Literary Vibes - Edition CXLI (31-May-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Toddy Shop (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
AN OLD MAN NAMED ROSE
02) Ajay Upadhyaya
A SAMARITAN IN AN ALIEN LAND
03) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE SCENT OF A SAGA
04) Dilip Mohapatra
THE BLEEDING RAINBOW
05) Ishwar Pati
IT'S MY FAULT!
06) Snehaprava Das
THE INFIDEL
07) Jay Jagdev
BABY-SEAT, GAS, A STOMACH ON FIRE AND OUR RESURGENT BRETHREN
WHERE CURIOSITY ENDS
08) Sreekumar T V
FACELESS FACES
09) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
DREAM
10) Sujata Dash
HOMECOMING
11) Sukumaran C.V.
THE OBSERVING ANIMALS
12) Usha Surya
THE REVENGE
13) Ashok Mishra
HOMELESS
14) Gokul Chandra Mishra
A BANKER'S BOTTLE OF SCOTCH AND A PLATEFUL OF LOBSTER
15) Bankim Chandra Tola
YESTERDAY AND TODAY
16) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: AN IRON LADY OF INDIA AS AN INSPIRATION TO EVERYONE !
17) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
AN INDO-AMERICAN GIRL’S PERCEPTION OF LIFE IN CHENNAI
WHY NOT A FAMILY DAY?
LIGHTER SIDE OF LIFE
MY PRECIOUS TREASURE FROM AN AUSSIE ZOO
GROUSE MOUNTAIN------NOTHING TO GROUSE, MY REMINISCENCES
THE BIG NAME SYNDROME
18) S. Joseph Winston
THE INTOXIC OR ATAXIC GAIT OF THE HERMIT CRABS?
19) Sreechandra Banerjee
THE MASTER STROKES OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE
20) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
REDEMPTION
It wasn't exactly an apartment. It was the basement of a large three-story building. To reach it, you had to descend narrow steps from the road. The place felt like a cave—a vacant lot meant for parking. When the road was widened, steps were built instead of a slope, trapping the basement in a damp, cold, and poorly ventilated space. Four or five humid rooms and a small courtyard were formed there. Sabeena and I classified it as a very low-rent option: we took a small room and a large kitchen.
In addition to our space, there was accommodation for two or three more people. Part of it was vacant when we moved in, with only essential cooking facilities in a corner. The rent was low, which suited me fine, but Sabeena wasn’t happy. By the second day, the adjacent room with a kitchen was occupied. An old man had moved in. The third section was already occupied by a nurse who seemed to have been there from the very beginning. She didn't behave like we imagined a nurse would, but we endearingly called her Nurse Amma, not knowing her real name. We didn't know the old man's name either; we called him Rosa because he was often seen near a potted plant in the courtyard. Later, Nurse Amma told us his name was Martin. He rarely interacted with us, a simple friendly wave being the extent of his communication.
The nurse wasn’t particularly friendly either. If you saw her walking around with her white coat, puffed-up chest, and gold-framed glasses, you’d think she was a doctor. She spoke rarely and in a formal manner, earning her the nickname Queen Elizabeth.
Initially, our interactions were limited, but things gradually changed. Our shared courtyard was always covered in dirt and dust, exacerbated by its location under the road. Moisture made the dust stick to the floor, staining it. Every morning, we'd plan to sweep it clean in the evening, but after a day's work, we were too tired. Three or four days passed in guilt. On the third evening, we found the courtyard swept clean. Sabeena wanted to thank Nurse Amma, but I advised against it, fearing her reaction might be dismissive or confrontational. The next morning, Sabeena greeted them and offered tea. Though they declined, there was no reciprocation or friendliness.
Despite this, they continued to clean the yard. Whenever we looked, it was tidier than our own room. We started sharing our tea, snacks, and occasionally KFC chicken with them. We never visited each other’s homes but often chatted over the half wall in the courtyard. Martin, whom we still called Rosa, became a rare but welcomed part of our little world.
The nurse remained an enigma. She shared only that Martin was very handsome, leading us to tease her about him. Over time, the icy barrier between us began to melt.
The rose garden in the courtyard was always full of flowers. Sometimes, I would pick a flower and put it in my hair. Sabeena, with her short hair, never needed one. Often, I saw Martin standing near the plant, gently kissing the flowers. I chose those flowers deep inside the rose bush, the ones he wouldn’t have kissed
Once, I told Sabeena how we had misunderstood Nurse Amma, thinking she was a rude woman. Sabeena disagreed, asking me to reflect on her behaviour over the past month. She was right; there had been a significant change. Initially, she was rude and arrogant. Nurse Amma didn’t even greet Sabeena back when she said good morning. But we had a reason to appreciate her—she had taken a considerable burden off our shoulders by cleaning the courtyard every other day, never complaining even when she saw us picking flowers from the rose plant. Because of this, we treated her with kindness, and they reciprocated. This mutual respect fostered the change. Her behaviour towards others might still be the same, but that wasn’t our concern.
That night, Sabeena hugged me in bed and shared how various people's behaviour had influenced her life, how she had impacted others, and how she had failed to change her mother’s behaviour. I, too, had much to say—about many love relationships that ended abruptly and the retired manager's son who proposed to me. Sabeena and I discussed the pros and cons, finding solace in each other.
One day, Martin’s room was found locked. After two or three days, I asked Sabeena where our grandfather Rose had gone. She shrugged. Nurse Amma knew nothing either.
I then noticed that since Martin left, no one had cleaned the patio, not even tended to the potted rose. From then on Sabeena and I took turns cleaning the courtyard properly. Our behaviour towards Nurse Amma remained unchanged, cordial and warm. She was our bosom friend till she got a transfer and had to move out.
Despite my efforts—watering and caring for it—the rose plant withered away.
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.
Our very first encounter with harsh winters of North America is memorable for more than one rea-son. We had relocated from England to the USA in the month of May and lived in upstate New York in Rochester, just south of Canada border. The nearest metropolis, Toronto in Canada, stand-ing north of the border was temptingly close. The two cities are separated by Lake Ontario with a distance of only 95 miles, as crow flies. But there was no transportation facility across the lake. By road Toronto was about 165 miles away from Rochester and the bottleneck in this road journey used to be the immigration check at the USA Canada border crossing.
The official document we carried, commonly known as Green Card, described us as resident al-iens. The exotic title, alien, conferred on us by our adopted land, made us chuckle. But, the card came really handy in crossing the international border by road. In summer months, when the days are long, the relative ease of border crossing made day trips to Toronto a frequent feature in our social diary.
Soon, summer gave way to autumn and it was early November. By now, we had become quite familiar with the layout of American roads and got used to the new driving conditions. Next, we ventured a trip to Montreal. Unlike Toronto, Montreal is farther away from Rochester. With a dis-tance of about 330 miles, we estimated the driving time to be about five hours. Allowing for a cou-ple of stops on the way, the journey, we figured, could be completed in daylight hours. After con-sidering alternative modes of transport, we reckoned, traveling by car was not only a viable option, but perhaps our best.
We had planned to start our journey early in the morning, so that we would reach Montreal before it got dark. For some reason, however, we were delayed and could not start until early afternoon. Without any idea of the terrible weather that was in store for us, we set off on our road trip to Mon-treal. We were not totally naive about wintery weather; we had experienced cold in north of Eng-land, where we lived for several years before our move to America. We were accustomed to snow fall and we had endured subzero temperatures. But, little did we know that the winter of North America was a different kind of beast, altogether.
All our planning was thrown into disarray by the whims of the weather. That winter, snow decided to come early. Within an hour or so into our journey a flurry of snow flakes appeared. We had least anticipated this turn of events and had made no provision for this complication. Initially, the snow was a gentle flurry and we did not give it much thought. Our car rolled on smoothly unhin-dered by the fluffy snow on the road. But the snowfall was relentless and the accumulating snow on the ground imperceptibly impeded our speed of travel. Nonetheless, there was little cause for concern.
What caught my attention next was the road markings getting obscured by the snow which was getting thicker by the minute, slowing the car down. I recalculated in my mind our driving time; the journey would inevitably take longer as our speed faltered. But I grossly underestimated the slow-ing of our car from the snow and its impact on our driving time. I I assumed our journey would be prolonged by an hour or so. As we had built some margin of time into our travel plan I didn’t see any danger to our goal of reaching Montreal by dinner time.
Our insouciance however did not last long. Soon, snowing gathered pace and the accumulating snow on the roads gained in thickness. Soon, the landscape in front of us was transformed; a vast stretch of whiteness covered our entire filed of vision. The contours of proximal landmarks were blunted by snow on the ground and the outlines of objects in the distance were blurred by the haze of the snowflakes in the air. It was a pretty scenery, a perfect painting deftly executed by mother nature! The edges of the road we were driving on were obliterated, merging seamlessly with the adjoining ground. The only clue to the road we were driving on were provided by the tyre marks, left on the snow by the vehicle in front of us. The serpentine parallel grooves on the virgin snow be-came our guide in this motoring adventure into a surreal snowy world.
My wife and I exchanged furtive glances at each other and our pregnant silence verily reflected our unspoken terror about what lay ahead in this uncharted snowscape. It was like a gigantic circular blanket, white and wavy, with our car at its centre. On this gently undulating flatness, we could not overlook the smooth bumps, dotted alongside the path of our car. This unmistakable contour of cars, probably lying in the ditches by the roadside, was a visible warning against dangers of losing control of our car and a sober reminder of the fate which could easily befall us in this slippery land of snow.
The atmosphere changed quickly and so did our mood. With drastically reduced visibility, charm of the picturesque landscape was overshadowed by a foreboding of the disaster. By now, the spell from the enchanting snow had faded and the euphoria had evaporated. The spirit of adventure was soon replaced by a sense of impending doom. Howls from gusts of wind sweeping what looked like curtains of snow across, sent shivers down our spines. As the gloom deepened, our delight turned into dread.
As the driving proved increasingly perilous, we debated whether we should take a break and wait for the snowfall to pass. We even considered abandoning our road journey for the day and gave up all hope of reaching Montreal the same day. My wife, an incorrigible optimist, argued against my suggestion of taking a break from driving and successfully persuaded me to plod on.
Those days, we did not have the benefit of technology providing us with the latest information on weather forecast at our finger tips. In any case, I realised it was not easy to come off the highway and seek sanctuary in a roadside motel, because the road signs were totally obliterated. We risked being derailed off the road ending up in a ditch or worse, toppling over and getting stranded in mounds of snow. Although my wife offered to take over the driving from me we were too afraid to stop as we feared for the worst. In any case, it was almost impossible to find a safe location for us to stop. The dream journey had turned into a living nightmare. All I could do was to grip my steer-ing wheel tightly and pray for our ordeal to end soon.
Finally, the snowfall began to abate, as if providence took pity in us. The blanket of snow on the road gradually turned thinner and driving became easier. The road markings started to show their colour. We were relieved by this welcome change in the weather we had been praying for all along. We thanked our stars and drove on, eager to make up for lost time. It had gone quite dark by now. To our bad luck, torrential rain followed, which slowed us down again. We decided to con-tinue driving nonstop to compensate for our snail’s pace driving for so many hours due to tawdry weather.
Eventually, the exhaustion from the continuous driving, compounded by the intense concentration demanded by the adverse weather, overtook me. We decided to stop on the hard shoulder of the highway so that my wife could take charge of the steering wheel. At a convenient spot on a straight stretch of the highway, we stopped on the hard shoulder. Before we could get off the car for swapping seats, we noticed another vehicle also stopped not far from our car, on the hard shoulder behind us. We remained seated inside our car, motionless and quiet. To our puzzlement, we could see the door of the vehicle behind us opening and the driver walking towards our car.
Alarm bells started to ring. I could feel my heart racing, quickly gathering pace as the driver reached our car and knocked on my window. Here, we were in a totally unfamiliar territory. We had heard gory accounts of America’s gun culture. We had been warned of danger from firearms in America and were made particularly wary of strangers on highways. Stories, I had heard, of armed men in America targeting vulnerable people were the first thing to come to me. Images of gunmen prying on stranded motorists on American highways flashed across my mind while I was mulling over my next course of action. On seeing the approaching driver, I had already locked the car doors in a reflexive action. I had no idea what else I could do to shield us from the menacing figure walking towards us.
As the driver, who was by now standing near our car window, could see little movement from inside our car, he knocked again on the window. He was perhaps saying something at the same time but we could not hear him. My fear level had peaked by now, throwing me into a quandary. Should I pretend, I didn’t see him and drive off? But, if he had any malevolent intent, could I put ourselves in greater danger by speeding off, I wondered. With a pounding heart, I turned to my wife hoping for a hint on what I should do next. I was not sure if I accurately read the signal on her face. Neverthe-less, I found myself slowly rolling the windscreen down to a mere chink, whilst readying myself to drive off at the earliest sign of any danger whatsoever.
‘May I help you?’ The driver’s voice was barely audible against the heavy downpour.
I looked at the driver, who was soaked in rain. As I focussed my gaze on the face, he looked com-pletely harmless to match his genial voice. I could feel the calm slowly returning to me.
‘Many thanks; but we are fine.’ I replied trying desperately to steady my voice and hide my fear.
‘In this terrible weather, we spotted you stopping on the hard shoulder. That got us worried about your welfare. We wondered if you were in some kind of trouble and in need of help.’
‘No, we had stopped so that we could swap seats and share the driving between us, pointing at my wife.’
‘Is there anything, I can help you with?’ The driver asked.
I struggled in my search for the right words to show my gratitude whilst I was trying to hide my em-barrassment.
‘No, Thank you so much for your concern.’ I blurted.
As the silhouette of the driver receded from our view, my wife and I looked at each other, lost for words. I could not have been more wrong in mistrusting the kind-hearted driver and suspecting his motives. I realised, I was so overtaken by fright that I allowed my desire for safety to override my faith in human decency. I was ashamed of my prejudices about America feeding into my blind submission to stereotyped images of American people. Perhaps, I took the American official policy of labelling immigrants as aliens too literally, prodding me to view them as aliens in return. How did I forget that even foreigners in an alien land were still human with age-old values of kinship that binds us in total disregard to government policies!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Nakphodi - (Part one)
Sundar’s office room was being cleaned, vacuumed, anti-pest treated, and pruned of junk files and articles. Sundar for the time being sat elsewhere. Two staff members brought to him a very old trunk for scrutiny. After rummaging into its contents, he found a long-lost old leather pouch, and returned the rest for junking.
He recalled the leather pouch from a time, more than two decades ago. He clasped it now to his chest as if he had got back a lost treasure. It reopened floodgates of memories, and brought tears to his eyes. His thoughtful lady secretary, perhaps noticed his emotions, so, left the room on the pretext of some work, leaving him to cry in privacy.
The leather case contained a bright red bridal sari of the best Banarasi silk. He gingerly felt it against his cheeks and deeply inhaled into it like searching for a lost love, a lost glory, a bonhomie; an intimate aroma. It was wrapped by her grandma for a few hours before her last journey.
. Sundar recalled how he had rummaged among two mounds of old and used textile items heaped together by his bua, Subhadra Devi, the elder sister of his father. The items were to be ritually given away to the family’s washer-woman. Being the used clothes of a dead person, those were considered unclean. He had finally found that sari and secreted it away in that a pouch carefully. In the topsy turvy of the situations that kept him occupied, he forgot where he had kept it.
Sundar would recall, away at Bombay (later renamed Mumbai), he had received a telephone call from his father one morning, with a scary message, “Your grandma has been missing for two hours, along with her day-and-night-companion Nakphodi. We are searching for them.”
Grandma, during one of her rare visits of her parental village, had found an orphan girl of around five years. The kid had been roaming, homeless. She had no name, except being called – ‘Hey you!’ During her toddler years, grandma learnt, the kid lost her parents and relatives to dreaded cholera. The toddler survived on uncertain meals and sleeping space provided by various kind villagers. Sundar’s grandma took a liking to the kid, and brought her home as her granddaughter.
The five-year old kid had a minute hole on the left side of her left nostril, a birth defect. Sundar’s grandma also bore an identical birth defect, where she used to wear a diamond nose-stud in her hey days. Sundar who just had celebrated his fifteenth birthday, wrinkled a naughty nose at the hole on the girl’s nostril, and teased ‘Hey Nakphodi’ meaning, ‘O girl with a hole in the nose’. Surprisingly that tease struck a chord in grandma’s heart and stuck to the kid as her nick name. Everyone addressed her as Nakphodi thereafter.
Nakhodi ate and played with other little kids of the family but slept with grandma. Before Nakphodi, Sundar used to sleep with grandma but he stopped because his peers teased him as sissy. Grandma was growing lonelier in bed, haunted by her stark and prolonged widowhood. Nakphodi moved in to the empty space vacated by Sundar and returned grandma’s affection with lots of kiddish love, that came naturally to a love-starved five-year old.
Nakphodi, grew as the apple of grandma’s eyes, and Sundar’s pet, but other kids became jealous of her because she had apparently stolen their portion of grandma’s love also. Nakphodi was put to the village school as Sharvari Pandit, proudly flaunting the family title ‘Pandit’. She was a fast learner and excelled over kids of her age in the school.
In two years in grandma’s house, Nakphodi left her dollhouse-days behind, though other kids of her age continued playing with their dolls and toys, and came to kitchen to give a helping hand to Sundar’s docile mother in cooking the joint family’s multi-tier meals – breakfast, lunch, evening snacks, and dinner, with umpteen cups of tea through the day.
Nakphodi quickly learnt to prepare the special snacks and meals for the grandma, keeping with her advanced age, and that was a real relief to Sundar’s mother. Knowing that Nakphodi had prepared her meals, grandma relished her food with extra satisfaction, often eating a few spoons more during a frugal meal, which gladdened Sundar and his parents. They loved the kid all the more.
Soon Sundar had to move away to cities for higher studies and then joining his government job. He visited his village only during festivities and holidays. Nakphodi growing fuller and lovelier would pleasantly surprise him during his visits, as it pained him to see grandma growing frailer and feebler.
Sundar could not make head or tail of father’s message over phone that morning, but panicked, “How his grandma pushing her eighty-fifth year, and a seventeen-year-old girl, Nakphodi, reading in class eleven could go missing in a quiet village with a sparse population, everyone almost knowing whereabout of everyone else at all the time.
He rushed home by flight within hours, with his heart in his mouth. After alighting from aircraft, he took a taxi to his village. When his taxi was passing over the little river behind his house, he inhaled a whiff of the approaching spring. The air was laced with the smell of ripening paddy in surrounding fields at that hour of the sundown. His worried mind however refused to dwell on the lovely evening.
When he reached his house, he found it crowded with neighbors. He entered gingerly on tiptoe. On a veranda by the second inner courtyard of their sprawling multi-tiered mud house, in the fading pink light of the setting sun turning the fronds of coconut palms golden, he found his grandma lying on a white bed. Holding his breath, he approached her, and found her in death’s pallor.
Some villagers were hanging a translucent canopy-mosquito-net over her to keep away the bothersome houseflies. Her mortal remains lay wrapped in her bright-red bridal silk sari, Sundar remembered it as one of her prized possessions from her own marriage days. She was also bedecked with gold and diamond ornaments. She dazzled like a bride. That was her last wish when she spent almost five decades of widowhood wearing white saris and a string of Rudraksh.
Sundar broke down by grandma. When he rose from his immediate sorrow, his teary eyes searched for his parents and Nakphodi. His father rose from grandma’s other side, a stumbling ghost, looking like a cyclone-devastated oak tree, and came to him.
There were no tears in his eyes, only a rising frost. He saw his father’s feet dragging themselves behind him like deadwood, his hands lifeless in their pallor and his voice, a defeated raw whisper. He was the youngest of grandma’s brood and her pet among her offsprings.
His father rasped like in a ghost, “At eight today morning, I asked your mother why your grandma and Nakphodi, were not visible around the house. Your mother replied, ‘They might be visiting an ailing neighbour.’ A discreet inquiry found that both were missing in our homestead compound, yards, gardens, and the neighbourhood. A passerby from neighbourhood asked me, ‘Why Nakphodi is searching something in the river by the bathing ghat all by herself?’ That unnerved me and I ran there with a few neighbours.”
His father’s narrative moved fast. They found Nakphodi in the water next to the bathing ghat, searching for something frantically. When asked about grandma, she pointed into the water. She looked dazed. Grandma was nowhere in the water. What Sundar’s father gathered from the panicked girl’s incoherent talk, the previous evening after her early dinner, grandma had wished for a dip in the river like many of her secret excursions in the company of Nakphodi and Sundar.
Apparently, grandma soaked herself in the shallow cool water near the bathing ghat on the riverbank, asking Nakphodi to sit on the dry earth and wait. Nakphodi while watching grandma in shallow water, felt lethargic and dozed off. When she woke up, the day was breaking. She could not see grandma anywhere. She panicked and fainted. When she regained consciousness, she started searching her in the water. The villager had informed about that to Sundar’s father.
A search for grandma started downstream by a number of villagers. The water was chest high at its deepest and the current, very mild. But it appeared overpowering for an old and frail woman pushing her eighties, if she moved from shallow depths to chest deep water. Grandma was found by around twelve-thirty, a mile downstream from where Nakphodi sat, floating face down like a big dead fish among the reeds, weeds, and rushes by the river-edge. The village doctor made a guess that she might be dead and in water from the previous evening.
Father and Sundar grieved together. Their tears mingled, and hours, days and ages seemed flowing down their cheeks. They had lost their last mooring.
Sundar enquired about Nakphodi, and his father informed that after fishing out grandma’s corpse when villagers went to bring Nakphodi home, they found her searching for grandma in the river’s water in a frenzy muttering incoherently. She did not listen to villagers that grandma had been found and taken home, but continued her search in the river for grandma. Village doctor said, she was suffering from a seizure.
She had to be taken home forcibly and the village doctor gave her a sedative injection. She was sleeping in grandma’s room heavily sedated. Sundar’s million-dollar question how his grandma died so helplessly had to wait for an answer from the horse’s mouth, Nakphodi’, as she was the last link for Sundar to his grandma.
The time came for grandma to be readied for the pyre. The bridal attire and ornaments were replaced with her religion-sanctioned-dress of a widow: a white saree and a Rudraksha string. Sundar found his bua making heaps of grandma’s used clothes and other textile articles to be donated ritually. From there he smuggled grandma’s bridal sari, just taken off her body, and secreted it away in his cupboard inside a leather pouch. That late night, he lighted grandma’s pyre most lovingly like igniting a holy fire.
Next day saw a new bad development. Again, Nakphodi had a seizure attack. She ran and jumped into the river and started searching with a frenzy for grandma. That time it came to light, except Sundar and his parents none in the family liked Nakphodi. After the old relative’s death, for which they had held Nakphodi’s carelessness to be squarely responsible, they ganged up to throw out the orphan girl from the house. Sundar had to stand his ground and did not leave Nakphodi’s side for a minute. He feared worse harm from his uncles, aunties and cousins for Nakphodi than her seizures.
Though Nakphodi’s seizures became less frequent and shorter in duration and less intense as days passed, but grandma’s death and the hatred of household members made her depressed. She lived like a shadow of her earlier ebulient self.
Sundar could not increase the burden of her mother by leaving behind Nakphodi in the village. So, he decided to take her along with him while returning to his job. He expressed his will to marry the orphan girl and take her to Mumbai as his wife. Though, his joint family was yet reeling under grandma’s loss, yet for the exigency at hand, Sundar’s father organized a simple marriage and dispatched Sundar and Nakphodi to Mumbai as husband and wife.
Grandma (Part-two)
Sundar would often trace back his family’s history by listening to, and piecing together the bits and ends of what he heard, from the mouths of his grandma, parents, uncles, relatives, old servants, and neighbours.
His grandma, Soudamini Devi, meaning lightening, had come as a young wife of fourteen years of age into his grandpa’s life. She was not less naughty and swift than her namesake, Soudamini or lightening. Grandpa was a rich young landlord, and had recently taken the reins of his responsibilities as the Zamindar into his hands after the death of his father. Grandpa was of fifteen years.
India was ruled by the British those days as one of the colonies of their British empire, headed by King George V. The rich and high-caste Indians, like Sundar’s grandpa, had fallen into the trap of the ‘Divide and Rule’ policy of the colonizers, and saw the British as their savior and friend in retaining power over the public.
With the style of a queen and the zeal of a missionary, Sundar’s grandma, the new bride of the household, ruled her home territory. She was a domineering little woman with strong principles. Grandma also ruled as the queen of her nuptial bed.
The British monarch ruled the British empire on which the sun was said never to stop shining. Because the empire had spread so far and wide around the world that at any given time the sun shone on some or the other part of the British empire.
In an opposite vibe, for quite a few days following her marriage, grandma never allowed the sun to shine into her empire, her bedroom, where she remained twenty-four hours a day ensconced with grandpa, with all blinds drawn. Their family members and servants said they did not know what was happening behind the blinds, but their giggles were telltale.
