Literary Vibes - Edition CXLII (28-Jun-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Bunch of Flowers (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
A RIDE BACK
02) Prabhanjan K Mishra
APPU, THE ALIEN
03) Ishwar Pati
MONSOON IN THE COUNTRYSIDE
04) Dilip Mohapatra
SILENT SCARS
05) Snehaprava Das
THE LADY IN WHITE
06) Usha Surya
BLOOD ON HIS PALMS
07) Dr. Bidhu Mohanti
SAMBHAV:
08) Jay Jagdev
JADOO KI JHAPPI
09) Sreekumar T V
HOLY HAIR
10) Soumen Roy
THE SMILE
11) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
NEEDS
12) Hema Ravi
HOSPITALITY AKA ATITHI DEVO BHAVA
13) Ashok Mishra
SORRY APSARI
14) Bankim Chandra Tola
MY TRIP TO KASHMIR – AN AUDACIOUS ADVENTURE
15) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
WHY NOT A HAT?
16) Sukumaran C.V.
NEST BUILDERS & THE EGG-RAIDERS
17) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY
18) Sreechandra Banerjee
TRIBUTE TO LITERARY LEGEND KALIDASA’S MEGHADUTA
19) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PERFUME
The rocking horse lay on its side, paint chipped and its wooden body cracked, abandoned in front of Raj's gate like a forsaken relic of forgotten dreams.
He stood there, a silent witness to the cruel whims of fate, feeling a void that echoed with memories of love lost and hopes shattered. A stray dog wandered by, sniffed at the horse, and then trotted away, indifferent to the human sorrow around it.
He stared for a long time at the grass around it as if they would start talking to him. But it took him another fifteen minutes to gather that information and it didn’t come from the grass on the pavement outside his gate. It came from a street vendor, a Kabuliwallah, who sold nuts and almonds. He used to buy them for himself and Mini, a girl in the neighbouhood.
The rocking horse brought back some vivid pictures of his life. It always started with the evening of his life. He was holding Aarti’s hand tightly as she lay in her hospital bed, her life disappearing like mist on a window pane. The sterile room was suffused with a haunting silence, interrupted only by the steady, meaningless beep of a machine that no longer had a purpose. Outside the window, a neem tree bent in the wind, its leaves rustling a melancholic song.
“Goodbye, Aarti,” he whispered, his voice a fragile thread on the verge of snapping. “It is OK, you have been my only child, wife and mother.”
Aarti had been his anchor, a beacon of hope for a future bathed in the soft glow of a child’s laughter. Her death extinguished that light, leaving him adrift in an endless sea of sorrow. The scent of jasmine from her favorite perfume still lingered on the pillow, a ghostly reminder of her presence.
In the wake of Aarti's death, Raj found an unexpected balm for his wounds in the form of the baby next door. Little Ananya, with her big, curious eyes and laughter that could chase away the darkest shadows, became a symbol of what could have been. Drawn to her innocence and boundless joy, Raj found his heart stirred by a love that both healed and hurt.
“Hey there, Ananya,” he greeted her one sun-dappled afternoon, his voice infused with a warmth he thought he had lost forever. The courtyard was alive with the buzzing of bees and the sweet scent of blooming marigolds, a stark contrast to the darkness within him.
Ananya giggled, her chubby hands reaching out for him. “Raju Uncle!” she squealed, her voice a delightful melody that filled the void in his heart.
Her favorite toy was an antique rocking horse, a relic from another era that seemed almost magical. He had bought if from Bangalore when he went there for a visit. He knew that he should not but toys in advance for his yet to be born baby. Still the piece looked so neat he couldn’t resist buying it. No baby was fated to ride it.
But now little Anannya would ride it for hours, her laughter a symphony that breathed life into Raj’s wounded soul. He used to insist it being kept in his drawing room even though she wanted to take it home several times. He feared that otherwise she might never visit him. The horse’s mane, made of soft yarn, flowed as she rocked, a tiny detail that Raj found oddly comforting.
“Look at you now, Ananya,” Raj said, his eyes sparkling as he watched her rock back and forth. “You’re a little cowgirl!”
Ananya laughed, her joy infectious. “Faster, Raju Uncle, faster!” she urged, her delight a radiant light in Raj’s dark world.
But life, with its cruel twists, had more pain in store. Ananya fell ill suddenly, her vibrant laughter replaced by a silence that echoed painfully through Raj’s heart. Within weeks, she was gone, and the rocking horse stood in his room, a mute witness to the fleeting joy she had brought into the world. Raj’s heart shattered anew, as if he had lost another part of his soul, another fragment of his future.
“I can’t bear to see it,” Raj muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the rocking horse. “It hurts too much.”
In his grief, he sold the horse to a scrap collector. Watching it be taken away felt like a final, crushing blow, as if by letting go of the horse, he was letting go of Ananya and Aarti all over again. The collector’s truck rattled away, leaving behind a trail of dust and the echo of lost dreams.
But this morning, as Raj opened his gate, he found the rocking horse lying there, as if it had come back to him. Its wooden body was more battered than before, a testament to its journey through the unforgiving streets. The morning sun cast long shadows, creating an almost ethereal glow around the battered toy.
“Where did this come from?” he wondered aloud, kneeling beside it, his fingers trembling as they traced the familiar contours.
A street vendor passing by stopped and glanced at the horse. “Fell off a lorry carrying scraps,” he said casually.
Raj ran his fingers over the chipped paint and cracked wood, his heart heavy with a bittersweet ache. The scent of fresh rain hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of tender leaves of grass.
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.
Apurva Mehta, alias Appu, a rotund and handsome man, was affectionately named as Appu by his parents at his birth, after Appu, the popular mascot kid-elephant of the 1982 Asian Games, held at Delhi, India. The baby Apurva resembled the mascot kid-elephant that had ruled Indian hearts for years after the games. In his native Kutch area of Gujarat, the body fat was considered as an exhibition of good health. A thin or slim person, male or female, child or adult, was considered sickly. ‘Funny beliefs!’ But, as years passed, Appu grew up into a slim handsome youth. He was satisfied with himself, though his parents did not like his losing the baby fat.
That morning, Appu, smart, slim, and spritely in his early thirties, wearing his sweatshirts, was standing on the threshold of his bungalow. He was surveying the panoramic view of the outdoor. The day was breaking with a brisk translucent dawn, the time waking up from its sleepy nightly languor. A pinkish sky breaking into myriad colours, and plants shining with a muted green. He felt an itch in his feet to walk and jog in the refreshingly balmy morning.
He thought fondly of his pretty and loving wife Yashodhara in bed, still napping with their baby, cuddly son Rahul. She was a late riser compared to him. He thought of his over-indulgent parents who trampled on his toes at the mildest provocation, holding Yashodhara responsible for every predicament in his personal life. He felt irritation for that sort of indulgence, a selfish attitude to take away Yashodhara’s wifely rights in their conjugal life.
Appu had felt all along, he did not know exactly why but he had a hunch, that he did not belong to his place, not even the human society. He felt he was an outsider, because his thoughts that he mostly kept to himself was different from the conformist ideas people expressed, ideas replete with blind beliefs, prejudices, grudge, etc. He often doubted if he might be an alien, exiled to the earth from another planet as a child to grow and live among the earthlings. There might be a special purpose, an experiment by his alien parental folk, in exiling him.
His feelings were not without reasons. The sense of double standard of most people including his own parents was beyond his reasoned grasp. They had one set of principles for themselves and entirely another set for others.
His native people of Gujrat swear by Bapu’s prohibition of liquor but drank it liberally, including unhealthy hooch. Though banned by law, drinking was an open-secret and considered smart, and not criminal, even by law-enforcers. The law-enforcers drank themselves liberally. His people preached non-violence on the footsteps of the Mahatma, but would become violent at the fall of a hat. They claimed religious and caste secularism on the line of the Father of the Nation but harbored pathological hatred for religious and caste minorities.
Apurva had felt more and more alienated to the men in his country’s crowd and felt like a hot potato dropped among them. He was sometimes criticized behind his back as a psycho and mental for his rigid principled stands. He often shared his unique feeling with his wife. Once he asked, “Don’t you think I don’t belong here?” His wife exclaimed, “Oh, are you not a Gujarati? But I am satisfied whatever you are, my Appu.”
“Oh no dear, I have a weird feeling I am from another planet abandoned to earth. You are the closest person to me. Do you notice anything different in the shape, size or function of any of my body parts?” Appu’s wife shied away from his question, “Ah, Appu dear, you know, you are the first man in my life to give me the idea of a man. How would I guess if you are human or alien? By the way, I have noticed you have normal outward features like others of your ilk, at least not multi-head, or eyes behind.”
But after a few hesitations, she added, “Appu, yes. You think differently than others I know and I love it. About body parts, I have no close encounter with anyone except you, not even with my parents, siblings or friends.”
That had left Appu in a quandary. He thereafter asked Yashodhara to keep it to herself, as a secret of their husband-wife team. Appu also looked for solutions in science fictions, to which he had been an addict from childhood, but to no avail.
Appu worked and lived at Ahmedabad. They were a family of five, including Appu’s old parents, wife, and baby son Rahul. They lived in a small bungalow surrounded by a garden with in a low boundary wall in the new part of the city. His old parents, who had lived earlier in their village in Kutch, had moved in with their son, Appu’s family recently.
Yashodhara was the choice of Appu’s parents as his bride. But after Appu’s marriage to Yashodhara, he disappointed his parents by falling head over heels in love with Yashodhara, that appeared totally unnatural to the old folk. The old couple could not believe that the spring chicken of a girl, young Yashodhara, could defeat them in competition for getting their son’s favour and affection. Also, that type of couple-behavior was contrary to the local custom. Appu was considered as a Joru ka gulam, or a slave of his wife. But Appu could never convince his old folk that love was no savery.
His parents blamed Yashodhara as a honeytrap, a flower of pitcher-plant, a honey-filled death-trap. They believed that pretty and well-endowed Yashodhara would suck her husband dry unless precautions were taken.
Appu would learn that it was the general fear of all parents-in-law about their daughters-in-law in rural Gujarat, rather the entire rural India. Appu felt disgusted when he returned from a month-long honeymoon tour feeling and looking brisk and thinner. But his parents touched him all over and reported, “You have lost weight, Appu. Yashodhara is sucking your vital fluids. How pudgy, rotund you had been, but see, how you have grown thin and bloodless in her company!”
After that, it became a morning ritual within the four walls of their bungalow, Appu’s parents berating Yashodhara as a blood-sucking leech of sorts, a leech of a human female shape and size, living on the blood-diet of husband.
Appu’s parents tried their best to keep the couple apart during bed time and when Appu was home after office time or holidays. The old parents conjured up ploys in the name of religious rituals or their own health grounds to make Yashodhara sleep in her mother-in-law’s bed. Yashodhara being a docile and helpful lady, with love for parents-in-law obliged.
The designs of the scheming old folk worked partly and the couple could not be together as often as before, except in the presence of one of the parents of Appu. But marriage and body chemistry had their strange ways. Surprising Appu’s parents, Yashodhara got pregnant. That was the end of the old guardians’ last tether and the last nail on the coffin. Out of disgust, they ran away to their native village in Kutch, defying all the neighbours and relatives advising them to stay by their daughter-in-law who had been in the family way.
Appu and Yashodhara’s son. Rahul came to the world in right time. Appu’s parents were now visitors to his Ahmedabad bungalow, now and then, to look at the grandchild and play with him. The baby grew up into another model of Appu, the rotund charming mascot model of Asiad Games. But whenever the visited Rahul, the old couple did not refrain from shouting now and then at Yashodhara as a blood-sucking leech.
Appu’s peace was disturbed. Even his urbane neighbours across his bungalow drew his attention to the mental harassment his wife had been suffering. Appu tried his best to show light to his parents, “Yashodhara was your choice. I chose her for your son for her comely look, docile nature and friendly disposition.” But his parents were ready with their rejoinder, “We did not know she would suck you dry. Look, how healthy and pinkish is her skin! How fleshy and creamy she looks! And, you, a pale lean man next to her. Where do you lose your blood, if she is not sucking it oof you every night?”
Appu’s household was disturbed more by the day. The shouting of his parents on the macabre subject of blood sucking, sort of, filled his house all the time of the day. Appu hated to stay at home. Yashodhara felt, her husband was going to lose his mind. She was prosing to move a mega city like Mumbai, Appu having a job there, they staying in a rented accommodation, away from the parental torture. But destiny had other plans perhaps.
There was a minor cyclone in Kutch, and Appu’s parents visited their native village for a month for maintenance and repair of the house. After they left, Appu’s household got back its serenity. The good old month of peace and tranquility seemed to be getting exhausted quickly and Appu felt a chill and panic freezing his innards.
Appu, standing on the threshold of his bungalow in the early morning light, inhaled and exhaled the freshness of the early morning air feeling like a gladiator to fly along his regular path for the hourlong morning walk, half an hour to walk away from home and the next half an hour to return to his doorstep. After taking a start he felt light, and started walking and whistling a popular jingle, it seemed like opening wings into a light and feathery air.
While taking his morning constitutional, he looked up and noticed a funny looking aircraft hovering over the distant line of buildings and trees. It had the shape of a saucer. “Ah, can it be a flying saucer for my inter-planetary-travel to my planet of origin in some other galaxy millions light years away?” he thought to himself, “But it could be a paper kite as well, the Kite-Festival on January fourteen is in the offing. Yes, it is a kite only. Now some competitor kite-flyer cut its thread and it is tumbling down like a wounded flying saucer after being shot at by earthlings’ bullets.” He smiled ruefully.
That kite making the impression of a flying saucer in IFO category made him more acutely conscious of him being an alien, at least an allusion to being an extraterrestrial being. He progressed, walking and jogging, along the patches of the path he took every day. His watch indicated that he had completed half of his time of the morning walk. He had to turn around to walk back home.
Instead, his head tuned, something strange happened and he felt totally cut off from the worldly connections. He did not know who he was and what he was doing. He kept walking and forgot the count of time.
Later, he would recall, he walked around Gujarat, other parts of India, did small jobs for his bread and butter and walked as I seeking to achieve something he did not know himself. Months and years passed.
Thet strange morning at home, Yashodhara kept waiting for Appu’s return for breakfast. Her anxiety started rising when he did not return until breakfast, then until office time so on so forth. She started asking Appu’s friends, relatives, even his office staff and colleagues presuming he might have been called away by his boss on some exigency. All her personal inquiries over the phone drew a blank. Surprisingly Appu had left behind his mobile phone at home as he did every morning during his morning walk. Yashodhara did not cook or eat a meal that day and spent that night sleepless.
Her parents-in-law had arrived from their village on urgent summoning, and the next morning they filed a missing-person complaint with the police. They searched all places that they knew, even looking into most improbable places like inside bushes, up the trees, into unused big drainage pipes lying by the roadsides, shallow ditches, pits in meadows and unused or half constructed buildings. But Appu was not found.
From the second night of Appu’s disappearance, low moans and muted howls arising from Appu’s house would keep reminding the neighbors of the family’s great tragedy. The low and tragic moans would be like of crying canines in distress. The moans were more disturbing to neighbors than the earlier quarrels between the old parents and Yashodhara.
After a year of search, the police gave up on Appu. A higher boss of the police department noted in Appu’s missing file, “Appu, nee Apurva Mehta is missing for a year. Look for his body.” The year had passed for the family hurtlingly like a century. Appu’s family were consoled by a single activity, living around and loving Rahul, a tiny, almost splitting image of Appu in childhood, as remembered by parents and as seen by Yashodhara from a family album.
Those days, Appu’s secret hunch being an alien haunted Yashodhara, “Was he really an alien? Did he finally take off for his alien land?” She would search the sky, every night for Appu’s planet, or some sort of signal from her loving husband. It was beyond her, so much of her love could go down a drain, alien or whatever.
Strange events would bring other strange events on their wake. The neighbors noticed a positive development. Appu’s parents and wife were growing closer. Especially, Appu’s mother and Yashodhara were growing chummy like old friends. They cooked together, cleaned the house together, and did laundry etc. together, and shared with each other the small episodes of their happy periods spent with Appu. They took Rahul to park together also.
One day, Yashodhara asked, “Mother-in-law, did you deliver Appu normally or through C-section?” The older woman blushed, “Keep it a secret my child. I did neither. I, in fact, did not deliver him. One early dawn I found him, a newborn, left outside our door, perhaps, by an unlucky unwed mother. We, a miserable childless couple, adopted him as a God’s gift to us.”
Yashodhara chuckled to herself, and lowered her voice, “I guessed so, mom-in-law. You know, Appu’s biological mother was not any ordinary unwed mother, who put little Appu at your door step. Not also any unlucky unwed poor girl, but an alien female from another planet. Appu was perhaps not an unwanted abandoned baby but a part of a grand experiment by aliens. He was left among us to know how humans and aliens could live symbiotically. I presume, the experiment had been over, and he had been called away for debriefing.”
Appu’s mother sighed long and loud, “If it is the wish of Lord, let it be. If Appu has returned to his true home, the alien planet, may he live long happily in his own world! But how would you manage your life, baby?” Yashodhara agreed, “Mother-in-law, I will manage. I loved him and would keep loving him and wait for him. I am sure he would remember his Yashodhara one day and return to take a look. If he takes me there, I won’t mind to live among the alien. The only thing bothers me that Appu’s variety should not have heads like multiple snakes, the image of Medusa.”
Life rolled on. One night, Yashodhara woke up to hear dogs barking aloud in the street outside their bungalow. Then there was the muted sound of a key turning in the keyhole of the front door. She jumped out of her bed thinking, “Dacoits are breaking in. Appu is not there. I am to fend for the family.” She ran to the door with a thick iron crowbar, and stood to one side before the door to hit and finish the intruder. The key was still turning and she presumed, “Bloody rascal’s duplicate has a bad finish.”
The low sound of Appu’s voice floated from the other side, “Hey Yasho, meri gandi (my foolish girl in native Gujarati), this is your Appu, your ganda (male version of gandi). I can hear your heavy breathing by the door. Don’t stand gasping and gaping there, just open the door. I am back from my morning walk.” Though the couple was highly educated, but in bedroom’s privacy they called each other affectionately ganda and gandi in Gujarat’ native style for affection.
Yashodhara hesitated aloud, “I don’t know how aliens look in their original form.” To be sure she asked Appu on the other side of the door, “Tell me, how many heads, legs and hands you have these days, my dear Appu? You are an extraterrestrial now. How do you look? Just take a selfie and send it across. What is your name in your exoplanet?” “Don’t be funny, my Yasho. I am no alien. I am your good old Appu, Apurva Mehta every inch, with normal features and looks. I has just taken a little long to return from my morning walk. That’s all.”
The mutual address system of ganda and gandi had already reduced Yashodha’s fears by ninety-nine percent. This time the long-unused key lying in Appu’s pocket, gathering rust, turned in the keyhole, and lo, Apurva in his full spritely-self stood beaming.
Appu’s mother had the last word before Yashodhara marched off to bed with her lost-and-found husband, “Don’t suck his blood again, my child, I warn you. He has amassed a little flesh. Don’t suck him dry.” With that she gave her daughter-in-law a conspiratorial wink and smile. (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.
There is a time to be in the city, for its comforts, conveniences, restaurants, lights, action... And there is a time to leave it behind. Like in the monsoons when the rains come down heavily and ravage everything, everywhere. In the city, rains are an unmitigated curse as they relentlessly expose its underbelly of filth. They jar on the life of its residents, who have to wade through obnoxious water on the streets and get sprayed by passing buses because the drains are clogged by indestructible toxic plastic bags. A veritable hell!
A change in scenery to the wide open countryside and the tables are turned. The same rains wash away the grime from the leaves and the grass, making everything look fresh and green! Even the mud in the muddy waters gurgling over rocks in the stream below is freshly made. More fresh clouds come rolling in, thicker and darker, till they turn the day into quasi night. A surreal twilight in which all colours in sight ~ green trees, pale yellow plants, red mahua flowers, brown water ~ are clouded with a grey HB pencil. The stream swells, powered by the rain’s intensity, and trips faster than the raindrops that drip from the canopy of my jeep. All this water will flow to the ocean, some sooner some later. Ocean, like death, is a great leveller.
