Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXVII (26-Jan-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : My Mindscape (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
IF AT ALL
02) Prabhanjan K Mishra
JAYANTA MAHAPATRA: a poet, and a legend..
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE ANT AND THE ELEPHANT
04) Snehaprava Das
THE GHOST STORY
05) Meena Mishra
A TALE OF SURPRISES AND REDEMPTION
RURAL ROOTS AND URBAN RHYTHMS
06) Radharani Nanda
THE WINDOW
07) Kishore Kumar Mohanty
O’ TRAVELLER, MARCH ALONG, MARCH ALONG
08) Sukumaran C. V.
SURVIVING THE PEOPLE AROUND
09) Dr Latha Chandran
THE CANDLE THAT LIT MANY
10) Sreekumar T V
MY NAME MY PRIDE
11) Dr.Nikhil M Kurien
PASTED
12) Bankim Chandra Tola
ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING
13) Sheena Rath
HUSHKOO
14) Sujata Dash
MONSOON DIARY: A sweet gesture
15) Ashok Kumar Mishra
BULA
16) Seethaa Sethuraman
MY CHIKKY PAPA
17) Sreechandra Banerjee
ORANGES
18) Gourang Charan Roul
A NOSTALGIC VISIT TO ARKAKSHETRA - KONARK
19) Mrs. Meera Rao
NEW BOOK-EH!
THE FALL
20) S. Anand
KAIVOPUISTO
21) Nitish Nivendhan Barik
LEAF FROM HISTORY: A GARDEN THAT BEARS..
22) George Paul
LOVE STORY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY
23) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
IT'S ALL IN THE MIND, SWEETY!
Arif and Meera stroll through the bustling lanes of Bhubaneswar, navigating the crowded street filled with vendors. Despite the constant jostling from the passing crowd, they carefully avoid any physical contact between themselves.
Meera has expressed numerous times her willingness to share a single room and avoid two separate households. Arif, however, remains uninterested in the idea, deeply enamoured with Meera. A day without her is inconceivable for him.
Yet, Arif harbours fears and reservations. He's apprehensive about the perils associated with marrying outside his religious circle, especially in a transformed India where such choices could be life-threatening.
Meera is not oblivious to this reality, leading her to harbour a disdain for any beliefs tied to her own religion. Even Arif, a believer in reincarnation, faces opposition from Meera, who dismisses it as a mere myth.
Arif, well-versed in the concept of reincarnation and armed with substantial evidence, struggles to sway Meera's perspective.
"It's a pity that someone so scientifically minded can be entangled in such superstitions," Meera often challenges Arif.
In response, Arif reiterates, "In fact, my scientific mindset is the very reason I believe in this. Science doesn't always demand proof; sometimes, intuition suffices. You, however, remains sceptical due to her lack of scientific sensibility."
Arif contemplates aloud, "Wouldn't it have been simpler if my religious identity, be it Muslim or Hindu, didn't pose any hindrance?"
Meera gazed at Arif after thinking, ‘What will be, shall be.’
She said to Arif, "That good luck may not come in the next life either."
Arif expressed, "What can go wrong will go wrong"
Puzzled, Meera questioned her own thoughts, "What's wrong with my mind?"
She wasn't surprised that Arif could hear her inner thoughts and express roughly what she thought; it was a normal occurrence between them, where one person would respond before the other asked.
Arif retorted, "Oh, nothing. Look, if you walk with faith like this, you will be born as a Muslim, and I as a Hindu in the next life."
"Then do one thing, convince me of your stupid beliefs. If we share the same faith, we can be born again in the same religion. We can be Meera and Murali or Amina and Arif without any hindrance."
"With this greed, we will be born with Arif and Murali or Meera and Amina."
This seemed to go on like this forever and ever. Every day was almost a replica of any other day.
Years passed, and gradually Meera began to consider Arif's arguments valid. Eventually, one day, Meera opened up to Arif about her change of heart.
One day she told him, ”I do see your point. This life could be like a day separated by short nights. Only when we wake up we don’t know who we have been. But that is OK. Live a good life here and some stranger born somewhere else benefits. Cool”
Meera turned this revelation into a celebration, even though it was just an ordinary day for Arif. Arif was invited to her room, which was adorned as if for a first night. For the first time, she cooked nonveg dishes, especially Arif’s favourite ones. In a day, they had become delicacies for her too.
From the dining hall, Arif peeped into the bedroom and commented, “What is all this! It looks like our first night.”
""
"Oh, there is no first night and no last night. Like life, night has no end and no beginning. The day is but a long interval."
Arif jokingly added, "Oh, I see, you have invited Omar Khayam too for the great occasion, 'A book of verse beneath the bough’... can't remember the rest.”
“He has declined my invitation, so I am all yours tonight,” said Meera.
Arif smiled and embraced her, saying, "In fact, we are only a small part of a very, very long love story that spans the ages."
Meera, feeling shy, remarked, "The rest is here, look, 'A jug of wine, loaves and loaves of bread. Only I'm not there to sing. You can do that, tonight I won’t mind!'" She smiled at him.
Despite not knowing how to sing, Arif sang his favourite song in his deep voice. Meera also sang some lines, "...ha... badal bijili chandan panee jaisa apna pyar lena hoga janam hame kabhi kabhi baar..."
Years later, in a dusty classroom, a professor shares a tale from his past with a research student. The incident occurred long ago on the same campus.
"But why?" the student inquires.
"How do I know? Even the police couldn't establish Meera's motivation."
"Someone must have suspected something, right?"
"Maybe... I have a theory. She killed herself after poisoning Aridf and making sure he died and obviously, that was not part of a suicide pact. She had documented everything in a diary up to that point. I came across it during my forensic studies."
"What's your theory, sir?"
The professor, fixating his gaze on his feminine lips, replies, "Murali, I don't truly believe in this reincarnation mambo-jumbo. You can't take the lives of your loved ones based on a nonexistent reincarnation possibility... Let it go, bring over the plates. Just rinse them there. You burned today’s breakfast. Let’s see what you have done with our lunch?"
"You don’t like anything I cook."
"O? That is true, I never thought of that."
Murali responds, "Sir."
If he were at home, he could have mentioned his name and hugged and kissed him. At the university, the custom dictates addressing him as Sir or Professor, not by his name.
Mural swiftly rubs his neck and glances around. It feels like an invisible noose was around his throat.
The professor smiles as if understanding his thoughts and thinks There are other ways.’
Murali adds, "There's another solution; from now on, I won’t cook, we will Swiggy every day."
They share an uncanny ability to comprehend each other's unspoken thoughts.
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.
JAYANTA MAHAPATRA: a poet, and a legend and my god of ‘living poetry’: a Shared Vision: a Memoir.
In my last year of graduation with Hons. in Physics at the famous Fakir Mohan College, Baleshwar, Odisha, I came across Jayanta Mahapatra. He joined as the Professor and Head, Department of Physics, in our college. As theory and practical classes of Physics were over for us before the BSc (Hons) degree examination, while attending a few Chemistry classes, I saw him from a distance, a wispy man moving with a bunch of thin books in his hand with a ready smile and a warm word for all, unlike our grumpy Physics professors who roamed with their swollen heads.
I moved on in life, forgot him. The reason why he did not matter much to me then, I was told he was an Indo-English poet. The books he had been carrying around in hand were not of Physics, but of poetry. Those days I was a pro-Physics man and any other serious discipline freaked me out. I was harbouring an Einsteinian dream. A few remarks from a professor or two had turned my head, I had a swollen head like other physics nerds.
But my physics dreams died young as my family’s roti-kapda-makan problem superseded and buried that dream. I took a well-paid job in the central government, resigning my lectureship in Physics.
I came across Jayanta Mahapatra again, first over telephone and then in person, after roughly seventeen years from when I had a glimpse of him from a distance. I had already turned into a poetry-worm myself, and he a patron-saint of Indo-English poetry, a poet of Indo-English Canon, roughly hewn by the poet/critic R Parthasarathy.
Then, he turned into my Jayanta Sir. He prominently figured among the demi-gods of Indo-English poetry – the Canon Poets – the luminaries - Adil Jussawalla, Keki Daruwala, AK Ramanujan, R Parthasarathy, Jayanta Mahapatra, Nissim Ezekiel, Gieve Patel, Saleem Peeradina, Kamala Das, Santan Rodrigues, and Arvind Krishna Mehrotra.
At thirty-five, growing out of a vaporous Einsteinian-dream years ago, besides my nine hours of bone-crushing job to bring home the bacon, I pored over books of poetry seven to eight hours daily, reading the poets, Indian and foreign, young and old.
Mobile phones or smart phones had not hit the Indian shores by 1985. Communications were by landline telephones. A few times I had spoken to Jayanta Sir for a few minutes over telephone, and he had asked me to read as many overseas poets as possible, especially - Paul Celan, TS Eliot, Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Robert Frost, etc. and all the Indo-English poets. Jayanta Sir advised me not only to read the poets, but notice their styles, diction, imagery and also do a comparative study mentally of their poem-persona and poet-persona.
At this juncture, I joined a group, a ‘wormhole’ for me (in Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity, a wormhole is a tube through a blackhole from one universe to another for instantaneous travel), I use here the term as a metaphor for the haloed gathering of poets called ‘Poetry Circle’, presided over by the great poet (late) Nissim Ezekiel (MHSRIP). Poetry Circle, Bombay, was an association of Indo-English poets from all regional languages and cultures who had flocked to Bombay. It was the ‘wormhole’ that transported me to the universe of poetry from my roti-kapda-makan world.
A few poems, I had written, elicited “Wah!”, “A new voice!”, “an arrived poet”, etc. from the poets of the Poetry Circle, the august association, during my first reading. I was excited and emboldened.
With those poems, I met my master, by then a legend, Jayanta Sir himself. I found in him my future friend and philosopher. It was the summer of 1986.
It was a humid, hot, and fuming afternoon in May, 1986. Jayanta Sir gave me an audience in the shade of his iconic mango tree in front of his little house at Tinkonia Bagicha, Cuttack, Odisha. We sat in the cool breeze, sipping cool nimbu-pani; and he looked at my notebook containing my poems scribbled with longhand. He said nothing about my poems. To my question, ‘Sir, how do you like my poems?’, he simply pointed out to a poem and said, “I will take that for Chandrabhaga. Type it and send it to me by post immediately for the coming issue.”
I was transported to the cloud nine by what he said. Those days he had founded and been editing ‘Chandrabhaga’, the ultimate calibration of Indo-English poetry. Older journals like Quest had apparently paled in comparison. Even established poets felt that as feathers in their caps, if their poems got into Chandrabhaga.
Later, Jayanta Sir visited Bombay, or Mumbai as the city was called after 1995, repeatedly over the years, on invitation by Bombay University and other institutions to read his poems, for treatment of his wife or himself etc. We met frequently but our talks and roaming together almost never moved around poetry, rather around food-joints, nauch girls, whores of Mumbai.
Jayanta Sir was a foodie like me, and also a very curious observer. If he met a nauch woman or a whore, he would pay her to hear her life’s trials and tribulations to reflect them in his works. He respected the professions of those so-called fallen women; the great human he was.
Over years, as time rolled on, we walked our respective paths of worldly existence, the bother of roti-kapda-makan again took us away from each other. Of course, Jayanta Sir kept writing his highly inimitable meditatively slow-paced songs of silence, like flowing streams, smooth without eddies and vortices. I, in my meagre efforts, coursing along rapids, falls, marshes, and rushes, natural for a poet, inking his efforts late and floundering among luminaries, also wrote.
We grew older, he into his silver-grey poetic eminence, and I into an uncrowned two-pie poet who also wrote. But all along, he had a smile for me, a kind word, and his child-like demands. He limited his outings with age. Then misfortune struck. Runu Nani, his sweetheart and wife, died as well as his only Son, Mohan, leaving him as a lonely old poet in an empty, silent house.
Slowly his physical mobility reduced to essential calls only. He attended only chosen invitations where he could feel ‘love’ in hearts of invitees, his sensing of the pulse of the callers had grown very acute. I called on him whenever I visited Odisha. I would take my family along with and he would have a jolly time with my two daughters as if they were his own grandchildren.
Last we met a few months before he left us for his heavenly abode. We, the entire family plus the newly wedded husband of my younger daughter, visited him to seek his blessings for the newly married couple. He was overwhelmed. His mind was astonishingly agile though he mostly remained confined to his easy chair.
He joked and laughed as loud as he could muster at his age, he was pushing ninety-five. He showed all the agility and fitness to score beyond a century. When we said so to him, he himself was not very keen to hit hundred at his crease, though not eager either to hang his life’s boots before the last bell. Surprisingly, he sounded fatalistic for the first time.
I returned and wrote a poem exclusively for him, putting into it our mutual affection, closeness at the level of souls like a pair of father-son or master-pupil, who had tuned together in thoughts, shared pain, hurt, and memories. I gave the poem to him. He immediately responded, “Bhala heichi (a nice one). I know it is on me. I like its honesty. Thank you.” Jayanta Sir was an honest, kind man. That was our last talk. I got the stunning, heartbreaking news at my Mumbai residence. He had already left us forever and been consigned to flames.
I submit here the poem, my last sacramental offer to him, my last testament of love and worship for a fatherly-friend, the great poet, the good Samaritan to the poor Rickshaw-pullers and the slum-dwellers of Cuttack City, a giant astride the world-poetry, a god of living and kicking poetry for me, my Jayant Sir.
THE LONG SHADOW
It was evening at the bay
our shadows had lengthened
in front of us to a distance
beyond eyes, the sun setting behind.
We walked back to the cottage.
He, frail, shaky at throat, in limbs,
leaning his frame on me
for physical support, as, I recalled,
to lean on him to learn my words.
We all, many, had leaned on him.
Huddling in the long shadow,
he cast even in his darkest hours,
cool and creative, we had basked.
We went away like birds migrating
in search of roosting, foraging,
better climate. He stayed back,
a great empty pupa that had hatched
butterflies, also stinging hornets.
In the darkest of my nights,
when friends walked over me
like duelling opponents, leaving me
to lick wounds, I never deserved -
I rediscovered his long shadow, again,
hovering over me, cool and creative.
Sitting under the shade, I found my words
lying scattered; gathering them
in my bare palms, I created a psalm.
We met after a year. In spite of
shaking hands, lack of mobility,
voice lilting amid toothless gums,
his cool and creative shadow offered me
repose. I put the psalm at his feet.
(END)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
‘Once upon a time, in a faraway jungle, lived an elephant which was very huge and bigger than all the other animals residing there. He was aware of his size and strength, and it went to his head. He always showed off and bullied everyone. All animals were scared of him,’ the Queen Mother of the ants who lived in Maladweep, a beautiful ant colony in an island chain surrounded by pristine lagoons, was telling the story to her grandchildren for the umpteenth time.
‘Tell us, grandma, how did our ancestor tame the proud elephant and brought him down on his knees?’ The Queen Mother smiled and continued, ‘You know, we didn’t live on this island surrounded by these beautiful lagoons then, but we all belonged to one big territory of land, living together in harmony with one another. There was a big pool with plenty of water shared by all the animals who lived in the jungle together. One day our worker ants were out on the bank of the pool foraging for food for our colony, and the big bully was in the pool taking his bath. When he saw our boys busy gathering food, he splashed water on them with his trunk and laughed at their helplessness. Then one bold ant confronted the elephant and asked him why he was troubling them. The elephant reminded him of his puny little size and asked him how he dared to challenge him. He even threatened to trample them to death if they uttered another word.’
‘What happened then?’ asked the little ant kids anxiously. ‘All our boys had no choice but to return home quietly, but the one who had challenged the elephant was fretting and fuming with rage. Everyone advised him not to pick up a fight with the mighty pachyderm, since they knew that the results would be disastrous. He quietly agreed to stay off the elephant and let the matter slide. But later when everyone was asleep, he quietly sneaked out and made his way to the elephant, which was also in deep slumber. Then he tiptoed to reach close to the tip of the elephant’s trunk and entered its hollow part quietly. He then bit the elephant’s trunk from inside with all his might. The elephant was shaken off his sleep and started shouting in pain that was severe and unbearable. He trumpeted loudly, while prancing around and tried everything to shake the intruder off his trunk. But to no avail. He then started begging and pleading to let him off, for he couldn’t tolerate the pain any longer.’
‘Serves him right. Tell us what happened then?’ ‘Then this fearless ant relented and decided to let him off. The elephant soon realized that no one had any business to cause pain to others. He promised to his tormentor that he would always be helping others and won’t ever bully the weak and helpless. The ant community was very proud of this ant and in a public ceremony, the king decorated him with the title ‘The ValiANT Knight.’
‘Oh, we are really proud of our great ancestor who took on someone much stronger and much larger and proved that size didn’t really matter.’ ‘But you said that we all lived together with all the animals in one big jungle. How come now we stay in a group of islands separated from others?’ asked one curious kid. ‘Oh, that happened quite long ago due to multiple cloud bursts and flash floods followed by tsunamis. It’s Mother Nature who separated us from the mainland and gave us our own territory, which looks like a garland within the water body. We started calling our homeland Maladweep, which literally means a garland of islands.’
‘What happened to the elephants?’ ‘They continued to live in the mainland as our close friends. The old incident that I narrated was, in fact, the beginning of a lasting friendship between both our communities. Over the years, the elephants have thrived to become one of the powerful nations and always stood by us, helping us all along.’
‘But then why some of us have thrown muck on the leader of their herd with their slanderous and malicious comments recently? Are they not being mean and arrogANT which the great ValiANT would have never approved?’ ‘It seems that the table has turned and the very ethos on which our community stood since the days of our great ancestor is defiled now. Grandma, can you tell us why?’ interjected another kid. ‘Then my dear kids, I must recount the history of our community briefly so that you all may appreciate how we have arrived here at this crucial juncture.’
‘Please tell us about our past. Only then we can understand the present and perhaps imagine our future,’ said DebutANT, the oldest of the kids, who has just joined the youth wing of the ruling political party dedicated to improving the living conditions of the community. ‘Almost ten centuries ago we had a monarchy and were ruled by kings and queens and later by sultans and sultanas. Then came some vile white ants from the West and usurped our kingdom and called it a protectorate. About five decades ago, we were finally free from white hegemony and came under a democratically elected government,’ recalled the Queen Mother. ‘Just a moment grandma, since we are now a democracy why are you known as the Queen Mother?’
‘Your grandfather was the last local Sultan under the white ant rule. But he rebelled against the outsiders and was imprisoned and later beheaded. However, the rebellion didn’t die with him and the white ants were forced to go back to their own land. We then became a democratic republic. Your father, my eldest son, became the first president of our colony. People then started calling me the Queen Mother out of respect and the title has survived,’ explained grandma. ‘How was our relationship with the elephants all along?’ ‘As a young democracy, we leaned heavily on our old friends. In their turn, they helped us like a good neighbour in almost all areas. They gave us financial aid, they helped us to fortify our defence. They helped us in establishing health schemes and set up our education system. In fact, we should be thankful to them for our overall well-being.’
‘But then what happened now? Why is this sudden bad blood between us?’ ‘The current president appears to be apprehensive of their closeness to us that has survived centuries. I am told that his anti-elephant sentiments helped him to win the elections. He perhaps justifies his name MalignANT and surely doesn’t augur well for our nation.’
‘But why did these politicians DefiANT, ErrAnt, and IrrelevANT make public statements against the leader of the elephants recently?’ ‘Seems they overreacted to the leader of the elephant’s attempt at promoting one of their own island territories close to us as a tourist destination. They felt that the elephants are in competition with us and would steal our tourist revenues, making our economy poorer.’
‘But that is being irresponsible. How can you ANTagonize your longstanding friends only because of your unproved apprehensions?’ ‘No, I think things are not that simple. The root cause lies in the ‘ANTi elephant’ sentiments being propagated by our own leader. He had been in opposition all these years. The earlier presidents enjoyed the best of relationship with the elephants. But this guy wanted to do the opposite. He chose his election manifesto to oust the elephant influence from the country and to choose another powerful partner instead to lead the nation on the path of prosperity. He somehow convinced the electorate and came into power,’ the Queen Mother explained. ‘Who’s this new partner?’ asked DebutANT.
‘It’s the land of Yellow Dragons of the far East,’ ‘Oh! Yellow Dragons? Aren’t they the worst kind of expansionists? How can they be a better choice over the peace-loving elephants, who have a proven track record?’ ‘Spot on boy! You said it. In fact, we all know what happened to their alliance with Swarnadweep? Today, their economy is in shambles. The country heavily laden with debts from the dragon has total anarchy and high political turbulence. Guess what? Do you know at the worst time of its economic crisis who came forward to hold their hands and help them out?’
‘Who?’ ‘Who else but our good old friends, the elephants,’ beamed the Queen Mother, and continued, ‘I am really worried about our future. MalignANT’s overture to the leader of the yellow dragons is really worrisome for all of us. In all probability, ultimately he may meet the same fate that the frog king Gangadatta met long ago.’
‘Who’s Gangadatta? What happened to him?’ ‘This story is about a frog king, Gangadatta, who lived with his family, friends, and subjects inside a well. But he always had apprehensions about being overthrown by his friends and relatives, who he suspected as traitors. To teach them a lesson, the frog king decided to befriend a snake called Priyadarshan and invited him to his well. The snake was taken by surprise since frogs never make friends with snakes, as it is well known that snakes eat up frogs and are their arch-enemies. But the frog king explained his plan to the snake that he wanted to get rid of the opposition and asked the snake to eat them up one by one, barring the frog king's family. The snake agreed as he was getting his meals handed over to him on a platter and followed him to the well. The king started to supply one frog every day, and he started eating them one after the other, till all of them were eaten up. Then one day the only frogs which remained were the king and his family. The snake which enjoyed a free meal every day couldn’t stay hungry and started eating them too one by one. The frog king by now had realized his mistake of choosing the snake to get rid of the opposition but it was too late. Finally, only the frog king and his wife, the queen frog, were the only surviving frogs in the well. The snake demanded that he would have to eat them up too. The king then thought of another plan and told the snake to spare their lives with the condition that he would go to other nearby wells and ponds and gather frogs for the snake to eat. The snake agreed, and the frog king and queen hopped away, never to return to the well,’ concluded grandma.