In the years that followed, the virile couple bred like a pair of lemmings, eleven pregnancies in twenty years flat, enough to give birth to a cricket team, but alas only five offspring survived. The first six were either stillborn or died in cradle. The seventh was a girl, and the following four with a gap of one and half years were boys, all of them survived, Sundar’s father being the youngest. Had the Sundar’s grandparents virile project gone unabated, it could deliver further teams of football, Kabaddi, etc., but unfortunately his grandpa died young at the age of thirty-five.
It was a rising and rousing period for India under the British Rule, stirred by freedom call of M. K. Gandhi, a Gujarati Barrister, who would be the apple of the eye of Indian love as ‘Bapu’ and he had already returned to India, his native soil after his education in London and job in South Africa.
Barrister Gandhi before returning to India had, after his Bar-at-Law at London, had served as the solicitor of an African firm at Durban of South Africa. He also as a social reformer had activist had worked there for the rights and benefits of the Indian migrant workers oppressed by the British rulers.
Gandhi after arriving in India had started his experiments with truth and Satyagraha with an unwavering target of making India free from the British Rule, and making the country a secular democratic republic. He was making waves in minds of most awakened Indians, reaching to even the remotest villages and the most sleeping Indian minds, as well as quite a few among the power-loving and British-boot-licking zamindars, Indian princes, and title-holders like ‘Rai Bahadur’.
Gandhi ji reached the Indian public through his speeches at various meetings, prayer meetings, and writings in journals like ‘Young India’ and ‘Harijan’. These Indian tabloids served as mouthpieces of the aspirants of India’s freedom. Besides these avenues, he travelled the length and breadth of India and spoke to Indians at all levels like industrialists, bureaucrats, govt. employees, police, farmers, weavers, artisans of mud and metals, mill-workers, miners, sailors, fishermen etc. Bapu spread the dream of a free nation among them.
Sundar’s grandparents at that juncture of time, however, rejected this secular vegetarian man, Gandhi ji or Bapu, and his views as ungodly and antisocial. They totally disliked Bapu’s call for a secular and casteless India, also his call against untouchability, and not to use British-make items like textiles, salt, crockery and cutlery, and other luxury items, and urging Indians to use items of native origin and make, might those be coarse, dull, and not of very high standard. His grandparents also hated Gandi ji’s call for female education.
They rejected Gandhi in favour of another theorist of freedom. The man was Vinayak Savarkar, a Maharashtrian, who envisioned a free Hindu Rashtra to be carved out of the British-ruled Indian Peninsula with the help of the British Rulers. Savarkar’s ideas suited the British, as it helped them to execute their nefarious theory of divide and rule, Savarkar’s Hindu Rashtra theory running complementary to the ideas of another freedom fighter, Muhammad Ali Jinnah who wanted a free Islamic Nation out of the British occupied Indian territory.
Gandhi understood the complicated quadratic and tried his best, as Sundar would learn later, to accommodate both Savarkar and Jinnah into his fold with various adjustments and compromises. But all efforts failed to change the attitudes of Savarkar and Jinnah, and finally Indian Peninsula was free but divided into a secular India of Gandhi, and an Islamist Pakistan of Jinnah. Savarkar had to wait on wings for his Hindu Rashtra, along with his followers for a more opportune time.
One night Grandpa died in grandma’s arms. To the best of Sundar’s guess from grandma’s various hints, ramblings, and monologues, his grandpa had died while he had been physically intimate with grandma. His blood pressure might have shot up at the height of his excitement, causing a fatal massive heart stroke.
Sundar had a feeling that his grandma could never come out of her guilt that she had caused her beloved husband’s death. She had a feeling her physical hunger was too much for her man. Sundar’s consolation with ‘Let bygones be bygones’ did not cut much ice with the old lady except wry smiles.
A hazy sepia photograph, mottled with spots of greying and dark patches showed a vain young man suppressing a smile as if taking his life as a joke. It was Sundar’s only link to the grandma’s mysterious husband.
Sundar would recall the weird story of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and his bargain with the Devil for life-long youth. But Sundar was sure that his pious grandma unlike Dorian Gray might have bargained with God to keep her husband ever-young, although in a photograph only, when she would age like the picture of Dorian Gray.
Grandma brought up her children well, educating the boys in the best schools and colleges available. But keeping alive her dislike for Gandhi’s call for female education, she taught her only daughter, Subhadra, the oldest of her surviving brood, up to rudimentary reading and writing at home with the help of a tutor, and got her married when she was a pubescent child of thirteen. Her other four children, all sons, were also married young, one by one.
But the pubescent girl, Subhadra, whom Sundar addressed as bua became a widow shortly after her marriage and was sent back to her mother by her in-laws. They considered her unlucky and inauspicious for their family as her husband had died soon after marrying her. Sundar’s grandma was adjusting her life to her own widowhood, when her young daughter returned home as a child-widow. She reeled under the deluge of misfortunes.
But grandma rose like the proverbial Phoenix bird from the ashes of her tragedies. She established her control over the family as a young dowager and matriarch. As years rolled on, her impartiality and care as the family head, earned her the love, respect, obedience, and fear of all family members.
But Sundar’s family knew and tenderly accepted grandma’s weakness for her youngest son, Sundar’s father, who stayed with her all through the thick and thin, managing the vast landed property. Her other three sons, Sundar’s uncles, who had fallen in love, married, and brought home highly educated wives to grandma’s great dismay. With that fell the first bastion of grandma, her objection to female education preached by Bapu. Grandma would look the other way in embarrassment.
As years rolled on, her other bastons became wobbly. Her eldest grandchild, a college going girl, eloped with her lover. To add insult to her injury, it came to knowledge that her lover-boy belonged to a caste of untouchables. He was a Chamar.
The day, the bad news hit grandma’s home (of course Sundar was a kid of five to understand the import), grandma received the news with exemplary calm, reminding her family of the calm before a storm. The worst detonation was feared any moment.
But the other name of grandma was ‘surprise’. Sundar would know many years later, what all happened on that epochal day. Her grandma did a few somersaults in her arena of principles, and her much-feared explosion turned into a smile.
With a beatific smile grandma ordered, “Call those elopers, the gang of loafers and rascals; let’s roll out our red carpet for them, and welcome the prodigal children, the badmas (naughty) gang, into our family.” Her humorous mood made her family uncomfortable and nervous. But Sundar’s father could not stop giggling.
Pulling a long face with an expression of disbelief and dismay, she burst out, “Haven’t you, bloody ignoramus lot, read or heard of the ‘The parable of the prodigal son’ from Bible?” Her statement on Biblical reference was not less than a bomb blast.
Hurt and angered, the family heads of Sundar’s village gathered in grandma’s courtyard that evening for raising their voices against her decision of welcoming a Chamar boy as son-in-law into family. But the grand lady roared like a tigress, “You fools, you blind believers, followers of outlived shibboleths, don’t you sense the change of wind, see the weathercocks?” The only protest her family heard was from a feeble old man, “What is a weathercock, Soudamini Devi?” Grandma waved away his question like bothersome fly.
She changed strategy, smiled crookedly, and quietly reasoned, “Please read great thinkers like Marx, Rousseau, Immanuel Kant, or our own native philosopher Gandhi, and others. Don’t be born-deaf and blind, die-deaf and blind cases. Read these authors to know that females are equal to males, all humans are equal across the casts and creeds, and God is one. Read Darwin to know that unless your children marry far and wide across castes, creeds, and races, their offspring would be physically and mentally sick.”
Her family was wonderstruck to see the village elders eating ladoos (sweets) from her hand, extending ‘congratulations’, taking packets of ladoos for their families, and leaving one by one. The drum-struct family also left the courtyard.
The only persons left with grandma was her favourite five-year old grandson, Sundar. She now put him into her lap and whispered to him, “See, my kid, I am an old sinner. When we old sinners sin, we sin like professional sinners!” The import of her words would dawn on Sundar after decades.
Grandma Returns (Part-three)
Sundar brought the old leather pouch home and left it in his cupboard. He did not tell Nakphodi anything for her delicate mental health. Though he and Nakphodi were married for twenty-one years; and lived in great marital harmony of love and care, yet they slept on separate beds. Obviously, they had no children.
When he came out of the shower feeling fresh, he was surprised to find Nakphodi wrapped in grandma’s bright red bridal sari. Nakphodi looked very pretty, and was all smiles. She took him in her arms and whispered, “Thank you Sundar, for the thoughtful gift, this our grandma’s lost and found sari. Love me, and make me a mother this moment, dear. Hurry.”
All felt Nakphodi was getting healthier mentally. Her shrink stopped her maintenance doses for depression. She gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The baby surprisingly had an identical little hole in her nose like grandma. They felt their grandma had returned. The lovely eighth wonder was named Soudamini. (End)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
First let me confess about my struggle against Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in recent months. Leaving aside the discussions on the possible reasons that could have led me to such a state, let me eulogise about the Group Therapy Sessions which I am undergoing regularly and which actually helps me on my path of recovery. It had been a great healing experience to listen to the personal experiences of other group members and share with them your own predicaments openly and enjoy mutual support and validation to see things in the right perspectives. Hearing others share similar struggles helps each individual realise that they are not alone in their experiences. The therapist deftly helps to reduce one’s feelings of isolation, guilt and shame while everyone around helps in developing group cohesion and trust while one builds courage to squarely face and confront one’s own issues.
It was in one such sessions the therapist clapped to draw our attention to welcome to the group a new member who was attending the session for the first time. A tall, stately, beautiful woman in a gorgeous red outfit with an enchanting smile entered the room almost like a professional performer entering the stage after the announcement by the master of ceremony. All heads turned to the new member who gracefully advanced to her seat next to the therapist, Dr Swati Sawant. Our group consisted of seven members from all walks of the society. Dr Swati cleared her throat and introduced the new member, ‘ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together to welcome our new guest Ms Darianna Dinshaw, a brilliant musician of our times known for her solo piano performance and who also performs under Zubin Mehta in New York philharmonic from time to time.’
We all clapped our hands together to welcome her. The next was the ritual of self introduction of all the members one after another. When my turn came, I introduced myself with the much rehearsed phrase of having been a former naval officer, who took premature retirement in his late forties and currently working in a senior leadership position with the Tata group of industries. I sensed Darianna’s intense look scanning my countenance and almost involuntarily I stopped half way through my introduction and countered her gaze with a look of faint recognition and spoke out,’ just a moment, haven’t we met somewhere earlier? You look so very familiar. But I can’t immediately place where we could have met. It appears so very distant.’
Darianna gave a mysterious smile and said, ‘ Have we met? Maybe. I am also equally puzzled.’
‘Hold on. Do you have a twin brother? I remember one Darius Dinshaw who used to visit our ship very often in the seventies. He was very close to our ship’s doctor, Surgeon Lieutenant Ajay Tripathy. I can never forget my very first encounter with him. It was a beautiful Saturday evening. Our ship was alongside the inner breakwater jetty. Few of us were having a jolly good time in the wardroom enjoying Bonney M numbers and gulping down the hatch cans of Oranjeboom beer. Ajay and Darius were sitting in a corner quietly holding each other’s hands and were lost in their own dream world. Suddenly the navigating officer entered the wardroom with a signal in hand and announced that the ship had received sailing orders and we were to cast off early on Sunday morning. Soon all of us dispersed to get ready for the sailing. Ajay and Darius left the wardroom too. Later around midnight someone knocked on my cabin door. I found an exasperated quarter master reporting to me that the Doctor’s civilian guest hadn’t left the ship as yet. I rushed to the doctor’s cabin and found the door locked from inside. There was no response to our knocks. Something had to be done. We can’t allow a stowaway situation to develop on a warship under sailing orders. I thought of a plan and summoned one of our marine commandos to enter the doctor’s cabin through the port hole on the ship’s side. We carried out the operation very cautiously and quietly so that the Captain doesn’t get any wind of this. The marine commando entered the doctor’s cabin and found both the host and guest in deep sleep under the blanket. He opened the door and I entered the cabin, and yanked off the blanket to find a delirious doctor abusing me in an undertone for disturbing his sleep. Meanwhile Darius had got up too and was quietly putting on his shoes, ready to leave the ship. I escorted Darius out of the gangway and arranged him to be dropped at his residence. A sure disaster was averted.’
‘How the hell can I forget this incident and of course you ? When I think back, it was probably the worst ever situation that I had ever faced in my life. Come to think of it, poor Ajay would have faced a terrible consequence had you not helped us out. I will always remain grateful for your prompt action that evening which saved both of us from devastating embarrassment.’
‘You? You mean to say Darius and Darianna are one and the same?’
‘Yes, you heard me right. Darius’s story ends when Darianna’s begins.’
Darianna’s Story: Session 1
There was pindrop silence in the room. All eyes were focused on Darianna in anticipation.
‘Friends, I must start with Darius’s story in brief as a preamble to Darianna’s. Just to maintain continuity. I was the firstborn child to my parents. They say that when the doctor who delivered me patted on my rump and I cried out loudly, my mother thought a daughter was born to her. She thought my voice was too shrill yet melodious and I looked like a tender rose blossom bursting from its bud rather than a broiled lobster! When my parents discovered that it was a son, they wondered if their eyes were playing tricks. Nevertheless their joys knew no bounds to hold their firstborn close to their bosom with all their love. They had in fact named me prior to my birth in anticipation, after the valiant Persian emperor, the king of the kings, Darius, the great. I grew up in the Parsi colony where my parents lived in a small first floor apartment. I was initiated into the Zoroastrian faith through my Navjote ceremony when I was eight years old. My childhood was as normal as it could be, with my schooling and community living as any Parsi child would experience. But now in hindsight I realise that there was something special that was happening with me. I somehow was not very interested in outdoor activities like sports and field games like my other friends in the school. I preferred to play with girls indoors: games like ludo, kitchen-kitchen, hide and seek and the like. The only outdoor game that interested me was hopscotch with the other girls of the colony. But interestingly I also preferred the company of the boys but the way a girl would like to. I wanted to be noticed and pampered by the boys. In fact I was somewhat jealous of my cousins who boasted of their boyfriends and showed them off. In one instance, I tried to outsmart my cousin Mehroo by almost stealing her boyfriend from her!’, Darianna sighed and took a pause, her gaze slowly scanning the room as if trying to find out if all of us were paying attention.
‘ Tell us when did you first realise that you had a different gender orientation,’ asked one eager group member.
‘ See, I can’t exactly pinpoint the date or event when I realised that I was differently oriented. It was rather a slow subconscious process. I somehow had a feeling that though I was born a boy, I was really a girl trapped in a male body. In my dreams I was always a girl decked up in the prettiest clothes turning the male heads whenever I made an entry to a gathering. But I must tell you about one incident that was not anticipated and that perhaps made an unforgettable impact on me and steered me to the decision that changed my life completely… but only if you all have patience and time.’
‘ Of course. Please go ahead. We all are here for you,’ Dr Swati assured.
‘ It was a Sunday. My parents had gone out for a matinee show. I was waiting for my piano teacher Mr Cyrus Dastur, who used to come home on Saturdays and Sundays to give me piano lessons. I had progressed well beyond basic techniques and fundamentals. I was at the stage of honing my technical skills involving scales, chords, arpeggios and into practicing exercises to strengthen fingers and improve dexterity. Cyrus encouraged me to explore different music styles and genres and try and master popular compositions of the great composers. I was in the middle of practising one of Beethoven’s most popular compositions Bagatelle No. 25 in A minor commonly known as ‘Fur Elise’, when Cyrus arrived. He listened to me silently with admiration and patted me on my back when I finished the piece. Then he stood behind me and asked me to play Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G minor. I started to move my fingers on the keyboard and whenever I stumbled, Cyrus bent over me to lead my hands to play the notes correctly. When we finished the piece, I could feel Cyrus’s hot breath on the nape of my neck and his hands tightening around my body in a tight hug. It was a total new experience for me and before I could react, he pulled me off the stool and led me to the sofa and I followed him as if I was in a trance. He sat next to me holding my hands and looking at my face intently. I couldn’t really decipher what he wanted to convey. Was it his show of appreciation of my performance and progress or was it something else? I could only feel his breathing picking up pace and surprisingly I found that I had contracted it too, my heart pounding harder in my rib cage. Suddenly he pulled me towards him and while holding me in an embrace, he gave a passionate kiss on my lips. Then I could feel his hands exploring my body, trying to invade intimate boundaries. Then one thing led to another and Cyrus left for the day leaving me alone to figure out what happened. My experience was one that was excruciating as well as exciting. I was stranded on the no man’s land between the boundary lines of pain and pleasure. I couldn’t find any explanation to this duality of opposite feelings. Then it dawned on me. I rationalised that the pleasure was for the girl inside me and the pain was for the body that was of the boy and which was violated and punished because it did not belong here. That was the time I resolved to resolve the problem once for all and do the necessary correction. The misfit male body has to go making room for the female body that would be in consonance with my mind and soul,’ she paused for a while.
All the group members were awestruck to listen to her story so candidly spoken.
‘ How old were you when this happened?’, asked one.
‘ When did you go for the gender correction surgery?’, asked another.
‘ I was fifteen years old when this happened. But I went for the surgery much later when I was financially independent. I didn’t want to burden my parents with my problems,’ Darianna replied.
‘Just a moment, don’t mind my interruption. Please tell us if your parents were supportive to you when they learnt about your orientation,’ one of our group member asked.
‘ They had sensed it from the beginning. I thought my father would be livid and won’t accept it so easily and my mother perhaps would protect me and give me the desired moral support. But it was the other way around. Once I had put on my mother’s skirt and blouse at home and used her make up quietly. When I was admiring what I saw in the mirror, my mother discovered me in that get up. She threw a tantrum, gave me a dressing down and told me how ashamed she was to see me like that. Then my father appeared on the scene and put his protective arms around me and calmed down my mother. He then reasoned out with her that such behaviour was not abnormal. It was as natural as it could be, since it was God’s doing. Later he used to buy me pretty frocks and gowns and glittering shoes, but with the condition that I would wear them only within the four walls of the house. This was because the world outside was cruel and did not accept the transgender in public. This arrangement was alright for me. I didn’t dress up as a girl when I went out but in the privacy of home I fulfilled my desire to my heart’s content. Mind you, I continued to live this dual life till I went for the gender correction procedure, when I was twenty three. But during these growing years some hormonal change might have happened, due to which my face was totally devoid of facial hair that appears when one attains puberty. My palms used to be super soft. I didn’t grow any tough muscles that defines a growing male body. Overall I had the soft looks that my friends in the college described as effeminate. My gait and body movements were considered not very manly. Soon I was subjected to whispers behind my back which soon became vocal and louder. The guys termed me as sissy, pansy, faggot, queer and chhakka. Initially I was upset but soon I got used to these adjectives.’
‘ Oh my God, I can well imagine what hellish time you must have endured,’ empathised one lady participant from the group.
‘ You see, I built my courage to face the reality, since I knew that I would have to carry the identity of Darius for some more years and meanwhile I would have to face all this ridicule. But I was confident that once I change my body to that of a woman everything will be alright. The anomaly will be resolved automatically after the gender correction. But I definitely felt lonely when not at home. I didn’t have a true friend with whom I could share my feelings or who could stand by me. My first ever close encounter with Cyrus had left me quite confused. I was not too sure if I would ever get into a physical relationship with a gay partner but surely I was looking for true love. I was in search of a partner who would accept me the way I was and would perhaps rise beyond physical love. I was looking for a convergence of my heart and soul with someone who would value our relationship as divine and sacred. During my college days some boys tried to be close with me with the assumption that I was an easy lay. But they were dismayed soon since I won’t give in to their advances. After the Cyrus incident the thought of any physical closeness to another man never crossed my mind. But then my destiny brought me to my destination that was Ajay, a young and handsome hulk of a guy, a navy doctor in whom I found what I was looking for, or that’s what I thought,’ paused Darianna with a sigh.
‘ Alright friends, it’s time we call it a day. Let’s thank Darianna for being with us and for her candid disclosure. She has a lot more to share. In the end we all must try and find how we may help her to find a solution to her problems. Let’s again meet tomorrow to continue, ‘ concluded Dr Swati.
Darianna’s Story: Session 2
‘ I graduated from St Xavier’s college in Humanities in 1970 and was eagerly looking for a job to achieve financial independence as soon as possible. I was somewhat inspired by the college’s motto, ‘ encouraging to fly’, and I was ready to fly. I could have looked for a teaching or secretarial job being just a plain graduate but I was destined to convert my passion for music to my profession. I contacted Cyrus asking him if he could help out. Cyrus in turn connected me with Nissim Ezekiel, the rhythm guitarist of the rock band The Combustibles that was making waves at Mumbai. He invited me to one of their practice sessions and introduced me to Louis Banks, the famous jazz pianist and composer and who was visiting them as a guest artiste for planning a concert at Kolkata. They listened to few pieces that I was asked to play and applauded me for my performance. Then I was appointed as the pianist of the band, with a salary of one thousand rupees a month. At that time we had a contract with Bombay’s iconic swinging discotheque Slip Disc at Colaba. It was the go-to place for the young hep crowd which patronised our kind of music, both rock and jazz.’
‘ You must have been very happy to have found your real vocation. Very few get the opportunity to pursue their passion in their profession. But tell us about Ajay. We are keen to know if you really met your true love,’ asked one eager beaver of our group.
‘ One evening at Slip Disc can never be erased from my mind. Two very important events happened that evening. Robert Plant and Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin joined in an impromptu jam with our band and the rest is history. This resulted in the reworked versions of two of their popular songs Friends and Four Sticks. And I met my first love this very evening. As the final notes of the band's performance faded into the air, my gaze drifted to a solitary figure at a corner table, bathed in soft light, captivated by the music. When the crowd dispersed and only he remained, I couldn't resist approaching him. As I sat down, he stirred from his trance-like state, his eyes meeting mine with a spark of recognition. It was as if time stood still, and I found myself enchanted by his presence. We exchanged introductions, and as we delved into conversation over potato wedges and chilled beer, I was entranced by his passion for classical music. His praise for my performance filled me with warmth, and as the night drew to a close, we parted ways with a lingering handshake, already longing for our next encounter.
Before leaving he invited me to visit his ship on the coming Sunday at the cruiser wharf of the Naval Dockyard.’
‘ It seems you had finally found your soul mate,’ interjected someone from the group.
‘ I thought so. It was almost like love at first sight. I was looking forward to meet him on board his ship on Sunday. I reached the Lion Gate of the dockyard and requested the security guy at the gate to inform Ajay. Soon Ajay came on his scooter and escorted me to his ship berthed at the cruiser wharf. He then introduced me to his officer friends in the wardroom, and we all sat down comfortably as the steward served us chilled beer and some snacks known as small eats in the Navy. Once the officers knew about my profession as a pianist in the band Combustibles, they requested me to play some popular Elton John numbers on the ship’s piano. Without a fuss I obliged. At the end of my performance I got a standing ovation. I could see Ajay’s eyes filled with admiration and pride. I felt an instant connection, like fate had brought us together.’
‘Yes, I remember that Sunday afternoon. I can never forget your deft fingers moving so very fluidly on the keyboard of the piano,’ I recounted about my first meeting with Darius on board our ship.
‘ Meeting Ajay on his ship that Sunday was the start of something special.
We spent weekends exploring Mumbai, from enjoying street food at Chowpaty to romantic strolls along Marine Drive. Despite some societal prejudice, we proudly embraced our relationship. Ajay openly referred to me as his 'other half,' and I eagerly reciprocated. His touch became a source of comfort, and we cherished moments lost in each other's embrace. Life felt like a beautiful dream,’ Darianna recollected.
‘ Would you mind elaborating your physical experience with Ajay?’
‘Interestingly I was not averse to his touch, rather I craved for it. There had been many intimate moments when we liked to lose ourselves in each other’s arms and forget all our past woes while dreaming about a beautiful future together.’
‘ Tell us when did you feel that you really found your true love that you were searching for to start with? Conventionally such love between two individuals of the same gender is rather on shaky grounds,’ someone from the group commented.
‘ It cannot be a Eureka moment when suddenly one realises that it is true love. It’s a prolonged experience which constantly and progressively ossifies your belief. With every interaction my belief grew from strength to strength. I realised that the tenderness of love between two gay partners can be just as profound and intimate as any other relationship. At a romantic level, it involved deep emotional connection, mutual understanding, and support. Physically, it was expressed through affectionate gestures, passionate moments, and the simple joy of being close to each other. Ultimately, I believed that love knew no bounds, regardless of one’s sexual orientation. But I am not too sure now if I had found true love in my relationship with Ajay,’ sighed Darianna.
‘It seems things didn’t last long. I remember Ajay suddenly put in his papers while on leave without any prior warning. He returned from leave with his discharge orders and one fine day left the ship with bag and baggage without informing any of us. Apparently he proceeded to some unknown destination. Last I heard that he had settled down in some African country. Any idea what happened?’, I asked.
