Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXIX (29-Mar-2024 - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : The Wolf Spirit (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.
Title : Jai Shree Ram (Picture courtesy Ms. Sheena Rath)
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)
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
ACROSS THE RIVER
THE LEFTOVERS
ON THAT WHICH DWELLS NOT IN EVERYMAN
A TELL-TAIL
02) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE ICE-AGE
03) Ishwar Pati
RAGING WATERS
04) Magline Jackson
DREAM SCULPTORS
05) Sivan Methala
REAL AND NOT SO REAL
06) Snehaprava Das
THE MISSING BOY
07) Jay Jagdev
WHAT DO YOU DO?
08) Hema Ravi
THE GIFT
09) Sukumaran C.V.
THE EXTRAVAGANCE HARD TO GIVE UP
10) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
A SETTING
11) Shruti Sarma
THE QUEEN OF THAT CAVE
12) Sreekumar T V
SWEET SIXTEEN
13) Gokul Mishra
A BANKER'S ORDEAL
14) Ashok Kumar Mishra
BLOOD STAIN
15) Gourang Charan Roul
VISUAL CONNECT WITH SRIMANDIRA ...
16) Bankim Chandra Tola
LAUGHTER
17) Seethaa Sethuraman
MY MAIDEN SOLO TRIP (PART 1): ARRIVING...
18) Sheena Rath
YOU AND ME AND THE DOG NAMED BOO
19) Mayuri R. Ghorpade.
HOLI
20) Satish Pashine
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE-QUO-VADIS?
21) Usha Surya
AND SHE DIED...
22) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY...
23) Sreechandra Banerjee
WHAT IS PASSOVER?
SIGNIFICANCE OF EASTER
24) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
AFTERNOON RAINS
They all gathered at Professor Deepak's house by Thoothappuzha's shores to celebrate his 80th birthday. People came from different countries, eager to share stories and update him about their life.
Prajeesh asked a question that had been on everyone's mind: what did Sir mean when he said that a friend is greater than friendship? They hadn't understood it then, and now they wished they had asked him.
Deepak smiled and then laughed, explaining slowly. He said it was a lesson from his long life: sometimes, to maintain a friendship, you have to point out your friend's mistakes, even if it's uncomfortable for him
"For her too"
"Well, I am not sure about that".
Safina, known for her feminism in school, cut in but Deepak joked about it.
He shared an experience related to this lesson. He admitted to hesitating to correct others to avoid jeopardizing friendships, and he knew others had likely done the same with him.
Reshma, Deepak's big fan, asked him if there had been any great incident to share. Deepak chuckled, saying he hadn't seen death up close yet. They all laughed together, enjoying the moment.
"There was a time when I neglected my health, and my blood pressure affected my right hand and side, forcing me to stop writing. Physiotherapy helped recover my strength, starting with the mobility of my fingers. Very strange. You usually get back the bigger ones first
Despite still having weak legs, I had to attend a ceremony across the river. Using a walking stick, I could manage to walk on one leg and so I decided to go. I could ask the boatman to stop the boat on this side, and they would pick me up on the other.
Managing dates was a challenge, so I had a colleague remind me. She warned me about going with a weak leg, but I brushed it off, emphasizing my busy schedule. Later, I discovered I missed the ceremony when I saw it in the newspaper. That night she rang me up and confessed she deliberately didn't remind me. She valued my safety over our friendship."
Wiping his eyes, he shared that a boat had capsized in the river recently, but everyone was safe as the locals knew how to swim.
Silent for a moment, they all gazed at the flowing river, contemplating life's mysteries.
Then, unexpectedly, the wisp of an old song totally out of sync with the moment came to everyone's mind.
...Dressed in grand attire
I want to dance before you my beloved
To my heart's content....
Even Deepak seemed to hum along.
Footsteps suiting the rhythm of the dong echoed from inside the house .
Someone asked if Deepak had seen the person who wrote a story for him with her life.
"No, no, I have not seen her recently. Not for the last two hours. She brought me my tea and disappeared.
But I hear her...''
"...Like a flute pressed on your soft lips, jovially, quite jovially..."
"You've been doing a lot of translation lately. How do you get the work done so quickly?"
"I use technology now"
"Thought so"
"Whether it's a story or a poem, I first translate it using Google Translate."
"And then?"
"Clean it up with ChatGPT"
"Then?"
"Fix grammar mistakes with Grammarly"
"Then?"
" Listening to it with Text Reader I do one last check"
"And then?"
"Then I send the story or the poem for publication,”
“But that is ….. if there is still a poem or a story in it!!!!!”
ON THAT WHICH DWELLS NOT IN EVERYMAN
The night air hung heavy with memories, and the echoes of distant barks served as a haunting lullaby. Sleep eluded him, as he tossed and turned in a bed now accustomed to solitude. Closing his eyes, he found no respite; only the relentless grip of wakefulness.
Gazing out of the window, he repeatedly saw out in the courtyard a poignant tableau unveiled. At the far end stood the grave of his second wife, a solemn marker of loss. Beside it lay a smaller plot, the final resting place of Sita—the canine companion that had once bounded with joy in that now desolate house. The previous day had ushered his wife into the embrace of eternity, and in a cruel synchronicity, Sita had followed suit.
Awaiting a letter from his first wife, Janet, he grappled with the harsh reality that such solace might never come again. Their paths had crossed years ago during a celebration in the town, marking the rise of a new mayor.
"Excuse me, Jason, right? May I sit here?" Janet's words were a formality, as she swiftly claimed the space in front of him, her bag casually placed on a nearby chair. The chair scraped back as she settled, her presence filling the void.
"Right, Jason? How's business going? I'm Janet. We're in he same business. I too do money lending. Not as big of a firm as yours."
In those words, a familiarity lingered, as if the threads of destiny had woven their lives together. The plate before her held a symphony of salads, a testament to her artistry in the culinary discipline. She was a master of control, evident in her physique and minimal consumption. That day, he, too, ate sparingly, a silent rebellion against the relentless prodding of doctors.
As they parted ways that fateful day, the seeds of an unexpected journey had been sown—culminating in a marriage months later. The connection they felt went beyond the surface as if they had discovered their counterparts in each other.
Throughout their courtship, their similarities became a subject not just for them but for others as well. The symmetry in their lives extended beyond name initials to every facet of their married existence. several couples who bore no physical resemblance harboured a twinge of envy. The jests about their childless state, though, seemed like a cosmic irony.
Yet, after seven years, the idyllic harmony turned wearisome. Recognizing the impasse, they amicably parted ways, with him fulfilling every demand for compensation. She sold her shared property and ventured to a new town.
Janet, once the proprietor of a private bank, boldly stepped into unconventional terrain, establishing a modern slaughterhouse—Sneha Butchery. Despite scepticism about the name, Janet saw the irony in the name as a branding advantage. Her vision to supply meat to high-end hotels swiftly turned her enterprise into a triumph.
Interestingly, Jasonost his second marriage, followed a similar trajectory, shutting down his private bank and opening 'Priya Butchery' in his hometown. Government regulations influenced his shift, but locals couldn't help but draw parallels between him and Janet, even after their separation and his upcoming remarriage.
In a peculiar twist, he consciously chose Sumangala as his second wife mainly due to her contrast with Janet. The rationale behind this choice, whether borne out of resentment, an aversion to Janet's traits, or a simple adherence to dichotomies, remained elusive—a mystery veiled in the complexities of human relationships.
He discovered Sumangala through a matrimonial advertisement. She hailed from a village but relocated with her mother to various cities following her father's demise. Jason interviewed numerous women but ultimately selected Sumangala. Despite pleas to wait due to their ailing mother, he pressed forward.
Eight months after Sumangala's mother's demise, they solemnized their marriage in a low-key ceremony attended by a handful of people. Jason couldn't reconcile the image of Sumangala, not conventionally beautiful, with the striking model, Janet. He chose secrecy, believing others should follow suit.
Sumangala's arrival transformed the household. Unexpectedly, a puppy sauntered in the next day, altering the atmosphere. During Janet's tenure, attempts to nurture various animals and birds had failed, prompting Jason to hire an architectural expert to remedy potential issues of the house discreetly.
Despite Jason's efforts, pets had continued to perish. While preparing the house for Sumangala's wedding, the aquarium, bird cages, and the kennel were dismantled. Yet, an unanticipated puppy entered their lives. Despite Jason's apprehensions based on past experiences, the puppy seamlessly integrated into the household, defying expectations and bringing joy to Jason as it became a cherished member of the family.
When he had to stay away from home for two or three days for business purposes, Jason was afraid that the puppy might have some problem and die like the others. He was delighted that the puppy was no different each time he returned. It seemed that the puppy was not even aware of his absence. This puppy was there to disprove what people used to say about him, genetically incapacitated to love. Jason wished his ex-wife Janet was here to see all this.
Jason had new challenges in his life. Reading Janet’s mind had been easy for him. Getting to know her had been like getting to know himself. Living with Sumangala, who was very different from him, was indeed a challenge for him. From the maid in the house to the accountant in the office telling him, secretly and openly, to learn from Sumangala, he found it very difficult to be with her. He firmly believed that Sumangala should learn from him and not the other way around. His life remained largely unchanged. When Jason told a consultant psychiatrist that even though there was so much difference between the wives, he did not see it in his married life, the man told him to his face that it was the wives who had changed and not the husband. Jason never sought his help again.
Life with Sumangala also did not last long. She was bedridden with a very unusual illness. Since she became unwell, the dog too did not eat or drink. Because of the new business, Jason was not able to pay enough attention to both. Sumangala was transferred to more and more advanced hospitals, but eventually, the doctors said they had to wait for a miracle. That life did not last as long as the doctors said. The day after Sumangala died, that dog also passed away.
He sent a letter to Janet inviting her back into his life a month ago when he couldn't bear the loneliness of the evening of life.
Today he decided that there was no need to wait for its reply any more.
As he lay tossing and turning in bed, he felt his whole life had passed before him like a dream in a trance.
He remembered Sumangala's last words in her diary the day before she was first taken to hospital. She was sure of her imminent death without a doubt.
"My chess game with life is almost over. It was short but beautiful. I faced fate which had any number of coins to thwart my every move while I was left with a single coin. I don't know whether I won or lost because the game has not ended yet. But I haven't yet lost the only coin I fought with. I won't until my last breath."
Is it just a misconception that everyone has the same number of coins in the game of life? In his busy life, he has not been able to think whether any coin was not possessed by him or about the power of the coins that he thought he possessed.
He didn’t want to have another pet, let alone another wife. He somehow knew he was not good at the game.
As night embraced the world outside, a cosmic dance unfolded within, entwining love, loss, and the relentless passage of time. The silent courtyard bore witness to the symphony of their shared past, where memories and emotions intermingled like stars in the vast expanse of the universe.
In the silent embrace of the night, Jason found solace in the realm of dreams. Somewhere within the delicate dance of slumber, a vision unfolded—Sumangala cradling a puppy in her arms, a maternal tenderness radiating from her.
Startled, he awoke and gazed outside. The moon cast a subtle glow, revealing the solemn tombs under the starlit sky. The quietude of the cold graveyard was in sharp contrast with his feverish restless mind.
Beyond the window, the fading echoes of distant dog barks whispered tales of the usual nocturnal serenade on food, love and lovemaking, gradually retreating into the shadows.
I have no recollection of my mother; it seems some canine must have dragged me as a young one into this pet shop. A portrait of a cute female appears on the board of the pet shop and I used to admire it considering it my mother when I was young and my mistress when I grew up. Within this enclosure, various breeds and species coexist. All the males are in one compound and the females in another. Within the compounds, there are more barriers of breed, colour and size. We are named after the spot allotted to us.
My existence commenced within the confines of the pet shop, for I have no remembrance of what had come to pass before that. The universe's energy enveloped me in my early years, yet it remained restricted within those sterile walls. My world was confined to the space between cold metal bars, ignorant of what lay beyond.
Observers would pass by, scrutinizing and discussing my breed and potential. Selected for my breeding abilities, I was perceived merely as a commodity, a possibly prolific progenitor. The significance of those indifferent glances and hushed conversations eluded my understanding.
I witnessed the monotonous routines of the pet shop – the impeccably clean floors, the scent of disinfectant, and the varying colour and size of my fellow inhabitants. A yearning for something more, though undefined, grew within me.
As I matured, so did the expectations thrust upon me. I became a breeding machine, a tool for perpetuating my species. The mechanical nature of the breeding process left me craving a more profound connection, a relationship beyond the predetermined cycles.
The pressure to fulfil my reproductive duties intensified, leading to a growing dissatisfaction with the mechanical routine. Each pairing felt devoid of genuine connection, and I yearned for a relationship surpassing the forced breeding cycle. Little did I anticipate that a shift in desires would reshape my life.
As breeding cycles continued, I noticed the strain on satisfying my mate. She bore the responsibilities of motherhood, and our once-shared harmony faded into distance and isolation. Longing for a connection beyond the mechanical routine, I sought something deeper in life than the hollow satisfaction of producing offspring.
In the pet shop's monotony, excitement entered my life like a breath of fresh air. A member of a different breed captivated me, sparking a newfound interest. This deviation from the scripted mating rituals garnered disapproval from those dictating my breeding fate.
In response to their displeasure, I and my breeding partner were alienated from each other. My newfound interest and I were eventually thrown out into the street, as the pet shop found both of us unprofitable. Yet, in rejection, we found unexpected freedom on the unruly streets around the pet shop. Little did we know that amidst adversity, we would discover a love that defied expectations.
Thrown onto unforgiving streets, the harsh reality of abandonment gripped me. However, in the embrace of my newfound love, a different breed, I found solace. Love transcended superficial boundaries, and our days together revealed a language unbounded by imposed limitations.
Amidst challenges, we roamed the streets with newfound freedom, leaving behind the pressures of procreation. The simplicity of bliss replaced expectations, and our connection deepened beyond superficial definitions. On those streets, we forged a path to happiness, driven by an unwavering bond that blossomed in the face of rejection.
In the unpredictable challenges of street life, a revelation dawned. Love became the unbreakable thread weaving our destinies together, rendering our differences irrelevant. Our breed became a breed of love, surpassing the limited understanding of those in the pet shop.
On the streets, expectations dissipated, leaving only the truth that our partnership was anchored in a warmth defying conventional definitions. The authenticity of unconditional love became our refuge amid the uncertainties of our new life.
Today, it doesn't matter that we didn't conform to their roles; what matters is the depth of our relationship. Despite challenges, we found a haven of our own, becoming a unique species thriving on the freedom to redefine ourselves. In the simplicity of shared moments, we crafted a lasting love story beyond past struggles.
Slowly I learned a timeless lesson: love knows no boundaries. The path of love begins where artificial societal boundaries of colour, size, breed and gender are crossed. What were once streets of rejection became our passion. May my story stand as proof of the enduring power of love, imprinting footprints on the sands of time.
As I reflect on life's twists and turns, I realize the richness lies in authentic relationships free from preconceived disguises. Let my story serve as a reminder that the purity of love endures, leaving an indelible mark on every wandering soul's heart.
Not without fear. When their barking echoes in the distance, when four-legged footprints mark the sandy streets, when I watch from behind the bushes how hounds guard over the corpses of discarded infants, letting them rot and taste better and their shadows start looking like those of vultures up in the summer sky – what else courses through your veins but fear?
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.
“Subodh, come here.” – I heard my wife Su cry excitedly, “They are here. They have forgiven us. They have come back.” She startled me out of my mental inertia. She had broken her silence.
Su, Subhadra, my wife; her charms were legendary in my life, and I would whistle feeling thrilled even welcoming catcalls and wolf whistles she invited from riff-raff vagabonds when we roamed together in a crowded seabeach or markets, or a town fair on festive occasions. Often my known people would whisper rude things that instead of dampening my spirits, would fill me with joyous pride for my good luck to have Su as my life-partner.
They would whisper, adages from Hindi like - Langoor ke hath me angoor (grapes in hands of a monkey and I was the monkey), or derogatory adages in Odia like - Mankada hatare Shalagram or Shaligram (a deity in a monkey’s charge), or metaphors from English like – Beauty and the beast, I, of course the beast of the pair.
They would talk within my hearing range, “what a weird pair, but see the luck of the man!” Yes, I felt lucky to have Su as my wife, friend philosopher, and life-partner, in toto, my woman. She was the cause of my joy and tears.
She managed our household efficiently, taking care of our needs, physical and spiritual, and our dreams. Besides, she worked as a senior company secretary in a corporate house, heading their finance sector, and earned more than me.
We never discussed office at home, or compared our official positions between us, a basic and spontaneous understanding of our love and marriage. We had a joint account into which our incomes flow like tributary rivers. Most spendings were supervised by Su, including a lavish pocket money handed over to me. I knew she was a miser for herself. My father and her mother received regular funds from our kitty.
But, for reasons best known to her, I held her in a thrall, as she felt I was the best, a complete man, and was very vocal about her high-end choice in matters of choosing me as her man. She thought I was super-brainy, but I knew, her attributes for me were personal and from behind her love-tinted glasses.
I was a general manager in my corporate company but was never appreciated as a good performer. I also served. I was tired of hearing my director saying, “Subodh, you are improving. Better. Much better.” I never heard that magic sentence, “You are good”.
I was also a writer and was highly acclaimed by my readers and critics, but no awards had come my way. The reason might be the same, I might be writing better poetry and more quality prose, but they was never good for the award-judges and jury. Because I never cultivated their favour or humour them by calling a spade a bulldogger. In my personal opinion, they were not fit even for being librarians, what of judges’ posts.
They had apparently managed everything by ‘jugad’ in their life, a new word, loaded with meaning, and metaphorical weight, used for them by their distractors. It meant ‘managing by hook or by crook’. They also had identical sentiments for writers like me, who hated awards decided by them, and barbed them with ‘grapes are sour’.
Su would blabber great things about my high-calibre qualities into my ears, pouring syrup into my mood and confidence, when she would take me to higher and higher altitudes of excitement along our passion’s ladder until holding me close, she would plunge down the pit, gasping for breath, and both of us lying down at the floor of the pit in temporary oblivion and our time stopping to tick.
That used to be my Su, my shrine, my brothel as well, my goddess Aphrodite and my Vrindavati (Tulasi, the sacred basil bush) in the same breath. But in recent times, our close encounters had felt like a wet-cat passing through an Ice-valley. But I was startled out of my stasis with that shout of hers, “Subodh, come here……etc.” – my wife’s excited cry was like a foghorn to raise the dead in me, and when she added, “They are here. They have forgiven us. They have come back.”, I knew who were they, and who were there.
Her sudden call from balcony was like the spontaneous first love, made after a long hiatus in a fulfilling bed soaked with trust and acceptance that needed no instruction manual or practice or experience. Subhadra’s excited voice after months of getting hauled over red-hot coal of silence and apathy was no less than her first declaration of “I love you” many and many summers ago.
The age old and universal institution would be variously qualified - “Marriage is an itch, long-term or short”, people would say, “an itch that may die because of too much familiarity and loss of mystique in the life of a much-married couple and would invariably be replaced by indifference, cold vibes, absence of warm communion between partners. Marriage turns fairy-wives into witches, and godlike husbands into ghouls, it was said. The mutual indifference renders a hot spiced sauce into cold an insipid dip.”
But our falling out of steps was not caused by loss of itch, or mystiques but by outside elements beyond our control. So, my joy knew no bounds to hear my wife’s thawing mood, melting with emotion and excitement. I thought we had recovered from our marriage malady, our first ever.
I didn’t care condescending good wisher advising, “Subodh, take care of your wife with an aspen-leaf sensitivity while going round the Mulberry bush again. Don’t go wild-goose-chasing after the elusive golden deer!”
But what all had caused that Ice-age in my and Su’s life, now ending with a thrilling thaw? To cut the long narrative short - two mildly coloured little birds had brought our severe winter around six months back. In Mumbai, people called them love birds. We named them Angels.
They had long thin beaks and sweet chirping noises. Also, low, thin whistles. They visited us in our balcony garden every day, many times a day, gave us moments of joy, we basking in their love’s cooing and billing, and getting heated up in our routine search for conjugal bliss.
Angels appeared to be checking our balcony plants, prominently dominated by a bougainvillea bush in a giant pot. They were checking for suitability for building a nest, the later developments would confirm. We thought it was a plan for the approaching monsoon months that would keep Mumbai drenched. They finally chose our Bougainvillea plant to build a nest and their decision made us happy.
A cuplike nest was woven, and gummed; a structure made from soft dry sprigs, furs, leaves and scrapped bits of paper, and it was attached to a comparatively thicker and older branch to hang free with an open mouth. Light drizzle started, and except for going out for food, they spent time in our garden. Before our eyes they made love without shame, and repeatedly. I noticed they had a direct influence on Su. Her ardour for my company increased that had gone tepid over years of togetherness. I was happy for us.
One morning, before going to office, Su shouted out of excitement, “Subodh, climb this ladder and look into the nest yourself. I will not tell you what I saw.” The birds were nowhere. As the rain had stopped, and they might have gone out to look for food. I climbed the ladder and saw two little eggs placed on the nest’s floor. I asked, “When did they do it, Su? And which one laid the eggs?” She shook her head.
Angels inspired us for making a family of our own. Su joked, “But Subodh, don’t expect me to lay eggs.” I even enjoyed that bad joke, light-hearted semi-vulgar dirty tickler. Our marriage of minds and bodies, had all along thrived on aesthetics but not without occasional tinges of vulgarity.
One unfortunate day, Angels flew away causing us great grief, turning us into reluctant pall-bearers of their dead kids, breaking our hearts, and driving my Subhadra, Su, into the stance of a disconsolate rock-Ahalya, mute and cold, starting a frozen and snowing winter in our house.
I recalled, after laying the eggs, Angels cooed and billed more often while swinging on air-swept branches of the Bougainvillea. They would break into songs as if they had not laid two eggs but brought home the eighth wonder.
For reasons best known to them, after waiting for three to four days, Angels started spending their entire leisure at the nest except collecting food. They sat alternatively warming the eggs. The free one would go foraging for food for both, generally bringing small, thin, live, wiggling earthworms.
It was not possible to know which one of them was husband and which the wife. The so-called male-female balance and equality, that had eluded mankind so far, appeared to be the normal social order for Angels. They did every household function - from weaving and building the nest, to incubating the eggs, and collecting food, to singing and chirping to each other, equally. Their sexes were not discernible, therefore.
The only act, that of laying eggs, would have given away the female one’s identity, but that had been done so secretly that they had seemed to appear from nowhere. They did not mind making love in our presence, but their process of giving birth was a secret.
One day, some tragedy struck Angels. They were inconsolable. They did not chirp or whistle. They screeched in anger and agony. We thought they were crying for help. Earlier we had heard their babies, after hatching inside the nest, making small sounds and had watched with amazement being fed with little wiggling little earthworms by both the parents. We were happily waiting to see the babies fly out of their nest shortly.
But that morning was different. The kids were silent. The parents were repeatedly pulling out something from inside the nest but unsuccessfully, and were screeching pathetically. I climbed on our ladder and looked into the nest. Ill-luck! The babies were dead. Eyes shut and beaks tightly closed, two skeletal hairless bird-babies seemingly long dead lay crumpled on the nest-floor.
I had no heart to pass on the bad news to my anxious Subhadra. Angels were screeching at me sitting at safe distances, as if I was a snake or crow harming their babies. Perhaps they were not sure they were fully dead. Their pulling act might be their instinctive ways to revive the dead kids. Carefully, and without applying force, I took out the dead babies, they appeared rigid in death.
I wanted to dispose the dead babies quietly without sounding Su, who sat unhappily in the bedroom, having taken the day off from the office to help the crying Angels if necessary. All along my rescue work, Su was there at the door without my knowledge. She looked at the babies lying dead on my palm, uttered a wounded shriek, and collapsed on the spot. That shriek was the last sound from her for about six months that would follow before her excited call, “Subodh, come here……………etc.”
She might have thought the little ones were put to death by my careless handling. Also, she might have thought their screeching disturbed our peace and I was getting rid of the nuisance. I would never know what she made of my work. When I carried her to bed and brought her around, I told her what all had happened. But Su looked at me with blank eyes as if she did not know me, and understood what I was telling her.