We pass the village pond, which is acquiring a healthy appearance after a debilitating summer that had carved on it a lean and hungry look. In spite of getting soaked in the drizzle, villagers are swarming the pond for their ritual bath. A smart fellow has brought an umbrella to avoid the rain and kept it ready in “open” mode while he takes his bath. He takes advantage of a break in the showers to finish and rushes through his prayers to the Sun God with folded hands. But a sudden outburst makes him abandon his position and grab the umbrella. There’s always tomorrow to make up for today’s shortfall in the number of slokas uttered. The village belle comes down the opposite bank, her sari dripping with rain. She changes into the dry one in her hand before dipping herself in the pond. After the bath, she goes back to her rain-soaked sari and heads towards home. One sari is strictly for bathing and one for the road!
The paddy fields on either side of the kutcha road are dotted with men and women transplanting saplings and small channels trickling through their legs. There is mud up to their ankle, but a smile on their face. I can’t sit still in the jeep and step barefoot onto the road. The driver thinks I want to answer nature’s call. Little does he know how I wish to respond to the call of Nature! The soft mud squiggles between my toes and tickles my feet. I walk and gambol without care because there are no toxins in the water or in the air to poison and savage my body. I can touch the very elements. What a blessed moment!
There is a time to cut trees, for timber, furniture, firewood, joss sticks ... And there is a time to leave them to grow on the bosom of the hills. How else can we have a chance to escape from the pain of the rains in the city, and enjoy the joy of the monsoons in the countryside?
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.
‘Sunshine Apartments’ is like any other modern housing society located in the middle class suburbs of the city. Its location and approachability makes it a preferred residential complex for both the owners and tenants. It’s a gated community with a total of ten blocks of seven-floored buildings with a capacity to accommodate around four hundred families. With its club house, swimming pool, gym, gardens, tennis and basketball ball courts, dedicated shopping area , etc, it promises its residents self sufficiency and comfortable community living. The demographic configuration of the residents is rather eclectic with people drawn from diverse backgrounds and age groups. While quite a few are senior citizens who have settled down after superannuation, some are relatively younger and in their middle age either pursuing their profession as salaried employees in government or private sectors or who are self employed having their own businesses. Some owners who had acquired the flats as investments or some who are still in service elsewhere and who plan to come back later to settle down, have rented their properties to tenants for residential purpose. The tenants however are mostly younger people with small families including few DINK’s, the double income no kids variety. Speaking of kids, the society boasts of a sizeable number of kids ranging from the toddlers to teens. It is heartening to see them in school uniforms carrying their back packs and queuing up for the school buses at the pick up point during the morning hours and see them playing in the garden and the game courts during evenings and holidays.
Children here are seen as the pulse beat of the community, as they bring energy, liveliness, and a sense of continuity. The society organises quite a few social events around the year like quizzes, cultural shows, competitions, etc. specially customised for the kids with a view to inculcate social qualities amongst them. The elders however form their own groups and one can see them during mornings and evenings taking leisurely walk along the peripheral passage around the society or chitchatting in the gardens. Few younger people use the passage as jogging tracks. The overall atmosphere in the society is one of geniality and bonhomie.
As the roosters crow in the early hours to welcome the day and the walkers and joggers start their morning routine another group silently scurries around with pails of water to begin their day. They are the car washers deployed by the car owners on a contractual basis. Almost every household in the society owns at least one car, some even two. There are two types of parking: stilt parking on the ground floors and open parking along side the internal passages. These parking spaces are by allotment to the house owners. For visitors’ parking specific areas have been designated for each block. Most of the cars are from the mid price range while few are conspicuously high end like Audi, BMW and Mercedes Benz.
Jayant Joshi, a retired banker who is a permanent resident of the society had purchased a Honda SUV a couple of months ago to fulfil his long cherished dream of graduating from his old Maruti Alto to a higher end car. It was a beautiful specimen, of fiery red colour with a black top that enhanced its sporty look. On this morning as he was tying his shoe laces and getting ready for his walk he received a call on the intercom. It was his car washer on the other end. He was frantic and urged him to come down to his garage immediately. Jayant dada, as he was known in the society rushed to his garage where he found few car washers standing around his car. He pushed through them to find his car severely scratched by some sharp object. There were two deep and long wavy gashes drawn from the rear to the front across the right side doors. The bonnet top was not spared too from a deeply etched doodle resembling a whirling tornado covering almost the entire surface. Jayant dada was livid with rage and some swear words against the unknown miscreants escaped him. He picked up a cleaning cloth from his car washer and tried to wipe off the scratches but they stood their ground stubbornly. He was trying to reason out who could have done it. He racked his brain but couldn’t remember if he had offended anyone in the recent past. Nor could he recall if he had any altercations with anyone on any issue or if he had admonished any kid for being naughty. Suddenly he remembered about a heated argument he had with a member of the society management committee on an agenda point of the recently held general body meeting. But soon he discounted the possibility considering the age and maturity of the concerned member. The only other incident he could remember was about a construction worker working in a renovation project on the top floor of his block. He had rebuked the person for having left the lift dirty after using it to carry construction material. But again he thought that it would be preposterous for the worker to dare to vandalise the car in retaliation. He was at his wits end since he couldn’t find any plausible reason that could have led to such a heinous act.
He then informed the Management Committee about the incident and cited this as a security lapse. He urged the security member of the committee to brief the security personnel on duty to be more vigilant. He tried to check the CCTV recordings hoping to get some clue. But the cameras’ reach was limited to the area outside the stilt parking garages, and he was disappointed. He then took photographs of the damaged surface of his car and posted it in the society residents’ WhatsApp group. Some people sympathised with him while some expressed concern about the poor security arrangement in the society and blamed the management for its inefficiency. It surely disturbed the peace and tranquility of the society for the first time since its inception. A retired professor of psychology shared his comments on the issue, ‘If we want to find the perpetrators we must try and understand what may be their motive to indulge in such dastardly acts. Vandalism often stems from a combination of factors such as frustration, anger, or a desire for attention or revenge. Some individuals may feel a sense of power or control when damaging property, while others may act out due to peer pressure or a lack of empathy for the consequences of their actions. It's also possible that they see it as a way to express themselves or release pent-up emotions, albeit in a destructive manner.‘
With no clue whatsoever to reach the culprits, Jayant dada finally got his car repainted and installed his own CCTV system inside his garage. He shared this information with the group with the hope that the message would reach the vandals who would desist from repeating the offence.
Almost two weeks after this incident on a Sunday morning there was a furore in the society. Five cars parked within the society at various parking areas were found to have been defaced. Exactly a week after this the vandals struck again, and four more cars were found mutilated. The patterns of the damages were quite similar. Each affected party posted the pictures of their damaged cars in the society’s WhatsApp group. Soon variety of comments poured in. Someone put the blame on the society management squarely for having failed to provide the desired security. Someone even suggested that the society must bear the expenditures on the repairs and install more CCTV cameras at vantage points. An irate victim suggested that the cars belonging to management committee members be singled out and scratched so that they realise the pain inflicted on the affected residents. Another suggested creation of residents’ vigilante groups who should take periodic security rounds especially during the night hours. Someone hypothesised that it was the work of some wayward kids and this has happened due to poor upbringing by their parents. He suggested that police should be involved in questioning the teenagers of the society. Another suggested that the affected residents must contribute and declare a cash award to anyone who could give some clue to catch the miscreants. Someone suggested that it would be a good idea to set a thief to catch a thief. Some entrepreneur offered to supply car covers of all makes and quoted the price in the society’s digital market place. One retired police officer who lived in the society brought out some interesting facts and shared in the group. Firstly the deeds were committed on Saturday evenings. The cars selected were parked in areas not covered by the installed CCTV cameras. The cars were mostly high end brands like Audi, Mercedes and BMW and relatively newer models, which were well maintained and spotless. They were mostly dark coloured. Lastly whether it was a coincidence or otherwise, each car’s registration number contained the digits 3 and 1. The whole society was in a turmoil.
It was a Sunday evening. While the adults in small groups discussed about the recent menace in the society, a small group of four teenagers, three boys and one girl was holding a secret meeting in the tennis court behind the residential blocks. Inspired by Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, this group called themselves as the Fearsome Four. The leader of the group Nilesh, popularly known as Bunty belonged to a well-to-do family owning a chain of restaurants. The other two boys Rahul and Rohit were twins whose father was an engineer in the State Electricity Board. The only girl member Manisha had lost her father in a road accident a year ago. Her mother worked in a pathology lab as a technician to support her family. All of them were in class eleven going to the same school. Bunty opened his bag and took out four cans of chilled beer and handed over one to each member of the gang. They opened the cans , raised them up and Bunty said, ’cheers to our success’, the other three chorused, ’cheers’.
Bunty said, ‘ Didn’t I tell you in the beginning that life was too dull here. What we needed was a bit of adventure and a bit of excitement. But you folks were shitting in your pants. Now we have done it and met our target of ten in a month. How do you guys feel?’
The twins responded, ‘ on top of the world.’
Manisha stuttered,’ I am not too sure. In fact I am worried. Don’t know what would happen if they catch us.’
Bunty laughed out loudly and said, ‘ my foot, they will catch us! We have executed our job so very well, no one can connect us with the act. In any case you had been the silent bystander while we took all the risk. So why are you worried? Just relax. And enjoy the panic that we have created. Remember we are the Fearsome Four.’
He paused a while, took a swig from his can and continued,’ now let’s cool off for a while and give a gap of about a month. Public has a short memory as they say. We will strike again when they are off their guard. But now we will change our strategy. No more scratching by the screw driver. I have got for us some spray paint cans. You guys will get your chance to become more creative.’ He then took out four spray paint cans and distributed them to the members. Then amidst laughter and mutual back slapping they dispersed.
About a month later on a Saturday afternoon Bunty while taking a power nap, received a WhatsApp message from Manisha. It had a picture of a shining white car vandalised with black spray paint, captioned, ‘Cheers! I did it.’ Bunty jumped out of his bed and looked out of his window to the visitors’ parking lot where the car was parked. It was a brand new Porsche. It belonged to his sister who was visiting them during the weekend.
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
Sudha opened the front door and came out. She yawned lazily, inhaling deeply the fragrant air of early Autumn, letting the soft breeze that was an enchanting blend of warmth and cool caress her face. The early morning was apparently noiseless. The house too was quiet since Ashok her husband, was out of the town on an official tour, and Padma the cook who lived with them was still asleep.
She stood in the porch for a while watching the sun coming out in a gold and crimson halo.
She came inside, opened the door of a small room adjacent to the spacious hall, and looked under the wooden cot. The sitar lay quiet, covered in a glossy wrap, waiting for the familiar touch, to come back to life. But Sudha rarely brought it out when Ashok was home.
‘What is the need for you to play sitar?’ he would remark if he noticed her bringing it out. ‘There are enough entertainments besides playing that. The sound irritates me.’
There were occasions when he returned from office before time and would find her strumming the instrument, practicing.
‘Stop that noise,’ he would snap at her. ‘This is a house, not a music parlour. What I need is some peace and calm after long hours of work. Padma, get me a cup of coffee quick and fast.’ He would yell and cross the hall in long strides.
Sudha found no reason to explain to such a man who considered the music of sitar a noise the peace she derived from it. There was absolutely no need.
**
She pulled it out from under the cot with delicate hands and carefully took the cover off. She lifted it up to her lap and ran her fingers on the strings, slowly at first and then strumming it passionately, her eyes closed, overwhelmed by the magic of the music, oblivious to the world around her, transferring her claustrophobic despair into her fingers.
Her phone rang, breaking the spell, jolting her back to reality. It was Ashok, calling from Hyderabad.
‘Is everything okay there? Any problem?’
‘No problem absolutely,’ Sudha spoke into the screen, ‘You take care of yourself.’
‘Do not go out of the house unless there is an urgent need. Ask the driver to get the ration and vegetables. Padma can bring the milk.’
‘Sure.’ Sudha clicked off the connection.
Ashok would not want her to go out alone anywhere even though a car and a driver was at her disposal all twenty-four hours a day. He remained out of home during most part of a month touring around the branches of his office. Strangely though, Sudha admitted to herself a bit reluctantly, she did not miss him much. Ashok advocated strongly enough in favour of the traditional virtues of an Indian wife and derided the women who fought against patriarchy and claimed equal right and privileges for women. A husband must, Ashok believed, be loyal in love to his wife, take care of her mundane needs like food, clothing, jewelries and things of that sort and in return the wife should ungrudgingly cater to all his needs, and wholeheartedly commit herself to the duty of keeping him happy. And that involved, though he was not too ostentatious about it, the woman’s sacrifice of her little private wishes, and relegating her passions to an oblivion of anonymity. Seen on the surface Sudha was a happily married woman. Ashok earned enough to give her quite a comfortable, if not lavish, living. Most women in place of Sudha would have no regrets.
Sudha was not like most women. She had a longing trapped inside her to move beyond the limiting experiences which defined her existence, that constantly strove to find a way of escape. She was like a caged bird that craved the infinity of the sky, prodded on by a passion to fling open the cage and soar up.
She was a trained sitar player. While a student she partook in the competitions held in colleges and local bodies and was admired by the audience. Her parents never fell short in providing her opportunities and encouragements to display her talent in appropriate platforms. She had nurtured a dream to be a recognized sitarist in the state and pursued it assiduously.
But her marriage to Ashok changed everything.
He had frowned at the sitar that accompanied the bridal gifts from her parents.
‘Why have they sent it here?’ The note of obvious disapproval in his voice hurt her like a needle-prick, sharp and burning.
‘It is mine. You know I play sitar,’ that’s why.’ She answered.
He gave her a thoughtful look. Perhaps he had sensed her resentment. He did not stretch the topic further.
A few days after, in the romantic seclusion of their bedroom Ashok mentioned the sitar. His voice, unlike the other day was mildly persuasive.
‘It was alright to play sitar or sing songs when you were not married. Most girls have one or other such hobbies. But marriage brings in other responsibilities, it demands certain amount of décor in behaviour and deportment. You might play a bit in the house now and then when you are alone. I will not object to that, but giving a public performance is entirely ruled out. You know my parents will never agree to it. You must not misunderstand me but that’s the way it is. We both should make certain compromises here and there, with our tastes and hobbies. Shouldn’t we?’ He looked at her closely, as if expecting an answer of his own choice from her. Sudha lowered her face to avert the question in his eyes. She did not answer. Nor did Ashok press her to.
The sitar was consigned to an exile, away and invisible, under the bed.
Sudha was an exile, in her own home, estranged from her dream and passion.
Rarely did she take it out from its hiding place when her husband was home. It was only when her husband was on official tours, she brought it out, stroked it, tightened the nuts, and ran her fingers lovingly on the strings. Soon she got lost in the music and would not come out of the euphoria until the phone rang or Padma called her to have her food, or the housemaid pressed the doorbell.
**
She had seen the advertisement in the newspaper a few days ago. Later see saw it on the television too. A contest in playing musical instruments was to be held in the in the Swans’ Club next month. Swans’ Club was one of those places where the elite and aristocratic section of the city gathered from time to time on different occasions. It organized art exhibitions, cultural shows, literary meets, dance performances and play staging from time to time. Just taking part in one such events will make her talent visible to the outer world.
The urge to participate in the contest was irresistible. She had made an online registration and received a confirmation letter about the enlistment of her name for the competition. One major impediment she had to circumvent now was to convince Ashok to let her participate in the contest which she knew would need a lot of persuasion. And the next was to get a proper coach to train her professionally. She was confident that with serious and regular practice she could leave most of the contestants behind. In fact, winning or losing the competition did not matter to her more than performing before the people of top echelon and gaining herself an identity of a skilled sitarist. There was a private music institute not far from her house that was not very rigid about admitting novice singers and instrument-players any time of the year for a temporary period on monthly payment basis. She could join there as a trainee, say for a month, and get her music finetuned. Practicing under the supervision and guidance of a master would bring polish to her music. She was excited at the thought of stepping on to the stage and perform before the elite segment of the society.
But, would Ashok let her? That was the million-dollar question and she cringed away from it. Yet she was determined to convince Ashok whatever it took her.
Ashok might compel her to withdraw her name from the list, she doubted, but she had decided to give it a try, hoping desperately that he would let her have her chance at least for this one time.
**
‘Would you give me something I ask?’ she asked him guardedly in an intimate moment of their togetherness.
‘Why such a silly question? Just name it.’ Ashok said touching her lips tenderly with his index finger.
Sudha hedged.
‘Tell me. You know everything mine is yours too.’
‘It is not about a ‘thing’……..’
Ashok propped himself up on a pillow. ‘What is it? Why so much suspense?’ he smiled. Emboldened by his reassuring smile Sudha revealed her secret to him. She told him about her getting registered for the contest and her need to practice in a professional way.
Ashok looked thoughtfully at her for a minute or so, letting the matter sink in. ‘Why did not you ask me before registering yourself? He sounded more hurt than annoyed.
‘You were away at Hyderabad,‘ Sudha lied. ‘I did not want to disturb you. They closed it before you returned.’
‘Will you not participate if I say no?’ he asked, scanning the reaction on her face. Sudha’s face fell. ‘How foolish I had been to think that he would permit me to partake in the contest.’ She cursed herself.
‘Do not look so crestfallen. Join the contest if you are so very interested.’ He said resignedly. Sudha’s heart was beating fast. She wanted to get her other wish granted before Ashok changed his mind. but before she spelt it out Ashok broke in. ‘But no training at the music institute. That institute does not have a good repute. Practice at home as much as you want.’
Sudha knew how rigid he could be in such matters and did not pursue it further.
‘Do not look the gift horse in the mouth’ she consoled herself. ‘It was enough that Ashok did give her the permission.
It needed a miracle to compete with veterans without practicing under a professional, Sudha thought in dismay. Ashok had agreed to let her partake in the contest, but that would not help her much unless he allowed her to join the music school, at least for a few days. Ashok had conveniently evaded the accusation of not fulfilling a long-nourished wish of his wife, and at the same time had put her in a tricky spot where she would be compelled to withdraw herself from the scene of the contest. Wasn’t this a form of a concealed denial? Sudha felt miserable.
The early autumn air was cool. Sudha stood in the porch watching absently the leaves dropping at intervals from the tall deodars by the compound walls. The leaves were like flakes off her dented dreams, she thought gloomily, falling helplessly from their ebullient heights to rot in the ground!
Sudha sighed deeply.
Then she saw her.
She was standing in front of the main gate, looking about herself unsurely. Sudha wondered who the woman could be. She wandered towards the gate and opened it.
‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ the woman muttered apologetically, ‘but you have nice flowers here.’ She flashed an appreciative smile at Sudha. Sudha smiled back and gave the lady a quick up and down. The lady wore an aura of an aristocratic birth about her. She was fair and had a glowing face with attractive, chiseled features. She was clad in a spotless white sari of silk and had a string of pearl around her delicate throat. A pair of pearl ear-drops hung from her ears that enhanced the loveliness of her face. Sudha was visibly impressed. She gave the lady a welcoming smile. ‘No need to be sorry madam, do come in please,’ she said and held the gate open to let the lady in.
‘Please have a seat,’ Sudha pointed to a basket chair in the porch. ‘Thank you’ the lady in white said as she lowered herself into the chair.
‘I have never seen you before’, Sudha said. ‘Are you a new arrival in this area?’
‘Yes. We have shifted here just recently. We live in the next block. I have joined as a music teacher in the Symphony musical institute.’
Sudha was instantly interested. ‘A music teacher! Was it a coincidence?’ A feeble streak of hope illumined the darkness that was threatening to envelope her thoughts.
‘Do you teach your pupils singing?’
‘ I happen to teach them playing stringed instruments like sitar, violin sarod and the sort, that seems to be my forte,’ her lips curled in an amusing smile.