‘ Few days before he proceeded on leave, we had celebrated the anniversary of our first meeting at Slip Disc a year ago. He had booked a table at the Sea Lounge of Taj Mahal Palace hotel. The table was overlooking the Gateway of India on the sea front. The evening was magical. The ambience was romantic. We opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate our wonderful journey together and to thank the Almighty for His blessings. Everything was going perfect till I decided to confide in him about my intention to go for the gender reassignment surgery. I broke the news rather dramatically. I showed him a catalogue of silicon breast implants and asked him what shape and size would he prefer. His first reaction was a look of disgust and incredulity. He asked me sharply what did it mean. Then I told him that I had decided to alter my outer body to match my inner soul and gift myself to him a complete person with no aberrations of nature. I told him that the total process would involve multiple sessions and the first one would be scheduled in a couple of months time. I saw his face changing colours from a pale white to crimson red, his incredulity instantly turning into fury. He soon controlled himself and simply told in an undertone that how could I take such a crucial decision without discussing with him. He also emphasised that he was rather disappointed with my decision. He then asked the waiter to get the bill, signalling to me that the party was over. I tried to reason out with him but he was not willing to listen. I was very upset and thought that I would somehow convince him in the coming days. I was sure that he would understand. The evening that started with so much excitement ended in a sad note,’ Darianna’s voice trailed into a whimper.
‘Oh, that’s really terrible. I can feel your feelings. Hope you managed to reason out with him finally,’ empathised one member of the group.
‘ I never got a chance to talk to him about this again and gain his support. When I called the ship the next day to speak to him I was told that he had proceeded on urgent leave and was not available. He was expected to be back on board only after two months. I had no idea how to contact him since I never bothered to find out from him about his family and his home station. During those days we didn’t have internet nor mobile phones. I simply waited for him to call me while on leave. Sadly no call ever came and I eagerly waited for him to return after two months. When I contacted the ship after two months, I was told that he returned before his leave was over and meanwhile he had quit Navy and has left the ship for good. I was told that he had left a package for me on board and if I may come and collect it. I hurried to the ship and met one of his friends who had the parcel for me. It was a painting, a portrait of mine painted by him. Oh! I had forgotten to mention that Ajay was a great artist. His landscapes on oil can be compared to any of the great masters. In fact he already had held few exhibitions of his paintings in Jahangir Art Gallery. This was probably his only attempt at a portrait. With moist eyes I collected the painting. There was an accompanying note meant for me. With trembling fingers I opened the envelope and read the small message, ‘ To Darius, my eternal lover and soul mate, who betrayed me by planning to defile his body that God had graciously given him.’ There was a postscript below, a personal message to me: ‘If I ever wanted a woman as my partner, there were plenty to choose from. But I loved you the way you are. Please pardon me I can’t accept any artificial contamination.’ That was his last communication to me.’
Darianna’s Story: Session 3
‘ Ajay’s sudden departure came like a bolt from the blue and left me totally devastated. Struck with the unexpected blow, initially I was very low in my self esteem. My kaleidoscopic dream was shattered to smithereens. But soon enough I decided to pick up the pieces and move on with my life. Strangely this incident only strengthened my resolve to go ahead with my gender reassignment plans. Maybe it was my retaliation to his unjust decision. I thought this would be the best way I would be able to mete out poetic justice to him, and in my new avatar I would once again find true love.’
"That must have been quite a journey for you. We're interested to hear about how you navigated your gender transition."
"It was a deeply emotional journey for me. The process unfolded in stages, beginning with a mental health assessment to ensure I was prepared for the challenges ahead. Hormone therapy followed to initiate the physical changes associated with transitioning from male to female. The final phase involved surgical procedures for breast augmentation, genital reconstruction, and facial feminisation. Throughout each stage and afterward, I experienced a mix of emotions—excitement, anxiety, relief, and fear. While I felt a sense of fulfilment as my dream of living authentically took shape, I also grappled with concerns about societal expectations, potential discrimination, and how others would perceive me. Recovery from surgery was a process, but eventually, I embraced my new body and felt a profound sense of satisfaction when I looked in the mirror. Initially, I hesitated to venture outside, choosing instead to remain indoors. However, as word of my story spread, visitors, ranging from curious relatives to media representatives, sought to meet me at home. Despite feeling self-conscious at first, I gradually grew accustomed to interacting with others. Encouraged by the acceptance I found, I made the decision to step out into the world. While some individuals from my past reacted unkindly, I discovered that most strangers I encountered simply saw me as who I am. This realisation is not gave me the strength to embrace my truth and live openly, an d over time, everything began to feel normal again."
"We're pleased to hear that you navigated this significant transition smoothly. Have you found the person you were looking for? True love?"
Darianna gave a wide smile and continued,” Patience please . I had left my music band The Combustibles before I went for the surgical procedures. Post recovery, when I thought that the world had accepted me in my new avatar, I started looking for a gainful employment. One of my friends suggested that I must join a music group in the movie industry. I heard in our music circle that one music composer Bappi Lahiri who had earned the title of The Disco King, was looking for a second pianist for his group. In fact he was one of the few composers who used piano extensively not only for the background scores but also for his film songs. I managed to meet him through a contact and he was happy with my audition. I became a member of his team. Though my reputation had already preceded me, I was wholeheartedly accepted by my fellow musicians and everyone went out of their way to make me comfortable. Bappi da’ chose me to support him in rendering his famous piano composition for the film Iqarrar and over night I became a minor celebrity. As you all may be knowing, Bappi da’ figured in the Guinness Book of World Records for recording 180 songs in one year. It was an honour to be part of his team. While I was happy with my job, I continued my search for love. And then I found Jagdish Jha.
Jagdish Jha, the tabla and dholak player in Bappi da's team, could have been just another face in the crowd. But I felt a strong attraction when our eyes met for the first time. Despite his understated demeanor and simple attire, we found ourselves growing closer each passing day. We shared meals and occasional dinner dates. One evening, as the sun set over the sea, Jagdish shyly handed me a note he had written. It read, 'I never knew that I would fall in love so soon, But how can a midget ever aspire for the moon?' Moved by his sincerity, I embraced him warmly, his eyes brimming with joy and gratitude.
Darianna paused a while to take a deep breath and started once again, “To everyone in our team we were seen as the odd couple, as odd as chalk and cheese. He was diminutive and dark while I was tall and fair. One can hardly call him sartorial savvy while I had a stylish wardrobe and I always dressed meticulously. I had the urban background while he grew up in a small remote town in Bihar. I had college education and he was just a matriculate. Funnily I played piano while he excelled in tabla and dholak, quite different in terms of sound, techniques and cultural origins. But when we jammed together, we complemented each other rather beautifully in well orchestrated musical contexts. Despite our obvious dissimilarities we were like two flavours which could create a unique dish blended together innovatively. Our differences, like opposite poles attracting, made us uniquely compatible.”
“ So, finally you found the man of your dreams.”
“ I thought I did. I was very sure that despite the apparent gaps between us it will work. You don't love someone because of their looks or their clothes or their wealth. You love them because they sing a silent song which only your heart can hear and understand. Things were going great between us. I even invited him home and introduced him to my parents. Then one day I proposed to him formally. He hesitated a moment and told me how lucky he was to get me as his life partner but he wanted me to meet his mother and seek her blessings before we took the vow. His widowed mother stayed in Darbhanga, a small town in Bihar. He had no other siblings. I was happy to accompany him to his native place. His mother who appeared to be in her eighties gave us a warm welcome. It seemed that Jagdish had kept her well informed about me and about our relationship. Despite her age she had cooked an elaborate meal for us and was doting on us, making me very comfortable. I was overwhelmed with her warmth and affection. Later in the evening we were sitting in the lawn and enjoying our tea with freshly prepared thekua and bachka. The old lady cleared her throat, gave a furtive glance to her son and looked at me with sympathetic eyes. She then told unwaveringly, ‘Dear girl, I am going to ask you to give me a gift, which I am sure you will not deny.’ I was intrigued and asked her, ‘ I didn’t get it. What can I give you?’ She said,’ I have heard about you and about your trauma that you have gone through to achieve what you wanted. I am also glad that you are a good friend to my son. But I must tell you that we are traditional Bihari Brahmins. We believe that we would attain salvation after death only if we had seen the face of our grand children during our life time. See, Jagdish is my only son. If he marries you my dreams of seeing my grand children will never be fulfilled. I am asking you to let go of my son. I am sure you understand what I am saying.’
I didn’t know what hit me. I felt at that moment as if the ground beneath my feet was giving way and I was being sucked into a bottomless pit. That was the end of our short-lived episode.”
Darianna’s Story: Session 4
“You all must be thinking that after two heartbreaks in a row I would have given up my quest for true love. But it so happened that I turned out to be quite optimistic and adamant. After a male-male and a male-female relationships that had gone sour, I never knew that I would be involved in a female-female situation. It was not by design but purely coincidental. I was invited as one of the musicians to play for the theme song Swaagatam for the 9th Asian Games at Delhi. We also entertained the athletes and guests in the evening get togethers. We were accommodated in the Asiad village quarters. That’s where I met a Manipuri woman boxer Leina Elam who was from the India Athletics team. She and I shared the room through the duration of the games. We hit off well from the very first day. She had read about me in the media. I also had read about her prowess in boxing in both national and international level games. Soon we discovered within each other a trusting friend with whom one was willing to share everything. I don’t remember how and when we slowly moved into the space of sapphic love. We found ourselves in complete consonance with each other in all the three dimensions: mind, body and soul. Those days that we spent together in the Asiad village were really glorious.”
“ It seems you had reached your final destination.”
“ My understanding was that my new found love with her was grounded in the same principles of affection, commitment, and mutual respect as any other romantic relationship. While there were unique dynamics and challenges, the foundation remained the same: two people coming together to build a life and create happiness together. So before the Asian Games came to an end, I suggested that we first work out between us a living in arrangement and later we could plan for a permanent solution. We could also plan to move away to some liberal island nation and settle down there to avoid legal scrutiny. I thought she would welcome the idea. But she dropped the bomb when she told me that she was ok for a casual relationship with me but surely the idea of working out a permanent arrangement was out of question since in her eyes I was not really a true woman. I was born a boy so genetically I continued to be a boy. This thought constantly nagged her and she was not comfortable to take me as a life long partner. So my friends, that’s all about me. After these three failed relationships I am not too sure if my quest for true love should end for good or I still have some hope?“
“ Friends, you all have heard Darianna’s story which revolves around her search for her true identity, her struggles with social stigma and personal rejections and her exemplary resilience. You heard about her relentless efforts to embark on the arduous journeys in search of true love. What do you think she should do?,” Dr Swati summarised the issues for the group.
“ I was thinking, why does anyone seek validation for true love through experimentation with several human partners? Can’t one transcend the limitations imposed by others and find true fulfilment within oneself?,” I butted in.
“ I was wondering if one would pursue one’s passion whether its poetry, music or any other endeavour, won’t one achieve a fulfilling and meaningful life? “, asked one group member.
“ Yes, I think passion can bring joy, fulfilment and a sense of purpose that can sometimes be as profound as romantic love. What do you say Darianna? You are such an accomplished pianist. You may consider if you may totally dedicate your life to the piano. The music that you would create would be the fruit of your true love, I think,” said another group member.
“ I think it makes sense. True love can really manifest in pursuing my passion to the fullest, with my utmost dedication. When I can find that love within myself, why should I look outside? Thank you friends, for patiently listening to me and for showing me the light at the end of the tunnel,” concluded Darianna.
Postscript : After about six months all the group members received invitation cards to attend the inauguration ceremony of a newly established Piano Academy at Mumbai, founded by Darianna.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and anthologies worldwide. He has seven poetry collections, one short story collection and two professional books to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He the recipient of multiple awards for his literary activities, which include the prestigious Honour Award for complete work under Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020. He holds the honorary title of ‘Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture’. He lives in Pune and his email id is dilipmohapatra@gmail.com
"Eat my head!" Boom! A bomb exploded in my ear. I looked up in time to see the missile in her hand whistling past my head. Thanks to her poor aim, the projectile missed me by a whisker. It was the wife targetting me with one of her missiles. I looked at her and tried to figure out what was the cause of her latest outburst. But then I could never tell when an innocuous comment could spark off her fuse.
Like the time I told her, "I am going to Tony's house to help him instal his new TV." Tony is our friendly neighbour.
"Don't be long," she hummed in her sing-song voice. "It's almost lunch time."
"Ok," I nodded and walked over to Tony's house. It took me fifteen minutes to set up the TV. Then we started talking of this and that and our conversation drifted into areas of mutual concern—from the disaster in Ukraine to the downfall of our own welfare society. By the time I came back home, one full hour had elapsed.
No sooner did I open the door than I was blasted by a blistering tirade of biting words. "Do you think it's a hotel I am running for you, where you can come and go as and when you please?" Even before I could fathom the cause for her outburst, she had moved into top gear, "It's a curse to have married you!"
All I could do was sport a vacant look. I have learnt from experience that, at such junctures, it's best not to argue, but to maintain a stoic silence. Any attempt at rebuttal only aggravates the situation and leads to snow-balling of shouts and counter-shouts. I smiled and sat down quietly for lunch. "The fish is delicious," I commented. The wind was taken out of her sails. We had a smooth sailing—till the next storm.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
Trisha sat on the step of the temple of Radha-Krishna nursing the weal on her arm where the leather belt had slashed her. The mark looked purple and ugly and livid and the singe ate into her flesh. She winced as her fingers touched it. But she did not shed tears. Perhaps the hot block of sorrow inside her had drained her eyes. It had not happened for the first time though, Chandrakant hitting her at the slightest pretext. She had no idea as such why her husband flies into rage so easily at the small slips she made. She knew he was a habitual drinker while the negotiations for her marriage with him were going on. Her mother was warned against the alliance by some kindly neighbours and well-wishing kins. But Chandrakant was rich, owned a stationary shop and had not much familial responsibilities to shoulder being an orphan. ‘What else do you need in a husband? Which young man does not drink these days? He will slowly come out of the habit when a baby comes to your life.’ Her mother explained persuasively. Trisha knew how her mother had struggled to run the household, to rear her and her brother up after her father’s untimely death. She decided to believe what her mother predicted would come true in course of time. And she had given her consent.
But what her mother had presaged never became a reality. After three years of marriage there was no baby, and no brake in Chandrakant’s drinking spree. And, to add to it Chandrakant had begun hitting her. He appeared to derive a savage pleasure out of that, as if he was avenging the frustration of his childlessness. His anger would flare up at petty and insignificant slips she made in managing the household chores.
Most nights he would return late, sloshed to the tip of his hair and flop into bed without eating dinner. It is only in those nights when he was urged on by his sub-human libido, he would come closer to her, and after a loathsome and repulsive session of lovemaking that made her flesh creep would slither away to the edge of the bed. Trisha would get up and stagger to the washroom, hating her body, hating her lack of courage to protest, hating her for allowing herself to be molested by his animal passion. She would sit under the water tap for hours letting the running water wash down the dirt, the defilement, and the despondency.
A nightbird hooted, interrupting the flow of the bitter reminiscence. The temple premises was deserted. A gibbous moon hanging from the woolly clouds shed a dull light on a patch below the steps and the shadow of the tall coconut tree that sprawled across that pool of light looked like a giant umbrella gone into shreds. She experienced a throbbing pain where the weal was and her head also began to ache.
She glanced at the closed portals of the inner section of the temple. ‘What is my fault, Krishna? Why have you been subjecting me to such terrible misery? Is this the reward for the unwavering faith I had put on you all these years?’ She mumbled accusingly.
**
It was not new on the part of Chandrakant to hit her, to hurl abuses at her. But tonight, the savagery had reached its culminating height. And the cause that had fanned the embers of Chandrakant’s anger to raging flames was so ridiculously paltry that Trisha’s lips twisted in a crooked, sardonic smile when she recollected it.
The cause was Bikash, Chandrakant’s friend. It was election time and different political parties were paying people money to join their respective rallies. Bikash was an active worker for a regional political party. Chandrakant, Bikash and others joined the rallies organized by the party and treaded across the sun scorched streets of a furious summer. Most days Chandrakant would keep his shop closed in the post- lunch hours to join the rally, and then spend the evenings in the liquor sheds.
That day Chandrakant returned early, around three in the afternoon. He was not alone.
‘He is Bikash,’ Chandrakant introduced him to Trisha. ‘One of the party workers.’ Bikash flicked a smile at Trisha. He was handsome in a gentle, agreeable way, and the smile had an arresting quality about it. Trisha could not restrain herself from smiling back at him.
‘Give us something to eat. We are famished. The fellows made us walk ten kilometers on the sun-blazed streets, without giving us even a bottle of water and handed us just seven hundred rupees each for all the trouble taken.’
‘Will I be having a share from your food, Bhabi? Bikash asked looking into Trisha’s eyes. ‘No issue there,’ Trisha returned amiably. ‘There is enough for all of us.’ ‘Will you please stop exchanging the pleasantries and serve food?’ Chandrakant snapped, a hard glint in his eyes.
Bikash thanked Trisha profusely as they left after having their belated lunch. ‘You have magic in your hand Bhabi. The food was just divine.’ Trisha laughed. ‘Come again,’ she said trying to sound formal for the benefit of Chandrakant. Chandrakant cast a sharp, biting look at Trisha as he followed Bikash out of the door.
‘You love to chat with other men, don’t you?’ Chandrakant’s voice was harsh and rude like the crack of a whiplash. Trisha could not see his face clearly in the darkness. ‘Why do you say such things?” She protested, feeling hurt. ‘Do not play that innocent act with me. I know women like you. They like to get close to every other man except for their husbands. Whores!’ The hatred with which he spat the word out made Trisha cringe. That was the night Chandrakant had begun hitting her with the belt. She turned her face away and squeezed her eyes shut.
But the hatred and suspicion that smouldered inside Chandrakant erupted in a volcanic explosion the afternoon he discovered Bikash sitting in a basket chair in the front veranda of his house and sipping tea. Trisha stood by him, smiling perhaps at some joke Bikash had said.
‘I came here looking for you, buddy, when I did not find you at the shop’ Bikash explained. ‘Yes, I had gone out to collect some items for the shop from the wholesale store.’ Chandrakant replied tersely.
And they left, but not before Bikash offered his effusive thanks to Trisha for the tea.
That night was the culminating point of her agony. A night of showdown, for both Trisha and Chandrakant. The last straw of forbearance she had clutched desperately at, was swept away by the surging, storming currents of Chandrakanta’s unfounded suspicion and wrath. That night he turned to, for Trisha, a monster.
‘You sinning slut!’ He hissed at her. You like to have it off with outsiders, don’t you?’ He snarled, swinging the belt. The contempt in his words was more searing than the whipping from the belt.
After Chandrakant slept, venting out his anger and frustration, she sneaked out of the house and reached the temple of Radha Krishna.
**
She sat on the steps leading up to the front hall and gazed behind. A solitary low powered bulb scattered a dim light across the terrace. She was now breathing hard as the solid, hot block of pain began to melt, and tears first dropping down in trickles morphed into scalding, salty rivulets and streamed down her eyes.
‘Tell me Krishna! Am I a sinner?’ She stammered through her sobs. ‘Chandrakant calls me one. He calls me infidel. Am I an infidel? Yes, I admit that I had felt slightly drawn towards Bikash. He was way apart from Chandrakanta, a misfit in the aggressive political scenario. An out and out gentleman. The endless days and nights of suffering, of humiliation, of unjust accusations, of ruthless physical assaults had taken their toll on the steadfastness of sincerity. May be there was a small slip. Chandrakanta denigrates me, disparages me. Stigmatizes me as a sinner!’
‘O Krishna, you stand there great and glorious with goddess Radha. She is not your wedded wife. Is she? Does that make her a sinner? An infidel? I have never deviated from the path of loyalty to my husband. Why then am I punished? Why the label of sinner is pasted on me?’
‘If I have ever trusted you, worshipped you with all my heart Krishna, take me back to you. I cannot take it anymore. Do not let me go back to that monster!’
Hard, dry sobs racked her frail body and she leaned against the pillar to steady the trembling inside her.’ Suddenly the lights went out. The street was plunged into darkness, so also temple. Only the faint glimmer of the moon that peeped through the cotton wool clouds cast a feeble glow across the steps and the ground below. Suddenly from nowhere an enchanting, subdued tune of a flute floated in to the spot where Trisha sat slumped on the step. And she sensed a presence of someone very close to her, so close that the warm, fragrant breath of that someone fanned her face. She felt a tingle of fear. She tried to spring up to her feet, but a strange lassitude had crept into her.
‘Radha!’
She heard a soft, melodious voice very close to her, barely above a whisper. She turned her frantic gaze around. Was someone calling her? But she was Trisha, not Radha. Still, she knew intuitively that the voice called her, though she had no idea why it addressed her as Radha.
She squinted hard and could make out the outlines of a wispy, bluish shadow, like a transparent, intangible shape. She felt a hand on her shoulder, a very gentle, tender hand and she slowly got to her feet. ‘Come, Radha’ she heard the voice again and saw the transparent shadow like figure moving ahead of her. Kind of sailing slightly above the ground, and as if she was held under some sort of hypnosis Trisha trudged behind it. She followed the shadow to the back of the temple, an unfrequented spot which she guessed she had never been to. The spot was almost hidden by dense growths of thickets and vines. The shadow pushed aside the vines and creepers and moved on, and stopped by what looked like a small, rough-surfaced block of wood. She wondered that during her so many visits to the temple she had never discovered this bowery spot. ‘Come,’ she heard the enchanting whisper again. ‘Sit here by me. I will make you forget all your pain.’ The diaphanous figure with the bluish outline sat down on the block of wood. Like she was under the impact of some magical spell Trisha sat down, close to the figure inhaling thirstily the exotic fragrance that seemed to be seeping out from it. The weal made by the lash of Chandrakant’s belt no longer hurt, nor did her body and head ache. A wave of calm swept over her tormented soul and she closed her eyes, drinking in the tranquil joy.
**
Chandrakant came out slowly of the drunken stupor at the touch of the warm sunlight streaming in through the window rails. He opened his eyes and made a feeble effort to shake off last night’s hangover. His head felt unusually light as if it was stuffed with cotton wools and he felt queasy. He needed a glass of lemon water badly. ‘Trisha,’ he called. ‘Get me a glass of lemon water, quick.’ There was no reply. He called again, this time louder. There was no answer. Nor did Trisha walk into the room carrying the glass of lemon water as she often did. Chandrakanta tried to listen. He could not hear the familiar hiss of the pressure cooker and the clutter of cookware from the kitchen. He sat up rubbing his droopy eyelids. The house seemed to be wrapped in a blanket of a mysterious silence. Where was Trisha? Slowly, like images sliding from a montage the events of last night crept into his mind. His returning home early, and finding Bikash in his house having tea with Trisha. How he had gone high with alcohol to drown his suspicion and frustration and how he had hit Trisha with his belt. He had flopped into the cot in the outer hall after venting out his wrath. He did not remember what had happened after that.
He got off the bed and stood up. He waited for a moment to steady himself and then wobbled towards the room of worship. Usually by this time Trisha had completed the morning worship and the scent of the incense sticks diffused across the house. He pushed the door gently and peeped in. He could not smell the incense sticks. The figurines and idols of gods and goddesses appeared dull and lusterless since Trisha had not bathed them and put the sandalwood paste and fresh flowers on. The image of Krishna and Radha too looked pale and unsmiling inside the glass framing. The flower-garland Trisha had put on it was withered. It was odd, Chandrakanta thought, apprehension and unease crowding into his still unsober mind. Trisha never left the previous day’s flower garland of Lord Krishna and Radha unchanged. He racked his brain trying to figure out what could have made Trisha skip the routine worship.
He tried to fight off the foreboding that lurked at the back of his mind.
Soon the fear was replaced by bitterness and anger. The first thing that came into his mind was Bikash.
The bitch must have gone away with Bikash, the dirty, unscrupulous betrayer.
He strode back to the bedroom and swallowed a large swig from the bottle of country liquor. And without bothering to take a wash he stormed out of the house, indenting to track Bikash and Trisha down before they escape his reach. He knew Bikash would not be there at his house. But still he was sure he could gather some helpful information from the neighbourhood. He scrambled and stumbled along the street leading towards Bikash’s house, squinting his eyes against the dazzling summer sun.
And he stopped short.
Bikash was walking towards him, a broad grin on his friendly face. ‘You are early, buddy,’ he said. ‘The rally starts at two in the afternoon.’ Chandrakant remembered the election rally they had to join that day. And the sudden and unexpected meeting with Bikash had fazed him. ‘How could Bikash be here?’ He was confused under a mishmash of speculations. ‘He had to be with Trisha somewhere far away from the town. How come is he still here?’ He thought dubiously. ‘May be, he has kept her hidden somewhere and comes to me pretending innocence. The despicable hypocrite!’
Bikash put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You been drinking in the morning! What happened?’ he asked in genuine concern. Chandrakant was not so sure now of Bikash’s involvement in Trisha’s disappearance. He guessed she had perhaps gone to some relative or may be to her mother, disheartened by his rude behaviour. She would comeback once she gets over her anger and resentment. Despite the reasonings he was crushed under a mixed feeling of shame and guilt. Probably, he thought reluctantly, he had misconstrued the relationship between her and Bikash. May be, he had been extra sensitive. Something hard and hot seemed to have stuck inside him and he knew he would choke unless it is released. ‘Trisha has gone away,’ he stammered, his voice breaking into a sob. Bikash looked at him in surprise. ‘Gone away? Where? Why?’
