Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXV (24-Nov-2023) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Feathers (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
AN INTERVIEW
TO ERR IS HUMAN
02) Ishwar Pati
RULES OF THE ROAD
03) Dr Latha Chandran
THE POWER OF MY SACRED SPACE
04) Snehaprava Das
THE FAN
05) Meena Mishra
THE HAIRY TALE
THE COLOUR OF LAUGHTER
06) Hema Ravi
HAPLESS SOULS....
07) Asis B. Pati
THE SUNDAY MORNING SHOW
08) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
IDENTITY
09) Gourang Charan Roul
KOLKATA'S RIVERSIDE ODYSSEY...
10) Sujata Dash
MONSOON DIARY: AN INCURSION UNTO SELF
11) Sreekumar T V
STAR STRUCK
12) Bankim Chandra Tola
HONESTY
13) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY...
14) Ashok Kumar Mishra
FATHER, I WANT TO CONFESS
15) Sheena Rath
SHUBHO BIJOYA
16) Sreechandra Banerjee
AT THE MAHAKAL TELECOM STORE
17) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
CASSETTE
ANGELINA
(This short story was created with the generous help of Chat GPT. It is a good tool. The point is we have to know what we want. Saves time. The final product depends on how good you are as a writer. The machine is the same for all!)
Interviewer: Sandhya, first of all, thank you for joining us today. Let's start by talking about Hareesh. How did you hear about his passing, and what was your initial reaction?
Sandhya: Thank you for having me. I learned about Hareesh's passing through a mutual friend who reached out to share the news. It was a mix of surprise and nostalgia, triggering a flood of memories.
Interviewer: Could you share with us some of those memories, especially the ones involving Hareesh's intriguing stories about his supposed marital struggles?
Sandhya: Certainly. Hareesh had this peculiar way of complementing me indirectly. He would often tell stories about his fictional fights with his wife over compliments he supposedly gave me. It was like a playful narrative that added a unique dynamic to our professional camaraderie.
Interviewer: It sounds like those stories had quite an impact on you. How did they influence your perception of yourself, and did they play a role in your personal life?
Sandhya: Surprisingly, yes. His compliments, though convoluted, boosted my confidence. I moved on, found love, and built a life, all the while carrying this peculiar narrative with me.
Interviewer: The revelation about Hareesh never being married adds a surprising twist to the story. How did you feel when you discovered the truth, especially considering the impact his stories had on you?
Sandhya: It was a shock, to be honest. The truth painted our shared history in a different light. I felt a mix of emotions, questioning his motives and our relationship dynamics.
Interviewer: You mentioned feeling guilty about not considering Hareesh as a suitor. Can you elaborate on that and how it ties into your journey as an artist?
Sandhya: Absolutely. Despite the impact of his indirect compliments, I never saw Hareesh as a romantic interest. The guilt stems from realizing that I might have overlooked his feelings in my pursuit of personal happiness. As an artist, it adds layers to the intricate canvas of our shared experiences.
Interviewer: The story takes an unexpected turn when Hareesh assumes a paternal role in your life. How did that transformation affect your relationship with him?
Sandhya: As I moved into a new relationship, Hareesh's demeanor shifted. He became a fatherly figure, offering guidance and support. It added complexity to our connection, and I found solace in this unexpected transformation.
Interviewer: In the end, you express sorrow for Hareesh, the lonely figure in the shadows. Can you tell us more about that realization and how it shapes your perspective now?
Sandhya: Recognizing Hareesh's loneliness beneath the surface of his stories has left me with a deep sense of sorrow. It emphasizes the complexity of human connections, and as an artist, it adds poignant layers to the narrative I've shared with you today.
Interviewer: Thank you, Sandhya, for sharing this intricate and compelling story with us. It's been a pleasure discussing the complexities of your relationship with Hareesh and how it intertwines with your life as an artist.
The courtroom, bathed in the harsh glow of artificial light, bore witness to the unfolding drama of justice. The judge, a stern figure in his black robe, glanced at the papers before him and then raised his eyes to meet those of the accused. The woman, a portrait of resilience, stood firm, her gaze fixed on the floor as if searching for solace in its cold, marbled surface.
A hushed tension permeated the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers and the quiet murmur of the onlookers. I turned to the person beside me, a fellow spectator who seemed equally uninterested. "Long day, huh?" I remarked, trying to inject a semblance of normalcy into the sombre atmosphere.
"Yeah," he replied, eyes never leaving the unfolding scene. "But you never know, could be a real showstopper today."
A dry smile played on my lips as I contemplated the unpredictability of courtroom drama. The judge cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to the center stage of justice.
The woman's defence attorney, a weary-looking man with disheveled hair, rose to his feet. "Your Honor, my client has maintained her innocence throughout this trial. We implore you to reconsider—"
The judge cut him off with a curt gesture. "The decision has been made."
The room fell silent again as the judge continued with the verdict, every word etching itself into the memory of the onlookers. The woman remained composed, a stark contrast to the collective gasp that rippled through the audience.
As the finality of the judgment settled, the condemned woman spoke with an unexpected calmness. "May I see my son one last time before...before it happens?"
The judge hesitated, exchanging glances with the prosecution and the defense. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he nodded reluctantly. "You have one hour."
The woman's face barely registered a flicker of emotion, but her eyes betrayed a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. The courtroom, usually a theater of legality, transformed into a stage for human vulnerability.
Outside the courtroom, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that lingered. The lingering scent of injustice weighed heavily on me. Later that evening, as I sat at my kitchen table, the aroma of a hot meal now replaced by the heavy air of contemplation, my wife, Lalitha, looked at me with concern.
"What's on your mind?" she asked, sensing the turmoil within me.
I hesitated before finally recounting the events of the day, the verdict, and the unexpected turn of events. "I can't shake the feeling that we witnessed something terribly wrong today."
Lalitha listened intently, her expression reflecting a mix of empathy and understanding. "Maybe there's more to it than meets the eye," she suggested, a comforting hand on mine.
Days turned into nights, and the burden of indifference lingered. Then, like a haunting echo, news of the fresh evidence surfaced. The real murderer was apprehended, the condemned woman proven innocent.
In the corridors of the courthouse, I found myself standing before the judge who had pronounced the irreversible judgment. "How could this happen?" I questioned, my voice tinged with a mixture of anger and despair.
The judge, a wearied look in his eyes, sighed. "It's a flawed system, my friend. We do our best, but sometimes, the best isn't enough."
The dialogue resonated within me, a poignant reminder of the inherent imperfections of the human pursuit of justice. As I resumed my duties, the echoes of the courtroom persisted, a call for introspection in the face of a system that could condemn the innocent and spare the guilty.
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.
I was shocked to observe the driving habits of the English during my first visit to London. Traffic there is ruled by rules, not men. For one used to Indian roads, it was difficult to digest when even a simple turning could not be made without strictly following the rules — and that too with no Bobby (or policeman) around!
My first outing in a cab was revealing. We had stopped at a traffic light when I spotted an attractive shop-window on the other side of the street. I requested the taxi driver to turn right there.
But he refused! When I pressed him, he retorted with some irritation, “We simply cannot turn right from here, Sir. We’re in the wrong lane. We’ll have to go straight and come back from the next intersection”.
His finger pointed at two painted white arrows on the road, a straight one on the lane we were in and a curving one on the lane to our right. So what? They were not real arrows that would strike us dead! Why, he could easily roll the car into the right lane and shoot off as soon as the light turned green. I had jumped not only arrows but many red lights as well on our Indian roads, without a single mishap!
But I was helpless as the crazy driver drove on, made a U-turn at the next crossing and then returned all the way to make the left turn.
I felt cheated. When I narrated the episode to the friend I was staying with, his response was also odd, “My dear fellow, in this country it’s simply not done!”
The next time I was with an old college mate on a trip to the Lake district by his car. We were on the highway and talking away about our good old student days when he suddenly exclaimed, “Bloody hell! We missed the exit for Cumbria”. “Is it?’’ I asked. “Why don’t you turn around and go back then?”
“No, we can’t make an about-turn on the motorway”, he commented.
“But why not?” I was baffled. “There’s a wide enough lane to the far left which no one seems to be using. We’ll just scoot along it back to our exit”.
He laughed. “That’s not a lane for traffic, you fool. It’s called the hard shoulder and driving on it is absolutely forbidden”.
“Well, why is it there then?” I asked.
“Oh, only for emergencies”.
“So, is this not an emergency for us?” “No, my friend. It’s not the done thing!”
There, again the same veto of “not done” to stop any further argument. So we had to traverse about 40 km to the next junction and then come all the way back. What could be crazier than that? Yet my friends tell me it’s a pleasure to drive in England.
Frankly speaking, where is the fun in driving if you can’t break a rule or two? Give me the roads in India any day, even with the holy cow crossing the road. She makes me stop more than a red light could ever do. After she ambles across, her soulful eyes stare at me, and her tail swishes her back. That is my green signal to proceed.
But I make it a point to jump the next red light, to make up for the time lost.
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.
While growing up, most of us would have had a special sacred place. Perhaps it was our religious place of worship; perhaps it was our own home snuggling in our mother’s lap or at a neighbor’s house with our friend. Regardless, that space holds a special place in our hearts. That space is full of trust, love, hope and encouragement. We keep our sacred place physically clean. While growing up in India in a Hindu family, I had a sacred place in my house- it was our Pooja room. It was the place where we four kids huddled together to sing devotional songs every dusk in front of a lighted lamp. The fragrant sweet smell of incense burning, the occasional ringing of the prayer bell, the beautiful colors of the flower garlands that adorned the pictures of our deities and the regular cadence of our singing made that experience and space unique, mystical, celestial, and sacred filling our minds with positive energy. Most of us were fortunate to have likely had such a sacred space in our childhood.
Over the years of my life, I have pondered a lot about the purpose of life, the meaning of one’s work amidst the seemingly never-ending streams of misery and challenges of daily life. I have come to realize that a lot of that misery is self-created. As the wise saying goes “Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it”. We can definitely control that 90%! Let me explain. Most of us worry about the future. What will tomorrow bring? Will my dreams come true? Whether our worries are about love, wealth, job, life or education, these thoughts constantly fill our minds with anxiety. In reality, we have no idea if that dream of ours will become a reality. We want it so badly and we crave for that to happen every waking moment of our lives! So much so that we forget to live today- we forget to see anything good that we are experiencing at that moment. That is where the 90% of our life formula can work in our favor. We need to fundamentally change the way we look at things. We cannot change the past, nor can we predict the future. Both are outside our control.
But today, this moment is ours. Let us live it. Let us look at things from a position of fulfillment with an attitude of gratitude. I personally have all my five senses intact to enjoy the present. How often do we feel thankful for that? I have a healthy body and a happy family life, a good education, good friends and good colleagues. Reframing our thoughts with an “I have” mentality rather than an “I don’t have” mentality is how we feel fulfilled. We worry about how others will perceive us. We pretend to be someone we are not to get social acceptance. The further away one is from one’s authentic self, the more stress one will experience in life.
My sacred space is my mind. It is my own. It is private and only accessible to me. Nobody can see it except through what I reveal to others. I can and must mindfully choose what I leave in that sacred space. Which people should occupy my sacred space? Only those who are important to me, only those who give me positive energy, love, and hope. If I allow people who do not accept me the way I am or people who have ill will towards me into this sacred space, shame on me! I should not give any negative person or thought room in my sacred space- they will desecrate it. Likewise, I should keep my mind- my sacred space- free of all ill will, negativity, or rumination about the people around me or about the past or future. I should always be mindful of what thoughts and ideas I hold in that sacred space. I have the power to choose the positive ones only!
So just like we used to clean the Pooja room to get rid of any dust or trash, I should mindfully eliminate all negative thoughts and feelings about myself and others from my sacred space. That is my first step.
The next step as in a Pooja room is to light a lamp or candle- a lamp of good thoughts- to spread brightness, hope and warmth for me and for others to feel the warmth and absorb that energy. Once that sacred space is filled with that light, the positivity emanates from our words and actions. That is step two. The final step in keeping our sacred space really working for us is to frame anything that happens to us in a proportionate and positive way. All of us tend to exaggerate a perceived problem sometimes even consider it a catastrophe! Let us be aware of that. Let us also look at the positive side of what we have at that moment. Let us stop worrying about the things we cannot control. Most of those worries are just that- they never become realities; however, they eat up our current happiness. This attitude eliminates a lot of unnecessary stress and negativity in our lives.
For the past decade plus, that is how carefully I have monitored, cleaned, and used my sacred space to guide me through my life. Proportionate, positive, balanced, and private. My internal bliss is mine alone to enjoy. I wish in this age of social media filled with pretenses of various kinds, our children growing up, their parents and all adults did the same- being mindful of the power of the sacred space and our total control of what occupies that space. Life can then be truly mystical, celestial and sacred.
Dr. Latha Chandran is currently the Executive Dean and the Bernard J Fogel Founding Chair of the Department of Medical Education at the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine where she is implementing a brand new nextGenMD curriculum. She also supervises all graduate and continuing medical education programs as well as all the biomedical masters and PhD programs at the University. Dr Chandran serves as the Director of the Academy of Medical Education Scholars at the Miller School of Medicine focusing on educational scholarship.
Dr. Chandran received her medical degree from Trivandrum Medical College in India, her MPH from Johns Hopkins University and her MBA from University of Miami. She served in various capacities at Renaissance School of Medicine for several years including chief residency, Division Chief, Interim Department Chair and various roles in the Office of the Dean, most recently as the Vice Dean for Academic and Faculty Affairs and the Miriam and David Donoho Distinguished Teaching Professor. A tenured educator scholar who has received numerous teaching awards at Stony Brook, she has served as the founding co- director of a highly successful award winning three-year national faculty development program focused on Educational Scholarship called the Educational Scholars Program for junior pediatric educators.
Nationally she has served as the President of the Academic Pediatric Association, as the Treasurer and Vice Chair of the National Board of Medical Examiners and as a Curriculum and LCME consultant to other medical schools. She is happily married to an engineer/businessman and has two grown sons and a daughter in law.
‘What is it?’
I looked questioningly at Lakshmi who stood in my front, holding her head down.
‘I want to ask something from you, Ma, if you do not mind.’ She said looking like an image of utter humility, her eyes downcast.
‘Here, look at me,’ I said. Do you need an advance on your salary? I was now feeling pretty sure that she needed money. Now that Raju has returned, she might be in need of some extra money for refurnishing her house, or cook some of her special dishes for him.
It was, however not unusual for her to ask for an advance on her salary. In fact, she had always been in a bad need for money when her sons, Krishna and Raju were small kids. ‘You deduct the amount from my salary Ma’ she would say on every such occasion but I never adjusted it from her salary nor did she insist on that. But she had stopped asking for money for the last few years, since her elder son Krishna had started working in the construction sites and her husband had overcome his drinking spree in a reasonable degree. It is not about an advance Ma,’ she muttered, fidgeting with the end of her saree uncomfortably.
‘Not an advance? Then what is it?’ It was now difficult for me to suppress the growing suspense.
‘Raju wants your cassette player for a day.’ She mumbled, looking pathetic and absurd in her embarrassment.
‘Cassette player? You mean the DVD player?’ I asked, very surprised now.
She nodded without a word.
**
Lakshmi was with me for about one and a half decade, since my younger son was only two months old. The period of my maternity leave had expired and my mother-in-law who had arrived from village for the delivery of the baby was anxious to go back. I was desperately looking for a babysitter cum nursemaid to take care of my infant son in my absence. My elder son, who was a little above six at that time and was in class two also needed someone to be present at home when he returned from school at about two in the afternoon, to help him with changing his uniform and to feed him lunch. These days one can post a job offer for such posts in the social media and could afford to be selective. It was not so at that time. One had to explore difficult possibilities for finding out a trustworthy house-help or a nursemaid. I had requested my friends, colleagues and other contacts to search for a good babysitter who could also look after my elder son. I was ready to make all possible compromises on the financial front.
And then one of my South-Indian colleagues discovered Lakshmi for me. She lived in a slum that was at a little distance away from my home with her husband and two sons. ‘My housemaid told me about her today,’ my colleague said. ‘She happens to be a good, trustworthy woman. Her husband is a rickshaw puller. But he squanders whatever he earned during the day in the local liquor shop. Instead of shouldering the responsibilities of his family of a wife and two kid sons the drink-sodden villain tortures the wife when she refuses to part with the meagre amount she had saved from her own paltry earning The poor woman works in houses of people as a housemaid and feeds her children with whatever little she earned from that. Now she finds working with different households strenuous and taxing and looks for a fulltime job in a single family. I have asked her to meet you. I think she will be, for the time being, will be the best solution to your problems.’ She remarked.
The news helped a lot to relieve the desperateness I was living my days through. And then Lakshmi made her entry to my house like a godsend.
She came as a housemaid but later became more than a member of the family. She not only took charge of the cooking and cleaning but she became a caring nursemaid for my younger son.
Years rolled by and my sons also grew up. I could not remember an occasion when Lakshmi had given me a reason to be dissatisfied with her or distrust her.
She had proved her worth and dependability in all these years and had become indispensable for our family. It was because of her I could discharge the parallel responsibility of taking care of my family and becoming a sincere employee of the office successfully.
My younger son had become four and I had got him admitted in school. Lakshmi’s husband, Ramu, despite his addiction to liquor, was a good man when he was not under the influence of alcohol. Most of the days he took my son to school in his rickshaw and I brought him back while returning from office. My elder son rode to his school and to his coaching center on his bicycle. But on the afternoons when it rained, Ramu took my elder son to the coaching center in his rickshaw and brought him back home in time in the evening.