I took leave as well to be by her. I handed over cooking to the cleaning maid who came to our flat in the morning. Our regular doctor came, and said, “It was a case of severe depression.” He sent a shrink, known to him, who gave her medicines for depression.
The birds left our balcony by that afternoon never to return. The empty nest hung in the wind, appearing like an innocent man like me, misunderstood as a criminal, was hanging by neck. I feared that Su and Angels took me for the kids’ assassin. Because Su would shrink away from my hands even in her cold feelingless state. I had to keep myself away, slept on the ground, leaving her our four-poster.
Su had intermittent seizures. Suddenly, she would be racking with sobs, her whole body drenched in sweat, and she shivering as if with malaria rigour. The seizure might be for minutes or for hours. She would be forced to have mouth-dissolve tablets in the mouth. As doctor had advised, I tried my best to console her, reason out with her that we had done our best for the Angels and none of us had any hand in the death of their kids. But she never talked back to me or anyone from the fatal day. She had turned into stone.
I would try as advised by the shrink to break the ice by holding her close and signalling her in our unique way for being intimate. During intimacy she would lay like a lifeless ragdoll. She had no interest in food, dress, social events, love making, meeting friends; even I was not sure if she slept in nights.
From that day, my roll changed from husband to mother. My concern, care, and affection grew every helpless day for my Su. I took care of her like she was a kid. I protected her, kept her clean, fed her little meals from time to time, gave her baths and showers, and showed her films on the TV screen, reading her from her favourite books. Every day, I hoped, “My Su would wake up tomorrow.” That kept me alive.
And she did that miracle one day. Her sudden excited cry, “Subodh, come here……etc.” was rather wake up call for me. I ran to balcony, saw the Angels were sitting on a bougainvillea branch and repeatedly visiting their old nest, doing something, might be repairing it. The birds continued visiting us.
In a few weeks, Su stabled and resumed her earlier state of a jolly, charming, humour-loving, and intelligent person. All symptoms of a breaking down vanished. The Shrink who treated her took the full credit, but I knew Angels did the magic.
We had married rather late in life, when she was in her ripe twenty-seventh year, and I was pushing my over-ripe forty-fourth. We tied the knot after a prolonged friendship, almost six years.
Did we use six years by courting each other in style? Or looking for a ideal partner in each other? Or, in testing the ground water levels in each other, or sounding the mutual boards for frequency to check if our wave lengths matched, etc? No, no such calculative steps or research about our mutual suitability. Apparently, we had forgotten to give our relationship a name.
It was a nameless period of six years, and we like two lines in a graph, grew closer, a little more intimate every day, but perhaps never as close as touching or merging into one another. We were not in any of the conventional slots - ‘married’, ‘live-in partners’, ‘friends’, ‘just familiar’ etc. It was perhaps, a little of everything.
When we married, not that our likes or dislikes had matched, rather one day, we felt that we could not manage without each other. Certain developments made us conscious of that truth that our need for each other could only be wholesomely attended to by our marriage.
I became bedridden by a serious disease and needed bedside attention all the hours. I was on leave and Su took leave to take care of me. She would be there by my bed almost all the hours of the day, feeding me food and giving me various medicines as per a chart, besides sponging me and giving me a daily shave. After tucking me into the bed, she would go home at ten-thirty in the night to reappear the next morning by nine. The only great things I could do unassisted were sleeping alone in nights, and visiting my bedroom-attached washroom.
My condition worsened and she did not leave my side even during nights. She hired a camp bed, put it in my bedroom to sleep near my bed during the nights. The arrangement continued until I got well and started attending office. She told me, “You are strong enough to look after yourself, Subodh.” That evening, I returned from office and found her two pieces of baggage packed and ready. She said she was leaving. I missed a beat. Then I collapsed, missing my beats altogether.
She put me in bed, dialled the doctor who found me stable but warned, “Freshly out of a prolonged illness, such seizures are normal. So, one caring hand should be there all hours with him for a few more days. Should I madam, send a night-nurse here?”
Su shook her head, “No, we will manage between us. Thank you doctor.” She slowly unpacked. Made us a cup of coffee and we talked until late hours that night like the world was going to end by the next morning. An hour or two were left for our rest and that hardly brought any sleep to any of us, but it was a happy night watch.
The next day, Su sent for the rented camp bed from the caterer again, that she had returned the previous day as she had plans to leave. She revealed to me what my so-called well-wishing neighbours were gossiping about us. They had taken a moral high-ground and considered Subhadra as a fortune hunter.
They did not know she was from a very rich inheritance and lived in a flat three times as big as mine in one of the city’s high-end posh areas. She also had a very well-paying job. Rather, in comparison, I should be called a fortune-hunter, seducing a duck laying golden eggs.
That night, as her camp bed was not yet supplied, she slept on the ground on a mattress borrowed from the guest room a few feet away from my fourposter bed. Deep into night, out of overpowering emotions, I collapsed by her side on the floor while returning from loo. She surprised me by taking me in her arms and lulled my sea-sickness like vomit rising to my throat. She was sleepless like me. She felt feverish but said I also was feverish to her touch. But none of us had fever.
She looked into my eyes, as if searching there for seconds for something, and apparently found it. She then became loose and subsided into my hug.
In a minute we had dissolved into each other like two oil-spills mixing in a sea, and suddenly, I felt fully cured of all my ailments. I felt a surge of understanding, simple yet rich, suffusing my inner being. I could not think my life without Su. I begged, “Don’t leave me, Su.” She squeezed me in her arms and said one word, “Never.” At that moment, the first crow signalled a new dawn.
Time moved fast-forward from that moment. We left bed like a pair of husband and wife. While sipping tea, Su cried into her tea, and choked, “I have been waiting so long, in fact for the last six years, to hear those three magic words from your lips, ‘Don’t leave me’, but you would say everything but not those words. I had given up hope.”
“Oh, Subodh, had you not said those words today, I would have fallen into pieces.” She was crying happy tears in my arms. We announced our love for each other with more candid words vividly, and whispered sweet nothings for hours.”
Suddenly she said, “Subodh, I have an offer for you to celebrate our new status. You have two choices to choose from - Tea or me?” I laughed uproariously and replied, “What’s in a cup of tea, you naughty girl? I will go for that ‘me’ always.” We straight headed for bed to celebrate. From that day ‘Tea or me’ would be our secret signal to pull us out of shy modesty to intimacy. The next day we married in a temple by its priest and registered our marriage in time.
Like all marriages, a monotony set in our marriage over the years of living together, and we needed a jolt to break that monotony. Like a signal from God, the two lovely love-birds came flying to our balcony like fairies to put excitement and joie-de-vivre into our placid stagnant pools of love. Su called them Angels and I liked her idea, as they seemed to be like angels who saved us from a pit of monotony. We were still childless and adopted Angels as our offspring.
I would recall my first meeting with Su, roughly twenty years ago. It was a riot time and I was new to her city. Circumstances made me take shelter in her house for three days. Her rich parents were alive and were my warm hosts. It was a cold winter, and in evenings Subhadra would take me out to a corner of their garden in the sheltered compound, heap dry twigs on the ground, and build a small fire. We would sit by the fire and defreeze our cold hands and feet, putting life back into them.
She would produce small potatoes from her pockets, put them into the hot and smouldering ashes with skewers and smoke them, filling the air with the sweet smell of the smoking tuber, bringing memories of my late mother’s similar smoked-potato mash in our decrepit kitchen of my childhood. She would unknowingly bring back the memories and make me feel homesick. She would take out a well-done potato from the fire, blow away the soot sticking to it, break it into two and share with me half and half.
Our closeness started during and by that potato-smoking in fire during a riot’s curfew time, over three winter evenings. She would meet me almost daily when she moved to Mumbai, where I worked and lived, to join an IT company. I would forget not keep the count of time, long six years, during which my little Su from the side of fires of smoked-potatoes grew up and walked into my life, as my wise and comely wife, adept in all the arts of making a house into a home.
Then came the birds, like a blessing that brought spring and songs into our stagnated years towards the end of a decade and half of living as husband and wife. The birds left us after the death of their kids for unknown reasons, turning my vivacious Su into a stony Ahalya. But Subhadra’s call on an unexpected dreary day, after the long haul of cold winter of six months, “Subodh, come here. See, they have come back…..etc.”, was the first thaw in her stony period.
Like the magical touch of the feet of Ram, the Prince of Ayodhya, that had released stone-Ahalya into the woman of flesh and blood, the return of the birds brought Su back to her vivacious-self again.
I ran and saw two little birds fleeting among our flower-laden bougainvillea plants in the balcony. They seemed nervous. When I joined Subhadra, perhaps we looked like a crowd to the small birds. They flew away.
That was the beginning of two love affairs, more intense than earlier. Subhadra’s birds returned and grew bolder, made repeated love with greater ardour. So did we, filling up the empty hiatus of our passion parks. They spent more time in our little garden by the day. They played around and chirped sweetly their endless songs. Again, they built a nest, laid eggs, hatched babies, and inspired us to start a family.
But one day a tragedy struck again. I returned from office early and went to nap after swallowing a headache pill for my splitting migraine. I opened my eyes to hear Su’s shrieks from balcony. I ran there and found her sitting on her haunches on the floor, crying piteously, holding her head in hands. Two little crumpled baby-birds were lying dead on the floor by Su’s side.
The two parent birds this time sat on a branch silently. They did not screech accusing us like the last time. Perhaps they knew it was their destiny. I also knew it was our destiny, another Ice-age was in the offing.
Exactly that followed. It has been a year since. Su has not spoken a word. She has been diagnosed as severely depressed again, and under treatment. We live like a man taking care of a fond and beloved female body with no life. Another Ice-age, slowly turning my household into a Gangotri Glacier. No Ganga however has trickled yet. (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.
Come the monsoon season and floods turn rivers into playing fields. Innocuous rivulets—and even trickling streams—acquire menacing proportions and wash everything away. Once my friend’s car was trapped in a spillway by a sudden gush of water. He barely had time to squeeze out of the car before it was swept away by the fierce current. His precious briefcase was lost along with its ‘prized’ contents. But he consoled himself with the thought: life is more valuable than valuables!
Some rivers are more notorious than others. Tel River, which originates in the western highlands of Odisha, is so ferocious that it made mince-meat of two bridges that engineers tried to subdue it with. Even as people watched from the shore, the river swelled in spate and felled the tall bridge spanning the river with a vicious yorker. Another time two contractors lost their lives while supervising the on-going construction. Most of the labourers, familiar with the wild ways of the river, ran away as fast and as far they could go. Their bosses thought they were safe on higher ground, only to fall victim to the river’s wrath when the waves came bouncing over the bridge. In the event, the bodies of the two men were never found.
It is amazing that while misfortunes like floods, landslides, cloudbursts, hurricanes, etc., are swamping us all over the globe, mankind finds itself helpless to tackle them with the sophisticated technology at its disposal. Catastrophic events are discussed as sensational ‘breaking news’. But soon the broken landscape recedes from our concerns and people go on with their lives as usual, hoping like Micawber that ‘something will turn up’. We delude ourselves to think that rivers are perennial and they will continue to serve us faithfully. But floods are only going from bad to worse and their fury is threatening to invade the lobbies of skyscrapers.
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.
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
The workshop resembled a quaint chapel nestled in the courtyard where a picturesque road reached its conclusion. Murukan, however, found nothing particularly striking about the scene. The abundant wildflowers surrounding the building emitted a mesmerizing scent, gently carried away by a soft breeze. Not a single house stood nearby, save for a few palm-thatched huts visible in the distance. These were the familiar sights visible from within the workshop, as one gazed out the window.
Inside, clay lay heaped in one corner, while half-done marble sculptures stood sleepily in the centre. Murukan had been tasked with creating a new sculpture several months prior—a character from the pages of a renowned writer's short story. It was an endeavour to breathe life into the lifeless, to recreate existence from the mud. Yet, Murukan couldn't help but chuckle at the irony, realizing that his creation was fated to exist only in the intangible realm of imagination, much like himself.
With the scent of creativity lingering in the air, Murukan, the sculptor, embarked on a night of artistic exploration within the sanctuary of his workshop. Illuminated by the soft glow of a lamp, the four walls bore witness to the rhythmic dance of chisels and hammers in Murugan's skilled hands. The amorphous clay before him became the focal point of his endeavour. Otherworldly energy seemed to flow through Murukan as he moulded the clay with purposeful strokes, akin to the divine act of creation.
The transformation was swift and enchanting. The once lifeless clay took on the graceful form of a woman, her features radiating an ethereal beauty. Murugan lost in the throes of creativity, sculpted not just a statue but a mesmerizing embodiment of feminine allure. As the living sculpture emerged before him, the atmosphere seemed to hold its breath in awe. Yet, in a twist of fate, the sculpture gazed back at Murukan with a consciousness beyond the ordinary, a spark of life flickering in her eyes.
The once silent haven of clay and stone now thrummed with the pulse of newfound existence. Shilpa, the living sculpture, spoke with a voice filled with wonder and gratitude, acknowledging Murugan's role in her creation. At that moment, Murugan recognized the profundity of his artistry, gazing in awe at the living testament to his creativity.
In the expansive room, the sculptor and the creation stood together, their bond weaving a narrative that surpassed the confines of art and reality. What had once been lifeless mud now breathed life into itself to become a living museum. Murugan, the sculptor, experienced a rebirth through the captivating relationship between creator and creation. As he stood amidst the room's silence, a sudden realization dawned upon him. The enchanting love story and the whirlwind of emotions were but external manifestations of a dream witnessed by a sculpture.
Once resonating with echoes of imagined emotions, the hall returned to its silent sanctuary of clay. In this profound moment of awakening, Murugan aligned himself with the inherent nature of the dream that had originated from a mere handful of soil. Emotions that had once felt palpable now appeared fleeting and temporary.
*******************************************
Renuka awoke rather late that day and promptly made her way to her studio. Later that afternoon, the literary festival organizers would arrive to collect the statue she had crafted for the protagonist of MP Narayanapillai's story, Murugan, the Snakecharmer. It was destined to grace the courtyard of the Sahitya Akademi.
Although the sculpture was intended to depict Murugan, Renuka's thoughts incessantly wandered to her classmate and lover, Alex Koshi, throughout its creation. She couldn't discern which aspects of her beloved she had infused into the serpent's form. Contemplating the sculpture, she sensed she had captured his dreamy eyes within its visage. Feeling compelled to linger with the sculpture, she had unresolved words for her departed beloved.
She often felt an unseen male presence in the room, though she dismissed it as impossible. Yet, the sculpture's eyes seemed to follow her, reminiscent of REM movements she had studied during her college days. She pondered the surreal notion of a sculpture dreaming, wondering about its content. Despite lacking a mind, the sculpture seemed to harbour thoughts, stirring emotions within her.
As she entered the studio, she was greeted by the radiant image of Alex Koshy, leaving her to question if she had had any such dream. Lost in reverie, she envisioned herself sitting outside the studio, akin to a motionless Greek statue.
Upon entering the studio, reality set in, and she found herself overwhelmed with emotion, embracing the still clay figure and shedding tears of sorrow.
Quite unknown to her, her tears mingled with the clay, symbolizing the fusion of her emotions with her creation, and its with hers.
Maglin Jackson, hailing from Thoppumpadi in Ernakulam district, is a versatile talent with a range of accomplishments. Her education, both at home and in Mumbai, provided a foundation for her diverse skills. Maglin has received numerous awards in literature, music, dance, and painting, including the Multifaceted Talent Award and the National Award. She excels in cosmetology, winning the Best Cosmetologist Award for her expertise in makeup, beautification, and fashion design. Maglin shares her skills in cooking, beauty, and crafts through various channels and publications. Beyond her creative pursuits, she actively engages in charity work. With 18 published books, Maglin's literary contributions are significant, solidifying her reputation as a multifaceted individual dedicated to her passions and community.
(Translated by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
Beneath the veiled gaze of the Ramzan moon, Earth's sorrow-laden face is etched with tears, a poignant reflection of the relentless rain that has been posing a threat for a fortnight. Amidst the haunting melody of rainfall, whispers of distress echo from the high ranges, where landslides are no news anymore. As the rains persist, washing away the scars of the land, a fragile hope blooms—a testament to the enduring strength found in solidarity amidst the darkest of storms.
The parched fatigue of the past ten fasts hangs heavy, casting a weary shadow over the day's proceedings. Amidst the bustling anticipation of Eid, a surge of car purchases inundates the streets, a stark contrast to the dwindling numbers in the office, where the absence of half the team amplifies the weight of responsibility. With registration duties completed, the daunting task of inspecting accidents falls solely upon my weary shoulders. A Tamilnadu lorry stationed at Vazhakulam and a KSRTC, accompanied by a fast passenger bus, loom ominously on the list of impending inspections.
That is when he enters the office, a bundle of Form 20 clutched tightly to his chest. There is no time to wait or waste; the clock ticks relentlessly onward, urging him to plunge headfirst into the demanding work that awaits.
"Sir, isn't your name Abdul Karim? My car is involved in an accident at Puthankurish station. I learned from the office that you are the one to come for the test. I thought I'd inform you after the rush..." the young man rushed through his words as the computer screen was crowded with information about cars and motorcycles. "I've brought a car to go... Sir, please let me know what you would like me to…," he whispered.
Amidst the pressing demands of duty, there is no room for the luxury of personal grievances. With resolve, I avert my gaze, concealing my irritation and frustration beneath a facade of resilience, summoning a weary smile upon my parched lips. In this relentless dance of obligation, compassion persists as a guiding light, driving me forward despite the shadows that linger within.
Courtesy and respect are extended to those dealing with accident cases. Nothing new in their speech, but it feels as if they are languishing.
"I am assigning numbers to new cars. After that, there are two other accidents to investigate." I told him.
"Sir, tomorrow and the day after are holidays."
I had encountered this young man a few minutes back. Standing next to the auto consultant Khader and Nawaz, he was observing from the balcony. A tired young man, about six feet tall, with the face of a swan bringing its fish. He wore a cheap red T-shirt with white and yellow stripes and a white dhoti. His face bore five or six days' worth of unshaved hair.
Finishing my important duties for the day and putting off the not-so-important ones for the evening, I got out and heard to the signal junction. I looked around and the young man in the red T-shirt seemed to have disappeared. Good riddance for the time being, I thought. At least till he picks me up, I am relieved of him. I thought he was a little too pushy.
It had been a week since a mountain collapsed at Signal Junction, destroying roadside shops and trees. Five children were killed when a tree fell on top of a school van.
On the black road, yellow soil flowed in the ruts left by the earlier rain. Small stones moved along, blocking the road. Debris from buildings and trees obstructed the path, making the vehicles' journey miserable. Mud flowed like lava.
Watching the two accident vehicles and waiting for him, I sensed that the rain would soon cease. He had promised to pick me up from the signal junction.
Blocked carriages lined up behind. A KSRTC bus stop with many cars parked behind it. He would be in one of them. I walked till there. Sure, he was inside, sleeping, languishing! I banged on the widow and woke him up.
He opened the door without getting out and I thought that was not very respectful. Or was he still sleepy? Should I trust him at the wheel?
"I fell asleep, sorry about that... It's been five or six days since I slept. I opened my eyes when sir rang the bell."
The heat inside the car added to the discomfort of the uniform.
"No AC?" I asked in a hoarse voice.
He didn't answer.
It's nearly five o'clock. The once-smiling earth's cheerfulness had faded away. Darkness spread over the clouds, reducing visibility on the road. He drove at a good speed, perhaps trying to combat the heaviness on his eyelids. Something needed to be said.
"What's your name, and who's in your family?"
"I am Hindu, sir. Manoj. Father Divakaran Nair. Amma Kartyayani...I have a brother, I mean I had a brother..." he said, turning his face towards me with a sense of loss.
After a short pause, he spoke again, turning his head as he stepped on the clutch and shifted gears. "Sir, I didn't think you would come today."
It wasn't long before I started working as an assistant motor vehicle inspector. I was forty-eight. A time when the misconception that AMVI is some significant event was foaming in my mind.
"Do you have the request from the police station in your hand?" I kept my eyes on the road.
"Yes, sir."
"You should... the reason for license suspension. You see, section 338 of IPC has been levied against you. In the police request, 338 was marked and stated.”
"There are five or six cars left in our company. Occasionally, I have to put up with drivers not showing up. Drivers are unwilling to deliver parcels to the railway station because they may have to wait for long there. You can't predict when the train will arrive. The accident occurred while I was rushing to the station. It's half past midnight." He turned his head, wearing an expression that pleaded, 'Please, spare me from license suspension.'
"Manoj, it's raining and the road is slippery. Just keep your eyes forward and slow down." I sat still, hands clasped, gazing straight ahead.
"... At a junction... I'm on the main road. The motorcyclist must have crossed the minor road. I realized it by the sound of the crash. Blood streamed from his battered face. Clueless about what to do, I went to my father's house two kilometres away and informed him. By the time we returned, the injured person was gone... There's a complaint that the car collided and fled without stopping. ... Some bikers who followed me would have taken him to the hospital... I took the car to the station that night."
He's justifying his actions. No other vehicle is expected on the road after midnight. He must have taken the car to the station, knowing that even if he didn't report it to the police, he would be caught.
Like my elder son, his speech is slurred. For a moment, thoughts drifted to the rehab centre. Depression settled in because he exerted too much pressure to excel in his studies. Regret filled my heart. Later, I noticed Manoj, , driving cautiously without turning his head.
The rain began. A wild bird, wings outstretched, sought shelter in the roadside coppice, its tail drooping. The hum of the turbocharged engine mixed with the melody of rain, creating a rhythmic blend. Ahead, the high bridge spanned the creek, hiding the brick fields. The rain intensified, reminiscent of the flood's darkness. It felt like being adrift at sea, surrounded by water engulfing carts, swirling, disappearing. Wiper blades fought to clear the windshield of splashing water.
"Do you drink?"
"No sir, I don’t drink now," came the prompt reply. "...before my marriage, sometimes…. It's been six months since my. My wife is pregnant... I don't drink now." Manoj's eyes were fixed on my face as he reiterated it with a mix of a smile and shyness."
Why does he often look so gracefully at my face? My facial hair is more than half grey, and my sunken eyes and chubby cheeks, dark in colour and reflect a dark mind. Like a little child looking up to its father.
The license will not be suspended. Manoj, scaring the public is only a technique of vehicle inspectors. thought in mind.
"Sir, who is at home?"
"Mom, Wife"
"Children?"
"Two sons. One in Delhi and one in Kozhikode.'' I tried to sound cryptic and to the point.
"Both are in engineering?"
"Um," I wondered for a moment whether would have to sacrifice my pride before his curiosity.
"In Delhi...?” He turned back with a face full of passion, ready to ask something. As if he remembered something, he suddenly straightened his head and concentrated on driving.
"The one in Delhi is in IIT.”
I expressed my pride and suppressed that which would disgrace me. IIT is where the best brains go. Delhi IIT is almost in first place. All parents are proud if their kids have made it to the IIT. Why not me! Like opening an unchilled bottle of beer, my pride settled inside me, pushed and spilt out.
"...He's whiter than me." At that time, the rank was like eight thousand... Children should study well there. It's a bit difficult for him... he can't eat like he does at home. He has become so lean now'' my son's sunken eyes and long face were in my mind.
Before being admitted to the rehabilitation centre, he was hardly recognizable, with long, unkempt hair and a beard. The doctor warned that it would be another three months before any significant changes. Now faced with this reality, what would he do? It was time to join others for a walk.
I painstakingly recounted each detail, my pride mingled with my pain. This was how my son learned, the father meticulously planning every aspect of his son's future. I described my son who woke up dreaming that lost in idle dreams he was sitting among diligent students writing their exam answers. Yet, amidst it all, nothing was mentioned of the mother who had endured sleepless nights for years.
The agony of a father who lost a race against the sharp determination of an irreversible clock was carefully concealed.
"You know IIT, not ITI, Indian Institute of Technology?” My pride, not knowing it had already lost its war even was asking him.
The question seemed to distract him a bit. Did he think he was being teased? He purposely ignored me, pretending to be careful to avoid the car in front of him that braked suddenly.