And Chandrakant came out with the episode of last night’s fight with Trisha. He hedged at first to admit his inhuman treatment of Trisha but Bikash could easily guess how men like Chandrakant turn to animals under the influence of alcohol. But he solaced his friend and assured him that Trisha would return when she gets over her emotional upheaval. They got back to Chandrakant’s house. Trisha had not returned and Chandrakant called her on her mobile. They could hear the rings inside the house. It was coming from the room of worship. ‘Is Trisha in there? Worshipping?’ They ran in to see. Trisha’s mobile phone was on the wall-shelf, and the strident ringing filled the room. The two men looked at each other, surprised and helpless.
‘Do not worry. She will be back by the time you return from the rally.’ He said, trying to sound convincing, but not feeling very sure. He was not very clear what exactly transpired between Trisha and Chandrakant but he could guess that it was much more serious than what Chandrakant had told him. What if Trisha did not return by the evening, he thought, disturbed at this sudden turn of events in his friend’s life. Chandrakant, after looking into the closets and drawers declared that Trisha had not taken any clothes with her, nor even her handbag. Where could a woman go without her handbag without money, and most shockingly without her mobile? He was worried but he did not reveal it to Chandrakant. He had developed a certain liking for Trisha during his brief acquaintance with her. She was beautiful in a serene way, but Bikash could read unmistakably the deep sadness in her eyes despite her efforts to hide it under a cheerful veneer. There were moments when he wanted to know her more closely, to know about the sorrow she hides under her smile, but desisted from making an intimate conversation with her. Was it because she could not be a mother after long years of marriage? Three years is not too long a time to feel that way, he reasoned. Was it Chandrakant? His drinking spree? He remembered slightly guiltily the forbidden thoughts that had sneaked into his unguarded moments, to take Trisha in his arms and solace her, and shrank away from them. But he had never laid his heart open to her though he could guess that Trisha wanted to share her sorrow with someone close, someone who would understand her. Trisha’s sudden and unexpected disappearance had overwhelmed him. He was sure Chandrakant was responsible.
‘Did you hit her?’ He asked guardedly after a short wavering.
Chandrakant looked sharply at him. But lowered his eyes the next moment. Bikash did not pursue the matter. He knew now why Trisha left. He was filled with resentment for his friend but did not say it aloud. And he knew it was not an uncomplicated, normal row between a husband and wife. But there was no time to ponder over it. With some effort he managed to persuade Chandrakant to come with him in the rally.
The election rally was the priority for Bikash at that time. He was a petty but active party worker and was entrusted with the charge of drawing more and more people to join the rally. ‘I am sure she would come back before evening.’ He said trying to assuage Chandrakant’s premonitions.
**
The house was in darkness when Chandrakant returned in the evening, exhausted and bone-weary after the long walk in the sun scorched streets. His throat parched and his body felt hot and burning. Trisha had not come back. Bikash had gone to the party office to sort out the details of the next day’s program. ‘I will be back in half an hour,’ he had said. ‘We will decide what to do if she had not returned by that time. Wait for me and do not do anything rash.’
Chandrakant needed a drink badly to calm down his jittery nerves. He turned and walked up to the liquor shop. He was somehow afraid to face Bikash’s questioning glance. Perhaps Bikash had guessed what Chandrakant had accused Tisha of. It was around eight when he finally came out of the shed, after drinking a lot more than his usual quota, feeling a bit high but no longer perturbed and desperate. The alcohol had taken effect. He walked back home with unsteady steps humming the tune of a Hindi song.
He was at about a hundred meters away from his house when he saw it. A shadowy, slender figure, possibly of a woman, since it was clad in a yellow sari. It came out of the front gate and walked briskly straight on, in the direction of the Radha-Krishna temple. Chandrakant stopped abruptly. His heart skipped a beat and then began to race.
Who is the woman? Trisha?
Without thinking he followed the figure of the woman. He quickened his pace and drew closer. Now he could have a better glimpse of the back of the woman. The figure was heading towards the temple. It was just when the figure was almost within the reach of Chandrakant a large group of Kirtan singers emerged from the temple gate. It was a practice that the kirtan singers sang devotional songs in praise of Lord Krishna and Radha in the temple every evening. The yellow clad figure moved faster weaving its way through the crowd of the singers and disappeared out of sight. Chandrakant broke into a shambling run and tried to squeeze his way through the singing crowd, his eyes desperately searching the woman in yellow. She was gone! Chandrakant barged into the temple premises and darted across the small open space leading to the steps. The temple premises was almost empty except for the two priests who were now preparing to leave after performing the evening rituals. Chandrakant ran up the steps gasping hard, flicking a frantic look around. The two priests eyed him curiously, surprised at his dishevelled look and the insane anxiety in his eyes. ‘Have you seen a woman here a short while ago,’ he asked impatiently one of the priests. ‘She was clad in a yellow sari.’ He added. ‘There were a number of women here clad in yellow, my son,’ the priest said. ‘They come here every evening to sing the glory of Lord Krishna. Which was the one you are looking for?’ He asked, puzzled. The other priest was closing the door of the inner section where the idols of the deities were installed. Chandrakant’s eyes caught a brief glimpse of the deities, Krishna and Radha. His mouth hung open. His eyes opened wide, and his mouth went dry. The idol of Radha that stood clinging to Krishna looked so familiar!! He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
It was Trisha, the same face, the same eyes and lips. She was clad in yellow silk. But her hair was done in a different style, and she wore a small tiara across her forehead. As Chandrakant stared through an alcoholic haze her lips twisted in a derisive smile and she, looking like a wispy, transparent shadow of yellow came leaping out of the statue and ran out of the door at the very same instant the priest drew forward the panels and pushed the bolt into the socket. Then she glided down the steps, her feet floating in the air and moved behind the temple.
Chandrakanta followed the fast-moving shadowy figure. He quickened his pace not to lose sight of it but suddenly felt a sharp sting just above the ankle and a faint ‘oh’ escaped him. As a reflex movement his eyes turned towards the ground but nothing was visible. Must be an insect, he thought and ignoring the stinging pain in his heel ran forward, frightened that he would miss the darting figure if he stopped to examine his heel. Now he was sure it was Trisha but his alcohol- soaked brain was not able to think of a reason why she played such a nasty game of hide and sick with him. ‘Trisha,’ he called out at the top of his voice but the sound came echoing back from the dense trees and the temple walls. The wound in his heel was now beginning to ache burningly. He wanted to sit down somewhere to rest his legs for a while. He could make out the wooden block in a vine covered patch in that far corner of the temple compound, lit up dimly by a cloud clad moon. He flopped onto the wooden block, breathing hard, all soaked in sweat. He did not know why but his whole body was beginning to burn and his tongue had gone dry and stiff. He found it difficult to sit and stretched his tired body out on the block. From somewhere inside the bowery growths came an enchanting, soothing smell. He shut his tired eyes peacefully.
The woman came out from behind a thicket and stood by the block watching the outstretched figure of Chandrakant. She touched his forehead tenderly, waited for a moment and then moved back into the dense hedges.
**
Bikash was worried. There was no sign of Chandrakant. He was neither in the house nor in the liquor shop he frequented. He had gone straight to Chandrakant’s house on returning from the party office. Later he came to know that he had been to the liquor shop. He waited up for him all through the night at his house. Chandrakant did not return. Around noon he filed a missing complaint of both Chandrakant and Trisha in the local police station. It was election time and Bikash was an active party worker. The police came promptly to action. It was only in the evening when they interviewed the priests of the Radha-Krishna temple the police came to know that those were the two people who had seen Chandrakant last. The police organized a thorough search in and around the temple.
They found him after about half-an hour, sleeping quietly on a wooden block amidst the thick growths of vines and creepers. He was carried to the hospital where he was declared dead on arrival. The wound on his heel was discovered during the post mortem. The doctors presumed snakebite but there were not any telltale symptoms of snake poisoning in his body. ‘It could be a heat stroke. The long walk in the rally and excessive drinking of alcohol could have caused a heart failure,’ another group of doctors pronounced. The police mentioned it as a UD case in the office record and closed the file.
The police carried out an extensive search for Trisha, Chandrakant’s missing wife.
She was never found!!
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.
The morning of 20th May, as I was sharing my morning cup of tea with my mother, she started chatting with me mostly to brief me about the things that had happened in the family and in our neighborhood.
She broached the topic concerning a recently married relative of ours whose marriage was not going right. After seeing my non-interest to participate in the discussion, she changed the topic to the latest and most happening thing which has captivated the whole nation – the 2024 Election. Realising that most of her observations are a copy of the narrative created by the local TV channels – each of which voices the interest of one of the major political parties, I chose to caution her.
I asked her, why is she watching these channels which are out to manipulate her mind and influence her decisions and why is she curious to know about the life of the relative over which we have no influence or control to guide it for better? Is it not a waste of time?
She was visibly upset. But was she an exception? I think all our mothers do talk about such general things. Do we expect them to discuss jobless growth and income disparity in our country with us? No. Every one of us indulges in such discussions occasionally in our free time; some more some less.
For us, it can be a discussion; to the person being discussed, it’s gossip. Same day, by early evening a Tweet from Rohit Sharma created a flutter in the media. He directly blamed the broadcaster Star Sports for intruding into the privacy of the players and releasing content that has nothing to do with the game being played. It was a private conversation between his teammates. He prayed for good sense to prevail and appealed to everyone involved to show respect, sensitivity and maturity while dealing with an individual’s right to privacy and public curiosity. The channel realising the insatiable appetite of the cricket crazy nation to know anything and everything about their cricketing heroes publicised the conversation after being requested not to do so, in their enthusiasm, not respecting where to fix the boundary of the viewers’ curiosity before that turning voyeuristic, which intrudes into peoples’ private spaces.
Such invasions are commonplace now with the advent of easily accessible and affordable communication devices. Unknown to us our privacy is violated by many, and we are gleefully violating others’ space too.
Two incidents in one day. The first is about our curiosity, how to stay curious and control it by directing it and regulating it to give positive outcomes without damaging us and things around us. The second is about how we are vulnerable to other’s curiosity and how they can or are manipulating us to get their interest achieved.
Curiosity is not bad. Every journey of major scientific discovery has begun by someone’s curiosity. The history of scientific discovery is filled with stories of how individual curiosity has resulted in great scientific discoveries that have optimized human efforts of that time and resulted in the overall well-being of society. One can’t be curious about everything at once. Such curiosity is naturally drawn to a specific topic based on one’s interests, experiences, and biases. The journey gives us unknown knowledge and the chance to discover unplanned and unexpected objects and results. That journey comes with its cost. It requires a great deal of focus, attention, time, and financial resources.
We are generally curious about famous people like politicians, sports personalities, cinema stars and successful new-age businessmen; to know more about them and their private lives beyond their work. If their authorised biographies sell like hot cakes, their unverified salacious sides then make rounds through gossip circuits and unregulated media. Many draw inspiration from the various situations they tackled in their lives and use them to manage their own. This also has led to the existence of the paparazzi culture which relentlessly tracks famous people and feeds the hungry audience with the minute details of their private lives with photos and saucy news creating a multitude of speculations. A casual dining out with a male friend at a restaurant leads to a national debate about whether everything is fine with her marriage. Excessive curiosity turns into obsession leading to unrealistic expectations and develops a cult personality around celebrities. This constant push and pull between the public interest and someone’s privacy leads to an ethical dilemma for the news outlets that thrive on TRPs, journalists who gather and post such stories, and the fans who consume them.
If curiosity is good, unbounded curiosity comes packaged with negatives. Unethical exploration and exploration of the unknown and unknowable can frustrate us and lead us down paths that are harmful to us and others. Every man is born curious. Scientists are curious, and so also the cat in our house, and the monkey sitting on your balcony. What is the difference between us?
When we pick up a particular book to read, turn on a TV and tune in to a particular channel to watch a particular show or the particular anchor of a particular news, pick up a particular newspaper, choose a particular item to read in detail, trawl the internet, scroll the phone screen for a particular type of content, call a particular person to discuss another particular person, behind our general curiosity, we are naturally drawn to specific topic based on interests, experiences, and biases. It shows a predictable pattern. Our innate instincts drag us to what now can be called as Voyeuristic curiosity. A conscious mind can know when he wanders off from the track of positive curiosity to voyeuristic curiosity. Curiosity and voyeurism offer a very thin strip of land to navigate between, especially when it comes to other people.
Ideally, curiosity about a famous person is fuelled by a genuine interest in their work, accomplishments, or public persona. This information is often readily available through interviews, documentaries, or public appearances. But when curiosity ventures into seeking out private details or experiences a person hasn’t chosen to share, it edges towards voyeurism. A healthy curiosity often seeks to learn, understand, or appreciate someone better. But voyeuristic curiosity is often driven by a desire for excitement, titillation, or a sense of power over someone’s privacy. Curiosity can be a positive force, inspiring fans to emulate good qualities, support causes, or appreciate a person’s talent. However, voyeurism can have a negative impact, causing emotional distress, damaging reputations, and fostering an unhealthy obsession.
Many of us are slowly becoming aware of our vulnerability to someone else’s curiosity. Big companies like Google, Meta, X, and Instagram gather real-time data from our smart gadgets and sell it to the marketeers at a price or charge a fee as a marketplace. Unknown to us, newspapers, advertisements, social media platforms set traps to know more about the behavioural patterns of our consumption choices, preferences, lifestyles, and incomes to drive traffic to our screens to grab our attention. Smart advertisement makers have realised the chink in the armour of their target audience and use the potential of social media to take advantage of this weakness and create contents to control and manipulate people’s minds towards a product, misinformation, and a political support base. The whole game of marketing involves discovering and exploiting these cracks and biases of human psychology and planting their seed to grow inside their target audience turning them their slaves.
We are privy to the power of WhatsApp and WhatsApp University and the damages it can cause. Thousands of digital warriors with pseudonyms were made to sit in front of their terminals to produce and push content to your screen which used an algorithm that exploited these patterns of yours. Highly educated and rational people these days are seen forwarding false, and doctored videos even without checking their veracity. If there were a thousand trolls in the IT Cell a decade back who were pushing one agenda, now every house has one or two who are fighting a non-existent enemy forgetting the immediate issues that concern him. Unknown to them, their unbounded curiosity has slowly killed their rationale and turned them into zombies or puppets who are controlled by an invisible force to achieve his agenda.
Ultimately, the line between curiosity and voyeurism is subjective. By considering the factors mentioned above, one can determine if his interest in another person is healthy and respectful, or if it’s veering into an intrusive and potentially harmful territory. A healthy balance is the key. Curiosity can be a positive force that fosters connection, but it’s important to be respectful of others’ privacy and boundaries.
BABY-SEAT, GAS, A STOMACH ON FIRE AND OUR RESURGENT BRETHREN
Flight 6E 785, from Hyderabad to Bhubaneswar took off 45 minutes late.
At 9.45 PM as soon as the seat belt signs were turned off, I chose to steal some sleep. The day had not been particularly kind to me. My eyes closed, and in a few minutes, I could realize that I am sitting amidst a bunch of men who were returning after a wild vacation.
Rows 9, 10, and 11 were almost taken over by them. The harder I tried to stay detached from their conversation, the more I was getting drawn into their world. How to miss the ringside view when I was at the center of the ring?
Observing that most of the conversations were directed at the one sitting at 9C I could guess that he was the leader of the pack. He demonstrated his knowledge and experience of doing many flights in the past by first taking the responsibility of ordering snacks for his fellow mates - he only knew how to order by speaking in a language the air hostess could make sense of. He also showed off his confidence by objecting to the quality of masala tea that was served. Having made the hostess apologize, he turned back to give a victorious look at his friends who were sitting behind him. His friends giggled and he took a bow by giving a broad toothy smile. I saw three completely black gutka-stained teeth. His alpha-male status in his pack was not without a reason.
Then he suddenly realized that he had forgotten to give very important instructions to his friends before they had started eating their snacks. He alerted everyone of a piece of white plastic locked to the back of the seat to their front. He said that it’s a food tray and not to be confused with a baby-seat. One of his sisters-in-law had confused that to be a baby-seat and had tried to make his toddler sit in an attempt to feed him. The naivete of his relative had left him red-faced. His friends joined in with a chorus of giggles.
After a few minutes, our alpha curled to the side and a few of his friends started giving him vigorous massages around his neck and back. His tee-shirt was wet around the neck. He was in acute pain. We naturally got worried about his health and finding one of his friends sitting next to me calmly looking at the development in the front row, I asked him what was happening. He told me that Alpha had been eating whatever he found available since morning. Now because of PETA GARAM, (burning within the stomach) he has GAS, and because of this, he has JARA (fever) and now KAMPA (shivering). A good Samaritan sitting around him offered to give him some tablet he was carrying in his luggage.
I was curious to know more about these guys. They were 12 of them mostly from Pahala and Hansapal areas, in the suburbs of Bhubaneswar, who for the last 7 days have been doing Mysore, Ooty, Bangalore, and now returning home after doing two days of Hyderabad. Many of them are in real estate, transportation, and rasagola and civil contract business. They chose this time of the year for their vacation as many of them got their claims paid at the end of the financial year.
Some 15/ 20 minutes had passed in between. After taking the Tablet of India - Dolo 650; our alpha male had started feeling better. By that time the announcement of arrival was already made and the hostesses had sprung up to get the craft and passengers ready for landing some 25 minutes away. Things were much less tense and the air was filled with guffaws, serially getting up to go to the loo and exchanging their seats and also sitting at the partially vacant emergency exit. Their game which was attracting the hostess’s attention kept them excited.
All these times our Alpha was keeping quiet. He twisted his torso and swung his head to the back to ask loudly if anyone has checked what has been cooked back at home for dinner. On being told that its Chakuli and some vegetable curry without onion and garlic for Rama Nabami, our alpha male gave a disgusted look. He expected a bigger and better spread for his heroics and homecoming. Even immediately after his near-death experience, our Odia Bhai hadn't forgotten his first love - food.
Some days back a friend was lamenting how modern development has killed many micro-cultures in Old Town areas. But it was so assuring to know that they now exist 37000 feet above mean sea level, safe and enduring.
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
Corona restrictions were slowly being relaxed and all of us with a sigh of relief said,
“The worst is over”
Unfortunately for us the worst was yet to come. With aged father, mother, sister and me, the small family faced a tragedy totally unexpected. Though aged, my healthy mother just collapsed that day and it was instant death. Shattered beyond words, I had to face it boldly and handle the difficult situation. The public crematorium was not open after the pandemic and all cremations were at the ghat. I had to find out the procedure for getting space for cremation and went there along with a friend.
A long queue connected the crowd with the dead and a bit far away burning pyres in multiple numbers - all this was a sight unbearable. From far, people could never know which was their dear one burning. Rows and rows of burning bodies and eyes wandering from one to another with a hope of identifying the relative. Silent prayers shifting from one pyre to another with high hopes that their prayers will reach the right ones. It took time for us to get our chance as clarifying details with the man at the counter took time and when my chance came, I told the authority through the small opening.
“My mother died”
“Corona”?
“No, heart attack”
“Get a medical certificate from a government doctor and come”
With those words he shouted “Next”
We had no chance of saying a word as the next one pushed us aside.
Getting a government doctor’s certificate was next to impossible as he will demand a high amount.
We decided that we will get a certificate from our relative employed in a private hospital and try our chance.
Standing in queue again later in the day with the duplicate certificate I approached the same tough guy and pushed the certificate, reminding him of our earlier visit.
He must have been too tired to read the specifics and failed to see the details of government or some other doctor and asked for information of the deceased. Entering the details in the register he said,
“Take it to gate no eight”
“We have not brought the body”
He gave a look which almost cremated us and shouted,
“What the hell? What do I do after entering all details with time of death and arrival as told by you. Go and bring it immediately”
We ran home and it was a difficult task getting things organised fast and a decent farewell to my mother was also a must. Later she was taken to the ghat and the tough man was informed.
“Go to gate three with this slip after paying the necessary amount at the counter”
We went to gate three after payment and the greedy looking one approached us. Without asking I paid him and things moved at a fast pace. I told him in between
“She died of heart attack and certificate obtained to that effect. Can you please give us her ashes?”
The look demanded more and I gave him. We watched from far my mother turning into ashes. My thoughts took shape and pictures of her love and care flashed in my mind. What a way to go and getting burned alongside unknown faces. Not even a decent cremation? But there was no choice and at least we were spared of the protocols where one could not even see or get close to their loved ones. Faceless faces in flames.
A few hours of waiting and the small bundle of ashes given to us. We had to believe that it was my mother’s and my friend told me.
“Believe it and belief is truth”
Philosophical words which wouldn’t get into me but I held to the small bundle close and tight. It was my mother squeezed into a small piece of cloth.
Days later we were at “Papanasam” - the place for immersion of ashes and I went down into the water and let the ashes open into the water. It merged with the water and floated carrying it away into the deep.
Watching the dark ashes trickle far away from me my thoughts went along these lines -
Life may not give the best returns even after a dedicated God-fearing life lived with virtues on the forefront. A decent face once dead is just a piece of flesh left to be devoured by fire.
It can turn out to be faceless too.
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..
Swapnika and her husband had a discussion on drastic changes in lifestyles. They wondered that inflation was growing and growing. They envisaged many more changes in the ages to come and the people in the coming generations to have different lifestyles that are beyond human imagination today. She felt delighted, imagining as a woman, born in the twenty-seventh century to enjoy the superbly prevailing lifestyles. After having sumptuous dinner, she and her husband, Vastav went to bed. It was very pleasant for her to have a dream that night.
Dreams are common but sweet dreams are rare. Swapnika wanted to get a sweet dream and had it. In her dream, she was born as an ultra baby in a rich family in the twenty-seventh century. There was her naming ceremony, celebrated in a grand manner. Robots presented music programmes. It was full of gaiety. Everything was super. Guests came by helicopters. All of them alighted on the wide terrace of the magnificent building built by her father, Mr. Laser. He was extremely happy to have guests. It was robots to receive the guests. They served everything to them as per their choice. The women were listening to the lullabies while dancing gracefully. The dolls were also dancing along with them. They were trying to catch the dolls, as they wanted to present them to the baby. They were not able to catch them by their hands. The women were listening to the songs, but they did not know where the songs were coming from. Dolls were singing melodious songs.
Mr. Laser named the baby Pearl, as it appeared a pearl, found at the bottom of the ocea. His happiness knew no bounds as she was smiling, trying to lisp some words and sing some rhymes in the ultra super swing, made of gold, and decked with several scintillating jewels. She was swinging while feeling superior to the babies of many other parents. He had his house sprawling in two acres with a widespread garden all around. There were beautiful flowers of hybrid variety to shine in multifarious colours of myriad hues to feast her eyes. It all seemed like heaven on earth. He was feeling on top of the world. In two months, she started to catch the flying ball.
Pearl grew to be a school-going girl in one year, that was in just twelve months. Laser, her father wanted to admit her into a school. They flew in one of his helicopters and alighted on the school terrace. A robot was the pilot in the helicopter. The school had a robot to receive them and take them to the principal. There was some echoing sweet voice, ‘Hearty Welcome to You’ heard at the entrance of the principal’s chamber. They sat on cushioned sofas, and they were in seconds in the chamber of the principal. She and her parents wished him, ‘Good Morning’.
‘Very Good Morning…The baby has come for her admission…I hope you had registered in advance for the admission of the baby,’ said the principal.
‘Yes... When I got married, I did it…,’ said Pearl’s father, Mr. Laser.
‘Mr. Robot… Refer to the list of registrations in the computer…Tell me the vacancy position…,’ said the principal.
‘Yes… Mr. Laser had registered for an admission…Only one seat is there for you in the class-1,’ said Mr. Robot in a fantastic musical tone by bowing his head in a humble manner.
The principal received the vacancy information in a slip that flew on to his table... Laser was able to understand that there were a few seats at least one seat for his baby, by seeing the positive body language in Mr. Robot’s face.
‘Luckily there is a seat for you under the Super Convener quota. You've to pay one crore for her admission. If it's under the Convener quota, you've to pay two crores. You're lucky... If we give a seat under the management quota, you're to pay five crores. You're fortunate to have a seat under the Super Convener quota… Congrats…, said the principal.
‘Thank you …,’ said Laser.
‘Pearl, I hope you know the English alphabet and the spellings of basic words,' said the principal to Pearl.
‘Yes, I know all the letters and the spellings of primary words…I learnt half of them in the womb itself,’ said Pearl.
‘Mr. Robot, please ask some questions,’ said the principal.
Mr. Robot asked questions and Pearl answered very easily. All were very easy for her to answer.
‘Sir, all her answers are excellently correct…correctly excellent.... Hearty congratulations to you, Pearl…’ said Mr. Robot after listening to Pearl’s answers.
‘Good…Your age is just one year… If you exceed the age of one year, you don't get admission,’ said the principal.
