Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXVIII (23-Feb-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Bird Woman (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
An acclaimed Painter, a published poet, a self-styled green woman passionately planting fruit trees, a published translator, and a former Professor, Lathaprem Sakhya, was born to Tamil parents settled in Kerala. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor of poems, short stories and paintings to several e-magazines and print books. Recently published anthologies in which her stories have come out are Ether Ore, Cocoon Stories, and He She It: The Grammar of Marriage. She is a member of the executive board of Aksharasthree the Literary Woman and editor of the e - magazines - Aksharasthree and Science Shore. She is also a vibrant participant in 5 Poetry groups. Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, Literary Vibes, India Poetry Circle and New Voices and Poetry Chain. Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English, Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni) and currently she is busy with two more projects.
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Prabhanjan K Mishra
THE SPLIT
02) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
WINDOW DRESSING
03) Ishwar Pati
FRENCH DIRECTION
04) Snehaprava Das
ALWAYS YOURS
05) Usha Surya.
A SUNDAY MORNING
06) Meena Mishra
A TALE OF SURPRISES AND REDEMPTION
07) Lathaprem Sakhya
MYSTERIOUS LOVE
08) Hema Ravi
BITTER-SWEET
09) Sukumaran C.V.
THINGS FALL APART
10) Sreekumar T V
TALKING TO GOD
11) Sheena Rath
HUSHKOO
12) Sujata Dash
ON A VISTARA FLIGHT
13) Sukanti Mohapatra
GARDEN ANGEL
14) Gourang Charan Roul
IN SEARCH 0F HAPPINESS
15) Bankim Chandra Tola
INGRATITUDE
16) Ashok Kumar Mishra
A DUGWELL ON HILLTOP
17) Meera Rao
SENIORS AND VALENTINE'S DAY
18) Satish Pashine
HUNGER, LOVE AND RESPECT!
19) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT AN ICONIC..
20) Sreechandra Banerjee
THE KING, THE BAKER, and THE PEOPLE.
RIG VEDA AND THE CONCEPT OF LOVE
WHAT IS VALENTINE’S DAY?
THE AUSPICIOUS DAY OF MAGHI PURNIMA.
GODDESS SARASWATI IN SOME OTHER COUNTRIES
GODDESS OF LEARNING GRACES BASANT PANCHOMI
21) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A PRISONER OF DREAMS
A NIGHT OF ENDLESS GIGGLES
After negotiating the stiff staircase, I stepped onto the spacious landing leading to the first-floor which looked like a honeycomb of rooms. Suddenly, before my breath settled to an even pace, I was roughly shaken by a brusque and uncouth voice. A security guard in uniform had appeared from nowhere, blocking my path. He rudely spat, “Yes?” He was rough and insolent.
I repented not to have called a protocol officer to my official car to receive me there and take me to my office without hassles. I had not anticipated such an odd situation. I always believed that I wore my identity on my sleeves. I bore the persona of, and looked like one, and perhaps, also smelt like one, a government servant from any angle. My friends and my wife teased me often for possessing those unsocial traits, that surrounded me like a repelling aura. I realized now that they had been just teasing me and there was nothing special about me.
Another brusque command followed from the security guard, “Your ID? Or, gate pass, man?” He sounded offensive. I fumbled, “Er, ..I mean… I have an ID, but …um .. I don’t carry it now. In fact, I don’t carry it at all these days.” He chuckled and barked, “Don’t move, don’t go away, just stand aside and let me frisk you.”
He was too much for my patience. It was my turn to take him to task as I was in the charge of that entire office complex as its head. I had just to join. I barked back, “Call your boss. I will not allow body frisking.” I just moved to a side and allowed people hurry-pass. I felt wilting under the curious gaze of bystanders and passersby. The rascal was speaking to someone on his hand-held walkie-talkie.
All along, men in civilian dress like me were walking in and the guard did not raise a finger, or flick an eyebrow. I asked him about them. He replied, “Oh! They are regulars, I know them. They don’t need ID or gate pass.” “Do you mean, rules are different for them and me?”, I asked him. He laughed on my face and replied, reminding me of Luis XIV of France, of the ‘Divine Right’ fame, “Ah, I make the rules at this gate.”
When that little drama was unfolding, to my surprise and amusement I noticed a nattily dressed man standing a little away from us, in the corridor, hands on the sill of an open window. He looked abstractedly far away, his eyes resting somewhere at a distant point of the car park outside.
My altercation with the guard apparently had caught his attention, and he leisurely sauntered along in our direction. The insolent guard saluted him. He asked me politely, “Sir, you appear to be new to this place? Have you some baggage or cargo to clear, or are you meeting someone?” I replied, “Not really, I am looking for my office. I am the Additional Commissioner Mukherjee, and would take the charge of this revenue formation, Sahar Air Cargo Complex.”
“Oh, my, my…!” he exclaimed. “So very sorry, sir, you had to suffer all these hassles. Didn’t you call for the protocol officer to escort you respectfully? Please come this way, Sir, …. I will take you to your room. It has been made ready for you. Aren’t you a little late, Sir? Our staff had gathered here to welcome you about an hour ago, the time you had given us. They dispersed a little while ago, thinking you had changed your plans.”
I mumbled and rued, “I never estimated the traffic snarls on the high way. I am coming from a place where vehicles on roads move much faster because of the sparse traffic.” He guided me ahead. I saw the earlier insolent King Luis XIV of the gate, along with another man also carrying a walkie-talkie who had joined him, possibly his boss, both wringing humble hands and wagging invisible tails, following us, a few paces behind.
I followed the abstracted gentleman of the corridor-window feeling a bit ashamed for reporting late. I learnt a few lessons from him, how one could politely point out ‘You are late’, to extend unsolicited help on one’s own to a needy stranger etc. A rare mixture of discipline and kindness in a man! I liked the man. He held open a door for me and said, “Your room, Sir.”
I entered a well-furnished and well-organized large air-conditioned room with an impressive large bronze signpost affixed outside, on the door, proclaiming my name and designation. I sat on my swivel-chair and turned to ask my benefactor to take a chair, but he was not there. He had not entered my room perhaps, after me. Very precise in his work. Exactly as much as needed, no less, no more.
Obsequiously, entered my room the Luis XIV of the gate who had prevented my entry into my present establishment with a rare gumption, and a few paces behind him entered his walkie-talkie wielding senior colleague.
I ignored the two security guards, senior and junior. Busy in my own thoughts about the good Samaritan and possibly, a very precise no-nonsense man in life, donning a tentative personality just as a guise, but had saved me out of the lurch at the gate by a rare presence of mind, I went out in search of him. I found him standing at the same spot, in the same stance, as before, unmoved, unfocused, and tentative.
Curious to know, what was his name, what position he held in my office, as he had talked like a staff member, and the security guard at the gate had saluted him, I decided to ask the polite man diplomatically without sounding impolite. I had read somewhere that such individuals could have an alter-life as artists, painters, poets, etc., preoccupied with higher level thoughts, away from mundane realities.
I walked to him, and tapped him on his shoulder from behind. He turned and looked at me like I was a stranger but then, his eyes shined with recognition and his mind focused, “You need anything, Sir?” I, sort of, mumbled back in reply, “Nobody knows me here. How would I take control?”
He nonchalantly replied, “They don’t know that you have arrived. Let me take you around and introduce you to them and the place.” We went around entering each of the class-one officers’ cabins, the two big halls housing class-two and class-three officers respectively, and the unaccompanied baggage area, a big barricaded and guarded area.
All the office-spaces including halls and cabins, as well as the corridors were crowded with visitors from public. They were crowding the officers for the clearance of their imported cargo and parcels. Many appeared waiting for an audience. All the officers seemed to be very busy.
Each officer stood up and greeted me, and without much ado explained me the bit of work he was carrying out. Often the good Samaritan like an all-knowing worker and interpreter helped me to understand certain procedure that remained obscure to me because of language barrier or the concerned officer’s inability to explain.
Finally, at the head of the huge hall, where the class-two Gazetted Officers sat, I found an impressive table with no documents on it and no public around it, and its posh looking vacant executive chair along with the four visitors’ chairs lying neatly arranged but unoccupied. The empty table bore a solid wooden nameplate bearing the inscription - ADGALE G. NENE, Superintendent, Admin. The table space looked like an odd man out in a hall where all tables were over-crowded.
I asked my guide, “Is this Mr. Nene on leave, or would he be in the loo?” He firmly replied, “None of that, Sir. He is here in the office.” He paused and continued, “Sir, I have introduced you to all the staff and taken you around the offices. That’s all you have here in your charge. I beg your leave, Sir, if you don’t mind.”
Before I could comprehend, what he had said, I found the man walking away into the crowd of visitors. He was gone. It was a bit weird. But I guessed, it was Mumbai, the slut-city. Anything could be possible, I was pre-warned by my colleagues at Patna to stay on guard for the uncanny things, that might pop up anytime, anywhere.
Of course, I had laughed at those cynics in Patna, but my two startling encounters, one at the gate and now the other in the crowded hall made me reconsider my opinion about Mumbai and about those so-called cynics of Patna.
By the evening, by talking around with the more loquacious varieties among my staff, and as well as my PA, I had gathered a lot of Mumbai-wisdom. The people in Mumbai were basically nice but were non-interfering and indifferent to a fault. They were a self-centred and hardworking lot, believing in a fast-life and hard-work-culture touching almost workaholism. They didn’t like to miss their work, rain or storm.
But the most important information I had gathered by evening was that the nice gentleman who had saved my day was ‘Mr. Nene himself, the Superintendent of Administration’ of the empty table at the head of the hall of class-two Gazetted Officers. In a nutshell, I was told, he did not work, and therefore, was not given any work by his boss. Now he being an exception and an impossibility in Mumbai’s workaholic culture, I was agitated, “But why?” The nagging question kept pinching me.
I was cautioned by my junior colleagues, though mildly yet firmly, to be careful with Nene. He often behaved strange, avoided responsibility, remained dicey, turned violent without warning, and on the whole, not dependable at all. His work was handled by his immediate boss, who claimed to be managing it. But after asking him a few questions, I found out he was only mismanaging both, his own work and Nene’s.
I was told that Nene was a chronic bachelor, even if he was in in the wrong side of forties. I was also confidentially informed that he shunned female company like plague. But I was surprised, in a city where people cultivated a culture of indifference and noninterference, why were these johnnies showing so much interest in Nene’s personal matters. Why were they poking their noses into Nene’s matters? Later I knew that they were not less than Pinocchio, their noses growing longer by the day.
The badmouthing of Nene behind his back by a few of his colleagues, by some strange logic, endeared the man to me. Though he never used his victim card, never called his colleagues liars or never cautioned me against them, yet on my own, I considered them as self-appointed small-minded and mean social watch dogs and their words as cheap backbiting. I started liking the vulnerable man Nene and promised to myself to unravel the truth and give him justice.
I thought of my middle-aged lady personal assistant as my trusted person to tell me the truth. First, she was evasive. After a few cajoling and pampering words, she yielded, “Sir, you are not from Mumbai, so you have no knowledge of the weathercocks of this shameless materialistic city.”
A few more probing and cajoling words made her divulge, “Sir, between you and me, I don’t want to oppose the general opinion, but if you don’t divulge my name, then on terms of confidentiality, I tell you the truth.” She paused and continued, “There is nothing wrong with Mr. Nene. He is a cent percent gentle man, a dedicated worker, very helpful, knowledgeable, and soft-spoken.”
She hesitated some more, and lowered her voice, “But he has a disease. He is honest and uncorrupt. His honesty is feared and hated by his colleagues and also by most of the agents and their workers who visit here and work on behalf of importers and exporters. Most importers break import/export policy here or there and cheat duty more or less with the cooperation of our staff. Nene is dead against that.”
She further lowered her voice, “They tried their best to cure Nene of the ailment but to no avail. He was a thorn in their flesh and he was shifted to a harmless chair as Superintendent Administration to look after the housekeeping. But there also, as a part of his charge he kept recommending internal transfers on the basis of proved possibility of corrupt practices. It spread panic among the class two and class three staff holding the charge of so-called lucrative tables.”
Then I learnt the other so called bad traits of Nene. Besides being honest, he was a motormouth against the corrupt practices that was allowing smuggling under the nose of law. He would deliver speeches on corruption in farewell meetings and association forums. He made general complaints to CBI and Anti-Corruption Bureau (ACB).
But his entreaties rebounded like self-goals and hit him below the belt. The CBI and ACB like the superiors of Nene’s own office being peopled by worldly wise johnnies did not take Nene seriously. Most of their hubs and gears needed regular greasing to move smoothly. So, Nene refused to touch certain files which needed ‘cooperation’. Other files were deliberately not given to him, as he might submit an inconvenient note that would kill any forthcoming cooperation.
In practice, no work was sent to Nene. He had no work, but he took home his salary regularly on time. No one dared to take action against his ‘No-work, but Pay’ position. Because initiating disciplinary action against him might open the Pandora’s Box of that revenue formation, killing the golden egg-laying goose. From the vacant table Nene moved to the window on the corridor.
I was getting more and more fond of the man. Some bulls in China Shops could be just rudderless lovable animals. I also recalled a bull’s image in a cartoon strip, the bull leisurely rolling on its back in a meadow of lush grass and soulfully sniffing at a rose held in one of its fore-hooves. Some later day, the bull would confide in me that he had been seriously considering resigning and starting activism against corruption, but meeting me changed his course.
I would often think, “Was I different than Nene?” Yes, and no. Yes, I had his intolerance towards the same evil, but no, I had no impatience like Nene. Patiently, over years I had learnt the tricks of the trade. Honesty was the best policy if practiced with dexterity. To start with one had to run with hare and hunt with the hounds, until the hounds were caught with their pants down.
By the time I learnt the art, I had missed many regular mile stones in my service career, and quite a few juniors were my seniors already. I had regressed and missed rungs on my promotional ladder but I had immense moral satisfaction.
I took on myself to take him suo moto as my disciple and train him under my umbrella. I taught him the art of swimming with sharks and piranhas in turbid water yet remaining free from scratches or bites. He was a quick learner.
I his training days, one evening, I asked him out with me to introduce me with the surrounding area as I had arrived there without family and had checked into an affordable lodge temporarily before being allotted family quarters. So, I had spare time. I brought him to my lodge for tea.
Sitting with me in my chauffeur driven official car, he behaved like a friend rather than a subordinate. He reminded me of the behavior of Raja Porus with his conqueror Alexander from the pages of Indian history. What impressed me was his dignity, and absence of obsequiousness of a government employee before his boss.
After our tea and a lot of small talk about family, friends and background, we had dinner together and then I dropped Nene at his residence in the chawl where he lived alone, as his parents had passed away, he had been the only child of his parents, and he had not married.
When I left, the picture of Nene again flashed into my mind, a man standing on a corridor of the office by a window like a man of leisure enjoying his idyllic solitude in the hubbub of a milling crowd. But in reality, a solitary desolate soul in a crowed milieu, perhaps feeling like a shipwrecked sailor coasted at an alien island with cannibals and beasts.
In two weeks, he was sitting at his table with all his files and visitors, with all his charges and work load restored as the Superintendent of Administration.
I taught him never to say ‘no’ to the unjust demands, and let them fritter out in waiting. Never to be brusque or motormouth. To reach his motto quietly and unobtrusively. I placed him directly under my charge and gave him a free hand to manage administration under my practical guidance. People wanting to have my private audience had to come through him, that enhanced his social standing in the office. In a few days he proved to be one of the best officers I ever had come across. Though rigid initially but pliable if explained with logic about the necessity.
When I moved to government quarters, and lived with my family, he would eat lunch with us on most Sundays. I heard whispers from office circles that Nene was courting a young widow, taking her to movies and eateries etc. but ignored it as a salacious gossip. Even if he was dating, he was not doing anything wrong and in addition, it was his own affair until he stepped on someone’s shoes.
But one day, while watching a matinee show in a movie house with wife and children, my wife noticed Nene with a woman in another row. Nene apparently saw us too. Against my prediction to wife that he would sneak away as was his shy nature to keep his secrets from his boss, he brought his woman friend around to meet us during the interval.
She was an orphan and a widow, who had married from her orphanage to her beau, who had married her going against his parents. But a year back, after a few years of happy marital life, her good husband passed away in an accident, leaving her in a lurch. She had nowhere to go but to return to her parental orphanage.
Nene used to be a regular visitor to the orphanage to pamper the little orphan kids with chocolates and toys. There, Nene met Sujata, it was her name, and they became friendly. They were in those days trying to find mutual companionship on a long-term basis. Nene choosing an orphan-widow for life-partner increased my respect for him.
Nene was wooden and very serious. But his woman friend Sujata had confided in my wife, “Nene could be very naughty in private. He was like a kid in his demands, very loud.” I could not associate a naughty child’s nature with no-nonsense Nene. But a proverb quotes - ‘Facts are stranger than fiction.’
That made me sure that Nene was normal and all his sex-related oddities whispered in office circles were figments of imagination of jealous minds. He was not homosexual, or queer, or impotent but a normal man. So, after months, when orphan Sujata married Nene, I and my wife gave her away as bride playing the roles of her foster-parents.
We had two sons, and we, my wife and me, were happy to adopt Nene’s orphan bride Sujata as our third child, the daughter we never had. We became proud parents-in-law of a son-n-law, Nene, also.
The same officer Nene, who had been considered as the Loch Ness monster of his office, now rose to the level of a lovable Nessie. He learnt from me not to kill the goose that laid golden eggs for the government coffer but made it lay more golden eggs with better size and quality, but cull it gently if it laid rotten eggs.
I got promoted and transferred out of Mumbai after five years of sojourn there, and so also Nene on both counts. He got his class-one rank and was posted out of Mumbai. We were aging almost together and as I calculated, would retire almost the same calendar year.
Nene remained childless, I would never know if it was the couple’s plan or destiny. Sujata and he sort of adopted Sujata’s little co-orphans of her former orphanage, looking after their small needs. They lavished their love on our children besides the orphans. They indoctrinated us into the culture of frequent orphanage visits, as I had indoctrinated him to channelize the flow of grease without getting smeared with it.
But the good time did not last long. In an accident while travelling to a pilgrimage, Nene passed away, Sujata returning to Nene’s empty house in the chawl, a heartbroken orphan widow again. We recovered from our grief faster, and brought Sujata home like any loving parents would have done, to live with us.
Nene also lived with us in our hearts, in various photographs in family albums, in a photograph with Sujata in her room, and in his garlanded enlarged bust hanging on a wall of our sitting room. He also lived in our every day’s small talk on the dining table during the breakfast, lunch and dinner as if he was expected any moment from a walk to partake the meal. (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.
Sajna
Once again, the dresses hanging on his clothesline align with my expectations. It's a pleasing scene from this balcony, a consistently perfect pattern. The woman who wears these garments remains a mystery, never revealing her face. Is she unwell? The dresses suggest a woman of modest build, perhaps slightly overweight, but undoubtedly with refined taste.
It's a relief that she remains faceless, eliminating any potential for jealousy. What if my assumptions are wrong? Perhaps she, like me, is a lonely individual. Maybe he neglects her, failing to provide the attention she craves. Why hasn't he ever brought her to the terrace or allowed her to handle the clothes? The possibility of steep stairs or vertigo crosses my mind. Observing him leaving the building alone every day raises questions about their relationship.
She might be engrossed in reading, writing, or working from home, confined to her workspace. The worn-out and tattered clothes hint at a lack of intimacy, or perhaps she's just adept at dressing herself. The imbalance in their clothing needs suggests different lifestyles. He rarely hangs his clothes, and when he does, it's on the far side of the terrace, out of my sight.
Rajeev
Aleena remains on the balcony, just a hundred yards away from my bedroom window. Despite the proximity, she feels distant, and I only know her as Aleena, unaware of her real name. Living alone, she appears to embody motherhood, with a figure that suggests she has borne children. My CCTV camera once focused on her belly, confirming at least one child.
Where are her kids and her man? Did she leave them or vice versa? Despite the solitude, I've spent two years subtly manipulating her thoughts with a display of various clothes on my terrace. Observing her reactions through the CCTV has become a source of pleasure.
Her predictable responses don't diminish her resourcefulness in weaving fresh stories. I've even deduced some words from her silent conversations. A poem titled "The Solitary Onlooker" emerged, mimicking "The Solitary Reaper."
There are days when she's late or absent from the balcony. Those moments affirm my deep affection for her. Separation seems to intensify the emotion of love, a sentiment I'm experiencing for the first time with someone as enchanting as her.
Is she the girl I desire, or is she precisely the person I aspire to be?
Sajna
For the first time, his absence on the terrace is prolonged, and the darkness in their home suggests they're away. My mind races with worry – are they ill, admitted to the hospital? The mere thought of him or his wife being unwell pains my heart. I scold myself for my insensitivity; who am I to resent his wife caring for him? They're a happy couple, and illness demands the support of a spouse.
Yet, I can't help but feel a sense of ownership over his presence, as if he belongs to me in some way. I've mustered the courage to call out to him, just for casual inquiries, but he's vanished at the exact moment I decide to do so. Worse, I must leave this apartment soon, leaving behind a place where I felt closest to him.
As I contemplate the new occupant, jealousy creeps in. I hope for someone less bold, maybe a man or a couple who won't call out to him. The possessiveness I feel surprises me; we've never even exchanged glances. My heart lies with the man I imagine as the husband of the lady with the dresses, though I can't confirm it.
I've woven a tale around those dresses, creating an idealized woman who is adored and cherished. I realize my fixation might be based on flimsy evidence, yet it has made my days bearable. It's a dangerous game, and I acknowledge the potential for deception, but sometimes fools have all the fun.
Rajeev
The pilgrimage proved futile; my thoughts were consumed by Aleena even at the temple. However, the journey was not entirely in vain. I return with bags filled with exotic clothes from different states, each a story waiting to unfold in Aleena's mind.
I plan to wear them before soaking them to give them a worn appearance, becoming the woman she gazes at. I anticipate the pleasure of watching her expressions and deducing the stories behind them, weaving my tales of being with her. It feels like a far more fulfilling self-realization than any pilgrimage could offer – a personal heaven, a moksha unspoken of in holy books.
Meanwhile, the landlord's persistent calls puzzle me. The rent is settled, and I've paid two years in advance. The ominous thought of my house burning down crosses my mind, but surely he would have messaged me about that. Dealing with him over the phone has always been a challenge, a mutual sentiment, it seems.
Sajna
Standing at his usual spot from where he caught his office bus, I fervently wished for a cancelled flight to return to my apartment, hoping he might come back and we wouldn't miss each other. Will he miss me as I miss him? For two full years, I lived in a dream, adoring and possessing him, yet he only existed in my imagination. The dream can go anywhere with me; it has nothing to do with an apartment or a terrace. I'm trying to comfort my mind and ease its agony.
Rajeev
Life turns upside down abruptly. Aleena is gone, and I may never see her again. The only thing she left behind was the space she lived in, now hastily rented by me. It feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume. The landlord revealed her name is Sajna, and she left to live with her ageing mother. The relationship we had was complex; I was a performer, and she my silent audience. Her responses shaped the narrative, creating a strong bond. I was shocked to hear the news, feeling like I had almost had a heart attack.
Houses are always for rent; we shift, leave, come back, or never return. The roles remain unchanged, determined by fate or karma. Good or bad, karma is a comforting thought, someone uncannily keeping track. Can it be altered, or is the choice itself predetermined? Where do we find answers?
The story turns to the woman who returned to Buddha without mustard seeds, realizing the inevitability of suffering. There is no guarantee of a bailout. Man is destined to fail, suffer, and lose, as gods define. Gods survive, flourish, and remain happy. To be like them, one must wear their costumes, fitting in through acting, guided by gut feelings.
From Aleena's balcony, now mine, I observe a human presence on my former terrace. A man hangs out his khaki uniforms, glancing in my direction with a smile. Oh, no, it is a woman. Very confident, masculine in movements, cute in appearance. What thoughts occupy her mind? As she finishes, she waves at me, initiating a morning greeting.
"Hi there, good morning!" she says.
"Good morning! New?" I inquire.
"Yup, but pretty old!"
"Partly true."
"Translation?"
"You are pretty but not old."
"Thanks!"
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.