There was no computer or internet those days. No question of visiting countless social media sites like people do at present. Children used to play outdoor games like football, cricket, hide and seek and kabaddi after school hours. The one luxury we had at home was a Video Cassette Recorder, shortened as VCR where my children watched cartoon shows like Tom and Jerry and Donald Duck and Pop Eye. In the leisure time, which was very rare for me and my husband, we watched a movie.
On the festive occasions like the Dusshera and Diwali or Makar Samkranti the friends of my sons, living in the neighbourhood, gathered in our house to watch movies and cartoon shows. I asked Lakshmi to bring her sons too. The elder one Krishna, who studied in a nearby a vernacular school was a docile and shy boy. He would sit in front of the television watching the cartoon show or the movie silently while others jumped and hopped and squealed and shouted and made my drawing room a bedlam. But Lakshmi’s younger son was a keen movie watcher. He would goggle at the screen, fascinated, the contours of his face changing keeping pace with the shifting scenes and actions. He was very fond of Telugu movies, and especially the movies of Cheeranjivi, the famous South Indian hero. He was some five years older than my younger son but much advanced in his knowledge of cinema. Given a chance, the boy would gurgle out a detailed account of the names of Cheeranjivi movies and the songs too.
Raju was about nine at that time, and my younger son was a few months under five.
‘My Raju is very cooperative,’ Lakshmi would say at times. Her eyes would go soft when he spoke about her cinephile younger son. ‘He never complains if there is no curry to go with the rice. Give him one big green-chilly. He would hold it in his left hand and finish his bowl of soaked rice just looking at it.
‘Just by looking at it?’ My elder son who was very fastidious and choosy about food and always troubled me on account of that, would ask in surprise. I had to hold an amused smile in check fearing it would offend Lakshmi. ‘But he had just this one flaw,’ she would add, ‘whenever a Cheeranjivi movie runs in a cinema hall he would pester me to let him watch it. He is not old enough to be sent alone to watch a movie. So I ask the son of my husband’s brother, to take Raju with him. Obviously, I had to pay for both the tickets.’
‘Anna,’ Raju would urge my elder son. ‘ Please play a Chiranjeevi movie on the VCR.’ My sons, who did not understand much Telugu, nor the scrolling English subtitles, got easily bored, but not Raju. He would sit there, his gaze fastened to the screen, his body stiffening and relaxing from time to time as the movie progressed. He would not budge from his place before the television until and unless Lakshmi admonished him and pulled him away and took him home with her.
And time moved on.
My elder son, after the completion of higher secondary was doing his pre graduation course in the college and the younger one was in class nine at school. Raju too had grown up and was doing sundry jobs at different places, sometimes as a helping boy in a motor garage, a waiter at a tea stall and things like that. Krishna worked at different construction sites and earned good money. Lakshmi, now, no longer lived in a financial constraint. Even her alcoholic husband Ramu, was now having a pretty well income from rickshaw -pulling. But Lakshmi still was with us, a dedicated and committed house-help she had always been.
It was a fine, sunny morning of early winter. I and my husband were sipping our morning tea from steaming cups when Lakshmi ran in, disheveled and breathless, tears streaming down her eyes.
‘I sprang up to my feet. ‘What happened? Why are you crying?’ I asked in a quavering voice. My husband, too looked at Lakshmi in concern. ‘Something has happened to Ramu?” he asked Lakshmi. ‘No baboo,’ Lakshmi swallowed a sob. ‘It is Raju.’
‘Raju? What about him? Is he sick or something?’
‘He has run away.’ Lakshmi blurted out through convulsive sobs.
‘Where?’ Why?’ I and my husband asked at the same time.
‘He has written a letter mentioning that he is going to Chennai to try his luck in Telugu movies.’
‘I stared at Lakshmi in shock and disbelief. ‘Chennai? Alone?’
‘What I am going to do now Ma?’ Lakshmi sobbed uncontrollably. I solaced her and promised her to find some news about Raju using the help of some of my contacts at Chennai. She calmed down after a long time.
**
I was in luck. The brother of one of my colleagues had a friend who worked as a cameraman in a film studio at Chennai. He tracked down Raju after a lot of effort who, he said kept visiting studios, meeting the agents, seeking roles in a movie. Raju had not succeeded yet in achieving his purpose, but was pursuing his goal with some sort of a devout tenacity. He had met Raju and asked him to go back home, but Raju had made up his mind to settle at Chennai and seek a role, however small and insignificant, in a Cheeranjivi starred movie. He had written a short letter to his mother mentioning his purpose and asked her not to be sad.
After about a year the next letter came from Raju. He was now driving an autorickshaw, Raju wrote and was still pursuing his goal. He had not given up hope nor his determination was shaken in a bit.
Lakshmi and Ramu had got over the initial shock and had let their lives fall in a pattern. She came to our house routinely, did her chores, gossiped and sipped tea. Ramu pulled rickshaw and Krishna worked as an assistant to the chief mason at a construction site.
My elder son was now studying medicine in another city, and my younger son had joined a reputed college here and was doing his pre-graduation.
**
And then, in another fine, warm morning of early summer Lakshmi came much before her usual time. ‘What is the matter, Lakshmi?’ I asked curious to know the reason that brought her here at that unexpected hour. Her tired, dull face lit up with a smile. Without her saying so I could immediately guess that she had some good news about Raju. ‘Is it Raju?’ I asked.
‘He has come back.’ The hard lines in her face dissipated giving it a delicate look as she said it.
‘Is it?’ I was so happy that I took Lakshmi in my arms, ‘When?’
‘Last night.’
It is such a good news, ‘ I exclaimed excitedly. ‘Ask him to come and meet me.’
‘I will, Ma,’ Lakshmi said and stood holding her head down.
‘What is it?’ I asked. Feeling oddly curious since she kept standing there instead of going back to her house.
‘Do you want to say something else, Lakshmi, an advance?’ I asked sensing instinctively that she had something more to say. And finally, after a little persuasion she came out with her request to borrow our DVD player for one evening.
We had in the meantime got rid of the old VCR and bought a fancy DVD player at the demand of the children whose choice had gone past the cartoon shows to the Science Fiction movies in English.
‘It is alright Lakshmi,’ I said, conciliatingly, ‘it is not a problem. Why must you feel so guilty about it? You know you are like a family member. So are Krishna and Raju. But Raju can always come here and watch movies on our coloured television. It has a large screen too. You have a small black and white TV. Tell Raju that he can come with his friends and watch the movie or anything else he wants to watch, here. You can, of course, take the DVD player if he feels shy or uncomfortable to do so.’
‘Raju wants to watch a Cheeranjivi starred movie.’ Lakshmi said, still a bit contrite.
‘What’s new about it? He has been a great fan of Cheeranjivi since he was a child.’ I said pleasantly and smiled to alley her embarrassment.
Lakshmi did not say anything. ‘Is it a special movie?’ I asked.
Lakshmi nodded, still looking down. ‘He says he has acted in it.’
I stared at her, speechless for a brief moment, letting the words sink in.
‘Is it? What a marvellous news!’ I said, overjoyed. ‘What do you say? Our Raju has finally succeeded in his mission and has acted in a movie, that too a Cheeranjivi-starrer! How did this miracle happen?’
Lakshmi’s embarrassment was ebbing slowly away. Finally, she came out with the whole story. She said that Raju had approached a number of film agents in Chennai but everywhere had confronted disappointment. Some agents had suggested him to make an acting portfolio. Raju had used all the money he had taken from home in doing the photoshoots. When he was utterly broke, a friend who too was struggling for a livelihood at the city, and slept in the same dormitory, arranged for him the job of an autorickshaw driver. Raju was in luck and earned well from driving the autorickshaw. He had saved a reasonable amount in a few months. But he had not given up hope and kept approaching the agents and smalltime movie directors. One agent, out of sympathy had helped him join an acting school and recommended him to the director while Raju was doing a two-year year course at the school. The film agents were picking up students from different acting schools for performing small roles in the movies from time to time. The payment was small but could not deter them from their pursuit. The agent who had suggested Raju’s name to a director had finally selected him for performing a small role in a big budget movie with Cheeranjivi as the hero. Raju’s dream had finally come true. It was this lifetime chance he had been waiting for all these years. This movie is released last week and Raju has not watched it. They have paid him five thousand and he had decided to come home with this surprise.’ Lakshmi paused. There was a brief silence.
‘Great!’ I said, feeling happy more for Lakshmi that her son. Acting or no acting, he had learned, though in a hard way how to earn money in an unfamiliar, apathetic city. He, at this young age, had learned the art of facing life alone and deal with its adversities on his own.
I asked Lakshmi and Krishna to shift all heavy furniture in our drawing room to the hall, making space on the floor in front of the television, leaving back only a long settee. I asked my elder son Sonu, who had come home on a brief vacation, to bring some snacks. After all, munching popcorns and fritters add an extra charm to the joy of movie watching. My sons, especially the younger Monu, was bursting with enthusiasm at the prospect of seeing Raju on the silver screen.
At about four in the afternoon some friends of Sonu and Monu, who lived in our street made their entry to our house in ones and twos. After a few minutes Lakshmi and Krishna wandered in, followed by a shy looking Raju. Raju was no longer the skinny boy who sat wide-eyed in front of our television watching Tom and Jerry and squealing in joy at the funny gestures the characters made. He had grown up to be a handsome young man, though the faint hard lines on his face that testified to how he must have struggled to survive in a strange place, gave it a slightly rough look. He touched my feet, and I ran my hand affectionately on his head. ‘Arey Raju, you have become a big boy now! And a movie actor.’ I said fondly. He gave a brief smile, and touched the strand of hair behind his left temple shyly.
‘Come on in!’ I opened the door wider to let him in.
A few young boys of the slum where Lakshmi lived and were Raju’s childhood friends too brisked in laughing and talking loudly. After everyone took their seats in front of the TV set my son took the CD of the movie from Raju and inserted it in the DVD player. A hushed but electrifying excitement hung in the air of our drawing room. I turned to look behind and found Ramu standing quietly by the one of the pillars in the porch adjacent to the drawing room. I motioned to come in but he shook his head. The movie began. All eyes were riveted on the screen.
It was a good action thriller and soon the young mass was watching it in rapt attention captivated by the incredible chutzpa of the swashbuckling hero and the charms exuded by stunning south Indian heroine. ‘When will your scene come, Raju?’ my son Monu, asked unable to hold back his curiosity.
‘Sometime later, in a song. The third song perhaps. It will come after the interval.’ Raju said.
Most of the spectators had now forgotten they had come to see their Raju on the screen and were totally gripped by the thrill and excitement of the noisy fights and the scintillating romance.
The word ‘Intermission’ flashed boldly on the screen.
The movie resumed after a brief commercial. The plot was getting more and more complex and serious. The acting of the veteran hero Cheeranjivi had made us keep our eyes glued to the screen.
The eager spectators were so involved that they had, it appeared to me, forgotten why they were watching the movie. And then Raju said, ‘the song will come after this fight scene.’ Every one became alert instantly.
The song began. It was picturized on the hero and a group of co dancers as it mostly happens in the movies of modern times. ‘I am one of them,’ Raju said proudly pointing to the group of dancers that skillfully emulated the steps of the hero. The co-dancers of the hero, in the first cut were clad uniformly in red and yellow sherwanis, and turbans. In the next they were in skintight jeans and snazzy tops. Their costumes kept changing as the song progressed.
We waited, holding our breath, for a close up of Raju. But the camera focused most of the time on the hero. It swept past the dancers from time to time resting for brief moments on the face of different dancers but it was not possible to identify Raju from the crowd. ‘Which one of them are you, Raju,’ Monu asked, his enthusiasm giving way to impatience. ‘They all look alike.’ ‘The third one from the right, with the purple turban,’ Raju said, not taking his eyes off the screen. ‘Where? I can’t see you?’ Monu prodded him. ‘Watch quietly,’ Sonu, my elder son, who had grown reasonably sensible, pressed Monu’s shoulder lightly, forbidding him from querying further. ‘Yes, yes, I can see him, the third one to the right. It is my Raju alright.’ Lakshmi exclaimed, her voice wet and suffused with joy and excitement. I turned to look at Ramu who was still standing by the pillar by the steps that went down to the porch. There was a sparkle in his eyes. The song ended. Raju turned at the spectators, his face beaming and let his proud glance sweep past the eager faces. I could notice some of the boys looked vaguely skeptical. Some of them exchanged curious glances, as if they were not sure enough about what they were asked to believe.
Sonu embraced Raju. ‘That was a great performance, Raju. You can really dance well.’ He said effusively. ‘You are so lucky to have this chance to perform with the hero you are such a great fan of.’ He added.
‘Wow, Raju, when did you learn to dance so nicely?’ I patted Raju fondly. Tears of joy were streaming down Lakshmi’s eyes. Ramu’s freckled face was lit up with a wide smile. Monu looked at his elder brother dubiously. He was about to say something, but fought it off at the stern look in Sonu’s eyes.
The boys requested Sonu to replay the song. After it was replayed two times the doubt that haunted them had eased out considerably and they too were abuzz in their admiration of Raju.
The movie finally came to an end and the audience dispersed. ‘Well, Lakshmi aunty, how are you going to celebrate?’ Sonu asked. ‘Rice and chicken curry.’ Krishna laughed. Lakshmi swept and cleaned up the drawing room and left. Sonu gave Raju a fond smack on his back as he was moving out of the door. ‘Congratulations, buddy,’ he said. ‘Your dream has been fulfilled at last. Not everyone is lucky like you.’ Raju grabbed Sonu’s hand affectionately. ‘That is so sweet of you bhaiya,’ he smiled politely and moved out to the street. He stopped, turned to look back and waved at Sonu and Monu. They waved back.
‘Are you sure bhai, it was Raju?’ Monu looked at Sonu across the dinner table, an incredulous look in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ Sonu said with emphasis and a finality.
‘Forget it, both of you. Concentrate on eating.’ I admonished. There was no more discussion on the topic.
My husband called from Hyderabad where he was on an official tour. ‘Did you watch the movie where Raju appeared? Tell me about it. Ramu and Lakshmi must be very excited. Weren’t they?’
‘Yes. I too am very happy to see our Raju performing. He danced like a professional. Sonu and Monu too were very excited.’
**
I lay on the bed gazing at the ceiling fan that whirred softly, thinking about the third young man from the right wearing a purple turban who danced with Cheeranjivi. Did he look like Raju? I wondered. ‘Must be. If Raju says so.’
It was difficult even for me to identify him amidst all those dancers in similar costume. But I was very happy that the little Raju who was so understanding that he could finish a bowl of watered rice just looking at a green chilly he held in his left hand had finally proved his mettle. I was happy that this little fan of Cheeranjivi could make his dream come true with his dedicated pursuit.
I smiled to myself and closed my eyes.
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)
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
It was a misty, winter’s morning. As usual, the clicking of the typewriter woke Vidya from her slumber. Through sleep-encrusted eyes, she looked at her father, who was a blur of rapidly moving fingers on the typewriter. She sat up in bed, her eyes moist with tears of fondness. She loved her bedroom. Ever since Vidya had been a young girl, the one she looked at with absolute adulation and reverence, was her father! She would look up at him, just the way a sunflower looks up at the sun. For her, her father was her world and the epicentre of her Universe, her life revolved around him. He was the beginning and the end of her world, and it was an absolute pleasure for her to catch a glimpse of her world as soon as she woke up. She looked around at her surroundings and smiled at the way her bedroom extended into her father’s study. It was almost as though her bedroom was an arm, reaching out into her father’s study, just like her childish hands had quested the fullness of a ripe mango from the pedestal of her father’s shoulder.
It had a bold and dramatic room with dark hues and luxe materials. The curtains and valance were made of velvet. Extremely robust and sturdy king-sized bed was paired with a vintage bookshelf. Her granny’s armchair was lying in the corner where she would see her mother reading the English classics. But, for Vidya, the most significant part of the room was the fireplace. When winter nights would take the fiercest of avatars, she would cuddle into her father’s lap by the fireplace, and he would hum hymns to her, running his reassuring hands through her curly, fluffy hair. Unlike other girls who had long, silky ponytails, Vidya had a mess of angry, entangled hair. Her mother had attempted to disentangle her curls since time immemorial, using exotic hair oils and shampoos from Arabia and Persia. But all these attempts were in vain. So, Vidya’s mother had taken to tying her hair with tough rubber bands and hairnets. She would often call Vidya’s hair a wild beast and say that the reins and chains were important to hold this wild beast in place.
Vidya was born to highly educated and sophisticated parents. Her father Kabir Bedi worked as a correspondent with the leading local newspaper and mother Parminder Kaur was an author cum freelance journalist. Vidya had grown up, surrounded by books, and listening to the best literature narrated by her mother. They were a very respectable family of Chandigarh. She was raised like a modern princess with the best of privileges available in the town. But looks were never a priority for this family. They did wear the best of clothes, ate the richest food available but physical beauty was never a concern. They believed in looking naturally beautiful. They never became a part of the parlour culture.
When Vidya was doing her Masters in English literature from Chandigarh University (she had to pursue literature as she had grown up learning that there is a world of difference between a person studying literature and all others). She lost her father to an untimely heart attack. Her father’s sudden death devastated her mother mentally and emotionally. She withdrew from all activities. She went through severe depression. After Vidya completed her masters, her mother decided to send her away from the gloomy environment. Vidya took up a job as a content writer in a famous publishing house and shifted to Mumbai.
The family’s financial condition did not allow her to take a separate rental apartment, so she decided to share an apartment with Archie. Archie was working at the same office as the marketing manager. It was wonderful to have someone who knew the city and office. Settling down became a cake walk for Vidya as Archie helped her at every step. Almost everyone in the office knew what favours had been done to her. Archie would boast about her generosity.