‘What a foolish fellow this Gangadutta must have been! Making friends with someone as untrustworthy as the snake!!’ exclaimed DebutANT. ‘What is the morale of the story?’ asked grandma. ‘As a leader when you are responsible for all your constituents, take the right decisions which will do good to your followers. Recognize who is your true friend and who is your enemy,’ said DebutANT. ‘An enemy of your perceived enemies is not always your friend, and do not trust them blindly,’ said one kid. ‘Before you venture into unknown terrain, calculate all your risks,’ said another.
‘Alright, children, it’s quite late now. Time for us to sleep. But I would like to leave a thought with you all. You are the new generation who would take this nation forward to prosperity. We all may be small in size. But we know size doesn’t matter. We as a nation deserve to live peacefully and with pride. We should choose the right friends who are trustworthy and dependable. Like the elephants who always stood by us. I would like to ask DebutANT and his young friends to create political awareness amongst the ranks and files and help MalignANT to see things in right perspectives and lead the nation to glory and peaceful coexistence in this idyllic heaven. Good Night.’ ‘Good Night, Grandma. We will do what needs to be done. We promise,’ chorused the kids.——
Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance with any character or event is coincidental.
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.
‘This time the potatoes and cauliflowers have come out nicely. Robust and large.’ Govind said, satisfaction ringing in his voice.
‘Mine too. Had not hoped for such heavy yield.’ Madhu showed a row of off-white teeth in a broad grin. ‘Nature has been very kind to us this year. They would fetch good profit.’ He added.
‘Yes, but not in the local market. We have to sell them in the market place at the village of Nilapur. That is a large market and many people from neighbouring villages come there to buy vegetables.’
‘You have a point there. The local buyers are not ready to pay more.’ Govind agreed.
This was the conversation between two farmers who had grown potatoes and cauliflowers in their lands. The mid-winter harvesting was on and the two farmer friends were working hard, digging out the potatoes. The potatoes had grown in abundance and looked quite healthy. To watch the potatoes piled up on the ridges along the lands was an exciting experience.
This is a tale of older times when people had no idea about travelling in motorbikes or other motor -run vehicles and communicating on mobile phones. Villages did not have electricity and people used kerosene lamps and lanterns for lighting. A large segment of the population in the villages were peasants and earned their living from farming of land. There were others who depended on other vocations like livestock farming, weaving or pottery.
Govind and Madhu were good friends and were neighbours living in the village Shrutipur. They did not own large patches of lands to grow paddy and other grains. They depended mostly on growing potatoes and seasonal vegetables. Each had a cow tethered in the cowshed that fulfilled the need of milk of the family. Govind’s father, though grown old, shouldered the responsibility of looking after and milking the cow. Govind had grown cauliflowers in a small patch and potatoes in a relatively larger patch of land. Potatoes sold at more or less uniform prices all through the year with slight variations in the rate now and then. But the land where they had grown cauliflowers had yielded a good harvest. They decided to carry the potatoes and the cauliflowers to the weekly-market in the village of Nilapur where, both of them knew, they would be sold at a higher rate. Selling them in the local market would not bring good profit.
And so, one misty morning of mid-winter the friends set out to the market place of village of Nilapur that was some ten kilometers away, their bicycles loaded with the farm produces. Each bicycles had a couple of canvas bags stuffed with cauliflowers slinging frsom its handles and a large sack of potatoes tied to its passenger-carrier seat behind. it was early morning and there was still some time for the sun to come up. A cold wind was blowing from the north and Govind and Madhu pulled their thin blankets tightly around them. The birds had started their morning chatters in the trees that grew scatteringly along the road. The bicycles, sagging under the combined load of the vegetables and the rider rolled sluggishly along the uneven, bumpy path. They reached the narrow wooden bridge that passed over a stream and led into a dense mango grove at the other side in about half an hour. The village Nilapur was at another few kilometers away from the other end of the big mango grove. A thin film of mist hung low over the stream. Splashed randomly with the light from the sun that was lazily climbing up the east it created an illusion of a mystique mantle of luminous blue stretching out over the still drowsy earth. The bicycle riding, though a little strenuous, was a pleasant experience. A few minutes later they crossed the bridge and entered the thick orchard of mango. It was winter time and the boughs, looking dusty and pale hung darkly from the big, dispassionate trees. The patch was so thickly crowded with the mango trees that the feeble light of the morning sun hardly found a way into the grove. Even in the morning the grove wore a gloomy, heavy look as if some deep secret lay hidden inside it. The ride through the mango grove was a slightly discomforting experience for both the friends and they felt relaxed when they were out of it in the lighted road at the other side. They joined a couple of farmers who were travelling to the market and covered the rest part of the journey in light hearted chatting, and discussing and exchanging ideas on farming.
Govinda and Madhu took out their tiffin carriages from their bags and sat down to eat under a big banyan tree in the slanted sunlight of the winter noon. Other traders who had arrived at the village market of Nilapur to sell their farm produces too ate their lunch sitting in small groups. All of them looked relaxed after doing a satisfactory business.
Madhu put a ball of soaked rice in his mouth and smiled at Govind. ‘A lucky day for me. All my cauliflowers are sold away at good rate. Only some ten kilos of potato are left. They too will be sold away by afternoon if luck favours.’
‘Same here friend,’ Govind said taking a bite from the onion. ‘I have only five cauliflowers and seven or eight kilos of potato left. God willing the afternoon buyers will take them.’
The crowd in the market had thinned out. People in scanty numbers, mostly from the village Nilapur and the neighbouring ones, while returning after the morning shift at the farmlands, stopped by to buy vegetables. The traders stretched themselves under the trees for a while.
Business was not so encouraging in the afternoon for Govind and Madhu. The cauliflowers were sold away but not the potatoes. The number of buyers did not increase as Govind and Madhu had expected and there was a slight, unexpected drizzle which turned the weather bleak and chilly. Most traders left while it was still light. Govind and Madhu waited till it was evening. They had expected to sell away all the products they had brought. The return journey could have been easy and quick without the load of the vegetables. A load of about ten kilos of potatoes was not however a big obstruction but it would have made them happier had all the potatoes been sold away. They did not want to carry back the potatoes and decided to keep it in the custody of some reliable person of the village for a few days till the next sale-day of the week, and go back. They sat on the steps of the temple of Goddess Durga at one end of the market place, pondering over the problem. The compound of the temple was wide and spacious. As they sat discussing the priest came in to perform the evening worships. It began to get chillier as the evening advanced. When the priest came out after completing the worship the two friends approached him with a request to permit them to keep the sacks of potatoes in the temple premises for a couple of nights.
But the priest refused. ‘It is not possible young men,’ he said apologetically. I understand your problem. But I will have to answer the trustees of the temple, and I don’t think they would approve of it. You better ask in the shop over there that sells snacks and sweetmeats. The shop owner is a good man. He might help you,’ the priest suggested before leaving.
‘We are strangers here. Do you think the shop owner will agree to help us?’ Govind looked at Madhu.
‘No harm in trying. What will happen in the worst case? We will have to carry them back to our village. That is not so big an issue. Come, let us ask the man.’
The shop owner was frying fitters in a big pan. He lifted his eyes from the pan to look at Madhu and Govind as they approached.
‘Would you like some fritters? They have just come off the pan. Hot and crispy.’
‘Yes. They look tempting.’ Madhu agreed and smiled. ‘However, we have come with a request,’ he added uncertainly.
‘What is it?’ The shop owner cast a questioning glance at them.
Govind narrated about how they were left with some ten kilos of potatoes each which they did not want to take back to their village and again carry them here in the next sale-day of the week. He requested the man to keep the sacks safe for a couple of days somewhere inside the shop.
The man nodded his head understandingly. ‘It is not a big problem. You could keep the sack here for a couple of days. However, I would not have taken the risk of returning to the village in the night had I been in your place. It is not wise.’
‘But we must. We have not intimated our families that we would be staying here overnight. They would worry themselves to death if we do not get back tonight.’ Govind expressed his concern.
‘Why do you say it would not be wise to take the risk of returning to the village in the night? What risk?’ Madhu inquired.
‘Have some fritters and tea first. I would tell you about it.’ The man said and mopped a small, rickety wooden table with a tattered piece of cloth. ‘Sit here, please.’ He pointed to a wooden bench. The two friends looked at each other. ‘I don’t think we could have anything to eat before we reach home. Better eat something here.’ Govind suggested.
‘That is really thoughtful of you,’ the shop owner smiled amicably. ‘Hey, Raghu, bring two plates of fritters here and put the tea-kettle on the stove.’ He called out. A skinny boy who looked barely over ten years brought water in a couple of metal glasses and put them on the table. Then he ran back and brought two plates of fritters.
‘You enjoy the fritters. Tea will be ready in a minute.’
Both the friends were hungry and the fritters tasted really good. They finished the fritters and drank some water. The shop owner came carrying the tea in two glasses.
‘What were you telling about a risk? Would you please tell us in detail?’ Govind asked the man.
‘ I would not want to frighten you, but it is not wise to travel across that big mango grove in night.’
‘Why?’ Madhu asked, his voice a bit apprehensive.
‘They say there are spirits in the trees. They come down the trees in the deep nights and troublse the one who confronts them.’
‘Has anyone seen them?’ Madhu asked again. ‘I do not believe in ghosts,’ he tried to sound bold and convincing. But his voice lacked confidence.
‘Many had seen large shadows swinging from the thick boughs and heard the loud sounds of stones pelting and branches breaking. Some had fainted or fallen terribly sick after the gruesome experience. Most people avoid moving through the mango grove in the night. I would advise you to spend the night either here or in the shed at the corner of the market-place and return in the morning.’
Govind and Madhu looked again at each other, and Govind shook his head. ‘We must return tonight, and we would rather take the sacks back home. It is not a big load, after all. What do you say, Madhu?’
Madhu nodded his assent. ‘Yes. We should take them back. We are not sure if we will be able to come back on the next sale-day of the week.’
‘Whatever suits you,’ the man in the shop said wondering what made them change their minds. ‘But I would still say it would be wise to spend the night here instead of venturing into that notorious grove.’
‘Do not you worry. We would be riding bicycles which are made of iron. I know ghosts keep away from iron. Nothing will happen.’ Govind said.
‘You are right about the iron in the bicycle. Ghosts do not come near you if you have iron with you. But, be very careful. It is after seven in the evening. It will take about half an hour to reach the grove if you start now. Do you have a battery-run torch light or a kerosene lantern with you?’
‘No.’ Madhu answered.
The shop owner gave them a matchbox. ‘Keep it with you. You can burn a match stick now and then to get some light.’
‘That is so kind of you.’ Madhu and Govind said in one voice and took leave of him.
**
The drizzle had stopped by the time they reached at the edge of the mango grove, but the darkness had thickened. The air had a wetness in it that made them shiver. A chilly wind whistled softly through the dense boughs of the massive trees. Standing at the outer edge of the grove the two friends cast an uneasy glance into the inside of the deserted grove. There was something oddly unwelcoming about the grove. Shadows hung in thick ribbons of black from the dense boughs of the trees that stood like tall and quirky figures straight out of some horror tale.
Madhu felt a frisson of fear, and touched Govind’s hand. ‘Should we go back and spend the night in that snack shop?’ He sounded dubious. ‘That would mean going back two kilometers. There is nothing to worry. The tale of ghosts could be just a hearsay. There is no such thing as ghost. And even if there at all is, we are well protected against it because of our bicycles. The iron-made bicycles will keep the evil spirits, if there is any, at bay. Be brave and come along. Govind tried to infuse confidence into his voice even though he was not feeling very confident inside. They rode cautiously into the grove, moving abreast and talking loudly to override the nagging discomfort.
The sound of a loud splat close by, as if some heavy thing had dropped from above, startled them.
What could it be?
A mango? But that was not possible. Mangoes do not grow in winter.
What was it then?
Potatoes falling from the sack?
But they had tied the moth of the sacks tightly. May be a stone that had got stuck in the foliage dropped down. Then there was another splatting sound which was followed by still another. Govind and Madhu dismounted their cycles and stood close together gripping each other’s hand.
‘Do not fear. Let me light a matchstick.’ Govind said encouragingly and taking out a matchstick from rubbed it against the side of the matchbox. In the sepulchral silence that cloaked the grove the soft scratch sounded like the burst of a firecracker. The burning matchstick formed a tiny, stirring pool of light on the ground. They looked around to find out the objects that had fallen from above in such quick succession. There was nothing of the sort. As they lifted their heads to look up the light went out and darkness pounced upon them like a huge, diaphanous animal. A light scream escaped Madhu. ‘You are such a nervy fellow,’ Govind admonished him in a mock anger. ‘There is nothing to panic about. Let us move on. Pedal faster and harder. We will be soon out of the grove. There will be nothing to worry about once we reach the wooden bridge.’ And they pedaled faster, letting the bicycles roll smoothly on the comparatively even floor of the grove.’
‘Hey, Govind! Look at that.’ Madhu whispered, pointing at something ahead, breathing wildly.
Govind let his gaze move in the direction Madhu pointed at.
His heart missed a beat, and then began to race. A large and flame like lighted object was moving ahead of them. Govind gaped at it, his mouth open in shock, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. The flame that was swaying erratically seemed to be rising up from a big half-circle of dense blackness that tapered down to a long, hanging shadow. As they stared unblinkingly ahead at it, the floating column of black ambled forward, the flame of light swinging on its top. Madhu screamed and let go of the bicycle. It hit the ground with a loud metallic sound and the sack of potato thudded to the ground. The string that was tied to its mouth had come loose god knew how. And the potatoes, released from their long confinement in the sack went rolling merrily across the grove. Govind grabbed at Madhu wildly and his feet fell on the potatoes. Losing his balance, he careened to the ground pulling Madhu along with him. They screamed loudly for a while and then stopped abruptly. They could hear now the low ringing of a bell approaching them. Govind and Madhu, their blood frozen in their veins, waited breathlessly. They could hear clearly now. It was the ringing of a cycle bell, as if some one was moving towards them from the opposite direction riding a bicycle. They tried to get up and even as they got to their feet something that looked like a black boat came rushing towards from behind and hit them with full force. A loud scream that followed it immediately sounded like the cry of some aboriginal animal. They howled crazily and another howl from the boat like thing joined theirs.
‘Who is that?’ Govind, trying to regain his composure asked, his voice quivering in fear.
‘I am Mangu,’ a farmer from Malikanthpur,’ a frightened, breathless voice replied. ‘I had come to sell dried fish in the weekly market of Nilapur with my friend. But he left early leaving me alone. I had no alternative other than taking the risk of travelling alone in this darned night.’
Govind let out a deep sigh of relief. He struck another match and in the feeble light looked at the man who called himself Mangu. He struck more matches and helped Madhu to get up. The three of them stood in the grove, their legs still trembling slightly but feeling much less agitated now.
‘We thought you to be a ghost,’ Govind said and smiled uneasily. ‘I also thought the same,’ Mangu laughed. ‘But I am worried about my friend Sinu. Had he crossed this grove and reached home safely? He should have waited for me.’
‘He must have reached home by this time. There is no point in waiting for him in this place. The sooner we cross it the better.’
‘But what is that swinging light? Madhu asked. ‘It is certainly a ghost. It is moving ahead of us. How can we step past it?’
Mangu stared ahead. ‘Let us wait till it disappears. It will not attack us unless we disturb it.’
‘I have another idea.’ Govind said. ‘We three will sound the bells of our bicycles as loudly as possible. the sound may prompt the thing, ghost or whatever, make way for us and we will ride past it quickly.’
‘Let us chant loudly the forty-liner prayer of Lord Hanuman and move on,’ Madhu suggested. Joining their palms in reverence to Lord Hanuman, the god who is believed to have the power to destroy the ghosts, the trio set out on the tricky journey.
The swinging flame over the moving column of black seemed to have been moving now slowly and hesitantly. As they looked on the light stopped by a big tree. A long, branchy shape drooped from above the light like a headgear of the sentry of some dark netherworld. ‘Now’, Govind cried and together the three of them began pressing the bells with all the force they could use. In that still, desolate grove the sound of the three bells ringing in unison created a big, earsplitting noise. Suddenly the swinging light was seen climbing down the black column. It seemed to have been flung down by some invisible power and at the same time the three of them heard a loud scream, ‘O Mother Goddess, save me! O’ Mother Goddess Save me!!’
‘It sounds like Sinu’s voice,’ Mangu exclaimed in surprise.
‘Hey, Sinu!’ He called out loudly. The black column lurched down to where they stood and grabbed blindly at them. ‘Brother Mangu!’ It croaked. ‘Are you Brother Mangu?’
Sinu moved forward and put his arms round the man. ‘Where had you been brother Sinu? I had looked for you everywhere in the market but did not find you. I thought you had left.’
‘I remembered some urgent work at home and decided to return early. I searched for you, but you were perhaps at the far end of the market place. As such, all my dried fish were sold away before it began to drizzle. I assumed it would be would be late by the time you wrapped up your business and left. I am so sorry, brother.’ Sinu was at the verge of weeping.
‘I did not know this grove is thronged with spirits,’ Sinu whined. ‘They are swinging from the branches, jumping here and there hissing and whistling, and pelting stones at me.’ He added.
Madhu cast a glance at the flame that had now climbed down to the ground. To his utter amazement he discovered that it was a lantern in a big round shaped basket. It was the basket in which Sinu had brought the dried fish to sell. In the light of the flame that was raised, perhaps to get more light, the outline of the basket formed a ring of shadow. The flame rising from looked like a flicking tongue of fire protruding out of the hideous mouth of some phantom.
‘Hey, Govind! He touched Govind’s shoulder, grinning broadly. ‘We were fooled by the light of the lantern in the basket.’ ‘Seems so.’ Govind smiled skeptically.
The four of them moved across the grove, now feeling more confident and well protected in one another’s company, against any possible assault from the invisible or imagined creatures. In another half hour they were safely out of the grove and at the wooden bridge.
The weather had cleared and they rode back to their villages, Mangu and Sinu on one cycle, and Govind and Madhu each riding his own. They chatted loudly about the day’s experience at the market place and the profit they earned from the selling. But somewhere deep within each of them carried a doubt, each pondered over the experiences in the mango grove, trying to judge them with his power of reasoning.
‘Were those things my imagination? Some weird fantasy?’ Govind thought. ‘What were those sounds of something heavy falling from the trees? Was it the wind that hissed through the boughs, and not the panting of a thousand invisible beings?’
‘What were those grotesque shadows that seemed to be hanging from the branches?’ Mangu thought. ‘Just optical illusions? Or….?’
‘There is nothing there in the grove. All that we happened to experience there were conjured up by our imagination, and a preconceived notion.’ Sinu tried to convince himself.
‘It was because of the big flame of the lantern. The shadows that seemed to be swinging around were actually made by the flickering light from the lantern. Were they really…?’ Madhu wiped his forehead where sweat beads had formed despite the chilling cold.
But each one of them had made a decision, without revealing it to the other.
Even if the selling of the firm produces did not fetch good money in the local market, like it did in the weekly market of Nilapur, it would be wise not to venture into that mysterious grove again.
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)
A TALE OF SURPRISES AND REDEMPTION
It was the eve of Alisha's 18th birthday, a milestone that marked her official entry into adulthood. Knowing this day was extra special for her, I was determined to make it unforgettable. While her parents were surely planning something grand, I wanted to add my own touch to make it extra special for my best friend.
For nearly a year, I had been diligently saving my pocket money, setting aside a portion each month with a single goal in mind: to surprise Alisha with a gift that would reflect the depth of our friendship. The day finally arrived, and armed with a carefully curated plan, I presented her with a bundle of surprises.
I had managed to get a CD from her favorite singer, an autographed picture of her beloved film star, and a custom-made cake adorned with her best photograph—a picture-perfect cake fit for the birthday princess, Alisha.
To enhance the element of surprise, I asked her parents to keep my involvement a secret, not because they couldn't afford it, but because I wanted to do something special solely from my heart. However, despite the best intentions, a slight glitch occurred in the carefully orchestrated plan.
A small change in Alisha's parents' schedule led to a miscommunication with the caterer, resulting in the food arriving later than expected. As the clock ticked away, Alisha's sibling, unaware of the intricacies of the surprise, called me in distress, delivering a harsh verdict on the unfolding birthday celebration.
In a moment of shock, I questioned whether I truly deserved such a harsh critique. A year of planning, meticulous savings, and emotional investment had seemingly crumbled in the face of unforeseen circumstances. Doubt crept in, clouding the joyous occasion I had intended to create.
As the events unfolded, I found myself grappling with a mix of disappointment and self-reflection. Did the hiccup in the plan negate the effort and love I had poured into making Alisha's birthday special? Or was there still room for redemption and the possibility of turning the situation around?
Little did I know that the twists and turns of the day would lead to unexpected revelations about friendship, resilience, and the true essence of celebrating someone's journey into adulthood.
It was the eve of Alisha's highly anticipated 18th birthday, a milestone signaling her entry into adulthood. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and I was determined to make this day stand out in her memory. While her parents were undoubtedly planning something grand, I wanted to infuse a personal touch, a testament to the deep bond we shared as best friends.
For nearly a year, I diligently saved a portion of my pocket money each month, carefully plotting a surprise that would reflect the depth of our friendship. The culmination of my efforts manifested in an array of carefully chosen gifts—a CD from her favorite singer, an autographed picture of her beloved film star, and a meticulously crafted cake adorned with her best photograph. It was to be a visual feast, a celebration fit for the birthday princess, Alisha.
To add an element of surprise, I orchestrated a covert operation, enlisting the help of Alisha's parents to keep my involvement a secret. It wasn't a matter of financial constraints but a desire to present her with a gesture straight from my heart.
However, even the most well-laid plans can encounter unforeseen challenges. A minor change in Alisha's parents' schedule inadvertently led to a miscommunication with the caterer, causing the birthday feast to arrive fashionably late. As minutes turned to anxious hours, Alisha's unsuspecting sibling, unaware of the intricacies of the surprise, called me in distress.
Their voice carried a tone of disappointment as they exclaimed, "What a shitty birthday you've planned! The cake is atrocious, and the food hasn't been delivered yet."
