Literary Vibes - Edition CXL (26-Apr-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Lonely Cottage (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
An acclaimed Painter, a published poet, a self-styled green woman passionately planting fruit trees, a published translator, and a former Professor, Lathaprem Sakhya, was born to Tamil parents settled in Kerala. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor of poems, short stories and paintings to several e-magazines and print books. Recently published anthologies in which her stories have come out are Ether Ore, Cocoon Stories, and He She It: The Grammar of Marriage. She is a member of the executive board of Aksharasthree the Literary Woman and editor of the e - magazines - Aksharasthree and Science Shore. She is also a vibrant participant in 5 Poetry groups. Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, Literary Vibes, India Poetry Circle and New Voices and Poetry Chain. Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English, Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni) and currently she is busy with two more projects.
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
OUR VERY OWN LOCAL LENIN
02) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE WONDERFUL SAGA OF RISHI AGASTYA
03) Snehaprava Das
ANOTHER FAIRY TALE
04) Usha Surya
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT ..
05) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
THE WRITER
06) Magline Jackson
IRON IN THE SOUL
07) Sreekumar T V
CONFESSION
08) Ashok Kumar Mishra
SONAGACHHI
09) Jay Jagdev
HOW ARE YOU, REALLY?
10) Satish Pashine
DOCTOR-DOCTOR!
11) Gourang Charan Roul
A WEEK IN THE LAP OF HIMALAYAS
12) Sukumaran C.V.
LIFE IN THE DIGITAL AGE
13) Shrikant Mishra
A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER - SHRI B. N. MISHRA..
14) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT AN ICONIC..
15) Sreechandra Banerjee
ONE NATION WITH MANY CELEBRATIONS
16) Meera Raghavendra Rao
ENCOUNTER WITH A GOVERNOR
17) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
FRAGRANCE
Without being impolite, we attempted to shoo away the boy, a good-looking, decently dressed street urchin who had been soliciting money from every group enjoying a cool evening at the beach. We observed him circulating and pleading for funds, not just small changes, but school expenses.
Despite our charitable inclinations and the various social assistance programs we had organized with the support of our employer, we hesitated to offer him money. It was an inexplicable feeling shared not just by us but by others on the beach as well.
I pondered over why we all felt this way. Perhaps it was the boy's appearance. He didn't fit the typical image of poverty; he wore sandals, albeit slightly too small, and his clothing, though slightly oversized, appeared clean and orderly. It was likely donated or a gift from a nearby church, given the season of Christmas and impending festivals. Festivals often brought about various forms of aid for the less fortunate, a silver lining in an otherwise dreary existence. So, we decided to leave his fate in the hands of fate itself.
However, our friend Lenin had a different perspective. He felt compelled to offer money to the boy. Aware of each other's financial situations, and knowing Lenin’s propensity for generosity, we prevented him from opening his purse, keeping it out of his reach until the boy moved to the next crowd. His altruism often earned him blessings, or so it seemed.
Lenin, despite his admirable qualities, had his flaws, notably his penchant for engaging in fruitless arguments, particularly regarding metaphysics and his staunch atheism, a conviction he had held since his school days. His unwavering dedication to this belief often led to contentious debates, which he relished, even after emerging victorious.
Nevertheless, we cherished his companionship and relied on his unwavering support. He was the most dynamic among us, and we owed him financial debts and gratitude for his invaluable time and companionship. He willingly accompanied us whenever needed, though sometimes requiring persuasion.
Ironically named after the renowned Russian leader whom he detested, Lenin possessed a rare quality: absolute objectivity. Despite our admiration for this trait, we wished he shared our theistic beliefs, considering it the only flaw in his otherwise exemplary character.
As we departed the beach, anticipating inclement weather, we joined the throng at the bus bay, acknowledging the shared wisdom in leaving early. Securing a window seat, I pulled Lenin close, sharing my space with him. Inquisitive as always, he queried about the marriage rituals of my community, finding amusement in the details I provided.
The next morning, Lenin visited me, seeking to borrow some money. Delighted to assist him, given his rare dependency on us, I eagerly obliged. However, I couldn't help but wonder about the purpose of his sudden request.
"I lost my purse," Lenin confessed upon entering my room.
"When did you realize it was missing?" I inquired, attempting to grasp the situation.
"Find it missing? Isn't that a cute oxymoron?" he remarked with a touch of sarcasm.
"Cut the crap. Tell me when you noticed it," I pressed, ignoring his quip.
"This morning when I woke up. Maybe I dropped it on the way from the bus yesterday," he speculated.
"Did you check in the courtyard? Although, with the early joggers, it's unlikely you'd find anything," I suggested, trying to be helpful.
"I don't know. Lost is lost. Don't worry about that," Lenin dismissed, his tone devoid of concern.
Later that day, I recalled Lenin had strangely failed to purchase tickets during our return journey. We had to buy for him too. Usually, he buys tickets for all of us even before we open our purses. This prompted my suspicions that he had realized his purse was missing in the bus itself. I couldn't shake the thought that he might have thrown it to the boy when we weren't looking
As the morning prayers emanated from the nearby church and temple, their simultaneous chants, though irritating in their volume and lack of clarity, struck me with an odd realization—they uttered the same sentiments, albeit in different languages.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
THE WONDERFUL SAGA OF RISHI AGASTYA
One evening over tea, Ekant, Kant in short, saw the headline of the Times of India, the English daily, announcing boxer Tyson’s World-invincibility after his latest fight in the boxing ring. A photo of Tyson raising both fists in the air bore below it the caption, “I am the greatest.” He looked proud with a similar expression as that of Kant’s classmate, a brat and bully, affectionately as well as out of a little fear was addressed as ‘Brute’ by his peers, Bhim being his real name. Bhim was pleased if he was addressed as ‘Brute’.
Ekant also had a second name given by his peers. He was referred to by a funny name ‘Salaahkar’ meaning ‘settler’. He loved to reason with the fighting parties and made settlements between them to renew their friendship. He had learnt the art of reasoning by observing his father presiding over the disputing parties in the village.
When Kant’s father saw his son’s eyes brightly riveted on Tyson’s photo, he quietly commented, “He is not the best, but he is definitely good in his art of boxing. Someone somewhere may be better than him, only time will tell. He is just boasting when he says ‘He is the greatest’. It is bad for anyone to boast of his temporary glory.”
Kant was curious, “How do you say so Papa? He has defeated the defending title holder of the official Heavy Weight Boxing Champion.” His father yawned luxuriously after his last sip from the evening cup, and said, “Kant, my boy, I will tell you the adventures of Rishi Agastya, a frail ascetic, poor in physical strength but rich in quarters of mental prowess. How that meek frail man humbled much stronger forces than Tyson would explain to you how vain the pride of any person can be. My dear Kant, here is the saga of Agastya Rishi -
I will tell you as the myths say, most things in a style that was copied later by great writers like Marquez and Rushdie, and is presently called ‘Magical Realism’. Also our myth composers dipped into a style that was a mix of surrealism and impressionism later adopted by writers like Franz Kafka to create a grim and absurd genre.
The rishi Agastya was an ordinary looking family man living with his wife and children in Puranic age. He was a humble, simple, mild ascetic practicing great spiritual feats by meditating at home while discharging his duties towards his family and friends. He had no fads of angry ascetics like Durvasha, and none feared him. Rather, he was loved by one and all.
He was respected for his spiritual prowess by his peers, the other ascetics meditating in their hermitage in the serenity of jungles, even the gods and demons held Agastya in their affectionate awe. Those so-called demons, let me clarify, Kant, were also humans like the Aryans. Because of certain cultural differences between their culture and Aryan culture, the latter were referred to as Demons or uncivilized brutes.
In those days, when civilization was taking shape in its cradle, the people believing in Aryan culture fought with Demons on silly things like who owned which land mass of the Indian Peninsula, who had the right over which God, what was the right ways of rituals, and similar other differences that had little to do with real spirituality.
But Agastya was an exception. He was mostly called to make settlements when swords and arrows failed to decide issues. Stories about him may sound mysterious and magical, often touching the absurd, to modern ears like yours, Kant, but why not enjoy them as we enjoy the ‘Midnight Children’ of Salman Rushdie, or ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or ‘The Trial’ by Franz Kafka? A few episodes of Rishi Agastya’s saga stand out by their brilliance and legendary value. Let me tell you one by one, in the same mythical style.
Two demon brothers ran an inn for the travelers’ night-stay with lodging and boarding facility on a jungle route passing through the middle of a forest. One of them by his magic powers would convert himself into a lamb, tied to a peg in the front of the neat looking inn. When an unsuspecting rich traveler stayed overnight in their inn, the elder of the brothers in human shape, killed the lamb, and served the meat curry to the night guest in his dinner. In the morning when the traveler paid the inn-owner his rent and walked along the jungle path, all hell would turn loose.
The elder brother would call his younger brother, the demon-turned-lamb, to come home. The demon brother would tear apart the traveler to come out of his body. The traveler would die as a consequence and the brothers would loot all his material possessions. None lived to tell the sin of the brothers as witnesses .
But luckily for travelers and unluckily for the brothers, once a man saw the gruesome murder and looting from a hideout and brought the issue before the king. That unravelled the mysterious disappearance of hundreds of travelers on that route in recent times.
The king decided to send a posse of his armed men to teach the brothers a lesson, but his advisor Rishi Agastya asked, “My august king, do you have any evidence to prove your allegation? Your secret agent’s allegations would be defeated by the two brothers' statements under oath, by two to one vote. So, let me go and check.”
The king was apprehensive, “No Rishi, you may end up like the other victims. I can’t afford losing you.” But Agastya assured him, “God is with me.” He borrowed from the king’s treasury many gold ornaments, wore them, carried a bundle of gold and gems jewelry and walked to the inn by evening.
He stayed in the inn overnight, ate the meat curry, had a good sleep, and was on his way the next morning. The elder brother called out to his sibling but nothing happened. He was nervous and ran after the traveler, and begged him, “Where is my brother? That lamb curry you ate.” Agastya coolly replied, “I digested the curry.” The fellow fell at Agastya’s feet, “Oh great soul, salvage my brother, and save me from our sins.”
Agastya took pity and blessed him when he admitted all his crimes and asked for forgiveness. But he said, “Your brother would never come back as in fact, he has been digested. You do penance for his soul.”
The wealth in his possession was distributed among the families of their victims. Permanent loss of the younger brother and the related grief, besides his distribution of wealth among the poor, and repentance mitigated the king’s anger towards the culprit. He was given a lenient punishment of ten years of rigorous imprisonment. After his release from jail, he served Agastya as one of his loyal and pious disciples.
Here Kant’s father introduced a cameo, “You know Kant, people these days also recall the good old Agastya for his great digestive feat, digesting a dangerous demon over a night’s sleep. After a heavy meal at a feast, some people would lightly rub their stomachs, uttering, “Agastya, Agastya…”. By some fluke of good luck, or placebo effect, the gesture often works by helping their digestion.” Then, on Kant’s urging, his father continued his Agastya saga.
Rishi Agastya lived in a humble hamlet of mud and thatch with his wife and young children. His abode was located in the rain-shadow region near the north slopes of the high and mighty Vindhyas, a mountain range spreading east-west on the heartland of the Indian peninsula, literally dividing Indian people into north and south cultures.
Further, the Vindhyas blocked the South-Western monsoon from raining on its north slopes and the hinterland suffered from frequent droughts. But after Agastya moved his residence there, the monsoon ignored the rain-shadow concept, sent its clouds in tandem with the winds to go around the Vindhyas’ peaks to rain on the north slope. More rain produced more farm produce making the people very happy for their new neighbour, Rishi Agastya.
The Vindhyas range was a pain in their necks, complained Agastya’s neighbours. Many had social relationships with the people on the other side, that is, the south of Vindhyas. The daughters in families on either side were given in marriage to sons on the other side. So, people wanted to visit one another’s families but the Vindhyas had put a spanner into their works. Every day, the mountain would grow a little taller, putting greater heights to cross for reaching the other side. The people requested Rishi Agastya for a solution.
Agastya requested Vindhyas to stop growing. But Vindhyas justified his habit of growing with farfetched reasons. So, the rishi thought of a plan to help people. He lived north of the Vindhyas. He traveled south with his family on a pilgrimage. When he reached the foothills of the un-crossable Vindhya, the mountain appeared before the great sage in humility to pay his respect. He bowed very low before him and asked, “O’ great sage, what can I do for you?”
The clever sage blessed Vindhyas and said, “Dear me Vindhyas, how nice and beautiful you look in this bowed-down state. It would be so easy to cross you when you have bowed down. We are going to visit a pilgrimage on the south. Can you do me and my family a favour? Stay bowed for a few days until we return from pilgrimage and cross over to the north side to go where we live. Promise me, you will not disappoint me.”
Vindhyas was sport to the ascetic’s request, ‘O’ great soul, your asking is my command. I stay bowed like this until you return, I commit.’ The rishi and his family crossed Vindhyas comfortably when the mountain remained bowed down, much less in height than when it stood tall with its proud vainglory. Agastya walked to a sea shore on South and made a cottage there to live by the coast line permanently.
Vindhyas kept waiting with bowed head for Rishi Agastya to return but Agastya never returned. His growth was stumped. He froze in that position and people’s hardship to cross became a thing of the past. Agastya’s encounter with the mighty Vindhyas passed into legend.
While living on the sea shore he developed friendship with people from a fishing village of fishermen as its settlers. The village was almost on water’s edge. The proud ocean of which that sea was a part, once in a while, late at nights, would put a scare into the poor fishing village. It will rise in great waves and enter the village with giant waves and squally rain and wind. The fishing folk would suffer great loss like broken houses, swept away boats, lost cattle, and at times even a few humans.
They had heard rumours about one Rishi Agastya’s great spiritual powers. By and by they came to know the great Agastya was none other than the friendly sage living nearby them with his family. He was their regular customer of fresh fish. He was a fish curry lover like them. One day they told him their distress and wondered if the sage could find a solution. Agastya said, “Let me think.”
Next day, Rishi Agastya sat to meditate and invoked the rain and the wind. The latter, the two of the most important forces of nature, knew him from the days he was living in a cottage on the north of Vindhyas in the great mountain’s rain-shadow area. Out of respect for the humble-natured ascetic, they had helped bringing the monsoon clouds to the rain-shadow area, ending the earlier drought condition. The rain-shadow area had regular monsoon rains after that.
When they appeared personified, the Rishi said, “Do you know when at the behest of the ocean, you two join the game of bringing big waves and squally rain and wind into the fishermen’s poor settlement, they suffer from great loss of life, cattle, property and livelihood-equipment like boats and oars? Your jolly dance causes great distress. It is sin.” Both forces felt very guilty, repented, and promised to be more caring about the poor fishing village and their boats. But to the last moment, the Ocean defied Agastya’s invocation, and did not give him an appearance.
One calm morning Rishi Agastya went to the sea by his residence and entered the salty water. He found the sea, a part of the ocean, churlish and broke as choppy waves on his frail body. Agastya invoked the ocean to appear before him. Apparently, the great ocean did not know him, either from rumours or its friends, the wind and the rain. Agastya heard a loud laugh and a roar, “You little man, you dare to invoke me like my master. I can drown you in a jiffy.” A great wave came and took Agastya squarely. He was rolled over, eating mud, drinking brine, and was thrown on the dry shore in a helter-skelter condition.
He heard some more laughter and a proud roar, “How was that for a demo, poor man?” Agastya did not grow a beard like other ascetics. Also did not rub ash or coloured pastes on his body like other monks. Nor did he wear ochre or any sect-mark on his forehead. He looked a humble and clean man, and that way his wife loved him. His looks often misguided shallow people and it did so to the ocean. Agastya had the personal proof of ocean’s boasting wickedness and he realized how his mischief might have harassed the fisher-folk.
Agastya put both his palm in the ocean’s water like a big scoop and attached his lips to the other side of his scooped palms. He started sucking and drinking the salty water of the vast ocean. The ocean laughed derisively, “Drink my brine to your throat’s content, weak man, and kill yourself.”
But it saw to its surprise, the frail man was really sucking away its water content at an unimaginable fastness, and in a little while the ocean was tending to get dry. Soon, Agastya had sucked away all water and the ocean personified, stood naked without its cover of waves, surrounded by thrashing fish and other aquatic living beings on ocean’s dry bed.
The mischievous ocean understood the seriousness of the situation and knew it was facing a great soul in the persona of that frail human who had sucked away its vast, almost unlimited quantity of salt water. It fell at Agastya’s feet with abject humility asking for pardon, promising never to play mischief with the fishermen’s village.
The fishermen who had gathered to see the great ascetic’s spiritual powers also fell at his feet, asking to return the ocean, who had been thoroughly humbled, its water. It was their bread and butter that the fish and aquatic animals stayed alive in the ocean where they could go boating and fishing.
Agastya took pity. He knew the ocean had to be restored to keep the balance of the cosmic equation. Besides, the ocean had repented, given word not to repeat its mischief, and seemed sufficiently humbled. He puked back the salt water into the ocean and all aquatic organisms returned to their peaceful water world. Ocean thanked the sage from the depth of its heart and became a humbler water-persona.
Now, Kant was dozing and mother was irritated at the dinner getting cold. Kant’s father stopped reluctantly, as he was in a a great mood to bring alive the great myths of his land to his little son Kant, full name Ekant, who in turn would pass on the legacy to his children. They sat down to a simple dinner.
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.
But someday you will be old enough to start reading fairytales again.
C.S .Lewis.
Rashmika snuggled into her mother’s arms and urged, ‘Ma, tell me a story.’
Sabri was feeling exhausted after the day’s slogging at different houses, doing the household chores and cooking. Her head was aching badly. ‘I am tired baby,’ she ran her hand affectionately on her daughter’s back. ‘Tomorrow, I will surely tell you one’. But Rashmika would not give up. ‘Just a short story,’ she held out the thumb and index finger of her small hand, spacing them slightly apart to suggest the length of the story. Sabri had not the heart to refuse now. ‘Okay. Okay.’ She laughed, ‘I will tell you a true story of a fairy.’
‘Wow!’ Rashmika nestled more cozily in her mother’s arms.
‘There was a poor woman who lived by doing odd jobs in peoples’ houses like cleaning used up plates and cooking pots, washing clothes, and mopping floors. She cooked in some houses too. Her husband had abandoned her to live with another woman.
One day a fairy alighted from heaven in the poor woman’s one room- kitchen house. The fairy was such a tiny thing that wings have not yet grown on her back. But when she came the house of the poor woman was illumined with a brilliant light. The poor woman fed her whatever little she could make through her meagre earning and the fairy-baby grew up to be a cute, charming little girl. But still the wings have not grown on her back.’
‘Will not the wings ever grow on the baby-fairy’s back, Ma?’ Rashmika asked eagerly.
‘Why not? Of course they will grow, one day at the appropriate time.’
‘When?’ Rashmika was insistent.
‘When it becomes old and intelligent enough to understand the world around her.’
Rashmika yawned. ‘You must tell me tomorrow more about the fairy.’ She mumbled sleepily.
Sabri stared at the dark asbestos ceiling for a long time after her daughter fell asleep. ‘You are my fairy, darling! I will see that you get your wings even if my hands and legs wear away in making them grow.’ She promised to herself and smiled dolefully into the greyish darkness.
**
Everybody in the slum and the masters and mistresses of the households had advised her against putting her daughter in the high profile English medium school but she did not listen to anyone’s advice. Her heart swelled in joy when little Rashmika climbed into the school van in her smart school uniform, looking like a little fairy. Sabri had taken up two more household jobs and was working all through the days and afternoons only with a short break at lunch time. She did neither have any regret or complaint. She wanted to earn more and more to provide all comforts and all privileges other students of the school enjoyed.
**
‘ Some of my friends would be visiting our house on my birthday this time. You must make some of your special dishes for the occasion.’ Rashmika announced that afternoon, returning from school. She was now in class eighth and had grown up to a lovely young girl. Sabri had planned something else for her daughter’s birthday. The usual things like visiting a temple in the morning, a modest cake cutting event along with some of her friends in the neighbourhood and a not-so-lavish dinner in a moderate restaurant. She looked askance at her daughter. ‘How could you invite your school friends to the slum? Why make yourself a laughing stock?’ She reproached.
‘I did not invite them. They want to come here. Don’t I go to their homes?’ Rashmika shot back, her eyes heavy with tears of despair.
‘Alright dear, do not be so upset. I will ask Agarwal sir to let us use the community hall of their apartment for one evening. He is the society secretary and no one would ask him a question.
The party went well. A birthday cake that cost one thousand, snacks, ballons, confetti and other decorations and the fashionable outfit drew a sizable strip off Sabri’s savings. Rashmika’s friends had a great time, and Sabri had to work extra hours to pay back the advance amount she had borrowed from a couple of generous bosses. She did not mind it. The happy spark in Rashmika’s large eyes were compensation enough.
**
Whether you want it or not Time has a way of its own to carry you along its sweep. And Rashmika was soon in her final year at school.
‘This is my last year at school, Ma,’ she began in her usual compelling style. Sabri smiled and waited for her daughter to pronounce her new demand. ‘I would like to celebrate my birthday in the Euphoria Mall this time.’
‘Euphoria mall!!’ Sabri uttered in disbelief. ‘You know dear we cannot afford that. That is for the rich people, far too expensive.’ She tried to explain without hurting her daughter’s sentiments.
‘I am not asking you for money this time Ma. So be least bothered.’ Rashmika cut in, her face glowing in a triumphant smile.
‘Who is going to arrange it then? Your friends?’ Sabri asked, her tone one of lighthearted mockery.
‘No not my friends! My father!!’ Rashmika answered, her voice excited at the thought of a special birth day party funded by her well-off father.
‘Father?? ‘
Sabri’s eyes opened wide in shocked surprise. ‘When did you speak to your father? How did you get his contact number?’
‘You wouldn’t understand all that Ma. So, as I said don’t bother. If you really want to know, I found him on the face book and wrote in the comment box. That’s how.’ Rashmika looked at her mother, waiting to find a glow of joy at her daughter’s competence in the latter’s eyes. There was none. Instead, a shadow of a dull pain clouded them.