Should she tell her about the music contest? Will it be nice to seek help from someone who is a total stranger?
‘Do you sing?’
‘No. But I can play sitar.’
‘Really!! How nice! I will love to listen to you playing someday.’
That decided Sudha. ‘What was the harm in confiding in her, after all she too loved to play sitar.’ Sudha argued with herself.
‘What is the matter? ‘ The lady in white looked at Sudha curiously. ‘Why do you look so worked up? Are you in some kind of problem?’
Sudha was in no need of further persuasion. She opened her heart to the lady, her desire to partake in the competition, her desperate need for an expert who could train her in the short span of about a fortnight and her husband’s reluctance to let her attend classes in the institute.
‘Is that all?’ The lady in white smiled. ‘That is not such a big issue. If you say so I can give you a lesson at your home for fifteen days.’
Sudha’s eyes opened wide in surprise. It was indeed a miracle. Someone dropping in from the blue to fulfil her wish!!
‘If that is not a trouble to you!!’ she responded excitedly. ‘I will be indebted to you.’
‘You must not think like that,’ the lady said. ‘I can gladly spare an hour or two for you, and that too when you are in such a dire need of a professional coaching.’
Sudha was overwhelmed in gratitude. The lady in white was a godsend.
‘I will get some coffee for you,’ she said getting up. The lady in white stood up too. ‘Some other time,’ she said. ‘I will be coming here regularly for a fortnight. Won’t I?’ she said. ‘I can come before my classes at the institute begin. Will from five to six in the morning be a convenient time for you?’ she asked, moving towards the front gate.
‘It is your convenience that is primary, madam,’ Sudha returned feeling thankful. ‘You can come at any time of your choice.’ She had begun to address the lady as madam. After all she will be her music teacher from tomorrow onwards.
‘Madam please do not mind. May I know your name?’
‘I have a long name,’ the lady gave a short laugh. Her laughter rang in the calm autumn air like a peal of silver bells. ‘Sharada Soumya Subhadarshini’, but you can shorten it to Soumya. My friends call me by that name.’
She took leave off Sudha and walked away. Sudha kept standing by the gate watching her disappear into a side lane. The lady who said her name was Soumya did not turn to look back.
**
‘She must be in need of some extra money.’ Ashok remarked when Sudha told him about Soumya. ‘Why else would she want to give someone a private coaching?’
‘But you are lucky enough to fine someone like her,’ he added sardonically.
‘I did not find her.’ Sudha objected. ‘She found me. She is a godsend.’
‘Ok, ok .. practice your lessons with your godsend. Ashok returned impatiently. ‘But be careful not to disturb the peace of the neighbourhood with the trin… trin… trin of that instrument.’
Sudha ignored the sarcasm in his voice. She was elated. At least destiny has given her a chance to prove her worth to the world outside.
She lay awake in bed till late into night visualising herself performing in the club, strumming the sitar with deft fingers, the sound growing louder and louder, filling every nook and corner of the hall.
She felt a bit dizzy getting up at 4 in the morning. But after a cold bath and her routine ritual of worship followed by sipping a cup of hot tea, she felt energized to start her new journey.
She made a small garland of white Tacoma flowers and put it on the idol of goddess Saraswati that stood on a corner table in the living room, and lighted a brass lamp and burnt a few incense sticks. The room was filled with an enchanting fragrance.
True to her words Soumya arrived exactly at five. She took the sitar into her lap and touched it fondly. ‘It is an expensive one,’ very sophisticated.’ She said her eyes gleaming in admiration.
She ran her fingers on the string with the expertise of a professional and the soft music of the sitar resonated through the house. Not stopping at that it floated out of the door and filled the garden, stroking the leaves of the deodars and whispering charms into the buds to open up. It spun around the plants and climbing creepers in a mellifluous helix, and then spiralled up and up into the serene infinity of the autumn sky.
Sudha had heard a number of expert sitarist but they did not have this rapture in their music. It was pure magic. Sudha sat hypnotized, sucking in the nectar of the music, transported to a wonderland beyond the bounds of her mortal existence.
Soumya stopped playing. Sudha was flung down from the height of exultation to the drab environs of her living room.
‘Now it is your turn, Soumya said handing her back the sitar. She pointed out the mistakes Sudha made, patiently manoeuvring her fingers on the strings with an expertise that was more than professional. Sudha wondered what such a genius was doing in the private music school here. She was a gifted artiste made for greater achievements. But she did not say that to her.
Soumya was a punctual coach. She would arrive exactly at five every morning without fail. Within a span of a week Sudha was able to bring the professional polish to her art.
‘Soumya is not only an expert but also an indulgent teacher. She has induced confidence in me,’ Sudha told Ashok at the dinner table. ‘What is the big deal?’ He returned ‘Won’t you be paying her a handsome fee?
‘Why does Ashok have to weigh everything against money? And he did not ask me even once how I was progressing.’
She sighed deeply. Ashok’s apathy had slashed a sizable portion off her excitement.
But she would not let her confidence yield to such minor cutbacks.
The next week passed. Sudha had never missed a lesson and practiced them religiously.
**
It was Saturday. The last day of her training. The contest was scheduled for Sunday. Sudha was torn between a mixed feeling of expectation and misgivings, of hope and fear. She and Soumya sat in the porch discussing the meticulous details of tomorrow’s performance. She listened with rapt attention, serious and undeviating, trying to keep in mind the last minute advises and tips of Soumya.
‘I will take your leave now, dear,’ Soumya said rising to her feet. ‘All my good wishes are with you. Perform confidently, forget where you are and who are your listeners. Just play on, heart within and God overhead.’ She pressed Sudha’s arm lightly. Sudha fidgeted with the envelope she was holding. It felt so embarrassing to offer money to Soumya. In the past half-month Soumya had become more than a closed and trusted friend. But she had taught her and it is obligatory on the part of Sudha to pay her back though she knew that no amount of money can recompense the help Soumya had rendered. She had pulled Sudha out of the dark vortex of despair to a luminous land of hope.
‘ I may win, I may lose; that is my destiny but I will forever be indebted to you. You will be forever there in my memory as my adorable Samaritan.’ Sudha’s voice was wet with emotion.
‘A small return gift for all your help.’ She said at last, summoning up courage and held out the envelope to Soumya.
‘What is this, Sudha? You know I cannot accept money from you. How could you…?’
‘It is not money,’ Sudha broke in. ‘Please do not see it that way. It is my guru-dakshina . Do not you know that a pupil cannot make the best use of the teachings of the guru without paying the guru-dakshina?
‘ You have an unbeatable point there,’ Soumya smiled her enchanting smile. ‘Ok. I will accept it as my guru-dakshina. The teacher’s fee.’ She took the envelope and moved out of the gate. Sudha stood watching her back till she disappeared into the side-lane, and walked back to the living room. The brass-lamp at the feet of goddess Saraswati burnt clear and bright and the room was still fragrant from the scent of the flowers and the incense sticks.
**
‘Sudha Prasad!’ The announcement of her name came over the speaker.
Loud whispers resonated across the auditorium. Sudha was a fresh candidate. Most of the others were regular participants in such contests organized by the Swans’ Club. But she was a debutante here. The audience was interested to listen this new and novice participant playing. Six contestants had given their performance before her and each of them had gathered their share of applaud and commendation. She sat in the small chamber adjoining the auditorium along with other contestants, waiting for her name to be called.
She stepped on to the stage, her heart throbbing. She was not exactly nervous but a bit ill at ease and her palms felt clammy. To her annoyance she realized that sweat beads had formed on her forehead and behind her ears. She walked over cautiously to the centre stage.
Her sitar was placed on an ornate and long wooden board. She bowed down respectfully to the judges and the audience and sat down by the instrument. She said a silent prayer and lifted the sitar to her lap. Suddenly, like a flash of light, the beautiful face of Soumya floated past her eyes. She squinted in to the audience-space hidden partially in a flimsy darkness. Soumya was not there among the audience.
Sudha remembered what Soumya had said about ‘forgetting where you are’ and took a deep breath . She tightened the nuts and ran her fingers gently on the strings. And she began to play, her eyes closed, lost in the music, forgetting the world around her. The music reverberated in the large auditorium taking the judges by surprise who now put the headphones on and edged forward in their chairs. The audience clapped at intervals as the notes like petals dropping from the throbbing strings drifted delicately across the auditorium. She played on… and gently, tenderly brought the music to its close.
The large auditorium echoed with the loud clapping that refused to stop form a long moment. She sat on the stage, the sitar on her lap, feeling spent but elated, waiting for the clapping to stop. She rose to her feet, bowed again and stepped down.
As she stood up feeling a bit shaky in the legs, and light headed she saw Soumya again among the audience. It was just a flash. And then she disappeared. ‘She must have let me know of it if she was coming to watch the event. I might be mistaking someone else for her, or may be, it is an optical illusion,’ Sudha thought as she entered the waiting chamber and took her seat on the settee.
**
All the contestants were there, waiting, the nervous expectancy writ large on their faces. Half an hour passed. Sudha was feeling edgy, though she kept on consoling herself that the judges as well as the audience were pleased with her performance and she was now regarded as a good sitarist though not an expert like her contenders.
The anchor’s voice resonated in the small chamber.
‘Our esteemed judges are now done with the evaluation of the performances. I have the final result with me. I request all the contestants to kindly come upon the stage.’
Sudha followed the other contestants on to the stage. There was a loud clapping from the audience. Sudha felt all her senses going numb. The voice of the anchor was a blurred, indistinct sound. Her palms were sweating badly and she felt cold.
‘Mrs. Rita Mehta, is declared here as the winner of the third prize. I would like respected Mr. Subhas Burman, the Director of the club to felicitate Mrs. Mehta and gift her the trophy. The hall was loud with clapping and cheers as Rita Mehta received the trophy. The performance was repeated with the winner of the second place, Sudhanshu Ray. He received his trophy from the President of the club. The cameras kept clicking nonstop.
There was an electrifying pause.
Every one waited in bated breath for the name of the winner of the first position to be announced. Sudha had lost whatever little hope she had pinned to her luck. She would have been more than happy if at least she was selected for the third position or even a co-winner. She was sure that she had performed better than Rita Mehta. Perhaps, she thought resignedly, her perseverance and diligence were not enough. She knew that there would not be a next time. Ashok would never allow her to partake in such a contest again. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her legs felt unusually heavy and she wished the charade of felicitation to come to an end soon so that she could get back home, to the solitude of her bedroom and weep her heart out into the pillow.
‘Sudha Prasad!!’
The voice of the anchor rang across the auditorium, loud and clear.
There was a moment of stupefied silence, then the auditorium reverberated with a crescendo of applause and cheers. ‘I now request honourable Arun Kumar, Additional Secretary, Department of Art and Culture to present the trophy to madam Sudha Prasad.
Sudha felt faint. She stood rooted to the stage-floor, staring at the anchor in utter disbelief.
‘Congratulations madam, the anchor said, smiling at her. Please come over to the centre.’
Everything seemed to be happening in a dream, the Additional Secretary of Art and Culture Department holding out the large shinning trophy to her, she receiving the trophy from him, numerous cameras flashing blindingly and the audience cheering her up…
She had a blurred memory of what followed. She was requested to speak a few sentences on her musical journey, and she standing there with the trophy speaking about her struggle and the timely help from a professional who was a godsend and without whose help her success would have remained a distant dream.
As she stepped down the stage, dazed and euphoric she saw Somya standing by one of the exit doors and waving at her, her soft, beatific smile glued to her face. Sudha blinked and looked again. Soumya was gone!!
‘She has possessed my mind. I am yet to come out of the hypnosis her music had cast over my soul. That is why I keep seeing her time and again. I must meet her tomorrow and express my gratitude,’ she decided as she walked towards the exit. And, there was Ashok standing outside, his face beaming. It was a shocking surprise but pleasant. She had never expected to see Ashok, of all people, here. ‘Congratulations, ‘ Ashok greeted her happily, putting his arm around her. I did not know you are such a brilliant artiste,’ he exclaimed, genuine pride dripping from his voice. Tears streamed down Sudha’s eyes.
They returned home after a lavish dinner at a restaurant of Ashok’s choice.
‘It all happened because of Soumya. I wouldn’t have ventured to enter the contest otherwise, despite my experience and confidence.’ Ashok looked at his wife thoughtfully. Sudha felt ill at ease for mentioning Soumya and her expertise again. Ashok happened to accept Somya’s talent slightly grudgingly. ‘You are right,’ Ashok replied agreeably, to Sudha’s surprise. ‘You must meet her personally at her home and thank her.’ It was indeed a marvellous night. Everything was happening as she had wished them to happen. ‘Are you cross with me,’ she asked guardedly, for joining the contest without asking for your permission?’
‘Why do you ask that now? Do you doubt the genuineness of my happiness? Do you think I am pretending?’ Ashok sounded hurt.
‘No, no.. It is not like that. Please forgive me. I asked that because I am still feeling a bit guilty inwardly.’
‘You should not be, my dear. It is I who should feel bad because I have always tried to curb your passion.’
He took Sudha into his arms.
Sudha had decided to meet Soumya the next day. But her parents arrived without notice and she remained preoccupied with them for the next couple of days. She hoped Soumya to turn up to know about the result of the contest. But she did not. Nor did she make a phone call to inquire about her result. Many of her friends , acquaintances and relatives called to congratulate her. But not Soumya. Was she really in the venue that evening? Why did she leave without meeting her? She must have known the result from the newspapers, Sudha guessed. At least she could have paid a courtesy visit. What was the matter with her? Sudha wondered vaguely.
**
Sudha set out searching for Soumya after her parents left. Soumya had said she lived in the next block, and she always disappeared into the street that branched off to the right.
She wandered uncertainly into the street that slithered to the right looking for Soumaya’s house. Soumya had said that she lived in this street, but she had not mentioned the exact location. It felt embarrassing to scan every house on the street to spot Soumya’s. A few passersby were looking at her curiously. ‘Are you looking for someone?’ A gentleman, who stood by an open gate of a house to her left asked.
‘I am sorry to bother you,’ Sudha said apologetically. ‘Would you be knowing where the music teacher Sharada Soumya Subhadarshini lived? She is a music teacher at the Symphony Music Institute. She has moved in here recently.’
‘Music teacher? Sharada Soumya … and whatever.. ! The gentleman’s face wore a vague look. ‘Never heard the name. And as far as I know there is no music teacher living in the vicinity.’
‘Thank you,’ Sudha moved forward, hoping someone else must be knowing where Soumaya’s place was. It was possible not many people knew about her since she was a new arrival here.
To her disappointment no one in the street could give her a clue to find Soumya’s house. ‘Perhaps she mentioned some other street and I have misunderstood it. But she always takes the turning to the right.’ The wasted efforts had made her vexed and upset.
The morning sun had climbed up to quite a height and was shining bright. Sudha decided to return.
‘I will go to the Symphony Musical Institute and meet her there. I don’t think she will mind that.’ She made up her mind as she walked back home.
**
‘Sharada Soumya Subhadarshini…? That is a name hard to remember, and to forget too,’ the office clerk in the institute said, an amused smile flickering on his face. Sudha felt blood rising to her temples. ‘I am serious. You have a teacher here by that name. She has recently joined this institute. Could you please let me know where can I find her?’
The office clerk looked apologetic. ‘I am sorry ma’am. I did not mean offence. But we have no teacher by that name. and no new one, as you say, has joined in the last six months. You have been wrongly informed.’
Sudha stared at the office clerk in surprise.
‘Wrong information? Had Soumya lied to her about her job in the music institute? Why? It was hard to believe. But if she told her the truth why nobody knew her? Neither in the institute nor in the block where she said she lived? Why did she have to do that?’
Sudha walked back home, puzzled and disturbed by the unsolved riddle of Soumya’s mysterious disappearance.
**
Another fortnight passed. There was no news of Soumya, not even a phone call. The festive occasion of Durga Puja was nearing. The autumn air was serene and jubilant. Everyone was in a mood of celebration. Sudha’s parents -in -law arrived from village. They used to visit Sudha and Ashok routinely during the occasion. Her father and mother -in -law congratulated her effusively on her success. Sudha was so happy at their reaction that she broke into tears when her mother-in-law took her into her arms. She had forgotten all her grievances against her husband and his parents. Life seemed to have taken a new turn. And Soumya had a great contribution towards that, she thought, feeling obliged. She remembered Soumya’s beautiful face, the divine glow in it and the hypnotic music that spilled out from the sitar when she touched the strings. The memory cast a shadow of gloom on her joyous mood. Why did she come to her life almost out of nowhere and why did she go out of it so mysteriously? Sudha had no answer to the questions.
**
‘Will you not get the house cleaned and dusted before the puja? ’ mother in law asked.
‘Yes Ma, I have asked the housemaid to bring an extra help with her tomorrow and get it done.’ Sudha answered.
It was a practice in most Hindu families to get their houses spruced up before the festival of Durga Puja. The housemaid and her cousin took up the responsibility and engaged themselves assiduously in the task.
By afternoon they had tidied up the bedrooms and the hall. Only the living room was left to be dusted and reshuffled. To dust and clean the living room was a tricky job because it needed extra care to handle the delicate and artistic assortments displayed on the shelves and the glass cabinets, the wall hangings, and several other decorative pieces. The carpet also needed a thorough cleansing. Sudha helped the maid and her companion in wiping the dust off the expensive statues of bronze and bell metal and polishing them. The sun had set and the day light was fading fast. The tidying up was at its final stage. Only one item, the idol of goddess Saraswati which stood on a round-topped table of ebony in one corner of the living room was left to be brushed up. The glossy white, elegant statue of the goddess made a striking and pleasant contrast to the dark ebony. ‘ I will dust it, ‘ Sudha said to the housemaid who was advancing towards the statue carrying the micro fibre-duster. She took the duster from the hand of the maid and gently brushed the dust off the statue.
The corner-edge of something like a folded paper under the statue caught Sudha’s eye. She tilted the heavy statue slightly and looked. Wedged under the pedestal of the statue there was an envelope of light brown. She pulled it out gently. The light in the room was dimming. She looked closely at the envelope and turned it up and down against her hands trying to guess what could be inside it.
It struck her like a sudden flash of lightning.
It was the envelope she had given to Soumya.
Wide eyed in surprise, her heart thumping erratically, she pulled out the contents inside with a sweating hand.
Inside it were the fifteen thousand rupees she had given to Soumya, thousand rupees per day for fifteen days. Soumya’s remuneration, her guru-dakshina .
How did the envelope find its way here? Sudha looked at the money in disbelief. She remembered clearly that Soumya had put the envelope in her handbag before taking leave of her that morning. Had she sneaked into the house sometime when both Ashok and Sudha were out of home? But that was impossible. They always locked the doors and windows of the house securely before going out. How then…..?
She recalled her futile search for Soumya’s house in the next street, and in the music institute. She recalled her glowing face by the exit door of the auditorium. The brief flashes of her face which she had reasoned out as passing hallucinations resulting from an obsessive desire to see Soumya watching her performance.
Who was Soumya, the lady in white?
Sudha looked at the idol of the goddess settled on her seat of white lotus, cradling the veena in her lap. There was the same beatific smile on her face like Soumya’s. The goddess looked hazy and blurry to her eyes now blinded with tears.
Her mind refused to accept it but she knew now who the lady in white was!!
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
Sateesh looked at the blood on his palms and fingers.
In the initial days, he used to go out to the backyard and puke all the food that was inside and then fill his stomach with water. But in due course he got used to the sight of blood. He was compelled to.
His mind flew back to those carefree days when his father was alive...he had no ‘blood’ in his hands then.
His father had a small cart with a bicycle attached behind and he worked in transporting household goods or provisions or vegetables from the markets as required. What he earned was ample to pay Sateesh’s school fee, buy books and eat well . His mother worked as a domestic help in two houses and had her tea and coffee and meals there. Many days saw her even bringing some tasty dishes for Sateesh and his father, stinging on the food that she got.
There was no dearth of happiness as Sateesh’s father was untouched by ‘alcohol’ or other vices.
A nice small family.