‘Just one year… She wanted to join the school early… but I didn't want to...,' said Crescent, the wife of Laser.
'If your daughter gets the best rank, she can attend school in the Satellite School on the moon...There is a chance offered to her for her extraordinary brilliance... She'll get a seat on the moon,' said the principal.
'Thank you very much for your wishes', said Mrs Crescent.
‘Let's hope for the best...Now, she can study on earth...Later she can study on the moon...Now you can pay one crore rupees towards admission fees. You've to pay five lakh rupees every month towards tuition fees and ten lakhs towards examination fees…The robot, Kubera, led Laser to a counter for his submission of a cheque.’
Then Kubera led Mr. Laser back to the principal.
Laser thanked the principal for giving the admission to his daughter, Pearl. The principal clicked on the class-1 in the computer. The robot called Sputnick came and took the baby to the class.
Like that, there were different robots for all classes to direct students to their respective classes. Finally, the Principal congratulated Mr. Laser on his daughter's admission to the school and clicked the computer for coffee. Then two cups of coffee rolled and rolled to settle before them on the table. There was a rich flavour inviting them to have the coffee without waiting a second. They had coffee relishing while it was flavouring excellently.
There were many robots to teach their respective subjects and a few people were there to instruct robots whenever necessary for framing the Timetable. There were many digital labs for all subjects. Every school had a stadium, an auditorium, and a planetarium.
Pearl was happy to attend her classes. She was feeling on top of the world. When the class work was over, another robot came to send off Laser, Crescent and Pearl and led to the terrace for the return flight to their house by helicopter.
In the evening, the school helicopter dropped Pearl on to the terrace of Laser’s house as Laser sent his helicopter back for his personal manager's flight on an important work.
Pearl told her parents many things that she had learnt on that day in school. She felt everything very… very wonderful.
On Sunday, Pearl wanted to watch a movie outside though she had a beautiful theatre inside her house. She called the in-charge on the mobile to know about the movie released. From the mobile piece, a tiny doll came out of the main window and informed that the movie was running. Soon after it had given information, the tiny doll went inside the mobile piece through the window. The voice of the doll was very sonorous. Its appearance to speak to its owner was very spectacular.
They flew to the very big theatre by helicopter. It was very, very spacious…very, very wonderful…Two eyes were not enough to watch its beauties and wonders…The robots at the counter issued tickets at the rate of ten lakhs per ticket. They led them inside to their seats. The seats were shining with their respective ticket numbers wishing them ‘Welcome’. Light music was going on, welcoming all the audience. They sat in their respective seats. The seats were comfortably soft and gracefully swinging to move in different directions, but they were able to enjoy watching the movie run on the very big silver screen. All the characters appeared to speak to the audience, coming closer and closer. It was very hilarious for Pearl, for she saw it for the first time at a theatre after birth.
Mr. Laser and his family, Mrs Crescent along with their daughter, Pearl flew to the Swargatulya, a thousand-star hotel of their choice after the movie. They alighted on the terrace of the widespread hotel. They were at the entrance of the hotel. There was some voice to welcome them by its sweet tone, ‘Good Evening…Good Evening… Welcome…Welcome…’ They saw none to wish so but a doll to do like that in a musical tone. It was very pleasant on their part.
A boy in decent suit at the entrance sprinkled scent on them and showed the way to enter the hotel. Meanwhile Robot Mr. Swagath directed them to a table well furnished… They, sitting in the cushioned swinging seats, ordered three plates of goodlis that were like idlis in the twenty-first century. They also ordered three cups of super coffee… Within no time, there were three plates of goodlis, the most delicious food item of the times. They found the food item very relishing and had it happily. Then there were three cups of coffee. The flavour was very good. They had coffee. Meanwhile the bill of three lakhs fell on to the table from the above.
Mr. Laser paid the bill to the robot Mr. Varthak at the table. Meanwhile Robot Shubham directed them to the exit... They gave a tip of one fifty thousand rupees to the boy who had sprinkled scent on them, and left the hotel…
Then they were in the sky in their helicopter. Pearl had a nice parley with her father, Mr. Laser:
‘Dad… You spend a lot of money…You're very lavish…,’ said Pearl.
‘No… No…I'm spending reasonably…,’ said Laser.
‘No…You …spend two hundred times more than you are supposed to spend…,’ said Pearl with smile on her lips.
‘No…never…,’ said Laser.
‘What I say is true…,’ said Pearl.
‘It all seems that you were to be born in the twenty-first century…What you say is related to the twenty-first century. I, at the same time, think that the old is gold...old is only gold,’ said Laser.
‘Maybe… my dear father…,’ said Pearl.
‘What's your salary, my dear father…?' said Pearl.
‘Ten crores… There will be a hike the next year…The hike will be in one or two crores…Perhaps my total salary will be eleven or twelve crores. Government is very considerate in hiking everybody’s salary…,’ said Laser.
‘Crores? Crores!’ said Pearl.
‘It seems you have the memories of your past life in the present…,’ said Laser.
‘Maybe…,’ said Pearl.
‘See downwards… The houses are with a hundred and odd floors…,’ said Laser from the helicopter.
‘Very true…,' said Pearl.
'There is a rising tide of population…Man is helpless… You can see man caught up in the helpless condition. They're to buy drinking water paying a lakh of rupees. They buy oxygen at higher rates. See…People are inhaling oxygen through tubes. Its pipes supply it for the inhabitants in every house. Once upon a time, water and oxygen were free goods. Now they buy them at higher rates. Water was also not free in the twenty-first century as per the knowledge I got from the history books,’ said Laser.
‘It must be true…,’ said Pearl.
‘There is ecological imbalance. There are changes in nature against man’s wish. He's struggling for his safe existence…,’ said Laser.
‘It shouldn't be like this…,’ said Pearl.
‘We're helpless…See…We're coming closer to our house. We're alighting on the terrace…,’ said Laser.
The helicopter was about to land and they stopped the parley between them. It landed on the terrace of their house. Pearl was smiling as she enjoyed herself all through the trip. She for a moment felt sorry for ecological imbalance.
Pearl was able to complete all her studies by the time she was eighteen. Her brilliance made her very successful. She felt sorry for the students then never used their brains. They used mobiles for simple calculations and simple spellings. She posed many barefaced questions:
‘Writers wrote many books by their hands. Why do we not write by hand? How do we know our handwriting when we do not write? Why do we send messages and mails when we have mouths to speak cordially and hands to write beautifully? Why don’t we walk even a little distance?' asked Pearl.
Mr. Laser was not able to answer many of her questions. He always expressed his opinion that she was to be born in the twenty-first century or earlier.
Pearl joined as an officer with the salary of eight crores. Then Mr. Laser planned to perform her marriage. He expressed his proposal to Pearl. She said that she had fallen in love with one of her boyfriends as per her choice. Then her father tested her love towards her lover. He felt satisfied by the responses given by her. He celebrated her marriage as per her wish.
Marriage was going on in a super-grand way. Robots were to serve all food items…It was the confluence of men and machines, women, and robots. There were many more robots and very few people to serve the guests in the marriage function. Varied lutes and flutes, drums and trumpets in the latest fashion were going on for the joys of all the guests. They heard an infinite variety of supersonic sounds all over. The trees around were dancing to the melodies played. When Laser with his wife sent off his daughter, he did not feel sorry, but Pearl was shedding tears, embracing her parents before her leaving.
Later Mr. Laser said to his wife, Mrs. Crescent watching Pearl fly with her life-partner leaving them like the nestlings to leave the nest with strong wings grown to fly:
‘Pearl was to be born in the twenty-first century…By mistake she was born in the age of the twenty-seventh century…She's kind-hearted and open-minded. She has loving care and concern, abundant love and affection for us all… I miss her…my dear daughter. She's flying in the helicopter presented by me. Pearl… You're in the heart of my heart… See… Your mother is also shedding tears on your leaving us,’ said Laser with feelings in his face.
Within a year, Pearl was blessed with twins. By the time the twins completed their studies, she became very old. Her father Laser and mother Crescent became very, very old. She felt very much sorry, for the change in her appearance… She started to cry hoarsely for her becoming very old and her hair was turning grey.
Pearl was crying hoarsely for turning older and older while Swapnika was crying very loudly in her dream during her sleep in bed and her husband Vastav listened to it beside her.
Vastav woke up suddenly from his deep sleep while Swapnika was hoarsely crying in her sleep. He learnt that she had a bad dream. He felt disturbed by her crying in sleep, as she was a dreamer and used to dream. He woke up her, saying:
‘What happened to you…? You were grumbling… crying… shrieking… What made you grumble…cry…shriek…? Your mouth was making this sound...that sound... and what not…? You were okay when you came to bed last night…,’ said Vastav to his wife, Swapnika.
‘I became very old…very old…My hair...turned grey…very grey,’ said Swapnika.
‘Where're you…? Cine-heroines are nothing before you. You're like Anushka…You're more beautiful than Tamannah...You're very beautiful with a long black hair-braid that I love to see it rocking like the cradle with me in it,’ said Vastav.
‘I had a dream…First, it was sweet and wonderful…Later it was against my wishes…I cried …When I was just forty, my beautiful bee-black hair turned grey,’ said Swapnika.
‘O! You dreamed…,’ said Vastav with a sigh.
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\
After spending a few days with my daughter, I was ready to depart from Delhi. Was it "The call of the stars? Or, a gentle nudge of my roots?"- I don't know exactly, but I was excited. I could feel happiness fluttering and slowly spreading its seraphic wings to bash me in rapturous ecstacy.The queue at the entrance was long, but I had a privileged entry -a short cut rather, being a senior citizen.
Air India express was my carrier. I carried my lunch pack , which is a habit with me. I had dissuaded my daughter to pre-book a meal. Something home cooked is always better than piping hot maggi, potato chips or sandwich served inside aircraft. Many will find this 'orthodox attitude' but ...let me be.
My flight was to land at six in the evening at Bhubaneswar. A home cooked meal was doing rounds in my mind, especially a bowl of piping hot santula(assorted local veggies) cooked on a low flame. For tadka, preferably a pinch of jeera, mustard, asafoetida, green chilli and coriander leaves to garnish. Ah! the longing to get the feel of heaven on my platter, was going to be answered soon.
When I was in Delhi, I tried this recipe though,but don't know how and why the mish-mash aroma was not even a close match.The same vegetables were picked, but the taste was so different. Perhaps, in different parts of the country, vegetables taste different. Anyway, some flavors remain glued to our palate like 'fevicol ki majboot jod' and we desist to accept any pale imitation.
While checking in my luggage, the smiling lady at the counter had enquired if I needed assistance since gate no 54 is far off. I refused to accept her offer as I wanted to flaunt my physical fitness especially in 'walking miles'- both literally and metaphorically to reach the far off gate.
"Thank you! I will manage"-was my reply
At the same time, I was happy about the care and concern for senior citizens proffered by the airline ground staff. This certainly is a move forward, albeit a timid one.
Little did I realize that my feet would hurt after covering half the distance...maybe a little more than that. I took an electric rickshaw provided by GMR (free of cost) to reach the gate at the rear end. The gal at the counter was correct in her assessment.
The younger generation is smarter too.
In the waiting area near gate no 54, the crowd was less . Perhaps I was too early to arrive. I am like that, get panicky when I travel, and leave home very early.
I could hear people speaking in my mother tongue.This gave me a feeling- Bhubaneswar- my destination is not far.
I chose a corner seat and occupied another for my hand baggage. Greedy me! You can safely say. For that matter-we all are, Isn't it? If we whip our craniums a bit, then umpteen no of such cases where we used to reserve seats for friends and family by putting our kerchiefs on chairs/spaces thereby ascertaining ownership would flash in no time.
Do I call it -'follies and foibles of lesser mortals' or 'the go of the world'?
I think both suit the situation and my actions.
After some time, a young lady with her toddler came and sat next to me. The boy was overactive. He kept on jumping, throwing his toys around and humming tunes he knew the best. He was so happy and engrossed that his mother's chiding when he bumped into people around, made little impact on him.
In her desperate bid to engage her son, the mom took out different toys, a color box and a painting book available within the ambit of her backpack.
"Rahul, color these pictures." But, Rahul's roving eyes, inquisitive mind and traipsed traits searched for novel ideas to bully his mom and indulge in jouissance forever. She was at her wit's end when Rahul pranced around and struck his eureka moments with elan, each time he attempted a new trick . She looked helpless but never shouted at him.
"O Mom! Thy name is patience, you are the quintessence of calmness in the face of turbulence. You are the greatest gift of God to mankind."
After muttering these superlatives in praise of Rahul's mom, I too was elated. It was more like patting my own back and pampering myself for some good deed.
Rahul's activities went on for a while till he was fed up with the set of toys. He snatched the mobile from his mom and tried to play his favorite games.He was fed up again and sat on the carpeted floor making faces.
"What is it now? Why are you sitting there Rahul? I will leave you here and go back to Bhubaneswar if you do not get up immediately."
His mother chided.
Lo! He got up immediately, with a faint streak of remorse in his eyes. But, Rahul being Rahul immediately pleaded to go to the washroom.
"Mom, I need to use the washroom now." This was a departure from his earlier pranking shows. The lady asked me to keep an eye on her baggage and walked towards the washroom area.He followed like an obedient boy.
They were back after 15/ 20 minutes. Rahul was subdued, appearing less naughty. All my presumptions regarding his behavior and calm demeanor went topsy turvy within two minutes of time. He pulled his mom's arms to get him a bottle of soft drink and kept nagging. She offered a piece of chocolate instead, that was handy. But, In a fit of anger he threw it in the dustbin and yelled at her. She had to leave her seat again and took him along to mollify his tantrums. This time she did not request me to keep watch on her baggage, instead spoke through her eyes. I got the cue and acted accordingly.
In the meantime, a boarding announcement was made. I kept seated as they asked the last and the middle row occupants to form a queue. Rahul's mom paced towards me to inquire about boarding status but not before proffering her profuse thanks for the services I rendered to them.
I said-" I am waiting. Mine is in the third row, they will call later. Middle rows and last rows are getting filled up first."
She said " Oh great! Mine is in the fourth row. Let us wait together for our turn. It was nice meeting you."
We boarded. In my row, out of three, two seats were occupied. The middle one remained vacant. I occupied the window seat and another jeans-clad lady, the aisle one. Both of us dumped our handbags in the empty middle seat. A luxury indeed. Very few times I have been bestowed with such amenity. Had it been otherwise, I would have to put the hand bag on my lap, else below the front seat.
While fastening the seat belt our eyes met and the jeans clad lady smiled. After exchanging hellos we started minding our own businesses. I took out my lunch pack and she started munching on snacks.
" Are you from Delhi?"
She enquired.
I said-"I am from Bhubaneswar. I was visiting my daughter and son in law."
"What about you?"
"I too am from Bhubaneswar. I work in Delhi as a journalist. Coming home after a year or so. I shall take my parents on a trip. They just sit at home and bide time. My pleadings, cajoling and coaxing have been on deaf ears. This is the time they should come out of their shells and explore the world. Since they are not doing it on their own, I shall be taking them along."
"That's great. Your parents are fortunate to have a caring daughter like you."
Her brusque move and sullen face after my innocuous words of praise startled me.
"Did I harp on any tender string?"
"Or, Is there any painful story woven around my sanative statement?" -I nudged my upper chamber to find out. Did not succeed though.
After minutes of silence, she said 'sorry'. Perhaps, she realized her misdemeanor.
She opened up like an effervescent spring rushing and gushing, hopping beyond the barrier after I uttered- " It's OK dear."
"My parents are deeply biased towards gender. My brother lives in the USA. He is a green card holder there. He comes to visit parents once every two/ three years. He could be more frequent, if he wants but, 'no'. He cites his children's education and his work pressure as the reason. My parents accept these lame excuses as genuine and seek emotional support from me when they feel low and distressed."
"Looking at their age and helplessness I decided not to have a family, so that I can devote more and more time to be at their beck and call. Still, their leaning towards my brother-their male child is conspicuous. His contribution towards family would be referred to every now and then, discussed at large, although he is no way involved in stabilizing their state of mind, their emotional turbulence. Is this fair?"
I kept quiet for a while, then answered-
"This is the story of almost every household."
By saying this, I tried to peer into the unfathomable abyss of her hurt stricken core.
Believe me, It was not poking my nose into her personal details, rather my modest endeavor to bail her out of the angst and anger.
She continued...
"I know. But, not the way my parents pamper my brother and family. In their presence my position is that of a stranger. My protest I channelize through sobs and whimpers. We are in the 21st century ...still parity is a distant dream. This is so obnoxious. What do you say?"
I took a while to choose my words,then spoke-
"Call it male chauvinism or patriarchal mindset, it courses through the veins of our parents. Sadly enough, this phenomenon is rooted deep in their psyche irrespective of caste, creed, religion or even educational background. Handfuls of exceptions are there, but the percentile is negligible. The jinx is to be broken. Things around are changing-I perceive. But, still a long way to go."
"I feel one should unconditionally love parents irrespective of their biased words and deeds. They are our source. We ought to take good care of them when they are helpless. Why should we fail in our duties now and repent afterwards?"
She was listening with rapt attention till I uttered the last line.
Somehow, she did not agree with my opinion, but did not retaliate. Perhaps, " why should we fail in our duties " echoed in her mind and she found some muscle in it.
" Cabin crew, please follow the landing procedures."- was the order from the pilot.
Air Hostesses busied themselves in verifying the tying of seatbelts of passengers and stopping usage of lavatory.
The aircraft made a screeching halt, then walked a few yards and stopped. My neighbouring passenger bade goodbye with a faint smile. I reciprocated.I could hear Rahul pleading to his mom" I want to be the first to get down mom,you come later.I want to meet daddy."
"Ok, five more minutes and we will be there.Have patience."
I looked back and waved at his mom.
It was a homecoming (privilege to be under the same roof once more) for all of us.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has four published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm and Humming Serenades -all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
Forests are the most serene and peaceful places even if they are filled with wild animals including carnivorous ones. Animals have feelings and intelligence and they are not as violent or aggressive as the humans are. Caliban—one of the wonderful characters of Shakespeare—says in The Tempest that “…the isle is full of noises, /Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.” If Caliban's poetic lines are borrowed and the word isle is replaced with forest, we can have the perfect picture of a forest. As E R C Davidar says in his autobiography Cheetal Walk: Living in the Wilderness, “Uncalled-for aggression and bloodshed are considered to be the hallmark of the jungle. Nothing can be farther from the truth. In the jungle, intra-specific as well as inter-specific aggressions are, as far as possible, avoided through well-regulated postures and gestures...The law of the jungle is a more civilised code than any law made by humans, especially in its application.”
Apart from having experienced the civilised behaviour of the animals in the forest, I am often astonished to find myself being observed by the gentle wild animals of Nelliyampathy, a biodiversity hotspot of the Western Ghats in Palakkad district of Kerala, when I have been working at the Nelliyampathy office of the Panchayat department. Before and after the office hours, I used to walk into the forest every day with my camera.
One day, when I was returning in the dusk after my usual evening walk, I felt that I was being observed unseen and when I turned around, saw a wild boar with huge tushes watching me standing still from behind a tree. When the boar learnt that I saw it, it turned back and disappeared into the forest.
Another day, while walking back in the morning, I heard a kind of barking from atop the trees. Looking up I saw a large troop of black monkeys on the trees all around me. And it was that day I learnt that the black monkeys eat not only fruits but also tender leaves. On seeing me observing them, they started moving further deep into the forest. Every one of them went through the same route! And a little monkey's curiosity to observe me was so humorous that still I remember his curious face. He ran after his elders, but suddenly stopped, returned to the tree under which I was standing, looked down at my face as if he wanted to observe me well, then turned back and ran fast through the branches and joined the troop.
Once, I did have the rare opportunity of standing face to face with the little tusker of Nelliyampathy who has been playfully wandering with his mother everywhere. He virtually posed to be clicked, looking directly to the camera and observing me, and allowed me to have many clicks. While I was clicking, he raised his trunk and trumpeted. His prankful trumpet startled me and I couldn't capture that rare pose.
Soon, I have had a wonderful face to face encounter with a young tusker who was among a herd of elephants. The tusker noticed me photographing and started observing me turning its head towards me. He even raised his trunk gently looking at me in a friendly gesture. I could capture that pose as a compensation for the lost opportunity with the little tusker.
It is very difficult to photograph the Malabar giant squirrels because, after spotting them in the tree tops, by the time the camera is focussed, they would jump from one branch to the other and disappear. One day, in my morning walk, I spotted a Malabar giant squirrel in a tree and I was sure it would disappear by the time I focuss the camera. But I was astonished to see that the squirrel sat stationary for a few seconds looking directly into the camera and observing me as if it was curious to know what I was doing with the camera.
Wild animals take special care to avoid conflict and they never intentionally attack humans. If they ever attack the humans, it is invariably in self defense. Once I went far deep into the forest and reached a small grassland where I saw a herd of gaurs grazing. The moment they sighted me, they ran and disappeared further deep into the forest. It was a wonderful sight. And what surprised me was that they didn’t run towards my direction. I am in their terrain; I am an intruder and if they think as the humans think, they do have every right to attack me for trespassing into their territory. And if they had run towards me, I would certainly have been knocked down and trampled. But animals don't think as humans do, and almost all animals in the wild take extra care to shun human presence. But there is one living being in the wild that never shuns human presence—the leech. However cautious you are, the leech will attack you and suck your blood. Leech is the only thing I am afraid of in the forest.
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.
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Devan looked at the river.
The river had warned him that it would jump the bank and run amok engulfing everything in the village. It would begin with the Textile Factory that drained venom into the river killing all life in it little by little. The multi-coloured foam surged forth unmindful of the people or animals. The owner of the Mill was callous and did not care for what was happening.
The wind and the cloud too had cautioned him. The eagle on the banyan tree near the river nodded in agreement. It flapped its wings and screamed as loud as it could.
The trees swayed unlike before and the leaves whispered bad tidings…at least Devan imagined so.
Mother Nature had been certainly hurt. Continuing cruelty inflicted upon her children by man, infuriated her.
Devan, the gardener had no family. When the day melted into dark night, he would tell a tale or two everyday to the children, twenty of who loved Dev. He inculcated in them the value of Love and Reverence for Mother Nature.
He encouraged them to plant seeds and seeing them springing up to life was a celebration. He told them stories of pollution and the horrors that resulted from it.
The Textile Factory owner hated him, for Dev had ticked him off for polluting the river and air.
The coloured water which was untreated surged into the once lovely river…the one source of clean water in the village.
Now, at the confluence of the pipes from the factory and the river, one could see foam and froth of different colours mixing with the crystal clear water.
Thick black smoke like rain clouds vomited by the tall chimneys coiled up ominously polluting the air.
“How dare you advise me, you uneducated scrap of a human? You think you are God, just because your name is Devan? No…I need not listen to you and build a water-treatment plant here. I know what I am doing! I have no money to waste on your silly ideas!! The river will carry my dyes into the sea. You know that, don’t you? Vanish now and don’t show your head here again!! “
He had shouted at Devan.
The river began the demolition.
The Wind tore through, knocking and wiping out everything. Gosh!! What a racket it made !
Rain came down like a deluge unkind and furious in its fall.
Nothing, well, almost nothing - remained in that once peaceful village.
When Dev looked around, he knew Nature has had her revenge.
The devastation was terrible.
The houses had knee deep water inside and the people were busy sweeping the stagnant water out.
The river had overflowed and water had entered the cattle sheds too.
The Textile factory was completely ruined. It lay in shambles. The dyeing unit displayed a pathetic sight.
Trees had fallen on the cars and homes of the top executives of the factory. The damage around the mill and the quarters was terrible. Nature had been choosy!
Who said Nature had no “sense”?
Nature had!!
She knew where to hit! Whom to hit!!
He heard…or imagined that he heard Mother Nature whispering to him…
“I have kept you and your twenty - children - army safe. Build the little village again. Teach the world the importance of trees, air, water and earth.
Spread the message...
the message of love.”
The river flowed quietly….whispering and murmuring…happy that it was untouched, clean and sparkling once again. .
Usha Surya.- Have been writing for fifty years. Was a regular blogger at Sulekha.com and a few stories in Storymirror.com. Have published fifteen books in Amazon / Kindle ... a few short story collections, a book on a few Temples and Detective Novels and a Recipe book. A member of the International Photo Blogging site- Aminus3.com for the past thirteen years...being a photographer.
Shantanu entered the First-class compartment to find only two passengers, including him in the entire compartment. This was the only upper-class compartment in the train, as it had no AC compartment. He was travelling on an overnight journey to Rayagada on official work and was to reach his destination early in the morning, much before sunrise. Office pays for First class comfort, otherwise one would think twice to book in First class for such a small trip. He had been waiting on the platform at Bhubaneswar for two long hours. Cuttack to Bhubaneswar is hardly a distance, but he had to wait for the delayed start of the train from the starting point at Cuttack, without any prior information.
