Literary Vibes - Edition CXLIII (26-Jul-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : The Distant Farm House (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
HOW DO SCRIPTS GET WRITTEN?
02) Ajaya Upadhyaya
A GLIMPSE OF DIVINITY
03) Dilip Mohapatra
AWARDOCALYPSE
04) Ishwar Pati
CHANCE ENCOUNTER ON A TRAIN
05) Snehaprava Das
LOVE UNDER THE SHADOW OF FLAMES
06) Usha Surya
THE INTERVIEW
07) Ashok Mishra
ONE NIGHT IN CHENNAI MAIL
08) Sreekumar T V
TATTOO TRUTH
09) Jay Jagdev
OUR OWN CONFESSION BOX
10) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
THE LOST ART OF READING: FROM DUSTY BOOKSHELVES TO DIGITAL SCREENS
11) Bankim Chandra Tola
REAL FRIEND
12) Sujata Dash
SOME QUIRKS SOME PUNCHES
13) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
AUNT PUTLI HAS HER WAY
LEARNING IN A HURRY
14) Satish Pashine
SYMPHONY OF RAIN: A TRIBUTE TO NATURE'S REFRESHING GIFT
MAIKU, YOUSUF, AND THE USED UMBRELLA
15) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
RANSOM
LOVE DUET
16) Braja K Sorkar
INDIAN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND JAYANTA MAHAPATRA- A BIRD’S EYE VIEW
17) Sukumaran C.V.
BATTLE OF THE BATS
18) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A HEALING STATESMAN
19) Sreechandra Banerjee
WORLDWIDE CELEBRATIONS OF RATHA YATRA
20) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE STALKER
A MAROONED BIRD
(A tour through a movie writer’s mind and work, with examples)
Stories often arrive from the most unexpected directions. Recently, I found myself chatting from a fake ID, one that depicted me in a dress. Believing me to be a woman, someone asked about my husband. I played along, claiming he was a fish merchant in Goa, currently imprisoned. When asked why, I said he had stabbed someone to death. The questioning continued, and I elaborated: my husband had caught me chatting with someone online and, with deceptive grace, invited the person to our home. Anticipating a confrontation, I eagerly awaited the encounter, hoping to end the pestering advances of my Facebook friend.
As expected, a fight broke out between him and my husband. My husband stabbed him in the heat of the moment. Although he hadn't intended to kill, the poor guy, a heart patient, bled to death in my kitchen. I was sentenced to a year of penitence, while my husband received five years. He is about to be released next week.
Our chat continued, and as the story unfolded, my current chatter developed cold feet, his forehead glistening with sweat. He abruptly ended the conversation. Amused, I took screenshots of our chat and posted them on Facebook, where they elicited a lot of laughs. Encouraged by the reaction, I played the same trick again, and then one more time. The third guy, a true naïf, fell for it completely.
When he decided to quit, I invited him home. He politely declined. So, I told him he had no choice. If he didn't come, I would lie to my husband, saying there was something between us, prompting my husband to go after him upon release. This placed him in a predicament: continue being my friend and risk eventual discovery by my husband, or cut ties and face immediate danger from my fabricated confession.
I relished the game and was about to reveal the prank when he, terrified, blocked me.
That same day, I realized there was a thriller story in this exchange. I began typing out the conversation as a narrative. As I wrote, new ideas came to mind, and I incorporated them all. I then used ChatGPT to polish it and translated it into Malayalam, much to my friends' delight.
Then, I had a brainwave: why not a movie script? I had written scripts before, some of which had never been made into films. This one, I thought, could be perfect for a low-budget short film.
So, I did that too.
Writng a move script is a skill we all need nowadays and our next generation needs it like the alphabet. So do we go about it? Here I am taking you down the assembly line of my mind.
What I am going to tell you is the world's easiest way to transwrite a story into a movie script.
Simple. Imagine that the movie is already made and you are in a theatre watching it. Now what do you see? What do you hear? Just take it down and your job is done/
Scene?
Whatever you can (but may not) shoot without lugging the camera around is called a scene. Dividing it into shots is not your headache unless you plan to direct it too. In that case you have to sit with the camera man, listen to every word he says and obey him blindly. That is all the credit he gets because what you guys write together is called the Directors's Cut. He is not mentioned there!
Just for now forget all that.
Each scene has four necessary specifications/
First, where does it happen indoors or exterior? Write IND or EXT and leave a dot. Now where does it happen, the locale? Write that too, preferably in capitals and then leave a dot. Now when does it happen, DAY?NIGHT? write that too.
Below this, list the characters one below the other.
Now the main body of the script should be centrally aligned, with the characters' name and suggestions for expression just about their dialogue.
Now your script is ready.
You may take a tour through my examples.
The premise ......
Me: But now he is in jail/
Arun: O God why?
Me: He stabbed a man to death/
Arun: WTF! Who and what, I mean why?
The story....... (first draft)
create a story out of this
On Messenger man chats with a woman. She decides to teach him a lesson and collects his address. When he asks her what her husband does for a living she tells him he is a fish monger who is in jail now for murder. He killed a man who had befriended her. She says that that man deserved to die because he was such a pest. When asked how her husband found it out she tells him that he had accessed her phone and made her invite home her friend. She feels no qualsm about having invited him and allowed her husband to do away with him. After all her husnad didn't intend to kill him. The man was a heart patient. That was whu her husnad was given only five years in jail. He is about to be released soon.
Now she invites the chatter to come home and be with her for a few days before the husband is released. The man develops a cold feet. This encourages her to take control of the situation. She insists that he should not leave her at all. If he leaves she is sure to lie to her husband about him and her husband may go after him. The man is now in a dilemma and he expresses that. He can't continue to chat with her lest her husband may find out and come for him. He cannot disobey her because she might tell whatever lie pleases her to the husband and again he may come after him.
Now she invites him to come and meet her at a hospital where she is getting help from a psychiatrist. Now the man realises that he is in real trouble. But he is at a loss. He can neither stay nor leave her. He decides to leave her. At this point her husband calls her and asks him why he has kidnapped his wife and where he has taken her. He cuts the phone and then he hears a knock at the door and when he opens he sees a woman drenched in rain standing there with a blood stained knife.
The story (polished)
Dark Webs
John logged onto Messenger as usual, his nightly habit. He was lonely and desperate for connection, so he struck up a conversation with a woman named Lisa. She was charming, witty, and flirtatious. It didn’t take long before their chats became a routine.
One evening, John asked Lisa about her husband. Her response was chilling.
“Oh, my husband? He’s a fishmonger. Currently in jail for murder. Killed a man who was pestering me. I don't mind. That man deserved it.”
John felt a shiver run down his spine. He hesitated but curiosity got the better of him. “How did your husband find out?”
“He accessed my phone, made me invite that friend over, and then dealt with him. Poor man had a heart condition, you see. My husband didn’t intend to kill him; it just happened. He got only five years. He’ll be out soon.”
The casualness of her words made John uneasy. She then invited him to her home, offering a few days together before her husband’s release. John felt a sense of dread creep up on him.
“I... I can’t,” he stammered.
“You must,” she insisted. “If you leave me now, I’ll tell my husband about us. He’ll come after you.”
John was trapped. He couldn’t keep chatting with her, but he couldn’t leave either. He confided in her about his fears.
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “Meet me at the hospital. I’m seeing a psychiatrist there. We can talk.”
Desperation gnawed at John. He knew he was in over his head, but he decided to cut ties and run. Before he could make his move, his phone rang. It was her husband.
“Why have you kidnapped my wife? Where have you taken her?”
John’s blood ran cold. He cut the call, heart pounding. Suddenly, there was a knock at his door. He opened it to find a woman, drenched in rain, holding a blood-stained knife.
In that instant, John realized his fate was sealed. He had stepped into a web far darker than he could have ever imagined, and now, there was no escape.
The Script (rough)
Title: Dark Webs
Genre: Thriller / Psychological Drama
EXT. CITYSCAPE - NIGHT
The camera glides through the dark, rain-soaked streets of a bustling city, illuminating neon signs and dimly lit alleyways. The scene transitions to a small apartment complex.
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
JOHN, a man in his mid-30s, sits at his cluttered desk, illuminated by the glow of his computer screen. He types on Messenger, his expression a mix of eagerness and loneliness.
COMPUTER SCREEN
John's chat with LISA.
LISA: How was your day, John?
JOHN: Same as usual. Work was boring. How about you?
LISA: Oh, you know, the usual. Just missing some company. ;)
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
John smiles, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He hesitates for a moment before typing.
COMPUTER SCREEN
JOHN: What does your husband do for a living?
LISA: He’s a fishmonger. Currently in jail for murder.
John's face pales as he reads the message.
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
John's hands tremble slightly as he types.
COMPUTER SCREEN
JOHN: Murder? What happened?
LISA: He killed a man who was pestering me. I don’t mind. That man deserved it.
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
John’s eyes widen. He wipes sweat from his brow, his breathing shallow.
COMPUTER SCREEN
JOHN: How did he find out?
LISA: He accessed my phone, made me invite that friend over, and then dealt with him. Poor man had a heart condition. My husband didn’t intend to kill him; it just happened. He got only five years. He’ll be out soon.
John leans back in his chair, horrified.
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
John stands up, pacing the room. He takes a deep breath and sits back down, typing nervously.
COMPUTER SCREEN
JOHN: I can’t come to your place, Lisa. This is too much.
LISA: You must. If you leave me now, I’ll tell my husband about us. He’ll come after you.
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
John’s face is a mask of fear. He rubs his temples, contemplating his next move. His phone rings, jolting him.
INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
John answers the phone, his voice shaking.
JOHN: Hello?
HUSBAND: Why have you kidnapped my wife? Where have you taken her?
John's face turns ashen. He stares at the phone in disbelief before hanging up abruptly.
INT. JOHN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
A knock at the door startles John. He moves cautiously toward the door, his heart pounding. He opens it to reveal a woman, drenched in rain, holding a blood-stained knife.
EXT. APARTMENT COMPLEX - NIGHT
The camera pulls back, revealing the ominous silhouette of the woman standing in the doorway. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
FADE OUT
BLACK SCREEN
FADE IN
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY
John sits in a sterile, dimly lit hospital room, looking disheveled and haunted. A PSYCHIATRIST, mid-50s, professional yet sympathetic, sits across from him.
PSYCHIATRIST: You need to tell me everything, John. This is the only way we can help you.
John's gaze is distant, his voice barely above a whisper.
JOHN: It all started with a chat. I never imagined it would end like this...
FADE OUT
CREDITS ROLL
THE END
The Script (final)
Title: Dark Paths
Genre: Thriller / Psychological Drama
Scene 1
EXT. CITYSCAPE - NIGHT
The camera pans through the dark, rain-drenched streets of a busy city with dimly lit alleys and glowing neon signs. The scene changes to a small apartment complex.
Scene 2
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
ARUN, a man in his mid-30s, sits at his cluttered desk, illuminated by the glow of his computer screen. He types on Messenger, his expression a mixture of eagerness and loneliness.
COMPUTER SCREEN
Arun's chat with RAMYA.
RAMYA: Hey Arun, how was work today?
ARUN: Oh, same old, same old. Super boring. What about you?
RAMYA: Same here. Blocked some annoying dudes on Messenger.
Scene 3
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Arun smiles, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He hesitates for a moment before typing.
COMPUTER SCREEN
ARUN: What’s Huss up to?
RAMYA: Fish trade. He’s in Goa now. We were there too, but he got into some trouble and ended up in jail.
Arun's face pales as he reads the message.
Scene 4
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Arun's hands are shaking slightly while typing.
COMPUTER SCREEN
ARUN: Wait, he killed someone? Who?
RAMYA: Yeah, one of my FB friends. Huss didn’t like him, and honestly, neither did I. So, good riddance.
Scene 5
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Arun's eyes widen. He wipes sweat from his brow, breathing heavily.
COMPUTER SCREEN
ARUN: How did he find out about him?
RAMYA: Somehow, Huss accessed my phone. He made me call that guy home. I thought it’d be fine, just wanted him to get a scare. The dude had a heart condition. That saved Huss from a life sentence, just got five years. He’s getting out next week.
ARUN: Next week?
RAMYA: Yeah, so if you’re coming, it’s gotta be this week.
Arun is scared and leans back in his chair.
Scene 6
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Arun gets up and paces the room. Takes a deep breath and sits back down, typing nervously.
COMPUTER SCREEN
ARUN: Can’t do this week. It's half-yearly closing time at the office.
RAMYA: Office stuff at night too? Don’t make excuses. You gotta come. If you ghost me, I’ll tell Huss about you. He won’t like it. You’ll handle the rest.
Scene 7
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Arun's face is full of fear. He rubs his forehead, his hair disheveled. Thinking about the next move. Then, startling him, his phone rings.
Scene 8
INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Arun picks up the phone, his voice trembling.
ARUN: Hello?
HUSBAND: Why’d you kidnap her? My wife. Wherever you’re hiding, I’ll find you and hang you out to dry.
Arun's face turns grey. He looks at the phone in disbelief before suddenly hanging up.
Scene 9
INT. ARUN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Arun is startled by a knock at the door. He moves cautiously towards the door, heart pounding. A shadow is seen.
Scene 10
EXT. APARTMENT COMPLEX - NIGHT
The camera pulls back to reveal a woman standing in the doorway, drenched in rain, holding a blood-stained knife. Distant thunder rumbles.
FADE OUT
BLACK SCREEN
FADE IN
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY
Arun sits in a clean hospital room, restless and haunted. An elderly PSYCHIATRIST sits across from him.
PSYCHIATRIST: You need to tell us everything, Arun. We can help you, but only if you tell us everything.
Arun's gaze is distant, his voice barely above a whisper.
ARUN: She messaged me first... not me...
FADE OUT
CREDITS ROLL
THE END
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.
I visit Odisha at least once a year; this has been a ritual for many years, primarily for meeting family and friends. This year's visit was special as it combined a pilgrimage to the twelfth-century Jagannath (literally meaning Lord of the Universe) Temple, the holiest shrine in Puri, for a darshan (an auspicious sight of a deity) of the Lord. This was occasioned by a coincidence of our visit to Puri with the inauguration of the heritage corridor, a 75-metre corridor around the temple, that marked the culmination of a five-year-long redevelopment programme named the ‘Parikrama Project’.
Starting in 2019 and costing 800 crore rupees, this project involved clearing com-mercial and residential buildings that had mushroomed in the land immediately surrounding the temple over hundreds of years. The congestion in the lanes and by-lanes around the temple was notorious for causing pilgrims hardship in moving around the temple. The entire conglomeration of structures was bulldozed to build the new corridor, providing basic amenities such as sanitary toilets and an infor-mation centre for the pilgrims.
We spent the night in a resort near Puri before our morning pilgrimage to Jagannath temple. At dinner, the waiter struck up a conversation, and in the process, he fig-ured out the purpose of our trip.
'You're so lucky to be visiting the temple tomorrow. It's a grand occasion which will be presided over by the honourable chief minister and graced by none other than the Gajapati (the king of Puri, the titular head of the ruling dynasty and chairman of the Temple management committee) along with a host of VIPs.'
He talked at length about the massive efforts of the Odisha government to clear up the clutter of buildings and structures surrounding the temple.
'But I have heard the biggest problem for the pilgrims is their treatment in the hands of the pandas (the local term for priests). Many devotees feel harassed by exorbi-tant demands for money from the pandas for a glimpse of Lord Jagannath.’
'You won't be disappointed. All your frustrations would be worthwhile in the end, and the experience will exceed all your expectations when you see the Lord in his magnificent form,' he said.
'Have you visited the temple recently for a darshan of the deities?'
'Of course, and the experience of the darshan is hard to describe. When I reached close to the Lord, something came over me. The feeling is too profound for words. It is an overwhelming sensation; nothing to match or compare with.'
The following day, I joined the invited overseas delegates, and we were transported to the Jagannath temple in a special vehicle. The area surrounding the temple was heavily guarded by policemen. The security was tight, I was told, to ensure no untoward incident happened during the inauguration ceremony, which was be-ing attended by the chief minister of the state. As our coach glided to the temple site, we could see by the side of the highway a helipad meant for the chief minis-ter's helicopter to land later that day.
We were ushered into a sizeable makeshift auditorium under the guidance of offi-cials who led us through long passages, which looked spotless. Hordes of police-men were positioned throughout the grand arena. The hall was packed with dele-gates from different walks of life; some were from the religious leaders of the community, and some invited dignitaries. We were herded into the NRI section, which housed about two hundred people. After a while, I was introduced to some of them, the majority of whom were from the USA. The rest were from Britain, Ireland, Germany and the Middle East.
The corridor leading to the temple's main entrance had been specifically cleared of trash and seemingly washed clean for the inauguration ceremony. The ground was still wet.
As we reached the shrine's entrance, I could feel the crowd building up, with more and more people joining us from all directions.
By the time we entered the main shrine, the crowd had swollen, and the jostling be-came increasingly more robust. However, I was still hopeful that I could muscle my way through the crowd and reach the inner sanctum to have a Darshan of the Lord. But the crowd became increasingly unruly, and I was not sure in what direc-tion I should proceed. By now, the jam-packed crowd had gathered momentum of its own, and I was no longer in control of what I was doing.
The official in charge of ushering the foreign delegates into the inner sanctum was nowhere to be seen. In any case, the mass of humanity jostling for a Darshan had now changed direction. I found myself being carried away from the sanctum to-wards the temple's exit.
I was not sure what happened in those few minutes of struggle. Even while we were being pushed away by the crowd, something caught my eye.
A woman in a saree was lying on the floor, but the crowd did not seem to care for her and kept marching ahead, literally trampling her under their feet. The situation had almost descended to a stampede. The woman was petit. She wore a plain white saree without any jewellery. It wasn't easy to gauge her age, and from her rural attire, it seemed she was visiting the shrine from outside the city. It was un-clear whether she was alone or had got separated from her folks. It was astound-ing to see the callousness of the crowd, who were marching on with complete dis-regard for her plight.
Suddenly, one man stopped in his tracks and spread his arms out to shield the woman lying on the floor. This stopped the woman's ordeal, allowing her some space and perhaps some strength to get up. I was so relieved to see that she had not sustained any serious injury, although she was severely shaken. The man who came to her rescue, held her arm to support her and gently led her out of the crowd. In looks, he was no different from the mass of pilgrims around him. But in action, he appeared to be the Lord's agent sent out on a mission to protect her from the mindless crowd. He certainly saved her from serious injury in the stam-pede-like situation.
