Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXVI (29-Dec-2023) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Moon and Me (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
RERUNS
DOUBLE TROUBLE
02) Snehaprava Das
THE NEW YEAR GIFT
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE BOARDING PARTY
04) S. Anand
SIDDHARTHA
05) Ishwar Pati
DEATH BE NOT PROUD
06) LathaPrem Sakhya
INSANE PASSION
07) Hema Ravi
CHRISTMAS - TIME FOR GIFTS
08) Sreekumar T V
TALE OF A TAIL
09) Sujata Dash
YOU TOO BRUTUS
10) Gourang Charan Roul
BUSTING AN INTERNATIONAL DRUGS TRAFFIKING RACKET
11) Sukumaran C.V.
THE NIGHT-WALKS OF YORE
12) Bankim Chandra Tola
CRITICISM
13) Ashok Kumar Mishra
GANDHI MAHATMA’s ODISHA CONNECTION
14) Anasuya Panda
STORY OF THAT FURIOUS NIGHT
15) Seethaa Sethuraman
WRITE-UP
16) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY :
17) Sheena Rath
HUSHKOO
18) Sreechandra Banerjee
RAVANA MEETS SANTA
A LETTER TO MR SANTA CLAUS
19) Satish Pashine
RETIREMENT CHEERS!
20) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A TRIP DOWN THE HERITAGE LANE
THE SILENT NIGHT AND A TRUNKFUL OF MEMORIES S
The dusty streets around Palayam buzzed with life as the afternoon sun painted the city in hues of gold. Sudhir, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a quiet demeanour, found himself standing in front of an old, ornate house. He hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door. A woman, gracefully draped in a colourful saree, opened it.
"Come in," she said, her eyes holding a mix of excitement and sadness.
Sudhir stepped into the dimly lit living room, adorned with antique furniture and memories that seemed to linger in the air. The room had an old-world charm, with faded tapestries adorning the walls and a creaky ceiling fan lazily rotating overhead. It felt like stepping into a forgotten era.
The woman, Meera, gestured toward a framed photograph on the wall, and Sudhir's gaze followed. The photograph was aged, its colours muted with time, but the man in the picture bore a striking resemblance to Sudhir. A connection, unspoken and mysterious, hung in the air.
"This is my late husband," she began, her voice carrying the weight of years gone by. " I need you to decide for yourself."
Sudhir examined the photograph closely. The man in the picture had a certain warmth in his eyes, a familiarity that stirred something within Sudhir. He couldn't deny the uncanny similarity.
"Yes, he looks like my younger brother, only that I don’t have one." he finally spoke, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
"Now you have a brother for the rest of your life and a wife for tonight. The first is optional the second one is mandatory. It is only for one single night," she replied, her eyes searching his face for something elusive.
Meera led Sudhir to the bedroom, where an old wedding photo lay on the bed. The room was filled with the fragrance of nostalgia. Faded curtains danced in the gentle breeze, casting soft shadows on the worn wooden floor. Sudhir looked at the photo, then at Meera, waiting for an explanation.
"He was a good man," she said, her words hanging in the air. "I miss him every day. And you... you look like him, Sudhir. It's as if he's come back."
Her vulnerability stirred something within Sudhir. He felt a strange connection, an unspoken understanding. Meera's request hung between them like a fragile thread.
"Make love to me, just once," she whispered, her eyes reflecting a mix of desperation and longing. "To feel close to him again, if only for a moment."
Sudhir, torn between his sense of duty and the haunting allure of Meera's plea, gave in to the magnetic pull. He could feel the image of his wife fading out in his mind.
The room echoed with the whispers of a love that existed in shadows, both forbidden and irresistible.
As Sudhir left, the weight of guilt settled upon him. He was a man who had forgotten the vows made to his own wife in a moment of passion that belonged to another time and another man. Meera, however, seemed satisfied, a melancholic smile playing on her lips.
Days later, Meera found herself at a Photoshop centre, her determined gaze fixed on the computer screen. The young designer, a boy with a keen eye for detail, listened to her unusual request.
"Reduce the resemblance," Meera instructed, her voice carrying a secret agenda. "Last time, it looked exactly like the photo I have. It only needs to be roughly similar this time, okay?"
The designer nodded, slightly perplexed but driven by the curiosity that often accompanies creativity. As the artificial intelligence algorithms worked their magic, Meera watched the image transform, erasing the traces of Sudhir's face and adding another very subtly and cleverly.
The young designer, still curious but respectful of Meera's privacy, couldn't help but question her motives. "But why do you do this, Ma'am? There are other ways of catching them."
Meera's gaze shifted from the computer screen to the boy, a contemplative expression on her face. "Yes, there are other ways," she admitted, a hint of mystery in her voice. "But not as effective, not as... precise. This method allows me to recreate the past with a touch of the present."
The designer furrowed his brow, trying to understand the complexity of Meera's intentions.
"You got married, right?" Meera continued, her eyes piercing through the layers of time. "But you don't look any happier. Know what, you have begun to look a lot like my dead husband."
He felt a chill running down his spine, a sudden realization that Meera saw beyond the pixels on the screen, into the depths of his own struggles and unspoken desires. She smiled while she paid him, leaving the Photoshop centre with a quiet confidence that left the young designer both intrigued and slightly unsettled.
As Meera walked out into the fading light of the evening, the Photoshop centre’s door chimed softly behind her. The streets around Palayam continued its timeless dance, weaving stories within stories, as Meera's enigmatic smile lingered in the air.
The dusty streets of Delhi were ablaze with the sweltering heat of midsummer as Siddharth maneuvered his way through the chaotic traffic. His mind, however, was elsewhere, entangled in the myriad deadlines that seemed to converge upon him like a storm. Amid the cacophony of honking horns and the oppressive heat, his phone buzzed urgently.
Sweat trickling down his temples, Siddharth answered the call, only to be greeted by the accusing tone of Aisha, his girlfriend. "Where are you, Siddharth? Who is she? I saw you with her!" Her words sliced through the air, leaving Siddharth stunned.
Caught in the middle of traffic, his heart raced as he attempted to justify himself. "Aisha, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm stuck in traffic; I can't even move!" he pleaded, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.
But Aisha, ever the mastermind of emotional turmoil, dismissed his pleas with practiced precision. "I don't believe you, Siddharth. I saw it with my own eyes. This is over!" she declared, each word a dagger that found its mark.
Desperation gripped Siddharth as he attempted to call her back, weaving through the traffic with a sense of urgency. The air felt thick with tension, and his chest tightened with an ominous pain. The doctor's words echoed in his mind—stress was his sworn enemy.
By the time he reached home, exhausted and mentally drained, Aisha was waiting for him with a mischievous grin. "Gotcha!" she exclaimed, breaking into laughter. Siddharth, though relieved, couldn't shake off the lingering unease.
That evening, over cups of tea, Aisha shared stories of her past antics with her ex-husband, reveling in the memory of the tension she had induced. Siddharth couldn't help but be amazed at her skill in crafting emotional turmoil.
As night fell, they found themselves entwined in each other's arms, the events of the day forgotten. Aisha, still reveling in the success of her prank, mimicked Siddharth's desperate attempts to defend himself over the phone. Siddharth, though initially shaken, couldn't help but join in the laughter, the tension of the day dissipating in the shared mirth.
Between bouts of laughter, Siddharth asked, "How on earth are you so good at this, Aisha? It's like you've mastered the art of emotional drama."
Aisha, her eyes sparkling mischievously, confessed, "Well, Siddharth, it's not my first rodeo. I played these games hundreds of times with my ex-husband. It became second nature to me."
Siddharth, intrigued, probed further, "Really? Give me an example. What were some of your classic pranks?"
Aisha, with a smirk, began to recount the stories of her past exploits. "Once," she began, "I convinced him that I found messages from a secret admirer. Oh, the look on his face! He was ready to interrogate the entire neighborhood."
Siddharth chuckled, imagining the scene. "And?" he prompted.
"And then there was the time I pretended to lose my job. He was on edge for days, trying to figure out how we'd make ends meet," Aisha continued, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Siddharth couldn't decide whether to be impressed or wary. "You really had him on his toes, didn't you?"
Aisha nodded, her laughter ringing through the room. "It kept things interesting, you know? But you, Siddharth, you took it like a champ. I might need to up my game with you."
As they continued to share stories, Siddharth couldn't shake off the lingering curiosity about Aisha's first husband. Sensing his thoughts, Aisha gently touched his hand and said, "He was a good man, but life has its twists, doesn't it?"
“Yes, he was. Sorry, but I still miss him.”
“How did he die?”
"He had a heart attack while riding a bike. He was online with me when it happened. That made it too sad," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
Siddharth, feeling the weight of the revelation, collapsed onto the bed. After a while, he heard Aisha's soft voice, "May I turn off the light?" The room had already plunged into darkness some time back, leaving Siddharth alone with the haunting echo of her words and the knowledge that the line between a prank and a chilling reality was thinner than he could have ever imagined.
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.
The loud giggles of Rohit and his friends filled the house as they barged into the drawing room. It was followed by an excited cry from Rohit. ‘Mama, see what I have brought.’ I was preparing fruit- milkshake for him in the kitchen. ‘Coming darling. Go and wash your hand and feet first,’ I called back loudly over the sound of the whirring juice blender.
My husband had asked me and Rohit to get ready by six thirty. It was the evening of thirty first December and we were to attend a New year Eve dinner party at his club. I was in a hurry to wrap up the remaining kitchen-chores and make the milkshake for Rohit.
‘You come here first and take a look…’ Rohit shouted back. I switched off the blender and scuttled out of the kitchen, curious to know what made him so excited.
‘What is it?’ I asked and saw the thing he was clutching in his small arms almost simultaneously. It was a baby animal… perhaps a puppy, looking white and soft as a curled ball of cottonwool. The two other kids too looked eagerly at the thing cuddled up in Rohit’s arms. All three pairs of eyes were sparkling with the joy of making a rare discovery.
‘What is that? Didn’t papa ask you to get ready by six thirty? What have you been doing till this late?
Very carefully, as if he was handling an expensive piece of glass, Rohit put the thing down and raised his eyes gleaming with a beatific smile to watch my reaction. I looked at the tiny creature. It was a kitten, a week or so old may be. So soft that I was afraid that it will be crumpled even at a light touch from my hand. The kitten was all white except for a deep black spot on its nose.
‘ It is milk-sucking newborn. Why did you take it away from its mother?’ I asked.
‘I will feed it milk in a bottle Mama. We will get a feeding bottle for it . And we will celebrate its birthday tomorrow on the New Year.’ Rohit urged. I did not have the heart to get angry with him so keen was he on keeping the kitten. ‘But it is born a week or so before,’ I smiled amusedly. ‘Why should we celebrate its birthday on the New Year Day?’
‘Because it will be admitted into our family as a new member on that day. Please Mama! Do not say no!’ Rohit implored, his small delicate arms encircling my waist.
‘Ok . Ok,’ ‘Now go and get yourself washed and have your milkshake. Let me think where we will keep it tonight when we will be away for the party. I will call Mina to get a old feeding bottle of her son. we will manage for the time being with that. Tomorrow we will make some permanent arrangement.’ ‘Love you Mama,’ Rohit ran towards the washroom. I asked the other two kids to go back to their homes and come the next day to celebrate the kitten’s birthday.
Slumped on the cold floor the kitten looked as if it had no life in it. But the gentle rise and fall in its body testified to the fact that it was breathing. There was no one in the drawing room now.
I knelt down and squinted at its face. It seemed I had known this tiny animal closely, and long since. As if I had some intrinsic connection with it since years. And suddenly a long-forgotten name that had created an upheaval in my childhood came alive like a flash of lightning.
Domii!!
Now I realized why this baby cat looked so familiar. It was an exact replica pf Domi… the same snow white furs and the same tiny black spot under the nose!!
A small shiver, I am not sure whether of excitement, or happiness or of apprehension ran through me as I peered at the furry white ball of a creature lying still by the leg of a couch.
I clicked the number of Mina on my mobile phone. ‘Get me an old feeding bottle of your son, Mina and make it quick.’
Domi!
The forgotten days of childhood came back to me in an overwhelming onrush.
**
It was a day of celebration for me and my brother when Rani gave birth to four kittens under the drumstick tree at the far corner of our backyard. I was in class seventh and my elder brother was in class ten. Rani had been living with us for more than a year and was a great help in driving the notorious, obdurate rats away who damaged books and papers and ripped the clothes and quilts to tatters. That way Rani had become the favourite of all of us, especially my father. She too never hesitated to extract advantage of our love for her. She would settle stubbornly in front of the plate when any one of us sat down to eat and demand her share of food with an obstinate and constant mewing until some foods was put before her.
I was overjoyed when mother revealed that Rani was going to have babies. ‘How many babies Ma and when? ‘ I asked eagerly, finding it difficult to hold on to my patience to see the baby cats. In a month,’ mother said touching my head fondly. Rani was given fish almost every day, and a small bowl of milk. Days seemed to be dragging painfully slowly as I waited for the babies to arrive and then in one cool November morning I woke up to the happy announcement of mother that Rani had given birth to four kittens. I jumped out of the bed and ran to the drumstick tree that stood aloof in one far corner of our backyard like an abandoned soul and looked. There she was! Rani, lying under the tree on a heap of ash, contentment in its haff open eyes as the four kittens sucked at her udders as if they had been hungry for an eternity. I did not want to leave the spot and would have stood there for hours watching the babies curled up together in a grey and black bundle but for father’s angry admonitions. My elder brother, concerned that the babies would catch cold put a piece of a torn blanket on that pulsating bundle.
The real problem came up when a robust and aggressive looking male cat made its disturbing appearance in our backyard. ‘Male cats kill the newborn babies. We have to be careful.’ Mother warned. So, I and my brother kept guard over the kittens outside of our school hours and father put them in the abandoned junk room at the far end wall of the backyard and bolted the door from outside preventing the entry of the male cat.
A month passed. I and my brother now fed the babies with bread and biscuits soaked in milk. The kittens grew up healthy and strong only except the smallest one who remained skinny and weak even with the healthy diets. They came out to the open to play in the back garden. It was one of their favourite sport to bit and scratch at one another. Sometimes they rolled about on the ground and over one another. At other times they would try to climb up the trunk of the drumstick tree clawing at the bark. It became an engaging pastime more for me than my brother to watch them playing and chasing one another.
‘Two are male and the other two are female..’ mother said. ‘I will name them Ma, I claimed. ‘I have already thought of the names,’ Father smiled fondly. ‘And what will they be?” he asked. ‘Romi and Domi for the two male ones and the female ones will be called Julie and Lily.’ ‘Nice names. So we will call them by those names,’ my brother remarked.
I liked them all though I was a bit disappointed at Lily’s sickly physique. But it was Domi who had the lion’s share of my love and concern. He was the healthiest and cutest amongst all four. He looked like a small bundle of glossy white fur, the whiteness enhanced by the tiny dark spot under his nose. he will rush to may the moment I entered the front gate and twine itself around my legs wagging its furry tail and making a soft purring sound. I would fling my schoolbag across the veranda and lift it up in my arms. ‘You, naughty girl,’ mother would yell at me. ‘What are you doing. The dirt of its feet will soil your school uniform. The furs will get into your nose and mouth. Put it down and get yourself washed clean with Dettol and water.’ I would not listen to mother and run about the front yard cradling Domi in my arms. after that I would put a bowl of milk before it. I would not budge until he had licked away the last drop of milk. I would change my school uniform, wash myself and sit down to eat only after he had finished his milk.
***
I and my brother spent the whole of the Christmas vacation playing with the four of them. Mother made delicacies at home on the new year day. It was one of the best New Year Day in my entire childhood as far as I could remember.
I was more indulgent in my love and care, especially for Domi, than my brother who seemed to have developed an interest in Romi. The school reopened after the vacation and I had to go to school leaving Domi alone for about six hours a day. And he would circle around me happily licking at my legs when I returned.
Another month passed.
One day Romi did not show up at the meal time. He was not there in the backyard nor was he found roaming about the house as he always did. Romi was my brother’s pet and he was expected to quell the anxiety.
‘Where is Romi?’ Father asked my brother who sat burying his head in a book, apparently oblivious to the commotion relating to Romi’s absence.
‘Bibhu had taken him to his home. He replied without looking at father. ‘Taken him? Why? Where does Bibhu live?’
Brother did not say a word.
‘I am asking you.’ Father demanded. ‘Where does this Bibhu live? Why have you given Romi to him?’
‘He gave me twenty rupees and took Romi away. He wanted to keep it.’ Brother said at last, in a voice that quavered in fear.’
‘You have sold it for twenty rupees?’ Father stared at brother. ‘What a despicable act!! Why did you take money from him? Where did you learn making such deals? He can keep Romi if he promises to take good care of it. Give the twenty rupees back to him first thing when you meet him tomorrow. No body in our family sells animals this way, and get that deep into your thick skull.’ Father stamped away.
‘How could you sell Romi, bhai? I asked accusingly.
‘Now, don’t you get started. Mind your own business. Take Domi to your in-laws’ house as your bridal gift.’ Brother sneered.
I did not like to argue with my brother.
The three other cats were growing up fast. Julie looked cute with the small brown patches on her white skin. Even Lily was beginning to look glossy despite her black sin. But it was Domi who was the cutest amongst all and had the maximum claim over my love. Julie was now spending most of her time in another Bengali family living in the neighbourhood. ‘That Julie has a preference for fish, ‘ father remarked laughing. ‘She has chosen to live closer to the Bengali family because they fed her fish every day.’ I did not mind Romi or Julie leaving home. I did not bother much about ‘Lily the blackie’ too. It was Domi that my mind was totally focused on. Except for that six or seven hours spent at school my I kept Domi by my side all through the day. He sat by me leg when I studied and ate from my hand. Given a choice and the chance I would never have let Domi out of my sight even for a moment. ‘That cat had cast some magic on this girl.’ Mother would complain thoroughly vexed when I put Domi on my bed while I studied. ‘It is shedding furs everywhere contaminating the bed and the clothes. Keep it out of the bedroom.’ I did not pay much heed to her admonitions. I knew she too liked Domi and would not want to harm him in any manner.
‘You were perhaps a cat in your previous birth, and was somehow related to Domi’s family.’ Megha, my friend teased. ‘Why talk of previous life?’ Ginny joined, ‘She will be changed into a cat in this life. Look at her eyes, they have become round in shape and green-tinged; her teeth were getting sharp and pointed like those of a cat. You will hear her mewing during the roll call and the teacher would wonder how a cat has entered the classroom.’ And all of them would laugh boisterously at the joke. My face flushed in anger and embarrassment. ‘I won’t speak to you if you say such things.’ I retaliated. Then they would coax me. ‘It was just a joke dearie’ don’t be so serious.’
‘But it is true that your Domi loves you a lot, just the way you love it.’ Ginny said.
**
My annual examination was drawing near. I had to attend tuitions and extra classes. Father warned me not to while away time playing with Domi and to focus more on my studies. Domi seemed to understand the seriousness of the situation and kept himself a bit aloof. He was growing up fast and was now roaming about in the neighbourhood during most part of the day. But he would never miss to greet me with his soft purring and wagging of tail whenever I came in from outside and would not deviate from his routine of eating out of my hand every night and sleeping on the foot-mat by the bed.
The annual examination was finally over. I was relieved and happy that there would be no time restrictions for playing with Domi. But Domi was now more interested to play outside. Often I had to take him outside the front gate while he scampered about here and there, excited at exploring the world beyond the huge iron gate. I stood by the gate chatting with the girl who lived next door but studied in a different school. But my gaze followed Domi constantly, never letting him out of sight. It was early summer and the warm breeze blowing from south had made the afternoons pleasant. I would come back with Domi before the sun set and close the gate behind us.
I had joined a private tuition center for an advance study of the next year’s course. The timing of the tuition class was from morning seven to eleven. As usual Domi would wait for me on the inner side of the iron gate and would instinctively know when I reached and begin mewing and purring and would twine itself around my legs the moment I stepped inside.