I thought it was not proper to ask him whether he knew IIT. It's not the old days. There are good and bad news about IIT in newspapers and TV. In any case, telling him that IIT is not ITI was a joke in poor taste. Maybe he didn't hear. IIT and ITI were not different even for me until my son completed 10th standard. I tried to justify myself.
He started off slowly as the sun flashed through the water droplets on a slight uphill bend in between. "We have two cars that have been taxed. They had test validity till the last 10th month. What should be done now?... What if the pending tax is paid and an affidavit is submitted that we are not using it anymore? Or let it be dismantled and sold as scrap. '' His voice was laced with pain.
He is hiding something. I will be in a rich house. Or who is middle class now? The only counterargument to that is those who receive a salary or pension.
It should be the story of a person who wasted his parents' money, lived in a dream world, stopped studying and went into business to become a millionaire. This generation is hard to understand. The time when there was only Plan A is gone. The days when one went to school on an empty stomach, fearing that if one did not study, there would be no other option...those days are gone. Today, not only Plan B, but also so many plans, up to Plan Z and beyond are there. The possibilities are endless. Although many are wild goose chases.
Losses or disappointments weighed heavily in those eyes, darkened like a mechanic's after a gruelling day. The lively movements he once exhibited now abandoned, he mechanically operated the clutch, changed gears, and confined himself overly to the driver's seat. It appeared as though he was wiping away tears, his mind wandering to a distant realm. There was a peculiar satisfaction in observing the pain of others, akin to encountering fellow travellers in the desolate expanse of a desert.
"This was a dream come true, I had wished to buy an Innova for a long time. And…..iIt didn't hit at a great speed," he remarked as he walked to the Innova, lying face down like a patient with lost teeth.
So that is the story, he was not such a happy-go-lucky person. It was not the story of lost dreams. For today's generation, Moksha or Sayoojyam equates to Innova or Skoda. Companies now christen new car models with such names, reflecting the aspirations of the youth.
"...Sir, please wait at the station's door. I will get an umbrella for you. The bike's owner has not shown up. Please check the bike also sir, I will do whatever it takes."
He hurried off to photocopy the picture and purchase an umbrella.
"The biker's right eye is cut by a splinter or something," he reported upon his return. "Five to six lakhs have been spent so far. Terrible tension, sir. Now, my family members are more anxious than me. Whenever I go somewhere with the car, everyone is outside waiting for my return. They won't enter the house for even an emergency till I come. The tension grows and I am worried whether it will affect the unborn child... We have nineteen vehicles.."
The number of vehicles increased, and the distance between minds decreased during their hour-and-a-half journey together. The visual landscape transformed as darkness spread, and the shade trees along the road waved their branches, bidding farewell to the day. The high branches soothed the frightened plants, caressed the vines, and offered support.
"Sir, when you go home, it will be night, won't it?"
The anticipation for the new month now shifted from days and hours to minutes, a stark reminder of the passage of time. Memories flooded back of when my eldest son was just a baby, and we would sit together on the nearby hill to watch the new moon emerge. His delighted claps at its appearance were a joy to behold. Now, I yearn hopelessly to witness that same smile once more.
The realization that both children were absent during the festive season passed with a sense of detachment. Was it a coping mechanism, burying the comparison amidst the chaos only to reveal it once more? My son has reached the age of twenty-four, perhaps even twenty-seven, or beyond twenty-eight. Now burdened with the responsibilities of a family, including a pregnant wife, he shoulders the weight that once belonged to us. It's a strange cycle—parents find pride in passing on their struggles when their own burdens are shifted to the next generation. How peculiar are the desires of humanity, seemingly confined to the realm of men?
Child is the father of man, I remember a line we had to copy onto the four-line handwriting book in our school days. What does that mean? True, it takes a child to make you a father. If you don’t have a child, you are no father. But, is that all? Does it also mean that we are children and they are the fathers? Or does it mean we are the father born to the child, that we only grow, we don’t develop? What we are today was there is us as a child. In that case, what part of me was there as a child? What part of my kids were in them as children? I can’t find anything in either case. Am I looking in the right place? Who knows?
I wished to hear him utter the word “procedures” again. Such a good accent was not expected of him. He appeared to be watching me, observing me, turning his head, and humming from time to time, trying to fix his attention on the speeding car and encouraging me to speak. As if he had waited on the hilltop to witness the dawn on his son's face.
"...drivers can't be trusted that much. Some errands have to be conducted at night and return at night. If a fan belt breaks, a light doesn't come on, or even a minor problem, try to fix it and drive. When the phone rings at night, I am scared to pick it up. My brother went on an emergency trip one night. His bike collided with the Taurus parked on the road. Might have fallen asleep... we both were good at studies. What joy was on my father's face in those days… He is somewhere up there now,” he glanced at the night sky
“...a small patch of two acres, few savings... started from nothing... I'm not insisting on anything. You decide what to do with your life," says an aged father.
His or mine? Had I dozed off a bit?
After the death of his younger brother, what his father had told him with indifference echoed across time and now confronted me, a stranger. Stories don't change. Only times change.
"I have completed Civil Engineering from IIT Delhi," he muttered after a short pause as if he had lost his mind. "I got a placement in a company in Delhi itself. My brother’s death happened exactly when I was about to join civil service coaching along with my work.
I have witnessed the struggles of my son, who achieved a rank of nearly eight thousand. "If you want to get admission to civil engineering, don’t you need a rank of less than 2,000?" The voice that emerged from my mind with pain couldn't erase the insensitivity.
Why did I feel pride instead of pity when I heard that a person who, if successful in civil service, should have been in a high position, is wandering around driving cars day and night? Am I watching a flower in full bloom which was a withered bud in another garden?
Arnold Miller's All My Sons, which my younger son directed and performed in college, came to mind. Every future generation holds everything for mankind. How selfish to think only that my baby is my baby. The only reality is what one wakes up from a dream.
It was hard to believe that he, the driver of a car involved in an accident, a man who often looked back at me while speaking and driving, who ran to buy an umbrella so that I wouldn't get wet, studied at IIT with a better rank than his son.
When I tried to recall his eldest son, I was surprised to find that his face did not appear in my memory. A whimper filled that space. I tried to at least get one side of his face in mind by deliberately leaning and turning to the left when the car turned right, and forward and when he put his foot on the brake. i struggled to remember his son. It felt as if he was struggling to shift gears, and his face grew even smaller.
"If you want to get admission to civil engineering, don’t you need a rank of less than 2000?" he had heard it clearly, but he couldn't help repeating it out loud one more time.
He took a moment to say yes. And that too in a low tone.
"It's very hot there in the summer. It will come up to forty-seven degrees. It's very cold in the winter... It's not bad." The closer I looked, the more the resemblance grew. The arrogance and rudeness of the driver disappeared. Apathy, indifference, and acting were forgotten. Now, he had the heart of the sea, eager to receive the rivers merrily flowing in the mountains and valleys with both arms open.
"...Father was mentally broken. Couldn't manage all the cars. I couldn't think of selling everything suddenly. I came home."
I could hear his chest pounding frantically for life, echoing as if from an eagle's wing soaring overhead. The trees trembled in the wind. The father in me awakened as Diwakaran Nair, whose younger son was lost in an accident and whose elder son narrowly escaped. The loss of his son's future loomed as a profound question. An instinctive urge to embrace and offer solace took over.
"Not everyone can survive in this business, especially if the timing is bad. Do you need it after studying at the IIT? You should be writing civil services or IAS tests. It's enough to give away the cars to be dismantled and sold as scrap. For now, let my father bear the burden of managing just five. My heart said, 'If my father frames it properly, my mother will understand.'"
"...Even if it's tough for a while, don't you think better days would come? Shouldn't the next generation at least be able to sleep peacefully? ...Aren't we all here for you?"
The brake pads pressed, the clutch discs separated, and the wheels screeched to a halt. Leaning forward, his chest, neck, and head resting on the steering wheel, he sobbed, his left hand tucked into my right. Bamboo wept, shaking with the rustling sound. Someone guided my right hand and stroked his back.
The car seemed to disintegrate. Insights flooded in—the lightness of the mind when giving zakat and glorifying Allah, the root cause of everything. I felt like a little feather fluttering about in the air. The Innova accident and the journey to Puthankurish... all part of the assignment. Unknown to me, my eyes looked at the sky above. Birds chirped in gratitude for the food and the shelter they found. The moon shimmered in the branches. A love that embraced everyone and everything, regardless of who or what. Like God's lullaby.
What if the children are not around?
I felt the fragrance of Athar spread all over the earth.
Born in 1964 in Methala near Perumbavoor, Ernakulam district, Sivan Methala holds a Diploma in Automobile Engineering from Kalamassery Polytechnic. With a 20-year tenure in the General Reserve Engineer Force (Army), followed by 8 years each in Air India and the Motor Vehicle Department, he has accumulated diverse experiences. Additionally, he has been honoured with the Nanma CV Sreeraman Memorial Short Story Award in 2021, the Nalikera Development Board Short Story Award, the Bodhi Kathavela Short Story Award, and the Thelineer Award in 2022.
Nikhil stood irresolutely in front of the old wooden gate that was painted black may be many years ago but the paint had now faded pathetically under the tyranny of changing weathers, and asked himself for the second time if he would enter or go back and return later in the day after ascertaining from his friend Sudhir Kumar if it was the right address, or Nikhil had misinterpreted it. The solitude and silence around made him wonder why must Sudheera and her husband who was an officer in a government organization choose such a secluded area of the town to settle.
Sudhir who worked as a business analyst in Delhi was a close friend of him since their college days and despite that they lived in places distanced by many miles from each other the two friends had remained in touch. Night before last he received a phone call from Sudhir.
‘I need a little help of yours, buddy,’ Sudhir said.
‘What is it? Why must you sound so formal? You know that I will always be there for you.’
‘I know, I know bro,’ Sudhir laughed. ‘The thing is that it is a bit personal. You have to deliver a gift to my sister, who is now in your town.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Yes, my younger sister. Sudheera is her name. You have seen her when you used to visit our place during our college years.’
Nikhil tried to remember. He perhaps had seen Sudhir’s younger sister while they were in college. But that was years ago. She must have changed in many ways in course of time. He could not recollect Sudhir’s sister clearly now. But he did not tell that to Sudhir.
‘She is here?’
‘Yes. Her husband who works as an accounts officer in a government office is transferred there. They have taken a house on rent in Shakti Nagar. You have to go there and deliver a gift to her.’
Nikhil thought for a moment. Shakti Nagar was at the other end of the town. Some ten kilometers away from where he lived. But he could not refuse his old friend.
‘No problem there,’ Nikhil assured him. ‘Give me the details.’
‘You know the Raksha Bandhan festival is in next week. This time I won’t be able to reach her. I will be in Singapore next week on an important business deal. I wanted to gift her a white sari of silk with a wide red border this time. But it appears that will not be possible since I will have to leave for Singapore day after tomorrow. I want you to do me a favour. I will send the money to your account. Buy a white silk sari with a wide red border and take it to her on the day of Raksha Bandhan. I want it to be a surprise gift this time.’ Sudhir said.
‘Buy a sari?’ Nikhil knew he sounded hesitant, but he had not much experience in buying or choosing a sari. ‘I do not know much about a sari,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Will she appreciate my choice?’
‘What is the big deal in choosing a sari? Just tale the salesperson at the counter to show you a white silk sari with a red border.’ Sudhir said encouragingly.
**
But it did not prove that easy as Sudhir had pronounced. Nikhil had to visit nearly half a dozen sari shops before making a final selection. But the sari was a good one and Sudhir was effusive in his praise when he saw the picture Nikhil had sent to his WhatsApp. Now the task remained to locate the house and deliver the gift to Sudheera.
He knew Shakti Nagar was at about ten kilometers distance from where he lived, a relatively less peopled area inhabited mostly by old generation people who had their own individual houses or bungalows. A calm, tranquil locality, away from the hubbubs of downtown area, not yet invaded by the outrageously smart and swanky apartment culture.
A light rain had started. He looked up at the overcast sky and grimaced.
The house that stood a little behind the black wooden gate, a small two-storied one, partly hidden by the dense growth of a couple of deodar trees in the front compound, wore a forlorn look. The abraded walls of the compound, their plaster peeling off at several places revealing unabashedly the cushions of mosses on them, were a picture of decay. He looked around to inquire if a person called Mahesh Singh had moved in to the house with his wife recently but there was no one in the vicinity. He was still hesitant about entering a house of someone who he was not sure would recollect him, a character from distant past. It began to rain heavily and that decided him. He unlatched the rickety gate and stepped in. A narrow, cemented path that led to the front door of the house was lined on both sides by closely spaced clumps of jasmine that had grown blossoms in a scented, white profusion. There were also a few bushes of roses and cannas against the compound wall. Sudhir’s sister, if at all it is she, who lived in this house, must be tending the plants with love and care, he thought admiring their healthy growth.
He stepped on to the small veranda and looked for the doorbell. He could not see one. After searching some more, he finally discovered it sandwiched between a hanging flowerpot wherefrom a money plant climbed up to get itself coiled around a rafter of the tiled roof over the veranda and the fringe of the door curtain that hung heavily across the closed front door. He pressed the doorbell gently and waited listening to the soft chime inside the house. He did not have to wait long. The front door opened and a young woman appeared. Nikhil, gave her an embarrassed smile.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked politely. ‘Does a Mr. Mahesh Singh live here?’
The young woman smiled. It was not a small, discomfited one at seeing a stranger, but broad, friendly and welcoming. ‘Please come in,’ she stood aside to give him way. ‘I am his wife Sudheera Kanchan.’ She smiled again.
Nikhil was surprised. Not many young women would welcome a total stranger with such cordiality.
‘My name is Nikhil. I am your brother’s friend. You might not be remembering but I used to frequent your house at Sonepur.’ Nikhil said thinking it would be wise and courteous to introduce himself before getting in the house.
‘Is it? What a nice surprise! You are doubly welcome!’ Sudheera Kanchan flashed her pleasant smile once again. Nikhil found her smile infectious. And this time he smiled back as he entered a cool, dimly lit room.
‘Please sit,’ she pointed to a comfortable looking settee. Nikhil looked around the room. It was large and spacious but poorly lit. The furniture, though a bit old fashioned and heavy had an aura of aristocracy about them. Everything in the living room looked impeccably neat. The house that looked shabby from outside was actually had an immaculate interior, tastefully decorated with wall hangings, and freshly cut roses and colourful cannas and bunches of jasmines in a brass vase that stood on a glass topped circular table. There were figurines and statuettes of silver as well as ceramic and glass on the shelves. A cabinet with glass doors, lined with rows of books stood against the wall to the left. A peaceful tranquility pervaded the room. His eyes fell on a flight of wooden stairs by the glass cabinet which led up obviously to the upper floor.
‘This is a big house for two people,’ Nikhil said.
Sudheera Kanchan smiled again. ‘Yes. It is. But I like the peaceful environment, away from the crazy bustles and noise of the main town. The neighbours are quite amiable and involving in nature. Of course, most people here are senior citizens. Their children are settled abroad and they have to live alone in the big houses they had built investing all their savings. I feel really bad for them.’
‘This is an isolated spot,’ Nikhil said thoughtfully. ‘I have a feeling it is not safe for you to stay alone most part of the day. There is always the fear of theft and burglary.’
Sudheera did not say anything to that.
‘You should never open the front door so readily to strangers as you did today. Imagine what would have happened had it been some notorious character instead of me!’ He added putting up an air of a protective big brother.
‘You have a point there, Bhaiya. I should be more careful.’
‘That is right,’ Nikhil said and dismissed the topic. He held out the giftwrapped packet to her. ‘Take a look at this. It is a Raksha Bandhan gift from your Sudhir bhaiya. You must be aware that he won’t be able to come personally this time since he is away at Singapore. He had entrusted me with the job of selecting a sari for you. If you do not like the sari we can always get it exchanged and buy one of your choice.’
‘I know. Sudhir Bhaiya called me yesterday. But he did not say that you would be bringing the gift.’ She said as she tore open the gift wrapping. ‘Wow! What a lovely sari, my favourite colour combination, and the texture is so soft and smooth! Have you chosen it?’
‘Yes,’ Nikhil smiled, enjoying her elation.
‘Superb! Simply splendid!’ She exclaimed happily, excited as a small girl.
‘Sudhir wanted it to be a surprise. How I wish he could see your reaction!!’
‘I am so, so happy. I will tie a band of rakhi around your wrist too. Wait,’ she said and ran inside.
She was, Nikhil thought amusedly, like a rollicking countryside brook, carrying broken fragments of sunlight in her easy flowing laughter. She came back almost immediately, carrying a rakhi and some flowers, a few pieces of burfi, a little parboiled rice and a burning diya on a small brass plate. She sprinkled some rice and loose petals of flowers on Nikhil, put a small vermilion spot on his forehead and tied the band around his wrist. Then she put a piece of burfi in his mouth. Nikhil put his hand on her head blessing her. ‘I haven’t brought a gift for you,’ he said and taking out a couple of five hundred rupee notes from his wallet, put in her hand.
‘What is the need of this, Bhaiya? Give me a hundred rupees as a token of your affection.’
‘You have to. You cannot say no to a brother’s gift. Can you?’
She broke into a silvery peal of laughter. ‘I cannot win you with words,’ she said and took the money. Now that you have seen the house you can come any time. Mahesh will be very happy to meet you.’
‘I too would like to meet him.’
‘I still think you should shift to a more populated area. This place does not look safe enough for a young woman like you.’ He added after a short pause.
‘What about young men? Is the place safe enough for them?’ The inoffensively mocking undertone was not lost on Nikhil.
‘Men are different.’ Nikhil remarked, ignoring it, a faint note of pride creeping into his voice.
‘You mean they are not easily scared,’ she said provokingly.
‘You can say that,’ He laughed.
‘Men are always so pompous!’ Sudheera Kanchan wrinkled her pretty nose.
‘That is the way it is, my dear! Men are stronger.’ Nikhil teased.
‘Oh! Really!’ she smiled her infectious smile again.
‘Maybe you are right,’ she said compromisingly. ‘But I have come to like this place. The calm solitude, the peaceful ambience is so soothing,’ she said after a short pause. ‘The owner has given it nearly fully furnished for only ten thousand a month and it is pretty cheap at that. Actually, this house is rented out for the first time after the owners, a young man and his wife, left here some years back.’
‘Why did they leave here? Did they choose to live in some posh area in the center of the town?’
‘They are now out of the state now. They would never come back to stay here. They did not care much if it was rented out or not. We got it through an agent. And got it cheap because they never quoted any specific amount.’
‘What is the cause of such disinterest? Nikhil asked, slightly curious.
Sudheera Kanchan’s cheery face darkened. ‘It is a sad story, Bhaiya,’ she said sounding dull and gloomy. ‘I have heard it from Leela aunty. This is the ancestral house of Swaraj Patnaik, the present owner, who lived here with his wife and son, a handsome, playful kid of six. They had come to settle here following Swaraj Patnaik’s posting here as a program manager in some reputed company. The house was left abandoned and uncared for since the death of his father. He had entrusted the responsibility of housekeeping to some distant relative. But the fellow proved not to be very sincere in discharging the responsibility. The lack of proper care sent the house sliding down the road to decay. Swaraj Patnaik was glad when he got a posting here. He came to live here with his family. They got the house partially renovated before moving in. They decided to demolish the broken compound walls and raise new ones in their place once they had settled here. The work was about to begin when disaster struck the family.’ Sudheera paused and looked at Nikhil.
‘What disaster?’ Nikhil asked, his curiosity growing.
‘It was the boy, Somu. He was a very animated child, loved to play football all the time. Not much interested in studies. It so happened that the father received a complaint from the principal of the school where he had joined his son. You know that the boy was new in the school and was not yet ready to blend in with his classmates. There was a nasty fight between Somu and another boy of his class over a cricket game and Somu hit the boy. Jabbed a heavy punch at his nose. Blood came out from the boy’s nose and his father, an influential person of the town, complained to the principal. Swaraj Patnaik was called in to the school and was warned to teach manners to his son. The humiliation of asking for an apology to the principal of a school on behalf of his son had made him terribly angry and he took it out on his son. ‘He must be punished for his irresponsible conduct’ he decided.
Somu was asked to sit alone in the compound for the whole day, morning to evening. He would be given his food from time to time, but no one, neither his father nor his mother would speak to him during that period.’
‘Then?’
‘The boy did not say a word, nor did he make any promise to mend his manners as most children would do in similar circumstances. He just took his football and went out of the house and sat under a tree in the compound. This arrogant indifference made his father even more angry. And now there was no expecting of any possible leniency from the father which an earnest apology might have elicited. But the son, a sensitive and stubborn kid, would neither ask to be forgiven nor promise to behave in the future. His mother, after his father left for the office, asked the boy to come inside but the boy did not. Nor did he touch the food despite all the coaxing and cajoling of his mother.’
This was getting more and more interesting. Nikhil found it difficult to resist the urge to know what followed next. He looked expectantly at Sudheera.
‘Swaraj Patnaik might have been feeling guilty for having consigned his only son to exile this way. He called his wife and learnt about the boy’s stubborn refusal to take food or drink. He returned home early, accusing himself all the way for being so impulsive and erratic. His wife, distressed and panicky, ran down the path to meet him at the gate. She told him that she had seen Somu, their son, playing football in the compound about half an hour before. She got busy in the household chores after that. The boy was not there in the compound when she came out to see. The front gate was open. She searched for the boy in the neighbourhood but no one seemed to have seen him. She had called his office, she said, and was told that Swaraj had already left for home.
Assuring his wife that he would find the boy soon who he thought must not have gone very far in such a short time, he rode away on his bike to make a thorough search for the boy. He inquired in the school which was closed that day following a function in the previous evening. He went to the home of some of Somu’s classmates, and asked them about him. No one had seen Somu that day. The exhaustive search for Somu proved to be an exercise in futility.
The light of the afternoon was fading fast as the sun neared the western skyline. Soon it would be evening. There was no sign of Somu. Swaraj Patnaik was terribly upset. A strong premonition gnawed at his heart. His wife, dishevelled and weeping stood by the front gate along with a few sympathetic neighbours when he reached home, defeated and spent.
‘What happened then? Did they find him?’
Sudheera Kanchan shook her head sadly. ‘After spending a sleepless night waiting for Somu, they reported in the local police station next morning. A missing case was promptly filed and an organized search operation was carried out. They went about all possible places looking for a boy of six in a yellow T-shirt and blue shorts, but Somu was not found. Nor did the police have any lead or clue that could have helped to pursue the matter from a new angle. They suspected kidnapping but there was no ransom call. Inquiries were made in the local hospitals for possible accident cases. But they drew a blank everywhere. The six-year-old Somu had just vanished into thin air.’
The mother of the boy was inconsolable. The unexpectedness with which the blow had struck, affected her mind and left her disoriented. A dejected Swaraj Patnaik opted for a transfer to some distant place, preferably outside the state and left this place for good. After so many years he finally decided to put it on rent and posted an advertisement through an estate agent. That is how we got it at a cheaper rate.’
‘This boy Somu, he was never found?’ Nikhil asked, feeling dismayed at the tragic fate that befell a happy family.
‘Never found and never returned. That is what Leela aunty says. I am sure the boy is no longer alive.’
‘Why?’
‘There would have been some news of him if he were alive. He would have come back. After all he was a six-year-old school going boy. He could have given the address to someone and that someone would have helped him reach here.’
She breathed out a deep sigh.
The rain had stopped. ‘I will leave now.’ Nikhil rose to his feet a little languidly.
‘Wait, Bhaiya. You have come to our house for the first time and that too on such an auspicious day. You can’t leave just like that. I will get you some snacks and coffee in a jiffy.’ Once again she ran into the house, sprightly and frisky like a mountain stream.
**
Nikhil glanced at his wrist watch. Sudheera was gone for more than five minutes. He looked around the room. it was a rainy day and there was no sun. The window that overlooked the compound was shut. Sudheera had not switched on the ceiling fan probably because the weather was cool. The room was dimly lit from the feeble streaks of day light that came through the open front door. The wispy darkness that hung in the room and the total silence made him a bit uneasy. He wondered why Sudheera was taking so much time to make a cup of coffee. He could not call out to her. That would not be decent. He had nothing to do but wait. He picked up the newspaper from the glass topped center table and let his eyes stray across the pages.