But as fate would have it, a lorry with a drunk driver at the wheels mashed up Satheesh’s father’s cart and father!
In seconds, the life had gone!
Things turned topsy-turvy and Sateesh HAD to get a job if he wished to complete his twelfth standard.
He wondered whether his dream of doing Engineering would ever materialise now.
But the head master was a kind man and promised to look after him till he wrote his twelfth exams.
But Sateesh was desperate for a part time job.
The kind neighbour suggested this job and reluctantly Sateesh took it up.
The neighbour and Sateesh decided not to talk about the nature of the ‘job’ to his mother and the poor lady was happy that the son would be paid a little more than thousand rupees for his job.
Sateesh hated this job!
But this was one place where he got everything done between six a m and seven a m in the morning and he could go home and to the school too.
As he washed his body with the piece of soap umpteen times discarding the blood soaked dress he heaved a sigh of relief.
He rushed out and walked in quick paces towards home.
Since it was the second Saturday, it was a holiday and he did not have to rush to school.
He had to take a detour as the road was being dug up.
He walked on the new road and was stopped by a board.
His heart missed a beat in excitement as he saw the board...
“Wanted - workers for carrying bricks and mortar.”
A big hotel was coming up and there was hectic activity going on. A lot of noise , as workers were talking loud .
Everyone seemed to be busy but very happy. May be they were being paid well.
There was a Supervisor standing a little away and shouting instructions.
Sateesh’s face registered joy after a long time.
He walked briskly towards the Supervisor.
“I saw the board Sir. Can I be recruited?”
The Supervisor stared at him in utter disbelief.
Is this boy mad or what?
“This is a heavy job my boy, certainly not suited for youngsters like you.”
“I am strong Sir. I can work from seven to nine in the mornings. I am doing my plus two and this job will help me a lot,” Sateesh persisted.
The Supervisor looked at him with compassionate eyes.
Oh my God, he looks only as old as my son, he thought.
“I need the job Sir. You please try me for a week and I shall do whatever I can for two hours in the morning.”
He was pleading. There were tears in his eyes.
“It is very tough my boy...” the Supervisor hesitated.
“What is your father doing?” he asked.
Sateesh raised his eyes. His voice was feeble.
“My father was killed in an accident two months back. He never used to drink or smoke. He was a good man. We were a happy family. My mother works as a domestic help in two houses.”
Something stirred in the Supervisor’s heart.
“Okay my boy. You are hired and you can work from tomorrow. We work on Sundays too, as we have a deadline to meet. We have workers in shifts. There will be payment made every Saturday evening and you will be paid according to the load that you carry. There will be a tea break in between and you will get a cup of free tea. Actually, we pay skilled workers anything between six hundred to eight hundred rupees per day. But since you are working only for two hours and you are relatively new, you may get eighty or hundred rupees per day. Come with me and sign the contract.”
A wave of thrill and happiness surged through Satheesh’s heart.
The best part of the whole thing was “not getting blood “on his palm and fingers.
As he filled the form and signed his name, the Supervisor was looking on with kind and compassionate eyes.
As Sateesh handed over the filled form, he said
“On Sundays you need not carry the bricks. Your handwriting looks good. I write the pay-sheet every Sunday morning to be handed over to the builder. You can do this job too. It will take two hours. I shall pay you separately for this.”
Sateesh almost danced with joy.
He took leave, promising to be there by seven in the morning.
He went back to the previous shop where he was working.
To his surprise, the owner himself was there.
“Sir, I shall not be coming to work from tomorrow . I am having a lot to study and the timing interferes with my studies.” He said with hesitation.
“Okay me boy. I hired you because my friend put in a word for you. I knew that you won’t last here...you are a vegetarian aren’t you?’ he asked and took out some soiled notes from the drawer to pay him.
“I am paying you a little extra. Hope you get a chance to complete your studies.”
Sateesh walked home with joy bubbling in his heart!!
He shuddered to think of cutting all those chicks and hens and lambs....their plaintive feeble cries will not be haunting him anymore.
His mother had told him long back
“Sateesh, they eat animals and birds since they are brought up that way. Don’t confuse this with compassion. We are vegetarians and we have a different outlook. So long as we don’t kill any helpless animal for food. It is okay. Don’t ever be judgemental. Let each one live his life.”
His mother will never come to know that he was working in a butcher’s shop.
And he will not reveal to her anything about his new job- “carrying bricks”!!
Life had to go on.
Of course, he should inform his neighbour- that kind uncle- who got him a job when he was helpless.
The future looked bright as he walked ahead with hopes.
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.
SAMBHAV: POSSIBILITIES FOR OUR EARTH
(Since 1988, Prof. Radha Mohan and Sabaramatee, father-daughter duo created a rural story to hear again and again)
“Organic farm products are yet to get the remunerative prices, more so when the farmer is in a rural area of India and would not seek commercial attention”. At the end of an eye opener journey to Sambhav, these words from a young environmental scientist put the context for my real-world understanding. This journey took us three- and half-hour drive by road. At a distance of 121 kilometers from Bhubaneswar, on NH 16 and then onward from Khurdha on NH 57 towards Nayagarh and beyond Odagaon is the Rohibank block. Here, through a non-descript iron gate, the dirt road led to “Sambhav organic farm” nestled among whispering trees and greenery. Sabarmatee, in her working dress of salwar-kameez, was busy attending to the trainees.
Sambhav is a world which can overwhelm a town or city dweller. The soil of Nayagarh-Odagaon region contains a hilly terrain, filled with laterite and mix-red stones. Spreading her infectious smile in an open-arms brief, Sabarmatee talked about her father Prof Radhamohan. He would always worry about the unaccountable spread of fertilizer-loaded soil, bio-engineered food products, and to ‘hell-with-health’ agricultural practices. An academician and self-trained ecological economist, he was guided by his relatives to this place in 1988 after a long search to find a depraved piece of land. He could gather a group of agriculture scientists, government officials and local inhabitants to plan a long-term vision of organic farming with grass-root participation. Those assembled wise persons dissuaded him, one elderly villager was amused, “You are all from cities. Whatever you say sounds good to the ears, but it is impossible to grow anything here”. From there started the journey of Sambhav, the literal translation ‘make it possible’, which has transformed the landscape.
Food remains the source to nurture the human race. Post-World War II generation has drastically altered our agriculture. Increased use of chemicals, mechanized farming, dammed water irrigation, and the government policies to maximize the harvest in the shortest possible time. Eating habits all over the world have undergone a time warp. “From one generation to the next, we will add diseases”, Prof.Radhamohan would lament in the nineteen eighties. One is not sure, if he had heard the saying of Hippocrates, the Greek physician (460 BCE-370 BCE), “If we could give every individual the right amount of nourishment and exercise, not too little and not too much, we would have the safest way to health.”
Over a period of next 11 years, the father-daughter duo established Sambhav as a non-profit organization and purchased the barren grounds for the organization, in bits and pieces from their limited savings and benevolent donations. Sabarmatee left her job at Oxfam (UK) to join her father full-time in 1993. Sambhav is now covering an area of approximately 90 acres. The undulating topography, interspersed with water bodies, tree plantation and top soil have been developed to create the agricultural wonder. Year-on-year, Radhamohan-Sabarmatee toiled with a handful nearilliterate locals. They grew a bond with mother earth and surrounding villages through adversities.
The farming hands became a part of the extended families for the father-daughter duo. Their childhood malnutrition, school dropouts and the untold gender violence would surface on a daily basis. Gradually, Sambhav evolved to combine organic farming with sustainable female gender upliftment. Such twinning is now a social development banner globally, yet one has to wonder at the vision forged some 30 years ago. Namita came 25 years back and has stayed working at Sambhav.
The shrine of Prof.Radhamohan(1943-2021) at Sambhav campus.
Sabarmatee in her natural habitat at Sambhav.
Walking past a dried hill stream filled with gravel stones, Sabarmatee pointed out the Sabai grass patches on the stream banks, “In rainy season, the stream would fill up and roll out water. Every year we would plant these, and the grass did not grow. After 15 years, we could get the success”. What we learnt, patience and hard works make the topsoil ready for plantation. More than ninety percent of our food products grow on the uppermost layers of the soil. It needs nutrients, minerals and microbes mixed with mulching the soil, more than the mechanized tilling and chemicals.
Sabarmatee and the farm hands took turns to shoo away the monkeys. The regenerative agricultural practices, after three decades of solitary existence, show the results to the world. In recognition, Radhamohan-Sabarmatee, uniquely invested to ecology and economics of agriculture, were conferred the civilian award of Padma Shri by the Government of India.Sambhav has 1000 plus species of yield varieties of rice, vegetables, lentils and fruits. It has separate quarters for the livestock. Villagers from Odisha and other states of India come and stay to be trained on the practices and carry seeds back free. It was humbling to see the spartan living quarters, dining hall-cum-training
room with durries, laptop, and projector on the ground, and the kitchen sparsely quipped. We got a lavishly spread fresh organic meal topped with black rice Khiri. As we boarded the bus for our return, Namita was softly affable, “Do come back again”. Beyond the year 2023,at this juncture,the time has come when Sabarmatee should be joined by the environmental scientists, like my daughter, to seek remunerative prices for organic farming.
Dr. Bidhu K Mohanti, is an oncologist, former Professor at A.I.I.M.S., Delhi and is presently the Director-Academic, Bagchi Sri Shankara Cancer Centre & Research Institute, Bhubaneswar 752054, India. He occasionally writes non-medical pieces in popular medium. Email: drbkmohanti@gmail.com
A few days back Ratan Tata said, “You don't know what it is to be lonely, until you spend time alone wishing for companionship”; to many of us that was happening to someone, somewhere else.
A common description of loneliness is the feeling we get when our need for rewarding social contact and relationships is not met. Loneliness is a state of mind. Loneliness causes people to feel empty, alone, and unwanted. It is marked by feelings of isolation despite wanting social connections. It is often perceived as an involuntary separation, rejection, or abandonment by other people. There is a difference between Loneliness and Solitude. If the latter can be therapeutic at times the former is corrosive.
Speaking of Ratan Tata, we subconsciously compared his situation with ours - Lonely, old, rich, unmarried gentleman without children, living alone in a big house. We may not be as rich or may not have that big a bungalow; but we have family, children, friends and so many other social contacts and engagements never to have a lonely moment. Simultaneously we started thinking of our relatives who already are rendered lonely or will become soon because of the death of their partners or the migration of their children on a gravy train. We worry about them while counting our many blessings and thank God that we are not in their situation.
Really? Now take this test.
Imagine these situations. You are elated after meeting someone who validated your conviction of an idea you have been working on for the last few years. You had an awesome meeting with your client and almost bagged the deal of your lifetime. You feel utterly defeated because you were let down by an associate. You felt utterly ignored by a friend you knew for years at a party. Now you want to share your joy and sorrow with someone who has the time to listen to you and empathize with your feelings? You have some 1500+ numbers in your phonebook; now select five.
You don’t have to tell the result. Most would not have found the first one even. Let’s face it.
Despite being amidst a sea of people, most of us are lonely. It feels like being at a social gathering of people you know no one. The difference here is that you know everyone but there is an invisible barrier that is preventing the human connection. Many of us lack empathy and compassion for others. All are so busy with our life’s problems that there is no time in their hand to think about others’ lives and to check if anyone would be needing them. The virtual clamour on the social media platform successfully hides the lack of human interaction or touches in the society we are living in at present.
What do you call a society where humans have become stones and teddy bears and pet dogs have replaced humans when it comes to exchanging human touches?
Is the problem of recent origin or has exacerbated by the dramatic change in lifestyle triggered by nuclear family structures, migration, and technology?
Leo Tolstoy captured this emotional state of humans through the feelings of a father who had lost his son that morning and his desperate attempts to share his grief with someone. After failing to find a human to share that with; he discharges his pent-up grief on the horse that drew his coach. He didn’t want money or any help; Just someone with compassion who agrees to compassionately listen to his grief.
As relevant today as when it was written.
When in 1970 Neeraj Sridhar used the phrase ‘Bheed Ke Beech Akela’ in the song Phoolon Ke Rang Se, he never could have imagined how relevant, and representative his metaphor of the general feelings of a society of lonely people is even in 2020.
I was listening to Ruskin Bond at the Bhubaneswar Literary Festival and he before signing off requested the audience and readers to keep writing to him. He light-heartedly said that the validation of the readers still matters to him at this age too. We thought an author of his level of accomplishment wouldn’t care what his readers think of his writings.
How wrong we are.
If I could never forgive my closest friend who didn’t think it was important for him to speak to me even once when I was losing my father slowly over 15 days and showed up two days after his death; I also will not forget the compassionate gesture of that angel who packed all her furry friends in a car let them loose in our house one full evening the very next day I lost my dearest pet dog. While my closest friend didn’t have the eye to see the pain I could be going through, this girl who hardly knew me thought of relieving me of my grief of losing a family member.
The above two examples describe what compassion and human touch mean to a person in grief especially when he is falling apart. Our personal lives are rife with experiences of disappointments meted out by our close ones and surprises coming from unknown persons.
Let’s accept that though our bodies are designed to respond to touch, not just to sense the environment around us; we have a network of dedicated nerve fibres in our skin that detect and emotionally react to the human touches of another person — affirming our relationships, our social connections and even our sense of self.
For a social person of higher emotional order, these are the essentials on which his identity exists.
When we are overcome by the feeling of loneliness, we are not craving human contact, but human touches. If we want a society that provides us with all the human contacts and touches, we need, are we ourselves doing it for others?
Bruce Springsteen in his song Human Touch writes…
I ain't lookin' for praise or pity
I ain't comin' 'round searchin' for a crutch
I just want someone to talk to
And a little of that human touch
Just a little of that human touch
Share a little of that human touch
Feel a little of that human touch [2]
Share a little of that human touch
Feel a little of that human touch
Give me a little of that human touch [2}
Dial into others’ lives to check if they are fine and need your time and compassion; It’s time we stopped waiting for someone else to call. Jadoo ki jhappi doesn’t have to be physical.
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
I hold the lengthy stands of hair in my hand and the feeling, emotional and electrifying. This dead hair is human to me and the human image encloses my mind. I close my eyes and enjoy the treasured moments which I invite into me occasionally. It gives joy extreme and sorrow unlimited. Those moments of mixed emotions have become part of my aged life and when advised to bury the past I never respond as the feeling can never be made to be understood or spoken to another.
The bunch of the lengthy stands of hair in salt and pepper style has become my lifeline. Holding it in my hand it attains life and smiles and almost speaks. It will be the tales I have experienced and heard a thousand times but sounds new and fresh and I laugh loudly recreating those past happy happenings.
Well, it is a story of a different kind later filled with emotions painful. It was a Sunday and I remember the date and time as it is on that day the big blow struck our lives. Both of us retired she as the school head and I from the bank. Only daughter married of to a faraway place and the two of us alone and many teased us calling it as a second honeymoon. It was indeed a second honeymoon as the opportunity was used for visiting places in our wish list. It was travelling all over the country exploring the unseen and unheard. It was an exhilarating experience of living and learning with fun added.
Happy days and that Sunday, she told me “I can feel a lump on my left breast”. A shock wave through me and next day it was the hospital and various tests followed by mammography. The truth was there right in front of us and surgery a few days later. Radiation and chemo come as bitter gifts along with other sufferings. Nausea, gastric problems aversion towards food and nothing pleasant to talk about. Then came the biggest fall. The fall of hair. A good bunch just came off as if a flower being plucked. She came to me with that bunch with flowing tears and I too couldn’t take it. The long flowing hair was her biggest asset. All who had known her had complimented her for the blessings of that long free flowing hair. Tried consoling her saying that it will grow back. Knew I was lying to myself as the doctor had told that hair will be lost but it will not return to the original.
I was holding that small bunch of fallen hair and after a while kept it inside the holy book.
Years have passed. She underwent treatment for a few years and things looked good. But all of a sudden it turned bad and a review said that it has taken a wild leap and containing it appeared difficult. She also felt that the call was coming closer and once in acute pain she called me close and spoke
“Dear thank you so much for a very happy life”
Those were her last words and a few days later she was gone.
Very often I open the book and have a glimpse of her hair. To me it is her full self. I can see it feel it and breathe it. Priceless part of my soul mate.
It’s invaluable, it’s divine it’ holy
The “Holy Hair”
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..
Bandana was feeding the pets in her garden; in the meantime, Raja came inside, crossing through the gate, and greeted...
Good evening, Aunty.
Is Shyam there inside?
O' Raja, come, my dear son.
Get inside and spend some merry time with your friend. I am tired of telling him to go somewhere, but I don't know why he keeps peeping through the window all the time.
Thank you, Aunty. Don't you worry; Shyam will be fine.
Let me check what is going on!
Hey Shyam, What are you doing? Finally, the vacations are starting.
You know what exciting!
We are all going to a movie tomorrow after the tutorials in the evening.
So you are joining us, right?
No Raja I didn't feel like going anywhere and kept staring at the window.
OK, no issues. Come, let's have a walk outside in the park. Let's have some fresh air this summer evening.
No, Bro, please don't mind; actually, I am not feeling good enough.
Yeah, how can one feel good like this?
Just look around.
Heaps of books and clothes everywhere—they are stinking.
Whoever will be around you will feel the same.
Anyway, I am leaving. There's a lot of fun waiting outside.
And Shyam just kept staring at the window and fixed his eyes on a climber over there.
What if Raja was correct, and perhaps the plant in the window is dying because of me?
Hurriedly, he arranged the room and took the pot of money plant in his hand.
After pouring some water, he cuddled the plant, kissed the pot, and said with a smile on his face:.
Dear, please forgive me. I promise, I will always smile at you.
Slowly, the night passed, and with the breaking of dawn, a few rays of sunlight fell on his face. On waking up, Shyam rubbed his eyes and went running up to the balcony to offer his smile, but upon reaching there, he stood mesmerised, and his eyes were gleaming in joy.
The plant got back to its strength, and the tender green suddenly smiled back at him after a long
He realised the power of thoughts as they stepped into the new world of possibilities, where everyone is the creator of their world and shapes destiny accordingly. Yes, things happen when we believe in ourselves and in the power of positivity, since nothing is impossible unless we give up.
Soumen Roy is a professional writer, best selling author and a tri-lingual poet. He has been vasty anthologized. His novel and poetry books have been part of International Kolkata Book Fair as well as Newtown book fair. He is the receiptent of Laureate Award 2022 along with many others. His poetry has been a part of international poetry festival 2017 and Panaroma international Literature festival 2023. He has published in different newspapers, magazines and web portals. He has been part of a web series named Showstopperzz, a cinema for a cause. He loves photography, painting and music.
A Story of Animals
It was a thick forest. There lived all kinds of beasts. It was an animal world. There lived a lion called Mrigaraja. He also had his lovely name, Simharaj, as he was the king of beasts in the forest. All the animals in the forest obeyed the lion, Simharaj.
Simharaj was a nightmare for all the beasts. The beasts were afraid of hearing Simharaj. Whenever they heard his roar, they ran helter-skelter panic-stricken.
There was a jackal, called Vinay. He used to come and tell some stories to the lion Simharaj. The sun was rising one fine morning. He thought that was a new sunrise for him when he came to Simharaj. He had an intimately open conversation with him.
'Simharaj! You're very powerful...You're unrivalled in power... unsurpassed in stature. No beast dares to see you... No animal can fight against you,' said Vinay to Simaharaj.
'Yes, I'm unrivalled...I'm unsurpassed... It's a fact...a well-known fact,' said Simharaj self-boastingly.
'Yes, you're... but...,' said Vinay suspiciously.
'What’s that "but"? There’re no ifs and buts in my life...What’s that "but"? What is that for...?' said Simharaj.
'For all the beasts...,' said Vinay.
'All the beasts...?' said Simharaj.
'All the beasts held a meeting and had a unanimous resolution...,' said Vinay.
'What’s that unanimous resolution?' said Simharaj.
'In the meeting, all the beasts took a unanimous resolution to kill you somehow or the other,' said Vinay with a sad feeling in his face.