My school reopened after the summer vacation. It was monsoon time and rained most of the days. Domi did not prefer to go outside the gate when it rained. He would squat on the heavy doormat closing his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the mat. My brother was now in class eleven and was seriously preparing for the school finals. He had joined more than one coaching classes for different subjects and had not much time to spare for other engagements.
Days moved on.
And then Domi went missing.
**
That day it rained nonstop. I returned from school early. Domi was not there by the gate. It was obvious since there was water all around and the ground was sloshy. I came inside and stepped on to the veranda. Domi was not there on the doormat. My eyes roved around searching for him. May be he was somewhere inside, or in the kitchen with Ma. I walked to the kitchen. Ma was busy cooking some afternoon snack. Domi was not around. ‘Where is Domi?’ I asked mother, anxiety dripping from my voice.
‘It must be somewhere around. Why are you so worried? Get changed. I am making fritters and chutney.’
I had lost interest in fritters now, though it was one of my choicest snacks and more so in the wet climate, my mind filled with premonitions. I searched all the rooms even the abandoned shed adjoining the far wall of the backyard even though Domi never goes there. Domi was not found after a frantic search of half an hour or so. Where had he disappeared? I slumped down on the bench that stood against the wall of the inner veranda, still in my damp school uniform. Helpless tears ran down my eyes. Mother came out of the kitchen to soothe me. ‘He may be somewhere in the neighbourhood and will come back when it gets dark. He is growing up and does not like to remain confined inside the house. Come on, get changed and have something to eat.
‘I will not eat until Domi comes back,’ I whimpered. ‘Don’t behave like a two-year old,’ mother snapped. He will come back.’
But Domi did not come back. Father returned from office and brother from the coaching class. ‘Perhaps he had taken shelter in someone’s house,’ Father said trying to explain Domi’s unexpected disappearance but there was no conviction in his voice. He stroked my head. ‘Let us wait for the night. He will surely come back in the morning.’
Mother’s reasonings and father’s assurances did not do much to quell my fear. I knew instinctively that Domi would never return. I could not eat even a morsel of food that night despite my parents’ coaxing. I lay down in the bed staring into the darkness, my thoughts around Domi. Where must he be? What had happened to him? Did he come under an automobile? I tried desperately to fight the frightening thoughts away but they came creeping back, haunting my sleepless night, making me tremble all over.
After a seemingly endless night, the dawn broke. I climbed off the bed and ran down to the gate. There was no sign of Domi. I woke up my father and implored him to go searching for Domi.
‘I shall come with you,’ I urged father as he mounted his bicycle.
‘’There is no need for you to wander around with me. I will search every possible place where he could be.’ He assured me.
‘Possible place? What possible place is there for little Domi to go? He had hardly crossed past the front gate in months,’ I wanted to cry out loudly. But no sound came out of my mouth that felt dry as if it was filled with sands.
Father returned around midday. He looked tired and worn out. He must have been moving around in the sun searching for Domi. I was waiting impatiently without taking my breakfast. I ran to the front gate as he opened it. He cast a lingering glance at me before he turned to close the gate. The sadness and frustration in his eyes answered the question before I uttered it. I had nothing to ask now, and I heaved my stiff legs back to the front veranda and sat down on the bench staring blankly at the heavy foot mat where Domi used to squat and dose dreaming of some happy hunting grounds where he chased elusive grasshoppers.
‘Somebody must have taken him,’ mother said.
‘Could be. He is a cute one.’ Father agreed.
My tears had congealed into a lump that stuck at my throat that obstructed the swallowing of the food. It was a torture to sit by the plate and go with the pretense of eating while my whole body revolted at the sight of food.
‘I will go again in the afternoon and search some more places. Eat properly and stop worrying. Cats and dogs always remember the way to their homes. Domi too will come back in a day or two.’ Father said consolingly.
The search in the afternoon yielded no result as it did not in the morning. The only hope rested on Domi’s choice and chance to make a voluntary return.
***
It was on the third night after Domi had gone missing that the fever came. My head ached like someone was hitting it with a sledge hammer. And there was a violent churning in my stomach which made me throw up whatever little I had eaten in the evening. Then came the rigors, shaking me from head to feet. One moment my body felt as if it was set on fire, and the next I was drenched all over in sweat. I moaned and whimpered and blabbered and my own voice sounded strange to me.
‘I am getting Doctor Sinha,’ I hear father saying. I could hear mother saying something but could not make out what it was. I shut my eyes tightly and there He was!! Domi! Perched comfortably on the edge of the compound wall, looking at me with his round greenish eyes, mewing loudly. I wondered how could he climb up the high wall.
‘Come down you silly cat, ‘ I shouted ‘Or you will fall and hurt yourself.’
I heard mother’s voice.. ‘Calm down my baby,’ Everything will be fine. The doctor will be here in a minute.
Then I heard voices. May be, it was my father speaking. There was another voice that sounded unfamiliar. I wanted to make out who could that be but my head reeled. I felt something cool and heard pressed to my chest and a hand trying to lift my eyelids.
And then there was Domi again, running along a partially deserted street. I ran after him but he ran very fast as if trying to escape me. A vicious looking dog emerged from a large gate of a bungalow on the roadside and began to chase Domi. ‘Hey you, stop.’ I screamed but the dog pounced upon Domi who mewed frantically. I ran towards him as fast as my legs could carry me. But by that time Domi was mauled so badly that he was reduced to a crumpled ball of red and white. I began to tremble uncontrollably and then someone put a big blanket on me suffocating me. There were voices everywhere, low and gentle at first then rising to a crescendo threatening to burst open my eardrums. I felt a prick just above my hip and the sounds died down almost immediately. I saw myself in the park near my school. Domi springing and bouncing around chasing the tiny birds that came swooping down from the trees. I laughed out loudly. And then Domi was gone. The park had vanished too. I was in a vast desert standing alone, my throat burning in thirst.
Something that felt cool and wet was placed on my forehead. Once again I felt the prick at the right side above my hip. I felt relaxed and light as if something weighing a ton was taken off my head. I was feeling sleepy and the noise around me had subsided.
**
A bird, a koyal probably, cooed in a distance. My body was no longer burning. The thirst had gone too. I liked the bird’s song and wished it would never stop cooing. A soft hand touched my forehead. a cool, glass filament like object was thrust under my tongue. ‘Normal. The fever is gone. She is fine now. The weakness will go in a few days.’ someone said. I was feeling hungry. ‘Ma I am hungry.’ I said feebly. ‘Yes, darling,’ mother’s voice glistened with tears. I was made to sit on the bed propped up against pillows and mother fed me some semi-solid thing that was a blend of salty and sweet. It tasted good. Then mother adjusted the pillows and lay me down straight. ‘Enough of your antics,’ I heard my brother saying, sounding happy and relieved. ‘Now be a good girl and get back to your routine,’ he added. I wanted to smile at him but my lips felt stiff and dry. I shut my eyes.
I found myself in a garden of exotic flowers. Birds chirped and a cool breeze blew from the south. I sat on a bench and watched small kids darting around, chasing the butterflies. Then I saw Ginny and Megha in the swing laughing happily. They waved animatedly at me. I wanted to play with them but had no strength to get up from the bench. But I was feeling happy and relaxed and hungry again.
**
‘You had given all of us a fright, sis!’ my brother said. I had recovered fully now and had resumed my routine. Surprisingly enough no one in my family mentioned Domi, and still more surprising was that I had stopped missing him. I seemed to have lost interest in Domi somehow and any other pet animal for that matter. I could feel that a change had come over me.
**
Days turned into months and months into years. My brother had joined college after completing school. I was in my final year at school and was heavily preoccupied with my studies. During the pre-board months I, Ginny and Megha were attending different coaching classes for different subjects.
‘Hey! Look at that.’ Megha said, her voice loud with surprise and joy. I and Ginny turned almost simultaneously to look at the object she pointed at. It was a big sized cat, perhaps a male one, with very white furs and a deep black spot under its nose.
‘Doesn’t it look exactly like your Domi?’ Megha asked, sounding enthusiastic.
I glanced at the big cat. It waddled towards me confidently as if it knew me before. I stepped back. ‘Hey, get back I said and began to move faster.
‘What happened dear?’ Ginny asked me. ‘You should have been happy that Domi has returned. It has grown up but it still remembers you.’
‘Yes, it is Domi all right. Often the people and things we love a lot and circumstances compel us to get separated from them, return to us acquiring new forms and shapes. Like the story of ‘Kafka and the Doll’ we read last year. Perhaps your Domi was travelling around, exploring the world and now has come back.’ Megha added.
I stared hard at the big white cat.
Domi?
Could it be Domi?
What is the big deal even if it was Domi? I did not want to fall into that kind of temptation any longer. Love, whether it is for people, animals, birds or even plants always brings pain. The cat looked a little like Domi but I believed it was a different cat. Love had not returned to me like it had done to the girl in the story. Nor was I deluded by the semblance of Domi this cat carried in its looks.
‘Forget it. I do not like this cat even if it looks like a bigger version of Domi. Ma will get worried if I am late.’ I pulled Megha by her hand and strode forward, Ginny at our heels. After we had walked about a couple of meters I stole a glance behind. The cat was gone. A sigh of relief escaped me. ‘I was right. It was not Domi.’ The incident of meeting a big cat that resembled Domi was soon forgotten.
And time moved relentlessly on.
**
And after years my son had brought me a replica of Domi! What an amazing new year gift!! I remembered the story of Kafka and the Little Girl’s Doll and the famous lines
‘Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way.’
I was no longer ashamed to admit that Domi had never gone out of my mind. I was just pretending to reason with myself that I had lost interest in him. I was shocked to see the big white cat which Megha announced to be the bigger Domi. I had secretly believed in Megha and that was the reason why I boldly denounced her assumption. The sight of the tiny snow white cat my son had picked up and which looked like a mirror image of the Domi I had lost years ago was like the doll in Kafka’s story, …. a thing loved earnestly and lost, but love had returned in another way.
It was the best New Year Gift for me.
‘Shall we name it Domi?’ I asked Rohit that evening as I was dressing him up for the New Year Eve party. ‘Why, yes mama,’ Rohit exclaimed happily. ‘That is such a cute name. Do you like the kitten, mama?’
‘Very much!’ I smiled and kissed his forehead.
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)
Captain Dhillon was resting in his bunk as the freighter rolled and pitched rhythmically while coping with the sea and swell. The captain was a Navy veteran and was used to the rhythm of the sea in almost all sea states. He had just spent a couple of hours on the bridge as the turbulence of the sea kept on rising almost to sea state 5, marked by high winds and waves almost 4 meters high due to a tropical revolving storm which was about to make land fall nearby. The old sea dog was unruffled since he had seen the worst during his naval career. He gave some specific safety instructions to the deck officer on watch and came down to his cabin for a little snooze. It was nothing unusual for him and he knew that the eastern coast of India was always prone to cyclonic storms. He was quite confident about his marine skills and knew that his ship was quite sea worthy. He was to enter Chittagong harbour during the small hours to deliver his cargo of Sulphur and it was almost midnight. Just a few hours more. He peered through the port hole through the thick layers of night darkness and saw two faint red lights one atop the other, swinging from left to right. It was difficult to judge the distance, but he knew that the lights indicated that there was a vessel nearby which was not under command. He sat up abruptly and leapt out of his bunk to rush up to the bridge. He asked the officer on watch if he had observed the lights on the ship’s starboard bow. The deck officer denied having seen any such lights. The captain picked up his binoculars and scanned the starboard bow sector intently but there was no sign of any red light. It was pitch dark with very low visibility. When he was about to give up, he heard a faint, long blast from a ship’s horn followed by two short blasts. Soon after, the lights were visible for a short while and then disappeared into the velvety darkness. The captain had no doubts that there was a ship in distress and he decided to extend any help that may be needed in the high seas.
He gave engine orders to stop ship and drop anchor. Then he ordered the ship’s starboard search lights to be switched on. Interestingly the radar screen did not pick up any echo in that direction. It was a total blank sector with no indication of any presence. As the bright search lights scanned the sector, the ship’s bridge personnel could see a huge black shape, the silhouette of a merchant ship through the darkness of night and the thick fog wobbling on the turbulent sea, about two thousand yards away. The radio- officer tried to establish radio contact with the ship. The ship also sent semaphore signals through its flashlights but there was no response. The captain then decided to send a Boarding Party to the ship for physical inspection of casualties,if any, and to ascertain about what help they may be needing. Suddenly the ship’s search lights focused on the ship’s pennants on it’s mast and the radio- officer immediately proceeded to decode the call sign. It was that of a Pakistani merchant ship Shaikh Anwar. On hearing this, the captain got a jolt and involuntarily jumped off his chair. The captain checked his watch for the date. It was the 6thof December 1991. Then he asked the Officer of the Watch to give him the ship’s position. He realized that he was here exactly at the same position once before.
As the Boarding Party was getting readied, the captain’s mind rushed back to the same date twenty years ago. He was a young Lieutenant of the Indian Navy serving on board INS Rajputana. Rajputana, a World War II vintage ship was still operational and was mainly used for sailors’ training at Vishakhapatnam. During the Indo-Pak war of 1971, it was deployed off the east coast for seaward defence. Based on the intelligence report that there could be a possible enemy submarine lurking in the east coast, she was positioned south of the Sacramento Shoals, impersonating as the fleet’s flagship, an aircraft carrier, as a deception strategy. All this while the actual flagship was in a safe haven in Port Cornwallis, off the NE coast of North Andaman. She then was ordered to proceed to Vishakhapatnam harbour on the 4th of December, and act as a bait for the submarine. This was almost a suicidal mission for the old sea horse. Despite its poor material state and with only one operational boiler, the ship came out with flying colours when its depth charge attack off the harbour resulted in burying the enemy submarine in its watery grave. The ship’s crew was euphoric at their success and the morale was at an all time high. The same day the ship was pressed on to proceed to the area off West Bengal to then East Pakistan, now Bangladesh, for patrolling and intercepting any adventurous enemy vessel in the area.
It was the 6th of December and the ship was off Chittagong. Latest intelligence reports received on board indicated the presence of enemy merchant ships in the area carrying arms and ammunition and other logistics from West Pakistan for the Pakistani troops fighting the war in East Pakistan. Rajputana crew was on high alert and the ship’s radars and sonars as well as the visual scouts were fully active round the clock. The ship was on ‘Action Stations’. Suddenly the radar reported a contact on port quarter proceeding on a course towards Chittagong. The captain of Rajputana manoeuvred the ship to close in on the target to investigate. Soon the target was visual. Immediately messages were sent to the ship to identify herself and stop. The ship identified herself as a Japanese vessel carrying cargo to Chittagong and continued to move. When questioned in details about the port of departure and the ship’s manifesto, the captain got suspicious because of inconsistent responses. The captain decided to send a Boarding Party to further investigate and again asked the target to stop engines. The merchant ship continued to move and Rajputana then fired two salvos across the target’s bows. Now the ship stopped and dropped hook. Then the message was sent to her that a boarding party would embark and carry out a search to find out what were they carrying.
Lieutenant Dhillon was the Gunnery Officer of Rajputana and also was the Officer-in-Charge of the Ship’s Boarding Party. A boarding party generally consists of a small team of officers and sailors who disembark from the mother ship to embark a ship at sea for inspection, for offering assistance or for capturing the target vessel if necessary. The team members are drawn from each trade so that when capturing a ship, they are self- sufficient to take over command and operation of that ship without the help of the original crew. The team is well trained with the drill since it is a crucial maritime operation involving search and seizure, which demands courage, strict discipline, coordination, ready wit, rapid reactions and critical decision making. The psychological make up of the members of the team is honed through rigorous training so that the team is almost immune to the uncertainties and risks. In such situations, fear and anxiety can be a natural response, triggered by the unknown outcomes and potential dangers. A handful of crew members may come face to face with the unknown enemy who may outnumber them, or who could be armed and who could spring a surprise attack. The fear factor often arises from a combination of factors such as lack of control, unpredictability, and the perceived threat to one’s well-being. The boarding party members are trained specifically to manage such fear through a combination of preparedness, rational decision making and emotional resilience to navigate through these challenges.
Under the command of Lieutenant Dhillon, the Boarding Party comprising of 5 gunnery specialist sailors, one diver, one communication sailor, one mechanical engineering sailor, one electrical engineering sailor, a medical assistant and 2 junior officers geared up for the operation and assembled on the boat deck. The captain wished them the very best for a successful operation and the motor cutter was lowered on to a choppy sea.
As the Boarding Party came closer to the target ship, they saw the name of the ship freshly painted on its stern as Fujiyama Maru. Then the boat came alongside the accommodation ladder and Dhillon climbed up the ladder cautiously, the other members in tow, with his pistol pointing at the figure standing on the top deck. He was received by the captain of the target ship who hardly looked like a Japanese. Dhillon barked a sharp command to the captain to identify himself or else he would shoot. The captain didn’t need much coaxing and confessed that he was a Lt Cdr of the Pakistan Navy and the ship was a cargo carrier named, Shaikh Anwar. Asked about the merchandise they were carrying, he answered that they were carrying some food items for the troops fighting in Cox Bazar and Dhaka.
As per drill protocol, Dhillon asked for the ship’s manifesto and ordered the captain to muster the entire crew on the forecastle deck. Then he positioned his men at vantage positions with their weapons cocked and ready to fire if need be. The crew members were lined up on the deck. There was a total of 25 members. Dhillon noticed that some amongst the crew had short hair-cut s and had a bearing that appeared to be that of the military. There were 16 of them who were tall, muscular and looked rather menacing. Dhillon then faced them squarely and barked the Pakistani drill command of ‘Attention’ : “Hosh, Darood” . Lo, behold! The people who he suspected to be the military type, came into attention involuntarily. Dhillon segregated them from the group and made them lie down on the deck on their stomachs and ordered them to keep their heads down. No one was allowed to raise his head without permission. After questioning the captain about the identity of these 16 men, he confessed that they were Baluch rangers and were being transferred to the barracks at Cox Bazar. After checking the crew manifesto, Dhillon decided to send a search party to search all the holds for weapons and ammunition that they may be carrying. He got the ship’s deck plans from the captain and entrusted his junior officer with a team of three sailors to carry out the search meticulously. Suddenly he noticed one hand raised from amongst the Baluch rangers lying on the deck. He asked the soldier what did he want. He replied that he needed to go to the toilet. He asked one of his boarding party sailors to accompany him to the toilet through the narrow passage leading to the ship’s heads in the quarter deck area. After a while he heard the burst of a machine gun coming from the ship’s rear. Soon emerged the sailor who had accompanied the Baluch soldier to the toilet, shrieking loudly, ‘I have killed the bastard.’ Dhillon calmed him down and asked him to tell what exactly happened. ‘Sir, this guy walked meekly before me towards the toilet, but as he neared the toilet he suddenly turned around, picked up the fire fighting axe from the passage bulkhead and charged at me. I just pulled the trigger in self defence.’ Dhillon signalled his team to be cautious and ready in case something unexpected happened. Dhillon then looked at the ship’s crew on the deck and addressed them that due to the foolhardiness of one of their comrades, he had met his end. He advised them to behave if they wanted to avoid a blood bath. As he was speaking, the injured Baluch presumed to be dead was seen almost dragging himself across the passage in agony, blood splattered on his midriff region, his entrails pouring out of a deep gash. When he came into the sight of his compatriots who looked up to see his condition, the entire crowd got up and started to charge at Dhillon’s men shouting ‘Allah Hu Akbar’.