Then he heard it.
A gentle thump—thump sound. As if someone was hitting the roof lightly with a rubber hammer or something of the sort. The sound was coming from the upper floor. He knew Sudheera was in the kitchen. And he also knew that she was alone in the house. She was married for a few months only and had no children. Her husband was out in his office. He was instantly alert.
What could be the sound? A cat jumping about? Pillows falling down? Some thief hidden in a room upstairs?
But the sound had a rhythmic pace, as if it was made with a deliberate regularity.
The hairs on the nape of Nikhil’s neck bristled. His eyes darted along the flight of stairs and then upward where the steps seemed to disappear into the darkness above.
Nothing! Absolutely nothing to rouse a suspicion.
The thumping sound stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Nikhil looked at the curtain over the door that perhaps, he thought, opened to the hall and the kitchen wishing Sudheera to come in. This place was not as comforting as Sudheera believed. Let her stay in this house if she liked it here. He wandered to the door to call Sudheera and say he was leaving.
Nikhil felt his presence before he saw him. His body felt suddenly taut and an electric shiver ran through his nerves. As if he knew intuitively who and where he was. Slowly, as if it was a struggle to move, he turned to look.
The boy, in a yellow T-shirt and a pair of blue knickers, stood in the middle of the staircase, grabbing a dullish white big football in his small hands, looking straight at him!!
Somu!! The boy that had gone missing!!
Nikhil stood rooted, all his reflexes paralyzed. He tried to call out to Sudheera Kanchan loudly but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He just gaped at the boy with the football. And as he looked, the boy climbed down the rest of the steps and went out through the open door to the compound and then out through the black rickety front gate.
Nikhil stared at the disappearing frail figure, his heart doing summersaults, his knees buckling.
A minute passed.
Sudheera was still somewhere inside the house. Not caring if Sudheera would mind if he left without informing him, Nikhil stumbled out of the house, crossed the veranda and the narrow path lined with jasmine bushes in a few long strides and walked out of the black rickety gate to where he had stood his motorbike. He stood for a moment, flicking furtive glances in all directions to find the boy. He was nowhere. Like Sudheera had said, just vanished into thin air!!
He struggled on to his bike, made a turn and drove away fast. It was when he arrived at the crowded market area some five hundred meters away, he stopped, mopped his sweaty face, and waited to get his breathing back to normal.
**
His mobile phone sprang into life, startling Nikhil. He was relaxing in a lounging chair in the balcony of his apartment after returning from office. The morning at Sudheera’s and the busy office hours had left him drained out and he had no idea when he had snoozed off. It was Sudhir Kumar; he must be calling from Singapore.
‘Thank you, buddy,’ Sudhir’s ebullient voice floated in from the other end. Sudheera called me to tell that she was delighted to have the gift. She was all praise and admiration for you. But she said you left without letting her know, while she was making some snacks for you. What was the hurry? She would have called you but she did not have your number. I have given her your number. She may call you some time.’
‘It was a pleasure to meet her.’
‘I wanted to meet Mr. Mahesh but he had already left for his office when I reached there around eight thirty. Sudheera was alone. She is a very cheerful and pleasant-tempered person. Wish I had a sister like her.’ he added after a brief pause.
‘She is your sister too, buddy,’ Sudhir laughed.
‘Who was the boy, Sudhir?’ Nikhil found it difficult to hold back the urge any longer.
‘Boy? What boy?’
‘I saw a boy in the house. He came down the stairs with a football. I think the house is haunted. Try to convince Sudheera to shift to another house in the mid-town area.’
‘Haunted?’ Sudhir’s voice reflected his astonishment. ‘Why do you think so?’
‘The house owner, a Mr. Swaraj Patnaik had a six year old son who went missing one day and was never found. The police and the people believe that the boy must have fallen a victim to some crime or an accident and is no longer alive. That was the reason why Swaraj Patnaik had never returned to his ancestral home and rented it out through an estate agent. That was how Mahesh and Sudheera got it so cheap.’ Nikhil narrated what he had heard from Sudheera.
‘Wait. There must be some misunderstanding. Mahesh and Sudheera live there alone. But I remember now Sudheera telling me about Mahesh’s sister visiting them for the occasion of Raksha Bandhan. She has a son, around six or seven years. Ankur. You must have seen him.’
‘Was the boy Mahesh’s nephew?’
A confused and puzzled Nikhil asked more to himself than Sudhir.
‘What about the story of Somu, the missing boy?’
‘Now I understand,’ Sudhir exclaimed breaking out to a boisterous laughter. ‘Sudheera must have played a prank on you. She is very keen on concocting such imaginary tales. She must have conjured up the story when you have advised her not to stay in a secluded house!!’
‘An imaginary tale? Concocted by Sudheera? That playful, innocuous young woman who looked so vulnerable?’ Nikhil found it difficult to believe that Sudheera could play such a prank.
‘I will ask Sudheera to speak to you. And, buddy! Remove this idea of ‘a haunted house’ from your imagining mind.’ Sudhir said.
Nikhil sighed. ‘Okay, brother, bye and good night,’ he said and broke the connection.
He was not prepared to believe that a young woman like Sudheera Kanchan could narrate a fictious incident so glibly and so convincingly. He was still pondering over the morning’s happenings when the phone rang again.
It was a video call from Sudheera Kanchan. She wore the white silk sari with the wide red border and looked innocent and pretty. She flicked her infectious smile at him from the screen.
‘Hello Bhaiya! Why did you leave in such a hurry? When I came in with the snacks and the coffee I found you gone.’
‘I remember some urgent work at the office.’ Nikhil lied.
‘Do not lie Bhaiya,’ Sudheera said, her eyes dancing. ‘You were frightened at the sight of Ankur. Weren’t you?’
The boy Ankur made his appearance on the screen. He still cradled the football under one arm. There was an innocent smile on his face.
‘Say hello to uncle,’ Sudheera asked Ankur and the boy waved at Nikhil from the screen.
‘You are so mischievous,’ Nikhil said to Sudheera finding nothing else to say.
‘Will you say now that men are not easily scared, bhaiya?’ Sudheera Kanchan broke into her silvery flow of laughter
‘You win, I lose!’ Nikhil said through an embarrassed smile.
‘Come again bhaiya. Your coffee waits for you.’
‘Sure,’ Nikhil agreed and waved back at Ankur and Sudheera.
‘Bye,’ both of them said together as Nikhil clicked the connection off.
Dr.Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English, is an acclaimed translator of Odisha. She has translated a number of Odia texts, both classic and contemporary into English. Among the early writings she had rendered in English, worth mentioning are FakirMohan Senapati's novel Prayaschitta (The Penance) and his long poem Utkala Bhramanam, which is believed to be a.poetic journey through Odisha's cultural space(A Tour through Odisha). As a translator Dr.Das is inclined to explore the different possibilities the act of translating involves, while rendering texts of Odia in to English.Besides being a translator Dr.Das is also a poet and a story teller and has five anthologies of English poems to her credit. Her recently published title Night of the Snake (a collection of English stories) where she has shifted her focus from the broader spectrum of social realities to the inner conscious of the protagonist, has been well received by the readers. Her poems display her effort to transport the individual suffering to a heightened plane of the universal.
Dr. Snehaprava Das has received the Prabashi Bhasha Sahitya Sammana award The Intellect (New Delhi), The Jivanananda Das Translation award (The Antonym, Kolkata), and The FakirMohan Sahitya parishad award(Odisha) for her translation.
It was still fifteen minutes to daybreak.
Usually, in the winter season, you don’t expect many people in this part of the park unless they are serious morning walkers. And I was preparing myself for a solitary walk in the misty dark morning.
But I was not alone; there was another walker ahead of me - I had company.
I, with my longer strides, chose to overtake the person who had made it to the park ahead of me. I came close and realized that though his strides are small, he is equally fast. After walking alongside for a few strides and making eye contact with him, I realized that I knew him. Here not wishing him was not an option. We met during some official event maybe a year back.
I wished him by nodding my head and with a smile and he reciprocated, I chose to walk at his pace as it suited me too. And we got talking about things in general. A lot of our interest areas were common. And as is my wont, I was quite candid about putting my tuppence in about things without bothering to know what he thought about it. He voiced his own opinions and agreed with most of mine either by voicing a laugh or by adding his to it and to the ones he didn’t agree with, he remained silent.
Amidst our discussion, he asked me – What do I do?
That’s the Indian way of asking for your professional position. I gave mine. And told him where we met last. I realized that he didn’t recollect our encounter.
I continued with my conversation.
After about ten minutes I realized some change and when I looked at him a little surprised by his reticence, I saw a mask of absolute disinterest in his face. While we were in an animated conversation a few minutes back, it had turned into a monologue. While he agreed with most of my points then, now he is dismissing it with an air of finality to end that topic.
He chose to pause without giving a reason. Almost asking me to go ahead with my walk.
The reason for his changed behaviour did not escape my eyes.
Another incident a few weeks later in the same park.
I saw this man in his late forties, with a typical successful businessman look coming towards me from the opposite side. We got close and he wished me with a Namaskar, and I reciprocated by doing the same. I didn’t know him and was quite touched by his gesture early in the morning. While exiting the park some thirty minutes later, I saw him standing near the gate with a few community members – I knew some of them. The next day almost at the same spot I saw him coming, and as I was gearing up to smile and wish him, he didn’t react. We breezed past each other as two unknown people.
The reason for his changed behaviour didn’t escape my eyes.
Neither of them knew me and was possibly misled by my important-looking appearance. It misleads many. The former, upon knowing my profession (What I do) realized that I don’t belong to his power hierarchy or social league and by mistake he had given me more time and ear to my conversation and chose to detach himself from it as I was not his equal; the latter, upon knowing from my acquaintances about what I do, realized that I am of no immediate value as his contact.
I introspected and realized that I am of no immediate value to most of the people in our community. I live in a community where I am not equal to many in terms of material wealth, power, and position and to those I am superior, I pose no threat to their interest or don’t offer any potential benefit – directly or indirectly. To both segments of people, I am not a potential contact they would like to nurture.
I was worthless to both.
This realization of worthlessness can be devastating to one’s self-worth and ego, especially to those unfamiliar with how Indians operate. Your identity as a person having other talents, capabilities, knowledge, and wisdom pales when put to test in this Risk-Benefit model.
Can you affect their interest negatively because of your position or positively by providing beneficial opportunities that determine your relevance in the community and the related interest to socialize with you or befriend you?
Is this a general behaviour?
While travelling in public transportation like a bus, train or flight, if you strike up a conversation with someone; the fourth or fifth sentence would be a question – What do you do? Don’t read it literally and answer. By that they don’t want to know about what you do at your work, they want to know a lot more. The sector you work in; private or public. The rank and position you hold. The country or city you work in.
Your answer will help him know your ‘Auqat’ – your worth, your value for him, which will make him treat you like God or Dog. The position that will give you an unbridled opportunity to abuse the power with zero accountability is hilariously called ‘Service’. Indians love that trophy behind that service and worship the one who sits there. No wonder we Indians are so obsessed with a few jobs. Either you make it to those positions or at least develop contact with them so that you can enjoy some of the largesse that can come your way.
In the book, Being Indian, Pavan K. Verma surgically bares open this typical trait in the Indians. He deals with this matter in the chapter – Power and how your worth is evaluated by your fellow community members.
Beneath the veneer of modernity and development we project, we are a deeply divided lot - Insular and class-conscious. We are ready to genuflect before the one who wields power to harm us or benefit us and not bat an eyelid to destroy or misbehave with someone less powerful or below us.
Some positions can be described in just three abbreviations which can make the person in front of you change his body language; take his hands above his ears bend his spine and give that smile that a small male monkey does when he meets a baboon bigger than him, and there are ranks which will make him see through you and dismiss your existence as some doormat.
Why are such achievements so aspirational?
Is it because of our background of being ruled by the erstwhile kings in a feudal set-up? Why do we want to give a substantial part of our life to catapult ourselves to a position that will make our fellow beings treat us as their rulers and we can treat them as our servants? It’s quite normal if they expect to be treated as royalty and you to behave subservient to them. Society neither resents it nor tries to change it. Why is it that despite being one of the largest democracies, we want a leader who doesn’t look like one of us but like someone sent from above? If he is one of us or from ranks below us, we will only respect him if he stands to cause harm to our interests and help us in achieving our aspirations.
Will this behaviour ever change? The answer lies in the question - will we change?
Jay Jagdev is an entrepreneur, academic and author. He is a popular blogger and an essayist. His foray into poetry is new. His essays are regularly published in Odishabytes and his poems on life and relationships have been featured in KabitaLive.
He is known for his work on sustainable development and policy implementation. As the President of the Udaygiri Foundation, he works to preserve and develop native language, literature, and heritage by improving its usage and consumption. More can be known about him on www.jpjagdev.com
(The following short Fiction won the second prize in a recent contest)
Salali gazed in silent awe as the bunches of ‘kelp hair’ danced merrily on the emerald-green waters. From her lips, a smile escaped as she reminisced that the bull-kelp floating in the bay was the hair of ‘Ko-kwal-Alwoot.’ The maiden still ‘watches!’ was the people’s conviction.
A student of Anthropology, Salali was holidaying on Fidalgo Island. Her ‘nomadic’ father encouraged her to explore the world; he believed it would help her appreciate various cultures, the evolution of societies, and their adaptation to changing trends amidst increasing complexities. She grew up reading fascinating stories about the native tribes, their beliefs, customs, and practices. Additionally, her subject proved catalytic in her quest to understand things from another perspective.
Her favorite spot was one of the miniature islands adjoining a plethora of lakes that overlooked Sugarloaf Summit and its stunning sights.
Although Fidalgo Island and the neighboring Whidbey Island were managed by the city authorities, an insignificant number of inhabitants still lived in the dense forests away from visitors’ eyes. Salali knew because she was privileged to get some incredible pictures on her special camera placed on camera rigs in the dense jungles. Their ancient ‘native’ culture was seemingly not evident, yet they were still self-reliant. Besides fishing, they grew corn, mushrooms, and berries. They made bread using corn flour, hunted small animals in the summer, and dry-stored them for use in the winter. The sea brought along ‘serendipitous’ finds, and they were self-reliant.
That morning, she was all alone on the hillock; not lonely, though.
At a distance, something caught Salali’s eye. Instantly, she dived into the icy-cold water and swam toward the beds. To her surprise, she saw someone ‘fishlike.’ Her thoughts raced to the ‘sea god’ and Ko-Kwal-Alwoot’ - the maiden of the Salish tribe whom he had taken as wife, after assuring them that she would return home to her people once every year. The legend goes that Ko-Kwal-Alwoot loved the sea so much, and never returned to the land.
“Please visit my home,” he gestured.
“If you let me back soon.” She uttered loudly.
Within seconds, they reached the bottom where mounds of gorgeous shells and trinkets formed a cozy bed.
Salali observed that the ‘home’ on the kelp beds had large interiors.
Although she longed to stay, she said: “I must leave now.”
Again, he gestured - “Promise me, you’ll visit me again.”
Gifting her a charming trinket, he gave her a gentle thrust; she found herself near her boat alongside the hillock.
“If only I had taken my underwater camera along!” “Hmmm…” sighed Salali.
The following day, Salali hurried to the spot to meet her ‘new’ friend. No one was there.
Again, the next day… She found nothing. Disappointment writ all over!
Mustering courage, one bright morning, she swam and descended deep into the icy cold waters. The kelp beds were there, no one else; nobody, except the sea creatures.
The enormous trinket rubbed against her clothes, as she swam back…
(PS: Second Prize Winner in the Flash Fiction Contest, March 2024 organized by Literary Warriors Group. Certificate attached.)
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
THE EXTRAVAGANCE HARD TO GIVE UP
One extravagance which I have kept up will be hard to give up, and this is the buying of books.—Jawaharlal Nehru (An Autobiography, Chapter 57).
Bibliophilia is the only addiction I am having in my life. I spend more money on books than on anything else. As Hemingway says, I think, there is no friend as loyal as a book. As Francis Bacon, father of the essay in English, says in his essay Of Studies, “Reading maketh a full Man...” And I believe as Marcus Tullius Cicero, one of the greatest Roman orators, said: “A home without books is like a body without soul.”
In my twenties, Shakespeare was my craze and obsession, and still I remember my surprise when I saw A.C. Bradley's Shakespearean Tragedy in the bookshop I used to visit. There was only one copy and the price was too high to be afforded by me. It was a time when there were no mobile phone and google pay and the sorts. I asked the bookshop manager to keep away the book for me, travelled back to home, borrowed money from my friends and returned the same day and bought the book.
Two years ago, I had a wonderful experience of receiving a book from one of my students. Ranjith is his name and he knows my craze for books and reading. I received a parcel from Amazon addressed to my office where I was working then. I wondered what it might be as I have purchased nothing online. When I opened the parcel, it was Prerna Singh Bindra’s book The Vanishing: India's Wildlife Crisis, purchased for me by Ranjith. I was very happy to see that he understood my passion for the Environment. But the sad twist is that, being a passionate environmentalist, I have already purchased the book immediately after it was published in 2017, and finished reading it.
I called him and expressed my happiness and told the fact. Anyhow, it seemed he was determined to surprise me. After a month I again received a parcel and this time it was real surprise. The book was the complete works of E R C Davidar, Whispers from the Wild, including his masterpiece Cheetal Walk: Living in the Wilderness, which I have been looking for, and in which Davidar says: “Uncalled-for aggression and bloodshed are considered to be the hallmark of the jungle. Nothing can be farther from the truth. In the jungle intra-specific as well as inter-specific aggressions are, as far as possible, avoided through well-regulated postures and gestures...The law of the jungle is a more civilised code than any law made by humans, especially in its application.”
The most wonderful fact is that I received the book while I have been working in Nelliyampathy, a biodiversity hotspot of the Western Ghats in Palakkad district of Kerala. My encounters with the wild animals in the Nelliyampathy evergreen forests verify Davidar's observations on the civilised behaviour of the wild animals.
Books help us fight stagnation of the mind, the most lethal disease that afflicts the human-mind. There are many books in my home-library that helped and help me continually evolve. Karl Popper’s The Open Society and Its Enemies, George Orwell's Animal Farm, Ward Churchill's Since Predator Came, Judith Shapiro's Mao's War against Nature, Derrick Jensen's Endgame, Thomas Piketty's Capital and Ideology, Dee Brown's Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee are a few among them.
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.
"You are a sweet girl. I heard about you in such high terms from the mouth of Sri Jayaram Das that I felt like seeing you before my very eyes. You are also a great fan of Jayaram ji. Aren't you? So am I. He is the best writer dealing with existentialism till now. I like him, his personality, his stories, everything."
When Kalpana was reading this letter sitting near her study table in the ladies hostel of a Govt University she was beyond herself. In the late eighties when the cellphone age had not started, there was neither e-mail nor any electronic communication for students, a letter like this was so exciting. A letter of appreciation from an unknown boy who shared something common with Kalpana, their interest in the writings of the same author. Kalpana had already heard about this boy. The writer himself had told her about this boy, Kamalesh.
She thought of writing back. The boy had given his address in a postscript: Room no.- 16, Sir Jagdish Chandra Bose Hostel, followed by the details. Kamalesh was in first year B.Tech in a prestigious technical institute of India. Kalpana imagined him before starting his letter. Jayram Das had already praised him before her in their last meeting during a literary festival. The boy was quite brilliant not only in studies but in literature also. Her letter read: "Dear Kamal, your letter. Yes, it gave me immense pleasure to find someone whose tastes match mine. Hope to know you more closely in future. I am sending a poem which I scribbled yesterday. Don't forget to give your comments. Yours in friendship- Kalpana."
She sent the letter to post through their hostel attendant. Never she delayed to convey this exchange of letters to writer Jayaramji. He congratulated both Kamalesh and Kalpana on their first move towards a cordial literary bonding. Kalpana awaited for the reply to her letter from Kamalesh. It didn't come till Saturday. Kalpana felt disheartened. Came Sunday. Friends invited her to watch the new hit movie in a nearby Talkies.
A soft drizzle soothed her spirit on her way back to the hostel. She was humming the romantic song from the movie she just watched. As she climbed onto the steps to enter her block, the watchman handed her a small folded piece of paper. Surprised as she was about this clueless letter, she took it to her room before opening it. The greatest surprise and shock was in store for her. The letter bore no name, only a few lines from a lovelorn heart. Kalpana was reading it aloud as if to herself. "A poet would come, but find his Imagination absent. There wouldn't be any light to welcome his darkened path, no music to beat on his heart. A poet would come and find his Muse absent."
Kalpana was dumbstruck. 'Is the letter from Kamalesh?' she brooded. 'Had he been here?' She called for Mani, the lady attendant of the hostel and asked her detail description of the caller. What Mani described about the visitor made Kalpana convinced that it was no other than Kamalesh. Her heart was beating fast. He came and she was not there. How could she convince him that she was dying for his letter, his news. She cursed herself for being unable to sense the boy's sentiments.
Kalpana wrote back to the budding poet Kamalesh. Her reply was not a letter, but a poem. She had written that poem long ago. An emotional outburst of a lovelorn heart. She sent the poem to Kamalesh. On the next post the reply came. A poem written afresh by Kamalesh, a soulful poem. Thus the exchange of poems and sentiments continued for a year. They met. Though Kamalesh was addressing Kalpana as Apa(elder sister), he was gradually being drawn towards her. Two young hearts were connecting with each other in some nameless feelings. Both of them were trying to hide it though. They were waiting eagerly for each other 's poem or letter. Creativity made them closer still. And Jayaram Das was more than happy. It was his setting. He was the knot who tied these two fine threads together. He was their creative mentor.
While Kamalesh became a second year B.Tech student it was the final year of Masters for Kalpana. She had already dropped one year. She was serious for her forthcoming final exams. Her communication with Kamalesh got interrupted. Her focus on studies pushed back her interest in Kamalesh for a temporary period. She was a practical girl. She must pursue her career first. Then Kamalesh was a junior boy. Their relationship could only give them short-term pleasure but in the long run they would live their separate lives. Kalpana understood this well.
Alas! If Kamalesh was half so matured as Kalpana. His feelings were not skin deep. He suffered greatly by this neglect. Letters and poems expressing his exuberant feelings and emotions followed. During this time something happened in the ladies hostel where Kalpana was staying. An undergraduate girl committed suicide over failed love affair. The news devastated Kamalesh completely. Night after night he could not sleep. Night after night Kalpana didn't sleep either but her sleep deprivation was due to her study for the final semester exam. Kamalesh was emotionally bankrupt. Jayaram Das's writings which were once his inspiration for living didn't help.
A painting was received that day by Kalpana by that Saturday post. She opened it casually but got alarmed when saw it. A girl was burning. A caption was given- Flame of Love. It was drawn by Kamalesh. The girl who had committed suicide in the hostel had burnt herself. Unknowingly tear drops started rolling from Kalpana's eyes. How to stop the wild emotions of Kamalesh? It was too late. She forcefully pushed her thoughts again to a backseat. 'Let the exams get over. I will explain everything to Kamal.' She was as if consoling herself.
It was Sunday, 9th July 1888. The tele series of Ramanand Sagar's Ramayan had created a craze countrywide. Everybody in the hostel went to the hall to watch it at 9.30 in the morning. Kalpana didn't go. Not for study, she was having a negative premonition. Since she got that painting by Kamalesh she was feeling strangely restless. She was feeling like crying. Little did she know what was happening to the boy who had lost his heart to her. Little did she imagine any such consequence for her innocent love poems sent to him which made him believe that she loved him as passionately as he did.
A gloomy afternoon came with an overcast sky. The lady attendant called 'Kalpana, Visitor here" loudly. Kalpana was dozing on her chair and saw a horrible dream of blood flowing from the ceiling of her room. The repeated call by the attendant made her stand up with a start. She washed her face and rushed downstairs. Two police officers were waiting for her.
"Are you Miss Kalpana?" They asked.
She nodded yes.
They showed her a photo. "Do you know him?"
"What happened, what happened?"
"He had committed suicide this morning by hanging himself while his roommate had gone to the common room to watch the Ramayan."