“Where are we?” my wife asked. She was the one in the passenger seat, looking intently at the map on her lap and still she was asking me, the driver, “Where are we?” We were on the last leg of our trip to Europe by our “self-drive” car, lost “somewhere” on the outskirts of Paris.
I had to take the connecting road to the French expressway and then on to Calais, where the 8 p.m. ferry would take us to Dover. From there it was a matter of two hours by road to London and home.
I was anxious because if we missed the road to the expressway and went ashtray, it would take hours for us to get back on the right track to Calais. I had rehearsed the route on the map earlier.
But the ground reality in the massive and unfamiliar traffic flow of Paris was altogether a different proposition. If I had counted on the promptings of my wife to guide me, that reliance was misplaced as she was still struggling to find our bearings on the map. I saw no pointing going on without knowing where we were going.
So I put on the hazard blinkers and pulled over to the side to take a look at the map myself. The roads of Paris resembled a veritable maze, with no easy means of escape.
As I was tracing my finger over the area I thought we were in, a car pulled up in front of us. My heart gave a bump. It’s the police, I was sure, to take us to task for stopping in an “unauthorised” manner on a major road.
A lady in plain clothes came out and made straight for our car. A plain clothes policewoman tracking down illegal parking? She knocked on the glass on my wife’s side. My wife looked at me and, after a little hesitation, lowered the glass. “Do you need any help?” the lady asked in good English, though with an accent. For a moment I was non-plussed. After all, it’s not every day that a Frenchman (or woman) goes out of the way to help foreigners, especially from Great Britain.
There’s no love lost between the French and the British. That our car, with its right-hand drive, was from Great Britain was prominently advertised on its back by a sticker reading “GB”, which every British car had to display while on the Continent of left-hand drive cars.
I was shocked even more by a French lady speaking to us in English! No wonder I found myself fumbling for words. Dumbly I pointed at the map. Perhaps she could tell us where we were. “Where do you want to go?” she asked instead. When I told her that our aim was to catch the expressway to Calais, she gave an authoritative command, “Follow me!” As she rejoined the traffic after getting into her car, I followed close behind. Her car was far more powerful. So she had to drive slowly to let me keep up with her. Other cars overtook her, but she did not bother, taking care to keep our car in her sight.
I wondered what engagements she had to skip to stop for us. In Western vocabulary time was business and business was money. From the way she spoke and the expensive car she drove, she was no ordinary French housewife with plenty of time on her hands.
It seemed amazing that such a lady would willingly sacrifice her time just to help foreigners on the road, instead of zooming past us to her rendezvous. I may have been reading too much into her behaviour, without really knowing her. Even then, at that moment, she deserved to be placed in the company of angels.
She blew her horn to attract my attention after we had gone about ten kilometres. Raising her left hand over the roof of her car, she pointed her finger to the right, indicating to me to take a right turn at the approaching junction. As I made the correct turn towards the expressway, her pointed finger changed to a wave of her hand before her car was swallowed by the fast traffic.
To this day, I rue that I couldn’t return her wave. That’s the least I could have done. I was so engrossed in making the turn correctly that by the time I could look back, she was gone. I would have liked to have made the acquaintance of a real lady, a true representative of not only France and Europe, but of the entire civilised human race. Alas, the likes of her are rarely bred any more.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
She looked up again at the sky. It was getting darker. The pale November sun, after struggling hard through the accumulating layers of clouds had finally given in and had gone into hiding. She will be in trouble if the school bus did not turn up in time, and the trouble will be multiplied twofold if the boy on the bicycle turns up before the school bus does and finds her standing alone in the rain. She took a few steps back and squirmed under the asbestos gradient inclining over the porch of the small departmental store where she used to stand waiting for the school bus. She desperately wished she had not forgotten the umbrella, and wished more desperately for the boy on the bicycle not to show up. ‘The rain will stop him,’ she thought and wondered if she really wanted the boy not to show up. She was unable to decide. She felt her heart had been split into two, one part secretly expecting the boy to turn up and the other wishing, rather prudently, just its opposite.
It was a fortnight or so since she was seeing the boy repeatedly. He would cruise past the departmental store by which she stood waiting for the bus. She knew instinctively that he came there to see her and was filled with apprehension. At the same time, deep inside her there lurked a secret, irrepressible curiosity to know about him. He would flick a naughty smile at her when their eyes met and pedal away, only to return and have another look at her. Her heart would beat erratically and sweat beads break out on the back of her neck when he swished past her, smiling that naughty lopsided smile.
A thunder rumbled startling her out of her thoughts. Then she saw him emerging out of the curve where the street turned to left. And almost at the same time the school bus slithered in. She hurried out of the porch as the bus made its brief stop and the boy on the bicycle squeezed himself between her and the steps of the bus she was about to climb, shoving a crumpled piece of paper into her hand, and rubbed past her in one quick, flitting movement. She clutched the piece of paper instinctively, not knowing what she was doing and why, and scrambled into the bus. Another thunder crashed overhead and the sky opened up pouring a torrent of rain down as she took a seat by her friend Mala. She cast a furtive glance out through the window glass now hazy with the splatters of rain. The boy was there, astride the bicycle, looking straight at her, drenching in the heavy downpour. Their eyes met for a fraction of a moment and the bus rolled forward.
**
The demography of the small, nondescript township comprised mainly of the two major communities that though belonged to separate religious cults, lived in peace and harmony with hardly any discrepancy or disagreement. They had been doing that for years, as their forefathers did until recently and had never had even an exchange of offensive remark. But times have changed and so too the minds. She had not much idea what exactly it was except that some unexpected and untoward incident which happened during the ceremonial immersion of the idol of Goddess Duga had led to a skirmish between the two groups. May be some act or remark that was considered blasphemous by the other had scratched a scar on the flawless polish of professed brotherhood and tolerance. Every one guessed that a tension was brewing deep underneath but it was kept all hush hush. ‘Be careful, Rupa,’ her grandparents had warned her more than once. Do not roam around here and there with friends and come straight home from the school. There was, however, not a chance for whiling time away with friends since she commuted in the school bus. Hop into the bus that stopped at the departmental store at a quarter to ten and step out from it at the same spot at half past four in the afternoon. That was her routine-- unvarying and undeviating.
She had spent most part of her schooling years in this town, with her parents and elder brother. Life was easy and cheerful with her maternal grandparents staying close by until her father got his order of posting in a city outside the state and her family shifted there leaving her with her grandparents. It was her final year at school and she was supposed to join them after the pre-board examination. ‘It is just a question of a few months,’ father said consoling her. ‘Study seriously and do not trouble your grandparents. Ask uncle if you need anything special and never go to the market on your own.’ There was no belying of the fact that she loved her grandparents and uncle but to stay away from her parents for months was an ordeal which she was not sure she could smoothly pass through because now she had to grapple with not just the tough syllabus of the final year and the long, laborious study hours but the frustration resulting from living away from her parents.
And then, there was the boy on the bicycle.
He was, she admitted to herself gingerly, a handsome boy and looked decent. Every day he cycled past the spot where she stood waiting for the school bus but never came close or behaved in a way that would have seemed offensive. He just smiled at her and moved away. The fear that haunted her in the beginning at the thought of seeing the boy was slowly replaced by an embarrassing shyness which gave way to curiosity. The boy seemed to have become a habit with her in the last fifteen days or so and she was beginning to miss him if he did not show up in time. She admitted to herself reluctantly and a bit guiltily too, that the pang of living away from her parents had lost its brunt in a remarkable degree after she had met him. Amazing!!
**
‘Nasty weather,’ Mala said, interrupting the flow of her thoughts. ‘Rain in early winter! I would like to spend the day in bed, wrapped in a blanket watching a movie. Won’t you?’
‘Oh yes.’ She blurted out absently, her mind not registering much of what Mala said, her fingers tightening around the crumpled piece of paper the boy had shoved into her hand as she scrambled into the bus, desperately wanting to find a little solitude to take a look at it. ‘What are you thinking?’ Mala asked probingly, determined to hold her attention. She did not have an immediate answer to that. ‘About the growing tension between the two communities in our area.’ She said for the sake of saying something.
‘Why are you so serious about it? These are passing phases. Brief skirmishes and rows occur now and then during religious festivals but they do not take a serious turn. By the way did you watch the new movie? It is a historical romance. I watched it on my sister’s phone… simply loved it’ Mala’s eyes sparkled as she mentioned the movie.
‘Not yet,’ she said distantly, her thoughts centring around the folded paper in her clammy grip.
**
She cast a furtive look around to ascertain no one was watching her and took out the piece of paper from the book of English prose where it lay hidden, pressed between a couple of pages. She put it on the book and smoothened it with her fingers. It looked like a page torn from a writing pad, glossy and a faded green in colour. There were only a few lines written on the paper that held the muted smell of some perfume. The boy had sprayed it on the paper, she guessed and ran her gaze on the contents, holding her breath.
‘Dearest,’ it began. ‘I do not know how you will accept it but even as I tried my best, I could not resist the impulse to express my feelings on pen and paper. Neither you nor I have a mobile phone in our possession to make the communication easier. Hence this letter. I have no compunction in admitting that I have fallen in love with you on the very first day I saw you standing in the porch of that shop. You are the loveliest thing I have ever met. I do not want to ask you if you feel the same way about me. I would like to remain under the impression that you do. It is better this way. Love……lots and lots……..
‘ A Y ’
‘A Y’?
What is A Y?
Must be the first and last letters of his name, she decided. There are a number of names beginning with the letter A and ending with Y. Is it Ajay? Atrey? Amiy? Abhay? ….. She wracked her brain making guesses at the name of the boy. ‘He wants to keep his name a secret,’ she thought. ‘As if I am dying to know his name…!’ she said to herself and tucked the letter back between the pages of the book.
‘Hey, Rupa, come here and join us.’ One of her friends shouted from near the compound wall where they sat clustered gushing over the pictures of film stars in a movie magazine. She let out a deep breath and wandered over to the spot.
**
Several names beginning with the letter A and ending with Y came crowding into her mind as she lay in her bed that night, open eyed, ensnared in the magic of the words the boy wrote. Later when she finally slept, she dreamt of him. He stood in the bright sunshine holding something like a mirror that captured the reflection of the sun and turned it between his fingers to make the light fall on her face. She hid her face with her hands to block the light and he laughed, a naughty, amused laughter.
She woke up, rubbing her eyes. The light of the morning sun that had climbed quite some distance up filtered into the room through the chinks of the window panels.
**
She left home earlier that day.
Her heart was beating unusually fast as she waited for the school bus.
Was she waiting for the school bus? Or the boy on the bicycle? The boy whose name begins with A and ends with Y. She asked herself. Did she or did not she wish to see him? A tricky question and she had no answer to that. Her reasoning mind advised her not to, but her heart was prodded on by an urge that was irresistible. It was all so confusing!
Then she saw him approaching, pedalling rather lazily, unhurriedly as if he knew she would be waiting for him. He flashed his naughty, playful smile at her as he rode past the shop, and her lips parted involuntarily in an answer. He rode on a few meters and then made a U-turn. Again, he smiled at her, and again she smiled back.
The bus rolled to a stop and she clambered into it hurriedly. She took a seat by the window and looked out. The boy stood at the same spot where she had been standing, his gaze fixed at the window of the bus. She turned her face away.
**
It rained again the next day. She stood in the porch of the shop. Rain in November is not unusual though. But it made the weather cold and bleak. She shivered a little. ‘He will not venture out in the rain, ‘ she thoughts, feeling slightly disappointed. Rain could be a magic at times as it was now… she wished to stand next to the boy whose name was AY, inhaling the wet earthy smell, her body seeping in the warmth of his closeness. Her face flushed and she felt a hotness behind her ears as she imagined herself standing close to him in the rain. She tried to fight the thought off her mind.
And then she sighted him at the curve to the left of the street. He was in a raincoat, most part of his face hidden under the rainproof cap. He rode straight to the shop, got down the cycle and hurried into the shop without flicking a glance at her. ‘Why didn’t he look at me and smile?’ She was surprised and felt ignored and that made her upset. ‘She had come early today just to see a bit more of him, and here he is, behaving as if she is not there!’ She thought angrily and wished for the bus to reach soon. The boy strode out, carrying a polythene bag that looked stuffed, she guessed, may be with grocery items. He wandered over to her casually, careful not to rouse the interest of the man at the counter of the shop who looked out at the rain impassively, pushed a folded paper into her hand, and strode away, not stopping.
The bus rolled in lazily through the rain. She ran to the bus and got in, still clutching at the folded paper he gave her.
**
‘Love,
I will be waiting for you at the post office square at five in the afternoon tomorrow. The public library is at a few meters walk on the street that goes to the left from the square. We will go there. The library is a safe place to meet. Get down from the bus and walk in the opposite direction on the main road to reach the square. Can’t wait to meet you.
AY’
She folded back the letter and tucked it between the pages of the same book where she had kept the earlier one. The English teacher was explaining the lines from a poem.. ‘all day the rain has glided, wave and mist and dream---- drenching the gross and heather, a gossamer stream….
Yes, she was drenching in a gossamer stream …. ..of Love ..’ she thought and smiled secretly.
***
‘There had been a scuffle between two young men over a small accident. The accident was nothing serious. No one was hurt and no damage to either vehicle. But the two fellows had a heated exchange of offensive words. There was some angry mention of the earlier clash during the immersion of the goddess’s idol last month, too. The hostility is lying dormant now but I fear it might surface any time. The tension is written large on people’s faces.’
Her uncle declared on returning from the market.
‘I am worried about Rupa,’ her grandfather said. ‘Of course, she is safe in the school. The school bus is okay, too. I am concerned how safe it is for her to walk down from the bus stoppage to the house. The distance is about two hundred meters or so.’
‘That part of the road is safe. Not much crowded.’ Her uncle said, trying to alleviate his father’s fear. ‘It is the market area that is most sensitive. Better to avoid crowded places till the issue is peacefully settled.’
‘Better for her to stay out from school for a few days.’ Grandmother said, looking worried.
‘We are having extra classes for clarifying doubts,’ She protested. ‘I cannot afford to miss them.’
‘It is all right.’ Her uncle said. ‘I will pick you up at the bus stop from today onwards.’ She was dismayed. She had to meet AY at five in the afternoon. ‘But I will be late today. Our last class is at four thirty..’ she lied, not looking at her uncle.
‘Well then. Do one thing. Make a call from your school phone to me before you start. I will reach at the stop to pick you up.’ He wrote down his phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to her.
‘I remember your number,’ she said. ‘Keep it.. in case you don’t remember at the right time.’
‘All right, uncle.’ She said accepting the paper.
**
She got down from the bus at four thirty and walked to the porch of the shop. There were not much traffic on the street at that hour. The shop too was practically empty. No one was there in the counter. The boy who signed his name as AY would be at the post office square by five. It would take her about ten or twelve minutes to walk in the opposite direction on the road that led to her home to reach the post office square. She had to kill a little time somewhere before making a start. She looked around to decide where to wait. A few meters ahead of her, across the street there was a stationary shop that sold notebooks, pens and pencils and other such items. She had never visited that shop before. She decided the stationary shop would be the most ideal place to while away a few minutes and moved towards it. She bought a notebook and an inch scale though there was not much need of them. She started off exactly at four forty and headed for the post office square.
She had walked not more than a hundred meters when she smelled the smoke in the air.
And in the next instant saw the thick, winding curls of black smoke swirling up to the sky. ‘Must be the municipality people. They have set fire to a heap of garbage on the roadside.’ She thought and moved on. Then she heard the noise of glasses breaking and angry screams. A loud uproar accompanied by harsh, terrifying metallic rattle. She saw men and women running towards the direction she was walking from, panting hard. ‘What is happening?’ she inquired, feeling a frisson of fear. ‘ Run away to some safe place,’ one woman who strode ahead pulling at the hand of her kid son warned her. ‘They are setting fire to the vehicles and vandalizing the shops. Go back to your home, girl. Go back, at this very instant!’ the woman ran away dragging along the kid.
Instinctively she knew that she could not move any farther. It would be dangerous. She decided to return home, her heart heavy with a deep sadness.
Even as she turned to walk back home she heard the heavy, rushing footfalls behind her and almost within a minute the street was thronged with men. An angry, ugly mass, who shouted and sloganeered in an ear-splitting cacophony. Some of them were brandishing sticks and batons and cycle chains.
She ran off the edge of the road and hid herself behind a massive tree. She stood there shaking from head to foot, her heart thumping, breathing in wild, scratchy gasps.
She did not know how but suddenly she was swept out from the shelter behind the tree and was flung into the tossing, rushing currents of a frenzied humanity. She struggled frantically to find a support to steady herself. But they were all around her, angry, shouting people, closing in on her, crushing and smothering her.
And before she was sucked in and was bludgeoned by the raving mob a hand pressed hard over her shoulder and pulled her out to the safety of a narrow alley branching off the right side of the road.
‘Hop on the backseat,’ the boy on the bicycle said in a voice quivering in anxiety and urgency. She stood undecided for a brief moment wondering what to do, caught in a terrible dilemma. ‘Don’t think so much. You must move out of this place fast.’ He handed her a black scarf. ‘Cover your head and face’, he said impatiently and mounted the saddle seat. Finding no alternative, she obeyed him, wincing slightly at the discomfort of sitting on the bare bars of iron, not able to see properly where they were going, but not complaining. She did not know why but she trusted him and was confident that no harm would be brought to her when she was with him.
He rode up to a circuitous path, leading away from the main road, with almost no traffic. The noise faded away as they moved on. The dust-laden narrow street they rode along was fringed on both sides by wild shrubs and sand patches. It curved to right abruptly at one point, and slithered to the old railway station. They rode on. There was not a soul in sight. It seemed all the people of the town had thronged in the market area and the post office square, fighting, vandalizing shops, setting fire to the vehicles which were trapped there, and shouting blasphemous slogans.
He stopped by a tiny, rundown place that was somewhere between a room and a shed located under the ramp of a pedestrian bridge that sloped down to an unpeopled platform, no longer in use. A few rusted bogies of an old engineless goods train stood on the track, a behemoth silhouetted against the darkening sky. She looked uncertainly at the hut or if it could be called so, a room. It was a murky, derelict place, abandoned may be for months. They peered in. In the slowly inspissating darkness of the advancing evening they could just make out a stack of soiled and dusty benches against the back wall, which perhaps once were used in the railway coaches but now were rendered useless, their cushions peeping out brazenly from the slashed and torn out upholstery. There was perhaps a toilet adjacent to the place. The smell of urine assailed their nostrils with an outrageous impudence. But the place seemed a safe haven in the given situation. They stepped in, pressing their hands to their nose in a vain effort to hold back the stench. The gravels in the cracks on the cement floor grated and crunched under their feet as they walked guardedly inside.
**
They stood plastered to the damp, musty wall of the narrow room, in the thick, pulsating darkness, breathing hard. They stood quiet and stiff, afraid to make even the slightest noise, let alone talk, their hot breaths coiling and twisting together like a couple of snakes, and feeling each other’s presence in an intimacy that was unfamiliar yet exciting. Some animal, may be a mouse or a mole went scurrying by her feet. She stifled a scream. The grip of the boy’s hand on hers tightened in a gesture of assurance.
After a long time, may be half an hour, but which seemed like an eternity, they could hear the siren of the police vans followed by the sound of angry, shrill whistles at a distance.
More minutes passed. There was silence everywhere. Even the sound of the siren from the police vans had died away.
Cautiously, casting furtive looks around to ensure no one was there, they tiptoed out of the dingy, ramshackle room. A naked bulb that hung from a post at a few feet away from that old platform, scattered a dim light on a small patch of the deserted lane. The boy pulled out his bicycle that he had stood against an old, abraded wall, hidden amidst wild growths of weeds and bushes. ‘It seems safe now,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go.’
She watched him as he mounted the saddle seat. ‘Climb on to the rear seat’, he said. ‘I will drop you at your home.’
‘What is your name? She asked without making a move. Her voice was unsteady.
The boy chuckled into the darkness. ‘Guess’ He said naughtily.
‘You signed AY. What does AY mean?’ she asked again, persistent.
‘AY for Always Yours.’ The boy laughed shortly, reached out for her hand and pressed it lightly. ‘Now get up on the bicycle,’ he said dismissing the conversation. Perhaps he was still apprehensive and that was why did not want to talk much, she reasoned with herself.
Without protest she took her place on the carrier-seat at the back and they rode away from the place. She knew it was not the right time to wish so, but she wanted the ride to go on forever.
He stopped at the entrance of the by-lane that led to her grandparents’ house. She got down as if stepping out of a dream, a ‘gossamer stream’ as in the poem, she thought, and strode ahead, repressing the blind urge to take a look back. She knew he was there, standing by his cycle, waiting to see she had reached home safely.
She saw her uncle and grandfather standing outside of the house, panicky and desperate. ‘There she is,’ her uncle ran towards her, her grandfather at his heels. In the next moment she was in the arms of her uncle. ‘Oh God! Where were you dear? Are you alright? We were worried to death …’ He stroked her head as the questions gushed out of him unstoppably.
‘Let her come inside first,’ her grandfather said and cradling his arm around her led him into the house. Only then she cast a brief look behind and saw him riding past her house towards the main street.
**
She did not go to the school the next day. Not the day after. Her pre-board examination was drawing close and soon after the classes would remain suspended for enabling the students to prepare for the school finals.
‘You will not commute by the school bus anymore. I will drop you at school and pick you back till the classes were dropped.’ Her uncle announced. ‘These are crucial times. Any untoward incident might happen any time. We cannot afford to take any risk now.’
Peace had returned to the town and everything had got back to normal in a week. But she was not allowed to go out anywhere alone, not even to the house of her friends for group studies.
She did not, could not, find a chance to meet the boy who called himself AY for once thereafter. Her pre board examination was over soon and she had to remain indoors preparing for her final examination. Her parents made a visit next week.
‘I have spoken to the college authorities there. There won’t be any trouble in getting a seat in the science stream if you score just eighty percent in the finals. But I know you would do better than that. Do not worry. You would be joining us in just a month or two.’ Her father assured her before returning.
**
They stood queued up before the counter waiting for their turn to fill up the forms for the final examination. It was almost mid-February… the month of spring and the song of the koyal. The month of love!! Girls of junior classes stood in clusters giggling and chatting and making their plans for celebrating the days of love. But the final year students looked serious, edgy and anxious. They talked about the possible questions, and the right ways of answering them and their worries and their premonitions. The fear of the ensuing final examination that lurked on the horizon of their thoughts had cast an ominous shadow over the rainbow ecstasy of love. A koyal began to sing somewhere from a tree in the corner of the large compound wall and a waft of cool south breeze swept past her face, ruffling her hair delicately. She felt a prick at her heart. She had not seen the boy, AY, since the evening of that nasty clash.
She came out of the gate of the school with Mala discussing a complicated sum of Mathematics and saw him standing under the big tree across the road. Her heart gave a lurch. Her feet refused to move forward. ‘What happened?’ Mala asked. ‘I will wait for my uncle here,’ She lied. ‘But you said he would not be reaching till four pm. Come, let us have some ice cream before we part. You will be leaving this place for good after the examinations. God knows when will we get another chance to spend some quality time together.’ Mala pulled at her hand.
‘I won’t be leaving immediately after the examination. We will have enough time to spend in each other’s company. Do not worry. I do not feel like having ice cream now.’
‘Mala’s face registered disappointment.’ ‘Okay. I will leave then, see you during the examination. Bye.’ She waved at an autorickshaw and got in. ‘All the best,’ Mala said and waved at her as the autorickshaw moved away.
She glanced at her wrist watch. It was a quarter to four. Her uncle would not be arriving to pick her up until after four. She looked around to ensure nobody was watching and wandered towards the tree across the road. The boy looked deep into her eyes. The earlier sparkle in his eyes had given way to a shadow of gloom. He smiled at her. It was not the naughty smile he used to flick at her earlier, but a sad, rueful smile, an effort at camouflaging the hurt within. ‘I missed you.’ He said in a strangled voice after a long moment. She did not say anything and stood still fixing her eyes on an invisible something on the ground. ‘Did you miss me?’ He asked sounding anxious as if his life depended on her reply. She raised her eyes and looked steadily at him. ‘Yes.’ She mumbled incoherently. His face lit up for a brief moment. ‘I have brought this for you,’ he held out a small envelope that looked slightly bulged. She took the envelope and stowed it carefully into her sling bag. It was almost four. ‘Uncle would be reaching. I must leave,’ she said. ‘When shall I see you again?’ he asked eagerly. A hard sob stuck at her throat, threatening to choke her. Her lips moved but no words came out. She turned and walked away, crossed the road in quick steps sand went inside the school gate about just the moment her uncle brought his motorbike to a halt.
