1707 to 1708 , i.e. more than three hundred years ago.
Mt. Fuji is located on the island of Honshu, the part of Japan where major cities like Tokyo and Osaka are not far off. From Tokyo it is roughly about 100 kms. Mount Fuji is visible as far as 323 km away. The mountain is a huge attraction for tourists .People who don’t have intention for trekking or mountain climbing, also come to have a sight of the mountain from a point where it is closely visible. As pointed out , it is the most important cultural icon of Japan. The mountain is considered to be most sacred especially by the Shinto religion followers. Buddhism, the other major religions in Japan,also regards Fuji as a sacred mountain.It is thought to be named after Fuchi, the Buddhist fire goddess. Again to some it is the home of the Cherry Blossom Goddess. Japanese people have included Mt. Fuji in the Sanrenzan, Three Holy Mountains, along with Mt. Haku and Mt. Tate. It is also source of delight for its perfectly symmetrical form.
Currently it is the most climbed mountain in the world. Many people around the world come to Mount Fuji to climb, one need not be Japanese to climb Mt. Fuji. Over 300,000 people climb every year. The climb up of Mt. Fuji is a one-day trip for hikers. One must be 16 years old or more to join an organized tour, but children as young as six years old also have made the trip to the summit with their parents. About half of the people who go up Mt. Fuji have never climbed a mountain before. The park authorities have created an easy trail for the climbers. It takes about seven hours to reach the summit and four hours to come back down. The official climbing season is the Japanese summer (July end to August end). The mountain is capped with snow about five months of the year. The summit of Mt. Fuji is very cold. Even in the middle of summer, afternoon temperatures only reach about 7 °C. The very warmest summer day ever on the mountain only see a high of 18 °C. Rain, wind, and snow are possible every day of the year at the top of the mountain.
The highest post office in Japan you find on the top of Mt Fuji, which is open in the summer only. Built in 1909, it also hosts the highest restroom in Japan, situated next to the post office. Mount Fuji is recognized as a leading one of the 100 Landscapes of Japan which best show contemporary Japan and its culture in the Heisei period. There is a funny saying that Japanese parents say their kids to climb mount Fuji once in their life so that they become wiser, but not more than once as they think an idiot will climb it twice.
If any climber has trouble adjusting to the altitude, if more than a day is needed to get up and down the mountain, there are places to spend the night with dozens of bunk beds in huts present on the way to the Mountain peak. They aren’t very comfortable, but most climbers are so tired that they don’t care. These lodges are a good place to stay if you want to hike the last hundred meters to the summit the second day of your hike so you can see the sunrise from the summit of Mt. Fuji. Climbers usually agree that it’s worth the sweat, aching muscles, and altitude sickness to take the view of the phenomenon from the summit of Mt. Fuji once — but it would be foolish to do it twice! And that is the exact reason why Japanese parents also don’t want their kids to climb the mountain twice.
Mt. Fuji is part of a Shinto temple. There are people who take care of the shrines who live on the mountain nearly full time, but if you aren’t a Shinto priest, you can only live near the mountain, not on it. There are 37 species of mammals that live on Mt. Fuji, including black bears, foxes, squirrels, and a unique kind of goat known as a serow. As it is a volcanic mountain Japanese scientists monitor Mt. Fuji for signs of another eruption. They know that when there are earthquakes deep inside the volcano, the volcano releases carbon dioxide. Now these scientists have set up carbon dioxide detectors at the top of the mountain and at volcanic vents all over the mountain as an early warning system for another volcanic catastrophe caused by the mountain.
It is the 13th World Heritage site in Japan and the recognition came with conditions that Japan reduce overcrowding, environmental harm from visitors and fix the artificial landscape, such as the large parking lots constructed to accommodate tourists. However, overcrowding has worsened. "Subaru", the fifth and largest base station, had about 4 million visitors this summer, a 50% jump from 2013. That has led to extreme levels of pollution and other strains. Despite the fast pace of cleaning by janitors, businesses, and volunteers, social media is rife with posts about soiled bathrooms and mounds of litter along the climbing path. The authorities say that it is uncontrollable to maintain, and they fear that Mt Fuji will soon become so unattractive, nobody would want to climb it. They worry that the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS), which advises the World Heritage Committee, could come knocking any day to ask for an update.
It was my immense pleasure and privilege of seeing Mt Fuji this summer . I had been to Tokyo (Japan), this year in August , to participate in an international conference ,i.e. International Studies Association Convention– Asia Pacific Region 2023. I had preplanned my trip beforehand to get the glimpse of the Mount Fuji. My trip was on the next day of the end date of the conference. I had booked with Viator (Tour Agency), they had made lovely arrangements. The guide was full of energy, and was courteous, polite. I vividly remember her face and name. She introduced herself Miss Honda, she jockingly told that she had no connection with Honda motors. Its just a popular surname. My first stop was Mount Fuji 5th Station along the Subaru Line. Sadly it was so much cloudy and foggy at that time that Mt Fuji was not visible from that station, it was a bit of disappointment for me. But there was a cruise rise ship in Lake Ashinoko , included in that package later for that day, and luckily I could see the glimpses of Mt Fuji as the guide joyously shouted to alert us that now the sky was clear and Mt Fuji was visible and bestowing its blessings . I said my Namaste from the deck of the cruise . That it was so beautiful! It was symmetrical, silvery, cone shaped, radiating amidst accompanying blue mountains. It is truly worth visiting and from cruise it looked even more surreal. It felt like a dream. Though I had travelled by a luxurious bus in a guided tour, I returned by a Bullet train to Tokyo which was a unique lifetime experience itself, but Mt Fuji continuously flashed back in my mind . Undoubtedly, I had a great time in Japan and would love to visit the country again for the people who are so very courteous and kind, and its beautiful places.
Yet at the end of the story one may still ask how Mount Fuji, the object of pilgrimage for centuries got its name! Let us be content with two explanations. One that says that the mountain was named after an immortal creature called a “fuji” that lived on its slopes. Another story would have us believe that the mountain was named after a 12th-century priest who climbed to its summit.
Very justifiably, Mount Fuji was designated a “cultural” site rather than a “natural” site by the UNESCO committee and is registered under the title “Mount Fuji: Object of Worship, Wellspring of Art”,in 2013. Mount Fuji becomes Japan’s 17th World Heritage site.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
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