The words hung in the air, a sharp contrast to the joyous celebration I had envisioned. Doubt and disappointment washed over me. Had my year-long dedication and emotional investment been in vain? Did I truly deserve this scathing critique?
In that moment of uncertainty, I questioned the very essence of the celebration. Was it about the perfection of the plan or the sincerity of the effort? Little did I know that this unexpected twist would lead to a revelation about the resilience of friendship and the ability to find beauty in imperfection.
As the day unfolded, weaving its own narrative, it became clear that the true magic of the celebration lay not in flawless execution but in the genuine connection and shared experiences that define true friendship.
Alisha and I had been friends since childhood, our bond forged through countless shared adventures and secrets. As the years passed, our connection only deepened, and it became a tradition to celebrate each other's birthdays with joy and enthusiasm.
This year, however, was different. Alisha's birthday was approaching, and I was determined to make it unforgettable. I meticulously planned a surprise party, reaching out to all our friends and coordinating the details to ensure everything went off without a hitch.
On the big day, I anxiously awaited Alisha's arrival at the party venue. As the clock ticked away, I couldn't help but feel the weight of anticipation. Finally, she walked through the door, and the room erupted in cheers and applause.
But to my dismay, instead of the delighted expression I expected, Alisha wore a somber look. Confused, I approached her, trying to understand what had gone wrong. She hesitated for a moment before finally revealing that this birthday wasn't something she wanted to celebrate.
As we sat in a quiet corner, Alisha shared the reasons behind her reluctance. It turned out that her birthday held painful memories associated with family issues, personal struggles, and past disappointments. The date brought back a flood of negative emotions, making it a day she would rather forget.
Feeling a mix of disappointment and empathy, I realized the elaborate surprise had backfired. Instead of bringing joy, it had unintentionally unearthed Alisha's hidden pain. Determined to salvage the day, I suggested a different approach.
We decided to ditch the party and embarked on a spontaneous road trip, just the two of us. Along the way, we reminisced about our childhood adventures, laughed at silly inside jokes, and indulged in comfort food. The day took an unexpected turn, evolving into an intimate journey of healing and rediscovery.
As the sun set on our impromptu road trip, Alisha confessed that despite the rocky start, this had turned out to be one of the most meaningful birthdays she'd ever had. The simple, genuine moments we shared had overshadowed the grand gestures, reminding us both of the strength of our friendship.
In the end, what began as the "Shitty Birthday" transformed into a poignant tale of resilience, friendship, and the power of understanding. It was a celebration of Alisha's life, not defined by the past, but by the genuine connection we shared in the present.
In the heart of Mumbai, amidst the constant hum of city life and the vibrant tapestry of urban existence, lived a woman named TIL. Her journey began in the quaint town of Charhi, nestled in the lap of nature in the Hazaribag district of Jharkhand. TIL's father, a dedicated employee of Central Coalfields Limited (CCL), provided for their family, and their modest home became a haven for the young girl.
Charhi, with its serene landscapes and the soothing sounds of nature, painted the backdrop of TIL's childhood. The chirping of birds and the breathtaking sunrise marked the beginning of each day, and the river's gentle lullaby accompanied her nights. As TIL meandered through her early years, the simplicity and authenticity of Charhi became the foundation of her identity.
Adulthood beckoned, and Mumbai, the pulsating metropolis, became the next chapter of TIL's life. Leaving behind the tranquil charm of Charhi, she embraced the fast-paced rhythm of the city. The transition from a rustic girl to a city dweller was marked by challenges, but TIL defined her childhood.
In Mumbai, TIL found herself amidst towering skyscrapers, bustling streets, and a diverse array of people. Her days were no longer filled with the sounds of nature but with the constant hum of the urban landscape. Yet, in the midst of this metropolitan whirlwind, TIL discovered a new world of opportunities and experiences that broadened her horizons.
Gelling well with the modern community, TIL became a dedicated working professional, navigating the educational world with determination and resilience. The skills she acquired in Mumbai were a blend of the values instilled in her during her upbringing in Charhi and the demands of a modern, dynamic society.
Despite the stark contrast between Charhi and Mumbai, TIL carried the essence of her roots with her, infusing a touch of simplicity and authenticity into the cosmopolitan whirlwind. Her journey unfolded as a tapestry, each thread representing a unique blend of rural heritage and urban exploration.
One day, amidst the hectic pace of her professional life, a colleague suggested a night out at the pub. The blaring music, the scent of liquor, and the sight of people dancing madly were starkly different from TIL's usual preferences. However, she decided to step out of her comfort zone and join the revelry.
At the pub, TIL found herself in a lively atmosphere, surrounded by the vibrant energy of the city's nightlife. Despite not partaking in the same expressions of enjoyment as her colleagues, she observed with a quiet contentment, appreciating the diversity of experiences that Mumbai offered.
As the night progressed, a colleague suggested, "Next time, try coming in a short dress. You'll fit right in!" TIL, true to her authentic self, smiled graciously but didn't feel compelled to conform to expectations. She believed in expressing herself in her own way, irrespective of societal norms.
The realization that her idea of fun was different from her colleagues' didn't bother TIL. She embraced the uniqueness of her preferences and understood that the beauty of life lay in its diversity. Her evenings were filled with activities that brought her joy – reading a book, writing a poem or story, calling her masseur for a massage, coloring her hair, cooking her favorite food, meeting a friend, and sharing her day with her sister.
In the quiet moments of reflection, TIL found empowerment in acknowledging her individuality. The acceptance of her own version of fun became a source of strength, a testament to her authenticity in a world that often encouraged conformity.
With a contented smile, TIL accepted the differences that made her who she was. The night, once filled with the vibrant energy of the city, became a canvas for self-discovery and acceptance. As she settled into the embrace of her bed, the city's nocturnal melody played outside, a harmonious backdrop to her thoughts—a gentle reminder that being true to oneself was the most beautiful dance of all.
In the rich tapestry of TIL's life, the juxtaposition of her rural upbringing and urban adulthood created a story of resilience, self-discovery, and the celebration of individuality. Through the symphony of experiences, she continued to dance to her own rhythm, finding joy in the authenticity of her chosen expressions of happiness.
(Founder & CEO - The Impish Lass Publishing House)
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets.
She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles are published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 100 books in 3 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- book various editions for students and teachers .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. Recently published books ‘Cascades- Treasure Trove of Short Stories had 104 educators across the country getting published .She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has been the recipient of Wordsmith Award- 2019 for her short story , “Pindaruch,” from the Asian Literary Society. She has received many awards in 2020 for her contribution to the field of education and literature. She has received ‘ Most Outstanding Teacher of the Year Award,’ during World Education Summit in Feb-2021. Her poems have been translated and published in Spanish magazine. Her latest book – The Impish Lass- Part 2 ( TIL Stories and More) has received raving reviews from the readers including the greatest Indian Nuclear Scientist Dr. R. Chidambaram. It has received 5 stars rating on Amazon .
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
I was posted in the mid term of my service career to a remote sub division hospital under the district ofp Berhampur in Odisha state.To manage alone in a new place with two children one in class eighth and little one in play school was not an easy task. My husband was posted in a PHC under this Subdivision in a poorly communicated hilly area. I badly needed a settlement nearby the hospital. I had to adjust initially in a rented house and tried for a quarter lying vacant near to hospital. To my goodluck the quarter was allotted in my favour within a short period. The Quarter was one amongst three in a row just infront of the hospital the 30feet wide road separating the hospital from the boundary of the quarter. I made list delay in shifting to the new abode and my tension was halved seeing other two doctors family staying in my side quarters.
It was a mediocre house having two bedrooms, a sizable drawing room ,a dining space, a kitchen and a separate pujaroom. The center of attraction was quite a big garden space in front of my quarter surrounded by low height boundary walls. I had a great passion for gardening and my dream to have a garden adorned with myriads coloured flowers seemed to come true.
My children got admitted to schools not far enough from my quarter. After a year my husband got his transfer to the same hospital. Life ran smoothly and I could find time to arrange my garden as per my dream. Different types of flowers like zinia ,marigold,Roses of many colours,Hibiscus and so many came blooming within few months of plantation and my garden gleamed with its splendour and fragrance.
The window of the drawing room opened directly to the garden. Every morning between 6 to 6.30am I used to seat on the sofa of my drawing room sipping hot tea and viewing through my window the hustle on the road already started,a regular habit of local people to get up early and set out to earn their livelihood. It was an amazing feeling to observe passers by stop for a while to have a glance to my garden.
Gradually it turned to an obsession and I rarely failed to spend sometime sitting near the window enjoying chirping of verieties of birds,fluttering butterflies roaming through out and flowering plants swaying in glee with gentle, cool morning air. Side by side I would have an overview to study shedule of my son Ashu. After giving him needed instructions I would get ready for my hospital duty. Maid had come to prepare the breakfast and take charge of the daily works of the house.
A Jackfruit tree was standing with all its pride amongst small plants and grasses to one corner of my garden. I was in a mind to cut it down at one time but somehow refrained from it as it didn't hinder my plan.
For last few days frequent visit of two Myna to my garden and hopping around the Jackfruit trees caught my eyes. After preliminary survey they started carryingp straw,dry stems of branches of trees to settle them on one of the branches of it.The female one started weaving the nest.
It fascinated me to observe daily their unrestrained effort to make a nest for themselves . From ages an abode may it be a house,a nest,a dane or a hollow in a tree or a pit, for all living creatures the endeavour to keep the family safe has become a priority and these birds were no exceptions.
Almost a week after the two birds' incessant effort took shape. I was spellbound to see the amazing craftsmanship of the female bird. Where from did she avail the training? Definitely not from her mother who trains them to fly away at very tender age before she makes another nest . Who was the trainer?
My eyes raised towards the sprawling blue above and my hands were folded in reverence for the Supreme creator of the Univers. My son Ashu was in class nineth. Inspite of his tough schedule he was keen to follow the birds' activity curiously. For few days the female bird didn't come out from the nest .The male bird was carrying some foods for her. We put some rice grains and millets on our boundary wall to ease his work and the male one happily carried them for his partner. He could find more time to watch over the female like a sincere and efficient master of the house.
One day Ashu screamed with joy, Mommy Mommy come and see what is there in the nest. I hurried to him in the garden, neared the Jackfruit tree and peeped to the nest on the branch not very far from reach of my eyes. Three pink ,featherless and fluffy hatchlings were there in the nest. The mother and father were keenly looking towards us from a distance not scared at all to see our familiar face though they were alert for any unprecedented future. I forbade Ashu to touch the nest. A wave of rejoice rippled in my heart as if I could sense the fulfillment those two birds felt on their creation.
My focus on flowers took a shift to the branch of Jackfruit tree. We mother and son took it as our duty to look after the hatchlings. For few days the male bird brought worms for the baby birds and female was feeding them. I was so much engrossed in their activity unknowingly I was at times late in attending my duty in time. I had to get an alert from my husband who showed his concern even for my slightest negligence in duty. In my childhood we have seen such nests,birds laying eggs and children taking out the eggs very often the whole nests out of fun to replace them after being scolded by elders .But this type of feeling never flown in my the then tender mind.Somewhere in a mother's heart love bloomed for the innocent baby birds and a sense of responsibility and empathy for a living creature persuaded me to look after these tiny creatures to the furthest extent.
Every morning I put some rice grain on our boundary wall for the male and female birds to ease their work of collecting food for nourishing the babies. Sitting down in my drawing room for an hour enjoying the parenting of these tiny creatures and to some extent safeguarding them was enlisted in my daily routine. I would get ready for my hospital duty instructing the maid to keep an eye on the nests.
Days passed by.The newborns started peeping out from the nest. Now mother bird also set out in quest of food for the babies and alternately either of the parents had to stay at the nest. Ashu was more possesive and started to dig the wet soil behind my backyard to bring some worms and keep on the flower pots for the birds to feed their babies. Many times he was scolded by his papa for wasting time for study but to no avail.
After a week or two fluffy, sparse feathers grew up on the body of the little birdies. I was awestruck to see the beautiful fledglings glee fully shouting and fluttering their feather at the site of their mother carrying food for them.
The birdies started coming out of nest with their mother for sometime to the boundary wall close to their nest. The site of their daily activity often made me thoughtful. Mother bird would train them to collect food for their own, to fly when the wings will grow up well, to collect food for their own ,teach them how to keep themselves safe from traitors,a holistic approach to make her hatchlings a full fledged bird confident enough to strive in this vast universe.This is the normal go of life for all living creatures. Contemplation about my children and their future journey of life stirred me internally and my eyes became moist.
My husband tried his best to refrain me from getting absorbed towards the birds' activity spending hours near the window. To him these birds were guests to our premises. After their babies grow up and leave their nests to fly away to the open sky they will leave this abode to set out in search of another site for a new begining. Our love and concern pays nothing to us at the end. I was musing. Then why the human beings treasure the memory of their children in their heart for eternity even after the offsprings leave for their own nests.The world would have been so rejoicing if God would have given them this art of forgetting the emotional bonding of parents with their children to get rid of pain,agony and heartbreak. Scattered thoughts propelled me to a state of stillnes.
I sat quite a long hours vacantly looking to the nest through my window. Night plunged into darkness.The birds after a day long strive enclosed themselves in the nest with their babies. I got to my feet to look after my other responsibilities. Maid had left after preparing the dinner. Somehpw the weight of my random thoughts had settled upon me. After the children went to sleep I sat down to see an old movie in T.V to alleviate my stirring unease. I went to bed too late and got to deep slumber
Chit,chit, chit. My eyes opened up at sound from my garden sliced through air. I looked to the wall clock. It was 6am and morning buzz already started on the road in front of our house. I ran to the drawing room, opened the window to see outside. I could see the nest dangling helplessly from the branch of the Jackfruit tree. The male and female Mayinas were flying hither and thither restlessly with a shirp melancholic sound. I opened the door and rushed to the garden. I could see a shadow just outside my gate which was not of much height. I called Ashu to come and hinted him towards the gate. Gate was locked. He jumped over the gate and found a boy of 13 to 14 years old ready to ride over a bicycle in a hurry to leave the place. He immediately caught him and shouted,Mommy Mommy come soon,probably here is the culprit. People nearby accumulated and I rushed for the gate with the key, opened it and captured the boy.
He was from the slum nearby. A bag was hanging from his bicycle. When we opened it we were aghast. Three innocent baby birds who we were so lovingly took care off for so many days and months by us were lying lifeless smeared with blood. I could not think of what to do. Ashu's anger knew no bounds.He immediately started yelling at him and was on the verge of beating him. Tears rolled down from his eyes holding the dead bardies in his hand. I forbade him from doing so. Only thing I asked him "why did u kill these innocents." His reply stunned me. He wanted to roast them in fire after reaching home and have his breakfast. I fumed "U insane mind, how much flesh could u have from these tiny hatchlings?"I knew he didn't have an answer to it. I let him go and tried to console my boy who was extremely griefstricken and crying. The two birds were sitting helplessly on the boundary crying incessantly in their shirp chit chit tone.We took the bodies and buried them in our backyard.
I stepped to my varendah with a heavy heart. Sense of guilt rising late in the morning was weighing me down. May be I could have saved their lives. With folded hand I prayed Almighty to dispel all negative vibes and fill the heart of all people with goodness and virtues. I shut down the window never to open it up till we left the quarter after 2years getting a transfer to other place.
Dr.Radharani Nanda completed MBBS from SCB Medical college, Cuttack and post graduation in Ophthalmology from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur. She joined in service under state govt and worked as Eye specialist in different DHQ hospitals and SDH. She retired as Director from Health and Family Welfare Department Govt of Odisha. During her service career she has conducted many eye camps and operated cataract surgery on lakhs of blind people in remote districts as well as costal districts of Odisha. She is the life member of AIOS and SOS. She writes short stories and poems in English and Odia. At present she works as Specialist in govt hospitals under NUHM.
O’ TRAVELLER, MARCH ALONG, MARCH ALONG
The moon shines brightly in the eastern horizon. Its supple charm and glow radiates in the sky. Ranjan enjoys and casts a hopeless look at that shimmering crescent. Sitting on an easy chair, Ranjan seems to have plunged in grave contemplations. His specious thoughts and majestic imaginations seem to be held back and boomeranged on him. He appears thwarted in his own designs. The life ahead seems obscure, full of nonexistent objects and he appears grovelling in the sweeping conundrums sprouting from his mind. He appears to have been caught in a maze. He sees no way to move out. The more, he embroils himself the more, infuriated and disgruntled he becomes. Still he churns it again and again, but the diabolical nightmare of futility seems to entrap him in an impasse. Liberty- the bare necessity, the prime requirement, the birth right of any sane human being seems to him a far goal, a will-o-the-wisp, a skyscrapery object. That bare necessity has melted to nonentity in his vicinity. His personal freedom is at bay. It is his extreme sense of filial gratitude which denies him a life of options.
Ranjan, The senior engineer of the `Sriniketan' firm owned by his father, tries to plunge into bed again. The thrilling, enchanting rhythm of water drops from the attached toilet enthralls him. He conceives with dropping eyelids, the sounds of the water drops concert in to a sonorous ditty as it flows down the soft, velvety fair skin of Nilima, his beloved wife. Nearly a year ago, his nuptial knot was tied with this mod and vibrant girl Nilima who had then just finished her studies in Biological science. And his sweet reveries naturally swelled up in his heart to enjoy the life with Nili But what does he find presently ? He is still the same Ranjan, the Ranjan of his premarital years, the same Ranjan who had much wished to win a life's friend and he is verily dreaming and musing. His life's long-cherished ambition still remains unfulfilled though his marital life is going to be one year old and his wishes are still in cold storage and he still advances in those furrow ways of life. He fumes at himself, at his fate, at his stars, at his God and of course sulks at his own on brooding over his destiny all over again. But where does it lead him? He is still that Ranjan deprived of any time to spare for his beloved glamorous wife and `Nili' the apple of his eyes continues to remain as an amorous person. His dealings with Nilima appears prototype between a lover and beloved who enjoys restricted get together and so strive not to let go any chance to be with each other. His stream of thought flows on and on. Even a free and leisurely chat with his wife still seems away from his discretion. The bloodshot eyes of his father binds him to strenuous work, viewed in retrospect speaks of his incredulity and rouses temper to a fever height. Work-he does from seven in the morning till eleven at night with just the minimum time to gobble up his lunch. From the dawn of his life, he moves on obeying his father's commands and eventually he has to forgo the chance of enjoying as an option in life and now as a senior engineer, he too proceeds in the same fashion without any grouse, and is rather tongue-tied to utter a single word in self-defence.
His father's eyes catch his imagination and he jumps forth jettisoning his overflowing emotions and moves off. However, he is unable to shed his inquisitive mood. The sorry state of Nilima plagues him and he again thinks all by himself how Nilima, after bath, would approach him straight-away with piquant annoyance over his delay. Yet he can not save himself. He has so many works to do and it is already seven. He has to hurry up, and what a long march he has to perform during the day ! Ah ! He thinks desperately of Nilima, his beloved, his better-half, that ever loyal Nilima who in spite of his absence for the whole day looks up optimistically at him and waits and seizes so enthusiastically and lovingly the rare moment of his return at night. The sensible Ranjan thinks it again.... How does Nilima whiles away her time during his long absence from her? Is she happy and cheerful with such a state of affairs? Or is she unsatisfied and melancholic but never the less takes it spiritedly? Or is it her fate to live it over as it comes in the true traditional fashion? Was all her education meant to rot in the dungeon of her household? A second thought flashes in his mind, should he proceed to his father and ask for leisure and pastime in his life? The next moment it vanishes due to his lack of courage to assert his point.
After the day's strenuous works and restless engagements he hobbles off to his own room at about eleven at night. Nilima waits patiently for her dear husband with the dinner. Full of fatigue, he looks at his wife with a languid eye. Devouring the food quickly with her he retires to the bed and has no energy to look back and wait for Nilima. Nilima, ever compassionate and considerate, never minds; never the less leaves a heaving sigh and goes on moving her soft hand on the panting forehead of her loving husband and sleeps quietly at the bedside.
In his college days, Ranjan was a most sought after boy in the class for his well-demeanor, brilliant study and handsome appearance. Many from the fair sex always had a lurking eye on him. But, as ever, he was an entirely different chap and could not do away with the wishes of his father. Love never overwhelmed him and even after marriage, he still finds himself in the same pit of his college days…..in the steps of antiquity, caged, cribbed and confined to his limited world of only work and work alone.
Veritably, he loves his wife very fondly as any true husband does. He has always a great feeling for Nilima and very often longs to satisfy this by some material gifts to 'Nili’. But, hardly does he get any scope for such presents as he is always tied down with work. Incidently, whatever rare occasion he got to present anything, it invariably happened that his gifts always chanced to move to his own sisters. Nilima, like a stoic, would not grudge at this, instead with a broad grin would be delighted to bring out the silver lining of hilarity on other's faces. Once Ranjan, while in a trip to Singapore on official work brought a beautiful, dazzling, pink-coloured saree for Nilima with the fond imagination to present her on the New Year's Day. What would she look like with that costume? He had thought. But alas ! the same fate mocked at him again. Mini, his college-going sister, wore it on the very New Year's Day.
A revolutionary fervour grabs him. Yet the next moment it subsides. Swarup, his junior, too is newly-wed. Swarup goes out with his wife in the pink hours of twilight, his hand clasping that of hers in a loverly fashion. Whistling mirthfully they tread the sandy surface of the seashore with the monstrous searoar sometimes diminishing to hum the lyre of love, move to see the movie and above all get ample scope to sprinkle love into each other's heart. No blood-shot eyes of 'Baba' to encounter, no barricades, no encumbrances, no obstacles. Ranjan sees and sees it truly in his own eyes. What is his lot? He muses. What a world of difference between Swarup's wife and Nilima. The one thoroughly free-free as a bird, moving joyously with her hub, absolutely free to move anywhere in the world and the other thoroughly domesticated, shut behind the bar, locked up in a veritable prison. What luck for one who is near illiterate and what a fate for one so highly educated. Ranjan literally weeps, yet controls himself.