I had set out to have a glimpse of Lord Jagannath in his round-eyed manifestation, but it came to nought. I tried to contain my disappointment by looking for excuses for the failure of my mission. My efforts obviously failed to match the demands of the situation. This inadequacy of perseverance perhaps points to a character flaw in me. If my fear of sustaining serious injury drove me to a state of resignation, did it also question my reverence for God?
If I was denied a glimpse of the divine in his limbless version, could I ascribe it to my destiny? In the process, I had an opportunity to witness the Lord's compassion in operation through the limbs of the man who came to the rescue of the helpless woman. May be, this encounter with God's bountiful reservoir of compassion was probably not entirely due to chance. Could I be forgiven for seeing this as another example of His cosmic design?
I remembered the conversation at the dining table last night and the blissful experi-ence of the waiter upon the 'darshan' of the deity. I wondered how it compared with my own 'darshan' of the Lord in his most compassionate form.
It occurred to me that the word 'darshan' has multiple meanings. It is commonly used in its literal sense as a sight or glimpse of a deity or a holy person. In Hindu religion, 'darshan' has an additional abstract meaning - viewpoint or perspective. In this broader sense, it refers to any of the six systems of thought of classical Hindu philosophy, including Yoga, Nyaya and Vedanta. Under this rubric, 'dar-shan' covers concepts such as reality, knowledge and epistemology, which deal with how we view things.
Undoubtedly, Almighty, in his omniscience, could see my predicament and, in his magnanimity, would forgive me for my frailty. I had witnessed divinity in action and was consoling myself with this darshan as a substitute for a glimpse of the Lord in the stillness of a statue.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
In the dimly lit backroom of the ‘Citizens’ Bookshoppe’ Aryaman Krishnan, popularly known as Kris, with his wild mop of greying hair and grandiloquent mannerisms was all set to address the small gathering of writers before him. They sat in mismatched chairs, clutching their notepads and pens, in anticipation. Kris was the founder president of Saraswati Literary Society, which had a fairly large membership, mostly of young and aspiring writers trying to create a foothold in the world of literature.
The occasion was the annual strategic meeting of the Society prior to the upcoming Literary Gala they hold every year.
After his retirement from banking service, Kris started a bookstore in the quaint township of Alakapuram. His foray into literature was rather incidental. During his banking career he had volunteered to edit the in-house journal of the bank. The journal was a compilation of some office news bulletins, some employees’ customer experiences, and few amateurish articles contributed by the employees and their families. Kris personally wrote a column on cooking recipes. He tried his hands to write poetry and fiction and sent them for publication in a few journals and anthologies but mostly they were rejected. He got invited to literary festivals by contributing as a sponsor. Sometimes he managed to gatecrash into poetry reading sessions by pleading to the organisers and read his poems as wild card entries. Then one fine day he thought that if he cannot be the king he perhaps can be the king maker. If he can’t get recognition as a writer he perhaps can create a forum for the aspiring writers and poets. Thus was Saraswati Literary Society born. He might have lacked poetic talent but with the keen eyes of a banker he had developed a successful business model that seemed to work well as a financial venture. However in his heart of hearts he fancied himself as a messiah in the world of literature and had a high self concept. He was verbose and pompous, who professed himself as a literary genius despite his unimpressive body of work. Interestingly he had a fairly good fan following.
"Friends, fellow scribes," Kris began, his voice resonating with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor, "we are gathered here not just as admirers of the written word but as visionaries poised to revolutionize the literary world. The Saraswati Literary Society is our beacon, our guiding light."
Lakshmi Kutty, the treasurer of the society perched beside him, nodded vigorously. "Indeed, we have rendered great services to the world of literature through our WhatsApp group, our monthly e-zine and our literary festivals. But we must explore what else we may do as we move along. We must ensure that the members of our society get better recognition and acceptance as poets and authors by the outside world.” Lakshmi Kutty, the society's treasurer, cunning and resourceful, kept the finances of the society healthy by coming up with innovative ideas. As for her literary prowess she writes mediocre romance novels under various pseudonyms. All her novels are self published. She somehow breaks even by pushing her novels to various libraries and selling them to the members of the society.
“ I have few agenda points for today’s meeting. The first one is a proposal to change the name of our society. Some feel it sounds rather archaic. Some feel that it should sound more secular. Some want it to be explosive like the infamous cult KKK,” Kris paused for effect.
“ KKK? You mean Ku Klux Klan? The American white supremacist group? Doesn’t it have a negative connotation?,” asked Jaysinghani, the society’s Chief Patron. Jaysinghani, a wealthy but talentless businessman sponsors the society’s annual Litfests. In return the society publishes some of his poems in its monthly e-zine and annual anthology. His original poems however undergo complete metamorphosis through heavy editing before they appear in print. He feels it boosts his social standing and he happily accepts the responsibility of becoming Kris’s primary benefactor.
“ We just want a harmless name but which is impactful and unique. Any ideas?”
“ How about Quixotic Quill Quest? It embraces the whimsical and unconventional curiosity while maintaining a delightful alliteration and also gives us an impactful abbreviation QQQ. We may also describe the society as Q-Cube, to make it sound more enigmatic,” offered Shyamala Subramanyam. Shyamala incidentally was a genuine and talented writer who accidentally stumbled into the society. Although the society charged a hefty membership fee to all writers who wished to join the group, it had also offered honorary membership to few acclaimed writers. This was a deliberate strategy that was cleverly implemented to create the desired brand image of the society. Shyamala had accepted the invite and joined as an honorary member. She was also inducted into the steering committee as an adviser. Everyone seemed happy with Shyamala’s suggestion and the society was rechristened as Q-Cube.
“ Alright. The next point on the agenda is to work out a plan to ensure that the members of our society get an opportunity to get some recognition in the literary world. Lakshmi had mentioned about this. She has some ideas. Let us listen to her,” directed Kris.
“ I have an idea. It’s not so straight as it seems,” Lakshmi paused and continued,” We will establish our own prestigious awards, and every year during our annual Litfest, we will confer the award to the deserving person.”
“ That’s great. We shall bestow upon ourselves the recognition we so rightly deserve. That way we will cover all our members within a period of time,” piped up Shiv Nair, the secretary of the society. Shiv was an aspiring poet who lacked talent but compensated with sycophancy and underhanded deals. His relationship with Krishnan Kris was like Robin’s with Batman.
“ No, no. Listen to my full proposal. We will not give the awards to our members. We will give awards to the members of another society. And we would have an arrangement with the other society to give awards to our members. That way we will not appear to be biased and everything would appear fair and square. In fact we can institute a number of awards in various categories like poetry, fiction, non-fiction, biographies and translations. Initially we may start with one for Poetry and later include other categories progressively. We will charge a substantial registration fee from the members as part of the eligibility criteria. We will facilitate a rotating system where over a period of time every member of both the societies would take turn to win the awards,” concluded Lakshmi.
“ That sounds brilliant. I had a word with my counterpart of Vidyadayini Guild. He seems to be highly interested in this reciprocating scheme. Only condition he has is to charge the recipient of the award half of the award money. It would be applicable to us as well. We will find sponsors for each award and put a pre condition with the awardee to shell out half of the award money. I am sure no one will mind. It’s win-win for everyone,” explained Kris.
“ What about the process of nomination and selection of jury members?,” asked Jaysinghani.
“ We need not have any formal system which are traditionally followed. We just maintain a roster and nominate some of the members turn by turn. The steering committee members present here would suggest a name based on their contributions to our e-zine and their published books,” suggested Lakshmi.
“ I have a suggestion. If you all will permit me I will convince Mr Narayan Pande, the Chairman of the State Sahitya Akademi to be a signatory on the Award Certificate. In fact we may invite him to be our Chief Mentor to give it the desired legitimacy. He will surely agree to spare his time for a small honorarium,” offered Shiv.
“ Good idea. His signature on the certificate with his designation would surely add value and our Award may even be seen at par with the Sahitya Akademi Award,” said Kris with a tone of approval.
“ Vidyadayini Guild has announced their Award as the Pablo Neruda Award. We have to find a name of our Award that would match with theirs. Any suggestions?,” asked Kris.
“Most of the Awards as being announced by other societies have used up almost all the reputed names like Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Ravindranath, Kamala Das, Jayanta Mahapatra, etc. I suggest that we name our Award after the latest Nobel Prize Winner for Literature, the Norwegian poet, novelist and playwright Jon Fosse. It will be really contemporary and will have an international flavour,” suggested Lakshmi.
“Alright ladies and gentlemen, thanks for your participation. It had been a productive meeting. I feel that with inclusion of the Awards into our charter of activities would complete our mission of celebrating literature in good measure,” concluded Kris.
The group murmured in agreement, not noticing Shyamala who sat in silence in a corner visibly disgusted with the proceedings. She watched in bewilderment as the society members detailed their plan: hefty entry fees, secret sponsorships, and a rotating system where every member would take turns winning the awards.
When the discussions trailed to a naught, Shyamala decided to confront Kris. "This isn't about celebrating literature. It's a farce, a charade where mediocre works would be lauded for personal gain."
Kris, unfazed, smiled indulgently. "Ah, Shyamala you misunderstand. Recognition is the currency of our times. Why toil in obscurity when we can manufacture our own success?”, he took a deliberate pause and continued, “ In fact before we call it a day let me make an announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to nominate Shyamala Subramaniam to be our very first luminary, worthy of the Pablo Neruda Award for this year. She would lead the way to recognition of the other members of our society turn by turn. Let’s all congratulate Shyamala for having been selected for the coveted Award. I would like to request Shiv to start the formalities with Vidyadayini Guild to take it forward with the right earnest. Let’s all give a big hand to Shyamala.”
The gathering clapped and cheered Shyamala and the meeting was adjourned. Things happened so fast that Shyamala couldn’t react. She just sat on her chair stunned and dumbstruck.
After the meeting Shyamala went home with a heavy heart. As she thought deeply about the proceedings of the day her disillusionment grew and her heart raced. Now that she knew the modus operandi of the group she realised that the Award was a pawn in the literary chess game. She made up her mind and decided to checkmate them all at the right time.
As was her habit she had quietly recorded the discussions that took place in the meeting that day.
She replayed the recording and began documenting the society’s inner workings, compiling evidence of the fraudulent awards. Her breaking point came when Ratan Hazarika a man whose writing could generously be described as pedestrian, was nominated by Vidyadayini Guild for the Jon Fosse Prize for a thinly veiled autobiography.
Finally the D day arrived. In the Grand Ballroom of Hotel Grand Palace Shyamala occupied a front row seat specially earmarked for her as the recipient of the honour. She turned around to the hall to see it full with eager faces mostly of the members of both the societies. The chandeliers sparkled like forgotten metaphors, casting shadows on the crimson carpet. She saw Kris, resplendent in his Modi jacket and a colorful feathered hat, approaching her. He took his seat next to her and greeted her.
“ Ah, Shyamala,” he said, twirling his quill pen “ Tonight, the Pablo Neruda Award will be yours. A matter of pride for Q-Cube and all of us. Congratulations.” Shyamala nodded her head with a sly smile and spoke to herself in an undertone, “ Just you wait, silly goat and see what I have in store for you! “
Mr Narayan Pande, the Chairman of the State Sahitya Akademi was the Guest of Honour. He was invited to the stage by Dr Thomas Mathew, the President of the Vidyadayini Guild, which sponsored the Award. The Master of Ceremony announced the name of the award winner Shyamala Subramaniam and invited her to the stage to accept the award from the Guest of Honour. Shyamala adjusted her stole and smoothed her ruffled hair and slowly proceeded to accept the award. The hall was reverberating with the sound of enthusiastic clapping. Shyamala showed the certificate and the ceramic replica of a quill in an ink-pot to the audience from the stage and curtsied. She then proceeded to the podium to deliver her acceptance speech.
She adjusted the microphone and spoke, “ Ladies and gentlemen, I am indeed grateful to this wonderful audience who clapped for my achievement. But I have a confession to make. I consider myself unworthy for this recognition bestowed on me. Because this entire process is a farce and the Award named after the great Pablo Neruda perhaps is an insult to him. I would not like to be a party to perpetration of fraud to the literary community. I am going to play some sound bites for you all to hear and decide. Also I have compiled a dossier with all evidences for the press, which I will hand over to them.”
Then she switched on her recorder and the audience listened to the proceedings with rapt attention and gasped in horror. The audience went wild and the hall echoed with the chant “shame, shame.”
She then tore off the certificate into bits and pieces and threw the memento on the hard stage which disintegrated into smithereens. The audience applauded her integrity, and both the literary groups dissolved in shame.
(Note: AWARDOCALYPSE is a playful portmanteau of Award and Apocalypse highlighting the fiasco and chaos. )
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
It began with a chance encounter on a train with a stranger, though not in the same league as in Alfred Hitchcock's film “Strangers on a train”. Far from it. There was nothing eerie about the untidy passenger sitting next to me and munching peanuts. If there was any suspense aboard, it was in my wondering for how long he was going to pull nuts out of his kurta pocket and crack them open. He took care to place the empty nutshells in his handkerchief, unlike the other passengers mindlessly discharging them all over the floor. Soon the suspense of how many peanuts he had up his sleeve turned into an irritant for me, like visuals on TV news channels repeated ad nauseam. So I ignored him and took out a book I had brought along to read.
“Is the book interesting?” I heard a voice close by. I turned to note that the nut-cracking fellow was eyeing the cover of the book in my hand. “Don Quixote”, he spelt out. “A serious reader, eh?” I didn't know whether it was a question or a statement.
“Yes, it's quite witty,” I ventured to reply to his two questions, chronologically. “And, yes, I am what you may call a reader in the classical mould. Runs in the family.”
He smiled and nodded his head. “Cervantes was really good, truly great,” he pronounced. Was he, in addition to cracking nuts, a nutty professor in some college? Except for a handful of eccentric readers like me, only professors teaching the text would be having any acquaintance with that eccentric “Knight of the Woeful Figure”. “I am Librarian at the State Library,” he resolved my curiosity about his vocation without beating about the bush. But was he the Librarian of that Library or only a Librarian there? I let the mystery of that one remain hanging. “And what about you? Where do you teach?” he asked. The sense of suspense about our respective professions was mutual!
“I am a retired bank officer,” I revealed. His eyebrows went up. Bankers were supposed to deal with “dons” of a different genre, and their sport was to help build windmills, not tilt at them! “As I said, this hobby of reading classics runs in our family,” I repeated and smiled in turn.
“Why don't you drop in at our Library?” he invited me as we neared our destination. “We have a large collection of books ~ especially old books.” I was aghast. Visiting a government library, that mass grave for precious books! The distaste on my face must have been palpable. “Come and see for yourself,” he persuaded me quietly.
When I did call on him at the State Library, a revelation awaited me. The 50,000-odd books had been neatly segregated, subject-wise, region-wise and historically too though a few periodicals were lying about on the floor. All the books were dusted regularly. Even white ants were conspicuous by their absence, kept at bay by regular “treatment” of all nooks and corners of the building. Most wonderful of all, the attendants were not found dozing! The library was expanding, he showed me, with a new building adjacent that would have two reading halls. It spoke volumes about the usefulness of the library that its existing hall was full of youngsters preparing for various entrance tests.
I discovered my “Treasure Island”, a trove of classics and the contemporary, enough to last a lifetime and more! While enrolling as a life member, I also uncovered that the stranger who had led me to this treasure was the librarian of the State Library, monarch of all he surveyed. Appearances are deceptive in libraries and men ~ and not merely in Hitchcock’s movies.
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.
LOVE UNDER THE SHADOW OF FLAMES
He cast a surreptitious glance around, to ascertain no one was looking in his direction, ran a quick hand on the backpack and mounted the steps cautiously. The bus was nearly packed with passengers, college students, office goers, traders, salespersons, vendors, shoppers and other occasional travelers. The conductor was prodding them down the aisle to make more spaces for the new passengers. Anwar stood by the door, his hand securely gripping a grab-handle, watching the steady inflow of passengers as they climbed into the bus and made their way along the aisle. The inside of the bus felt unusually hot and the backpack was heavy. Abbu had advised him several times not to speak to any of the passengers and put through a call to him when the bus stopped at the Globe supermarket to have the instruction regarding the next move. He was also warned not to leave the backpack alone and keep a close guard over it. Anwar guessed what was inside the backpack, and he was scared at the guess, but he did neither have the courage nor the heart to question Abbu. He knew had it not been for Abbu he would have died of starvation like a stray dog alongside an anonymous street. He did not know who his real parents were, nor did he want to know. Abbu had reared him up with love and care. He cooked for him, took him to the school, sat by him through sleepless nights when he fell sick. He had put him in a college where Anwar did his Bachelor in Commerce. Anwar knew that one lifetime wouldn’t be enough to do things to pay Abbu back for what he owed to him. He would lay down his life for Abbu without turning a hair if the need arose. He liked Abbu’s robust personality, the kindness camouflaged under his rude exterior, the rigid reservations and laconism with which he dealt with people around and the openhearted, frank smile that lit up his stubbled face when he saw Anwar. There was just one small thing which he disliked about Abbu. The odd glint in his otherwise benevolent eyes at the sight of that group of strange men who came to meet him from time to time. And the way he hedged when Anwar asked him about them. Abbu became a changed man when he was with those seedy and suspicious looking bunch. As if he was another person, unknown, hard and bitter.