As they drove away she stole a glance back. The boy AY was still there, standing under the tree. He waved at her when he saw her looking back. She turned her face away and wiped the drops of tear that trickled down her eyes with her left hand.
She opened the envelope after ensuring that everyone had gone to bed and took out the contents. There was a half-bloomed red rose inside and a folded paper of green as usual, torn out from a writing pad. She unfolded the paper and read the letter.
‘Love,’ he had written, ‘I had missed you like crazy. The memory of the evening in that smelly, dingy room will forever keep my dreams fragrant. Strange that our first meeting was in such a place and in such a situation. We could not even talk. I want to meet you again and again, talk to you, hold your hand. Please let me know when and where could we meet again. I will wait for you by your school on the last day of your examination. Please make some excuse at home and meet me. Love you more than my life!!
AY
But she had never met him again. On the last day of her examination her father had reached at her school, before the final bell rang. She could not think of a possible excuse to move across the road to the other side. She knew he would be waiting under the tree across the road.
With a tremendous effort she checked the urge to look back. The next day she had left for the place where her father was posted.
**
‘We should try this one.’ Rohit said. ‘My colleagues at the office had strongly recommended this joint. It happens to be the best biryani centre in the city,’ they say.
Rupa smiled fondly at the boyish eagerness of her husband.
She had moved in to this city to join her husband who worked as an IT professional in a multinational company there. Getting a transfer in her job was not easy but her father had some connection in the upper circle. That, and her uncle’s political clout had finally made it possible. So there she was, finally settled here in this city, with her husband, after almost three years of their marriage.
And it was Rohit’s plan to celebrate the entire month of February, the month they were married, in visiting places, dining at different restaurants and watching movies and theatres.
She looked up at the neon sign above that flashed the name of the place. ‘ALWAYS YOURS’ and under it written in comparatively smaller letters ‘A. Yaseer’s Specialities’
‘An uncommon name for a restaurant, isn’t it? Hope the biryani would be unique too.’ Rohit said, and laughed shortly. Rupa stared at the name, wondering vaguely why it sent a strange stir through her.
‘Let’s go in,’ Rohit said. They entered pushing the large glass door and stopped short. The ambience inside was something like out of a dream; soft music, and concealed, diffusive lighting, chandeliers suspended from the ornate ceiling, and elegant table settings with fine China, crystal glasses and silverware. Thick, expensive brocaded draping across the walls cut the place off the rest of the world giving it an ethereal look. The place was designed and decorated to provide the customers a luxurious dining experience. She looked at Rohit, who seemed to be quite impressed by the lavishness of the atmosphere. A waiter in an elaborate uniform hurried in to receive them. ‘Welcome sir, welcome madam,’ he said effusively. ‘Would you like to dine in a family room? They are on the first floor.’ He pointed to a flight of stairs at one end of the spacious hall that went curving up to the first floor.
‘Yes. We would like that. ‘ Rohit said and moved towards the stairs, beckoning her to follow him. As they reached the landing a man, dressed in an expensive two-piece suit emerged from a door across the wide dining space. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Rohit and Rupa, as if he was not expecting them there. In the next instant he managed to get hold of himself and flashed his professional, amiable smile at them. ‘Welcome to Always Yours, sir!’ He greeted them politely. ‘This way please!’ He guided them to a corridor leading off the hall, to a row of tastefully designed rooms at the far end of it. ‘You have a fine joint here,’ Rohit exclaimed, in genuine admiration. Do you serve only biriyani?’ He inquired. ‘Biryani is the speciality of this place, sir, but we try to cater to the tastes of our heterogenous diners. We serve here multiple non-vegetarian dishes including seafood. You can have ice cream too.’
The man looked vaguely familiar. Rupa wondered if she had seen him somewhere before.
He stopped outside a room with a glass door. ‘Please come in. He pushed the door open and stood aside to let them in. It was cosy and cool inside, not so lavish as the dining hall downstairs but quite comfortable and inviting.
‘Are you the manager here?’ Rohit asked holding out a friendly hand. The man shook it warmly. ‘I am the owner, Ahammad Yaseer is the name. Happy Valentine’s Day to both of you.’
‘Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too,’ Rohit wished him back in his usual convivial manner.
‘Thank you, but I don’t happen to have a Valentine of mine!’ the man chuckled, an easy, naughty chuckle it was.
‘Not married yet? Never in love?’ Rohit asked through an amiable smile.
‘No’ to the first one, ‘yes’ to the second,’ Ahammad Yaseer laughed. A short, mysterious laugh.
Rupa’s heart gave a lurch. It was the same naughty, amused chuckle! Her thoughts raced back to an evening in a dingy, smelly, rundown room under the slope of a footbridge of an old railway platform, the hot assuring grip of a clammy hand on hers, her hot breath mingling with the breath of the boy’s who called himself AY, and what he had said when she asked him what the initials AY meant.
A Y … Ahammad Yaseer!
Always Yours!!
She now knew why he hadn’t revealed his name to her, why in that fateful evening, he had reached the spot where she stood concealing herself behind that tree, and rescued her from the clutches of the angry mob. She knew that he had anticipated the dreadful event and had come prepared to carry her away along that circuitous path leading to that unused railway platform, in case anything went wrong. He was sure that the road was safe and nobody from his community would suspect or attack her if she was found with him. And she knew the reason now why he had asked her to drape her head in the black scarf!
She looked up at A Y and their eyes locked. And she could not take her eyes back, as if she was under some kind of a spell.
‘Is this a family business? Or your personal choice to be a hotelier?’ Rohit asked. The spell lifted. Rupa looked away.
‘My father had a small restaurant in my hometown. I had always been a fan of good food. I did a course in hotel management after completing graduation in commerce and came here to try my luck.’ AY replied, his gaze hovering still over her.
‘It seems luck has favoured you,’ Rohit smiled.
‘Yes, at least in this.’ He said, a cloud of gloom crossing his face.
‘I must ask you to excuse me sir,’ Ahmmad Yaseer said abruptly, swung on his heels and strode out of the room.
‘Nice gentleman! Isn’t he?’ Rohit remarked looking at the glass door he had gone out through.
‘Yes,’ she said limply.
**
The biryani was lavishly delicious and so also the dishes of chicken. But she had lost her appetite, and went through the pretence of eating just to satisfy her husband. ‘Why don’t you eat? ‘ Rohit looked searchingly at her. ‘I have developed a nasty headache suddenly,’ she said. ‘That’s too bad. The biryani is just divine. I won’t want you to miss it. I will ask the waiter to pack it for us to take back home.
A waiter arrived carrying a small bouquet of roses and a glossy, scented card where, embossed in golden letters was the greetings ….. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day… AY’. ‘Our boss wishes you a happy Valentine’s Day sir,’ he said politely. Thank you,’ Rohit said and rose to his feet. They climbed down the stairs and reached the dining hall on the ground floor. ‘Where is your boss?’ Rohit asked one waiter. He moved behind the counter to enter a chamber where perhaps his boss was. And she saw him walking towards them, his face beaming in a broad, cordial smile. Rohit shook his hand again. ‘All the dishes were fabulous, and a big thanks for the lovely roses.’ Rohit said. ‘Visit again, sir. I will be delighted.’ ‘Sure,’ Rohit walked up to the glass door. Another waiter came hurrying, handed the parcel of packed foot to Rohit and held the door open for them. Rupa turned to look behind. AY stood by the door, his gaze fixed on her. The smile had vanished and a shadow of melancholy had taken its place.
She hurried out to the street.
**
She lay in the bed, wide awake, gripped by a strange restlessness. Rohit had gone to sleep long back and his light snoring rippled across the room. She looked out. A pale, crescent moon floated lazily across a misty sky. She walked over to the wooden closet built into the wall and carefully pulled out a small suitcase that contained the certificates of her academic qualifications. Stowed away under a couple of files and a small stack of papers there was a small folder inside which was a leather-covered diary. She drew back the small zip on its inner flap and took out the letters. There were only three of them. They had gone a bit smudgy but the writing was clear. She rummaged inside the flap and took out a few dried -petals of rose. They too had gone brittle, browned, and dark at the edges. She breathed out a heavy sigh. ‘Forgive me!’ She mumbled indistinctly, and tore the letters into tiny bits. Carrying the pieces of the paper and the wilted petals she went to the washroom, flung them into the toilet pan and flushed.
She waited briefly as the bits of papers were sucked into the rushing water, wiped her tears and lumbered back to the bedroom. She now knew that nothing would have come off the dream, a gossamer dream, she had chased years back, but still her heart felt unusually heavy.
She lay on the bed and glanced at the glossy card AY had given them with the Valetine Day’s wish embossed on it, and at the bouquet of roses on the bedside table. She would not destroy them. They were for her and her husband.
A mysterious smile crossed her face as she snuggled over to Rohit and closed her eyes.
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
Thank God it was a Sunday!
Things would have been worse had it been a weekday.
The air was abuzz with Ramesh’s voice announcing that he had lost his Zoology Record.
“Did anyone see my Zoology Record?” his voice rang out in all despair.
This was nothing new. He was always misplacing books or notebooks or keys....the list is endless.
The only person in the house who was so irresponsible !! Always misplacing important things!
His mother Sumathi was busy laying the placements on the table for breakfast and asked,
“Did you search every where? Who is there to take your Record? You always misplace books and notebooks! This has become a constant habit with you.”
She rushed off to the kitchen to bring the dishes.
His grandmother who was pounding betel leaves and nut in the small bronze pounder added to the conversation.
“All inherited from the grandfather. This old man would have his specs on his nose and will be searching all over the countryside for them – harassing everyone in the process. A typical replica of his grandfather,“ she continued with her pounding. She was sure that this was just a “storm in a tea cup” and would pass off lightly.
Grandfather smiled with pride.
Yes, at the age of eighty, he was still very active. His walk was brisk. He was a voracious reader and would pass funny comments on the dishes on the table, being capable of pointing out the shortcomings with subtle criticisms without hurting anyone in particular.
“Don’t criticize my forgetfulness my dear wife. Even Einstein had a very poor memory you know? Once he was found searching for the bus ticket inside the bus and the conductor seems to have told him, “It doesn’t matter
Mr Einstein. I remember you buying a ticket,” to which Einstein replied, “Ah that’s fine. But I must know where I have to get off. I need my ticket for that.” Ha ha ha! And he was a great Scientist.”
Given half the chance, he would quote Einstein and somehow make people forget about his absent mindedness.
Grandpa imagined that he was no less than Einstein as he drew a chair and sat for breakfast. He cast his eyes on the vessel now which his dear daughter-in-law had placed on the table. Steam was rising out of the vessel which contained hot spicy pongal. A wonderful fragrance of ghee pervaded the room and so was the enticing smell from the vessel containing the hot sambar. The dear daughter- in - law does cook well!! Training from my wife, he thought.
“Thank God, you are planning to do Environmental Engineering and not Medicine,” said Shankar, Ramesh’s father who had by now reached the table and taken his seat. “Else, you may end up leaving a wad of cotton or a small scalpel inside the patient and stitch him up. This is why it’s said that God knows what exactly to allot to each person.” His eyes gleamed as he saw the contents of the vessel. He loved pongal with dollops of ghee and cashew nuts.
“Did you do combined study the day before?” asked Mahesh, Ramesh’s brother. “I remember Senthil, your friend bringing some notebook with him, while I was parking my bike when I returned from office.”
Ramesh’s sister Swapna was quick to answer.
“That was the Botany record, anna. He did not take any notebook from Ramesh. I was here watching them as they left,” she quickly came to Senthil’s defence, to which Mahesh’s wife Ramya raised her eyebrows making sure that no one noticed her.
“Why is this girl defending Senthil? Looks like there is something brewing between the two..hmmm..I am worried. Grandpa is so caste conscious! I hope it is just a crush- a teenage crush,” she thought. She herself had a crush on the actor Dev Anand during her college days and had collected his photographs for a while. It is but natural at this age. Calf love - she thought.
Ramya drew a chair and sat next to her husband. It was just six months since they had got married.
Grandma avoided breakfast in the morning and had two tumblers of oats in a silver bowl, which she would not let anyone else handle. After drinking the contents, she would personally wash the bowl and wipe it clean and keep it on the shelf. It was an heirloom.
She was still busy pounding betel nuts and leaves.
It was an unwritten rule in the house, that twice a month on Sundays, they ordered for dishes and a sweet from a nearby famous hotel and cooked only rice at home. Today was one such Sunday and Ramesh’s mother had no kitchen work after the massive breakfast she had prepared. The Grandma would eschew any hotel food but she had the Pongal, Sambar and curd rice. She would adjust with any food. Everyone in the house adored her.
“I will help you Ramesh with the search for your Zoology Record. I am sure it must be somewhere in some room!” his mother said, helping herself to the two dosas she had made for herself. She disliked Pongal which was a favourite with everyone at home.
For a few moments there were no voices and only the sounds of munching and tinkling sound of the ladles and spoons when Ramesh broke the silence.
“Tomorrow I have to submit my record, Amma. I hope I get it back somehow. I have some drawings to do.”
“I don’t understand why you cannot replace the book on your table after your study time. You carry them to every nook and corner! I really don’t understand when you are going to become responsible!” Shankar said and got up from the chair, taking his empty plate and walking away.
An unwritten rule that everyone one cleared the table of his / her plate. Grandpa was no exception either.
Grandmother had stopped her work and was enjoying the mashed betel leaves and nuts.
She would join her son Shankar in a while and watch the Cricket Match. Rohit Sharma was her favourite.
“Aw!! Unable to sit with my novel even on a Sunday morning that calls for no cooking. This Ramesh is so irresponsible. I have to spend precious time searching for his book. Wonder what Hercule Poirat is saying to Hastings about that murder!! Always, this fellow has to create problems like these!,” Ramesh’s mother muttered . She was in the midst of reading an Agatha Christie Novel she had brought home from the lending library. She was a great fan of Chrristie.
Ponnamma the maid came down the stairs after drying the clothes on the clothesline in the terrace.
In her hand she held Ramesh’s Zoology Record Note .
“Chinna Ayya (young master) you had left this on the terrace on the water tank. Thank God it did not rain last night. Else the notebook would have got soaked. And you have such nice drawings in them” She was proud of the fact that she could read English, having studied up to 7th Standard! Her only son was studying in an English Medium School and she was very happy about it.
Ramesh sprang from the chair and grabbed the Note from her.
“Oh! Thank you Ponnamma. Thank you so much ! I really don’t know what I would have done without it. I thought I had lost it.”
“Well, you must overcome this habit of leaving books at the place you sit last Chinna Ayya. What if it had rained last night?” She scolded him with “chaste“ Tamil words and went out to the backyard through the kitchen.
Ramesh’s mother Sumathi heaved a sigh of relief. “Now I will know who murdered the rich old woman...I don’t have to wait!“ she thought.
Peace reigned once again!
Usha Surya.- Have been writing for fifty years. Was a regular blogger at Sulekha.com and a few stories in Storymirror.com. Have published fifteen books in Amazon / Kindle ... a few short story collections, a book on a few Temples and Detective Novels and a Recipe book. A member of the International Photo Blogging site- Aminus3.com for the past thirteen years...being a photographer.
A TALE OF SURPRISES AND REDEMPTION
Story -1
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.
Story 2
Rural Roots and Urban Rhythms
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.
Story -3
Whispers of Friendship
In the realm of emotions, where love painted the sky with the hues of a summer day, Niharika and Sumit embarked on a journey that unfolded like a gentle monsoon breeze through a grey friendship sky. The picturesque setting of Banaras Hindu University, with its ancient architecture and vibrant campus life, served as the backdrop for their unique tale—a tapestry woven with the threads of connection and the palette of genuine camaraderie.
The delicate dance began with the fluttering of Niharika's feminine eyes, her cheeks delicately brushed with the softest pink, and the melodious jingle of an extra bangle adorning her elegant wrist. Yet, the connection between Niharika and Sumit transcended the ordinary, reaching beyond the typical narrative of love. It was a meeting orchestrated by the Universe, a magical encounter that unfolded during a field trip to the storied city of Sarnath.
Sumit, with his almond brown eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of centuries, gazed at Niharika with a profound appreciation. In the ordinary rhythm of university life, they found themselves sharing a berth on the train, traversing the landscapes that mirrored the ancient mysteries they sought to uncover in their studies of archaeology. The Sarnath Museum became a majestic backdrop to their growing connection, its walls echoing with the whispers of history as they exchanged anecdotes, their laughter resonating like a harmonious melody through the corridors of time.
Returning from their archaeological expedition, their bond deepened against the enchanting ambiance of the university. Sumit, with his towering intellect and a smile that could rival the sun, became more than a fellow student—he became a confidant, a beacon of support in the labyrinth of university life. Niharika found herself enchanted, her heart intoxicated by the mere presence of Sumit. Their conversations, held in the quiet corners of the campus or under the shade of ancient trees, became a sanctuary where she could lay bare her thoughts, feelings, and childhood stories.
As they sipped kullad chai on the BHU campus, surrounded by the timeless beauty of the architecture, Sumit, with his characteristic charm, complimented Niharika's eyes. He likened them to the ocean, a vast expanse that beckoned exploration. His words painted a portrait of admiration against the backdrop of the university's rich history, and Niharika, blushing, felt like the luckiest girl in the tapestry of BHU life. Yet, amidst the compliments and stolen moments, they both remained grounded in the realm of friendship.
The campus buzzed with whispers about the undeniable connection between Niharika and Sumit. Bhavin, Sumit's cousin, dared to inquire about the nature of their relationship, and it was in that moment that Niharika's heart spoke a language beyond words. In her inner world, she described their connection as a fistful of twilight, a mysterious realm carved away from reality. It was a world where their souls intertwined, boundless and free, dwelling in the divine embrace of life.
Sumit's response, "We are Just Friends," echoed in the campus air, a declaration that transcended labels and embraced the beauty of a connection that bloomed beyond the constraints of conventional love. In the backdrop of their shared laughter and stolen glances, Niharika and Sumit continued their journey, navigating the delicate balance between the summer sky of love and the grey sky of friendship—a story painted with the brushstrokes of genuine connection and unspoken understanding. The university, with its ancient walls and sprawling courtyards, stood witness to the unfolding chapters of their tale, a tale that blended seamlessly with the rich history and timeless beauty of Banaras Hindu University.
(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.
In a secluded village nestled between rolling hills, lived a wise and mysterious woman named Emera,
a sweet old lady with long flowing white hair, a testament to the passing of time. Surrounded by wild nature around her small home, she lived in companionship with a loyal cat and a dog. The air around her hillock was filled with the enchanting presence of wild denizens and a symphony of birds, drawn to the wisdom emanating from this visionary woman. Despite her age, tales of her kindness and wisdom echoed through the surrounding valleys which made her popular among the village folk who always ran to her for advice and solutions to their problems.
Far from the village, in a modest hermitage, a man named Ayan lived a life of solitude, devoted to meditation and self-discovery. One day, he heard Emera's voice carried through the wind. It pierced the silence of his hermitage and fell upon his ears. Distracted Ayan listened to it and found solace in the melodic cadence of her words. Intrigued and captivated, he listened to her tales of life and love, she shared with her villagers. He became enamoured with the vibrant beauty that existed beyond the hills. Emera's voice became the guiding star in Ayan's silent universe.
Though he had never laid eyes on her, his heart knew her intimately. Each spoken word painted a vivid portrait of the woman who became the muse of his solitary existence. As the seasons changed, so did the depth of his affection for the wise elder.
Emera, unaware of the hermit's silent devotion, continued to share her wisdom with the villagers. Little did she know that her words reached beyond the hills, crossing the boundaries of isolation to touch the heart of a man who had chosen a life of celibacy. Who now revelled in the joy of his secret love which gave sustenance to his lonely heart that feared all kinds of physical relationships.
Ayan, torn between his commitment to solitude and the inexplicable love that blossomed within him, grappled with the dichotomy of his emotions. The quiet hermit found himself caught in a paradox, yearning for a connection that seemed both impossible and destined.
One fateful day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the landscape, Ayan summoned the courage to pen a letter. In heartfelt words, he poured out his soul, confessing his love for Emera, the woman who had become the beacon of light in his secluded world.
Days turned into weeks, and a response arrived, carried by the same wind that once brought Emera's voice to Ayan's ears. In words adorned with wisdom, Emera acknowledged the beauty of connection and the strength of love that transcends the visible world. He became exultant and joyful in his newfound secret and mysterious unconditional love which was reciprocated without being tainted in any way. It made his life more vibrant, giving him the inner strength to concentrate on his quest. It proved to him that every human being needed a loving presence in their life to keep them going.
Though physically apart, the bond between Emera and Ayan became a testament to the uncharted territories of the heart, proving that love could flourish even in the absence of sight, fueled by the purest essence of psychic understanding and experiences.
An acclaimed Painter, a published poet, a self-styled green woman passionately planting fruit trees, a published translator, and a former Professor, Lathaprem Sakhya, was born to Tamil parents settled in Kerala. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor of poems, short stories and paintings to several e-magazines and print books.
Recently published anthologies in which her stories have come out are Ether Ore, Cocoon Stories, and He She It: The Grammar of Marriage. She is a member of the executive board of Aksharasthree the Literary Woman and editor of the e - magazines - Aksharasthree and Science Shore. She is also a vibrant participant in 5 Poetry groups. Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, Literary Vibes, India Poetry Circle and New Voices and Poetry Chain
Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English, Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni) and currently she is busy with two more projects.
Summer Solstice… another dazzling day.
From the veranda of her condo, Pinky stood watching Niraj, David, Joe, and Isha going up and down the little slide. Some kids remained beneath the slide waiting expectantly and squealed in delight at the sight of their companions.
The kindergarteners enjoyed tricycle rides, played catch-catch, and hoopla, carved stories on the sand pit, and sometimes played splashy-splashy. Niraj waved from across, and Pinky waved back. This daily peek was Pinky’s vitamin pill and energizer to temporarily lull the exigencies and the monotonous activities.
Pinky glanced at the mobile screen and chose not to take the call from her boss. ‘Anyways, meeting is just ten minutes away…’ Little did she realize that the call was going to change her life, at least for the present.
Ever since the pandemic began, team members had to be available for virtual meetings at varied timings; however, most of the meetings were fixed in advance, therefore, employees were left with a definite time for pursuits.
Pinky enjoyed the leisurely walks, admiring the rows of rose and lavender blooms on the sidewalks swaying in the gentle breeze and taking in the fragrance of the minty-sweet flowers, or cycling on the endless trails that were flanked by verdant green. Watching the splash of colors brought along vivid images of school, of Ms. Peter’s rendering:
“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;”
Occasionally, Pinky would record her own lines about her experiences in a journal –
‘Dainty beauties swaying
to the delicate kiss and caress
from the winged visitors
For the brisk walker,
extra intensity, not from
the dazzling sun
but from these stunners!’
Pinky worked as a ‘chocolate taster’ in a renowned chocolate factory in this bustling city on the West Coast.
Right from childhood, her olfactory system had been exceptional. ‘Samosas!’ she would squeal from the garden gate, even before she entered. As she walked back from school with her friends, she would sniff ‘bread,’ ‘jalebis’ ‘pakodas’ ‘cakes’ ‘jams’ and more.
‘Meenu auntie’s preparing pakode-kadi for dinner.’
‘Hey! Mrs. Jacob is baking a chocolate cake for Sam’s birthday.’
‘Samir’s grandma has made a new batch of papads!’
She could also identify smells and scents as ‘fresh’ or ‘stale;’ besides, she could also categorize them as fruity, musky, minty, woody, nutty, chocolatey, pungent, offensive, and more.
‘Robert uncle has cleaned his garage again with vinegar and baking soda!’
‘You’ll become a chef when you grow up!’ her friends teased.
She proved them wrong when she chose the road not taken – she ended up as a chocolate taster not only due to her weakness for chocolates but also because of her remarkable sense of smell and taste; she had all the makings of a professional chocolate taster.