And then it was no holds barred. All guns started blazing and in no time the entire crew of Shaikh Anwar was shot dead. The entire deck was strewn with whimpering and quivering bodies which soon became inert and still. Small pools of blood gradually spread over the hard, metallic surface, making the entire deck look as if it was freshly painted with red enamel. Dhillon was totally stunned at the turn of events. Soon he gathered his wits and assembled his own team. Meanwhile the search party came up and reported that they had discovered a huge cache of AK 47 guns and ammunition in two of the ship’s holds. Dhillon took a final look at the gory scene and mustered his men to disembark the ship and return to the mother ship Rajputana. While the party was ready to leave the ship, Dhillon heard a whimper behind the windlass and sent a sailor to check. The sailor returned supporting the wounded Baluch soldier Taimur Khan who was shot in the first place near the toilet. Taimur was still bleeding but was in his senses. When he saw Dhillon, he begged him to kill him and release him from his agony. But Dhillon ordered the medical assistant to attend to him and after first aid he was carried in a stretcher to the boat. He was to be given proper medical aid by the ship’s doctor when they would reach the ship. But unfortunately, he breathed his last in the boat itself while still begging to be killed.
On reaching the ship Dhillon was complimented by the captain for ensuring the safety of his team members against a possible attack by the Baluch rangers. At the same time he felt sorry for the loss of life even though everything is considered fair in war. Since there was no one alive in Shaikh Anwar and it was carrying arms and ammunition which could have been used against their own men, the captain decided to scuttle the ship and ordered the ship’s main guns to do the job.
“Sir, the Boarding Party is ready to disembark. And the sea has become calm”, reported the First Officer. Capt Dhillon woke up from his reverie and was wondering how can this ship be Shaikh Anwar since he himself had seen the ship destroyed twenty years ago. There had not been a single day when he had not thought of the massacre on board Shaikh Anwar. In fact, he continues to carry the guilt in his conscience and suffers many sleepless nights wondering if he could have avoided it. He could never forget the blood-soaked deck and the pitiful voice of Taimur imploring him to kill him and end his suffering.
“Sir, may I have your permission to depute the Boarding Party?”
‘Hold on. I would like to accompany the Boarding Party. Tell the Chief to assume command while I am gone.’
The ship’s boat was lowered with the captain accompanying the Boarding Party. As the boat came nearer to the ship not under command, its two red lights burning brightly, suddenly its deck lights came on and the ship was clearly visible. The captain commanded the boat to come alongside the accommodation ladder. Suddenly a man appears on the top deck shouting loudly, ’Captain, please kill me and end my suffering. I have been waiting all these years to be liberated. Please kill me.’ Under the bright light Dhillon could clearly see it was Taimur, waving his right hand at him and holding back his entrails, trying to pour out of a gash in his lower abdomen. He took out his pistol, aimed at Taimur and took the shot. Taimur was seen toppling over the guardrails into the sea with a resounding splash and the ship vanished into thin air.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
It takes quite a bit of shouting and shoving to get inside the local train. I let go of two trains frothing at the doors with people and stood at the Vasai road station holding a book in my hand and my e-ticket that had eighteen more minutes of validity left. I had slept poorly the previous night which made everything look bloated and in slow motion and it was getting late for work. A taciturn procession of passengers was moving towards the other end of the first platform and I followed suit sweating and managed to get into a train that lay there snoring. The train was to start in a few minutes, the seats were all occupied, and I positioned myself adjacent to the seats. The regulars, which was most of them, had already eased into their routines - reels, stocks, series. Presently the train woke up from its slumber and started moving tentatively; a gentle breeze managed to catch the train running and squeezed itself through.
I leaned against the frame of the seat next to me and tried to open my book. After having completed Kafka’s metamorphosis the night before, in the sweet limbo between books, I had committed myself to this mediocrity of a fantasy about a library. Before bowing to accept a slow death by the book, for once my eyes scanned the coach for office going bugs. It was then that I noticed an only man with a book in his hands (other than me), standing sandwiched between the last row of seats and the electrical box, on the other side. He was probably in his thirties, moderately tall, slimly built, with a clean shaven face, and he wore a faded yellow half sleeve shirt tucked into deep blue pants. The book looked familiar, slightly ragged, with a cover that must have had been white at some point, and dog-eared at nearly one third of the book. As I was trying to read the title - ah! the serene old path white clouds - he caught my gaze (I must have had been staring) and smiled at me. Now I had to reciprocate. The bookworm that I was, I wiggled and made some room and moved towards him. With some effort, I carved a place out of the crowd next to him to stand, introduced myself, and offered - “It would be a shame to ruin such a nice book. Here, you can use my bookmark.” His eyes twinkled as if it was the one thing he had been waiting for and he thanked me warmly as he took it, “Thank you, Ananda.” The bookmark had violet lilac flowers on it and the phrase “o’er the paths where it rained” printed in turquoise. It was my favourite bookmark but somehow I instinctively felt like offering it to him. He placed it carefully between the pages and liberated the canine auricle.
“How do you like the book by the way?” I asked. Old Path, White Clouds is the story of the Buddha. From the time he left the riches and found enlightenment to the day his form dissolved back into the universe. Narrated with such conviction and love. An expression came over his face as if he was seriously racking his brains to find the best answer to that casual question and finally said, “As you know, time is an illusion; the seed doesn’t become the tree and the flowers - it is always the seed, the tree, and the flowers.” He paused. Then, lowering the voice to a whisper said, “I’m Siddhartha, the Buddha meditating under the pipala, and your co-passenger in this train. So, to answer your question, reading the book here is like looking into a mirror within a mirror. I love everything.” He winked. Buddha in the local train. Clearly he was deeply involved with the book. “So, Mr. Siddharth, what do you do for a living?” I asked nonchalantly.
“In another era, I learnt tending to buffaloes from my friend, Svasti. Now I tend to cars in a garage. The principles are the same.” I’m sure I’d read something similar somewhere. Krishna and Dub?cek? A bibliophile car mechanic; the day was still young for more weirdness. As I listened to him, I studied his features. Longish eyes, shoulders relaxed amidst all the jostling, nimble fingers resembling a pianist’s rather than a mechanic’s. Indeed, his whole demeanour had a peaceful quality to it. Like the Buddha perhaps?
“Family?” I ventured. His countenance turned solemn and he said, “I live with my parents and my sister in a small apartment in Vasai. We’re a happy family.” After a pause, as though waiting for the right moment, with a tender assertiveness he added, “But it’s time. Why be a bug when you can be Buddha!” There was a loud noise like electricity crackling and the whole train jolted violently. There was chaos and commotion; cries and sighs spilled all over the place. The Buddha was still calm and was radiating a smile with half-closed eyes. A blinding beam of light struck my face. As if a thousand suns had risen inside the train. The next instant, He was gone. Vanished like a wisp of light.
I grasped at thin air for something to hold on to. Nothingness. Silence. I rubbed my eyes trying to regain normalcy, floaters and phosphene stars danced around, a cold breeze chilled my spine; I was sweating profusely. Silence turned into whisper, murmur, clamour. The train had entered a station and most of the passengers were hurrying to get down. My book lay on the floor by the seat and had been stamped upon. The lilac flowers had reached their destination. I had yet to.
S. Anand is a researcher with a PhD from Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore and enjoys reading. Occasionally, he dabbles with writing short poems and stories.
I was browsing through the snaps my son-in-law had clicked of his seven-year-old daughter during their trip to Kashmir. He had captured her boisterous spirit as she frolicked on the lawns of the Mughal Gardens—running, laughing, playing tag, et al. So active and full of life! Suddenly I stopped when my eyes fell on her in an arresting pose. She was not hopping or skipping, but quietly hugging a tree. Her eyes were focussed not on the camera, but scanning the blue sky. I kept gazing at the photo, stunned by the contemplative posture in a mere child!
How could I forget the last time I had seen that look on her face? Our family was engulfed in a crisis at the time and, in the absence of her mother, she had been left in my care. I tried my best to entertain her. I took her to the nearby park in the afternoon to play on the slides and merry-go-round. When it became dark, I called out to her, “Let’s go home.” Obediently she took leave of her friends and slipped into the passenger seat by my side. As I fastened her seatbelt, I observed that she was not looking at me. Her piercing eyes were trained on the far horizon. How I wanted to gather her in my arms and console her with what I knew were empty words! But I checked myself. Her gaze was so pregnant with profoundness that I couldn’t bring myself to barge into her brown study. Soon she turned around and resumed her usual chatter. I tried to study her innocent face. There were no tears in her eyes, even though her mother had gone for treatment of cancer. I wondered whether she was cursing God for being so cruel? Or was she steeling herself against the inevitable that fate had in store—snatching her mother away?
I closed the album. The passing years had put layers of dust on the snapshots—and distance on a bleak memory. Her young mind was trying to put the past behind her—and I had to catch up with her.
“Look at the birds, Grandpa,” she was telling me while pointing at the birds perched on a power line. “Where are they going?”
“They are going home, my dear,” I managed to reply.
It’s now five years since her mother left us. But destiny has chiselled her from steel and bestowed her with great fortitude to brave the future.
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.
Yes, that is how I think about it. For more than five and a half decades I have lived as a bachelor with no woman enticing me in any way. I have hordes of women friends being connected to the media. But this one shook the core of my inner being. It all started with a casual introduction by one of my lady friends. As I was busy I never paid much attention until I read her profile and saw her photo. There was something irresistible in her. Her eyes, her cheeks, the gentle curve of her jaw line and the ever-smiling curve of her lips bowled me...I fell for her and wanted to know more about her. I raided her FB account and collected all her photographs. Every photo was a study in itself and the aura she exuded from each drove me mad. I wanted to tell her that and one day I spoke to her and fell in love with her voice too. We spoke about many things and she innocently went on talking freely as if she knew me for aeons. And then there was a long break.
She never called me or messaged me. One day missing her I sent a message and she acknowledged it. Then without stopping to think I confessed headlong.
She, I assumed, was stunned.
Her answer disappointed me. She hurriedly bid me adieu and disappeared. I assessed her as a friendly person who was frank in her interactions. One who valued love, for all she came across, and a gifted person.
But I saw more than this in her, for me who prided in my sense of assessing beauty, I saw her as a woman with eternal spring in every nerve of her body. She throbbed with life and vitality rare in women of her age. A woman who cherished a youthful heart and soul. I was intoxicated by her exuberant charm. I had never seen her but her photographs and her voice throbbed with vitality and an enticing aura which intoxicated me. I also admired her for her strength of character, very strong in her opinion and attitude. But again it was only a facade, deep inside she was a vulnerable teenager. The more I studied her photos she drew me closer and closer to her and I enjoyed this intoxication secretly from a distance.
I once dared to speak about it to her. She listened patiently without uttering a single word. She was silent for so long, I thought she had cut me off.
Then after a long gap, she said "No. This is madness. I can only be your friend but I can understand your feelings. I empathise, but I can only be a good friend to you."
It was like pouring cold water over me. I was stunned. I knew she was telling me the truth. She was devoted to her family and was a devout person.
I argued with her. You will never get into any trouble. We have crossed the age of restriction so why can't you reciprocate?
Yet she stood by her decision. I shall be your good friend nothing more.
Then I requested, "Will you allow me to adore you from a distance? I want to. You intoxicate me. Please don't say no. I am a recluse. I have been leading a peaceful life but now you have made me insanely intoxicated with love for you." There was utter silence on the other side. Then a good night accompanied by a rose appeared on my chat box.
I sat with my hand on my head.
Too tired by my emotions that had taken me by surprise.
The next day a long message came. She had invited me to her home to meet her family. She was sure that once I saw her in real life, I would realise it was only an infatuation and that all my feelings towards her would fly away with the wind.
I did not reply.
I could not understand myself
I just wanted to see her face which throbbed so much with vitality and youth - her eyes, her lips, her smile… even at this age.
I knew I had become besotted with her, she had bewitched me.
My wild passion, which I tried to convey through my impassioned language, only frightened her. Her long silence, while we chatted, told me that she was cringing and trying to escape from me. But being too sensitive to others' feelings and mature enough to understand others with her empathy she was trying her best not to cut me down, a lonely man, thirsting for love. She was sympathetic, I did not want her sympathy.
It was something hard to swallow. If I didn't control myself I would lose her companionship and affection. I took charge of my emotions. I relaxed, yes let her remain my friend. I shall not frighten her by expressing my feelings for her. I shall be a good friend to her, never hurt her in any way.
But deep inside I knew this love that had overwhelmed me would last as long as I lived. It would be my first love and last love for a woman whom I had come to love without ever meeting her in real life.
Will anyone understand?
I had told her once:
"l love you
Because your radiance is so intense.
I don't know if anyone has noticed it.
But this addiction to your beauty is affecting me a lot.
May I enjoy it secretly without any trouble for you?
I am asking for permission.
I can go on talking to you like this for any length of time
I stop because you have your limitations.
I am a free bird but you are caged.
Yet with your heart, you can fly with me and partake in my love."
But like a parrot, she would say:
"Sorry, I can only be a good friend, nothing more."
So there we stand parallel to each other. Whatever I say she accepts silently. Never accusing me or making me feel bad about this inordinate passion of mine. Often reminding me that she was much older than me. She tried her best to wean me away from this all-consuming fire of passion. Even to the extent of inviting me to their home and meeting her family. She was certain that when I saw her grey hair, her sagging frame and her beloved family my passion would fade away.
But a recluse leading almost an ascetic life and shy of meeting strangers, I said a big "no." But I had confessed to her that I lived from what I earned from my job. I had accumulated nothing to call my own. Even my inheritance, I had given away to my siblings. An atheist, I was addicted to communist ideas but was cheesed away by present-day politics. I had no qualms about telling her everything about me.
As days pass by it grows and encompasses me. Yet at the same time, my better self forbids and controls this wild horse in me, which frightens me at times, harnessing me to be like Keats' nightingale hidden among the flowery gloom and enjoying her friendliness, warmth, empathy and the spring of youth that exuded through her smile that is open and innocent encompassing all within its range.
She cannot gauge the depth of my passion and my crazy love for her.
I am like a boy who had caught a firefly and trapped it in a casket. Only to open it occasionally, to enjoy its warm light and play with it.
How long it is going to last I cannot say. But once she told me that she cherishes all those who sought her love. Be it man or beast. So she would love me in her strange way.
My only prayer is that she should give me permission to love her and adore her from a distance. I would never cause her trouble in any way.
She has not given any answer and I take her silence as consent.
Lathaprem Sakhya, painter, a published poet and self-styled green woman, working with brush, pen and spade, was born to Tamil parents who settled in Kerala. Apart from painting, writing poetry, short stories, dribbles and flash fiction, she is also interested in translating short works into English from Malayalam. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor to several e-magazines, especially Literary Vibes, Akshrasthree and Science Shore.
She is a member of four prominent poetry groups, Poetry Chain, Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, India Poetry Circle and New Voices. Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has also done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni).
A self-taught painter she has more than 100 frames to her credit done in oil, Acrylic and watercolour. She retired in 2015 as head of the Dept of English from Marthoma College for Women, Perumbavoor, Kerala. after a long service of 30 years. She is settled in Perumbavoor with her husband and children.
(Picture Courtesy: Srivats C)
CHRISTMAS is round the corner. TIME FOR GIFTS. Additionally, it's a season of weddings, birthdays and house-warming ceremonies…and my thoughts about 'gifts'-the right choice is uppermost....
Gift is an act of giving, honoring during an occasion by gesture in kind. Apart from the gold and silver coins and articles, wedding gifts consist of rice cookers, iron boxes, tea sets and such other items of utility. Repetition of utility items will become trifle uninteresting; they end up in the loft, never to be used. With regard to birthday gifts, apart from books, there’d be gifts of pencil boxes, puzzles, board games and stuffed toys. Many mothers stash them away and pass them off at the next birthday party. What else to do, it cannot go to waste? One friend would give chocolate hampers during birthdays. Am sure the birthday baby would have had a “chocolatey” time! Likewise, the idols, photo frames, dhotis and saris received during the sixtieth birthday or the seventieth are not too enjoyable as they become an unwieldy number, saddled with clothes that are not appreciable too.
It ‘s true that one has not to look a gift horse in the mouth, that is one should not criticize or doubt anything that has been offered. While this is true of the person who receives the gift the giver should ensure that his gift is special, worthy of the occasion. Recall one such gift- this lady, not too well to do, would devise her own card (with recycled wedding invitations). Her writing would always describe the person along with the family members, highlighting their positives. Uneducated in the conventional sense, she was endowed with wisdom– her heart flowed in poetic Tamil, her mother tongue.
While choosing a gift, one should exercise a lot of diligence; the value of the gift exists not in its monetary worth but in the ‘real value.’ Cash is an easy alternative at times; its value appears too little or too much! Customizing and choosing the right gift is an art. True, the budget is the major factor, yet, one can choose a gift appropriate to the occasion, according to the taste of the person, better still, discreetly discuss and then procure. Gift shops have a mind boggling variety of giveaways, yet, one has to discern and choose from the varied hues available.
Talking of return gifts, plants are given by the eco-friendly, religious books by the devout ones; chocolate and sweet boxes, bags and other utility items by the ones who wish to play it safe. At one wedding, camp lights were given as a return gift, which was applauded by the seniors.
A Gift need not be Giving It For Taking back, it better be Genuine, Interesting, Fulfilling, Touching too. …The gift of love speaks volumes without burning a hole in the pocket.
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.
I live alone, not by choice but compulsion. Retired and living alone may sound difficult to many but I manage it fairly well. Appreciation from friends and relatives come as an encouragement occasionally but I am never carried away by the compliments as making it happen was never easy.
Well, I mentioned living alone by compulsion and will have to tell the tale. After over two decades of wedded life togetherness started turning sour and we decided to part in a friendly manner. It was a love marriage and both were professionals. Having a child had to be delayed due to professional commitments and bits and pieces of disagreements started sprouting which turned bad and bitter over time. No shouting’s, no argument but with disagreements and dislikes multiplying both went into a silent mode for long periods of time. The happiness in life was slowly fading and the girl child came years later. She had a difficult childhood and in these suffocating surroundings fortunately she achieved her ambition with hard work and determination through education. Once her feet firm and steady she announced
“Having seen your lives please leave me alone and if marriage is to happen it will be of my choice”
We agreed and under that condition she took up an assignment abroad.
A year later her message short and crisp said
“I have decided to marry and he is a Russian”
Phone call a day later she gave us more details and out of curiosity I asked
“In which language do you communicate”?
“He doesn’t understand English and I don’t know Russian. No conflict no problems and we successfully use sign language if needed”
Loud laughter at both the ends and during the wedding we had the choice of talking to our son in law in Tamil or English without questions asked and he pretended to understand.
It was after the marriage the issue of our disagreements came up again. Wife put it straight
“Isn’t it better that both of us have our independent spaces”?
When ones thought reaches that level to a point of no return it is always best to surrender. The separation was smooth and we do remain friendly.
This tail end in life do take its toll but destiny has its own way.
Living alone in the house far away from the city and this isolation and loneliness I had to accept. Friends in plenty virtual and real and talking to them a pleasure. A close one abroad and his calls due to time difference often came late in the night.
As usual I was talking to him that day late in the night when I heard a sound. Never took it seriously and the sound was repeated. Told my friend over phone
“Think there is a thief inside”
“Call the police” My friend was almost shouting
“He is already inside and I will have to handle. Will leave the phone live and you can listen to the happenings and act accordingly”.
“OK, be careful”
I kept the phone on the table and cautiously took a step when the power failed.
I returned to the phone and spoke
“He has shut down the power”
“My God” was the response
It was pitch dark and I stood still to hear further sound and there was none. Step by step slowly with caution and I knew the thief was also caught in the dark.
Familiar with each location of the house I knew the proximity of the main switch and walking slowly towards it my feet hits something strong. There ought to be nothing in that place and this something I hit with my feet is an extra object. Fear crept in and confused I was. Slowly and steadily returned to the phone and said silently
“Someone lying flat on the ground near the main switch”
“Goodness” was the response from the other end
With the mobile light on I slowly moved towards the main switch.
Light focused I got the shock of my life seeing it
Dead with eyes wide open it was looking at me. The looks gave an impression of anger, regret and foolishness.
A huge rodent and snapping live wire caused its death. The long lengthy part of it looked like a garland over it
“The Tail”
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..
"You Brutus!"
I shouted at my hubby in the dead of night.
I was just behind him and he was facing the refrigerator.
He shuddered out of shock and fear at my blurt out.