Archie was impressed by the kind of books Vidya read. She borrowed a few books saying she would return them later but, did not. Vidya felt furious but kept mum. Archie’s help and favour was becoming a burden for Vidya. She started choking. Archie’s bossy and grumpy attitude was getting too much for her to handle. On the other hand, Vidya noticed that the colleague who would congratulate her on her small achievements in office had started showing signs of jealousy towards her. Vidya had a strong hold over language as writing was in her blood. She was slowly becoming a favourite of her boss.
One day Vidya accidentally had a shower without wearing a shower cap. She had no time to dry her hair, as she was getting late for her office. This was the first time she went to the office with wet hair. Her hair was curly and fluffy since childhood, and she would be very careful about tying them properly before leaving home. Vidya was busy eating her lunch in the office canteen, when she saw Archie and two of her colleagues looking at her and giggling. “Look at her hair. It’s looking like that famous Baba,” said Archana and the three of them burst out laughing. This was too embarrassing for her. She had tears in her eyes but tried her best to hide it from them. She excused herself from the office early and cried her heart out. She recalled all the moments when her parents treated her like a princess. She knew what she had to do. She had to take charge of her life.
When Archie returned from office Vidya did not let her know what she was going through. The next day she started searching for another house and changed her residence in a week’s time while maintaining distance from Archie. Archie was surprised at her behaviour.
“Vidya, let’s go to the canteen for lunch,” Archie said, moving towards her desk.
“I have stopped eating canteen food,” was the reply.
“You can carry your tiffin dear. I miss the Punjabi delicacies cooked by you,” Archie said, trying to convince Vidya, who flatly refused.
Something in her had changed forever. She was no longer a new girl in town looking out for favours. She was strong enough to handle her work and her emotions.
It was a bright spring evening. In an extraordinarily intuitive mood, Vidya found her steps leading her to the garden, where she would often go when her heart and soul were overwhelmed with thoughts. There was a brook there, and just like the Mirror of Fortune in Snow White, the brook would give her all the answers. As she entered the garden that evening, the fragrance of sweet peas filled her senses. A gentle breeze blew, softly ruffling her entangled and messy hair like a father’s loving hand. For once, she did not restrain her hair with harsh metal clips like she had always done. She did not strangle the wild, free spirit of her hair with a net or a hairband either. Suddenly, a light drizzle started to fall. But this drizzle was not like any other. It did not hold the rhythm of rainfall. Instead, it sounded like a typewriter. Vidya smiled. Her father was truly always around her.
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Dhiya and her mother stood at their balcony, as the wind was coloured with rainbows of festivity. They were dressed in old, white clothes and colourful bangles adorned their wrists. “Maa, the clouds seem to be coloured as well!” spoke Dhiya excitedly, as her mother laughed in glee. Dhiya looked around at her colony, which was a maze of little houses extending all along the narrowly constructed old Jaipur Road. She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the fragrance of Jalebi and the thick fruit aroma of Thandai. She had never felt so happy before.
As the road and the park began filling up with children, Dhiya looked at her mother with eager eyes, and her mother nodded. Mother and daughter shared a relationship that was pure, and telepathic. They conversed through the language of the eyes and emotions, where words were not required. “Okay, Dhiya. You may go. But, before you go, remember to put coconut oil. Otherwise, you will remain coloured for a year after Holi!” answered her mother, stating the traditional thought. Dhiya started jumping with excitement, and followed her mother to their dressing room. As her mother began to take out the coconut oil, the bell rang. Expecting the arrival of a probable guest, Dhiya rushed to the door. As she pulled open the lock, a tall, surly woman walked in. Dhiya did not recognize this woman, and examined her with bewildered eyes. But her mother became flustered. She covered her head with a dupatta, and folded her hands. “ Dhiya , this is your father’s Mausi ji from Rajghat, a village a few kilometres' distance from our hometown of Dholpur ” she whispered. “Be soft, don’t speak loudly, and cover your head,” she added. Dhiya did as her mother said, but she was not happy. Why should she not speak loudly? Why should she cover her head? Her innocent mind was plagued by a whirlwind of questions.
By the time Dhiya did as her mother commanded, Mausi ji was seated in the living room, and looking around with steely, judging eyes. As Dhiya emerged, she greeted Mausi ji with the traditional Namaskar gesture and took her place beside the couch. Dhiya’s mother rushed to the kitchen, and began to pour thandai, filling a tray with sweets and gujia. “You insolent girl!” scolded Mausi ji suddenly. “Why aren’t you helping your mother? You are a girl, and you must get used to the kitchen. Girls are meant to serve the family, not sit like a Lord!” she shouted, as Dhiya shot up, her eyes filled with tears. She had never been spoken to like this before. She did not know what to do, or what to say. She rushed to the kitchen, and hugged her mother tightly. Her face was drenched with tears. Her mother cupped her face, and asked her what was wrong.
“It’s okay, Dhiya” assured her mother. “Mausi ji is very old. She has orthodox views, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Do one thing. Take this plate of gujiya to her and tell her you made it for her. She will be happy.” Dhiya took the glass bowl from her mother’s hands and walked towards Mausi ji. The glow of Holi that had shimmered in her hands had faded away.
Mausi ji saw her approaching with a bowl in her hands, and she started to smile. Her smile was beautiful, simply because it was so rare.
“Did you make this, Dhiya?” spoke Mausi ji as Dhiya shook her head. “I didn’t make it, Mausi ji. I don’t know how to cook.” “Then what do you know? Being a girl, what do you know?” shouted Mausi ji, her cheeks red with anger. “I know how to write, Mausi ji. I know how to write poems and stories. And, I will soon write a book too.” Mausi ji was stunned and silent. Dhiya’s mother showed Mausi ji two lines that she had beautifully written.
“Does the sun shine differently on a girl - and differently on a boy?
Does the moon shine faintly on a girl - and brightly on a boy?”
These two lines were immensely powerful. On reading them, Mausi ji’s eyes filled with tears. She held Dhiya close, and whispered softly.
“What time could not change; your words changed. You will become a great author very soon. God bless you, Dhiya. God bless you, my writer.”
(Founder & CEO - The Impish Lass Publishing House)
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets.
She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles are published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 100 books in 3 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- book various editions for students and teachers .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. Recently published books ‘Cascades- Treasure Trove of Short Stories had 104 educators across the country getting published .She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has been the recipient of Wordsmith Award- 2019 for her short story , “Pindaruch,” from the Asian Literary Society. She has received many awards in 2020 for her contribution to the field of education and literature. She has received ‘ Most Outstanding Teacher of the Year Award,’ during World Education Summit in Feb-2021. Her poems have been translated and published in Spanish magazine. Her latest book – The Impish Lass- Part 2 ( TIL Stories and More) has received raving reviews from the readers including the greatest Indian Nuclear Scientist Dr. R. Chidambaram. It has received 5 stars rating on Amazon .
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
Rotem, an Israeli American teenager lived near the Gaza border with his family. In a siege by Hamas attackers, his parents were killed. As the fighters invaded their home, they scrambled into a tiny room meant to protect them from rocket attacks.
Shlomi Mathias had his arm blown off trying to keep the fighters out. The assailants peppered the room with gunfire; Debbie Mathias was shot dead; the bullet traveled through her and hit Rotem in the stomach.
Rotem lay under her pretending to be dead. Mathias' other two daughters, 21-year-old Shir and 19-year-old Shakked, were hiding separately in their own safe rooms in the kibbutz.
"Don't open the door," Mom had messaged.
Rescued after over twelve hours, they recalled: "All we could hear were gunshots and people screaming and bombs going off, cars exploding,"
"It's like if you close your eyes, you might think you're in a movie theater. Then you open your eyes and realize I'm in my room. I'm in my house."
"We could hear missiles flying down. We could hear them whistle and explode. It was insane. I've never heard anything like this. It was terrifying."
The attack came hours after the family had gathered for a festive evening that included music, since both their parents were musicians.
The family returned to the kibbutz, and Shir Mathias remembers her mom telling her to have a good time Saturday, since they were planning to attend a Bruno Mars concert in Tel Aviv.
"Before I went to my house, Mom said, "Bye. Have fun tomorrow," Shir Mathias said. "I was like, 'Thank you, I love you"." I gave her a hug, and gave my dad a hug.
Hours later, they were gone.
Who is to blame for the plight of these hapless souls?
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.
“Hey, Hemantda,” exclaimed Rajenda, one late Saturday evening. “You know, they’re showing Walt Disney’s animated movie, Sleeping Beauty, at Sunday’s morning show at the Hind Talkies. You remember the fairy tale about the princess who was cursed by a witch to die but wakes up on being kissed by a prince? Are you interested?”
“Why not?” replied Hemantda, bubbling with excitement! “Who wouldn’t be interested in watching that movie? Moreover, I’ve never ever watched a film in a hall.”
“Won’t you guys take me along?” I asked, sheepishly.
“That depends,” said Rajenda, “on whether you can get Maa’s permission for all of us to go. She’d never say yes to me, you know, but she can never refuse you anything.”
Rajenda was our de facto ringleader leading us on many a thrilling adventure since we arrived at Cuttack a few months ago. We, his two younger brothers, obeyed him unquestioningly, sometimes at the risk of being reprimanded by our parents. He was handsome, dashing and full of energy and ideas, which really enthralled us. On his prodding, the three of us trooped into the kitchen where Maa was cooking dinner. Rajenda pushed me to the front and nudged me to speak as he knew Maa wouldn’t be able to refuse her youngest one’s request.
“Maa”, I mumbled. “They’re showing Sleeping Beauty at the Hind Talkies at tomorrow’s morning show.”
“So what?” Maa asked.
I was a bit unprepared for such a response and began to fumble, when Rajenda butted in, “What he means to say is, could we three go for the movie, please?”
“Isn’t that the fairy tale about the princess who was cursed to fall asleep?” Maa asked.
“Yes, Maa, that’s the one,” said Hemantda. “Could we go then?”
“I don’t know whether your father would agree. You see, he thinks films, with their action and violence, are a bad influence on children.”
“But, Maa, this film IS meant for children!” Rajenda pleaded. “It is an animated film with no real actors!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll see if I can convince him. But see that you finish your homework before you go,” Maa smiled.
“Sure, Maa,” we yelled together. “Thank you, Maa!”
The following morning, waking up early, we dutifully finished our homework, had breakfast and immediately set off for the cinema hall. Our excitement was so intense that we could hardly restrain ourselves from breaking into a run. We reached the hall well before show time, bought three tickets and waited for the gates to open. There was quite a desi crowd which was slightly surprising as we didn’t think many people would be interested in an English film, that too an animated one.
At last there was the sound of a long bell and the gates were thrown open. We rushed in along with the crowd and were patiently shown to our seats by the torch-toting usher. We had hardly made ourselves comfortable in our seats when the huge screen lit up and the national anthem started to play for which we again had to stand up. Advertisements for cold drinks, detergents, clothes, etc. then followed, one after the other, after which came trailers of forthcoming films. When the third trailer seemed to run longer than the previous ones, we were slightly puzzled.
“What’s this, Rajenda?” enquired Hemantda, doubtfully. “Where’s Sleeping Beauty?”
“I’m sure they’ll show it after this trailer.” Rajenda assured us. “This appears a bit longish, doesn’t it?”
Hemantda and I silently nodded our heads.
The minutes passed by but the trailer showed no signs of ending. Rather an interesting action-packed Hindi thriller seemed to be unfolding before our eyes.
Rajenda tentatively turned to his left and asked the middle-aged gentleman sitting in the neighbouring seat, “Uncle, aren’t they going to show Sleeping Beauty?”
“What’s that?” he appeared to scowl in the dark. “This is Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon starring Joy Mukherjee, Asha Parekh and Pran. And don’t talk; I don’t like to miss the dialogues.”
Realising our folly, we thought of walking out of the hall and going back home. After a great deal of hushed deliberation, Rajenda wondered what explanation we would give our parents.
“Wouldn’t Maa scold us for not checking up the shows properly?” he said. “Then, if she tattles on us to Bapa, all hell would be let loose! So just relax and let’s continue to watch the film and enjoy it.”
As Rajenda’s proposal did sound sensible enough, we reconciled ourselves to watching the movie till the end, despite our deep misgivings. In fact, after some time we actually started enjoying the typical Hindi masala movie, with all its violent action and romance woven into an unbelievable and implausible plot.
After the film ended, as we stepped out to the blinding sunshine outside, it took us a few moments to get out of the euphoria induced by the entertaining events on the screen. It was then that Hemantda dropped a bombshell!
“What if Maa asks us about the movie?” he suddenly asked Rajenda. “What do we tell her? Should we tell her the truth?”
This shocker started off a heated debate amongst us as to what to do. Telling the truth would definitely invite a thorough dressing-down with the possibility of corporal punishment too. We could also be debarred from watching any more movies in future. Ultimately, weighing the pros and cons of the situation, it was decided not to reveal the truth and to tell mother that we did indeed watch Sleeping Beauty. Though all three of us knew the story of the Sleeping Beauty, our memory had become a bit rusty. The problem now was to reconstruct the story in such a visual way as to make it appear quite convincing.
The story, in brief, was that, at her birth, a Princess was cursed by an evil fairy (or witch) to die on her sixteenth birthday. The distraught King and Queen begged the evil fairy to undo the curse, but she refused. Another kind-hearted fairy took pity on the Royal couple but, being less powerful than the evil fairy, could only weaken the curse; instead of dying, the Princess would fall into a deep slumber for a hundred years. The spell could only be broken by the kiss of one who was true in his love.
The first question that came to our mind was what was the name of the Princess, the ‘Sleeping Beauty’? All of us knew that it was Aurora and that she was also called Briar Rose.
The second question was what were her parents’ names?
“That’s unimportant,” declared Rajenda. “So are the Prince’s parents’ names. We should rather know the Prince’s name, the person who woke her up from her deep slumber.”
“It’s Prince Phillip,” I ventured. “It’s the same as Queen Elizabeth’s husband’s name.”
“Good,” said Rajenda approvingly. “Now what were the names of the fairies? I remember only two, Flora and Fauna.”
“I think the evil fairy’s name was Maleficent,” said Hemantda. “And the other fairy’s name was Merryweather.”
“Excellent, Hemant!” exclaimed Rajenda. “That settles it then. One last question, though. What could be the colour of the Princess’s gown, just in case Maa asks?”
“As she was also called Briar Rose, it could be either pink or red,” I volunteered.
“Pink it is, then,” declared Rajen, sealing the issue finally.
With all preparations completed and the story and its characters well-rehearsed, we trudged back home, albeit slightly apprehensive of the outcome.
Maa’s face lit up the moment she saw us. “Hope you enjoyed the film?” she said.
“Yes, it was a beautiful film,” Rajenda replied, a little too quickly. “You want to hear the story?
“A King and Queen were blessed with a daughter after many years of their marriage…” he continued in the same breath.
“No, no, stop it. There’s no time for it now,” Maa cut him short. “Anyway, I’ve read the story, haven’t I? Now boys, do get along. Today is Sunday and Bapa’s waiting to have lunch with you all.”
“Come on boys,” Bapa called out from the dining table. “You, of course, had a good time but I’m starving. So hurry up!”
As the three of us made our way to change for lunch, Maa suddenly eyed my face suspiciously. With the keen intuition that most mothers seem to have, she sensed that something was amiss.
“Wait, wait,” she called us back. “Go bring three pieces of paper and three pens.”
“What’s all this about?” Bapa shouted. “I’m famished, I said!”
“Now, without consulting one another, write down the name of the evil fairy and the colour of the Princess’s gown,” Maa continued, disregarding Bapa’s protests.
All of us dutifully wrote down our already well-rehearsed answers.
She looked up our answers, shook her head and asked us to get ready for lunch.
“Why are you women always so suspicious?” said Bapa. “Poor boys, you’ve now spoiled their mood.”
A short while later, while Maa was serving us lunch, Rajenda started to get fidgety.
“What’s the matter, Rajen?” Bapa asked, noticing his discomfort. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Bapa, I’ve to confess something,” Rajenda replied, after dilly-dallying for some time. Then he blurted out the morning’s episode without a break and without omitting a single detail. “I’m very sorry, Bapa,” he concluded, almost in tears. “It was totally my fault but it wasn’t intentional, I swear!”
For a second Bapa and Maa glared at the three of us, as we looked crestfallen at the food spread out before us.
All of a sudden, Bapa broke into his characteristic tinkling laughter. “Don’t get so upset.” He pacified us. “These things happen. After all it wasn’t deliberate.
“Remember how I used to arrange the pillows on my bed to resemble a sleeping person and sneak away for night shows during my days at Patna?” he chuckled, fondly reminiscing about his college days. “Now don’t spoil your Sunday lunch. The mutton looks very tender and appetising!”
It was now Bapa’s turn to be glared at. “The lunch is not going to get spoiled, but you are going to spoil the boys, for sure!” Maa yelled at him.
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.
"Hey, Sambit! Head Sir wants to see you urgently", Saroj said a little loudly and hurriedly. Sambit was solving a math problem then. He looked up from his notebook. "What happened?" He asked in return to Saroj quite casually.
"Arree, didn't I tell you the Head Sir has called for you? It is urgent, go. Quick."
Sambit got up and walked towards the Head Master's chamber. He stopped at the door.
"May I come in Sir!"
"Do get in."
Head Sir pointed towards a chair and motioned him to sit. Sambit was surprised. To sit in front of Head Sir! As far as he remembered no student has been that fortunate. He kept standing.