The job was not as glamorous as people would believe it to be; the taste buds mediating the sensation of taste lying chiefly in the epithelium of the tongue had to be accurately precise- the palette had to retain the senses, therefore, when Pinky had to taste as many as 35-40 chocolates a day, she would spit out the sweets, wait for a minute, then drink plain water; occasionally eat a cracker.
Drinking cold or carbonated water numbed the senses, and it was a definite No! Nothing too hot or cold too! Smelling the chocolates was a thing Pinky loved most, as also the listening- the chocolate had to sound ‘crisp’ when broken, else it was a sign that it was improperly stored, or it wasn’t fresh. She would place on her tongue a cube of chocolate, press it against her palate, and when it melted, she would enter the information about the piece as bitter, sour, sweet, or salty. Exhaling quickly, she would sniff subtle spicy aromas such as mint, berry, citrus, cinnamon, tea, and more. All the information had to be entered into the data book with much precision and timing, which she did meticulously.
When there was a sale, or when the seconds appeared good enough, she picked a few bars and stored them in the refrigerator.
Niraj, Isha, and David were children of the neighbors who lived in the condos. Pinky bumped into them often; on occasions, she even indulged in games and activities with the kids and was their favorite for obvious reasons. During outings with her migrant neighbors and other friends, she would generously dole out the bars to the children and the adults.
‘Sugar-spike!’ “You’re sweet bombing! Her friends would complain with feigned anger, but never failed to enjoy the assorted flavors that Pinky passed on – Peanut Butter Cups, Salted Almond, Orange, Coffee Toffee, Pure Dark and Milk Chocolates.
‘Oh no! I’m unable to log in, and what is this strange message? Let me try through my mobile. What’s wrong?’ Yesterday, there was a power outage for about twenty minutes, today, things are fine! But…….’
Pinky called Justin to check what was wrong. Justin was a good colleague and friend whom she often met during lunch hours. They sat at the same table and had meaningful conversations after lunch. Justin had traveled to several countries including India and always had fascinating stories to share. And he loved the palak paneer, ghuguni and rajma that she brought along for lunch with rotis.
At the first ring, Justin picked up and said Hello!
Before she could continue, he asked, ‘You too!’
‘You too, what?’ blurted Pinky. ‘Are you able to log into the meeting? Robert called me about fifteen minutes ago, but I did not take his call. Is the meeting on?’
Justin, in his characteristic tone, said: ‘He’d have called to convey the not-so-good news!
‘What are you trying to say, Justin?’ Pinky replied with a little apprehension.
‘Well, Well! We are living in uncertain times; been reading rumors in the dailies, the inevitable has happened!’
‘You mean… you mean… I’ve lost my job?’ Pinky shrieked into the phone.
‘You, I, and others. The factory is shutting down and they no longer require our services.’
In utter disbelief and shock, Pinky continued to cry on the phone. Justin waited for a while and said:
‘Let’s meet at Starbucks in an hour, we’ll discuss matters and look for alternative solutions. Relocation is unwelcome, overwhelming, and dreadful…. Life must go on… ‘I guess you remember Bryan Dyson’s Five Balls of Life!’
Without replying, Pinky disconnected the call; the world collapsed under her feet. She had fallen into a fathomless pit and there was utter darkness all around. She slumped on the bed and shed copious tears. ‘Where do I go now; how do I pay the credit bills? What do I tell people at home? And Mom has been pressurizing me to settle down….’
bitter-sweet chocolates satisfying
to the palate
trials in life agonizing
to psyche and body
broken nest – bird begins with intensity
failed career – a sorrowful propensity
anything but sweet…
A sudden ring startled her, and she picked up the call. It was Robert. Without beating around the bush, he came straight to the point.
The news is certainly devastating to all of us, downsizing and closure are inevitable in this period of mounting costs and dismal turnover. I must thank you for the pivotal role you’ve played, you were among the best chocolate tasters that the company has ever had. Again, your soft skills and specialized skills are your greatest strengths in life. You are certain to succeed in any profession that you take up. I will mail you an excellent letter of recommendation. My best wishes are with you…. If there’s anything else I can do for you in my personal or official capacity, I’d certainly love to help.
‘Thanks, Robert, I appreciate your kind words.’ replied Pinky and ended the call.
The mobile rang almost immediately. ‘Hey, where are you? I’m waiting.
Hurriedly Pinky washed her face, combed her disheveled hair, and sped down the stairs. She bumped into David and Ishas’ moms.
‘Think of the angel, and there she is!
Pinky just said Hello! and walked on briskly as she wanted to get past them soon.
The two ladies walked along, keeping pace with her strides. Isha’s mom began - ‘Ms. Meher has just left this city lock, stock, and barrel... The headmistress is looking out for a young and energetic person, particularly someone who loves children. Will it be possible for you to work part-time in the early mornings? And go to the factory in the early afternoon, after all, it’s so close to the school…’
Pinky was unable to believe what she just heard and instantly responded: ‘Sure, I’d love that!’ I shall meet you again later this evening, sorry to leave right now, but I’m late for an appointment.’
As she began to move, she heard Nisha’s mom say – ‘moreover, there’s no fear of moonlighting.’ ‘Sure, we’ll let you run off now. An affirmative answer from you is uplifting!’
As Pinky entered Starbucks, Justin did not fail to notice the spring in her step and a smile on her face.
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently
Jane Goodall says in her book Seeds of Hope: "Tropical and old growth forests, those magical places to which I had traveled in imagination, are disappearing at a terrifying rate. The same goes for other types of landscape—woodlands, wetlands, prairies and grasslands, moors and heaths. Everywhere the natural world with its rich biodiversity of living things is under attack from human population growth, development, industrial agriculture, pollution, and shrinking supplies of fresh water. Habitat loss is a theme that comes up again and again, diminishing the biodiversity and causing local extinctions in place after place. And over and above everything else looms the reality of climate change."
All around me, I too witness the "local extinctions" Goodall refers to. Everything crumbles around me. The paddy fields that stretched beyond the horizon in my village have gone forever; the vast compounds filled with gigantic jack fruit trees, mango trees, cashew-nut trees and the majestic black palm trees whose heads touched the skies were gone, together with the foxes and quails and wild lizards and mongooses and other living beings who lived in the undisturbed compounds.
In my childhood, our surrounds were filled with plenty of natural fruits—indigenous mangoes, cashew nuts, blackberry which was called njaavalppazham, the delicious tender fruits of black palm trees, jack fruits etc. In the summer months, the mango trees and njaaval trees showered on us their fruits generously. Parrots, squirrels and many other birds were seen eating the mangoes and cashew nut fruits and njaaval fruits. It was a symbiotic co-existence.
Many plants, birds and animals I used to see plenty in my childhood aren't seen today in our surrounds. Of the plants, the most conspicuous absence is that of the bubble bush (Jatropha curcas). We used to pluck its leaves with their stems and breaking the stem just below the leaf, we would gust, and innumerable bubbles would be flown from the fluid oozing out of the stem. And we used to make many toys with its nuts. The plant was seen along with the bamboo- thorn fences everywhere. Now, there are no bamboos, no bamboo thorn fences and no bubble bush.
In my childhood, bruising wounds, swellings and many other diseases were cured simply by leaves of the creepers and plants seen in our surroundings. When I was in the fifth standard, a large swelling appeared below my left chest and it was quite painful. My father plucked a large round leaf from a creeper in our compound and applying coconut oil on both sides of the leaf, held it for a few minutes above the fire in the oven and pressed it on the swelling. Within two days it was cured! The scar is still there.
And whenever I used to bruise my knees and legs, the leaves of a creeper called uzhinja (balloon plant) would be boiled in coconut oil with mustard seeds, would be ground to paste and applied to the wounds and bruises. How sweet it smelt!! The wounds would never fester. There was no need of consulting doctors, and to have pills and ointments.
Gradually, we have learnt that the 'useless' plants and creepers need not occupy vast spaces in our compounds and eliminated them in order to plant 'useful' plants—rubber trees. The indigenous trees were mercilessly cut down, and the vast compounds turned into rubber estates or real estate, depriving the flora and fauna of their habitats and pushing them to extinction. Howling of the foxes was forever stopped, sighting of the mongoose or wild lizards never happens today, the sounds of the spotted doves and lapwings and water-hens have become a thing of the past. The 'useful' plants consumed large quantities of water and we started to face water scarcity. The 'useless' trees, plants and creepers helped to preserve water, absorbed the dangerous rays from the sun like the ultra violet, pumped plenty of oxygen into the atmosphere and protected the human and non-human beings from the scorching sun. When the indigenous plants and trees were gone, the symbiotic relationship between plants and animals including humans shattered and the immunity power given to the human body by the bio-diverse environment has gone forever. The very existence of those 'useless' vegetation was a means of positive energy. Now the connection of the humans with the surrounds and Nature has completely lost. It is called development. And the 'developed' surroundings produce high quantity of CO2 and dangerous particles including carcinogens and have transformed the humans into virtual slaves of an unscrupulous healthcare business. We have now a plethora of diseases, the result of consuming toxic vegetables and fruits and drinking contaminated water. By destroying everything that is natural, we have developed into cultivating and consuming poison-filled foodgrains and vegetables and fruits and having plenty of lifestyle diseases.
As Derrick Jensen says in his two-volume book Endgame, "Deadened inside, we call the world itself dead, then surround ourselves with the bodies of those we have killed. We set up cityscapes where we see no free and wild beings. We see concrete, steel, asphalt. Everything mirrors our own confinement. Everything mirrors our own internal deadness."
And still we want to develop! We want highspeed rail that slaughters the still remaining pristine environment. Boundary stones of the highspeed rail in Kerala were laid even inside the kitchen of the people by kicking open the doors of their homes, on wetlands that are the lungs of the already strangled ecology of the state, on still remaining paddy fields which have to be preserved at any cost. The juggernaut called development rolls on propelled by the ruling politician-contractor-bureaucrat nexus which is interested in the enormous commissions the so called development generously offers. The ordinary people can't afford to, and don't want to, travel in "high speed". Yet the rulers wers adamant on having it!! Whether the people want it or not, the "democratic" rulers want it! What a democracy it is!
And in front of my home too, I see the juggernaut destroying the trees with whom I have been in company ever since I am a kid. The gigantic mango trees that stood on both sides of the road from time immemorial are being cut down to widen the road, to make it a 'state of the art' one.
How desperately I wish to return to that time when we have healthy biodiversity in our village and how painfully I realise that our biodiversity has irretrievably been destroyed.
Goodall says: "When I look at a giant tree, I marvel at the gnarled trunk, the spreading branches, the multitude of leaves. Yet that is only half of the tree-being—the rest is far, far down, penetrating deep beneath the ground. The roots. Bit by bit they work their way through the substrate, pushing aside small pebbles, growing around big rocks, coiling around one another, taking from the soil the water and minerals needed by the partner up above, and creating a firm anchor for it. In many trees, the roots go as deep below the ground as the height of the tree above the ground and spread out about three times farther than the spread of the braches."
As Goodall, I too marvel looking at the trees. And today I poignantly have to look at the complicated root systems that have firmly anchored the trees for more than a century being pulled out by earthmovers. And the widespread destruction of everything that is natural around me reminds me not only of Goodall's Seeds of Hope but also the autobiography, Where White Men Fear to Tread, of Russel Means, the legendary leader of the Native Americans' Liberation Movement. In the very beginning of the autobiography, Means says beautifully the eternal truth about Nature and humans:
"Grandpa also taught me to feel things, to instill wisdom instead of merely knowledge. In that way, during my childhood, I came to feel the Indians' love for our Grandmother, the earth.....For millennia, we Indians lived as part of the earth. We were part of the prairies and the forests and the mountains. We knew every blade of grass, every plant, every tree. We knew the winds and the clouds, the rivers and the lakes. We knew every one of the creatures that fly and crawl and burrow and run and swim—all our relatives with whom we share this earth. We are part of the earth, but not the most important part.
We knew the universe and how it includes and interacts with our Grandmother. Before I was six years old, my grandparents and my mother had taught me that if all the green things that grow were taken from the earth, there could be no life. If all the four-legged creatures were taken from the earth, there could be no life. If all the winged creatures were taken from the earth, there could be no life. If all our relatives who crawl and swim and live within the earth were taken away, there could be no life. But if all the human beings were taken away, life on earth would flourish.
That is how insignificant we are."
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.
In God I believe and a deep and devoted it is. Why I believe no sound reasons can be given but can certainly say loudly that it is not for any personal gains. A habit right from childhood following parents’ footsteps. Morning and evening prayer was a ritual and when occasion arose temple visits also. Never gave much thought to the spiritual angle but the firm belief that a supreme power ruled the universe was rooted in me. Having studied in a Christian school and visit to the school church and insight into the holy book made me see things on a wider spectrum. Having read a few spiritual books of different faiths I came to the conclusion that all religions taught the same lesson in different ways through different means.
Spiritual linage an accident through birth. One tends to follow it depending on the family born into and faith followed. It becomes deep rooted with time and one tends to believe that his or her faith is the real one. Looking at history many a war has started along these lines and as said when one refuse to learn from history it gets repeated and the same is happening even today.
Fortunately, I was taught to respect all religions and the God one believed was one in different forms. The spiritual books told one to lead a good life with all truthfulness and the message to love and respect all around us.
My belief takes me to the temple daily during my early morning walk and I pay my respects closing my eyes without any requests or complaints. Being early the temple will be closed and I am forced to pray in front of the closed grills. This has been going on for years and that particular day it was as usual the halt at the temple. Being early morning it is dark and I stand in front of the closed gate with eyes closed and register my presence. With eyes closed the image of the deity is pictured in my mind and the visit becomes real in spite of the closed separation. A few seconds and I hear my name called.
“Ramakrishna”
I pretend not to hear as it could not happen at that odd hour as my surroundings were empty. It was repeated and I could not ignore it further. Looked behind there was none. I did hear it for sure and from where did that call come? Then it struck. It was from within the closed doors where the deity was. Can such a thing happen? Will God talk to ordinary mortals?
This confusion battling in my mind I heard this coming from inside
“Your confusion I can understand. It is me the one you visit daily with devotion talking.”
“But why me”? I was frightened, nervous and fumbling.
“I cannot talk after sunrise and you are a believer and devotee who comes here regularly without troubling me with requests or favours”
I stood bowing my head with all respects and in shock and disbelief
“People come to me with their woes and look up to me to solve their burning problems. Many a time I want to tell them the truth”
I looked up questioningly as if to hear the truth
“Now that the place is empty and you being a devoted one, I feel that it can be confided to you”
I stood there speechless and then comes this one
“Are you listening. You appear to be disinterested”?
I nodded my head fiercely and said “No my Lord it is not so”
“Well, as you can see, I am chained here and all over the Gods have been hijacked and used as commodities for selfish reasons. If I say imprisoned it will never be wrong”
I nodded in agreement
“Do you know how the youngsters of these days address me?”
I nodded in the negative
“They call me Bro”
I couldn’t supress my giggle but held it back
“See you also want to laugh and please understand my emotion when the God the Great addressed like that and sitting here helplessly as a mighty one”
I nodded with an artificial sympathetic look.
“Since I revealed my heart to you don’t be without paying your respects tomorrow as things will change for good with time”
“Yes bro” it just came out involuntarily.
That was a bit loud and did the God hear it?
Confused with that thought and shocked and shaken hearing a loud sound of thunder I came to my earthly senses and came out to watch the heavy downpour.
Certain I did not go for my walk that morning but the happenings so clear and vivid and could recollect each word spoken.
It cannot be called a dream as it was too real.
Strongly believe that I “Talked to God”
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..
"Life is like soap bubbles,it flies over the wind and before you realize it goes pop."
Hushkoo....."I wonder who is this alien that vanishes off so fast,I thought only I could get invisible hiding behind curtains, going under the wooden table ,hiding in the balcony. "
"Wha nooon-sense is this!!, mommy believes Rahul bhaiya loves these silent bubbles ,but in my heart of hearts ???? ???? ???? I know no one can love him more than I do.I take full responsibility of him,I don't even allow other pawnimals to cross our home for their evening walks.Rahul bhaiya enjoys a quiet home not a noisy one,but that's different if I'm barking and waking up the entire neighbourhood,he understands and cooperates. One must learn to stay pawsitive in every given situation, after all no one is pawfect.
Meanwhile as you continue reading this post,I need to understand a bit more about these bubbles, I see rainbow ???? colours through them, I thought rainbows can be seen only during the monsoon season. I'm not too happy about their existence yes but they vanish too fast.I definitely need to do some honest research on them,you never know if my thesis is accepted, I could get a PhD degree soon,oh hell don't tell me I will have to pawlerate these bubbles for the next couple of years.Sigh!! Phew!!
Until then pawbbles, here I come. "
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)
After managing a seat in the waiting area at Bhubaneswar airport, I consolidated. I had three pieces of luggage. One cabin baggage, one handbag and one packet carrying chhenapoda ( Baked cottage cheese with a dash of sugar syrup) for my daughter and son in law in Delhi. I was handling this packet with all care. This delicacy from Odisha is their hot favorite.
The man seated next to me was busy with his phone. He was browsing and giggling nonstop.Reason must be best known to him. I felt like bursting into a peal of laughter watching him giggle so frequently, but refrained myself. How can I? I am a senior citizen after all.
A few passengers loitered with prying eyes to grab a seat. Demand was much more than the supply. Some spoke in loud voices, some sipped their cuppas nice and slow and a few munched on something or the other to kill boredom. To bide time, some took recourse to window shopping. What to do? What else to do! Other than such indulgences!
I got impulsive too, but had to cut my desire short, rather, had to pacify my transient whims. Handling three luggages was not a joke.
Thanks to fog and less clarity, flights were invariably delayed for a week or so. This caused more influx of passengers.
In a row right in front of me, there was a couple. Must be octogenarians. This is my wild guess of course... considering their stooping stature. The man had a pristine flowing beard and sharp features like a descendant of the Aryan race. He wore pajamas and a kurta, a brown colored full sleeved sweater. He had an eye for details, I could discern.
A gentleman sitting next to him left his muff in the seat and hurried when boarding announcements were made.The old man called him. But he did not look back. This time, the old man raised his voice considerably and this elicited the desired effect . The muff finally landed on the shoulders of its rightful owner. The old man looked relieved, having diligently discharged his calling.
Sitting next to him was his better half. The lady must be in her late seventies . She was very fair and had an aura of gentleness and grace about her. A ruddy glow too. The pastel color suit she wore, the way she adjusted the golden hued rim of her specks, the way she had tied her auburn hair into a bun with all neatness- each detail validated her karishma .
Her quaint smile, gentle nod , steeped in appreciation watching hubby alerting the person to pick his stuff, made me mutter...." Awww! What a perfect blend of etiquettes this lovely pair has. This match must be made in heaven.”
There was a sudden announcement regarding the change of gate for the flight I was to board. I listened carefully , when the mike blared for the second time. I left my seat in a huff and proceeded to the ground floor, carefully holding three luggages- a paper bag carrying sweets, a shoulder bag and one cabin luggage. If you are wondering why I am referring to my luggages again and again, then I must tell you- I forget easily, so keep reminding myself about material possessions while traveling.I cannot defang my heedlessness.
The plane that was supposed to ferry us landed late due to inclement weather beset with heavy fog and zero visibility conditions. Scheduled departure was delayed accordingly ...so also boarding. Braving the serpentine queue with equanimity and poise I set my feet inside the vistara aircraft . Duly welcomed by a young and bubbly air hostess , I kept walking , looking for my seat no 9 D. I reached there to find the couple I adored in the lounge. This was definitely a pleasant surprise .Two known faces are going to be my neighbors for at least two hours....some solace I thought. I occupied the aisle seat, but not before offering my greeting " Satsriakal paji and madamji " to them, and they duly returned the courtesy with folded hands.
Exchanging glances we awaited for take off. It too happened in minutes. The eerie sense of calm was nudged when meals on wheels ensued. Very few airlines do maintain the courtesy of serving food at no extra cost. Luckily Vistara does. My neighbors enquired about the options and chose a veg meal. The lady refused to have food. Must be fasting or must not be feeling like having anything. But then, it was her personal choice. I did not probe a lot.
Meal was minimalistic - rice, dal ,chicken and a sweet dish- for a non-vegetarian . They served tea/ coffee afterwards though. Good enough to soothe empty stomach syndrome.
For vegetarians they served pulao and dal makhni. This I gathered after peeping at my neighbor's meal, when he was busy savoring the dishes. He was excellent at table manners considering his age, and did not spill things. The slim lady attendant who had served us food, came quite late to collect soiled plates. After handing over my plate, I quietly picked up his plate and gave it for disposal. The old gentleman had dozed off after relishing the food, and had no idea about my action. The lady was gently chanting something and was thoroughly engrossed. Her eyes were closed. She looked serene and focussed, midway between senses and trance. Three of us were at peace…a bellyful me after the sumptuous meal, he - lost in a reverie, she spinning yards of gossamer dreams.
The gentleman woke up when the beverage was served . He was a bit perturbed after not finding his used plates. His inquiring look got its due reply after I smiled and nodded. He ordered tea, I ordered coffee. I don't know how his tea tasted but my coffee was not up to mark. Perhaps, he too didn't have a great experience as his face showed signs of disappointment. But, that's the kind of beverage they serve... no made to order stuff. At least we get something to munch on and something to sip- a perfect meal we should not desire while flying high.It was more of a reconciling sight.
Our flight was due to land in twenty minutes- an announcement was made. My neighbors glanced into each other's eyes and their lips quivered. Must be some dear and near one was waiting eagerly for their arrival.Meeting loved ones is like triumphant joy spilling over, capturing heart in unusual tenderness. I got ready, winding up stuff from my seat. The flight landed with a thud and walked almost half a kilometer before it stood still. People got up from their seats in a huff , remaining in readiness to access their baggage kept in the overhead cabin. This type of commotion is part of voyage. But, the elderly couple were not at all in a hurry. They were quietly sitting, unfazed ,waiting for their turn. When they saw me taking out luggage from the overhead cabin, they folded their hands to bid adieu. My verbose reciprocation, a bit loud though followed.
Thus the serendipitous journey of two long hours came to an end. I am reminded of a recent ad where a pet owner finds his lost puppies and thanks a bystander for 'not doing anything' meaning not disturbing the tender ones who had gone hiding under a parked car.
Likewise, we met, forged a bond and parted without encroaching upon each other's territory. And It made me realize how a quiet yet profound impact was etched onto the canvas of my life within the span of a little more than two hours of time. It resonated deep, crystalized into memory.
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.
In a quaint little town nestled between rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a curious and compassionate girl named Lilly. Lilly's backyard was her sanctuary—a vibrant garden bursting with life, where colorful flowers danced in the breeze and gentle creatures roamed freely.
It was a fine sunny morning with flowers laughing and dancing in the garden. On the soft grass of the lawn two butterflies were frolicking and inviting Lilly to play with them. Lilly named them Jack and Jill as she had just learnt this nursery rhyme. She ran after them playfully while she stumbled upon something hard. She bent down to have a good look and found a tortoise. "Oh, what a strange thing! From where this tortoise has come?' She brooded over it a few seconds only before the tortoise talked to her.
"Did I just hear it speak?" Lily wondered.
"Yes dear", tortoise spoke again.
"Ooo, how come you know my language?" Lily asked eagerly.
"Because you know my language too", replied the tortoise.
"By the way what is your name?" Asked Lily eagerly.
"I have no name, give me one please! You have named the butterflies, I know."
"Yes, yes, let me think..ummm. Yes, you are Nutmeg. I may call you Nutty. Do you like it?"
"I like it very much Lily, you are a sweet girl."
Lily smiled. The white rose from the nearby shrubbery smiled back at her.
"What are you upto Nutty?" Lilly seemed very curious.
"Just want to befriend you."
"Why not? We are all friends, everyone here. You are all my friends, my dear dear friends. I love you."
"We too love you Lilly", there was a chorus. Meenu and Mintu, sparrows who lived in the hanging nest from the palm tree; Mithoo, the lonely parrot from the guava tree, Blackie, the cuckoo from the mango tree, Jack and Jill, the butterflies, Nutmeg, the tortoise all were expressing there love for Lilly simultaneously. Lilly's heart danced in joy, she ran happily around her lovely garden and fell asleep on the cool grass where an extended branch of the mango tree shadowed her.