'How could you come to know this?' said Simharaj.
'I was in the meeting... Since you're my friend, I'm disclosing their firm decision to kill you... Dear Simharaj, don't tell it to any other beast that comes to you. Be careful... If you try to confirm my information by other animals, all the beasts will come and kill me...They think that I’ve told you about their conspiracy... their secret plan,' said Vinay.
'There’s no need for you to worry ... As long as you’re with me..., nothing will happen to you, Vinay... When you are faithful to me..., no harm will touch you,' said Simharaj.
'In the meeting, all the beasts except me nodded their heads with the sounds of their agreement. I hope they noticed my soft corner and kind gesture for you,' said Vinay in the cunning art of the jackal nature.
'Their resolution to kill me is in the offing. I trust you for your friendliness. I believe in your words. As per their decision, all the beasts kill me to be free from their fearful living in this animal land,' said Simharaj.
'Yes, they want to live happily without you...They've all plans to kill you...No doubt about it...This is for your clear information,' said Vinay.
Vinay told Simharaj what he wanted to tell him, and disappeared from the scene, leaving Simharaj alone to fall in his long introspection.
Simharaj looked around and did not find any beast in any direction. He said to himself looking at all directions:
I'm the king of beasts...I've been enjoying high fame for a long time... I've been unrivalled...unsurpassed. Now there’re all the beasts united to kill me... I doubt myself...
Did Vinay tell me? Did I hear what the jackal, Vinay was telling me...? Was it I or somebody else...?
Was there truth in what Vinay said...? I hope it was falsehood...It sounds a false alarm...
What Vinay told me was like the sunrise in the west and the sunset in the east...
Jackals are cunning... but Vinay, the jackal is my trust-worthy friend...I’ve to depend on his suggestion...
All the beasts call for unity on the mission of killing me... Union is strength... All the beasts are together to be more powerful than I am...
Ants can kill a cobra when they have unity. The bits of straw that are together in the form of a rope can tether an elephant...
Will all the beasts plan to kill me, Simharaj, the king of the beasts... the king to rule the animal world?
'Will it happen? If it happens, what should I do...There are no ifs and buts in my life... It does not happen...
I recall the story of the lion...with a clever plan to say that there was another lion in the forest...The lion believed in the plan... He peeped into the well. He saw another lion in the well. He roared...The lion in the well roared and roared and it resounded... To protest the lion in the well, he jumped into it... All the beasts may have a tricky plan now... I mustn't follow their clever plan for me to peep into the well. I mustn't go to any well to peep into it and fall into it foolishly. The foolish lion dies like that... I'm not foolish...I'm cleverer than that lion...all the other beasts...I know the trick. I'm very conscious...
How can the beasts have the same old trick...? They have the trick... the same old trick to kill me... I’m not an ordinary lion for the beasts to think of me so...
I'm not growing weaker with the idea...No idea can weaken me...No plan can impoverish me...To be weak is unwelcome. I don't allow any weak fillip to enter my mind...
When my mind is weak, I should yield to the beasts... To be weak is miserable... The idea of being weak is intolerable... I shouldn't allow any such idea into my mind that weakens and disheartens my heart...To be weak is always unwelcome...
I'm Simharaja...I must be bold...I shouldn't become timid with the weak fillip...
Ordinary beasts cannot kill me...I'm their king...Shouldn't they feel so as I'm unrivalled, unsurpassed in powers...?
Their killing me happens never...I hope it's a lie...I can forget it easily and immediately...
Vinay may be wrong, as he's a jackal with his cunning nature... He might have told me as per his evil nature...
I must go to Vinay to confirm it once again... He'll surely tell me, as he's my follower, my friend as he called me several times...
Vinay ate whatever flesh and bones I left for him. He sought my help in his livelihood...He can't forget my help...He says that I'm his friend...He'll respond to my call...
No... It's the question of prestige...Though it's the need of the hour...I shouldn't go to him...Why should I go to him...? It's a prestige question...It's badly insulting. It shouldn't happen to Simharaj, the king of the beasts...To approach him is suicidal...
I need Vinay at the hour ... If I call him, he mayn't come...
It's the need of the hour, I suppose... I should act on time in my welfare... I should go to him...when it is my life question...I shouldn't think of prestige at this moment... It becomes a false prestige...I must go to him.
... ... ... ... ...
Simharaja went to the centre of the forest where he met Vinay several times. Of course, Vinay came to him hearing his roaring when he was hungry to share the meat and the bones of hunted animals. He, therefore, roared loudly and his roars echoed in the forest and the hills nearby.
Vinay did not care for Simharaj's roar at the beginning. Later he came leisurely running to Simharaja as if he were very obedient to him.
'O friend, I'm coming to you...,'said Vinay coming closer to Simharaja.
'O my friend... Where have you gone...? You're coming late...I wanted to see you and so I roared...I'm not able to bear your separation from me...,' said Simharaja.
'All the beasts know that I'm your friend...They don't allow me to come to them... I know where they are... Regarding our separation, I feel like you...I'm in the same mood... I too feel so...,' said Vinay humbly.
'I want to confirm what you said yesterday...the unanimous resolution on the part of all the beasts to kill me...Are you sure of their firm decision to kill me...?' said Simharaja appealingly.
'It's real...cent percent real...a thousand percent real...What I say is real, my looks real, smells real and sounds real, ' said Vinay.
'I know you tell all facts...I want to see the beasts... Just, I want to see the beasts from far away... Let me know their whereabouts...,' said Simharaja.
'Today the beasts are in the eastern area of the forest ... Tomorrow they'll be in the western area. Day after tomorrow they’ll be in the northern area...The next day they’ll be ...' said Vinay when Simharaja responded to say to him promptly,
'In the southern area...'
'You're brilliant to know all the things,' said Vinay.
'Thank you...I want to see the beasts in the eastern area of the forest,' said Simharaja and left the spot with its own feelings not to reveal anything to Vinay.
'After your hunt, call me by your roar,' said Vinay.
'Okay...'
Simharaja went in the eastern direction while thinking of what to do in evading his impending peril. While it was going in the direction, he recalled all his dialogue with the deer, Parashreya once.
Once Simharaja openly declared his unrivalled greatness to Parashreya as a challenge,
'I'm the king of beasts... I'm very powerful... None can question my powers.'
'I know your powers...How do you have powers?' said Parashreya.
'Those’re my natural powers...in-born powers to be more powerful than all other beasts like you...,' said Simharaja.
'You live on animals... innocent animals like me...You eat our flesh and become strong. The reason for your strength is due to us, the innocent animals,' said Parashreya.
'You make a senseless comment...Yours is a meaningless statement...' said Simharaja, roaring.
'I'm stating the facts...bitter realities...The big fish live on the small fish... So is the case with you, the big animals, Simharaja to live on small animals. We're for your life...to give you life...to give you breath...for your strength...for your courage,' said Parashreya frankly.
The dialogue of Parashreya rang in the Simharaja's mind.
Simharaja knew that he became weak because he did not hunt that day. He understood the dire reality of Parashreya's words.
One way, Simharaja had the fear of the attack of all the beasts. In the other way, he felt like satisfying his hunger. It was the to-be-or-not-to-be question for him.
Simharaja searched for beasts in the eastern area of the forest. He roamed and roamed but he did not find any animal. He came back to his cave disappointed.
The next morning Simharaja combed the western area of the forest as Vinay told him. He searched and searched but he did not find any animal. He went back to his cave. He had no strength to roar as a call to Vinay.
With a much difficulty, Simharaja woke up to go to the northern area of the forest the next morning. To his dismay, he did not find even a small animal. He came back slowly as he was not able to move in the usual manner. He went back to his cave and was groaning throughout the night. He made up his mind to hunt animals as he had already seen in the eastern, western, northern areas of the wide forest the previous days. He hoped to find all the animals in the southern direction that day.
To fulfill his hunger, Simharaja went silently to the south area of the forest as Vinay's information and searched for animals. He did not find any trace or any sound of any animals. He tried to roar but it was not able to roar. His roar sounded at the lowest ebb to sound like the cat.
Simharaja came back lamely and weakly to the cave making up his mind to turn vegetarian. He slowly started to eat leaves and roots for his survival. He roamed around the cave and ate all the leaves and the roots he found.
As usual, Simhaaj roared but the sound of roar was low to his surprise.
To the utmost dismay of Simaraja, Vinay with new vigour and enthusiasm came to him. He found his friend weaker and weaker. He said,
'What happened to you...?'
'Nothing happened to me... Nothing happens to me... Nothing will happen to me,' said Simharaja.
'You look dull...,' said Vinay.
'Nothing of that type ... I became a vegetarian...I am living on leaves and roots...' said Simharaja.
'You are the king of the beasts...aren't you?' said Vinay.
'Yes... I'm the king of the beasts... I was the king of beasts in the past... I'm the king of the beasts in the present... I'll be the king of the beasts in the future... Is there any doubt about me in you ...?' said Simharaja.
'You're mistaken... All the beasts consider me Vinayaraja, Mrigaraja or Simaraja... Call me so...These days are different... These are my days,' said Vinay.
'The lion is the lion, the king of beasts though the days tend to change their trend,' said Simharaja.
'Remember the plan of the beasts, the firm resolution to kill you...They're on their mission...,' said Vinay mockingly.
Simharaja kept quiet as he thought that he was like other animals. He lived on leaves and roots but not on the beasts in the forest not to harm any animal in the policy of 'live and let others live'.
All the animals subsequently learnt that Vinay, the cunning jackal was very tricky as he misguided them to kill Simharaj and call him 'King of Beasts' later. They did not agree to his said proposal of their killing of the lion, Simaraj. They taught him a bitter lesson by calling him 'Cunning Jackal'.
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\
HOSPITALITY AKA ATITHI DEVO BHAVA
Introduction
Hospitality is the ‘friendly and generous reception of guests, visitors, or strangers,’ where such gesticulation involves hosting another or others without expectations. All religions have stressed hospitality as a necessity than a mere gesture. ‘Atithi Satkar’ in Indian culture means welcoming every visitor with warmth and respect, the importance of maintaining a good host-guest relationship has been well accentuated. Eons ago, the sages of ancient India handed down to posterity the ‘universal truths’ of life through sacred texts. Again, the dictionary explains truth as ‘facts’ that are not things ‘imagined or invented.’ While Altruism and Hospitality are semantically connected, hospitality differs from customer service and satisfaction. Atithi Devo Bhava has come to be used as a catchphrase to augment tourism in today’s context, where the primary goal of such an industry is ‘customer satisfaction.’ Through such exchanges, revenue is generated, skills are developed, the standard of living is enhanced, and there is a greater willingness to embrace change. The fundamental difference, however, is that while ‘customer service’ (interaction between consumer and sales representative) is restricted to the assistance offered for a specific outcome – sales, hospitality is more broad-based, personalized, and has a deeper ethical significance; it is an experience with emotions attached. Mere theoretical reading does not take people far, internalizing the values of generosity, love, altruism, kindness, and other ethical codes of conduct through inspirational anecdotes and imbibing them to the extent possible serves as a motivational tool to keep hopes alive during periods of self-doubt, boosts confidence, imagination, and creativity.
Meaning and significance
As the dictionary elucidates, Hospitality is the ‘friendly and generous reception of guests, visitors, or strangers,’ where such generosity and gesticulation involves hosting another or others without ulterior motives or expectations. All religions have stressed upon hospitality as a necessity than a mere gesture. An unwritten diktat and decorum! Many of us have studied the meaning of ‘Atithi’ in our childhood –‘jiskee aaney kee thithi na ho!’ ‘Tithi’ implies date. It simply means a guest is someone who arrives without prior announcement and leaves at his/her convenience. Until the not-so-distant past, guests were revered as God (Atithi devo bhava). ‘Atithi Satkar’ in Indian culture means welcoming every visitor with warmth and respect, the importance of maintaining a good host-guest relationship has been well accentuated.
Ancient texts of Bharat (India) upheld the cultural heritage of the land and highlighted that any guest - rich or poor was to be treated with equal importance. The best example of a friend’s hospitality is revealed in the story of Lord Krishna, the ruler of Dwaraka and Sudama, a poor Brahmin. Unable to bear penury and hunger, Sudama’s wife requests him to pay a visit to his childhood friend Krishna. She packs a handful of puffed rice, so that he need not go empty-handed. Krishna receives the tired Sudama with much warmth and joy, seats him on his throne, and washes his tired feet with sandalwood and warm water, all the while recounting the wonderful time they had spent together at Guru Sandipani’s ashram. Even though Sudama does not want Krishna to see the cloth bag with the puffed rice, Krishna notices, opens it and eats it with great enthusiasm. Overwhelmed with the royal treatment at his friend’s place, Sudama is too embarrassed to ask for more favours, therefore, returns home quietly. To his surprise and disbelief on his return, he sees a magnificent palace in the place where his hut once stood. And his wife and children are dressed in all finery. Tears of gratitude and happiness roll down Sudama’s eyes.
Teachings from sacred texts that bring out the essence of hospitality
The characters of the Mahabharata expound precisely the human feelings of love, courage, truth, honesty, wisdom, cowardice, conceit, foolishness, hospitality, and generosity among others. Two stories read while at school readily come to mind.
One rainy evening, Sri Krishna and Arjuna went to Yudhishtra and asked if he could arrange some wooden logs for important construction work in the capital. Yudhishtra immediately ordered his servants to procure the best quality logs. After a very long time, one of the servants came along and said they could not fetch them because all the wood had got drenched in the monsoon. Yudhishtra looked at his friends helplessly. The duo then went to Karna’s residence. Welcoming them with respect, Karna enquired the purpose of their coming at such an hour. When Arjuna told him the reason, Karna sent his servant to fetch wood, the servant came back with the same reply as Yudhishtra’s man did. Immediately, Karna went inside. When he did not return for a long time, they peeped in and found that Karna was cutting the legs of his wooden bed. When Arjuna asked Karna why he had wasted his precious sandalwood furniture, Karna gently smiled and replied that things could be made again; sending someone empty-handed was greater grief.
The same Karna, at a later date parted with his golden armor and earrings, (kavacha-kundala) which was a gift from his father, the sun, at birth. Karna’s hospitality is unparalleled and unimaginable to the prosaic and rational minds of the present, although it has its unique reference and relevance to date – Karna’s unconditional acceptance and support to all! Without being judgmental about a visitor, Karna wholeheartedly offered him anything that he wanted. A story of him gifting a golden bowl with oil to a poor mendicant while he was applying oil over his body is inspirational with a valuable lesson. When questioned why he had gifted the bowl with his left hand, Karna replied that he did so, because he did not want his ‘mind to change’ before he returned after washing his hands
Today’s humanistic psychologists talk about ‘unconditional positive regard’ which implies ‘acceptance and support of a person’ irrespective of what he says or does; and this is mostly used in the context of ‘client-centred therapy.’ Eons ago, the sages of ancient India handed down to posterity the ‘universal truths’ of life through sacred texts. Again, the dictionary explains truth as ‘facts’ that are not things ‘imagined or invented.’
Hospitality is the greatest of virtues; reference to it has been there from times immemorial. Tracing Homer’s thoughts on hospitality, the author states - “though I celebrate courage in my Illiad and perseverance in my Odyssey, there is a third, greater virtue, apart from which civilization can neither thrive nor survive. I speak of Xenia…” “Xenia” is an ancient Greek concept of hospitality; it translates as ‘guest-friendship’ or ‘ritualized friendship,’ involves the ‘relationship between a stronger and a weaker person,’ say, a ‘stranger, suppliant, guest or a host.’ Yielding to ‘please of the weaker’ and not making ‘use of him for his own benefit’ is the underlying philosophy here. (Louis Markos)
Before discussing further, let us read and understand this virtuous act of hospitality through another story from the Mahabaratha. Just after the Rajasuya yajna performed by Yudhishtira was completed, a mongoose came and started rolling over the ‘yajna-vedi,’- the altar. People found this strange. Half of its body was grey; the other half was ‘gold.’ The mongoose narrated its story: (People of ancient times could understand the language of animals, just as Saint Francis of Assisi, Ramana Maharishi and many other great men of the past could!)
There was a terrible famine, and the king of the land arranged for rationing of food. A Brahmin family had just got their weekly quota when an old mendicant came up to their hut and asked for food saying he was extremely hungry. Offering him a seat, they argued about whose share should be given. First, the householder gave his share, the old man was still hungry, and so his wife offered him her share, followed by their son and daughter. After the entire meal was consumed, the satiated guest revealed his true form to the members and blessed them that their granary would ever be full. The mongoose chanced to roll on the leaf where that Brahman had taken his meal, and half his body became golden. Ever since, the mongoose kept wandering in search of hearths where great sacrifices were made with ‘pure altruistic motives.’
“Love your neighbor as you love yourself”
Altruism implies ‘unselfish regard or devotion to the welfare of others.’ The best way to elucidate it is through ‘The parable of the Good Samaritans’ from the Bible (Luke10:25-37) of the New Testament, which is among the greatest of commandments for the welfare of all human beings. Once, a man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On his way, he was attacked by robbers, they beat him, and took away his belongings, and his clothes, leaving him half-dead. A priest who was passing by walked past without stopping, and so did another. A good ‘Samaritan’ who was traveling that way, came up to the man, took pity on him, bandaged his wounds, and took him to an inn. Offering money to the innkeeper, he told him to take care of him during his absence.
Hospitality is not Customer Service
While Altruism and Hospitality are semantically connected, hospitality differs from customer service and satisfaction. One other lexical definition of hospitality is ‘the activity or business of providing services to guests in hotels, restaurants, bars, etc.,’ and this includes leisure destinations such as theme parks, cruise liners, and more. Atithi Devo Bhava has come to be used as a catchphrase to augment tourism in today’s context, where the primary goal of such an industry is ‘customer satisfaction.’ Through such exchanges, revenue is generated, skills are developed, the standard of living is enhanced, and there is a greater willingness to embrace change.
The fundamental difference, however, is that while ‘customer service’ (interaction between consumer and sales representative) is restricted to the assistance offered for a specific outcome – sales, hospitality is more broad-based, personalized, and has a deeper ethical significance; it is an experience with emotions attached. While good customer service is appreciated, hospitality is cherished and treasured for the euphoric experience that it offers. Moreover, customer service begins only after a ‘sale’ has been effected; on the other hand, hospitality commences the moment anyone enters the company space - they become a ‘guest’ and are to be ‘treated in a friendly manner.’
Changing scenarios and cultural changes have altered perceptions
In today’s fast-changing era of technological innovations, multinationalism and globalization, the fundamental concept of ‘Atithi devo bhava’ is not accorded much priority as days’ bygone did. Hospitality is no longer a way of life. Seldom does a guest knock, even close family members visit only after an appointment. While in rural, close-knit societies, this may not be very relevant, it is definitely prevalent in metropolitan zones of India and elsewhere. One valid argument is that both men and women are working professionals, forever racing against time, and a surprise caller would be difficult to handle. Moreover, families today are nuclear, having migrated towards greener pastures, which brings along this question - Has this way of life has largely been left behind?
Not exactly, even though it has assumed different dimensions with time. Hosting parties and participating in reunions and get-togethers has been a way of life for people from middle-class backgrounds and the affluent. For the common man struggling to make ends meet, parties may quite be a rarity; however, on auspicious occasions such as festivals, birthdays, anniversaries or others, hosting a feast for near and dear is quite common. The Tamil saint and poetess Avvaiyar in her ‘Aatichudi’ waxes eloquent ‘Aram Seiya Virumbu,’ which translates -‘Desire to perform just acts.’ This possibly goes on to signify that hospitality does not signify throwing lavish parties and displaying opulence; contrarily, with a generous heart, sharing a simple meal is considered hospitable.
For the large diaspora away from their homeland, hosting parties and extending hospitality to guests (at least before the pandemic began!) is a definite means to stay connected with members from their cultural backgrounds, also to nurture friendly bonds in a new cultural environment. “Our fast-paced society ceaselessly produces new technologies and various innovations, all propelled quickly by information networks, challenging our capacity for adaptation. More than ever we are confronted by the strangeness of the world and tormented with feelings of insecurity. We could try to protect ourselves from the strangeness, but that would probably require withdrawing from modern society. Or we could practice hospitality and learn to welcome the strangeness.”