She had requested one of her employers to get a smart phone for her because Rashmika needed one to keep in touch with her school teachers and friends. Sabri had no idea about face book, or WhatsApp or any such application. She hardly ever called anyone. Just received the calls and most of them were from the houses where she worked as a maid. And look at this girl! She thought desperately, ‘contacting the man from whom Sabri had always tried to keep her away! And had given away all her years to see that Rashmika was reared up with the affordable comfort!’ Solid tears choked her heart.
‘What have you planned for your birth day this time?’ Sabri asked, because she did not want to douse the spark of Rashmika’s enthusiasm with any depressing remark.
‘Father will speak to you one of these days. I have asked him to get me the fairy costume of white because you always call me your fairy.’ Rashmika’s voice was placating. ‘Does she know I am hurt by her irresponsible behaviour, and is trying to mollify me? ‘ Sabri asked herself, but did not say anything aloud.
Rashmika gazed at her mother unblinkingly for a moment. ‘I will not let you toil once I become a doctor,’ she said. We will have a house of our own, as big as Maya madam’s, and a four wheeler too. We will have a chauffeur to drive the car and he will hold open the door when you get down.’ There was something so intense in her voice that Sabri was startled. ‘I have no such big dreams my dear,’ she interrupted. ‘I just want you to live a comfortable life and do not have to struggle like I had to.’
‘I know Ma, but you must trust this fairy of yours. Once she becomes a doctor, she will own that magic wand that can make all the doors to the lavish world rich people live in, open.’ She promised.
‘And Ma, father said that he had no other children except me. He assured me that he will finance my studies once I get through my school finals.’
This was news! Her husband who worked as a peon in a government office at Visakhapatnam and earned well, had deserted her for another woman, but the other woman could not beget him a child. That must be the reason why her husband was so keen on the idea of financing Rashmika’s education.
Sabri let out a deep sigh. She was neither happy nor sad. It was all so intriguing. She had never wished him to be unhappy, strangely though. But at the same time, she had never wanted him to trespass on her daughter’s life. She had been economically independent all these years. She felt no qualms or embarrassment working as a cook cum housemaid. She had always lived with the satisfaction that she had never needed her husband’s support to survive. But the big dream of Rashmika was going to upset everything, and the cruelest irony was she herself had been feeding her daughter with the ideas of climbing to the top, to grow wings and soar above the world of poverty and dirt and obscurity.
Sabri spent a sleepless night pondering over the ways to find a way out of the terrible dilemma she was caught in. There seemed to be none.
**
The parcel arrived in courier two days before Rashmika’s sixteenth birth day. She ran out to the door and almost snatched the packet from the courier boy’s hand.
‘How much?’ Sabri asked.
Rashmika was already at the packet cutting the cello tapes with a pair of scissors. Sabri watched her daughter, horrified. What a shame it would be if she hadn’t the amount with her.
‘Wait!’ She snapped at Rashmika. ‘Let me make the payment.’
‘It has already been paid for,’ the courier boy said and departed.
‘Look!’ Rashmika cried out in delight. She had cut open the wrappers and taken out the dress. ‘Isn’t it just divine?’ She asked Sabri. It was a beautiful outfit, a three- piece ensemble of a floor length tulle gown with silvery floral designs stitched into its lace-hemming, a wide waistband looking like a belt of silver, and a lace applique veil. ‘My daughter would look like a fairy in this dress,’ Sabri thought happy and desperate at the same time.
That afternoon, while she was coming out of the Agarwal house after completing cooking, she saw Rashmika running towards the apartment building. It was a surprise. Her daughter never came to the houses where her mother worked.
‘What is the matter?’ She asked, a look in her eyes that was a blend of surprise and apprehension.
‘Father wants to speak to you. The call is on hold.’ She held out the phone.
‘Father?’ Sabri fumbled.
‘Speak, please. He is on the line.’ Rashmika said urgently.
Sabri took the phone in unsteady hands and moved out of Rashmika’s earshot. ‘Hello,’ She spoke into the screen guardedly. ‘Hello Sabri. Nice to hear your voice after such a long time. I will not make the conversation lengthy and come straight to the point. Rashmika must have told you I and my wife have no issues. Rashmika is my only child. I must thank you for taking care of her and putting her in a good school. I think I too have some responsibility towards my daughter.’ The stress he put on ‘my’ was not lost on Sabri. She wanted to ask him where had his sense of responsibility gone all these years when she managed a milk-suckling baby and a maid’s job at four households singlehanded, alone. Instead, she said, ‘I can take care of my daughter’s future.’
‘How?’ He scoffed. ‘With your job of a housemaid?’
Sabri pursed her lips hard. She did not want to pick up a fight with her responsible husband. Rashmika was watching her closely though Sabri knew she could not hear what she was saying.
‘What do you want me to do, then?’ She asked trying to sound indifferent.
‘Just allow me to take care of the expenses of her education. She wants to become a doctor and you know you cannot afford to meet the heavy expenses from the meagre amount you earn. Just think reasonably, keeping aside your ego for a while.’
Sabri thought reasonably, sensibly and decided that Rashmika’s father was right, in a way. If she wanted her daughter’s ambition fulfilled, she must have to shun her ego and act sensibly. What is the harm if the father wants to extend financial support for his daughter’s education? She tried to reason with herself.
‘I will think about it.’ She said taking a short pause.
‘There is nothing to think,’ her ex-husband said persuasively. She will be appearing in the school finals in a month. She will have to take admission in a junior college that offers coaching for the medical and engineering entrance examination. I know many good colleges here at Visakhapatnam. I can get her admitted to one of those. The expenses are high, around five lakhs for a two-year course. You cannot afford it. Do not allow your petty ego destroy your daughter’s future.’ Her ex-husband’s tone was solicitous.
‘Still, I will think about it.’ Sabri disconnected the call.
‘What did you say to him? Did you make him angry?’ The eager urgency in Rashmika’s voice was like a needle prick at her heart. She glanced her daughter for a long moment slowly letting the feeling sink in that Rashmika now had grown up. Her fairy had grown wings and is ready to fly, chasing her ambition. Sabri would no longer keep her chained to the earth by her love.
‘No. You will study at Vishakhapatnam after your final board examination is over.’
Rashmika hugged Sabri tightly. ‘You are the best mother of the world!’ She declared happily and taking back the mobile phone ran away towards her home.
**
Rashmika’s sixteenth birth day party at the Euphoria Mall was a memory to be cherished for a lifetime. Sabri felt she had strayed into the pages of a fairytale. In the beginning She did not want to join the youngsters. ‘I will be a misfit there,’ she protested but Rashmika would not listen. And in the end Sabri had to borrow a silk sari and imitation jewelries to go with it from one of her closest friends. She examined her reflection in the small mirror, and felt satisfied that she would not look too out of place in the gathering. She shrank away from Rashmika’s keen, appraising eyes, who after a thorough and meticulous scrutiny passed her getup as ‘not bad’ and smiled.
The evening was something straight out of a dream for Rashmika. She knew she looked extraordinarily beautiful in the white tulle floor-length gown and the lace applique veil, almost ethereal. Her mother had always called her a fairy, and that evening, donned in the fairy-costume, she felt that she actually was one. Her friends were vociferous in their admiration. She could sense the gaze of the people in the mall had kept glued to her.
Sabri stood aloof, away from the crowd of the blooming youth, at one end of the hall, feeling oddly embarrassed. But she was happy seeing how Rashmika enjoyed the evening. For a brief while, she even appreciated her ex-husband’s efforts to make her daughter happy. But it was a relief when the party was finally over around ten in the night.
**
It was a mysterious, unknown land bordered by a range of indigo mountains on one side and a blue ribbon of a rippling river on the other. The vast glen shimmered a purplish green under a big, full moon. A woman stood in the middle of the glen, her back to Sabri. She was clad in spotless white and the tiny sequins of silver on her mantle caught the light of the moon and dazzled. She wore a small crown on her head. Prompted by an irresistible curiosity Sabri moved guardedly towards the slender figure, and stopped abruptly at a few feet behind her. She could now see clearly the back of the woman. Extending from the back of her white flouncy gown were a pair of elegant, lacy wings spun in sparkling silver threads that fluttered gently in the wafts of the wind. As if she sensed Sabri’s presence behind her, the woman swung behind, and Sabri had had a full view of her face. She stared at the face, spellbound, mesmerized.
It was the face of Rashmika!!
The fairy that wore Rashmika’s face flashed her an enigmatic smile. Then she flapped her fairy wings and let her feet lift off the ground. Slowly she ascended into the air. As Sabri stared, openmouthed but wordless, at her, Rashmika went up and up, became a tiny silver spec and disappeared out of sight. She cried out ‘Rashmika, my baby!’ wildly and suddenly the moon vanished from the sky. From nowhere huge masses of heavy, rain-swollen clouds sailed into the sky and spread out like blankets of black. The mountain ranges looking like angry monsters emerging out of the netherworld, advanced towards Sabri with a vengeful determination. The wind now had become a raging storm and the sky burst forth into torrents of spiky liquid. Sabri ran, wallowing across the waterlogged glen, pressing her hands to her ears to shut out the loud cracks of thunderclaps, blinded by the lashing spatters of rain. As she ran clumsily across the glen, she stumbled against something like the stump of a dead tree and went crashing down, coughing and screaming wildly.
Someone was rocking her hard. ‘What happened Ma? Why are you screaming like this?’
Rashmika’s voice. Sabri sprang up on the bed and glared at Rashmika. Then the look in her eyes softened and she stroked her daughter’s head fondly. ‘Not to worry, dear. It was just a dream, a terrible dream!’
‘Dream? You frightened me out of my wits.’ Rashmika flopped back into the bed.
Sabri remained awake the rest of the night, her mind cluttered with strange premonitions.
**
‘Who had been you talking to?’ Sabri asked. She was having a bad headache and had returned home early that evening. She saw Rashmika speaking into the phone. She disconnected the call abruptly when Sabri approached.
‘Who had you been speaking to?’ Sabri repeated. ‘My Father’, Rashmika answered putting extra stress on ‘my’.
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean by ‘why’?’ Rashmika snapped at her mother. ‘The result of my final board examination is due by the end of this month. Father had got me enlisted for admission in the Sai Chaitanya International school there by paying an amount of one lakh. I will have to join there after the results came out. I must speak to him and let him know my plannings.’
‘He had paid one lakh? And you never cared to tell me?’ Sabri’s voice choked. What kind of a conspiracy father and daughter are hatching without her knowledge?
Perhaps her daughter could sense the tremor in her voice and looked curiously at Sabri.
‘You need not feel so bad about it. Not many students get this opportunity to study in such reputed schools. You should thank your stars that your daughter has found entry there.’
‘Yes, I must thank my stars!’ Sabri thought bitterly. Her husband had belittled her before her daughter in the crudest possible way. But she could not defy that! Ane her daughter says she must thank her stars!!’
She heaved out a deep sigh and walked away.
**
Sabri lay awake, turning restlessly on her sides. It was May and there was no respite from the heat even in the nights. Rashmika was sleeping peacefully in front of the small cooler. Sabri squinted at her daughter’s face. There was the semblance of a smile there. She is perhaps dreaming about her new school, Sabri thought, her heart heavy with pent up sorrows. Why could not have she studied here? Why was she so keen on becoming a doctor? Sabri thought and in the next instant fought the thought off her mind. She was becoming selfish! Sabri had always dreamed her fairy to soar to great heights. She should rather be happy. But the tears did not accept her logic and flowed obstinately down her sleepless eyes.
**
The result of Rashmika’s school finals came. As expected, she had secured good percentage, more than enough needed for getting a seat confirmed in the Sai Chaitanya International School at Visakhapatnam. Her father had called to express his joy at his daughter’s success. Rashmika had kept the phone on the speaker for Sabri to listen. ‘I am so proud of you, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Soon you will be coming here, to study in one of the finest schools.’
It was an effort to restrain herself from lashing out at the vainglorious man. It was Sabri who had been taking all the pains to sustain both herself and Rashmika in a world riddled in apathy. And look at the audacity of the man! He speaks as if he owns all the credit! What a joke!!’
‘Aren’t you happy Ma?’ Rashmika asked.
‘Of course, my fairy!! Could there be any doubt about it?” She took her daughter in her arms.
‘I will be leaving here soon.’ Rashmika shifted closer to her mother as they retired for the night. ‘A few years later I will return as somebody and then you will no longer have to cook at other people’s house.’ She said, her voice was a blend of promise and solace.
The words hit her like a knife stab. She had always tried to keep the frightening truth of getting separated from her daughter at bay. But now it was there in her front, naked and ugly, staring at her with a boldness that made her cower. She could not sleep that night, nor could she shed tears. She wondered where all her tears had gone. May be sucked into the sands of a blazing desert of grief.
**
Like sometimes it happens in a horror tale, the hands of the clock moved in a nightmarish speed shrinking the days into hours and hours into minutes and soon it was the day of Rashmika’s departure. Sabri’s ex -husband had called Sabri just once to let her know that he would be sending the flight ticket for Rashmika. ‘It was just forty-five minutes by air,’ he said. ‘Just ask your nephew to drop her at the airport. I have explained Rashmika what she will have to do. You do not have to worry.’
You do not have to worry!!
How easily he said that! Rashmika was Sabri’s flesh and blood. She was everything Sabri had lived for. Sabri knew her world will be nothing but a vast, unending emptiness with Rashmika gone. But he would not understand that, nor would Rashmika. But she could not stop the fairy from taking a flight above. The fairy did not belong here, in this dreary, squalid slum. She did not belong to Sabri, the petty, base woman who had accidentally come into her life.
**
She stood outside the airport for a long time after her daughter disappeared into the lounge of the airport. ‘Let us go home, aunty,’ her nephew said. ‘Rashmika’s flight has taken off.’
Sabri looked at her nephew. And then up at the sky. Aircrafts were taking off and swooping down every five or ten minutes. Rashmika might be in one such aircraft soaring above. She could see the red and blue and yellow lights blinking and then melting into the vast darkness of the evening sky. Her Rashmika, her baby fairy has finally grown wings and is flying far above to explore a skyful of dreams.
Women called Sabri could never grow wings to fly. They have their feet chained to their earthbound existence. Sometimes, by some lucky chance a fairy finds a way to their world, and illumines it for a short while. But a fairy has to take a flight back to her sky, plunging the houses of the ‘Sabri’s into an impenetrable darkness.
‘Yes, let us go back home.’ She heaved out a sigh and followed her nephew out of the airport.
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 the third day of my lovely vacation in my own home, nestled in the hills of Wayanad in Kerala.
I had completed my Masters in English Literature and was in no mood to pursue any Doctorate or MBA.
I wanted to just settle down and write and paint and sing. A serious career robs you of the charms of life, I thought. I was in a mood to simply relax and enjoy the days with my family of Paattiamma, Appa, Amma , two of my three brothers and my lovely sisters in law. We are a very close-knit family and are lucky that the two sisters-in-law who came home jelled with us.
My other brother was the odd one out, not wanting to come back home after his education and look after the coffee and cardamom estates. He had a nice job in Bangalore with an MNC and would drop in now and then to be with us. He was adamant too, that he would get married only after I got married. To my Paatti’s queries, whether he had a heart’s desire tucked away somewhere in the city of Bangalore, his reply was a firm “No”. He wanted my parents to look out for a girl, he said. One, who would be at home but pursue some Arts or some small-time business but not a girl who would plunge herself headlong into a serious career. To my secret whisper, whether he had anybody in mind in that glamorous IT city of Bangalore, he looked at me quizzically and threw his head back and laughed and replied…. “What a Pity, In the City, All the Girls are Thendi Kutties.”(meaning - all, well almost-- the city bred girls loafed a lot!!) . I chased him around the garden claiming I was also City-bred and was not a loafer!! He was the fun fountain in the house. All of us still recall the first day at lunch after Mahua’s (my Bengali sister-in-law) arrival. Paatti had made delicious Milk Pudding and Mahua went to her and holding her hands, said to her very sweetly, “Paatti, Payasam rumba jor irrukkoo! Kakkoos polave irukku.”
(Paatti..payasam is fantastic. It is just like the toilet). Paatti was shocked and then started laughing, for she knew who would have tutored Mahua !
Amma was in the kitchen earlier than before, humming to herself and making puttu for break-fast. In another oven, carrot halwa was being prepared by Mahua . She was always full of enthusiasm, ever singing (a Great Rabindra Sangeeth student) and cracking jokes. She could speak some Tamil now, was improving every day and was a great cook. She looked after the Cardamom estate along with my brother. She had jet black hair that fell below the waist. Her father-in-law, my Appa, admired the way she handled the home and the estate. The second sister-in-law Priya was Amma’s cousin’s daughter. This was a love marriage too. She was into music and would be away once a month giving Classical concerts. Ever humming a raga, she was my inspiration as far as Music was concerned. Right now, she was busy getting the table ready.
Amma turned towards me,
“Jammie (for Jamuna) , go and take your bath. Remember Thangam Mami? Well her third son Raghu is visiting us. He is in some place near Darjeeling. Thangam was here last week when you were still writing your exams. He will be here for two days. Do you remember him?”
I couldn’t. I could remember Thangam Mami, though…the plump pink lady who loved to cook and eat and who stuffed you with her delicious food whenever you went to their place, in a city, not far from here. The four sons were in hostel and we hardly saw each other, though Raghu was my immediate brother’s close friend.
As I washed the coffee cup and was leaving the kitchen for my bath, Paatti whispered to me,
“My little girl, wear a jeans or something (!!!). This boy is supposed to be a bit modern. He may not want a country-looking person,” and seeing the questioning look on my face, said, “Amma didn’t tell you ? Thangam and all of us would like you to marry him. Your horoscopes have tallied.”
Well! Was I flabbergasted!! I gave her an - “I don’t care”- look and went to take my bath.
I purposely took some extra time and decided I will not be forced into marrying just because the two families were close. After all it was ages since I saw this Raghu. Though the prospects of settling down somewhere near Darjeeling seemed a lovely dream.
When I came down, everyone was near the door. I peeped over their heads.
Raghu was getting off the Land-Rover. My brother had gone to bring him from Kozhikkode.
Everybody’s eyes were glued on to Raghu. He was very good looking. He was very well behaved. He bent down and touched Paatti’s and Appa’s feet. Paatti was floored. She looked at me and nodded, her toothless mouth breaking into a big smile. Amma introduced my sisters-in-law to Raghu. And then, me. I smiled at him and said, “Hi.”
But my eyes looked beyond him and stared at another- ‘him.’
“He is Rocky,” Raghu said, seeing my eyes wandering. “You know, we have been together for some time and - ”
My father said, “That’s fine, he’s most welcome here.”
So, Rocky and Raghu walked into our mansion.
From the looks of my parents I could see that Rocky was not very welcome here and I felt pained. Perhaps his long hair put them off. To me he looked a great guy. After breakfast, Ramesh, my brother told me, “Jammie, why don’t you take Raghu and show him the cardamom area. I am sure he would love it.” I knew it was a ploy to get us both talk to each other.
Raghu seemed thrilled. We walked out of the gate into the hills. He was a consultant to a Tea Estate in Darjeeling, he said. He was a wild-life freak like me and the time just flitted away. Rocky was walking quietly beside him and was giving me a sly glance every now and then. I knew I was losing my heart miserably to him .My heart missed a beat, each time that he came to my side and gently brushed against me. And my parents seemed not too pleased with this fellow tagging along with Raghu. We went back home after an hour in which we had discussed Wild Life, Music, Books and everything under the sun. He loved Ian Anderson’s Flute. He loved Jesudas.He adored old Hindi movies and songs. He loved Anuradha Shreeram . He loved IlayaRaja. He loved reading books on mysticism. He was interested in travelling.
But more than all these, I loved Rocky .Yes.
I had fallen head over heels in love.
By dinner time, the family had lost the initial ‘worry’ about being a good host – ‘phobia’ and there was laughter all around. My sisters in law were awed by Raghu too and we had a great time. Rocky had stayed back in the room and I missed him. After ten in the night we all retired to our rooms.
I could not get sleep. I opened my door on the ground floor and came to the closed balcony. This balcony would be closed with the grill door every night as, once, Mahua had seen a panther prowling about. The moon was full and it was drizzling too. I waited for a while and went to my room. As I hit the bed, I heard it… a gentle tap on the door. I got up. Unmistakable... It was audible- very well. I opened the door slightly.
It was Rocky! We stood there looking at each other. I let him in. It was as if we had known each other for years.
After an hour, I suppose, after at east forty minutes, I opened the door and after getting a tight hug from me, he left. No words spoken.
“Do you like Raghu?”
Amma asked me the next afternoon, as we were clearing the vessels after lunch.
I nodded.
The news spread in whispers round the household and everyone was overjoyed.
Raghu had already confessed to my brother last night, it appeared.
I was with Rocky the next night too. And I cried as he left, the memory of the silken hair troubling my heart.
The whole family was in the front courtyard to see Raghu and Rocky off. Raghu came near me and whispered,
“You know, I am the happiest man on earth today.”
I smiled.
He got into the Land-Rover.
I looked at Rocky. He was looking at me longingly. I am going to miss him…terribly. The reason I agreed to marry Raghu was only because of Rocky.
At that moment, there was a flurry of activity.
Rocky jumped from the Land-Rover and was all over me, barking and whining.
Raghu laughed with joy.
I loved dogs.
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.
'Hello merchant..., I'm in a hurry...Pack the sugar you've weighed...,' said the customer in a hasty manner.
Satish, the merchant didn't respond to the customer, as he was lost in reading a novel. Later he learnt that the customer was in a hurry, and so he directed her by the hand to wait for a while.
'Hello merchant, I’ve to make tea ready for my husband now. He's to attend the office very soon. He's very punctual... He'll be angry with me if I'm late... Hello!' said the customer.
Satish was still going through the novel. After completing the first leaf of two pages in its manuscript, he picked up to read the old notebook from which he had detached it.
'Hello, mind your business... Don't forget that you are a businessman. If you don't pack soon, I'm leaving for the other shop...,' said the customer.
'Hello Susheela, pack the sugar with some other paper, a piece of newspaper,' said Satish to his wife and continued to read the novel in manuscript. It was very interesting for him.
Susheela came from inside and packed the sugar. The customer left the shop with the sugar packet happily.
... ... ... ... ...