He remembered the moment when he bade farewell to Abbu this morning. His face was heavy with some hidden sorrow and there was a queer look in his eyes. He hugged Anwar tightly and kissed his forehead. ‘This is a very important job, beta. Everything depends on your alertness and foresight. I will pray for you. Inshallah! You can pull it off without hassle.’ He mopped his face and looked away as if to avert his eyes. Anwar felt uneasy at such a strange emotional response. As if he was not going to meet Abbu again. It was after all, he thought, a simple task of transporting something in the backpack to a person who would be waiting at the Globe Departmental Store. Last night two men had come to meet Abbu, and they sat talking in hushed voices in the corner room till late in the night. Anwar had no idea why but he was feeling somehow restless that night. He lay in his bed in the large room adjacent to the one in the end of the open corridor. He could overhear snatches of indistinct conversation as the two men came out of the corner room along with Abbu. He could faintly hear words like ‘Azim maqsad, ‘shahadat’ and ‘Inshallah’ and the familiar voice of his father saying resignedly ‘If that is the how it has to be!’ And, they went out of the gate of their small compound. He heard the heavy footfalls of father outside his room a little later. Then the door opened gently and Abbu entered. Anwar closed his eyes. Abbu wandered over to his bed, stood for a while and then bending down he kissed his forehead. Then he turned abruptly and strode out of the room closing the door behind him. Anwar’s eyes moistened. How deeply Abbu loved him!! He will never turn him down, come what may. Anwar promised to himself and drifted into a peaceful sleep. In the morning Abbu asked him to take a bag to some friend of him at the Globe Departmental Store.
**
The driver sounded the horn interrupting his flow of thoughts. A young man who had occupied a seat suddenly sprang up to his feet and scrambled out of the bus, ‘he has perhaps got into the wrong bus,’ Anwar thought and breathing a sigh of relief occupied the seat the young man had vacated before any one made a claim over it. He felt relaxed. The backpack was still a handicap. He took it off his back and slid it under the seat. He recollected Abbu’s warning never to let the backpack out of his close reach. ‘Whatever is there inside it,’ he thought grimly, ‘will remain secured under the seat.’ He looked furtively around. No one was watching him or the backpack. The engine was revving and the bus had started to crawl forward when she climbed into the bus, her lovely face flushing crimson.
**
Apoorva climbed into the bus and was instantly filled with dismay at the sight of the crowd of the passengers. For a brief while she thought if she should get down and wait for the next bus, but that would mean waiting for at least another hour. The next bus to Bharatpur, her hometown will not be arriving one hour before, and she had to reach Bharatpur by early afternoon anyhow to collect the printouts of some photos she had selected from an internet website for her project work in the college, from a cybercafe. The bus was packed with people and the sweltering heat was terribly discomforting. On any other occasion she would have felt irritated and repelled by the discomfort but not today. Today was special. Yesterday, she had come here with her parents to attend a marriage function at one of her father’s friends, Bikash uncle. Bikash uncle was a close neighbour of theirs at Bharatpur a couple of yours ago and had shifted to Silarkot on an official transfer. She had guessed that attending the function was an excuse for something else, a camouflage to conceal the real purpose. She knew, without being told that a marriage alliance was getting secretly negotiated between the two families, her marriage with Bipul, Bikash uncle’s son. Apoorva and Bipul had played together as kids of neighbouring houses do though they went to different schools. The childhood friendship had grown intimate as they stepped on the threshold of youth and this had not escaped the eyes of the elders. Bipul had left town for continuing higher studies in Rajasthan but the two were constantly in touch.
Apoorva touched again the pendant of the gold chain around her neck. It was a gift from Bipul’s mother. She had herself put it around her neck as Bipul watched, a knowing yet mischievous smile in his eyes. ‘You are my daughter now, an integral part of our family’, aunty had said and kissed her forehead. An informal, modest event but it had cemented the bond between the two families. Later, in the evening, when everyone was busy in the function Bipul stole into the room and had taken her in his arms. His let the length of the gold chain roll along his fingers, and holding the pendant gently pressed to her throat, he kissed it. A wave of ecstasy flooded into her as she recollected the warmth of Bipul’s lips exploring her throat.
She remembered she had to buy some foodstuff for dinner as her mother had stayed back at her uncle’s. ‘I would get it from the Globe Departmental Store.’ After all it was where she would get down. She looked around and then into the inside of bus hoping to find a seat, but the crowd of passengers blocking the passageway obstructed her gaze. A young boy, looking handsome in a pair of gray blue jeans and a black shirt, the full sleeves neatly rolled up, and fashionably trimmed hairstyle occupied the seat just by the door. An elderly lady sat next to him, by the window, a bored, indifferent expression on her face. As she made a brief survey once again still not losing hope of getting a vacant seat, she saw the young man on the seat by the door looking at her fixedly. There was something oddly intense about the look. It was like an overpowering urge, compelling her to turn her gaze back to him. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a moment and she felt, guiltily enough though, that the world has come to a standstill and there was no one else in the bus except for the two of them. Even Bipul and the magical ecstasy of the closeness with him were erased off her mind like an unwanted line is erased from a drawing sheet. It was difficult to take her eyes off. The driver honked the horn again and the bus jerked to a start. The charm broke.
**
Anwar had never seen a girl like the one that got into the bus in a desperate hurry. It was as if she had some magic about her that took him in its power. He could not take her eyes off her. She was beautiful in a different way, not like the tallish girls with big black eyes, sharp nose full mouth, and creamy complexion. She was rather petite, her complexion a blend of glossy brown and white, her hair luscious, and she had a small but sharp nose over a well-shaped mouth. But there was something in her that made her look special even in a simple outfit of a white salwar suit and a purple scarf around her neck. Sweat beads glistened on her face giving it a dewy look and her eyes swere wary as she turned a desperate gaze around looking for a vacant space in the over crowded bus. Then she looked straight at him and their eyes met, and were locked for a brief, hypnotic moment. And everything went out of mind, the noisy bus, the moist heat, the backpack his father had warned him repeatedly never to leave alone, and all the doubt and apprehension veiling it. His mind was now filled with the girl with the purple scarf who stood leaning hard on the post by the door, clutching a small handbag that slung from her shoulder. She was so close Anwar could smell her, an intoxicating smell that kept swirling and coiling around him like a fragrant helix. Should he ask her where she would get down? Should he offer her his seat? But the backpack was under the seat and he could not afford to keep it away from him. The girl swayed gently as the bus rolled on a patch of bumpy road.
‘You can sit here,’ Anwar said to the girl, getting up. The girl smiled at him as she muttered an indistinct ‘thank you’ and slid on to the seat he had vacated. Their bodies touched as she did so and an electric shiver ran through Anwar. He no longer cared about the mission his Abbu had entrusted him with. He did not bother about losing the backpack, May be there was something what his Abbu considered valuable and important in there, may be drugs as he had doubted earlier. Drugs it must be, he was sure now, or else why his father was so particular about the backpack? Anwar had felt the outlines and guessed there was a heavy, rectangular box like object, may be, the drug packets were inside that parcel. He did not care a bit now; his thoughts were around the girl. Once the bus reached the stop by the Globe Departmental Store, he would call Abbu and someone would come to take away the backpack.
He looked at the girl again, and again their eyes met. There was a semblance of a smile on her face. Anwar’s heart began to beat faster. He felt the girl had a magnetic pull that dragged him towards her. It was as if time had stopped and become an eternity, the world around him had become an enormous emptiness where he and the girl levitated around interminably, endlessly, securely locked in each other’s arms.
**
‘Court Square’ the boy who stood by the door hollered as the bus crawled to a stop at the District Court area. Passengers got down and a few new ones made their entry. There would be two more stops before the bus reached the Globe Departmental store area. He was feeling slightly dizzy. He was not sure whether because of the apprehension that something untoward might happen while the man collected the backpack from him, or because of all these fantasizing involving himself and the girl. His eyes were keeping straying back to the girl who sat cradling her handbag on her lap, looking out of the window. A lock of hair over her left eye wantoned in the wind that wafted in through the window. As if she could instinctively sense he was looking at her, she turned her gaze to him.
‘Where will you get down?’ he asked, not able to resist any longer the urge to talk to her.
‘Near the Globe Departmental store,’ she smiled shortly.
‘My stop too,’ he exclaimed, feeling immensely happy within that he could now know more about her. He could even accompany her to her home, he thought hopefully. All depended on the man who would collect the backpack or the drug, or whatever his father wanted to smuggle out. He did not care anymore about it.
The bus was slowing its speed. The Globe Departmental Store was a hundred meters or so away now. The girl stood up and moved closer to the door. He could feel the caress of her purple scarf across his arm and her warm breath over his shoulder as she inched closer to him. Anwar bent down to get his backpack from under the seat but the girl stood obstructing the way. He decided to get it after the girl stepped out of the bus. ‘I will make the phone call first.’ He took out his phone from his back pocket and dialed his father’s number.
And the bus erupted into a rage of flames. He grabbed the girl as the dark, mushrooming smokes enveloped them. The inside of the bus was a bedlam of panicky shrieks combined with the ugly crackle of the wooden frame structures falling into pieces as the flames licked savagely at them. Before the angry tongues of the red and orange flames took them in their fold he, with a superhuman effort jumped out of the crumbling door, the girl held tight in his arms. The next instant there was a loud explosion and the roof of the bus went flying into the air before hitting the road in smouldering scatters. They lay beside each other on the sidewalks facing each other. The girl had a glazed look in her eyes, and a thin line of blood trailed out from under her head. The necklace with its oval pendant was no longer around her neck. But everything was blurred. He suddenly felt sleepy. Before his eyes closed, he caught a glimpse of the girl. Her lips were parted in a small smile. He tried to smile back but his lips seemed to have lost their reflex. The loud noise around had seemed to have subsided. He closed his eyes and slept peacefully.
**
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)
The restaurant was rather crowded. But then it was nearing a little past nine and most of the people would vacate their seats soon.
Prabha looked around and her eyes fell on a two-seater table where one chair still remained unoccupied. She quickly navigated towards the vacant space and sat on the chair.
The middle aged lady seated across smiled at her.
A good looking lady, wearing a crisp cotton saree. No make- up, except for some kaajal in her beautiful eyes. Hair swept in a bun behind her head. Strands of hair had started greying. Small bindi and a lovely smile.
Prabha returned the friendly smile saying
“Peak hour and the place seems crowded. Hope you have no objection to my sitting here...I mean, hope you are not expecting anyone to take this seat.”
The lady smiled at her.
“Not at all. You can sit there. I am Kamakshi and I am a regular here. As far as I can recall, no one selects this corner seat.”
“I am Prabha and I see that all the chairs are occupied. Of course, people have started leaving too,” she said placing her bag and file on the table.
Kamakshi was wondering why the girl’s face looked rather familiar. A flash of recollection and an all-knowing smile appeared on her face. She decided to maintain her secret.
“Working somewhere?” she asked Prabha.
“No Ma’am I am going for an interview. The landmark was given as the road next to this restaurant. I thought I will have a cup of coffee and visit the book shop before I go to that office,” Prabha smiled.
The bearer came and asked Kamakshi,
“The usual one Ma’am? Today hot sooji halwa has been prepared. It will taste great,“ he smiled.
“Okay Saravanan. Bring my cup of coffee as usual and a plate of the halwa” Kamakshi said.
“These people prepare some very good dishes. The owner is also a very compassionate person. The bearers work here in shifts and they are not overworked. The kitchen is also very clean. I always taste a plate of sweet here...my weakness”, Kamakshi smiled at Prabha.
“I too love sweets, but today I am in no mood to eat sweets. I am worried about my interview”. She looked at Saravanan and said,
“I’ll just have a cup of hot black coffee with three spoons of sugar, please.”
Saravanan took the orders and moved away.
What an interesting girl, thought Kamakshi.
“Your first Interview?” she asked Prabha.
“No Ma’am, my third. I did not accept the previous ones, as the timing did not suit me. I would have had to work till six in the evening. This job came as a blessing. A Computer Training Institute that works from ten thirty a m to three p m. Suits me well. ”
“Your qualification?” Kamakshi asked.
“I have graduated with an MSc degree in biology. I am very much interested in animals and plants...but that is for my interest! I am passionate about cooking and I bake cakes,” said Prabha.
By now, the orders had arrived and Prabha sipped her hot coffee and nodded her head in approval.
“This is great,” she smiled at the bearer, “thank you.”
“We rarely get customers asking for black coffee,“ he said and moved away.
Kamakshi was sipping her coffee.
“You bake cakes professionally? That sounds very interesting.”
“It all started when I baked a cake for my friend’s sister’s birthday. The people who attended the party appreciated it so much and started asking me to bake for them. That was the beginning. I love doing the icing part...everyone says I am innovative.”
Prabha was enjoying her coffee.
“But then how do you send them? You go in person?” Kamakshi asked. She had drunk her coffee and was relishing the sweet.
“I don’t go personally Ma’am. I send them through Zomato and Dunzo. I get orders at least ten days a month and I feel happy. I dispatch them in the evening for the clients,” she said. She took an instant liking to Kamakshi.
She drained her cup and placed it on the table.
“If I get this job, I’ll be very happy. The time suits me and I am sure I shall make friends with my boss!! The boss is a lady and has advertised for a P A. I have heard that she is also a very efficient lady and a very intelligent one at that.”
Kamakshi smied at her and nodded her head.
“I started working only now... must be two years. My eldest son is now employed and has been working for the past two years. My younger one has just completed his studies and is looking out for a suitable job. I waited for the kids to grow up and then took up a job, a part time one so that I get back home. I loved spending time with the kids. Aw!! I am not very ambitious. I am very happy with my job.”
Prabha looked at her with admiration and said,
“My mother works for a bank and father in a MNC. They are both very busy and till two years back, my grandma was alive and I had someone to talk to. My grandma was everything to me. Parents have no time for me...it has always been like that. I suppose many women are career oriented these days. But I have learnt to adjust. I bake, I read a lot and sing. Ultimately happiness is what we create! ”
“Are you saying that women should not take up full time jobs? How many brilliant scientists are there, Prabha...what about them?”
“Ah, no. I don’t mean that. I only stick to my principle that a mother or a father should leave the office work at the office and be true parents in their homes. Once you cross the threshold, forget the office and stick to the house. I am sure the home will be a happy one when the children have doting parents.”
“I suppose you are right. Well, this is a very complicated topic and everyone has his or her opinion. It is better not to be judgemental Prabha. Okay, you must give me your telephone number. I too might place an order for cakes or biscuits,” said Kamakshi.
“Sure Ma’am. You will love them I am sure,“ said Prabha.
“Are you familiar with computers?” she asked gingerly.
“Yes Ma’am. I watch a lot of y-tube presentations and listen to songs and surf the net.“ And with hesitation added, “I write at times uploading them on Kindle. I did attend a course in Computers last year. I learnt Page maker and Ventura and CAD too. I love working on computers. ”
“Wow!“ said Kamakshi and looked at her watch.” You ARE very talented. I better make a move now, lest I get late for work. Do give me your telephone number and I shall call you. It has been so nice talking to you...meeting you in fact. Who knows, if destiny wishes, we may meet again. Good luck for your interview.”
Kamakshi got up after registering Prabha’s cell- number in hers. .
“Thank you Ma’am. I need all the luck. This looks like a dream job and I wish I could get selected. I shall now visit the book shop and then go for the interview.”
They parted and Kamakshi felt a strange sense of happiness and satisfaction in her heart.
She liked the girl.
“It is very rare to see such sensible and talented girls now. Traditional and modern!! ” she thought.
The thought made her laugh as she walked into her office.
Prabha shopped to her heart’s content, picking up two books and walked into the Computer Institute which she spotted easily. Jt was on the second floor of a building quite close to that restaurant.
There were seven girls waiting to be interviewed.
Prabha looked around her and seeing two or three of them looking like Secretaries out of a Fashion Magazine, her heart sank a little.
She looked at herself in the big mirror that stared at her in the reception hall. She had read somewhere that placing the mirror in the north east wall of a hall is very auspicious as the Vastu Shastra goes...auspicious for whom?
She smiled to herself. She sent a silent prayer to the Elephant-head God and hoped she would get the job.
Three girls preceded her and came out smiling. They left immediately looking very confident.
Her name was called by the office boy.
She walked in with confidence and a little fear.
She was stunned when she saw Kamakshi seated in the Manager’s chair.
“Please be seated Prabha. So we meet again,” Kamakshi said smiling. “Destiny?”
Prabha was speechless. She was struggling for words.
Kamakshi continued speaking,
“The Interview was long over. You will get your appointment order this evening by e- mail. You can join for work from the first day of next month. I look forward for a nice innings with you Prabha.”
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.
Ritu got down from a taxi, made payment through phone pay and hurriedly ran on the platform in the direction towards her coach along with her trolley suitcase and back pack. Howrah Chennai Mail was about to leave. She was quite used to the unruly Kolkata traffic, as she spent her childhood days and studied in this city, while her father was working for the Kolkata Port Trust. After her marriage to Manoj, both stayed together at Bhubaneswar, till Manoj moved to Hyderabad Police Academy on deputation and Ritu joined Kolkata office of Reserve Bank of India a year later. Son Arobinda used to stay with Ritu’s father at Berhampur and study in Convent school. Ritu and Manoj were travelling from their respective places to be with the child during Kumar Purnima(a local festival).
Ritu’s Tatkal ticket was confirmed in the morning. After a lot of persuasion she could convince her senior to allow to leave office early, yet she got stuck in the office due to rains and later in Kolkata traffic. Fortunately, due to heavy rain in Howrah area, all the trains had delayed start and somehow she could reach the station in the nick of the time. In a way it is better as instead of reaching her destination at 2 PM in the night, she would reach Berhampur early in the morning. Manoj would come to pick her up from the station. Ritu dreaded to travel alone in the night, but slowly she was getting used to it.
A few minutes after Ritu stepped in to the compartment, the train moved ahead leaving the crowded platform behind. Ritu slowly made her way through the crowded entrance towards her berth. Fortunately, she was allotted a lower berth near the entrance. Ritu soon found a man covering himself with a shawl and occupying the full berth. A middle aged lady was sitting on the front lower berth. The moment the lady found Ritu keeping her trolley below the berth she started requesting Ritu, “Didi do you have reservation for the lower berth? My man is slightly indisposed, we have the front lower berth and one side upper berth reserved in our name. We would require both the lower berths and if you do not mind moving to the side upper berth, it will be of great help.”
Ritu could not say “No” although the upper berth will be inconvenient for her. She thought it was a matter of adjustment for a fellow sick passenger and agreed instantly. It was decided that for the time being she would wait for the TTE and then would move up to her berth. She sat on the lower berth till the train left the station.
Ritu got a wimpy and insipid thanks from the lady as if it was only a formality and this was no great favour shown by Ritu. The man too did not display any sense of obligation and did not offer courtesy to Ritu, as if it he had a primary rightful claim over the berth and Ritu, an intruder had encroached on his just right. Ritu had to manage with the small available place. She could not see the face of the man as it was mostly covered. She felt the couple might be moving somewhere to a distant hospital for treatment.