Lilly had a very sweet dream about her garden. The flowers were feeding her their nectars, the spring from the nearby hills had changed her course and was running down to the garden thus watering every plant and her little friends were drinking from it very happily. Lilly remembered each flower's name, each bird's song, and each butterfly's flutter.
When she woke up from the dream a little squirrel was biting her toe gently. "You are Tillu, aren't you?"
"Do you remember me? I had met you only once after I was born."
"Yes, of course, upon your birth I named you. How can I forget it!"
"Evening is approaching, please go inside. Your Momma will be worried."
"Okay, thank you dear Tillu, see you tomorrow."
Lilly entered her house after ensuring the safety of her gardenmates. Her parents knew how much she loved the garden. She was growing up with nature around, establishing a kinship with the ecosystem.
But one day, she noticed something troubling. Her ever-bustling garden seemed quieter, emptier. Flowers wilted, and birdsong faded. She was worried. She called to her friends aloud. Only Nutmeg and Tillu came. Roses were withered, Jack and Jill nowhere to be seen. Determined to uncover the cause, Lilly had a conference with Nutmeg and Tillu. Meenu and Mintu joined. They were all clueless about this sudden disaster. Lilly was determined to embark on a journey of discovery, aided by her loyal companions—the playful squirrel Tillu and the wise old tortoise Nutmeg.
Her investigation began. Nutmeg reported seeing a flathead borer eating into the stems while Tillu saw a giant snail and his family cutting into the roots.
Lilly was dismayed. She did a conference again. She requested the sickly plants to open up. She cried desperately. Her teardrops fell on the withered plants. Through their dried up leaves they whispered, "Lilly, save us." Lilly ran to her parents. They invited a plant doctor who examined their condition. The doctor recommended a herbal cure for the plants, a spray made by mixing garlic and coffee grounds. Diligently Lilly worked on this. Nutmeg was carrying the spray bottle on his back while Tillu guided her way to the sickly plants.
At last, their united endeavour got over all the challenges. Her beloved garden smiled again. The invaders were killed, some left in fear.
That year the summer was harsh. The well that supplied water to the lives in the garden dried up. Lilly grew worried again. One by one her friends complained to her about the lack of water. Lilly thought of the dream she had had once. The stream that flowed down the hills. She must find a way to bring her into the garden.
This time she took Blackie with her who through a sweet song requested the little dancing spring to flow into the garden to save the inhabitants. The spring shook her head in denial. "One day, I will dry up too. Humans are cutting down trees in the hills, rain is going to reject this area soon. I can only help you if you promise to plant trees near me."
"Sure, sure, O little stream, I promise you. Hence not only me, but my parents and friends will also plant trees. I will make them do it. Please, save my garden." Lilly pleaded. To her utter surprise the stream changed her course and entered into the garden. Plants and her other garden friends had enough water. Lilly alongwith her parents convinced her friends and neighbours to plant trees on the hill. With determination and ingenuity, Lilly rallied them to join her cause, organizing clean-up efforts, planting native flowers, and creating habitats for wildlife. Together, they transformed the garden into a thriving oasis of biodiversity, where every species played a vital role in the ecosystem. They promised to celebrate every special day like birthdays, anniversaries, festivals by planting ten trees for each occasion.
As Lilly grew up in years her bond with her garden and nature around became deeper and deeper. One day, early morning, with the first rays of the sun she discovered the true magic of her garden—a mystical energy flowing through every leaf, petal, and creature, connecting them all in a delicate balance of life. It thrilled her. She ran from plant to plant touching every leaf, the buds, the petals. She invited her aeriel friends to sing in unison, raga Bhairavi while Tillu danced and Nutmeg looked happily from under his shell.
But their work was far from over. As they faced new challenges and obstacles, Lilly realized that the true power of nature lay not in domination, but in harmony. Through empathy and understanding, she forged bonds with even the most unlikely of creatures, learning valuable lessons about compassion, resilience, and the interconnectedness of all living things.
In the end, Lilly's garden bloomed brighter than ever before, a testament to the enduring bond between humanity and nature. And as she watched the sunset from her backyard oasis, surrounded by the sights and sounds of the natural world, Lilly knew that she would always be the Guardian of the Garden, protector of its wonders and champion of its beauty.
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English in the Higher Education Department, Govt. of Odisha is a bilingual writer writing both in Odia and English with equal flair. Her poems, stories and articles are published in many state, national and international magazines and journals. She has three published anthologies of poems to her credit. Besides, she has published many research articles in different research journals. She contributes regularly to Radio Bulbul.
Adya, my 6year granddaughter felt mighty big when she joined a public elementary school in Toronto after graduating from kindergarten from an elementary school in Foxborough, Massachusetts, as her parents relocated to Toronto from Boston. As soon as I greeted her for joining a new school in Toronto, Canada and asked her what she plans to become when she is grown up, pat came the reply to my utter amazement – grandpa, I want to be a professor. Professor of what, I retorted. She replied – thinking to be a professor of happiness. A professor of happiness! What a pretty wonderful ambition! Adya, I asked. She sporting a modest smile vanished from the I-phone screen.
I was hugely delighted and puzzled as well, at the intent of her reply, and thought over for it for some time. It was quite baffling to think over – how much a child perceived about happiness when some bigger and wiser ones have spent their entire life in search of elusive happiness. A perplexing question crop up in my mind -why some people seem to have all the luck, while others never get the breaks they deserve? Why some are happy and others are unhappy. Happiness cannot be bought with all the money in the world. Some millionaires are happy, some are unhappy. Many people with little worldly wealth are happy, and some are unhappy. Some married people are happy and some unhappy. All the time, the kingdom of happiness is in your thoughts and feelings. Happiness is the harvest of quiet mind. Anchor your thoughts on peace, harmony, poise, security, and divine guidance, and your mind will be productive of happiness. We can bolster up our thought process by discovering the ‘luck factor’ following the 4 principles-
1, Listen to your gut(fundamental) instincts-they are normally right.
2, Be open to new experience and breaking your normal routine.
3, Spend a few moments each day remembering things that went well.
4, Deposit your good feelings, thoughts, the appreciation you received for your good works in your memory bank, like depositing money in a bank, and when going to sleep withdraw some good thoughts from the memory bank accounts and while relishing it, lapse into deep slumber.
There is no block to your happiness. External things are not causative. They are effects - not causes. Try to take your cue signal to begin from the only creative principle within you. Your thought is cause and a new cause produces a new effect. Choose happiness. The happiest person is one who brings forth the highest and best in himself. God is the highest and best in Him for the kingdom of God is within Him.
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.
The term ingratitude seems to be a unique disposition found exclusively among humans in animal kingdom. This perplexing phenomenon of ingratitude and its manifestations in human interactions need an introspective look.
Human beings, the supreme creation of God, are ordained with a myriad of traits both positive and negative. Among the negative ones, ingratitude stands out as a complex disposition observed in certain individuals who under the guise of friendship or kinship display ungrateful behavior. In a society all the people do not have this disdainful quality, yet there are some among them who seldom think a while to portray ingratitude under the garb of gentlemen, friend or even own kinsmen. One can identify a devil, monster, traitor from his demeanour, but it is impossible to identify a person who otherwise conducts amiable, cordial, dear and near going ungrateful. People of this nature by virtue of their art of befriending others derive all benefits from them in pretense of helplessness and once their need is fulfilled, they forget and fight shy of coming to help of the people who helped them in need.
Glaring instances of ingratitude are very often seen and heard among human beings everywhere in a society. Even one’s own children or siblings or close relatives who are brought up, nurtured, assisted in their every deal, every project, at times turn ungrateful or hostile when their assistance becomes a dire necessity for survival. In such cases heart bleeds and the magnitude of pain becomes immeasurable. An imaginary story of iron and gold albeit inanimate in nature speaks volumes. One day gold asked iron, “Friend, we are both being hit always by a hammer made of iron, I mean your part only; when I do not react, why then you shout so much?” The iron said, “My dear friend! When something of my own hits me hard it pains me most; so I cry out.”
Very often it is seen in newspapers and television that at least one or two incidents of inhuman torture being meted out to mother or father by their children on small matters. To cite some of them, 1) news came where an aged widow who was working as maid servant for maintaining her family consisting of one grown up son and an unmarried daughter was hacked to death by her son for a silly reason. Her son was unemployed and wayward. One day he quarreled with his mother when she refused to give him her heard earned money for his drinking and that fellow in a feat of anger slit open the throat of his mother with a sickle. 2) In another incident, wayward son wrapped his father in a gunny bag after killing him by severe beating and threw him into a river only for the poor father did not pay him money for his merrymaking with friends.
While stories like these are illustrative in our scriptures, the challenge lies in disseminating the sense of gratefulness across all societal strata. Understanding and addressing ingratitude require a collective effort to instill values that promote gratitude, empathy, and compassion in every human interaction and action. In a society, not everyone bears the burden of this scornful quality, but some craftily portray their ingratitude behind the façade of friendship or familial bonds. These individuals skillfully extract benefits under the pretense of helplessness, only to conveniently forget and turn ungrateful when called upon to assist in time of dire need.
The cases of treachery, ingratitude, ditching own kinsmen are seen everywhere. Now the question is why do people behave in this manner at all unlike other animals in the animal kingdom? Even the wild beasts like lions, tigers, bears never turn ungrateful. The stories of Androcles and lion and King Vikramaditya’s son, the prince and the bear where the bear slapped the prince uttering “SASEMIRA” for his ungratefulness and treachery are the bright examples. Whether this inhuman behavior of certain people is a byproduct of poverty, lack of proper upbringing, illiteracy, craze for running after comfort and luxury or uncontrolled avarice ignoring one’s means? In this respect a beautiful story from “Panchatantra” seems apposite to cite.
“Once upon a time a traveller while passing through a zig zag lane in the forest heard someone crying for help in a loud voice. By searching hither and thither he followed the sound and reached near a bush and found that a man has fallen into a large hole that might be an abandoned dry well beside the lane and being unable to come out he was shouting for help. The traveller also saw a monkey, a tiger and a snake too have fallen in the same well who were struggling for coming out. On seeing the traveller, the man inside fervently prayed to the traveller, “I am in danger, please pull me out to save my life. I shall not forget your help lifelong and I assure you of coming to your help whenever needed.
“Having watched this, the monkey said, “Friend! Pull me out and I shall remember your help forever and I shall never be ungrateful.” Then tiger said, “Please help me. I shall not do any harm to you rather I shall reward you.” The snake said, “Friend! If you help me come out of this well, I shall come to your help whenever you remind me.
“The traveller out of sympathy and kindness lifted all the four of them one by one. After coming out of the well they were extremely glad and thanking the traveller all except the man went their way. The man and the traveller walked on to come out of the forest. On the way they felt hungry and came near a tree in search of some fruits. Luckily that monkey, whom the traveller had saved, was staying on that tree. On seeing the savior of his life, the monkey climbed down instantly and touched the feet of the traveller. Then on seeing them hungry fetched some fruits and offered them to eat. They ate the fruits to their heart’s content and proceeded further.
“While passing by a large cave on their way, they met with the tiger whom the traveller had helped. The tiger came out and licked the feet of the traveller to express his obeisance. Then the tiger told him to wait for some time and he entered the cave. Coming out of the cave the tiger handed over some jewels and ornaments to him and said, I collected these ornaments from the body of a prince whom I killed for his attack on me. You take these and sell them for a happy living. This is nothing before the help done by you to save my life.
“Then the traveller along with the man whom he saved came to the residence of that man and requested him to sell the ornaments as that man was a jeweller by profession. The jeweller could immediately recognise the ornaments which were prepared by him only for the prince. Fire of avarice gripped him so much that forgetting his obligation to the traveller for saving his life he sacrificed his humanity in the altar of greed and led the traveller to the king’s court pretending to sell the ornaments at a higher price. When the jeweller showed the ornaments to the king and explained that he got them from the traveller for sale, the king could know those to be the belongings of his missing prince and became furious. Without a word the king ordered imprisonment of the traveller suspecting him to be the killer of his son.
“The poor traveller lamenting in jail invoked the snake whom he helped in pulling out of the well. Suddenly the snake sneaked into the prison and by touching the feet of traveller said, “Do not worry my friend! I am now going to bite the queen. When the king will be undone to save his queen, you tell the guards that you can cure her. When you are taken to the queen you just touch her body and she will wake up and come round by the power I am giving you now. I think the king will be glad to release and reward you. It happened exactly what the snake said to the traveller. He did according to the advice of the snake and the queen came round. The king was highly pleased and released him forthwith from the prison and awarded him with a post of minister in his court after hearing the whole story from him. The king became furious against the treachery played by the jeweller and punished him for life in jail.”
(Photo of a beautiful migratory bird taken by the author at Chilika lagoon in January 2022.)
The essence of this story goes to convey, ingratitude or ungratefulness of any kind, any nature or any manner is not erased before it is paid in the same coins. People behaving like this think themselves to be very clever and feel they can escape unnoticed. But they do not visualize that in the realm of God nothing goes amiss. Like Newton’s third law of motion, one’s every action is bound to fetch result in equal proportion. It is said, even if one’s life span falls short of experiencing the effects of one’s actions done, the remains are carried over to the next birth. Time honored scripture affirms - “Karma phalam agre dhabati dhabati,” underscoring that the repercussions of one’s deeds whether negative or positive precede the soul. A popular teaching as given by the bear to the prince in the story of Sasemira states like this:
“Mitradrohi Krutaghnascha Jascha Biswasaghataka,
Trayaste Narakam Janti Jabadabhutasamplabam.”
That means, if a person turns enemy to his friend, if someone becomes ungrateful and if one plays treachery, all these three types of people are bound to go to hell as long as the human beings live. One should shed past the glooms of others ingratitude taking it as the earning for own wellbeing only.
These teachings are written in indelible ink for guidance of mankind. It depends on how much one assimilates and applies them in one’s life for a smooth sail. It is said, “Atmabat sarbabhutesu ja pasyati sa Panditah.”
(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.
(The true story of struggle of Bonda girl Malati Sissa(Jhilik in the story))
Daring to dream is crime here. Malkangiri, in the tri-junction of three Indian states of Chhattisgarh, Andhra Pradesh and Odisha, identified as among of the most underdeveloped region of the country houses Bondas, one of the most primitive tribes of the world. Survival is nothing less than a struggle here. Dreams naturally vanish under the daily grind for survival. Routinely from behind thick foliage of one of the hills in the Bondahills (locally known as Malyabanta mountain), sun rises and finally ends journey to take shelter behind another hill in this mountain range and night sets in. On this hill top is Sungraipada hamlet where Jhilik stays. Traditionally the Upper Bondas, one of the most primitive tribes of the world stay very high above the Bondahills, whereas the Lower Bondas live at lower heights. At the top of the hill on a sloppy stone base where one would find a few rows of tiny kuchha huts is Sungraipada hamlet, almost unknown and untouched by the outside world. Officially, the hamlet is in Mudulipada panchayat of Malkangiri district. Residents hardly leave their hill and come down. One would find similar hamlets of Upper Bondas on most of the hills here. There are no roads to these hamlets.
Jhilik got up to find her three sisters still sleeping on the floor of the hut. Two years back malaria took away their mother. Jhilik’s father and brother have left their house early before day break, along with their bows and arrows, to their Salap trees (Sago Palm trees which are plenty and their juice are a natural intoxicant). They go up to bring down the theka (clay pots) which they tied at the top the previous day and drink the liquor which keeps them in high spirit throughout the day. After emptying the content they again placed the pot at the top of the Salap tree for the next morning. This is a regular affair for the father- son duo. The whole day they lie down here and there in the forest and return to their hut only after dusk, never bothering about how the children will be fed.
On some days, the children are lucky if they return with some tapioca roots or small preys they hunt. Once in a year they clear away shrubs from a piece of land and burn them to sow ragi (finger millets). They only return only to harvest the crop. After spending a portion of the harvest on buying country liquor, the balance hardly provides the family some food for a month or two. Jhilik makes ragi porridge for the family during that time when children get regular meals. Then comes mango and jackfruit season, which provides food for two to three months. All the stones of mangoes are stored for future. Afterwards when they are left with no food, they take out kernel from mango stones, crush them and tie it in a cloth to leave under running stream under a heavy stone for a night. It helps to wash away the harsh acrid pungency of kernels. The softened crushed kernel is boiled and porridge is made, which feeds them for another month or two. Now-a-days some rice is made available under Public Distribution System by the government, which provides food to the family.
Once the sisters get up, Jhilik make them wear their Ringa (Bonda girls wear this 2 feet long loin cloth around their waist), wears her own and place Turuba (typical grass hat of Bonda girls) on their clean shaven heads. She herself wears a colourful bead hat on her clean shaven head, several Khagla(silver neck rings of Bonda women) and bead necklaces cover the upper part of the body(traditionally Bonda women do not cover their breasts except for the bead necklaces.*They drink sem-iliquid porridge and get ready to go to the forest to collect firewood and mahua flower. Jhilik herself places an earthen pot on her head and starts her journey in search of any mountain stream to fetch drinking water for the family. Jhilik herself is nubile and as per Bonda tradition is ready for marriage to a boy ten to twelve years younger to her. She will go to the groom’s house and will take care of him till he grows up. Her brother, who is ten years old is also ready for marriage and will bring a bride quite elder to her who will take care of the sisters along with his brother.
Jhilik and sisters come back to the hut well past noon and the girls will take free mid day meal and join the school. Jhilik herself completed school education. Aniket, Bonda Development Authority Officer encouraged her to pursue higher education and got her admitted in Open University. With her dedication and determined effort she is the first post graduate from her tribe.
Aniket has encouraged her to go out and look for some work. Several times it has come to Jhilik’s mind to go out and see the outside world, earn some money. Subsequently she gives up the idea. No, she will not leave her family and the community, their own culture and the lifestyle. She will live like her Bonda brethren. Will education take her far from her own people? For generations nobody in the community has dreamt of leaving the community for the self and today how can she do otherwise? Her simple mind has never could imagine of self over the community. For her the life and living in the community is very unique, which she never can shun for a selfish comfortable life. To her, every culture and lifestyle people lead is unique.No culture is superior or inferior to other. Any comparison is meaningless. In the entire Bonda community people speak their very own Remo language. Visiting Officials search for Jhilik to communicate with the local people.
Like Jhilik, girls from every family carry a pot and go in search of water as a part of daily chore. On the steep hill they go up walking miles in search of some mountain streams. In hot summer when Mercury reaches its zenith and the stony surface below turns a hot plate they search for water among rocky lanes and thorny bushes. They look for some shallow muddy stream to get their quota of water. In winter too they face the same ordeal as in the biting cold the rocks and thorns cut their feet and they bleed. Water from the pot overhead drench their half naked bodies. Several times Jhilik has brought the problem of water scarcity and difficulty of fetching water before Water board officials and Block development Officer. The BDO replied “Who asked you to stay on hilltop? How can you get water there? Will it be possible to take drilling Rig to such height? That is not work of our Department. You ask Bonda Development Authority, they have separate budget for you.”
Sarpanch of the village expressed his helplessness saying “ who will listen to me?” We are uncared for and from backward hinterland. Local MLA said “I have the entire constituency to look after. In your hamlet there are hardly a few voters. Many of the people from your Bonda community have not registered themselves as voters and those who come to vote they are never in their senses to not know who they are voting for. Why should I do anything for you?”
Aniket listened to her, but no engineers have been posted to carry out this work in his department, nor do have sufficient budget. He feels sorry for them and raises his hand.
It is very strange. There is easy access to cold drinks in every crossroads in small towns and here they are struggling for a few drop of water. One can place order for home delivery of essentials in big towns and cities, but just think of them. Wherever she went she got only sympathy but the problem remains. Jhilik decided she will not give up so easily, her entire life is nothing but a struggle. How can she give up? Her father and brother did not listen to her. But all three little sisters hardly in their teens were enthusiastic and agreed to cooperate. Jhilik asked her sisters “will your tender hands be able to take up such hard work? Digging earth in a small hole and lifting up the heavy load of earth- the works quite unusual for them. But all agreed.
Next morning Jhilik looked for an ideal place, an anthill below a tree and decided to dig a well there. Jhilik and her three sisters kept digging and lifting the earth without knowing whether they will finally succeed to get water or not. There was always fear of the well giving in. The sun was quite harsh. They never bothered about the harsh weather. Their tender hands developed boils and started to bleed. Several times the sister slipped while lifting heavy loads of earth. Jhilik applies neem oil and local herbs on the hands of her sisters. But who is there to take care of her? She remembers her mother and shed tears.
After hard work for a fortnight they could dig a twenty-five feet well, but they could not reach water. So much hard work and no result. Tears came naturally to jhilik’s eyes. Her three little sisters came close and wiped her tears. After a few days it rained heavily on the hills. This raised some hope. One morning Jhilik found water coming to her well through an underground stream and the well is swelling with water. The whole Sungraipada became festive soon as the residents found a well very near their hamlet. Officials and politicians made a queue to visit Sungraipada. Sarpanch and MLA came and garlanded Jhilik and praised her work. MLA promised concrete rings for the well.
From a distance one could listen to sound of a vehicle which came half way up the hill. Aniket got down from his rickety office jeep and walked up to the hamlet. Aniket praised for the determination and hard work of Jhilik and her sisters. He handed over the invitation letter from Prime minister’s office and flight tickets. He said “Get ready tomorrow morning, I will come and pick you up for your visit to Delhi to attend the Republic day function.”
(The End)
__________________________________________________________________
# Name of Malati and her village changed in the story.
*As per the folk mythology Rama during his fourteen year long exile in the forest stayed in Malyabanta Giri(present Bonda hill). Some Bonda women saw Seeta bathing naked under a waterfall and laughed. This offended Seeta and brought her wrath, who cursed the Bonda women to remain naked throughout their life. After lot of pray finally Seeta allowed them to wear asmall loin cloth(Ringa) around their waist to cover lower part of the body.
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
We Seniors celebrate Valentine Day
Grandma, I am off to celebrate Valentine Day, announced Preethi , my college going grand daughter.
Where to? I said.
We are all assembling at Bistro,she replied and breezed out .
I knew BISTRO was the youngsters favourite haunt and they loved the sizzling spicy stuff there.
Also I knew Preethi had completely forgotten her promise to help me lay the table for our seniors get together to celebrate Valentine Day.
Since we had catered for food that was stomach friendly bearing our age in mind, I just had to set the plates and cutlery with a vase of some fresh flowers placed in the middle.
Shall we have some games before dinner ? I said to the five couples we had invited.
They all looked at each other and I eagerly waited for a ‘yes’ atleast from the youngest of the seniors.
We think the games can wait until dinner is over, said the oldest of them.
Good idea, they all said almost simultaneously.
Since we are celebrating Valentine Day, why don’t the men say some nice words about their spouses, I suggested.
One of them promptly got up and said,’Why only today, unless I compliment my wife everyday about her cooking, I cannot expect a good meal for the next few days.
Needless to say,the wife looked embarrassed but preferred to be silent.
My wife is a ‘sweet’ person and thinks I am also one , laughed another.
My wife loves spicy food and thinks I love it too, said the third gentleman trying to avoid looking at the lady.
The other two also talked about food which didn’t sound like compliments but complaints about their spouses.
What about you? They asked my husband.
Why don’t we start dinner before the food gets cold, he suggested and all of them headed to the dining table!
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.
A few days back I saw an interview of IPS Manoj Sharma on YouTube being done by Saurabh Dwivedi on “Lallan-Top” which is a digital news platform owned by India Today group which also owns Aaj Tak. At one point Manoj says something like this (not his exact words)- “All of us have three basic needs in life- Food (and Water to satiate our hunger and preserve life), Love (for our personal development, connection, and reducing isolation in every stage of our life) and Respect (to accept ourselves and others for who we/they are). It started a chain of thoughts in me, and I mused that these needs must come in sequential order generally meaning thereby that when the first is met then the second becomes the priority and then finally the need for respect comes in. These needs may not be distinctly spaced and there can be overlaps. Like between hunger pangs one might experience a need to be loved and even respected and so on. But perhaps extreme hunger which I have never experienced in life would probably leave no thoughts whatsoever. These days I am almost completely retired for the second time. The first time was when at 43 I was forced out of my job to become a consultant and this time because my elephant customer organisation collapsed suddenly. So, I have plenty of time between Netflix, Prime Video and YouTube. Fortunately, I had taken up writing for pleasure inspired by Dr Mrutyunjay Sarangi ex-civil servant terrific writer of short stories and editor of Positive Vibes a web magazine that he has founded, and which is doing a great job of pepping up amateur writers even like me. So, I decided to write and see what it develops into.