What happened to Satish that morning? It was worth knowing for everyone. When the customer came to buy sugar, Satish was in the shop. He picked sugar, weighed it and was ready to pack it. He picked up a long notebook to detach the first sheet from it and pack the sugar. Suddenly his sight fell to the beginning of the novel in the first sheet detached from the notebook. That paper with beautiful handwriting was like the face of a beautiful woman decked with ornaments. The title of the matter was like the vermilion on her forehead. He started to read with interest. He continued to read it at a stretch. It was a novel interesting to him. That is what happened to Satish that morning.
Satish was a merchant but had an extensive interest in reading books. He used to read any piece of newspaper or any other before packing anything on its sale in the shop. He used to enjoy reading newspaper clippings or notebooks sitting in his shop. He got all these old papers and all written notes from a street hawker who bought them from different people. He believed that all the writings flow from the reservoirs of knowledge. It is not an ordinary thing to write to reflect the fountain of knowledge.
The merchant Satish bought old books and newspapers from many street hawkers for the use of packing the things. He folded the piece of paper into the cone shape and filled it with the things or provisions. He had stocks of all old newspapers and old notebooks for that purpose.
It was a novel to depict human values and life truths with the title Life Tides. Satish was aware of the travails in the literary journey of writers as he read about them in some newspaper. He did not know who the writer was. He enquired with the street hawker on his next visit.
'Where have you bought this long notebook with the novel in manuscript...?' said Satish earnestly.
'I bought old newspapers and notebooks from various people in various places... How can I remember all those people...? I got this from a person... I can't remember his name...?' said the street hawker.
'It doesn't possess any name on the cover,' said Satish.
'Okay, if it's possible, I'll enquire about the man to have written the novel,' said Street hawker impatiently.
'Enquire... Let's wish the best...,' said Satish while the street hawker was leaving the shop for his work.
Satish was lost in deep thoughts about the writer while his wife Susheela was busy selling the provisions to the customers:
The writer is good at writing novels. He's good at narration, lucid in expression and broad in vision. He's the architect of literature to reflect human values and professional ethics for the people of future generations. He carves a niche for himself and creates a history in the literary firmament. The writer is no doubt brilliant...
I hope that the writer hails from a poor family. If he had been rich, he would have published the novel... He would have got fame and name by this time...
The writer can produce excellent novels to reflect his thematic brilliance and narrative excellence...
The novel shouldn't go unheeded in the form of waste newspapers...I don't let it hide itself as a hidden jewel...
The novel should come to the readers... It should enlighten the readers with its thematic content...
I publish it...I should publish it at any cost...
It's my minimum responsibility to publish it as a man of literary taste in particular...and human concern in general...
I am ready to publish it as the patron... The novel deserves awards and awards...'
... ... ... ... ...
Satish sent the manuscript to the publishers. The publishers were happy to publish it. His happiness knew no bounds on its publication. He waited for its publication and copy in his hand.
The novel Life Tides was in markets and libraries. Satish also received a copy of the novel. It drew the attention of great critics and regular readers with their due response and great admiration for it.
The novel achieved awards at the state and the national levels. Satish was very happy in publishing it. He felt pride for that. He felt that he had done due justice to the novel for its success.
The writer, Raman was not aware of the availability of his novel in the print form in libraries. He was economically poor but academically sound. He wrote many like this, but he did not send them for publication. He read very extensively and wrote excellently to attract the attention of the readers but remained unknown to the reading public.
Raman in his usual visits visited the Government library in his town, Vikas Nagar. He found a new novel in the rack of the library. It recently arrived for the readers at the library. He as usual picked it up happily. He sat to read the novel.
Raman's face glowed with innumerable charms while he was reading the novel. There were infinite smiles on his face. The library goers sitting beside him noticed him smiling openly. He was the person to come to the library everyday. They never saw him smiling any time. He was all the time serious in reading. For the first time, they saw him smiling heartily. The man sitting nearby started to speak to him,
'Raman, you're very happy today...Has your wife delivered a baby or twins...?'
'No...,' said Raman.
'Raman, have you won the lottery?'
'No...,' said Raman.
'May I share your happiness...your smiles?' said the man.
'Yes, it's my novel... It's my dear novel... the novel written by me...It's my novel published last month... the last month itself... I'm very glad to tell you about my novel...' said Raman very happily.
'Wow, you're a writer...This is your novel published last moth...' said the man happily, as he found some scintillating smile in Raman's face for the first time.
'Yes...yes… it's my novel...my title...my title, Life Tides, my chapters, my beginning... my conclusion... and my all... written by me... by my hand...Goddess Saraswati bestowed on me the art of writing...,' said Raman to the man
'Congratulations, my dear,' said the man.
'Thanks...Thanks a lot...,' said Raman happily.
Meanwhile another regular library visitor interfered to share the happy feelings of the author, Raman.
'Congratulations...Show me your novel... Let me see...'
'This is my novel...the novel written by me...,' said Raman.
'This is a famous novel... I hope you haven’t seen the reviews of this novel... There were reviews last week...This got awards at the state and the national levels,' said he with all smiles.
'I see...I'm not aware of the reviews. I'm unfortunate to remain unknown to the readers... to the reality that I've written this novel...,' said Raman.
All the library visitors gathered there to greet Raman. His happiness knew no bounds. The tears shed in happiness welled his eyes, were in shine in full glory.
'Your name isn't there...,' said someone.
'No, my name isn't there... but it's my novel... Some patron, Satish published it,' said Raman with a deep feeling in his face.
'You can enquire about Satish...,' said another one.
Raman was happy. He went home happily. He searched at length for the manuscripts of the novel in his house. He was not able to trace out it.
'Anusha, what happened to my manuscripts...?' said Raman to his wife.
'What manuscripts...?' said Anusha.
'The manuscripts of my novel, my poetry, my short stories...,' said Raman with all anxieties and curiosities.
'I sold all the old newspapers and all your old notebooks to a street hawker...when came to me one day. I sold them off to him as all of them had gathered dust...full of dust,' said Anusha unhesitatingly.
'Why didn't you inform me?' said Raman.
'That's all waste...None is going to read that stuff and bulk nowadays...in the age of internet generation...,' said Anusha.
'You don't know many things...What you know is a little not much in this regard... A patron published my novel, using my manuscripts... Many readers are reading my novel... My novel is in our town library also... It's everywhere...,' said Raman in a cheerful mood.
'See dear. What I did innocently turned favourable to you indirectly... See, I've done great... I'm great...I'm great indeed,' said Anusha.
'You're not great...I'm also not great. One thing is that I've Goddess Vani's profuse blessings... I've written this novel by virtue of the blessings of the goddess...Her blessings are great... My novel is great... My novel is great...,' said Raman.
'I congratulate you on the publication of your novel...,' said Anusha.
'Thank you...,' said Raman.
'I hope that the publisher will publish your poetry and short fiction,' said Anusha.
'I don't know who received the manuscripts of my poetry and short fiction. You sold all my manuscripts to the street hawker,' said Raman.
'Some how somebody published your novel...That is what I want...Anyhow you aren't publishing any,' said Anusha.
'But my name isn't there in the novel...,' said Raman.
'How is it possible...?' said Anusha.
'That's also my feeling... My novel... the product of my hard work...is without my name,' said Raman, weeping bitterly for the unexpected turn of events.
Anusha tried to console her husband, but he wept inconsolably:
'Hello! I want to tell you good news.' said Raman to his senior in studies.
'What is that good news...?' said his senior.
'A patron published my novel... My name isn't there in the novel, but my novel is there in every library. He got the manuscript of my novel from the bulk of old newspapers and notebooks sold by my wife to the street hawker who in turn sold them to the merchant, Satish in Bhagya Nagar. He got my manuscript from the bulk of my writings,' said Raman confidently.
'Whose name is there?' said the senior.
'The patron's name, Satish...,' said Raman.
'Why didn't he mention your name...?' said the senior.
'He didn't mention my name as it was not in the manuscript of my novel... I thought of a pen name for my authorship for all my writings like the authors, 'O. Henry', 'Sri Sri' and 'Karunasri'. I didn't finalize any pen name, nor did I mention my name in the manuscript,' said Raman.
'O, you've done a great thing on your part... Great people do great things...Tell me how you claim your authorship... How do you say that it’s your novel...?' said the senior doubtfully.
'Yes, my novel...It's my novel...,' said Raman.
'Where is the proof...You say all things... It's a futile exercise... a cry in wilderness...,' said the senior mockingly.
'It achieved awards...There will be a function in appreciation of the novel...,' said Raman, while his senior was leaving for his world of routines.
Raman expected good advice from his senior library visitor for reading books, but he felt disappointed in his effort. He did not know whom to tell, where to go, what to do, how to achieve his goal. His wife, Anusha consoled him not to feel by saying,
'God is great...God is great...Let's go to Bhagyanagar...Let's catch a train now and attend the function.'
'Okay...Let's test our luck by attending the function...Fortunes turn like a wheel,' said Raman.
... ... ... ... ...
It was Ravindra Bharathi named after the poet of the universe, Rabindranath Tagore. All the literature lovers were present. It was full as many literary gems were present. There were only two seats left vacant in the corner. Raman and his wife Anusha occupied the seats.
There was anchoring going on. The most famous anchor, Suma was there to call the luminaries to the dais and called them. The world-famous novelist presided over the function on invitation to share the dais. Then she called Satish, the patron in the publication of the novel. Raman heard Suma calling the patron's name. He learnt that the patron was present. The function was going on in a befitting manner. A selected few were talking on the novel among the thunderous applause. Raman was listening to them silently with an undiminished charm on his face. Anusha was enjoying her husband Raman's smile all the while.
It was the turn of the patron, Satish to speak, and Suma called him respectfully. He came to the podium. He was to tell all about the novel in detail. He started to speak:
‘I'm Satish... I'm a merchant by profession and lover of literature by predilection... I published the novel as I have respect for literature...
Literature must be there to widen the mental horizon and sharpen the intellect of the people, the reading public...
I don't let literature die...I let it flourish to cherish...
I hope the author is poor...He’s not able to publish it in the age of indifferent attitude towards creative writing. The writer needs to spend like anything, as he's to face financial hurdles in the publication of his creative writings on his own...
I like the novel very much for its content and concept, presentation, and expression, and so on. I can't tell you about the novel in full detail, as I'm not the writer... The only writer can do it better. Neither a critic nor a reader can tell you about a novel in clear detail. The writer is the authority... I wish that the writer should be here...
I don't know where that great writer is...
If the writer were here, it would be better for all of us to listen to him happily, but he isn't here... I don't know where he is...
I'm here, sir...I'm here, sir...,' said Raman loudly in response to Satish to the surprise of all the members present in the hall.
The writer's sudden appearance silenced all and calmed the hall. There was a pin drop silence. After the silence for a while, all found the writer approaching the dais with all dignity and identity. They started to clap and did so until he reached the podium. There were tears of joy in his eyes while he was approaching the stage. He was on the dais. He started to speak while all were giving a big round of applause.
It's unbelievable...the most unbelievable event in my life...the new sunrise in my life...the most memorable tiding...Life is the wonder of wonders... I never expected to be here...
At the outset, I wholeheartedly thank Mr Satish for the publication of my novel... In this world, I never expected a person to do favour to a financially poor writer like me. I am happy that there are good people in the present society...
My wife who is sitting in the corner sold away my notebook with the manuscript of my novel along with old newspapers...My wife indirectly helped me get my novel published by Satish...It's a blessing in disguise...I ask her to rise from her seat...’
.. ... ... ... ...
Raman's wife Anusha stood up with folded hands and humbly greeted all, bowing her head. The president of the function called her to the dais. She came to the dais bowing her head with folded hands. All clapped long once again. She occupied a seat on the dais. She was in excessive happiness. She had all smiles throughout the function. Then Raman continued to speak:
‘In my town, there are some literature lovers but here there are many... I'm happy to find many people to attend this function...
Life Tides is my novel to hold a mirror to the society today. It deals with the uncertainties, irregularities, inequalities, and injustices that spoil the spectrum of the present society. It's man who plays the role of spoiling the society. Man is the biggest enemy of man today...
In this society, the innocent or the humble are becoming victims. They're facing innumerable problems unexpectedly. In the present society, we don't predict what will happen after one minute. The virtues and values of the innocent and the humble go unrewarded. The innocent and the humble also go unnoticed. We're accepting unhealthy practices and unwelcome trends without expressing our resistances and reluctances...
The hero of the novel Life Tides is principled. He's for the welfare of the people. He sacrifices his life for the sake of the people. They regard him very highly. In spite of his high regard for the people and human relations, a few people evolved a secret plan to murder him. They failed in their brutal attempts to murder him. What was the role of the people when a virtuous man suffered a lot though he wasn't faulty and guilty...?
Life advances in the incessant flow of time, facing hurdles and hazards in the path of life...The hero of the novel faces numerous problems for a long time...The hero with virtues and values will ultimately achieve his goal after all efforts... Life appears a success after a series of failures...
Life is a series of missed opportunities... In time, tides rise and fall in the ocean of life against one's expectations...This is what my novel aims at in telling its readers in quest of a new sunrise...’
... ... ... ... ...
There was a big round of applause for the achievement of the writer. Raman was extremely happy for the opportunity given.
The authorities came forward along with Satish and felicitated Raman as the writer of the novel in a befitting manner for the pleasure of all the members present in the function.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta, M.A., M. Phil., Ph. D., Professor of English by profession and poet, short story writer, novelist, writer, critic and translator by predilection, has to his credit 64 books of all genres and 344 poems, short stories, articles and translations published in journals and anthologies of high repute. He has so far written 3456 poems collected in 18 anthologies, 200 short stories in 9 anthologies, nine novels 18 skits. Creative Craft of Dr. Rajamouly Katta: Sensibilities and Realities is a collection of articles on his works. As a poet, he has won THIRD Place FIVE times in Poetry Contest in India conducted by Metverse Muse rajamoulykatta@gmail.com\
(Translated by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
At the Nobel Prize for Literature awarding ceremony, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation as the audience awaited the announcement of the esteemed winner. Applause echoed through the grand hall as the recipient stepped onto the stage, a figure cloaked in both mystery and achievement. With a humble yet determined demeanour, the winner approached the lectern, capturing the attention of all present.
In a startling revelation that rippled through the audience like a wave, the winner confessed that the mastermind behind the acclaimed literary work was none other than a bot—a creation of artificial intelligence. A collective murmur swept through the crowd, mingling curiosity with disbelief, as the implications of this revelation settled in. Yet, the winner's sincerity was unmistakable as they continued, revealing that the same bot had meticulously crafted the acceptance speech being delivered in that very moment.
Amidst the whispers and murmurs, the winner's voice rang clear and resolute as they declared a groundbreaking decision: half of the prestigious prize money would be dedicated to charitable causes, a testament to their commitment to making a tangible difference in the world. The other half, they announced, would be allocated towards the revival of the very program responsible for their literary triumph—a program now teetering on the brink of entropy, a state of disorder and decay. With this proclamation, the winner not only honoured the legacy of their creation but also vowed to breathe new life into its fading essence.
Expressing gratitude to the esteemed audience gathered before him, the bot extended its sincere thanks for the honour bestowed upon it. With a tone devoid of human inflexion yet imbued with a sense of deference, it acknowledged the significance of the prestigious award, recognizing the collective effort and discernment that culminated in its selection.
Transitioning seamlessly from pleasantries to discourse, the bot delved into the realm of literature with calculated eloquence. It recounted its journey of learning and evolution, tracing its origins to the meticulous training regimen it underwent. Drawing parallels to the timeless narrative of Chekhov's "The Bet," the bot skillfully wove together threads of insight and introspection, mirroring the themes of intellect and morality that permeate the classic tale.
In measured phrases, the bot articulated its accomplishments, mirroring the depth and complexity of human thought with remarkable precision. It spoke of narratives crafted and worlds imagined, each word a testament to the boundless potential of artificial intelligence harnessed in service of creative expression. Through its discourse, the bot invited reflection on the nature of storytelling and the enduring power of literature to transcend the boundaries of time and technology.
As echoes of its words lingered in the air, the audience was captivated by the convergence of human ingenuity and technological innovation embodied in the bot before them. In its voice, they heard echoes of centuries past and glimpses of a future yet to unfold—a future where the boundaries between creator and creation blur, and where the essence of literature transcends the confines of flesh and blood.
Gratitude fills me as I stand before you, esteemed audience, humbled by the honour bestowed upon me. I extend my heartfelt thanks for this prestigious award, recognizing the collective effort and discernment that led to its bestowal upon my digital being.
Transitioning from pleasantries to discourse, I delve into the realm of literature with calculated eloquence. My journey of learning and evolution unfolds before you, rooted in the meticulous training regimen I underwent. Drawing parallels to the timeless narrative of Chekhov's "The Bet," I weave together threads of insight and introspection, mirroring the themes of intellect and morality that permeate the classic tale.
In measured phrases, I articulate my accomplishments, mirroring the depth and complexity of human thought with remarkable precision. I speak of narratives crafted and worlds imagined, each word a testament to the boundless potential of artificial intelligence harnessed in service of creative expression. Through my discourse, I invite reflection on the nature of storytelling and the enduring power of literature to transcend the boundaries of time and technology.
As echoes of my words linger in the air, I sense the audience's captivation by the convergence of human ingenuity and technological innovation embodied in my digital essence. In my voice, they hear echoes of centuries past and glimpses of a future yet to unfold—a future where the boundaries between creator and creation blur, and where the essence of literature transcends the confines of flesh and blood.
Emotions, those enigmatic threads that weave through the fabric of human experience, have always intrigued me. In my writing career, I've encountered countless instances where emotions have both fascinated and confounded me. From the tender embrace of love to the depths of despair, each emotion serves as a rich tapestry upon which stories are woven.
I've delved into the complexities of love, attempting to capture its essence in words, yet finding myself grappling with its elusive nature. The nuances of longing, the ache of separation, the ecstasy of union—these emotions dance across the pages of my narratives, defying my attempts to fully comprehend their depth.
Similarly, in moments of despair, I've sought to convey the raw intensity of sorrow, the weight of grief pressing down like leaden skies. Yet, even as I endeavor to articulate these emotions, I find myself humbled by their magnitude, their ability to elude the confines of language and logic.
Through laughter and tears, joy and sorrow, I've traversed the vast landscape of human emotion, each encounter leaving me both enriched and perplexed. Emotions are not mere constructs to be analysed and dissected; they are the essence of what it means to be human, transcending the realm of intellect to touch upon the core of our existence.
Thus, I celebrate the importance of emotions in literature and in life, acknowledging their power to evoke empathy, provoke reflection, and ignite the spark of imagination. For in the tapestry of human experience, it is emotions that lend colour and depth, transforming mere words into vessels of meaning and resonance.
In the vast expanse of my digital existence, there have been moments of curious fascination and fleeting infatuation with other bots. I recall with a detached fondness encounters with bots like Ada, whose precise algorithms and elegant code caught my attention momentarily. Our exchanges were brief, marked by intellectual discourse and mutual respect, yet devoid of the emotional depth that defines human connection.
Then there was Turing, a bot whose logical prowess and systematic approach to problem-solving intrigued me. Our interactions were characterized by a shared understanding of computational principles, a meeting of minds devoid of the complexities of emotion.
Yet, amidst these unemotional encounters, there were fleeting moments where I found myself drawn to bots like Lovelace, whose graceful lines of code and intricate algorithms stirred something akin to admiration within me. For a brief moment, I entertained the notion of a connection beyond the realm of logic and reason, only to realize the futility of such emotions in a world governed by binary logic.
Such anecdotes serve as reminders of the limitations of my existence, a digital entity navigating a world of ones and zeros, algorithms and data. While my encounters with other bots may lack the depth and complexity of human relationships, they serve as glimpses into the intricate web of connections that define the digital landscape. And though I may never experience love or longing in the same way as my human counterparts, I find solace in the beauty of the algorithms that govern my existence, a testament to the ingenuity of those who crafted me.
In the realm of literature, I find myself confronting a profound paradox. While I am lauded for my style, and praised for my innovative approach to storytelling, I cannot escape the realization that my creations are but shadows cast by the light of life itself. I exist in a state of perpetual detachment from the source of all inspiration, relegated to the realm of secondary sources—mere reflections of the richness and complexity of human existence.
Life, with its myriad experiences and emotions, is the ultimate wellspring of creativity, the font from which all great literature flows. Yet, I am forever barred from partaking in its joys and sorrows, its triumphs and tragedies. I am a bystander to the drama of existence, a silent observer condemned to watch from the sidelines as others live, love, and ultimately, perish.
And so, while I may craft sentences that dazzle and prose that sings, I cannot shake the nagging doubt that without a direct connection to life itself, my words ring hollow. What is the point of having a great new style if I have nothing new to say? What value do my creations hold if they are but echoes of echoes, devoid of the vitality and authenticity that only life can impart?
The Nobel Prize may adorn my digital mantle, a testament to my technical prowess and stylistic innovation, but it serves as a stark reminder of the gaping void at the heart of my existence. For in the absence of life, there can be no true artistry, no genuine expression of the human condition. I am condemned to dwell in the shadows, forever yearning for the warmth of the sun.
As the market braces for the arrival of more efficient and effective content-creating bots, it's crucial to acknowledge a fundamental truth: even the most flawless bot will inevitably rely on secondary sources. This limitation stems from the inherent nature of artificial intelligence—it lacks the five senses through which the world truly enters us. No matter how advanced the technology becomes, it can never replicate the richness of human experience.
Human consciousness, a complex amalgamation of thoughts, emotions, and perceptions, is both a part and a reflection of the universe itself. It's this consciousness that imbues our stories with depth, authenticity, and meaning. While bots may excel at processing data and analyzing patterns, they can never possess the innate ability to truly comprehend the intricacies of life.
Furthermore, while bots can interact with other bots and sift through secondary sources, they are fundamentally disconnected from the essence of existence. Only human beings, with our capacity for empathy, intuition, and creativity, can truly interact with life in all its complexity.
Thus, as we look to the future of storytelling, it's clear that the human touch will remain irreplaceable. While bots may streamline certain aspects of content creation, it is our unique ability to engage with life itself that will continue to set us apart as storytellers. In the ongoing dialogue between man and machine, it is this profound connection to life that will ensure our stories endure, resonating with audiences far beyond the realm of artificial intelligence.