What made me play a spy at this hour, you all must be wondering!!!
A loud thud that resounded like thunder and broke my sleep- was the reason behind.
My questioning further was genuine inquiry from a sleep deprived soul.
"What are you up to? Have you seen the time? And, what about the thunder sans lightning? Did you generate it or any smart cat has pervaded our vistas of bliss?"
Those were too many questions, I realized . As I had to gulp down half a bottle of cold water to bring my parched throat to ease due to the barge of volleys .
We had changed positions by then. We were face to face -more or less.
He was shivering in the hot torrid summer. His face had turned pale like a white sheet.
My discerning eyes were on him like a hawk fastens on a prey.
I knew something was fishy, for he was not himself.
He avoided looking straight into my eyes. That was very unlike him.
He appeared a confused and petrified soul, much like a thief caught red handed.
The glass bowl with dinner leftovers was in pieces now. The foodstuffs therein were scattered all over. My anger and frustration was at its all-time high at the messy sight.
" What made you open the refrigerator at midnight? You have a sore throat. So, the cold water option is ruled out. The world knows you are a glutton, but why should you sneak through and eat, make a mess of everything?”
“I had prepared kheer for our get-together tomorrow. Have you devoured the entire thing?”
“Omg! What do I do now? I have severe back pain, cannot prepare again. I have promised my friends a delicious treat. What do I do now? I will cut a sorry figure.”
He tried to pacify me through the subtleties of sign language, unsullied by any actual action, but failed miserably.
" Please listen to me first, then react. I have not crossed the fine line of temptation. Nor have I any idea where you have stored kheer. My sugar level came down drastically. I was profusely sweating and had to munch on something sweet. As soon as I opened the refrigerator, the bowl climbed down with a thud . Thus the situation arose. It was more of mechanical dexterity than due to craving for epicurean enjoyment. This is the whole story. It is up to you whether you believe it or not."
“I didn't tell you about my uncontrolled sugar level, lest you get tense. I have been on medication for diabetes. I have been hiding the medicines in my drawer since diagnosis. You may term my concern as an extravagant gesture, as I cannot fling my head back and throw arms wide open like a bolly wood hero to proclaim my feelings, but I truly love you and care for you.”
I told him with a bit of sarcasm in voice, while cleaning the mess…
" Oh! How considerate of you!”
“I am wide awake like an owl and sleep would elude me for the rest of the night. You know well, how much effort I put everyday to lull me to sleep. Once I wake up it is always a difficult proposition to crawl back. Could you not exercise a bit of mindfulness to avoid the mess?”
Recriminations flew back and forth like a volleyball keenly eyed and pursued by two warring teams. A tense atmosphere followed too . But it didn’t last long. I took a fresh hold on my nerves lest Rahul -our son will be awake and witness the fight of two elderly people at such an odd hour.
With a little pacified voice I continued-
“You could have asked me instead of attempting to find sweetmeats. A little nudge would have done the needful. Actually, the only sweet dish stored in the refrigerator is ‘kheer’. But I know exactly where chocolates and other sweetmeats are kept. My prying eyes have a list of everything that Rohan stealthily stores for late evenings . When I have cravings, I answer my indulgences from the hidden chambers of his cupboard.”
“Ha..ha...ha. When his stock depletes, he casts aspersions by raising his brows.”
“Mom, did you open my cupboard?"
My standard reply is -” Why should I? What is there after all? I am busy like a donkey from dawn to dusk. I don’t have time for such flimsy things in life.”
His rage gets doused at once. Proffering copious “sorry” he leaves the place to hide face under his favorite pillow. Faking a grumpy demeanor, I walk briskly towards the living room to sprawl myself on the couch with a victor -ludorum smile.
" Oh my! You too Brutus!"- my hubby uttered sheepishly.
In tow we marched towards the bedroom to try our luck to fall asleep. After all, it’s not easy , especially when you have an extended altercation with your spouse in the middle of the night.
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.
BUSTING AN INTERNATIONAL DRUGS TRAFFIKING RACKET
(Saga of a sensational seizure, of Narcotic Drugs of highest quantity detected and seized in India up to that period as told by Sri Y.R. Shankar, I.R.S (Retd.), Sri S.B. Samantray, I.R.S (Retd.), and Sri D. Mallick, I.R.S(Retd.) who have actively participated in the spectacular seizure of 10.08 quintal Hashish, way back in 1977)
In the first week of April, 1977, Sri G.J.Rao, Inspector was on control room duty on a Sunday . At about 12’o clock, he was alerted by the constant ringing of the landline phone, and when he picked up the receiver, he was thrilled. It was a call from the Vizag Customs Intelligence wing. The Vizag Intelligence wing officer informed to keep surveillance on a Foreign Origin Tourist Bus bearing no-OM-9137, moving towards Bhubaneswar on N.H-5. Startled by the information Sri Rao immediately picked up another young officer Sri Dusasan Mallick, who was staying near the office in Lewis Road and rushed to pass on the information to their senior intelligence officer Sri Y.R. Shankar at his Unit-4 residence in Bhubaneswar. After chalking out a strategy the Intelligence Enforcement officers drove towards Khordha on the N.H-5. After crossing Khandagiri Square they selected a strategic point on N.H-5 at Tamando and mounted their surveillance over the vehicles coming from Khordha side. At about 2PM a Tourist Bus was located from the vantage point on the highway advancing towards Bhubaneswar. The Intelligence Officers followed the bus which entered the compound of Hotel Prachi. The officers kept their surveillance, posting themselves in the half-constructed Ram Mandir just opposite Hotel Prachi. After parking the Bus in the parking lot two foreigners were seen alighting from the bus with their backpacks and checked into the Hotel. Sri Dusasan Mallick, junior Intelligence officer looking like a college student was sent into the Hotel to collect intelligence posing as a visitor. He could locate two foreigners were taking breakfast in the dining hall. After finishing their food horridly, both came out of the hotel and went to the bus with towels and wiped the steering wheel and the seat covers of the bus. The Hotel campus where the tourist bus was parked was surveilled 24 hours by the intelligence sleuths. Awaiting further instructions from DRI, New Delhi, and communication from Vizag Customs, a round the clock surveillance network team was formed by enlisting the services of Intelligence officers like S/Sri S.B.Samantray, M.C.Sahoo, and Ganga Pani Behera. A team of intelligence officers from Vizag came the following day and met the collector customs Bhubaneswar Mr. H.V. Thawng. It was gathered that a motor vessel- MV Thresher came to Vizag coast near to the Bheemulipatnam , Bheemili in short , at a distance of 25 km from Vizag port. Bheemili , located at the mouth of the River Gosthain ,was an abandoned 17th century Dutch settlement , and a port , ideal for safe and smooth navigation in comparison to rocky beaches of Vizag. Finding this point safe for their illegal activities, the crew members of MV Thresher preferred to anchor their vessel at Bheemili under pretenses that vessel engine had developed technical snag and not working properly. One Mr. Vanesh, a Canadian, oversaw the vessel. At this juncture Mr. A.K.Babbar , D.I.G ,Directorate of Narcotics ,New Delhi accompanied by one Mr Shawany - a senior Intelligence Officer from DRI, New Delhi ,arrived by Indian Airlines flight to supervise the anti-smuggling operation and met the collector. A consultative meeting was held in close door in the chamber of the collector, and a threadbare discussion was held among the local intelligence sleuths, Vizag customs officers and Mr. Shawany from DRI, Delhi. It was Sri Y.R. Shankar Intelligence officer of Bhubaneswar who advance his view that something fishy have been marked as the bus steering wheel and seats were wiped clean, most probably the contraband narcotics must be inside the bus in some secret storage, and it was decided to keep vigil round the clock further, over the bus parked at Hotel Prachi, and the vessel anchored at Bheemili coast.
After three days of surveillance at Hotel Prachi a Canadian named Mr. Duglas Higgins came from Calcutta and visited Prachi hotel and left for Vizag after spending few hours in Prachi hotel. On his arrival at Vizag, he was taken into custody by Vizag customs. The Canadians who drove the bus into the Hotel campus has fled by jumping the back side low-lying boundary wall of the hotel in the thick of the night under the cover of darkness. As per the direction of Mr. Babbar, DIG, Narcotics Control Bureau, simultaneous search operations were carried out on the vessel at Bheemili and the bus at Bhubaneswar. Some officers from Calcutta Customs Intelligence wing such as Sri H.D.Majumdar, Sri D.K.Dey,and Sri A.K.Guha joined the seizure operation at Hotel Prachi . The door of the bus was force opened before Mr. A.K.Babbar and intelligence officers of Bhubaneswar, Vizag and Calcutta who joined the operation at the crucial moment. The search officers were at their wits end what to do when they failed to locate any contraband inside the bus. However, while inspecting the back row seats of the bus, they hit upon a slit in the floor of the back portion of the seats and on reasonable suspicion could open the lid over a secret cavity beneath the seats. After removing the seats, they could see a huge secret storage space beneath the rows of passenger seats. The awe-struck officers recovered 56 sealed plastic buckets from the secret storage suspected to be stuffed with the narcotics. The buckets were opened and high-grade Hashish in cake forms were found uniformly packed in each bucket with 18KG and total narcotics determined at 1008 kg on physical weighment. The narcotics along with the bus bearing number-OM 9137 were seized under various provisions of Dangerous Drug Act of 1930, and the 1971 Manhattan (UNO) Convention on Psychotropic Substances read with Customs ACT 1962. By that time no comprehensive law was enacted by the Indian Parliament until the adoption of the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act,1985-(NDPS Act 1985).
During surveillance an officer from Interpol (INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL POLICE ORGANISATION-INTERPOL) representing Canada- an officer on deputation from Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) came from Delhi to oversee the seizure case booked against the Canadian citizens, since it was an Interpol intelligence- tracking the international drugs trafficking racket routed through Indo-Nepal border. During the late sixties and early seventies of last Century, in USA, and Canada there were phenomenal growth of Hippie culture supplemented by the Harekrishna movement. The Hippies used to smoke ganja, marijuana, and hash to experience ecstasy – an emotional or religious frenzy, or trance like state, originally one involving an experience of mystic self-transcendence. That contemporary theme was poignantly captured cinematically and displayed in a Bolly wood blockbuster Hindi movie ‘’Hare Rama-Hare Krishna’ ’almost entirely filmed in Kathmandu, starring Dev Anand, Zeenat Aman, and Mumtaz, directed and produced by Dev Anand in 1971, which was an instant box-office hit.
The Oriental drugs like Hashish, commonly shortened to Hash, is an oleoresin made by compressing and processing parts of cannabis plant, typically focusing on flowering buds containing the most trichomes. It is consumed as a psychoactive drug by smoking, typically in a pipe, bong (hookah), vaporizer or joint, or via oral ingestion.
As per the inputs received from Interpol, a Canadian drug cartel had procured huge quantity of highgrade Hash through their conduit in the Highlands of the Himalayan terrain in Nepal and likely to ship it to western coast of Canada preferably to Vancouver the bustling west coast sea port of British Columbia. Their original plan to route through Wagah border could not work, as the international check post at Indo-Pak border, Atari- Wagah was fortified and heavily guarded, and it was felt impossible to route international tourist bus without foreign passengers which were used as a medium of transportation of contraband Narcotics through Wagah. In view of imminent risk involved, while considering to take the historic Grand Trunk Road between Amritsar and Lahore that connects the two neighboring inimical nations, the drug syndicate operating from Vancouver, changed the decision, and instructed their trafficker compatriots to route through the vulnerable east coast at Bheemili in North Andhra coast near Vishakhapatnam for transshipment through their Vessel. After receiving instruction from Vancouver, the drug smuggling kingpins Mr. Ralf Palgrey, and Mr. Lawrence Petite decided to proceed to Vishakhapatnam through the Indo-Nepal check post at Raxaul. They carried some international tourist from Kathmandu to camouflage their nefarious drugs trafficking activities. After crossing the international Customs check posts at both side of Indo-Nepal border, under the pretext that since the bus had developed engine trouble, couldn’t move further and de-boarded the passengers and taking their convenient time moved towards Vizag. After 4 days drive, they had reached Vizag, but found the road leading to Bheemili was under heavy police patrol. Thereafter, they planned to load the drugs somewhere in the unguarded porous Odisha coast preferably at Chandrabhaga near Konark famously known as Black Pagoda to the international sailing community, as there were no customs, and marine police formations. Accordingly, Lawrence Petite did a little recce on the Chandrabhaga beach to select an ideal spot for unloading - loading, as per the instruction received from their boss from Vancouver and lost his purse containing his passport somewhere on the beach out of mental tension. However, on the next day morn one fisherman of Penthakata fishing village found the purse containing a pass port of a foreigner and handed over the pass port to a local grocery shop owner Sri Banamali Sahoo, who took the fisherman to the nearest police station, and deposited the purse and pass port with the local Police Station at Gope. Immediately after their return from the Police Station, they located a foreigner searching something in the beach. After knowing that the foreigner is looking for his lost Passport, they informed him to collect his passport from Gope Police Station.
As the smugglers could not facilitate shipping of their narcotic drugs at Bheemili, they took the Bus on N.H.-5 towards Bhubaneswar. The Vizag customs on surveillance alerted their counterpart through the control room duty officer to act upon the information accordingly. By that time, I was posted at Berhampur Range office. Our Superintendent directed me and my colleague Sri G.B.Panda to move by our departmental jeep driven by Sri Raju Mohanty to trace out the moving bus on N.H-5. Both of us moved up to Rambha and could not locate the bus and passed on the message that the tourist bus had already passed through Rambha bazar one hour before, to Headquarters Control Room. At about 4 pm, we got the information about the detection of the Foreign Origin Bus-OM-9137, and under surveillance at Hotel Prachi in Bhubaneswar which gave us thrilling satisfaction.
At Hotel Prachi the search and seizing operation were conducted and the contraband narcotic drugs weighing 1008 Kg as per international market estimated at 10 corers was seized. After a month-long investigation, a regular case was registered, and further steps were taken by the Interpol to pin down the drugs cartel in future. The case was adjudicated by the competent authority and confiscated absolutely and put into the destruction process. The bus on confiscation was put up for auction and accordingly disposed of on realization of the highest bid amount. One voluntary organization participated in the auction bid and took over the bus, on deposit of auction amount, for academic use in a college at Sambalpur. A reward amounting to Rs 16725.00 was sanctioned by the then Director, Directorate of Revenue Intelligence Shri M.L. Wadhawan to the participating officers in recognition of their commendable role played in the seizure of record-breaking narcotics drug quantity booked so far in India. The sensational seizure of the highest quantity of hashish was widely published in all the local and national dailies and remained a hot topic in public gossip for years.
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.
John Keats begins his poetic romance Endymion with the most famous line: “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."
We all enjoy things of beauty, even if a thing one individual considers beautiful may not necessarily be considered as a thing of beauty by another. Each and every human being does have her or his own beauty concept.
As far as I am concerned, the sky or the moon or a sunset or a bird or a tree or a landscape or a river or pond or a bee or butterfly is always a thing of beauty. And I don't know whether there are people who consider night as a thing of beauty that gives joy. I used to enjoy the beauty of nights and still I enjoy it.
Music is the thing that makes the world a beautiful place, I presume. While in the daylight we have the sweet music of birds; in the night, apart from the music of the nocturnal birds, we have the orchestra of the crickets, and, in the rainy nights, that of the frogs too.
While I was a college student, I earned the money to meet the expense of my studies by giving English tuition to Pre-Degree students and I have had a few intimate student-friends with whom I used to discuss politics, literature, history of the world and the environmental issues. I used to tell them that the earth doesn't belong to the humans; the humans do have no right to ravage the environment; and we should shun our anthropocentric atitude and outlook. And I used to tell them that the night is more beautiful than the day, because at night we can enjoy the world without being disturbed by the din and clamour of the day.
I used to walk alone at midnight in the spacious open place of our village filled with black palm trees. It was the grazing land of the cattle of the village. It was really captivating to see the beauty of the place in the moonlit nights with the background music the palm leaves create when the gentle breeze makes them flutter. My description of the beauty of nights at this place inspired my student-friends also to come with me to the open place at midnights and everybody liked the mesmerising beauty and music and calmness of the nights and the place. On almost all full-moon days, we used to visit the place at midnight and spend long hours enjoying the serenity.
To watch the star decked sky, to see the moonlight making the palm leaves silver coated and to listen to the music the fluttering sound of the palm leaves makes with the wind, and to hear the occasional hooting of the owls and chirping of the lapwings was something really heavenly. Adjacent to the open place there were the endless paddy-fields of our village. Sometimes, we used to walk through the embankments of the paddy fields. The gurgling sound of water flowing from one field to another, the verdant paddy plants shining under the moonlight, the nonstop music of the crickets and the frogs, and the rippling the winds made in the paddy plants used to create in us a feeling of joy that is beyond description.
I used to tell my friends that the moon we behold had been beheld thousands of years ago by humans and they might of course have enjoyed the beauty of the moonlit nights as we enjoyed it, and the future generations after us would also look at the moon and enjoy the beauty. Humans will come and go, but the moon will always be there even when the humans go extinct.
Today the only thing that hasn't changed at all is the moon. The moon is still there in the sky with its eternal beauty, but there is no paddy field in my village; the open place which is called Annode is still there, but its pristine beauty is gone forever. It has been my haven of serenity, now it is the haven of drunkards and the serenity is ravaged; plastic waste and liquor bottles are seen strewn everywhere. None of my student-friends is now interested in walking in the nights and enjoying the beauty of the nights, and virtually evryone discarded the stand against liquor and the love for the environment I have instilled in them.
The only one who adheres to my teachings against the intoxicating drinks and drugs, against the anthropocentric approach towards the environment, against the patriarchal culture and feudal aesthetics prevalent in our society is myself. Today, I am the teacher and I am the (only) disciple too. And I still enjoy the beauty of the nights; not by walking in the open place but by standing on the terrace of my home at full-moon nights with my wife and reciting Keats' immortal lines:
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”
My wife understands me perfectly well and that is real bliss. Just like me, she too loves the sky, the moon, the birds and the beauty and music of the night.
The author who hails from Palakkad district of Kerala has completed his post graduation from JNU (Jawaharlal Nehru University), New Delhi. His articles on gender, environmental and other socio-political issues are published in The Hindu, The New Indian Express, The Hans India and the current affairs weekly Mainstream etc. His writings focus on the serenity of Nature and he writes against the Environmental destruction the humans are perpetrating in the name of development that brings climate catastrophes and ecological disasters like the 2015 Chennai floods and the floods Kerala witnessed in 2018 August and 2019 August. A collection of his published articles titled Leaves torn out of life: Woman the real spine of the home and other articles was published in 2019. He is a person of great literary talent and esoteric taste. One of his articles (Where have all the birds gone?) published in The Hindu is included in the Class XII English textbook in Maharashtra by the Maharashtra State Board of Secondary and Higher Secondary Education.
Criticizing others without considering whether it is objectionable or detrimental or beneficial, is a natural tendency of humans. Interestingly, many individuals who dislike being criticized, do eagerly seek kudos, be it genuine or false. Norman Vincent Peale aptly remarked, "The trouble with most of us is that we would rather be ruined by praise than saved by criticism." However, there are exceptions—individuals who introspectively criticize their own actions for further improvement, abstain from criticizing others faults or flaws. Abraham Lincoln's perspective on criticism aligns with this, stating, "He has a right to criticize who has the heart to help."
Criticism has become an integral aspect of daily life, for no one in this world is immune to arrows of criticism coming from different directions. In democratic countries, people enjoying freedom of speech, freely criticize one another or the system or even the Government with least hesitation, regardless of the target's status, mental condition and situation prevailing at that point of time. Political leaders, ministers, and intellectuals in dignified positions too hardly desist from criticizing others whom they dislike without regard to decorum. Similarly nobody is confident of his good work or his innovative skill to produce something new will be spared from criticism.