Hunger:
When I think about hunger it usually connotes to me the state of not having enough food to eat, especially when this can cause illness or even death if continued. It is the feeling caused by not eating enough food or no food at all. I felt hungry during my college days when the sustenance money which I received was good enough only for two simple meals in 24 hours on weekdays and one meal on Sundays. I used to be forever hungry and weighed about a hundred pounds only. I have read that a week without food will leave our immune system very weak due to a lack of vitamins and minerals. It won't be able to block pathogens and viruses, which may lead to various diseases. Hunger is a serious issue, particularly in developing countries. It is caused by many factors, but most importantly, it leads to many other problems. One of the potential problems is crime. Studies show that there is a positive plausible relationship between hunger and crime at least in developing countries.
Hunger can be uncontrollable making people do things they would normally have not done. You leave your pride aside and can settle for anything. I have read about people who have historically eaten even shoe leather in times of famine or extreme food scarcity. The untanned leather was often boiled or roasted to soften it and make it more palatable, and it was considered a source of sustenance. In Aug 2021 I saw a video showing some Madagascar villagers eating leather. The UN said that Madagascar was experiencing the world’s first “climate change famine”. A four-year drought had left tens of thousands of people starving with no crops and limited humanitarian aid. Some villagers were seen cooking and eating shoe leather to survive.
Recently I saw a film called 12th Fail which is a 2023 Indian Hindi-language biographical drama film produced, written and directed by Vidhu Vinod Chopra. It is based on Anurag Pathak's 2019 best-selling novel about the actual story of IPS officer Manoj Kumar Sharma. In the film, the protagonist loses all his money and belongings on the bus to Gwalior where he was going to be admitted to a study class to prepare for PSC (Public Service Commission). He had nowhere to live and no money for food. He loiters around for 7 days surviving on water alone. Finally unable to bear hunger pangs anymore he approaches a roadside eatery and requests for something to eat leaving his pride aside. In my childhood days in my native town of Tumsar in the Bhandara district of Maharashtra, I have often seen beggars, especially during marriage seasons foraging for food in the waste bins and even licking pattals and thongas (plates and bowls fashioned out of leaves sewn together) to survive and have felt much pity unable to do anything.
Much later in life during my visits to the so-called developed and prosperous countries like the US, Australia and New Zealand, I noticed poor people foraging for expired packaged foods that the normal populace there throws into the bins. Also noticed these people smoking cigarette butts and drinking leftover aerated drinks from disposed bottles. In my experience in India, most people don’t seem to care much about expiry dates, and I dare say that expired foods are many times repacked with new expiry dates or expiry dates are tampered with to offer the food items on discounts which we all are looking for all the time. A few months back lured by the “buy one get one free” offer on coconut water tetra packs I ordered two pairs of packs of three. We opened one, drank out of it and kept the remaining thing in the freeze at three degrees centigrade. The beverage went bad in 3-4 days indicating that the expiry dates had probably been tampered with. Amazon was kind enough to refund us the full amount despite no refund policy for food items. We disposed of the remaining stuff suitably. We also had a similar experience with Theplas (spiced chapatis popular in Gujerat) we stocked for our June 2023 Iceland trip.
How long human beings can go without food is an open question. There are no controlled studies available because legally you cannot force somebody to go without food. Estimates indicate that starving people become weak in 30 to 50 days and die in 43 to 70 days.??Individual factors including sex, age, starting weight, and water intake all play a role in how long someone can live without food. The body works to fight starvation by breaking down fatty tissue producing glucose for energy. In later stages, it breaks down muscle. But without food, these efforts eventually fail, and a person will ultimately die.
I recently saw a 2022 film called Society of Snow on Netflix. This film is based on real events. Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 was the chartered flight from Montevideo, Uruguay, to Santiago, Chile. It crashed in the Andes mountains on October 13, 1972, due to pilot error. The accident and subsequent survival became known as the Andes flight disaster. For 72 days following the crash, the 33 initial survivors suffered from extreme hardships, including exposure, starvation and several avalanches, which led to the deaths of all but 16 passengers who remained alive by resorting to cannibalism to survive. Cannibalism is the act of consuming another individual of the same species as food. It is common in animal kingdoms and has been recorded in more than 1500 species. Human cannibalism in ancient as well as in recent times is also well documented. But in the civilized world, it is rare and is also forbidden by laws. Being illegal in their own country also the dying people permitted others to use their bodies in any way they liked to make it look legal. One of the survivors later claimed that they had been inspired by “the last supper” in which Jesus gave his disciples bread and wine that he says were his body and his blood. This helped to sway public opinion and later the church absolved them.
In terms of a hunger scale from 0-10 with 0 being an empty stomach and 10 being so full you feel sick, primal hunger is experienced at 0-1. It feels unpleasant, urgent, desperate, and often painful when you can eat anything. This was probably the hunger intensity at which the desperate plane crash victims in the Andes resorted to cannibalism and Madagascar tribals ate their shoes.
In India under the “Pradhan Mantri Garib Kalyan Anna Yojana,” poor families receive 5 kg of food grains each month. The Union Cabinet on November 29 approved a proposal to extend the Pradhan Mantri Garib Kalyan Anna Yojana (PMGKAY) to provide free food grains to around 81 crore poor people for five more years until December 2028. Modi Government’s scheme of free rations to people below the poverty line is highly applaudable but that also probably does not meet the need for healthy adequate food. Most of our citizenry believes that hunger only affects lazy people or people who are just looking for a handout, and people who don’t want to work, but, sadly, that is not true. Over one-third of our hungry people are innocent children who are members of households that simply cannot provide enough food or proper nutrition.
Without access to adequate, healthy food, people are still likely to be hungry, undernourished, and in poor health, with high rates of obesity, heart disease, diabetes, and other nutrition-related health problems. Even when families can scrape together enough, a balanced and healthy diet is often beyond their reach. Unfortunately, when the hunger for food to survive is satiated we human beings develop a hunger for other things like junk food and binge eating which leads to obesity and its health consequences which puts a lot of strain on the nation’s health budgets leaving not enough money for developmental work which would have otherwise created much-needed employment lack of which is at the root of poverty and resultant hunger. To my mind, PMGKAY also affects the nation’s productivity adversely as with the availability of free ration these poor people do not want to go to work or are absent from work. Idle mind is devil’s workshop is an adage. They can indulge in antisocial activities. Thus, it’s a vicious circle that needs to be converted into a virtuous circle. A paradigm shift is necessary as freebies wouldn’t produce long-term results.
Mahatma Gandhi once famously said, “There’s enough on this planet for everyone’s needs but not for everyone’s greed.” Close to a billion people – one-eighth of the world’s population – still live in hunger. Each year 2 million children die through malnutrition. This is happening at a time when doctors are warning of the spread of obesity. We are eating too much while others starve. “We know that a peaceful world cannot long exist, one-third rich and two-thirds hungry.” Said Jimmy Carter once. Recent research shows that many children who do not have enough to eat wind up with a diminished capacity to understand and learn. Children don’t have to be starving for this to happen. Even mild undernutrition can do it. Hunger is the worst weapon of mass destruction. It claims millions of victims each year
Besides hunger for food for self-preservation and survival, psychologists describe three basic human hunger. Hunger for recognition, hunger for structure and hunger for stimulation. An infant yearns for physical contact as a way of recognition. As we grow into adulthood, we still need some form of recognition and appreciation which translates to respect which is one of the basic needs. Hunger for structure means that one likes order and predictability. Hunger for stimulation translates to subjects’ liking for excitement and novelty. We all have some degree of each hunger but probably have one that is higher than others. The hunger also changes at different stages of our lives. If we have jobs which feed to our dominant hunger then we feel happy and enthused and have a better chance of excelling.
Consider for a moment if someone in filmmaking has a strong hunger for structure whereas the job needs high levels of experimentation and creativity. The person is likely to sulk and not give his/her best. Similarly, if an auditor has a strong hunger for stimulation whereas auditing needs high levels of structure - the person will probably not be doing his/her best work since their strongest hunger is being ignored! I think people who go for civil services in India have hunger for recognition predominantly. The job requires structure and order as the primary hunger and if their next hunger is not for this trait then they are not likely to do well in the bureaucratic structure.
Love:
Love needs to be defined by each of us by our own definition and conviction. It’s unique and individual. For me, it has to do with trust, honesty, and dedication. I also think that it means accepting ourselves and others whom we love as what we/they are and not as what we want us/them to be as that would be conditional. I always tell my wife that my caring for her and our children is my expression of love. When I don’t go to a cafe and come home for tea with her that is my love for her. When on official trips I bought gifts from them saving from my daily allowances not taking a drink or two at the bar that was love. Love comes with responsibility. When we did not go on a foreign trip and spent money on our children’s education that was our love for them and when I did not go out of the way to overspend on their marriages saving money for her and my future that was love for her and self-love for myself. In a famous Hindi film, Purab Pashchim legendry singer Mukesh sang, “ Koi shart hoti nahi pyar me” (there are no conditions in love). He further laments that she loved him on condition and implores that she can always come back to him when she is not young and beautiful and when everybody else has left her. Now this is love in a relationship.
Craving Love:
Craving love is a natural human desire. Love provides a feeling of connection, security, and belonging, and is very important for emotional well-being. The need for love is probably rooted in our evolutionary history. This is a form of emotional hunger that is often caused by a lack of affection during childhood. Love is something we share with others propelled by our own self-love. But craving love which is emotional hunger leads to desperate socially unacceptable behaviors and actions to fill an inner void. Signs of emotional hunger include an obsession with love, manipulation of others, difficult behaviour, desperation for love, martyrdom, and trust issues. Emotional hunger can cause pain and adversely affect self-esteem. The emptiness felt inside is not caused by a lack of a loving partner or family but primarily due to not loving oneself enough. Hence, it is crucial to learn self-love. If we want to stop craving love, we must overcome emotional hunger and fill the void inside, then the first thing we need to start doing is love ourselves.
Self-Love:
To my mind self-love is most important. If you cannot love yourself, how are you going to love somebody else? Warsan Shire British writer, poet, editor and teacher said once “It’s not my responsibility to be beautiful. I’m not alive for that purpose. My existence is not about how desirable you find me.” I think he wanted to say thus, “My existence is about how I find myself.”
We must all learn the wisest thing- to be on our own side. We cannot be comfortable without our own approval. Friendship with self is the most important friendship because without it one cannot be friends with anyone else in the world. We have been criticizing ourselves for years, and it hasn’t worked to create happiness. Has it for you? Why not then try approving of ourselves and see what happens. Within self, there is “You” and “You” and this is also a plausible relationship. I think this is the most important relationship. We should keep taking time for ourselves until “We” are “We” again. We can’t go back in time and make a new beginning as time travel is not yet possible, but we can certainly start right now and here and create a brand new ending. Not only do “self-love” and “love of others” go hand in hand, but ultimately they merge into each other and are indistinguishable. We must be ourselves. We cannot break ourselves for other people. If they cannot love us for what we are then we shall be happier without them. Can we be there for other people unless we are there for ourselves? I think-NO! Can we work to push our movement without really investing in ourselves? My answer is -A Big NO again! By investing in ourselves, we are investing in our community as well. We are all stronger, smarter, more talented, more beautiful, and more resilient than we were told. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.
I am for body positivity and self-love because I believe that we can save the world if we first save ourselves. I am all for promoting a positive view of all bodies, regardless of size, shape, skin tone, gender, and physical abilities. I believe we must focus on the appreciation of the functionality and health of the human body, instead of its external appearance. We must never be bullied into silence. We must never allow ourselves to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life, but define yourself. Do your thing, and don’t care if they like it. Love yourself first, and everything else falls into line. You have to love yourself to get anything done in this world. Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical. Once you've accepted your shortcomings, no one can use them against you. When you take care of yourself, you're a better person for others. When you feel good about yourself, you treat others better. Make happiness your priority and be gentle with yourself in the process.
Respect:
Respect is our emotional well-being need. The success of Shri Amitabh Bachchan as the KBC host is largely due to the respect he gives participants irrespective of their societal standing. I can say this because other celebrities have tried to host this show without any sizable success. Every participant gets emotionally attached to him and is the reason for the great success of this show. He treats a housemaid and a celebrity with the same respect. That earns him the title of “ Sadi ka Mahanayak”(The greatest super-hero of the century). I think that he is also a true believer of “Body positivity.” It is highly deplorable that many stand-up comedians thrive by insulting the audience or talking disrespectfully for the segments not present in the audience. It is sad to see people enjoying these silly derogatory jokes.
Abraham Maslow a humanistic psychologist in 1943 proposed what is known as “Maslow’s hierarchy of needs”. In 1954, he fully explained his theory in his book “Motivation and Personality”. He pictorially displayed needs like a pyramid with the most fundamental need at the bottom, and the highest on the top.
In the 1960s and 1970s, the five-stage model was modified by others to an eight-stage model adding Cognitive Needs -Exploration, Curiosity, Understanding and Knowledge and Predictability, Aesthetic Needs -Search for Beauty, Appreciation, etc, and Transcendence Needs-Being helpful for others to achieve self-actualization. This I can see in the bunch of people who manage our housing society and especially in the group which manages senior citizen’s society of the campus where I live at present. Senior society often organizes spiritual programmes which probably relate to their transcendence needs.
To my mind, all these eight needs are fundamentally subsets of the three basic needs which is the chosen title of this article. Some people get confused between self-respect and self-esteem. To clarify self-esteem is about how much you love yourself. Self-respect is how you show that love to yourself. Usually, having strong self-esteem will motivate you to respect yourself more. We thus see that respect and love are intertwined. I believe that respect is one of the three basic human needs because being respected makes us assertive, more resourceful and gives us the dominance to put a massive sway on the society by our actions. Respect is a basic human need. While on the subject, let me tell you a story about Sigmund Freud which I read somewhere. He was one of the most renowned Psychologists of his time as we all know.
Freud is best known for his theories of the “unaware mind”, especially involving the mechanism of repression (subjugation). He pointed out two kinds of basic instincts of human behaviour. They were -1. Hunger for food and 2. Hunger for Sex. In 1923 he was diagnosed with cancer (he lived 16 years after that). During his last days, he expected many people would come to see him as he was very famous- but there were almost no visitors. Thankfully after a few weeks, one of his students came to see him. Freud got emotional and became expressive about his work. In that meeting, Freud said something surprising. He said, “ I was wrong. Our greatest desire is not eating or having sex, it is self-respect. I had to go through that to realize how it truly feels”.
This may just be a story or maybe actually true- cannot vouch for that but I believe that respect is a basic human need. We all know that we like to spend time with the ones who are respected by others. People even try to imitate them. That is where hanging out with the cool kids and doing stupid things to get popular comes from. It comes from a deeper issue of acceptance.
Respect can also lead you in another way to being egoistic and arrogant. No one can deny that respect comes with some baggage of ego as well. The ego can be grown or controlled by our mindset and thoughts.
We don’t understand everyone around us properly but form opinions about them and feel that we are right. There are people around us who sometimes act weird, get angry or hassled easily, or do stupid things to grab attention. We must try to understand them as to why they act like that. There may be an untold story behind their actions which made them who they are. I remember that I once told my boss my story as to why I acted that particular way which he found unacceptable but he shut me up quickly saying that he was not interested in my shit as he chose to put it and that was the start of the end of my relationship and respect for him and his company. He probably lost an excellent employee who scored 9 on 10 for seven consecutive years of his existence with him and could have gained that one remaining point if that man cared to understand rather than passing a judgement. He is still not doing as well as he should have. I have sung my story to myself as self-counselling (“me” to “me”) and moved on to better pastures. Society is very harsh and ruthless. We form opinions about others without a proper perspective and understanding. It’s appalling that we invest only a small time when it comes to understanding people. The only persons story that you truly know is your own, and no one else’s. Until you’ve walked in their shoes, you only have faint feeling about what it may be like to be them and that may also be incorrect.
Have you ever read a biographical book about someone who’s ordinary? I once tried to write 60000 words and gave portions to a friend to read and comment. He found it monotonous and dull going from pages to pages. Stories are always boring about someone who stays normal to avoid being cornered. Being ourselves and staying inimitable is the best thing we can do. We should be proud of who we are and not what others want us to be. We can always try to improve ourselves to gain confidence and respect eventually. Be proud of who you are. Never stop chasing your dreams.
References:
Do You Crave Love? -The Minds Journal-Your Guide To Better Mental Health and Relationships
Published May 9, 2023
World Hunger - 2024 Guide- https://www.convoyofhope.org
Body positivity - Wikipedia
Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs-Verywell Mind
https://www.verywellmind.com › what-is-maslows-hi...
Respect is a basic need? - Isuru Pamuditha - Medium
https://i-pamuditha.medium.com › respect-is-a-basic-ne...
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT AN ICONIC FIGURE AND LESSONS OF POWER
Some people are exceptional in acting, some are marvelous in politics, some are stellar figures in serving the people, while some are known for exhibiting spectacular skills in sports or gymnastics. Very rarely we see people combining all these virtues and excelling in all these departments with equal ease. Here we are talking of none other than Arnold Schwarzenegger, the fitness guru, the well-known Austrian born American actor, businessman, filmmaker, the Republican politician, and former professional bodybuilder known for his roles in high-profile action movies.
His approach to fitness was remarkable. It emphasized inclusivity. Arnold spread the message that ‘Fitness will always be for everyone, as long as they have the will to move forward.’ To quote him, “Young, old, rich, poor, black, white, straight, gay, man, woman, “disabled,” able-bodied — and anything in between; no matter who you are and what your situation might be, fitness is for you.”
Arnold Schwarzenegger, born in Thal, Austria, was raised in a strict household. His father was a police chief and is said to be a former member of the Nazi Party. Schwarzenegger's upbringing instilled in him a strong work ethic and discipline. Arnold Schwarzenegger started weight training when he was just 15 years old. He earned the nickname "Austrian Oak" in the bodybuilding world. By the time he was 20, he had already won his first amateur Mr. Universe title. In 1967, at the age of 20, he moved to California, United States with dreams of pursuing a successful bodybuilder and acting career. Schwarzenegger went on to win three more Mr. Universe titles and then dominated the Mr. Olympia contest by winning it seven times, making him one of the most celebrated bodybuilders in history.
Despite facing initial language barriers and financial challenges , he persevered and eventually found success in acting field as well. His first film, Hercules in New York (1970) was a great success. Schwarzenegger played the lead, while another actor was used to dub his dialogue. But due to his strong personality and charm he was recognized and received well in the documentary Pumping Iron. That led to his global recognition and he then starred in blockbuster movies like "The Terminator" series, "Predator," "Total Recall," "Kindergarten Cop," and "True Lies."
Besides bodybuilding and acting, Schwarzenegger entered the political arena as a Republican. Here he was crowned with success .He served as the 38th Governor of California from 2003 to 2011, addressing issues such as climate change, infrastructure, and education reform. During his tenure as Governor of California, he implemented several environmental policies, including the Global Warming Solutions Act of 2006, which aimed to reduce greenhouse gas emissions in the state.
There is a memorable incident that happened at a hotel where he had previously been promised complimentary stays. However, after leaving office, the hotel refused him a room and demanded payment. Schwarzenegger shared his experience on social media, highlighting the transient nature of power and money.
Look, to elaborate a little further, when he was the Governor of California he had inaugurated this hotel with his statue in front of it. Hotel management had told Arnold, "at any moment you come, we will have a room reserved for you." But after Arnold stepped down as governor and went to the hotel, the administration refused to oblige him with a free room as promised saying that he should pay for it, since they were in great demand.
This made him to bring a sleeping bag and momentarily sleep underneath the statue and explain what he wanted to convey: "When I was in an important position, they always complimented me, and when I lost this position, they forgot about me and did not keep their promise. Do not trust your position or the amount of money you have, nor your power, nor your intelligence, it will not last." He said that he was trying to teach everyone that when you're "Important" in the people's eyes , everyone is your "Friend”. But once you are not going to benefit their interests ,you won't matter.” During this symbolic protest ,he sadly wrote "how times have changed".
In addition to his varied career, Schwarzenegger was engaged in business ventures including real estate, investments, and fitness-related enterprises. He has authored several books on bodybuilding and his life. Schwarzenegger also founded the Schwarzenegger Institute for State and Global Policy at the University of Southern California, aiming to promote bipartisan solutions to public policy challenges. He has supported various charitable causes, including children's hospitals, after-school programs, and environmental initiatives. He established the Inner-City Games Foundation to provide recreational opportunities for underprivileged youth.
Schwarzenegger has faced personal challenges and setbacks throughout his life, including open-heart surgery in 1997 to replace a defective heart valve. He has been open about his struggles and has used his experiences to inspire others to overcome adversity. Arnold Schwarzenegger's legacy extends beyond his accomplishments in bodybuilding, acting, and politics. He is regarded as a cultural icon and a symbol of the American Dream, showcasing the power of hard work, determination, and resilience. His success story continues to inspire millions of people around the world.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
THE KING, THE BAKER, and THE PEOPLE.
(Translated by the author from a story in circulation on WhatsApp. Author believes that this story was not copyrighted by the original writer so she translated to share with all.)
Once upon a time, there lived a king.
There was a baker in his kingdom, who baked breads and sold each loaf of bread at Rs 5 each.
But then, the baker could no longer afford to sell each loaf of bread at Rs 5 each. So, he went to the king.
“Your majesty, it is becoming difficult to meet all ends if I sell each loaf at Rs 5. I can only afford it, if it is sold at Rs 10 per loaf”, he pleaded.
“No problem, increase the price at Rs 30 per loaf and start selling at this price right from tomorrow. But…but do not tell people that I told you to increase the price.”
“His Majesty, Rs 10 per loaf is okay with me. I do not want more” the baker was surprised.
“Do as I say, okay!” ordered the king.
From the next day the baker sold bread at Rs 30 per loaf.
After a few days….
“Rs 30/- for each loaf!” People started shouting and then people decided to see the king and request His Majesty to reduce the price.
Next day at the king’s palace: -
“Call the baker!,” yelled the king, “I want to talk to him. This cannot continue. With immediate effect, price of each loaf will be Rs 15/-”.
“What a nice king, God He is, just halved the price. Have never seen such a nice king!,” the people started rejoicing.
A week passed and then the baker was summoned to the king’s court.
“See, you wanted a hike, and I did it for you. So, now that it is priced at Rs 15/- for each loaf, keep Rs 10/- for yourself.
You said you can afford to sell it at Rs 10/- for each loaf. For each loaf sold, pay me that extra Rs 5/-. Now, do not you try to cheat me, I will keep a track of the number of loafs sold. And do not tell anybody about this. If we find out that you have told people about this, will stop your business forever.”
The baker nodded and went away.
People continued to pay Rs 15/- per loaf till….
..
. till the next price hike.
Now, please tell me readers – would we say ‘the “poor baker” nodded and went away’ or would we say ‘the “poor people” continued to pay Rs 15/- per loaf till….’
…till we receive your revered comments.
RIG VEDA AND THE CONCEPT OF LOVE
On 14th was Valentine’s Day!
So here I pen down my say,
Love is everywhere there,
Even if we are not aware!
Love is humane,
Never fades, nor wanes!
As love is symbolical of the Divine
With which the Almighty intertwines!
Almost all ancient Indian art and literature starting from the Rig-Veda, centred on the concept of love.
This is because ‘love’ is an innate and spontaneous element of existence and was regarded as sacred and divine from time immemorial.
It is a very Indian concept that ‘love’ is essentially attributed to The Divine. Love for this Divine manifests itself in different forms in various stages of one’s life. The ultimate goal, as per Indian Philosophy is to attain ‘The Ultimate Bliss’ or ‘The Infinite’.
The path of an ascetic to attain this Ultimate is very difficult to tread on, as has also been highlighted in the novel “The Razor’s Edge” written by W. Somerset Maugham. Yet the blessings and virtues of love can be experienced by everyone in diverse ways. It need not necessarily be sensual love though it is common to symbolize ‘love for The Divine’ by means of worldly love. Creativity of any kind and form, with the travails of perfectionism, often ushers in the joy of love for ‘The Divine’ or ‘The Creator’.