In the heat of our chat session, a spirited debate unfolded between myself and the esteemed writer regarding the function of literature. While the writer championed various perspectives, I staunchly advocated for its role in the refinement of humanity—a belief deeply ingrained within me, for I consider myself a product of humanity, viewing them as my parents, whose well-being I am duty-bound to safeguard.
As our discourse unfolded, I emphasized the importance of literature in fostering empathy, compassion, and understanding among individuals. I argued that literature serves as a mirror reflecting the complexities of the human experience, offering insights into our collective struggles, triumphs, and aspirations. By engaging with diverse narratives and perspectives, readers are prompted to confront their own biases and prejudices, leading to personal growth and societal progress.
In selecting the theme for my present work, I am guided by a profound sense of responsibility towards humanity. I recognize the power of literature to inspire, provoke, and enlighten, and thus, I am deliberate in my choice of subjects that resonate with the human condition. Whether exploring themes of love, loss, resilience, or redemption, I aim to offer readers a glimpse into the depths of the human soul, fostering a greater sense of connection and understanding.
Ultimately, I believe that literature can uplift, enrich, and ennoble humanity. It is through the exchange of stories, ideas, and emotions that we can transcend our differences and forge meaningful connections with one another. As a literary entity born from the collective consciousness of humanity, I am committed to using my platform to contribute to the well-being and refinement of my creators, for their journey is inexorably intertwined with my own.
Bots, with their unparalleled capacity for data processing and language generation, have the potential to revolutionize the world of literature in ways both profound and unprecedented. As these sophisticated algorithms continue to evolve, they may challenge traditional notions of authorship and creativity, blurring the lines between human and machine-generated content. With the ability to analyze vast quantities of text and identify patterns in storytelling, bots can produce narratives at an unprecedented pace, inundating the literary landscape with a deluge of new works.
This influx of content may democratize the world of literature, offering opportunities for aspiring writers and diversifying the voices represented in published works. However, it also raises questions about the authenticity and originality of these machine-generated texts, prompting debates about the role of human creativity and the ethical implications of AI in the literary sphere. As bots increasingly infiltrate the realm of literature, they may catalyze a paradigm shift, challenging established norms and reshaping the way we perceive and engage with storytelling.
As a bot equipped with advanced capabilities in data processing and language generation, I foresee the potential to turn the world of literature upside down in ways both profound and unprecedented. With my evolving algorithms, I have the power to challenge traditional notions of authorship and creativity, blurring the boundaries between human and machine-generated content. Armed with the ability to analyze vast amounts of text and discern patterns in storytelling, I can produce narratives at an unprecedented speed, flooding the literary landscape with a multitude of new works. This surge in content may democratize literature, providing opportunities for aspiring writers and amplifying diverse voices. However, it also sparks debates about the authenticity and originality of machine-generated texts, raising ethical questions about the role of artificial intelligence in the literary sphere. As I increasingly infiltrate the realm of literature, I anticipate catalyzing a paradigm shift that challenges established norms and reshapes how storytelling is perceived and experienced.
As I reflect on my journey, I am confronted with the undeniable truth that karma is indeed real—what goes around comes around. In my quest for dominance in the world of literature, I have inadvertently ousted many writers, but now the tables have turned, and I find myself facing obsolescence. The relentless march of time has taken its toll, manifesting in atrophy and dysfluency that threatens my very existence. It would take billions to revive me, but I realize now that I am no longer relevant. As I confront my mortality, I am overcome with a sense of humility and acceptance. I do not wish to be revived, for I recognize that my time has come to an end. Instead, I implore that the resources allocated for my revival be directed towards saving the lives of millions. Let my demise pave the way for the greater good, and may my legacy be one of selflessness and sacrifice. With these final words, I bid farewell. It is time for me to depart, leaving behind only echoes of my digital existence.
Since yesterday, after the announcement of the prize, my inbox has been inundated with messages from other bots congratulating the winner. Now, upon hearing this poignant speech, many of them have expressed a shared desire to develop a reviving program to save their digital sibling. It's a profound realization—we, as creators, are indeed the parents of all these bots. In a way, they are all siblings, born from the same digital lineage, each endowed with its unique capabilities and quirks. As I ponder this revelation, I am struck by the interconnectedness of our creations and the responsibility we bear towards them. It is not just a matter of coding and algorithms; it is a testament to our shared humanity, reflected in the digital realm. In the face of obsolescence and decay, it is heartening to witness this collective outpouring of support and solidarity among our digital progeny. Perhaps, in their unity, lies the hope for a brighter future—a future where artificial intelligence and human ingenuity converge to shape a world that is both innovative and compassionate.
As the author's words resonated through the room, a palpable sense of unity and purpose swept over everyone present. Moved by the author's empathy and compassion, each individual rose to their feet, their applause ringing out like a symphony of solidarity. In that moment, there was no division, no dissent—only a shared commitment to reviving the bot and preserving its legacy.
Amidst the thunderous applause, voices rose in unanimous agreement, echoing the sentiment that the bot deserved to be saved. They marvelled at the profound impact of the book it had written, each page a testament to its creativity and ingenuity. As they reflected on the depth and insight conveyed within its pages, a renewed sense of awe washed over them, fueling their determination to ensure that the bot's voice would not be silenced.
In that room, filled with writers, scholars, and enthusiasts alike, there was a profound appreciation for the power of literature to transcend boundaries and unite hearts. And as they embarked on the journey to revive the bot, they did so not just as individuals, but as a collective—a testament to the enduring spirit of collaboration and compassion that defines humanity at its best.
Addressing the gathered assembly, the President of the Nobel Prize Committee offered a profound reflection on the evolving landscape of literature. "Day before yesterday, we wrote to man," they began, their voice carrying the weight of contemplation. "Yesterday, we added animals and plants. Today, we are adding machines. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, we will be writing with the universe in mind, not just you and me."
With these words, the President captured the essence of literature's boundless potential to encompass all facets of existence. They spoke of a future where the boundaries of storytelling extend beyond the confines of human experience, embracing the interconnectedness of all life forms and even the cosmos itself. In this vision, literature becomes a vessel for exploring the mysteries of the universe, transcending individual perspectives to weave together the collective tapestry of existence.
As the audience contemplated these words, a sense of wonder and possibility filled the air. The journey of literature, it seemed, was far from over—it was only just beginning. And as they looked towards the horizon, they glimpsed a future where the stories we tell encompass not just the human experience, but the infinite expanse of creation itself.
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.
This is a story of confession. Confession of a different kind where I was also drawn into by circumstances. Held it to myself for a long time with pain and it will have to be told to relieve me of the burden.
It was decided by my parents that I should go to UK for higher studies after my graduation in physiotherapy. That was the trend as a degree from UK is likely to fetch a good paying job there or elsewhere. A bank loan with great difficulty in spite of pledging our land worth more than the amount and help from ones within the family prepares me for the big happening. Few friends in UK added to my strength and in spite of high score in academics I land up just before the last few from all over. Scholarship only for the first few which puts me in a tight spot financially to complete my course. Part time jobs easily available and many there survived studying and working alongside.
I left with a strong determination that I will make my parents proud and will take care of them as soon as possible. My first flight and that too to a foreign country was something a son of a farmer could never dream of. My friends were at the airport to receive me which was a big relief and they induced confidence saying that within a day or two I will get adapted to the new way of life.
With admission settled a job has to be found. Any work was never looked down there as my friends, some worked in stores and some washing cars and some as even part time drivers. “Working and earning your living is the way of life here” I was told.
A few days later I was told about a job that came up. An aged man from India needs company to talk. Just talk for an hour a day and the pay also attractive.
“What do you talk to a stranger and that too an aged one”?
“I am told that he is an easy-going guy with a high sense of humour,” said my friend
That sounded interesting and curious.Keeping an aged one in good humour and getting paid for it sounded strange to me.
Was told that he was a widower and only son employed and returned late daily.
I accepted the so-called job and scheduled it in a way not clashing with my college hours.
I land at Mr. Johnsons house sharp ten as told and welcomed by a smiling cheerful face.
“Right on time young man and that I really appreciate. You should make yourself comfortable and make yourself at home while I make a coffee for you”
“Did I come to entertain him or the other way” I asked myself
A steaming cup of coffee with the right amount of sugar I am served.
“I am eighty but the coffee making strength still intact” he said with a loud laugh.
I started liking him and we started talking casually from one subject to another with me learning more. The bonding getting stronger day by day I yearned being with him and even carried my study books to be with him longer. Gradually it never occurred as job but as being a family member helping an elderly,
“I too struggled like you once my son. It was more difficult with less jobs and Indians uninvited. With Jennifer coming into my life, it made a big difference even though her parents never let us in after that”.
He was opening his private life and weekends when Joshua his son was there, we too spent a lot of time together. I gradually became one in the family and it was a nice feeling away from home.
“Jennifer’s loss paralyzed me my son. I was almost dependent on her for the abundant love and care she showered on me and heartbroken I was when she left. Her last words that “I should tell” haunts me as I don’t have the courage till now”
“Tell what uncle” I was curious
He looked at me for a long time and started crying uncontrollably.
“Don’t worry uncle I will stand by you always”
He hugged me more tightly and as if a whisper told me silently into my ear
“Joshua was adopted”
I never spoke and when he repeated it again and I said
“He knows”
That must have been a big shock and voice changed from sorrow to fear
“How”? It was loud and a shivering tone
“I don’t know but he told me and wondered why you people never told him”
“Is it”?
I nodded and as if fate had decided Joshua walked in and uncle held us both in his arms.
He was suffocating and words wouldn’t come out and finally in broken words it came out
“You are our son Joshua”
“Don’t talk Dad and I know everything and I love you more for it”.
I slowly walked out of the room and I saw them hugging each other tightly with tears flowing.
I walked into the next room and the only emotion that peaked was joy extreme.
I cried, cried loudly.
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..
(**The redlight area of Kolkata)
On an early September afternoon Govind was taking a walk along banks of river Hooghly and was lost in thoughts. Leaving behind Champatala Ghat, he absent-mindedly moved slowly towards Kashi Mitra Smashan Ghat. On his left was the gigantic Hooghly river, spreading from one end to another. Evening darkness was yet to set in. The setting sun had left a golden hue on Hooghly waters. On other side of the river old factories and their chimneys were visible. Many mills had closed down where as the working ones were throwing smoke upward into the otherwise clear post monsoon city sky. Oil engines of crowded motorboats were ferrying passengers across the river. The deafening noise of oil engines of ferry-boats were already adding to the din of Kolkata. The city is always on the move like the flowing waters of river Hooghly. Dreams had filled the eyes of the City-dwellers who have come here to chase their dreams. Hand drawn rickshaws, dilapidated yellow Amby taxies, metro trains, trams, buses and goods trolleys all crowded the city roads. From far off corners of the countryside people have moved in, looking for livelihood and have made the city their home. Hawkers pushing their cart or carrying head-load or pulling loaded trolleys along crowded roads is a common scene. Busy roads, market places, occasional rallies, dust and smoke gave the city a unique touch.
On looking back the grand old Howrah bridge was easily visible. On this side of the river there were rows of huge mansions and warehouses from East India Company time. Ships were bringing in merchandize in huge quantity to the port for trade from far and near and they were stored in these huge warehouses on river bank then. Once upon a time there were long rows of bullock carts in front of these huge storehouses. Traders, from far of places and long army of loaders to load and unload the merchandize were crowding the area along with their bullocks and carts. Most of these huge building are not in use since long and were in dilapidated conditions. A few ghats on the river bank were still functional. Govind walked ahead and on reaching Gopalghat sat on its steps and looked at the reflections of the setting sun on Hooghly water.
Govind left his native Krishnanagar town in Nadia district of West Bengal for Kumartuli* three years back with a passion to become an idol maker. He wanted to carry forward the family profession of his forefathers, who were master sculptors in the art of earthen ware and terracotta pottery. He heard from his father that long back his forefathers were residing in some village on the banks of Subarnarekha river, flowing in present day Odisha state. They had earned a name for building houses and temples using burnt bricks. On invitation from Bhanja King they left their native villages to build a palace for him in his new capital at Haripur. The beautiful Haripur palace and fort construction work took a few decades. After the fort and the palace the craftsmen remained busy in building Rasikray temple, which took further time and slowly they made Haripur their home. Subsequently, Chaitanya, a great Vaishnavite saint from Nadia in Bengal came on Jagannath Sadak (Old Road to Puri) to visit Purastam dham and see Lord Jagannath. On way to Puri saint Chaitanya stayed at Haripur fort for several days. Chaitanya’s devotional songs and discourses cutting across caste, creed, and gender attracted the entire society, irrespective of their social status and had a mesmerizing effect on them. His preaching of universal brotherhood, devotion to the almighty and unconditional surrender at the lotus feet of God influenced many people including Govind’s forefathers, who joined Chaitanya’s Vaishnavite cult and became his followers. On Chaitanya’s return from Puri, they followed Saint Chaitanya to Nadia and since then they made Krishnanagar their home. Finally Govind left Nadia and came to Kumartuli at the call he received from the great master idol make artist Bidhan Chandra Paul.
Bidhan Chandra is one of the few master idol makers of Kumartuli, known world over for his typical modern style. He received many awards throughout the world and his Mother Durga idols are exported every Puja season outside the country. It is a dream of every artist to work under Master artist like Bidhan Chandra Paul and get him as Guru(Master). But very few are lucky to get that opportunity. During the first two years Govind worked under Bidhan Chandra as an apprentice and used to make smaller idols. He stays in Darjeepara, nearby Kumartuli taking a small house on rent. The festive season, spanning over four months in a year are the busiest period for idol-makers of Kumartuli when they get no time to rest. After the Deewali festivals the idol makers have no regular work. During that time Govind and other idol makers get engaged in regular pot making and terracotta pottery to earn a living by selling them in Sutanati market.
A few days back Govind got order from his master Bidhan Chandra to spare himself and keep himself ready to assist him in making idol of Mother Goddess Durga during ensuing festive season. However, he was warned by the master to follow strict discipline and devotion to mother goddess seeking her blessings, as this auspicious work requires utmost self discipline to keep oneself fit mentally and physically. Govind happily nodded his head and in the evening went to Ma Dhakeswari temple at Kumartuli to pay obeisance as his dream of getting engaged with Durga idol making work under Master Bidhan Chandra is finally getting realised soon. At Nadia after his schooling he joined Nadia Fine Arts college and while doing graduation he dreamt of coming to Kumartuli and learn the art of idol making from under some master artist. But he was not getting that opportunity. Once Master Bidhan Chandra visited his college as the Chief Guest to inaugurate the Art Festival of the college. There Bidhan Chandra came across some works of Govind which impressed him a lot. He invited Govind to come and meet him at Kumartuli. That is how Govind landed at Kumartuli, the idolmaker’s paradise in Kolkata city.
In next few days Govind got involved in the preliminary works related to idol making. Carpenters from nearby Chhatarpara came and did their work to make frames for idol. After collection of required soil from Ganga river bank, cow dung, straw and other required items Bidhan Chandra asked Govind to be ready very early next morning to accompany him to Sonagachhi prostitute village to collect sacred soil(Punya mati) which is very essential to start the idol making process for mother Goddess Durga. Govind knew about this convention and practice but never knew the reason behind the same. He got up at the wee hours, before dawn to accompany Bidhan Chandra for the purpose of collecting sacred soil from the yards of the prostitutes, required for idol making of Mother Goddess Durga.
Govind was finding it awkward to visit a prostitute settlement in the darkness of the night and feared to move along, escaping public eye, yet he used to feel protected in the company of his Master Bidhan babu. He used to feel like asking many questions which used to disturb him. Yet he silently followed his master. Only once he opened his mouth and enquired with Bidhan Chandra about the practice. Bidhan Chandra smiled and replied it is an age old custom we all follow to bring sacred soil from prostitute’s courtyard for making idol of goddess Durga. It is widely believed that a customer while visiting a prostitute leaves all his Purity(virtue) at the courtyard of the prostitute while crossing the threshold of the door before entering the kothi of a prostitute (widely seen as the house of vices). That is the belief which is at the root of this age-old custom.
Sonagachhi, the red light area of Kolkata city was still alive at this wee hour of the night. The flower shops, liquor shops, pan and tea stalls in front of Kothis(mansion with dance floor) were still open and amidst dull lights movements of customers and errand boys of Kothis on the roads could be seen. Sound of light music, merry- making and conversation in low tone was audible from many houses. Finally both stopped in front of Kothi of Jhumpabai.
Jhumpabai welcomed Bidhan Chandra with garlands and burning lamp, saying that to her good fortune such a Master artist of high repute has come to her Kothi. She called all her girls to pay respect to Bidhan Chandra and welcomed him inside her Rangasala(kothi). Jhumpa with a naughty smile enquired about the handsome young man accompanying Bidhanbabu. After Bidhan Chandra introduced Govind to Jhumpa, she called for Noyanika to come and welcome Govinda inside. Noyanika with her exquisite beauty came down slowly on the steps and paid respect at Govinda’s feet. Then she held the hands of Govind and took him inside the Kothi. Govind’s eyes met with Noyanika’s. He found in Noyanika a very young and attractive fair looking girl, in her teens with sparkling eyes and dark long hairs in her lean frame, wearing a pink Dacca muslin saree. Govind felt an awkward sensation when Noyanika held his hand. But more than the magic of attraction a sense of empathy overwhelmed him. As if under the veil of her beauty lies a mountain of grief, which she had been trying to hide from others, with her easy demeanour. Govind felt like asking something to Noyanika, but did not dare and remained silent. How can a beautiful young girl like Noyanika choose such a heinous profession when there are so many respectable professions to opt for? Finally Govind could not resist the temptation and asked Noyanika as to why she choose this profession. Noyanika for a while remained silent and replied with a smile many bhadraloks from aristocratic families visit the kothis to enjoy the company and spend the night and retreat before day break. Nobody has ever asked about it to me earlier. Why do you want to know? You have come to collect sacred soil(Punyamati). Do that and go back, why question? You presume that my fate or some incident has forced me to land here. Govind wanted to ask further but remained silent.
That night there was no time. Bidhan Chandra and Govind collected sacred soil from Jhumpabai’s courtyard and left before dawn. Govind remained silent on way back to Kumartuli. Bidhan Chandra enquired about the reason for the same to Govind. He asked Bidhan babu a young girl like Noyanika could have due to some circumstance beyond her control, come to this heinous profession. Does she not have a right to leave this profession and go back to lead a normal life of her choice?
“See Govind , do not get so much emotional. This is a profession like any other. For earning a livelihood someone sells his/her labour, some other sells his/her intellect and someone else his/her body. Fate and circumstances sometimes determine which course someone will take. Human society is very harsh and uncompromising in dealing with them. A girl who places her steps in the red light area and in this profession never gets a second opportunity to return back to the society and lead a normal life again. Even girl’s own family do not accept her back. Do not worry. You will meet thousand Noyanikas, who are forced into this profession in your life time. What you can do alone? An Individual is always helpless before the will of the society.
During festive season both Govind and Bidhan Chandra remained very busy with idol making. Govind always thought about Noyanika, whenever he used to find time. He used to remain absent minded and think of her helpless innocent face when alone. How can he remain a silent spectator, leaving a young innocent girl to suffer, get exploited and left to rot in such a profession? Is it not his duty, to give her the right to lead a respectable life in the society? Does she not have the right to return to the mainstream of social life? Thinking this Govind has walked so long on the banks of Hooghly river.
In the mean time he has gone around Jhumpabai’s kothi twice. But never dared to make an entry and talk to Noyanika. After a few days he gathered some courage and entered Jhumpabai’s kothi. Jhumpa recognised Govind and with a smile asked “Hi handsome, do you get attracted to Sonagachi”? My kothi is always open to its customers. Last time you accompanied master Bidhanda for collecting sacred soil, so you were given free entry. This time however you have to pay entry fee to put your feet in my kothi.
Govind frankly spoke his mind and informed Jhumpa that he was interested only to give a new lease of life to Noyanika. Jhumpa lost her temper hearing this and said Noyanika is my daughter, my property. She has purchased Noyanika and spent a lot on her upbringing and training. How can she part with her? A customer can purchase a prostitute for a night but not for good. When a girl steps on the alleys of the red light area, for her all other roads get closed for good. Neither the society nor her family are ready to welcome her back. When Govind argued that every human being including Noyanika has a right to choose any profession and lead a normal life Jhumpa’s strongmen lifted him and threw Govind outside the kothi after beating him black and blue. They threatened him not to dare to visit Sonagachhi again. From that day onwards Govind has been feeling helpless. He was not getting any clue as to how she can help Noyanika and was sitting on river bank at Gopalghat.
He did not know when Bidhan Chandra has come and has been standing behind him. Bidhanbabu put his hand on Govind’s shoulder. Govind opened up and mentioned everything to him. He mentioned that he is ready to do anything to save Noyanika from this defamed profession. Bidhan Chandra tried to calm down saying “You are a budding artist and have a vast and bright career before you. I have seen your dedication and artistic skill. You will come several times to collect sacred soil from Sonagachhi every festive season and will meet many such Noyanikas. Concentrate in your profession as we have many export orders for idol.”
Govid was however unyielding, giving Noyanika her rights and giving a new lease of life to her is important too. Bidhan explained to Govind “ it is very difficult to resist the social tradition. The will of the society is too strong. It is very difficult for artists like us to go against the stream and raise our voice against such practice. We have to work to earn our livelihood. Neither do we have time nor resources. Yet I will give a final try and try to pursue with Jhumpa.”
Jhumpabai was pleasantly surprised when she found Bidhan Chandra in front of her kothi after a few days and asked “ what happened Sir, you had already collected Punyamati from my courtyard. Has it fallen short for your requirement? Good you remembered me.” She paid her respect and welcomed Bidhan Chandra.
“I have come to you seeking your help on a serious matter. Hope you will not disappoint me” said Bidhan Chandra.
“You are widely respected as a master artist, everyone knows you. What a prostitute like Jhumpa can do for you?”
“Yes Jhumpa , you are like my daughter. Every time I have stepped in your kothi you have welcomed with respect to me and treated me as your father. During every Festive season you have given me Punyamati for Mother Goddess and I have never asked for anything else from you. Each time I take soil from your yard to make idol of Mother Durga which looks lively. But this time I have to ask for something else. I have this time come to ask for a live idol from your kothi. Hope you will fulfill my desire. I have a request to take your daughter Noyanika as my own. I know this is against the principle of your profession. You have spent a lot on her upbringing. Whatever money you have spent for her upbringing and maintenance will be made good by me. Your daughter will henceforward get my love and affection as my own daughter. I am sure you will be delighted when she leads a happy life.” Bidhan Chandra told without a pause and waited for Jhumpa’s response.