His first marriage-year was coming to an end. And Ranjan fostered the ambition to celebrate that auspicious day. He had looked forward to this day and was mentally preparing himself for the same. In the college days he had been to `Kapilas' hills on picnic which left a deep impression in his mind for all its serenity and tranquility. He cherished the hope to drive up to `Kapilas' along with his wife and spend two serene days there at the Inspection Bunglow. He booked a suite in the bunglow and made all other preparation for the event. It seemed to him that at last his dream was going to be fulfilled. He was full of glee on the eve of the day, got his car fully tip-top and even filled the petrol tank. Returning home, he told Nilima all about his plans and asked her to get ready the next morning. They chatted on all that they would be doing there and they had also a mild fight about the dishes. They agreed to click a good deal of photographs and dreaming of the programme, they clung to sleep.
The next dawn. Ranjan got up early far before schedule and mustering a lot of courage went to seek the permission of his father. Nilima, on her part, engaged herself in preparing the dishes. Ranjan's father, an early riser was casting glances at the morning newspapers as Ranjan proceeded to him. With bold steps, Ranjan walked up to the drawing-room. Yet he felt the heart beats increase. At last with utmost courage and anxiety he lifted up the curtain and tried to mumble something, assiduously looking to the ground at his feet. The old man slowly turned his head towards Ranjan and spoke out before Ranjan could utter his words audibly. “Ranjan, Do you have anything to speak? Leave it, let me listen to you afterwards. First get yourself ready to start off for Balasore, there is a lot of urgency. I had thought of calling on you but delayed, apprehending you still sleeping. Okay, you have got up so quick, that's good. Get ready instantly and move fast.’ Hearing these harsh, rather abrupt words Ranjan stood motionless and glum and knowing not what to do next. He stood there as if under some spell. The old man seeing him standing thundered, "what, why are you still standing? Do I have to tell you again that the work is extremely urgent?”
Broken-hearted, Ranjan scuttled straight to the garage and with Swarup, his junior in office instantly drove off for Balasore-even without his breakfast. Nilima saw her husband drive past her, knowing nothing, understanding nothing, standing motionless, speechless.
Finishing his work Ranjan returned late as usual. Parking the car, he proceeded straight to his bed room like a highly intoxicated person. The whole surrounding was still and it seemed as if silence was scoffing at him. He saw, unlike other days, the room was dark and no Nilima waiting to receive him in her bosom. What happened to his sweet Nilima? Why was the room so dark? Again he thought of some ominous signs. His apprehensions trebled and with unbalanced feet he entered the room and switched on the light. Ah, what he saw, left him stunned for a while. His dinner was served on the table and his dear wife lay sprawling on the mattress with two drops of tears, like pearls glistening on her rosy, plump cheeks- she trying to sob yet could not. Ranjan stood motionless for a while and then proceeded softly to the edge of the bed. He fondly lifted his sweet-heart and put her on his lap, cuddled her lovingly. He wiped away the tears with his lips. 'And love is a demanding master' With half-closed eyes, Nilima emotionally responded to the fond embrace of her husband and switched off the bed light. Ranjan, like an enlightened hermit muttered, "Life is a comedy for who thinks and it is a tragedy for who feels." And something seem to echo, "Life is truth, truth is life, 0' traveller, march along, march along.”
Kishore Kumar Mohanty is a retired civil servant from Odisha with a strong passion for literature. He loves to write poetry and short stories both in Odia and English. His prolific wrtings have been published in many magazines and newspapers. Shri Mohanty lives in Bhubaneswar.
Selfishness is the salient feature of the human world, I presume. In every sphere of human life, selfishness thrives. A politician is supposed to serve the people without self interests; but most of our politicians are led only by selfish motives. The bureaucrats are supposed to be the servants of the public; but our bureaucrats make the public their servants as their driving force is not the greater common good, but unbridled selfishness.
In the world of animals, we see sharing. In the human world we see hoarding; there is no sharing. Animals share food items; humans sell them to make profit. Animals share water; humans make even drinking water a commodity for making money. Towering all the selfish and profiteering motives, there stands the human "qualities" of treachery and deceit that ruin the lives of the innocent.
Humans created the idea of socialism/communism to survive the evils of capitalism. But the evils of the so called socialism and communism transformed even the evils of capitalism into virtues!
When I have read the reason behind the suicide of a lady who survived seventeen years of prison life in the erstwhile Soviet Union, I was really aghast. She survived the prison, but when she came to know after the collapse of the USSR why she was imprisoned, she couldn't survive. The incident is given below exactly as it is narrated (by Elena Yurievna, a district party committee secretary) in the book Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets written by the (2015) Nobel Prize winning author Svetlana Alexievich:
"I used to believe in the Great October Revolution. After reading Solzhenitsyn, I realised that the 'beautiful ideals of communism' were all drenched in blood. It was all a lie...Fear forced me to join the Party...Leninist Bolsheviks executed my grandfather, then Stalin's communists massacred my parents in the Mordovian camps....."
"I learned of how, in 1937, there had been a plan...quotas...for "exposing and rooting out enemies of the people," just as in the eighties, they were lowering the quotas for people who could be rehabilitated district-and region-wide. It was all in Stalin's style: the meetings, the pressure, the admonishments. More, more...[She shakes her head.] At night, I would sit there and read them, going through volumes of these documents. To be perfectly honest...Honestly... It made my hair stand on end. Brother informed on brother, neighbour on neighbour...because they'd gotten into an argument about their vegetable patch, or over a room in the communal appartment."
"A regular communal appartment...Five families live there—twenty-seven people in total. Sharing one kitchen and one bathroom. Two of the neighbours are friends: One of them has a five-year old daughter and the other one is single with no kids. In communal appartments, people were always spying on one another, listening in on each other's conversations. The people with ten-square-meter rooms envied the ones with twenty-five. Life...that is just how it is...And then, one night, a Black Maria—a police van—shows up...They arrest the woman with the five-year-old daughter. Before they take her away, she has a chance to cry out to her friend, "If I don't come back, please look after my little girl. Don't let them take her to an orphanage." So that's what happened. The neighbour took the child in, and the building administration gave her a second room... The girl started calling her Mama... Mama Anya... Seventeen years went by... And seventeen years later, the real mother returned. She kissed her friend's hands and feet in gratitude. If this were a fairy tale, this is where the story would end, but in real life, the ending was very different. Without a "happily ever after". When Gorbachev came to power, after they unsealed the archives, they asked the former camp inmate whether she wanted to see her file. She did. So she went down to look at it, opened the folder...and the very first page was an informant's report. Familiar handwriting...It was her neighbour's, Mama Anya's... She'd been the one who'd informed on her...Do you understand any of this? I don't. And that woman couldn't, either. She went home and hanged herself. [Silence.] I am an atheist. I have a lot of questions for God...I remember...I remember my father's words: "It's possible to survive the camps, but you can't survive other people." (Quoted from the chapter titled "On the beauty of Dictatorship and the Mystery of Butterflies crushed against the pavement").
Yes, it is very difficult to survive the people around, especially the intimate ones. I have learnt the bitter truth by experience. Julius Ceasar was killed not by the sword of Brutus, but by the shock of knowing that Brutus, his intimate friend, too was with the conspirators. That is why Shakespeare, in his play Julius Ceasar, makes him fall dead by uttering "Et tu, Brute? Then fall Ceasar."
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.
(Based on real life events)
1980 Air India
Prem Chandran was excited. He could not sleep on the plane. This is the journey that he dreamt of ever since his father spoke to him about the possibilities in North America when he was a teenager. He remembered his father’s loving face with the long black moustache over his thin upper lip crimsoned by the betel leaves that he chewed. His fair round face and the black round spectacles covering his deep brown kind eyes gave Prem his inner oomph- to go to Canada and delve into the possibilities. Prem graduated from the Government Engineering College among the top students. He was hardly 21 years when he got his first job in Keltron- the Kerala Government’s electronics research and development venture. He remembered the crestfallen and utterly dejected look on his mother’s face when he lit the funeral pyre of his father three years later. His four younger sisters stood weeping, rudderless.
That is when he decided. “I have to go to North America. I now have the obligation to care for my family”. Years rolled by in his search for a scholarship for graduate studies in North America. He sent an application for a master’s Program to Queens University, Kingston Ontario. He remembered opening the envelope that arrived at his home a few months later from the University- his hands were clammy, and his heart was pounding. After reading the letter from Professor Sen, Prem was ecstatic! His stomach almost came up to this throat- My dream is going to happen! He remembered the number of times he came back from New Delhi after his visa application was denied. Finally, destiny would have it that a kind soul with contacts in the Embassy gave him a letter to take to the Embassy and voila! He got his visa. The courses had already started a month earlier. He needed to catch up.
It was his first time ever traveling outside of India. He had made sure he exchanged some money from the Reserve Bank of India. His shirt pocket contained sixteen US dollars in total. It was October. The Professor had indicated that he would personally arrive to pick up this new graduate student. Prem dreamt of obtaining a scholarship somehow so he could save some money for his family needs. It was when he alighted the plane that his thin body started shivering uncontrollably from the winter cold in Canada. He had not planned for that. Luckily, the kind and wise professor had carried an extra jacket just in case. Professor Sen took him to his house, where his wife Maya fed him a home cooked meal. The three little kids of Professor Sen looked around curiously at this newcomer and played around with their father. He was allowed to stay there for a whole week before Prem found student housing. Prem loved this man and his home right away. Very warm kind people he thought.
1949 Village in West Bengal
Paresh Chandra Sen- the ten-year-old student had no place to go. He sat outside by the school verandah and cried. His aunt and uncle had told him that the money that his father had left for his care was long gone and they did not want him to come back to their house. He wished that his mother and father were alive like the parents of most of his classmates. The tiny village where he was born was a distant memory in his mind. He vaguely remembered the tears from his father’s eyes when they buried his mother. He had not started school then. His father struggled to manage his job and the two kids that he had. And then the Indian independence movement had started and partition across religious lines was happening. The village where he grew up was now becoming East Pakistan. His father took him and his sister to the India side of Bengal to his aunt and uncle’s house. They left everything they had there and fled the village they knew before some religious fanatic would kill them. They were lucky to be alive and have a place to live in India. His father found a job and soon Paresh Chandra Sen would be in school.
Sen loved his school. His teachers and his books gave him a new world, a new lease on life where he could forget his personal and family’s pain. He excelled at his studies and was at the top of his class. He cherished every moment of it. His teachers liked his engagement and his skills. His aunt was never kind to him as she felt he and his sister were draining their meager resources. His father died from typhoid fever unexpectedly the year after they migrated to India. He was at the mercy of his aunt. And this day, she had told him not to come home.
As he sat there on the school’s verandah crying, not knowing where to go or what to do next, a kind teacher of his came near and enquired. Soon he was living as an orphan in the Ramakrishna Mission Ashram in Calcutta where they had a school. There, Sen thrived. His intelligence and his eagerness to escape his current state earned him the best student prize in high school and a place at a prestigious College in Bengal. Life began unfolding for him in ways he could not imagine. As a young adult, he decided to migrate to Canada for higher education at the University of Toronto. Having completed his Ph.D in Electrical Engineering, he started his career as faculty at Queen’s University in Kingston Ontario.
2003: Kingston Canada
Maya Sen served fresh rotis for the guests along with a steaming aromatic chicken curry. Her two teenage sons and her ten-year-old daughter were eagerly waiting for the guests to arrive. They had heard about this man from their dad- whom they adored. Prem Chandran was one of his favorite students. Sen had come to know about Prem’s difficult family situation and kindly offered him a scholarship. Perhaps he sensed a kindred spirit in Prem. Prem saved every penny he could, even keeping track of a soda he drank. He had graduated, moved on to the US and gotten his family situation in order. He had married and had two young boys of his own when he decided to take the family to visit his kind professor.
Prem and his wife spoke often about the kindness and generosity of his professor. He was in touch with the Professor. The family fondly remembered that it was Dr Sen’s kindness that allowed them to thrive in the US as a family. They were aware of several other students whom Dr Sen had similarly brought in for graduate studies and supported. Dr Sen’s knowledge was spreading not only through the textbooks he had written but also through his many students who were now leading successful lives, businesses, and jobs in many parts of North America. The light he had shared was now illuminating the world!
The visit was lovely. There were lots of conversations about old times, sharing of family stories. It was evident that Dr Sen’s kids still loved him very much and Maya continued to be the supporting pillar of that family. Dr Sen was now the senior most professor, well respected in the academic circles at Queens University and beyond. A lovely reunion!
2025: West Bengal India
It was early morning in December of 2023. Prem had just woken up and was having his morning tea at his home in Florida USA when he received a message: Dr Sen was no more. The candle that lit many was now extinguished! He had died in peace surrounded by his wife of over forty years and his loving children who all now had their own children. Dr Sen had enjoyed the love and joy of six grandchildren as well. A life that evolved from pain and suffering to one of understanding and kindness as well as love and joy with a large family! What a legacy.
The Ramakrishna Mission Ashram had one hundred orphan boys and girls lined up in their freshly washed clean uniforms. There was a parade. There were speeches. The students of Dr Sen were establishing a Dr PC Sen Memorial Fund for the education of these children. It was an occasion to celebrate. Dr Sen had without fail sent donations to the school for the past 35 years for other children like him to grow and learn. Now his students were doing it as well. The candle that lit many others may be extinguished but his spirit and his message will continue to light many other lives for many decades to come. While talking about his professor, Prem’s voice choked, and tears welled up in his eyes.
Dr Sen was the manifestation of Mahatma Gandhi’s dictum “be the change you want to see in this world”. Without a bit of complaint, or anger or any negative thoughts, Dr Sen had quietly, kindly, and willfully changed the lives of many others by giving them the light of knowledge with the wisdom and serenity that crystallized within him in the crucible of a life of excruciating challenges. Our Pranams to that light which continues to illuminate and guide!
Dr. Latha Chandran is currently the Executive Dean and the Bernard J Fogel Founding Chair of the Department of Medical Education at the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine where she is implementing a brand new nextGenMD curriculum. She also supervises all graduate and continuing medical education programs as well as all the biomedical masters and PhD programs at the University. Dr Chandran serves as the Director of the Academy of Medical Education Scholars at the Miller School of Medicine focusing on educational scholarship.
Dr. Chandran received her medical degree from Trivandrum Medical College in India, her MPH from Johns Hopkins University and her MBA from University of Miami. She served in various capacities at Renaissance School of Medicine for several years including chief residency, Division Chief, Interim Department Chair and various roles in the Office of the Dean, most recently as the Vice Dean for Academic and Faculty Affairs and the Miriam and David Donoho Distinguished Teaching Professor. A tenured educator scholar who has received numerous teaching awards at Stony Brook, she has served as the founding co- director of a highly successful award winning three-year national faculty development program focused on Educational Scholarship called the Educational Scholars Program for junior pediatric educators.
Nationally she has served as the President of the Academic Pediatric Association, as the Treasurer and Vice Chair of the National Board of Medical Examiners and as a Curriculum and LCME consultant to other medical schools. She is happily married to an engineer/businessman and has two grown sons and a daughter in law.
The cops were questioning me. They were not kind and went to the extent of being rude and humiliating and I wondered how unjust and cruel they were. My only aim was studying and never did I get involved in any other activities in college especially union activities which often led to violence. So, the routine was after college a little time in the hostel reading room updating daily news and was off to the college library and spent a lot of time there. Teased by many calling names like “Book worm” and some often very mean calling names not to be mentioned.
I always believed that birth was an accident and me being born into the family was a divine plan in which I had no hand. Parents say that I came late and with difficulty and so was named “Aayan” meaning a gift from God. The strange part of this name is that the family line and belief reflects in it and, in a society, where religion and caste play a part this baring of identity many a time not helps but damages social integration where people are yet to come out of the thoughts and beliefs narrow. History also contributes to the damage and we live under the belief that education will clean all these evils and wait with hope for it to happen.
“Secular” comes up everywhere but how far it is put into practice is to be seen. The division of low and high in color and caste is visible and even today one’s skin color plays a role in society.
When I started going to school wore the traditional community cap and others looked at me with curiosity and always wondered why others were not wearing it. I asked my Vappa (Father) about it but his reply was a smile. Maybe he believed that at that age I wouldn’t understand the intricacies of religion, caste and its deviations. With age I could understand the confusions and complications of living in a society with people of different faiths and beliefs. The city I grew up in was known for its religious harmony and the difficulties were never felt then.
Vaappa was one with high thoughts and deeds. He believed that opportunities should go to the needy and always insisted that I should pursue my career without availing myself of the reservation facilities. Even though I never knew much about it I studied hard and all my achievements were based only on merit.
I had been reading about the terrorist activities all around the globe and the community was earning a bad name because of some misguided minds. They interpreted the holy book according to their convenience to suit their evil activities. Because of their wrong doings the majority of peace-loving ones had to bear the brunt. The community was viewed with suspicion and often questioned for wrongdoings done by others.
I was into my final year at college when this incident happened. A bomb blast just outside the college and the police suspected it to be by some fringe elements in the college. A particular religion was targeted and all students belonging to the community questioned. I happened to be one and my fear and nervousness added to the suspicion. I fumbled for replies when questioned and often it came out contradictory and suspicion on me increased. While the questioning was going on in the campus this girl pushes her way in and goes straight to the officer
“Sir, this man is innocent”
Taken aback at this entry and he asks
“Who are you”
“I am Indu of final year Economics”
“OK, what is your interest in him? “
“I don’t have any interest but I see him in the library often and it is only studies and studies for him”
“He might be reading some terrorist activity related books”
“If you think a college library keeps such books, I can only pity your understanding”
“How dare” the officer was shouting
“Sir, when injustice is seen right in front of me, I will have to be daring and react accordingly”
That mellowed down the scene which could have aggravated and further questioning was not on a harsh tone. The people involved were arrested later and fortunately the community factor was not involved as it was related to a long-standing gang war.
After all the dust had settled, I was wondering about the girl who had come as a savior. I didn’t remember seeing her but had to thank her for the timely intervention.
Met her in the library and face to face words wouldn’t come. Seeing my discomfort, she started giggling and there started a friendship which grew with time and made us life partners many years later.
Two individuals from different communities’ different backgrounds and different beliefs and we live happily.
For me “My name my pride” got rooted more firmly.
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..
Even though it was a holiday, Rinu kept working on his lap top diligently. He was working on his college assignments and he wanted to finish it as early as possible so that he could spend the rest of the time on revising for the upcoming internal exams.
He was a proficient student and he worked hard to maintain his position at the top of his class. He knew how blessed he was in getting an admission in one of the best colleges in the city. Educating him was a big priority to his parents who spent all their savings for his studies and nothing much for themselves. Rinu understood the responsibility he had in his hand and he reciprocated well by spending more time on his work and very little on what his friends would describe as teenage life thrills.
Rinus’s mother Bhama called out to him from the front porch. They were going out for a marriage function. Rinu had forgotten about that. He came out of his room to find his parents standing well dressed. It was seldom he saw his mother in a good embroidered saree. Bhama seldom went out. She was inside the house all the time and she was happy to be the resident guardian of the house. The most she moved out was to the street when the vegetable vendor came or for the half an hour evening chat session with the neighbours. Rinu was happy to see that his mother was going out for a day out into the world beyond their neighbourhood.
As usual, Rinu’s mother was concerned about leaving the home and her son alone. She believed that nothing would go right in the house if she was not there even for ten minutes. Bhama reminded Rinu a hundred times about what all to do and the order in which the things have to be done. Rinu was supposed to collect the bottle of milk from the boy who brought it and later he was supposed to heat the lunch and have it. Rinu’s father was least bothered about such things. He knew that they would be away only for a two hour period and Bhama was making it look like as if they were moving away for two weeks. It took again a full ten minutes for Bhama, now sitting on the back seat of the two wheeler vehicle, to remind again each of the things which Rinu was supposed to do. It would not have ended if her husband had not started the bike and just moved on carrying Bhama.
Rinu brought down his waving hand as the smoke and dust created by the scooter settled. He then closed the gate and went into the house. It was the first time that Rinu was going to spend some time alone in the house. He had a creepy feeling of being lonely in the house but there was also a majestic feeling that the house was in his possession. A sort of freedom bubbled up. He was independent and that was an inexpressible feeling. His friend Joshi had told him how he had smoked for the first time in his house when his parents were away for a day. Another friend of his tried drinking beer when he too had the house for himself. That friend of his still has one more bottle of beer hidden in the house. He is waiting impatiently for the next opportunity when his parents would go out, leaving him alone in the house. Rinu couldn’t understand the independence they had described then but now he was getting a hunch of it. He got into his room and he coughed. He could hear the cough sound just hanging in there. It was his space and he alone was the master.
Rinu was particularly duty bound and he went back straight to his study table and continued working on his assignment. The internet was of big help. The resources it provided were rightly tapped by Rinu. His ambition was to get into the field of artificial intelligence. Rinu was getting a bit relaxed now as his work was almost coming to an end. It was then that an advertisement popped up on the screen. It was a picture of one female in beach wear attire walking on the sea shore. Rinu found the picture very attractive and he became inquisitive. He clicked on the link below the picture to see what it was about.
Rinu entered the site and he found more pictures of females in different kinds of beachwear, in different poses, on the yellow golden sand. The images were picturesque and the females were gorgeous. Rinu immediately realised that he had meandered into some site where he was not supposed to go. He tried to retrieve himself back but something in him made him linger there for some more time. It was a struggle of the mind between the good and the evil as faced by every boy in his teens using the internet. Finally after a battle, his better righteous sense prevailed and he decided to close the site. But just as he was about to, he had a tug from the darker side of his conscious. He will save one picture from the lot, just that picture of a female whose beach wear really captivated his imaginations. Rinu argued with whomsoever who nagged him in his consciousness and he convinced himself that it was a fair deal. The deal was that he was not going to enter into that tempestuous site again and he will not be looking at multiple females but just this one if he could save it.
Thus Rinu started copying the picture of the prettiest girl with a flimsy dress on whom his eyes got hooked. His fingers trembled in anxiety as his physical impulse tackled the pulsating morals. He clicked on the picture and then again with the pulp of his right index finger tip he clicked on the mouse to copy it. The picture of the siren in bikini got copied. The plan was to copy and paste it in a secret folder in his computer but at that very moment he heard the sound of the front gate being opened. The boy with the pail of milk had come and Rinu sat aghast for a moment. He immediately closed down the site which was on the screen and went quickly to the door. He had a sort of odd feeling in him that he had left something unfinished even as he opened the door to see the boy with the bottle of milk.