"Sit down boy." Head Sir said again. His voice was unusually kind.
Sambit obeyed. He was still perplexed.
"How is your study?"
Sambit fumbled for words. He is just a not-so-average student. He couldn't confidently assert his preparedness for the upcoming HS Board exam. Still he said in a visibly nervous tone, "It's good Sir."
"Nice, work hard. You will get success. In fact you are destined for something much better."
Sambit's confusion got better of him.
"Destined Sir?"
"Yes", let me explain. HM said like a mystic.
"Okay, tell me your full name."
Sambit now got really terrified. What's the matter afterall. Why Head Sir is so kind, so loving and so mysterious today!
"I'm Sambit Mishra, Sir."
"If I say you are not"
This time Sambit felt like crying.
"You are Sambit Dash"
"How come Sir? My father's name is Madhusudan Mishra, he is a priest in our village temple."
"No dear, he is not your father, your real father is..."
Head Sir could not finish his words, the clerk entered with some urgent file.
"Okay Sambit, you leave now, we will talk again. For your information your form fillup is done with your surname changed. We'll talk later."
He motioned Sambit to leave. Sambit left his chamber but his world has turned upside down.
"Sambit Dash, Sambit Dash...Why afterall?"
"I'm not not the son of my father! Am I a bastard? Love child of some desperate girl? Thrown into a bush? Picked up by someone and handed over to Madhusudan Mishra because he was childless!"
"How to know, I will go mad if I don't. How did Head Sir know this. Did my coward father come forward after all these years of his hiding and confess his guilt? Is he repentant?"
"He cannot claim me, I won't go with him. My parents.." Sambit broke down. Sitting in an isolated classroom he was brooding over what he heard from HM just now. He recalled all his moments since childhood. His Maa, who feeds him in her own hand, his papa who has provided everything he has asked for, their love, their affection, their care, their concern! Unreal? Never.
"It's terrible, It's terrible." He muttered while crying.
Saroj came searching for him. He hugged Sambit.
"Don't you worry dear." This is a good news indeed. Saroj said assuring him.
"So you know, what did you know and how much?" Sambit demanded.
"The whole school knows, didn't the Head Master tell you whose son you really are?"
"He was about to tell but the clerk entered."
"You tell me Saroj, please", he pleaded.
Saroj smiled.
"Okay, listen. Your real mother died just after you were born on 31st December 15 years ago. Your father's grief was unbearable. In his frustration over the death of his dearest wife he was giving you up to a friend of his. But your present father Mishra Uncle begged to take you as he was your real father's family priest." Saroj looked satisfied as if revealed a great truth.
"Nonsense! Who is my real father? speak out" Sambit shouted at Saroj.
"Wait, wait..hmm. You are the son of Mr. R.M. Dash."
"R.M. Dash? That millionaire who visits our school often and always leaves with a large sum of money as donation?" Sambit was quite excited.
"Yes, my dear. You are his son. You are his last child. You have two elder sisters and an elder brother too." Saroj seemed equally excited while saying this.
"Bhai, I can't believe. Why afterall me! Why with me destiny plays a joke?"
"Not a joke my friend. You are lucky. A rich man's son. Your father is a renowned person. Aren't you happy to know this?"
"I don't know, I don't know. Will you please leave me alone?" Sambit's words startled Saroj. He left grumbling.
Sambit left too. He took a shortcut route to the river bank. Sat himself under a peepal tree. The cool wind somewhat calmed down his agitated mind. The past, present and future as if became a flow of eternity. Where does he belong? What is his true identity. For long 15 years he was living with one, now has he to exchange it for another? He was not feeling elated knowing about his bright future which Head Sir had already hinted at. He has seen Mr. Ram Mohan Dash from a distance. The gentleman has never come to him, nor talk to him. Saroj was saying he wanted to take him back, take responsibility of his higher education.
But for Sambit this meant nothing. He was as if standing at crossroads, searching for his true belongingness.
Looking at the flowing water he was asking a question to every living, non-living object around him, to the trees, the birds, the sky...
"Who am I?"
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English in the Higher Education Department, Govt. of Odisha is a bilingual writer writing both in Odia and English with equal flair. Her poems, stories and articles are published in many state, national and international magazines and journals. She has three published anthologies of poems to her credit. Besides, she has published many research articles in different research journals. She contributes regularly to Radio Bulbul.
KOLKATA'S RIVERSIDE ODYSSEY: UNVEILING THE HISTORIC GHATS OF THE CITY OF JOY
Renowned journalist Vir Sanghvi once eloquently declared, "To experience a city with a soul, look no further than Kolkata." Often referred to as the City of Joy, a term popularized by Dominique Lapierre's bestselling novel, Kolkata earned this moniker through its rich tapestry of culture, traditions, literature, history, and a diverse culinary landscape. The city seamlessly intertwines tradition and modernity, offering a captivating blend of old-world charm and contemporary India that enthralls both residents and visitors.
Originally known as Calcutta, Kolkata was developed by the British East India Company in the 17th century. It held the esteemed position of being the capital of the British Indian Empire until the monumental shift to Delhi in 1911. Preceding British influence, Calcutta thrived under the rule of the Bengal Sultanate during the Mughal era. The 19th century witnessed Kolkata's meteoric rise, transforming it into the second most crucial city after London in the British Empire, where the Sun never sets. Ultimately during that period Kolkata was considered as the financial capital of British India.
My connection with Kolkata dates back to 1964 when, after my Middle School Examination, I first visited the city. My elder brother, who owned a plumbing workshop in Bowbazar, had arranged the trip under the care of our co-villager Sri Sadhu Pradhan, a plumber in Kolkata. Along with me, three of my village friends also accompanied Sadhu uncle on their maiden trip to Kolkata, to be with their relatives working in Kolkata to spend the summer vacation. We caught the Howrah-Madras Janata Express from Kendrapara Road Railway Station as by that time Bridge over Mahanadi was under construction connecting National Highway between Jagatpur and Cuttack. Our train journey started by 2 PM and took more than 16 hours to arrive at Howrah station early in the next day morning. We hired Hand- pulled rickshaws to reach Bowbazar across the amazing Cantilever suspension bridge over the Ganges. For me this train journey by the Janata Express pulled by proverbial steam engine, puffing darkish copious smoke, is the most memorable journey, among all the journeys, I have undertaken so far. Though as of today, I have travelled many places around the world using various modes of modern transportation, but that day journey, by the steam locomotive, to my brother’s place always remained very special for me. The first time thrilling train journey sitting by the window seat, watching the smoke puffing engine on a curve , the hawkers calling ‘Chai-Chai’, ‘Jhal-Muri’, the scramble for window seat and gossip with friends on the upper berth, and the begging styles of the hijadas (transgender) evoking suppressed giggles , are some unforgettable, and nostalgic colorful pages of my childhood.
Over the years, Kolkata, the iconic City of Joy, has always held a special place in my heart. From art and literature to sports, food, shopping, history, architecture, religion, spiritualism, and even politics, the city offers a diverse array of experiences. Beyond my personal connections, Kolkata's riverfront Ghats have recently drawn my attention, prompting a journey to explore and understand the city through its historic and functional Ghats.
Our recent visit to Kolkata, specifically in mid-September, was marked by performing pinda-daan for our late elder brother ,Shankarsan Roul ,who had his plumbing workshop at No-1,Halder Lane near Yogayog Bhavan , Bowbazr for 65 years. The rituals took place at Babu Ghat on the River Ganga, through our traditional family priest Pandit Sri Ashutosh Mishra , fulfilling his last wish. This visit allowed me to retrace the footsteps of my childhood, visiting iconic places like the Brigade Parade Ground, Victoria Memorial Hall, National Museum, Chidiakhana, Pareshnath Temple ,and Kali Temple at Kalighat led by my elder brother evoked emotional nostalgia.
Embarking on a journey to explore Kolkata's Ghats, we began at the Maritime Archives and Heritage Center on Strand Road, gathering information and brochures. The Hooghly River, known as Ganga or Kati-Ganga in the purans, holds immense significance for the people of Eastern India, particularly West Bengal. It served as the entry point for the British East India Company into Bengal, establishing trade settlements in Kalikata, Sutanati, and Gobindpur in the late 17th century.
Starting our exploration at Babu Ghat, originally known as Babu Raj Chandra Ghat, we discovered one of the oldest Ghats of Kolkata. Built in 1830 by Rani Rashmoni in memory of her husband Babu Raj Chandra Das, the Ghat showcases Doric-Greek architecture. A marble tablet beneath the pediment implies that some of the credit for construction of the Ghat must go to Lord William Bentinck –the first Governor General of Bengal, as he encouraged the Rani for such spending on a multipurpose utility facility with a view to improve public amenities. It is a central hub for various modes of transport, including buses, ferries, and trains.
Moving on to Prinsep Ghat, constructed in 1841-43 in Greek and Gothic style, it pays tribute to James Prinsep, an eminent Anglo-Indian scholar known for deciphering unintelligible Brahmi scripts through his number of scholarly articles serially published in the Asiatic Journal in 1830s. James Prisep was the founding editor of the researchal Journal of the Asiatic Society during the Bengal Renaissance. Prinsep Ghat is a popular recreational spot, offering serene moments along the riverbank, boating, and views of the Vidyasagar Setu. In its initial period, all royal British entourage used the Prinsep Ghat Jetty for embarkation and disembarkation. There is a jetty nearby called the Man-O- War jetty that belongs to Kolkata Port Trust and commemorates the role played by the port in the Second World War; the Jetty is mainly used by the Indian Navy. Prinsep Ghat is one of the oldest recreational spots of Kolkata. People looking for some moments of peace and tranquility in the evening twilight hours, prefer to visit the enchanting ambience of Prinsep Ghat to spend some quality time. One can do boating, stroll among the river banks or simply sit on the illuminated and landscaped garden overlooking the James Prinsep Monument, and Vidyasagar Setu bathed in colourful lights.
Outram Ghat, situated between Prinsep Ghat and Babu Ghat, provides a leisurely setting with ample parking space. It offers a beautiful view of the second Hooghly Bridge and is adorned with lights in the evening. Armenian Ghat, built in 1734 by Manvel Hazaar Maliyan-a prosperous businessman from Persia, stands as a testament to the contributions of Armenians to Kolkata's infrastructure. Sadly, the Ghat is now lost to oblivion, with only a street named Armenian Street remaining in Fairly Place ,Dalhousie Squire .
Jagannath Ghat, located to the north of Howrah Bridge, was constructed by SobharamBasak around the 1760s. It served as a bathing Ghat and a crucial point for Bengali pilgrims traveling to Jagannath Dham Srikshetra Puri before the construction of the Hooghly River bridge. The pilgrims after ferrying the river here, took the Jagannath Sadak at Ulberia towards Sripurushottam Puri.
Nimtala Ghat, the oldest Ghat on the east bank of the Ganga, is considered one of the holiest burning ghats in the country. It has been the cremation facility for over 2000 years and witnessed the cremation of notable figures like Rabindranath Tagore, Rani Rashmoni, Iswar Chandra Vidyasagar, Debendranath Tagore, and others. Next to Nimtala Ghat to the north stands Ahirtola Ghat, which was also constructed by the benevolent Rani Rashomani . There is a Jetty for the Steamer boat commuters facilitating a to and fro journey to Howrah Railway station.
Khidirpur Indenture Labour Ghat carries a historical legacy related to the indentured labor supply to British colonies. This Port played a role in dispatching cheap labor to various British colonies. History of Indentured labour supply to the 19 British Colonies was a sad saga of the past till the end of slavery in 1843, with the implementation of Indian Slavery Act, 1843 passed by the British Parliament under the East India Company Rule. Though slavery was abolished but the need of cheap labour persisted in Mauritius, Fiji, Suriname, Kenya, Jamaica, Trinidad-Tobago, Guadeloupe, the Guinea, and other British colonies along the Indian Ocean to the Pacific Islands. Plantation, Sugarcane farming and Mining economy of the colonies needed cheap indentured labour. Also for laying railway tracks of 1060 KM Mombasa-( Port City of Kenya) - Kampala (capital of Uganda) cheap indenture laborers from India were dispatched in 1806. Fourteen ships sailed from Calcutta, taking laborers to Mauritius in the year 1834. According to UNESCO estimates, from the year 1834 and over a period of roughly 100 years 11, 94,957 Indians were relocated to 19 colonies under British Empire, where by that time, the Sun never sets. Though the sad tale of Indentured Laborers has been relegated to the limbo of oblivion, the vestiges of that colonial past exist in public psych through gratituditional memorials and monuments. Now stands the Indenture Memorial in Suriname Jetty, dedicated to the Diaspora would have never come up without the tireless efforts of some enthusiasts like Leela Sarup, and Sarita Budhu, whose husband was Deputy Prime Minister of Mauritius. In the gloom, the gurgling river seemed to give voice to the plights of the hapless humans shipped into the unknown territories from here. Their sighs, murmuring voices brought the murky past back to life again.
Budge Budge, known for Swami Vivekananda's landing in 1897, after returning from Parliament of the World Religions in Chicago, and the Komagata Maru incident of 1914, holds historical significance. The vessel- SS Komagata Maru, carrying British Indian passengers, was denied entry to Canada, leading to a tragic event upon its return to Budge Budge Budge. The Komagata Maru incident of 1914, a historically significant event against British Empire happened here, more than a hundred years ago, evoked a sad feeling. On 4.4.1914, SS Komagata Maru-a Japanese Steam Ship sailed from British Hongkong via Shanghai ,China, and Yokohama, Japan to Vancouver in British Colombia, Canada. The ship was carrying the 376 British Indian passengers -337 Sikhs, 27 Punjabi Muslims, and 12 Hindus. The passengers were not allowed disembarkation by the Canadian authorities due to the Imperial British influence because they were suspected as the members of Ghadar Party. The Ghadar Movement was an early 20th century International Movement founded by expatriate Indians to overthrow British rule in India .The ship was returned only after two months of privation and uncertainty which later took the form of an embroiled controversy. Out of 376 passengers only 24 were admitted to Canada and the rest 352 passengers denied entry and forced to return to Budge Budge, Calcutta. There, the Imperial Police attempted to arrest the group leaders. A row ensued, and the passengers were fired upon by the Imperial Police, resulting in deaths of 26 people. A memorial has been erected by the Indian government in remembrance of the martyrs at Saheed Ganj, Budge Budge, which was inaugurated by the Prime Minister of India Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru on first January 1952. The memorial with a plaque citation- ‘’The vision of men are widened by travel and contacts with citizens of a Free Country will infuse a spirit of independence and foster yearnings for freedom in the minds of the emasculated subjects of alien rule – Gurdit Singh”, has been dedicated to the hapless victims of the notorious Komagata Maru incident that happened at Budge Budge on 23.05.1914.
Kolkata's riverfront Ghats, with their rich history and cultural significance, reflect the city's growth from three rural villages to the capital of British India. Over three centuries, the Ghats, have immensely contributed to Kolkata's vibrant and diverse culture. The city's development, influenced by various Euro-Asian communities, is a testament to the navigable river that facilitated trade settlements and colonies for powerful maritime powers like the British East India Company. To sum up this long story of the contribution of Hooghly River short, the essence of it is that for almost three centuries in this small patch of land on the east banks of River Ganga, hardly 48 kilometers in length, there were once over a hundred Ghats built by affluent Zamindars, and benevolent businessmen vastly contributing to the growth of the three tiny villages to become the Capital of British India until it was relocated to Delhi in 1911. Admittedly, through this ever navigable river which facilitated a major transport system from the late 17th century, the powerful maritime powers of Europe sailed into Bengal and enabled them to establish their trade settlements and colonies. The British East India Company settled at Kolkata, so also the French East India Company at Chandannagar. Traces of Dutch, Greek, and Danish trading centers still exist at Bandel, Bhadreswar and Shreerampur respectively in the Hooghly district of West Bengal. This development, of small trading posts or proto-colonies of so many Euro-Asian communities into an ever-growing Megapolis currently abounding with teeming population over 15 million, is quite phenomenal.
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.
MONSOON DIARY: AN INCURSION UNTO SELF
Tonight, when he comes back from the office, he will not find me.
He will search for me in every nook and corner of the house( Hope this happens), but will be disappointed.
"Darling! Where are you?"
His voice will rise slowly from soft to blaring , yet would plummet in no time. He is so used to my presence. I am his need esp when his tired self flings itself on the comfy couch and his roving glances reach precincts of kitchen where a lethal dose of happiness concocts. My magic wand with a mild dose of panacea lets him revel in bliss. A nice cup of tea and snacks does all the wonder. Munching on lip smacking assortments and licking fingers he vouchsafes -his wife prepares the best tea and there is not another like her.
He will miss me this evening for sure.
He will grab his mobile to call me but he will be caught by surprise when my telephone rings inside the house.Like a sniffer dog , he would zero in on the talking machine and snarl at it. In a fit of anger he would blast out-
" What the hell! Why couldn't she carry her mobile? Did she forget or is the act intentional to harass me?"
Frantically, he would try to contact my friends, but to no avail.
He will get emotional first and then frenzied.
Then he would look at the big portrait of mine in bridal attire, neatly bunched to the bedroom wall while fuming and gushing out sighs.
He would throw tantrums around , especially the wet towel on the bed, after the shower.
I can visualize…I am so used to his ways. Fifteen years of married life is no joke.
But, I am keeping my fingers crossed.
This may not happen in reality.
He may not miss me at all nor carry any emotional heft for that matter.
A man's ways you cannot gauge easily.
So, fifteen years is not enough perhaps!
He may pour him a drink or two, smoke one or two cigarettes, take a brisk walk...travel from bedroom to living room (his favourite action when he is in two minds) . Eventually, calm down like a sea without ripples, and have a goodnight’s sleep.