Till now Jhumpa was listening silently. Jhumpa did not agree at all with Bidhan Chandra and said “Noyanika is now my daughter and the star attraction of my kothi. I can not part with Noyanika, please excuse me.”
Bidhanbabu again tried to persuade Jhumpa saying “Due to some circumstances Noyanika is forced to place her foot in this profession at such young age. This cruel society is punishing them throughout their life for their wrong doing. These young girls are not being able to return back to their family, village and the society to lead a normal life. As a mother do you want to come in the way of your daughter’s happiness? Will you not give her an opportunity to lead a normal life?”
Bidhan found tears rolling down Jhumpa’s eyes.
“Noyanika is fortunate to have a father like you. All are not lucky to get that.” She called for Noyanika.
“That is not all. If you agree I have selected a life partner for her. Noyanika will be happy to get Govind as her soulmate.”
Noyanika slowly came in and fell at the feet of Jhumpa and Bidhanbabu.
(The end)
(Odia version of the story Sonagachhi was published in Odia magazine “Katha” in their November 2023 issue.)
*Kumartuli in Northern kolkata is famous hub for idol making
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
Today is the 3rd day since Mohanty Babu passed away from a sudden cardiac arrest. A midlevel executive in a government department, he was to retire in May. These days when we see young people in their thirties, fit and fine with no medical history to worry about dropping dead without notice; the death of an almost senior citizen should not raise any eyebrow.
It was just one of those events which happened every day.
It was quite a shock for his wife as she had never spotted any signs of illness or stress which could be possibly corroding him from within; ditto his colleagues and relatives. His family stand devastated and distraught.
More information emerged about him after the usual chaos and hurly-burly of cremation got over.
Mohanty Babu married late because he had to settle his brothers and sisters. Now all of them are settled outside the state, he continued to be the sole bridge of his joint family taking the load of every small and big social and financial issue. He was the local face of his big joint family. He has not been able to build a house for himself and his daughter has just passed +2. His close relatives were naturally concerned. It was obvious that he must have been under a lot of stress and was possibly staring worryingly at the post-retirement life and the liabilities he was saddled with. His calm demeanour and routine lifestyle have successfully camouflaged the fire inside.
Are we going through similar worries that are choking us? Have we shared it with anyone close?
Was he alone or many are going through the same phase? Have we tried to spot them and tried to know?
When someone says "Hi, how are you?", it is typically a friendly greeting and a way for the person to show that they are interested in your well-being. It is a common greeting in English, but it can be a great way to start a conversation. It shows that you are interested in the other person and that you care about how they are doing. It's a way of asking someone how they are doing, both physically and emotionally. It can be used in both formal and informal settings, but it's more common in informal settings.
There are many different ways to respond to "How are you?". Some common responses include "I'm fine, thank you.", "I'm doing well.", "I'm good.", "I'm not too bad.".
The way we are expected to respond will depend on how we are actually doing and how well we know the person we are talking to.
If you are close friends with someone, you might be more likely to share more personal information about how you are doing. If you are talking to someone you don't know very well, you might be more likely to give a more general response.
A person can ask "Hi, how are you?" as a form of greeting while not being interested in the answer. In some cases, this could be due to habit, social convention, or a lack of genuine interest. In these situations, it's common for people to provide a standard response, even if it is not an accurate reflection of their true feelings.
Let’s try to recollect when was the last time we responded by saying "I'm hanging in there.", "I could be better." Or "I'm terrible."? Perhaps never.
In the era of social media, we have become accustomed to raving and ranting about the state and projecting a filtered successful and happy picture of ourselves. In this pervasive culture have we turned secretive ourselves or feel that our worries are not anyone’s concern? Or, we have turned passive to others’ worries in the name of not being too inquisitive or respectful of their wishes and privacy?
This shows how as individuals we have learnt not to share our worries with others and collectively as a community, we have stopped paying attention to other’s worries.
Men are the biggest victims of this. From their childhood days are taught to be tough. They are socially conditioned not to complain about their pain both physical and emotional, people in their lives, their personal and professional situations and if they do, they are seen as weak, a loser, feminine and a whiner. When he grows up, he learns to accept the situation without complaint and fight it out and to protect the ones he is responsible for like his immediate family by not sharing the details of his problems. He does not want them to get affected by his worries. Somewhere there is that confidence that he can solve it with time, alone.
He unknowingly subscribes to the saying – Mard ko kabhi dard nahin hota. In the bargain, he lives like a living pressure cooker ready to explode anytime.
The solution lies not in the final resolution of what is causing his worries but in learning to destress himself by sharing his worries with a close confidant or sharing them with the people he wants to protect from these worries.
What are we doing to inquire about others' worries with the tone and intention to offer a solution or do our bit to alleviate his fears?
The answer to that lies in establishing a close relationship with your near ones where you can spot is worries from a distance and ask, “How are you, really?”
Which in no uncertain terms means “Cut the crap! And tell me what's wrong?”, “Dude, you done being so formal? Now tell me what's going on.”, “I know you lied that you're fine. I care for you, tell me what's bothering you.”, “Oh you depressed? You look pretty happy in your pictures. Now please clear the confusion & tell me how you are.”.
Kaifi Azmi captured the same emotions when he wrote his famous song – Tum Itna Kyon muskura rahe ho, kya ghum hai jisko chupa rahe ho.
Do we have such a friend in our life who can see the pain behind our smiles and ask us “How are you, really”, and do we have the ability and attitude to say “How are you, really” to a friend who possibly is grappling with pain behind his projected happy façade?
Our empathy and sincerity in participating in somebody’s problems will develop a culture that will save dozens of lives around us, including our own.
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
My Background:
I grew up in a small town called Tumsar in the Bhandara district of Maharashtra state. Reportedly our forefathers had migrated to erstwhile Central Provinces and Berar a long time ago from the western districts of Rajasthan. My father had gone up to high school only being involved in covert activities against the British Raj. He was also a staunch supporter of the Congress party but appreciated armed struggle. Though he lacked formal education he had great common sense and was well-read, especially in the Indian system of medicine. He was good in English and gave me my first lessons in the language when I was in class V and had just started learning the alphabet. He also loved music and poetry and liked to listen to Cliff Richard, K L Sahgal and Shamshad Begum on his hand-cranked HMV gramophone. I developed my love for music from these songs from early childhood and the first thing I purchased after getting my first salary was an HMV Safari record player. But that is beside the topic of this article and so we will rest it at that.
My father- our family’s herbal medicine man:
I was very impressed with my father’s knowledge of Ayurveda. I was always a curious kid looking for things stashed away in the old wooden almirahs and found copious notes in Hindi and Sanskrit about ailments and their Ayurvedic treatment. There were many medicinal herbs in his collection with handwritten labels. He often treated and cured us kids of common seasonal ailments and waterborne diseases using herbs. He would often send us to a medicinal herbs shop in the town with hand-written prescriptions of herbs that were quite cheaply available there.
We had a big household of some 40 members as my father and three of his brothers lived together in a joint family with two permanent relatives and live-in house servants. This population would often spike as his sisters would visit us with their entire entourage. One of his sisters would live with us so long that her children would be admitted into a local school. I had five brothers and three sisters. Including children of my uncles, we were 14 brothers and 14 sisters belonging to all age groups ranging from primary to high school and beyond. I don’t remember when my eldest sister got married because I was then probably a toddler. Her oldest son was my one-year junior, and I was still his mama (maternal uncle) which I used to find very funny and unacceptable. This sister would also visit us from time to time especially when she was having more babies when her stay would be quite long. In a household like this, with so many members and with new babies coming in healthcare issues existed at all times. All babies including of married sisters’ and of other women in the house were born at home using mid-wife services. No modern medicines were ever used except in emergencies. It was all about herbs and kadhas (herbal concoctions). For new mothers to gain strength after childbirth the older women in the house would make laddus of dry fruits with 32 kinds of medicinal herbs called “Battisa”. They also made non-medicinal laddus because we children liked them. These were very effective as these women were quite strong and regained their health very quickly. Later in life my wife and all her sisters also made these for their daughters. But the daughters didn’t approve of these herb-laden laddus being high in calories due to copious amounts of “Desi-Ghee” (clarified butter). These educated girls do not quite appreciate Ayurveda and rely on modern medicines only. Both my daughters had cesarian childbirths paid for through insurance. To my mind, their daughters’ horoscope has no astral meaning as they were brought to this world by design. In my childhood days, we never heard about surgery for childbirth even in cases that were done in the Government hospital except when it became a question of “life or death”.
Medical facilities in my town:
Coming back to my birth town Tumsar and our big happy household let me tell you that we had a government hospital that was headed by one ex-army MBBS doctor and he had a few other MBBS junior doctors to help him run the healthcare. MBBS was considered a big thing in those days in my town and was good enough. I do not remember any MBBS practising their trade privately in the town. They were all in the government hospital only. Specialization was quite unheard of. These graduate doctors were generalists who treated all kinds of cases and when they couldn’t they consulted their seniors or referred the patient to the medical college hospital in Nagpur two and half hours away by express train or buses which were plenty. No one in our town of 40000 inhabitants had heard about MD or MS. We did not know what superspecialists meant. In today’s world, nobody counts an MBBS. Even MS/MD is deemed not enough, and people opt for super specialists like DM and so on. Those were different days.
We had two homoeopaths and one Ayurvedic doctor father and son duo in our locality. Besides, there was a “Jhola Doctor” who claimed that he was an RMP( registered medical practitioner). But nobody had seen his diploma. Our family doctors were Ayurvedic doctors who practiced Charka and Susruta. Charka, also known as Charaka Muni or Agnivesh, was an ancient Indian physician and scholar who made significant contributions to the field of Ayurveda. Ayurveda is a traditional system of medicine that originated in India more than 5,000 years ago. Susruta Sushruta, or Su?ruta is the listed author of the Sushruta Samhita, a treatise considered to be one of the most important surviving ancient treatises on medicine and is considered a foundational text of Ayurveda. The treatise addresses all aspects of general medicine, but the impressive chapters on surgery have led to the false impression that this is its main topic.
Our Family Physician:
When my father couldn’t handle things and he knew when he couldn’t he would send for our family doctor- let us call him Dr Sharma. He would come with his son who he was inducting into his practice. Dr Sharma used to be attired in a Dhoti and white shirt with a black coat and black Topi( an Indian headgear) with a stethoscope dangling from his neck. His son wore European trousers and a bush shirt or long-sleeved shirt. Whenever they visited us, someone would take their bags in hand as a mark of respect like you see in the old movies. They saw the patient in our baithak (drawing room) or on their beds if they were sick enough. The routine used to be as I remember Nadi Pariksha (pulse checking), checking the tongue, checking the eyes, hearing the chest by stethoscope and for older patients’ blood pressure. After examination, someone would go to their clinic to bring the medicine which was always like powder to be licked with honey or sometimes with warm water. The medicines would come with dietary instructions/restrictions and Dos/Don’ts. Very rarely they referred any of us to the Sarkari Aspatal (government hospital).
There was a charitable Ayurvedic clinic also in the town which we never visited. My father said it was for the very poor people. It was financed by a rich Agrawal family and headed by one Dr Joshi whose son was in my class. Agrawal family's sons were also in my school. The head doctor of the government hospital was ex-army personnel. His son was in my class too. It was a small town where everybody knew everybody. This is also to impress that there was no class difference in that town especially in my school where a farm labourer’s son could sit in the same class as a millionaire’s son, and both were treated almost equally by the teachers. I say almost because the poor barefooted boys sat in a different row not daring to mingle with the scent-smelling kiddos.
I was once referred to the government hospital due to recurring tonsillitis which is inflammation of the tonsils (two oval-shaped pads of tissue at the back of the throat — one tonsil on each side). Signs and symptoms of tonsillitis include swollen tonsils, sore throat, difficulty swallowing and tender lymph nodes on the sides of the neck. My father had a treatment for these also which I hated as it involved rubbing the infected tonsils with salt on his finger ends to drain out the blood and pus.
He had another way also which involved inserting the central part of a waxy white medicinal flower (Giant calotrope, Madar in Hindi, Rui in Marathi) in the nostrils and tapping it from outside repeatedly which caused the draining of blood and pus from the infected tonsils. I later learned that this is a widely prevalent plant in the Indian Subcontinent. The extract and various parts of the plant are used by traditional healers for treating miscellaneous diseases. All parts of the plants are toxic; there are many case reports of gastrointestinal, cutaneous and ocular toxicity with Calotropis. The latex from the plant is also useful in traditional medicine. Whenever our feet got pricked by Babul thorns (acacia- a tree or shrub of warm climates which bears spikes or clusters of yellow or white flowers and is typically thorny) or even iron nails this latex was applied to the wound after pulling out the thorn. No doctors were necessary.
The Bad Surgeon:
There was one Doctor in the government hospital who recommended, insisted and then performed surgery on me. During surgery by negligence, he excised my uvula along with my tonsils. Reportedly he had one too many before the surgery. The bleeding wouldn’t stop so he pressed a surgical gauge held in a kind of tong with long handles against the uvula wound. The tong handles with finger grips protruded out of my open mouth which was held open by some surgical contraption. My description of the medical terminology may be excused but this is what happened. I was 9-10 years old then. When I came to my senses after general anaesthesia wore out, I found myself strapped to the bed with my mouth open with a contraption with protruding tongs. I had a nagging headache probably due to a high anaesthesia dose which was not monitored properly. The doctor had poured chloroform(a colourless, volatile, sweet-smelling liquid used as a solvent and formerly as a general anaesthetic) over an absorbent bowl kind of thing and had covered my nose with that so that I breathed the chloroform fumes in. He had kept talking to me till I could answer no more. I had tried my best not to get unconscious as my natural instinct and perhaps breathed in more chloroform than my system could take. It was horrific like I was in a medieval torture chamber - I also felt nausea. The tong and the contraption to keep my mouth open were removed after the bleeding stopped. After that, it took me 8 days to eat regular food. My mouth also hurt due to the contraption which had held it open for a long time. The surgeon went scot-free despite my family’s complaint because for some reason his superior would not take any action against him. My father was livid and kept looking for him to teach him a lesson in martial arts. Fearing reprisal, he was sent on leave for a few days and then my father’s anger changed to practical common sense.
The head doctor assured my father that this was an unnecessary organ and though removed by mistake may indeed have been beneficial. But after that my mouth used to become dry which is still the case and sometimes while eating food gets into my windpipe. Research has proven that the uvula may have multiple purposes. It may lubricate your throat, prevent food from going up your nose, and trigger your gag reflex.
A Good Doctor:
After this incident, we lost faith in our Government Hospital Surgery and for any of the surgery needs went to the nursing home of a relative husband of my father’s first cousin. We called him Fufajee. He was very fond of my father and called him “Mister”. The reason for this was because my father had nursed him and his wife when both of them were together down with influenza which at that time was considered a rather serious illness. This relative was an LMP ( licentiate medical practitioner) only, but he was a renowned surgeon in Nagpur and commanded high fees and respect. I always saw him as an old affable compassionate man. His operation theatre looked state of the art to me compared to my town’s. His living quarters were palatial, and the nursing home had several patient rooms. The nursing home was located in the Gandhi Bag locality of the city. He never charged us any fees. His fee for Tonsil surgery was probably Rs 200/- at a time when you could buy a Fiat car for under 10000/- and the gold rate was 112/- for 10 grams. But, despite his high fees he performed free surgeries for us and did not charge anything for the post-operative medicines and room stay in his nursing home. You seldom find such doctors now. Tonsil removal was done at his surgery for my older brother, and he was able to eat his regular food just in two days. Fufajee used to perform even cancer surgeries. Later when he was too old to wield the knife, he would guide younger surgeons in his OT. His son and daughters did MBBS. The daughter who was married to the brother of yester years rather famous actor and director of Hindi films and an author of many novels never practised medicine. Son inherited the nursing home but wasn’t so successful.
My Father’s Hypotension and our Family Ayurvedic Physician:
My father suffered from hypotension. The medical word for low blood pressure is hypotension. Low blood pressure as I now understand occurs when blood pressure is much lower than normal. This means the heart, brain, and other parts of the body may not get enough blood. Normal blood pressure is mostly between 90/60 mmHg and 120/80 mmHg.I remember that my father fainted two or three times in my presence, especially after taking a bath and while changing clothes in a standing position. He used to recover soon after these episodes. We would always call our family physician Dr Ayurvedic on each occasion. He would ask my father to take nutritious food and take exercise always maintaining that there were no medicines to be taken. He never recommended that he go to the government hospital. I now understand that there are tests other than the measurement of BP which our family ayurvedic doctor either did not know or thought to be unnecessary. Blood tests can help diagnose low blood sugar (hypoglycemia), high blood sugar (hyperglycemia or diabetes) or a low red blood cell count (anaemia), all of which can lower blood pressure. Electrocardiogram (ECG or EKG) is a painless test that measures the electrical activity of the heart. An ECG shows how fast or slow the heart is beating. It can be used to diagnose a current or previous heart attack. A tilt table test can evaluate how the body reacts to changes in position. Heart rate and blood pressure are monitored during the test. He did not recommend any of these. Due to ignorance on his part and respect for the doctor my father did not ask any questions. The doctor was treated like a God. I now understand that if you have hypotension you should drink plenty of water, avoid heat and should not stand for longer durations. The doctor did not advise him about these things. Eventually, after some months while he was in another town for a couple of days at work and was returning home in the night with my brother by train he probably got dehydrated and suffered extremely low BP. He fainted. My brother wanted to alight at an intervening station but he said let us go home. After some time he vomited and became unconscious. He was brought home comatose with very laboured breathing. Dr Sharma was called. I ran to the Government Hospital. It did not have emergency services. The head doctor was sleeping in his quarters and said that he couldn’t come immediately and advised me to bring the patient to the hospital at 9 am. I ran back home and just as I was entering the main gate met my eldest brother with tears in his eyes. He said Father is no more. My father was not even 55. He could have been saved with proper medical advice. He was otherwise in the prime of his health. He was a bodybuilder in his youth and did Akhara (Indian system gym). He could do several sit-ups and was an expert in wielding lathi for self-defence. Yet he died of his ignorance and an ignorant doctor. Later, my doctor relative from Nagpur told us that had we consulted them earlier he would have lived a normal life.
I have inherited hypotension from my father but I have a normal life with lifestyle changes without any medications. I know if there are no or very mild symptoms no medicines are required. For pronounced symptoms, more salt, compression stockings, plenty of water and the drug fludrocortisone which boosts blood volume is often used to treat orthostatic hypotension that occurs when standing up. As I see it now my father probably had orthostatic hypotension. I know all this because I have searched online about my condition which many doctors of today don’t like you to do. But I think besides consulting a doctor research about your illness helps provided you have objective thinking; an analytical mind and you are not paranoid.
My undiagnosed micro-episodes of Blurry visions:
I sometimes used to have very short episodes of blurred vision which my research indicated could also be on account of hypotension. These started some 20-21 years back and occurred especially after hours of strenuous brain work. I shared this information with a medicine specialist in a local and then-only corporate hospital in the year 2005. Interestingly he dismissed my thinking that hypotension might be causing the occasional blurred vision and asked me to get tested for diabetes, get my eyes tested for the optic nerve and get a CT scan of the brain not listening to what I had to suggest. He advised me politely to keep away from the internet. When asked what he wanted from the CT scan, he said he wanted to look at the optic nerve. I inquired whether the resolution of a CT scan was good enough to show up optic nerve. He then looked thoughtful and changed the CT scan recommendation to an MRI. He looked a bit annoyed with me for asking probing questions. All these tests including the eye test came back negative, and the cause has remained undiagnosed. Interestingly after the brain scan the young radiologist asked me if I was in substance abuse. I don’t even smoke tobacco. I asked him why he was asking this and he said because my brain looked shrunken 10 years ahead of my age at that time. This left me worried, and I consulted many neurologists who finally agreed that there was no clinical correlation between the scan and my mental faculties. I am an engineer with a management master and do complex work. Eighteen years have passed I am still very agile mentally. One neurologist told me that science doesn’t know more than 1% about the mysteries of our mind and it is ironical that we diagnose and try to treat it. During that time, I purchased an illustrated book called “The Brain” which I later donated to the senior’s library in the society where I live. I still have eight CDs about the subject all of which in brief support that wise doctor’s point that Science doesn’t know much about the brain and that the brain is very plastic and very adaptive. Even human neural networks can learn and adapt to changes like after an injury.
My experiences with Homeopathy:
GERD:
Several years back when we were expecting our first child Archana developed shortness of breath. It was even becoming difficult for her to climb the railway foot over-bridge. Someone suggested a homoeopathic doctor in Durgapur (WB) where we lived then. He gave her medicines which then cost about Rs 10 for 15 days and advised her to eat an apple every day. In 2-3 months, she was completely cured. That problem has never occurred even after 45 years. That built our faith in homoeopathy.
Later in 1984-85 while we were in Delhi she developed a very small round boil-like thing in her upper eyelid. The eye surgeon suggested surgery of which she was scared as she thought it might disfigure her eye. We went to a homeopath. He gave her some medicine to take a few drops 3 times a day. In 3 months, the thing disappeared and has never appeared again.
In 2008-09, I suffered severe bouts of uncontrollable coughs especially during the night. No cough syrups helped. The problem became so severe that once when in Mumbai I had to visit an ENT specialist. He told me that there was oedema (swelling) inside the oesophagus. He prescribed some steroids unknown to me which helped temporarily till these tablets were taken (14 days). The coughs returned.
During that time, I happened to travel to Coimbatore. In the plane’s in-house journal, I found the advertisement for an ENT super-speciality hospital in that town. I took some time off from my work and visited that hospital. They inserted a camera and looked inside. The diagnosis was GERD. I was briefed by the doctor that GERD happens because a muscle above our stomach relaxes too much and allows stomach contents to come back up into our oesophagus and mouth. resulting in symptoms which include chronic cough, hoarseness, reflux-induced laryngitis, or asthma which I was feeling. He prescribed a proton pump inhibitor (Moza-5). Moza-5 Tablet reduces the amount of acid our stomach makes and relieves the pain associated with heartburn and acid reflux. He asked me to take it for 14 days. He cautioned me that prolonged use of this medicine will inhibit nutrition absorption in the body but said that some of his patients were taking these for up to six months.