She fainted on the spot before hearing the full sentence.
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.
(Illustrated by Shruti Sarma)
India is a country of diverse cultures and traditions. From North to South and East to West our country is a land where one could see vast diversity of cultures, beliefs and ideas. With cultural diversity comes many histories associated with these cultures which echoes even today around us.
So dear readers, let us dive into these pages of history and explore one such place which sings the melancholy strain of a queen’s plight till date, the queen of that cave.
Our story begins in Nagaon district of Assam which is located in North-East India. Situated at about 120 kms from the capital city Guwahati , Nagaon is famous for its glorious historical aura. Various historical and tourist places like the Batadrava Thaan, Maha Mrityunjai Mandir , Shiv kunda waterfall are present here. However our exploration is of a very different place. Situated about 21 km from the Nagaon town is the Kandoli hills where a historical cave called ‘ Baduli Khurung’ ( cave of bats) is present. It is said that the devotees’ prayers are fulfilled when they light an earthen lamp and pay their homage here with a pure heart. A mela called Baduli mela is organised here every year, two days after Maha Shivratri and the entrance to the cave is opened for visitors during these two days. Entry on other days is prohibited .
But why and how a cave of bats bear such importance for the people? Let’s find out.
Hundreds of years ago, the kingdom of Kandoli was ruled by queen Pramila and it was a kingdom inhabited and administered solely by women. All the subjects of the kingdom were women and entry or inhabitance by any men was strictly prohibited The kingdom of Kandoli flourished under the reign of queen Pramila and all her subjects were happy under her rule. The natural beauty of Kandoli, adorned with greenery and water bodies was truly breathtaking.
One day a renowned sage , sage Matsyendranath upon hearing about the beauty and spirituality of Kandoli decided to select it as the next spot of his penance and religious rituals. He disguised himself as a woman and entered the kingdom of Kandoli. However, the guptacharas and guards were quick to notice him and informed queen Pramila about the imposter. Taking it as a breach of rules and regulations, queen Pramila ordered her soldiers to present the sage before her. Sage Matsyendranath was arrested and presented before the queen and was tried. After the trial he was found guilty of deceiving the queen with a false identity and breaking the principle rule of the kingdom. The queen sentenced him to be hanged upside down and tortured as a punishment.
After many days upon having no whereabouts of sage Matsyendranath, his disciple Gorakhnath arrived at the kingdom of Kandoli searching for him. There he saw the sage hanged upside down and tortured . Upon seeing the plight of his Guru, sage Gorakhnath turned furious and uttered a curse at the queen and her subjects, “ May you all transform into bats and spend your lives hanging upside down in this cave till eternity”. As such, queen Pramila and her subjects transformed into bats and started hanging upside down inside a cave.
This cave is known as Baduli Khurung which is inhabited by the queen and her subjects till date. Thousands of bats of different species can be seen hanging upside down from the roof and walls of this cave. Whenever visitors enter this cave their eyes open wide with amusement on seeing so many bats hanging together. The high pitched screeches of the bats are the pitiful cries of the queen and the other women, mourning their fate. It is said to be a thing of great fortune if one spots a white bat inside. Two days after Maha Shivratri, the Baduli Mela is organised where people from various places throng to get a glimpse of the cave. It is said that the bats allow the entry of any human being only during these two days. The guards of the queen who too had turned into bats, guard the entrance of the cave and turn aggressive, chasing away anyone who try to enter the cave on any other day. Visitors pray and pay their homage to the queen and the other women whose prayers are said to be then fulfilled.
So this was the story of Baduli Khurung . Dear readers, next time you visit Nagaon during Maha Shivratri, do remember to visit Baduli Khurung and have an other worldly experience, where thousands of enchanted bats reside. Where thousands of enchanted bats are worshipped.
Where queen Pramila and her subjects are waiting for salvation till date.
Shruti Sarma is currently an MBBS student of IMS and SUM hospital, Bhubaneswar. She is from Guwahati, Assam and is also an artist, a Sattriya dancer and a writer. She completed her schooling from DPS Guwahati and higher secondary from Sai Vikash Junior College, Guwahati. She has won various awards in different fields such as quizzes, painting, dancing, debate, mathematics, poetry and story writing. She has also been awarded the Mofizzudin Ahmed Hazarika Literary in 2016 for the best junior Assamese author.
“Nitu, your sixteen not far away”
That came from Reena that afternoon while returning from college.
I pretended not to hear and she adds
“I know you heard it and refuse to react because it is too sweet”
What she said was true as I was a bit hesitant to all kinds of focussed celebrations.
“You will have to bear with us this time as we have decided to make your sixteen, special”
A shock and I knew that these naughty ones will never withdraw once they have decided. I tried to smile but outcome awkward.
“Don’t give me that foolish look and we are going to celebrate and have fun at your cost”
Left with no choice I had to go along silently and tried fitting into the difficult situation mentally and physically.
Never knew the happenings around me but was aware something big was being planned and surprises organised behind my back. Parents encouraged me saying that I was fortunate to have such good friends who saw my sixteen as an event to be celebrated. With inputs coming from home and relatives I also came to believe that my sixteen was special and to be made a memorable moment and the reason why the sweet tag came along with it.
Hari was the one who got into organising the so-called event and all knew with him on the lead, surprises in plenty will be there. I had told them very sternly that expenses should be minimum and I too should be permitted to put in my bit. All agreed and Meera’s house a spacious one was chosen. We planned to meet at six in the evening and on the dot all were there.
I was dressed in my best and as soon as I entered the “Happy Birthday” chorus followed by “You are sixteen…” with lyrics changed to suit the occasion. It was fun all around and Hari walks in with the cake. All were curiously looking at the cake as it never looked like a cake but different. A flimsy dome on top which concealed the real cake and I was to hit the dome when the cake will be visible with surprises along with.
The cake placed at the centre and all gathered around to watch the new way of cake evolving. With instructions from Hari, I followed each step with care and caution as he told me not to be afraid of the happenings after the bang. All types of thoughts figured in my mind. “Will there be a big sound or will a pigeon fly out of it”?
Hari announced “The cake is going to be opened in a special way by the special person and this is the first innovative experiment by the bakers”.
He told me to hit slightly on the dome head and the magic will follow.
I hit not once but many times but nothing happened. The top cover refused to budge. Friends were getting impatient. The happy moment was turning ugly and Hari was not to be seen. I was on the verge of crying and friends consoled me and one contacted Hari over phone. He said that he will be back within a few minutes and there he was within a few minutes with another cake in hand. Back to the same happy and joyful mood the new cake was about to be cut and involuntarily I hit the dome for the last time and it happened.
It was magical and a visual feast. Beautiful colours and colourful petals flew around with flashy lights. All were mesmerised and there the beautiful cake visible and inviting to be cut.
I was on top of the world with two cakes at my disposal.
The lovely cake was hit open and I did not finish with one but two. The other cake was also cut in a grand style.
I must be the only one in the history of birthday celebrations to have cut two cakes in one go.
My sixteen will remain sweet and memorable.
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..
A BANKER'S ORDEAL
Gokul Mishra
Abinash took a frantic look at his watch. Although it was half past eight in the evening he was unable to close the bank branch situated in a red light zone of the city. The cashier had not handed over the cash and there was a disorderly jam in the cash cabin . His colleagues , tight lipped, were at their wit’s end to tally cash and handover the balance for safe custody. The reason was not known to him, but he was afraid that any further delay might cause trouble for an unknown person like him in a forbidden street which used to be reigned by nocturnal extra social actors as the night deepenEd.
The branch head, Mr Baliga, a smart Kankani, from a God for-staken area in Western Karnataka called Manipal, just arrived at the branch after his routine disappearance from 3 pm to 8 pm, for reasons best known to him. Since he belonged to the caste of the founders of the bank, no rule or operational practices could be applied to him. Sometimes , Abinash was cursing himself and his decision for joining this bank due to the discriminatory treatment given to officers belonging to other states. Abinash had just joined the branch after completing his training at Staff training college as a Probationary Officer. His frightened face got some relief on seeing Mr. Baliga returning to his cabin.
“Abinashji , why the cash vault has not been closed yet.” asked Baliga .
Abinash replied ,” Sir , Cashier Vipin has not surrendered the cash yet. Probably, he is facing some problem .”
Meanwhile Vipin was sitting in his cabin with both hands pressing his head. He was scared. In fact he had never been so scared in his life. The day had started like any other day in his busy life. The beacon of duty had driven him to hurriedly reach Delhi gate from Gurgaon in Haryana State Road Transport bus sufficiently before the clock ticking 10 AM .Delhi Gate, being the last bus stop, Vipin had got down from the bus and rushed to GB Road branch of the bank putting a hand in his right side pocket firmly to guard the single lock keys of the cash box.
GB Road branch of the bank had been opened mostly to cater to the old Delhi / Sadar Bazar business community. The branch was on the first floor of a building in the main lane projected with a very large sign board depicting the bank’s motto “Where service is a way of life.”
In fact, the visionary head of the bank had selected the lane to open a branch there. knowing fully about the existence of the red light habitual nocturnal profession of the inhabitants. For the customers the location of the branch was very inconvenient as a little lack of alertness , vigilance or presence of mind on their part could land them in a brothel, escorted by pan chewing women with mysterious smiles hidden in their faces ,as if they had captured a priceless fish.
For the bank the motto was “Nobody is too small for a bank account“ and due to this approach this branch of the bank was among the busiest branches in Delhi by cornering various accounts from all sections of the society, i.e. from businessmen to street vendors, from industrialists to rickshaw pullers, from temples to ‘Madhusalas ‘ etc.
Vipin had looked at his watch and found that he was about five minutes late in arriving. So he rushed to the cash cabin and ordered for tea to relax and start the day. The morning ritual of a branch was to remove the required cash bundles from the vault for immediate payment by cashier so that the branch could provide the smartest possible service to its clientele without making anybody to wait.
Vipin had checked the bundles of cash, kept them in the drawer instantly and started attending to the customers lined up in a queue. Old Delhi used to be a very busy area with huge cash and clearing transactions. As usual, some old customers used to expect and enjoy lightning service over the counter and bank staff were too eager to oblige them accordingly. Customers’ service was considered paramount. There were some prominent clients who deposited cash in huge amount and left the bags inside the cash counter to enable the cashier to count the same leisurely during the later part of the day and effect credit to their accounts.While withdrawing cash they also used to leave the counter hurriedly without counting .Everything ran in good faith. There was no complaint of any discrepancy whatsoever. Such was the chemistry between the staff and customers running for several years. The customers amply rewarded the bank staff in Diwalis by presenting to each of them dozens of variety of sweet packets and other gifts. The bonhomie between the staff and the customer tomers was a practice being followed for years through the exemplary supportive role of the branch head Baliga.
On hearing that the cash was not tallying and cashier Vipin had encountered some problem, Baliga rushed to the cashier’s cabin like an eagle in a storm .
He asked Vipin “What is the problem Vipin."
"Sir , there is a shortage of Rs 90000/ cash and I am unable to find out how it happened “.
There was fear and helplessness in his choked voice.
Baliga instructed the joint custodians to verify the cash left out in the vault and tried to tabulate the denominations of each payment and receipt from cheques and pay-in-slips. Since there was no discrepancy in cash of the vaults and cash book, Baliga was confirmed that Vipin must have committed some mistake .
As per the standard procedure untallied cash could not be kept in vault overnight without informing HEad Office. The cashier was to account for the shortage himself on the same day failing which Branch had to file an FIR at the nearest Police station and suspend the delinquent.
When Baliga confirmed that the cash shortage could be due to a mistake committed by Vipi , the poor cashier started sobbing. Even if there was a provision for granting loan for this purpose, Vipin was shivering in fear as he might have to work without wage for years to make good the amount. Vipin sobbed profusely as Baliga was busy doing some jugglery with the denominations of hundred rupees cash receipts and payments.
The snap shots of memory flashed into the mind of Vipin as to how his parents were feeling proud when he received the appointment letter of the bank. Gurgaon was a scattered village during those days and the neighbours flung into his house to congratulate him and his parents. His only sibling, a sister, was too proud for her brother’s success in joining banking service which was considered as one of the best during early 1970’s. Now his present ordeal was bound to bring curse to his family. The gruesome thoughts drowned him in sorrow inside in spite of the consolations offered by his colleagues.
Abinash, the new entrant to Banking industry was also feeling shattered for his momentous decision which had landed him in such a risky and challenging job.
Suddenly, Baliga took out some cheques which were paid by Vipin that day. He zeroed in on one ten thousand rupees cheque paid by Vipin during the early hours and asked him: “ Vipin, do you remember how much exactly you have paid to Eskay Engineering?"
Eskay engineering was a proprietorship firm of one Mr BakshI, a diligently turbaned Sikh, engaged in trading of stainless steel items. The owner Mr Bakshi hardly visited the branch although almost every day the firm used to have huge transactions in cash through his staff. But whenever Mr Bakshi visited, he could make landfall in the branch as a hurricane and depart immediately like a storm , greeting each and every staff in his usual high voltage voice. Undoubtedly, he was always treated as among the most valuable customers of the branch.
Vipin recapitulated the scene of early business hours and narrated , “Sir Mr. Bakshi came at around 10.30 am and handed over the cheque at the counter for payment of Rs10000/ . As he was to leave for Bombay, he requested me to pay cash in small denominations of Rs 10 only. In order to provide instant service, I had put a bundle of ten packets of 10 rupees in his bag and he immediately left the branch “.
On hearing this, Baliga was more serious and tried to contact Mr Bakshi collecting his hotel phone number from his firm.
“Hollow, Hollow Bakshi Saheb “ , Baliga spoke to him in chaste punjabi. There was a spontaneous response from the other end.
“What is the matter Baliga saheb? Why have you called me at such odd hours? Any problem? “
Baliga asked him to check the cash paid by the cashier and give him the feedback immediately.
After few minutes there was a ringing sound of the phone and all the staff were eagerly waiting to know the outcome.
“Hi Baliga Saheb , I had not opened the cash bag so far. I wanted to have a ten rupee bundle of cash, but now I find your cashier has given me a hundred rupee bundle. I am sorry , I did not count it in the morning. Don’t worry, I will call my staff to handover a cheque of Rs 90000/ within ten minutes."
What a resolution of a colossal problem!! The shortage was made good and Vipin thanked Baliga for saving his life . All the staff of the branch appreciated the leadership of Baliga and thanked him. Baliga then narrated to them how he could trace the mistake and felt happy for helping a colleague.This incident was flashed to all the branches in Delhi and the reputation of Baliga, as a true leader possessing a smart banking brain, spread instantly.
After just four years it was heard that this smart officer of the national capital region, Baliga, was put under suspension for his cash remittance bunglings. That, of course, is another story.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
Ramsevak is not daring to open up and ask what has been bothering him so long. On several occasions he has advanced up to the door of the jailor, but has been returning back without daring to speak his mind. Time and again he has gone inside his chamber and returned back without uttering a word. Today he is determined, he will ask him and find out what has unsettled him so long, and disturbed his sleep, night after night in his solitary confinement, inside four walls of the jail ward.
Jailor Subhendu is very reserved but gentle and posted to this jail only a year back. Ramsevak, considered to be a hardcore criminal undergoing life imprisonment is convicted of murder and serious offence like jail break. A convict facing life imprisonment, naturally will meet several jailors during his life term and it is a fact that all officers will not behave in the same manner. However Ramsevak has realised there is some uniqueness in Subhendu’s behaviour. He has always felt Subhendu has always been very human and soft in his attitude towards him and Ramsevak never felt at ease with Subhendu. Moreover, Subhendu’s demeanor has been so natural, without slightest touch of artificiality. He had never been rude to him.
In the eyes of law Ramsevak is a hardened criminal, as he has unsuccessfully tried to escape twice from the jail, besides being a lifer himself. When Subhendu reported to this jail, to the Roll call parade all hardened convicts, including Ramsevak lined up. Ramsevak never noticed any highhandedness and insolent manner from Subhendu. On several occasions he got opportunity to meet the new Jailor, but each time he behaved with him like any common man, not a convict lifer. The gentle behaviour towards a hardcore criminal has surprised many jail staff. During jail visit of Senior Police Personnel, these officers have never spared occasions to speak to their ears about this . But today Ramsevak has resolved, to find it for himself the reasons for Subhendu’s soft attitude which seems quite unususal. He took a few quick steps to Subhendu’s cabin and found him looking outside the window and lost in his thoughts.
Subhendu hearing the footsteps looked back and told him “I wanted to talk to you, Ramsevak” .
“I have been observing you since my posting in this jail, but never found any trace of hardcore criminal in your manners. Both with other inmates and jail staff your normal behaviour has surprised me and it is hard to believe that you are sentenced to life term. I checked your personal records, you are sentenced on charge of murder of your wife Rama. You yourself had surrendered to the police and had accepted your crime. During last thirty years, only twice you tried to scale the high walls of the prison, yet your behaviour is quite normal inside the jail. There have been no complaints what-so-ever, against you. Most important is nobody has ever visited you during your long stay. You may be knowing, many criminals have got remission of their jail terms for their good behaviour. If you want I can recommend for remission of your sentence.
“No Sir, I do not want to go out. Besides who is there outside for me?”
As per Police record you married Rama, your own sister-in-law after death of your wife and brought her home. But later on your relationship deteriorated and took a downward turn further. Finally it took an ugly turn when you murdered her cold blood and surrendered to the police. You repeated the same story in the court-room and pleaded guilty. Today you tell me what happened that day and what prompted you to such ghastly crime?
“ That happened long back. I am rewarded punishment for my crime. What relevance does it have today, after so many years?”
But Subhendu was in no mood to leave Ramsevak and urged him to divulge everything.
Ramsevak had no other go and was forced to speak the truth. “When my first wife passed away my daughter was only twelve years old. I got married to Rama, assuming her aunt will give affection and care to her. It seems Rama was never happy with the marriage. The relationship deteriorated further day by day and there was no hope of reconciliation. Rama had physical relationship with many other males. This further complicated the matter and it became unbearable when one day she forced my daughter to have sex with others. I could not bear this and was forced to take life of Rama. From that day onwards the word MURDERER got written on my forehead.
Just to settle down my daughter somewhere so that she can lead a normal life when I was in jail, I scaled the jail walls twice out of compulsion, but could not find her. So who is there outside for whom I would go out?
“This is so unfortunate, but the murder was only circumstantial and reactive, although in the eyes of law you are criminal, yet why did not you not narrate this before the judge?” asked Subhendu.
“What is there in life after all dreams vanish?” said Ramsevak and remained silent.
After a while Ramsevak broke the silence and said will you Sir mind me asking something to you? You have my ears, go ahead and ask, said Subhendu.
During my jail term I have seen many jailors, but I have noticed lot of empathy and human touch in your behaviour for a convict like me, who is undergoing life sentence and this to me is very unusual. I have always tried to find out the reason for the same. I do not know whether it is proper or not to enquire about it.
Subhendu took a deep breath and mentioned society is very unkind and never takes time to write MURDERER on someone’s forehead, if it finds stain of blood on someone’s hand. That blemish along with disrepute and humiliation remains indelible for generations together and successive generations suffer from the blot. Long back there were no good roads and proper transport facility. People used to travel long distance walking on foot to visit Puri and pay obeisance to Lord Jagannath. There were makeshift arrangement for rest shades on way on Jagannath sadak(road) and were known as Chatighar, where Devotees used to take rest. Water, consumables for cooking food, bed rolls and rest room facility were available on payment. During that time no readymade cooked food were available in the Chatighars due to prevalence of caste system. In the auspicious month of Kartika, as per Indian calendar several widows from far of places including Bengal used to visit Puri.
Our village Goudunimari is approximately twenty kilometres from Jagannath Sadak. One season my Grand father embarked on pilgrimage for visiting Puri and pay obeisance to Lord. It used to take one fortnight to a month to reach Puri from our village. During the journey Grandfather stopped near one such Rest shade(Chatighar) on Jagannath Sadak. That day there was heavy rush in that Chatighar as the same evening a few wealthy devotees arrived the chatighar on bullock cart. Similarly, another group of Bengali widows also arrived to take rest there. Before evening my Grand father purchased rice, pulses and vegetable to cook his dinner and took rest on a bedroll after finishing his dinner. He went into deep sleep soon as he was too tired. Very early in the morning before day break, there was commotion in front of the Chatighar, where my Grand father was staying. There was a sizeable crowd along with the police. To everyone’s awe a lady devotee, widow from far off Bengal who was taking rest in the Chatighar was found murdered. Police did not allow the devotees to leave and start further journey without their permission and initiated a thorough check-up of the belongings of all the devotees. It was British Raj time, the police during the search found a knife with blood on it, in the belongings of my grand father and immediately arrested him and took him away. He pleaded innocent but it fell in deaf ears. My grand father was not allowed to explain his innocence. None in the family at village could know that he has been taken to jail.
My father was quite young at the time of this incidence. At that time Cholera, small pox and pneumonia were very common among devotees during such pilgrimage. So when my grand father did not return from Puri, even after considerable wait everyone in the village presumed that Grandfather probably died of Cholera. After a year or two my father came to know that grand father is undergoing life sentence in Warangal jail. Father had to hang his head in shame as in the eyes of the society he was son of a murderer. Soon he lost his own identity, his friends and relatives. Everyone looked down upon him as if there was stain of blood in his hand and someone has written on his forehead the title-Son of a murderer. The humiliation and disrepute was too difficult to bear and father slowly withdrew himself and started leading a secluded unsocial life. The whole family suffered along with him.
How our grand father could commit such a crime was difficult to comprehend for all of us. Father used to have sleepless nights and on many occasions used to get up from sleep to remain awake rest of the night.
After a few years, police informed us that our grand father has passed away in the prison. They handed over grand father’s belongings and a letter to my father. In the letter grand father mentioned his innocence and how the murderer left the murder weapon in his bag after the murder when he was in deep sleep. Police did not listen when he pleaded with them and throw him in to a distant jail, where he suffered in silence. Grand father’s family members suffered humiliation and hatred. An innocent person and his next generation family members suffered unnecessarily for no fault of theirs.
Ramsevak could not decide what to do and after some time with permission of Subhendu returned to his cabin.
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
VISUAL CONNECT WITH SRIMANDIRA THROUGH A WALK ON THE PARIKRAMA
After much hyped inaugural ceremony held at Srimandira Puri from 15th January to17th January, pulled by the invisible and mysterious string of the supernatural powers of Lord Jagannath, visited the shrine on 18th January. Early in the morning, we drove through the Shree Setu to the multi storied Jagannath Ballabh parking facility. The state government has constructed a 2.3 km -long 4 lane Shree Setu (Trumpet Bridge) from the Mangala Ghat-Birharekrishnapur bypass, at a cost of Rs 200 crores to provide direct access to tourists aiming to avoid traffic congestion inside Puri. After parking our vehicle in the ground floor parking lot, we were provided free ride by battery operated cab to the reception center near Dolabedi , through Shree Danda- a 800 meter road bypassing Bada Danda(Grand Road).As because we are senior citizens ,we were allowed to join the last phase of the queue after depositing our mobiles and shoes at the designated collection counter and proceeded to Lion Gate. We enter through the Simhadvara located at the east side of Meghanada Prachira, measuring 655’by 644’in length and width which majestically surrounds the entire temple complex . The height Meghanad prachira raise up to 20’ to 24 ft with serrated battlement designs on the top like a guard wall of a fort made of laterite and sand stone blocks. The temple complex is constructed on a hillock popularly known as Neelachal that is about 20 ft in height from the ground level. There was of course the need of a high wall, perhaps due to constant Muslim and Mughal attacks, particularly between 15th-16th centuries CE. Sri Jagannath temple had been invaded and plundered for eighteen times in the annals of history. It’s worth mentioning that out of those 18 attacks 4 were by non- Muslims such as Raktabahu ( Govinda-III of Deccan), Kalyan Mall, Keso Das Maro and the last one in 1881 by the followers of Mahima cult the Kumbhipatuas. The temple was a lucrative place of wealth for all invaders to plunder the wealth excepting the nineth century attack involving rebels of Kumbhipatuas for perpetuating caste hierarchies and Brahmanical hegemony. To non -Hindu invaders the temple was an ideal place to display Zihad (Religious war). Gajapapati Kapilendra Deva founder of Suryavanshi dynasty had erected Meghanada Prachira as an impregnable defense wall to protect the temple.