She recollected every time she embarked on a train from Kolkata some local people would make such a drama and effort to acquire a convenient space as if the same is their habitual rightful claim. The art to force this on fellow passengers always baffled her.
The man had covered his face and in the dull light of the train his face was clearly not discernible. She could not find any visible sign of sickness in him. The train was quite crowded. Many people were returning to work after spending time with family during Dasshera holidays. Passengers waiting on the platform made a last moment beeline entry and crowded the entrance when the train finally left for Chennai. Everyone moved to their respective berths like Ritu.
A South Indian family had already occupied the middle and upper seats. A passenger had already occupied the side Lower berth, may be a daily passenger travelling up to Kharagpur. A Chaiwala( tea hawker) and a Jhalmudhi( spicy puffed rice) vendor had moved inside the compartment. A saffron clad baul singer couple with long hair, sling bag had also made an entry along with their Ektara and Dugi( typical instruments used by Bauls) and looked for their berths.
Chennai Howrah Mail caught up speed and local stations were passing behind. Vendors started making brisk business. Outside had become dark and the insufficient light inside made the interior look hazy. Ritu could feel the uneasiness in the questioning eyes of the fellow passengers. They were eagerly waiting for her to move up. She took the help of the Chaiwala to lift her luggage and moved to the side upper berth. She for the first time could notice the man who was so far pretending sickness, comfortably taking full possession of the berth- middle aged, sporting a beard with broad physique without displaying any sign of sickness. Ritu did notice a deep cut mark on her forehead, although the face was still not clearly visible from her berth in the dull light. Ritu recollected probably the cut mark was familiar to her. The couple talked to each other in a low voice.
Ritu again could notice the face and the cut mark when the male passenger started drinking water from his bottle. She thought Kolkata being a big city there was probability she had come across a similar face somewhere. In the mean time the South Indian family had taken their dinner. The aroma of curd and hing filled the compartment. The Bengalee couple opened their bag and from a plate started eating Mutton Masala and Paratta. For a while the whole train was filled with strong aroma of meat. Then they took out some puffed rice which they ate with the remaining meat. Finally they ended dinner with a piece of sandesh( local Bengalee sweet delicacy). Before retiring to his berth the male passenger took out a small bottle and threw a few homeopathic goli ( tablet) to his mouth. Ritu could clearly notice the male passenger did not have two of his fingers in the right palm. Ritu got terrified. She felt dizzy for a while as if the whole world below is moving. Cold sweat started flowing through her body. She felt she has seen a nightmare and started talking to herself “This is not possible”. She had doubts whether she had seen correctly or not. Sometimes the mind plays tricks with the vision, like imagining a snake for a rope. It’s a reflection of the imagination which manifests like this.
Ritu realised her mental faculty had stopped functioning properly. She had the whole night to spend. She would reach her destination only at the wee hours next morning. The train was yet to reach Kharagpur and she had not covered even quarter of the distance.
The train reached Kharagpur soon and the TTE came to the compartment to check tickets. The daily passenger in the lower berth got down. But to her surprise the male passenger covered himself completely and pretended his sickness seeing the TTE. This made Ritu doubt further,”why the man would cover his face without talking to the TTE? Was he known to the TTE?”
The wife repeated “my man is slightly indisposed... He is Hemanta Dutta.” and showed their ticket and mentioned about the exchange of berth. TTE offered the side lower berth to Ritu. She thought for a while and politely declined as she thought it would be better to keep a watch on the front passengers from her present position.
After TTE’s departure, while taking her dinner, Ritu could see two prying sharp eagle like eyes from below the cover of the male passenger was watching her every move. His deep look unnerved Ritu for a while.
“Did the man know her?”
“Was he trying to link her to some past incident?”
“ Why the man who covered his face completely when the TTE came, took off the cover immediately after his departure?” His dubious behaviour was very annoying to Ritu.
When the man took off the cover Ritu could clearly notice English letter “H” was tattooed on the right hand of the sick male passenger. As if hot air blew over Ritu for a while which dried her mouth. She could not think clearly. She did not have further doubts as memory of an incident two years back became fresh.
Two years back she got a news that her father who was staying in Kolkata is ill. In a hurry she boarded train in a sleeper coach from Bhubaneswar along with mother and son Arobinda as Manoj was away. At Kharagpur the train was waiting on the platform for the signal to move ahead. Mother was taking a nap resting her head to the window as young Arobinda was sleeping on the berth. Ritu’s mother soon realised someone was trying to snatch her gold chain through the open window with his two fingers. She got up and called for Ritu holding her chain. By the time Ritu could do anything the train started moving slowly when the window fell down suddenly and the gold chain and two cut fingers fell inside the coach. The train did not stop as it had caught speed. Ritu could see letter “H” tattooed on the snatcher’s hand and a silver ring with letter “H” in one of the two cut fingers falling inside. Ritu had no doubt that the snatcher and passenger with tattooed “H” are same.
Ritu could not decide what to do? TTE has left long back and other passengers slept peacefully. Would it be proper to pull chain and stop the train? What proof did she have ? Who would believe her?
Whether the man recognised her and kept watch on her? She talked to Manoj about it over phone and requested her to inform police to take the man in to custody.
Ritu switched off the light, lied down on her berth and kept talking to Manoj at intervals. She realised that the man is pretending to sleep yet keeping an eye over her, while trying to listen to her conversation with Manoj. He must be able to understand Odia. Train was moving fast, crossing stations on the way.
Before arriving Bhubaneswar station the man asked Ritu “Are we reaching Bhubaneswar?” The couple then whispered to each other for a while and got down at the next station silently, without anyone’s knowledge. Ritu’s tiring eyes were needing rest and closing down. She informed Manoj about sudden departure of the couple. Ritu thought for a while may be she was unnecessarily suspecting her co- passengers who were on pilgrimage to Puri.
Howrah Chennai Mail reached Berhampur station at 4 AM. Manoj was waiting on the platform. On the way Manoj spoke to Ritu in the car and said he informed Railway police, who agreed to apprehend the culprit at Bhubneswar or Khurda station and sought his permission. But he thought otherwise not to disturb the passengers during midnight, only on the basis of suspicion and without any concrete proof.
But you were right. He might be a history sheeter and that was why hiding himself from the TTE. They had booked ticket up to Rajmundri and not upto Khurda. May be from our mobile conversation they guessed trouble and got down from the train.
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)
Tattoo was always my love, passion and weakness since childhood. Happened to see it on a relative’s arm and it was wonder, curiosity and amusement at first sight not to say I fell in love with that masterly art. I hear the name “Tattoo” first time and bombard him with multiple questions and he was aghast at my penetrative questions and was unable to give convincing answers.
Having got hooked to tattoo my thoughts always went around those deep blue engraved spots and was trying to learn about it more and more. An artistic skill inborn was a big advantage which I had and creativity extreme also helped. After high school no second thoughts and coaxed my parents to enrol me into my passion and off I went to Chennai for a course. They found me extremely talented and my study period and training reduced and back I am to my native place with a skill alien in my developing village. Was questioned about my future plans and to have a shop in the nearest town was not within my means and finally it ended up in a small outlet in my village itself and it being a tourist destination my skills I believed will give a revenue earning outlet.
As I said earlier tattoo had a special place in me for various reasons. Taking into account all other factors I summed up that tattoo had a truth in it. Engraving a permanent image of belief on the bare skin is an indication of a deep-rooted faith having a strong value of truth in it. For that very reason I named my shop “Tattoo Truth” and also had it tattooed on my arm.
My business was low initially and the news spreading through word of mouth made people come from far and tourists also started trickling. When business started picking up slowly it happens, the dark turning point in my life.
Frequent theft in the village and the police unable to catch the culprit. When it became almost a daily happening the villagers had no option but to agitate. This made the authorities take a serious view and pressure from the administration added to it. CC TV cameras being uncommon in the village it became more difficult and more of police were assigned to the place for night patrolling. It was on one such night a policeman noticed one jumping over a wall and escaping. He ran behind and manages to catch hold of the thief’s hand. It turns out to be oiled and slips. In between the policeman notice the tattoo on his hand which turns out to be the lead.
Policemen at my shop and takes me to the police station as if I was the man in the dark. Once inside the station their behaviour and language changed and only then I came to know of the thief with a tattoo they were looking for. With harsh and tough questions, I knew that they were leaning towards me and with the thief having an identical tattoo like mine I stood the strong suspect. They were forcibly fitting me into the frame with the tattoo tag.
To me as I said the tattoo was a symbol of truth. Engraving a permeant symbol or word on the skin stood as a belief deep, representing truth. There can be exceptions where one will do it for fun but to me it was truth and truth alone.
With me being a suspect, I was shattered beyond words and no way to prove my innocence. At last, it dawned on me that only my tattoo could save me. Scantily dressed and displaying “Tattoo truth” which was tattooed on my arm and holding a banner written “I no thief “stood in a busy corner of my village. Curious onlookers and people who knew me gathered around. Police came and warned me and I told them that no law-and-order problem created and I am protesting in the most peaceful manner I knew.
I stood at that spot, rain or shine and as each day passed, I was losing my physical strength. On the third day the police approached me and said that the real thief surrendered on his own and I was no suspect.
A free man at last from suspicion and accusations. Was told by police the thief had surrendered with guilt. His tattoo was my doing, my creation and remembered the incident. This young man walked in to have a fancy tattoo and I suggested he have an identical one I had and he agreed. Told him that its inherent meaning was loaded with a message that will live all through. Tomorrow, it may help him to reach a level of high living. Not knowing my talking was getting into him or not I kept on preaching with passion my thoughts and beliefs. Had his hand tattooed with “Tattoo Truth” with a bow and arrow alongside a symbolic indication that truth will fly high. The message made a thief realize reality when guilt overshadowed him. Proved me right when I needed it most.
My belief in tattoo reiterated and will never be broken. The deep faith will remain rock strong for ever.
Belief is what drives you, keeps one moving forward to a life good, honest, peaceful and clean.
To me, my belief my religion is engraved as “Tattoo Truth”.
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..
Time spent at a traditional barber shop can be a vicarious experience of so many hues. It literally gives you an insight into the life of so many people on a platter. Like it or not, you are destined for this experience if you have hair on your head or otherwise.
Let’s not make the mistake of confusing the barber shop I am talking about with that of a modern-day salon. The one I am talking about is known more as a social institution than for the basic grooming service it offers. Two rows of seats, a wall-to-wall mirror with pictures of calendar gods and goddesses providing oversight to your grooming process, and a TV or a cheap sound system blaring out local hits characterizes them. An hour of grooming including half an hour of waiting time can set you back maximum by a hundred rupees even now.
Many those days shaved once in three days and had a haircut once a month. Being recognized and acknowledged by the barber was treated as the first certificate of an adolescent into his manhood. He would be considered a man and a man enough if he in the later years gets the offer of a waiting seat and is given a pan or included in the rounds of tea order unasked. That is one of the methods by which a man in our societies left his urine marks on his territories as being someone important. Those days the service comprised of recognition, acknowledgment, respect, elaborate talk on various issues both local, national, and personal then a haircut or an odd body hair shave and a spine-chilling message to end the session. The quality of haircuts at those times was given the least priority and people were supremely confident of their appearance in spite of their oddities.
Traditionally, barbers, as a clan were the ones who could carry any potentially lethal weapon nearest to the jugular of the most powerful person in that area, and his massage skills, gave him the access to the most sensitive spot that every man tries to protect after perhaps his eyes. Scores of stories and hearsays had the shrewd barber as the manipulative character at its center. His closeness to the kings and such power centers made them develop their art of glib talk to keep the powerful engaged while being groomed. It gave them the enviable access to the powerful ears too. To plant a suspicion for mischief or gains or to extract a personal favor. The trait had become genetic and would have continued had the disruptive culture of new age salons not come up.
People would stroll in with scant disregard for the person on the seat. Pick up a comb or a pair of scissors from the tray on the ledge in the front and start to give themselves a groom while picking up a small or a serious chat. The one silently sitting in the waiting chair for the last half an hour would randomly choose his unsuspecting audience and target his opinion on some issue that he discovered in the newspaper, without bothering to check if the issues interested his audience or not. Doesn’t matter if it didn’t interest him, as there will be someone else who would catch that thread and the discussion will continue ad nauseam. One was free to join and exit the discussion anytime as the barber as the moderator would keep the discussion stoked with his wisdom and quips long enough. Regulars chose their timings. Mornings are the usual rush time. Sunday was the lean day and Mondays and Thursdays were the leanest. For many, the trip was more social than anything else. They chose the crowded timing few who were not very socially adept would choose the lean times.
Don't know why barber shops are kind of confession boxes for many. A bar with a good bartender served the same purpose in the West perhaps. Today, I was privy to simmering tension between a man and his wife. The man talking to his wife over his cell phone chose to get up immediately without getting a haircut to mete out instant justice. By this time he was out of the doors, he already had made his intentions and plans public. After being exposed to the cold, dust, and fog in the morning yesterday, a land agent was lamenting how he is down with a bout of cold and chest congestion. His misery seems to be never-ending as he was just recovering from a surgery he had to endure to rupture an abscess on his Hydrocele (sic).
This place of social interaction headed by the lead barber himself was no less than a social institution itself. Our cities till some time back were dotted with such shops. They were known by the names of the barber, not by the shops’ names. And fortunately, some still exist as the shadow of their former glorious bests. Our preference for conspicuous consumption in the name of hygiene, style, and comfort is depriving us of experiencing what is called glib talk. I won’t say much about the voyeuristic pleasure we derived from peeping into others’ lives as collateral.
Jay Jagdev is an entrepreneur, academic and author. He is a popular blogger and an essayist. His foray into poetry is new. His essays are regularly published in Odishabytes and his poems on life and relationships have been featured in KabitaLive.
He is known for his work on sustainable development and policy implementation. As the President of the Udaygiri Foundation, he works to preserve and develop native language, literature, and heritage by improving its usage and consumption. More can be known about him on www.jpjagdev.com
THE LOST ART OF READING: FROM DUSTY BOOKSHELVES TO DIGITAL SCREENS
Recently I had the opportunity of spending few hours with a renowned writer who has earned national recognition. He cited one incident of his life. Few years back he was invited to a small town to deliver a lecture. The organizers invited him to visit the public library for which they feel proud. It was quite old and located in the heart of the town. He was happy to find a large collection of books by renowned authors stored neatly in the library.
However, the young boys and girls assembled in library didn’t have the intention or inquisitiveness to glance at those books piling dust in the library. Rather they had brought their own books to read there. Mostly, these books were meant for competitive examinations. There was no place for literature in their scheme of things.
It reminds me of my growing up years. In those days in seventies and eighties there was no television or smart phones. Book was our only companion. We had no choice. Whatever came to our attention we used to grab it and go through it from one end to the other at the earliest opportunity.
From popular novels to classics, we never distinguished ourselves. Book was a source of exciting enjoyment for us. The book was circulated from one to the other in our friends circle and we had conversations on the new books read by us.
The school and college library served us well. Once upon a time encyclopedia in the college library was an attraction for us. Going through its pages we could discover the world around us. Being a sincere student of history I was keen to go through the critical works of foreign authors and could get a thorough understanding of their studies.
As a budding writer these books were a source of inspiration for me. Alas I miss those passions in the present generation of youth. They are more interested in social media and e-books. The smell of a printed book never enchants them. Then what will happen to these books lying in the public libraries and to our personal collections.
Last year a very senior writer in his nineties invited me to a dinner. As a researcher and writer he has a good collection of books having historical significance. During last few years he has been trying to donate his treasure of books to public libraries but it didn’t evince interest among the persons in charge of those libraries. They cite constraints of space and storage facilities.
Would we then consign them to flames which we have built over years with love and passion? Our sons and daughters do not share our love for books. Three years back when I shifted to my own house after retirement it was a difficult task to pack and unpack the books in my personal library, shifting them to a safe place and store them for future.
Space was a big issue and there was a choice between the two aquariums and the two book almirahs dear to the son and the father respectively. The prodigal son suggested disposing off the books to give way for the fishes and turtles he had reared in the aquariums. I was at my wits and to convince him the value of the books in my life.
Finally, my better half had a better idea and she assigned two separate spaces for each of us. Obviously, the fate of my dear books hangs in a balance after my departure.
Poet Jayanta Mahapatra donated all his books collected over decades to a college where he spent few years of his career as a professor. A separate corner was created in their library in honor of the great poet. But it is reported that there was no taker for those books. The students didn’t have much interest in these books. They are still gathering dust there. What’s the fate of books then, one may wonder.
(The author is a poet & columnist and a former bureaucrat. Views expressed are personal)
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
.Friendship is an integral aspect of human life for it works as a unique bond that transcends cultural, geographical, and temporal boundaries, uniting individuals through mutual respect, trust, love and affection. The diversity and inclusivity inherent in friendship enhance understanding of the world and teach valuable lessons. It offers emotional support, fosters personal growth and brings in joy through shared experiences.
Human beings living in a society do have friends to make the go of life easy and delightful. Friendship is a relative term. People, regardless of gender may become friends when interactions among them are cordial and interests align. Samuel Butler says, “Friendship is like money easier made than kept.” Obviously this school of thought amplifies interest that plays a vital role in keeping a friendship alive. But it is not all. Friendship has different angles with defined perspectives.
Friendship, as it were, may be short term, long term, enduring, casual or real. One might have experienced any one or all of these types of friendship in life or might have come across or heard of the effects and aftermath of all these kinds of friendship experienced by others, but of them, the real or true friendship is something special and different. Saying goes, a friend in need is friend indeed. This statement denotes quality of one aspect of friendship only and it is not enough to call someone of this nature a real friend. Helen Keller says, “I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light.” It is apparent that Keller must have talked of a real friend and not a casual one to walk in the dark together. That means the element of confidence in her friend is unquestionable. Jane Austen opens her heart with candid words – “There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves. It is not my nature.” Thus while going to make someone a friend, be not in hurry but look before you leap. In this respect Socrates has wisely said, “Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant.”
Now, the point is who could be a real or true friend? Real friends share an unspoken understanding that goes beyond words. This connection is often intuitive, characterized by the ability to sense each other's needs, emotions, and thoughts without explicit communication. It is a bond forged through shared experiences, mutual respect, and a deep emotional resonance. This understanding allows real friends to offer comfort, support, and companionship in ways that are uniquely tailored to each other's needs, creating a harmonious and firm relationship.