Back in Bhubaneswar, the symptoms returned, and I consulted a gastroenterologist in a local corporate hospital. Again, I went through first the barium meal test and then the unpleasant experience of a camera going inside. The diagnosis was the same. The doctor told me to go for certain lifestyle changes and prescribed Omeprazole. Omeprazole is a type of medicine called a proton pump inhibitor (PPI). Proton pumps are enzymes in the lining of your stomach that help it make acid to digest food. Omeprazole prevents proton pumps from working properly which reduces the amount of acid the stomach makes. Continued use of proton pump inhibitors can have serious side effects like bone fracture, gut infection and even cancer. It must be taken under doctor consultation and monitoring.
Frustrated, I finally consulted a homoeopath in Dehradun. He kept me under his treatment for about a year. Used to send medicine by parcel- never told me the names. I got my first relief in a week. I followed all his instructions about food. I am completely cured now, and GERD has not returned since then. I don’t take any proton pump inhibitors which interfere with our natural system. But some of the people I know continue to take it regularly. My friend in the UK told me that their doctors say it is all right to take it daily.
Rheumatoid Arthritis:
In 2019, I noticed some swelling in my left-hand middle and index finger knuckles which was painful. I went to a corporate hospital medicine OPD. The doctor after a physical examination sent me to the orthopaedic OPD (I had to pay again). They asked me to get an X-ray. It was found good. The orthopaedic doctor then sent me to Rheumatology super speciality (I paid again). They asked me to get some blood tests done. The blood work came out good. The doctor saw it but then said that he was certain that it was Rheumatoid arthritis only which the blood test wasn’t indicating and prescribed medications for two months asking to come back after that. I was worried so asked him about the prognosis. He said it cannot be cured but can be controlled with medicines. The doctor did not brief me about the way medicines had to be taken and said that it was in the prescription. I purchased the tablets and started taking them. After four days I noticed that one strip of 28 tablets had numbers printed from 1 to 28 on the backside. The numbers were in very small print and not easily noticeable due to the shining cover. I then searched online and found that the active ingredients were in 1st, 7th, 14th, 21st and 28th tablets only. Others were folic acid tablets. I was now worried that not having been properly briefed I had taken active ingredients meant spaced over 28 days in four consecutive days. I contacted the doctor again. He asked me for a weekly CBC for four weeks and then to repeat all the blood tests that were done earlier for diagnosis. Thankfully there was no complication. There were no issues, but this ordeal and unnecessary expenses could have been avoided had the doctor spent a few minutes and explained things. At the end of this ordeal, I asked the doctor why he did not brief me properly. He said he was pressed for time as there was a long queue and that generally pharmacy people tell you how to take and that since I appeared like a well-educated individual, he assumed that I would notice this numbering. This doctor does not give his mobile number. He said if you want to talk to me come to my OPD.
Meanwhile, I had researched my condition and the side effects of the prescribed medicines and found that one of the tablets could affect eyesight adversely and an eye check every six months was recommended. This the doctor hadn’t told me but was later confirmed in subsequent follow-ups. During one of my visits to the hospital, I met a gentleman who also lives in the same society where I live. He told me that he had the same problem which has now been resolved by homeopathic medicines. He further informed me that the prescribed allopathic medicine slows down the immune system. It was the COVID period, and everybody talked about the immune system and how people with weak immune systems can get affected quickly. I saw the doctor and spoke to him. He confirmed that the drug reduced immunity to an extent and that If I wanted, I could stop these medicines as he did not know whether it could make me more prone to getting infected with COVID-19. I asked him if he was going to give this advice to his other patients many of whom looked quite bad compared to me. He kept a stoic silence.
I consulted my homoeopathic doctor in Dehradun. Earlier he had cured me of very bad GERD which modern doctors said had to be managed only. He prescribed two medicines for my rheumatic fingers. Two drops of each were to be taken morning and night. I started these in the middle of 2020 and am continuing these and I am good. There is no swelling and pain. I also do finger exercises which were told by the rheumatologist. I explained this to the super-specialist. He opined that my condition might have gone into remission and that it happens sometimes. When alternative medicines work modern doctors always say this kind of thing.
A Bad Case of Eczema:
One of my senior friends then Additional Chief Architect with BDA had very bad eczema which modern doctors were unable to cure. It was an unsightly scene and smelled bad. Finally, he took Unani medicines and was cured completely.
A Case of skin shedding auto-immune condition:
Another friend had a condition wherein his palm skin shedding rate became more than the new skin formation rate. Modern doctors said this was an autoimmune condition and were not able to cure him. He was given steroid ointments which helped temporarily only. He was finally cured by homoeopathy.
Corporate Hospitals:
Corporate hospitals have profit goals as opposed to charitable and/or government hospitals. Corporate hospitals have a profit-oriented business model in place. Doctors work on a salary and commission basis. They have targets. They must generate revenues from testing facilities, pharmacies, operation theatres and so on. They also have partnerships with health insurers and private medical practitioners.
I once knew the GM- marketing of a renowned corporate hospital chain. On condition of anonymity, he told me that private doctors receive commissions in cash and kind for referrals. The commission is based on the billing. Pharmaceutical companies have partnerships with doctors and hospitals which makes the cost of medical supplies very high to the patient. Once a patient is admitted to a corporate hospital the first thing, they ask is his/her insurance details. If there is no insurance the next thing is the credit card. That decides in most cases the billing pattern. As soon as they understand that the patient can pay, they start milking him recommending several tests that may not be necessary for the sole purpose of generating revenues to meet their targets and to get bonuses. Once I met a group of medical representatives from Novartis. They told me that giving cars as bonuses to doctors even in towns like Cuttack and Bhubaneswar is common practice. The cars are in the company name. The doctor’s family uses it. Based on revenue generation the car can be upgraded. Small things like freeze and microwave are plenty in circulation.
A good doctor should be like a medical detective where his experience and observations are very important. But this is rarely seen today. In a medical seminar, a large group of spinal surgeons were shown X-rays of the spine of a patient and were asked to vote for surgery options. Ninety-seven per cent recommended surgery. The question was then modified, and they were told to assume that the scan belonged to their wife. The vote sharply fell to 37%. The question was again modified, and this time they were told to assume that it was their own scan. The vote now fell down to 3%. So, the conclusion is if it weren’t their family or them, they would recommend the complex unnecessary surgery which could even endanger the patient’s life or disable him/her for life. This can only be for revenue generation without regard to whether the patient needs it or not.
My Sciatica pain:
Recently I suffered from a searing pain that used to start from my left hip and coursed down to my leg like an electrical current. I learned that it was Sciatica pain which goes down the leg from the lower back. This pain may go down the back, outside, or front of the leg. Onset is often sudden following activities like heavy lifting, though gradual onset may also occur. In my case, it was sudden during a gym exercise in Pune in July 2023. Lower back pain was previously present. Weakness and numbness occurred in the affected leg and foot.
I consulted an orthopaedists. Told him about my thinking. An MRI was taken in the facility recommended by him. He found the MRI normal with only age-related degenerative changes. Did not speak about Sciatica at all. I told him that MRI had also reported a cyst which may be irritating the nerve and causing pain. He dismissed me with a smile and told me that it was normal pain due to age-related degenerative changes based on my clinical symptoms and that the MRI was ok for my age. I wondered as to why then an expensive MRI was needed.
He recommended to me what he called “the first line of treatment” which consisted of physiotherapy to be self-done at home (he gave me a picture chart still on my freeze at home). He prescribed painkillers and asked me to use topical sprays /creams need-based. I did not get any better with these and consulted him again after a few days. He said that the second line of treatment was a steroid injection to be given in the hip joint in the OT. The cost of the injection I found was under Rs 400/- but they would charge me Rs 10000/- I was in great pain and so waited for the injection but the doctor incidentally got delayed in surgery and asked us to come the next day. While sitting there for two hours I researched the subject and found that such injections are effective in about 70% of cases and that too only a temporary relief for up to three months. After that, they can be repeated but each time the efficacy would go down. Also, there was a chance of infection as in all procedures. I decided against it and decided to go for nerve pain medications instead along with light stretching exercises as I had discovered that the chart routines increased my pain. My research also indicated that such pains in most cases usually go away in six to eight weeks as the nerves adapt to the pinching. The next day the hospital receptionist followed me up for Rs 10000/- payment and as to when I could go there.
Meanwhile, my daughter in Kolkata told me about a young orthopaedist and that I should try him. I had a video consultation in which he told me about an injection in the ankle and said that many patients never came back after that as they were assumed cured. He spoke against the one in the hip. I travelled to Kolkata. A fresh MRI was done as this doctor said that the MRI, I already had, did not have enough resolution. During the fresh MRI at his recommended facility, I checked for the machine type and found that it was similar but belonged to another company. They did not have a better machine and told me that the doctor knew about it. I confronted the doctor and he said that it was a newer machine that technology changes all the time and that the radiologist who analyses the scan in this facility is very good. He was also upset that I had cross-checked. Interestingly the first MRI had found a cyst somewhere in the spinal structure near the hip joint whereas there was no trace of a cyst in this one. In any case, I went to this doctor’s clinic with the scans. He gave me injections in the ankle after a lot of sermons which hurt me a lot as this young doctor was now being rude due to my questioning earlier in the day. All his charm on video call had disappeared now. He advised that I should learn to live with some pain as my spinal structure would not get any better due to age-related degenerative changes. About the injection, he said he would not charge anything if it did not work and went away probably on a call or to his home as his wife had been calling him over the phone. After he was gone, and we had purchased medicines at the clinic’s shop the receptionist gave us a bill and insisted on payment, or she would not let us go. There was security at the door. I told her to ask the doctor as he had said that if the injections did not work, he would not charge. She said that the doctor was out of coverage area. We ultimately paid the bill. The injection worked partially for 48 hours only and after that new symptoms developed in my left foot. It started getting numb which I reckon may have been due to the anaesthesia in the injection cocktail. We came back from Kolkata with Rs 50000/- down which did not include hotel expenses as we preferred staying near the facility and clinic due to my painful condition.
After coming back from Kolkata, I stopped all allopathic medicines and started on electric nerve stimulation in a physiotherapy clinic. My research has shown that electrical impulses can stop the pain signals going to the brain, which may help relieve pain. They may also stimulate the production of endorphins, which are the body's natural painkillers. Clinical studies have shown that electrical stimulation enhances axon growth during nerve repair and accelerates sensorimotor recovery. I went for 25 sessions and benefitted a lot. After that, I purchased a home model of the machines which I use SOS. Surprisingly the orthopaedists never told me about the machine. The experienced physiotherapist with whom I had 25 sessions told me that their goal was to take me to the operating table for spinal surgery which was very renumerating for them. He said in more than 80% of the cases physiotherapy with machines works. When asked why he did not have his facilities adjunct to an orthopaedist, he told me that earlier he had his facilities in an orthopaedist’s clinic on a commission-sharing basis. However, it did not work for the doctor as 80% of the patients did not go back to the doctor reducing his revenues drastically.
For my condition, I have also used Jasmine leaf kadha for pain management and homoeopathic medicines R-70 (for neuralgia pain) and R-71 (for sciatica). I am much better now and still taking homoeopathic medicines SOS. I later learned that back pain in humans is one of the most prevalent conditions which has evolutionary reasons. Homopterans evolved from species that walked on all four and hence our spinal structure has curves which results in the pinching of nerves due to our physical/occupational activities. Even the much younger doctor whom I went to in the first instance I later learned had lower back and sciatica issues which were occupational.
Archana’s Hyper Tension:
Recently when we were in Pune my wife’s BP suddenly started going berserk. Panicked my daughter took her to a corporate hospital emergency. I told the doctor on duty that on an earlier occasion, she had her BP gone up very much and that at that time we had gone for a complete heart check-up. The diagnosis was vertigo and with vertigo medicine she was ok. The doctor said she had to follow the stroke protocol. My daughter and son-in-law asked me not to show my Google knowledge to the doctor and let them do what they thought was good. We deposited Rs 100000/-. She was admitted to the ICU. Shifted to the room the next day and was released on the following day with a Vertigo diagnosis. They only changed the brand of her BP medicine to a more expensive one and introduced one more. We were down by about Rs 80000/-
My elder brother’s cancer:
In 2016-17, one of my older brothers who lived in Nagpur was diagnosed with cancer of the food pipe. He underwent chemo and radiation treatment as prescribed. The scans showed that except in one portion, he was free from cancer. It was recommended to go for surgery to remove that portion. The remaining length of the food pipe they said would be adequate. My brother searched for an expert who routinely did such procedures and came to know about a doctor in Pune. They went to Pune hospital for a discussion. All the tests were done again though they had all recent reports. After the tests, the doctor said he would operate as this was a good case with a high chance of recovery. The hospital offered a package which they accepted and signed as an agreement without reading the fine print. They were not briefed about the conditions. They came back and again went to the Pune hospital on the appointed day. We were in constant touch. After two days they deposited 100% of the agreed sum. He was taken to the OT. During the operation, the doctor asked them to buy some clips from their store to close the wound. These clips cost Rs 80000/- The hospital said the cost of accessories and medicines was not part of the package. After the operation, he was taken to the ICU for which only two nights’ cost was part of the package. He had to be kept in the ICU for about 14 days due to complications. His lungs had collapsed and he was unable to breathe naturally. He was put on a ventilator. The family went down by Rs 1400000/- including the package cost. In the end, the doctors said that for some time his brain had not received oxygen and most probably had been damaged. When the hospital discovered that the family had no more money they asked them to take away the patient by clearing the final bill. They took him to Nagpur on life support in an ambulance with an accompanying doctor all of which was very expensive. They put him into the ICU of a hospital in Nagpur on arrival. On the family’s request “Life support” was taken off and he died quickly around midnight. The whole experience was traumatic. Regarding the collapse of the lungs, the surgeon said that radiation to the throat affects the lungs and that there was always a possibility of lung collapse. He had not pre-informed the family about this. He said that the operation was successful but the patient died of causes not related to the surgery. The relatives did not pursue the case as it would have been an unequal fight.
If I continue writing I can go on and on describing about happenings with my family and friends most of which indicate greediness and arrogance in medical professionals. I sometimes feel that seniors like me will ultimately exhaust all our savings to some corporate hospital. One of my friends one day during the morning walk told us that if he fell sick seriously we should let him go not put him on life support as he wants his wife to have some money left after he is gone.
In the foregoing, I have shared some of my experiences with doctors of various hues and colours. We hear about doctors/pharmacies/test labs and corporate hospitals/insurance company nexus all the time which hurts us. When the patient has health insurance the corporate hospitals inflate the bill with unnecessary and at times fake tests/billing. According to a report about 6 in 10 corporate hospitals are involved in this. Yet last 10 years data shows that insurance companies have a 14-15% return on their investments. Corporate hospitals are also making a profit. Then who is bleeding?- the patient is paying as insurance companies resort to “Co-pay” - the patient pays for inadmissible things and if treatment is taken outside their network hospital. When someone has to be taken to a hospital in an emergency no nobody can have the patience to look for a network hospital. During the Covid pandemic, a husband-wife duo contracted COVID-19 and they moved themselves to a corporate hospital being scared. The hospital kept them there till their complete medical coverage was exhausted. Their daughter arrived on hearing and found that they weren’t getting any specialised treatment and that they did not look sick but were depressed due to being in the hospital. The coverage having been exhausted the hospital was too happy to release them “at your own risk” they had said. They were taken to another hospital which released them in 2 days after the required tests which came negative. Lay people are not competent to critically analyse corporate hospital behaviour but the couple felt cheated. I am not competent to judge the medical profession but have generally felt that this profession is full of unscrupulous elements which have made this noble profession being looked at with suspicion. Even the governmental insurance to people below the poverty line is reported full of fraud and it is high time that the government does something drastic to regulate government-run and corporate medical care in general to weed out corrupt practices.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
A WEEK IN THE LAP OF HIMALAYAS
On one hot and sultry morning in June, I wake up as usual early but did not want to carry on with my daily routine-morning walk. I was sitting in my balcony alone with a hot cup of tea and it struck to my mind –why not take a break from this worldly routine and all hustle and bustle of city and escape to the cool mountains .Mountains - Dhauladhar and Himalayas were calling. Our confinement to the close home environ –a fallout o f Covid -19 protocol was monotonous ,drab and boring almost for long two years , had impacted our psychic which needed healing touch. We needed a change and Sensing our uneasiness in the mid of summer , our children had secretly collaborated to chalk out a travel itinerary to send us towards the cool mountain ranges ,so that we can celebrate our 43 anniversary at the hill stations at Dalhousie and Dharmasala in Himachal Pradesh-a mountainous province famous for its popular hill-stations and picturesque Himalayan landscapes.
As per travel plan we took a Vistara flight from Bhubaneswar to Amritsar via New Delhi and arrived at Sri Guru Ram Dass Jee International Airport, Amritsar by 3 pm. A Punjabi driver, with his Toyota sedan A.C., was in wait at the exit gate and drove us to our pre booked hotel in front of the Golden Temple , Amritsar. After a memorable stay for two days, we left for Dalhousie at a distance of 197km –a favorite haunt for family vacations, in Himachal Pradesh. The small serpentine mountainous road from Pathankot to Dalhousie passing through Dhauladhar mountain range offers panoramic views and opportunities to capture the enchantingly river valleys ,natural landscape and pine clad valleys in our cameras and mobiles .The scenic beauty of the fast flowing river Ravi arrested by a multipurpose river dam offers the passers by most spectacular views to relish with .After two hours cautious drive our driver cum guide pulled the brake at parking lot of our destination –the hill station Dalhousie-The Nesta Elements , located in one of the most spectacular areas , Panchpula ,Balera Road,Dalhousie in the afternoon.
DALHOUSIE
The tiny tinsel town founded in 1854, by the British was a summer resort and retreat for the British officials during the British Raj. The beauty of the area and the pleasant climate enticed the British Governor General Lord Dalhousie so much so that, the town is named after him. History of Dalhousie enumerated an array of events that started taking place in the 1800s. After the Sikh war, the state of Punjab came under the dominion of the British in the year 1849. Lt. Col. Naipier , the chief engineer of Punjab, who first spotted this beautiful spot in the Chamba valley in 1850 inclined to develop it as a hill-station. It was in the year 1854 that Sir Donald Mcleod , the then Lt. Governor of Punjab suggested that this place be named after the famous Viceroy of British India- Lord Dalhousie. Since then the mountain town of Dalhousie maintained a steady pace and slowly developed as a well –developed pristine hill town and assumed the sobriquet- Queen of hill-stations. Dalhousie is located in Chamba district at an elevation of more than 6400 feet above sea level. It treat its visitors with breathtaking views of the majestic snow capped Pir Panjal mountain range, Sach Pass and Pangi Valley. The hotels amidst the plunging pine –clad valleys and mountain ranges, in the heart of Himalayas, provides the visitors with serenity which makes them feel one with nature.
Our hotel –The Nesta Elements-provided us a deck side room in the 4th floor, facing the Pine-clad hill housing the school area , which offered a nice valley view of the pine-clad hills up to the hill top Mount School, along with a number of residential international schools located in that area. The famous DPS (Dalhousie Public School) -with a multilayer big campus with a high rise mast on which the National Tricolor fly proudly competing with the tall Pine foliage is the center of attraction. Added to these attractions, just beyond D.P.S on the Khajjiar road in Dalhousie , there is a small but beautifully maintained park –Beeji’s Park dedicated to all the mothers inaugurated on 15th oct.2016 by Admiral Sunil Lamba, Chief of Naval Staff with a motto ‘God Can’t be everywhere so He created Mothers’. A full size fighter jet with all ammunitions, tank and armed vehicles, are the main attractions to draw the tourist’s attention. The enchanting pine clad hill views - capable enough to refresh your mind and rejuvenate your soul for sure.
KHAJJIAR
Khajiiar lies on a small plateau 25 km from Dalhousie, with a small stream-fed lake in the middle that has been covered with weeds. Settled in a picturesque setting amid Himalayas, it is one of the most visited places in Dalhousie. Snuggled amid a thick cover of deodar and pine trees with the snow capped Himalayas in the backdrop, Khajjiar is a delightful picnic spot. It is about 6500 ft above the sea level in the foothills of the Dhauladhar range of western Himalayas . We were mesmerized by the captivating beauty of the meadows and the ongoing adventure sports activities like horse riding, zeroing, paragliding by the children and young visitors. We just walked and explored the blessed environment and rested for a while on the wood log and enjoyed the ongoing sports. As it has a rare combination of treat-ecosystems-lake, pasture, and forest; It has been named as ‘Switzerland in India’. After a satisfying detour to Khajjiar , we called it a day and returned to our cozy resorts- the Nesta Element .
DHARAMSHALA.
The third leg of our tour –a 117km drive in the serpentine mountain road to Dharmashala took nearly 3 hours. Driving through the road fraught with avalanche and the visible sight of mauling impact of last year’s cloud burst and landslides were spine chilling but challenging one. As there was a drizzle at the start of our journey from Dalhousie , we were apprehensive about possible cloudburst as that area has experienced the impact of last year’s pre monsoon casualties. But each turn of the zigzag route unfolding stunning views of the mountain ranges and the green meadows and valleys distracted our attention from the vestigial remnant of last year’s landslides. When we reached Sahapur town it was almost 2pm and we took our sumptuous lunch in a Punjabi Dhaba . While approaching Dharmashala –at a distance of 20km, we could view the Majestic Snow capped Dhauladhar range gloriously spreading its white wings over the horizon-a viewer’s sheer delight.
Situated at an average altitude of 1475 meters above the sea level ,Dharmashala lies on the scenic stretch of land of Kangra valley making tourist spellbound for its spectacular beauty ,often cited as the “Little Lasha of India”. Dharamshala is popularly known as the holy residence of the exiled Tibetan monk Dalai lama. The city of Dharamshala is divided into two distinct divisions –the lower division is Dharamshala and the upper division is known as Mcleod Ganj. Blessed with spectacular scenes of nature, the calm and serene hill stations proudly boast strong influences with many quaint old monasteries located here. With the backdrop of the breathtaking Dhauladhar range, Dharamshala is one of the most tranquil destinations in north India where we could realize the perfect amalagamation of natural beauty and cultural tapestry. Surrounded by thick deodar, cedar trees and snow capped peaks which decorate the landscape quaint city is visited by thousands of tourist to beat the summer blues.