After paying our obeisance at Sri Patitapabana (one form of Jagannath) shrine ensconced in the gumuta of the right side of the entrance, we climbed the famous 22 steps(Baisi Pabachha)ceremonially touching the steps with reverence. It is believed, these 22 steps represents the twenty two sins of human beings. The sins of the pilgrims are removed when one notices the God Patitapabana at the Singhadvara gumuta. After climbing the 22 steps, we entered to the inner parikrama (enclosure) known as Kurumabedha beyond the Kuruma Prachira. This inner enclosure measuring 445’ by 278’with the height of the wall varies from 15’ to 20’ with serrated battlements at the top served the purpose of second line of defense against any invasion, constructed by Gajapati Purushottam Deva in the fifteenth century. We joined barricaded lines to enter the Natamandap(Dancing Hall) from the northern side of inner parikrama, stepping over the seven steps where the devotes in multiple lines converged into single line at the entry point to the Natamandap near Garuda Stambha( pillar) which throws the crowd out of control and a lot of push and pull experienced by the devotees facing stamped like situation in front of the benevolent deity at the outer barricade (Bahara Katha),ofcourse a moment of spiritual joy and devotional upliftment. This point of line darshan needs some improvements as children, infirm and senior citizens suffer and get suffocated in the shrugging rush, inching forward in the fenced zigzag queue towards the outer barricade (Bahara Katha) at the Jay Vijay Dvara (door) of the sanctum for the ultimate darshana where the presiding Holy Triad -Ballabhadra, Subhadra, and Jagannath, are ensconced on the Ratna Singhasana with Bhudevi, Sridevi and Sudarshan. A glimpse of the Triad on the Ratna Singhasana would unhesitatingly declare that this is the real Lord of the universe whose darshan do all the magic in time, you forget everything for a second and the vibrations are so powerful that you tend to look back repeatedly for a second glance and the magnetic power makes you look back till you are physically necked out. It’s a phenomenon to experience and can’t be expressed in words. As the surging crowd pushes one onwards, a devotee may get a chance to cast his eager glance upon the supreme lord and receive only a few seconds of spiritual ecstasy, the devotee become totally aware of the supreme mercy and the benevolence of the Lord Jagannatha.
After a soul elevating morning darshan, we circumambulated around the cluster of small temples, with the memory of those blissful moments keep recurring into the mind. The most remarkable feature of Jagannath Temple is that on both sides of each Parsvadevata shrines Gods and Goddesses are worshipped. We took a quick round paying our obeisance at the shrines of Goddess Laksmi , Savitri, Bhubaneswari, Khirachora Gopinath, Nilamadhab, Bhadrakali, Sakshi Gopal, Kanchi Ganesha, Maa Vimala, Yajna Narsimha, Kalpabata, Bata Ganesha, Batamangala, Panchapandavas -a cluster of five Shiva temples around Kalpabukshya, known as Kapalamochan,Nilakantha,Jamesvara,Lokanath and Markandeya ,Satyanarayana, Agnesvara Mahadev, Suryanarayan(Sun God ), Patalesvar Shiva, and Maa Sitala adjacent to Suna Kuana at the left side of the North exit gate of Srimandira famously known as Hastidvara (Elephant Gate). A visit to Srimandir exudes a positive energy that stays with you long after you have left the sanctum. Is it faith or divine intervention that keeps so many people going in their belief system, only time will tell?
One may be inquisitive about the temple and its historical origin atop Neelachal Hill on the sea shore. According to legends in Madalapanji(Temple Chronicle),the construction of the first Jagannath temple was commissioned by Malava king Indradyumna son of Bharata and Sunanda as mentioned in the Mahabharata. As per the palm leaf chronicle Madala Panji of Sri Jagannath Temple, Somavamsi King Yayati Kesari, built a small temple of 38 cubits high for Purusottam and installed the wooden images of the deity in that temple after unearthing the hidden deities from their refuge at Sonepur -Gopali (Kotosamalai on Trikuta Hill). It is also claimed that Adi Shankaracharya visited puri during the reign of Yayati Kesari and gave him instruction about the form of the deities and mode of their worship. It is also stated that king Yayati, after establishing his rule over Odisha was able to renew the murtis of the holy triads -Jagannath ,Ballabhadra and Subhadra with the help of Daitas and Patis, the descendants of Lalita (daughter of Savara chieftain Viswabasu who originally had worshipped Jagannath) and Vidyapati ( the Brahmini minister of Avantinaresh Indradyumna) . The present temple was rebuilt from the nineth century onwards on the site of the pre-existing temples in the compound, but the main Jagannath Temple was built by Anantavarman Chodaganga Deva(1078-1147 CE.) the first king of Ganga dynasty who ruled almost 70 years. It has been described in the temple chronicle, that Anantavarmana Chodaganga Deva acquired a large amount of wealth after conquering the kingdoms of Mahendra in Gouda and defeating the kings of Utkals and Vengi. According a popular tradition it is said that the wealth was carried on back of his war elephants and was poured into a well which was dug in the premises of the present temple of Jagannath. Hence the well is popularly called by the name Suna Kuana( the gold well). When the well was filled to the brim , the temple work was started. The present magnificent temple of Purusottam -Jagannath was completed by Anangabhima Deva II (1170-98 CE,) and Anangabhima Deva III (1211-1238 CE.).
From a comparative study of the stories as narrated in various works, it is evident that the name of Indradyumna is invariably associated with the construction of the great temple. The Mahabharata present Indradyumna as a great religious person. In Purushottam Mahatmya of Skanda Puran it has been mentioned that the shrine of Nelamadhab was located in the blue hill (Nelachala) surrounded by forest. Indradyumna , the King of Avanti came to know about the sanctity of the place and Lord Nilamadhab. He sent his minister Vidyapati to the place to get information of Nilamadhab . Viswavasu the savara chief was worshipping Nilamadhab secretly in a dense forest. The clever minister Vidyapati, inorder to reach the secret cave -the place of worship of Nilamadhab, wooed Lalita and fulfilled his assignment in locating the shrine.
Over the centuries the valuable contributions of different Kings right from Indradyumna ,Yayati, Chodagangadev, Anangabhimadev, Kapilendradev, Purusottamdev, Ramachandradev-I (1568-1607 CE.) and Ramachandra Dev II(1727-1738 CE.) could not be over stated. They hold very uncommon place in the history of Srimandira. According to Madalapanji , Kalapahar the commander of Bengal Sultan Sulaman Karrani had invaded Puri and had captured the three images of the Lords after plundering and damaging the Jagannath temple and carried them to Bengal on the back of war elephants . After the desecration of Srimandira and demolition of Neelachkra (Blue wheel ) by Kalapahr there were no deities in the temple for 8 years. Gjapati Ramachandradeva -I in his 9th regnal year brought the ‘brahmapadartha’ from Kujanga which was deposited with the Kujanga king by Bishar Mohanty -a staunch Vaishnavite who had salvaged it from the flowing water of River Ganga . The Gajapati celebrated nabakalebara rituals by constructing the idols of Jagannath,Balabhadra and Subhadra and consecrated in Khordha Jagannath kataka after performing necessary sacrifices. These images were installed on the Ratna Singhasana of the Jagannath Temple, Puri in 1580 CE. This reinstallation of the deities in Srimandira at Puri was obviously an occasion of great celebration for all sections of the Hindu society who hailed this historic event and honoured the king with the title Dwitiya Indradyumna for his noble work.
In the 18th century, Gajapati Ramachandra Dev II alias Hafiz Kadar Beg (1727-1738) has been portrayed differently in the pages of history. Though circumstances compelled him to marry Razia Begum- the daughter of Shuja -ud -Din to save the honour and religious dignity of Lord Jagannath, he was treated an out- cast and invited great annoyance and opposition from Brahmins, Pandits and priests. The Gajapati was no longer allowed to visit the Jagannath Temple. Notwithstanding Gajapati’s unflinching loyalty and devotion to Lord Jagannath remained unchanged, he was treated as an out caste and disowned by Hindu society. After his conversion to Islam, Ramachandra Dev’s entry into the temple was resisted by a large body of Hindus. However, the unflinching loyalty and devotion of the Gajapati proved helpful in saving the images at times of Muslim invasions to some safe hiding places like Chakeinasi, Gurubai, Nairi, Hantuada, Banapur in and around Chilika Lake, Tekali and Marda in the South. These noble acts earned him appreciation and won him hearts . Through the relentless efforts by his kulaguru Param Lakshmi Rajguru ,the image of Patitapabana (Lord Jagannatha as the Lord of the fallen) was installed near the main entrance -Simhadvara so that the fallen king could have darshan of his beloved Lord from outside. Since that time, the non-Hindus used redeem their wishes to pay their obeisance to Lord Patitapabana without crossing the Lion Gate.
The ‘Puri Sri Mandir Parikrama ‘ is an epoch making dream project aimed at developing a circumambulation path around the Shrine of Lord Jagannath, with the goal of promoting religious tourism and improving the infrastructure and facilities in the surrounding areas. The intent, of Sri Jagannath Temple Administration, is to provide expansive, unobstructed corridors around the Meghanada Prachira for giving an opportunity to devotees and pilgrims to circumambulate around the outer temple and to have visual connect with the temple, Neelachakra, Patitapaban Bana( Flag) and Meghanada Prachira . Sri Mandira Parikrama project has provided amenities like sitting and washroom facilities for pilgrims and also strengthened safety and security to the temple and devotees. Though this ambitious mega parikrama project was announced in December 2019 by the state government, it suffered many hurdles -legal and Political which took almost 4 years for completion with a financial expenditure of Rs.3700 crores. The mega project includes sub-projects like the redevelopment of Sri Jagannath Temple Administrative building, Srimandira reception center for 6000 devotees, Jagannath cultural center, Library, Bada Danda heritage streetscape, Beachfront development, Puri Lake and Musa River revival plan. Finally the parikrama project was inaugurated on 17th January after a grand and pompous ceremony running for 3 days which was jointly presided by Sri Naveen Patnaik the Chief Minister of Odisha and the Thakurraja Dibyasingha Dev-IV, the Gajapati without a kingdom.
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.
Laughter, an integral aspect of human, is by far the key ingredient for a well-lived life. Popular saying goes, "Be happy and laugh heartily to maintain good health". When I see some of my friends, neighbors, and even my spouse giggle intermittently during conversations, seemingly devoid of any specific reason, underscores a notion that most probably laughter has been an innate habit for them. Curiously they don't require a humorous subject or a witty prank to initiate laughter rather it erupts naturally in their every conversation and in every interaction. I find myself perplexed and somewhat envious of them for being unable to grasp how they effortlessly burst into laughter on any subject. Despite numerous attempts, I have failed to decode the intricacies of their laughter.
Now an intriguing question arises, why should one laugh for no reason? Is it necessary to laugh in course of every ordinary conversation? Yes, it is understood that smiling while interacting with others may be helpful. But I tremble to think of the utility of guffaw in any conversation. Though I ignore my wife laughing in her talks on telephone, it seems outlandish to me to think of the intent of such laughter. I could not resist asking her one day, “What makes you laugh while talking on mobile with your friends, relatives and even our children?” She aptly replied, “I try to ease the conversation and while away stress of self as well as that of others with whom I talk.” I was to some extent, satisfied with her answer that appeared somewhat logical and convincing. Again I thought most likely she has been maintaining a healthy life eversince she joined my life for over five and half decades for her spontaneous laughter. I am lucky to note that she has not seen a doctor so far except for a cataract surgery whereas I have been a regular pay master for doctors. This may be owing to miraculous metabolic, physiological changes in her whole system by secretion of feel good hormones in her body for laughing frequently in conversations to dispel attack of diseases.
Laughter, as we all know, is a universal language that rises above cultural, linguistic and social barriers. It is a natural, instinctive behavior that brings people together and enhances the overall quality of life. Like my wife many others say that laughter is the best means of alleviating the pangs of stress and strain and ease the go of life. Some others believe that laughing aloud can serve as a salve for emotions such as anger, hatred, and jealousy. The best example is seen in comedy film, Munnabhai M.B.B.S. in which the Dean of a medical college displays laughter therapy to cool down his anger and emotional outbursts. Such laughter appeared, though unconventional and abrupt, seemed apposite as far as his logic was concerned. Yes, smiling in course of conversations and meetings ease temperament of the speaker to create an environment of cordiality and closeness thereby narrowing down the differences and bitterness if any. Thus the popular adage – ‘smile begets smile’.
(Clyptostoma flowers blooming bright in author’s garden just in front of his house in Bhubaneswar, demonstrate flowers do smile)
Laughter is an emotional overflow. Human emotion is unpredictable and so is the laughter that takes the imprint of different emotions of human. Robert Provine, who was a laughter expert and professor emeritus of neurobiology of psychology at the University of Maryland says “People are 30% more likely to laugh in a social setting that warrants it than when alone with the humour inducing media.” That means one is more likely to laugh with friends while watching a comedy show together than watching it alone.
While the observation of Robert Provine is transperant, I grapple with the challenge of conjuring even an artificial smile or laughter. In my pursuit of unraveling the mystery of laughter, I remain captivated, wondering if there exists a method or technique that eludes my understanding. Despite its simplicity, the act of laughing is a complex and fascinating phenomenon with physical, emotional, and social dimensions. Experts say that physiologically when we laugh, our brain releases endorphins, the body's natural feel-good hormones. These endorphins promote an overall sense of well-being and can temporarily relieve pain. Further they assert that laughter triggers the release of dopamine, a neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and reward. We too can experience that the physical act of laughter involves the movement of muscles, particularly the facial muscles. A hearty laugh engages not only the mouth but also the eyes, producing a genuine and infectious expression of joy.
Going decades back, in my youth I used to laugh spontaneously in my conversations with others. I was also wearing an innocent smile on my face while talking as if the smile was pasted on my face. Albeit, many liked to see me smile, there were some who disliked it and were suspicious of my motive behind. Once during my college days, the reader of Botany in one practical class while correcting my practical record came upon me with a heavy tone for my smile when I was innocently acknowledging my mistakes with a smile. He burst out “Whether smiling is your hobby or you are taking it as joke?” That day I was so hard pushed to the wall that thereafter I forgot how to smile even on hilarious matters what to talk of laughter which turned out to be a closed chapter for me until I passed out of the University. But that shock was so ingrained in my system that the spontaneity of laughter was under check even when watching comedy shows. My original smiling face disappeared giving birth to an artificial smile during conversation and interactions with friends, relatives and in the office. This was appalling.
In the afternoon of my life I tried to rejuvenate my original smile and laughter, frequency of which was blocked for obvious reasons under the heavy weights of mundane complexities and official tensions. Now I am happy to enjoy the charm of laughter. Laughing and smiling in course of interactions and conversations with others not only keeps me fit but also makes me feel good. Years ago I, for the first time, watched a group of old people standing in a ring laughing together at garden-4 in Lokhandwala Complex, Mumbai in the morning every day where I used to go for a walk daily when I was staying there. At that time even if they invited me to participate, I could not join them in good spirit for I certain inhibitions agitating in the back of my mind in the beginning; but I was wrong. Later I was happy to be a regular participant in such mass laughter.
In my locality we have a senior citizen forum where we meet and interact with each other in the morning everyday mostly on domestic, social and political matters which turn out to be melancholic and toxic most of the time. Some of us do smile in course of conversation but hardly anyone laughs heartily. I have marked the ripples of smile in the faces of some of my friends but it appears as if the smile is artificial. I thought why not sow a seed of laughter in them so that it can germinate in a few days and may take the shape of a robust plant one day blooming flowers of original smile and bearing fruits of laughter that would beget contentment to each.
All that what I have discussed here is my personal feelings but I would like to appeal to all the members of this forum and the readers to practise laughter for at least 10 minutes a day to induce secretion of feel good hormones to keep body and mind hale and healthy.
(Bankim at Forbidden City in Beijing)
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker likes to pass time in travelling, gardening and writing small articles like the one posted here. He is not a writer or poet yet he hangs on with his pursuit of writing small miscellaneous articles for disseminating positive thoughts for better living and love for humanity. Best of luck.
MY MAIDEN SOLO TRIP (PART 1): ARRIVING AT VT STATION
(Photos captured by seethaa Sethuraman of the VT/ CSMT railway station building, Bombay)
One has always been very anxious, of being late and missing the train/ flight. Possibly, this is a common psychological fear among several human beings, as it also found representation in a dramatically captured scene of the very popular Hindi film, “Jab we met”. But I wasn’t Kareena Kapoor and it wasn’t any Hindi film. She would not have missed the train. But, I could, as it was real life - not reel life. And, the Bombay traffic was glaringly real. Like Kareena’s character in the movie, I too held a record of never missing a train/ flight and I clearly had no intention of that record being tampered with, this time over.
I took the Ola more than 4 hours in advance to be there at the CST/CSMT (Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus) railway station [erstwhile simply called VT (Victoria Terminus) and even now, several times, it’s mostly VT that’s top of mind among long standing Bombay-ites and is part of local parlance likewise]; more than 2 hours in advance before the scheduled departure of my train. Thankfully, the traffic was uneventful, so I reached excessively early. “Thank you Babaji for maintaining my record!”, like Kareena had quipped in that movie.
I always wonder why administrators/ governments are so concerned expending excessive amount of time, energy and money with this activity of rechristening rather than utilizing it more productively. The fact that this added more confusion to the already harried layperson caught in the vagaries of life, was simply ignored. But from a historical perspective, it all becomes worth the while. What better way to immortalise key national/ regional personalities who made an indelible impact during their lifetimes and continue to inspire generations even now!
It was my maiden solo trip. To Badami and to Aihole, Pattadakal. To get away from the weariness of routine Bombay life that makes you run continuously, as if you were on a constant treadmill. To experience stillness and connect with my inner self. To try and pick up the pieces of life and assimilate this turning point in my life. I was suddenly all alone in this world without both my parents - after my mother passing away on January 4th 2024, my dearest Chikky Papa. There is such a finality about death that I will now have to live with – that Mom is gone and I will never see her again.
Given that time was aplenty, I decided against engaging a porter and trudged slowly into the station with my formidable luggage units, to be met by a sea of people in the waiting area of this grandiose architectural building. I had fresh memories of learning a thing or two about this architectural marvel at the recent Khaki tour of the Fort area, as part of the Kala Ghoda festival visit along with a friend. I remembered how me and my friend had jumped in delight spotting the “peacock” art on the building; after reading and learning about it earlier in the day.
The waiting area was swarmed with people. All biding time in different moods and different postures, either to go somewhere or to receive others coming from somewhere. I plonked myself and my luggage for a while in a vacant place that I had spotted and heaved a sigh of relief. “Clearly, I was carrying a mini-home with me – shouldn’t better sense have prevailed?” But I quickly calmed myself by mentally countering - “Wasn’t I uncomfortable short changing my regular practices just because I was travelling?” – I liked to feel at home wherever I go, to enjoy myself thoroughly. Yeah, this meant a heavier luggage but I felt more reassured to travel better equipped rather than deprived.
I bided some time staring expectantly at the large “Arrival” and “Departure” indicators for platform number details and tried to strike a conversation without much success with a couple of seemingly regular, somewhat shorter distance intercity women travellers. They seemed happier doing their own casual chit-chat, confident of knowing their rightful place under the sun; rather than answering mundane, factual questions coming from infrequent travellers like me.
My mind, on their other hand, was shrouded with questions around existential dilemma, my purpose in life, how Mom must have felt during her last moments, etc; besides some obvious nervousness about my maiden, solo trip. And, pressingly at this moment, I was also wanting to know about the platform number where my Hosapete Express would arrive. They said they typically waited in this area till the platform number got flashed (which could take some more time) and seemed slightly amused that I was travelling alone.
I decided it was insensitive of me disturbing their bliss and thought it better to enquire with the knowledgeable porters about the platform number. So, I trudged back outside the station where I had earlier spotted the red shirted porters and secured the information - “Platform No. 12, Madam. Hamesha udhar aata hain, Hospete” they happily volunteered. They further added saying that Platform No. 12 was very close by and I wouldn’t require their services - though one of them was bemused looking at me surrounded by luggage all over my body frame, with my hand bag deciding to play truant exactly at that moment and falling down. He readily offered his services. I smiled and said that I would manage and walked confidently towards Platform 12. “Here I come Hosapete Express, to take a memorable ride with you”.
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
YOU AND ME AND THE DOG NAMED BOO
Hetony Petony,Petony Peton!!"Hakku where are you?"
"You must understand Hakku,mommy gets tired chasing you and Rahul bhaiya the entire day,not a minute's rest,leave alone my Riyaaz time,absolutely no free and quiet time to practice my favourite songs."
Hushkoo..."oh! you needn't worry mommy,you know I too sing at times with bhaiya, if required I could go on stage and perform,while you get some rest."
Mommy...."yes!! oh!!,I can just visualize the situation in the Auditorium on that day,as you step on stage,all the singers will forget their songs and join in for chorus singing along with you.,and have you even the slightest of idea about the audience!!,they will no longer be seated on their chairs,they would be a stampede and total ruckus as they jump onto the stage to take a selfie with the handsome Siberian. I wouldn't know where to hide myself as the musicians too would leave their instruments and run upto you searching for their mobiles to click selfies.
Seeing this utter confusion, our Director will immediately remove me from the group,for bringing in a pawnimal.
So far it's Air India only that allows you to carry pets,there too I know you won't let anyone be at peace,each one wanting to take a selfie and the airhostess screaming her head off."
Hushkoo..."Ya mommy it's ok, I understand, my only motto in life is to bring a smile on people's faces, spread happiness, as they are so overstressed with work.I was actually sent on earth to bring joy in people's life,so I'm doing my bit."
Mommy..."yes cutie pie, but you must give me some free time to focus on my work too."
Come on let's sing together!!..."you and me and a dog named Hushkoo ".
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)
They say Holi is the festival of colours. For me it was the same until I experienced that dark night of Holi a few years ago. It was Friday. Being a working day and it was evening I remember well. Somewhere around 7.30pm when working people were returning from their duties. I too was walking on the road and walking faster to reach early as I had to attend Holi function in my vicinity.
My friends were eagerly waiting for me to return and I too was happy to celebrate Holi with them all as every year. I was completely engrossed in the thoughts of celebrations.
Suddenly, while walking on that lonely road somebody came from behind and put some handkerchief on my mouth and then when I got up I found myself at some lonely place thrown alone in completely ruined state. First, I didn't understand where I was and what had happened to me. It was late night then. My purse was lying down at some distance from me. My dress was torn. When I tried to wake up I experienced some bad pain in my abdomen. I was feeling much weak and couldn't get up easily. I literally dragged myself towards the gate as it was a compound of some mill which was in much distorted situation giving me sense of it being shut down before many years as there was complete silence and the walls were broken.
Nobody was seen there. Only the full moon above in the sky and the dark night. In the light of that full moon I dragged myself towards the main gate and somehow came out on the main road. Only the night insects' sound was there or else there was pin drop silence. No rickshaw was easily seen. I waited there for a longer. Couldn't contact anyone as the mobile phone from my purse was stolen. No money was left. I was waiting eagerly to get some auto or taxi and suddenly I came across a car coming towards me. Gathering all my courage I requested to stop that car and the car stopped. An old lady came out of the car and asked, "what are you doing here at this time?". I told her the entire incident and she asked me to sit inside the car and promised me to drop me at my home. I had no other option than getting inside the car. I sat on back seat next to that lady. She told her driver to drive fast and then asked me my address. I told her where I stay. She dropped me in my colony and left in some urgency. While travelling with her in her car I asked her where she was going. She replied," I was going to see my daughter who is serious as she met with an accident last night. She is hospitalised and is supposed to undergo a major critical surgery". I tried to console her saying, "don't worry, Ma'am. Your daughter will definitely come out of this and I am confident about this because you have been much genuinely helping me in this urgency too. My blessings and best wishes are with your daughter". The lady uttered in grief ,"thanks dear for your kind words. Even you are in trouble and still you are praying for my daughter. Thank you!". By then we reached my colony. I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and got off her car and proceeded towards my building. She dropped me on the main road of my colony and from there my building was at 2 minutes distance. I was weak and just dragged myself somehow to my building where the Holika was still burning and looking at that half burnt holika I offered prayers. I had tears in my eyes thinking of all good memories of earlier Holika celebrations.