A real friend is one who does not severe relationship even after a gross or minor misunderstanding, an abrupt spat or any difference of opinion. A real friend should have the magnanimity to forget and forgive friend’s wrong doings, lapses, misbehavior done at any point of time. In that respect, our Hindu culture amplifies spouse as the best real friend which is enduring and it lasts until death. Other than spouse finding a true or real friend is very difficult even if we may have a good number of friends.
Instances of real friend in Puranas are explicit when the friendship between Krishna and Arjuna, Krishna and Sudama are alluded to. A true friend is said to be full proof and above all questions. In the present day world, one can find anything for a price but not a real friend. In our day to day life we interact with several people including own kinsmen and more often than not we take some of them as our intimate friends. But human nature is imperceptible. Nobody knows, at what point of time everything would go topsy turvy and one’s very close friend would turn enemy. Again human nature is so incomprehensible that a friend portraying close intimacy on the face might be perpetrating fatal or serious harm behind the back. When such so-called friend betrays or plays deceitful games, life becomes awesome and unbearable.
That is why Lord Buddha says, “An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast. A wild beast may wound your body but an evil friend will wound your mind.”
Srinivasa Ramanujan, one of the great mathematicians of India has advanced a novel formula to test a real friend.
One day, someone asked Ramanujan, “Do you have a real friend?” Ramanujan replied, “Though I wanted to have a close friend, nobody was upto my expectations.”
When he was asked again and again how he expected his friend to be, he replied, “A real friend should be like the numbers 220 and 284.”
The person asking the question was confused and said, “What is the connection between friendship and these numbers?”
Ramanujan looked deep into him and asked him to find the dividers of these two numbers, ie, 220 and 284 separately. The person after working out for a while derived and listed the dividers as:
220 = 1, 2, 4, 5, 10, 11, 20, 22, 44, 55, 110 and 220.
284 = 1, 2, 4, 71, 142 and 284.
Ramanujan then asked the man to sum up the dividers of each number, 220 and 284 separately excluding these two numbers.
After summing up the dividers of 220 and 284 as advised by Ramanujan, the person was astonished to find that
220 =1+2+4+5+10+11+20+22+44+55+110= 284
and
284=1+2+4+71+142= 220.
Ramanujan explained – “An ideal friend should be like these numbers to complement each other. Even when one is absent, the other should represent the friend.”
Ramanujan further explained in his own inimitable style, as these two numbers represent a mutual connection at a deeper level, he too expect to have such a connection and rapport with someone whom he could call a real friend. At this the said person looked in awe.
Thus, according to Ramanujan a real friendship should be when two people can have ingrained in them the same set of qualities where one can mirror the qualities of the other even in other’s absence. In that case only, the friendship lasts unshattered and thrives against all odds. Aristotle rightly says, “A true friendship is one soul abiding in two.”
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker is fond of travelling, gardening and writing small miscellaneous articles on human behaviour, social order, education, science, politics, religion, etc. just to pass time in his old age though he is neither a writer nor a poet.
Superlatives fall short …when I contemplate portraying dad in his true colors.
He is my hero , mentor, savior, guide, buddy- all in one. For any daughter, father is a superhero.
So also in my case, maybe a little more than that.
He has been there for me always…sharing vistas of happiness and thick times of my life.He assuages my thoughts and sentiments, those lay too deep beyond the reach of tears.
He challenges my ability to barrel my way through arduous path, and ensures that I emerge winner.He makes sure that my life is easy and fun yet exposes me to the rigors where I am not at all comfortably ensconced in just to carve a wholesome me from plain and ordinary.
A few times he acts like a tormentor though.
“Tormentor” seems like a harsh word , so I will use “hard taskmaster” instead.
Mom repeats this story often to elucidate his true character.
We three had gone for a vacation. I was a toddler then. The resort where we stayed was perched in a very scenic backdrop. It had a bit of everything, one vies to enjoy and relax.
A beautiful view of snow capped mountains, deep forests, a small park with lush green meadows. But,the children in the resort were enamored by the large swimming pool in the midst of the resort more than by the natural splendors all across.
Boys and girls with their swimsuits splashed into the pool and kept swimming till the sun started tormenting. Girls of my age , even younger to me, trudged along like nymphs.
I sat and watched the spectacular show. I had aquaphobia, yet I wished to master the art of swimming, especially the butterfly strokes as it fascinated me.
On a fine morning, dad took me with him to the pool. Without realizing what was happening I was inside the water crying for help.
It was a sight to behold.
Raising my hand I cried-”Dad! I am drowning. Save me.”
My pleadings fell on deaf ears. He did not budge an inch even. A few onlookers had gathered by then.There was much hue and cry about the whole scenario.
Thank God! Mom had gone out for her routine morning walk. Else, things would have been very different.
Lo! I surprised myself and the bystanders by swimming ashore, although with gasping breath.
This was no less than a miracle.Sincerely speaking, how this happened I have no idea.
Dad ran to me instantly , held me in deep embrace. Wiping those precious tears and water from my face he whispered…
“I knew you could do it dear! You have emerged stronger and powerful today. Kudos to you for not giving in . Now go and master the art. You have done yourself and me proud.”
Since then, swimming has been both my hobby and favorite sport. In trying to master the art, I have won trophies and laurels. They are distinctly displayed in our living room showcasing my skill and courage.
It took me time to realize the subtle nuance behind dad’s impromptu action and I adore him all the more.
There is another very pertinent episode that showcases my dad’s absolute faith and belief in me…
He got me a bicycle after a lot of persuasion.
“Dad!Girls in the neighborhood have bicycles to ride.I am sick of riding pillion.I don’t need new dresses for my birthday.Please give me a bicycle this time. Please dad!”
I got a cute pink colored bicycle.
“Who is going to teach me riding dad?”- I asked him.
“ Yours faithfully would do the honors, who else would?.”-He replied
He
Me
And my bicycle
We three were on the road that fateful Sunday afternoon.
He made me sit and taught me how to paddle and how to apply brakes when I needed to stop. He ran beside me, boosting my morale and confidence as I rode slowly with shaky hands. I puffed my wings of courage to learn each nuance of cycling.
“It is so much fun dad! I feel like a bird soaring high, fluttering wings to reach the sky.”
“Oh really! That is great. But you need to focus more dear! Be careful while negotiating turns, puddles and humps.”
I started paddling slowly, negotiating humps and a vehicle or two coming from front. I was rejoicing the ride and the freedom as it was at the back of mind that dad was following me. Suddenly I saw two scooters in a narrow lane. Two devils at a time! My gosh! I was nervous. I failed to negotiate and fell down. The bicycle fell on me. I saw dad running towards me from a distance. He took me home,nursed my bruises, and gave me hot chocolate to drink.
After getting over the shock and anxiety, I asked him-
“ Dad! You were not behind me when I fell down. Why is it so?”
“Yes dear, I wasn’t there at that moment but I was following you all through.I was behind, at a distance but monitored closely each move of yours. That is amore too”
“Till my last breath, I shall always be there for you.”
“I want you to be independent and courageous in life. Take brisk confident steps. Move forward.
You will be a winner, my child.”
That was not just a bicycle lesson, but a life lesson for me.
I realized- He is like a coconut…hard exterior, supple inside. That makes him one of a kind.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has four published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm and Humming Serenades -all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
When the news reached us that our aunt Putli was arriving from her village at 8 p.m., for a moment I did not know what to do! Without noticing the burnt chapathi, I was deeply immersed in thought cooking a plan as to how we should prevent her arrival. But we could see the futility of our plan as the bus would have already left her village and within four hours she would land bag and baggage.
If she was like any of our other auns it wouldn't have been a problem at all! This aunt Putli was unique. She rarely paid us a visit. But once she arrived she had no idea whatsoever of leaving, making herself comfortable at the expense of throwing the rest of the household into discomfort. She always wanted the best and saw that she got it, not caring a hoot the inconvenience she caused to the others. She always had her way whether at home or outside in company.
I suddenly remembered what I was doing and decided to complete the job on hand before making arrangements for her long stay. After finishing the chapathi, I slowly entered my son's room and broke the news to him. This little fellow of ten was delighted at the news at first but a moment later was full of disappointment when I told him he should accommodate his aunt in his room. This meant removing all his things from there and sleeping with us. Though he was not old, he preferred to have a room to himself. Promising a box of chocolates, I managed to bring round that fellow into agreeing to spare his room.
Everything was made ready for her arrival, room and all. Hubby received her and brought her by taxi. She alighted slowly, sideways, carrying her weight of 200 lbs with dignity. "Hello Vasantha," she greeted before I could open my mouth.
After a bath, she settled at the dining table, ready for dinner; I had prepared an extra curry of cabbage and two more side dishes, besides rice and chapathis. She took a small bit of the chapathi with a little curry and made a face - all her muscles contracted.
I thought I forgot to add salt in the curry and asked her. "Oh no, the salt is very much present. But how come the curry does not smell of ghee, don't you use ghee for its preparation?"
"Well, do you know how much one kilo of ghee costs these days?" I wanted to ask, but refrained as it was not good manners.
She took some rice with sambar. I waited for her next remark and it came. "Don't you all use the superior quality rice?" I told her this was the best quality available in our city. She mumbled something and ate quietly, leaving half of the rice and curry.
I helplessly stared at the wasted food - even the servant wouldn't touch it. The meal over, we all retired to our bedrooms as all of us were tired in our own way.
As I was busy preparing coffee the next morning, I heard the tap water at the wash basin going unchecked. I ran to see who was there but found none. I was sure it was this aunt's job. She very coolly left it open and forgot to close it. Probably she had no knowledge of the water situation in our city. She had her coffee steaming hot and I thought she relished the flavour and I heaved a sigh of relief. But this relief was short lived "Vasantha" she called, "don't you get buffalo milk here? Why is the coffee so watery? From tomorrow please add a few more spoons of sugar in my coffee," she said and went to take her bath.
While having lunch, I told her sugar was obtained only through ration and our quota was just sufficient for the family. But my words did not make any sense. "So what! don't you get it in the market? In our village, we can get any amount."
I thought it was useless trying to explain to her and kept mum. The days passed slowly and the remarks increased so much that I lost count of them. She grumbled everyday saying city life was horrible, everything was scarce and foodstuffs were adulterated. This last was true but I told her we got used to them.
By the end of a fortnight, to my surprise, all my provisions started getting over, just because of one single guest who consumed three people's food, with never-ending appetite. We thought if our guest stayed for another month, we would turn bankrupt - what with the rising prices and high cost of living.
As we seriously thought of a plan to send her away, a telegram suddenly arrived saying her son was seriously ill. Poor lady, she was full of anxiety and left for her village by the next available bus.
Though we were sorry for her son, we were happy that our guest had left, at last. It was like maintaining a white elephant. But a surprise awaited us. On the third day of her departure, we received another telegram. My husband slowly opened it and after going through what it contained at a glance dropped it like hot coals. I immediately picked it up. It said, "Arriving 4 O' clock bus with Prakash - aunt Putli."
For a moment I thought I would faint, but composed myself. This meant feeding two people - I did not know for how long. Our plan to spend a fortnight at a hill resort the following summer crumbled to pieces. Could we ever manage to save for the holiday with people like Putli?
The advertisement appeared just right for someone who wished to develop a pleasing personality through effective communication. Even though the fee was a little exorbitant for my comfort, 1 thought 1 could persuade Smitha, my young and beautiful but arrogant and self-opinionated, daughter-in-law, to attend the programme. It was, after all, being conducted by a foreigner in a five-star hotel.
I deliberated almost for a week on how I should mention it to Smitha, fearing her strong reaction to such a suggestion. Finding her in a congenial mood one day (which was rare), I ventured to mention the advertisement, saying it was a programme worth giving a try and gingerly looked up to see how Smitha took it.
"Mama, why me of all people? You must be out of your mind! 1 don't think I need to develop a pleasing personality because I already have one. As for the 'effective communication' part, I think you will agree that I am the only effective communicator in the whole family." (I dared not tell her that personality did not mean having only good looks and effective communication was not one-sided conversation.)
Not one to accept defeat easily, I tried the next best approach and hoped it would work.
"Smitha, this is the first programme of its nature to be conducted by a foreigner here, someone who is spoken of very highly. And they are organising it in one of the five-star hotels in the city," I ventured, knowing her obsession with white skin and five-star food.
Smitha fell for the bait faster than I expected.
* * *
The programme commenced in right earnest and I noticed that Smitha was enjoying every bit of it. She woke up earlier than usual, paid extra attention to her clothes and dashed off with a glint in her eye in the only car we have, leaving my son to make his own arrangements to reach his office.
On the penultimate day, I asked Smitha what the whole course was about and whether she was finding the programme useful.
Oh, yes, Mama, it is fabulous, Smitha enthused: "I am glad you chose the right one for me!"
Feeling inwardly happy, I waited for her to continue, but she said nothing.
So, how is the director and how is the participation, 1 asked.
"Ms. Young is fantastic, so good-looking and charming. All of us just adore her," she said.
"Adore her for what? Did you all learn something new, something you did not know already?" I could not help asking.
"Yes, I think we did," she said hesitantly.
"Then why don't you tell me something about the way she went about conducting the programme?"
Smitha thought for a while and said, "Mama, we had a lot of role playing to do, share our experiences, both pleasant and unpleasant. We had to change partners at least four times in the course of two days."
"That must have been very interesting, finding a new person and learning all about him or her in the process," I observed.
"Yes, you:re right, Mama. It was very interesting. For instance, my first partner had a problem with his wife who was more educated than him. Obviously, it was an ego problem. The second partner, a woman, had a tyrant for her mother-in-law. The third was a bachelor who had difficulty in proposing to a girl as he was a very shy person. The fourth was a young man who had no staying power in any job."
So, how did you handle all of them, I asked curiously.
"I did extremely well," Smitha said very confidently. "Our course director reiterated all along the importance of listening in communication. In fact, she over emphasised this aspect. Therefore, we all listeneq to each other very patiently, though sometimes it was an effort to do so. Also, she told us how we can get over indecisivensess and procrastination," said Smitha all in one breath.
I congratulated myself for my decision and looked forward to the young woman turning into a good listener for a change and doing things in time without procrastinating, as was her habit, and become more decisive in things that mattered.
* * *
"So, Smitha, it must have been a good experience for you, getting the maximum exposure in the minimum time," I said when a smiling Smitha came back late in the evening on the last day of the workshop.
"Yes, it's been worth every moment of it, I must say. Thank You, Mama for sending me to the programme and paying for it." (I knew I had paid through my nose, but thought the money was well spent.)
Then Smitha's next words almost made my heart stop.
"Mama, now I have learnt how not to procrastinate and delay decisions. I made up my mind to move out and live an independent life."
When the words sank, in I ventured to ask, "You mean live all by yourself?"
"Well, it depends. If your son Raju wishes to join me, he could do so," Smitha replied without batting an eyelid.
I noticed my son standing mutely on a side with a helpless look about him.
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.
SYMPHONY OF RAIN: A TRIBUTE TO NATURE'S REFRESHING GIFT
“A light rain touches my cheek like an angel's butterfly kisses.”*
In the sweltering heat, as the sun beats down mercilessly, there arises an anticipatory buzz, harbingering the arrival of rain. Its gentle drops, akin to pearls descending from the sky, offer relief and rejuvenation to our weary souls. As clouds gather and the first droplets descend, some of us venture outdoors, savouring each instant as if taking part in life's grand symphony and dance.
The soft pitter-patter of raindrops on tin or tiled roofs of countryside homes creates a melody that soothes the hearts of parched residents. It serves as a gentle reminder that amidst life's chaos, there is beauty in simplicity, in the natural rhythm of existence. Each raindrop carries with it the dreams and sorrows of those below, intertwining in a delicate dance that reflects their memories and aspirations.
Standing beneath the open sky, hugging the rain's embrace, one is reminded of life's frailty and the strength of the human spirit. Amid the rain's embrace, we find comfort in our troubles and clarity amidst the confusion. It is a time for contemplation, for unburdening ourselves, and for clasping the purity of the moment.
Let us weave our fond memories into the fabric of rain, with each drop becoming a canvas for our stories. From childhood days spent jumping in puddles to stolen moments shared with loved ones under umbrellas, rain holds a special place in our hearts. It reminds us of love lost and found, of moments of joy and sorrow.
As the rain continues to fall, let us open our hearts to its gentle embrace, finding not only comfort but also a reminder of life's inherent beauty. So let us dance in the rain, sing with the clouds, and cherish each precious drop as a gift from nature's hand.
Rains and Love:
The association of rain with love goes beyond time and civilization, finding articulation in various forms of art and literature. This communion is embedded in the romantic ambience created by rain, its symbolism of resurgence and transition, and the shared closeness experienced during rainy weather.
1. Romantic Aura:
Rainfall sets a romantic mood, with its gentle music on rooftops and the earthy scent of wet soil. The sound of rain fosters intimacy, delivering the ideal environment for tender moments and manifestations of affection. 2. Symbolism of Renewal:
Like the earth rejuvenated by rain, love can be rekindled and bolstered. Just as rain washes away dust and grime, it can cleanse relationships of past resentments, stimulating growth and regeneration.
- Intimacy:
Rainy weather motivates couples to seek shelter indoors, where they can find comfort in each other's arms. The intimacy shared during these moments heightens emotional bonds and creates lasting memories.
- Cultural Connections:
Throughout literature and cinema, rain is often used as a metaphor for passion and longing. From Shakespearean poetry to Bollywood lyrics, rain symbolizes the power of romantic emotions, arousing nostalgia and sentimentality.
- Shared Experiences:
Getting caught in the rain together can be a bonding experience for couples, whether dancing in the downpour or seeking shelter under an umbrella. These shared moments create a sense of harmony and intimacy, strengthening the bond between partners.
In conclusion, rain and love are intertwined, symbolizing the beauty, passion, and renewal inherent in romantic relationships. Rains and Poetry:
In Kalidasa's epic poem "Meghadutam," the rainy season serves as both a backdrop and stimulus for the description, mirroring themes of yearning and renewal. Set in ancient India, the poem follows a lovelorn yaksha exiled to the remote regions of Ramagiri.