Parathas and dry Potato masala curry he brought from home for dinner were getting cold. Train journey is always preferable compared to the bumpy ride by the state road transport bus. In December chill after finishing dinner, once one enters to the comfort of a blanket one would get up from sleep to find himself in Rayagada. Quite frequently Shantanu had been travelling to these backward districts on office tours as he was the Area Manager for the entire Western region of the state. Newlywed wife used to complain, but it was the call of duty, so unavoidable. Shantanu realised today he must spend the night with his only co-passenger in the same coupe of the compartment.
Shantanu found an aged Sikh gentleman with a shawl on him and deeply engaged in reading under the reading light. Two thermoflasks, a water bottle, a glass and a brass tiffin career were placed neatly on the side table along with several heavy Law books and a few files. A shirt, tie and a long Coat were on the hanger and his turban kept very carefully on the rack. Everything was so aesthetically organised giving an air of respectability and grace. Shantu could guess that the gentleman would be around seventy to eighty years, his long white hair neatly tucked under a white handkerchief and flowing beard on his bespectacled face speak of class. His polished demeanor spoke of elegance. In the meantime, the train had left the station. Shatanu kept his suitcase in the overhead space for luggage. The old man raised his head and welcomed Shantanu. He was Dalbir Singh, a senior practicing advocate of the High Court and counsel for Rourkela Steel plant, travelling from Cuttack in connection with some court case for his client.
“For your age you could very well have taken a car from Cuttack to Rourkela instead of travelling long hours by train” asked Shantanu.
“Now I am Seventy-four. At this age train journey is preferable to road journey. Besides I get enough time to read”, the old man replied gently.
“It’s already 10 O’ clock in the night. You might not have your dinner. If you do not mind trying some Pindi Chhole” asked Dalbir while opening his brass tiffin career. He also shared some pomegranates with him. Shantanu shared his potato masala curry with Dalbir. He found the Chhole very tasty, soft, spicy and deep black in colour.
“This recipe is from Rawalpindi” said Dalbir.
Shantanu felt a little uneasy but soon adjusted himself. Before he could say something Dalbir explained my forefathers belonged to Rawalpindi in Pakisthan. Much before your birth, in 1947 during partition, when lakhs of people died on both sides of the border in communal violence, I was that time only 18 years old; with lot of difficulty amidst danger to life I came over to India.
Shantanu’s eyes got brightened with inquisitiveness and enthusiasm and he said we have read about partition of Mother India only from books and magazines, which is so painful and agonizing as we were not born at that time. The nation fought together for independence from colonial rule; but just before getting freedom how events took such an ugly turn that we were after each other’s blood it is very difficult to imagine. It left a wound, difficult to heal, fresh in every Indian heart even now after so many years. I have read many books and magazines which are full of half-truths, wild one–sided accusations, biased analysis of past events and conjectures. You were witness to this ghastly tragic event and had a harrowing experience of partition, who can describe this poignant ordeal better than you, provided you are not too tired.
Dalbir took a deep breath as if it was an expression of agonies of a deep wound, which has suddenly opened up and became bloody. As if the horror, panic, fright, helplessness and suppressed grief of those dreaded days were breaking the shackles and raising their head from darkness to come to light and speak out.
“It was an unfortunate chapter of History.” There may be several reasons for partition or events that led to it, but the suffering of millions of common citizens, who lost their lives and livelihood, their family, their past moorings, their future and their dreams everything was thrown into gloom and despair. Those desolate, melancholic memories have retained indelible pictures in my eyes, which even years of tears are unable to wash away.
The train was moving fast. The windows were closed to avoid the chilly wind. In the darkness the light from light posts in stations were running backwards after being visible for a moment. Like Shantanu, Dalbir too moved the blanket up, covering up to the waist.
In Rawalpindi Sadar Bazar my father Charanpal and uncle Jagbir had good wholesale business which use to get huge orders for supply of consumer durable essentials to British cantonments. He passed away when I was only seventeen and I started helping my uncle in business. In the Mohalla we had a huge mansion where mother Gurinder and sister Mahi were staying with us. During leisure time we used to visit nearby Rawal lake and Muri hilltop. In Rawalpindi we used to visit Gurudwar and Hindu temples.
That time forty percent of population in Rawalpindi were Muslims and the balance sixty percent were Hindus and Sikhs. By March 1947, after formation of Muslim League ministry in Punjab the friction between communities came to open. From downtown areas of Pindi several incidents of arsoning, violence and murder were being reported and sudden jump in such violent attacks among different communities were noticed by August. At that time mother Gurinder and sister Mahi were in maternal uncle’s house at Lahore. Millions of Hindus and Sikhs had started migrating to Lahore, leaving Rawalpindi behind and were travelling by train to Amritsar crossing the border. Uncle Jagbir advised me and his son Gurmeet to immediately leave Rawalpindi and move for Lahore, which was four hundred kms away and it was decided that he will join us at Lahore.
As per the advice of Jagbir uncle I went with Gurmeet to Banichowk in Rawalpindi at dusk the same day and boarded a bus along with our bicycles to Lahore. We could sense the ferocity of the violence only after the bus moved ahead. Amidst darkness we could see fire and smoke rising from houses and shops at several places. From inside the moving vehicle, we could find mobs at places with lathis and swords in hand loitering on roadside. As our bus was approaching Lahore the ghastliness of violence was getting more pronounced. I and Gurmeet were shivering in fear and like other co-passengers sitting silently amidst darkness. The lights inside the bus were switched off and the driver was moving the bus very fast, without stopping anywhere near the crowd. Around a hundred kilometers before reaching Lahore, suddenly the driver brought the moving bus to a halt in the middle of the road and fled.
We were terrorised and in panic, got off the bus and uploaded our cycles and started pedaling towards Lahore. There were dead bodies and mutilated limbs lying on the road. The smoke carrying putrid smell of burnt human flesh was nauseating and the thirst was killing us. Finally, on reaching Lahore we went to maternal uncle’s house near Shah Almi Bazar. At that time sixty percent of Lahore were Muslims, but almost eighty percent of business and factories were with Hindus and Sikhs. On reaching Shah Almi Bazar we found the market had been burnt to ashes. Main door of uncle’s house was open and there was nobody in the house. There was no trace of mother and Mahi. We were hungry and thirsty but feared to take water from the well inside the house compound as we knew water in well was poisoned. We went to the river Ravi nearby and drank its water.
During daytime we got some food from the langar of gurudwara. There we got news about how uncle fought for safety of mother and Mahi and lost his life along with them. A day after we got news of our Rawalpindi house burnt by communal violence and the instruction of Jagbir uncle to leave for Amritsar immediately without waiting for him. India’s border from Lahore was only twenty-four km and Amritsar was only fifty km away from Lahore. At Lahore even gurudwara was not safe from rioters and everyone was asked to vacate gurudwara at the earliest. We managed to collect some money and went to the station to board a train to Amritsar. But we came to know that previous day rioter had got into the train and killed thousands of Hindus and Sikhs, who were escaping to India. In the dead of the night both lifted our respective cycles and started riding through fields and villages, leaving the main road and reached Amritsar before daybreak. After staying in gurudwara and waiting for Jagbir uncle in vain we left for Calcutta (now Kolkata). There with a lot of hard work and labour I completed Law degree and came to practice law at Cuttack. Gurmeet continues to stay at Kolkata.
Shantanu looked at his watch. It was 2 O’ clock in the night. Your narratives make the pictures of sufferings of those testing times dance before me. “Sorry, I made you remember those painful memories of yours. It is late. Please take rest.”
Dalbir wished “Good night” to Shantanu and closed his eyes.
Shantanu tried to sleep lying down on his berth. He looked outside through the window. The dew drops on the glass pane made the outside hazy. His sleepless eyes were heavy and not remaining under his control. Everything looked so murky, and the dim light of the compartment looked murkier and looked like a faint line and gradually vanished into darkness. He felt the train was stopping in some station and a mob was entering the compartment. They have swords and knives in their hands and are coming to grab Dalbir. “Leave Him”, “This is a first-class compartment,” shouted Shantanu. But the rioters did not stop, and someone cut the throat of Dalbir with his sword. Shantanu extended his hand and found something hot like the hot blood of Dalbir. He woke up with a shout, and sat on the berth and looked at the front berth. In flickering light, he could find Dalbir was not on his berth. Some hot water from the thermo-flask had spilled over the floor. Dalbir entered the coupe and said I went to the washroom; the attendant was telling me that train will reach your destination Rayagada in ten minutes. Shantanu came to his senses and got ready to get off the train after wishing Dalbir.
-The End-
Ashok Kumar Mishra’s stories are rooted in the soil and have sublime human touch. He 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”.
Did his MA and M Phil in Political studies from JNU and served as deputy general manager in NABARD.
He made pioneering contribution in building up Self Help Group movement in Odisha.
Served as Director of a bank for over six Years.
Many of his short stories in Odia vernacular and in English have been published in reputed magazines. (9491213015)
A BANKER'S BOTTLE OF SCOTCH AND A PLATEFUL OF LOBSTER
"Vikasji , please come to my cabin for an urgent discussion."
A direct phone call from the boss alerted Vikas, General Manager of the bank, who stood up from his chair and confirmed, "Ok sir". Seconds later he was sitting in front of the Top Boss.
The boss handed over the message received from the finance ministry and waited for his remarks. "Sir, since it is the Parliamentary committee's visit and our bank has the second largest number of branches in the Union Territory, our presence and particularly yours, is essential, " remarked Vikas.
"Then prepare a PPP (Power Point Presentation) duly incorporating and highlighting performance of the branches there and get ready to accompany me to the committee meeting . You have to present the PPP there because of your exposure to the related points, Moreover, you are known to some MPs of the committee. You know how the MPs try to pull down the CMDs in such meetings" asserted the boss.
The 'Parliamentary Committee on Assurances' had directed the CMD of two banks , the convenor of the Union Territory level Bankers' Committee and the second largest Bank operating in Andaman n Nicobar island to be present in Port Blair .
As directed by the top boss Vikas joined him in the Port Blair bound flight from Chennai one day before the scheduled parliamentary committee meeting. The next day the MPs and the Chairman of the Committee on Assurance, along with some officials, were to arrive at the Port Blair airport by an Indian Airlines flight from Calcutta in the early morning. Vikash and his boss, CMD of the bank came to the airport to receive and escort them to their hotel as per protocol. The boss noted that the Chairman of the Committee had focussed his attention on Vikas and both had shared some private talks.
The meeting started at 11AM in the hotel where the Committee members had checked in . The bank's performance was duly placed by Vikas through a PPP. The Chairman and MPs were so impressed by Vikas's narratives that they did not raise any supplementary questions, much to the comfort of the Top Boss. Meeting was over quickly, followed by an official lunch.
Boss was glad to hear from the presentation of Nabard which disclosed, "This island is a paradise of seafish and lobsters and the lobsters here do not die of being caught in nets but die out of old age".
The top boss felt so relaxed that he asked, "Vikas, can you arrange for a cosy dinner in some other hotel in the evening over plates of overgrown lobsters for only the two of us?"
"Sure Sir," affirmed Vikas.
Vikas, feeling duty bound, arranged for an evening dinner for him and his top boss in a nearby hotel where big sized lobsters and best variety of Scotch were available. The boss was a scotch connoisseur and every evening he enjoyed his drink with a few close friends. Vikas ordered a bottle of scotch and a full Lobster. The boss knew that Vikas was a teetotaller and vegetarian. But he asked him to join him with a glass of scotch and taste the island lobster. Vikas felt very awkward but ordered soft drink for himself to give company to the boss with vegetarian starters.
As evening hours turned into thick darkness and the sea breeze started blowing from Rock Island, Vikas recapitulated the treatment meted out to him by CMD immediately after he got promotion to GM's cadre and how the past dealings of the same person were quite opposite and oppressive.
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The interview committee for promotion to GM's cadre was headed by him and two board Directors nominated by RBI and Govt. of India were the other members.
Usually, the promotion in a bank got filtered through tough assessment amidst the pressure of various groups such as pulls and pushes of Board Directors, High Govt Officials, big Corporates, and of course, the politicians .Besides, the Top Boss kept the list of his own loyal officers who were in the habit of crawling before him when asked just to bend. Such officers, always eager to reciprocate loyalty to boss at the cost of the institution, were found in plenty in any organisation. Sometimes, the post-promotion postings were bargained or auctioned by CMD pressurised by internal and external forces, with quid-pro-quo leverages.
Anyway, Vikas was lucky to be promoted to GM's cadre and doubly lucky, for getting a plum posting in the NCR. Hardly he had imagined that he might have to share his pounds of flesh before the hawkish hunger of the CMD.
On a fateful morning the Dy GM of his office rushed to his cabin and said, "Sir, CMD had just telephoned and instructed me to process this loan proposal for your immediate sanction ,as it comes under your powers."
Vikas replied, "Why did CMD telephone you? He could have directly contacted me, as I am available in the office?"
"Sir, I don't know, but his tone was too assertive to get the proposal sanctioned immediately. Do you know Sir, who is the loanee ? He is a relative of our Director Mr Puri. This is a proposal of renewal and enhancement of limits."
Vikas assured to look into the file for a quick disposal. DGM went back from the cabin and might have conveyed the same to CMD. The DyGM very often took pride in telling the colleagues that he was close to the CMD as they both belonged to the same caste.
When Vikas went through the proposal he noticed some glaring discrepancies. The loan account was termed as a potential NPA. The new valuation of property offered as securities was increased three hundred times in just three years in order to provide fake comfort to the lenders. The account was not able to serve the interest from earnings in the previous years but from enhanced limits. The proposal was based on assumed projections which bore no relationship with the actuals.
Vikas called the loan processing credit officers to his cabin and discussed. The Chief Manager of the Credit department expressed the same negative features as observed by him but confided that the proposals were sanctioned earlier under pressure from top.
Vikas felt uneasy and tried to get the remark of his predecessor GM who had sanctioned the enhanced limit.
"Mr Kamath, Good morning. Vikas here,"
"Hi, Vikas, Good morning. How is your new work environment?"
Vikas then informed him about the present proposal placed on his table and wanted his opinion.
"Vikas, don't sanction any enhanced limit. Director Puri is behind the proposal and he takes advantage from the newly promoted GMs by putting pressure through CMD for a quid pro quo. For your information, our vigilance cell is seized with this loan account and is investigating. Soon the case might be referred to CVC. Puri is one of the biggest Petroleum distributors of Indian Oil, having his outlet in the most posh areas of the capital. He is in the habit of inviting GMs to his house and hosting them with choicest scotch over dinner. One can see life-size photos of politicians shaking hands with him in his house. He is very close to power."
Vikas could get all the information he needed. He looked at his watch and it was 1.30PM. The board meeting was continuing at the HO. Vikas noted all the points of discrepancies observed in the process note and returned the file to DyGM duly recording his rejection.
When the DyGM looked into the file eagerly to find the sanction order, he was dismayed and hurriedly entered the cabin of Vikas to request him for reconsideration of his stand. He even hinted at an ugly outcome of the issue if the proposal was not sanctioned as CMD was in the board meeting.
Vikas gently declined for reconsideration.
At around 3PM there was a phone call to Vikas. Executive Director was on the line and wanted to know the fate of the particular credit renewal cum enhancement proposal. Vikas informed his decision to ED apprising him of his observation. ED did not like to proceed further.
At around 4PM the board meeting followed by the official lunch was over . There was a Fax received from HO containing the transfer order of Vikas to HO.
Vikas had anticipated such a vindictive action of the CMD, but thanked him silently for saving him from a future ordeal.
After six months the CVC took up the case for investigation and some top executives, who were involved in the process of sanctioning the renewals and enhancements, including the notorious DyGM, CMD's caste fellow, were pulled up and docked.
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With a sudden jerk Vikas came to reality at that dinner table. The last peg from the Scotch bottle was about to be consumed by his boss. The skins of the lobster were neatly left aside in the corner of the plate. Vikash wondered how such characters change their behaviour with change of the winds.
The CMD thanked Vikas,for arranging the special dinner over lobster and bade farewell to go to his hotel room . Vikas also bade farewell to the boss and reminded him for the return flight scheduled to fly at 9AM next day.
Perched in his seat in the flight, Vikas waved to the waters of the beautiful island and thanked them for their magnetic powers to transform the funny chameleon characters .
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
The dichotomy of ‘yesterday and today’ unveils ceaseless evolution of human beings. A close look into it shall reveal that the concept of yesterday and today is a narrative of human experiences characterised by its continual progression projecting a tableau of contrasts and comparisons between these two temporal realms. The rubric ‘yesterday and Today’ may sound simple but the human experiences connected with the process of refinement gained from yesterday to today is far from easy. Societies advance, nations progress and countries witness transformative changes in different spheres of activities such as social, political, economic, cultural, scientific and spiritual. Concurrently human beings, being the principal architects behind all this, too continue to develop steadily. Thus the comparison of yesterday with today makes a palpable difference. Amidst this flux a constant emerges and that is the indomitable spirit of human ingenuity driving these changes forward. As we juxtapose the experiences of yesterday with realities of today we discern both stark disparities and subtle continuities.
An examination of these evolutionary shifts presents a lucid view of our past and present. Reflecting on my life’s journey I can recall vivid memories of experiences spread over a period of time beginning from my childhood passed in a remote village of Odisha during pre-independence era and thereafter my youth and manhood in towns, cities and metros till this day. A beacon of such evolutionary changes shall be translucent if I just rewind what it was yesterday and it is now today. Narrowing down the ambit of discussion it will be germane to examine the tapestry of my life that recorded the realities witnessed with the passage of time eversince I could sense and know what was happening around me. Yesterday was sometime miserable and painful yet at some other time it was so joyous and pleasing that it induces me to contemplate let those halcyon days come again and again in my life. When this wistful thinking is not accomplished, out of emotion I murmur the heart touching song from the film “Door Gagan ki Chhaon me” sung by the renowned director and singer late Kishore Kumar, “Koi Lautade mere bite hue din”.
That song may be heard by doing copy paste of the following link in Youtube and clicking it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xS9wKERopvE
Now talking of yesterday, a recollection of childhood days gives me immaculate pleasure. When I was just a young boy I used to go to anybody’s house in the neighbourhood without any restriction and any prohibition to pluck flowers and different sweet seasonal fruits grown in their gardens. I used to play freely with their children in their open premises. But today, my grand children do not enjoy that freedom to enter into any neighbour’s premises without permission what to talk of plucking flowers or fruits, if any, grown in their gardens. They too cannot play in anyone’s premises or in open fields freely. This is the change from yesterday to today; how far it is good and developed not known. Perhaps this is the trend concomitant with time.
There was a day when my grandmother abruptly whisked me away from our verandah where I was playing into a room and after shutting the door from inside she asked me to keep quiet until signalled. Curiosity piqued, later I questioned her motives, to which she explained that a Lal Pugdiwala had arrived in our village that is situated in a remote corner of my state far away from the beaten track, to catch someone. During British Raj Police constables were known as Lal Pugdiwalas in villages of India. For remote villagers they were the figures so dreaded that as I have seen in childhood, my villagers would runaway to conceal themselves behind the doors on seeing them entering the village, fearing arrest or merciless beating. However, in the wake of India's independence on August 15, 1947, the villagers gradually mastered courage to face the police whenever they came to our village. But today the fear of law enforcement agencies including police has totally dissipated in all villages; people no longer feel intimidated upon encountering police. This shift is welcome for advantage of people in distress.
In the past, there was an abundance of food grains, vegetables, and fruits. I recall purchasing high-quality rice from the weekly market, four seers (around five kilograms) for just sixteen annas which is now one rupee. That same rice costs eighty-three rupees per kilo in the market these days. Similarly, fish, eggs, chicken, and meat were incredibly inexpensive. Yesterday, farm output was entirely organic. But today, due to widespread use of chemical fertilizers, pesticides and insecticides we inadvertently ingest toxins with every meal. In the past, adulteration in any form was unheard of. However, today, nearly every food item is adulterated. Even eggs are now adultered.
In the realm of education, in anterior villages like that of mine, only some well to do families were interested in sending their sons to Pathshala or a primary school, if one happened to exist there, solely to grasp the basics of literacy and numeracy, enabling them to read religious books and to learn how to count paisa. Only a few rich villagers were allowing their daughters to join school and others used to ask girls to stay indoors to learn household chores. Generally, the male children of my village were engaged in field work for cultivation. Luckily my parents though not rich, spared me from joining field work and enrolled me in a lower primary school to study my native language. Time changed after independence and all children in villages regardless of gender, are sent to School for study. This drift from traditional mindset of people to modernity is indeed an evolutionary change.
In yester years the teachers in schools were dedicated to teach students not simply the academics but moral values, shaping them to grow as well accomplished individuals. But today’s education system has shifted towards a profit-driven model prioritizing financial gains over the holistic development of individuals. The commercial schools are running factories to manufacture money machines instead of human beings. If I recall my school days, The Sanskrit teacher who was called, Pundit Mahasay then used to watch our conduct in High School. I remember clearly that one day he thrashed me when I was just answering a question asked by a girl student of my class and thereafter Pundit Mahasay asked me not to look at girls students at all and I followed his instructions until I passed out. Now see the change today, glamour and fashion have driven out all social moral values.
Yesterday when I passed Matriculation in first division from a village high school, my name was published in the local newspapers may be for the total number of students passing in first division in Matriculation for my whole state was within a few hundred then, but today the number of first division students in my state is in lakhs and only the names of top ten students are published in newspapers. For first division, 60% marks in aggregate was considered a big achievement then and now it matters nothing. Breaking news comes every year that at least one or two students commit suicide out of fear of facing the wrath of their parents for securing less than 90% marks in Matriculation.
Yesterday, three of my classmates getting just second division in matriculation somehow cleared I.SC. in second division and got admitted in SCB Medical College Cuttack at ease and came out with specialisation in Medicine after six years and another classmate of mine passing Matriculation in compartmental examination after being failed in Matric final, cleared I.Sc. somehow in second division and got an easy admission in Burla Engineering college of state Government and retired as Superintending Engineer. But today for an entry into medical college or Engineering college a student has to secure good rank in stiff entrance tests apart from a promising career in Matriculation and +2 Science.
Yesterday, after declaration of result of my graduation in OUAT the reader of Economics, Chemistry and Entomology departments of my alma-mater personally persuaded me to join post graduate in their respective disciplines for my good result in graduation. Further they also assured me of deputation to USA for Ph. D. at University’s cost after P.G. but I had to decline that golden opportunity and join Govt, service only to support my widowed mother and younger brother in village. My professors were disappointed and felt sad for I did not accept their offers which other students of my batch would have jumped n to grab. But today this kind of situation is a dream. No reader or professor from any academic discipline ever cares for any student however brilliant he may be to go for higher education.
Employment.
Yesterday the letters of appointment in State Govt. service were distributed to all the final year students of my College appearing in degree examination with instruction to join service soon after the exam is complete without waiting for the result. But today one can easily visualise the position of employment and how the candidates and their parents run from pillar to post to secure a job in the present highly competitive job market.
Yesterday another sensational moment of my life was so heart touching and emotional that whenever I rewind my memory it gives me immense contentment. In those days my salary in Govt. service was very low. For better perks I thought of switching over to a Nationalised bank and accordingly I applied to two Banks and after going through the process of interview I got offer letters from both the Banks to join soon after resigning from Govt. service. Merrily I submitted my papers through proper channel. At that time I was on deputation from the Govt. service to the service of DAV Trust. My controller in DAV Trust was Dr. A.N. Khosla who was the Ex Governor of Odisha. By virtue of my good performance he was liking me and wanted me to continue in DAV Trust permanently.
When my letter of resignation from service for joining a Bank came to his table he instantly sent a representative from Delhi to my place of posting at Rourkela then to persuade me to withdraw my paper. The gentleman told me that Dr, Khosla wants to depute me to Germany for a month’s training before absorbing me in DAV permanently. I begged apology and requested him to forward my resignation letter to Govt. for acceptance so that I can join a nationalised Bank. Dr. Khosla was very unhappy for my decision. In due course my resignation was accepted and I joined one of the two Banks from which I got offer letters.
Lo! Just after a few days of my joining the Bank, one day, all on a sudden, the Joint Director of my previous Govt. department from which I resigned, called at my office personally and started banging me for why I resigned and joined the Bank in his absence since at that time he was on deputation to USA. He said to me to have waited for his return from USA before resigning. Then he compelled me to resign from Bank immediately for return to the Govt. service. When I said, “sir, my resignation has been duly accepted by the Govt. and now how can I join Govt. service?” He emphatically said that it was his responsibility to reinstate me with my seniority for future promotion. But I could not accept his proposal for which he was sad and left me forever. That was my yesterday. I think none in the past or in future ever did this for their subordinates leaving the job and today it is impossible. Who does care for others with no interest or no relation? Sometimes I fail to assess whether my yesterday was better than today?