Without a doubt, hospitality lets people out of self-imposed seclusion brought along by gadgets, and brings in a whiff of fresh air into people’s lives. By welcoming the ‘strangeness,’ we could become ‘curious and generous, open and receptive to the unknown.’(Cloutier).
The desire to do good should continue amidst challenges
A slight caveat surfaces while discussing hospitality in the ‘modern society,’ and its ‘practice.’ There are growing concerns that Atithi devo bhava is no longer the way of life in the materialistic world where the focus of individuals has acquired a paradigm shift towards love ‘with expectations’ and ‘financial considerations.’ Competing with one another in hosting lavish thematic parties has come to be the order of the day. In other words, the hearts of people are tied together in ‘money,’ rather than in companionship.
Furthermore, the pandemic era brought along lockdowns, social distancing, masking and other restrictions forcing people to remain within the confines of their homes, and led to a more virtual existence, both on the social and the professional fronts. Other horrors of the pandemic include loss of jobs and loved ones, lowered standards of living, and greater stress to cope with the unforeseen challenges - all of which have given little time to think of guests. However, some valuable lessons of the pandemic are definite to make individuals more humane, empathetic, and generous. It has made us understand our ‘fragility’ and taught us to stay better connected as a ‘community,’ empathize by lending a helping hand, and above all, appreciate the blessings of kindness and generosity of people, regardless of religion, culture, customs, socio-economic backgrounds and geographic locations.
To conclude, theoretical reading does not take people far; internalizing the values of generosity, love, altruism, kindness, and other ethical codes of conduct through inspirational anecdotes and imbibing them to the extent possible serves as a motivational tool to keep hopes alive during periods of self-doubt, boosts confidence, imagination, and creativity. Quoting from Swami Vivekananda, “We are responsible for what we are, whatever we wish to make ourselves, we have the power…” Let us desire (Virumbu) to do good deeds, the challenges notwithstanding.
(References from the Internet)
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently
Sujit looked at his watch and then took a glance outside from his twenty sixth floor apartment-balcony towards the Sea Wood local station in New Mumbai. In spite of the rush he will be able to manage a seat in the first class compartment to CST, calculated Sujit. Unlike other days he need not have to take a train travelling back up to the starting station to get a seat. It takes six minutes and twenty seconds to go down the lift and reach the station from his house, say approximately seven minutes. In a hurry he took a bite from a toast, gulped in a few tablets and ran from his apartment with lunch-box, tie, office bag before wishing good day to Ananya, his wife.
Already son Anant might have left for the junior college. Daughter Nayana must be getting ready to go to her college. Driver will come at eleven to pick up Ananya to drop at her interior decoration studio. Anant will return in the evening attending coaching classes after his college. Ananya and Nayana do not have a fixed time to return, but generally reach home before Sujit comes back by 10PM. That is the only time they are together before retiring to bed and take rest for the daily grind the next day. It’s nothing new, the regular routine. Anant has been asking for a new laptop, but where is the time for Sujit?
At the station Sujit observed the next fast local will arrive in one and half minutes. Enough time to ping his juniors before boarding the train. As usual there was heavy rush. What will be the condition before reaching the final destination, Sujit pondered. There were a few familiar faces, his regular co-passengers, whom he wished quickly. He occupied a seat and wiped his face. Sujit is the Senior Sales Executive of his company. Frequent mobile calls, one after another kept him busy. Huge sales target to meet, on one side expectation of the management and on the other side pressure from clients, Sujit is hard pressed in between. He remembered the day he landed in Mumbai a quarter century ago. It feels like yesterday. He stayed in a rented one room cabin by the side of Railway station at Berar. Today he could purchase an apartment in posh Sea wood area. Car, driver, first class local train pass everything is taken care of by his company. When he arrived in Mumbai (Bombay then) Vada pav ( the most common local snacks) was available for fifty paisa, now it is fifteen rupees a piece. Time is changing and with sheer hard work Sujit has climbed up the ladder in his official capacity. It has come with a lot of sacrifice. In the office, colleagues are jealous of Sujit. It is very difficult to get work done from juniors. Children have grown up. Sujit has done everything for their comfort, but he has no time for them. Tours, meetings, presentations, official lunch & dinner parties take away his time. House loan, car loan instalments are getting deducted from salary. Ananya’s business requires further capital investment. Nayana is ambitious and spends more time in parties and friends than on study. She goes out in connection with event management and has all the vices, takes drugs and remains high.
Sujit has not gone to his native village since ages. He last visited decades ago when his father passed away. Brothers stay in village and Sujit sometimes sends some money. Life goes on as everyone is leading their own life. Nobody bothers to look for whether he is dead or alive. Sujit has become another Mumbaikar in the crowd. But today he is determined; he will leave office early and spend some time in solitude in Marine Drive or Girnar Chowpatty and will return home thereafter.
In the office Sujit completed all his pending works and gave instructions to his juniors and got ready to leave by four PM. It became a big news in the office -the person who sits long into the night in the office is leaving so early.
Sujit soon mingled in the crowd and walked his way to the Mumbai Marine Drive. Cautiously he crossed the road and jumped over the footpath to sit on the high concrete wall and look towards the setting sun in the western sky across the sea. He looked for an isolated place, but soon a crowd of hawkers selling tea, groundnut and bhelpuri came from nowhere and started surrounding him. By the time they left, a group of transgenders came and made noise around him. To escape them Sujit walked over a few tetrapods and took a place on the shore hanging down his legs. The sea waves were breaking on the huge tetrapods and the cool sea-wind was carrying fine sand and water particles. It is not dark yet with a few hours left for the evening to set in. The setting sun was hastily moving down in the western sky spreading a golden hue on the sea. Birds were returning home in a hurry and the melodious music of the sea filled Sujit’s heart. At a distance the bhelpuri seller was making unsuccessful attempts to light a flickering kerosene wick lamp. From behind the palm groove tea stall the hawker handed over a cup of hot tea to Sujit.
Sujit kept enjoying the nature while sipping tea from his cup. Suddenly he found a blind girl sitting next to his left and keeping her gaze fixed towards the sea. He was a little bewildered, he was sure no one was there a moment before. “How this blind girl came up to this place without anyone’s help?” he wondered. A white cane is by her side and the girl seems to be enjoying the sun set. She is assiduously looking far into the distant horizon and is engrossed in her gaze. No one can know for sure that she is blind without the white cane by her side. Sujit could not further suppress his enthusiasm and eagerness to know more about her and enquired, “Little girl, are you born blind or have you lost your sight due to some disease or accident?”
She did not turn her head and replied “Yes, I am born blind”.
Sujit very politely asked if you do not mind can I ask you “How will you enjoy the sunset without being able to see the sun?”
“Why, are eyes necessary to enjoy the sunset?” asked the blind girl to Sujit.
“I think, to feel the sun and enjoy the sunset, eyes are not essential. Even without eyes one can feel the sun, the moon, the rain, the winter and the nature. Every day sun rises and sets. There are so many people in this world having full vision, but how many see the sunset and try to feel the same?
Are eyes essential to see, ears essential to hear and legs essential to move? The earth and everything on it are always on the move, so are the streams and rivers, the planets, the stars and the comets. Snakes do not need eyes to look for their prey and they find their way easily. Similarly, there are many beautiful things around, yet people do not see them. Further, they stumble sometimes and miss their steps in spite of full vision.”
Sujit felt perplexed.
The blind girl further asked, “so many people have full vision yet they do not see. Similarly people have ears but they do not listen. People do not listen to good advice; they always do not listen to others. So what is the problem if I have eyes or not as long as I can feel something? Sunset is only a subtle, gentle, tender manifestation of the sun. That feeling is sufficient to feel and enjoy the sunset. Where is the need for the eyes?”
Sujit tried to explain the girl, “I just meant with eyes you could have enjoyed the sunset much better with its grandeur and colour. How can I explain to you that the nature is so colourful and attractive, which you could have enjoyed better with vision.”
“I have already told you I am born blind. I do not know about different colour. For me, entire world is colourless. So why should I look for colour? I have heard the Sun is golden-red , sky is blue, forest is green, feathers of birds are colourful and that there are seven colours of the rainbow- but for me they are meaningless. I try to feel everything and do not differentiate” replied the blind girl.
Sujit nodded his head and said, “You have understood correctly. Light and darkness are like black and white. Rays of lights contain all colours. Generally, substances absorb in themselves all the colour except the one for which they are known. So colour is only a delusion. In fact the sky and the sea are not blue. Similarly, the flowers, the leaves & for that matter, every colourful thing is only a delusion.”
Sujit pondered if it is possible for someone to imagine a colourful world if he has not seen any? Can someone who is born blind and has not seen the world dream about it?
Sujit showed his inquisitiveness and asked the blind girl, “Do I have your permission to ask you something?”
“Definitely you can ask” said the girl.
“Little girl, you said you are born blind. Do you see dreams? Do the things which you have not seen, come in your dreams? The dreams you have seen, are they colourful or always colourless?”
“Please ask this to yourself. Doesn’t a baby dream in the mother’s womb even before birth?, the girl questioned Sujit.
“Yes. You are right. What dreams come to the child in the womb and whether they are colourless or colourful, it is very difficult to comprehend. But Sujit failed to understand how it was possible for someone to dream something which he has not physically experienced. He just remembered a blind boy who was singing during a train journey, with tears rolling down his cheeks “God is the creator and destroyer and giver of sorrow and happiness”. The kid went on to pray for the happiness and wellbeing of the entire humanity, without himself seeing the God. It was very difficult for Sujit, who is deep inside the material world, to fathom and realize, how someone in the deep sea can pray to the almighty for the wellbeing and happiness of the entire world.
He remained silent for some time.
The blind girl mentioned “I understand your silence. Nobody can clear your confusion. You have the capacity in yourself to know the answers to all your questions. You have in you, the entire universe, all the answers, the entire truth and the creator. Only look within.”
“If a born blind has the capacity to look within for all the answers, you should also have the capacity to see the world” asked Sujit inquisitively.
“When did I tell you that I am not able to see? I am able to see everything very clearly. I think you had doubts about my vision. I did not have any” the girl replied.
Sujit was further baffled.
“Probably you are not being able to think clearly. Let me help you see things. You had a doubt about how to comprehend something which you have not realized through your senses? If it is possible to imagine God without seeing him, is it not possible for a born blind to comprehend without experiencing the manifest?”
Sujit felt the earth below his feet slipping.
The blind girl asked Sujit to close his eyes once before opening them.
Sujit did accordingly and opened his eyes to see that all the people around him are incomplete. No one is full and satiated here; as if everyone is running after something to achieve fullness. It is hope which is keeping them alive. The entire world is in constant search of happiness.
The blind girl told Sujit, “Do you see the restless world? How can you achieve equilibrium here? So do not try to run here and there in search of equilibrium.”
Sujit looked to the girl and asked “In future, if I seek your help, will you?”
“I am not your genie” said the girl and vanished.
Next moment Sujit looked to his left and he couldn’t find anyone. A red dragonfly was going up in the sky.
Sujit uttered “SORRY APSARI”.
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)
MY TRIP TO KASHMIR – AN AUDACIOUS ADVENTURE
Bankim Chandra Tola
(A free image of Gulmarg copied from net)
Going back to my school days, our conversations with classmates often veered towards the exotic, the unexplored Kashmir, its ethereal beauty occupied our mental horizon impelling us to plan for a future trip to Kashmir for a practical experience. Yet that vision remained a distant dream, buried beneath the sands of time as life took its twists and turns post-school.
Decades later, all on a sudden when a flicker of that old dream reignited within me, it was very late then in real life to reunite those old friends who once joined to fulfil that vision. Even then I did not let that spark extinguish forever and had an optimistic deliberation with my wife for a trip to Kashmir. Very soon after availing Leave Travel Concession from my Bank we embarked on a long tour covering a few other states in North Western India not visited by us until then in addition to my cherished destination, sometime in June 2002.
Traversing through the historical tapestry of Rajasthan, Himachal Pradesh, and Punjab we entered Jammu on the 11th day of our tour. Jammu greeted us with its ethnic charm, but the glamour of Kashmir beckoned; despite ominous whispers of unrest continuing there shadowing my mind. Talks with locals in Jammu hotel where we put up temporarily painted before us a grim picture – a land besieged by terrorists for which tourists had not ventured moving towards the dream land for quite sometime. However, I could not suppress my strong urge for visiting Kashmir against all hurdles. After an optimistic discussion with the hotel manager who cleared many of our doubts that the then commotion in Kashmir was not against any civilians but purposely made for removal of Indian Army from Kashmir soil. By the by, he assured us of all help through his counterpart in Shrinagar to take full care of us until return. With his assurances we boarded a Govt. bus bound to Srinagar in the morning at 9 A.M. after checking out from the hotel expecting everything would go well.
Hardly the bus had moved a few furlongs, it was stopped and we saw some military persons with guns entered into the bus and started checking all luggage and passengers one by one. When our turn came, one military officer after checking my credential and belongings asked me, “Why are you going to Kashmir now? How long you will be there?”
Calmly I explained to the officer that our maiden visit to Kashmir was a part of the itinerary as per my LFC sanctioned by the Bank. On further interrogation I had to show him the relevant documents corroborating my statement after which he allowed us to travel. The officer perhaps suspected our travel when none other than locals travel by Govt. buses.
Anyway, the bus after checking whisked on its way to Srinagar, Then near the border of Jammu before entering Kashmir, again there was a thorough check and in that case the army personnel checked our baggage only as in that bus we were the only outsiders. The same question was also asked, “Why are we going to Kashmir?” Thereafter, there was no more checking on the way. The bus went on a narrow road passing zigzag through a ghat situated about 3000 or more feet above the ground as I could see through the window pane. I was praying to God to pave our journey safe. At some points the road was under construction and a lot of debris were lying on the road for which the bus was moving slow with a lot of jerks.
At about 1 P.M. the bus stopped near a roadside Dhaba in Patnitop. All passengers were asked to have lunch in Dhaba within half an hour. In that dhaba we could not find any recipe to our choice, so we bought half a kilogram of green apple from a vendor nearby and ate. My goodness! The apples were so sweet, we have never tasted anything like that before. We ate to our heart’s content but my wife did not agree to buy some more when I insisted. She said when we are going to Kashmir, these apples will be plentifully available there, so we need not carry from here. Then the bus moved and a Ghat road started. I was feeling quite uneasy when the bus was taking sudden turns. I saw through the window that the bus is plying about 3000 or more feet above the ground level. A slight mistake by the driver will end our existence forever if by chance an accident occurs. I prayed to God for safe travel.
At about 4 P.M. I saw a milestone indicating 10 KMs more to Srinagar. I heaved a sigh of relief that finally we were going to enter Kashmir. Suddenly an unexpected incident took place that shattered my confidence. The bus stopped on the way. I thought perhaps there might be some problem, but I saw a strong and stout man entered the bus and started calling by my name loudly. I was taken aback and stood up from my seat to find what could be the matter. How could that strange man know my name? The man like a commander asked me to get down from the bus with luggage. He did not allow me to know the reason and as I looked at the conductor of the bus, he also hinted me to get down. With a little amount of courage, I asked my wife to follow me and we got down from the bus with our bags mechanically. Then that man carried our bags and loaded them in a car parked beside the road and asked us to get into the car. Without a word we boarded the car and he started driving. My head started reeling and I was trembling with fear anticipating a probable disaster. I thought are we lifted forcefully and led to a terrorist camp either for a ransom or for killing for our audacious visit to Kashmir. Somehow, I mustered some courage to ask him why he is taking us like this. That fellow said, “Do not worry, I have been asked by our agents in Jammu to take you to a boat house at Dal lake for your stay. That is why I stopped the bus and cordoned you. You will be safe in our hotel.” Saying this he stopped the car near Dal Lake and took us to a ferry ghat. With luggage. He led us to the boat to go to the other bank of the lake where number of boat houses were lined up.
Then the car driver introduced us to the hotel owner and left. The hotel owner very cordially greeted us and led us to show rooms in his boat house and told us that all the rooms are lying vacant, you may choose any one of them for your convenience. The rooms were like tents on a large boat. Anyway we selected one and stayed. It was 6 P.M. then and we felt very tired and worn out by the weird journey undertaken for long 8 hours by bus through the winding ghats. We had no patience to come out of the boathouse to cast a glance at the landscape and the most talked about Dal lake and preferred to take rest for the night after taking a simple dinner.
Next morning after getting up from bed we felt relaxed and came out of the room to have a look at Dal lake and the city on its other bank. We found the beauty of city that we had heard from friends who visited Kashmir a decade ago and its glamour as seen in Hindi films - all that was now cloaked in an eerie silence. Boat houses lined up along the tranquil waters of Dal Lake projecting a vacant facade as a testament to the toll of unrest. The street which would have been filled with vehicles had turned into a desolate track.
(An image of Dal lake with one service boat only – deserted look for obvious reasons as a reality during our visit)
(An image of Dal lake with boats full of visitors earlier.)
Out of curiosity I came to the desk of the hotel owner to know the facts. The owner said, “Sorry sir! These days nobody is coming to Kashmir and this situation is continuing for last two years. Not only my boat house but all the boat houses are lying vacant. We have removed all staff and we owners are just looking after the hotel as watch guards. If you look at the other bank of the lake there are hundreds of big hotels but all the hotels are now occupied by either CRPF or the Indian army. Kashmir is now deserted for non-arrival of a single visitor. We have lost our business and have no income now. I am lucky that you have so kindly chosen my boat house. Thank you very much sir.”
(Images of boat houses lined up along the bank of Dal lake)
Then I asked “Why not all of you join to raise a voice before the local administration to normalise the situation?”
He promptly replied, “None of us have guts to open our mouth lest death will be the reward. Please do not ask anything about this to anybody as long as you are here. I have been asked by my Jammu associate to take full care of your travel and stay. Please tell me where you want to go for sightseeing and at what time so that I can make necessary arrangements.”
Though I read in newspapers about the burning situation in Kashmir I did not visualise it to be so bad. Anyway, I said, “Today after breakfast we will go to the other bank of the lake and walk around in the market area for some shopping. From tomorrow we will tell you where to go.”
At this the hotel owner said, “Sir, if you are going to market area on foot, please do not ask anything about this situation to anybody. There are people to watch your movement. So please be careful” I said “Okay, please arrange our breakfast within half an hour.”
After breakfast we came to the ferry point on the boat house where a boat was waiting as per instruction of the hotel owner. We were taken to the other bank of lake opposite the boat house. Then we walked on to the local market on foot just after crossing the main road. Market was not so busy and we saw different items not available in our area but we could not buy as the cost was very high. Then my wife said, “Why not go to find out where does my nephew stay, (her brother’s son) who was working in CRPF and posted in Srinagar?” So I said, “Let us go to a CRPF camp here and inquire.”
Then we went to CRPF camp near the market and inquired about our nephew but he was on leave at that time, so we came back to the hotel. That day in the afternoon as we came to watch the lake standing on balcony of the boat house, we saw the lake was full of aqua-weeds and was not at all clean. On seeing us two boatmen came near us and requested us to go for Shikara (means boating). We did not agree as we saw not a single boat was floating anywhere in the lake. We did not even imagine that the Dal lake that we saw in the film Kashmir Ki Kali has been converted to a cursed lake with not a single boat. Entire lake was full of weeds looking like an unmowed lawn. We came in to the hotel and retired to sleep after taking a light dinner.
At the dead of night when I was fast asleep my wife woke me up and in a suppressed tone she said, some people are talking near our room. I got up and without switching on the light I came near a window to see through the panes. I could clearly see in the moonlit night that two well built bearded persons were smoking and talking in their language standing beside the window of our room. I could not guess what could be the matter and I also could not gather courage to open the door and confront them. So I asked my wife to come back to bed silently and sleep.