As the yaksha** languishes in exile, separated from his beloved wife, he longs for her companionship. He enlists a passing cloud to carry his message to her in the city of Alaka***.
The arrival of the rainy season becomes the yaksha's opportunity to send his message, beseeching the cloud to convey his request for forgiveness and reconciliation. The rain embodies both longing and hope, rejuvenating the landscape and mirroring the yaksha's desire for reunion.
Throughout the poem, rain imagery evokes feelings of longing and nostalgia, underscoring the transient beauty of life and the eternal pursuit of love and companionship.
In this epic poem, the rainy season transcends its role as a mere weather phenomenon, shaping the sentiments and efforts of the characters and imbuing the poem with a sense of universality. Rains and Bollywood:
Rains are an integral part of the cinematic experience in Hindi films, evoking nostalgia and stirring emotions among audiences.
Rains play a significant role in Hindi cinema, serving as a powerful narrative device to bring about emotions and enhance visual appeal. From romantic lyrics to dramatic confrontations, rains are portrayed in various ways as follows:
- Romance:
Rain scenes are synonymous with romance in Bollywood, featuring lovers dancing in the rain or proclaiming their love under umbrellas. Iconic songs like "Pyar Hua Ikrar Hua" and "Tip Tip Barsa Paani" memorialize the romance of rain on screen.
- Emotional Drama:
Rains heighten the emotional drama in Hindi films, serving as a metaphor for intense emotions such as longing and despair. Whether it's a heartbroken protagonist wandering in the rain or a histrionic confrontation amidst a downpour, rain adds depth to pivotal moments in the storyline. 3. Renewal:
In some films, rains symbolize renewal and new beginnings, washing away past sufferings and paving the way for redemption. The cleansing power of rain is depicted metaphorically, signalling a fresh start for the characters.
4. Visual Appeal:
Rains add visual richness to film sequences, enhancing cinematography and setting the mood for scenes. The play of light and shadow, reflections on rain-soaked streets, and shining surfaces create a cinematic spectacle. 5. Cultural Considerations:
Hindi films incorporate cultural traditions associated with rain, from celebrating festivals like Holi to incorporating monsoon mythology. These cultural references add realism and profundity to rain sequences.
The Importance of Rains to India:
Rains are a lifeline for India, sustaining livelihoods, ecosystems, and economic activities nationwide including but not limited to:
- Agriculture:
Monsoon rains are crucial for agriculture, replenishing soil moisture and ensuring a bountiful harvest. Rain-fed agriculture supports livelihoods and food security across the country.
- Water Resources:
Rains replenish rivers, lakes, and reservoirs, providing water for drinking, irrigation, and industry. Sufficient rainfall ensures a steady water supply throughout the year.
- Ecosystem Balance:
Rains support diverse ecosystems, facilitating vegetation growth and biodiversity. Marshlands, rivers, and forests thrive during the monsoon season, sustaining ecological balance.
- Hydropower:
Rains fill reservoirs, increasing hydropower generation capacity. Hydropower contributes to India's energy needs, reducing dependence on fossil fuels.
- Economic Activities:
Monsoon rains stimulate economic activities across sectors, from agriculture to tourism. Cash crops like tea and coffee thrive during the monsoon season, supporting India's export economy. 6. Cultural Significance:
Rains hold cultural significance, celebrated through festivals and traditions that highlight the importance of water.
Climate Change and Rains:
Unfortunately, climate change is altering rainfall patterns globally for the worse, with profound implications for ecosystems, economies, and societies. Some of these are listed below:
- Extreme Weather:
Warmer temperatures lead to more intense rainfall and extreme weather events.
- Shifts in Rainfall Patterns:
Some regions experience heavier rainfall, while others face prolonged droughts and water scarcity.
- Impact on Agriculture:
Erratic rainfall can harm crops, disrupt farming practices, and aggravate food insecurity.
- Water Management Challenges:
Climate change poses challenges for water management, including flooding and water scarcity. 5. Ecological Impacts:
Changes in rainfall affect ecosystems and biodiversity, threatening species' survival.
6. Human Health Risks:
Waterborne diseases and vector-borne illnesses increase with changing rainfall patterns.
Adapting to climate change requires sustainable water management and resilience-building measures.
Notes:
1- *Amanda Mosher in Better to be able to love than to be loveable
2-**Yaksha local tutelary spirit or earth jinni of India regarded as a patron of wealth and fertility.
3-*** Alaka, also called Alakapuri or Alkavati, is a city featured in Hinduism. It is the home of Kubera, the king of a race called the yakshas and the god of wealth. The Mahabharata mentions this city as the capital of the Yaksha Kingdom.
MAIKU, YOUSUF, AND THE USED UMBRELLA
My earliest memories date back to when I was five years old. At that time, I was studying in standard 1 at a Hindi primary school in Gandhi Bag, Nagpur, a major city in Maharashtra. The school was close to where we lived. Initially, a woman was hired to walk me to and from school, but as she became irregular, I grew more confident in going by myself. The school was good, with children from middle-class families, and I quickly befriended a laundryman's son named Maiku. In my innocence, I believed he was good and always honest. It was only much later that I realized he was very cunning and often lied convincingly, leading me into difficult situations.
---
**Ivory Teeth of Airavat:**
Opposite the open space in front of the school were some electrical repair shops. One day, I noticed some off-white porcelain pieces scattered around. I later learned these were broken pieces of porcelain discs from electrical heaters, discarded by the repair shops. Not understanding this at the time, I asked Maiku, who seemed to know all the answers. He told me they were pieces of "Hathi Dant" (ivory teeth) belonging to Airavat, the mythological white elephant of the Hindu god Indra. According to Maiku, Airavat came down from heaven on moonlit nights to graze on earth and dropped his ivory here. He urged me to collect a few pieces and take them home for good luck. When my mother found the "ivory" in my school bag, she was very upset. I explained the story with childlike seriousness and protested her anger. She smiled, hugged me, called me her innocent "buddhu" (foolish) child, and threw the pieces away. She warned me to stay away from Maiku, saying he was not our type. I didn’t understand then.
---
**Maiku’s White Shirts:**
Maiku always seemed to wear dazzling white shirts, whereas mine turned yellowish over time from the Sunlight soap we used. I asked him why his shirts were so white. He said they used Neel (indigo dye) and suggested I could achieve the same effect by rubbing blue carbon paper on my shirt. Following his advice, I rubbed blue carbon paper on my shirt front, resulting in a patchy blue mess. Fearing punishment from our teacher, Pandhare Guruji, who carried a long cane, I tried to hide the stains by holding my Bal-Bharati (Hindi textbook) against them. This only made me more conspicuous, and I received several strokes of the cane on my palm. Maiku, who had instigated the incident, advised me afterward to rub oil on my red palm to ease the pain. I could never confront him about why he did this to me.
---
**Maiku’s Eraser Recipe:**
Once, I asked Maiku how erasers were made. He said it was simple: take a bowl, put in scrapings of lead pencil and milk, and keep it under a cot for 15 days away from sunlight and prying eyes. I followed his instructions and then forgot about it. During a spring cleaning at home, my mother found the bowl. The milk had curdled, and the mixture had turned green. I was severely admonished. Maiku later said that the eraser was just about to form and that I would have made a rare green one.
---
**Surrogate Stomach-ache:**
Living in my doctor uncle’s (father’s brother-in-law) nursing home, Maiku assumed I was his son despite my protests. One Saturday after school, Maiku took me to his home, which resembled a laundryman's premises. His mother asked him to deliver some clothes to nearby customers. He handed me one bundle and took another himself. We delivered the laundry and Maiku collected the money, also asking for a tip, which one lady gave him. After returning to his place, his mother fried some sweet fritters, which I ate eagerly. Afterward, she claimed her stomach ached and insisted I get medicine from my doctor father. Despite my protests, Maiku pressured me, saying I owed them for the food.
Feeling tense, I went to the pharmacist in the nursing home, who knew us well. I claimed I had a stomach ache and that my father was busy so couldn’t accompany me. He eventually gave me a mixture in a glass bottle with a dose label. I hid it in my school bag and took it to school on Monday. The bottle's cork cap leaked, staining my Bal-Bharati book.
---
**Return to Native Town:**
At age seven and in the third standard, I moved back to our native town Tumsar in the Bhandara district. I wasn’t particularly good at studies, ranking 26th in a class of 40 in Nagpur, so a tutor, Palhewar Guruji, was hired for two years. He taught me well in a playful manner, which helped me develop a liking for studies.
---
**Used Umbrella:**
I lived in a joint family with 38 members and 2 live-in servants. Before the monsoon, my uncle in charge of distributing school bags and umbrellas would give new ones to his children, while I always received old, repaired items. I complained to my father, who advised me to focus on my studies. My uncle, angered by my complaints, would give me used textbooks and sometimes slap me when no one was looking.
---
**Yousuf Ali:**
In class III, I received my first bound exercise book with a beautiful picture of swans swimming by a lotus. We sat on floor mats with low wooden benches for our books. A boy named Yousuf, the son of a painter, sat with me. On the first day, my mother advised me to write my name on the notebook to prevent theft. I trusted Yousuf and didn’t think it necessary. After lunch, my notebook was missing. The teacher found it in Yousuf’s bag, with his name written on it. Despite my protests, Yousuf denied ever seeing my notebook. I cried in vain. My mother said there were thieves everywhere, and my father suggested it might have been an innocent coincidence. My uncle gave me a replacement notebook without the swan picture. I covered it with newspaper and labeled it. Though Yousuf had stolen my notebook, he kept it in good condition, and I was happy it was in good hands. Yousuf remained my friend until class IV, after which he dropped out.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Time in its fleet brought about many changes in the attitude of most of the people today. They illegally want to own the property of others. They are ready to take law into their hands when time comes against his wishes. All such things are going in the usual manner nowadays: bribes given to officers and leaders, match fixing in games and sports, dowries in marriages, tips to servants, ransoms to kidnappers and other things for others. What the people say is that man is crazed with the spell of money and he can never come out of it. To state about ransom, a notorious kidnapper called Dhanbal was answering all the queries posed by the police inspector.
'I've heard that you're a very clever and noted kidnapper. You were very successful in kidnapping and earning money illegally...You set the kidnapped twins free...,' said the Police Inspector.
'What you've said is right...I was successful in kidnapping the twins but not successful in getting the ransom for kidnapping them,' said Dhanbal.
'What made you fail in getting the ransom?' said the Police Inspector.
Dhanbal was very much surprised for the question. It appeared all silly for him, as he was ever successful in kidnapping and getting ransom most successfully. He earned millions and millions. He owned a five-star hotel in Bengaluru, a lodge in Delhi, a leather factory in Hyderabad and so on. He was ever successful. He got full confidence as a successful kidnapper. He had his own teams to go all around and kidnap children. They were also very sharp. It all appeared that he knew the science of kidnapping. He had a big mansion in isolation amid shrubs. He luxuriously lived with his two wives. He kept the kidnapped children there in the mansion that had no connection with any house. It was in the middle of the forests with bushes nearby and trees far away. His teams hid under the bushes to meet the parents or the guardians and collect ransoms. It was very convenient for him to keep the kidnapped children and mint money. In pursuit of his hunting, he heard news about one of the richest business magnates in the nation with twins in the age of nine years. He found them playing marbles on the premises. He rushed to them with a team of two men, well-versed most in kidnapping. They kidnapped them by offering chocolates to them. The team was sharp in impressing them,
'We've many things to offer you...big, big chocolates, ice creams, lollipops and all whatever you want..., ' said the first kidnapper.
'All whatever we want...a cricket court for play, a small theatre to watch films but no school for us with teachers to beat us...Everything should be encouraging...,' said the first boy.
'No school...only refreshments and entertainments... there is nothing boring... and everything is interesting...You realize when you go there...,' said the second kidnapper.
'Very good... We've a school with teachers of wicked nature...They beat us like anything... We hate school... There's no school with cruel teachers to curtail our pleasures...' said the second boy.
'Have you heard of heaven as described in the stories for children told by your mother? You find heaven, the happiest place there...,' said first kidnapper.
'Okay... We love it... We like it...,' said the boys with one voice.
... ... ... ...
The kidnapped twins were there in the mansion of Dhanbal. They got very good treatment and so they were happy. To know their names, the kidnappers started a small conversation:
'What are your names...,' said the kidnappers.
'We are Lav and Kush...,' said the boys
'Lovely names...,' said the kidnappers.
'We love all except the school in which we sit facing the teacher without pleasure...Our parents force us to go to school which we do not like,' said the boys.
Dhanbal sent a note of information to their father about his kidnapping of his twins. He also stated in the note that they were safe. There was his demand to the parents to pay two crore rupees towards ransom positively within a fortnight to get their twins: Lav and Kush very safely.
The parents, who had been in search of their sons, learnt that their sons had been kidnapped. They knew that the sons were very sharp. They had confidence that they would come back one day or the other but they heard various types of news. Among all the types of news, the news about the kidnapping the only daughter and killing her was haunting them to pose a threat to them. They therefore felt scared all the time. They thought of the ways to free their children.
Lav and Kush were there in the custody of Dhanbal. They served all items to the twins for a few days but they started to express their protests.
Dhanbal was angry with them. The third day they hurled stones at his dogs and the dogs were barking. He and his wives were not getting sleep, as the barking of the dogs disturbed their sleep. The next morning, He came to them to have a sweet conversation,
'Children, you're sharp...You don't make any disturbance...,' said Dhanbal.
'Sir, we're children to play all kinds of games and sports... You said that we would have a theatre, a playground, all whatever we want,' said Kush.
'This's the playground for your play and that's the television for your entertainment...,' said Dhanbal.
'You told many things for us to enjoy all of them but we don't have anything of that sort..., ' said Lav.
'This's for you...All are for you...What don't you have that sort? When you've everything, why do you say that you don't have anything?' said Dhanbal.
'Sir, we don't find any love... the love of mother's pleasure...We have only one mother in our house... She isn't here... Your children have two mothers...You have two wives...one extra...Wonderful..., ' said Lav.
'Whenever we look at them, we're reminded of our mother...' said Kush.
'You promised to serve ice-cream, chocolates and so on often but you aren't doing so. You aren't serving non-vegetarian food in lunch and dinner everyday. You should serve as many items as we want,' said Lav.
'Okay... You'll get...,' said Dhanbal.
While Dhanbal was going back, both of them hurled small stones on his back. He thought that they hit him. He looked at them angrily. He was going ahead later. Again, they hurled small stones at him. He became very fierce and furious but it was not his aim to be angry with them. His aim was to get the ransom of two crores and so he kept quiet.
The dogs were barking again the next morning as Lav and Kush pelted stones at the dogs. It became a headache for Dhanbal and his family. He appeared before them. He tried to pat them on the back. They bit his hands. With a great difficulty, he was able to avert their efforts. He sustained injuries and blood was oozing. He rushed inside for the first aid. While he was rushing, they again hurled stones at him. It was very difficult for him to escape their hurling of stones.
The next morning the servant boy came to serve non-vegetarian food and all they wanted. They ate all he served and beat him, hurling at him the plates with all leftovers: bones and others. The servant boy took to his heels.
The next day, the wives of Dhanbal came to Lav and Kush to speak to them pleasantly. When they looked at his wives, they started to speak,
'My mother is one in our house. You're two in your house...Why...,' said Lav.
'You are happy here...aren't you?' said one wife.
'No...All food items are tasteless and insipid... In your house the cook has no mind...no brain...no heart...He doesn't cook well...You are eating not only grass but also hay...You're animals...You eat grass...,' said Kush.
'What nonsense are you talking?' said another wife.
'It's sense...not nonsense...What we say is full sense...You are talking nonsense..., absolutely nonsense,' said Lav.
'We have seen many children here. No body is like you...You're childish...You're foolish...You're ticklish...,' said one wife.
'We're very good. You, my dear kidnapper's beloved wives are not good... You make promises but you don't keep them...You're dirty fellows...You're nasty fellows...,' said Kush.
'Shut up...,' said one wife.
'Shut up...You should shut up...,'said Lav and Kush, raising their hands.
The wives weren't able to talk further. They kept quiet for some time. While they were going inside the house, Lav and Kush catapulted stones at them continuously. They started to run to escape their pebbles catapulted.
Dhanbal who had injuries bandaged was taking treatment in a clinic in the city. Wherever he went, he went in disguise. The people were not able to identify him as a kidnapper. The parents of Lav and Kush did not respond immediately. They were waiting patiently, trying their best. Here Dhanbal was quiet unhappy with them. They were not able tolerate any further, When he came back, his wives were crying, appealing to their husband,
'If you keep the boys some more days, they won't allow us to sleep. They abused us and catapulted stones at us...See the injuries in the backside of our heads...They have broken windowpanes. You did a mistake in kidnapping them. We have had no such bitter experiences so far... For the first time, we all became victims to the kidnapped. You have kidnapped many children quite for a long time. Some were still with us in separate rooms. You can instruct our teams under the bushes to settle the case of the boys without any delay... All the kidnapped children stayed with us for sometime and went back when their parents responded immediately, paying the demanded ransom and took back their children...What is this nuisance with the two boys...? Send them back...They must not be here...Send them away...Leave them near their house...,' said the wives in one voice.
Dhanbal sent a note to the parents again but they didn't respond immediately as they had confidence in their sons' winning. The next day the boys had lunch with special food items. They kept silent as long as they were having delicious meals. Then he approached them. Then they threw the plates at him. He started to run. Then they catapulted stones at him. This time he was very much injured. He went inside. When he was very much upset, he called his kidnapping team, ordering them to leave them in their street without further delay.
The team of kidnappers came with armors to their bodies and helmets on their heads. When the team came to them, they tried to bite them but it was not possible for them to bite. They abused the team like anything. With a great difficulty, the teams lifted them from the house of Dhanbal. The teams dropped them in their street.
The notorious kidnapper told the police inspector that he had bitter experiences with Lav and Kush. The police listened to him and appreciated the twins for adventurous attempts to be away from the kidnapper. The parents of the boys were very happy when their sons came back safely and successfully.
It was evening. At the Mancheryal railway station, the travelers were waiting for the Telangana express train, coming through different states from Delhi. It picked up all the travelers and led them to their respective destinations on its way ultimately to arrive the state capital of Hyderabad in the South India. It sped in a fast manner and exhibited its stature, halting at important stations.