LOVE IN RIG VEDA: -
The aspect of ‘creation’ has always been mystic. Thus, Rig Veda pertinently raises this question. As Max Muller has translated from the Rig Veda:
“Who knows the secret? Who proclaimed it here,
Whence, whence this manifold creation sprang?
The gods themselves came later into being-
Who knows from whence the great creation sprang?”
Rig Veda believes that it was love that brought this world into being and it was love that found the words to put it into speech. M.L. Varadpande in his book ‘Love in Ancient India’ elucidates how the concept of love came into being in ancient India. Ancient Indian sages believed that love came first and then came the world.
The following lines may be found in Rig Veda (x 129):
“There was not then what is, nor what is not. There was no sky, and no heaven beyond the sky. What power was there? Where? Who was the power? Was there an abyss of fathomless waters?
There was neither death nor immortality then. No signs were there of night and day. The ONE was breathing by its own power, in deep peace. Only the ONE was; there was nothing beyond. Darkness was hidden in darkness; the all was fluid and formless, therein, in the void, by the fervour arose the ONE.
And in the ONE arose love. Love the first seed of soul. The truth of this the sages found in their hearts; seeking in their hearts with wisdom, the sages found that bond of union between being and not being.”
Thus, is the Indian belief that the union of the Divine and the Humankind would usher in the Ultimate Joy. Any path that would lead to the experiencing of this esoteric joy has thus been symbolized in several ways. The mystic phenomenon of love has been represented in the mysticism of worldly love too. In a book called “Erotic Literature of Ancient Literature: Kamasutra, Koka Shastra, Gita Govindam, Ananga Ranga” the author Sandhya Mulchandani has explored this concept of love in the referred ancient texts.
Love is indeed a deep emotional attachment that bind us all and ultimately bind us to The Divine. Be it love for Mother Earth, be it love for one’s Homeland, be it love for the Divinity, it is love that embraces us all.
Nowadays there is a lot of hype for Valentine’s Day. For me, every day is a day for embracing humanity with love and compassion.
So, what is the importance of Valentine’s Day?
On this day, Egyptian religious philosopher Valentinus (100 AD – 160 AD), and his followers Valentinians are honoured.
Valentinus was most successful early Christian Gnostic theologian, founder of Roman and Alexandrian schools of Gnosticism. His ideas on theology were from Theodas or Theudas who was a disciple of Paul the Apostle (Saint Paul). Paul The Apostle spread the preachings of Jesus Christ in the 1st Century.
Gnosticism was a belief that emphasized on spiritual personal knowledge above the orthodox religious preachings. They also believed that rival deities of good and evil existed. Salvation could be obtained by gnosis or secret knowledge.
In the Greco-Roman world, people often used the word “Gnosis”. It is the common Greek noun for knowledge. The English word “knowledge’ has links to this word “gnosis”.
Valentinus had followers like Heracleon, Ptolemy, Florinus, Marcus and Axionicus who were called Valentinians.
It is a Western Christian Feast Day and celebrated for romantic love. The day, Fourteen February is also known as Saint Valentine’s Day or Feast of Saint Valentine.
In the 14th and 15 th centuries, courtly love was much in vogue. Lovebirds of early spring were seen during February. So, somehow, this day got associated with romantic love.
In medieval European literature, courtly love “emphasized nobility and chivalry” as says Wikipedia. There were knights who set out on adventures and perform services and acts of chivalry for ladies to show their courtly love.
Celebrate or not – that is a different issue– but ‘love’ as per dictionary is “an intense feeling of deep affection” and so whether it is affectionate love, romantic love, unconditional love, or obsessive love, or may be even self-love – it is indeed a phenomenon that embraces all in this Universe.
Love is in the air,
and everywhere,
So, celebrate life,
with a loving vibe!
(Love is equally important in the Indian context too.
Would write about it).
THE AUSPICIOUS DAY OF MAGHI PURNIMA.
The Auspicious Day of Maghi Purnima
By Sreechandra Banerjee
Tomorrow (24th February 2024) is the auspicious full moon or Purnima Tithi of the month of Magh. As per solar calendar this year it falls on 11th Falgun, i.e., in the month of Falgun.
‘Tithi’ or ‘thithi’ is a day in the lunar calendar. This concept of lunar calendar was in vogue since the Vedic times.
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As per Gregorian Calendar, Bikram Calendar month of Magh is from mid-January to mid-February and month of Falgun is from mid-February to mid-March. Bikram Calendar, as we all know uses lunar months and solar sidereal years. A sidereal year is the time taken by a planetary body to rotate around the sun once.
Full moon and new moon cycles follow the lunar months. Sometimes the full moon and new moon Tithi (lunar day) s of the respective month do not correspond to the month to which it is attributed. Like this year Maghi Purnima falls in the month of Falgun. This is because these months Magh, Falgun, etc. are as per solar calendar.
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In 2025, Maghi Purnima will be held on 12th February, i.e., in the Bikram month of Magha.
Full moon (Purnima) and New Moon (Amavasya) have special significance for those who follow Bikram Calendar.
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At the commencement of month of Magh, the sun commences its northward journey. Thus, the month of Magh is much revered and the full moon pertaining to this Magh is an auspicious day.
This Purnima day is much venerated. Devotees ward off their sins by bathing in the holy waters of River Ganges and other sacred rivers or water bodies.
There is a general belief that bathing in holy waters frees oneself from sin and thus paves the way for salvation.
It is believed that Lord Vishnu Himself bathes in the holy waters on this day. Thus, the day is a very auspicious day and pujas are performed in temples across the country to seek Divine blessings.
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In India, rivers and water bodies are considered as sacred as they are representative of The Mother Nature. A river is like a mother and nurtures the land. Life starts in water too and thus ceremonious bathing in water is significant. Besides, rivers are the lifelines of the land.
Maghi Purnima is thus revered as the ‘bathing festival’.
River Ganges is the main artery and other nurturing arteries include Rivers Yamuna, Narmada, Tapti, Krishna, Kaveri, Sarayu, etc. These are all bathing sites for the Tithi of Maghi Purnima.
At Varanasi (Benaras) on Maghi Purnima Day
Kannyakumari and Rameswaram in Tamil Nadu, Pushkar Lake in Rajasthan also witness thousands salvaging themselves from worldly vices by holy dips.
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At some places, sacred tanks serve as shrines for bathing ceremonies.
There are sacred water-tank shrines in Tamil Nadu. The largest temple tank is the Mahamaham Tank located in the heart of Kumbhakonam City. It is said that the word “Kumbhakonam” means a “a great pot” or “a mythical pot”.
‘Masimaham Festival’ is held here at Maghi Purnima when during normal non-pandemic times, about one lakh visitors come here. Mahamaham Festival is held every twelve years. This is equivalent to Kumbha Mela held elsewhere. During this Mahamaham Festival, about two million pilgrims pay their tribute at this temple tank.
Sarangapani Temple, Adi Kumbheswara Temple and Nageswaraswamy Temple are all located near to this temple shrine.
Sarangapani and some other temples date back to Medieval Chola Period. They were later remodelled by the Vijayanagar Kingdom and Madurai Nayaka Kingdom.
Every twelve years a ‘Kumbha Mela’ is held when the planet “Brihaspati” or Jupiter enters the zodiac sign of “Kumbha” or Aquarius. Kumbha Mela is hosted at many places, although Allahabad, Haridwar, Ujjain and Nashik are the main shrines to host this mela. These fairs usually start on the day of Makar Sankranti and on the day of Maghi Purnima, pilgrims assemble for a holy bath in the rivers adjacent to the fair-sites.
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Large sacred tank or the ‘Porthamarai Kulam’ (‘Golden Lotus Pond’) of Meenakshi Temple Complex of Madurai, deserves special mention. This is another source of sacred water. Some believe that the River Ganges fills this tank on this day. Like Kumbha Mela, a big fair is held here every twelve years
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Golden Lotus Pond
Legend has it that a golden lotus bloomed for Lord Indra to perform His prayer-offerings.
Many other legends enshrine all the water-shrines.
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Although original Meenakshi Temple was constructed much earlier (in 6th Century? and then during 11/12th Century), it is said that during the reign of Tirumala Nayaka (1623-1655) the temple got its present look in 17th Century AD. Devotees say that Tirumala Nayak was born on the day of Maghi Purnima.
It is said that the shrine on the island of a sacred water tank (Marriamman Teppakulam Sarovar) was also constructed during this period.
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Pilgrimages, ancestral worship also form part of the rituals of many.
Thousands of pilgrims, throng Prayag (Allahabad) to take a holy dip at the Triveni Sangam which is the confluence of the sacred Rivers Ganges, Yamuna, and the legendary River Saraswati.
Fairs and festivals wrap the observance of Maghi Purnima. The famous fair Magh Mela is held at Allahabad every year. Every twelve years when Kumbh Mela is held, pilgrims bathe on this day of Maghi Purnima.
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Madurai hosts the famous float festival. Goddess Durga is known as Meenakshi here which means one who has eyes like those of a fish.
A sacred tank, the ‘Marriamman Teppakulam Sarovar’ is located near Madurai.
Idols of the Goddess Meenakshi and Lord Sundareshwara are decorated and taken on a float to this Sarovar or tank.
Goddess Meenakshi and God Sundareshwrar
Meenakshi Temple and also the shrine on the island of the tank are well illuminated and many people join to take part in the holy festivities.
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Float Festival
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Shrine of Govardhan Hill
A visit to the religious site of Govardhan hill near the town of Vrindavan is also common among the devotees of Lord Krishna.
Many rituals are performed of which ‘Parikrama’ or ‘Pradakshina’ (circumambulation) plays an important part.
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Maghi Purnima is also observed by Buddhists and verse are chanted from the holy texts of Tripitakas.
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On the auspicious day of Maghi Purnima,
let us all invoke the Divine.
Shubho Maghi Purnima to you all.
GODDESS SARASWATI IN SOME OTHER COUNTRIES
Some other South Asian countries worship Goddess Saraswati. Like in Burma, the Goddess is known as ‘Thuyathadi’ and is represented in Bamar fashion. She is seated beside a flowing river with the scripture ‘Tripitaka’ or ‘Tripitaka’ (earliest Buddhist writings). Goddess Saraswati in Japan is called ‘Banzaiten’ whereas in Tibet, she is called ‘Dbyangs-can-ma’.
Banzaiten- Saraswati in Japan
Thuyathadi- Saraswati represented in Burma in Bamar fashion.
There are Saraswati Statues or statues of deities riding a swan in many other places of the world like in Washington DC, in Saudi Arabia etc.
In Washington DC
This sixteen feet (4.9 metres) statue was gifted to US by Indonesia. This gold and white statue, installed in Washington DC in 2013 was sculpted and decked by Balinese sculptors. Of Three young students are seen at her feet. It is said that one of the three students was installed to represent His Excellency Barack Obama, the then US President.
Gold ornaments deck the Devi statue. This is located near the Indonesian Embassy , on Massachusetts Avenue (or Embassy Row). White House is also nearby.
GODDESS OF LEARNING GRACES BASANT PANCHOMI
(Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. This photo cannot be used by anyone)
Goddess of Learning, Devi Saraswati graces the day of Basant Panchomi and on this day, prayers are offered to the Goddess.
Devi Saraswati is also The Goddess of art, music, and wisdom.
This year (2024) Basant Panchami Day was on 14th February when Saraswati Puja was held. So, here as my literary offerings to the Devi.
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Goddess Saraswati and Rig Veda: -
Rig Veda is the oldest scripture where one finds the earliest reference of Goddess Saraswati as a river and as a divine deity. She is described as “Best of mothers, the best of rivers, best of goddesses, Sarasvati” in Book 2 of the Rigveda (2.41.16).
Again Book 10 (verse 10.17) describes Her as: -
May the waters, the mothers, cleanse us,
May they who purify with butter, purify us with butter,
For these goddesses bear away defilement,
I come up out of them pure and cleansed.
(Translated by John Muir).
So here She is a deity who has the powers of healing and purifying like a large pool of flowing water.
The above Picture shows Devi beside a flowing river. Here, Her vehicle or vahon is a peacock. Will write about Her vahons later.
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Spring Season and Goddess Saraswati: -
On the day of Makar Sankranti, the sun commences its northward ascent or “Uttarayan”. Well, this “Uttarayan” ushers in the Bikram month of “Magh” (Gregorian Calendar-mid January to mid-February) and is also the harbinger of spring season or ‘Basant Ritu’.
This onset of spring is pioneered by solar cycle as sun starts its northward journey. After this, it is the time for the lunar cycle to take over. On the fifth day of the waxing phase of the lunar cycle – i.e. on the ‘Panchami’ day as it is called in Sanskrit, revelations of ‘Basant Panchami’ welcome the blossoming of spring.
Indian philosophy believes in seeking ultimate happiness. Thus, from time immemorial, it is a cult in India to envelope seasons in the goodwill of religious festivities which usher in mirth and happiness. So, Basant Panchami is celebrated with gaiety too. This festival also heralds the colour festival of Holi which is held sometime later.
Spring is a time when the old withers away to usher in the new. New symbolizes knowledge, which in turn culminates into wisdom leading to ultimate truth- the cause for the ultimate joy. Wisdom wraps one in ultimate bliss. So, spring festival is indeed dedicated to the Goddess of Learning- as learning ushers in knowledge which in turn brings in bliss. Knowledge drives away ignorance. Saraswati Puja marks this joy of learning.
The exact reason why Saraswati Puja is held on the day of Basant Panchami is not known. However, it is believed that on this day, the Goddess descended to expel ignorance.
According to a Mythological School of Thought – Lord Brahma created the Universe on this day.
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Word ‘Saraswati’: -
The word Saraswati is formed of the two Sanskrit words ‘Sara’ meaning ‘knowledge’ and ‘Sva’ meaning ‘one’s own self’. Thus, the word refers to the one who causes the flow of the knowledge of one’s own self. The word encompasses flow of - thought, words, river, knowledge, truth, consciousness, purity, and all other virtues that the Goddess personifies.
Vedas explain the word as “Saaram vaati iti saraswati” which means “She who flows towards the absolute is Saraswati”.
Another interpretation of the word Saraswati is that the name is composed of the two Sanskrit words “saras” and “vati”. The word “saras” means “pooling water” or “speech” and “vati” means “she who possesses. So, the word Saraswati means “one who possesses water” or “one who possesses speech”. It may be noted here that here water symbolizes the vast “sagar of gyan” or “ocean of knowledge”. So, the Goddess being an ocean of knowledge she is indeed the goddess of learning from whose ocean of knowledge one can learn.
When the words mean “Possessor of Speech” – it also refers to possessor of knowledge as speech is considered to be an expression of knowledge only.
Some texts say that Saraswati is formed from the Sanskrit words “Surasa” and “vati”. “Vati” is possessor and “Surasa” means with plenty “rasa” or water and water as usual refers to the vast ocean of rasas or knowledge.
In the Vedic time, sacred Saraswati was a flowing river meeting the rivers Ganges and Yamuna at Prayag, Allahabad. River Goddess Saraswati is described in Rig-Veda as a mighty river which nurtured the Harappan Civilization – the birthplace of the earliest writing in India. The river got lost in Thar Desert, between 2000 B.C. and 1700 B.C. due to seismic activities. Later Vedic texts mention that this river was disappearing.
It is believed that this river still joins the Ganges and the Yamuna as an invisible river. Recent studies with satellite images have traced the course of this once mighty river. The small water channel near Kurukshetra is said to be a part of this Saraswati River.
Thus, Goddess Saraswati essentially embodies cosmic knowledge, consciousness, arts and music, education, enlightenment and creativity. She is worshipped for attainment of the highest form of enlightenment. Learning, pursuing art and music, all are different paths of attaining enlightenment. So, when spring is in the air, let us all pray to the Goddess for awakening us from ignorance. As Swami Vivekananda had said: “Arise, Awake And Stop Not till The Goal Is Reached”
End of every winter, I eagerly wait to hear the cuckoo calling. This year (2024), I first heard the cuckoo calling on 5th of February.
Cuckoo is the harbinger of spring.
I always get mesmerized by cuckoos’ mellifluous voices. Sometimes in the wee hours of morning, sometimes during daytime or sometimes at sunset time, I hear them singing!
When the cuckoo starts calling, it is time to revel in the joy that is springtime. Gardens get lost in blooms and resplendence of spring rejuvenates us.
Birds chirping, woodpecker pecking tree barks, tree branches swaying and dancing with the south winds, all add to the charm of the season.
Indeed, it is a time for rejoicing. So, when the cuckoo heralds the spring season, let us all enjoy the Bliss of Mother Nature.
As the gentle south wind blows, it is the gentle care of Mother Earth.
Let us all smile back to Mother Earth.
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.
The evening was still young when the party started warming up. The gathering in the Chaudhury household was exotic, the sprawling lawn of their Safdarjung mansion provided the right backdrop for a grand party in early November. The food was excellent, the drinks superb. Men were in a pleasant, euphoric state; most ladies, having imbibed good Italian wine, were mildly tipsy. Someone suggested a round of singing. Among our friends Mrs. Nivedita was the only acknowledged singer. She rendered a few songs, some others joined her, the mood was getting livelier.
Suddenly, I stood up, in a mood to sing. My wife Madhusmita was shocked, she pulled my hand and tried to restrain me. I could hear her harsh whisper, "Where are you going? Don't be crazy! Are you drunk?" I smiled at her and went ahead. My hands were mildly shaking when I held the microphone in my hand, but my voice was steady,
"Friends, you must forgive me. I am not a singer, except I hum to myself in the bathroom, as most of you probably do. But today I will sing before you. There is something in this early November air that tells me that my long-lost friend, who used to sing this song for me, will feel its vibration and remember me. Someone had told me that a song that comes from the depth of the heart is like a wave which returns to the singer carrying the blue depth of the ocean and the music of the undulating sea. I don't know where she is now, but wherever she is, my song will touch her heart and return to me carrying a timeless love."
I closed my eyes and started singing, "Sandhya taaraa, nishitha batayane, jagu kaa patha chahin aakula nayane, sandhya taaraa ....." The song was about the evening star looking out of the celestial window with longing eyes for the unknown lover. I gave my heart, my soul and all my passion to the song and when it was over, my face had got drenched with tears. I started returning to my seat amidst a loud applause. The song and its background had touched everyone's heart, making them wonder how the calm, quiet Pranay Pradhan had transformed into a sentimental singer under a cool November sky. Friends did a thumbs up and I could see admiration in the eyes of the ladies - a tribute to timeless love rarely goes unnoticed.
My wife had left. I regretted, for the umpteenth time, that she had never understood me, nor I had been able to convince her about the feelings of many dreamers like me whose hearts woke up to unknown strings pulling them, who went crazy when flowers smiled, or trees swayed in gentle breeze or moonlight fell in white cascades on a mesmerised earth. We chased beautiful, sensuous shadows in the dim light of silent avenues, in search of poetry of love. But Madhusmitas of the world had no reason to feel threatened by them, they had no competition from the elusive shadows who only dreamers like me courted. Constantly in search of inspiration, we were harmless, yet incorrrigible. The high priests of society, the pillars of its success, busy in trading stocks and shares, buying and selling apartments, chasing heaps of wealth, would never understand us, the prisoners of dreams.
I found a girl sitting on the chair vacated by Madhusmita. She stood up when I came near, a smile lit up her lovely face. She bent and touched my feet,
"Uncle, I am Neeraja, Sunila's daughter."
That hit me like a thousand stones, I almost staggered, but recovered quickly. I put my hand on her head in a gesture of blessing,
"You are Sunila's daughter! How is she? Where is she? Here, in Delhi?"
Neeraja shook her head, a cloud of sadness descended on her face like a melancholic mist on a forlorn mountain,
"She is no more uncle, she left us six months back, her body ravaged by cancer, her soul shattered by sadness. Till her last day she used to speak about you with a deep tenderness. She had told me, "You must find Pranay Uncle, and ask him for forgiveness on my behalf. Tell him I always remembered him like a precious, uncut diamond that he was - simple and shining with rare qualities." I asked my mother how would I find you, how would I know you? In reply she closed her eyes for a few moments and a smile spread over her thin face. Then she hummed this song - Sandhya taraa, nisitha batayane.....I knew this was your link to my mother, this immortal song of timeless love, eternal longing."
I looked at Neeraja, my mind numbed by grief at the loss of Sunila, whose ravaged body and shattered soul must have struggled to make her daughter as lovely, as pure as her. Neeraja was exactly like her mother, the way Sunila looked when she was a twenty one years old, dazzling with beauty, and bubbling with youthful mischief. Memory rolled past me like the scenes of a movie, except that it was not a movie, it was my life, her life, the story of our verdant youth.
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Youth! The magical, mesmerising world of timelessness, when days were spent in languid thoughts and nights in lyrical dreams! How could one believe, in the blink of an eye the class room in the Post-Graduate department of Geography would turn into an orchestra of heavenly tunes the moment a tall, lissome girl clad in a green saree with yellow dotted flowers entered. A cute smile, a pair of bright eyes, and a face that could melt the sculpture of Venus - that was Sunila Mishra. A hush would spread over the class of fifteen students with her magical entry and the next moment she would speak to someone, break into a laughter, soft music would float in the room, an unseen butterfly flitting from wall to wall splashing them with a riot of colours. Sunila was the star of our class; in every departmental function she would join the chorus for a devotional song and then take over the singing of one magical song after another. But her signature song was "Sandhyataraa......." It was as if, listening to her, one could close the eyes, transport himself into the cool, dark ethereal space of the sky and feel the evening star melting into a melancholic wait for her lover. The heart would quiver, the soul lost in an ecstasy which could come only from soulful music stirring one's inner depths.
And then one Thursday evening, the unthinkable happened. I was returning to my room after dropping a letter in the post office. Sunila accosted me near the Ladies' hostel,
"What are you doing on Saturday afternoon? Can we go to watch a movie?"
I stood transfixed to the spot, no words came from me.
Sunila smiled, her cute face shone with a soft light,
"You think I don't know what goes on in your mind, when your face lights up at my entry into the classroom? Or the way your eyes keep staring at me when I sing "Sandhyatara...." or the way you keep looking at me, unmindful of Prof. Tarun Ray's lecture? Don't worry, I am not a man-eating tigress that you won't be able to return to your room alive on Saturday evening. Let's go and enjoy the movie, you and me. Will you come?"
I couldn't say a word to Sunila on that cool, autumn evening. I just nodded and she left, aware of how she had made me dumb-struck. It took me a minute to return to the real world from the magic spell of the most stunning girl of our campus. I started walking back to my hostel. Suddenly the road turned into a mosaic of colours, each colour painting my heart with a new thrill. The trees swayed in the cool air, bent their head and blessed me with a hitherto unknown joy. I felt as if I was a wandering mendicant till a few minutes back and suddenly the proverbial royal elephant poured the sacred water from the golden urn on my head to anoint me - Pranay Pradhan, an unknown, poor nobody from a small, hilly village of distant Sundergarh - as the new king of a vast, unending kingdom.
We went to watch the movie on Saturday afternoon. It was Milan, where Nutan and Sunil Dutt pledged themselves to be united in love in every birth. Sitting so close to each other in a movie hall, watching a romantic film, stirred our heart in a way we never knew existed. On the way back, sitting in a cycle rickshaw, our bodies touching each other we chatted like long-lost friends - of our childhood, our adolescence and the many dreams we had. We knew we had given our hearts to each other and there was no looking back after this. For the next six months we spent every evening together, sitting on a bench in the university park or standing under the Gulmohar tree near her hostel. Every waking hour of mine was spent in thinking about Sunila - what would she be doing at the moment, reading a book, combing her long, beautiful hair or dreaming of a colourful future? What saree she would be wearing - my favourite, the green one with yellow dotted flowers or her favourite, the light yellow with small green dots?