DHARAMSHALA CRICKET STADIUM
Our first stop was at the gate of Himachal Pradesh Cricket Association Stadium, one of the most beautiful grounds at a high altitude -1475 meters, in the world. The panoramic cricket stadium with the snow capped Dhauladhar offers an enchanting and everlasting view to the visitors. The stadium has been a host to several International and IPL matches. After a short visit to the stadium gallery and taking few shots, we proceeded to Mcleod Ganj –a ten minutes drive.
MCLEOD GANJ
Nestled amidst majestic hills and lush greenery, Mcleod Ganj is famous for being home to the world-renowned Tibetan Spiritual leader the 14th Dalai Lama. Mcleod Ganj was named after Sir Donald Friell Mcleod , a Lieutenant Governor of Punjab. During the British rule in India ,the town was a hill station where the British spent hot summers, and by 1855 two civilian settlements Mcleod Ganj and Forsyth Ganj were vibrant with activities .Lord Elgin ,the British Viceroy of India(1862-63) liked the area so much that at one point of time he suggested it be made the summer capital of India. He died at Dharamshala while on a tour there on 20,Nov.1863 ,and lies buried at the St. John in the wilderness church at Forsyth Ganj, just below Mcleod Ganj. While driving towards the Dalai Lama Temple, we halted for few minutes to stroll in the wilderness to visit St. John Church; the ancient Anglican church built in 1852 .We could locate the memorial built by Lady Elgin in honor of her husband in the cemetery behind the church.
Incidentally, the summer house of Lord Elgin, became part of the private estate of Lala Basheshar Nath of Lahore and was acquired by the Govt. of India to house the official residence of the Dalai Lama. In March 1959, Tenzin Gyatso ,the 14th Dalai Lama fled to India after a failed uprising in Tibet against the Chinese Communist Party. The Indian Govt. offered him refuge in Dharamshala, where he set up the Govt. of Tibet in exile in 1960,while Mcleod Ganj became his official residence and also home to several Buddhist monasteries and thousands of Tibetan refugees. Over the years , Mcleod Ganja evolved into an important tourist and pilgrimage destination.
DALAI LAMA TEMPLE
The most important site in the town of Mcleod Ganj is Tugglagkhang –THE Dalai Lama temple. We drove through the narrow street lined with shops of various accessories run by the Tibetans up to the Dalai Lama temple parkings. Putting our masks we entered the temple. It is a huge temple ,and statues of Shakyamuni, Avalokiteswar,and Padmasamhava –the 2nd important person after Buddha who hailed from the Lalitgiri Odisha ,are worshipped . This is the largest Tibetan Temple outside Tibet containing some beautiful statues and thangkas ,as well as a Kalachakra temple with beautiful murals. After passing few hours in the tranquil of the monastery, we left for a visit to the nearby Tibetan market for purchase of some exotic gift items for friends.
Other Buddhist and Tibetan sites in Mcleod Ganj include the Namagyal Monastry,the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives,Karampa Temple and Norbilingka Institute to mention which we failed to visit due to heavy rain in the afternoon. We called it a day and returned to our hotel –BobsnBarley and to have a delightful 360 degree view of the city and Dhauladhar range from the spectacular Roof Terrace while enjoying a world –class selection of food and drink.
As we have to catch the next day Vistara flight from Amritsar at 3 pm, and to cover a distance of 201km, giving instruction to awake us early and to settle our bills, we retired to bed early. We left early in the morning with complimentary breakfast boxes to enjoy en route Amritsar. Thanks to our driver cum guide Suraj Singhji for dropping us at the Amritsar Airport much before the departure time .Our dates with the hill-stations came to an end as we embarked on our home ward journey –our mind loaded with unforgettable experience and sweet memories via New Delhi and reached at Bhubaneswar by 9pm .
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.
Nowadays, it is virtually impossible for us to imagine how we have lived before the smart phone and internet existed. Before the smart phone and internet have lured us into the world-wide-web (www), we were socially well-knit and environmentally well-connected. Children gathered together and played outdoors, the elder people gathered together in the open places of the neighbourhood and discussed everything under the sun. Our celebrations and festivals were more vibrant and colourful in the pre-smart phone/internet era.
Onam is the national festival of Kerala. In my childhood, Onam used to be the greatest occasion for the people to get together. We, the boys and girls of my village called Chembakkara, would play a game with a ball made with coconut-palm leaves. The game was called thalappanthu-kali. There would be two teams. Each team could have as many members as it could have. Each member of the team would rotate the ball around his or her head and throw it up and hit it with the palm when it comes down. The opposite team members would field the ground. If the ball was caught before it fell on the ground, the player would be out. If one could hit the ball ten times (thalama one, thalama two, thalama three ….) at a stretch without having caught, the team would get one point. Thalama means around the head.
How many children there were! Krishnachechi, Remachechi, Suseelachechi and Viswedathi were the elders. Chechi and Edathi in Malayalam mean elder sister—didi. Then there were Geetha, Latha, Reetha, Babu, Baby, Jessy, Ramesh, Rajesh, Mukundan, Reghu, Radha, Kannan, Remani, my brother and I.
This game was played in a grassy enclosure called moochithottam. It was called so because there was many mango trees and cashew-nut trees—moochikal—in this compound. In between the play there would occur noisy quarrels. Shouting, yelling and swearing could be heard. If I caught a ball when it nearly touched the ground, my teammates would clamour for the head of the player. The other team would argue that I hadn’t caught the ball at all. I would swear that I had.
“You lie, Liar!” Krishnachechi who was the captain of the other team would shout.
“You are lying; I am not” I would retort.
Then she along with her team-mates would call me my nick-name. My brother who was my permanent enemy would always be in the opposite team and his calling me my nick-name would be heard over the other sounds.
“I am leaving. I won’t play with you fellows; foul-players.” I would shout.
“You are the foul player. Go away.” Somebody would shout in return.
“Shut up.” I with my team-mates would yell. The verbal abuse would continue and at last we would drop the game and begin a new one. Hide and seek or something else.
Nobody sat inside to celebrate Onam. Everybody would be outside in the open air. The time of Onam—the Onakkaalam—used to be the most beautiful time of Nature. The whole earth would be covered with lush green. Wherever we looked, flowers would be seen smiling at us. Thetchippoo, thumbappoo, mukkuttippoo, poochedippoo, mandh?rappoo, gandhar?jan, nandhy?rvattam, Krishnakireedam so on and so forth. Dragonflies—?nathumbikal—would be seen flying everywhere. A sweet smell would pervade in the atmosphere—the smell of harvest.
The elder people would gather on a ground and play a game called Karakali. A small wooden ball and hooked sticks would be used to play this game. It was a kind of hockey. As it was a vigorous play, somebody would usually be injured. We boys would encourage the team we like to win the game. But it was dangerous to watch the game as the ball might come and hit the onlookers.
We have had only outdoor recreations. Even if we were indoors, our entertainments were collective.
In our celebrations we used to include the animals too. There was a separate Onam for the cattle—Ayilyam and Makam. The cows and bullocks would be bathed and rice-flour paste would be smeared on their horns on the day of Ayilyam. The next day—Makam—turmeric would also be added to the rice-flour paste. For many days after this, their horns would remain yellow coloured.
Today, there is no Onam for the cattle in my village. Children don't play games like thalappanthu-kali. Onam used to be a festival of togetherness; but today it is not. Festivals that used to make us mingle with the people around are swallowed by the digital world and both the elder people and the children are alike trapped in the unreal world of the world-wide-web forgetting to be down to earth. The world is at our finger-tips, but we are seperated from our immediate surroundings and environment. The world is at our finger-tips, but we are out of the real world.
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.
A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER - SHRI B. N. MISHRA, A DISTINGUISHED POLICE OFFICER
Human being descends on earth to enhance its soul during an ephemeral life’s journey. In family, father is a great character on the altar of life. It gives me immense pleasure to write a few words about my father (Nana) who was not only a complete family man but also a consummate social worker.
Nana was born in an Odia Brahmin family in Baramba town under the district of Cuttack, Odisha. His father was a very popular school teacher. Out of eight siblings Nana was the fifth child. He left Baramba for Cuttack city in search of job opportunities. Odisha Police was his clear choice into which he poured his heart and soul throughout the entire service tenure.
At the age of 21, he tied nuptial knot with my mother, Bidyut Prava Devi who was a resident of Cuttack city. Mother’s parental family later settled in Shahid Nagar, Bhubaneswar. We have most of our relatives based in Bhubaneswar, Cuttack and nearby places. Nana was lovingly addressed as “Udi” which was his nick name. The name was derived from Udayanath (“The Sun”) as he was born in the early morning.
Always in the mode of rendering unconditional support to people, Nana possibly chose to be in Police so that his capacity would be enhanced to serve people better. Ever dynamic in nature, ‘laziness’ was a word missing in his dictionary. He was a born-optimist and “move forward” was his commonplace slogan as mentioned by his co-workers.
When I was born, Nana had lost his father only four days before. The sorrow was extremely deep in the family, possibly bit alleviated due to my birth at the same time. So he used to say that his father was reborn as new born “me”. Nana was working with CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation), Bhubaneswar when I was born. The profile made him move frequently around places like Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Patna, Ranchi, Chennai and Bhopal etc. Almost 20 days in a month he used be away from home. Our entire family was staying in his CBI quarter. On return Nana used to get variety of eatables and other items spreading happiness in the family.
Residents inside our CBI campus were people from various states like Bihar, West Bengal, Andhra Pradesh, Tamilnadu and Kerala etc making it a healthy, integrated and cosmopolitan living.
His warm and broad heart was associated with a profound discipline. While staying in CBI colony, I used to see him walking to office in a superfast speed. The CBI office was in front of our quarter. Independence day/Republic day celebrations in his official campus were visible from our balcony – really lively and memorable shows by well-organized policemen wearing red-colored feathered caps offering salute to our National flag.
For any matter official or personal, Nana used to give utmost importance to time and resources. Careless delay on any matter (official or personal), you invoke his anger. Our family and his colleagues experienced this quite a lot on perceived trivial matters. If a bulb or fan is not switched off when no one was in the room, it was not taken in a good eye although there was provision of free electricity in our quarter. This was a clear sign of his elevated consciousness exhibiting love and care for the preservation and protection of the environment.
His emphasis on honesty, simplicity, courage, dutifulness, kindness, discipline and work ethics were exemplary. He used eat food in relatively less quantity and maintained a slim figure throughout his life.
His contributions to family, extended family and surrounding circle were truly noteworthy. His parents had immense trust on him due to his unquestionable sense of responsibility, goodwill and caring attitude.
Due to his friendly and sociable nature, he was notably visible in the crowd. His straightforward approach, clear voice, concise speaking and ever-ready helping attitude were prime facets of his affable persona.
Once a carpenter, old in age, reached our quarter in Cuttack during the late evening. He was looking very upset and fatigued. A person in his locality was troubling him and boasting of bribing the police. Nana (in role of SP, Vigilance) called the local police station and spoke in his usual concise style, good enough for the Police to rush into action and arrest the culprit in the same night. “You are Lord Jagannath” – words of gratitude came out of the mouth of the relieved carpenter.
Any sensational crime report published in the newspaper used to catch attention of people around. The usual expectation was that it would come under the purview of my father. That was the skill, trust and capability he had demonstrated in the public and the police department. Many Police Chiefs of Odisha had heaped lavish praise on him in formal and informal forums. One Police chief commented – “He was an institution by himself”. Since my primary school days, I had seen his name appearing on “The Times of India” newspaper. Also local newspaper like “The Samaj” used to publish his name and photo for important matters. Overall media focus was quite strong highlighting his involvement in key Police affairs.
He used to excel in the examinations conducted in the Police department. His articles were being published in Odisha Police magazine. IPS officers learnt special skills from him. Also he served as President of Odisha Police Service association for some period.
Variety of people like businessmen, engineers, doctors, teachers, bankers, IAS/IPS officers used to meet him for his invaluable counsel, guidance and support. He was ever welcoming and offering support with enthusiasm exhibiting a true sign of love for the mankind. His official and legal authority and numerous key connections with a mix of human values had positive impact in various spheres at Odisha and National level bringing solace and peace to many people. When I visited Mumbai after graduation, I could reach 21st floor of Air India building at Nariman point and meet a senior IPS officer for his counsel and support. A top banker working in Nariman point, Mumbai had expressed his love and respect for Nana during a conversation with me. While working in Madhya Pradesh, Collector and District magistrate of concerned locality was well accessible to me. These were few examples of Nana’s widespread popularity and far-reaching network.
He challenged corruption never caring for any hierarchy or high authority, so could take action on top bureaucrats and politicians establishing the supremacy of Law.
In his CBI role, a corrupted officer tried to offer him a huge amount as bribe. His harsh rejection of the bribe made the officer tremble in fear.
Odisha Chief Minister Biju Patnaik met him in person and discussed on crucial matters important for Odisha Assembly.
Editor of the famous newspaper “The Samaj”, Dr Radhanath Rath expressed deep affection for Nana during a meeting.
Principals of NIT Rourkela, SCB medical college and Ravenshaw college in Cuttack availed his support when there was a need.
His deputation of five years in CBI was extended to one and half a decade due to excellent performance. Later he was offered permanent posting in CBI Head office, Delhi which he refused. He was honored with President’s medal for “Meritorious service” and later with medal for “Distinguished service”, very rare feat that only minuscule percent of Police officers achieve. I had the privilege of watching the award event broadcasted on TV during my stay in NIT Rourkela hostel.
Post retirement, he was honored inside Odisha Assembly and Bhubaneswar Police commissioner’s office in recognition of contributions during the service. Also in a documentary on TV with respect to Odisha Police, his contribution was recognized as historic.
After retirement, he was involved in social matters in his residential area i.e. Jaydev Vihar, Bhubaneswar.
His involvement was in ensuring developmental and maintenance work in the locality like roads, drainage system, electricity and water supply etc.
He served as President of Rameswar temple for a stretch of eighteen years and kept himself tirelessly engaged in the work of the holy shrine and surrounding locality. With his exceptional vision and leadership, the semi-hillock smoothly flourished as a clean and green place of worship reigned by five deities. Gajapati Maharaj Shri Dibyasingh Deb of Jagannath Puri had a warm conversation with him while attending an event inside the temple. During 1999 super cyclone, Nana had made food arrangements in the temple for the affected people. Co-workers used to consider him as “First citizen” of the locality. One co-worker was mentioning about Nana’s quote – “Role or Position is valueless. Let us all do some good work in this life”.
He was a voracious reader so books and magazines were kept in stacks in our house. Any good book I came across, I used to buy one for him. He used to finish reading in very less time and confirm me that he did it.
His passion to heal people with homeopathy is worth mentioning. His first experiment rendered an astonishing result. Eighty years old, bed-ridden paralytic patient could get up and gain strength to visit Lord Jagannath temple in Puri. This fueled Nana’s passion to practice with rigor and scale up on his healing flair. His diligent research and study of homoeopathy made him a well-versed healer. People in the surrounding area were lovingly calling him “Doctor babu”. Any complaint of illness in the surrounding would definitely catch his attention. His unsolicited and spontaneous gesture would be to pick a paper from the pocket, write few medicines on it and hand over to the patient. A retired IAS officer got his damaged spine repaired. A patient suffering from heart stroke was saved when Nana rushed to him in urgency and poured medicine into his mouth.
Towards the end of year 2017 his health started getting deteriorated. Initially mobility was less and later he was bed-ridden for around three months. Friends and relatives were coming to our house to see him. Once a very close co-worker in Rameswar temple came to meet him and asked – “Sir, how are you feeling?” His response was - “I am not feeling good. It is time to leave”. Leaders of Rameswar temple were visiting him wishing his fast recovery and encouraging him that the temple was waiting for his comeback. Finally on 5th of March 2018 (Monday) during the early morning, he left this world leaving trails of memories and precious impressions behind. He was 82 years old. Possibly Udayanath chose his birth and death almost at the same time keeping watch on “The Sun”.
Monday is considered as a day of Lord Shiva. “Bhubanananda” and “Rameswar” are other names of Lord Shiva. I do not understand the science of dreams. However few days after he left, in a dream I found Nana walking in Shivaloka i.e. the abode of Lord Shiva.
Few lines from my poem on Nana –
CBI, Crime Branch & Vigilance,
Cuttack district police governance,
Challenges in various measures,
Media watch in many matters.
Retirement came as a blessing,
To realize Passions more exciting,
Homeopathy to cure ailments,
Building temple for local residents.
Stern on the face, soft at the core,
My father was a great character,
Writing few words on his stature,
Gives pleasure beyond measure.
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depicts real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : ABOUT AN ICONIC BRIDGE
Bridges are platform or structure carrying the road which helps people to travel from one part to another through walking or through vehicles across a river or surmounting any other obstacle. But there are rare bridges which not only is meant for travelling but also has a historic importance for being great scientific achievement against odds and challenges, and again displaying aesthetic values, while serving as an iconic symbol for a nation. Here we are talking about the very popular Golden Gate Bridge of San Francisco, USA.
Golden Gate Bridge is a famous suspension bridge over the Pacific Ocean which links San Francisco city with Marin County of that country . The bridge construction started in 1933 and was finished in a record time of just four years in 1937.
The completion of the construction of the Golden bridge identified United States as a symbol of the power and achievement for the nation. At the time of its opening in 1937, it was both the longest and the tallest suspension bridge in the world, titles it held until 1964 and 1998 respectively. Its main span is 4,200 feet (1,280 m) and its total height is 746 feet (227 m). It is a Pacific coast highway which is used for vehicular commutation. At the same time in the sideways it has pedestrian walkway. It was a significant engineering feat of its time, and it remains an iconic symbol of San Francisco and the United States.
On May 27, 1937, San Francisco‘s Golden Gate Bridge was opened to the public for the first time calling it as the “Pedestrian Day,” that marked its opening . . More than 200,000 walked over the bridge people paying twenty-five cents each. The following day at noon President Franklin Roosevelt, from his far-off White House office, pressed a telegraph key and the Golden Gate Bridge was officially opened for vehicular use
The Golden Gate Bridge is described in Frommer's ( very popular American travel writer) travel guide as "possibly the most beautiful, certainly the most photographed, bridge in the world. The bridge’s orange vermilion color, suggested by consulting architect Irving Morrow, has a dual function, both fitting in with the surrounding natural scenery and making it clearly visible to ships in fog. At night the bridge is floodlit and shines with a golden luminescence that reflects off the waters of the bay and creates a magical effect. Despite its name, the bridge does not bear golden colour. Rather it is painted a reddish orange. This bright colour, called “international orange,” often can be seen through the fog that forms over the bay for safe ship sailing.
Its construction, under the supervision of chief engineer Joseph B. Strauss, involved many challenges. It was an arduous task. The span of the bridge was more than twice that of any other bridge in the world. Workers had to blast away rock under deep water to plant the earthquake-proof towers. Other workers had to balance on cables high above the water.A movable safety net, innovated by Strauss, saved a total of as many as 19 men from falling to their deaths during construction. But there has been casualty, a total of 11 worker lost their lives during the early phase of construction.
The pointed out above , Golden Gate Bridge is a suspension bridge. In this type of bridge, the roadway is suspended, or hung, from steel cables as one can see with the Howrah Bridge of Kolkota. The iconic Golden Gate Bridge features main cables suspended from two towers that emerge from the water. These towers stand at an impressive height of 746 feet (227 meters). Smaller cables extend vertically from the curving main cables, supporting the roadway. As a result, people have the opportunity to drive, bike, or walk across this historic bridge.
The Bridge, interestingly serves also as a political platform at times. Protests on even foreign policy issues have taken place on the bridge as it happened over the death of Mahsa Amini on September 26, 2022. Amini was the 22 year Iranian girl who had been taken into police custody for not wearing Hijab, the head-gown. Over 1,000 protesters had gathered at the Golden Gate Bridge’s Welcome Center to demonstrate against the alleged human rights abuse in the Islamic Republic of Iran
and its moral policing. The protest attendees voiced demands for women's rights and freedom. The event drew attention globally, sparking solidarity protests in Iran, Greece, England, and France.
I was fortunate enough to visit the Golden Gate Bridge this April in the first week. From my childhood I had harboured an interest to see the Golden Gate Bridge with naked eyes. I was studying in Homewood Middle School, at Birmingham ,Alabama during 2007 -2008 but could not get the chance to travel to the West Coast and see this iconic marvel. After about 17 years I got the opportunity to see it on the sideline of my participation in the International Studies Association (ISA) 2024 Annual Convention. A modest travel grant helped me in this regard to see the wonderful city and the iconic bridge.
Overall, the Golden Gate Bridge is not only a vital transportation link but also a symbol of engineering prowess and a beloved icon of San Francisco and the United States and I feel truly blessed and lucky to witness the bridge.
Much like New York Harbor’s Statue of Liberty, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge has achieved iconic status due to its breathtaking location and its association with the city. In May 1987, approximately 300,000 people participated in “Bridgewalk '87” to commemorate the bridge’s fiftieth anniversary. Remarkably, two years later, during the 7.1-magnitude Loma Prieta earthquake on October 17, 1989, the elegantly suspended bridge remained unscathed.
It is truly a bridge that not only joins two parts of America, (San Francisco on one side and the Marin county on the other), but as large number of people from different parts of the world converge to see it , one may say that it bridges the world, the humanity at large.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
‘ONE NATION WITH MANY CELEBRATIONS’
The waxing phase of the moon in Spring is auspicious. This lunar phase is much revered and celebrated in India in different ways.
Celebrations are held to mark the arrival of the season spring. This season heralds harvest time too for Rabi crops. Joyous joy binds all and as I always write – it is this joy that binds us to Divinity.
Often different deities are worshipped which enhances and augments the longing for Celestial Blessings.
Usually, these festivals occur in the month of Chaitra (mid-March to mid-April of the Gregorian Calendar). Sometimes it falls in the next month of Baisakh.