Even though it came late sometimes, it would pick up speed to reach the destination on time. That was its specialty. It was convenient and pleasant for the travelers to travel by it.
Prem traveled thirty kilometers from the place of work to come to Mancheryal. He reached the station on time to catch the train and travel to Kazipet.
There was announcement that the train was late by thirty minutes. He deeply thought of the discipline of the Indian railways:
Indian railways do not maintain punctuality. Indians, for that matter, do not maintain punctuality. they do not mind coming late. They call the activity of coming late 'Indian Punctuality'.
Prem sat on a seat made of cement that served as a sofa for the travelers tired of waiting for the train.
Waiting is the most difficult task. Only the waiter knows how difficult it is to spend time in times of waiting. The seats for the waiters in the station know how they experience the task of bearing with them, waiting for the trains coming late..
Prem got a Government job at a remote place. He was staying all alone at the place of work. His mother, Lakshmi was quite unhappy for the remoteness of his work place and his having meals at hotels. She shed tears when he joined his job at a remote place.
Mother is very affectionate. Nobody is a substitute for mother. Mother waits for her son keeping all kinds of delicious things ready for him. Mother enjoys nurturing her son like birds that feed the nestlings. Mother is great.
Prem was sorry for the authorities who posted him at a remote place. He was cursing the authorities who were not fair in recruiting the people. They were corrupt. They resorted to bribery. They took bribes and posted them at the places of their choice. He was to work at a distant place, as he did not approach them for bribing them. He did not know anyone for bribing
Prem hated the authorities in the heart of his heart. He did not want to recall the attitude of the authorities at any cost as the recollection left him distressed and depressed, and so he considered them rogues. He tried his best to forget them and their doing injustice to him.
Prem's journey on the weekends reminded him of corrupt authorities. He recalled without any pre-thought and felt sorry for the recollection.
"I should not think of the corrupt authorities, the bloody, inhuman fellows at any cost... I should recall good events and good people but not such rogues."
Prem looked at his watch. Still he was to wait for twenty minutes to catch the train. He saw many people coming late. They came leisurely after enquiring about the late arrival of the train.
The people were gathering at different places on the platform. They were discussing the politics those days. Prem did not want to participate in their chat on politics. He felt like buying a magazine. He went to the stall and bought Competition Success Review of the latest issue.
Prem came back to occupy the seat where he had sat, but somebody occupied it. He preferred to stand. He was turning the pages of the magazine. Meanwhile there was an announcement that the train would come in five minutes.
On the platform, the sellers kept ready all food items for the travelers. There were noises of the sellers informing about the food items. They were busy packing them to give them to the travelers.
Meanwhile there was another announcement that the train would come in a few minutes. Later they saw in the direction of the train to come, panting and puffing. They saw it coming. All were getting ready with their bag and baggage.
The train came to the platform and halted, welcoming the travelers to get into the compartments after sending off the travelers to get off at the station..
Prem got into a compartment. He got a window seat as someone had just vacated it. He occupied it, as he preferred to watch the sights of nature outside. The seat was facing the east for the clear glimpse of his favorite full-moon in the night to rise and all beautiful objects of nature during their journey..
Prem glanced at a student seated in the seat opposite to him. She was very beautiful. It all seemed that she had completed her graduation and was pursuing her post-graduation. She appeared dignified. He found decency in her postures and gestures, features and manners.
"What a coincidence...," Prem thought.
Prem was a worshipper of beauty... He adores the beauty in all things...especially that of a woman. Beauty was everything for him. His happiness knew no bounds as he expected his journey to be very pleasant.
In his previous journeys, Prem found bitter experiences with the fellow travelers as they smoked, talked loudly, posed to be superior based on caste, spit through the window and so on even while travelling, without minding manners. Bloody fools...
She was a student in her early twenties. She wore traditional costumes. She was in emerald green sari. She was very beautiful in her dress. It was not possible to say whether the costumes enriched her beauty or she enriched the grandeur of costumes. Definitely, her charming beauty enriched the costumes she wore. She looked an angel. It appeared she attended a function and was coming back. He liked her in all respects.
He did not like the students to wear jeans and T-shirts. She wore traditional costumes. He liked them to wear traditional costumes. He was happy as he found her in the way he wanted a woman to be.
Prem was very handsome. He was well dressed. He looked very dignified in all respects. She did not expect any harm to her in traveling, sitting in the seat opposite to him as she felt comfortable.
There was an announcement that the train was ready to move. It was moving to go ahead on its journey. It picked up the speed and crossed the bridge on the Godavari. There was a lot of noise produced on the track while the train was crossing the bridge.
"The bridge is long as the Godavari is wide. The people treat the Godavari as the South Ganges for its holiness. The travelers travelling in it were throwing coins into its flow," Prem thought.
Prem found the travelers throwing coins into it. While the coins were falling into the flow of the river, the coins were shining like raindrops in the running lights of the speeding train. It was very pleasant sight for them. They watched the scene of the falling of coins curiously.
Prem smiled heartily at the sight.
She, sitting opposite him, also smiled at the sight.
Prem and the student looked at each other while smiling heartily at the same time. Their looks met to create a paradise memorable for them.
Her smile shone the glory of infinite flowers in full blooms. The dimples formed in her cheeks enriched the glamour of her face knowing no bounds. Her face was a spotless moon... the moon in his presence to compete with the moon, the natural satellite to rise in the sky.
The student opened her magazine, Femina. She was minding to read it.
Prem also opened his magazine, Competition Success Review. He did not feel like going through it as he felt like speaking to her as early as possible.
"What a beauty...! God created her face taking artistic care and lovely concern...She is very graceful in her stature," thought Prem with all joys in his heart. He felt like speaking to her.
"If I speak to her, she may think otherwise. She may feel offended. She may think that I am like others who play with the lives of women as stated in the newspapers everyday. It is not as easy as I think. It is very difficult to speak to the women especially those with winsome features as all turn their glances to them," Prem thought but his heart forced him to speak to her without wasting or waiting a minute.
"Here the beautiful woman is the cynosure for all sitting nearby."
"I'm a worshipper of beauty."
"When beauty is available, enjoy it. The hands pluck the rose when the eyes glance at it on a stem. The hands enjoy the thrill of its fine charms and tender features."
... ... .. ...
The train was minding its speed to reach the destination on time. It did not mind HIS rapt attention to her attraction. Meanwhile the moon rose high into the blue sky to shatter the glooms outside, scattering its shines on her face. That night, it was luckily full as it was the full moon, as the super moon that night for all to glimpse it in gaiety.
The moon with its splendors was travelling along with the train speeding in its course. It was shedding its super light on hills and dales, trees ant thickets and all alike. All were glowing outside, riding along with the running train with its lights.
She also watched all the beauties in the moonlit night. The sight of all the beauties was shining in her eyelashes.
She was also a worshipper of beauty in all objects.
Both were enjoying the sights lit in moonlight, expressing their joys to each other.
She appreciated his handsome features in the heart of her heart, "He deserves all appreciations and praises."
Prem wholeheartedly adored her, "How beautiful are her winsome features in the
in the shines of the moon! What more are more beautiful than she is in these jolly sights?
"Her eyes are dark like those of the deer...They are big to reflect all the beauties of the super moon to offer gaieties. One outside in the sky and the other inside the train are heavens on earth."
... ... ... ... ...
Prem's was in full excitement and so his heart reacted forthwith to ask her the most delicate question in him:
"Why don't you speak to her...? She has the same reflections like you...You can start with all smiles to create an indelible impressions on her...You know that all like your smile. She definitely likes to speak to you."
"The train is going in its speed. It would not stop for any one as it minded its journey."
Prem thought that he had wasted fifteen minutes elapsing into the past to prove waste for him. He put aside all his inhibitions and decided to start a conversation with her to make his journey very pleasant.
"Would you tell me where you're travelling...?" Prem asked her, smiling naturally, as he possessed a charming face with the glow of dimples on smiling.
"Kazipet...," said she while smiles were lingering over her lips.
"I'm also travelling to Kazipet..."
"I see..."
"Yes"
"Same destination"
Her voice was very melodious. It was as beautiful as she was to prove herself the most beautiful creation on earth.
What a beauty with all nice charms and the sweet voice of the cuckoo!
There was some nice break in their conversation to think of what to ask next and spend their travelling time happily. Prem and she, the student felt like knowing about each other.
"May I know your name...?"
"Yes...you can... My name is Prema..."
Prem smiled heartily and Prema felt like knowing his name.
"Would you tell your name...?"
"It sounds like your name with a slight difference..."
"O it is Prem!"
"Yes..."
The two smiled for a while looking at each other.
"We belong to the same city, the Kakatiya capital, Warangal."
"Yes, the historical Kakatiya capital..."
Prema was very happy like Prem. He was happy to hear from her. They shared happiness heartily.
Prem was lost in deep thoughts... The thoughts were endless...as he was to see his dream girl in her sitting before him. He found all features and manners in her in the way he dreamed of in his would-be wife. He felt like expressing his opinions:
"I like you very much...You're none but my dream girl..."
Prem wanted to postpone it as he resolved to tell it when he could impress her most. He wanted to entertain her by speaking further.
"What are you...?"
"I'm a student studying post-graduate with English literature in Osmania University."
"What are you...?"
"I'm a lecturer in English. I was a pass-out of M.A. from Osmania University two years ago. I was appointed Lecturer at a college near Mancherial..."
"Very glad to hear you about your recruitment as Lecturer..."
"I'm very glad...We are the products of the same university..."
"Coincidence...We are from the same university..."
"Birds of a feather flock together..."
"Yes..."
"You're in the final year of your study..."
"Yes..."
"Your performance in the previous year examination..."
"A distinction..."
"Congratulations..."
"What're you interested in literature...?"
"Poetry... Love poetry... John Donne's poetry..."
"Love poetry...!"
"What do you say?"
"I say birds of a feather flock together..."
"Yes...we're similarly interested..."
The train was pacing in its utmost speed. The moon was also traveling in the same speed to delight Prem and Prema with its super shining. They felt that the journey was very pleasant. They were lucky to have the glittering sight of the super moon
Prem was lost in deep thoughts. Prema was also in deep thoughts. They were the symbols of love.
Prem and Prema looked at each other with all smiles in their hearts. He thought that she had the same thoughts. They were like rivers flowing for their communion...two rivers forming a river for its flow in the ocean of time. She would join him in the song as a mark of their union like the communion of two rivers--one and one merge into one to flow in its journey. One voice and one voice echoed in the tune of a love-duet.
"You're an angel descended from heaven to earth for me alone..."
"You're celestial for me to offer permanent bliss for us to own... "
"We're to meet here to unite in life to live forever to be ever-lovers..."
"Our journeys started somewhere for our permanent journey of ours..."
"We're born somewhere but we were born for each other"
"We're born for each other to be made for each other ever."
"We're on our way to see the shores in the ocean of life...."
"We're strides and rides on tides for the heaven of life..."
"You're the fixed foot to stay at a place for my clear view..."
"I'm the foot to move to draw a circle and come back to you..."
"We're one; none can or no force can separate us together..."
"We're all not to fall victims but we are to clear any barrier..."
"Our love knows no love-duel, concurring with time's powers..."
"Our love echoes our love-duet, conquering time's powers..."
Prem and Prema were lost in their love duet during their travel by train. They were confident of winning the hearts of each other.
The moon travelling in the welkin was inspiring not only Prem but also Prema. They were in the thrill of the shines of the super moon.
Within fifteen minutes, the train was to reach Kazipet, their destination. He felt like expressing his postponed proposal:
"I love you...You and I form a family to lead a life our own..."
Prem expected that Prema would definitely honor his expression and his love towards her, his dream girl. She was able to understand him to like her very much.
"You feel like telling me something..."
"I feel like telling you what you do for me..."
"Unheard melodies are sweeter than heard melodies."
"Yes...the unheard melodies are sweeter to sound sweeter forever..."
The moon, hidden for sometime started to shine brightly as the super moon. It was traveling along with us travelling in the train... It is a good journey...a memorable journey, our flight in moonlight.
The train arrived at the Kazipet junction. The announcement for its arrival brought them back to their train journey to end in their destination.
"O, the destination has come... in a fast manner. Our journey is..."
"Memorable...Our journey is memorable..."
"Exactly...would you give your phone number...?"
"I want your number to speak to you at the earliest..."
They exchanged their phone numbers with all smiles. They faces were full of expectations and impressions they wanted to cherish forever.
"Our journey is like a sweet dream to dwell in the heart of my heart...," said Prem
"Yes... I too feel so...so much like-mindedness... so much togetherness..," said Prema happily.
"I love to travel further with you together... I would like to travel further and further," said Prem.
"I too feel so... but the destination has come to receive us... to the Kakatiya capital," said Prema.
Prem got off the train with happy feelings in his heart,
"It's a memorable journey...laying a foundation stone for higher happiness."
"It's really memorable...I cherish it ever in my life..."
"I convey good news to you soon..."
"You can tell me good news...I listen to it happily..."
"I tell the good news on an auspicious occasion..."
"I look forward to hearing you..."
They got down at the station. They were walking together side by side. The viewers expected them made for each other. Prem enjoyed the ride together. He felt like going longer forever. They came out of the station... They bid goodbye to each other with all smiles.
... ... ... ... ...
Prem was eagerly waiting for Pema's call. Every ring in his mobile reminded him of the good news. He was eager to listen to her in her sweet voice. He was happy in his sweet dreams.
One morning Prem got a call while he was expecting a call from Prema.
"O! It's from my dream girl..."
He was very happy to receive her call and responded,
"Hello Prema, Very glad to hear you..."
"Me too..."
"I'm eager to hear your good news...Tell soon to please my heart."
"That's why I'm calling you as I promised...My parents settled my marriage..."
"With whom...?"
"My relative... I send you the wedding card to your WhatsApp..."
Prem became mute. The castles built in the air collapsed all of a sudden. He was shocked to hear the news of her wedding with somebody else. He was silent without any further response. He did not utter a single word.
The mobile fell off without his notice.
"Hello!" "Hello" "Hellow"
Prema's sweet "Hello" went unheard.
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\
INDIAN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND JAYANTA MAHAPATRA- A BIRD’S EYE VIEW
By ‘Indian literature’ we mean the literature of different provinces of India, written in different recognized regional languages, Sanskrit literature and Indian English literature. Although Indian English literature carried the British tradition at the initial stage, today it is recognized as a purely Indian English literature. The development of English literature in different countries of the world is the result of British colonial rule. But this English language and literature is progressing with its own characteristics in some countries of the world, like America, Australia or Canada and of course India.
English literature in India was initially influenced by English poets, but gradually, especially after independence, it developed an identity of its own. No matter where the English literary works of Indian writers are located in India or any part of the world, their works contain ‘Indianness’, that is Indian thoughts, Indian philosophy etc. They are writing in English, but not in imitation of British or American English literature, they are creating their literature with the flavor of Indian soil, Indian folk life, Indian philosophy and India's own cultural heritage. At different times, this literary genre has been called by different nomenclatures, such as Indo–Anglian literature, Indian writing in English, etc. Today this literary genre is recognized as Indian English Literature, a distinct genre of Indian Literature.
Indian English poetry attained, both fecundity and excellence. It represents various phases of development of our multitudinous cultural and national life right from the beginning of the nineteenth to the mid nineties of the twentieth century.
The early pioneers-Henry L Vivian Derozio, Michael Madusudan Dutt, Toru Dutt, B.M. Malahari, S.C. Dutt and R.C. Dutt-were the trend setters who began to poetize the Indian echoes in a foreign language. Although their efforts were imitative and derivative of English poetry, they successfully gave a new direction to Indian poetry in English by writing on Indian history, myths and legends. This phase is called imitative phase.
The poets of 1850 to1900 were trying how to establish this part of poetry. They had followed the British Romantics and Victorian poets.
In Indian English poetry, Henry L. Derozio's 'Poems' was the first volume published in 1827.Thus Indian English Literature is nearly 200 years old.
Henry Louis Vivian Derozio (1809 – 1831) was the first Indian English poet of note. He was the son of an Indo-Portuguese father and an English mother. He started writing in his youth. He worked as a clerk before joining Hindu College, Calcutta as a lecturer. Here his spirit of inquiry, his passion for ideas, his reformist idealism and his romantic fervor fired the imagination of many of his students. He started a daily 'The East Indian' and died suddenly of cholera. DeRozio lived a very short poetic career. He has two books of poetry: 'Kavita' (1927) and 'Jangirer Fakir: A Metrical Tale and Other Poems' (1928).
His short poems reveal a strong influence of the themes, sentiments, imagery and diction of the British Romantic poets. His satirical verse and long descriptive poems indicate his affinity with Byron. These verses showed strength and vitality. Exaltation of nationalist fervor was a notable feature of Derozio's poetry
Other notable names in pre-independence poetry include Taru Dutt, Michael Madhusudan Dutt, Hurchandra Dutta, Sri Aurobindo, Manmohan Ghosh, Sarojini Naidu, Harindranath Chattopadhyay , RC Dutta, Ram Sharma, Rajnarain Dutt,Jotindra Mohan Tagore,Subho Tagore and many more poets.
'The Dutt Family Album' (1870) is the first notable anthology of this period. It is a collection of 187 poems by three Dutta brothers. They are Govinda Chandra, Hur Chandra and Gooroo Churn Dutt (Gurucharan!) and two other brothers in their family. They applied their Indian elements poetically. Their main subjects were Christian sentiments, nature and Indian history and legends.
Taru Dutt moves Indian English poetry from imitation to greater authenticity. Taru Dutta was born in a Hindu family but converted to Christianity in 1862 along with family members.She learned English in France and England. She left for Europe in 1869 and returned to India in 1873. She died at the age of 21 when her talent was maturing. She has two poetry collections under her name. One of which was published during her lifetime. But this was not her seminal work. It was 'A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields' (1876) which contains 165 songs by nearly a hundred French poets. The lyrics of this song are translated by her'. Taru Dutt took herself a long way in the last two years of his life. Her posthumous poetry book 'Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan' (1882). Taru Dutta's poetic technique exhibits a surer grasp of poetic modes. Her speech is naturally of the Victorian Romantic school. She demonstrated her skill in using different forms such as ballad, blank verse and sonnet. Unlike Kasiprasad Ghosh and M M Dutta, Taru Dutta's poetry is virtually free from imitation.