Career progression:
Yesterday when I was in State Govt. service for about 8 years, I got two promotions without any interview but after coming to bank service I had six scale promotions in my 32 years of service for which I had to pass through six interviews. Of course every officer of a Bank goes through interviews for promotion and there is nothing new in it. But the point of my reference to interviews is different and something unheard of. Excepting the first interview for selection as Bank Officer in which I had to face a marathon interview, the rest interviews were just like walkovers unlike interview of other competitors who appeared along with me. As I have gathered information after every interview, while my colleagues/competitors were grilled with a volley of questions for at least half an hour each, I was given an easy go by asking one or two questions about my health or my family. That was my yesterday. I am not sure what is going on today.
Yesterday taught me, hardworking, sincerity and honesty always pay very rich dividend and at times unexpected like windfall gains. Further it also bestows honour to boost one’s identity. Result may not accrue soon after a project is complete or a hard task is done but it is not erased; its due effects come at appropriate time. Therefore everyone should have to maintain patience while performing in the mundane war field.
Bankim Chandra Tola: A retired Banker and an octogenarian likes to pass old age time in travelling, gardening and writing small miscellaneous articles. He was a regular blogger of Sulekha.com and published three books. Now he is happy with Literary vibes Bhubaneswar and posting small writes like this.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: AN IRON LADY OF INDIA AS AN INSPIRATION TO EVERYONE !
The Iron Lady we are talking of here is an extra-ordinary woman leader who took part in the Indian Freedom Struggle under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi and made a mark in different fields which deserve to be recalled again and again. Durgabai Deshmukh (1909-1981), in addition to the tag of being a “freedom fighter”, was a lawyer, educationist, politician and social activist who dedicated her life for the betterment of her country. It is not a matter of surprise that as with so many women in history, she remains largely unknown.
Born on July 15, 1909, in Rajahmundry, Andhra Pradesh, India to a conservative family, she was married at a very early age of eight to the son of a Zamindar. Traditionally, child brides would stay with their parents until they reached adulthood and then move to their in-laws’ home. However, Durga defied these norms. By the time she came of age, she was already questioning societal conventions and contemplating reform. At the age of 15, she courageously walked out of her child marriage, having discussed with her husband the wrongness of this practice. Her family’s support played a crucial role in her decision.”
In 1921, Durgabai made her presence felt. Upon learning that Mahatma Gandhi was scheduled to visit Kakinada in Andhra Pradesh for a political town hall meeting, she approached the organizers. Durgabai requested that Gandhi should spare some time to address a gathering of devadasis (temple dancers) and other women of marginalised sections. Her intention was for Gandhiji to discuss about social reform with them.
In a light-hearted challenge, the organizers told Durgabai jocularly that if she could raise ?5,000 as present to Gandhi, she could have 10 minutes with him. Undeterred, she managed to collect the impressive amount within a week. However, when she approached the organizers, they claimed Gandhi had no time to spare. Durgabai persisted, and they eventually relented and honoured their promise. The event took place in her school compound, where Gandhi addressed an audience of women for over half an hour. Durgabai stood by his side, translating his speech into Telugu for those who did not understand Hindi.
Gandhi was so impressed with her that he asked her to accompany him as interpreter for the rest of his tour in the Andhra region. This was the peak of India’s Non-Cooperation Movement against the British and her actions could have led to arrest and jail time. That didn’t deter Durgabai. In fact, it set the tone for what would be the first of many campaigns with the Congress and the freedom movement. In this context, the courage and conviction of a girl who was hardly twelve or thirteen by this time deserve any body’s appreciation.
After the initial campaign, Durgabai, fuelled by national spirit, returned home and made a bold decision. She quit school to protest the colonial practice of imposing English-medium education. Instead, she founded the Balika Hindi Paathshala (Girls’ Hindi School) to promote Hindi education for girls. Remarkably, a girl who should have been attending school herself was already running one.
Another interesting thing happened during this time which would throw light on her personality. She was volunteering in the Indian National Congress conference in 1923, where she didn’t allow Jawaharlal Neha from entering the meeting as he did not have a ticket. Nehru was only allowed after he got the ticket, while seniors of Durgabhai were perplexed but Nehruji appreciated her work.
She religiously took part in India’s freedom movements like Salt Satyagraha, where she played a big role in mobilizing women to participate in the movement. She was imprisoned three times between 1930 and 1933 . While in jail she self-educated herself in the subject of English. But here she saw the plight of women prisoners who even did not know why they were behind bars.
After her release from prison, Durgabai resolved to study law. Her goal was to provide free legal aid to those unjustly imprisoned and help them defend their rights. To pursue higher education, she applied to Andhra University. But an interesting thing happened again. The Vice-chancellor hesitated to grant her admission due to the lack of a women’s hostel. Undeterred, Durgabai took an unconventional approach.
In her autobiography, she recounts, ‘I placed a newspaper advertisement inviting women who aspired to join Andhra University but faced hostel challenges to contact me. The response was positive. Ten of us came together, identified suitable premises, and established a hostel.’" Durgabai’s determination and innovative thinking led to the creation of a women’s hostel, enabling her and others to pursue education despite obstacles.
Durgabai earned her Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in Political Science from Andhra University and later obtained a Law degree from Madras University. By 1942, she had established herself as a renowned criminal lawyer, practising at Madras Bar.
In the mean time, in 1937, she had founded the Andhra Mahila Sabha in Chennai (Madras) with the aim of promoting women's education and social welfare. This institution has grown over the years and continues to provide various educational and healthcare services. Durgabai was a strong advocate for women's rights and worked towards the upliftment of women and children.
She was one of the fifteen women members of the Constituent Assembly for drafting the constitution. As the founding fathers framed the Constitution of India, Durgabai actively participated in debates on critical issues. She advocated for property rights for women under the Hindu Code Bill and emphasized the significance of an independent judiciary. Remarkably, Durgabai, in her autobiography, recounted having proposed around 750 amendments, both independently and in collaboration with other Assembly members
After independence, as the first woman member of the planning commission; Durgabai was responsible for the social welfare planning in the first five-year plan of the country. She was the first chairperson of the Central Social Welfare Board, established in 1953, which aimed to promote voluntary social work and support welfare organizations across the country.
In 1953, she married the then Finance Minister of India Chintaman Deshmukh. According to her own account, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru was one of the three witnesses.
In 1963, Durgabai was appointed as a member of the Indian delegation to the World Food Congress in Washington DC. Subsequently, in 1965, she received an invitation from UNESCO to contribute to the preparation of a draft Asian Model for educational purposes. UNESCO recognized her significant contributions in the field of literacy and honoured her for her work.”
Durgabai Deshmukh received several awards and honors for her contributions, including the Padma Vibhushan, India's second-highest civilian award, in 1975. She was an author and wrote several books and articles on social issues and her experiences. Deshmukh authored a book called The Stone That Speaketh. Her autobiography “Chintaman and I” was published one year before her death.
Durgabai Deshmukh passed away on May 9, 1981 leaving a remarkable rich legacy behind. Her ideas and work will stand strong among Indians for a long time to come. She is an inspiration to all, not just women. Her tireless efforts in promoting social justice, women’s rights, and education have left an indelible imprint. Her life would continue to inspire generations of social workers, educators, and activists in India. Institutions she founded, such as the Andhra Mahila Sabha, remain active and continue to contribute to society. Her life and the impact she made serve as evidence of her unwavering dedication to improving society and her strong adherence to the principles of equality and justice.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
AN INDO-AMERICAN GIRL’S PERCEPTION OF LIFE IN CHENNAI
Grandma, come soon , called Anisha excitedly from the balcony of our apartment. Leaving my work in the kitchen half done, I rushed out to see what was the reason for the girl’s sudden excitement. I noticed her watching with wonder struck eyes what was happening in the newly constructed , multistoried complex opposite. To me it appeared a daily ritual but to someone who was born and brought up in the U.S. the act of the construction workers bathing in the open was an unusual sight. The man clad in a small towel was pouring water on himself from a bucket with a small mug which he later passed around for two others to do the same. Meanwhile he scrubbed his body with soap , took back the mug and poured some more water from the bucket washing the soap away. The others followed . Bath over, they wiped themselves dry, got into fresh clothes and went about their work. Then it was the turn of the women and children to bathe. There was a lot of chatter and laughter among them , with the children splashing water on the older women and the latter admonishing them for wasting precious water.
Grandma, have you noticed something? the men folk were having a relay race while bathing, , observed my 12 year old granddaughter. It was fun watching those children enjoying their bath, by the way, don’t these people have wash rooms in their houses? She asked with an astonished look.
Before I could answer, I found the girl engrossed in the next spectacle. One of the women lit a kerosene stove in an improvised kitchen , in a corner under the covered park , ( logs of wood were still lying here waiting to be cleared) another woman cut some vegetables and together
They prepared “uppuma” in a large aluminium vessel .Soon the dozen odd men and their families sat in a circle and consumed their breakfast piping hot which was washed down with glasses of tea.
Grandma, they all seem to be so happy , enjoying their picnic , enthused Anisha who was watching them so intently.
Just then, a resident living in the complex come down and started his two wheeler which was parked just below one of the balconies. Suddenly he ducked in fright as he noticed something landing on him from nowhere. Anisha was giggling away and I too could not contain my laughter when I saw the wet sari , crumpled and lying in a heap next to
the man. The culprit was the maid who was drying clothes in the balcony and the sari slipped from her hands!
From then on Anisha spent less time indoors and more time in the balcony as she found it more amusing watching the activity in the multi storied complex opposite.
Every day she would discover something new and come running to me to tell me proudly what she had noticed with her keen sense of observation. I came to know more about the residents and their lifestyle which I wouldn’t have known otherwise.
One day, she said, grandma, I am sure there are two small children in the apartment opposite. Can I go and make friends with them? She asked innocently.
How do you know? I asked, wondering how she had come to the conclusion.
Yea, I am sure, go and see for yourself if you don’t believe what I say, she said. I can even invite them for my birthday party, she suggested.
I wanted to tell her , here in Chennai you normally made friends either with your classmates or through other common friends but did not volunteer to visit strangers’ homes . I told her she would find it difficult to converse with them as she did not know their mother tongue and they would find it difficult to understand her English as she speaks with an American accent .
O.k., tell me how you found out ,I said out of curiosity.
You know, last night when the lights were switched on, I saw two Harry Potter blowups pasted on the wall of the childrens’ bedroom, the girl explained.
What else would the girl notice next, I wondered.
I think the boy in the apartment next to that is learning to play on the keyboard, was another piece of information she gave me.
Now, how did you find that out? I asked puzzled.
I saw the boy dusting his keyboard this morning, she replied.
Days passed and Anisha’s news bulletins of the complex also increased which were a mix of the mundane (to me) and the unusual.
One day Anisha appeared very serious and rather moody. However much I tried to humour the girl , she remained absorbed in thought. I thought the girl probably felt homesick since it was more than a month she was away from her parents. She must be missing her friends too back home, I presumed.
Quite concerned about what was bothering Anisha , I asked her whether she wished to return to the U.S. and her parents .
She vehemently nodded . Then I wanted to know whether she was upset over something that she noticed in the building opposite.
After endless probing, She asked hesitantly, grandma, will the parents of those two small children in the opposite apartment divorce?
Her question came like a bolt from the blue. I could not imagine even in my wildest dreams why the girl suspected or feared that such a thing would happen , that too when she neither knew them or met them.
Why do you think so dear? I said drawing the girl nearer.
You know, yesterday, I saw the parents shouting at each other at the top of their voices and almost coming to blows. Their two small children were hugging the mother and crying, saying something in their language . Anisha’s words came amidst sobs.
I explained to her that probably the couple were having a heated argument over something which was quite common and divorces don’t happen just like that in Chennai, because most people were still traditional and conservative in outlook.
You seem to be deep in thought, observed my husband as we were having breakfast.
Not exactly, I am quite unhappy about the increasing lack of communication among the family, I said.
Now which family are you talking about? Whose heads are going to roll? He asked in his usual sarcastic manner.
It has all to do with our mangoes to start with, I said.
What do our mangoes got to do with lack of communication among the family? He said giving me a quizzical look.
Everything, for that matter, they are the root cause, I stated.
Why don’t you tell me what happened, he said sounding impatient.
You know I sent some home-grown ripe mangoes to more than half a dozen of our friends and relatives and excepting two of them the rest called me up to thank me. They went into raptures about the unusual taste of this rare variety which they said was generally not available in the market.
Did you tell them about the origins of our mango tree? My husband asked proudly.
Yes, I did. I said a sampling of Imam pasand was brought from Rajamundry by your grandfather and planted in our compound almost 70 years ago and we have been enjoying its fruit.
I still don’t understand its relation with communication or lack of it , stated my husband.
Well, I had sent a few fruits to people in the neighborhood but haven’t heard from them at all. For all I know instead of the house hold members the house hold staff would have consumed them and the former would not have known that I sent them, I rued.
Now I understand your grouse. Since you mentioned it I remember something one of our neighbours said the other day about having tasted an extra sweet juicy mango. When I asked him where he had picked it up from, he said his servant who normally does vegetable shopping for them had bought them from the market paying an exorbitant price.
Don’t you think we should have a ‘Family Day’ declared by the U.N.? I suggested.
Yes, so that the family will have food together and also know the source of those extra sweet mangoes! he quipped.
Oh, these men!
I met your friend at the bank, said my husband. She asked how you were doing.
Who is this friend of mine you met, hasn't she a name? I said.
Well, how can I ask her name when she came and spoke to me, that too with such familiarity? Also, you don't expect me to remember all your friends and their names, do you?
I could see his point, because that made two of us, as I too wasn't good at remembering names or faces, for that matter, true to the saying 'Out of sight, out of mind'.
OK. How did she look, I asked out of curiosity.
He thought for a while and said, short, very dark, very fat and not good looking at all, if I may say so.
I flared up at the way he described my friend, thinking it was more an insult to her than giving a clue to her identity.
How dare you comment on someone's looks in such a fashion, I fumed. It is typical of you men, women who are fair and tall are invariably good looking and if they are not fortunate to be so, they don’t merit a favorable description from you men, I snapped .
OK. Tell me in what other way I can describe your friend so that you can try to place her?
Now you sound more reasonable, I observed, glad that my husband was seeing some sense at last in what I said.
As I was trying to search for the right words, something flashed in my mind.
Did she speak in English or in Tamil? I asked my husband.
Does it matter? She spoke excellent English, that too without any regional accent. Come to think of it, she even had an attractive smile.
That was enough to place my friend and give a tip to my husband when he described someone next.
See, you could have said you met my friend who had a ready smile and spoke excellent English. Don't you think that sounds much better instead of dwelling on a person's looks, good or bad, which are God given and one can't do anything about them?
My husband stared at me for a full minute without blinking and said, It's absolutely true, I know some women can't help about their looks, but now I realized it is too late for me to...
I knew what he was getting at and decided to leave the man to hear his own words.
MY PRECIOUS TREASURE FROM AN AUSSIE ZOO
As I was on my morning walk in a park a few days ago, an elderly man buttonholed me giving an earful about the Madras summer. “Don’t you think it has started too early with a bang, this year?” he rued. The best way to start a conversation is to talk about the weather, I thought and I agreed with him. Looking at his bald head shining with sweat dripping down his face, I said it was getting difficult to continue my morning walks as it tends to get warmer earlier in the day.
“Not for you madam,” he observed pointing to my blue cloth hat. I have been wanting to ask you... from where could I get a similar one, but in white?” he asked.
It’s a long story I said, adding he was not the first person to compliment me on my hat. I told him a cabbie in Sydney went into raptures about my hat and thought it must have cost me a fortune. Getting more interested in hearing my ‘hat story’, the stranger who introduced himself as a retired Professor of English sat on the nearby bench and requested me to join him. I obliged albeit a moment’s hesitation.
I harked back to the day years ago during our tour of Australia when we visited the Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary in Brisbane. As we were admiring the baby koalas and kangaroos, it suddenly started raining and I rushed towards a small shop selling umbrellas and hats. I was torn between buying a hat costing 20 Australian dollars and an umbrella costing much less and decided on the former. I never regretted it. I soon found my hat doubled as an umbrella as well, with its wide brim that could be pulled down to protect my ears. After returning to Chennai, I found that using a hat was easier as it didn’t come in the way of fellow pedestrians.
The other day I persuaded my husband to wear my little treasure when he had to go out on an errand during mid-day. He returned without my hat and was profusely apologetic for losing it. He said he did not remember where he had left it as he visited a few banks situated in different places. I lost all hopes of finding my precious hat. But I was wrong. When I visited one of the banks recently, the lady behind the counter immediately pulled out a small cloth bag from her drawer saying, “Your husband had left it on the counter the other day, I was waiting for one of you so that I could return it.” I felt moved and was at a loss for words!
GROUSE MOUNTAIN------NOTHING TO GROUSE, MY REMINISCENCES
We were intrigued by the name “ Grouse Mountain” which is a fifteen minute drive from the city of Vancouever over the Lion’s Gate Bridge and realized after our visit we had no reason to grouse .Vancoueverites boast that given the right season , it is possible to ski in the morning and swim in the afternoon when the snow melts on Grouse Mountain! It may not be technically untrue but no Vancoueverite dares it , informed our hosts who said the visit to this Mountain was “a must.”
The Grouse Mountain Sky ride , an aerial tram that whisked us ,1,100 metres over the tree tops in a minute reminded us of the cable car ride we had through the rain forest in Cairns during our visit to Eastern Australia. The difference however was the nearly half a dozen cabins of the cable car accommodated four passengers in each whereas we were more than 50 in the hexagon shaped single tram referred as Gondola. We followed the elderly lady who was wheeled into it and we all returned her greeting. Over a brief conversation she said she was fond of traveling and seeing places (I was amazed at the facilities in foreign countries offered for the disabled to travel in comfort) In Cairns we passed through Eucalyptus trees on the ascent while here the ascent was lined with a thick growth of Cedar, Hemlock and Douglas .We peeped out through the enclosed glass and were mesmerized by what we saw----ships sailing in the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean appearing like small boats from a distance on one side and cone shaped trees rising to the sky on the other . We alighted on the Mountain top and walked along the mountain path and could watch the melting snow , pure and white as ever enjoying the picturesque surroundings to reach the venue of the world famous Lumber Jack show .We found it was a show of “Birds in Motion” where rare and endangered birds of various size and colour flew out of their cages and perched themselves on the demonstrator’s palm for her to parade them one after another in front of us accompanied by a running commentary regarding their classification , characteristics and lifestyle. After the exhibit they flew away only to present themselves to the audience , coming close within our hands’ reach perhaps for us to admire but none of us even dared to touch these attractive winged creatures ! Later they flew back to their respective hideouts . This fascinating show would certainly have delighted an Ornithologist , I felt and returned with the thought that the name of the Mountain probably had some relation to the Game bird which bore the same name.
My "friend" called me frantically one morning to say she was not able to get any big names to agree to inaugurate the seminar she was organising at her institution.
When I suggested a few names, she said they were not big enough for the occasion and she was looking for really "big" names.
Why are you so obsessed with big names, I asked, feeling a little disappointed at her attitude.
Well, only then people will care to come and so also will the press. They believe only big names will attract attention and the sale of their publication will go up, she said.
May be you are right, but most often the names might impress but the speeches they make may not match their actions, I said.
Who cares, all that concerns me is the coverage the event gets. If it is accompanied by a photograph, it is even better as people will not miss going through the story, she argued. Moreover, I will also get credit in the process and the contacts might help me in future, she added lowering her voice.
I could appreciate her frankness in expressing her vested interest.
By the way, what is the theme of the seminar, I asked.
'Power lies in knowledge one possesses and not in one's possessions', she said.
I burst out laughing when she mentioned the theme.
What makes you laugh when I am most serious, she said, offended.
Can't you see, all the more reason for you not to go in for big names, I said, stressing 'not'. You must choose someone who is well read and well informed so that people will listen to him/her and ponder over what is said. Then I went on to suggest some names of persons who were not only professionals but had an eternal thirst for acquiring knowledge. They were like walking encyclopaedias in my opinion.
She vehemently shook her head. You forget the press doesn't recognise such persons, she reiterated.
Why don't you forget the press for once and give one of them a chance to inaugurate the seminar, I said.
She appeared convinced after a lot of persuasion and ultimately agreed to my suggestion.
I had kept my fingers crossed till the day of the seminar as I was inwardly worried about the response the speaker would invite, as he not only belonged to the tribe of "unsung heroes" but also lacked the proverbial charisma.
The seminar began with a prayer and the rest of the programme followed. When the chief guest was introduced, I could notice the chuckles and sighs from some in the audience which left me with an unpleasant feeling. The slightly built figure stood up with all dignity, went through the ritual of inauguration and began his address. As the speaker proceeded, slowly the chuckles and sighs died down giving place to appreciative responses and ha ha's at the most thought provoking speech, sprinkled with anecdotes and quotes from a wide variety of sources to the delight of the audience who comprised a cross-section of society.
I had the surprise of my life when I opened the paper the next morning. The event was covered in two columns where a major part of the address was faithfully reported. I wondered how a nonentity till yesterday could have become a celebrity overnight. I am yet to find an answer to this!
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 INTOXIC OR ATAXIC GAIT OF THE HERMIT CRABS?
While I was taking a stroll along the beach, I unusually became so inquisitive in paying attention to the environment and nature around me. There came a small projectile shell that looked like a projected unexploded explosive with a black nose. As I could see from a little away from it, it walked with a raised nose, pointing towards me as if it was a deliberate attempt at an assault. I stopped in panic and wondered if we still had Lilliputs around to start a war with a giant me. I walked stealthily, not to cause any sudden aggressive movement which might make the enemy pull the trigger. When I advanced to a close range, the enemy movement stopped, and I found the nose drooping down as the enemy hid himself somewhere nearby. I intently looked at it very closely to reveal it as the end cap of the incandescent lamp base screw with the nose as the electrical contact. Where did the enemy hide, and how did the broken incandescent lamp walk with the pointed nose pointing toward me? With numerous questions, I sat at a little distance to watch for the enemy to take a position so that I could understand the complete strategy of the enemy. A few moments later, the projectile again started walking. This time, the enemy with the artillery was walking towards the fringe of the waves that swept over the beach sand. I started watching it closely and discovered that it was a hermit crab that had a new shell, the broken incandescent lamp base. While I was happy to see the hermit crab, I felt saddened to see how the trash of human beings has caused an impact on the change in the lives of the hermit carbs.
Further, I started walking along the shore close to the waves with many questions: how to save these little creatures? Suddenly, another surprise appeared: a broken bottle with protruding glasses and the cap moving past me. This again surprised me, and I asked myself why this day was so different when I saw so many mysterious things on the beach. I Stooped down to see another of my friends, the little hermit crab that was hiding in a broken bottle cap. I thought someone must have spent a night on the beach drinking with friends and left the broken bottle nearby. As they walked past the inebriated condition back home with an intoxicated gait, the tiny hermit crabs found a new home with an ataxic gait. How much did we influence the lives of these tiny living creatures?
These hermit crabs are not really hermits and lead an austere life. They socialize and go around scavenging dead fishes and eating micro-organisms. The Crustaceans crabs have an exoskeleton, which is a hard shell that is not there for the hermit crabs, but they find those hard shells from the dead shellfish that left them behind. These shells form their dwelling place. As the hermit crab grows, it finds new shells to adapt to its size.
Again, when I walked further, I saw another guy coming with a broken elbow PVC pipe. On the other hand, I was laughing to myself about how we have lavished the beach organisms with a free dwelling house with our trashed items but felt sad about the way it has caused a change in the lifestyle as they were walking with so different ataxic gaits.
When the morning walk became so interesting, and as I walked further, this writer was dancing on the beach as a joker with a fool's cap. A tiny hermit crab found his dwelling in a blue ball pen cap. Fascinating cartoon creatures I met today on the beach, each with their beautiful shells walking freely in the sand, make me seriously think about how we damage the environment with our trash. Maybe some thought came into my mind, what if we can take some shells and paint with some beautiful art and then offer those colorful houses to these living creatures and visit them often, seeing the moving houses walk by when we have our stroll on the beaches…
S. Joseph Winston is pursuing his PhD at the Mechanical Engineering Department of IIT Madras. His research is in the area of computer vision for remote robot calibration. He has completed his MTech in Machine Design with the university first rank at Kerala University and working as Senior Scientific Officer, heading Remote Handling & Irradiation Experiments Division and also heading a section Steam Generator Inspection Devices Section at Indira Gandhi Center for Atomic Research, Govt. Of India, Kalpakkam. His areas of interest are developments of robotic systems for remote inspection of power plant systems and soft intelligent motion controls for robotics and automation. His hobbies are photography, Traveling and creating computer program snippets. He has interest in human psychology and love to interact with different people.
THE MASTER STROKES OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE
Now, the songs, poems, stories that the great maestro- Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore created, no doubt reflect his master strokes in music and literature, but what about his master strokes in drawing and painting?
Well. Well, that is another arena, another rich canvas of the great master’s life.
On 8th of May, it was Rabindranath Tagore’s birthday. Many years back, I had written about Tagore’s Masterstrokes which were carried elsewhere. To celebrate this year’s Rabindra-Jayanti, I thought of writing again and posting here on the esteemed canvas of Literary Vibes.