After some time those people left the place and then we slept. Next day morning while coming to the breakfast table I informed everything about those strangers to the hotel owner. The hotel owner said, “Sa’ab, did you go to CRPF Camp yesterday? They came here to check, what for you have come to Kashmir and why did you go to CRPF camp. Last night they watched your movements and when they found nothing they left early in the morning. Please do not go to CRPF or police camps as long as you are here, otherwise we shall not be able to protect you.”
After a quick breakfast we crossed Dal lake and came to the local market and roamed around for some time. Then we returned to the boat house and asked the owner to arrange our journey to Gulmarg and Mughal garden. The hotel owner said, “To Gulmarg and back it wiil be a full day trip and it will cost Rs.1500/- against the actual price of Rs.500/-, If you agree, I shall arrange the taxi for safe visit.”
I just asked him why price is trippled? He replied, “Rs.500/- is for our rent and out of remaining Rs.1000/- Rs. 500/- each to be given to two other parties for your safe journey.”
Without uttering a word I paid R.1500/- to him and a taxi came immediately to the road on the other bank of the lake. We crossed the lake hurriedly and occupied the taxi. The taxi driver cautioned us not to speak anything about Kashmir when you reach Gulmarg. He also cautioned us not to take photographs anywhere. If somebody noticed taking photo, you may face a serious problem. Taxi started on its way to Gulmarg,
O God! I was surprised to see that all along the road military Jawans were standing in every 100 feet distance from one another with sten guns in hand. On the way two check gates came but no police officer stopped and checked our car. It was a journey of only 56 kilometers from our boathouse and we reached Gulmarg safe. The cab driver told us, “As you get down from taxi some guides will approach you to take you to the top of Gulmarg by pony. But please avoid the same and go by gondola cable car. The car station is just 100 meters away from the taxi stand where you can easily go by walk. I shall be waiting here until your return.”
Gosh! Suddenly four to five ponnywalas gathered around us and tried to persuade us to hire their ponny for a ride to Gulmarg assuring that they will show us every point on the top. Somehow with a great difficulty I bade them good bye and proceeded towards the cable car station. On the way we did not find a single visitor from any other state of our country except some school children from local schools in Shrinagar getting down from their school buses. Anyway thinking all is well we booked the tickets in the station and saw a car waiting on the platform. Soon we entered and locked the door and the operator switched on. It was indeed a wonderful experience to fly close on the hills and dales also the tall pine trees on the hills unlike the aeroplanes. After about 10 minutes of flying we landed on a portal on the valley of Gulmarg and got down. There was none to guide us so that we could not know where to go and what to see but we started walking on the vast expanse of valley of grass as if covered with a green carpet.
Walking about 100 meters, we saw some shepherds with a herd of sheep on the valley. We came near them and asked them “why there is not a single visitor and the entire valley is vacant?” The sephard replied, “Sa’ab! For last two years nobody comes here except school children of Srinagar who visit occasionally. Earlier so many people used to come here. Some were coming on ropeway as you have come and some others by pony. Earlier there was cinema shooting. Now it is just a story. There were several hawkers for selling fruits, and snacks. Now all have stopped coming here. People have lost their business and all are unemployed now.”
I asked them, “What is there to see here except this green valley.” They said, “Sa’ab! You see that side from where Pakistani soldiers started firing on local soldiers here in 1965. After that war nothing serious has happened. In winter season there is huge snow fall here. Many people used to come here to enjoy in the past. From Bombay and other places teams came here for shooting films. Now everything has stopped.”
Then we lay down on the green grass for quite some time to watch the sunny sky not so hot and looked at the tall mountains and pine trees kissing the sky at yonder. At about 2 P.M. we thought of coming back as no other visitor arrived there until then. We came to the cable car station and saw one cab is standing on the platform. We boarded and it started running automatically.
We came a long way down the valley by gondola but suddenly it stopped on the way. At first we thought of power failure might be the cause of break but it continued for about half an hour. We became nervous. We were just hanging in the mid air much above the valley and there was no scope for us to contact anybody or pass any signal. When all doors are shut we thought God’s door is always open; so we started praying to God. By His grace soon we felt a big jerk and then the car rolled down with a greater speed than before. After about four minutes of run we landed on the platform in ground station. We came out safe and heaved a sigh of big relief. It was 3 P.M. then. We were feeling hungry but there was no hotel or restaurant nearby. We frantically searched for some fruits at least. Luckily a roadside vendor was carrying a basketful of apples. Quickly we bought some and ate. Then we came near our taxi. The driver on seeing us said, “Sa’ab, you came back so early. You could have waited to see the exquisite sunset - how the sun like a large fire ball sinks behind the hills.” I said let us go back to hotel and we left.
On the way we saw orchards full of apple and walnut trees with fruits hanging. I told the driver to stop the car near one orchard so that we can have a look. As the cab stopped near a big orchard we entered and requested a man standing there to show us the fruit trees in the orchard. He was damn pleased and led us to the middle of orchard and showed us number of apple trees grown in rows and several walnut trees on another large plot. We saw green, brown, yellow and red coloured apples hanging allaround. I asked him can I take some. He said, “Sa’ab, you may eat as many as you can but you cannot take any.”
(An image of apple orchard near Gulmarg Kashmir)
We kept plucking the apples of different colour from the trees and ate to our heart’s content. How sweet the apples were, unlike the ones we buy here from the market in Bhubaneswar! Walnuts were not ripe; so we did not pluck any. On the way we saw some women carrying loads of dried wood and branches on their head may be for fuel. We were surprised to see them to be so beautiful even more beautiful than cutest ladies in our cities. I understood why people were saying in my place that Kashmiri girls are like angels. I also remembered Saira Banu who played the lead role in the film Junglee opposite Shammi Kapoor shot on the snows at Gulmarg only. That is why Kashmiri women are so beautiful. We reached boathouse at 5 P.M. and relaxed.
Just after half an hour of our return when we were standing on the balcony to watch Dal lake and the long road stretching barren along the other bank of the lake, all on a sudden we heard a thundering sound and we saw a CRPF jeep was blown off by a bomb blast. The jeep was blown into parts and lay scattered. It was so horrible that we were frightened and quickly entering into our room we closed the door and windows and sat quiet on our bed. After fifteen minutes I came out to ask about the accident to the hotel owner who said it was not an accident but the other party has knowingly blasted a CRPF van carrying goods for jawans. Luckily you have come back before it happened.
I was totally spellbound and decided to cancel our programme of visiting Moghul Garden and Pahelgaon. I requested the hotel owner to arrange our departure next day morning to airport so that we catch the first flight to Delhi at any cost. He said okay and I came back to my room where my wife was trembling with fear. That night was a never-ending night for us. We could not sleep for the whole night and eagerly waited for the sun to rise so that we say a god bye to Kashmir.
Towards last part of the night we fell asleep and when we got up it was 8 A.M. then. Hurriedly we got refreshed and came to the dining for breakfast and departure to airport. We had no mind in eating something but we took some loafs of bread and quickly prepared for departure. The hotel owner briefed us about checks on the way and after clearing his dues we crossed the lake to board the taxi waiting for us on the other bank of the Dal-lake. Taxi whisked fast for he was happy to get his full fare which was three times the original. On the way there were three check gates where police and military checked us thoroughly and we were let go. On reaching the airport hurriedly I booked flight ticket to Delhi by Air India which was to depart just after one and half hours. In the airport there was strict checkings at all level mostly by military. Luckily a military captain guessed us to be from Odisha and inquired about us. When we gave him our identity, he assured us of our safe return to Delhi and said that he was also from my city, Bhubaneswar and said that he will inform all his counterparts deployed at different points for our safe exit. It happened like that, we just showed our ID cards to checking officers who allowed us without any scrutiny.
This was an audacious trip to Kashmir. I saw Kashmir in the film Junglee in 1961 as a college student and harboured a desire in mind that if I could see Kashmir physically and enjoy rolling on the snow as Shammi Kapoor did in that film. But this also remained a dream. How could there be snowfall in June, a wrong time for me to visit Kashmir!
As we boarded the plane back to Delhi, Kashmir faded into the horizon, a bitter-sweet memory etched in our minds forever. Our audacious adventure had come to an end, leaving behind a tapestry of experiences that would stay with us for lifetime. Our journey had been a testament to the resilience of human spirit in the face of adversity.
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. He is neither a poet nor a writer but by default he likes to write articles on human behaviour and conduct in a society, on social order, education, science, politics, religion and sometimes short stories. Of late after withdrawal of blogging portal of Sulekha.com he was introduced to this platform by one of his Sulekha Blogger friends, Sri T. V. Sreekuamar and being inspired by Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi, the Chief editor of this literary vibes, started posting articles for last few months. Once, Dr. Sarangi advised him why not post some of his life experiences including travelogue. So he has come out with this piece, to begin with.
A saree and a hat? "How can both go together?" asked my friend, looking at me in consternation. "Why not?" I retorted. "When you can have bobbed hair and wear a saree, which is also a combination of the West and the South, what is wrong with this combination?" I wanted to know.
She was not convinced and went on, "Why can't you carry an umbrella to protect you from the scorching sun? In fact, it has a larger sweep than a mere hat."
She certainly had a point there, because the hats that are available here are mere sports caps, fit to be worn only by boys. They barely cover the head, leaving most of it exposed to sun and rain. But I am proud of my hat and it is the envy of many people.
The cabbie who dropped us at our hotel from the Sydney Harbour Bridge after our cruise had eyed it for, a long time and said while leaving, "Madam, where did you get such a lovely hat? I envy you for it." After that, I became even more possessive of my hat.
I had bought the blue cloth hat while visiting a wildlife sanctuary on the Gold Coast. In fact, I was forced to buy it, paying a fortune, because it had suddenly started raining and we hadn't completed seeing the kangaroos and the koalas. I debated between buying a hat and an umbrella and decided on the former and have never regretted my decision. I soon found my hat doubled for an umbrella as well, with its wide rim with which I could cover my ears and prevent catching a cold.
I find my hat most useful in Chennai, as it protects me from the heat when I run on errands. Even on a windy day it stays in place if I tie the knot under my chin, unlike an umbrella which is difficult to manage in heavy wind and could be blown away or come in the way of people walking in front of you who then turn round and give you a dirty stare.
You can save yourself from so much embarrassment and unpleasantness by wearing a hat in sun and rain and feel so much more comfortable, provided you are unmindful of the stares and comments of the onlookers.
Hats off to my blue cloth hat. May the tribe of the wearers increase. One last word: I would request the manufacturers/makers of hats to design utility hats with women wearers in mind. I can assure them their clientele will increase in no time.
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.
NEST BUILDERS & THE EGG-RAIDERS
Till the end of the last millennium, my village environment was teemed with biodiversity. Baya weaver birds used to be a common sight as there were endless paddy-fields; mongooses and quails and spotted doves and water-hens were spotted abundantly; nights used to be filled with the sounds of hooting of the big owls and howling of the jackals. The last decade of the preceding millennium and the first decade of this millennium marked a catastrophic shift in the symbiotic relationship between humans and the non-human beings that depended our surrounds for survival.
The new millennium was ushered in by the appearance of the earthmover called JCB. The undeclared war the humans have begun against the natural world with the JCB at the vanguard is still going on relentlessly and many species of the non-human beings were deprived of their habitats and disappeared forever. Weaver birds are nowhere to be seen today as there are no paddy-fields; hooting of the owls and howling of the jackals have ceased to be heard. Mongooses, spotted doves, quails and water-hens are scarcely seen.
As the natural world of trees and plants and thickets around us is continuously being pushed into extinction, I have noticed the survival tactics of some birds, especially the insectivorous ones. Tailor birds, sunbirds, jungle babblers and bulbuls started building their nests in the trees and plants around our home as my wife and I assiduously protect all kinds of trees and plants in our home compound. Two years ago a pair of sunbirds built their nest in one of the ashoka (saraca asoca) trees near the compound wall and brought up their chicks; last year a pair of tailor birds built their nest, by stitching together the two edges of a leaf of the young badam tree in front of the home, laid two eggs and brought up the chicks.
Recently, when a pair of red-whiskered bulbuls were seen lingering in the plant whose branches are touching the sunshade of the kitchen, I felt they were searching for an ideal place to build their nest. I told my wife that the bulbuls might build their nest in our home and we could witness the birth of two or three bulbul chicks. The birds found a suitable place and finished the nest-work within three days. The nest was built by both the male and female birds working together. Within a week the female bird laid two eggs and started brooding. Except for a short time in the morning and evening when she goes out for food, the eggs were always under the bird. From the terrace of the first floor, we could see the nest and eggs clearly and once I wondered whether something bad would happen to the eggs when the mother bird was not in the nest.
Within one week of starting the incubation, the mishap happened as I feared. One morning, my wife noticed the unceasing cries of the bird and told me: "The bulbul is flying all around as if she is searching for something. It seems her eggs are missing." I rushed to the terrace and was crestfallen to see the empty nest! What might have happened to the eggs? My wife said that she saw the squirrels running through the branches of the nest-bearing plant and averred: "They are the culprits. They must have raided the nest, broken the eggs and eaten the contents." And to prove her presumption, she searched under the plant and found the broken shells of the little eggs.
"You, bloody, nasty squirrels," she was too furious to control herself, "nothing will be given to you henceforth." We used to put bananas on the compound wall near the kitchen for the squirrels and my wife decided not to feed them further. I don't believe they are the nest-raiders; if they are, it may be the way of Nature. But depriving the non-human beings around us of their habitats and their right to live by our destructive activities in the name of development is certainly not the way of Nature.
The author who hails from Palakkad district of Kerala has completed his post graduation from JNU (Jawaharlal Nehru University), New Delhi. His articles on gender, environmental and other socio-political issues are published in The Hindu, The New Indian Express, The Hans India and the current affairs weekly Mainstream etc. His writings focus on the serenity of Nature and he writes against the Environmental destruction the humans are perpetrating in the name of development that brings climate catastrophes and ecological disasters like the 2015 Chennai floods and the floods Kerala witnessed in 2018 August and 2019 August. A collection of his published articles titled Leaves torn out of life: Woman the real spine of the home and other articles was published in 2019. He is a person of great literary talent and esoteric taste. One of his articles (Where have all the birds gone?) published in The Hindu is included in the Class XII English textbook in Maharashtra by the Maharashtra State Board of Secondary and Higher Secondary Education.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A REVOLUTION AND THE SYMBOLIC ROLE OF FLOWERS.
The revolution we are talking of here happened fifty years ago in Portugal known as the Carnation Revolution. April 25, 1974 is that red letter day which not only marked freedom for its people, but freedom for the people of its colonies, ending the Portugal’s colonial empire too.
The Carnation revolution was named after the carnations (a type of flower in Portugal) which were placed in the muzzle of the guns and uniforms of the solders as appreciation of their roles during the uprising. It was a bloodless coup led by the young military officers that resulted in the overthrow of the Estado Novo regime, a dictatorial government that had been in power since 1933 in Portugal. There were economic issues that had pinched the people. Portugal was one of the poorest countries Of Europe at that time due to its colonial rule in many parts of the world. That the desire for democracy among the common people were at the heart of this revolution. The Carnation Revolution’s commitment to ending colonialism can be seen as part of the same historical wave that had influenced Goa’s liberation in 1961. Although Goa was liberated more than a decade earlier, the Carnation revolution, one may say, had reinforced the global trend towards decolonization and self-determination.
We will recall that on December 19, 1961, India annexed Goa in a swift military operation, after years of diplomatic efforts to secure its independence from Portugal had failed. Though the Government of India under Nehru had been trying all possible diplomatic and peaceful means to see Portugal’ s withdrawal from Goa, the dictator of Portugal, Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, was too adamant to yield. In fact, he had gone a step further to declare the India territories were not colonies, but overseas provinces, integral parts of ‘metropolitan Portugal’. Portugal by this time had joined the NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation), and Salazar demanded that any military action by India be met with a NATO response.
Coming back to the Carnation Revolution, three African countries that got Independence for this revolution were Angola, Mozambique, and Guinea-Bissau. Portuguese rule in Africa was characterized by the exploitation of African people and resources. Decolonization after World War II had put immense pressure on countries like Portugal who were colonial powers to grant independence to their colonies. Portugal’s conflicts with its colony led to high financial loss. The sheer cost of the bloody colonial war that Portugal’s government insisted on fighting from 1961 – principally in its colonies mentioned above – took its toll. By the eve of the revolution 13 years later, nearly 40% of the national budget was spent on fighting the war, and nearly every family was impacted, with a brother, son, father, uncle or cousin conscripted.
Especially young military officers were unhappy and dissatisfied for the unpopular wars and unnecessary shedding of bloods in foreign soils. They rightly felt that this was draining the country ‘s resources. The young officers were the flag bearers of this revolution. With them University students and intellectuals were at the forefront of opposition to the regime, organizing protests.
This Carnation Revolution in Portugal marked a pivotal moment in the nation’s history. On this transformative day, the Salazar dictatorship not only came to an end, but as already stated, five centuries of colonization. Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, the Portuguese dictator, had passed away earlier, in 1970. His regime, known as Estado Novo, had endured for over four decades, leaving an indelible impact on the country—a symbol of oppression, inequality, and unfreedom.
The Carnation Revolution, characterized by its peaceful uprising, liberated Portugal from tyranny and set the stage for a new era of freedom and change, paving the way for Portugal’s transition to democracy. It was a turning point that resonated deeply with the people, forever altering the course of their nation’s destiny. To this day, April 25 is celebrated as a national holiday in Portugal as Freedom Day. Following the Carnation Revolution, the carnation was officially declared Portugal’s national flower in 1974.
The name “Carnation Revolution” itself comes from the fact that almost no shots were fired during the uprising. When the population took to the streets to celebrate the end of the dictatorship, the simple carnations offered by a restaurant worker, Celeste Caeiro, became a powerful symbol of hope and change. To this day, the red carnation remains ingrained in national celebrations, memorials, and daily life. So yes, the carnation is not only a flower but also a living emblem of Portugal’s remarkable journey toward liberty.
This year tens of thousands of people marched on the streets of Lisbon on the Freedom Day carrying Carnations, waving national flags and shouting: “April 25 – Always. Fascism Never Again! “ .
In the spirit of those carnations, may hope and freedom continue to bloom.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
TRIBUTE TO LITERARY LEGEND KALIDASA’S MEGHADUTA
As the first rains of southwest monsoon lash on our land, we are reminded of the great lyrical poem “Meghad?ta” or “Meghdootam” – un unforgettable masterpiece by the great literary legend Kalidasa.
A lyrical poem is one in which personal feelings and emotions are expressed, usually in first person. (The concept of lyric poem emerged from ancient Greek literature where Greek lyric poetry existed. In this form of poetry, a poem was defined by the type of instrument that accompanied the recitation of that poem. In some other article, I will write about these similarities in ancient cultures and literatures).
This monsoon, I thought of paying my tribute to the immortal all time legend Kalidasa. So much to write about him and his works. It is not possible to write in one post. So, here I will write about his creation “Meghaduta” or “Cloud Messenger”.
Now, let me compose a poem about the story of Meghaduta.
Comes the rain-bearing cloud,
A lovelorn lover calls out loud,
From Ramgiri to Alaka, to go.
To his lovelorn beloved, lo!
To carry his love message
In exile, his only assuage!
Which way do the clouds go?
That too the poet shows!
Crossing vales and over mountains,
with peacocks and flowing fountains.
A description, vivid and imaginative,
fabulous, fantastic, and fascinating!
Well, that’s what the lyric poem ‘Meghaduta’, composed by Kalidasa, is about. This is his most famous work. The poem is divided into two parts: - ‘Purva-Megha’ and ‘Uttara-Megha’.
Kalidasa, considered to be the greatest Indian poet of any epoch, is believed to have been one of the nine gems that adorned the court of Vikramaditya (King Chandragupta II, reigned c.375/380- c.414/415). There is, however, controversy over the exact dates and it is believed that Kalidasa lived sometime in the 4th, 5th or according to some schools, may be in the sixth century.