Reading a mind with all accuracy is too difficult a task for me.
I am not even going to try it, although I have tried this before. It is both unnerving and time consuming.
I shall let my cranium do a bit of contemplation-
"Does my absence bother him or is he afraid of my recalcitrance?
Or, the seeming growth of new feathers in my clipped wings is a matter of botheration for him!!!"
Just too much rumination, Isn't it?
You may term this as overthinking.
The truth will take some time to come to the fore. So till such time, let me be.
The evening has just set in.
Deep darkness is yet to crop up and sync in.
Ah! This beautiful transition at twilight is worth watching. I am definitely relishing it. It is so refreshing.
Tick..tick..tick…the second hand marches on. ... propelling the minute and the hour hand . Time is on its timeless sojourn. Perhaps! I am noticing the celestial event for the first time. I don't know why I didn't notice this before. Daily grind must be the villain. Also, "The taken for granted attitude."
One thing is for sure …he can't fathom my whereabouts. He has to resign to the pattern of time till I am home.
He cannot even envisage that I will be busy drenching myself thoroughly in the heavenly downpour in some corner of this universe, sinking into lethargy and bringing solace to my being.
I shall let my kohl framed eyes smudge as the small worry line between my brows fade gradually.
No makeup look is so fresh and earthy,so much like my stance today.
This badass monsoon is a welcome break from the sticky summer.
Ah! Such a quiescent feeling, akin to the mellow December nip in the air.
You may ask-
What is the need to come this far ? The entire scene could have been enacted in my spacious plush bathroom.
The answer will be "just like that"
Well, If you insist further, then I will say in a nutshell-
”To feel the rain , I have come this far"
"It is heavenly”
It has been long, I indulged in such ecstasy and prattled nonstop as the raindrops trickled down my fluffy cheeks to kiss the ground , but not before soothing and comforting my enraged demeanor.
I have been cast into a mold of dusting, sweeping, scrubbing, scouring, childcare, cooking and job above all.
It is incumbent upon my ilk.
A woman has to be non-complaining, and forgiving. A thousand piercing eyes affront her if she dares to be otherwise.
There could be some aberrations but the percentile is dismal.
Well, let me not debate further nor tax my upper chamber with such dull and boring matters.
It has been ages, I freed myself from a cage of self imposed exile, sipped ginger tea from roadside vendors. The lingering aroma of the hot beverage wafts through nostrils to titillate my waking moments. I am so much reminded of the giggles and belly laughters that childhood with pals offered. Especially munching on street food.
The two amateurs -my mind and soul are in tandem today it seems !
When they have concocted such a limpid plan to enthrall my core…how can I refuse?
I am doing justice to each bit of my desire- 'smile effortlessly and cry a bit'.
It is not peremptory upon me anymore to hide the cathartic fluid.
To be honest, I have not shed any since eons, though I am a woman. This tribe is adept at the exercise of 'hiding'.
Today if they ooze out, they will delineate oodles of supreme pleasure as I wimple softly in the flow.
I don’t mean there has been no grief, misery or misdemeanor in my life having lived this long.
I am not a liar at least.
Fretting worries are well perched in my life like any other mortal’s.
They pinch, hurt and put my nimble soul into shards at regular intervals.But, I have outgrown sobs, muffled moans, and stopped being hysterical.
I have grown wise by letting go of the negativities of life. A subtle cheer from the cusp of forgiveness embraces my being. I have forgiven myself for being naive this long.
IT TOOK ME YEARS TO DELVE DEEP INSIDE AND FIND MY RESILIENCE, STRENGTH AND TENACITY, THAT I WAS NOT AWARE OF TILL DATE.
I swear, I don’t want to demean anyone by such a statement. The above are just spontaneous outpourings erupting like molten lava from stony silence.
Many eyebrows will be raised, many hard eyes will be popping out when I reach home late or very late. Even the security guard at the gate will behold me with disbelief. But who cares! I shall remain unapologetic. Let their wobbly opinions bubble up then dissolve.
I am no longer a woman denied desires.
Rather, I am an embodiment of lilting verses of life, capable of choosing my own preferences.
A tingling anticipation, a heady excitement runs through me with alacrity, makes me feel like a teenager.
From restless ocean to a calm shore, I have lived and savored each bit of this short and sweet sojourn!
A haze of amazement now embraces me.
An amusing novelty cadences a big broad smile.
Looks like the metaphoric 'dawn' is not far off.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker. She has three published poetry anthologies (More than Mere - a bunch of poems, Riot of Hues and Eternal Rhythm by Authorspress) to her credit. She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
The star bug was into me right from childhood. For reasons I adored the ones that appeared on the big screen and watched with wonder their actions on screen and the urge to become one among them was stimulated. It became a dream, a passion an ambition and a destination in life. It grew with time and became a weakness embedded into me so strongly that there was no escape from the thought. The intensity increased with time and all who could identify my madness said that I will turn out to be an actor one day.
It was but natural that I started mimicking the popular stars of the day and it became a hit with friends. During school interval and spare time friends surrounded me with requests and there all clapping and encouraging my performance. The news of my talent spread and my class teacher once asked me to perform in class. That was the take-off and mimicry became a part of school entertainment occasionally. It was my passport into acting and come school annual day was fortunate to have a short role in a drama.
The feeling of being an actor crept into me from then. Some days I became Shami Kapoor and shifted to Sasi Kapoor and also Dharmendra and Dev Anand also I became. This star phobia affected my studies and my grades took a downward dip almost crash landing. High school results proved it and when all got through, I stood as the only failure, failing myself and also bringing down the reputation of the school where it was always centum for years.
“You keep on dancing and singing” was the sarcastic comments heard. All who were my friends distanced with my failure in academics. Parents were highly disappointed.
What next? That was a million-dollar question. The actor in me was pushing and it struck. A career in acting is what was destined for me and I will have to try hard. Hard I tried meeting people connected in the field and one look many said “Go and study boy”.
I wanted to tear myself open and show them my heart, my depth of passion towards acting but they never gave a second look. It was so disappointing and after months of struggle pleading and even going to the extent of running errands for a film related team, they obliged to give me a chance. Excited beyond words I could not sleep for days and finally I was called for the performance. Expecting a makeup done I asked about it.
“No need “was the reply “You are to go and just push a boy and it will hardly last for a second”
One second performance and it was almost a slap. My face also never came up in the movie as it was a shot from behind. Adding insult to injury I was paid Rs 5. Though the amount was not much I treasured it as it was my first earning.
“Go to Madras. That’s where all the happening is” said my friend who sincerely wanted me to achieve.
With borrowed money I was off to Madras. Not knowing anyone in the field it was literally begging from one studio to another and rebuff and insults from all places. Almost a month in Madras and fortune strikes. A short role as a college student. Excitement at its peak and disappointment on shooting day. I was one of the students among many. No turning back as small steps lead to bigger ones. In the shot the other students all hostel inmates tease me for a habit of mine at that age which I feel ashamed to mention. I was to be the laughing stock of all and it was an embarrassing role. Whatever I was proud to be a part of a movie and felt the actor in me evolving.
Movie released and news got around in my place that I had acted in it. Walked around in flashy dress to conceal the struggles in Madras. My village people some had recognized me in the movie and I fed them with tales big about the happenings and also bragged about mingling with the big stars of the day.
A week after the release I was walking along the road and a group of girls were giggling seeing me. The proud actor in me awoke as I was certain they recognized me, the star. They certain to compliment me,the actor was my thought. I approached them and their first question was a stab hard and painful.
“Do you still pee on bed”?
The character I had played had this habit and teased by other students for it in the movie.
They were not complimenting but teasing me for it and giggling.
I felt so ashamed of myself and wished the vanishing trick was in my hand. They asked me in a way they believed that I was into the habit in real life too. Avoided answering and walked away and I could hear them shouting to another gang nearby
“That fellow so grown up still wets his bed”
The belief that I had achieved something with great difficulty was crumbling then and there. The small height I had scaled was sliding down. I was feeling very uncomfortable and my body became weak and felt drained of energy.
I wanted to pee.
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..
What a fallacy! When we loudly say, burry the past; project no future; live with the present; do we ourselves do that? Whether we want it or not; whether we like it or not, we do live in a mix of all the three, the past, present and future. This is the reality. According to my experience, whenever I was badly disturbed by ruminating the past, my friends, relatives, colleagues, seniors advised me to forget what has gone by and live with the present; similarly I too have advised my friends and relatives in the same manner when I saw them crest fallen rewinding the past. But neither my advisors nor I did ever follow what we profess. Now as a retired person having ample leisure in hand with no project for future, I try to live with the present nevertheless the past has not been wiped out from memory altogether. Even if I ever tried to come out of the labyrinth of my past, it seldom spares me but keeps on intruding into my peaceful horizon involuntarily sometime as a note of caution and at some other time as a charger of emotion, joy and inspiration.
One of such memory clips replayed on that day when I was relaxing in my green house (Picture given below). An incident that had happened with me about forty-five or more years ago when I was posted in Head office of my Bank as an officer in middle management grade flashed before me. Mechanically I went on refreshing my memory which dragged me to the scene again and again where I was made a laughing stock before my colleagues and seniors only for my stupid simplicity and honesty. The peculiarity of the incident was such that albeit it seemed very silly to others, it sat heavy on me until it was resolved. The fact was, according to the practice in vogue, alI officers posted in Head office of my Bank were given a summary salary slip each for the financial year in the month of march showing tentative computation of income tax for information.
(Bankim relaxing in his green house)
As I went through my chart for that financial year, I found an amount of about Rs.7000/- of tax has been calculated less for my salary income. Instantly I brought the discrepancy to the notice of Chief of the Accounts Department for correction. But the gentleman rebuffed my contention saying that everything has been done with utmost accuracy and now there was no scope for review. Even if I felt uneasy for his shallow and cursory reply, I could not counteract because of seniority and protocol factor and so I got back to my department.
In the department I discussed the matter with my colleagues and my immediate boss who in one voice advised me to keep quiet as tax deduction at source(TDS) is the responsibility of Accounts department of Bank for which they are answerable and hence I should not break my head on the issue. But I was not satisfied with their contentions. That night I could not sleep peacefully on thinking of the probable consequences of hiding due amount of Income Tax payable to Govt. which could have been utilized for public welfare. I talked to myself, no, I cannot sit silent on this falsehood and I must protest lest I shall remain indebted to the govt. and I shall remain as guilty in the realm of God. The very next day I went straight to controller of the department and placed my problem with relevant data. The head of the department heard me patiently and asked the chief of Accounts who was a Chartered Accountant to make a thorough recheck and comply. Instantly the order of the big boss was carried out and it was found that a big sum of arrear pay disbursed to me during that financial year has been overlooked inadvertently for feeding into the computer for which the discrepancy cropped up. The controller gave a bit of his mind to the Chief of the department and due correction was made.
Albeit my grievance was complied to my satisfaction, the reaction in Accounts department and my own department seemed unusual to me. Everyone stared at me in a different look and some went on to comment by calling me Raja Harish Chandra. Some others went to the extent of telling me an unpractical fool to let such a big amount of money (In those days) slip by my fingers for silly reason. Yes, for some time I felt bad but stayed content with my ideology that I was not a breed to dispense with my honesty and straightforwardness.
Then I thought, is it the tendency of people who claim to be honest otherwise, not to miss any opportunity to grab some amount of money or valuable assets to which they are not entitled bonafide as it had happened with me? If so, where is the honesty after all? What does honesty mean to an ordinary man and why do people fall to tread on unfair path?
Honesty as defined in dictionary is a state of being honest or integrity, candour, frankness, truthfulness. In common parlance, the state of being honest is understood as enjoying something earned bonafide and entitled. This is one part of honesty only; the other part is frankness and truthfulness which makes the definition complete. Thus Honesty in true sense means spotless, frank and truthful conduct of a person in every dealing at all times; in other words it is the morality. Thus if every human being behaves honest, the society, the country and the whole world will be a utopia.
Being a lover of nature I thought does that scenario prevail in present day society? Perhaps not. Even then the world goes on and people continue to live with respective wills and woes unfazed. But there are also some people who are honest, diligent and frank by nature, can easily visualize that there is a colossal degradation in human character, behavior and dealings in every society. What is obtrusive is the general tendency of many people to play blame game to hide their own flaws and failures. Invariably they try to camouflage their lapses and corruption by posing themselves as honest in all dealings and pass on the blame to others without looking into themselves and without bothering about the ineluctable consequences of what they have been doing.
To illustrate if a cross section of any society is taken for a microscopic examination, it will reveal that how many people in a society are submerged in a closed well of falsehood and engaged in designing deceptive machinations to hoodwink others only to safeguard personal interest and derive self satisfaction. Why so? Most probably it is due to lack of honesty in public life. And this kind of human tendency is catalyzed by some internal as well as external factors to proliferate manifold. Internal factor is nothing but continuous rise in greed of people for acquiring material success in respect of wealth and power at any cost mainly due to rapid change in taste and style of living concomitant with the growth and development of a country. This trend has induced multiplication of human wants in spite of scarce means. When means are scarce, people run a mad race to acquire comfort through minimum investment of capital and labour even by bidding good bye to moral ethics if required. Even then there do exist numberless honest people with no greed and that must be owing to sense of morality implanted in them from the very childhood.
The external factors are humungous in the form of continuous inflow of easy money to the hands of public consequent upon mega public spending on infrastructure and various cash incentives, food subsidies given to a large section of public in the name of reducing poverty and narrowing down inequality. Labour force, artisans and farmers have become so complacent and idle with Govt. incentives for which there is niether accountability nor appraisal to ascertain how far the inequality and poverty has been removed in true sense.
(Heliconium plaaant growing with vibrant inflorescence in front of my house)
In addition to all this, the impact of western culture, rapid growth of entertainment industry, high price rise coupled with inflation have gone to add fuel to the fire of people’s intense desire to capture power and amass wealth for leading luxurious life at others’ cost and the country’s interest. Another very important factor of derogation of morality in general public may be due to vote bank politics played by different political parties engaged in the race for capturing power. If someone looks at all these factors closely it will be apparent that the both internal as well as external factors have enticed even many humble and honest people to tread on unholy tracks and forced them to stoop so low as to grab personal interest even at the cost of the members of their own families what to talk of the interest of others and the country at large. Once a man’s head is jumbled with crude desire for acquiring wealth and power by hook or by crook, he overrides his conscience and goes out to commit any unethical deeds without least hesitation. At this point honesty is shaken off as dirt. Such is the state of affairs today in many countries of the world including ours.
Now coming to the point, who can be called an honest man? In simple terms a frank, straight forward and truthful person is always honest in all circumstances and all conditions. A truthful person has the ability to resist all temptations. He/she is never deviated from honesty by allurements of any kind or of any dimension even in most miserable conditions where there is no means for him/her to support own family.
One of my memorable practical experiences in life in the matter of sincere attempt to observe the most vital part of honesty, ie, truthfulness and straightforwardness is worth mentioning here. Sometime in seventies I had an occasion to meet one renowned sage in one Ashram situated on the bank of river Ganges at Rishikesh. While talking to him, out of curiosity, I asked him, “Baba! I am from my childhood living an innocent, simple and honest life without even thinking of any bad of others, then why I am facing troubles, suffering and obstacles in course of my struggle for existence?”
The monk smiled and said, “Suffering and miseries in one’s life is one’s own earning only. One suffers and faces misery in spite of leading an honest life without harming others is due to the carried over unpaid/unrealized effects of one’s actions done in previous lives until those are fully experienced. Therefore do not worry bad days will pass soon.” Then I asked him, “how to know about the quantum of sin I have been carrying from the past and how long shall I suffer?” He said, “If you practise telling the truth for twelve years continuously you can know everything about your past lives and the amount of virtue you have earned and quantum of sin you are carrying. You can also read others mind easily.”
After coming back from Rishikesh I thought of it seriously and decided to tell the truth and only the truth in all conditions come what may. Then from the next day I started speaking the truth always and continued doing so uninterrupted for two years even though it was extremely difficult to face the world being truthful in my every utterance being placed in a senior Manager position of my Bank. To my utter surprise I found that whenever I asked for anything from anybody it was done as if mechanically. In those days people did not know about sonography but whenever a pregnant woman or her husband asked me about probable sex of their would be child, I could say exactly what it would be.. But this situation did not last long. Very soon I was promoted and placed in a higher positions where I was compelled to take the shelter of lies for official secrecy.
Thus I lost continuity in telling the truth and as a result, I lost all that I had acquired until then and I was restituted to my original stage of being an ordinary man (Punarmusika Bhavah). That was the unique power of truthfulness and honesty that I could experience for a very short time. I repented for giving up the practice of telling the truth but it was late then and I could not retrieve that mental strength to face the world by carrying a head load of official responsibilities in which I was bound to maintain official secrecy by shying away from truth. Then I could realize why do the sages and Mahapurus in olden days were undertaking penance by renouncing the world for attaining perfection and salvation. Because, mundane ties and attachment are stumbling blocks on the way of reaching the summit of perfection. It is indeed an uphill task to stick to truthfulness and frankness remaining in the web of worldly bondage throughout the life. God knows how Gandhiji being one among us could uphold truthfulness throughout his life. But it is an axiomatic truth that when a person rises above material desire by giving up attachment with all others around him/her including near and dear ones, he/she would automatically gain power and confidence to face the world being absolute truthful and frank. At that state he/she would have enough strength and confidence to resist not only temptations but also all sorts of onslaughts and heinous designs of others around him/her. God is great and kind to all.