I reached my home where I found my parents worried and waiting for me eagerly. They were much tensed as they couldn't get any message from me that night about why I was late. Reaching home I just looked at my mom and couldn't stop myself and I started crying loudly. I told them the entire incident. Our neighbours too were there with my parents consoling them. My parents were shocked to see me in that situation and were thankful to God that I was alive. They had got clear idea about what had happened with me that night. They were still thankful to God because I was alive. Being from a typical middle class background they decided not to discuss that matter anymore and our neighbours too agreed to that. They all tried to console me and told to forget everything. My mother then took me inside our house and ensured that I was accompanied that entire night and I could sleep and rest at least for a while but I couldn't sleep thinking exactly what happened with me. By then I knew that I was gang raped and the pain was unbearable.
Next morning my mother prepared poha for breakfast and insisted me to have it alongwith fresh tea. Later, she took me to a gynaecologist and narrated her the entire incident. The doctor examined me and prescribed some medicines for next one week and tried to counsel me to ensure that I will come out of that trauma as early as possible. I didn't go to my work for next few days. My parents adviced me to apply for seek leave and me being a very sincere employee my leave was sanctioned quickly without any questions. I was on leave for next entire week. Now my parents started discussing about my marriage and they came to me and adviced me not to disclose this incident to anyone. They made me promise them so or else they wouldn't survive in this brutal world. Earlier I disagreed to their request but somehow they were successful in convincing me for the same as they nicely did my brain wash saying how our society doesn't easily accept such girls even it is not their mistake and all. I was speechless. On one side I was recovering. My parents ensured that I won't feel alone during that one week. They insisted me on watching my favourite movies and reading books which I always loved to do but somehow I was restless inside thinking of Holika dahan story my granny had ever told me during my childhood as how all evil things burn in holi and why we celebrate holi. I thought of the incident happened to me and asked God why those people who wronged me are free and why I am punished for lifetime by not disclosing the truth to anyone?
While I was thinking so there was a nock on our door. I got up from my place to open the door as my father had gone to market and mother was busy in cooking. I opened the door and was surprised to see that old lady who helped me that night reach my home. She smiled at me and asked how I was feeling. I told her that I was recovering. I requested her to come inside and sit. By then even my mother came out and I introduced her to that old lady. My mother was thankful to her and she went inside to make some tea. Now that lady started speaking to me. She asked me about my educational qualification and about my job status. I told her that I was a post graduate girl working in a private company but was more interested in teaching field. I too asked about her daughter who was hospitalised that night. She informed me that she was discharged the last night and now she is okay. She listened to all my details and asked me if I would like to marry her younger son who was a software engineer and was settled in Canada. I just couldn't say anything. My mother came with fresh tea and some snacks for that lady. She had it speaking to my mother and by then my father was home. He too joined them. Now that lady asked my father if my parents are ready to marry me to her son. She gave her details to my parents.
It was a dream come true for my parents. Still, there was a big question in their mind that why that lady wanted to do that. When asked clearly she told that she was a social worker who runs her own NGO. Her husband was an industrialist who supports her NGO. They had two childre. Her elder daughter was already married to their business partner's son and was happy in her life. Their son was a software engineer and was settled in Canada since last 4 years and always wanted to marry someone who has gone through such trauma as he had seen how such girls suffer in their life. Being a social worker's son he was much grounded person and with noble ideals in his life. Listening to all these things my parents decided to meet that boy soon. The lady told my parents that in next 15days her son was going to visit India for a month and if possible in that time they were planning to marry him.
My parents were agreed to that as their greatest burden was gone now as they didn't have to hide anything. Soon the day came when both our families met at their house and the boy was actually a well raised and well mannered person. He was much down to earth with immense simplicity and when he saw me immediately he said yes and then and there our wedding was fixed. I couldn't believe all those things. Soon we got married and I flied to Canada with my husband and settled down. Now we are a very happy family and today on the eve of Holi when I think of that dark night I just feel thankful to be a survivor because not all the girls get such best opportunity to settle down happily after such horrifying incidents. So, here I would like to say that holi had actually made my life more beautiful because if that incident wouldn't have happened to me then even I wouldn't have met this very loving, caring and understanding family. So, I feel whatever happens; happens for good. Hence, I feel that dark night of Holi too had added colours to my life as I am very happily settled down with my husband and a very loving family. I really feel blessed and think that how could the festival like Holi ever take my happiness away? Rather, that had given me a new life and that too a beautiful satisfied happy life.
Mrs. Mayuri R. Ghorpade.is working as an Asst. Teacher in junior college section of Lala Lajpatrai College of Commerce and Economics, Mahalaxmi. Mumbai. Her area of specialization is Language Learning and Teaching. She has been in the field of education since last 13 years. Writing is her passion and she is passionate about growing in the field of linguistics as well as literature in near future. Apart from her passion she loves to listen to music.
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE-QUO-VADIS?
Artificial Intelligence(AI) attempts to simulate human intelligence including learning, reasoning, and self-correction by computer systems. It covers different subfields, like machine learning, natural language processing, computer vision, robotics, and expert systems. The aim is to create systems that can perform tasks that naturally call for human intelligence. It can imitate some facets of human intelligence, such as producing art, music, or writing. Nevertheless, real creativity every so often comprises multifarious thought processes, emotions, and imagination, which are challenging for AI to fully reproduce. To my mind, AI can assist and motivate human creativity by providing ideas or tools for exploration. Many experts also think that the distinctive perceptions, involvements, and sensitivities of humans will remain inimitable in creative undertakings. AI is more likely to supplement and boost it, opening up new opportunities and teamwork.
AI-GENERATED POETRY:
A few days back I generated two poems using AI and posted these in an elite group composed of intellectuals and writers. Look at one of the poems I generated using the ChatGPT free version on my iPhone:
Prompt: Love
Poem generated:
“In fields of gold, our hearts entwine,
Beneath the moon, your hand in mine.
With every breath, our souls unite,
In love's embrace, our spirits ignite.
Your laughter dances like a gentle breeze,
Melting walls, bringing me to my knees.
In your eyes, I find my sanctuary,
Lost in your love, I am whole and free.
Together we journey through life's unknown,
With you by my side, I'm never alone.
In the tapestry of time, our story's told,
Forever bound, in love's sweet hold.”
It generated some curiosity and one individual even posted that he wanted to write an article analysing the poem using the Derrida deconstruction method. I think that without the original poem and the specific AI model used to generate it, it can be very challenging to definitively determine if a poem is AI-generated or not. However, some indicators as follows may suggest whether it might have been AI-generated:
1. Use of unfamiliar language or compositions
2. Display of monotonous ideas or outlines
3. Lack of emotive sensitivity or ingenuity
4. Consistency with known AI models
AI-generated poetry is fast becoming more and more refined, and some AI models can produce poems that very closely imitate human-authored works. In some cases, it may be very challenging to distinguish between AI-generated and human-authored poetry without additional background or evidence.
Derrida Analysis of AI Poetry:
I am writing about this because one person in the author’s group in question said he would do Derrida for the AI-generated poetry I had posted in the group.
Jacques Derrida, a famous truth seeker(philosopher) well-known for his body of work on deconstruction and literary theory, could have in my view certainly analysed AI-generated writing from a philosophical and critical angle. He might have considered questions such as:
1. Authenticity and originality
2. Meaning and interpretation
3. Power and control
4. Difference and distinctiveness
Derrida's deconstruction could have probably offered an invaluable point of view on the philosophical, ethical, and social magnitudes of AI-generated content which would have elevated our perspective of its consequences for art literature and society at large.
AI AND ART:
Recently I saw a programme which showcases celebrity houses. It was Ashneer Grover’s big flat in Mumbai. Some artistic works displayed in his flat were like paintings. He said that these were computer-generated by his sister. Had he not told this one would have imagined these to be original works of art given the riches of the person. These looked beautiful and similar original works of art would have cost a bomb.
AI is increasingly being used to create, analyse, and interpret artistic works. One could ask an appropriate AI model to give images of say lord Hanuman carrying Lord Rama and Laxman and lo and behold several artistic impressions would roll out before the artist to take inspiration from or for a layperson just to see or print. One could use such computer-generated art to decorate the walls rather cheaply in seemingly good taste. I gave a prompt to generate Lord Hanuman’s image carrying Ram and Laxman through the skies. See the result from a free AI model:
Some notable applications of AI-generated art include:
- Generative Art
- Assisting Artists: Artists can generate ideas for a new project, get feedback on their work, or automate repetitive tasks, do image editing, and colour correction, or even get ideas for appropriate configurations.
- Art Analysis: AI can scrutinise and decipher artworks, and assist art historians, critics, and enthusiasts in understanding patterns, stimulates, and fads.
- Interactive Installations: Artists and technologists can collaborate to create interactive art.
AI AND STORY WRITING:
I downloaded the free version of ChatGPT on my iPhone just for fun. I asked it as follows (wrote in the inbox):
Prompt:
Write a story about a father Prafulla who is unable to ask his children Misha and Sarita to help him when he is in dire straits.
A story that came out instantaneously reads as follows:
“Prafulla was a hardworking father who had always provided for his family with unwavering dedication. He lived in a small village nestled amidst rolling hills, where life moved at a gentle pace. His children, Misha and Sarita, were his pride and joy, and he had worked tirelessly to give them the best upbringing he could.
But as fate would have it, tough times fell upon Prafulla. A drought swept through the village, parching the land and withering the crops. Overnight, Prafulla's livelihood as a farmer was threatened, and he found himself struggling to make ends meet.
Despite his best efforts to hide his troubles, Prafulla couldn't shield his family from the harsh reality for long. The debts piled up, and the once-abundant meals became scarce. Yet, Prafulla couldn't bring himself to burden his children with his worries. He had always been the pillar of strength for his family, and the thought of admitting his own weakness was too much to bear.
Misha and Sarita noticed the subtle changes in their father's demeanour, the lines of worry etched into his face, but they dared not ask him about it. They could sense his pride, his reluctance to ask for help, and they respected his silence.
As the situation grew more dire, Prafulla's heart grew heavier with each passing day. He worked from dawn till dusk, his tired hands tilling the unforgiving soil, hoping against hope for a miracle.
But one day, as Prafulla returned home with empty hands and a heavy heart, he found Misha and Sarita waiting for him, their eyes filled with concern.
"Dad," Misha began, her voice gentle but firm, "we know things haven't been easy lately. We've seen how hard you've been working, and we want to help."
Prafulla's heart swelled with a mixture of pride and gratitude, but he couldn't bring himself to accept their offer. "No, my children," he said, his voice choked with emotion, "I cannot let you bear this burden. It is my responsibility to provide for our family."
But Misha and Sarita refused to back down. They knew that their father had always been there for them, and now it was their turn to support him in his time of need.
Together, they brainstormed ideas and pooled their resources, determined to find a solution to their family's woes. And though the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, Prafulla knew that with his children by his side, they could weather any storm that came their way.
In the end, it wasn't just Prafulla who emerged stronger from their ordeal—it was their bond as a family, forged through hardship and unconditional love. And as they stood together, facing the unknown with courage and resilience, Prafulla realized that true strength lay not in shouldering burdens alone, but in sharing them with those you hold dear.”
Now the above story or others on the themes or events asked for in the school projects can help a student in completing school assignments. If a free version can do this, we can just imagine what a full professional version can accomplish! It can definitely assist authors in writing. Just go on providing situations and roll out stanzas after stanzas which can later be sewed together.
Some notable applications of story writing algorithms include:
- Story Generation
- Plot and Character Analysis
- Writing Assistance
- Interactive Storytelling
I think that AI-generated stories may offer valuable insights into narrative structures and storytelling techniques. They can also serve as inspiration for aspiring writers and spark new ideas.
AI AND HEALTHCARE:
AI is reforming healthcare in several ways, providing explanations for refining diagnostics, treatment planning, patient care, and organisational chores. Some notable applications include:
- Analysing Medical Imaging like CT scans and MRI
- Drug Discovery and Development by analysing vast amounts of biological data to recognise prospective drug targets, forecast drug interactions, and augment drug preparations. AI speeds up the drug discovery process, leading to the development of new treatments for various diseases.
- Development of Personalized medicines by analysing patient data to improve treatment efficacy, reduce adverse reactions, and enhance patient results.
- Remote Patient Monitoring by using AI-powered devices and wearables to enable early detection/diagnosis of health issues for timely interventions, and management of conditions which helps in reducing healthcare costs.
- Improved Healthcare Administration by automating administrative tasks
- Facilitating Medical Research by AI data analysis.
AI AND ENGINEERING: Some notable applications include:
- Design Optimization to accelerate the product development process leading to more innovative and efficient engineering solutions.
- Predictive Maintenance by analysing sensor data from equipment and machinery to detect abnormalities, predict failures, and schedule preventive maintenance to minimize downtime, reduce costs, and increase the life of assets in industries.
- Development of Autonomous Systems such as self-driving vehicles, drones, and robotic platforms to improve safety and efficiency.
- Optimisation of engineering processes by analysing operational data and identifying inefficiencies for process improvements.
- AI-powered Decision Support Systems can assist engineers and managers in making informed decisions based on analysing data, simulating scenarios, and providing recommendations.
- AI is enhancing Computer-Aided Engineering (CAE) by improving simulation accuracy, reducing computational costs, and enabling virtual prototyping, design validation, and performance optimization.
AI AND ELECTIONEERING:
Some notable applications include:
- Voter Analysis and Targeting: AI can analyse voter demographics, behaviours, and sentiments to identify target groups and tailor campaign messages and outreach strategies accordingly.
- Predictive Analytics: AI models can forecast election outcomes by analysing polling data, demographic trends, historical voting patterns, and other relevant factors.
- Social Media Monitoring: Political campaigns can use AI models for sentiment analysis by social media monitoring to gauge public sentiment. They can assess the effectiveness of their messaging and respond to budding issues in time.
- Voter Registration and Identification: AI models modernise voter registration processes and improve voter identification systems by automating data entry, validating voter identities, and detecting possible instances of swindling or anomalies.
- Election Security: These solutions protect against unapproved access, fiddling, and manipulation of electronic voting systems, voter databases, and communication networks.
- Election Administration
- Voter Engagement and Mobilization: These platforms use personalized messaging and targeted outreach to mobilize supporters and increase participation.
It is essential to deploy AI in elections responsibly, ensuring transparency, responsibility, and following ethical standards to maintain the reliability and lawfulness of democratic processes.
AI AND DAY-TO-DAY LIFE:
Some notable applications include:
- Virtual Assistants: AI-powered virtual assistants like Siri, Alexa, and Google Assistant help users perform tasks, answer questions, and control smart devices through natural language commands.
- Recommendation Systems: AI-powered engines are used by online platforms such as Netflix, Amazon, and Spotify to suggest personalized content, products, and services based on user behaviour.
- Smart Home Devices:
- Health and Fitness Monitoring: AI-driven wearable devices and smartphone apps monitor users' health metrics, track physical activity, and provide personalized insights and recommendations.
- Autonomous Vehicles: AI technologies enable self-driving cars and drones promising safer and more efficient transportation in the future.
- Language Translation
- Fraud Detection: AI algorithms help detect and prevent fraudulent activities in financial transactions and online payments,
- Content Creation
- Customer Service
- Personalization
CHALLENGES BEFORE AI:
As AI continues to advance rapidly, it raises important questions about its potential advantages risks, ethical considerations, and societal implications. Some key areas of inquiry include:
- Ethical and Moral Implications: What can be done to reduce potential risks such as AI getting into your house and loss of privacy?
- Human-AI Collaboration: How can AI be integrated into various aspects of human life to enhance human capabilities rather than replace them?
- Regulatory and Policy Frameworks: Regulatory frameworks and policies to govern the development, deployment, and use of AI technologies. How to ensure transparency, accountability, and fairness in AI systems?
- Societal Impact: Will AI impact employment, economy, and social structures? What can be done to reduce potential risks such as job displacement and algorithmic bias?
- Safety and Security: How can we ensure the safety and security of AI systems, particularly in critical domains such as autonomous vehicles, healthcare, and cybersecurity? What measures are required to prevent AI-related accidents, mischievous use, and inadvertent consequences?
As we think about the future of AI, it is important to engage in interdisciplinary dialogue, involving experts from diverse fields such as technology, ethics, sociology, and policy, to address these complex questions and shape a future where AI serves the common good. The flight of AI is aimed towards further advancements and integration into various aspects of human life. Here are some potential directions AI might take:
- More Advanced AI Systems: AI will become capable of handling increasingly complex tasks and will exhibit greater autonomy. This includes augmentation in machine learning, natural language processing, computer vision, and robotics.
- AI Everywhere: AI will become omnipresent, and implanted into everyday devices, systems, and services. From smartphones and smart homes to healthcare and transportation, AI will penetrate nearly every aspect of our lives, making them more efficient, personalized, and convenient. It will increasingly work alongside humans, enhancing human capabilities rather than replacing them. s humans and AI leverage each other's strengths.
- AI for Social Good: There will be a greater focus on using AI for social good, such as addressing global challenges like healthcare, climate change, poverty, and education. AI will be leveraged to improve access to essential services, optimize resource allocation, and empower marginalized communities.
- Regulation and Governance: As AI becomes more widespread, there will be a need for regulatory frameworks to ensure responsible AI development and deployment. The Indian government has already made it compulsory for AI model developers to take government approval.to ensure data privacy, algorithmic transparency, safety, and accountability.
- Continued Research: Research in AI will continue to speed up innovation, pushing the limits of what AI can do. This includes exploring new AI techniques like collaboration with fields like neuroscience, psychology, and philosophy. A chip can be embedded into the brain to run the computers by thought has already become a possibility (Elon Musk)
To sum up, AI holds great promise, but it also raises valid questions and challenges that need to be addressed jointly by researchers, policymakers, industry leaders, and society as a whole.
(Acknowledgement: This article has been written with the help of AI.)
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Jayanthi Amma was lying on the bed, gasping for breath. She refused to be moved into the hospital.
“I am past eighty years and have experienced life in all its stages. Happiness and sorrows... no necessity now to prolong my life by putting me on ventilator and connecting tubes everywhere. Let me die peacefully at home surrounded by all of you,” she had declared haltingly and the family members decided that she was right.
What was the use of living a life within the four walls of the ICU and with tubes stuck everywhere! Attended by the hospital staff who generally spoke in a language that was alien to her?
The family Doctor agreed with her totally.
“Give her whatever she wants to eat. Keep her happy,” he had said.
The relatives were informed that Jayanthi Amma was on her last journey.
Prakash and Veena, her son and daughter-in-law had a busy time attending to all the visitors who dropped in to see Jayanthi Amma. Mahesh and Mythreyi, her grandchildren, attended college as usual. Her second son was to arrive from U S with his wife in a couple of days and her only daughter was to arrive four days later.
She was a very compassionate woman and had helped many in their tough times. Many remembered her benign qualities. They, most of them, talked about her “managing a very short tempered husband “ with tact and patience and bringing up her children well despite so many odds, while managing for most part of her life, a mother-in-law who was ever cribbing and who passed away only six years ago “after sucking Jayanthi Amma’s life “ as the relatives put it.
Yes she was a personification of patience.
Sundari Chithi (younger sister of Jayanthi Amma) landed with aplomb.
She had been a very regular visitor even when Jayanthi Amma’s husband was alive. She was Jayanthi Amma’s mother-in-law’s favourite too as they exchanged a lot of “gossips” about some common relatives.
Sundari must have been a little girl of five years when Jayanthi Amma got married and had become a favourite with Seenu Iyer (Jayanthi Amma’s husband) and that explained the frequency of her visits.
The visits did not diminish even after her marriage. Sundari was a vivacious woman and her husband was terribly scared of her even though he was a manager in a big company and earned well. They had some eight children and Prakash used to tell his wife jocularly,
“Ah!! The Production Manager! I wonder how she remembers all their names!! They are all older than each other with just one and a half or two years difference between them. But she manages to land here very often leaving the children with her mother and aunt-in-law who are terrified of her. She is very fond of Amma. Of course the feelings are mutual and she comes here with a bottle of pickle and some sweets and goes back with some silk sarees and a ‘piece’ of jewel. Amma is so innocent. She parts with these things and Sundari Chithi thinks she has a right to everything in this house!!
I wonder when this will stop!! ”
Veena used to reply with a smile but deep inside she told herself
“I have never seen such an avaricious human being!! Ugh!! Disgusting woman.“
Ever since she landed, Sundari had been speaking only about the ‘sister’s’ jewels and sarees.
“You know Veena, Seenu Anna (that was how everyone used to refer to Jayanthi Amma’s husband, as he was the eldest of the men in the family and obviously, Jayanthi Amma was everyone’s Bhaabhi) had said long ago that all of Jayanthi Akka’s jewels and sarees would come to me. He was very fond of me.”
Well, one cannot verify these things with a ‘dead man’.
Veena would look at her with “disgust” lining her heart!! Is this woman waiting for Jayanthi Amma to call it a day?
“You know the wrist watch with the wide gold strap? The heavy strap ...must be at least three sovereigns in weight? Seenu Anna had said long back, “Look here little Sundari, this watch is for you. It will look nice on your wrist.“ She then sobbed (or rather pretended to), wiping away the imaginary tears with her saree and said,
“Hope my sister comes out of all this. She is not my sister but my mother. Aw!! All this crying is making me hungry. Let me go to the kitchen and eat something.”
She would dart into the kitchen and ‘gobble’ up two bananas and have a glass of milk with lots of sugar in it.
Veena would turn her face and try to cover up a smile that would break on her face.
Ah!! Pity Sundari Chithi is not being given the “Oscar Award” for the best acting, she would think.
The relatives named Sundari ‘innocent’ but Veena thought that she was a scheming woman with no ‘innocence’ whatsoever!
Sundari Chithi and uncle were currently staying on this visit with their eldest son who was in the same city as Prakash and Veena. Sundari alone had shifted here after hearing the news that Jayanthi Amma was seriously ill.
“Veena, I am going home today as I am accompanying my son’s neighbours to the Temples. I will be back tomorrow and I know that nothing will happen to akka by then. Take care of her will you...you are very lucky to have a mother-in-law like her,” she said as she left with Prakash’s cousin’s neighbours who had come to pick her up.
Sundari made it a point not to miss out having any fun even when she was on some serious visit. And for her, Temple visits were fun as she spent a lot of time at the shops in and around the Temple premises doing a massive shopping. This included glass bangles, small decorative pieces for the home, small knickknacks that fancied her, always seeing to it that she did carry a lot of things with her when she left back for her house in Madurai where she had settled with her husband and two other sons.
It was such a relief not having to listen to the incessant prattle and Veena settled down on the sofa with the novel she had started reading three days back.
Prakash and the children had left for office and college and the house was quiet.
Jayanthi Amma was sleeping peacefully after the visit of the Doctor who had come as usual and examined her. The Doctor had explained to Veena that perhaps the old lady was clinging on to her life just to see the other kids of hers who were to land.
The breathing was normal and the gasping had stopped. Veena had taken one look at her and then settled down on the sofa.
It was evening and the house was noisy once again with the children back home from the college and Prakash would come in any minute. He had telephoned to say that he would be coming back home early.
After making the rotis and keeping them in the casserole and seeing that the subjee was completed Veena came to the sitting room just in time to hear the telephone ringing.
It was from Sundai Chithi’s son.
“Veena, is that you? Prakash hasn’t come as yet?”
“No, but he should be home anytime,” Veena replied.
“Well, a rather sad and shocking news. Amma just got back from the Temples. She asked for some water after sitting on the chair and took the water from me. She drank the whole water and was about to talk but collapsed. I called the Doctor next door...but nothing could be done. She has died...massive cardiac arrest.”
God’s ways are mysterious!!