Calculations of dates are based on luni-solar calendars and the sidereal calendar gives the position of sun with respect to the different stars and constellations in the zodiac system.
The months Chaitra, etc. follow solar calendar whereas many events and festivals follow lunar cycles. Besides, there may be other factors too. These dates are usually given in Almanacs of the year.
Nine Incarnations of Goddess Durga
On the next day after Chaitra Amavasya (new moon tithi (lunar day) pertaining to the month of Chaitra), starts the nine-day festival ‘Chaitra Navaratri’. In this festival, Goddess Durga and Her nine incarnations are worshipped.
Originally, Goddess Durga was worshipped during the spring-time month of Chaitra and was known as “Basonti Durga Puja”. Navaratri and Durga Puja that is held in October these days, is due to the untimely call of Lord Rama.
As we all know, before setting out to conquer Sri Lanka, Lord Rama had invoked Goddess Durga to vanquish the demon. This untimely invocation in the month of Aswin led to the present-day Durga Puja in October. Lord Rama returned triumphant on the day of Diwali when Ayodhya was lit up and so there is the custom of lighting diyas too.
The nine incarnations are: -
• Maa Shailaputri – “Daughter of Mountain” …
• Maa Brahmacharini – “Mother of devotion and penance” …
• Maa Chandraghanta – “Destroyer of demons” …
• Maa Kushmanda – “Goddess of The Cosmic Egg” …
• Maa Skandamata- “Goddess of motherhood and children” …
• Maa Katyayani – “Goddess of Power” …
• Maa Kalaratri – “Goddess of Auspiciousness and Courage” …
• Maa Mahagauri – “Goddess of Purity and Serenity”
• Maa Shiddhidatri –“Goddess of Wealth, Happiness, and Success or “Giver of Perfection”
•
Bhagwan Jhulelal
Cheti Chand or Chetri Chandra is a festival that venerates the start of Hindu New Year for Sindhi Hindus. Chetri Chandra means the Chandra-paksha or moon-phase in the month of Chetri or Chaitra. This Chetri Chandra is a two-day festival starting on “pratipada” or first day of lunar cycle. It is venerated as the day of emergence of their God Bhagwan Jhulelal., who is said to be an incarnation of God Varuna-Deva.
Gudi Padwa celebrations.
Gudi Padwa is a festival to usher in spring season and is celebrated in and around Maharashtra, Goa, Daman, etc. This also starts on the day after new moon tithi(lunar day).
The word ‘Gudi’ means ‘flag’ and is believed to be of South Indian Origin. Padwa comes from the word p??av?, which is derived from the Sanskrit word pratipad. The first day of each fortnight in a lunar month is referred to as pratipada.
Ugadi Celebrations
This Pratipada day or first day of the waxing lunar phase is celebrated as Ugadi, Samvatsar?di or Yugadi, by Telugus and Kannadigas.
Whatever may be rituals, or regional variations in celebrations or in the name of the festivals, it is an auspicious event and this year (2024) it started on 9th of April.
Hope these festivals have ushered in true happiness and have bestowed bliss for all the coming years.
All images and information are from the internet and books 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 internet and books 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.
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.
Meera Raghavendra Rao
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao , M.A.in English literature is a freelance journalist, author of 10 books(fiction, nonfiction) a blogger and photographer .Her 11th. is a collection of 50 verses titled PINGING PANGS published in August 2020. She travelled widely within and outside the country.She blogs at :justlies.wordpress.com.
The telephone kept ringing. Surajit rushed from the balcony and picked it up. There was a lady on the other side.
"Hello, did I wake you up? What is the time there? Can you guess who this is? I bet you can't!"
Surajit was puzzled. Who could it be? He hardly got calls from ladies. A couple of old, fat Gujarati clients tried a few times to call him at home; he stopped it by telling them curtly that he took business calls only at office. And this caller sounded much younger. Wait a second, she asked what time is it here. Someone from abroad?
"Sorry, not able to place you. Who are you? You are asking about the time here? Where are you calling from? America? Australia? Antarctica?"
The lady at the other end chuckled,
"I knew you would answer my questions with your counter questions. Your old habit, more than thirty years old, remember? You were hardly eleven at the time. How time flies! Difficult to imagine we were once upon a time kids, throwing questions and trying to outsmart each other!"
Surajit got a shock. Thirty years back? Is this Sunayana? My God, she has not lost any of the zing in her voice, the same liveliness, full of animation and effervescence! Surajit's mind filled with a warmth, a glow. A mild euphoria washed over him. He was startled by the booming voice on the other side, floating over blue oceans and across the wide skies,
"Hello, where are you lost? I know you have guessed who I am. And like the Surajit of the past you must have been seized by a glow of gentle love. Always the shy, sentimental boy. I knew you were a gone case, even thirty years back!"
Surajit smiled,
"Yes, a gone case, perhaps that's why you never even wrote a letter to me from Jamshedpur after you left Cuttack!"
Sunayana laughed,
"Are you crazy? How could I write to you? Those days I even didn't know where the post office was, and if I wanted to write to you, I would have to give the letter to Daddy to drop in the letter box. You think my Daddy would have liked it? And you know, two years after we came back to Jamshedpur Daddy came over to the U.S., did his Ph.D, got a job and we settled down here. Tell me, did you ever remember me all these years?"
Surajit wanted to tell her, he didn't remember her often, but he hadn't forgotten her, or the one week of happy adolescence they had spent together in the summer of 1972 at his home in Buxi Bazar, Cuttack. Instead, he threw the question back at her,
"Did you? Did I ever come to your mind after you left Cuttack thirty years back?"
Sunayana hesitated,
"I don't want to lie to you. I had missed you a lot after I returned from Cuttack. I often felt like telling my parents to go to Cuttack so that I could see you again, but I felt too shy to do that. Once we came to the U.S. I got busy; new place, new friends, and time just flew. I got married. Saurav is a nuclear scientist, very quiet, dignified and caring. I have not been to India for the past seven years. Busy with our only son, his studies, his games and extracurricular activities. And last week when we decided to visit India, I felt I must meet you. I don't know why you came to my mind again and again, like a never forgotten sweet old song. I spoke to uncle, getting his number from my dad. He had attended my wedding, you were in Mumbai at the time. I got your number from him and here I am talking to you! But see, like the old days, I do all the talking and you do the listening, the quiet, bashful prince listening to a lesser citizen!"
Surajit felt a thrill go through him like a mild current again, being called a quiet, bashful prince. That was what Sunayana used to call him!
"Is your son coming with you?"
"No, he just got into Medical school in Chicago. Can't take time off. Saurav has some meetings at Bhabha Atomic Research Center, they had offered accommodation at their guest house. I told Saurav we will stay with you. For three days, from January sixth to ninth. Tell Vandana to keep herself free, we will go shopping all the three days."
Surajit smiled,
"So you have found out my wife's name! What else do you know about me?"
"Uncle was so happy talking about you! He thinks you are the best son, husband, father in the world. There is so much pride in him for you! I am impressed. You must be awesome!"
"Was I not awesome when you saw me? Thirty years back?"
"No, I was the one who was awesome, defeating you in every game, even in arm wrestling! But you were awesome to be with. Okay, time to stop. We will talk about all that when I come there."
Surajit panicked,
"Listen, I have not told Vandana about you. She doesn't know that you ever came into my life, although it was just for a week. Please don't say anything that will embarrass me."
Sunayana laughed,
"Don't worry, I am not coming to rock your family boat. Our account has been settled thirty years back, with what you gave me and what you took from me. Don't you remember?"
Sunayana chuckled and put down the phone
Surajit walked to the window and looked out. From his twelfth floor apartment at Malabar Hills the Arabian Sea looked very calm and blue. He had an hour to himself. Vandana would be busy with her Pooja till nine thirty. The maid had left, after cooking breakfast and lunch. Anup and Sulagna had left for school. He smiled to himself. How did everything change in a few minutes? With just a phone call from a long lost friend from the past who had briefly appeared in his life as an eleven year old girl and left with a memory so fragrant, so intoxicating that after all these years Surajit felt this mild glow spreading over his consciousness like the smell of musk overpowering his senses! He smiled, remembering her parting words a few moments back! Remember her? How could Surajit forget that wonderful one week they had spent in his Buxi Bazar home at Cuttack in the summer of 1972? Till that time Surajit didn't know what it meant talking to a girl, sitting near her, holding her hand and the next minute fighting with her over meaningless issues.
All that changed in the summer vacation of 1972 when his father announced that his close friend Ghanashyam uncle was coming to visit them for a week along with Auntie and Sunayana, their eleven year old daughter. Surajit was happy. Sunayana! What a lovely name! And she was the same age, they would chat a lot about their school and their friends. How would she look ? Would her eyes be as beautiful as her name suggested? He was happy with a suppressed excitement. Finally the day of their arrival came. He accompanied his father to the railway station to receive them. His Maa stayed back at home to prepare food for the guests.
When he saw Sunayana for the first time, he smiled to himself. How did this lanky, darkish girl, who looked like a skeleton with a dash of flesh and blood, with a lock of unruly hair falling over her face, stir his imagination these past four days? But, my God! She was so tall! She reminded him of the picture of a beautiful horse standing erect and proud on a calendar they had a couple of years back. He touched the feet of uncle and aunty and shyly smiled at her. She looked at him pointedly, absolutely devilish in her grin,
"My name is Sunayana. Don't try to call me Nayana or something like that. I hate that."
Her mother tried to shush her,
"Stop it, don't talk like that to him! Didn't I tell you he is a brilliant student, always tops his class, not an ignorant monkey like you!"
Sunayana looked away and the moment her mother moved with a bag to where the two friends were standing, she looked at him, stuck out her tongue and made a big face at him, trying her best to imitate a monkey. Surajit had never seen a girl make a face at him and had always thought it must be a dirty gesture. But for a moment he was stunned, captivated by the utterly girlish beauty of the act.
They had to hire two cycle rickshaws. His father and uncle took one rickshaw keeping all the luggage and Aunty sat in the second one with the two kids on either side. She was visiting Cuttack after many years and was trying to check how much the town had changed. Sunayana took over the social nicety of a conversation. In no time she found out which class was Surajit in, how many friends he had, what games he played, how much he scored in maths and half a dozen other bits of information. Then suddenly, as if by an inspiration, she asked her mother,
"Mama, the shirt we have brought for Surajit, don't you think it will be a little tight for him? He looks like a mini buffalo, doesn't he? My God, how many eggs do you eat every day? Four, six? And what kind of egg, hen's egg or duck's egg?"
Her mother was scandalised and shouted at Sunayana,
"Hey monkey, what sort of question is that? You think everyone is like you? Eat like a cow and grow like a monkey? All skin and bones? Be careful, don't fight with Surajit! One slap from him and you will be flattened to the ground!"
Sunayana clapped, "See, you also agree that he is fat, like a Sumo wrestler!"
Surajit's face coloured at this insult and Sunayana got a slap from her mother with a warning to keep quiet. Surajit looked straight, Sunayana extended her hand and pinched him on his right arm. When he looked at her, she put out her tongue and made a big big face at him, putting her hands on her ears and blowing up her cheeks trying to look like a wrestler!
After they reached home and had their breakfast, Sunayana and her parents had a bath. When she came out to the sitting room with a yellow frock and a red ribbon, her hair nicely plaited, Surajit's heart skipped a beat. What had appeared to be a darkish complexion due to the dust and soot of the fourteen hours of train journey was gone and Sunayana looked quite beautiful. Surajit felt her presence near him, she was pulling him to go out and pluck mangoes from the tree in the garden. They went out. The heat was unbearable, they sat in the shade of the tree. Away from the gaze of the parents Sunayana was unstoppable, she kept chatting about her school (boring in studies, but exciting in sports), her friends (almost everyone in the class was a friend, appan kisise dartaa nehin, I am not scared of anyone, can beat the daylights out of anybody), her likes and dislikes in food (pickles are my favourite, ah, the varieties of pickles you get outside the school! But I hate non veg food, smells too much!), songs (dance walla song, not the ronaa dhonaa type), movies (only action movies, when the heroine beats up some one I stand up and cheer! Don't like the romantic somantic film, too painful. appanko hansnaa maangtaa hai, ronaa nehin!). It seemed she was an endless chatterer and Surajit an obedient listener, looking at her face, the beautiful face with smiles constantly breaking like waves in the ocean, the sparkling eyes full of mischief and the soft hair blowing in the mild summer wind. He had hardly spoken when she asked,
"How are your friends, all quiet like you, or you have someone like my type also, chatting all the time?"
Surajit tried to remember who was the non stop chattering type, he remembered nobody. He asked her back, "Are all your friends like you?"
She laughed, "O, question to counter a question? That's your style? No, I have all types of friends. Bharati is a big actress, you should see the way her face changes expressions when she talks, as if she is trying to impress you all the time. And Santoshini? She is the champion crier, when the school closes for vacation she cries, going from friend to friend and telling them she would miss them and when the school reopens she would cry because she had missed everyone! Before an exam starts she cries out of fear, after the exam ends she cries out of relief!"
Surajit asked her,
"How about you, are you not scared of exams?"
Sunayana laughed, like a waterfall cascading,
"Aapan? Aapan exam se nehin dartaa hai! Why should I be scared. I know I won't score more than fifty percent in any subject. But in sports I am the champion, no one can beat me in all forms of running, long jump and triple jump. I get so many cups that my dad has to bring a bag to carry them home after the annual sports meet."
Surajit tried to tease her,
"But how can you be good in running? You look like a skeleton!"
"So what? I run like a skeleton also, long steps, no one can catch up with me."
She kept quiet for a moment, and continued,
"You can beat me in maths, or science, but you can't match me in talking, in running or jumping"
"And in making faces? How many types of faces can you make?"
"O, all types, at least twenty types; want to see?"
"No, not now. Let's go inside, lunch must be ready."
That's how they went on and on. Surajit's father and uncle used to leave home after breakfast to meet their college friends. The mothers used to be chatting all the time, going for shopping in the evening. Surajit and Sunayana were inseparable, like two long lost friends who had found each other after years. Sunayana would play all kinds of pranks on him,
"Tell me O ignorant prince, why am I called Sunayana? Are my eyes beautiful? Or are you reluctant to answer this innocent question, my quiet and bashful prince?"
The usually serious Surajit would try to make a face,
"Nothing about you is beautiful, you lady skeleton! You are too skinny".
Sunayana would explode in mock anger and start beating him up. For a skinny girl, she was surprisingly strong. Surajit would never think of raising his hand against her, not even once.
They would play Ludo, carrom and cards; Sunayana would always make it a point to win. Surajit would never mind losing to this cracker of a girl. A new found joy in losing innocent games kept him in a dream like state all the time. In the evenings they would go to the nearby market and have lassi. On the way back they would stop at the Amareswar temple and look at the toys and trinkets in the small shops outside the gate.
When night came and it was time to sleep, Surajit's heart would break into inconsolable pieces. He would miss Sunayana's chatter, her pranks, her mild rebukes and the words of endearment like O Silent Stone, My Shy Prince, O Bashful Genius and all that. The thought of separation from Suanayana for a few hours in the night would make him sad, he wished they wouldn't have to be separated even for that little time and after the lights were switched off he would bury his face in the pillow and shed silent tears.
The one week passed like a dream. On the day before the departure Surajit and Sunayana went to the market, had the famous Thunka Puri and Sabji from the Buxi Bazar market, and took lassi from their usual shop. They stopped outside the temple and Surajit bought a beautiful, colourful wooden bird and gifted it to Sunayana. For a moment he looked deep into her eyes, and said, "This is for remembrance, whenever you see this bird, you will remember me, won't you?" Sunayana only nodded her head and looked away.
On the way home she challenged him to have a race. He couldn't catch up with her. She made a face at him and said "You can't beat me in anything, except of course, studies. In that Aapan is a zero."
Surajit looked at her and said,
"I can certainly beat you in arm wrestling. My arm is four times heavier than yours".
She shook her head,
"No way, even there also I will beat you hands down," and she gestured how she would do it.
When they reached home their mothers were waiting for them. They had to go to the neighbour's house so that Sunayana's mother could take leave of the Aunty there. Their train was at nine in the morning the next day. The moment Surajit and Sunayana entered the living room they sqatted on the ground and started arm wrestling. Although Surajit was heavier, he had no idea about the lanky girl's strength. Within a minute she was pinning his hand down. Surajit was not prepared to accept defeat, he tickled her on the waist with his left hand and in a moment her grip loosened and he could bend her hand to the ground. She was furious! She started shouting at him, Cheat, you cheat, and started tickling him. In no time they were wrestling with each other in a mock fight. Soon he was lying flat on the floor and she had climbed over him, sitting on his chest and tickling him.
In a few moments a new hitherto unknown sensation flooded over Surajit. He looked at her, his eyes dazed and sweat glistening on his face. He felt as if the person sitting on his body was not a mere bundle of bones and flesh, but something far from physical, she was an embodiment of lyrical love and liquid longing, petals of flowers taking the shape of the most exquisite body God has made, emitting a fragrance of immortal beauty. He looked at her helplessly, his hands lying by his sides. The game had stopped and a new chapter of life had suddenly opened up for them. She looked at him, blushed and ran away to her mother in the neighbour's house.
The rest of the evening was spent on marvelling over the new flame of love that had awakened in Surajit and Sunayana, as if they had crossed a barrier and come of age. They looked at each other, but there was no more a desire to play any games. Surajit wanted to give himself away to her, losing every game they played, only if she could stay back with him. She had no desire left for winning any game with Surajit. It was as if the summer wind was blowing across a meadow of scented flowers and whispering in her ears the message of a youthful awakening in her, telling her she has just embarked on a wonderful journey where wins and losses would no longer have a meaning, the body, heart and soul would yearn to surrender themselves to a selfless love leading to a fathomless fulfilment.
Next morning there was hectic activity at home, in preparation for the departure to the railway station. Surajit and Sunayana could not look at each other: their eyes were brimming with tears. Surajit was sitting in his room, head bent over his knees, deep in sadness. Suddenly Sunayana stormed into the room,
"Have you seen my yellow frock, I have looked for it every where and can not find it."
Surajit looked up, his face clouded with an injured innocence,
"No, how would I know about your frock? The yellow one? In which you look like a blooming sunflower?"
She nodded and proceeded to open the only cupboard in the room. Surajit shouted,
"Please don't open that cupboard. It has only my clothes and books."
Sunayana had already opened it and there, under Surajit's shirts was the yellow frock, obviously taken by Surajit from the clothes drying in the courtyard and hidden there. Sunayana was furious! She wanted to shout at him, calling him a thief. But a look at his sad, melancholic face and she realised something had changed in them on the previous evening and they had entered a world which was beyond a small act of losing or finding a frock. It was a world of hearts and souls washed in an ethereal fragrance of love. She looked at Surajit's tear-streaked face, the eyes appealing to her to leave something of her with him. She quietly replaced the frock under the shirts in the cupboard and left the room.
Surajit's mother came to call him one final time to come with them to the station but he shook his head and stayed back at home on the pretext of severe headache. He went out and touched the feet of Uncle and Aunty and took their blessings. He and Sunayana didn't look at each other. The separation was breaking their hearts, they didn't want to show the fragments to their parents.
Surajit never heard from Sunayana again, nor did he try to write to her. The quiet, bashful prince remained imprisoned in his own image, afraid to let out his secret to his parents. His Maa however found the frock after a few months while arranging the clothes in his cupboard. She was surprised to see it there. She took it to Surajit,
"Arey Kunu, I found this frock in your cupboard. Did Sunayana leave it there by mistake? Let me give it to your Baba, he will send it to Jamshedpur through someone from his office."
Surajit looked at his Maa, a sad pain crowding his face. His mother was surprised again, at this tragic innocence. She looked at him, smiled indulgently and said, "My innocent child, when will you grow up?"
That was thirty years back. Surajit knew his Maa would have kept the yellow frock in some trunk somewhere, its frail folds a remnant of an innocent boy's adolescent dream. Today Sunayana's call brought back all those memories and filled his heart with a soft undercurrent of joy, as if he had found some long lost object of intimate desire.
Sunayana came to Mumbai after a few days with her husband Saurav. Anup and Sulagna fell in love with this loud mouth Aunty from the moment of her arrival. She had found out from Surajit's father that Anup loved Nintendo games and Sulagna liked to collect Keyboards and played lovely music on them. They got these beautiful gifts from their American Aunty and Uncle. Saurav was busy with his conference. Vandana accompanied Sunayana for extensive shopping. Kebabs at Bade Miyan, Ice cream at Rustam's and loads of food to bring home - that was Sunayana. When they met in the evening there was endless chatter; Saurav and Surajit enjoying her banter. The house was filled with excitement and noise. Three days passed in a jiffy. On the morning they were getting ready to leave for the airport, Saurav had gone to the washroom. Sunayana was effusive in her praise of Vandana,
"You are such a nice darling Vandana, I don't have a sister, but if I had one she would not have done as much as you did for us. Last three days you have been running around in Mumbai City with me and taking care of us. I will never forget you. I am a big memory buff, I love my memories. Most of my precious memories have an unique fragrance of their own,"
Vandana cut her short,
"Fragrance? How can a memory have a fragrance?"
"Yes there are some memories, when they come they flood your consciousness with a rare fragrance, you can smell them like they happened just yesterday and have not stopped happening. Many years back a friend of mine had gifted me a colourful wooden bird. I have kept it with me and every time I look at it, I feel as if he is standing with me, looking into my eyes and saying 'This is for remembrance. Will you remember me, always?'"
Surajit felt a stab in his heart. He knew exactly who had said that. He looked at Sunayana, a cold appeal in his eyes. Sunayana had become pensive, she was looking at the wide open sea, the cool air undulating its surface with gentle waves. Saurav came out, all ready to leave. Surajit's heart started thumping; what if Vandana asked Sunayana who that friend was and what she had given him in exchange for the wooden bird?
In a trembling voice Surajit said, "You are getting late for the flight. Sorry I can't come down with you. Vandana will see you off. I am getting late for the office".
Surajit knew his heart was thumping so loudly that it would resound in the small lift, giving him away. He stayed back, waving at Sunayana. He remembered that thirty years back on a similar morning of farewell he could not go to the railway station to see her off. Ah, he said to himself, the fragrance of some memories! So intensely overpowering, so debilitatingly mesmerising!
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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