(Bankim with nature at Kualalumpur)
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker likes to enjoy the essence of life with nature having been triturated in the cauldron of mundane complexities for decades on his benign pursuit to maintain honesty. Now having ample leisure in hand and no project or responsibility to shoulder, he writes something that comes on his way besides travelling and gardening. He is not a writer or poet but takes to writing as one of the means of relaxation.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT A PLACE AND PALACE
First , the Place we are discussing about is Pune .It is the 9th most populous city of India and the second largest in the state of Maharashtra after Mumbai . The area around Pune has a history going back thousands of years. But in the more recent history it was the seat of the Maratha empire from the 17th–18th century. Pune first came under Maratha control in the early 1600s when Maloji Bhosale was granted fiefdom of Pune by the Nizam Shahi of Ahmednagar. Chhatrapati Shivaji (1630-1680) ,the founder of the Maratha empire (the grandson of Maloji Bhosale and son of Shahaji Bhosale), spent part of his childhood and teenage years in Pune.
The city was a political and commercial centre of the Indian subcontinent during the period of Peshwa rule. This came to an end with the Marathas losing to the British East India Company during the Third Anglo-Maratha War in 1818. After the fall of Peshwa rule in 1818, the British East India Company made the city one of its major military bases. The city was known by the name of Poona during British rule and for a few decades after Indian independence. In the 19th and early 20th century, Pune was the centre of social reform, and at the turn of the 20th century, the centre of Nationalism.
The place is a famous historical spot as it was a hotspot of Indian nationalist leaders during the freedom struggle. Its Yerwada Central Jail , established by the British in 1871,housed many Indian freedom fighters including Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Netaji Subhas Bose and Bal Gangadhar Tilak and Vinayak Damodar Savarkar. Most significantly, Mahatma Gandhi spent several years in Yerwada Jail during India's freedom struggle, notably in 1932 and later in 1942 during the Quit India movement.
It was during his 1932 imprisonment that Gandhi went on an indefinite fast inside the jail to protest against the Communal Award announced by the then British Prime Minister Ramsay McDonald on August 16, 1932. The Award with sinister design ,proposed separate electorates for minority representation for the depressed classes. Dalit leaders, including Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar, had accepted the proposal, believing it would allow Dalits to advance their interests. Mahatma Gandhi, on the other hand, objected to the provision of an electorate for the Dalits separate from others, which in his view would hamper integration and weaken India in its bid for independence. Though in prison, Gandhi announced a fast unto death, which he began on September 18. Ambedkar had refused to abandon his support for separate electorates until Gandhi was near death. Gandhi broke his fast on September 24, 1932, after signing the Poona Pact with Ambedkar and Madan Mohan Malviya.
Another important memory of the place is Gadgil Wada . Gadgil Wada had been built in 1930 by Narhar Vishnu Gadgil, better known as Kakasaheb Gadgil, a Gandhian freedom fighter. Stalwarts of freedom struggle such as Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhai Patel and Maulana Abul Kalam used to come to the house to meet, strategize and, before 1947, hide from the British police.
Over the decades, as it has been reported, the mighty wooden gates that have stood the test of time have welcomed most former prime ministers, such as Chandra Sekhar and I K Gujral, and Atal Bihari Vajpayee.
The leaders were literally treading in the footsteps of stalwarts such as Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhai Patel and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad who used to come to the house to meet, strategise and, before 1947, hide from the British police. Despite clashing ideological colours, many political leaders accept the importance of events that took place at Gadgil Wada.
The house’s tryst with destiny began in 1932, with Nehru. Whenever he came to Pune, Nehru made it a point to spend time at Gadgil Wada. In 1942, when the entire Congress Working Committee that had been placed in Ahmednagar Jail was finally released and Patel suggested that they should sit together in a private place and deliberate for a few days before going their separate ways, Nehru suggested “the good house of Kakasaheb” or Gadgil Wada. The wada occupies a 3,000 sq ft area, with common walls with the neighbours’ homes as was the practice at the time.
Another historic landmark of the place is Fergusson College. This college was founded with an aim to provide nationalistic education to the youth of this country. Lokmanya Tilak, the great radical freedom fighter who was at the forefront of the struggle, was one of the founders of the college . So the nationalistic patriotic spirit was very much prevalent in the college from the beginning. Between 1902 and 1905, Veer Savarkar was a student of Fergusson College . Later on Acharya Kripalani was also studied in this college. This college has the rare distinction of producing two prime ministers of India, PV Narasimha Rao and VP Singh. VP Singh did BSc Physics here. People recollect that VP being a prince, used to be called 'Raja Saab' and used to come to the college in a horse drawn buggy! Narasimha Rao who is a master of many languages ,did his BSc in Mathematics but not much anecdotes is known about him.
Pune most famously and significantly is known for a Palace, the majestic building known as the Aga Khan Palace. Spread over 19 acres of land and the palace is closely linked to the Indian freedom movement as it served as a prison for Mahatma Gandhi, his wife Kasturba Gandhi, his secretary Mahadev Desai, and Sarojini Naidu. Kasturba Gandhi and Mahadev Desai died during their captivity period in the palace and have their Samadhis located over there. Later Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes were kept here .
Let us not forget that Kasturba Gandhi, the resilient wife of the Mahatma was not only a huge supporter of her husband but was the front row leader in the anti-colonial sentiment. Kasturba was ill in her final days. There are photos of mourning Gandhiji sitting beside his demised wife, other photos, Kasturba in the cradle of Gandhi’s lap shows their strong love and relationship. It is said a weeping Mahatma and dug the grave of Kasturba and put his own Khadi Chadar on her before her cremation.
The Aga Khan Palace was built by Sultan Muhammed Shah Aga Khan III in 1892.He did it as an act of charity to help the poor in the neighbouring areas of Pune who were so adversely hit by famine by offering them work. The palace is spread over 19 acres and the palace is now managed by the Gandhi National Memorial Society .
Pune is also called the ,Oxford of the East, because of a huge number of educational institutes here. It is also called the “Detroit of India since it is home to a large number of automobile manufacturers, including Hamara Bajaj. It is the Queen of the Deccan, because in earlier days Poona (Pune) was a salubrious green city with a "Hill station like atmosphere” and was considered the best city on the Deccan Plateau. But to me the Palace makes the place significant, just not because of its architectural excellence, sprawling lawns, but because of the history of freedom struggle attached to it forever, as it served not only as the temporary prison for the Bapuji, the Mahatma and other patriots , but because of the permanent resting place of Baa (Kasturba) and Bapu’s Secretary , Mahadev Desai, who was exceptionally good writer, and a disciplined person.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
This small municipal town in Crimea is in complete grip of biting winter although freezing cold is not new to its residents. With arrival of winter, the town remains under layers of snow for months together every year. Life comes to a standstill with night time temperature, falling sometime to even minus thirty degree Celsius and remaining under several feet of snow cover is quite normal. Inhabitants of the town, prepare themselves to carry on life under layers of snow. The handful pucca buildings in the town have slanted concrete roof, while majority of the houses are wooden cabins with slanted wooden or slate roofed canopy. The taller buildings look like snow-white ice spires when layers of snow cover them. One often observe residents clearing mounds of snow from rooftops of their houses manually with snow shovels. Roads, leafless trees, house tops lose their existence under ice. Before winter sets in, the flora and fauna prepare to meet the inevitable. Birds and animals migrate to warmer areas. Oak, Beach, Maple, Cypress and Oleander trees shed their leaves. Residents collect sufficient food, medicine, wood, charcoal, petrol, diesel and woollen clothes.
Initially snowfall starts as diamond dusts which soon hardens as snow crystals and quickly covers everything underneath. This is followed by snowstorm with high winds and when blizzard takes over there is zero visibility. Heating systems in houses keep the them warm inside. But poor depend on firewood or charcoal for heating. However, this year winter set in so suddenly without giving sufficient time to this war torn town to prepare for it.
This small town in Simferopol area in Central Crimea with few thousand population is not widely known. The few pucca structures include an Orthodox Christian church at far end of the town, the municipal office, the primary health centre and the market building. The Crimean peninsula in Eastern Europe is surrounded by the Black sea and Sea of Azov on three sides and is connected to the mainland of Ukraine through a narrow strip of land. Situated in hilly central region of the peninsula the small town does not offer many employment opportunity, other than cultivation in the valleys. Male folks move to Sevastopol, Gaspro and other nearby cities in search of work. Many others work in the Army and women , mostly look after their homes and are engaged in fields. Dearth of potable water in the entire peninsula leaves the area parched in spite of sea all around. The Northern Crimea canal running from Dnipro river in mainland Ukraine is the only source of drinking water for the entire peninsula. This sweet water source is the bone of contention and the main motive behind many wars and bloodshed in the region.
Sudden arrival and severity of Winter this year can be gauged by the fact that with rapid fall of mercury, water inside supply pipeline has frozen and has caused damage at several places. Russo-Ukraine war is nearing to complete a year and the life and livelihood of people in the peninsula is devastated by frequent missile and machinegun attacks. People hoped for permanent peace after Crimea went to Russian hands from Ukaine , some eight years back. Crimea has been the sore point for both the warring nations. Since war broke out, persistent bombing caused havoc and ravaged almost every house of the town. Constant wailing of sirens and public address system advisory warning about ensuing air raids forced the residents to temporarily take shelter in bunkers. Use of light was prohibited and black outs were strictly enforced in the town. Presently the same is no more necessary, as electricity infrastructure in Ukraine is completely devastated by Russian missile attacks. Male folks are unable to return to the village and womenfolk find it difficult to move out of their houses as roads have been wiped out and due to constant fear of bombing no means of transport is considered safe. Agricultural activities have come to a standstill and shops are destroyed. Essential consumable items including life-saving medicines are not available. Government was making available wheat and corn initially for a few months, but the supply slowly dried down and is now completely stopped. People are left with no cash to buy essential everyday items for daily consumption. To make things worse is the biting snow storm and accompanying blizzard. Amidst darkness and snow cover citizens are left to suffer from hunger, fear and trepidation.
Like every other resident of the town in a small wooden hut lived two souls in constant fear and anxiety-Neura and her mother- in- law Bohdana, in their thirties and Seventies respectively. A few firewood were burning in a corner which was quite insufficient to save them from freezing cold. Bohdana was in a state of delirium with high fever making her restless. Neura gave a blank look in the air without knowing what to do. There is no news of her husband Gabrillo, who has been fighting Russian aggressors in some warfront for Ukraine. Crimea has remained under Ukraine occupation some time and under Russian occupation during other periods and inhabitants of this peninsula has been suffering from divided loyalty and split nationalistic sentiments. Thousands of inhabitants of Crimea are facing each other and fighting in the battlefield for Russia as well as for Ukraine.
In this chilly weather Bohdana was sweating profusely and at the same time was shivering, feeling pain in every part of the body. Hunger and weakness was making her feel drowsy. Neura was preparing some porridge from broken wheat for Bohdana. She looked through the closed windowpane and the outside was looking foggy and aqua- bluish dark as it was snowing continuously. She could faintly observe some movements at a distance- a human figurine advancing slowly in knee deep ice. Yes, someone is walking towards their hut, not Gabrilo definitely, she guessed from his gait. She again tried to be sure and looked outside, but could not see anyone. At the next moment, she heard someone knocking at their front door and it became heavier. Neura found Bohdana sleeping. She instantly picked up the axe but did not move. Had it been Gabrillo he would have called by her name, she thought. Will it be proper on her part to open the door at this hour? May be someone is in distress and seeking help. She slowly advanced towards the door holding the axe behind her on one hand. She asked “who is there?” There was no response, but she could feel someone breathing heavily on the other side of the door. Slowly came the response “Me” and she heard sound of some heavy object falling on the ground. With axe on one hand Neura opened the door with the other hand. She found a tired stranger sitting on the ground and requesting for some water. Neura moved in and brought a glass of warm water. The stranger got a new lease of life.
Neura noticed only with strong determination and physical strength one can venture to walk on this frigid cold with so much weight to carry. He introduced himself, “I am a Russian soldier, I do not want to conceal my identity. I will be your guest for a few days. Will you not welcome?”
Neura had already noticed the adventure of the stranger and the soldier’s uniform he was wearing. After she found the automatic rifle in the hands of the stranger, she just pondered whether she has any other option rather than welcoming the Russian soldier to her house. Enemy soldier with AK -47 rifle in hand, she felt it was more an order rather than a request.
Yet Neura showed no signs of weakness. As wife of a fighting soldier she has been facing the challenges of this world all alone in his absence. She thought may be with little luck she can turn this adversity to an opportunity and can teach a lesson to the enemy soldier at right time. She said my mother-in- law is in the house and surely I can not allow a stranger in the house without her permission. You may wait outside till I get her permission. The stranger replied rudely, “I have definitely not come so far to listen ‘NO’ from you. Yet you may seek your mother-in-law’s permission. I am waiting outside.” Hiding the axe behind her Neura went inside. By this time Bohdana was awake and was listening to their conversation from a distance. After listening to Neura , Bohdana did not like the idea of giving enemy soldier- both enemy of her son as well as enemy of Ukraine shelter in the house. She gathered strength and picked up a heavy knife to attack and kill the stranger at once.
“Have patience, the enemy has an automatic weapon in his hand. These knife and axe will stand nowhere, in comparison to the weapon he is holding. Our permission has no meaning to the enemy soldier. Even otherwise he could have forced himself in to our house without our permission by just displaying his weapon. He does not know that Gabrillo is fighting along with his adversaries. May be from him we can get accurate information about the course of war. How long this war will continue and who is actually winning in this war? We may even get some information about Gabrillo through him.” Moving towards Bohdana she just murmured with a very low voice to her ear “ if the enemy soldier stays in our house may be we will get an opportunity to take his life.” He is quite adventurous, which will definitely invite her death faster. Even we can add poison to his food and take the life of an enemy so easily. Bohdana appreciated the idea. Both planned to wait for an opportune moment to implement the idea. Neura cautioned not to divulge the fact that Gabrillo is fighting for the Ukraine army.
“It is difficult to wait longer in this winter outside. Thank you for your silent permission” saying this the enemy soldier made an entry to their house. With one look around the house he could guess the pitiable condition of his host. He noticed a few log of wood and some charcoal besides some household goods lying here and there. Neura clarified there is hardly enough food, water , fuel or cash for two of them and they were discussing how the same can be shared with the stranger. This was the reason for the delay in allowing him inside. The stranger said “you need not worry about my dinner, I have some dry food with me. You just make some hot water for me. I will prepare soup and will spread my bedroll near the entrance door and sleep.” Neura’s unfriendly and unwelcome attitude towards the intruder was quite visible, yet she tried best to conceal her feelings from the enemy soldier and did accordingly.
“You pass on the axe you are holding behind before going to bed”, the soldier urged to Neura and she obeyed the order without a murmur. The Church bell indicated it is 9 PM and both Neura and Bohdana retired to the inner room. Both could not sleep and discussed long hours how they can soon get rid of the Russian soldier before sleeping.
Bohdana woke up early in the morning to the heavy sound of splitting firewood from the log by the intruder enemy soldier. Soon she found that the dilapidated roof of the hut, destroyed by Russian air bombing has been already repaired by the Russian soldier and he is busy chopping firewood from the log with Neura’s axe. When Neura got up he handed over canned pork and noodles and asked her to prepare food for all three of them. Neura for a moment felt she is watching Gabrillo in the stranger. The Russian soldier has already made a small heap of chopped wood-sticks from the logs and kept them neatly for use. Bohdana too was observing the activities of the Russian soldier with interest and fondly remembered Gabrillo. His whereabout is unknown and in which front he will be fighting the enemy soldiers only God knows. Gabrillo has not returned since he left home when war broke out. It would have been a sight if he was there in place of this intruder enemy soldier. Her abhorrence and hard feelings towards the intruder was quite visible on her face and she could not stand the activities of the intruder enemy for long. A few drops of tear rolled down her cheeks.
After chopping wood and neatly storing them, the enemy soldier took out the snow-shovel and started clearing snow from the house compound. Neura, after cutting pork in to smaller pieces, cleaned the knife neatly and hid it in a safer place, handy for future use. After taking food the soldier taught them how to prepare charcoal from firewood and gave medicine to Bohdana. A few days passed like this. Both Neura and Bohdana however distaste the uncalled for help and service provided by the stranger. They viewed it as an interference as well as intrusion in their personal life and freedom.
On several occasions mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law discussed plans to take the life of the enemy soldier behind his back. But the soldier was quite alert and was giving no opportunity to implement any of them. Both on several nights had plan to suddenly stab the enemy soldier with knife attack, but were not getting any occasion for the same and were feeling frustrated. The stranger was never leaving his automatic weapon. Both Neura and Bohdana realised it is very difficult to poison the food the enemy soldier was taking as he used to take food with them and was always last to take food after they finish.
The intruder was very calm and composed , yet ready to help them in any moment they need. Bohdana was quite eager to get news about the war and Gabrillo from the enemy soldier but never dared. Neura liked the composed and matured demeanour of the stranger, yet he was suspicious about his friendly posture. How an adversary can hide his hostile attitude and display an amiable face? Definitely the Russian is acting and has ill intention to harm them, which he is hiding cleverly. Several times she has thought to ask the enemy to find out the reasons for his helping attitude but remained silent. She had many queries in her mind but she controlled herself. Once however she could not do so and enquired “why did you choose our dilapidated hut to take shelter?”
The stranger calmly replied we observe unannounced ceasefire during the severe winter. You must have noticed less intensity of war and less number of air raids and bombing during this period. Nothing specific about your house. I had to take shelter somewhere during this period. All houses are same to me. Any house I would have chosen to take shelter would ask the same question you are asking. Already a month is over. Another month will pass soon and we will be called to report.