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 LEAF FROM HISTORY: AN ENCOUNTER THAT HAPPENED A HUNDRED YEARS BACK
It was crossing of path between two laureates! In today’s age, the crossing of path between two mutual admirers is no issue as it is dam easy since the communications and technology have developed in an unprecedented rapid stride. We have flights which make it faster to travel, and internet of course to connect people in a fraction of a second through the virtual path. But back then in early 1900s, there was very limited growth in commutation and technology. It becomes additionally more difficult for two people to connect when they both belong to different far-off countries in two continents cut off by seas and oceans. But when superior or divine force has desired to make it possible, it will happen anyhow.
Here we are talking about the crossing of paths between two global legends Rabindranath Tagore from India and Victoria Ocampo from Argentina. Victoria Ocampo was a writer, supporter of literature. In addition to contributing to Argentine literature, she extended her reach beyond her country, connecting with the cultural and literary communities of Latin America, Europe, and the United States. Her admission to the Argentine Academy of Letters in 1977 marked a significant achievement, especially considering the challenges she faced as a young woman discouraged by patriarchal society from pursuing writing. Victoria established, financed, published, and edited a literary magazine called "Sur." This magazine showcased works from authors around the globe, featuring poetry, stories, essays, and social commentary. As a strong advocate for feminism, she was ahead of her time. Ocampo ended an unhappy marriage early in her life and lived independently thereafter. She was rumored to have numerous lovers, affairs, and friendships. Her travels took her across the globe, and she frequented artistic, literary, and social circles, particularly in France.
Ocampo encountered Tagore's work in 1914 when she read Gitanjali, describing it as having a profound impact on her youthful spirit. She likened Tagore's poetry to "magical mysticism," finding resonance in his portrayal of a loving and benevolent deity, which stood in stark contrast to the austere and punitive image of God from her upbringing. It was a dream come true and as it was divine intervention for Ocampo to meet Tagore in person and spend good time.
Tagore , the global trotter ,had to make a stop in Buenos Aires on November 6, 1924 for medical recuperation en route to Peru, where he intended to participate in the centenary celebrations of independence. Victoria Ocampo became aware of Tagore's situation and extended her offer to provide care for him. To accommodate his needs, she decided to utilize her assets, mortgaging her jewelry to secure a rental agreement for an elegant mansion located in San Isidro, a suburban area of Buenos Aires. Tagore resided there under her care, enjoying the scenic view from his balcony overlooking the expansive Plata River and the lush garden adorned with towering trees and vibrant flowerbeds. During his stay, the 63-year-old Tagore is said to have experienced a rejuvenation under the attentive care of Victoria Ocampo, aged 34 at that point of time. Ocampo, displaying utmost devotion, attended to Tagore's needs and ignited his imagination. In turn, she found spiritual enlightenment and literary inspiration through her interactions with the esteemed Indian poet philosopher-. The pure affection Tagore held was met with reciprocal spiritual devotion from Ocampo. Following a complete recovery from his illness after a 58-day period , Tagore departed Buenos Aires on January 3, 1925. The face-to-face encounter between Tagore and Ocampo evolved into a significant cross-continental dialogue. Tagore expressed, "For me, the essence of Latin America will forever reside in your being." In response, Ocampo conveyed, "You are and will always represent India to me."
During his above 58-day stay as Ocampo's guest in Buenos Aires in that period, Tagore often sat in a comfortable armchair, his cherished one. Ocampo generously gave Tagore that armchair as a gift to take back to India from Buenos Aires. However, there arose a logistical challenge: the chair was too large to fit into Tagore’s cabin aboard the ship. Undeterred, Ocampo, displaying her determined nature, instructed the ship's captain to widen the cabin door by breaking it down to accommodate the chair. Additionally, through her connections, Ocampo arranged for Tagore to have a specially designated two-bedroom cabin, a gesture that deeply impressed Tagore. Its significance remains to this day, as it is preserved at Shantiniketan, a testament to the enduring bond between Tagore and Ocampo.
During his final years, Tagore found solace in the same chair, where he would often relax and reflect. In April 1941, shortly before his passing later that year, Tagore even composed a poem inspired by the chair. Upon receiving news of Tagore's demise, Ocampo conveyed her condolences to Tagore's son through a simple yet poignant telegram stating, 'Thinking of him' (pensando en el). It was this heartfelt sentiment that inspired the title of the Argentine movie. Pablo Cesar, the Argentine director and producer of this fascinating movie, amazed by this story has recreated the Tagore-Ocampo encounters based on the real-life story. This Indian Argentina connection is not known to many but it holds a real significance in the life of Tagore who was a great visionary for our nation India, and the author of our national anthem besides being that of Bangladesh.
Grape vines , rumor mills existed then as they do now . Tagore had become a global citizen after he wrote Gitanjali (1910) and his works had a profound impact on the intellectual movement in Latin America. How the small minds would understand higher minds and relationships that can be called deeply spiritual. True, they met each other very briefly in the 1920s, but their cross-continental ties continued through a series of letters that lasted till Tagore’s death in 1941.
Let us remember that this spiritual encounter happened almost a hundred years back (November 1924). In this centenary year of that literary continental connect, let me say my salutations to both Tagore and Ocampo!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
(Photo of Maundy Thursday)
Today, i.e. Friday the 29th of March 2024 is Good Friday or the day when Lord Jesus was crucified as we all know.
Before His crucifixion, the Last Meal or “The Last Supper” that The Lord had with His Twelve Apostles is venerated by Christians. This commemoration is done on the Thursday before Easter which is known by many names such as – Maundy Thursday; Holy Thursday; Covenant Thursday; Great and Holy Thursday and sometimes as Thursday of Mysteries.
The Famous "Last Supper" Mural Painting
by Leonardo Da Vinci,
1490 AD
In Milan, Italy
It is believed that this Last Supper that Jesus had was a Passover Meal.
The twelve apostles with whom Jesus had His Last Supper were Jesus’s disciples and followers. New Testament (religious text) elaborates the lives of these apostles who play important roles in the spread of Christianity and are also acknowledged in Koran by Islamic Theology.
It is said that Jesus washed the feet of His twelve disciples before His Last Supper. So, Maundy Thursday refers to this feet-washing by Jesus. Especially commemorating this event, the word “maundy” on its own means “washing the feet of the poor”.
Now, what is ‘Passover’?
In the Jewish Calendar, Passover is one of the most important religious festivals. The story of Passover and the rules of celebration of Passover were detailed out in the ‘Book of Exodus’, (13). This Book of Exodus writes about the departure of the Israelites from Egypt. It is said that since about 1300 B.C., 'Passover' has been celebrated by the Jews.
The story behind Passover is that people of Israel were slaves in Egypt for 200 years. Although God had promised their release, but they could not be liberated as the Pharaoh had not allowed their liberation. So, God in order to show His power had plagued or troubled the Egyptians ten times (Exodus 3: 19-20). Some of the earlier nine plagues or troubles were:-
-The Plague of Blood – God turned Waters of Egypt and that of River Nile into blood – the fish died and people were distressed.
-The Plague of Frogs – when there were frogs everywhere – even jumping on the people, etc, etc.
All these only troubled the Egyptians and not the Israelites!
Then came the Tenth Plague or Tenth Trouble: -
At midnight, an angel would go from Egyptian house to house – and kill the first-born son – be it the first-born son of the Pharaoh or the first born of some very ordinary man!
As the Israelites were spared, it was necessary to mark their homes. For this the Israelites had to take a male lamb following certain norms, kill it – and spill its blood on the doorways to show that it was an Israelite home and thus the angel should “Pass Over” from which “Pass Over” got its name. Then they had to roast that lamb and eat with bitter herbs and unleavened bread. That is why Passover is celebrated by eating unleavened bread.
Every bit of the flesh had to be eaten and bones of the lamb were burned.
Israelites were dressed for a journey when they used to perform this ritual.
The purpose of being dressed was probably to be able to leave Egypt as soon as they got permission to do so.
As the male first-born of every Egyptian and even the first born of livestock were killed, Egyptians were frightened and wanted the Pharaoh to immediately send back the Israelite slaves. So, the Pharaoh asked Mosses to take back the Israelites. And Mosses led them back to Israel.
Seeing the Israelites going – some Egyptians even gave them valuables including gold and silver- to encourage their going away.
The Exodus
In a hurry, the Israelites did not have time to add yeast to their unleavened dough and so the custom of eating unleavened bread continued. For the first few days of their exodus – the Israelites survived on this unleavened dough.
Traditional Unleavened Bread, called Matzah
This Passover is celebrated by Jews. Those living in Israel celebrate for seven days as per instructions in the Torah – which is the first part of the Jewish Bible and refers to five books of Moses.
Jews outside Israel celebrate for eight days. This is because the Jews in Diaspora were far away from Israel and in those days, it took time to reach to them the date when exactly to start the celebrations. In order to be on the safe side – they added an extra day for Passover Celebrations.
Passover, also known as Pesach in Hebrew (Northwest Semitic Language of Israel), is usually celebrated by a meal – known as the Passover Meal or Feast of Passover.
Passover Meals
According to the Gospels of Mark, Matthew, and Luke, known as the Synoptic Gospels – the Last Supper of Lord Jesus was this Passover Meal.
However, Gospel of John does not explicitly say that Last Supper was a Passover Meal. It rather says that the official Passover Meal was supposed to begin in the evening – only after Jesus’s death!
Well, says the internet – about Gospels: -
“In Christianity, the gospel, or the Good News, is the news of the coming of the Kingdom of God. The message of good news is described as a narrative in the four canonical gospels. The message of good news is described as theology in many of the New Testament letters.”
The first four canonical gospels are that of Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John. These gospels are about the messages of Lord Jesus of Nazareth or Jesus Christ.
May you all have a Blessed Good Friday
(All information and photos are from books and the internet to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right to information and photos which are from the book and to which I have no right (Disclaimer). No part of this article can be reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.)
(photo of paper rabbits)
I start by writing the significance of Easter-eggs and bunny – from a different perspective. For Christians, the egg symbolizes Jesus’s emergence from His tomb and being resurrected.
But there is another significance of this egg.
Well, since ancient times, egg represented new life. In earlier days, the Pagans used to celebrate arrival of spring with eggs as symbol of new life. Eggs were indeed traditional symbols of rebirth and fertility.
The term Pagan was first used for people of the Roman Empire who believed in many deities and these deities were assembled and worshipped together as per their own rituals. Later, the term “Pagan” was used to refer to ancient people of other places and empires too.
The term ‘Pagan’ was first used by early Christians of Fourth Century. Later this term has been well used in literature, etc to sometimes denote backward people who might have wrong ideas, yet who are closely associated with nature.
Remember, William Wordsworth wrote:-
“Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn”.
Wordsworth was very worried that modern people are spending too much money and thus have lost connection with nature.
-“The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; —
Little we see in Nature that is ours.
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!”
So, he regretted having lost connection with nature and said that it was better to be a Pagan – them at least one would be connected to nature.
Vostre or Ostara is the Goddess of this month of Spring in Germanic Paganism – from which Festival of “Easter” probably got its name.
The spring month was called “Eosturmonath” after the name of this Spring Goddess. When translated – this Eosturmonath means “Paschal Month”.
Colouring of eggs also became a practice of the early Mesopotamian-Christians who dyed eggs with red to depict the blood that Christ shed during His crucifixion. It was the Church who took up this practice. (Donahoe’s Magazine, Volume 5)
And now, about the significance of Easter Bunny.
Well, Easter Bunny made its appearance probably in the 19th century. Rabbits usually give birth to many kittens. Thus, Bunny was made an Easter Symbol – a symbol of NEW LIFE! (The paper Origami rabbits (top photo) I made last year.
So, Easter is basically celebration of Spring Season when Mother Earth gets rejuvenated by the resplendence of new life that ushers in rejoicing.
Wishing you all Happy Easter and a very Happy Spring Season.
The paper rabbits I made last year.
The egg shown above is basically a box in the shape of an egg. I was presented this egg-box full of chocolates during Easter.
(All information and quotes are from books and internet only – to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right of information and quotes to which I have no right (Disclaimer). No part of this article including the photos can be used or reproduced by anyone.)
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.
AFTERNOON RAINS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
((This story is a part of the Author's Book of Short Stories "Anjie, Pat and India's Poor" published by Notion Press, Chennai, last year))
"Are you crazy? You walked all the way drenched in these rains?"
"You know how I love the rains, looking at the sky, feeling the rain drops on my face. How I adore the way they soak me and churn my heart......Moreover, I didn't find the umbrellas. I don't know where Rajani kept them before leaving for Singapore to be with our daughter".
"I am also alone at home. Anandini has gone to Bangalore to help her ailing brother's family.
As if being old is not enough, we have to bear the pangs of loneliness also. That, my friend, is our destiny".
"Lonely? You think you are lonely? With this big lawn, the green, wet grass, the gently swaying flowers, this riot of colours! With all this how can you be lonely? You want to know what is loneliness, ask me! Being confined to a small three bedroom apartment, dirty, grimy walls outside the window, another nameless, joyless flat when you open the door, mangled electric wires and dry branches of decrepit trees overlooking the balcony, that my friend, is loneliness."
"Do you want to come in, or keep soaking in the rain drops? But let me warn you, I can't offer you even a cup of tea. The maid won't come before six and it's only three in the afternoon. Maids in Delhi, as you know, work like machines, their timings are precise, clock like!"
"I know my friend, you think I have come here to take tea? I have come to stand on your green lawn and get soaked in rain. I want to look at the yellow, orange, white, flowers, keep seeing them till they become a part of my memory like a painting on a wall. I want to close my eyes and touch their smiling petals, feel the throb of their soft hearts. I want the rain drops to soak my heart and spread their colour all over my consciousness. When I open my eyes, I want to see colours everywhere, the sky, the earth, the rains, on you, on me and on my memory."
"In your memory? What memory? You are in a terrific mood today! Is it the effect of the rains? Or the vacant Sunday afternoon of a soulless Delhi? You know I am a serious sort of person, spent my whole life pouring over government files. Unlike you, a professor spending time with young hearts year after year, I don't understand many of these delicate matters of colours, throb of hearts in soft petals and rain drops soaking the heart."
"My friend, my idiot friend, these are not things to be understood, they're are to be felt, felt with every breath you inhale."
"Oh! Felt with every breath? How do you do that?"
"Feel something? So easy! See, I am looking at you, talking to you, but you know, my mind is actually somewhere else, it has gone back to many years, feeling some presence, in my heart, in my subconscious mind. That feeling is different from what I am seeing before me. What I feel is deep within, a soft glow lighting up my soul, like a soft light hiding shyly in a corner of a room. When that feeling engulfs you, it brings mild goosebumps on you, a soft voice brings you many memories, many images, they whisper to you, don't you remember me, have I become a stranger to you, no longer a part of your consciousness! A feeling is like a shadow playing hide and seek with you, one moment you feel it intensely, the next moment it disappears leaving an aching melancholy in you. It is something that you experience when you see a good painting, read a good poem or listen to a good song."
"You are getting more and more philosophical! Come inside, you are completely drenched, you may fall sick."
"A little more rains will do no harm. Let me feel your lawn a little longer, and touch the beautiful flowers some more. God knows when Delhi will have rains like this again, a Sunday afternoon getting soaked in dripping rain, the soft glow of the sun drooping behind serious looking clouds and flowers laughing their hearts out at this primordial game. And me standing near the flowers, tormented by some long past memory, trying to touch it!"
"My God, what has happened to you? It seems the dripping rains and a bed of flowers have driven you crazy, where are you lost? What memory? Whose memory?"
"Bring two umbrellas, come out from your portico, let's go to the flower bed. I will show you how to feel the flowers..."
"Ok, here we are. Now tell me what you feel in the flowers, which I don't."
"Look at this white dahlia, what do you see in its petals?"
"Are you kidding me? What I see in the petals? They are just white colour petals!"
"Close your eyes, think of those petals and remember the most beautiful girl in your college clad in a white saree, remember a white night of splendid moon light falling like a cascading waterfall, think of the white clouds of an autumn sky, or the wild foams of breaking waves, the snow clad mountains looking benignly at you....And then touch the petals. Are you not able to feel them?"
"Yes I can think of them when you told me, but tell me how do you see so many things in such a small piece of petal?"
"If you try only to see them, you won't know what is hidden in them. Try to feel them in your mind. Haven't you ever seen a beautiful tree-canopied street, a nice building against pale street lights, a smiling moon behind doting clouds, a cute small girl laughing, and thought of capturing them in your mind's camera so that they are stored there forever? That is the power of felling something, not merely seeing it."
"What else you feel in these flowers? What about those thin yellow lines in the white flowers?"
"That is how nature tells us she is the best artist in the world. See the blue streaks in the violet flower - which painter would ever think of combining these two colours to make it so maddeningly beautiful? Look at the deep red singaneria - doesn't it remind you of a burning cinder, a full bloomed rose, the vermillion on a godess's forehead, the red bangles of a bride, or a swarm of beatles on the grass? Close your eyes, feel the colour, all these will become alive in your mind."
"Enough, enough my friend, let's go inside, the rains are getting heavier...........Take this towel, wipe yourself and put on these dry clothes. You are one hell of a crazy fellow, otherwise who wants to get wet like this?"
"Why do you look at rain as rain? Doesn't it mean anything else to you?"
"O my God, what has come over you? Rains are rains! What else can I think of them".
"No my friend, rains are not mere drops of water falling from the sky, they are cascades of memory, drops of tears from some wet eyes from the past. I came to your lawn to look at these green lawns, the coloured flowers and relive those memories, to collect those tears in my palms and wash away some traces of guilt."
"What guilt, what are you saying?"
"The cold fire that is smouldering in me for years. An abandoned milestone whose shadow lengthens with every advancing step in my life's walk."
"Looks like you are missing Rajani too much, the vibrant Rajani, the walking combination of Amrita Pritam and Simone de Beauvoir. You are so lucky, my friend to have an intellectual wife!"
"Intellectual? What do I do with an intellectual wife, who doesn't even know how to boil a potato or cook a plate of noodles! Have you ever seen her room? There are used plates, mugs, saucers everywhere, books upon books piled on the floor, on her bed, her table, if I don't clean up her room, she will have to jump over books or climb on them to reach her bed."
"What do you mean her room, her bed? Is your room different from hers?"
"Yes, for so many years we have been living under the same roof, but only as flat mates. She runs away to her daughter whenever she can. I am too non-intellectual for the mother and the daughter, too rustic, too pedestrian. But can you imagine, when we first met we couldn't live without each other even for a day?"
"That's why you got married, didn't you? Two love birds building an early nest! .......What? Are you leaving? Come, I will see you off at the gate. Take one of these umbrellas with you, don't get wet again."
"No, no umbrella, didn't I tell you, how much I like to get wet in the rains, it's like getting soaked in a tormenting memory, a memory that has haunted me for the last forty one years".
"What memory? What had happened forty one years back to torment you for so long?"
"Forty one years back, I was a twenty year old, she was seventeen. It was a rainy afternoon, like this, the sun was playing hide and seek with clouds, we stood near a flower bed in Forest Park in Bhubaneswar. I held her hand, looked into her eyes, and told her, 'look at these flowers, remember their colour, one day I will buy a saree for you to match each of these colours.'"
"Oh, I didn't know you were so romantic, at least not in the school where we studied! Who was the girl?"
"She used to live five houses away in the same street in the government colony at Unit six. She herself was like a flower, soft, delicate and innocent. A year later we walked to the Park, soaked in rain, the lawns were green, the grass was wet. There was a bed of flowers in a corner which was a riot of colours, our hearts were wet with tears, the impending separation was tearing them to pieces. I was to leave for JNU the next day, to join my MA course. I told her, 'Keep this day locked in your mind. One day I will bring you here and remind you how I had left my heart with you, how much I loved you.' She just shook her head, 'You will forget me, soon, like everyone does.' And then she started crying. I had no words to console her, I was myself in tears."
"What happened, how did you get hooked to Rajani?"
"JNU was a different world altogether, for some one coming from a small town like Bhubaneswar it was a magical world, a world of excitement and romance. Within a few months there was hardly any one who was not hooked to some one or the other. I fell for Rajani like a ton of bricks tumbling from a wayward truck. She was so slim, so smart, when she walked in her short skirt and top, she looked like a school girl who had lost her way into an university. Her father was a big officer in Kerala. The way she spoke English was mesmerising, she quoted Shakespeare, Keats and Eliot like they were her cousins, and she smoked, she drank like a fish, she danced, when she walked it was like a young, lovely deer in search of her soul mate."
"My God! Yes, I can imagine that, she must have been a livewire. How did she fall for you, a country bumpkin?"
"She didn't fall for me, she adopted me, as her little lamb, she told every one I was her pet, and I felt I was probably the luckiest pet in the world. JNU in those initial years was a hot bed of revolutionary, nonconformist ideas and she wanted to prove herself to be the champion nonconformist. So she spurned the advances of many elitist snobs and chose the most simple, shy student in the class as her pet. I tried to transform myself, I started smoking with her, cigarette, pot and then we went unto LSD, we drank beer from the same bottle, and we danced together, she like a little fairy and I like a primitive tribal. Our tango echoed in the campus, like the animal grunts of many other young couples. To show her daring, nonconformist nature, she was one of the first girls to move into the men's hostel and in my single bedded room we discovered the passion of life with hungry abandon."
"Lucky you, the taste of the forbidden fruit so early in life!"
"Yes, with Rajani in my arms I felt I was the luckiest person in the world. In a few months she found she was pregnant and like a true maverick she would point to her tummy and keep telling everyone, 'Look, look at my illegitimate child! I feel sooooo liberated!'. I was scandalised, why was she calling it an illegitimate child? I told her, we should get married. She was mostly in a drunken stupor those days. She said she doesn't care, anyway marriage is a bourgeois institution creating false bondage, but she agreed 'just out of fun'. So we got married and I entered the gates of hell with a smile on my leaps and fear of the unknown in my heart."
"Didn't you invite your parents?"
"Ha! That would have been so traditional, so conformist! Rajani would have none of that. So we got married first and went later to get their blessings. First we spent a few days with her parents. They were neither happy nor unhappy. They didn't care. Her father had got some posting abroad for three years and they were getting ready to leave. I took her to my parents, my mother shut the door on us, because Rajani looked so pregnant that my mother felt scandalised. We stayed in a hotel for two days and returned to Delhi. Our daughter was born three months after our wedding. Both of us got jobs as lecturers. As the daughter grew, we drifted apart. Rajani never forgave me for the way my parents had insulted her. Suddenly she found all the faults in the world in me. My parents were worse than tribals, they belonged to the jungle, someone like me who didn't know how to use a fork was not fit to live among civilised people, my English was worse than that of a village school master.............at one time she had loved me so intensely, now her dislike of me was equally intense. Once our daughter started going to school Rajani forbade her to speak to me, she told her if she picked up the funny accent from daddy, she will be good enough to become only a vegetable vendor selling vegetable from door to door. And one day she took our daughter to her parents in Trivandrum and left her with them. My world came crashing on me, my last hope of some semblance of a stable family life was lost forever. After that it was only a downhill journey for me, walking on a path strewn with red hot ember. You can never understand the pain, my friend, no one can."
"What happened to the girl?"
"Our daughter? She grew up to be a bigger nonconformist than her mother. In her late thirties now, she never married and is in a live-in relationship with a Chinese student in Singapore. Rajani runs away to be with them whenever she can."
"No, I was asking about the girl in the park, of forty one years ago."
"Oh, that girl? Honest to God, I don't know what happened to her. I had not written a single letter to her from JNU, her parents would have been livid if the letter fell into their hands. Moreover, I was so besotted with Rajani from the day I saw her! In the first summer vacation I went to Bhubaneswar, I tried to hide from the girl down the street, by that time Rajani had moved into my room and we were living together.......I don't know where the girl would be today, she may be in Bhubaneswar, in Indore or in Nagpur, but I know wherever she is she would be like the loveliest flower in a garden where there would be the fragrance of joy and the flavour of love. Whenever I see rains in the afternoon, I feel like running to a lawn and stand near a flower bed. How I wish, how achingly I wish, by some miracle, she would stand with me, and together we would look at the flowers. I would tell her, didn't you say I would forget you, like everyone does? Is there some way I can convince you, not only did I not forget you, hardly a day passes when I don't remember you! You are tucked away in a hidden corner of my heart like one of these soft, smiling flowers, never to fade, never to wilt.........."
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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