Well, when criticizing others for their work, talk or style of living has become conventional, the manner and the intent behind it matter much. In that respect criticism may be categorized into three groups. One is constructive or creative, the other is driven by suppressed negative emotions brewing out of anger, jealousy, antagonism, competition, hatred, enmity, failure and the third one is just for amusement or for playing pranks.
(Krushnakamal flower bloomed bright in my garden)
Constructive and creative criticism, aimed at refining and improving subject’s conduct, attitude and activities or the plans and programmes of a state or country, are highly valued. Critics who consistently prioritize the well-being of others and the improvement of systems and administration of a country contribute significantly to the progress of a nation. Their insights are indispensable tools for building a healthy nation and so they are held in high esteem. Unfortunately now-a-days the number such critics are very small in any society or in any country compared to negative ones who are predominantly agog with unhealthy and irritating comments/criticisms everywhere.
Criticisms fueled by jealousy, anger, animosity, hatred, personal grudge with evil intent to demean others are always detrimental to the subject criticized or the society and country besides being self-destructive. Such critiques are often baseless, illogical, irrational, divisive, disruptive, outrageous, and do not go to benefit the critics except satisfying their ego momentarily. The temporary satisfaction derived from these criticisms by the critics is outweighed by long-term repercussions which return like boomerang. In this respect my personal experience is worth noting. I had a strong inclination to do something different which others could not in my area of activities in service life. With that zeal whenever I have achieved something different or special, some of my colleagues and seniors applied their heinous tricks to denounce and denigrate me but I was never perturbed a bit and stood rock steady to forge ahead with my objective. Result as I have witnessed later was that the fellows who criticized me for my novel achievements faced serious problems in life and gathered near my door for help which I did wholeheartedly.
Criticisms made for amusement are relatively harmless and provide momentary pleasure to the critics just like playing fun and frolic. They do not significantly impact the individuals being criticized. Both matured as well as immature people often derive temporary pleasure in criticizing their friends with no evil intentions and thus it is taken as entertaining stuff.
Negative criticism made by one is not one’s inherent trait, rather it is spontaneous outburst of one’s emotion when something appears wrong, unpalatable, inconsistent, irrelevant and to one’s dislike. Hurling of such criticism is mostly intentional for which escalation of confrontation and combat is the obvious outcome depending on the level of tolerance of the persons criticized for their honest service and/or enviable achievements in their respective fields of operation.
Again, noble and benevolent service done to one or the country is also not free from criticism. To illustrate - if someone goes on to rescue a person from an inevitable danger by risking life, it is not guaranteed that his such noble action will be appreciated and commended by one and all around; rather there will be some people to comment that the fellow has jumped in to take this venture just to come to lime light or to qualify for a gallantry award. Similarly, if somebody out of fun or out of jealousy criticizes or hurls abusive and disruptive comments at the good work done by a person for the benefit of others, all other people around may not denounce or condemn such criticism rather there may be some people who instead of condemning such abrasive comments/criticisms, would derive pleasure in instigating the critics for doing so. Again, if someone by virtue of his good nature comes out to extend financial help to someone in distress, there may be some people at least who might not appreciate it, rather pass comments that he did it in order to earn name and fame by sparing a few coins from his huge ill got money. A very common instance observed in Govt. or corporate offices is that when an employee of any rank or position achieves something special by virtue of his honest and sincere endeavour, all his colleagues/seniors may not appreciate his performance and achievement, on the contrary, some of them will criticize to discourage and belittle him. What an irony?
In the face of such inevitable criticisms, an individual has to decide whether to continue with his/her altruistic endeavour and honest and sincere attempt to complement his/her project despite potential backlash or retreat to avoid criticism. While many continue to pursue with their efforts regardless of criticism, there may be some who prefer to stay safe by keeping away from their effort and exhibit lackadaisical approach to perform their duties or for extending help to others in distress vaguely anticipating criticisms.
Criticisms do often play a negative role to instill a sense of fear to demotivate benevolent, honest and sincere persons for doing public welfare and performing their duties honestly. Criticism made for bad or harmful acts done by anybody is not bad but that for someone doing good work either in office or for a society or a country is reprehensible.
When some people in a democratic country enjoying full freedom of speech go on hurling unhealthy criticisms against good people and for good work done recklessly, how to contain this obnoxious conduct of these people in a vast country like ours having a conglomerate of different religions, castes, culture, customs and above all, languages? Perhaps in this respect strong communication system seems to be the appropriate mechanism to disseminate right message to the people of all spectrum for motivating them to desist from hurling unholy, unethical, disruptive and exasperating criticisms against the persons doing good work selflessly. At present the means of better communication are education, media both print and electronic, public speeches by political leaders and last but not the least one is Pravachans given by Religious preachers in different forums and occasions.
If a close look is given to these four means of communication, it will be apparent that expectation for positive motivation from all these systems is far from satisfactory. To elucidate – firstly the current system of education is very good and well developed but it lacks moral curriculum like the past to infuse ethical values in students to become ideal citizens. Secondly the media which play a pivotal role in effective communication have become purely commercial with least interest in playing the role of motivators to educate and inspire general public to lead a peaceful social life, staying away from blame games. Thirdly, the public speeches of political leaders which could have been a good motivator to guide people to uphold mutual respect, are packed with their party’s and personal interest and for that they hardly hesitate to criticize and denounce their opponents openly and lastly the pravachans delivered by religious preachers in different occasions or as regular means seldom create any impact on audience to amend their nature of criticizing others for anything be it bad or good work done. These days, none of these modes of communication ever try to bring about attitudinal changes in humans to rouse manliness in them so as to enhance their power of tolerance and forgiving others for their misconduct.
Perhaps the only way left for a change is, though hyperbolic, yet it may be a cosmic transformation of human nature that can aptly qualify everyone as human, the supreme creation of God in the Universe. Darkness does not linger indefinitely, in apposite time dawn follows.
(Bankim feeding deers at Berbera Nature Camp)
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker being a lover of nature likes to live with plants and nature by gardening and travelling. He takes pleasure in writing small articles on various topics like the one posted here not as a professional writer but for making best use of time which is abundant in his disposal post retirement.
GANDHI MAHATMA’s ODISHA CONNECTION
Gandhi Mahatma(as he was fondly known in Odisha), moved by the poverty and famine had always wanted to serve the people of Odisha and visited the state several times. During his eight visits to the state of Odisha Mahatma created enormous impact wherever he went and stimulated its people towards the cause of national movement. People of Odisha responded to the clarion call of Gandhi and became a part of the struggle for India’s independence.
Gandhi, accompanied by Kasturba visited Odisha for the first time during Dola Purnima on 23 March 1921. He arrived at Cuttack and addressed a meeting at Kadam-i- Rasool speaking on Hindu-Muslim unity and the Khilafat movement. On the same afternoon, he addressed a meeting of women at Binod Bihari and suggested that they should give up wearing ornaments and donate their jewellery to the cause of freedom struggle. In the evening, Gandhi addressed a mammoth public meeting on Kathjodi riverbed. Ba and Gopabandhu Das were present along with him. Gandhi said the crowd that Jallianawala Bagh massacre was the reward for cooperation with England during World War I.
At Bhadrak on March 25 a public meeting was held at Gandhi Padia, on the banks of river Salandi. Next he proceeded to Puri and on way visited Satyabadi ideal school established by Gopabandhu Das. On March 27 Gandhi addressed a public meeting & women’s gathering. He finally left for Berhampur on March 29, accompanied by Gopabandhu Das. At Barracks Ground (now Berhampur Stadium) a whole crowd had assembled to hear Gandhi.
Gandhi again came to Odisha on a brief visit to Cuttack on 19 August 1925, at the request of Utkal Gauraba Madhusudan Das, during which he visited Utkal Tannery.
Gandhi’s next visit was a fortnight long tour to Odisha on 4 December 1927. During the tour he visited Banapur and addressed a meeting under a banyan tree in front of the ashram established by Pandit Godabaris Mishra and others on 8th December 1927. The tribals in the vicinity offered fruits to Gandhi, the public gave donation and a spinning wheel centre was established at Banapur.
After visiting several places in Ganjam district, on 17 December He moved to flood affected Basudevpur in present Bhadrak district, where a meeting was addressed by him on the bank of river Mantei. Addressing the gathering Gandhi suggested that Indians should shun foreign goods and use swadeshi goods. Miraben, Mahadev Desai, Kaka Kalekar accompanied Gandhi during the tour. According to Historian Ramchandra Guha during this visit of Gandhi, the sister of the great Bengali leader C. R. Das came down from Kolkata to help cook his meals. The whirlwind tour affected the health of Gandhi and he took rest at Madhusudan Das’s residence and left Cuttack on 21 December1927 to attend All India Congress session at Madras( now Chennai).
Next year on 22 December 1928, on way to AICC session at Kolkata Gandhi got down at Jharsuguda and addressed a public meeting before proceeding to Sambalpur and stayed with freedom fighter Chandrasekhar Behera. Gandhi accompanied by Kasturba addressed a public meeting on Mahanadi riverbed in the evening , where Khadi clothes were sold and donations were collected. As per some account during his stay at Sambalpur, Chandrasekhar Behera arranged goat milk for Gandhi.
In 1934 Gandhi began a padayatra with the mission of Harijan upliftment and abolition of untouchability. On 5th May 1934 he addressed gatherings at Jharsuguda and Sambalpur. On 6 May 1934 Gandhi addressed a meeting at Bhandaripokhari in Bhadrak district. By now, an unprecedented enthusiasm for this great cause had already spread like wild fire in different parts of the state. At Puri he unveiled a statue of late Pandit Gopabandhu Dash on 8 May and proceeded to Patna to attend AICC session.
On his return he resumed his padayatra again in Puri and Cuttack districts and on 23 May via Chhatia & Champapur proceeded to Lekhanpur in Salepur. He also addressed a meeting in Dasahara ground at Bahugram and touched Sishua, Nischintakoili and Bari. As per one account during the padayatra, Gandhi stayed at Balianta and arranged entry of Harijans to Kunjabihari temple, besides taking food with them.
Gandhi again visited Odisha on 25 March 1938, the occasion was to attend the Fourth Annual conference of Gandhi Seva Sangh and the Utkal Khadi and Village Industry exhibition at Berboi near Delang in Puri district. He was accompanied by Kasturba, Durgaben, Sardar Patel, Maulana Azad, Rajendra Prasad, Acharya Kripalini, Mahadev Desai and many other leaders. Although there was no Express train halt at Delang station, BNR(Bengal –Nagpur Railway) made special arrangement by making a temporary railway station in Berboi village with wooden steps for Gandhi and his entourage. As per an account Gandhi stayed in temporary accommodation built here for a week.
The next visit of Gandhi to Odisha was on 30 May 1943, when in a village near Pattamundai, Gandhi was taken on procession to a field near Bhakta Vilas Math, where a meeting was addressed by Gandhi asking people to use more and more Swadeshi goods. A spinning wheel centre was also opened.
The last visit of Gandhi to Odisha was on 20 th January 1946 , when on way to Chennai from Guwahati via Kolkata Gandhi stopped at Swaraj Ashram at Cuttack and at Berhampur addressing the public at both the places. At Balasore and Bhadrak stations he got down from train and met the waiting crowd, who waited hours for a glance of Gandhi.
Mahatma’s connection to Odisha even spread beyond his visits and even beyond his demise when it came to the notice that an urn containing Gandhi’s ashes were found preserved in a locker at Cuttack State Bank of India. Some are of the opinion that Gandhi’s ashes were probably brought by Governor Kailash Nath Katju to build a memorial for Gandhi at Puri and was kept in Rajbhavan at Puri during 12-22 June1948, before being shifted to SBI, Cuttack. The same was handed over to Gandhi’s great grandson Tushar Gandhi as per Court order after lot of controversy in 1997. The last remains were finally immersed at sangam of Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati rivers at Allahabad on 30 January 1997.
(Compiled from several sources)
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
New year evening, year 2020. It was the time when the clutches of corona had not gripped the world tightly. We boarded the evening flight scheduled at 7:35 from Bhubaneswar to Bangalore. We had just spent our x-mas holidays with our families and were returning back to Bangalore where my husband worked. This time the visit to our hometown was unforgettable and the amazing memories were still active in our minds.
The flight was taking off slowly after a long stroll on the runway. Before it started losing itself fully in the dark, foggy cloud I looked back to capture my lovable city Bhubaneswar in the camera of my eyes. The houses were looking like a bunch of matchboxes, the lights of the city seemed like a set of lichi lights as if it was decorated on the eve of Diwali. Gradually everything became smaller and vanished from my sight as we flew into the sky.
Two drops of tears rolled from my eyes unknowingly. Not sure when I would be back to my city to touch and feel the warmth, smell the dearness of the soil and mud of my land.
The twinkling signal light of the flight, was only proving that we were travelling safe and in right direction, rather than lost in the fogs. It was looking as if the sky was covered by a white blanket to get rid of cold. Due to this climatic situation infact our flight had a delayed takeoff. Somehow I tried to wave out the pinching thoughts which were increasing the pain of my temporary headache. I asked my daughter to sit on my husband's lap and tried to remove my pull-over. I drank some water, leaned my head on the window and closed my eyes. No idea when I dozed off. Got alerted after hearing the announcement that due to busy air traffic the flight was not getting a free runway to land. For 45 minutes it was circling the sky and keeping an eye on the landing station like an eagle riveted on its prey.
Finally at 11. 10 pm we landed in Bangalore and collected our checkin luggage from belt no 2. Now the time was to book the cab and go home.
We booked the airport taxi with 25 percent extra as night charge, as it was after 11pm and between 11 pm to 5 am night charge was levied.
Till the taxi arrived I was busy taking few pictures in the Bangalore airport.
Kempegowda International Airport is the third busiest airport in India. The set up of the air station generally attracts our mind to her. May be it was around 11:40 pm when our cab reached the gate of the airport to pick us up. While dragging the trolley towards the cab I threw a glance towards the cab driver, with whom my husband was talking.
Such a tall guy with black complexion and a beard on his face, he was looking a bit furious. Finally, by 11: 50pm we settled down in the cab and soon it left the airport area and took the route towards Whitefield. Not sure about thr day time but in the middle of the night, without lights on the sides the remote, lonely road was looking like a big Python waiting to swallow it's prey at any moment. The road he took was with many diversions, under construction roads with hazard symbol that I could see in the light from our cab. Rarely I could see any vehicle passing by. Mostly there were big trucks loaded with bricks or cement. I never saw any cars or other vehicles at that time. But, I was breathing fully by seeing those big vehicles, "oh! there is something going at this time to accompany us."
In that scary situation outside, the driver was talking to someone in a suppressed tone using ear phone. Very feeble voice, even though I tried to follow closely I couldn't understand. He was talking in Kannada. I was in a call with my sister-in-law but was observing the driver, his talk and the outside darkness. In my mind so many adverse thoughts were arising and I concluded 2020 new year day may be our last day on the earth. After I ended my call, though I tried to talk with the driver thrice, I didn't get any response from him.
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All of a sudden he stopped the car on that dark road, showed a sharp long knife near my kid's neck and asked us to give all valuable things we had. He even tried to snatch the bags and the purses that we had. I was trying to hold tightly the red vip suitcase containing all my ornaments that my father presented during my marriage, and what my in-laws brought during the marriage day, and also what my kid got on her first birthday as gifts and many other valuable things along with my marriage sarees. All these were at my in-laws' house and after 12 years of my marriage they had handed over to me that morning and that too when I was travelling to Bangalore in night. "May be that had to go like this, so they gave after these many days." My mind was rebelling, "if I lose this, then there will be no memory left of my marriage. More than the assets there will be no one in my family left if he kills all three of us after taking all the valuable things. My kid was crying bitterly. My husband was trying to keep me calm and asking me to hand over everything to the cab driver. If he kills my kid... I can't think beyond that."
Just two weeks back I had read a news in internet that one Bengali model was killed by the cab driver in the morning time when she was on the way from airport to Bangalore city. Similar story may be published in the news tomorrow or day after tomorrow on us but we will be not there to read. People would be reading and feeling pity on us. No!...
Usually, I never prefer to travel on new year's day. Though it may be the Gregorian calendar but our life now runs officially on this one. I tried to have an inner journey more than the outer. But I had made an exception that year.
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After a few minutes, I broke the fences of my imagination, and remembered the new year resolution I had adopted for me, "Nothing will conquer you untill and unless you accept it in life." I decided to fight and try my best to come out of this. I would not let go everything just like that and accept all odds.
I came out of my weak thoughts, I called my daughter to come to me. She was already asleep on my husband's lap in the front seat near the driver. Spoke to my husband in my mother tongue Odia about my scary thoughts. He also had the same feeling but he assured me not to be worried. In that winter night we were sweating out of fear.
Then this time with louder voice I asked the driver in English as most South Indians know English, "Sir, how was the new year celebration?" My aim was to break the chain of his talk what he might be planning against us. Then this time the driver ended his call and answered me "No mam, no celebrations. I don't like the crowd at all. Also, I sleep in day time after having night duty. This is the season so many people will come and go. No time."
-"Your home is in Bangalore?"
- "No mam, in Manglore. I return home everyday and take rest and start around 8' o clock in night to Bangalore. Mainly, I drive night time airport taxi."
- " Manglore! It is a very fast city and many renowned people belong to that place, right? So family is staying in Manglore! How many kids?" I added.
- "Not married yet mam." His answer was short this time.
I was trying to engage him in talk. You know Hindi? In the mean time I knew he was a Muslim guy and was talking to someone in urdu too.
Then I asked, "is this cab yours or rented?"
"Actually Mam, I was working in tourism department as a guide for entire South India like Puducherry, Rameswaram, Madurai, Kanchipuram, Coimbatore, Wayanad, Munnar, Kochi, Ooty, Lalbag, Mysore Palace, Bangalore Palace..."
My eyes had widened hearing this. "So you have so much exposure and experience by mingling with many people? Why then are you here?" I cross questioned him by interrupting his talk in between.
"Mam, health was not well due to travel here and there, so I quit that job and got a taxi of my own and started plying it." His answer was to the point.
I was somewhat relaxed. Mean time I messaged my sister who was in Odisha police not to worry. While seeing the lonely situation I had already messaged the cab number to her earlier.
I continued with the talk. Even my husband was also adding sometimes in between. We talked about, Karnataka politics, main sources of earning of the state, the history of Kempegowda airport, lake, canal and garden city Bangalore, how the city of Chandan wood is polluted now, how traffic ruins the peace of mind of the common men. How the Varthur lake is polluted by chemicals, poison foams of the industries......
Slowly, I felt he was a knowledgeable person and was earlier probably talking to his girl friend in a very low voice. I mistook him to be a killer or looter, which probably he was not. My impression on the driver was gradually changing from bad to very good.
Don't know when our cab was touching Marathahalli, the street light and the lights from the road side shops were spreading on the road and adding light of hope to our mind.
My mind was out of fear and still I was treasuring few data about the city from him and by then we reached our apartment. We collected our luggage and I offered our warm thanks for the safe journey and asked his name. "Hasan, I am Hasan mam, next time when you need a cab in night please call me. This is my number." We saved his number against his name and we waved a good bye to him.
I laughed in my mind and realized that we couldn't judge a book simply by its cover. But I have never forgotten the story of that furious night and what I had imagined in my mind.