Neura and Bohdana had no option. When snowfall subsided for a while the Russian soldier went out to purchase charcoal and horsegram leaving his automatic rifle behind. Neura and Bohdana had a heated argument after he left. Bohdana wanted to hide the weapon and use it against the intruder. Neura picked up and took a good look of the rifle but left it at its place after realising that it will be of no use, as they do not know how to operate. Secondly, the cartridge containing bullets are with the Russian soldier. Neura tried to pacify Bohdana, who was losing all hopes and feeling desperate. She said at least they are alive today with the timely help and service received from the stranger. Without his care it would not have been possible to survive the winter without food and medicines. Bohdana has at least regained some strength and with charcoal fire they could survive the worst winter. However these comforting words sounded empty to Bohdana. And she felt utterly wretched. The intruder is enemy of Ukraine as well enemy of her own blood and how can she erase her antipathy towards him?
Bohdana felt desolate and bereft. Night after night she sheds tear for his son. Is he safe and will return home soon? She gets disheartened and miserable whenever she remembers Gabrillo. Due to severe winter the intensity of war has come down. Marked respite from frequent air raids by enemy fighter planes is observed. “Why Gabrillo is not coming back?”
Neura too gets lost in her thought. Whether the stranger can feel the vacuum created by his own man? The soldier has done a lot for Bohdana, when she was ailing- more than a son. Without him hunger and biting cold would have taken their lives. Yet she think of Gabrillo, without him life is incomplete. On the bed she feels lonesome and forlorn. Hunger of her body makes her morose and leaves her in a sombre mood. She craved for masculine touch, which she has been missing and yearning for. She bites her own lips. But she too like Bohdana distastes stranger’s unsolicited help.
One night a Russian missile hit the town with a thud. Bohdana lost consciousness and Neura suffered minor injury. The tremor shook the whole cottage. The enemy soldier and Neura remained awake. When he put a bandage on her wounds she felt as if in fire. Since that day her detest and feeling of hatred towards the stranger took a backseat. Her strong hostile feelings towards the stranger became softer.
One day the Russian soldier brought home two blankets. Handing over to Neura and Bohdana he said these are for you. When Neura enquired what about you? He replied “It is not needed as I will leave your house tomorrow. The winter has subsided and I have got a call to report to my unit.” That night both Neura and Bohdana felt miserable. She shed tears in her bed. It’s difficult at times to speak one’s mind. Probably Russian soldier too felt desolate.
Next morning Neura and Bohdana discovered that the enemy soldier has left their house early in the morning. Both remembered him and the whole day they did not feel like taking any food.
Several days passed. Neura was in a dilemma- some thoughts constantly bothering her. Was it a right decision to give shelter to an enemy? At a time when Gabrillo has been fighting the enemy should she allow an enemy who forced misery on them and forcibly occupied a portion of the motherland?
Finally, winter departed and snow started to melt in normal weather condition. With arrival of Spring there were new leaves in trees and the city raised its head slowly to its normal activities. But with improved weather conditions the intensity of war, air raids and missile attacks multiplied. One day Neura stepped out of her house and wend her way towards the Church. She entered the Confession Chamber, knelt down and patiently waited for the priest. When the priest arrived bending her head she said “I have committed a grave crime, Holy Father, I am a traitor, an enemy of our country, as I have given shelter to an enemy soldier in my house. I repent for my action. When soldiers of my country are facing bullets of the aggressor, for freedom and glory I have done a severe crime. Pardon me please.”
The priest listened to Neura and broke his silence saying “Rise up Neura, this is House of the Lord and continue to do your duty as before. You should feel proud for your husband and his dedicated service to the nation. The enemy soldier was seeking shelter and you have extended hospitality to someone in need. You have done no wrong for which you should feel guilty and seek pardon from Lord in this Confession chamber. In fact the stranger enemy soldier who took refuse in your house came to this Confession Chamber months back and was repenting for his wrong deed. In the battlefield when an enemy soldier was fighting for his life and sought his help, he did not provide any and the soldier died in front of him. That soldier was none other than Gabrillo, your husband who succumbed to enemy bullet. After death of Gabrillo in front of his eyes, he grieved and felt guilty for not helping someone in distress. From Gabrillo’s uniform pockets he collected your address and photo and came running to the confession chamber of this House of the Lord. That time I mentioned him about your miserable condition and directed him to serve and take care of you and Bohdana, instead , which will be an appropriate repentance. I only directed him to your house and you have not committed any crime. You please rise and go back to your house.”
( translation of my Odia story titled “Thik Kete Bhul” which means Exactly how much wrong)
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
Suddenly a feeling of emptiness, last five days have been so busy since I had a visitor,was busy looking after her,she was residing at the pandal next to Hiranandani complex,yes I'm talking about none other than Ma Durga.
Out came my colourful sarees to represent each day,that had been sleeping in the wardrobe for sometime, everytime I opened my cupboard, each in it's own tune would sing...."when is my turn "?,drape me and I will make you look like a model.
The excitement of taking my son to the pandal to offer prayers, buying fruits, sweets and coconut for prasad.I can still hear the beats on the drum,the ullu ulli sounds that are used for any auspicious moments in odisha be it puja or weddings and her glowing face yellow as though smeared with turmeric.These five days I felt as though there never ever were any challenges that we as a family were facing.Everything seemed peaceful and calm.
Today at the pandal both panditji and his son were wearing royal blue dhoti, as though it was meant for us only.Volunteers were busy organizing queues for members and non members for Sindoor Khela.
She spread so much of happiness and positive vibes amongst her devotees,my eyes are moist as I write,I got so lost in her love and prayers that I almost missed my practice sessions,which I don't usually.
The blackboard tree that had suddenly stopped blooming started once again to bloom,sight of shiuli flowers spreading a white carpet in my garden every morning. Oh how can one forget the Aarti and Pushpanjali followed by the mantras. On the fifth day itself in the afternoon I went out to check if she had arrived, yes she had but was veiled. Probably I was the first one to greet her amongst the crowd on the streets, such was my enthusiasm that I could hardly wait to connect with her.She has always been my strength in everything I do,she is my "Shakti",my guide, my mentor,my power,my patience.
Now that she has left,I have to muster much more patience and courage to continue with the task which has been handed over to me through her .
How I hate to see her leaving with that suitcase in her hand which must be filled with life lessons.
She has actually gone very far off to her abode,one can see her now only through prayers and of course Hushkoo ???? ???? is there to keep me engrossed in his never ending acrobatics.
"Ya Devi sarwabhuteshu shakti rupena sansitha, Namastasye Namastasye namoh namaha!!"
"Jai Ma Durga!!"
???? ???? ???? ???? ????
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)
Lord Brahma’s cell phone was not working and so he thought of taking a new cell phone. On Mahakal Channel, he had seen that Lord Shiva had launched a new smart phone model M∞ (Maheswar Infinity). It was available at Mahakal Telecom Store which was located on Mount Kailash.
So, one fine day he set out to get it from the store. On his chariot, he flew straight to the store.
And Lord Shiva was there himself!
“Oh, Shiva, you are here, I thought you would be meditating, and one of your eight commanders like Bhringi or Nandi would be here.”
“No, Brahma, Bhringi is on leave today. Bhringi and Nandi guard the doors of my residence. So, as Nandi is there guarding the doors, I decided to stay here myself.
But why did you come here? You could have easily given me a ring or send a message.”
“This old model is not working well, so I decided to come myself and get it exchanged! What is the feedback of this latest model M∞?”
“Ah, very good, you can connect anywhere – Swargo, Prithvi, Patal, wherever you want.”
“But on Prithvi and Patal– time scales are different!”
“Just download the 'Mahakal App' – and you will be able to convert to 'Prithvi Time.'”
“But do you manufacture yourself in your 'Mahakal Enterprises' Factory?”
“No, have outsourced to Vishwa”.
“Vishwa?”
“Oh Yaar, our engineer Viswakarma, Lord Viswakarma as Earthians call him. He has designed our flying chariots and celestial palaces so well.”
“See, here comes Vishnu.”
Vishnu was busy getting down from his vahono (vehicle) Garuda.
“I thought of coming here before, but was busy advising Indra”
“Indra?”
“Yes, he is being troubled by the power seeking Ashuras because of Sage Durvasa’s curse, so have told him – we should go for churning of the ocean or do ‘Samudra Manthan’ to share the nectar and thus appease these demons who we all call Ashuras!”
“But what have you come here for?” asked Lord Shiva.
“The new model M∞ seems to be too good, we need it during Samudra Manthan, that’s why I came here.”
“Ah, that is good, I will give you and Brahma for free. I am now busy developing Mahakal site ∞∞∞. Mahakal.heaven.”
“Ah that’s good, hope we can take its advantage soon!”
“Yes, our soon is.., I mean heaven’s soon is…..
…better not said, well here are your mobile phones.”
So, Lord Brahma, Lord Vishnu, and Lord Shiva all now have the new model M∞.
The Gods say this model M∞ can be used on Prithvi too. So, what are we waiting for?
The exchange currency? Well, wait let me talk to Lord Shiva about that… the currency!
As Earthians, we will have to buy in an Earthian or Parthiv currency.
First, I will send a request to Lord Shiva to make it available here on Earth and then will negotiate for the currency and price.
Please wait till then…..
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.
(This story is a part of his book 'The Fourth Monkey" published by Notion Press, Chennai in February 2023)
Twelve kilometers from Shaharanpur, on the way to Delhi, my old Fiat car stalled. I switched off the ignition and tried to start the car again. It refused to budge. My heart sank. It was three o’clock on a hot June afternoon. In no time, the car turned into an oven, out to bake us. I got out of the car, looking around like a lost chicken in a furniture market. In her usual way Manjari, my wife, started abusing me and the car, and then the car and me, in turn. The fact that the car is of the same age as hers and is a favorite object of mine, did not escape her mention. If I discerned a tinge of jealousy in her words, I suppressed the urge to point it out. I am a peace-loving man and avoid confronting her.
Manjari’s harangue got stronger in pitch and tone. I took out a screw-driver, opened the bonnet of the car, but intimidated by the maze of wires and assortment of minor and major contraptions inside, shut it down in no time. A Professor of Political Science with a screw-driver in hands looked as incongruous as a traffic constable with a violin or a carpenter with a cooking pan.
Manjari broke into one of her favorite topics – the uselessness of her husband, the roguishness of the car, the grave injustice pervasive in the world, the cruel way in which life had treated her. This was her cassette number three. She has more than two dozen cassettes like this in her repertoire. She is a great artist and her talent has always left me spell-bound. Her art is in the non-traditional form – making mincemeat of the reputation of her husband and the children is her forte. She has recorded more than two dozen cassettes over the years and on very special occasions, like her kitty party, or a gathering of ladies on someone’s birthday; when the discussion inevitably veers towards husband-bashing, she plays the cassettes with great gusto. She is extremely popular in her group of friends for the quality and variety of her cassettes.
In the early days of our marriage her favorite topic for cassette was her singular bad luck in marrying a mere lecturer, when there were proposals from bank officers, police officers, engineers and many other worthies. But because her father was an honest, good-for-nothing government official, he couldn’t arrange dowry and Manjari had to marry a mere lecturer, another good-for-nothing man. While narrating this heart-breaking tragedy, her voice assumed the pathos of the melancholic singer Mukesh, her crying tone reverberated with the thin sepulchral echo of a Lata Mangeshkar song, capable of melting the listener’s heart into tears.
With age and time, Manjari’s talent had scaled new heights of excellence. The variety and range of themes in her more than two dozen cassettes were amazing:
- Husband’s useless job (‘Is it a job or a joke’?)
- The laughable salary of a lecturer (‘Can’t meet both ends, leaving them open all the time!’)
- Her good-for-nothing father should have arranged enough dowry for a better husband for her (‘Not as if the President of India gave the father a Padma Bhusan for honesty!’)
- Kids’ incessant tantrums (‘Offspring of a worthless monkey can only be useless monkeys!’)
- Not even one servant at home (‘Can’t remember a day without a peon or a cook at my parent’s place!’)
- No decent furniture at home (‘Can’t invite even the poorest of the neighbors, their furniture is better than ours!’)
- The good-for-nothing husband joking with students all the time (‘That’s why they call him sir, but treat him as yaar!’)
- Kids playing all the time (‘Time and tide wait for none!’)
Ranjit, our son, and Anjana, the daughter, have been brought up on the rich diet of their mother’s cassettes and my limitless love for them. Despite all the scolding and taunts of Manjari, they have unstinted loyalty for her, fighting many times with their friends to claim that no one in the world can make better chicken chowmein and prawn curry than her!
And their love for me? They think I am their heart-throb, although they can’t say that openly in Manjari’s presence, for fear of inducing her to make another cassette! Anjana fights with me all the time for small things, she calls it her entertainment! If Manjari scolds her for that, she shuts her up – “If I don’t fight with my Papa, do I go to your place to fight with your Papa?” Before going for her exam, she would say, “Hey Papa, the teacher says we should touch the feet of our parents before leaving for exams, So raise your feet, you don’t expect me to bend to touch your feet, do you?”
Ranjit left for the hostel at IIT Kharagpur after finishing his high school. When he came home for his first vacation, Manjari asked him, “So, did you miss my cooking in the hostel?” Ranjit stunned her with “Mummy, of course I missed your mouth-watering dishes, but you know what? I missed your cassettes more than your cooking!” We guessed Manjari was pissed off with the comment, but we had no guts to ask her! We had always been scared of her instant cassette-making abilities.
Our daughter Anjana got married a year ago and moved to a far-off town. Every night she called on her mobile phone and chatted with her mother for at least half an hour, twenty nine minutes of which will be Manjari’s complaint against me (Cassette number one) , my poor income (Cassette number two), the uselessness of the work I am doing (Cassette number seven), her lack of friends (Cassette number five – “how can I invite anyone home, I don’t even have a decent set of furniture!), Anjana would listen quietly and ask her mother to hand over the phone to me.
“Papa, everything seems to be normal! The day Mummy stops playing her cassettes, there will be a catastrophe and everything will collapse. And personally, I will have a sleepless night, tossing on the bed, worrying what havoc the catastrophe will cause! Go to sleep Papa, you are in safe hands!”
Over the past thirty one years of marriage, I had climbed the professional ladder, moving from a lecturer to a reader, and then to a professor. And four years back I came to Delhi to join the National Council of Educational Research and Training as its Associate Director. But two things did not change in my life - my financial condition remained stable, but not very inspiring to meet Manjari’s high standards, and second, the ever-present harangue from her cassettes. I accepted both as a part of my existence and moved on with life.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
But on that scalding June afternoon, on the way back to Delhi from Shaharanpur after attending a meeting at the Global University there, catastrophe struck with a vengeance. My car ditched me in the most inappropriate manner. A hot summer afternoon on a simmering highway is certainly not the ideal way for a car to announce its advancing age, its bronchial disorder, rheumatism or arthritis. I stood leaning on the car, a water bottle in hand, sweating profusely from Manjari’s scorching words, from the fire falling like blistering showers from the sky and the heat radiating from the road. A few Hondas, Toyotas and Nissans passed by dazzlingly, like kimono-clad Japanese geishas, but no one had time for the poor Fiat, no one stopped.
An old man passed by riding a bicycle, face and head covered with a white towel, his dress drenched with sweat. He peered at me and Manjari and stopped.
“Babuji Namaskar! What are you doing here?” He asked in Hindi.
Manjari whispered from inside the car, “Ignore him. Looks like a highway robber!” I wondered at the man’s manner of familiarity, as if he knew us. Why did he stop after looking at us? Did he know us? Who was he? I didn’t remember him from anywhere!
“The car has suddenly stalled. Is there a workshop nearby?”
The man shook his head,
“Nothing for sixteen kilometers ahead of you and you have left Shahranpur twelve kilometers back. What’s wrong with the car?”
“No idea, it’s an old car.”
Manjari’s angry whispers again, “Don’t talk to him so much, he is trying to befriend you and then he will attack us!” I didn’t like Manjari’s approach, but, as usual, kept quiet.
“Don’t worry Babuji, both of you come with me to my house. My son Ramdin works as a mechanic at the garage in the government agricultural depot. He will return home by four. I will send him to look at your car and if it’s a minor problem, he will fix it and bring the car home.”
Manjari’s furious whispers became embarrassingly loud.
“Don’t listen to him. The old man will kill us and his son will sell away the car
for ten thousand rupees. Just get into the car and lock the door.”
The old man must have guessed the meaning of what she was saying to me in Oriya. His face was covered, only his eyes and mouth were visible. I thought I saw a faint glimmer of an apologetic smile. He shook his head,
“Babuji, Memsaab, please don’t worry. I am not a thief, nor a robber. I am from a
decent family. Trust me”
I somehow felt that I had heard these words sometime, somewhere in the past. But I could not recollect when or where. Our reluctance to go with him was palpable. The old man was insistent.
“Please come home with me. It’s not safe to be inside the car any longer. You will get dehydrated. Look at the hot wind, it can melt even the telephone poles. Please come. My wife will be very happy to see both of you.”
We realized we had no option. We were beginning to feel a bit breathless and nauseous. We started walking with him. His house was about a half kilometer away, after a turn from the highway. He told us his name was Brijgopal and his wife was Ramdulari.
We felt the heat was sapping our energy and by the time we reached his home we were thankful that for some time we would have a shelter over our head.
The old man hollered at his wife, “Arrey, Ramdulari, wake up! See, Babuji and Memsaab at our doorstep! You won’t believe your eyes!”