This lyric poem Meghaduta has 120 stanzas each comprising four lines. It is set in ‘mandãkrãnta” meter which imparts a lyrical sweetness. This meter was founded by Kalidasa. In Sanskrit, mandãkrãnta means "slow stepping" or "slowly advancing". This slow advancement thus increases the sense of longing that the poet wanted to convey in this majestic work of his!
As the monsoon cloud makes it way, to satiate the scorched earth, a lovelorn heart would long to be with his beloved!
Yaksha, who was a servant of the God Kuber(God of wealth), had allowed God Indra’s elephant to invade Kuber’s garden. Thus, he was exiled away in the solitude of Mount Ramgiri as a punishment by his master.
(Yaksas are the nature spirits or deities of nature in charge of water, sky, etc. They are found in Hindu, Jain and Buddhist Literature and as guardian deities of ancient and medieval era temples of South Asia and Southeast Asia.)
Eight months had already passed when the south-west monsoon begins its northward journey. Yaksha could hardly bear this separation from his beloved wife any longer. He thus invokes the cloud to be his messenger to her.
The genre of this lyric poem is that of ‘Sandesha Kavya’ or ‘messenger poem’ where some natural element is invoked to carry the “sandesa” or “message”.
Kalidasa’s works are in allegorical style referring to many contemporary works and tales (philosophical and mythological). Thus, exact translations are hard to find, but the meaning is conveyed in some of the interpretations of his works found on the internet and in other texts.
Here are the lines of Meghaduta from one such interpretation:
“A certain `yaksha` who had been negligent in the execution of his own duties, deprived of his powers on account of a curse from his master which was to be endured for a year
and which was onerous as it separated him from his beloved, made his residence among the hermitages of Ramagiri, whose waters were blessed by the bathing of the daughter of Janaka [Sita] and whose shade trees grew in profusion”
Meghaduta then speaks about Yaksha’s seeing a cloud:
“That lover, separated from his beloved, whose gold armlet had slipped from his bare forearm, having dwelt on that mountain for some months,
on the first day of the month of Asadha, saw a cloud embracing the summit, which resembled a mature elephant playfully butting a bank.”
Kalidasa thus visualized images formed in clouds which he described with superb metaphors, allegories, comparisons etc.
Meghaduta continues:
“Managing with difficulty to stand up in front of that cloud which was the cause of the renewal of his enthusiasm, that attendant of the king of kings, pondered while holding back his tears.
Even the mind of a happy person is excited at the sight of a cloud. How much more so, when the one who longs to cling to his neck is far away?”
Kuber, fortunately heard this prayer and remitted the rest of his exile (about four months) and thus Yaksha could again unite with his wife.
On its way to the city of Alakã, on Mount Kailash (Himalayas), where Yaksha’s wife lived, the cloud would traverse through a beautiful land, whose fabulous description forms the main essence of the lyric poem.
Mr. Horace Hayman Wilson was the first to translate Kalidasa into English in the year 1813. An excerpt from his translation:
“Pleased on each terrace dancing with delight
The friendly peacock hails thy grateful flight:
Delay then, certain in Ujjain to find
All that restores the frame or cheers the mind,
Hence with new zeal to Siva homage pay,
The God whom earth, and hell, and heaven obey:
For at his shoulders like a dusky robe,
Mantling impends thy vast and shadowy globe:
Where ample forests, stretched its skirts below,
Projecting trees like dangling limbs bestow:
And vermeil roses fiercely blooming shed
Their rich reflected glow, their blood-resembling red.”
As I always say, translations can hardly do justice to the original text. Besides, the number of syllables in the original Sanskrit line is almost double than in the meter adopted for this translation.
Apart from the imagery sketched of mountains, valleys, forests, landmarks, Meghaduta also brings out the emotions of Yaksha in imaginary dialogues between Yaksha and the cloud.
Meghaduta has also been an inspiration for many works of art and literature. Plays and programmes have been staged ever since based on this fascinating all-time work of Kalidasa.
King looking at a cloud in a night sky.
Meghad?ta illustration.
Guler School of Pahari painting, c. 1800.
Lahore Museum
Deepa Mehta’s film ‘Water’ quotes an excerpt from Meghaduta. Gustav Holst’s ‘The Cloud Messenger’ Op 30, (1909-1910) was inspired by this great lyric poem.
Meghaduta Illustration
On stamp of India.
The first lines of the poem are written on the stamp.
So as the sweet music of the first rains keep ringing in our ears, its Kalidasa’s Meghaduta that keeps coming back and back, traversing across the boundaries of eternity, just as the waves of the south-west monsoonal winds traverse through boundaries to drench our hearts with loving melodies of the pitter patter outside.
Greeting you all Happy Monsoons.
May you all rejoice and rejuvenate with the resplendence of the rains!
Source: The Great Authors and Poets of India by Crest Publishing House
The Internet (All photos are from the internet and I have no right to these)
All information and quotes are from books and internet only – to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved, except for the quotations, translations, images and words of Kalidasa, etc. that are taken from the internet (Disclaimer).
No part of this article can be used or reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.
The poem at the beginning, about Meghaduta was composed by me.
Note after article “Tribute to Literary Legend Kalidasa’s Meghaduta”
Source: The Great Authors and Poets of India by Crest Publishing House
The Internet (All photos are from the internet and I have no right to these)
All information and quotes are from books and internet only – to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved, except for the quotations, translations, images, and words of Kalidasa and the pictures that are taken from the internet (Disclaimer).
No part of this article can be used or reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.
The poem at the beginning, about Meghaduta was composed by me.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
The Manager looked at Shubham sternly,
"What nonsense! Who asks for leave for a mere headache? Just gulp a couple of aspirins, it will go away. If you leave who will attend to the customers? You are in charge of deposits. You want the bank to lose deposits just because you have a headache?"
Shubham panicked. Was the old man going to be difficult? He didn't know, because he had never asked for leave earlier. But today was special. He had to be at home.
He tried his best to look sick and suffering,
"It's not a mere headache sir, my head feels like splitting. I suspect something is terribly wrong. I will stop on the way at a clinic and consult a doctor. Believe me sir, I like to sit in the bank rather than waste my time at my apartment, doing nothing."
The wily old man, a veteran of many such battles in his thirty six years' career, pounced on him,
"Sit in the bank? What do you mean, sit in the bank? You come here to sit? We pay you thousands every month to merely sit in the bank?"
Shubham cursed himself, what a bloody slip of tongue! He felt nervous,
"No, no, sir, sorry sir. I like to chat with...."
He looked at the old man's face hardening and corrected himself,
"I like to interact with the customers and persuade them to put their deposits in the bank. I try to convince them their money is safe in our hands…. Ah, the headache is becoming unbearable. Can I sit and have a glass of water, sir?"
His theatrics had some effect on the Manager, who ordered the peon outside to fetch a glass of water for Shubham, but continued to shake his head,
"Who can believe you have a headache, you are not even married!"
Suddenly he became nostalgic,
"When I was young and newly married I used to get these headaches. My shy, young wife would be waiting for me at home. I would go to the Branch Manager, a young Probationary Officer and ask for permission to leave early. A smart man with an understanding heart, he would smile and say, ‘ok, only once a week. Don't make it a habit’. Hehehe.., he didn't know I used to slip away on the afternoons he went home to apply balm for his headache!"
Shubham wondered whether his being a bachelor would rob him of a half day's leave. The manager continued,
"Just go and relax for an hour in the lunch room and then return to your seat."
Shubham panicked,
"No sir, please sir, it is beyond a mere relaxing. If something serious happens to me I will have to take a week off. That will be even more risky for the bank."
The old man finally relented with the grace of someone whose tooth had just been extracted,
"Ok, ok, but you have to take a full day's leave, since you are going away in the forenoon itself."
Shubham winced within, but forced a smile on his face, thanked the boss and left.
He came out, got on to his motorbike and lighted a cigarette. Ah, the outside world looked so different on a working day. There was a rare pleasure in running away from the office, a feeling he had not known earlier. The day looked brighter, people all around seemed happier. A few steps from where he was, an old man was holding a piece of paper and peering at the names of the shops in the street. Shubham felt like running to him and help in locating what he was looking for. Before he could decide, his attention was drawn to a group of girls giggling and hurrying towards the corner where a movie hall would soon commence the noon show. Shubham smiled to himself, must be college girls who had bunked classes.
He sat up with a jolt. Girls! He suddenly remembered his mission. And felt excited. Would he catch Amaresh, his flat-mate, with his girl today? Red handed? "In fragrante delicto - in the act"? The rascal had been playing tricks with him for the last four weeks. Today Shubham would expose him. The fellow had no way of escaping.
Shubham started moving towards his apartment. It was a little away from the centre of the town. He was sharing it with Amaresh, a lecturer of Philosophy in the local college. There were four units in the building. The owner occupied the whole ground floor and two apartments in the first floor were rented out. Amaresh, true to his profession, was a philosopher by temperament. Reading fat books, speculating on life, religion and God all the time. Talked of Bertrand Russell, Kafka and Nietzsche like they were his friends from the school days. Reticent in nature, it was easy to provoke him. Just tell him God is partial to the rich, he would start a lecture on Advaitabad and the philosophy of Karma. He had no friends in the college or outside, but he had no regrets either. He was happy with his books, the newspaper and the many magazines which came from within the country and abroad.
And so Shubham was shocked to think that Amaresh was using the apartment to bring his girlfriend there during the day. It all started four weeks back when Shubham returned to the apartment in the evening and found a faint smell of perfume hanging in the air. He was puzzled. Ladies' perfume? Sweet Passion? Yes, it was Sweet Passion. How did it enter the bachelors' apartment? During dinner he asked Amaresh tentatively,
"Amar, don't you think there is a new zing in the air today? Something like a mild intoxication?"
Amaresh lifted his head from the fish curry, and looked blankly at Shubham. He went back to eating. Shubham continued,
"Even the fish curry is tastier, isn't something different?"
Amaresh ignored him and opened a magazine while eating. Shubham got upset. He looked closely at his friend. Was Amaresh the cause for the lingering smell of the perfume? Did he come to the apartment during the day? And....and....did he bring a girl with him? Amaresh, the nonchalant philosopher! Bringing a girl to the apartment during the day?
Somehow Shubham was not convinced of such a possibility. The chap was so dry, once he had seen the framed photograph of Raj Kapoor and Nargis in Shubham's room and asked if it was the picture of his grandparents! Which girl would fall for such a joker?
Yet Shubham knew he had made no mistake about the perfume. Nothing happened for a week. Next Wednesday when he returned from office the sweet, maddening fragrance seized him and shook him up. Ah, again Amaresh had brought his girlfriend to the apartment during the day! The innocent philosopher turned out to be quite a Romeo! Either it was a student or a lady colleague who also had off hours on Wednesday and accompanied Amaresh to the apartment.
Shubham confronted him the moment he returned from college,
"Amar, do you detect a faint smell of perfume in the air?"
Amaresh, the philosopher, sniffed the air slowly, in the most irritating way. Then, as if nothing registered in his mind, he shook his head and walked away to his room.
Shubham almost burst in anger. The hypocrite - he pretended as if there was no trace of perfume in air! He thought of going to Amaresh, catch him by the neck and shake him up till he confessed. But it was too early to force the issue.
Again the next Wednesday the lingering smell of perfume in the apartment hit him the moment Shubham entered the apartment. At dinner he asked Amaresh,
"Amar, today again the smell of the perfume hangs in the air. What's going on?"
"Perfume? What perfume?”
"Ladies' perfume. It hangs lightly, but is unmistakable."
"Are you sure it is not the smell of the deodorant you use?"
Shubham felt like laughing. And giving a slap to Amaresh. What an idiot! Amaresh thought he would not know the difference between the smell of a deodorant and a ladies’ perfume?
Did anyone know about ladies' perfume better than Shubham? Ah, the lingering memory of perfume! It still stirred his mind like an aching stab in the heart. The memory of a girl, slim and trim like a playful deer running down the steps of the building and leaving behind the trail of intoxicating perfume! He had found out its name from a shop in the market - Sweet Passion!
Shubham's mind went back to when he was fifteen. He used to be at home in the apartment preparing for his high school exam. As soon as his parents left for office in the morning, Shubham would run to the door, his eyes glued to the keyhole waiting for Madhavi Didi from upstairs rushing down to leave for her college. She was two years older to Shubham, but reigned in his heart like a queen of exquisite dreams. When she ran down the stairs in her yellow dress, her dupatta flying in the air, or in a white skirt and a red blouse, his heart would burst into a flame. From the door he would run every day to the balcony to see her get onto her scooty, kick the gate shut and fly away like a gust of wind. Shubham would open the door and inhale the fragrance of Sweet Passion, his heart aching with a melancholic love.
The next few hours would be spent waiting for Madhavi Didi to return, Shubham would be turning pages of the book without knowing what he was reading. By four he would be in the balcony looking for Madhavi Didi's scooty and then the frantic run to the door, the throbbing of the heart and the deep feeling of the fragrance. Ah, Madhavi Didi climbing the steps slowly like a model on a ramp, a soft song on her dainty lips, the key ring swinging in her slim finger like a girl on a dance floor.
Shubham would sigh; he had to wait for another day to see her again! The stunning image of Madhavi Didi would not leave his mind, nagging him like a throbbing pain. The evenings and the nights would be spent wondering why God made some girls so beautiful, why he filled the hearts of boys with so much love and how Shubham would like to fulfill his love for the sweet Madhavi Didi.
Shubham would have probably failed in his exam if it had gone on like this. But one evening his dream shattered when he had gone to the park. There, under the shadow of some tall bushes he saw Madhavi Didi in a tight embrace of a young man. Before Shubham could get over the shock, their faces got closer and the lips met. Shubham ran like a man possessed. When he reached home he was drenched in sweat, his heart beating violently as if he had seen a ghost.
But after a long time Shubham had a peaceful night of sleep. Next morning he did not rush to the door, nor to the balcony. Madhavi Didi remained a beautiful shadow in his mind like some model on the calendar on his wall. Only the faint fragrance of the perfume, seeping through the door reminded him when Madhavi Didi came down the stairs to leave for her college or returned in the evening. Shubham never visited the park again.
After ten years the memory of the perfume returned to haunt him. He had no doubt it was Sweet Passion - a popular ladies' perfume and Amaresh had brought someone to the apartment. He had no option now except catching Amaresh red-handed in the apartment. He controlled his anger, went to the balcony and smoked a cigarette. He decided to return from the bank during the day next Wednesday and surprise Amaresh and his partner.
Shubham looked at his watch. It was going to be noon in a few minutes. Mousi would have already left after finishing the day's work. She was a middle aged lady of around fifty five years who came every day after the two bachelors left for office. She cleaned the house and the utensils, cooked dinner for them and left it in the fridge. On Sundays and holidays she prepared breakfast and lunch. A widow, she looked upon the two young men like her sons, although she never had one of her own. The salary of six thousand rupees was a bonanza for her.
Shubham climbed the stairs with an eager heart. Would they be there - the lecherous professor and his demure sweetheart? Should he knock at their door or barge into the room, to catch them in the act?
Shubham opened the door with his key and stood spellbound for a moment. Ah, the sweet fragrance! Sweet Passion! So intoxicating, so captivating! So, they were already here! He tried to imagine how would Amaresh's sweetheart be? Slim, fair, shining eyes, curly hair and a small bindi on the forehead? An enchanting beauty? His heart started beating fast.
The sound of the lock opening reverberated in the main hall. Suddenly a face appeared from behind the door of Shubham's room and with an Oh, withdrew into it. The next moment a girl bolted out of the room and rushed to the kitchen.
Shubham's heart stopped for a second. A girl? In his room? What was she doing there? Was Amaresh also inside? Did the scoundrel use Shubham's room for …..? He was shocked!
The girl came out of the kitchen, with the missing dupatta appearing on her lemon green salwar kameez. She looked stunning. Shubham kept staring at her. She smiled, the hall suddenly got flooded with a rare glow - the walls, the doors and the windows got splashed with it. She folded her hands,
"Namaskar! You are Shubham babu naa?"
Shubham found his voice,
"Yes, but who are you? What were you doing in my room?"
He was about to add, aren't you supposed to be in the other room, with your partner? But looking at her, he somehow felt this innocent, smiling girl was too pure to be sullied with a slur.
The girl smiled again,
"I am Sunila, I was cleaning your room."
Shubham was stunned,
"Cleaning my room? Why?"
"I have given a day off to Mousi."
"Mousi? The lady who comes to work here? Are you her daughter?"
Sunila shook her head,
"No. I am her niece, her younger sister's daughter. I have been living with her since I was a child. My parents died in an accident fifteen years back. Mousi brought me here with her. She has no other child. My Mousa died two years back. After that she started working at your place."
"But why are you coming in her place?"
"After my B.A. exams were over, I started working in a call center and I have my weekly off every Wednesday. So I give Mousi rest for a day and work in her place. Yours is the only place she works. So it's not tough for me. She is quite fond of you. And also of Amaresh babu. But she likes you more because you talk with her on Sundays. Amaresh babu is the quiet type, isn't he?"
A cute, tantalizing smile hung from her dainty lips - she looked ravishing.
Shubham smiled back at her,
"I didn't know Mousi liked my talks. How about you? Do you like the quiet types or the talkative types?"
Sunila giggled,
"Oh, I like the talking types. I myself keep chattering all the time. Mousi often pulls me up, she thinks that I will be thrown out by my in-laws if I keep chattering non-stop."
Sunila suddenly got quiet, her face turned red with embarrassment, talking about the in-law's place. She got up and asked shyly,
"Should I make some coffee for you?"
Shubham was mesmerised by her shyness. He nodded,
"Yes, please make two cups. Both of us will have it".
Sunila hurried to the kitchen and started making coffee. She also cleaned up the kitchen. She had finished cooking. She went to Shubham's room to tidy up the bed and returned to the kitchen.
Shubham had felt like walking over to the kitchen and keep talking to Sunila. But he was not sure if she would like it. He sat there, his eyes closed, humming a song softly. He felt as if the sweetest songs of the world were queuing up on his lips, eager to come out and fill the room with an enchanting music.
Sunila brought the coffee and sat on the sofa opposite to Shubham.
They sipped their coffee. Shubham asked her,
"Don't you want to study further? How long have you been working in a call center?"
"Just a couple of months. I want to pursue an M.A. degree but I also have debts to repay".
"Debts? What debts?"
"I am heavily indebted to Mousi. She rescued me when I became an orphan at the age of five. She has brought me up with lots of love and affection. I don't want her to toil anymore. In fact I asked her to stop working here after I got the job in the call centre. But she has got attached to both of you. She has promised me she won't work anywhere else."
Shubham was happy to know Mousi liked him and Amaresh so much. He wished he could keep talking to Sunila. They had finished their coffee. She gathered the cups and went to the kitchen.
She came back.
"Ok, Shubham babu, let me leave."
Shubham's heart sank,
"So soon!"
She smiled again, one of those cute, dazzling smiles.
"I came two hours back. I have finished all the work. Mousi will be waiting for me to have lunch."
Shubham looked at her, his eyes glued to her lovely face. The faint fragrance of her perfume was making him euphoric.
"Since when are you using this perfume? It is Sweet Passion, isn’t it?
Sunila's eyes danced with joy,
"You like it? It's my favorite. Actually I started using it after working in the call center. It's a confined space with ten to twelve people sitting for hours. So one needs to use perfume. Now I have got used to it. How do you know its name? It's a ladies' perfume!"
Shubham smiled in a mysterious way,
"I have some experience with ladies' perfume."
She giggled, like the murmur of a running stream, sending Shubham's heart into rapture.
"O, quite a ladies' man, are you? Can I know the secret of your knowledge of perfume?"
Shubham sighed,
"It's a long story which goes back ten years. May be I will tell you some other time."
She started moving towards the door. Shubham felt a load of grief descending on his heart. He asked softly,
"Will you come next Wednesday?"
Sunila looked back. It seemed the giggle had not left her dazzling face.
"Only if you promise to tell me the story of the perfumed lady!"
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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