“Your mother is not here?” the milk boy asked as it was Bhama who always collected the milk from him. Rinu just nodded a no with his head.
The milk boy said teasingly as he passed the bottle into the hands of Titus.” So you are alone now!”
Rinu didn’t wait to answer the boy. He quickly walked back into the house with the bottle. He entered the kitchen and took an aluminium vessel and poured the milk into it. Rinu then opened the tap and washed the empty milk bottle. Once he washed it, he dried the outside of the bottle with a towel. Now the job being done, he turned to return the bottle to the owner. It was then that Rinu saw a faint picture appearing on the milk bottle which slowly became more vivid with each passing moment. It was the picture of the girl in bikini on the sea shore which Rinu had tried to save by copying. He was aghast. He rubbed on the glass twice and then thrice. The picture was not erasable. He frantically cleaned it under water with soap. The picture still retained itself. Rinu applied more detergent and took the scrub to clean the bottle. The tap was turned open to its maximum. The picture on the bottle still was undeleted. Finally, to save the situation, Rinu went to the boy without the bottle and told him that he would return the bottle the next day. The milk boy found it funny. He teasingly said as he went out, “It seems you cannot even wash a bottle without the help of your mother.”
As soon as the boy went out of the gate, Rinu locked the front door. He was perspiring but his nerves were getting bit relaxed when he thought of an idea which would save him. He would simply break the bottle and dispose the pieces. The milk boy just needs to be given another bottle. His throat was parched and he could hardly breathe thinking about the odd incident that had just happened. He went to the dining table and took the glass water jug which so quite resembled a crystal ware. It was Bhama’s proud possession on the dining table. He poured some water into a glass and he quickly drank three glasses of water. He kept the jug on the table after finishing the third glass. Then to his shock, he saw the same picture again emerging on the very glass he was holding in his right hand. It was more like he was being electrocuted when he saw that the same picture was now on the Bhama’s glass jug too.
With panic breaths Rinu took all the glass ware which had the new picture imprinted on it to the sink. In no way he could tell his parents that he broke a bottle, jug and a glass. He would look too clumsy. He cleaned it again thoroughly with lots of soap and scrubbing though he knew it was of no avail. So he finally hit upon the idea of soaking the items in detergent. He did it and waited impatiently for ten minutes. He had a moment of joy when he looked into the sink to see that the wares were now clean of the picture. He immediately picked up the glass wares and as soon as he touched it the picture reappeared on the all the three glass items. He wondered as to what is causing it. It all happens when touches a thing. So he took a new glass from the shelf with his left hand. Nothing happened. Then he passed the glass from the left hand to his right. The picture appeared. Now Rinu was doing a deduction experiment so as to find out the root cause of this phenomenon. Rinu took another glass from the shelf with his left hand and placed it on the table. Then he started touching the glass with each of his right hand fingers starting with his little finger. Nothing happened on the glass till the index finger was placed on the glass.
Rinu was wise enough to realise the reason. It was kind of supernatural. The image that he copied and was about to paste was still retained on his finger tip. He had not pasted the image on the screen where he wanted to as it was at the very moment the milk boy came in. He wanted to test the phenomenon more. He touched his index finger on the ceramic plate nearby. Nothing happened. He then touched on a wood piece. Nothing happened. Next he walked to the window and touched the glass pane. He touched it and immediately the figure started to spread out.
Rinu had a real problem on his finger. He knew the problem lied in his right index finger. Maybe if he could deal with his finger then the problem could be solved. He rushed back to the kitchen sink again. This time he was desperately trying all his wit and strength in washing his own finger under the jet of water, with lots of soap and painful scrubbing. After a period of rinsing and towelling he experimented with his finger again on another glass. The picture reappeared.
Rinu was getting more anxious. He took the spirit bottle and almost used half of the bottle to cleanse his finger. Nothing happened. Then he started rubbing his index finger against the rough part of the cement wall. Nothing changed. He cried as he tried to peel off a thin layer of his keratinised layer of the finger with a razor blade. It bruised him but the picture resurfaced whenever he touched. He used his imagination and bandaged his sinful finger. To no avail, the picture evolved again.
Rinu was in despair. His parents would be back soon. It was better for him to die than live a shame full life before his parents. He would soon be discovered for sticking a partially nude woman’s picture all over. It was unimaginable for him to live with a finger which would embarrass him whenever he touched a glassy surface. He prayerfully concluded that sacrificing a part of his body would be better than sending his whole body to hell. His plan was to cut of his index finger with the fish cutting knife and then break all the glass ware. Thus all the glass ware which were pasted with his momentary sinful thought will be gone and so does the part of his body which would trouble him endlessly. Sacrificing the sinful part of his body would redeem him and whatever he touched would never carry that picture again. He would say to his mother that he injured his finger in the process of an accident with the glassware.
Rinu took a big knife tearfully. He placed his finger on the wooden block on which his mother used to chop the meat. He prayed forgiveness to God for the wrong he had committed. He pleaded that God would show him some mercy and save him from this unimaginable predicament. It was then that his eyes fell on the picture of the God on the front hall wall. The smiling God stood with a hand held up to bless and a glorious halo covered him. Rinu felt that the God was routing him out of the situation he was in. He believed maybe there was a simple solution to his grave problem.
Rinu rushed to his room and switched on the computer. He opened the internet and searched for an image of the God. He got many. He selected one good image out of it and he copied it and then didn’t paste it in any folder or page. Instead he went to the sink and began to touch all the glass wares he had touched before which was carrying the picture of the model woman. He touched over the picture on each glass ware and a miracle happened. The Gods image appeared and the woman’s picture disappeared. The mighty Gods image was now getting pasted instead of the girl’s and the swim suit image was no more to be seen. The problem was solved. He then went to the computer to paste the picture. Rinu placed it as his desk top image.
Rinus’s parents came soon afterwards. His mother had a lot interesting things to tell her son about the marriage function. As they entered the house, there was a quiet exclamation from Bhama. “There is a divine presence all around here”. Rino had a small story prepared to tell about his injured finger.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk
(Written on a desert Road – image from net)
The message, "Attitude is everything", as written on desert road indicates a beacon, urging solitary travellers to embrace positivity amid vast emptiness and illusions of hope hanging like mirage. Jeff Keller, the author of the book ‘Attitude is everything’ rightly says, “A happy person is not a person in a certain set of circumstances, but rather a person with a certain set of attitudes.”
Happiness and satisfaction are not like fruits to be plucked from a tree and enjoy eating but these are all human instincts generated from within and that may be the byproduct of attitude that plays the pivotal role to adjust with anything coming on one’s way in daily life.
It is said, “The attitude is a mental position with regard to a fact or state. Attitude reflects a tendency to classify objects and events and to react to them with some consistency. ‘Attitude is everything’ is a common saying that highlights the importance of having a positive and resilient mindset. It can greatly influence how one perceives and responds to challenges, setbacks, and opportunities.”
Leslie Fieger says, “What determines your attitude? Your choice. Yes, you may have inherited a predisposition to a certain general attitude towards life from your parents or your cultural heritage; but, in each moment you have the capacity to choose your attitude. You can, by conscious volition, train yourself to have the attitude that will bring you the happiness and the success you desire to have in life.”
Mr. Fieger has however given a few examples to justify his statement on attitude building, saying:
“In his long quest to find the exact filament that would allow the creation of an electric light bulb, Thomas Edison was asked by a reporter how it felt to have failed almost a thousand times. He replied that he had not failed, he had successfully eliminated a thousand ways that did not work and was thus closer to discovering the one that would work. His attitude determined his continuous perceived success and his ultimate real success. Without that attitude, he may likely have given up. Others before him had already given up on that same quest. With that attitude, he was able to persist until he succeeded. His choice of attitude created his success.”
Further, he has advanced to cite another example:
“Attitude! Just ask my meter readers. I did. "How do you like your job?" I asked. My water meter reader told me, "I love it." Why? "I get to be outside all day instead of trapped in some office. No one is looking over my shoulder and the job itself is so simple, I don't have to even think about it. Walking miles each day keeps me fit. I love dogs and get to make friends with many in my rounds." My electricity meter reader told me, "I hate it." Why? " It's either too damn hot or its raining. If I was in an office, I'd at least have air conditioning. And it’s boring. No one to talk to. Every damn day is the same. They won't even give me a scooter to ride and I'm sick of walking miles and miles every day. Plus, many people have dogs and I am always afraid of getting bit." Same deal for both. One is happy. One is miserable.”
Mr. Feiger’s explanation speaks of attitude of a person while doing some work of his/her area of operation only. But it is not enough to qualify attitude which has a wide spectrum. It works in all activities of a person performed either verbally, physically, mentally or even, all of these three taken together.
Philosophers, Thinkers, Psychologists while giving their own explanations on ‘Attitude’ have gone a bit further to lay down guidelines on how to change the attitude. Well, all these advices might have helped some people who have tried to apply them in their lives to control attitude; but all these people must not have taken these tips as guiding principles for their whole life while talking or doing some work.
Attitude guides one to frame one’s mindset while talking or doing something. According to psychologisy, attitude manifests in four types: Positive, Negative, Neutral, and Sikken. Positive attitudes foster progress and focus on greater good, while negative attitudes hinder growth and perpetuate dissatisfaction. Neutral attitudes may lead to a passive, unemotional approach, while Sikken attitude is most destructive, reflect deep-rooted negativity that requires conscious effort to change.
Again attitude is influenced by one’s state of mind prevailing at a particular point of time to a large extent. State of mind may change either by external or internal factors. One may not have that much of control over passions to remain unshaken on every change in state of mind. But if one tries, one can control attitude to go positive while presenting oneself before the outside world by action or speech. Almighty is so kind to endow everyone with adequate weapons for self defense. The strongest one among them is the tongue. Needless to cite numberless examples from History, Mythology and old Scriptures to show how wagging of tongue had the miracle of saving lives from violent attack of enemies and turning foes into friends. On the other hand, how it has waged wars among nations and ignited confrontations, arguments, conflicts, disputes, misunderstandings and clashes between man and man for nothing.
It is known that in this mortal world human beings are bound to reap the harvest of their own actions(Karma) even if the same is unfavourable or undesirable. Had it not been so, the King Parikshita with all his power and pelf could have escaped the critical spell of curse of a sage on whose neck he put a dead snake out of fun while the sage was in deep meditation, of his premature death from snake bite. Every bad and harmful action done and every bad, filthy, uncivil or instigating word uttered would rebound with a greater dimension at an appropriate time even if one applies all means to guard against it or to avoid it. Similarly every good and benevolent action done and every good, pleasing, sweet and inciting word uttered is rewarded with pleasing and sweet results. So while doing any action or talking something if one cares to hold attitude positive, there may be least chance of talking trash or doing bad and harmful deeds.
Now the question comes as to how to make the attitude positive and hold it before doing oral or physical transactions? If no one can escape experiencing or enjoying the effects of one’s own actions, how can attitude make a difference? Then what is attitude after all? It is the state of mind perpetuated by several physical and mental exercises, catalyzed by emotion rising from facing a problem in a given situation and circumstance. In other words, it may be called an instinct that prompts one to decide on the actions either verbal or mental or physical to be undertaken. Now an obvious question arises whether attitude is independent of past impressions or unpaid effects of past actions? This is not clear and appears enigmatic. If one is bound to suffer on account of clearing arrears of past actions, even one’s conscious approach for maintaining a positive attitude may fail and one may be force-landed on a vista of negative or sikken attitude to conduct without applying conscience to distinguish between good and bad, helpful and harmful. Alternatively if one is to reap the good harvests for some good or benevolent deeds done, automatically one shall be prompted to conduct with a positive attitude.
If this be the dictum, thousands of sermons, multitudes of practices for keeping the attitude always positive while discharging daily duties will be relegated to back ground and the actual attitude either positive, negative, neutral or sikken as needed at the moment of doing an oral or physical transaction will prevail of its own accord.
My personal experience is resplendent and lucid in this respect. In many critical moments of my life when I was infested with problems, I have watched my attitude going positive instead of being negative or sikken which should have been a common thing with many others being ordained with position and power as I was holding in office. To elaborate, in certain cases and situations I was terribly tensed by infuriating outbursts of some militant employees pressing hard for fulfilling their demands which were absolutely unreasonable and irrational. The situations were so irritating and biting that anybody in my position would have gone to take coercive steps by virtue of the authority vested with him. But in my case it took a different turn and I felt a change in my attitude in those crucial moments and I was surprised to note that simply by virtue of my amiable utterances which did not promise any relief to them, all the rowdy people turned docile and behaved as if nothing had happened and the problem for which they raised an uproar, subsided like the rain in summer. How did it happen? Perhaps I was bound to reap the effects of some of my good deeds done in the past and therefore I was prompted by my instinct to conduct with a positive attitude at that moment even at the cost of my ego and positional advantage. Now I can realize, had I remained stuck to my guns having been blinded with my ego and vanity to fight against these recalcitrant elements, I would have transacted with a negative or sikken attitude and have lost the biggest opportunity of converting foes into friends.
I have also experienced the situation where I have invited immense troubles for my negative attitude while talking to others or doing some work of very casual or sedentary nature where there was no room for becoming aggressive or stubborn. Later I failed to understand as to why I could not exercise control of my attitude going negative while doing such oral or physical transactions? Perhaps it may also be due to the order of destiny that I was bound to experience the results of my own bad and harmful actions done or some unpalatable speeches made or indecent dealings done to others in the past, results of which were not experienced by me then. All this goes to say, ‘positive attitude begets positive results whereas negative one does not’.
But in real world sometimes things behave differently. There are some aberrations to this concept. Sometimes converse proposition comes into foray. Human beings are complex elements. It is not that the opposite party with whom one deals would be in the same wave length and reciprocate with same type of attitude always. Where both parties conduct with opposite attitudes, clash is obvious and truce is farfetched. This is very common phenomenon which might have been experienced by many in real life. But there is nothing to be disappointed in holding positive attitudes always even after being met with failures time and again because it pays in the long run.
(In summer when other flowering pots on my roof top went dry, Thunbergia giggled bright like the attitude which does not go negative always.)
In this respect age old scriptures, revered saints and great incarnations have advised to keep away from the people whoever he or she may be when it it is found that in spite of one’s dealing being positive the opposite party continues to behave negative or sikken, as far as practicable to avoid confrontation and loss of peace. Because the people who are aggressive and mentally overpowered by ego and self aggrandizement hardly change their attitude until or unless they are paid by their own coins, it is better to give up their associations and keep aloof from them. Where the other party happens to be near relatives or dear ones it is advisable to avoid confrontations as far as possible and work for finding out the root of cause of discomfort which turns them always negative and try to alleviate the same.
I think the views of Chuck Swindoll are very transparent in this regard. He has summarized the experiences of his life as follows:
"The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than success, than what other people say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make a company, a church, a home. The remarkable thing is that we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we embrace for that day. We cannot change our past; we cannot change the fact that people behave in a certain way; we cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is to play on that one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% of what happens to me and 90% how I react to it. And so it is with you. We are in charge of our attitudes." - Chuck Swindoll
(Bankim at one of the Islands in Andaman and Nicobar. The author of this article, ‘Attitude is Everything’ has a passion for travelling post retirement in addition to gardening and writing blogs for keeping his super senior citizenship vibrant.)
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.
"Heton Bouncy!!...Hakku where are you?"
Don't tell me you are off to sleep again .
Goddess gracious it should be me trying to catch some sleep the way you wake me up early morning as early as 2am,it's that one moment I really enjoy,as rest of the day both you and Rahul bhaiya keep me on my toes.
I understand it's winter time, the season you really look forward to, in your dreams you imagine yourself all covered up with snow,but that's not happening here right now.Look at your friends the crowie (crow) giving you that nasty look and literally laughing at you, while you sleep they are going to polish off your choco cookies (pedigree),you make it so easy for them,of course I know you like them quite a bit as they fit into our morning activities, because of them you manage to connect with mommy as I shoo them off,it's our story of love and friendship.
Hushkoo you can't keep begging for farsaan everytime we sit down to sip our hot tea,that's the only me time we get,rest of the time we are busy with our work and you know that extremely well. Now after you we notice the sparrows and squirrels have also started demanding farsaan, when did they come to know that such kind of masala food existed.Oh!! dear!! ,hope the God's have mercy on me.
Hushkoo this time I notice that you are spending less time in the balcony at night, what's happened? The rat's have gone,so no one to bother you now.
Hushkoo::::"Mommy!! I love the balcony and the open space but it's wedding season everywhere, I don't understand why they have to burst crackers one in the morning "!!
I just can't bear the noise, that's when all is calm and quiet I wake you up to help me move to the balcony, my most favourite place as I'm close to nature.
I understand "Hatuni Patuni ",my sleep too is disturbed and after that no sleep for Mommy,she starts thinking....what should be the menu for tomorrow, plan work for the helpers, which song to practice, why no tomato Harvest this year,not a single flower bloomed etc etc, finally I manage some sleep wee hours in the morning.
"Ghanto"!! must you sing along with Rahul bhaiya when his anxiety levels are high?you should learn to keep calm and support Mommy,not make things difficult for her.
Woof Woof!!....I'm always with you mommy, in your most difficult times (tail wagging).
With his tail wagging as though he is fanning me,i can feel the cool breeze, his bushy tail always reminds me of the hand fan made of soft fabric which is used for Lord Jagannath at the temple.
Woof Woof!!,now what!!......"Happy Birthday mommy!!(loads of petting and hugs)you know the sparrows too came down to wish me on my birthday, yeah mommy it felt as though granpa and granny sent their blessings to you.
OK!!....first you good doggie, then mommy give you only tiny bits of chakli or bhakarwadi....I know I'm the culprit.
Good night everyone ????!!
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)
MONSOON DIARY: A sweet gesture
“Another rainy day.”- I mumbled.
The dark clouds had started hovering, winking cruelly at me.
Omg! a puzzled morning...'To be or not to be' , i.e whether to leave for office or stay at home!
But, I cannot take a chance at this juncture by ' not to be'. I was promoted just a few days ago.
My boss will not allow me to be on leave, even my conscience will not permit it.
I quickly gathered my shards after finishing off daily chores like- packing our tiffin boxes ( for my son - Yug and me) leaving lunch pack for Rohan( my hubby) on the dining table.
It had started drizzling. I ride a scooty to the office everyday. But today ,I decided to hire a taxi as wading through knee deep water in a two wheeler is quite cumbersome.
After reaching the office, warming myself up with a cup of ginger tea, I sit down to have some serious business. Everyone is happy as there is less customer footfall.
So, less work and more gossip. But no loose talk. The spirit of fortitude to embrace our authentic selves and remaining resolute against the narratives that others may inscribe upon our lives and the vice-versa has been the tagline of the branch.
Many rounds of tea and some deep fried snacks do follow making the ladies feel like winged creatures. Men too enjoy as laughter reverberates in the banking hall.Very rarely we get such an opportunity to revel in mirth. Today is the day.
The prophecy of the met office did hold true as time glided and evening approached.Today, I donned the role of Santa and let others leave early. At times I have to be kind to keep my team closely knit. When
the thunderstorm and rain lashed , unleashed fury most colleagues must have reached their safe haven.
I was alone in the office with the peon- the only companion.
“Still ten minutes to go”-I murmur
He implores in retaliation-
“Madamji, Please leave. You have to travel far. You may not even get a taxi or rickshaw.”
He shuts the door and the grill, hands over the keys to me. The duplicate keys are with Aradhana, the second in command.
Wading through puddles, negotiating through deep potholes right in front of the office, I reach the brinks of the road.
Lo!
Water water everywhere …Not a soul in sight.
Panic strikes hard. “What do I do now?”
The water level slowly increases and the rain unleashes its anger and angst . It rains incessantly, putting a damper on my spirits.
But , I do not lose hope.
I stretch my nimble hands and keep waving at every passing vehicle. My earnest desire to get bailed out of this catch 22 situation is not answered.
Finally, a taxi screeched to halt …signalling me to get in quickly. l obeyed.
Both of us remained silent for a while. I decide to strikes up a conversation….as I am in the habit of doing so...a hardcore banker you may say.
“Thank you bhaiya for letting me in. I had booked vehicles several times and all bookings were cancelled. I was at my wit’s end . To reach home and see my son- has been playing in a loop in my mind. I should have acted as per the met office’s procrastinations . Left a little bit early.”
“Madam, I am on my way to pick up someone from the airport. He is an old customer of mine. I could not refuse when he needed my help. I guess your house is located on my way. But, I will drop you right at your place, be assured.”
He acted as per his words but refused to accept the extra money I offered.
He signed off by saying..” My wife is working too. My earnings are not sufficient to run a family of four. She travels for atleast four hours (to and fro)everyday. Somehow, she gets help from unexpected quarters when she faces difficulty. God is merciful to us. We need to reciprocate this gesture and oblige the Almighty by such small deeds. So ,no extra money. Bless my family instead."
He sped off leaving me teary eyed before I could thank him profusely.
A cold chill settled over me as I tried to imbibe another life mantra from his gesture.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker. She has three published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm-all by Authors press, New Delhi) to her credit. She is a singer, avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
Bula was climbing upward, judging his steps very cautiously. One step at a time - one look to the left and then to the right, one to the front and to the back next. Threat to life is following Bula, not far behind, steep upward journey ahead and nobody knows what fate awaits above. Bula has been running for life on canal bank and completely exhausted, has no strength left in his tiring limbs. Now from the bank of the river he has to swiftly move to safety climbing up to the highway. It’s too difficult, every step is fraught with danger as any time he may slip back. But there is no other way to save himself. Once he reaches the highway above, he will find ways out. It’s too difficult although to carry his heavy physique forward, literally pushing himself up a hill. A violent group of men with spears, swords, lathis and nets in hand have been running after his life. From their violent cry he could clearly hear they have plans to capture him alive and transport him to Kolkata, if not to kill him and cut into pieces and pack the consignment off to Kolkata, after skinning him.