We looked at each other. Who were these two? How were they referring to us with so much familiarity? I could see that Manjari’s distrust of the person still lingered, but she had surrendered herself to whatever fate awaited us.
A lady came out of the house. Looking at her soft face with light wrinkles, I felt that she looked vaguely familiar, a blur from the past, but memory eluded me. She looked at us, bowed her head and touched our feet. Her face beamed with overflowing joy. She took us inside. The room was dark, an overhead fan was providing cool air, coming like a gust of relief from heaven. We sat on the bed, she switched on the light.
Brijgopal had gone inside to wash his face. He came in without the towel on his face and when I saw him along with Ramdulari, recognition came in a flash. I suddenly remembered where I had seen them. From my smile he could realize that I knew who they were. He folded his hands,
“Babuji, you remember that cold evening in Delhi? You may not believe how many times we have prayed to God to bless your family and to give us an opportunity to serve you in whatever way we can. God is merciful and today he has brought you to our humble door step.”
I looked at Manjari. She still looked bewildered. Brijgopal asked Ramdulari to make some lassi for us. When I asked her not to take the trouble, he felt hurt,
“Please Babuji, don’t say like that. We got a new lease of life that evening thanks to you and Memsaab. If you had not helped us, both of us would have died in some street corner in the freezing cold of Delhi.”
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
The memory of that evening came back to me. It was the middle of January, three and half years ago. Manjari and I had gone to New Delhi railway station to see off her brother Mukund’s wife who was leaving for Bhubaneswar. We came out of the station and got into the car. I turned on the ignition and was about to leave when I found an old man tapping the window of the car. Manjari screamed at me,
“Lock the door and let’s leave. The old man will take out a knife now and ask for money.”
The man didn’t take out a knife, nor did he threaten me. He folded his hands and said,
“Babuji, please help me. I lost all my money to a pick-pocket. I must go back to my village tonight. My son is at home, looking after the house and the cattle. If he doesn’t report for work tomorrow morning, he will lose his job.”
Manjari looked mad with rage,
“See, I told you. The same old trick. The usual story of a pocket getting picked and asking for money. Let’s leave. He looks dangerous”
She was screaming in Oriya. The man probably guessed her anger. He again folded his hands and implored,
“Please trust us. We are not thieves, nor robbers. We are not beggars, we are a decent family. See, my wife is standing there. I have really lost all my money to a pick-pocket. Please help us. God will bless you and your children.”
I looked at his wife. She was standing about fifteen feet away, head covered, a cloth bag in her hand. She looked rustic, but there was a quiet dignity about her, a helpless pride, fear writ large on her face, caused by the misgivings of an unknown city, and the uncertainty of what was going to happen. I made up my mind to help them.
“Where are you going? How much is the ticket?”
“Babuji, we have to buy the ticket upto Shahranpur. It will be 175 rupees per person.”
Manjari went ballistic.
“What, are you crazy? You are really going to give money to these cheats? Can’t you see they are taking you for a ride?”
I ignored Manjari, took out four hundred rupee notes from my wallet and gave it to the old man.
“Take this money, buy your tickets for three hundred fifty rupees and take some food before boarding the train.”
The old man could not believe his eyes and almost burst into tears. The lady came forward. Both of them stood with folded hands, bowed their heads and thanked us from the depth of their heart,
“Babuji, Memsaab, may God bless you and your children with abundant love. You have saved our lives tonight.”
They wanted to say more, but sensing Manjari’s unabating anger, they bowed their head and left.
Manjari burst like a cloud of rains.
“What an insensible idiot you are! Do we pluck money from the trees that we waste it like this? If you felt pity on them, you could have given them twenty-thirty rupees. How could you throw away four hundred rupees? When will you learn to be smart?”
I was upset with her. While driving out of the parking lot I told her,
“Manjari, they are not beggars to go and beg for twenty-thirty rupees from dozens of people. They are in real trouble. You must learn to believe someone sometime in life. They certainly didn’t look like thieves or cheats. If we help someone in trouble, God will help us.”
“Don’t give me that nonsense. I have been doing regular prayers and observing so many fasts for the last twenty four years. What has God given me, except penury and misery? I don’t have money to even buy a decent set of furniture. And you waste money like this!’
“Manjari, don’t say that. Your prayers and God’s blessings have given us two precious kids, for us they are the best kids in the world. What more do we want?”
Manjari didn’t relent. Throughout the way she kept on scolding me, finding a hundred faults with me and with her life. When we reached home, she poured out her heart to Anjana, about my stupidity, my fallibility for tricks of the cheats, about her sufferings in life at the hands of a good-for-nothing husband. Anjana came to my defense,
“Mummy, Papa doesn’t make mistakes in his judgment of people. Don’t worry. It’s just four hundred rupees. Forget it.”
Manjari accused her of taking sides with me and went inside the bedroom and shut the door. Anjana smiled at me and said, “Papa, cassette number twenty-two?”
I nodded in meek helplessness and kept quiet.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
After three and half years, the memory of that evening came alive. We had not imagined that we would ever meet the old couple again. Fate had brought us together. We drank the lassi and kept chatting, asking them about the village life, their home, the vegetable garden and the cattle. Their son Ramdin came around four, touched our feet and went away taking the keys of the car from us.
Brijgopal brought us back to the memory of that evening again. It looked like he still couldn’t believe that we were with him in flesh and blood. A bit overwhelmed, he continued,
“You know Babuji, that night when we were returning by train, Ramdulari kept pulling me up, ‘Why did you take so much money from Babuji? Didn’t you see how Memsaab was upset with him? For our sake Babuji had to bear with so much scolding!’ But I was not convinced. I told her, ‘No Ramdulari, Memsaab didn’t look like a mean person. There are some people who are harsh with their words, but have a soft, sweet heart. Didn’t you see there was a rare glow on her face? Such glow can come only from a clean, flawless heart. She must be from a very good family. And Babuji has lived with her for so many years. He must be familiar with her heart of gold. Otherwise how could he give us four hundred rupees, when I was expecting only ten or twenty rupees from him? Such generosity can come only from great persons. Good men like Babuji can’t live in isolation. He and Memsaab must be a great couple, made for each other.”
Hearing this Manjari looked at me and lowered her head. We spent a few more minutes at the home of Brijgopal and Ramdulari. It seems the problem with the car was very minor. Ramdin fixed it quickly and brought the car home. After thanking them profusely, we left for Delhi. On the way Manjari sat motionless in the car, lost in thought. I tried to cheer her up by cracking a joke or two, but she was unmoved.
We reached Delhi around nine and after a light dinner went off to sleep. Shortly after midnight I suddenly woke up. Manjari was not on the bed. I went out to look for her. The light in the living room was on. Manjari was sitting on the sofa, under the fan, lost in thought.
She had not seen me coming.
“What happened? Why did you get up?” I asked her.
Manjari looked up and rising slowly, she came near me, her eyes locked with mine.
“For the past twenty eight years you have been hearing my cassettes, so many of them! Just in one night today, I took out all the tapes from the cassettes, tore them to pieces and threw them away. From tomorrow you and the kids will not hear them again.”
I looked deeply into her eyes. They were filled with an incredible peace, like the still, blue waters of a deep ocean. I put my arms around her and locked her in a soft, loving embrace. She rested her head on my shoulder. Slowly my shirt got drenched with her tears.
Subhraan stopped running and looked around. Where was the girl? How could she vanish into thin air within a few seconds? He had no doubt it was Angelina - he had seen her when she took a turn into the Main Street from the narrow lane. She had obviously run a long way, her pace had become sluggish. Angelina - Angel to her friends - was tall, lanky, a stunning cracker of a girl who made heads turn wherever she was. But today she looked tired and scared.
The April afternoon was hot - heat pouring unto the street like molten lava. The sunlight was blinding. Subhraan was sure he had made no mistake. Yet, when he had seen the girl a few minutes back running down the lane, he couldn't place her. He just followed the girl, something told him she was in danger and was running for her life. She was running like a deer escaping from a hunter and he could hardly keep pace with her. When she turned to get into the Main Street - the sparse traffic hardly a deterrent to her - he could see her in a flash and wondered what Angelina was doing on this crazily hot afternoon when saner souls stayed indoors under a fan, cooling their body and soul.
Subhraan stopped and tried to locate Angel. Suddenly in a few seconds he saw a tall, handsome young man running down the small lane and it was then he made up his mind the girl could be none other than Angel. The young man - Prince - was known all over the town as Angel's boyfriend. It was he who exhibited her as a trophy to anyone who cared to look, carrying her on the back seat of his gorgeous motorbike, her hair in silken strands flying in the air. But why was Prince following her and why was Angel running for her life? Subhraan tried to think of a reason, but nothing registered in his perplexed mind. He hid himself behind the bamboo curtains of a shop and peeped unto the road.
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Angel was the sister of Shubhraan's best friend Amlaan. They studied in the same college, Angel was two years junior to them. Although she had just entered the first year, she was undoubtedly the beauty queen of the college. Tall, lissome, she was a perfect picture of unblemished beauty, combining a dazzling personality with a cute, sweet nature. Ever since Subhraan saw her as an eight year girl with a nice red ribbon adorning her head, he had fallen madly in love with her. They all attended the same church and every Sunday Shubhraan would sit at a place where he could gaze at her with uninterrupted attention. Amlaan knew of his friend's infatuation with his sister, but felt delicate to disclose it to his sister. But girls of course have a sixth sense. She used to taunt her brother,
"Hey Bhai, tell that friend of yours, that nerd Shubh not to keep staring at me like a famished beggar waiting for a hot meal. It is so embarrassing to feel his gaze on me all the time in the church and whenever he sees me in the college he freezes like an ice man. Chhi, chhi, how shameful!"
Amlaan would tease her,
"Shubh is a really nice fellow, quiet, dignified, but a bit shy. But you, a hot meal? Who gave you this fantasy? I don't find you beautiful - the long nose, the small eyes, the long forehead...Tchaih, a hot meal, how absurd!"
Angel would fly into a rage,
"Bhai, don't be silly, the whole college thinks I am beautiful, and you feel it is absurd! Absurd! As if I don't know what is your idea of beauty! I know how you look for a chance to talk to that cat-like doll Pinky every Sunday after the church prayers are over. You think she is beautiful! Ugh, how disgusting, she is so artificial, dressed up like a ballerina, paint oozing out of her face like toothpaste out of a broken tube! Chhi! And you think that is beauty! I pity you Bhai, I really pity you......"
She would leave, protest lending a pink tinge to her cute face.
Prince had entered the college in the same year as Angel. He was an exceptionally handsome young man. He wanted to flaunt his money, his splendid motorbike and his macho-ness, hiding the fact that he was actually a goonda, a loafer who indulged in petty crimes to earn money for his costly habits. He was from the same town and had quite a reputation as a "hero". He acquired girl friends by the dozen and discarded them like used napkins. But like moths getting attracted to a flame, the girls in his high school fell for him and deemed it an honour to be flaunted as Prince's girlfriend. When he saw Angel in the college, her beauty stunned him. He pursued her with shameless abandon. And gradually Angel fell for the handsome young man. She thought she had won the world by getting to ride on the backseat of his magnificent bike. Soon the town knew Angelina was his new girl friend, the latest acquisition he loved to flaunt.
Everyone was surprised how a sweet, innocent girl like Angel could not see what he really was - a wolf in sheep's clothing, a goon of the worst kind masquearasing as a dashing, handsome young man in hot pursuit of a rare beauty. Amlaan confronted her at home, a genuine concern for her fuelling his unease,
"Angel, how could you fall for a dirty guy like Prince?"
Angel rose to her full height to defend her boyfriend,
"Dirty? What do you mean dirty, Bhai? As far as I can see he dresses well, is handsome like a real prince, not painted and decked up like your Pinky..."
She threw a mocking glance at her brother. Amlaan shook his head in exasperated despair,
"Hasn't someone told you about his reputation? He is a street loafer, a goonda."
Angel's eyes flashed with anger,
"I don't believe them, they are just jealous of him - he is so handsome, so smart, a real prince! That's why people say a lot of things behind his back, but no one dares to come near him. He can beat anyone to a pulp. You think he is a loafer, I think he is a real hero. And reputation? I don't care about his reputation, all that I know is I feel very safe when I am with him. No one can dare look at me when he is near me. When he growls at someone, it sounds like the roar of a lion. Fellows like your friend Shubh are just small little wimps before him, meowing like imbecile cats. Let Shubh rot with his fancy dreams, neither he, nor you should come between me and my Prince....."
She left, her head held high, leaving Amlaan worried for his cute little sister. When he told Shubhraan about this, he too was crestfallen.
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The hot afternoon was still spewing fire when Prince stoped running and sniffed the air like a dog sniffing for a rabbit hiding in a hole. Both Subhraan and Prince had no doubt that Angel was hiding somewhere, trying to escape from some unforeseen danger. They knew she would come out of her hiding and run again for her dear life.
And it happened in a couple of minutes. Angel darted from behind a pillar and looked to all sides. She started running on the Main Street. Suddenly, two more vicious, evil-looking boys appeared from the narrow lane. Prince came out of his hiding and lifted his hand. The unmistakable glint of a gun made Shubhraan scream, "Angel.......steady! He has a gun in his hand!"
Angel stopped and stood still. Prince turned to see from where the voice came. The two vicious-looking boys also stood frozen on their spot, unable to comprehend the source of the sudden warning. It looked like a movie running on a video player stop on the pressing of the Pause button. Everyone froze and then suddenly the spell broke. Subhraan started running towards Angel from a side angle, trying to warn her to hide herself or to move away as quickly as possible. Prince fired two shots in quick succession. Luckily both the shots missed Angel. She cried out like a startled deer and started running into another lane which led to the church. She knew the door of the church was always kept open during the day, in the night a watchman locked it. She thought only if she could reach the safe sanctuary of the church she might save herself.
Subhraan followed Angel, he also knew the church would be open at this hour and Angel would try to hide herself somewhere inside the church. Prince ran in big strides, he overtook Subhraan and started following Angel. Subhraan prayed to Jesus to save the poor, defenceless girl. He was still uncertain why Prince was trying to kill Angel, his girlfriend. Although a ruffian, street-loafer like Prince could do anything, but it was unthinkable that someone would try to harm a sweet, innocent Angel.
The two tough-looking guys also overtook Subhraan and followed Prince. Subhraan's heart skipped a few beats. These ruffians looked dangerous and meant no good. With Jesus's name on his lips, Subhraan saw Angel opening the door of the church and get inside. In half a minute Prince followed. His two goon-looking friends waited outside, guarding the place. In a few seconds Prince came out and gestured his friends to follow him. They went behind the church and disappeared into the lane which took them away from the church.
Subhraan's heart started pounding. Jesus! O Jesus! Please save my Angel, let nothing happen to her. Yet, his heart sank at the thought of what would have happened when Prince followed Angel inside the church. His heart sounding like a hammer on a gong, he enetered the church. It was dark inside. Through the coloured windows sunlight streaked into the church and tried to dispel the darkness. Subhraan's mind went into a whirl. My God, was Angel ok? Did she manage to escape from the murderous-looking Prince? Jesus, O Jesus, please save the innocent girl. When his eyes got used to the darkness, he looked for her on the benches inside the congregation hall. She was not there. Tears started rolling down the face of Subhraan.
A faint whimper from a corner drew his attention. He ran towards the sound. Angel was lying on the floor, her hands clutching her stomach. Her dress had become red with blood. He looked closely. Angel was writhing in pain, making brave attempts to keep her eyes open. Subhraan squatted on the ground and put Angel's head on his lap and shrieked,
"Angel! Open your eyes, look at me, it is Subhraan! Please don't give up ! Talk to me, please talk to me!"
Angel looked at him, a thin smile spread over her worried face,
"He had probably run out of bullets. He stabbed me with a knife, he wanted to kill me..."
Subhraan patted her head,
"It's ok. Look at Jesus, pray to Him, pray for your life. He will save you. Here, I have taken out my shirt, let me tie it tightly around your stomach. Once the bleeding stops you will be fine, I will take you to the hospital. Jesus will be kind to us."
Angel whispered,
"Tell Bhai, he was right, Prince is a crooked animal, a rotten egg. I never knew he was the leader of the drugs gang which packs and sells the poison to school kids and college students. Yesterday when I chanced upon the drugs at his home, I had asked him to stop and to choose between me and his drugs. Today again when I saw him packing drugs I told him to forget me. He was probably under the influence of drugs. He used filthy language and threatened me. I was scared and told him I would go to the police and report about his drugs business. With murder in his eyes he chased me out of his home and I started running to save my life."
"Don't talk so much Angel......"
"Let me say what I must say.....Jesus, I am sinking, Shubh, I don't think I will survive, I just want to say sorry to you and to Bhai, to Daddy and Mom..."
Subhraan screamed,
"No, no, please Angel, please look at Jesus, keep praying. I am going out to get a taxi or an auto rickshaw. I will take you to the hospital. You will survive Angel, Jesus will not abandon his Angel. Be brave..."
Angel shook her head in despair, held his hand and whispered,
"Tell Bhai, I should have listened to him and given my heart to you. You are a good man.....you are my love ......."
Subhraan ran out. He was lucky, he found an empty auto rickshaw passing by, just outside the church. He ran back, knelt at the feet of Jesus, prayed for Angel's life and lifted Angelina and went out. He felt her breath returning to near normal. The bleeding had stopped.
As the auto rickshaw moved towards the hospital, Angel kept seeing the image of Jesus floating before her eyes. She opened her eyes and saw the vision of the calm, composed Shubh. His anxious face was pouring out all his pent up feelings of love to her. She somehow felt Jesus would give her another chance - to embark on a new journey, a journey she would share with her new found Love.
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.
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