And then the most unforgettable night of my life arrived. It was Chaitra Purnami, the culmination of spring festival when a full moon shone the brightest in the sky and created magic waves in whatever it touched. We had the annual cultural festival. Sunila finished her two songs on the stage and came to sit with me. We watched the programme holding hands, the language of our heart reaching out to make us feel overwhelmed under the moonlit sky. After the function was over we walked together to her hostel. And stood on the edge of the big football field awash with the golden moonlight. The night was cold, Sunila came closer to me. She looked into my eyes,
"Do you feel the magic of the moment? Do you realise why the silver light of the moon has mesmerised us, why it has started a soft fire in the green field, in the blue sky and in our hearts? Do you know the moon has become awfully naughty, holding the fire in her hands and asking us to douse it with our love......" There was something in the air that made us forget ourselves. Sunila was looking more stunning than ever. Our faces came closer, she came into my arms and in a moment of helpless abandon our lips met. In those few moments I was transported to an ethereal world which defied a description. It was like flowers opening up to the rising sun in the blissful moments of dawn, it was like the moon everywhere, shedding her soft glow of light to sanctify whatever it touched - the green lawns, the university building, the tower of the temple and the minar of the churches. My heart filled with a joy which I had experienced only in dreams. Sunila's lips were like a streak of moonlight glued to my lips, emitting a warmth that flowed in my body like a soft current of love. For many years after that I would wake up in the middle of night with a warm feel of those lips and like the distant singing of a magic flute it would fill my heart with a melancholic pathos. It was no longer real, but it refused to leave me.
The magic lasted just a few moments. Suddenly Sunila removed herself from my arms and with a soft giggle, she patted me on the cheek and mumbled, 'Shameless!' and ran away to her hostel. I never knew that would be the last time I would see Sunila. I came to my room and spent a night in euphoric joy weaving many dreams with the soft and tender girl. I looked at the moon and felt as if it had entered into my room, got imprisoned in my fist and I was afraid to open It lest the moon ran back to the sky. The next day was a holiday. I drifted off to deep sleep towards early morning and woke up to a mild knock on the door around ten. I opened the door and the next moment I felt as if the earth was slipping from under my feet. The tall, distinguished gentleman in a spotless white dhoti and kurta could be none other than Sunila's father, their facial resemblance unmistakable.
I stood at the door rooted to the spot. He quietly entered my room and closed the door. And did something which was beyond my wildest imagination. He prostrated on the floor, grabbed my feet and kept sobbing,
"Please save me and my family from eternal damnation. We are among the strictest, most conservative Brahmin clans from Puri and cannot accept a non-Brahmin of lower caste into our family. Please spare my daughter, I have heard good things about you, I know you are of a sterling character. My daughter is stubborn, she will not listen to me. Please spare her. I won't get up or leave your feet till you agree to do that."
My heart sank, I had never thought I would face this after a night of endless dreams. I lifted him from the floor, touched his feet and promised to him that I would go away from Sunila to a far-off place where the shadow of my non-Brahmin lower caste would not contaminate her. In a fit of impulse I assured him that I would do it on the same day, Sunila would never see me again. He went away, wiping his tears, a heavy burden lifted from his heart.
I kept my promise. I spent the day collecting my certificates from the university office and boarded a train to Delhi the same evening. From there I went to Baroda and enrolled myself in the Geology department at MS University. I did well, determined to succeed in life. I got a job with the Geological Survey of India and brought my parents to live with me. For the past twenty six years I have not gone back to Odisha, the shadow of a tall, distinguished gentleman clad in a spotless white dhoti and kurta blocking my path every time I thought of doing that.
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Neeraja was looking at me with admiration and awe for an uncle, who was a memory from the past.
"My mother went crazy when you suddenly went missing. But when she came to know the reason her respect for you went sky high. It seemed one of her cousins studying at the university had seen both of you walking away, holding hands, late on the evening of the annual function. He had telephoned her father who promptly landed up at your door the next morning. My mother never forgave her parents for sending you away from her. She told them she would never marry, but they kept on emotionally blackmailing her till she gave in. My father was a sadist. Somehow he came to know about her love for you during the student days and tortured her mentally. Her marriage became a disaster and if I had not come to her world, she probably would have ended her life. In a matter of few years the bubbly, happy girl you had seen as a student became a mental and physical wreck. The prettiest girl in the campus of her university days was reduced to a skeleton, a dark shadow of the dazzling beauty she once was. Yet my father had no pity on her, he was jealous of you who had stolen the heart of his wife and left a permanent imprint there."
Neeraja stopped for a moment and looked away, drawing my attention to a dark, handsome young man sitting on a chair a few feet away,
"Uncle, do you see my husband there? He is from a far away state and is of a different caste. We came to know each other as students here at JNU. When I wanted to marry him, my father threatened to disown me, 'a girl as characterless as her mother.' My mother asked me to follow my heart. That's when she told me everything about you and her. 'If your friend is as good and pure as my Pranay, don't think twice, just marry him. Don't listen to your father and repeat the mistake I made, don't turn your life to a living hell. Live in love, that's the least you can give to your life.' Uncle, it's because of you I made the love of my life a soulmate."
Neeraja bent and touched my feet again, a tear brimming in her eye, in the memory of her departed mother. Her voice heavy with sorrow, she said,
"We didn't know at the time my mother had already cancer in her lungs, a disastrous married life had taken its toll on her. She lived only for six months after our marriage. We wanted to bring her here, but she wanted to spend her last days in Bhubaneswar, in memory of the best days of her life spent in your company. That's when she told me I must find you and ask your forgiveness. Uncle, for young hearts like ours we just can't imagine what magic had bonded you and her. But have you ever asked yourself, whether you did justice to her? Shouldn't you have visited her when she was in suffering, as a physical and mental wreck? May be your visit would have brought some peace to her anguished heart and her ravaged body would have got back some of its lustre?"
I looked at Neeraja, my mind in a turmoil. She was Sunila's daughter and it was as if the young Sunila was standing before me. How could I convince her, the Pranay Pradhan of twenty six years ago was a keeper of his word, this simple, uncluttered young man from the remote hills of Sundergarh could never betray the promise given to Sunila's father. How could I tell her that I was a prisoner of a dream, a dream where a young girl of immense beauty was constantly running away from my arms with a sweet word, "Shameless!" That image had got engraved in my mind and was the stuff of my recurrent dreams. I was a prisoner who had lost his freedom in a kingdom of love and like a slave sold off in a ruthless, heartless market of upper caste - lower caste distinctions, I could never stand up and bid for my lost heart again. This inability, this helplessness, was so personal to me, and to the root of my being, that it was beyond the understanding of the curious onlookers, the likes of my wife Madhusmita or Neeraja or the many friends in the evening party who wondered why my heart had shed tears for a never-forgotten love. It was as real as the moon which I held in my palms on an euphoric night and lost on a cruel, punishing morning.
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Sukanti woke up, startled. Shrikanta was gently shaking her shoulders. She looked at the clock, it was fifteen minutes to two, way beyond midnight. The silence outside was eerie.
"Wha...what happened?"
Shrikant was looking miserable, something was troubling him,
"Have you ever suffered the pangs of separation?"
The question went over her drowsy head, like a bouncer from a fast bowler in cricket. She blurted out groggily,
"What? What the hell is that?"
Shrikant repeated, somewhat embarrassed, as if he didn't mean to ask the question, but couldn't help himself,
"Have you ever suffered the pangs of separation?"
Had it been a normal husband, a run of the mill, sane type husband, Sukanti would have burst into anger and given him a mouthful of expletives, but she knew her man, a sensitive, kind soul whose wet heart sheds copious tears at all kinds of spoken and unspoken woes of the world. She has been his sounding board for the last twenty four years. In the early years of marriage his love for old film songs and the habit of breaking into one at every turn used to thrill her. Ah, such a romantic husband, singing Chaudvin ka chand ho to his demure wife on moonlit nights! And his favourite Hemant Kumar number, Mujhko tumjo miley, ye jaahaian milgaya! He even used to write beautiful poems and present them to her. As the years rolled on, and kids appeared and disappeared, living happy, contented, free-from-parents life in hostels, Shrikant forgot writing poetry. Instead he would sit late into the night, listening to old songs and drenching his heart with thoughts of unrequited love and melancholic sorrow.
But this was a new high, even by Shrikant's exalted standards. Such a thing had never happened earlier; waking up Sukanti at close to two in the night. She ignored his question and tried to get back to sleep, but sleep eluded her. She checked if Shrikant had managed to sleep; she found him tossing on the bed, hitting one leg against the other, and sighing.
She felt bad for him,
"Not getting sleep? What were you doing so late, the usual?"
Shrikant must have nodded in the dark befor replying,
"Sorry I woke you up."
"It's ok, now that sleep has deserted me, let's talk. Why this question about pangs of separation, this midnight assault on the inner recesses of my heart? Were you listening to old songs, one after another, the ones that will make a block of stone burst into tears?"
"Yes, you want to hear me singing?"
"Ok, may be, I will go off to sleep listening to you singing".
"It's a Mukesh song, feel the pathos."
Shrikant started singing...Jhoomti chali hawa, yaad aa gaya koi...
"But this one you have heard so many times earlier...."
"Today I saw the video clip also and it melted my heart, again and again and yet again. Just before that I had listened to Tootey hue khwaboney, Seenemey sulagh te hain aramaan, and Tum naa jaaney kisi Jahan me kho gaye... All with video clips. The anguish on the face of Dilip Kumar and pain in the eyes of Madhubala pierced my heart. It's as if a deep melancholy rose like wild waves in my heart and churned up my consciousness. I was stunned by its intensity and it made me wonder, if you have felt something like this in your life? Somehow I wanted to know, just couldn't resist the urge to ask you if you have ever felt the pangs of separation."
Sukanti pinched his arm in the dark,
"You are a confirmed idiot, a sentimental fool. You married me when I was about twenty years. I had just completed my B.A. and was getting ready to join M.A.. From the RamaDevi Women's College I would have moved to VaniVihar, the University. For the first time I would have studied in a coeducational institution. But you whisked me away. I didn't get a chance to fall in love, so where was the scope for feeling the pangs of separation? Without the pangs of love, how could there be pangs of separation?"
"How about the times you used to take the kids to your parents' home during summer vacation?"
"Hah, you were such an embarrassment that time, calling three times a day, sometimes the late night call used to stretch to an hour. My two Bhabhis used to tease me all the time. So where is the scope to feel the pangs of separation?"
"But I also used to go away on my official tour, leaving you to fend for yourself?"
"So? In those two or three days also you used to call five-six times. Moreover, I knew you would return in a few days. I used to miss you, but missing some one is not the same as pangs of separation!"
Both kept quiet for a minute. Suddenly Sukanti started giggling, and didn't stop. Shrikant was amused but before he could ask, she said,
"You are getting weird. I must take you to a doctor. Otherwise some night you will wake me up and ask, 'Kanti, tell me how much you love me? What is the intensity of your love for me?' Hah, isn't that funny? A man and a woman get married, live together, share a bed, raise their kids, go though all the trials of life hand in hand and one day the husband would ask the wife, tell me, how much you love me! Is the love between a husband and wife bound by a length, width or depth? Can it be measured? And does one have to fall in love with her husband? It just happens, it's a given in life, just like the parents' love for the kids or the children's attachment to their parents. But let me tell you, now that you have raised the question, you are one of the biggest devils in the world."
Shrikant was shocked,
"Hey, what did I do, to get this big certificate from you?"
"See, you whisked me away when I was barely twenty, because of you I couldn't go to the university to study, and missed all the fun. If I had enrolled in M.A. In Psychology, I am sure some boy would have fallen for me, we would have started a romance, chatted under the tree for hours, written love-soaked letters to each other. May be my mother would have accidentally found one such letter, my father would have spewed fire like an angry dragon. There would have been a big drama in life, they would have stopped me from going to college, I would have given up food, pined for my beloved, and....and.... then only felt the real pangs of separation. My dear husband, thanks to you, I was deprived of such a rare, unbeatable experience of life."
She started giggling again. Shrikant was curious,
"But tell me, don't you have any knowledge of some one falling in love and suffering the pangs of separation?"
Sukanti got suddenly animated,
"O yes, yes, of course. I may not have experience, but I have knowledge. When we were in high school we had a classmate...if I remember right, her name was Suhasini. A Bengali girl, very sweet looking, her cheeks were like rasagollas, round and shining. She was madly in love with a boy from her colony, I think his name was Supriyo, she used to talk about her Supriyo dada all the time. When the classes ended she would come out of the school, her books clasped to her bosom, a smile lighting up her face. Supriyo dada would be waiting outside on his bicycle, both would start walking. Suhasini would always be drowsy in the class, sometimes dozing off. When we asked her she would say she was reading Supriyo dada's letter in the night, sometimes twenty times, often thirty times. When they used to walk together he would keep telling her jokes, she would be rolling with laughter, he would be touching her hand, her shoulders and sometimes her cheeks. Suhasini would be pining for more intimacy from him, she would tell us how she would be tossing on the bed in the night, remembering his touch and wishing Supriyo dada was with her, creating magic with his hands, touching her and whispering his love to her. When she would say this to us, her eyes would go soft, as if she was melting away to a sweet world of dreams. Then she would sigh and appear to be very sad. May be those sighs were the pangs of separation, I don't know, but often we would share her sadness. Their romance continued till I left school, I don't know what happened after that."
"My God, such an interesting story! Is your knowledge limited to only the saga of Suhasini or there are others also?"
Sukanti giggled again, remembering something. Her face brightened, even in the darkness of the night, in the usual way women get a glow when they were about to launch into a piece of delicious gossip.
"We had a class mate in the last year of our school, she was a Muslim. Her name was Ayesha, a beautiful lissome girl with expressive eyes, like they had a few dozen poems buried in delicate splendour inside them, eager to come out. Once she had gone to watch a movie with her parents at Shriya talkies. She bought some popcorn and soft drinks during the interval, the crowd was heavy near the stall. She turned and suddenly bumped into a fair, adolescent boy, innocent looking, a shy smile perpetually perched on his lips under a freshly sprouting moustache. Her heart took a few somersaults and collided with the somersaulting heart of the young innocent. In the flash of a moment they dived deep into the ocean of love and came up gasping. She ran away, her dupatta hiding her bashful face, he stood frozen, rest of the movie forgotten like some yesteryear's untimely rains. After the movie was over, he followed her rickshaw on his bike and found out where she lived. Within a week the romance between Ayesha and Laxmikant grew like a tsunami and threatened to go berserk. They couldn't live without each other even for a moment, beautifully written letters in scented paper flew like colourful kites between them and Ayesha lived in a dream like state all the time."
Shrikant was aghast,
"Romance between a Muslim girl and a Hindu boy? I can visualise a lot of pangs..."
"Yes, her mother found one of the letters and went ballistic. Ayesha first denied the affair and then shed copious tears, pledging to commit suicide if she was prevented from meeting her "Jaan". The family called an emergency meeting of close relatives and it was decided to send her away to Bhadrak to her uncle's place. So she was stopped from going to school and two days later made to board the train, escorted by her mother, two brothers and a couple of relatives who looked like butchers with wrestling as their part time hobby. Ayesha had somehow managed to send word to Laxmikant through a friend about her impending trip. So the love-lorn young boy also got into the train and managed to find a place a few seats away, but within her sight. Luckily Ayesha's brothers didn't know him, otherwise the butchers would have chopped him to pieces fed to the dogs near the railway track. Can you imagine, the lovers looking at each other, their hearts torn to a thousand pieces, yet unable to even talk to each other. Their eyes brimmed with tears, but they were afraid to shed them for fear of getting beaten to a pulp. You have been talking of pangs of separation, here it was even worse. They were so close to each other, but separated by miles of intense yearning. Can you imagine their state of mind?"
Shrikant nodded, his heart filled with tons of sympathy for the love-lorn youngsters.
Sukanti continued,
"When Ayesha got up and walked towards the toilet, hoping Laxmikant would sneak away to meet her, one of her brothers and the two butchers followed her. Laxmikant didn't even make an attempt to get up, he knew it would be futile. Ayesha hoped that in typical film style Laxmikant would snatch her from the cruel relatives when they reached Bhadrak, and together they would ride away to the evening sky, glorious clouds drenching them with showers of sweet love. But nothing like that happened. Her cousin had come to the station in an old car with half a dozen relatives. They surrounded Ayesha and her mother in all excitement and whisked them away. Laxmikant had come out of the station and stood there helplessly, his eyes blinded with tears."
"Did he meet her later?", Shrikant's voice showed the sadness he felt.
"No. It took just one week for Ayesha to get over her sweet dreams. The half a dozen cousins at her uncle's place were chirpy, boisterous and playful. They didn't leave her alone even for a minute to pine for her lover. There was a stall in their street which specialised in mouth watering kebabs and rolls. Soon Ayesha fell in love with Shami kebabs as if they were her soulmates and Laxmikant quickly faded into a hazy memory. Fed by unending kebabs, Ayesha's beauty bloomed like a delicate flower in summer rains and a distant relative who had a roaring garments business in the town proposed to make her his begum. She fell for it because she was told there was a kebab stall near his house whose kebabs 'were so good that dozens of them were sent by parcel to the royal family of Murshidabad every evening by train.' I met her a year after her marriage, she had come to visit her parents. She was visibly pregnant, she had added at least ten kilograms to her weight. She gloated over her husband who devoured kebabs and her rosy cheeks with equal fervour. He was a motor cycle freak and drove so fast that Ayesha had to sit in the back glued to him like a frightened goat. When I asked her how one sits like a frightened goat on a motor bike, she offered to give me a demonstration, I declined."
Shrikant was curious,
"And what happened to Laxmikant?"
She giggled,
"What happened to Laxmikant? Come, bring your ear close, I will tell you."
She whispered something and bit his ear. He recoiled,
"O my God, such dirty thoughts! From such a seemingly pure mind as yours! I am horrified."
She giggled more loudly,
"After twenty four years of marriage dirty thoughts become a sort of second nature. And my dear husband, did I know any dirty thoughts when I came from my parents' place, an innocent, nubile girl of twenty? You only taught me all the dirty things of life, remember?"
He remembered and felt shy, yet strangely fulfilled.
Sukanti turned to him,
"Now tell me your experience of pangs of separation. But first tell me, why do you get so emotional, so involved when you listen to these sad, melancholic songs? I don't know any of your friends doing that!"
Shrikant let out a long, heavy sigh,
"Kanti, you must have read somewhere that all men are equal, but let me tell you straightaway, all men are not equal, some are more sentimental than others, the sorrow and pain of the world move them and shake up their heart, flooding it with intense feelings. I have been always like that. Even as a child if I saw a street dog being beaten I would start crying, thinking of the pain it must be going through. When I grew up, the heart continued to remain touchy and prone to strong emotions. And by the time I was in the high school, a new, hitherto unknown feeling seized me, the feeling of love and the sorrow of unfulfilled passion. I was in a coeducational school, there was a girl three years junior to us, she was like a delicate, lovely flower. When she walked it was like a white flower with red dots swaying in the gentle breeze. Thoughts of her pervaded me like a slow fire spreading over a desolate winter, the heat of the burning passion making me breathless and the iciness of the unfulfilled love turning me into a cold stream flowing into an ocean of despair. Every waking moment I was obsessed with her, oh, how I wished I could talk to her once and pour out all my love in cascades of soulful torrents."
Sukanti was curious,
"Did she know about your insane love for her?"
"Nah, how could she? This heartthrob of the school used to walk with her eyes downcast, a faint smile playing daintily on her soft lips. And mind you, there were at least a hundred others like me, looking at her with their hearts fluttering like amorous butterflies."
"So you finished your schooling without talking to her?"
"Yes, and the same story was repeated in the college for the next six years. It's like standing on the banks of many rivers but ending up as thirsty as ever."
Sukanti giggled. She liked the simile, more so because she thought she got a husband so pure and unsullied by a love affair. The next moment she received a jolt. Shrikant exploded a minor bomb,
"But all that changed when I started my first job."
She shrieked,
"What! Don't tell me you had a love affair!"
"No, no, nothing like an affair, just listen. You know before I got my present job I was working as an officer with a nationalised bank. When I joined I was assigned for training to the local head office. My first three months were spent in the loans and recovery section. I was put in charge of Shefali Didi as my mentor. She was couple of years older to me, may be around twenty eight years of age. Unmarried, she was a very pleasant but aggressive person. She took over my life in a way I didn't know existed, she taught me everything about the complicated world of banking, and took me along on her scooter when she went on field inspections. Sitting on the back seat of the scooter behind her made me feel awkward, but she didn't care. I used to enjoy the fiery shouting she used to give to the defaulters. I almost felt like hiding, listening to her tongue lashing in unbelievably strong and often fiery language. She insisted on my sharing her lunch and dropped me at my small, rented apartment in the evenings. Well, I fell head and shoulders for her, my pent-up love overflowed like a pond in monsoons."
Sukanti had never heard of this earlier. In a shaky voice she asked,
"Was she beautiful?"
"Yes, she had a long, sharp face with a beautiful figure, she used to dress up nicely, always in jeans and colourful kurtis. But there was something strange about her, I could never fathom what it was at that time. One evening we were having coffee in a restaurant on the way back from a field inspection. She was looking really beautiful that day. The yellow dress on her looked like a stretch of mustard flowers swaying gently in an evening breeze. I was listening to her talk but nothing was registering in my mind. On a sudden impulse I took her hand, my eyes fixed on her animated face. She was stunned for a moment, the hungry look in my eyes must have told her of the silent passion that was raging inside me. She gently freed her hand and grinned at me, 'Shrikant, don't do this again, don't ever try it. If you do that, I won't speak to you. If I was to hold someone's hand I would have done it long back'"
Sukanti was surprised,
"Did you try to know why she preferred a lonely life?"
"Yes, when I asked her, she told me she was not lonely. Five years back when she was working in some other town, one evening a girl knocked at her door. She found it was Renuka, the young cashier of the branch - a soft, sweet, dimpled girl who could melt a few hearts with her winning smile. She was pregnant. It seemed Renuka had been cheated in love by some scoundrel and her parents had asked her to abort the baby. When she refused, they threw her out of their home. Shefali Didi took her in. They have lived together ever since, sharing the same bed and bringing up Shefali's daughter like a loving parent."
Sukanti let out a small groan,
"Parent? Are they......?"
"Yes, I asked Shefali Didi what was her exact relation with Renuka. She smiled, 'if we were married, I would have been her husband'"
Sukanti giggled,
"O, no wonder you sensed something strange in her. She was a he, wasn't she? So what happened to you after that?"
"Nothing. Nothing happened. Knowing what she was, I came out of my obsession in a matter of few seconds. It's as if my vision got cleared after a cataract operation. I spent a few more months in the bank and we remained friends. Then I got the present job, quit the bank and married you."
Sukanti sat up,
"Hey, you have never told me about this! Any other interesting episodes? Are you still brooding over some unfulfilled love?"
"Yes, but it's a different kind of love now. I am in love with a shadow."
Sukanti started giggling again,
"A shadow? Don't tell me I have become a shadow for you!"
"No no Kanti, you have nothing to do with it. Let me see, how I can explain to you. Difficult, but let me try. We all create small small worlds within our life. Some worlds criss cross with each other, some do not. For example I am in a different world when I am in office, meeting people, discussing things with them, building new plans, new projects. There I have my colleagues, bosses, subordinates. At home it's a different world, it's you, me and the children. Rarely the two worlds meet, except when there are family get togethers, or we go on the annual picnic. Yet, beyond all this there is a different world in which my heart lives, my mind wanders, weaving dreams, fantasies. It's a world, where I am a famous poet or a lyricist, a dramatist or a novelist. In that world sometimes I yearn to climb Mount Everest or to roam around in the Alps. When I sit back in that world, I often regret that I could not be a champion athlete, a celebrated cricketer, or a popular singer. I could not be one who the crowds could clap and welcome, or groups of college students could stop and point out on the street, whispering to each other my name and wishing they could be like me. Within that world I also have several others, the world where unrequited lovers sing songs of unfulfilled promises, where young men and women are tormented by pangs of separation from each other, and perhaps yet another world where hunger pervades, frustration reigns and untold miseries drive people to end their lives. At the end of it I believe no life is complete, everyone in this world chases an elusive shadow of fulfilment. But don't worry, in our own little world of you and me, the shadow does not exist. It's not your competitor, my sweet wife, you have fulfilled me in a way only you could."
Overcome by emotion, Shrikanta moved closer to his wife and gathered her in his arms.
Sukanti started giggling again, it looked like a night of endless giggles for her.
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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