Bula had a different name. When he was born, wife of Madhu Sahu, the local sweetstall owner and his master fondly kept his name Bhola. He was the darling Kanka for the daughter of Madhu Sahu and wife Sumati. With a smooth shining reddish coat and a white round patch on his forehead had a distinct stunning charm. But her mother was very possessive and never allowed anyone, other than Madhu’s family members to even dare to come near him. Madhu tied two Bhalia seeds(one type of wild medicinal fruit seed to ward off ill spirits) and a small bell to Bhola’s neck. Every morning when Madhu sets his foot out for his sweet stall, Bhola would come close and move around him and Madhu would fondle Bula for a while running his hand around his soft coat, before riding his bike to the market place.. Bhola used to wait eagerly the whole day, for arrival of Madhu back from work every evening, when his master will pass a ladoo or a ripe banana to Bhola. In reciprocation Bhola never failed to express his gratitude towards his master by fondly licking his master’s hand and face. The whole day Bhola used to jump around Madhu’s farmyard and play with his daughter, the tiny bell around Bhola’s neck producing tingling sound wherever he goes. Whenever Bhola felt hungry he would run to his mother and drink milk from her. Sumati used to take good care of Bhola and never let him remain hungry.
That is past. Gone are those days...
Gradually Bhola grew up day by day and found Madhu’s farm yard too small for him. Bhola, the young bull with a strong physique, broad back with a small cute hump, strong long legs, and two horns was very difficult to control. He jumped over farm hedges, boundary walls/fences of kitchen gardens, broke upon gate of orchards. There was no one to match him with strength and fight with Bhola in the herd. Whoever came on his way got injured. Bhola became a terror on roads, surprising everyone with his lightening presence and injuring children, women, cyclists and pedestrians. In the morning in front of temple gate, Bhola would snatch offerings from devotees’ hands, if they voluntarily do not offer. Every now and then people would complain to Madhu, but each time he would take Bhola’s side. He would say is my business not running well that I will be unable to feed Bhola, so that he would snatch food away from somebody else to fill his belly. May be people are jealous of my Bhola, who got first prize in Regional Animal Wealth Exhibition from the minister. Madhu used to complain people are telling lies against Bhola, without taking care to properly secure their orchards and farms with strong fences.
Many suggested Madhu to get the young bull castrated so that he will calm down and after castration the ox can be utilized for use in farmland. Madhu laughed away these suggestions saying who is now-a-days putting a ox to agricultural use? Besides by profession I am not a farmer and I earn my living from business. Why should I unnecessarily put the animal into duress?
Some others showed interest to purchase the young bull. But there was severe objection from Madhu’s family members. There were apprehensions that Bhola will fall into wrong hands and they may trade Bhola to butchers. One day the local veterinary doctor Debashis babu came to his shop. He mentioned the young Bull he possesses belongs to Red Sindhi breed. The fully grown up bull is now beyond his master’s control. Human labour is also not easily available now-a-days. Why unnecessarily spend a fortune on a bull, if it is of no use to him. Slowly, Bhola was becoming violent without getting to mate. It seems recently Sumati was injured by the bull. The doctor informed government is implementing Quality Breed Development Project for dairy animals and soon setting up Centres for Bulls in Vet hospitals. Bhola will be well taken care of in the Centre with government support, what more do you want? If you sell to traders they will sell it to butchers, if you sell it to the government he will remain in front of you under government care and you can supervise his well-being whenever you feel like. “What objections you have against the project?” asked Debashis babu. Madhu thought for a while and said let me consult my wife before taking a decision.
Next day the doctor visited his house and explained to Sumati “is there any difference in keeping Bhola in your house and in Quality Bull Project Centre in Vet hospital? Whenever you want you can visit the Centre. With many other bulls Bhola will stay in the Centre and Government will provide quality feed, free medicine, vitamins and minerals. There will be labourer to help Vet staff in taking care of animals. When you get old will it be possible to take care of the animal better than the government?” he asked Sumati. Finally, Madhu and Sumati were convinced that Bhola will be better off in Quality Bull Project Centre. In the Project Centre Bhola lost his name as official project record showed him by his new name Bula.
Once Bula looked back and found the group running after his life are persistently following him from behind. They are hell bent to capture him. The steep he is climbing is very difficult for him to move forward, literally pushing oneself up the hill. Hoofs are not able to stay fixed to the ground. As it was difficult to move straight upward, he used to move left, then straighten the body and move to the right. Then reverse the process for the next step. He found to have crossed half way. Slowly the sound of vehicles running on the road is audible. He has to make little more effort and pull up.
When Bula left the house of Madhu and reached the Centre he found Bulls of different breeds, eachone strong and stout and better than the other. All facilities in a spic and span habitat welcomed Bula and he was quite impressed with the new home. No doubt Jersy and Holstein breeds used to get little extra care than others yet Green fresh grass, oil cakes, tasty feed were plentily available. Bulls were washed daily and doctor used to examine them regularly. Free medicines, vitamins and minerals were supplied to them. First few days Bula found the facilities in the Centre very attractive. Madhu and Sumati used to visit Bula every week. But slowly Bula realised the centre has everything to meet his need yet he felt a void. With plenty of food available they did not have to struggle to fill their belly, yet there was no freedom to move, munch or mate. Inside the herd he had monopoly right over the young cows which just vanished in the centre. Similarly the genuine affection and care of Madhu and Sumati were missing here. Belly was getting filled, but the mind remained starved.
After a few weeks under proper care, one day a big function was arranged in the Centre. Some minister visited the Project. A huge crowd gathered. With flower decoration, music by band and good feast the minister formally inaugurated the Centre. He garlanded the bulls, fed them cow feed, molasses and oil cakes, put kunkum tilaks on their foreheads and got photographed with them. Things went on well for a few months. But slowly there was sharp decline in the care and services in the Centre. Madhu and Sumati also stopped visiting Bula. Tasty cow feed, green fresh grass availability came down and doctor’s care became very scarce. Sometimes bulls had to depend on irregular supply of cooked rice-bran and dry straw to munch. There was sharp decline in service and care in the Centre and animals remained half-fed and hungry at times. Within six months the bulls looked lean, sick and decrepit.
Finally, the Quality Breed Development Project was grounded and the Centre remained locked for all time to come. The Government assistance died down slowly and there was fixed percentage share of department people from top to bottom on that amount. The whole day the bulls have to feed for themselves roaming around in nearby market and moving from shop to shop and house to house. At some places they were bitten by lathis and at others places water sprinkle welcomed them.
One day Bula was loaded into a lorry along with other bulls and was taken to a far off place. After travelling a long distance Bula could feel he has been brought to a very crowded place. He could find three to four more lorries loaded with bulls from several places alongside his vehicle. He could feel the cool sea breeze blowing. From a distance he could see the flag of a huge temple flying high. Bula was hopeful plenty of food will be available to feel their belly around the temple. He was starving since night. Other bulls also started to warm-up and were busy pushing one another. It seems a public meeting is organised with a jam-packed crowd of a few million gathering in front of a high raised platform. There were big hoardings and some one speaking over the microphone. All of a sudden lorry doors were open and all the bulls started descending pushing against each other. They got scared seeing a vast sea of people and could not find way out. They raised their head and horns, dug soil with their rear leg hoofs, with tail thrown backward ran helter-skelter. The animals were confused and furious and the crowd, without knowing what to do dispersed running in all directions to save their lives. There was chaos all around. Many got injured in the mayhem that followed. Some tried to drive away the bulls and those injured in the stampede made a loud outcry that further enraged the starving bulls.
After the incident the bulls kept occupying the Badadanda (huge flat area in front of the temple of lord Jagannath). The open surrounding and plenty of food available in the pilgrimage town was to their liking. They moved around in the open air, enjoyed the sea beach, the breeze and moved freely in several bylanes of Puri town.
All of a sudden Bula found someone threw a spear towards him from among someone from the group that was following him. The spear did not fortunately hurt him as it was in a wrong direction. It only made him aware that the hooligans are not far behind and he has to move faster. As the spear was thrown from below upwards and missed the target it fell back on them and they were off balance for some time.
Bula fondly remembered the time he spent merrily on Puri Badadanda. Summer or winter or during rains the wide open Badadanda was always full with pilgrims and with other bull fraternity time passed by so well. There was improvement in their health and plenty of food available. But good time does not remain long. There were complaints before the government that the bulls are causing nuisance and making the Badadanda dirty and injuring the pilgrims fighting all the time among themselves. Bula felt Badadanda offers such a huge platform to fight and remain fighting fit. The muscles will otherwise get loosened if they do not regularly exercise and remain lazy. The crowd always encouraged and witnessed bull fighting and free entertainment is enjoyed thoroughly. If a few bystanders get injured is it such a big deal? Any way Government started some Parikrama project in Puri and that immediately threatened their existence.
The bulls were loaded in big lorries and offloaded in different towns. That is how Bula is in this town. The town is quite big yet very disorganized. Both inside and outside the public dustbins one will find mounds of waste, an ideal place for Bula to search for something to fill the tummy. Besides that there were plenty of raw vegetable and stale food waste near hotels, restaurants, food courts and marriage halls. A round around daily vegetable market provided Bula lots of green waste and stale vegetables. Somehow Bula could manage like this. But all of a sudden this threat to life exposed him to life and death situation.
Sun was approaching to set in the western horizon and it was gradually getting dark. Bula was in hurry and he had no time to look back. He was only a small distance away from the highway. The front light of vehicles were visible, so also the row of traffic lampposts. The blare of traffic noise was audible too. Bula pulled all his strength to push himself up. He could feel burning heat throughout his body. Steps were irregular and body started shivering. Bula felt as if something heavy is dragging him from behind. The raucous war cry of those following him is audible too. Bula took a last big leap as he found the highway line before him and reached there. Bula looked to his right for any approaching vehicle. All of a sudden the head light of an approaching heavy lorry coming from his right hand side blinded his vision when he tried to cross the road. The lorry hit him mildly and Bula was dragged a few feet towards the front. To save him the lorry driver applied sudden brake and the vehicle stopped with a screeching sound. But it lost balance completely and tilted to its left. The driver jumped out but the truck suddenly turned up and fell down to its left.
Bula slowly got up, fortunately the lorry did not hit too hard. He straightened his body after standing on his legs and looked to his left. The truck has wiped away with itself the entire gang of followers who were after his life. The Sun was setting in the western sky and the whole sky was looking red.
Bula crossed the road to the other side and slowly moved ahead.
(The End)
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
My inner eye keeps searching for her and my lachrymal glands swell up and I break down into another bout of uncontrollable tears. Suddenly, she is gone in a whiff. Death is the only truth in this journey of life – death of ageing parents - a truth that is bitter and we accept it only when it befalls us. Till then, death is only for others.
Amma valiantly fought every single challenge that came her way in the last one and half years and bounced back stronger; after almost going to the very edge of life a few times. It almost seemed that she was braving all the painful pricks and the ensuing struggles of varied side effects (including the horrendous constipation problem…I can still hear her wailings from the severe pain owing to quite a few constipation episodes in December….saying “I’m not able to bear the pain”….”Mere se nahin ho rahaa hain”) of the metastatic breast cancer treatment regimen and the 2 debilitating episodes of respiratory failure that resulted in hospitalization; to keep herself alive. For me. Lest she would be breaking our bond – a bond that had grown from strength to strength in the last 15 years since Dad left us all of a sudden; over the Valentine’s weekend of 2009. Since then, we had leant on each other for every matter that came our way.
When Mom’s cancer got detected out of the blue in the end of May 2022, both Mom and I, she obviously much more, initially deeply struggled accepting it. “Why me?” “Why at this age of 79?”....were questions that loomed large in her mind. But she slowly accepted it and dealt with it patiently. I would tell her that cancer was just another ailment and that, there were great advances in treatment these days. Since I knew a thing or two about medicines owing to my pharmacy background, Mom’s acceptance of her health condition slowly sunk in and she willingly went through the cancer treatment. And, along that journey, Mom and I enjoyed several moments of happiness – those that I will cherish forever. For one, we laughed about how we both enjoyed Kokilaben Ambani hospital’s lunch spread – especially the paneer masala. We even shared this feedback over their form and called out names of room service staff, who served the food. The staff were delighted by our gesture. And, Mom even tried to get our then cook to stir up a similar preparation in our home kitchen but of course, unsurprisingly, it didn’t measure up to the hospital one’s.
Eventually, as is often seen, it wasn’t the cancer that dragged her down as much as the side effects and other long standing health issues that get accentuated in the process. In her case, her long standing history of over 5 decades of chronic bronchitis resulted in aspiration pneumonia; probably as a complication stemming from the cancer. She miraculously recovered and returned home on the 31st Dec, 2023 after the 2nd hospitalization for respiratory failure on 25th night – but this time, she was also to be on Ryles tube feed for at least a fortnight (to be evaluated thereafter). And, external oxygen support via nasal prongs-oxygen concentrators and stipulated hours on the BiPAP machine via the mask had to be continued.
She was on them since the 20th of September after recovering from the 1st respiratory episode. She did very well in the months of October and November 2023 and with walker and ayah support, would walk to the hall every evening to catch up on old Hindi movies over JioFibre. Those were happier times and Mom was able to be without oxygen support for more than 4 hours daily. But, owing to poor immunity, she contracted infection, experienced great muscular-bone pain and developed other issues, from the start of December.
Now back home from the hospital on 31st, she was tubed up all of the time and I’m sure, she was suffering way too much. And was, utterly helpless. She had become an apparition of her former self and was lying there in the hospital bed that we had hired at home, saying nothing most of the time. I started feeling that there was nothing much left of her. But I was still hopeful that she would bounce back, like she had previously. Hadn’t the X-ray also shown that the pneumonia had receded? But, it turned out that destiny had other plans.
She didn’t make it too far from there, her pneumonia increased again and she slipped away rapidly on the night of 4th of Jan, 2024; whilst arrangement for changing her treatment with new injections and other medicines to be given at our home (which was increasingly looking like an ICU setting in itself) was being made. Post being discharged home on 31st, Mom slept out two and half days or more and, in my mind, she looked happy to back home. Thereafter, there was some response from her but it was way too limited compared to earlier – there was this furrowing of her forehead when we forced her to say something. She was way too groggy.
Whilst in the hospital between 25th night to 31st evening, she barely slept but kept blabbering about not being fed coffee by the nurses, her all-time favourite beverage. Such sleepless nights filled with blabbering about varying things but predominantly about wanting coffee and her parents’ names; was a feature even earlier, whilst at home before the 25th exigency. And, then, she would sleep like a child through the mornings. At different points of time during the journey, she would suddenly say some childish-like lovely things, that would then release all the stress-strain that I was continuously enveloped by. She knew that I was both physically and psychologically draining out as much as she was also suffering.
Now, I’m desperate to hear her blabbering but the home is quiet – it has been quiet since the 13th day rituals got wrapped on the 16th of Jan. And, she shall not ever ask for coffee ever again – my dearest “Chikky Papa”. She had become my baby and I, her Mom – she started calling me Amma (mother) in gentle jest in the last few months (since I was caring for her like a child). And I used to call her “Chikky Papa” and fill her entire face with several kisses from time to time. She enjoyed that like a child would. After all, she was giving me the experience of being a mother that I had never had; even though all of this was panning out in a strange way.
She would get upset if I didn’t keep her mobile properly charged up from time to time and she would complain if I didn’t go to her room for a while – probably owing to being caught up with official work or just catching up on sleep after a sleepless night.
I miss dear Mommy way too much, every moment, in every corner of our home and in every thought I have. The thoughts keep lashing my mind like waves on the rock…She said that, She laughed like that, We discussed that, We enjoyed that, We went there, etc, etc. She was beautiful inside-out – a gentle soul with a heart of glittering gold, with not a single thought of hurt for anyone. The memories are unending and will live on in my heart, forever.
May you sleep well without any suffering in God’s comfortable lap, Chikky Papa!!! Muuuuuah!!! And, please rest assured, our bond will never be broken…. we will always remain connected in a divine way!!! And, I promise to do you and Appa proud in my life time.
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.
It is wintertime, and of course time for glossy juicy oranges!
Every time I savour an orange, I cannot help singing the famous traditional nursery rhyme “oranges and lemons”. Yes, even these days – decades of passing out of nursery! This song is a symbol of “hope and strength”, and it is said that its most important symbolism is that of family. Now, let me sing the song…
“Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement's.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's……” as the lyrics of the original version go!
Says Wikipedia that the earliest known printed version of this rhyme appeared c. 1744 and is listed in Roud Folk Song Index as No 13190.
The refrain used in each stanza “Say the bells of …” refers to the bells of some of the churches in London. St Clement Danes Church plays this tune four times every day.
This nursery rhyme has also been mentioned in Chapter 8 of George Orwell’s famous novel “1984” where Mr Charrington teaches Winston a few lines of this rhyme. It is said that the writer here uses this rhyme to symbolize the Party’s control over the minds of the citizens.
And then there are other quotes on oranges.
Van Gogh said – “There is no blue without yellow and orange". May be the renowned artist was referring to the way colours complement each other.
Another famous anonymous quote refers to the colour of the sky “The sky takes on shades of orange during sunrise and sunset, the colour that gives you hope that the sun will set only to rise again.”
Gary Anthony Soto’s poem “Oranges” (first published in 1983) narrates the emotive experience of a boy on his first date. The poet describes how his exhaled breath forms misty cloud in gloomy December’s chill as he walks to the girl’s house with a Nickel and two oranges in his pocket.
So, apart from the quotes of Van Gogh and others, what does the colour “orange”, which is a mixture of yellow and red signify?
Well, well, the vibrancy of this joyful colour usually conveys cheerfulness, creativity, determination, energy, enthusiasm, fascination, happiness, positivity, stimulation, success, youthfulness etc.
If orange colour is used in the negative sense in literature, it may mean insensitive and rude.
Sometimes muted forms of orange colour are used to depict earth and autumn season. Its association with the changing season occasionally makes the colour represent change and movement.
Now, last but not the least – what about the fruit orange?
Well, oranges are citrus fruits (Genus Citrus) known for its high Vitamin C content. Some common types of oranges are Sweet Oranges (Citrus x sinensis) which is most widely grown worldwide, the Sour or Seville Oranges (Citrus × aurantium) and the Mandarin Oranges (Citrus reticulata).
This fruit originated in Southeast China. Some other facts related to this fruit are: -
- One needs to eat seven cups of cornflakes to get same amount of fibre as in a medium sized orange.
- Some oranges are green even after ripening!
- Brazil is the orange production capital of the world.
- Orange peel is often reused to remove grease, oil spots and orange tea.
- Over six hundred varieties of oranges can now be found in the world.
Oranges have myriad health benefits because of its various nutrient content like Vitamin C, Fibre, Folate, Potassium and Choline (beneficial essential nutrient) content. They also have Calcium and Thiamine (Vitamin B1).
Apart from supporting the immune system as an antioxidant, Vitamin C helps in the formation and maintenance of bones and cartilages. Vitamin C is also good for skin and blood vessels.
Fibres help in controlling blood sugar levels, cholesterol levels, bowel movement, etc.
Folate or Folic Acid (Vitamin B9) helps to form RBC (Red Blood Cell), DNA, RNA and is also required for protein metabolism. Besides, folate helps in breaking down an amino acid called ‘homocysteine,’ which may be harmful if present in substantial amounts. Role of this Vitamin is important in early pregnancy as it reduces the risk of birth defects of brain and spine.
Potassium is required for blood pressure control, preventing stroke, transmission of nerve signals, muscle contractions (including heart muscles), fluid balance in the body, etc.
Choline forms the membranes that surround the cells and influences other body functions like memory, mood, and muscle control etc.
Thiamine (Vitamin B1) helps in boosting the immune system and also boosts the body’s ability to withstand stress.
Apart from boosting immunity and preventing risks of heart diseases, cancer, stroke and some other diseases, oranges also help in absorption of iron and fighting anaemia.
Oranges help our bodies to make collagen which is a protein that heals wounds and gives smooth skin.
Other advantages include slowing down of advancement of Age-related Macular Degeneration (commonly known as AMD), which is one of the main causes of vision loss.
But there may be some health hazards too like nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, stomach cramps, headache, insomnia etc. Because of its acid content symptoms of gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD) might worsen.
For those who are taking beta-blockers, too many oranges might increase Potassium intake and cause kidney problems. If more iron is stored in the body, then intake of oranges might aggravate the harmful condition and damage tissues.
If one is on Hormone Replacement Therapy, Vitamin C of oranges might increase oestrogen levels.
So, it is always better to consult one’s doctor or dietician as something which is good for one may not be good for others.
By now, you may be bored reading my cocktail of various aspects of orange, and you would want to go for a cocktail with oranges.
So, let me tell you about orange whip which is a sweet cocktail made with vodka, cream, and orange juice. This cocktail is typically blended to a froth like milkshake.
Now, enjoy the refreshing, rejuvenating, resplendent orange in whatever way you like!
Nowadays we have mini oranges along with the normal oranges. Above is a photo of mini oranges and a normal sized orange fruit. This snapshot I took to show the size of mini oranges.
Before I end let me greet you “Bon Appetit.’
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.
A NOSTALGIC VISIT TO ARKAKSHETRA - KONARK
Among several visits to Konark since my first visit way back in 1964 on a school excursion, the recent one undertaken must be rated a most pleasant one, as my daughter Sonali, son in law Diptiranjan and my cute granddaughter Adya came from Toronto during winter vacation to visit some historic as well as picturesque places in Odisha. Accordingly, we planned a family picnic at Chandrabhaga on the sea shore near Konark, keeping eye on a visit to the monument, considered as one of the seven wonders of ancient India. The expected day arrived and we packed ourselves and all the picnic gear into the bus and set off early in the morning for Konark and picnicked on the casuarina forest on the pristine sea shore and enjoyed the beach walk, speed boat ride and paragliding near the Eco-retreat venue at Chandrabhaga. After feasting to our heart’s content, we visited the Sun Temple in the vicinity, and were awestruck by the beauties of artistic and exquisite stone carvings on the stone walls of the sun temple, which were bathed by the slanting afternoon sun rays. The setting sun was very kind to cast its golden rays on the western side of the black pagoda offering an amazing view. My numerous past visits, and acquired expertise prompted me to act as a guide to the guests and my family members as I led them in the circumambulation.