A software engineer by profession, Ms. Anasuya Panda is a voracious reader, a happy mother and a versatile writer, poet, essayist, translator and blogger. She has contributed to numerous magazines in Odisha and other parts of India, a daily article on women's empowerment to the online magazine Positive Affirmation being her signature creation. A recipient of many awards, she has published a popular collection of short stories in Odia in 2021. Anasuya has this to say about herself: "A traveller in perpetual search of life, to know self, to unlock the secret of who I am and why I am here
(Pencil sketch by seethaa Sethuraman)
Journal writings: Experiential life lessons that I distilled in 2023
1. Don't wait for anyone else to motivate you. Believe and Practice self-motivation
2. If you derive happiness in learning new things, you will boldly face the various challenges that life throws at you. Treat setbacks also as stepping stones to better things in the future. Don't lose hope ever. Make people believe in you because of your sincerity
3. Remember to celebrate small joys even in crises situations. These small joys provide you with great comfort during the testing times
4. You discover your body's-mind's ability to stretch in your challenging times
5. When you are focused on trying as hard as possible engaging your heart and soul and without laying too much emphasis on the end outcome; you automatically become lucky and confident - You've tried it all without leaving anything to chance
6. Don't be a bystander of your life. Take ownership and plunge into the deep and swim against the difficult currents. You will reach the shore, for sure
7. Take quick, timely corrective decisions when inadvertent situations threaten to derail your dedicated efforts. Learn to quickly turn the tide in your favour by astute presence of mind
8. Keep continuously prioritising the activities of your life and go after the key ones; in an uncompromising/ concerted manner. It will you give you deep satisfaction
9. Make the continuous effort to do detailed recce, choose and develop relationships with your external supports of your life. They will provide meaningful benefits during your testing times
10. Harness and spend time on cultivating at least a true friendship that stands the test of time
11. Devote time to develop your creative side. It feeds into your life's routine and makes the journey beautiful and meaningful
12. You are never "too old" to do anything. Age is merely a number in other people's minds. Learn to ignore that and listen only to your inner voice
13. If something/ someone, etc causes you more stress than peace, walk away courageously even if you feel nervously alone. God is always with the brave and shows you the path - you will become the courageous leader of your life
14. Listen carefully to the whisperings that the universe quietly tells in your ears and that your heart agrees to
15. Don't give in/ give up ever. Believe in yourself and believe in the universe. Get up, dust yourself and be ready for the next challenge. Always. Tire out the testing times even when you are tired
16. When your heart earnestly tells you to do something, go ahead; so that you've no regrets later on. Always listen to your heart in taking crucial decisions. So, fall in love unconditionally, if your heart tells you so from deep within. It's one of the most beautiful phases that every human being should definitely experience; even if the outcome may not always turn out to be favourable enough
17. When you are younger, you feel that you control life and become conceited assuming that you hold life by its reins. Nothing more is farther away from the truth. When you grow older, you realise that life controls you and it's important to enjoy the journey that life throws at you. God/ Universe's supernatural power is the director and we humans are merely actors/ actresses in this stage of life. We act on this life’s stage and then we exit. But, making the journey exciting is in our hands
18. There is great power in vulnerability as it involves complete surrender. Surrender is one of the paths to the All supreme
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT A MUCH ADORED SISTER AND A FLAME OF FIRE
Names like Swami Vivekananda, Rabindranath Tagore, Sri Aurobindo are well known in all the households of India for their role in the spiritual regeneration of India and linked to its freedom struggle . It makes really more striking, especially when a woman of foreign descent fights for the cause of freedom of another country, i.e India while carrying forward its spiritual tradition and contributing to its social development. Here we are talking about Margaret Elizabeth Noble who was later named as Sister Nivedita (dedicated one , meaning somebody dedicated to God) by Swami Vivekananda. Despite being an Irish i.e born in Ireland (October 28, 1867), she got attracted towards Vivekananda’s humanistic teachings and later devoted herself to the social service in India.
Margaret became a teacher at the age of seventeen. She taught in different schools around Ireland and England. In 1892, Margaret started her own independent school at Wimbledon. At her school, there were no restrictive set methods and formal learning. Children learned through play.
Swami Vivekananda had gone to London in 1895, and his path would cross with that of Margaret. Swamiji was teaching Vedic philosophy to a family in London. The family had invited their friend Ebenezer Cooke and Margaret had accompanied him. She became so inspired by Swami’s preaching that former became a follower of later. This meeting changed the life of Margaret completely. Margaret then attended many lectures of Swami ji and told that her life would have been headless dream if Swamiji had not come to London. She came on the invite of Swamiji to India in 1898 and decided to follow the path of Brahmacharya (celibacy) just like her guruji. That made the former give Elizabeth the name of Nivedita. Swamiji invited her to spread education among the girls in India. She tried educating the girls who were not getting any education. She opened a school in Kolkata (then Calcutta) in the same year 1898. Nivedita organized meetings and invited people to send their girls to the school. She went from home to home to educate the girls and invite them to join the school. Many of her students were widows and adult women who had not got any basic education. To meet the expenses of the school she gave speeches in various places and raised money through her writings. She also nursed the patients affected by plague epidemic the next year. She closed the school in 1899 to go abroad to raise funds for her social work.She returned in 1902 and reopened the school.
She had also a hand in getting Dr Jagdish Chandra Bose the due recognition for his work in scientific research which was not getting limelight due to the colonial mindset of the British. Mr J.C. Bose got financial stability also due to recognition , but all because of Sister Nivedita.
Her close establishment with the Ramkrishna mission had to be cut short and she left the mission publicly to avoid any harassment from the British. Her contributions towards India’s freedom struggle were remarkable. She had strong objections towards Bengal partition of 1905. She supported Swadeshi movement that called the ban on the imported goods to India.
Sister Nivedita also had a significant connection with Sri Aurobindo, the famous philosopher, yogi, and nationalist leader. She had worked closely with him in the cause of Indian Independence. Due to her tireless efforts her health deteriorated and eventually she died at the age of 44 in 1911. Sri Aurobindo wrote a heartfelt tribute to her, acknowledging her dedication to the Indian freedom cause. Rabindranath Tagore also had a close connect with Nibedita . Sister Nivedita remains to date one of the most influential female figures of India. Her book Kali, the Mother influenced Abanindranath Tagore who painted Bharat Mata. Swami Vivekanada had written an epitaph for Sister Nibedita as the one who gave her all to India. Her school continued in operationto in the early 21st century in present-day Kolkata under the management of the Ramakrishna Sarada Mission. Several colleges and schools have been named after her. She had introduced courses in arts and crafts in addition to basic academic subjects. Nivedita would be seen as an early pioneer of what we today call skill development program for the youth .
Nivedita stood "surety" for Bhupendra Nath Dutta Bhupendra Nath Dutta, the Bengali revolutionary, who was arrested in charges of sedition as the editor of the Jugantar newspaper. Bhupendra , perhaps does not need mention as the youngest brother of Swami Vivekananda. She had condemned Lord Curzon ‘s convocation speech in 1905 as it was was critical of Indian nationalism. She was present at the Calcutta University Hall when Curzon was delivering the address.
She had also an influence on Subramania Bharati in the latter’s fight for women’s rights and against casteism . Bharati would openly say that in the presence of Sister Nivedita, he felt great Shakti or a tremendous power..Her work among the deprived , the poorest and the most hapless destitutes in Kolkata, makes her an early forerunner of Mother Teresa.
Sister Nivedita did travel extensively through the length and breadth of India, connecting with the people and learning more and more about them. However it was in Calcutta that she would do her most important and memorable work. Her mission to educate the girl child had resistance from the conservative male members but Nivedita could surmount these difficulties through her persuasive dedication.
True to her uncommon personality and dedicated self ,she has been described by many other names too. 'Lokmata' by Rabindranath Tagore, 'Lioness' by Swami Vivekananda, , 'Champion of India' in England and 'Sister' by all the people of India . Most significantly Sri Aurobindo called her 'Agnisikha' or flame of fire .
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
Mommy:::::::now what !!...I have opened the balcony door for you so that you can step outside, winters are here and anyways you should be sleeping out at night.Moreover if you take so long to make up your mind, hundreds of mosquitoes will be grabbing this opportunity to make a quick entry into the ???? house and for your kind information, dengue and chikengunia is rampant in the city,we need to protect ourselves.
I know it's tough for you, you want to be with us at the same time, but what about our work, we can't afford to sit idle,much as we would want to spend more time with you. Also you can decide which toys you would like to take along with you into the balcony.
Hushkoo::::"Mommy, I understand all!!,but I hate this sound of crackers,of course when I fart even the crows sitting on the mango trees fly away to their nests ."
Mommy::::"you know Hakkuu, the crows come just to eat your choco cookies, must you shoo them away everytime. We have always been taught to share our food with our friends but at the bottom of my heart I know you are ok with it,you love their presence in your life,you don't mind it one bit,it's only me who doesn't like to see them eat your food,so that you don't starve and you turn the whole event into a game sequence the minute I step in,just your jolly self.Now even the cats have started joining in, I thought they are asking for milk,but to my surprise they too want your choco cookies and you hate them so much."
Winter's are here Mommy has decided to buy Nivea lotion for Rahul bhaiya,but none for you ,wonder when they would come out with some good lotions for our pawdorables ???? ????,I can see your fur being so frizzy just like a porcupine,parlour time.
What happened Hakku? why are you sulking?
Hushkoo::::::"I just absolutely hate visiting the parlour, coz they muzzle me up,everytime they bathe me.I wonder if you have to deal with the same situation ???? Mommy."
Mommy:::::"no no dear,they don't in our parlours,you know women can never keep quiet, they need to keep bitching about one another to their hearts content...ha ha!!.
Mommy::::"Hushkoo, you cannot keep chasing the man of the house, to fetch your ball,everytime it rolls under the sofa,for him every minute is precious at work, you should be more independent and take care of your ego.
Hushkoo...."oh!!.. I just do it to keep all of us together, and destress each one of you, I understand life isn't easy for both of you, hence.
Mommy::::"oh dearest Hakku,I don't think we could have had anyone else in your place, you are just pawfect for us....good doggie!!".
You must take good care of Rahul Bhaiya .Santa will be here soon ????
Hushkoo::::"tails wagging,his eyes gleaming with joy,as he nudges me,rubbing his bushy fur on my legs.Yes he will be here soon,wonder if he is getting any gifts for me this Christmas ???? I've been good, and he knows.
"Silent night, holy night......"
Merry Christmas to One and All.
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)
--Hello, Mr Claus, I was waiting for you. You said you would come at midnight sharp and now its ten minutes past midnight.
--Hello, Sri Ravana, am sorry for being late. How are you, have come with new masks for your ten faces!
--Yes Mr Claus, am doing fine, and you should be doing fine as it is Christmas now. You celebrate Christmas for twelve days. But, this Christmas, you brought me masks?
--Yes, Sri Ravana – listen to me – you should mask your ten faces which stand for negativity.
--Right you are, Mr Claus, according to one school of thought all ten faces stand for negativity, but I am what I am with these ten faces only.
Human beings are endowed with these negative qualities and my faces are just representative of these negative emotions. As it is – every Dussehra Time – Rama Kills me and now you want me to mask these emotions for the rest of the year too.
--Yes, yes, Sri Ravana, Mask the negativities with good emotions, Dussehra is going to come after ten months, who is going to wait so long to vanquish negativities. For the time being mask your following evil faces: -
. Ahankara or ego
..Moha or attachment/delusion
…Paschyataap or regret
…. Krodha or anger
…..Ghrina or hatred
……Bhaya or fear
……. Irshya/ Maatsyasya or jealousy/envy
……..Lobha or greed
………Jarota or insensitivity/inertia
………. Kama or lust
Besides Mr Claus, all schools of thought don’t believe that all are negative feelings, like one school says that ten faces represent Ahamkara, Moha, Krodha, Maatsyasya, Lobha, Kama, Mada (pride), Manas(mind), Buddhi (intellect), Chitta (will). So, see Mr Claus, according to this school,
I have intellect, mind and will of my own – these are not negative qualities. Some even acknowledge that am a learned scholar as am well versed in the Four Vedas and Six Shastras.
--That’s true Sri Ravana, but why go into controversy – wear masks on all ten faces – even if you have intellect and a mind of your own, you don’t use it for good reasons, but for kidnapping Sita and other such negative intentions you have.
--Well, Mr Claus, according to others, I have ten times mental capacity compared to a normal human being. Actually, I am single headed but often create this ten head illusion to scare my enemies. And Mr Claus, you say that I abducted Sita, well, well, it was an act of vengeance you know, they chopped of my sister Surpanakha’s nose!
--So, you say Sri Ravana that you are single headed!
--See Mr Claus, some schools of Ramayana say that my mother gave me a necklace of nine pearls which causes this optical illusion.
But I am a devotee of Lord Shiva you know Mr Claus, and so once I chopped my own head. It was Lord Shiva who joined the pieces resulting in ten heads as seen by you!
--But this Christmas I will give you masks – so that you refrain from all evil thinking and activities thereof! We want you to be masked. See, that will also help you to stay guarded against some virulent viruses.
--Okay Mr Claus, but "in Jesus' name", please, free this world of evils.
--Yes Sri Ravana, I will try to eradicate evils in totality no doubt, but let me tell you Sri Ravana, I normally have nothing to do with Lord Jesus Christ.
When Christianization started, some features of Pagan holiday like that of Yule, etc, came in. Pagan holidays and Christian holidays were often merged. In fact, the custom of decorating trees during Christmas is because of adapting Pagan customs and linking various festivities.
See Sri Ravana, in 4th Century AD there lived a (Greek?) Bishop called Saint Nicholas who lived in Myra (Asia Minor, now Turkey). He was very kind and was very generous in giving gifts. He used to put coins in boots and shoes left outside. So, I too put gifts inside shoes and socks, as I, Santa Claus, is a derivation of Saint Nicholas.
There are other theories too, like Satan Claus, Sinter Klasse, etc. As per one of the theories - there was a magician Saint Nick – who punished naughty children and rewarded good children with gifts. So, I too give good children gifts, you know Sri Ravana.
--Mr Claus! Also am curious to know who were the firsts to depict you as the modern-day Santa Claus?
--Well, Sri Ravana, one of the first artists, was an American cartoonist, Thomas Nast, who in 1863, represented me as I am today. This image of mine was carried by the 3rd of January 1863 issue of Harper’s Weekly.
--Now, I understand Mr Claus.
--And now Sri Ravana, here are your Christmas Masks. Please do wear them.
To
Mr. Santa Claus.
Santa’s Grotto,
Reinderland,
XM4 5 HQ. 24th December 2023
Dear Mr. Claus,
Hope you and Ms. Claus are doing fine.
You must be very busy now tying satin ribbons onto the gifts.
The red-nosed Rudolph, your ninth and youngest reindeer must have shed his antler by this time. So, it must be Rudolph’s wife who will pull the sleigh tonight.
I read in the papers that Edinburgh University professors Gerald Lincoln and David Baird have said that Santa’s sleigh is drawn by female reindeer. This is because female reindeers don’t shed their antlers until spring while male reindeers shed their antlers before Christmas and don’t grow them until the following spring or February.
What are you bringing this year? Well, I know you will say that it’s a surprise.
But, but don’t in any case give me masks. I heard that you met King Ravana and gifted him masks to cover up his evil faces. I don’t have evil faces. Rather, I too kill demons and drive away evil from earth. In fact, Mr Claus, you, Devi Durga, I, we all drive away evil from earth.
How is Ms. Claus? You said that this year she herself in a red gown would go on globe-trotting and you will take rest. Last year you wrote that she is becoming a feminist and had protested your going around the world!
And now that she has become a feminist she will sure appreciate it that her sleigh will be pulled by a female reindeer!
We will now start making preparations for Christmas. There are problems with the oven this year– so maybe we will have no blueberry cakes and peach-cookies this year!
No, I won’t ask you to get our oven fixed as a Christmas Wish!
My Christmas Wish – is that I would like to visit India. It’s a fabulous land, White Himalayas garlanding on the North and the waves of Indian Ocean caress the South Coast. Then there’s more to it – Thar Desert on the West and picturesque mountainous terrain on the north-east.
Festivals are there throughout the year. They have Festival of Colours, Festival of Lights, Durga Puja, and many other joyous occasions!
Goddess Durga kills the demons herself; you know? I am simply fascinated. They say that her killing of demons symbolizes the triumph of good over evil! I also vouch for the same – you know – triumph of good over evil. So sure, there’s lot of scope for adventure there too! Why don’t you tell her to send me to India?
Oh, Father Christmas, please do tell Ms. J.K. Rowling that I want to have my next adventure in India. She wants me to fight the witches and others – so there in India – I can help Ma Durga too.
So please do tell her.
Yours forever,
Well, guess who am I?
I am…, yes Mr Claus, you got it right I am Harry Potter.
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.
In 1994, I conducted a one-day paid workshop in Bhubaneswar which was attended by some 20 senior executives. I had charged a fee of Rs 2500/- per participant which included tea and lunch. In 1994 it was a substantial fee in the town. I mention this to impress that the topic had interested organisations in town enough to nominate people. The subject was, “Retirement Blues….” To be honest- work is an important part of our lives as it gives us a sense of purpose and fills our day with routines. But when we retire the adjustment can be hard and most of us may feel that the transition is hard and unnerving. I had expected the participants to be near retirement age, but it turned out to be quite a mix from 30-45 “Train the Trainer” kind of senior manager mix. Organisations wished to achieve mileage from this small investment by making the trainees train others in the organisations.
The discussions were in two sessions spread over 6 hours and continued during tea and lunch breaks. The workshop identified various stages of retirement. Interestingly most participants used the terms “Retirement” and “Superannuation” interchangeably. “Retirement” and “Superannuation” are two different things. However, several participants thought that the terms meant the same thing. One even argued that the Hindi translation of both terms was the same(Sevanirvurti). While writing this piece today I checked with Google and found that he was right. That day we discussed and resolved that they were not the same thing. Superannuation is a fund whereas Retirement means that you don’t have to go to work anymore. The act of stopping working permanently in retirement unless you get an extension on new terms. A scheme of superannuation serves the employees at the time of their retirement. Superannuation is a pension fund into which an eligible employee puts in money month on month and obtains a right to utilize the funds when he or she reaches a stipulated age limit which deems the person to be eligible for superannuation. Once termed superannuated, the employee can draw benefits from the fund. But in common parlance, superannuation was wrongly understood as retirement.
The workshop identified the following retirement stages:
Pre-retirement:
This was understood as usually the time when one starts acknowledging that retirement is imminent. We start looking at the finances, and pending liabilities and try to tie loose ends. I shared that when I was working in New Delhi a decade before the event as a Deputy Metallurgical Advisor my department’s IAS secretary(additional secretary) who was close to retirement didn’t appear interested in day-to-day routine work and it was difficult to get him interested in any futuristic plans. His secretary(Executive Officer), a hefty Punjabi lady, used to tell us all the time that sir was planning retirement and even the possibility of an extension or deputation to some other governmental work. I was quite young then and didn’t quite appreciate this. It must have been a nerve-wracking time for that senior bureaucrat. It can even be exciting for some who have planned their finances well and are looking forward to freedom from work.
Honeymoon phase:
This comes in just after full retirement. It can be thrilling with newfound freedom filled with new activities like travelling, meeting relatives and friends and so on.
Boredom:
After initial euphoria, the reality sets in. What to do the whole day? Your wife has been used to seeing you go to the office every day and from time to time you went on official tours bringing her and your kids' exciting presents and even she sometimes went along and shopped while you worked. All that has disappeared now. Your ex-office colleagues are busy with the new boss, and they politely drift away. There is no PA to go to the bank for you or to wait on your car while it is being serviced at the workshop. You pay for everything and now only start realizing how many privileges(read perks) you enjoyed. You might have neglected your school and college buddies and even relatives in the garb of being busy. They don’t care for you now. You are depressed and disenchanted with retirement. I remember a retired man in the local bank who was shouting at the bank manager. Later I was told that he did not know how to make a bank-draft starting from a cheque and in frustration was getting all worked up.