Tagore had always wanted to paint and so he kept on trying to master this art-form too. In 1900, he wrote to the famous scientist Jagadish Chandra Bose, “You will be surprised to hear that I am sitting with a sketchbook drawing. Needless to say , the pictures are not intended for any salon in Paris, they cause me not the least suspicion that the national gallery of any country will suddenly decide to raise taxes to acquire them. But, just as a mother lavishes most affection on her ugliest son, so I feel secretly drawn to the very skill that comes to me least easily.”
At this time, he was approaching forty. Though disappointed with the results, he continued sketching aimlessly while he pondered on other things- may be yet another masterpiece of writing!
These aimless sketches were often ornamental motifs sketched out of words. Gradually these sketches took shape and during his tours in 1924 they became more expensive.
It was during one of these tours that the Argentine intellectual writer Victoria Ocampo was impressed. She wrote - “he played with erasers, following them from verse to verse with his pen, making lines that suddenly jumped into life out of this play: prehistoric monsters, birds, faces appeared”.
Realizing that his efforts have started taking shape, the master wrote: -“The only training that I had from my young days was the training in rhythm in thought, the rhythm in sound. I had come to know that rhythm gives reality to that which is desultory, which is insignificant in itself. And therefore, when the scratches in my manuscript cried, like sinners, for salvation, and assailed my eyes with the ugliness of their irrelevance, I often took more time in rescuing them into a merciful finality of rhythm than in carrying on what was my obvious task.”
Describing this as his “unconscious training in drawing”, he went on to elaborate his sketches:- “..when the vagaries of the ostracized mistakes had their conversion into rhythmic inter-relationship, giving birth to unique forms and characters. Some assumed the temperate exaggeration of a probable animal that had unaccountably missed its chance of existence…some lines showed anger, some placid benevolence, through some lines ran an essential laughter…These lines often expressed passions that were abstract, evolved characters that hung upon subtle suggestions.”
In 1928,Tagore started to do independent paintings. In 1930, Victoria Ocampo helped him to organize the first exhibition of Tagore’s paintings in Paris. Exhibitions across Europe, in Russia, in England and America followed.
Rabindranath Tagore was the first Indian artist to be exhibited widely in the West.
Seasoned artists and connoisseurs in the West were appreciative of his artworks. However, there were controversies too as they found his work as an extension of Western Art and not in relation to the totality of his work or in relation to India.
Tagore’s paintings bear reflections of his familiarity with the “primitive” and modern traditions of art. Says Wikipedia:- “But it is only in the context of post-forties Indian Art that Rabindranath’s paintings find their true place in the history of modernism and it is in this context they need to be looked at.”
From 1928, Tagore painted more than 2000 paintings over the last thirteen years of his life. His nephew, Abanindranath Tagore, the reputed artist and creator of “Indian Society of Oriental Art” called this a “volcanic eruption”.
Now, the question arises whether there is any central unifying theme.
Well, there is no simple answer to this, as modern-day artists say. Reputed art historian R Siva Kumar explains: - “A sense of drama is central to Rabindranath ‘s paintings. The darkness in many of his paintings is not the darkness of the night. His self-portraits reflect a deeper psychological need that of a creative person always in search of self. But it is his landscapes, more soothing than his grotesques or human or animal figures that remain his best admired works. Limited in space but unlimited in diversity this is Rabindranath Tagore’s painting.”
In “My Pictures”, Tagore himself has written about his paintings: - “But one thing which is common to all arts is the principle of rhythm which transforms inert materials into living creations. My instinct for it and my training in its use led me to know that lines and colours in art are no carriers of information; they seek their rhythmic incarnation in pictures. Their ultimate purpose is not to illustrate or to copy some other outer fact or inner vision, but to evolve a harmonious wholeness which finds its passage through our eyesight into imagination. It neither questions our mind for meaning nor burdens it with unmeaningness, for it is, above all, is meaning” (1930 statement).
In a book named “Ronger Rabindranath”, the authors Ketaki Kushari Dyson and Sushobhan Adhikary, in scientific collaboration with Adrian Hill and Robert Dyson, have studied the use of colour by Rabindranath Tagore in his works, i.e., in his writings and in his art.
In an article written about this book, Ketaki Kushari Dyson has presented some pictures, some of which are presented here:
This is a woodcut (1919) image of ‘David Mueller’. by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner.
This is waterproof ink-on-paper from
Rabindra Bhavna Collection, no.1915 (Has no date).
Comparing this with a German Expressionist woodcut like in figure above , it seems that Tagore tried to reproduce the texture of woodcut in
an ink-on-paper medium.
Salmon-Trout head Motif of Haida Art
from North-west coast of North America.
Rabindranath’s initials “Ra-Tha” in a seal designed by himself. Later his son Rathindranath made the wooden seal as per Rabindranath’s design. The similarity of this with the above Haida Art is apparent.
Rabindra Bhavana collection no. 1911.
This is waterproof ink and pen ink on paper.
Has no date when this was painted, was exhibited in Europe in 1930.
The style of a coloured woodcraft is
imparted
by a simple division into coloured planes.
This is a Malanggan Artefact, mask, boar’s head from
the north of New Ireland, north-west coast.
Pastel on paper. From the Rabindra Bhavna Collection , no 2155.
Has no date.
Again, the above two are comparable.
On the occasion of Tagore’s 150th birth anniversary , an exhibition titled “The Last Harvest”, commissioned by the Ministry of Culture, India , and organized with the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) exhibited 208 paintings of Tagore, taken from the collection of Viswa Bharati and NGMA. Famous Art historian R. Siva Kumar was the curator.
Museum of Asian Art, Berlin; Asiatic Society , New York; National Museum of Korea, Seoul; Victoria and Albert Museum, London; The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago; Petit Palais, Paris; Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, Rome; National Visual Arts Gallery, Malaysia- Kuala Lumpur; McMichael Canadian Art Collection, Ontario; National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi; National Gallery of Modern Art, Mumbai; all splashed with master’s strokes of Tagore when these 208 paintings were exhibited at these museums.
Later, Asia Art Archive classified the exhibition as a “world event”.
Source: Books and the internet.
All pictures are from the internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
All information and photos are from books and the internet to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right to information and photos which are from books and the internet 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.
In the midst of shehnai music and the din of an assortment of guests and relatives, I suddenly sensed a presence at my side. Our daughter Ganga’s wedding was just two days away. I turned and found my wife Shalini standing there. She looked up at me, her eyes wet with tears, a letter and a parcel in her hands. I panicked.
“What happened? Why are you crying? Whose letter is that?”
In reply she just handed over the letter and parcel to me. Her tears continued unabated. I opened the parcel. It was a red jewelry box. Inside was the most beautiful necklace I have seen in my life - a gold chain, with a string of vivid red stones joined together with loving care. The stones were blood-red, as if someone had squeezed his heart out and frozen it in pieces of timeless beauty. And the stones were sitting there spellbound, wondering how they could be made so eloquently charming.
Shalini had already opened the letter. The writing was familiar. Oh, the letter is from Chachaji! I was surprised. How did Chachaji know about Ganga’s wedding? I had not sent an invitation to him. In fact, for the last twelve years, I had never written to him, nor replied to his many letters. In my memory, Chachaji had become just a forgotten shadow in the canvas of life, a dim footprint in the long journey of time.
Today with his letter, my mind went many years back - to our small house at Dhanbad, its open courtyard, the smell of jasmine in the evenings, and the incessant screams, shrieks, and chatter of our daughter Ganga every waking hour of the day. Our Ganga, the cute baby who had filled our life with so much joy and fulfillment. Pages from memory unfolded before my eyes, in the background of Ganga’s laughter, childish pranks and our busy life.
It was 1984. I had just finished my degree in Metallurgy and got a job in a company in Dhanbad, the mining center of India. Shalini and I were newly married. Dhanbad was new to both of us and we were looking for friends. Two days before Diwali, the Festival of Lights, my colleague Alok said,
“Come to Chachaji’s party on Diwali eve. Everyone from our company and many others will be there. You will find a lot of interesting people.”
I was curious.
“Chachaji? You mean your uncle?”
Alok broke into a huge laugh.
“No my friend, he is not my real chacha. He is the universal Chachaji of Dhanbad. Everyone calls him Chachaji, even people across three generations. He is the owner of the Chacha-Chachi Saree Bhandar at the Chowk. The funny thing is, he is not married, says the saree shop is his chachi! Spends the whole day there and even the nights during festival times. He is a great guy, tells funny jokes, sings well and his parties are the best in the town - lively and entertaining. Both of you should come. I have already told him. He will call you.”
Chachaji’s call came within a few minutes. From the throaty voice, I knew this must be an open man with a large heart. We were happy to accept his invitation. The Diwali party was a fantastic experience for us. More than fifty people were present and Chachaji had time for everyone. In his mid-forties, he was a charismatic person; there was no doubt about it. He sang old Hindi songs really well. I am also passionately fond of old Hindi songs. I sang a couple of melancholic songs, ‘Ek wo bhi diwali thi, ek ye bhi diawali hey’ and ‘Sarangaa teri yaad mein’.
Chachaji had found out my name was Chhotu. He teased me,
“Hey Chhotu, you have just been married. Why are you singing such sad songs? Is Bahu torturing you too much?”
Everyone burst into laughter. Shalini’s face became red with embarrassment.
That was the beginning of a deep friendship between us and Chachaji. He had this wonderful quality of striking a friendship with everyone and make him feel great about it. We visited each other’s home quite frequently, in the company of mutual friends. And gradually, Chachaji became like a family member to us.
When our daughter was born seven months later, Chachaji was overwhelmed with joy. He named her Ganga, saying that was his mother’s name. We accepted, out of respect for Chachaji and his departed mother. Despite our mild protests, he loaded Ganga with dozens of toys and dresses. We spent some of the happiest evenings with him, he singing beautiful lullabies for Ganga, his eyes moist with emotion.
Time passed. Ganga grew up to be a cute, active baby, full of pranks and laughter. Chachaji was her favorite person, more so because of the abundant supply of toffees and toys. We used to tease that Chachaji was making sure Ganga would grow up to become a government official, fond of bribes and gifts! Chachaji disagreed, “Our Gudiya will become Miss World one day and spread joy and beauty wherever she goes!”
Three years into our friendship with Chachaji, something unexpected happened, and Chachaji’s life took a dramatic turn. His elder brother, who was in politics, represented Dhanbad in the Legislative Assembly. He was also the Revenue Minister of the state. He suddenly died of a heart attack.
Chachaji went to Patna to bring his dead body for cremation in Dhanbad. His brother was extremely popular and thousands of people came for the funeral. There was a huge crowd and Chachaji got lost in that crowd. That was the last time we felt he was within our reach. He moved away, sucked by the whirlpool of events. The Chief Minister made him the Revenue Minister to fill his brother’s place. He contested the elections and won hands down.
Chachaji got extremely busy with his work and political activities. Initially he came to Dhanbad once every week, but gradually the frequency became less. The shop was handed over to his sister’s son to manage and whenever Chachaji came to town, he remained busy with phone calls, meeting local leaders and the people. But he always made it a point to see us, and spend some time playing with Ganga, telling her stories and listening to her chatter.
But we could see the change in him. His mind was always preoccupied. He remained absent-minded. Sometimes he would remove himself from us, talk on the telephone, giving instructions in a harsh tone, the language bordering on offensive.
Whenever we visited his house, we found strange kinds of people, sitting in his chamber or outside. We had the sense to know that some of these chaps were not desirable types.
Gradually, we felt a bit uncomfortable in visiting Chachaji at his home. He also understood our discomfort. In fact, he was very happy when we invited him for dinner at our place, to meet Ganga and play with her. But his timings were so uncertain that it was embarrassing to include others in the dinner. Sometimes he would turn up close to midnight, keeping others waiting from eight o’ clock. So finally it came down to a one-to-one dinner with Chachaji, even late into the night. Ganga, surprisingly, would keep awake, waiting to play with him, and grab toffees, chocolates, and toys from him.
Late at night, after dinner at our home, Chachaji used to feel relaxed. Ganga would have gone to sleep on his lap, after listening to his stories. Chachaji would narrate to us his experiences in Patna, and share with us details of state politics and secrets of a few of his admirers and detractors. One day he was feeling expansive after a sumptuous dinner.
“You people will never imagine the kinds of things we have to do in politics. It is a game of cut-throat competition and survival. You need money and God knows where one has to dip his hands to get it.”
Shalini smiled and asked jocularly.
“Chachaji, why don’t you reveal those secrets to us? You have told us so many things! Let us also know the secret of making money!”
Chachaji shuddered,
“No Bahu, it’s better not to know those things. Some of them are like figments of a horrible nightmare. Good that I am not married and I don’t have a family. At least I won’t have to feel guilty before my own family!”
Shalini pounced on the opportunity to pull his legs.
“So, Chachaji, we are not your family? You have been lying to us all these days, saying all of us are like one big family!”
Caught off guard, Chachaji felt a bit embarrassed.
“Arey Bahu, what are you saying? You people are more than a family to me. And Ganga Bitiya? She is the throb of my heart! God bless her!”
Another evening, after dinner, Chachaji gave us a rude shock.
“You know a professional killer has been given a supari to kill me!”
Ganga had gone off to sleep on the sofa with her head on Chachaji’s lap. Shalini was dozing off. She got up with a start.
“What, Chachaji? What are you saying? A supari? You mean a contract to kill you? Is it true? How did you know? Do such things happen in real life? We thought that is all filmy stuff.”
“Yes, it is true. The DGP himself called me last week, saying he is sending the I.G. Intelligence to brief me. That I.G. is from Dhanbad and is a great fan of mine. He disclosed that a don of the coal mafia here has put out a contract for my killing.”
“Why Chachaji?”
“Political ambition, what else? These days a special security squad is following me everywhere. It is a bloody nuisance.”
Shalini was curious. She moved towards the window,
“You mean some squad fellows are standing outside our house? Wow, Chachaji, we have become famous, thanks to you. Can I take a peek at them, through the window?”
Chachaji smiled at her childlike excitement.
“You can’t see them. It is their job to remain invisible and watch for danger.”
“How long will they be with you?”
“I don’t know. As long as the danger persists. May be till the don gets bumped off in an encounter.”
Shalini was shocked.
“Bumped off? What do you mean, bumped off? How can somebody be bumped off in cold blood?”
“It’s either him or me. Now that he has put a contract for my killing, only one of us will have the chance to live.”
I couldn’t hide my disgust.
“Chachaji, why are you going through all this? You had such a happy, carefree life before you became a minister! Why, we haven’t heard you singing an old song for more than a year now.’
Shalini nudged me and added archly,
“And for more than a year, you haven’t talked about the Bollywood heroines, which you used to do so often with a rare glint in your eyes.”
Chachaji and I laughed, a little defensively, remembering the happy banter we used to exchange, fantasizing about the raving beauties of the film world, the way adult males with colourful imagination usually do. I continued,
“Why don’t you simply give up this world of cut-throat politics, Chachaji? Is it really worth, all this money, power, and admirers, if your life is at risk?”
Chachaji flashed a sad smile.
“It’s difficult to make you understand Chhotu. Politics is like an addiction. Once you are in it, you are in a different world, floating in a cloud. There is money, tons and tons of it, often easily acquired. There is luxury that you cannot imagine from outside. And above all there is the power - power over people, over things. The power that comes with unabated adulation, and the power to decide people’s destiny with a mere signature on the file. That is a heady feeling, rare in life, reserved for the few who get political power and lord over people’s destiny. It’s impossible to give it up. A person who loses political power lives in constant torment, like a drug addict without drugs.”
I am not sure I understood the feeling fully. But after Chachaji left, Shalini and I talked late into the night. Where had we lost our cheerful, innocent Chachaji, who used to crack jokes with his friends, whose eyes used to get moist while singing, ‘Chalri sajani, ab kya soche.’ The Chachaji of today was a different person entangled in a labyrinthine maze of power, intrigue and senseless violence, where he might be killed or few others might be bumped off so that he would live. We were worried for him.
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Around three years after that evening, Bihar was seized with a new problem. Incidents of kidnapping became very common. Almost every day there were reports of children getting kidnapped. With elections to the State Assembly approaching, the government held the opposition responsible for engineering the kidnappings to discredit the party in power. The opposition blamed the government for staging the kidnappings with police help to collect money through ransom. Nobody knew for sure how they happened, but the kidnappings continued unabated.
In those days of uncertainty, on a cold December afternoon my phone rang at the office. I picked up the phone. It was Shalini, crying. My heart sank. Was there a problem? I asked her to compose herself and tell me what was wrong.
What she told me broke my heart to pieces. Ganga, our eight-year old daughter, the throb of our life, was missing. She had not returned from the school. Voice choking with worry, I asked Shalini, hadn’t the school bus come? How about the other children? Had she asked their parents?
Between sobs, she told me that in the morning Ganga insisted on going to school on her bicycle and since the distance is only half a kilometer, she had let her go. Shalini was hysterical, blaming herself for our daughter missing after school. I too broke into uncontrollable crying, fearing the worst. After a minute or so I told her not to lose hope and promised her no matter how much ransom it cost us, we would get back our daughter. Beyond any consolation, she kept down the phone. I felt as if someone was cutting my heart to pieces and every passing minute was a moment of excruciating pain. I folded my hands and prayed to God to save our Ganga from any harm and renewed my pledge that I would spend any amount of money to get her back.
The phone rang again. The kidnapper! Must be asking for ransom! With shaking hands I lifted the receiver. It was Chachaji on the other side! With trembling voice choked with sorrow, I told him,
“Chachaji, something terrible has happened. Ganga has been kidnapped while returning from school!”
There was a reassuring laugh from Chachaji.
“Chhotu, don’t worry. Ganga is safe. Her kidnappers had stopped at a traffic light, when my chaps spotted Ganga and gave a chase. Finally my men overpowered them and brought Ganga home. The kidnappers had made her unconscious. Now she has recovered. She is sitting with me, having pastry and sweets and chatting merrily with me. Come and take her home.”
I called Shalini immediately and informed her. And then I took out my car and rushed to Chachaji’s home. Ganga was sitting near Chachaji, giggling and merrily drinking coca cola. When she saw me she ran towards me and jumping up, dangled herself on my neck and kept on kissing me. My eyes flooded with tears. I came to Chachaji and thanked him for saving Ganga from the kidnappers. Chachaji was furious.
“Chhotu, are you an idiot? How do you let Ganga go to school on a bicycle?’
“Sorry Chachaji, Ganga usually takes the school bus. Today I had left home at seven in the morning. Shalini says Ganga was insistent, so she allowed her to go to school on her bicycle.”
“Tell Bahu not to make this mistake again. You know how bad the times are. What is the guarantee they would have let Ganga go even after collecting the ransom? Just think how terrible it would have been if my chaps had not rescued Ganga Bitiya!”
I started shivering with fear. Just the thought of Ganga in the clutches of the kidnappers made me sweat, like I was having a stroke. There was a common toilet between the drawing room and Chachaji’s office. Out of panic I ran to the toilet.
When I came out of the toilet after a few minutes, I heard Chachaji’s voice from the office room, as if he was quarreling with somebody. Curious, I glanced into the office. Chachaji was standing near his chair. His face was red with anger. A man in black trousers and a red tee-shirt was sitting calmly on the opposite chair, munching some nuts from his pocket. From his looks he appeared to be one of those slimy, vicious goons who look like any other man on the street, but capable of inflicting extreme violence without batting an eyelid. Chachaji was shouting at him.
“Get out! Get out immediately. Who let you in?”
The man didn’t care, just went on munching the nuts.
“The day I need permission to enter someone’s house, I will be out of business. Now that I have got in, if you have guts, throw me out.”
Chachaji was furious.
“I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave. Otherwise I will call the security guards who will shoot you down.”
“Chachaji, don’t shout. Don’t threaten me. For a crook like you, it will take me just a minute to crush the life out of you with my bare hand. Now, listen to me. I heard that you are going to return the packet?”
Chachaji panicked and looked at the drawing room, his eyes showing naked fear. His voice croaked.
“Run away, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I don’t care if you want to talk to me or not. Just listen to me. Whether you keep the packet or return it, I want my fifty thousand rupees. That’s the price your men have fixed with me for picking up a packet. I want the money delivered to me by eleven tomorrow morning.”
Chachaji was now choleric, with anger, anxiety and nervousness.
“Just get lost. I don’t want to hear anything now. Leave my house.”
The man emitted a derisive laughter looking at the panicky, helpless face of Chachaji. Scorn poured from him, like filth spilling from a broken sewage pipe.
“Don’t try to act funny with me Chachaji. If I don’t get the money by eleven tomorrow, I will pick up the same packet again and sell it in Calcutta, to roam on its streets, begging for alms with her amputated hands. Remember!”
The man left with the assurance of a professional who knew his job. I entered the room. The moment Chachaji saw me; he knew I had heard the conversation. All the blood drained out of his face, he started sweating and sat down on the chair. Unknown to him, his hands folded and he looked at me with the helpless gaze of a person about to climb the gallows for execution. It appeared as if with his pale face and folded hands he was begging my forgiveness.
Without a word, I left the room, picked up Ganga and drove home, my mind filled with a sense of deep anguish. I felt like I was returning from a burial ground after burying a close, dear relative. Ganga tried to cheer me up on the way with her pranks, but I had no words left in me. Ganga ran to Shalini the moment we reached home. Shalini picked her up and showered her with a thousand hugs and kisses.
After a listless dinner I narrated the whole story to Shalini. That night we made Ganga sleep between us, holding her in a tight embrace and reassuring ourselves that our heart-throb was back with us, with a new lease of life for her and for us. We didn’t let her out of our sight even for a moment, as if we had the moon from the sky in our fist and the moment we loosen it, she will jump out and escape again.
Next morning the phone rang at ten. It was Chachaji.
“Chhotu, where is Ganga? Has she gone to school?”
I paused for a moment before replying,
“No, we didn’t send her to school today.”
“Good. Chhotu, you, Bahu and Ganga come home this evening. We will have dinner and I will sing some choicest old Hindi songs for you.”
“Aren’t you going for your election tour today?”
“No! Haven’t you watched the news this morning? It’s in the TV, in all the channels. This morning, I resigned from my ministership, and from my Assembly seat. I have also quit politics. I am back at my shop, selling sarees.”
“Quit politics? Why, what happened to your famous addiction, for which you get ‘packets’ lifted from schools and roads?”
There was an audible sigh after a long pause. The sadness in Chachaji’s voice was palpable.
“Chhotu, yesterday my wayward, battered spirit was purified by Ganga. No amount of power or money can take me back to politics again, now or ever. Come home, we will chat in the evening.”
We didn't go to Chachaji's home that evening, then or ever. Instead, in the afternoon we packed our luggage, locked the house, handed over the keys to a neighbour and boarded a train to Surat. Since I had a degree in Metallurgy, I got a fabulous job in the diamond industry here. For the past twelve years, I have never gone back to Dhanbad, not even once. The memory of Dhanbad and all that was associated with it, has remained locked in the deepest recesses of my mind like a forgotten scar of an old wound. After we had settled down in Surat, I had received a few letters from Chachaji, but I never opened them.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Today, after all these years, the letter and parcel from Chachaji revived those memories and brought an aching pain in our heart. Shalini had already read the letter. I sat down, Shalini by my side, and started reading the letter.
“Dear Chhotu,
I know you will not reply to this letter. In the past twelve years, you have never done that. I also know why you left Dhanbad on a cold December day and never set your foot again on this grey town. Your old friend Alok told me about Ganga Bitiya’s marriage. I could not restrain myself. I am her Chachaji, as much as yours. There was a time when she used to reign over my heart like a celestial princess. And how fond she was of me! In any crowd, if she saw me, she used to come running to me for a hug. I have often wondered, didn’t she ever enquire about me after leaving Dhanbad? Hasn’t she ever asked you about her Chachaji, how he vanished from her life?
Chhotu, had you invited me, I would have come myself and put this lovely necklace around my Gudiya's pretty neck and blessed her, with every drop of goodwill from my heart. In my absence, please give it to her as a token of my love and blessings. This small gift symbolizes my years of repentance and regret. It is as if, I have been waiting for this touch of salvation to liberate my tormented soul and purify it with a sense of redemption.
Yours
In anguish, Chachaji.
By the time I finished the letter, my eyes were moist with tears. I looked at Shalini. Her face was contorted with grief. Grief, in the memory of that dark December evening, when we almost lost our dearest daughter, our heart-throb and the very essence of our being. And now the grief of the impending separation in two days’ time, when she would leave us and go away to a new home, tore our heart to shreds. We held hands and silently cried away, drowning the sorrow that every parent goes through at a daughter’s wedding.
Ganga saw us from a distance and came to us. She took our hands, locked us in a tight embrace, and burst into sobs. Like many unforgettable moments in our life, we got drenched in Ganga's love, purifying ourselves in the reassurance of our abiding love for her, today, tomorrow and forever.
……………………………
(At the Pearl S. Buck Museum Pennsylvania.)
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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