A UNESCO world heritage site, Konark Sun Temple is situated on the sea beach to the north-east corner of the holy city of Puri at a distance of 36 Km and 65 km from the capital city of Bhubaneswar to the east. As these historic sites forms a triangle of tourist importance, it is popularly known as Golden Triangle, in tourist jargon. Konark sun temple is a 13-century wonder constructed by King Langula Narasingha Deva of Eastern Ganga dynasty around 1250 CE. It was conceived as a gigantic solar chariot with twelve pairs of exquisitely ornated wheels dragged by seven rearing horses. One can witness three images of Sun God at three directions to catch the rays of the sun at dawn, noon, and sunset.
There is a fascinating legend connected with the origin of this shrine enshrined in the scriptures. The name of Samba is inextricably linked with the ethos of Konark. It is said that once Samba -a son of Srikrishna heaped ridicule on the celestial sage Narada which resulted in a fracas between the two. The clever Narada, bent on teaching a lesson to Samba, led him to the place where Srikrishna’s wives were bathing. Needless to mention, Samba, noted for his personal charm could easily excite the bathing ladies. Srikrishna who came to know of Samba’s misdemeanour cursed him to become a leper. When Samba pleaded innocence and begged for redemption, Srikrishna directed him to go to Konark and worship the Sun-God for the cure of leprosy. Accordingly, Samba meditated on the Sun -God at Konark by repeating the twelve names of the Sun. On doing so, he found in the water of Chandrabhaga River, a fine image of the Sun-God seated on the lotus. When he consecrated this image of divine splendour, he was freed of the curse and recovered from leprosy. For many centuries, the image is said to have remained in splendid isolation without a shrine in its honour.
Down through the ages, the Sun has exercised a strange fascination over the Indian mind. Sun worship was considered as one of the most efficacious means of having one’s wishes fulfilled. In ancient India there were various seats of the solar cult. History and tradition both go to show that, the Sun temple at Martanda which is at a distance of sixty kms from Srinagar in Kashmir was the foremost shrine dedicated to Sun-God. The awe-inspiring remains of this temple provide ample testimony to the fact that Kashmir was once a powerful centre of Sun worship. Martanda Sun-temple conjectured to be built around the first century after Chriest, is as significant for its size and situations as for its artistic splendour.
The site of the second oldest Sun-temple in India is at Multan, now part of Pakistan. Believed to have built by the Maghas who ruled over Shakdwip near the Caspian Sea in the ancient time. The remnants of this temple, left after Muhammad bin Qasim’s desecration in early 8th C.E., were finally demolished by Aurangzeb in late 17th century. The renowned Chinese traveler Hiuen Tsang who visited the shrine in 641C.E., has recorder that thousand pilgrims from all countries came here to offer their prayers.
The relics of third oldest Sun-temple at Madhera which is 45kms from Prabhas in Gujarat bear strong imprint of Magha influence. King Bhima who was ruling Gujarat during the earlier parts of the eleventh century, is said to have patronized the construction of the temple.
However, the greatest and grandest Sun Shrine amongst the Sun shrines in India, is at Konark, Odisha -popularly known as Black Pagoda. This thirteenth century colossal monument, which now wears a worn-out look with its crumbling side walls, is the brightest gem of Kalingan architecture. Indeed, Konark marks the grand culmination of the artistic splendour, and devotional fervour associated with Sun-worship. The magnificent Konark temple in the form of the Sun’s chariot, was built by the Ganga king Langula Narasingha Deva in thirteenth century. It Is a glowing tribute to a daring artistic vision coupled with an attempt at a unique engineering feat that did not quite succeed. With marvellous originality, Narasingha Deva conceived of this gigantic monolith as the Sun-God’s chariot. The twelve superbly intricately chiseled and decorated wheels carved on either side of this edifice are breathtaking for their size as well as details of artistic carvings. The seven splendidly carved steeds straining in front, seem to portray the image of a swift pilot trying to carry the Sun-God’s chariot over the ceaseless waters of the ocean and then to the blue heavens. The seven horses of the chariot represent the seven days of the week and the twenty-four wheels symbolize the twenty- four fortnights of the Hindu calendar.
Konark means-Kona Arka –Sun at an angle. The entire structure faces east. There are three series of gaps in between ornate pillars of the Nata Mandir. The temple is built in such way that only on the equinox days (March-20|21, and September-22|23) the rising sun’s rays pass through the center gap and fall on the deity in the temple. There was huge magnet fixed in the top of the temple tower which made the throne of the deity to hover in the middle of the air. Due to its magnetic effects, vessels passing through the Konark sea were drawn to it, resulting in heavy damage. To save their shipping business , the Portuguese voyagers took away the loadstone ,which was acting as the central stone and keeping all the stones ,and the iron columns used to hold them together in balance. Entire temple is also an astronomical device to measure time. The Konark temple is the epitome of the Kalingan art and architecture. The temple complex contains erotic sculptures, similar to that of Khajuraho temple. It has various forms of dance movements, musical instruments, life of different kinds of people, different religions in vogue at that time. There are panels showing marching armies, elephants, soldiers, horses, etc. There are panels showing travelers from China and Persia. There is a panel showing some people from Africa gifting a giraffe to the King. Various scenes in the life of ordinary people are depicted, like a woman playfully breaking a branch of a tree, a woman sending a parrot as a messenger, a lovelorn woman waiting anxiously for her husband, etc.
Though more than 1200 sculptors worked with immense zeal under the dexterous supervision of Sibei Samantra, the minister of Langula Narasingha Deva, for a period of twelve (1238-1250) years, they were not able to complete the structure, and were extremely stressed how to fix the dome (Kalasa).As per a popular folklore the deep commitment of its master builder Bishu Moharana to the project didn’t permit him to visit home to see his son born in his absentia ,instead at the height of the crucial time, his grownup son named Dharmapada visited his father with a bunch of village Ber ( Barakoli) grown in their backyard to be recognized. Bishu Moharana was deeply touched and profusely impressed at the inherited ingenuity and artistic skill of his young son. Sensing the tense situation and predicament of his father, Dharamapada voluntarily entangled himself in the construction of unfinished top portion of the temple to save the honour, dignity and life of artisan sculptor class and above all his father, and after having constructed the Dadhinauti (cupola) of the temple, which his father was unable to complete, immolated himself by jumping into the space.
The main temple-sanctum sanctorum could not stand long and crumbled partially during the stages of construction, and due to early death of King Narasingha Deva. However, the present pyramidal roof of the edifice Jagamohan (Audience Hall) soars over30 mt in height, and Natyamandap (Dancing Hall) without roof stand as sad testimony of the proud and flourishing Kalingan art and architecture. The main idol of the Sun-God on which the rays of the morning sun used to fall is said to have been stolen by some Portuguese navigators. The incessant vicissitudes of time and ceaseless invasions by iconoclasts like Kalapahar resulted in the slow decay of this half-finished colossus. For the first time the restoration and preservation works were initiated by the British viceroy Lord Curzon in the beginning of twentieth century. Indians are heavily indebted to the scholar-statesman viceroy, Lord Curzon for saving and restoring the iconic monuments of India like Taj Mahal and Konark. In 1904 Lord Curzon got the Ancient Monument Preservation Act passed. But for lord Curzon, we would not be having most of the great monuments in India today. The extensive renovation carried out could not give even the dimmest picture of its once glorious past. Shorn of its royal splendour, this temple presently comprises of an audience hall (Jagamohan)and a dancing hall (Natamandap), the main temple having crumbled down centuries ago and lost in the limbo of oblivion. However ,it is heartening to note that the recent cosmetic renovation projects undertaken by the governments are highly laudable.
After an impressive and soulful visit to the dilapidated shrine on our return journey, I cherished a desire -let visitors from all over the world belonging to all cultures, and religions come and see what are left of Konark-an immortal remnant of Kalingan artistry and realize the horror of intolerance, and thievery.
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.
Are you joking? Said my friend when I said I was writing a new book .
No, I am serious, I replied.
What is it about? She asked still not able to believe me.
Well, what if I say it’s about you, I said stressing on you.
What?Are you crazy? She said appearing shocked.
Why not? I am sure you will make a good subject and your tribe would 'love' to relate to you, I said.
O.K. go ahead but you will have to first get my approval before publishing it, she warned.
I promise but on one condition, I said.
What’s that now? She said not knowing what to expect.
Just that you will have to sponsor it, I said.
Not a problem .I was wondering these past years how to spend all that money I had made through granting favours while I was in power, she whispered.
(first pubd.in Eve's Touch some years ago)
Have you ever had the unpleasant experience of missing a step and falling down the stairs? If you did , don't don’t worry, that only makes two of us or perhaps several others would join us if only they knew what it would mean. No, I am not talking of the consequences of having a fall like breaking bones, or ending up with bad bruises or gashes which no doubt are bad enough but there is something else that makes it worse - the reaction of so-called sympathising people around you, including doctors, sometimes.
The first time I fell having missed a step while returning from a play late night, fortunately escaping with a groggy head due to the impact, I was flattered to receive a number of phone calls to enquire how I did. All along I was under the impression that only a VIP's fall would make news with their pictures appearing in leading newspapers. But here my circle of friends and relatives appeared so concerned that they wanted to know how I happened to fall. When I told them the truth, they refused to believe me and preferred coming to their own conclusions which were expressed accompanied by a large dose of advice. Some thought it was because of my BP suddenly rising, others felt it was because I was using the wrong powered specs and that it was time I went for a change of glasses, yet others thought my sugar level must have gone down and I would have fallen because I felt dizzy. Needless to say my well-wishers' sympathies and advice, instead of acting as a morale booster, left me deflated with a feeling of unwanted depression.
Recently, I had a fall, but this time it happened the day following our New Year, during broad daylight, when I was taking my morning walk along with my neighbour in her building complex. We were so engrossed in talking that I tripped over the handle of the lid of a chamber and fell flat on my face, which left my face badly bruised and me completely shaken.
I am sure you would like to know how my sympathisers "consoled" me this time. Since they had run out of the three possible reasons for the fall, they came out with very "interesting" questions added with well-meant advice, of course.
Was the chamber open? (I can't imagine what would have been my fate if it was )
Why didn't you support yourself on your hands when you fell? (if only accidents could happen with prior notice)
Did you get up by yourself or needed help? (Does it matter?)
The words of the doctor I rushed to immediately after the fall, were perhaps the most "original" - he said, "Thank yourself that it didn't happen yesterday, otherwise you would be falling down the rest of the whole year."
The advice given by my well-wishers was that I should walk with my eyes down so that I would be watchful of my step and do one thing at a time, either walk or talk, not do both at the same time! - sane advice, indeed, and it was not the first time I had heard it! But I wonder if it would help a person like me, because when I tried to follow the first bit of advice diligently while walking on the road, I not only hit my head against a lamppost that came in my way but also was about to knock down a cyclist! As far as the second bit of advice went, I found it even more difficult to put it into practice because minus the morning exchanges of news about the neighbourhood, walking became a chore and a bore.
I am looking forward to some really sane advice which is not only practical but could be implemented as well.
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao , M.A.in English literature is a freelance journalist, author of 10 books(fiction, nonfiction) a blogger and photographer .Her 11th. is a collection of 50 verses titled PINGING PANGS published in August 2020. She travelled widely within and outside the country.She blogs at :justlies.wordpress.com.
It was probably not a good idea; I should never have put myself up to this. Any moment now. Don't look down.
I could see the Baltic sea docile as a lake, the little orange floating bridge, and the blue wooden dock it led to. The water was grey near the dock where it was shallow and gained in blueness as it stretched outward. She was standing with her feet in water, shoes by the shore, and I could vaguely see her wave; I waved in return. There were a few onlookers scattered about who cheered and waved back. Next to the dock was cafe Tuuli with a yellow roof and greenery around. I could probably still smell the coffee at this height. The sandwich they served this morning was exquisite - handpicked tomatoes, onion, bell peppers, olives, Swiss cheese, and something else that I couldn't place. A little sweet, a little salty, a little spicy. Perfect. Alas! like an elastic band, my thoughts keep coming back to the present. Any moment now.
The road from the city to the beach split around a semicircular parking lot and joined the road that ran along the beach at two places. The whole landscape looked like Eiffel tower plastered on to earth - the effect of having visited Paris en route to Helsinki. We could have done many a pleasant thing in Helsinki as we did in Paris but I ended up choosing this morbid idea of an adventure. I do not regret it in my heart but the rest of my body doesn't know any better; the shivers are getting louder. Try to think of something else. Look at the cars, little ladybirds in red, yellow, and black. The crane, with its long blue neck stood on the shore in meditation, waiting for the next fish. It was only moments back that it had caught a hesitant me and lifted me up to where I am now, standing on the cage platform along with the jumpmaster and the two ladies who would jump after me (if at all I jump).
Indifferent to my shivers, the day was still dawning, yawning and slowly stepping out of bed. As we were being lifted upwards, one of the ladies, who was smiling amiably at me and seemed to be having a good time with her friend whispered to me, "The secret to Bungee jumping is to turn off the brain. Just listen to the 3, 2, 1 and jump. Veni, vidi, vici." She let out a woo-hoo. Unsolicited advice. Probably seeing my billboard of nervousness. I managed a smile and glanced towards the jumpmaster. It worried me a little that he seemed preoccupied; I hoped he would descend to the present when it's time to tie my cord.
It was her Parisian friend who put this idea into my head when he heard that we were headed for Kaivopuisto. She was scared for me, definitely no, what if the strap isn't properly locked, what if they miscalculate the length of the cord, what if, what if. It was probably these uncertainties that had aroused my curiosity and before I knew it, I had decided that I'm doing it indeed - what is life without some adventure? Her friend reassured us, there's nothing to worry, it's just like diving into the swimming pool. I should have known better. More than fear I feel something of an uneasiness bordering on excitement. Like this is an epoch.... Indeed, there is no turning back now.
The jumpmaster touched my shoulder gently and said, "You're good to go, Mister. Ready when you're." I could see that I'd been tied up into an elaborate network of straps and harnesses. The Bungee cord, comprising eight hundred individual rubber threads and would stretch to a hundred and fifty meters (so I'd been told) as I plunge towards mother earth, was attached to me at the ankles and waist via harnesses made of steel. A belt fastened across my chest over both the shoulders and around my waist had a ring in the middle, in front of my navel, through which the cord coiled back to the platform. The one cord that would retain my connection with this world, hold me close, keep me safe.
Time to jump. The moment is now. Let go and enjoy. I took a deep breath. The jumpmaster counted down to one; without looking down I plunged head first, hands outstretched wings. Cold wind in my face, eyes dilated in amazement, ruffled hair, butterflies in stomach. Free fall. I am a bird in flight now. An unstrung kite. A shooting star. Beautiful memories rush to mind. Surfing in the sea. Midnight strolls. Monsoon rains. Kisses under the umbrella. Smile of that child in the bus. Ice lollies. Madeleines. What was that secret ingredient in the morning sandwich? Cheers from above and below. Wind in my sails... is something wrong, I don't seem to be slowing down. I glance upwards, the cord is still intact. The Baltic sea is fast approaching like a blue wall of concrete. Cries of horror by the shore. I search for her, she is a pupa, folded unto herself, eyes tightly shut. Two arms' length from the water. The jump would come to a halt when I can barely touch the surface I suppose. I can only suppose now. I close my eyes; splash! Cold liquid, warm liquid all around me. Darkness. I can hardly move. Muffled voices. Darkness. I swim towards a source of light feebly filtering through the water. I peer outside; white feet, white floor reflecting bright lotuses burning overhead; I can't breathe. I push myself through gasping for air and manage to draw a shallow breath. I cry with joy and relief. The doctor lifts me by my heel and declares, "It's a boy" and motions to the nurse for scissors to cut the cord.
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.
LEAF FROM HISTORY: A GARDEN THAT BEARS JUST NOT FRUITS AND FLOWERS, BUT HISTORY!
Very rarely we come across a botanical garden in the heart of a city which not only serves as a center of attraction for the lovers of plants and flowers, the nature lovers but also that of history seekers. Here we are talking about Lalbagh Botanical Garden, located in the heart of Bangalore (officially Bengaluru) of the state of Karnataka in India’s south. Covering an area of 240 acres ,it has more than 1000 species of plants and trees , some of which are rare and extinct. Its inception drew inspiration from the Mughal style of Gardens and incorporates Persian design elements such as symmetrical flower beds, fountains, and pathways.
The botanical garden construction was initiated in 1760 by Hyder Ali but was finally completed by Hyder Ali’s son Tipu Sultan after the death of his father. The name "Lalbagh" means "Red Garden" mostly referring to the red roses that bloom in abundance. The garden was initially intended for the cultivation of rare and exotic plants, as well as the promotion of horticultural practices.
Lalbagh harbors the most extensive assortment of tropical plants in India, showcasing a remarkable variety of flora sourced from different corners of the globe. The garden features a systematic arrangement of plants, organized according to their scientific classifications. This design not only enhances its scenic charm but also establishes it as a valuable hub for botanical research. The Glass House, constructed in 1889, takes inspiration from London's Crystal Palace and stands as a central attraction for flower shows and various events. Standout events happen on Republic Day and on the Independence Day. The show attracts visitors from far and wide, showcasing an exquisite display of flowers, rare plants, and horticultural innovations. This event has become a significant cultural and horticultural highlight, drawing attention to the importance of preserving and appreciating the rich biodiversity of the region.
Lalbagh encompasses several historical edifices, such as the Lalbagh House, which served as the official residence of the British Commissioner in the 19th century. Furthermore, it has a tower known as the Kempe Gowda Tower. As the name shows , it was constructed by Kempe Gowda II, a chieftain who ruled over most parts of Karnataka for the better part of the 16th century. Used as a watch tower , it was constructed in 1579 on the rock which is said to be 3,000 million years old .It may not be out of place to say that in the name of Kempe Gowda, widely accepted as the founder of Bangalore, we have the great International Airport at Bangalore.
Beyond its botanical and historical appeal, Lalbagh plays a crucial role in conservation efforts. The garden actively participates in plant propagation, research, and education. It serves as a center for the study and preservation of endangered species of plants , contributing to the broader conservation efforts in the region.
Another Lalbagh's most striking features, as hinted above, is the centuries-old Lalbagh Rock, a massive granite formation that provides panoramic views of the garden and the surrounding city. The Peninsular Gneiss Geological Monument, this rock is a geological marvel, dating back, as mentioned ,over 3,000 million years. It adds an element of geological significance to the garden, showcasing nature's enduring beauty and historical depth.
Lalbagh serves as a popular recreational space for the citizens of Bangalore as well as innumerable visitors from outside. Joggers, walkers, and families frequent the garden, seeking refuge from the hectic bustling city life. The garden's beauty is enhanced by the presence of a serene lake, providing a tranquil setting for visitors to unwind and connect with nature.
So, let us say cheers for the Lalbagh Botanical Garden and find cheers in this garden of heavenly bliss. It continues to be a vibrant and dynamic space, seamlessly blending the past with the present. Its lush greenery, diverse plant life, and historical landmarks make it a multifaceted destination, catering to the interests of nature lovers, history enthusiasts, and those seeking a peaceful retreat in the midst of urban life. I once drowned myself in its majestic serenity, beauty, tranquility and history, the red garden that is the green oasis in the metropolitan city.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
LOVE STORY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY
George Paul
This is a true story. A story of love. I was in the third year of dentistry at the Trivandrum Medical College in the early 80s. I had never heard of Valentine’s day. On a hot lazy February afternoon, I had decided that it would be more comfortable to cut classes and take an afternoon nap in the hostel rather than sit in a stifling lecture hall. While passing the visitor’s room of the hostel, I saw a young man standing in the middle of the empty waiting room, looking very disturbed. He was wringing his hands. I asked him if he had come to meet someone. He replied that he was sent to the hostel from the Blood Bank to see if any of the students would donate blood for his wife. He almost broke down when he continued that she was in a dangerous condition and that she needed blood urgently. From his words I gathered it was a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.
It was a common practice those days for patients to source blood from the medical students. The student fraternity was a readily available donor’s forum for the Medical College Hospital. I told him that he was unlikely to find anyone, as all the students would be in their classes. He showed me a slip of paper indicating the blood group required. It was B positive, my blood group.
His eyes were filling with tears and desperation was writ large on his face. He was perspiring profusely and his frayed shirt clung to his skin. I also noticed the patch of sticking plaster in the crook of his elbow indicating that he had donated blood very recently. Perhaps hours before. He broke down and said he had nobody to turn to as he married for love against the wishes of both sets of parents. I wasn’t particularly moved by his romantic story but it disturbed me to see a grown man cry. I was in a dilemma. The problem was that I had donated blood just two weeks earlier.
I thought for a while and reluctantly agreed to go with him to the blood bank. He smiled gratefully through his tears.
At the blood bank, I was apprehensive as I risked being recognized. One is not allowed to donate blood within three months of the last donation. The blood bank assistant asked the routine perfunctory questions. I hesitated when he asked me if I had donated blood recently. “Four months ago,” I lied, feeling guilty.
After they had drawn the blood, I stood at the counter to collect the Rs 16, the then sanctioned amount paid as compensation to all donors. The Blood Bank Pathologist, who was also one of our professors, always insisted that medical students collect the government dole because it would be pilfered and withdrawn by the blood bank staff if one did not collect the sanctioned amount. The Blood bank in charge also told us to buy and eat fruits and other nourishing stuff. The amount usually ended up at the local bar. Remember, we were wild and hard up most of the time. I briefly considered not collecting the amount, scared that my recent blood donation might be revealed in the voucher book. Nothing of the sort happened. I collected the money and came out. The young man was waiting outside, a bottle of blood clutched firmly in both his hands. Blood was transported in bottles those days and often given to the relative of the patient. He thanked me with an expression that required no words.
I fingered the money in my hands. I saw a different dimension of love that day. A love that moved me in a strange way. I offered the money to him. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He did not make a move to receive the money. Perhaps, he did not want to let go of the precious blood that could save his wife. Perhaps he thought that he had already received too much from me. I slipped the currency notes into his shirt pocket and walked away.
He never came back to tell me if his wife survived. Maybe she did. Maybe not. His emotive display of despair and angst for someone he loved, touched me in a way that I would never forget. The concept of love would never be the same again for me.