Re-learning:
This was identified as a kind of reorientation phase when one realised the new realities of retired life. It is time to consider what works for you and what does not. Much later I realised that it was during this phase that my oldest brother some 13 years my senior accepted a job as the financial advisor to a big contractor. My brother was the head of finance and accounts in the Nagpur Mahanagar Palika and this contractor had become big doing projects there. He would often meet him for his work with folded hands asking for favours or for speeding up his bills. During Diwali time the drawing room of the house used to be full of gift boxes many of which had to be given away as they couldn’t have used all the sweets and dry fruits. After retirement, it just dried up suddenly taking a mental toll on the couple. So, he accepted the job as the salary was double what he retired at, and he also had his pension. Everything looked hunky dory until the contractor now MD of his firm started asserting himself. Things came to a head one day when on a construction project site, he asked my brother to hold his briefcase so that he could take out a chequebook and pen to write a cheque. Brother was offended and furious and he blasted at him in Marathi which loosely translated means, “You two dime contractor who lived on my mercy and became big- how dare you?” He pushed his briefcase to the ground and left the place never even going back to claim his due salary. He fumed and fretted for a long time, soon had a heart attack and underwent a bypass surgery. Everybody said that the incident had triggered the heart attack. I think it was a relearning, reorientation failure. Even in the society I have lived in for the last eight years, I find such people who don’t even respond to our repeated greetings looking beyond and through us and avoiding eye contact.
Permanency:
This is the Stability phase if one has satisfactorily relearned to adjust to the new life and has successfully found and adopted what works for him/her which can mean different things to different people. To the unadjusted stability never comes and they never have fulfilling, comfortable golden years.
The workshop didn’t have enough time after identifying and defining the retirement stages and we parted with the promise to meet again really soon which did not happen as my own life took an unexpected turn.
When this and several other public programmes were being conducted by me successfully, I was already in a senior-level job position which incidentally permitted me “moon-lighting” which originally meant having a second job in the night shift but now connotes having any other additional job with the consent of your main employer. The boss had asked us to reduce our departmental expenses or increase revenue. In my work, there was no profit centre only expenses. I was heading HR and Quality Management which are staff functions where gains are difficult to compute. I suggested providing my expertise outside the company while not neglecting my work. It was accepted. I was allowed to keep 30% of the profits. I freelanced as a trainer and consultant as an intrapreneur. In management parlance, an intrapreneur is an entrepreneur who utilizes the infrastructure and other resources of the organization where he or she works. I billed participants and clients in the name of the company. Company after deducting direct expenses paid me 30% which was added to my salary. Expenses were 30% and the company made 40%. In this way, I helped to reduce my cost of employment. In those 20 productive months, I made more money than my regular pay and became the highest taxpayer within the executive workforce. This gave birth to jealousy and consequently, organizational politics came into play. Disgruntled top executives conspired to remove me to a different location where I was not known and could not practice my trade. I had to be promoted because my CCR was excellent but was then asked to take charge of commercial functions at a different location at a very short notice of 2-3 days. I smelled a rat as no one was given such short notice. Further from HR to Commercial is a paradigm shift. At senior levels, such shifts can take place but beforehand the person is sent on training or deputed under senior people to learn the ropes. Further, it wasn’t possible for me because my girls were growing up and they needed their dad. The transfer required me to be away from them. It was a tense moment and then I remembered the workshop I had just concluded. I was 43 and full of confidence. I thought this was the time to transition to retirement rather than doing it at 58-60 when it was inevitable as per this company’s policies.
I refused the transfer knowing fully well that it could result in loss of job. Predictably I was told that there was no work for me at the head office where I worked. I put in my papers. The thought was that if the company could pay me 30% for what I did for them besides my regular job salary, then maybe I could be my own boss and then postpone retirement till I was physically and mentally fit or retire when it pleased me or when my market dried up and then can continue to be useful to the society in ways that pleased and suited me. My resignation was quickly accepted with unprecedented benefits unheard of in that company basically to placate me as they thought I might sue them as my previous seven years' competence rating was 9 on 10. I had no such intentions as it would have been an unequal fight on which I did not intend to waste my energy. Rest is history- I had the retirement pangs and went through the stages albeit differently than the workshop had identified and coped with them successfully.
Twenty-eight years on after quitting at 43, I am still working at 72 though at a steadily decreasing pace to adjust to “work-life balance” gradually and also due to the decreasing market for my expertise in Odisha and my inability to move to other places from my comfort zone. The shift has brought me more money than what I would have ever made there till I officially retired at 58 or 60. I used the money judiciously to raise my children, educate them, get them married off and see the world both at home and abroad rather widely which had always been my desire but never looked possible in my earlier back-breaking 70 hours-a-week job paying pittance compared to what my expertise deserved.
I have never felt the pangs of this semi-retirement. I enjoy walking, saying hello to people and nature alike, and not getting into any kind of power struggle. Being out of a position of power has also taught me humility and made me a better person though some may still find me wanting in their own ways which I cannot help and even don’t care about as well.
I am sure you’ve all most likely thought a lot about how you’ll enjoy your post-retirement years. But possibly you might never have thought about the psychological effect retirement might have on you. Retirement means a loss of self-identity. Now that you’re no longer working as you were working as at- professor, engineer, doctor, banker and whatever- you are none of them now. Your children have grown up and they have their own families and issues, and you cease being of as much importance to them as their own families.
Another issue which may haunt you is more time and less money. One of my doctor relatives keeps complaining, “What would I do by taking retirement?”- which his children insist he should. He has no interest in life beyond his hospital and patients and his wife only seems to like the cash that comes in like most wives. Money is never enough! Some retirees may start experiencing depression and anxiety. If you have retired recently and are feeling lost and confused, then you are not the only one. The transition can be difficult, but the following tips can help which have stood me well in my transition though I had the advantage of age and vitality on my side.
Start preparing for retirement:
Establish and renew contacts with old friends and relatives. Join in their joys and sorrows. Call them up even if it is for 5 minutes in a month or two. Evince interest in them and happenings in their life. Take up things which interest you like walking, yoga, reading, writing, painting, and music which can help. Stop being in the rat race. Start doing your work like going to the bank, taking your car for servicing, or taking your dog for a walk. Learn or revise skills that would make you independent later when you retire. After leaving my job I discovered that I did not know computers which was very inconvenient, and I employed a tutor at home to train me which wasn’t much use and I learned by trial and error over some time.
Structure Your Days:
Pre-retirement, you had your routine like the alarm going off, showering, breakfast, packing a lunch, and heading out the door. There was probably a similar structure to the end of your days that began when you walked back to your home. Experiment with various activities and time slots to see how it makes you feel. Some people I find see and hear the same news on TV over and over again or read the newspaper over and over again including all the advertisements while they are constantly reminded by their wives to take a bath or do some housework. This creates disharmony and irritation for both and is a sure way to start your day badly.
Pencil in time for spending over the newspaper/TV news and enjoying a cup of coffee, but do add in regular time for exercise, social activities, volunteer opportunities, and meals with your wife. It is time to reinvent your relationship after all she is going to be by your side for the rest of your days. While your days can be flexible having a set wake-up time and routine can help you feel more normal now that you aren’t going to work. We wake and sleep normally at a fixed time, and I also made it a point to have kind of fun and party for two of us- on weekends.
Have short-term goals:
In working life, you were goals and milestone-driven, such as making deadlines, finishing projects, etc which was important to getting raises and promotions. I recommend that you still be goal-driven though they will now be different and rather than financial raises they will give raises in terms of happiness. Working on goals however small and insignificant they might appear can give you a sense of purpose so important to feel fulfilled.? Accomplishing new things always gives a sense of achievement. I am not into adventures, but I made it a milestone to do at least one adventure activity in each of my trips. We (I and Archana my wife) have done parasailing, hot air balloon, white water rafting, jet-boat and more recently round the country self-drive in Iceland.
Think about what milestones you might want to meet and write them down. We wanted to travel, and we planned, and we did. Even planning gave us a lot of happiness. (Yes, goals can be fun, too!) Finish reading books that you’ve been postponing. The sky’s the limit.
Make new Friends-renew friendships:
There is a significant risk of becoming lonely during retirement. After 30-40 years of meeting colleagues at work and seeing them every single day, it might be difficult to keep up with those you held dear. One of my ex-banker friends has a group of ex-colleagues who meet at least once a month. They just chit-chat, take tea together and move about some park or some such place. Nevertheless, making new friends in your current surroundings is important. Some eight years back when we moved to our new flat where we live now, we decided that the best way to do this was to say hello to people we met during our daily walks, join the senior citizens group and keep ourselves away from biases and controversies which has paid good dividends.
In Pune where we intend to shift in about 2 years, we already have a strategy in place. First, we tried the campus and lived there for about two months. Joined their groups. Studied how different they are from our current crowd. This will surely play into the restructuring of our daily routine there. We tried the affiliated clubs there for lunch. Asked a friend couple to stay overnight with us. Tried the neighbourhood food court and malls- even saw a film there. I also threw small parties to get to know my school and college friends. Now they know us as we are now and not as when we were in school or college. I have introduced them to Archana, and they get along well. If you and your spouse are friends with other couples, aim to invite them over for dinner or board games at least once a month. If you still don’t feel like you have enough people to keep you socially active, take advantage of the extra time in your life to make new friends. Some click some don’t, but it is alright.
If you are religious check out any programs offered at your temple or your favoured place of worship like church, Gurudwara or mosque or a community centre, or find a group of like-minded individuals who share an affection for your favourite hobby, whether it’s bridge, golf, arts, cooking or even a Gita study group. The idea is to try and see what fits you best. Don’t try to be a perfectionist as perfection is neurotic. I believe that with age our vision and hearing get impaired so that we do not see faults and hear bad. No one is a paragon of excellence. Accept people as they are, and you will be fine. Taking sides and societal politics is bad for health and wellbeing is my own experience.
Consider another job:
Retirement from one job does not mean sitting idle entirely. You can always try out a less stressful secondary career, perhaps part-time like giving tuitions or content writing and so on. Research shows that retirees who have secondary careers, are often in better health, both mentally and physically, and report higher levels of life satisfaction.? So look around your community (or search the internet for work-from-home opportunities) rather than doing nothing.Not willing to go back to paid work which might bind you? That’s understandable. You might reap the same benefits by volunteering regularly. The perks might be related to the expanded social ties that volunteering provides or the sense of purpose a person can feel by committing to charitable causes. One of my dear friends is connected with a cancer charity. He has no issues with his finances and can contribute substantially in terms of his travel expenses and other things. He also trains young marines without accepting any fee and that is wonderful. Another friend in the UK is connected with doctor training finances working without any salary. They just started to bear his travel expenses. Several people in our housing society contribute selflessly to the residents’ association. There are always people who don’t see positives and criticise, but many understand and respect you as well. The appreciation and respect you get will boost your psychological well-being and could even improve your cardiovascular health and lower the risk of hypertension, too. My recommendation is do not hanker after power as that may be very stressful. Volunteers are always required around, and you will find engagement.
Whether you choose to help out at your local society, or library or you decide you’d like to volunteer at the hospital, look for ways to get involved in your community. In such places, you are likely to meet people you were earlier connected within your official position and might even have been either reporting to you and were even bending backwards to gain your favours but may now be higher in the volunteering hierarchy and you may have to start volunteering under their guidance or directions. Don’t let this hurt your ego or you will be unhappy and may soon be out of that engagement. After retirement, you start afresh in the societal hierarchy. Studies show that seniors who incorporate a low to medium level of volunteering in their lives report more satisfaction with life and fewer symptoms of depression than those who didn’t volunteer.
Make spending adjustments:
If you live long enough, you will be poor as inflation will eventually catch up with you. Twenty-five years back I could buy a two BHK flat in yearly savings. Today my son-in-law’s salary looks astronomical compared to what I made but after expenses and lifestyle, he still has to look for a loan for home buying. Even if you were the best savers you might have to make some spending adjustments after retirement as you must now start saving to beat inflation. In your thinking, you may have saved enough to last 20 years, but the modern medicines and if you have had a healthy lifestyle and maintain it then like most healthy retirees you may live much longer.
Establish a budget that will help you see how much money you have for entertainment or fun or travel after essentials like society dues, electricity, gas, mobile bill, car insurance, domestic help and so on. You might learn you need a part-time job or prioritise things which cannot be avoided.so you can go on an annual vacation. Or, you might even discover you have enough money left over to take your grandkids to lunch once a week or even pay for their vacations with you. Either way, it will help you destress and increase your happiness quotient.
Flexibility is the key:
Your thinking may be that you want to spend time singing, playing instruments, painting, cooking, reading, and so on but then find out that you cannot do it all. After 30-40 years in the job, you can now have time to experiment with what you want to do. Find out what are your passions and out of that what you are good at. It also helps to shortlist further to the level where your hobby, passion and what you are good at might qualify for what people can think of paying for either in money or appreciation. Both can meet your prestige needs and serve you well.
There can be many different ways you can invest your time. There’s no need to figure it all out in a jiffy. It will take a lot of experimenting to help you find just the right thing for you. The real joy of retired life is that there is plenty of time and opportunities to experiment.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
A TRIP DOWN THE HERITAGE LANE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Good trips, like balmy weather, are always a welcome change. My recent trip in mid-November to the northern parts of India, to the fabled land of Uttar Pradesh, was a memorable one. It gave me some respite from the relatively hot weather of Bhubaneswar, since winter had already set in with a charming, smiling demeanour in Allahabad, Varanasi and Lucknow, the places we visited. Afternoons were pleasant, evenings cool and nights cold - the perfect recipe for roasted peanuts and hot jelabis dipped in steaming, thickened milk. Add to that the samosas of Allahabad, the kachoris and lassi of Benares and the delectable kebabs and biriyani of Lucknow, the gastronomical delight was soul-satisfying.
What satiated the soul even more than the mouth-watering dishes was the gentle, unmistakable whiff of history floating in relaxed waves across the air. Allahabad, rechristened as Prayagraj, the city mentioned in the Vedas, was so divine in its pervasive presence that a trip to the Sangam of Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati rivers was inevitable, as was the darshan of the Hanuman resting on the ground, in a pose of supreme contentment. The place was full of touts and peddlers of religious goods, but at my ripe age of seventy plus, I did not feel a sense of confrontation with them. On the other hand, the small girls selling flowers and earthen lamps on the bank of the mighty Ganges in Allahabad and Varanasi evoked spontaneous sympathy. So did the boatmen in their tattered clothes and bearded face, wrinkled with years of weather-beaten misery. At the Hanuman temple a man in ochre robes cornered me and applied a tilak of Om on my forehead. I gave him a ten rupees note and he looked at it with undisguised contempt, till I gave him another tenner.
(At Sangam, Allahabad)
A good thing about the cities of Uttar Pradesh is the extraordinary care with which they have preserved relics of the colonial past. Allahabad University, the High Court Building and the Civil Lines were all decked with memories of the past, days when life strolled on with unhurried bliss. Landmarks such as an old Paan shop, a sweets stall which sells “the best Jalebis in the whole of UP" or an odd building colour-washed with a sepia tinge - all of them were soothing to the heart.
I attended the book release of Dr. Hema Joshi, a retired Professor of English from Allahabad University. At the mature age of 86 she has authored her first novel in Hindi “Bheegi Palkonki Chhaonmein” which is a sort of semi-autobiographical account of her happy life in the midst of students, research scholars and a doting family. What moved me most was the presence of close to two hundred students and colleagues of hers who paid her encomium with such overflowing admiration that left me stunned. In the speeches rendered by the guests there was a touch of reverence and exceptional courtesy, characteristic of ancient seats of learning and culture.
Accompanied by my friend and classmate from the college days, Gopabandhu Patnaik, a legend in UP bureaucracy, we left the next morning for Varanasi, which has a special attraction for me as I had started my professional life as a lecturer at the hallowed campus of BHU in 1975. A young man of 22, just out of the university, affectionately addressed as Guruji by the students, their admiration for me as a good teacher - were all heady feelings which never left my consciousness. Whenever I think of the long journey of my life I always go back with unstinted fondness to my two years of lecturership at BHU and my student days as a Ph.D. Scholar at the Penn State University, USA. I consider those seven years as the best in my life.
Varanasi has undergone a lot of change in the recent years, particularly at the famed Kashi Viswanath temple. The ghats are cleaner and the roads leading to the temple are wider. I remembered how as a young lecturer I used to go on a bicycle through the narrow streets, enjoying the cacophonic calls by the vendors of hundreds of tidbits. Those shops are gone now. Only the temple remains ancient, everything surrounding it has become modern. What has not changed, however, is the way the Pandas try to fleece money from the pilgrims, often abusing them when someone tries to escape with a small offering. The practice of Pandas “facilitating” a close darshan for a hefty fees is quite openly practised.
(New Corridor at Kashi Biswanath Temple)
A ride on the boat on the river Ganges in the cool evening air, counting the ghats, some small, some big, was quite a thrilling experience. The boatman explained the significance of each ghat, its origin and the benefactor who maintains the ghat. Although evening had set in and it was dark, we could see bodies being burnt at the Manikarnika Ghat. It sent a shiver down the spine to realise how the long journey of life finally stopped here and the body reduced to ashes. We also had the wonderful experience of watching from the boat the Aarti on the banks of the Ganges. It is a long Aarti, stretching to close to an hour and each round of chanting of the mantras brings peace to the soul.
The road journey from Varanasi to Lucknow by the newly built expressway named Purvanchal highway was an eye-opener. My memories of UP roads from the seventies of the past century are not very charitable and I was impressed by the sleek road and the speed it allows for the vehicles. We stopped at Sultanpur, a cute, little town midway between the two big cities. According to legend it was the birth place of Kusha, the son of Lord Rama. The town, as it exists today, was founded in the early Moghul days, arising out of a battle field which saw fierce fighting between Sultan Allauddin Khilji and the local Hindu King in the thirteenth century.
Sultanpur town is a district headquarters and a part of Amethi constituency, for long a bastion of the Gandhi family. We remembered one of our illustrious civil servants who had endeared himself to the family while serving as the DM of Sultanpur district. He later went on to work with Mr. Rajiv Gandhi and Mrs. Sonia Gandhi, finally retiring as the Principal Secretary to the PM Dr. Manmohan Singh. Uttar Pradesh is replete with many stories of intermingling of politics and bureaucracy. During my occasional sojourn to this largest state of the country I always used to enjoy the ease and passion with which people discussed politics, the past failures of governments and the future possibilities of political parties, interspersed with talks about the state's rich heritage and glorious past.
The lunch at the PWD guest house at Sultanpur was delicious and the the tree-filled campus was a delight to the eyes. But the takeaway from the place was a sign on a board before a shop, “Loot Lo”, an invitation to loot the shop selling garments at supposedly throwaway prices. Our driver was so enamoured of the sign that for the rest of the journey he would intermittently mutter “Loot Lo” and burst into a maniacal laughter. We debated among ourselves whether he did it to keep us awake on the long journey - the laughter was like a loud burst of gunshots from a machine gun!
(Old chowkidaar at the PWD guest house at Sultanpur)
By the time we were starting our onward journey from Sultanpur the schools had closed for the day and students were coming out in hordes from various directions in uniforms of different colours. It was a really pleasing sight to watch adolescent boys and girls, some on bicycles, most on foot, talking, laughing, giggling and engaging in mock fights. We imagined many of them would be judges, civil servants, corporate executives, may be, national cricketers, athletes or film stars. The thought warmed our hearts,
(Bada Imambara at Lucknow)
Lucknow was a big surprise for us. Visiting this capital city after more than a decade we were astounded to see the changes brought about by successive governments. The roads have been widened, there are trees and parks everywhere. The city has expanded in all directions, new malls have come up jostling with the old bazaars. The Lulu Mall and Phoenix Palassio Mall are real pieces of wonder. The way they were decked up with lights in the evening literally took our breath away. Food courts in the malls were overflowing with eaters, but the real charm of Lucknow is in its kebabs, biriyani and lachha parathas sold in abundance in Old Lucknow. These are a part of the city’s heritage, as much as the Bada Imambara, Chhota Imambara and the Noor Mahal. These relics of the hoary past looked majestic, yet serene under the cool moonlight when we visited them in the night.
(Noor Mahal Lucknow.)
A walk on the streets of Gomti Nagar - where our friend Patnaik lives with his nice, doting family - was soothing in the morning hours. I walked into a nearby marketing complex to buy some medicines and took a look around. Couldn’t suppress my chuckle when I saw a young boy selling small portions of peeled tamarind on the pavement. I looked up and my guess was correct - there was a girls’ school on the other side of the street. I smiled to myself. Ah, girls are girls, everywhere in India and may God keep them and all our young generations safe, healthy, full of dreams for a bright future. May our country become a big enabler, to translate their dreams into a reality.