Dr George Paul is a medical professional practising in Salem as an oral and maxillofacial surgeon after Dentistry. He is an amateur writer and his first non fiction book is in print. He has a few newspaper publications in The Hindu, etc.
IT IS ALL IN THE MIND, SWEETY!!
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
This story would not have happened if on a chilly winter morning Sadanand, the poet, had not fallen down while plucking flowers in the garden for his Pooja. For a January morning it was unusually windy and one particular hibiscus, a big, red one in full bloom was playing naughty with him, shaking in mock laughter with the undulating wind. It appeared to Sadanand as if his darling sweetheart, the seven year old grand daughter Mili was taunting him, Grandpaaa….let’s see if you can catch me! Sadanand smiled to himself at this pleasing thought and stretched on his toes to grab the flower. The next moment, before he could say Hah, Sadanand collapsed on the ground, his head hitting a piece of stone. It was on the left side, just above the ears that he had taken the fall and for a few seconds he thought he had lost consciousness. But in no time he collected himself, got up from the ground, dusted himself and looked around to see if anyone had noticed this embarrassing fall.
Sadanand, at the ripe age of sixty five, should have known life is a tricky knife which revels in cruel twists and turns, often numbingly painful. He had almost started gloating on the marvel of a non-discovery when a piercing scream shattered his ears. Manjari, his wife, was standing in the balcony of their first floor abode and screaming as if the house had suddenly caught fire,
“What happened? How did you fall? Are you hurt?”
Her mind was doing an acrobatics of its own - ‘O my God! Look at the old goat. Sprawled on the ground and still smiles like a blushing bride! How does God create such imbecile idiots! The freaking poet must be thinking of someone, possibly a beautiful girl, and lost his balance. Doesn’t he have a modicum of shame!’
Sadanand looked up and like a cow in constipation managed a withered smile,
“Don’t worry, nothing has happened to me. I just lost my balance and tumbled. I am fine, as fine as an overfed goat. Go in, I will come up with the flowers.”
At the same time a mild worry spread over Sadanand. It occurred to him he had somehow read what had passed in his wife’s mind.- the stuff about the freaking poet thinking of beautiful girls. The next moment he shivered when Manjari exploded like an over-charged cracker,
“Coming up? Don’t even think of it! Just stay where you are. Let me come down and check if you have broken a bone or two.”
She came in a jiffy, muttering curses only a seasoned wife of forty years can deliver with a rare mastery. The curses became louder as she came near the smiling, embarrassed husband,
“So many times I have told you not to come to the garden to pluck flowers, the maid can do it when she comes to do the morning chores. But you never listen to me. How did you fall down? Why were you absent-minded? Who was in your mind, what were you thinking?”
Her mind ran like an express train, ‘The freaking absent-minded poet!!!! Poet my foot!!!! The old man has spent almost a lakh rupees publishing ten volumes of poetry! Does anyone read his poems? Are they of any use to anyone? Even the rats come in the night, jump over them, eat away the other stuff in the room, shit over the books of poems and run away! Still the old log of wood fancies himself to be a poet and keeps writing poems!’
Sadanand was startled. He had read exactly what was going on in the mind of his wife and wondered how this miracle had happened. He smiled sheepishly and offered an explanation,
“I was thinking of our dear Mili. The way the flowers were dancing with the wind, playing hide and seek with me, I thought it was Mili challenging me, calling me out, Grandpaaa…catch me if you can.”
The mention of Mili softened the angry wife. She smiled,
“O, Mili? You are always nuts for her! Your mind goes into a spin whenever you think of her. Today your body also took a spin!”
Although this could pass off as a mild rebuke, Manjari’s mind had taken the wings of fancy - ‘The old man is going out of control. God knows whether he was thinking of Mili or some girl from the past. The naughty poet’s heart flutters whenever he thinks of some old flame - a Hemlata Mallick from his school days or a Madhusmita Mohanty from the university! They are his eternal throbs, I am just a long gasp!’
This time Sadanand was no longer in doubt. He knew exactly what had passed in Manjari’s mind and was thrilled that by some freak accident a part of his brain had got shaken up with his fall and now he had acquired the capacity to read others’ mind. For a moment he was buoyed by the immense possibilities offered by this miraculous turn. He wanted to surprise his wife,
“No, no, you are not a gasp, you are my multi-holed banshee that I can play to my heart’s content. Hemlata and Madhumita are just passing shadows, mere glass pebbles. You are the real diamond!”
Manjari was shocked! How did her husband know what had gone through her mind? She changed the subject,
“Let’s go upstairs. Did you have a reeling of the head? Doesn't look like you have a bump, there is no visible injury either. But it’s better to see a doctor to rule out any serious problem.”
Manjari was agitated, her mind was in a churning despair - ‘Of all the days the old man was to fall today, my kitty party day! Hope the doctor will give a clean chit. I don’t want to miss the game of cards.’
Sadanand could read the anguish in his wife’s mind. But her kitty party was a touchy subject. Almost every month she lost close to a thousand rupees in cards game and returned home in a foul mood, but Sadanand dared not admonish her for that. After all domestic peace is more costly than domestic war!
The moment they reached upstairs Manjari spoke to her two younger brothers over phone and informed them. The two brothers were a strange pair. The elder one - Srikant - was a successful real estate developer, he made crores of rupees out of his business, the younger one - Dushyant - had a great passion for spending them, mostly in costly liquor. A firm believer in the myth, “A bottle a day, keeps trouble away”, he was known to be a devout drinker, starting the morning with a couple of pegs of whiskey and going on till late night. Both the brothers arrived at their sister’s place within a few minutes. Sadanand was still recovering from the mild rebukes of his wife. He was shocked at the big procession. Srikant was getting late for a meeting with the clients, he gave a short lecture to his harassed brother in law and left. Dushyant, like all habitual drunks, suffered from bouts of unpredictability. It occurred to him that the old man should be taken to a hospital for a checkup without any delay. Srikant’s wife was all sugar and honey, but in her mind she was flustered - ‘My useless brother in law, you made our sister in law suffer throughout her life, making her work like a housemaid, at least spare her in the old age. You can’t give her money or ornaments, at least give her some peace of mind.’ Dushyant’s wife was impressed big time, her mind in a pleasant thrill - ‘Aha my romantic Brother in law, even without drinking you become unsteady and tumble over, thinking of our sister in law, but look at my husband, even after drinking all day, he is steady and full of energy at midnight, jumping over me in wild passion!’
Sadanand could know what was going on in the mind of the two ladies. He smiled,
“I wanted to give a tuition on romance to my two brothers in law when they got married, but they refused to attend! But why do you think I have given nothing to your sister in law? I may not have given much money to her but all my poems are dedicated to her. How many people you know who have given a thousand poems to their wife? And I may be a non-alcoholic, but I am always drunk in love for your sister in law……”
Sadanand would have gushed some more, Manjari stopped him and forced him to put on some decent dress before they left for Camri Hospital to meet Dr. Senapati the famous Neuro-surgeon.
The famous Neuro-surgeon was sitting in his chamber when the big troop marched in. A look at the polished appearance of the ladies, their rich sarees and haughty demeanour convinced the doctor that the morning was promising, a catch of seven to eight lakh rupees was staring at him with unabashed vulnerability. He gave a hard stare,
“Who is the patient here?”
The party pushed the hapless Sadanand to the front. He had already read the doctor’s mind and was looking like a sacrificial goat before a drooling butcher. He was also looking for a seemingly impossible escape route, being heavily guarded by fawning relatives. The doctor asked the relatives to go outside the chamber and wait. He started his interrogation menacingly, he knew the more menacing he looks, the more he can extract from the patient,
“What happened to you?”
“I fell down and hit a stone on my head while plucking flowers in the garden this morning.” - the hapless poet bleated pitifully.
“Fall? How did you fall?” - the doctor thundered. He knew naked aggression was a time-tested instrument for extortion.
“I was thinking of my grand daughter and fell.” - another weak bleat.
The doctor pounced on him like an overfed wrestler,
“Grand daughter or some young nubile beauty? At your age you should be spending time reading Bhagavadgita or Ramayana, not thinking of young girls.”
Sadanand was embarrassed. How did the doctor know that as a poet his mind dwelt on young girls like flies on a plate of gulabjamoons.
The doctor sensed his embarrassment - ‘Ah, the sucker is going weak in the knees. Seems to be a nincompoop - good for seven to eight lakh rupees!’
As Sadanand flinched at the thought going on in the mind of the drooling doctor, the latter continued his aggression,
“So, where exactly did your head hit the stone?”
Sadanand showed him the spot above his left year.
The doctor yelped like a puppy whose bottom had been pinched by a naughty boy,
“O my God! O my blessed God! What a disaster! It might have caused a Traumatic Brain Injury or a Cranio-Cerebral Trauma. Did you bleed from the nose?”
Sadanand shook his head, “No.”
The doctor’s disappointment showed on his face like Tendulkar missing a century by a couple of runs. He said in a tone more to assure himself than the patient,
“It might happen later. In some cases it takes time to start bleeding. Have you brought enough money with you?”
Sadanand again shook his head, partly relieved that the doctor probably would let him off. He was mistaken. The doctor smiled to himself and thought - ‘if I am true to my profession, I am sure my guess is right, this group is floating in money. The old fellow must be having a credit card.’
Before Sadanand could stop himself, he replied to the expert doctor’s thought,
“I have a credit card.”
The doctor looked relieved, like a desperate drunkard finding a liquor shop open beyond midnight. He called the family members from outside the chamber,
“Ok. Here is the list of tests to be done. Get a Doppler of the neck, an angio of the brain, an MRI of the spine, apart from the usual Lipid Profile, KFT and LFT. We have to rule out everything. If the injury is internal it can manifest in any hole - he may start bleeding from the ears, the nose, the mouth or even from the rectum. So go and get the tests done and bring the reports the moment you get them. Don’t delay. It could be an emergency”.
The words had a galvanising effect on the audience. The two sisters in law wanted to go home to arrange cooking for the household. Moreover, Dushyant had become restless without his drinks and started snapping at his wife and sundry onlookers who passed by them. The consensus was that he should be taken to the safety of home before he graduated from snapping to biting people. They left, after loading the old couple with tons of advice.
Manjari was aghast at the thought of spending the day at Camri hospital in the company of her husband when her friends would be at the kitty party having lots of fun. Sadanand’s heart bled every time the credit card was swiped and the meter kept mounting till it stopped at sixty thousand rupees. Dr. Senapati, while seeing other patients and fishing for possible victims, was glowing in anticipation of a good harvest from the harmless looking old man.
The old couple was a picture in contrast, sitting outside the test labs waiting for the report. Manjari had waves of frustration washing over her. Dark thoughts invaded her mind like marauding Mughals of the yore. ‘Ah, the crowd must be warming up now for a game of Rummy, and look at me, sitting here in this dingy corridor for some blasted reports.……….Ha, today is a Wednesday, there will be Mutton curry, prawn masala and fish fry at the kitty party, and poor me, having rice and cauliflower in the hospital canteen! ……….Tchah, look at the old man, sitting like an innocent Buddha, after robbing me of a day of fun!’
Sadanand could read all these dark thoughts passing in his wife’s mind and sat like a glum bus passenger whose pocket had just been picked by an adventurous thief.
The reports came around four o’ clock and the old couple ambled into the doctor's chamber. A look at the reports and the doctor’s face turned ashen, sending shock waves in the hearts of Sadanand and Manjari. Was something seriously wrong? Would the aged poet go under the doctor’s knives for some grave brain injury?
The next moment Sadanand felt relieved, reading the thought in the doctor’s mind…’Haa…….what a bad luck, the old fish escaped so easy! This morning I must have got up on the wrong side of the bed, otherwise how could a ripe fruit go sour? If there was even a small clot I would have put the old man on the operation table, blasted his skull open and dug out seven lakh rupees from there. Now the fellow is escaping with a few thousand rupees!’
The doctor managed a weak smile,
“You are lucky. You must thank God for the narrow escape. Nothing is wrong with your brain, no injury, not even a clot” - the doctor felt like sobbing when he said that. Sadanand wanted to rub some salt on the doctor’s wound. Before leaving the room he aimed a parting shot at him,
“So sorry doctor for you…..I am sure if there was even a small clot in my brain you would have put me on the operation table and blasted my skull to dig out seven lakh rupees from there. Don’t worry, next time I fall I will come to you again. You can extract your pound of flesh from me.”
They left the neuro expert in a shock, wondering how the old man could read his mind.
It was five by the the time they reached home. Manjari was fuming inside. The kitty party must be winding up now, may be with some sweet rasogollas! And here she was stuck with the old husband and a bill of sixty thousand rupees! Sinister thoughts sailed on her mind like floating clouds in a dark sky, ‘Sixty thousand rupees! Couldn’t the old foggy fall on his face? Did he have to hit his head on the stone?’
Sadanand wanted to escape from the dark clouds crowding his wife’s mind,
“I am bored sitting at the hospital all day. Let me go to the market and buy some vegetables.”
Manjari was also in a hurry to call her friend Kalpana and get a first hand report on the kitty party…what dished were on offer today, who won and who lost in the game of cards….what were the latest gossips…whose daughter in law poured boiling water on the mother in law’s head….ah, so many interesting details to catch up with…..
She snapped at her husband,
“Ok, ok, go to the market, but make sure you don’t fall on the pavement and break your skull. Don’t get absent-minded thinking of Mili-Fili or your favourite Hemalata or Madhusmita.”
Sadanand headed for his usual vegetable stall where Bharati, a comely middle aged lady sold vegetables to her ever-admiring customers. With a sweet smile hanging from her lips like a ripe mango and eyes darting like the swinging fangs of a cobra, she used to cheat customers left and right both in weight and price. Yet they thronged to her shop like bees in search of honey. Sadanand the poet also found her charm irresistible and used to revel in long spells of bargaining the prices, drinking in her beauty like a thirsty bull roaming on the streets.
Bharati’s face lit up like a Christmas candle when she saw Sadanand,
“What Sir, why this untimely visit to my humble shop? Usually you come in the mornings. What happened today?”
In her mind Baharati was irritated, her day had not gone well today, an old customer had complained about many rotten potatoes in the two kg pre-packed bag she had palmed off to him on the previous day,
‘Oof…..the old man was to come today, of all the days! The fellow will keep bargaining for one hour for the one hundred rupees’ worth vegetables he would buy. Such a bore, these old buffoons!’
Sadanand was amused to be regarded as an old buffoon by the curvaceous lady. He tried to shock her,
“No, no, I won’t bargain with you today for one hour. There is no time for that. Just pack half kilo of our usual vegetables for a hundred rupees. I will take and leave.’
Bharati looked at him with some suspicion and got busy with weighing the vegetables, wondering how the old man could know what was going on in her mind. She handed over the vegetables, lashed a trademark sweet smile and gave him some advice,
“Sir, walk carefully on the road. We don’t want you to fall and break your skull, madam will be very angry with you. She is not like you. She is quite a live wire!”
Manjari had finished her talk with Kalpana. She was relieved that her old husband had returned home in one piece,
“Ha, good to see you return safe. You have put quite a scare in my mind. You think it’s a pleasure to cough up sixty thousand rupees on medical tests just because your runaway mind turns poetic at wrong moments?”
Sadanand thought it was the right moment to offer a new line of thought, a pet fantasy of his,
“Guess what, I have been thinking of telling you for quite some time - the way I am getting prone to falling off, or tottering on my feet, isn’t it better we keep a young nurse at home? These days many NGOs are giving training to girls in nursing, particularly in old-age care. Don’t you think we better have one at home?”
Manjari fixed her husband with a hard glare, resembling an acytelene torch which could drill a bore on the forehead,
“Why, what’s wrong with me, have I ever failed in taking care of you? Where is the need to keep a nurse at home?”
Sadanand got nervous, like a suspect undergoing interrogation at the police station,
“O, it was just a thought, don’t you remember how your Nabaghan Mousa was almost at the last leg of his journey, gasping for dear life and then his family engaged a nurse for him. He lived for full five years after that. These nurses have magic in their hands.”
Manjari’s mind went into a blast internally, something like a chain cracker on a Diwali night bursting inside, ‘Magic, my foot! The old man has got tired of me and now wants a younger girl at home. The poet in him is yearning for a fresh beauty, the old frog will keep looking at her and write poems till early hours of the morning. If he utters one more word I will cut his tongue with a knife and feed it to him with tomato ketchup…,,”
Sadanand who was not particularly fond of tomato ketch up shuddered and his precious tongue licked his lips out of extreme panic. He pleaded with his wife,
“O O , no need to get worked up on such a small issue. It was just an innocent thought, a way of helping you, giving rest to your tired body. Forget it, why are you going to extreme thoughts of cutting my tongue just for a passing thought? Anyway, time for me to go to the club to play a round or two of bridge.”
Sadanand hurried from home, leaving his wife shocked. She was asking herself how could the old man know about the cutting of the tongue!
Sadanand was like a man possessed at the bridge table that evening. No one knew how he became an expert in the game overnight, playing like a world champion. But he knew, because he could easily read what was going on in the mind of his partner and the opponents. From that he could guess what cards thay had in their hands. He kept winning every round that was played. At the end of the evening he was richer by two thousand rupees. With that booty in his pocket he came home in an euphoric state. Manjari had already gone to sleep, frustration at missing the kitty party gnawing at her heart.
Sadanand had many a sweet dream in the night, spurred by the money earned by him at the cards table. The next morning he got up early and went to the park to take a walk. There was a rare spring in his steps today. He walked fast, overtaking many regular walkers. He could read what was going on in their mind when he crossed them, - ‘Hah…looks like uncle has taken some strong tea fortified by ginger and god knows what herb……Ah, the old man must have spotted his girl friend somewhere ahead on the track….good way of timepass, dallying with girl friends, leaving the old wife at home with her arthritis and back pain…….hey, hey what’s happening, does the old man feel the urge for toilet, why is he running like a monkey with his tail on fire?’ …….Sadanand enjoyed all these comments and moved ahead. Suddenly a sweet voice stopped him on his tracks,
“Hello uncle, why are you running away like you have to catch a train? Where is Aunty? Why are you walking alone?”
Sadanand turned back. Ah, Dolly! She lived in the same street four houses away, with her husband and daughter. Short hair, a slim figure, fair complexion, a lovely face - she had everything that could stir liquid emotions in a poet’s heart in large dollops. Every time Sadanand met her he felt like writing half a dozen poems for her, string them into a garland and put it around her neck.
Sadanand smiled at her,
“Aunty is at home. I have this unusual josh today to walk fast, I feel like I am a young boy chasing butterflies in the park.”
“Hah uncle, I always admire your josh. You have a spirit that is waiting to soar like a balloon. That’s why you speak so clearly and forcefully. Look at my husband, if you ask him whether he wants a cup of tea, he will mutter, ooon, tooon, fooon, zinnn, rinnn, finnn, sey, saaa, sooo, seeeen. Arrey Baba, if you want tea, say that naa, what’s the point in mumbling like a constipated rat? I really like the way you speak…..”
Sadanand’s chest swelled like he had just received Padma Bibhushan from the President of India……….He moved closer to Dolly, very close….A wave of panic ran though her mind, ‘Hey, why is the old man coming close? I hope he is not planning to hold my hand? How embarrassing!’
Sadanand could read what was going on in her mind and tried to assure her,
“No, no, don’t panic. I don’t want to hold your hand. I just want to speak to you. Now, tell me how’s your daughter doing? Has she finished her school?”
“No uncle, she is in the final year. Her teachers are quite fond of her. She has been giving dance performances in the annual function for the last two years. We are planning to organise a big dance function for her after her exams. We will come home to invite you and Aunty. Please attend.”
“Yes, of course, we will come. Your daughter is so pretty, looks like a fairy. Why shouldn’t see? You yourself are a paragon of beauty! If the tree is beautiful, the fruit will also be beautiful!”
Dolly blushed,
“Isss uncle, you are so sweet! I feel like listening to you for hours…Are all poets like you - so sweet, so romantic?”
Sadanand’s heart started beating faster. For a moment he thought he was in a garden of flowers, the soft carpet of green grass, the riot of colourful flowers and a slow drift of fragrant air from the distant horizon made him feel ecstatic. He felt his poetic journey has been worth all the sleepless nights he spent in scribbling poems. He was rendered speechless out of the intense joy gripping his heart.
Dolly could sense the euphoric state of the old uncle. She wanted to send him home to the old Aunty,
“Uncle! I can feel the joy in your heart. Go home, aunty will make a hot cup of ginger tea for you and serve it with sweet smiles. I am also leaving. I have to send my daughter to school”
Sadanand came out of his dreams in a jiffy. He didn’t feel like continuing his walk and went home.
Manjari was sipping tea at the dining table. She had already plucked the flowers for Pooja, Sadanand sat down to have a cup of tea. He was in a mood to talk,
“Guess who I met in the park today? Dolly! My God, with walk and exercise she has kept herself so slim and trim! She doesn’t look her age at all!”
Manjari stared at him, her mind going into a spin, ‘The old rooster gets excited at slim and trim chicks even at this age! The fellow cannot even stand properly and falls down in the garden and still dreams of chasing the Dollies of the world. Bloody shameless fellow, like all old poets!’
Sadanand read the dark thoughts running in his wife’s mind, but he was in a forgiving mood,
“No no, I was not chasing anyone, I just walked fast, overtaking everyone on the track. And you know what? Dolly called me romantic.”
Manjari’s eyebrows shot up, like a signal at a railway level crossing,
“Romantic! Why did she call you romantic?”
“Hee….Heee….I told her how pretty her daughter was and if the tree is beautiful, the fruit will also be beautiful.”
Manjari suddenly had a rush of blood in her mind, she felt angry, insanely angry. She wanted to give a slap to her errant husband and raised her hand. Sadanand could sense the slap coming and tried to duck. The slap missed his cheek and landed on the spot above his left ear, which had taken a hit on the stone twenty four hours earlier. At the impact of the slap his head went into a spin, for a couple of seconds sparks came out of his eyes. But he recovered.quickly. Like a mischievous schoolboy slapped by his strict teacher, he wanted to know why Manjari was so upset. He tried to read her mind and was shocked. He could read nothing. He realised he had lost the power he had miraculously obtained for a day. His mind went blank. He kept on looking at his wife like a baffled onlooker staring at a painting of Mona Lisa.
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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