(Tamarind on sale outside a girls' school at Lucknow.)
Ending a good trip always comes with a tinge of sadness. In our younger days we would have probably visited more monuments, gone on a shopping spree or tried to meet more friends. But at our ripe, advanced age, we realised the bones needed rest, the mind sought peace. We had plenty of them before we returned home, to our familiar domesticity.
THE SILENT NIGHT AND A TRUNKFUL OF MEMORIES
I looked at my mother, startled. She had just said something, but my mind was somewhere else.
"Yes, Bou, you were saying something?"
"It's getting late, son, let's start the job. We can begin with your Baba's old papers. Let's discard the unnecessary papers. Only you will know how to sort them. What do I know of office matters?"
"It is ok Bou. I will take care of them, you go to sleep. You look very tired. You have been looking after the guests throughout the day. I took a short nap after lunch. I can manage to keep awake for another couple of hours. After that I too should sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day. We have to pack all the stuff and send them to Bhubaneswar day after tomorrow."
Bou stifled a sob,
"Stuff? What stuff son? Your Baba was like an ascetic, never bought a single unnecessary item for himself. Always managed with just two pairs of white pants and shirts, two dhotis and banians. Used to say acquiring more than what is essential is as good as stealing from some one needy. Do you remember how he scolded your son Bagula one day for wasting some upma during breakfast? The poor boy burst out crying. But your Baba was not a miser, you know how he used to donate quarter of his salary to five tribal schools for helping students."
Bou started sobbing, not the loud sobs, but the silent cry coming from the pit of the stomach, tears flooding the eyes and trickling down like a wild stream. I also felt my voice choking and tears forming a silent puddle in my tired eyes.
We had just finished the twelfth day ceremony of my father's sudden demise. There was a feast in the afternoon for the members of the extended family, many of them from our nearby village. Baba had chosen to settle at Nayagarh after his retirement because our village was only two kilometres away and we had some agricultural land to look after. All the guests had left by the evening. My wife Chhanda had boarded the evening bus to Bhubaneswar with our two sons, Bagula and Chagala. The elder one had his half yearly exam a few days away. Chagala, the younger one is my mother's pet, they can't stay without each other even for an hour, but mother had to stay back to help me pack.
My father was only sixty four when he died all of a sudden of a massive heart attack. He was alone at the time, my mother was with us to take care of her grand sons since Chhanda was a chronic asthma patient.
My Bou had pleaded with Baba to come and live with us, but he had refused, - "No, Kalyani, I can't live with them. I can't tolerate their life style. I can't see my son getting up at eight o' clock every day, taking tea before brushing teeth, I can't see Bohu cooking without taking a bath, I can't live at a place where the grand children won't have time to talk to me. You go and live with them. I can manage here with Sanatan, the servant boy."
Once my father decides on something no one can change it, not even Bou. Steadfast with his principles, he had massive fits of temper and such people are prone to sudden heart attacks, often fatal. In fact, he died at the age of sixty four felled by a stroke, which came silently and unexpectedly, when he was sipping his tea in the morning.
I tried to console Bou, held her hand and led her to the next room, where she lay down on a bedsheet on the floor. My father didn't have much furniture at home, just a few ordinary chairs and a small table was all that he had. Throughout his life he and Bou used to sleep on the floor. He was scrupulously honest, although he worked in a 'remunerative' department like Sales Tax. He was one of a kind, sometimes the centre of unadulterated adulation but often an object of ridicule and derision.
Bou drifted away to sleep immediately on touching the floor. I returned to my room and wondered where to start. I thought I would first deal with his papers, stacked in a big trunk in the store room. I went there and stood still. My frugal father never believed in buying unnecessary things, but he also never threw away anything. The store room was full of stuff, some of which could easily pass off as ancient relics from the past.
There, at a corner was my small tricycle which must have been purchased when I was a small boy of four or five. I looked at it and suddenly the floodgate of memory opened up. Adorning the memory was an open courtyard at our government house at Baxi Bazar in Cuttack. Being an only child I was the apple of my parents's eyes and the tricycle was a gift to me on my previous birthday. After returning from school I used to ride the tricycle gleefully.
One day our neighbour's son Madhav saw me and came running. He was a few inches taller and had the look of a mini wrestler, heavier than me by a few kilos. I, being a puny boy, was no match to his bullying and handed over the tricycle to him when he demanded it. For the next one hour he did not part with it and I just stood there helplessly, watching him riding the bike with great gusto. His parents came searching for him and found him riding away the tricycle to glory. Baba returned from office and saw me cowering in a corner haplessly watching Madhav.
The scene was repeated the next day and the day after. Baba was getting increasingly upset and as usual Bou had to bear the brunt of his anger. On the fourth day Baba returned a bit early from office. He didn't let me take out the tricycle and kept me engaged with a game of carrom. The tricycle was kept inside. Madhav came, stood for some time and left. After a few minutes the neighbour uncle and aunty arrived, armed with a disarming, oily smile. They approached my father and said, - "Baikuntha babu, let Anupam bring out the tricycle, our Madhav will also get a chance to ride a little". Baba gave a loud snort and shouted, - "No, today Anupam is playing carrom with me. If Madhav wants to ride a tricycle you buy one for him. There is no need for Anupam to stand for one hour and watch Madhav ride the tricycle".
The neighbours were shocked to hear this. They left in a huff. The Aunty, who had an acerbic tongue, murmured, - "look at the arrogance of ill-gotten wealth. Only if you work in Sales Tax department can you flaunt a tricycle before your neighbours!" Somehow my father heard this. May be the Aunty wanted him to hear it. He went mad with anger. I have always seen that my father got uncontrollably angry if some one referred to him as dishonest or corrupt. He considered it even worse than a death-curse. He started shouting at Bou, - "Why do you make friends with such people? How dare they come to my house and insult me? It's all your fault, you have encouraged such uncivilised people by giving them tea and biscuit when they come visiting. From tomorrow if I see them in my house I will leave home and never return."
Bou got really nervous seeing Bapa in such vitriolic anger. Only after she promised that she would never talk to the neighbours again, did Bapa get a bit pacified, but the anger remained within him, like dying embers waiting to flare up. At dinner he didn't finish his meal and left half way through it. But before going away to wash his hands he threw a burning glance at Bou, which conveyed that the food should not be wasted. Poor Bou had to eat her share and also finish the left over food from father's plate. Today seeing the tricycle was a sad recollection of those incidents for me.
I looked at the wall. A pair of badminton rackets was gathering dust there, relics from my college days, as also a bicycle pump at a corner. Baba had still been using the bicycle he had bought for me when I was in college, repairing it, oiling the chain and wiping it to keep it spotlessly clean.
I looked at the trunk, eager to pick up shreds of memorabilia. God knows what treasures of the past would come out of it. But I had no doubt everything would bear the stamp of his undying love for me and Bou. Beneath his stern exterior he was a loving husband and a doting father.
The first thing that tumbled out of the trunk was a small toy pistol. Ha! This toy pistol is still here! And what a priceless story it hides within itself! I clearly remembered the day it was presented to me by my father. It was a Sunday afternoon in December when he had taken me and Bou in a cycle rickshaw to the Barabati fort. He wanted to explain to me the history behind the fort, the heritage and culture of Cuttack town and probably a lot more. I was not interested in that. All of eight years, I wanted to run around, enjoy the free air, the grass lawns and chase the squirrels. Baba had bought me and Bou a packet of peanuts, I handed over my packet to Bou and ran away, to climb the small mound of earth in a nearby corner of the fort. By the time I reached the top, Bou had gone hysterical, Baba was shouting at the top of his voice for me to come down 'at once' and I was bent upon jumping from the top, about eight feet of height, to the ground. Defying their concern I jumped. Bou let out the loudest shriek I had ever heard, Baba must have closed his eyes in fear.
I got up from the ground, a big smile on my face, stretched my hands and came running to them as if to say, look, nothing happened to me, am I not a daring boy? My father had stepped forward a few feet. Ignoring my outstretched hands he gave me a big slap on the cheek. Bou shrieked again and I froze. My face reddened with anger, humiliation and sadness. This was the first time Baba had hit me. I pushed him away and ran to Bou who held me close to her and started crying in tandem with my sobs.
We returned home, since I clung to Bou and didn't want to leave her for a second, sobbing uncontrollably. After dropping me home, Baba went to the Baxi Bazar market and bought this toy pistol for me. I refused to touch it and pushed it away every time he came near and offered it to me. For the next two days I repeated the same, didn't even touch it once, the unbending, unyielding and unwavering son of a determined, possessive, stern father! And then the pistol vanished, and now I realised my remorseful, repentant father had tucked it away in this trunk to remind himself that a son is too precious to be hurt by stinging slaps. And he never, ever hit me again. Today the pistol brought a fresh wave of sadness to my heart, reminding me of my loving and doting father.
I tucked my hand in and touched a hard object from under the pile of soft clothes - old shirts, couple of Bou's sarees and two worn out shawls we used to cover ourselves with during the winters of Cuttack. I pulled out the object. Ha! The old pocket transistor! Baba's inseparable companion in the seventies! I remembered how he used to switch it on and listen to old Hindi songs from All India Radio at four thirty in the morning. On winter mornings I used to sleep clinging to my Bou under the thin blanket when from the next room the old songs will waft through the air and disturb our sleep. Bou would let out a small whimper of protest, cover our heads with the blanket to shut out the noise and go back to sleep.
Baba used to keep the transistor on all the time, listening to news and other programs. He was still using it when my elder son Bagula was around six years of age. He would sit on his grand father's lap and listen to the songs. The small black object emitting music and news had him awe-struck and one day he asked Baba to gift it to him. Baba smiled indulgently at his darling grandson and announced grandly, "when I die, this will be passed on to you". The grandson would not easily forget this grand promise. So about a month after that he asked me seriously, "when will Jeje die?". I was shocked at the question and with alarm asked him the reason for this eager query. He explained to me his anxiety for his Grandpa's early departure so that he would inherit the precious transistor, the object of his ardent fancy! I got so shocked at this revelation that the same evening while returning from office I bought a small, shining, multicoloured transistor for Bagula and asked him not to pester his Jeje for the old, ugly one.
Looking at this favourite piece of Baba's pastime brought up many memories. In my mind I could hear the quiet, dignified voice of the newsreader again and then the booming voice of Ameen Sayani anchoring the Vividh Bharati programme. I could feel how Baba would not have liked to part with this darling object after the advent of television and tucked it away in his trunk. Never forget a good thing, make it a part of your life, always and forever, that was my Baba!
A yellow packet of dhoopsticks was peeping from under the clothes. I pulled it out. O, O, this packet is also here! I remembered one Sunday morning Baba returning from the nearby market quite agitated and as usual venting his frustration on Bou, "See Kalyani, what this world has come to! People have started cheating on things used for Gods! Where will all this sin end?" Bou looked at him alarmed, "Don't get so angry over such a small thing! Your blood pressure will go up."
Baba was even more aghast. " a small thing, you call this a small thing? I had bought this packet of dhoopsticks last evening. When I tried to light a couple of sticks during Pooja last night, they turned out to be damp squibs, so I went this morning to return it but the shop keeper denied that he had sold it to me. And you know what the cheat, the fraudster told me? When I reminded him that I am an old customer and he should not treat me like this, he refused to acknowledge that. ' I am seeing you for the first time', that's what the wretched liar told me. Can you believe this Kalyani? What a lie, just for a mere two rupees! I shouted back at him, 'O, you are seeing me for the first time? Ok, better have a look at me for the last time also. I swear I will never set foot in your shop again.' He just ignored me and murmured, 'As you wish'. Do you hear me Kalyani? Just for two rupees!" Bou tried to pacify him, "Forget it, it's just two rupees". "No!", Baba thundered, "It's not a mere two rupees, it's a principle worth a million! Never try to get rich by cheating others, live and die with two rotis everyday, but never covet a dish of pulao and kheer made out of ill gotten money. When will people realise this Kalyani?"
My mother kept quiet, she had seen father fighting with shop keepers and sundry others for such 'principles' many times in the past. One more shopkeeper was just an addition to a growing number! And Baba? Now I realise Baba had consigned this packet to his favourite trunk perhaps with the hope that the sin of the dishonest shopkeeper would get buried under the pile of clothes in his all-encompassing trunk.
When I dipped my hand deeper, I felt a hard, round object. What is this? I pulled it out. A big wall clock, minus the hands. This one! Yes, I remember this one quite clearly. This beautiful wall clock had suddenly appeared at our home one fine morning with a letter from an old teacher of Baba's, "Baikuntha, I came to know that you have become a big officer now and people tell me that you have earned quite a reputation. Please accept this small gift from me as a token of my blessings." Baba never accepted a gift from anyone, but since this was a token of blessings from his old teacher, he kept it.
I loved it at the first sight. With great care I drove a nail onto the wall and hung the clock there. For the next few days it became a habit of mine to look at the clock every now and then. And one day when I returned from school I found it had disappeared. I asked Bou, she just smiled and kept quiet. I pestered her, she simply said, "Ask your Baba when he returns from office."
When I asked Baba in the evening, he had a look of genuine remorse on his face, "Anupam, once you adopt a principle, never compromise on it at any cost. I had accepted the wall clock on the impression that my teacher had gifted it to me out of his love for me. Little did I know it was a sinful object, masquerading as a gift of love. This morning a fellow came to meet me here after you had left for school. I never meet an unknown outsider at home, but this fellow had brought a letter of introduction from my teacher. So I invited him into the house. Before the man sat down on the chair, he looked at the wall clock and started smiling, 'This beautiful piece is looking so adorable on your wall, it was languishing in my shop waiting for a buyer'. In a flash I knew the wall clock was not a gift from my teacher but a disguised bribe form this businessman who must be having some official matter pending with me. I became so angry that I started shivering, my eyes became red and face redder. I pounced upon him like a wounded tiger about to tear him to pieces, he got so frightened that he bolted from the house. Before he could leave the compound, I took out the clock from the wall and threw it at him. It hit him on the shoulder and he fell down. But he didn't look back, just got up and kept running. I stood outside and kept shouting at him and cursing my teacher, till your Bou came and calmed me down with a glass of water."
I looked at Bou and asked her what had happened to the clock? Recollecting the way it had hit the fleeing man, she smiled, "It broke, the hands came out. After your Baba left for office I brought it back, but it's of no use. I will throw it in the garbage tomorrow." I felt a little sad. I had got used to it. Now I realised Baba must have kept it in his trunk as a tribute to his 'Principles' and a reminder never to accept a gift from anyone again. I don't think Baba strayed from that again in his working life.
I found lots of tidbits in the trunk, three pairs of my old spectacles, the tie I wore at a school parade, the cup I had won at a debate competition, a couple of old fountain pens, my first wrist watch Baba had gifted to me when I got first class in my matriculation examination, the shirt and saree I had gifted to Baba and Bou out of my first salary, some of my school note books in my handwriting. I pulled out a few of them. Almost all of them had some comments of praise from my teachers, admiring my handwriting somewhere, or congratulating me on my perfect centrum score in mathematics. I also got a few half-hearted poems written by me, an essay on Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, which had got first prize in the school essay competition. With each of these, memories of my school, my teachers, my friends came cascading, but what stood out was my Baba's pride in me, in my accomplishments. It is as if his heart had melted into a glue and bound all these fragments of my life with his and Bou's feelings and moulded them into an immortal tale of love and affection.
I wondered why Baba kept all these seemingly past-their-use things packed in this trunk. And today on the twelfth day of his leaving us forever, I felt his loneliness, his single handed fight against all that he perceived to be wrong and his determined stand in support of his 'principles.' I also knew in my heart that when the solitary melancholy of this house would have haunted him, he would have opened this trunk, touching these lifeless things and bring them to life with the magic of love. His heart would have overflowed with longing for Bou, me and my family and silently blessed us.
Suddenly an old black and white photograph tumbled out from the pile of clothes. I looked at it. The picture taken at my thread ceremony! Ah, I am looking so achingly innocent, with my shaved head! Almost like a monk! It was the year 1975 and I was only nine years old. In the photograph I was bending and touching the feet of Baba and Bou, seeking their blessings. Baba seems to be saying something. What would my father be saying to me? Must be 'Ayushman Bhabah'! This was his favourite blessing to me and during my entire childhood I used to hate those words. The first time I heard the words I was around five or six years old. I ran to Bou and asked her what is this Bhabah Bhabah Baba is saying? Bou took me in her arms and planting a kiss on my cheek, explained that it is not Bhabah Bhabah, it is Ayushman Bhabah, it means you should get a long life, and live till a ripe old age. I got shocked! Old, you mean old like Baba, with a hanging belly and a balding head? I freed myself from Bou's hug and ran away saying, 'Chhi! I don't want to be old! Old is ugly!' Baba probably didn't get to hear my theory on old age, because he continued to shower his favourite blessing on me for as long as I remember.
It was getting late. I looked at my watch, quarter to two! My God, I was feeling so sleepy. I put all the things back in the trunk and closed it. I turned to leave and my eyes were drawn toward a book on the window seal. I picked it up. Selected Best Short Stories of India. I remembered I had given this book to Baba when he had come to Bhubaneswar last month, his final visit to us for some medical treatment. Who would have thought he would leave us so soon! A day prior to his leaving Bhubaneswar I had seen him reading this book when I returned from office. He had liked some of the stories. After I had my tea I asked him which story he was reading, but before I could finish my question he himself said, "Anupam, have you read this story? This tragic fate of the young widows at Vrindavan! Why are they subjected to such inhuman treatment? What is their fault if their husbands die early? Why are they left to suffer in Vrindavan? And tell me why should young women live the rest of their life with shaved heads? What cruelty is this? What utter inhumanity? Is it necessary to go through such cruel suffering to show your love for the departed one?"
The next moment Baba looked at me in a piercing sort of way for a few seconds. Then the moments passed, his eyes softened. Looking at me he said, "Anupam, my health is failing, I am getting these frequent bouts of cough and fever. What if I pass away suddenly? Will you, Kalyani and Bohu subject yourself to such suffering?"
A shudder passed through me; I jumped up from the chair and shrieked at him, "Baba, why are you saying such heartless things? Are you not being cruel to us? You are only sixty four! These days people live till eighty five, ninety, and you are talking of leaving us? Please don't speak like that Baba, don't break our heart."
Baba appeared a bit embarrassed, but he was not done. He came near me, fondled the thick crop of hair on my head, "Anupam, you may not know, but I simply love your hair. You haven't seen your grandfather, since he died much before your birth, but when he was your age, he used to look exactly like you. And this crop of thick, curly hair, you have inherited from him. So whenever I die, ok ok, I can see you raising your hand in protest, so even if I die at seventy or eighty, you should not shave your head. I don't want you to shed your hair for me....". Before Baba could complete what he was saying I got up and went out of the house for a stroll and some fresh air. That was the last time he had spoken to me. By the time I returned from my stroll he had gone to bed and next day he had left early by a cycle rickshaw to catch the five o' clock bus to Nayagarh. And a month after that he breathed his last.
Holding the book in my hand, and remembering his words, my eyes filled with tears. I had finished the tenth day ceremony two days back and had shaved my head along with other relatives. Yes, I was fond of my thick crop of hair, but that is precisely the reason one offers a small part of what he holds dear, to the memory of the loved one, doesn't he?
Suddenly, piercing the stillness of the silent night, I heard a voice, my Baba's voice, from the adjoining room, "Arrey, I had told you not to shave your hair, you didn't obey me?" I got the shock of my life and ran to the room. It was empty, but I was sure I had heard Baba's voice. There was no anger in the voice, just a bit of sadness dipped in boundless love. I stood still, rooted to the spot. My heart broke into a thousand pieces, waves of gut-wrenching sobs swept over me. In that moment of utter despair, I wished from the core of my heart, Baba would come back at least once more and stand before me, I would bend and touch his feet, he would put his hand on my head and say, "Ayushman Bhabah!"
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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