***
Post-independence poetry has been enriched by the works of modern poets and they have acquired their own style and character. Nissim Ezekiel, P. Lal, Dom Moraes, Keki .N. Daruwala, Jayant Mohapatra, A.K. Ramanujan, A.K. Mehrotra, Kamala Das, R. Parthasarathy, Keshav Malik, Arun Kolatkar, Dilip Chitre, Pritish Nandy, Gauri Deshpande, Adil Yeshowala, Shiva K. Kumar, Gieve Patel, Agha Sahid Ali, Leela Gandhi, and others enriched Indian English poetry and gained recognition in international literature. Subsequently, many other poets emerged in the world of Indian English literature ,such as, Sudeep Sen , K Sachidanandan, A J Thomas, Ashwani Kumar,Amit Choudhuri, Arundhati Subrahmanyam, Vibhu Padhi, Jeet Thail, Ranjit Hoske, Vikram Seth, Eunice D Souza, Manohar Setty, Hoshang Marchent , Saleem Peeradina,Imtiaz Dharkar, Mamang Dai, Mamata Kalia, Meena Alexander,Sujata Bhatt, Santosh Bakaya,Sunil Sharma, Kynpham Sing Nongkyarih ,Makarand Paranjape, Rabin S. Ngangom, Shanta Acharya, Siddhartha Bose, Srikanth Reddy, Tabish Khair, Bina Sarkar Ellias, Ravi Shankar,Anita Nahal ,Gopal Lahiri, Boudhayan Mukherjee Sampurna Chattarji and many other Indian poets in India and abroad
***
Modern Indian English poets became self-conscious about their language and form. They tried to make creative use of English in the most effective manner. The content of these poems is completely new in terms of innovation and creation of modern poetry. Modernity, Indianness, use of Indian idioms, bilingualism, exile and some motifs are distinctive features of modern Indian English poetry.
French symbolism and surrealism have also been practiced very successfully in modern Indian English poetry. The current Indian scene is also brilliantly commented upon.
‘Indianness’ is a very distinctive feature of modern Indian English poetry. These poets expressed the Indian sensibility in their poems. History, mythology, legend, folklore all together establish a distinct Indian idiom and identity. Modern Indian English poetry is truly Indian in that it draws artistic elements from its tradition.
In fact , Indian Poetry in English started it’s journey from Calcuta(Now Kolkata),the then Capital of British India. It may be remember that P..Lal, a remarkable poet in English made a significant contribution to Indian English Literature by his small publishing house’ Writers Workshop’. This publishing House came forward and published for the first time many titles of Modern Indian poets who later became famous such as Nissim Ezekiel , Kamala Das, Prithish Nandi, Gieve Patel and many more. From this organization, a collection of first modern poetry was published by professor and poet P. Lal ‘Modern Indo-Anglian Poetry‘(1958) edited by Raghavendra Rao
Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, Prithis Nandi and Jayanta Mahapatra are the most outstanding poet of post–Independence India. Kamala Das’s important poetic works are ‘Summer in Calcutta’, “The Descendants (1967) “The old Playhouse and other poems’, most of her poems deal with the theme of unfulfilled love and yearning for love. Ezekiel’s poetical works are- A Time to Change (1952), Sixty Poems (1953), The Third (1959), The Unfinished Man, (1960), The Exact Name, (1965), Hymns in Darkness (1976), and Collected Poems 1952-88 (1989). He is a versatile genius and the most outstanding Indian English poet. His all poems have a great impact on the readers.
Mulk Raj Anand said about Pritish Nandi – ‘Unquestionably India’s finest poet in English’. Dom Moraes said about Pritish Nandi-‘ He is the only person I know in this country who is without having to pretend or make an effort, a true and absolute enigma’.
Dom Moraes was one of the first modern Indian poets, He was also a successful poet in England, he had been published in literary magazines in England and the USA. After attending school in Bombay in 1954, he studied Latin in England and traveled in Europe. ‘A Beginning’(1957), his first book of poetry won the ‘Hawthornden Prize’, while Moraes was still a student at Oxford(1956-59).A widely travelled person, Moraes had a diversed and interesting life. His ‘Collected Poems-1957-1987’ sold extremely well in India , followed by ‘Serendip’(1990), both published by Penguin India. It is interesting to note that Dom Moraes was also included in an anthology, titled’ British Poetry Since 1945’ edited by Edward Lucie-Smith, published by Penguin Books(1970,1985).
Many modern poets have revealed tension in their respective poems. Their poetry has inborn ‘Indianness’. Although some of them like A. K. Ramanujan settled outside India but even then they explore in their poetry their roots in India. K. N. Daruwalla rightly thinks: -
‘Then why should I tread the Kafka beat or the wasteland
When mother you are near at hand one vast, sprawling defeat.’
From the last quarter of the 20th century, many brilliant young Indian poets emerged in the Indian English literature. Many anthologies of Indian English poetry have been published in India and abroad. Important anthologies edited by Sudeep Sen, Jeet Thayil, Saleem Peeradina and others are significant work. Sahitya Akademi also published a few anthologies of Modern Indian Poetry in English as well as anthologies of Indian poetry in English during from pre-independent periods( 1828-1965) (The Modern Treasury of Indo- Anglian Poetry, Edited by Vinayak Krishna Gokak- Sahitya Akademi-1970)
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In this article, I am trying to present a fragment of Indian English poetry at a glance as an introductory note , with the intention of writing about the great poet of Indian English poetry, Jayanta Mahapatra. There is no space to write much in this short article.It is not possible to discuss every poet’s work here, therefore , I like to discuss the poetical works of Jayanta Mahapatra whom we lost recently, as a homage to him, the Grand old Poet of contemporary Indian English literature.
Brilliant poet and essayist. JayantaMahapatra hold the distinction of being the first Indian English poet to have received the Sahitya Academy Award (1981) for “Relationship”. He received an honorary doctorate from Ravenshaw University, Cuttack (02 May 2009) and 'Padma Shri Award' from the President of India. In his poetry, Mahapatra sings of the hearts and minds of many things of nature, on the basis of his sincere love for all creation, poverty, deprivation, social injustice, the plight of the Indian woman prostitution recurs in his verses.
His early poems resemble various modernist and postmodernist movements in poetic style and theories of craft (such as collage, montage, beat movement). At a later stage, such abstractionism or surreal word-play is assimilated into a proper framework. In the last episode, the poet's struggle with position, myth, ritual and cultural background becomes clearer.
Jayanta Mohapatra's notable poetry works are:
Close the Sky, Ten by Ten(1971),
Svayamvara and other poems(1971),
A Father's Hours(1976),
A Rain of Rites (1976),
Waiting(1979)
The False Start (1980)
Relationship(1980)
Life Signs(1983)
Dispossessed Nests(1986)
Selected Poems(1987)
Burden of Waves and Fruit(1988)
Temple(1989)
The Best of Jayanta Mahapatra
A whiteness of bone
Shadow Space
Random Descent
The lie of dawns (poems 1947-2008),
Etc
Prose:
1. Door of Paper: Essays and Memories
2. Various translation books
Mahapatra is a skilled artist. He is a great man with exquisite sensuality. Orissa is his paradise. He has great attraction and pride for his native Orissa and its language. He said-
“I don't think it is one India. There are different Indias—Orissa, India, Bengal, Maharashtra, Kerala, Kashmir—…”
All these are different India. The culture of Orissa is different from the culture of Bengal or Bihar. The entire Oriya culture, the Oriya nation is built around this deity-Lord Jagannath. Oriya religion is very different from the religions of other parts
He highlighted the beauty of Konark, Bhubaneswar, Chilka, Cuttack. Legends, mysteries, myths, culture, historical background are the focus of his poetry. Poems like ‘Dawn at Puri’, and Main Temple Street, Puri, Evening in an Orissa Village, etc are worth mentioning. His Indian sensibility and his search for roots expressed in Indian ways. His feelings, emotions, the fluent structure of his landscape of Orissa becomes part of the cultural and religious past of the whole of India, rushing into the present and constituting the 'past presence' of the ‘rootlessness’, the void of modern existence. Love, sex, relationships, feelings, things make a super thematic overview of his poetic magnificence.
Jayanta Mahapatra is highly dependent on symbols and imagery as a technique due to the influence of the Imagist movement and especially Eliot and Ezra Pound. He begins with an image or a cluster of images or one image leads to another. He is a culturally conscious personality who believes in the fact that knowing ‘Indianness’ means knowing the local, regional, traditional and religious people and life systems. His poetry is steeped in Oriyan heritage, as he acknowledges that the entire land of India is strewn with ancient temples and their ruins, and that Puri was the epicenter of Orissa's cultural and religious life. He borrows metaphors and allusions from the natural world and Hindu mythology that make his poetry ambiguous to understand. Thus his poetry progresses in its skillful execution of myth, imagery and symbolism. Bruce King, the eminent writer who has done extensive research on Indian English poetry, has made a remarkable comment on this: "While Mohapatra's world is filled with moments of personal pain, guilt, regret, hunger, longing and renewal, his atmosphere is full of them".
In short, Mahapatra is one of the great poets of Indian English Literature today. The themes depicted in his poems define the Indian mind and culture and present an image of India on the one hand and their masterful handling of words and phrases of rare value and meaning speaks volumes of Mahapatra's rich mind and his broad Indian sensibility. . His poetry is a sharp lamentation of the view of life. Its subject is human suffering and misery. Its purpose is to study human existence with suffering and explore its potential for improvement.
Finally, I like to end this discussion with one of his poems.
A Missing Person
‘In the darkened room
A woman
Can't find her reflection in the mirror
Waiting as usual
At the edge of sleep
In her hands she holds
The oil lamp
Whose drunken yellow flames
Know where her lonely body hides.’
Reference:
- A History of Indian English Literature, Edited by M.K.Naik:Sahitya Akademi(1992)
- The Golden Treasury of Indo-Anglian Poetry-1828-1965, Edited by Vinayak Krishna Gokak, Sahitya Akademi(1970)
- Modern Indian Poetry in English, Edited by K.Ayyappa Paniker: Sahitya Academi(1991)
- The Harper Collins Book of English Poetry.Edited By Sudeep Sen(2012)
- 60 indian Poets.Edited by Jeet Thayil.Penguin Books(2008)
- Contemporary Indian Poetry in English.Edited by Saleem Perradina.Machillan(1972)
- Dom Moraes-Collected Poems.Penguin Books(2004)
- The New Indian Poets. Selected and edited by Jayanta Mahapatra & Yuyutsu Sharma-Nirala(2013)
- Indian Writing in English.Edited by Ajjana Neira Dev and Amrita Bhalla. Primus Books & University of Delhi(2013)
- Converse: Contemporary English Poetry by Indians. Edited by Sudeep Sen.Pippa Rann Books & Media UK(2022)
- Riding the midnight river:Selected poems of Pritish Nandi.Arnold Heinemann Publishers(India) Pvt.Ltd,New Delhi & London(1975)
- Twenty Five Indian Poets in English.Edited by K S Ramamurti: Macmillan India Ltd(1995)
- Kamala Das: Selected Poems.Penguin Books(2014)
- Nissim Ezekiel: Collected Poems.Oxford University Press(1989)
- Ten Twentieth Century Indian Poets.Edited by R. Parthsarathy.Oxford University Press(1976)
- The Lie of Dawns: Jayanta Mahapatra(Poems 1947-2008).Author Press, Delhi(2008)
And many literary journals and collection of poems
Braja K Sorkar is a bilingual Author, Poet, Essayist, and Translator and a widely read person. 10(TEN) titles published in his credit till today, including translation. He received a few prestigious literary awards for his creative work including the‘Indology Award’(2021) for his highly acclaimed poetry collection in English, titled ‘ Syllables of Broken Silence’. He edits a prestigious literary magazine in Bengali language, titled ‘Tristoop’ since 2001, and an International English literary journal’ Durgapur Review’(2023). He also edited an International Anthology of World English Poetry, titled’ Voices Now: World Poetry Today’ (2021). His poems have been translated into many languages. Presently he is associated with ‘Sahitya Academi’, a literary Academy of Letters under Govt. of India as a Translator. He is a regular contributor to various literary journals and anthologies around the world. He is the Chief of a small Publishing House –‘Tristoop Books’’ Mr.Sarkar lives in Durgapur, near Kolkata, West Bengal, India.
Contact: email: brajaksorkar369@gmail.com. And brajakumar.sarkar@gmail.com - What's App: =91 9064231839
Bats never cease to fascinate me, especially the tiny insectivorous bats that fly not in the skies but just around us in lightning speed and catch the little flies. How they hang whole day upside down and sleep in that position without falling down intrigues me always. Of all living beings in land, they are the only beings who can never land or stand on earth even if they are earthly beings. When my father was alive, we have had paddy cultivation and after the harvest, when the threshed paddy is put inside the home in large heaps, the tiny bats used to come and fly around the paddy heaps to catch the white minuscule flies called nelppaaatta (paddy fly). The bats used to fly through every room at dusk to catch the little flies, but never ever they would hit in our body or on any object in the rooms. Their ability to fly without hitting on anything and their catching the small flying things while in flight used to captivate me. After the demise of my father, paddy cultivation stopped and the bats also stopped to come.
I am a government employee and now work at the Nelliyampathy gram panchayat office, in Palakkad district of Kerala. In the ground floor of the office building there are many rooms and I am the only one who resides there. There is a colony of the tiny insectivorous bats hanging upside down in the remote corner of the corridor which is unused. It is my favourite hobby to observe their crisscross flights at night.
In the wake of the Nipah outbreak in the state in May 2018, there was a vicious campaign against bats and they were driven out from many of the big trees which were their habitats, even by felling the trees. The tiny bats which inhabit in abandoned homes and inside the wells are insectivorous and Nipah was not caused by them. The WHO report on Nipah virus says: “As the flying fox (fruit bat) habitat is destroyed by human activity, the bats get stressed and hungry, their immune system gets weaker, their virus load goes up and a lot of virus spills out in their urine and saliva.” Yet the harmless little bats which do eat insects that harm the humans and do not carry the Nipah virus also were hunted out. People are not interested to know that even the fruit bats become the carriers of the virus when they are stressed by habitat loss caused by the humans.
While people everywhere were hunting out the bats in 2018, I didn't disclose to anybody the existence of the colony of bats who are my neighbours. Fruit bats or flying foxes never dwell inside wells and buildings. They live only in big trees. Yet a government agency called Suchitwa Mission directed local bodies to print and distribute "awareness" notices asking the people to drive away bats from their wells and attics! Being an employee working in the panchayat department, I was thunderstruck when I received the mail, thinking about the pathetic lack of environmental awareness and sensitivity in the government agencies even in this age of catastrophic Global Warming and Climate Change.
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Back to my little neighbours: Even if I have tried hard to photograph them in their flight, I always failed.
One day, at dusk, two bats provided me a rare opportunity. There happened a fight between the two and one of them flew off from the dark corner and hanged right in front of my room.
The other bat would come flying and attack the hanging one and fly away to the dark corner. After some moments it would come again and ambush. This happened at lightning speed and I tried and tried to capture both the bats in one frame and repeatedly failed. In every click, only the defending bat that was hanging could be captured as seen in the first photograph. At last I succeeded as seen in the second photograph.
What surprised me in the battle between the bats was that the bat that was being attacked never flew away from the attacking bat. And he has never been in a frightening state of mind either. In between the attacker came to attack, the defending bat was even seen grooming his wings. It seemed he was a cool guy.
One day at the beginning of my stay in the room, two bats of this colony surprised me at midnight while I am sleeping. I woke up hearing the flapping sound of the wings and I knew bats were there in the room. When I switched on the light, I saw what I surmised was right. Two tiny bats were flying around the room. As the atmospheric temperature in Nelliyampathy at night never goes above 22 degree Celsius, fan is not needed and I never switch on it. The bats were flying around the fan and one of them hanged from one of the leaves of the fan for a short while and again started to fly around. I wondered how they entered the room. I was sure that they were not inside when I closed the door. The only possibility was that they might have entered through the air-hole that connects the room to the corridor, I thought. But the width of the air-hole is too narrow to allow the bats to flap their wings. I kept wondering how they entered the room till one of them simply flew through the air-hole. After sometime, the other one too flew through it. I was thunderstruck at their flying skill. It is quite marvellous. Each night they used come to the room gliding through the little air-hole, catch the mosquitoes and eat them and leave the room. Even the sound of their munching the mosquitoes is audible!
They didn't harm me and I didn't harm them either. They were free to continue their nightly visit.
Native Americans are the only people who kept a highly symbiotic relationship with Nature and it is high time we learnt the wisdom contained in the following question asked by the Native American man called Black Elk in John G. Neihardt's wonderful book Black Elk Speaks: Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux: "Is not the sky a father and the earth a mother, and are not all living things with feet or wings or roots their children?"
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 HEALING STATESMAN
There are many notable and talented physicians, famous politicians, founders of important associations, but rarely do we see a combination of all these three in one person. And add to that the person we are talking of was a freedom fighter and in post-independence India had made contributions for the planning and development of the mega cities like Durgapur, Kalyani, and Bidhannagar (Salt Lake City). Here we are talking about none other than the enigmatic Bidhan Chandra Roy. Affectionately known as “Doctor Da,” Bidhan was more than a physician; he was a visionary statesman who left an indelible mark on the fabric of our nation.
Born in Patna in the year 1882, Bidhan’s father, Prakash Chandra Roy who came from a wealthy family was serving as an excise inspector. His mother, Aghorkamini Devi, was religious and a devoted social worker. It is learnt that his mother had a key role in shaping Bidhan’s personality. She taught him Bhagvad Gita and the writings of Rabindranath Tagore.Bidhan was the youngest of five siblings – he had two sisters and two brothers. Prakash Chandra, Bidhan’s father was a descendant of the family of Maharaja Pradapaditya, the rebel Hindu king of Jessore (now in Bangladesh) , but did not inherit much wealth from his ancestors.
He did his graduation in Mathematics from Patna college. Later he did his medical studies from University of Calcutta. While at medical school, Bidhan came upon an inscription which read, : “Whatever thy hands findeth to do, do it with thy might”; These words became a lifelong
source of inspiration for him. Bidhan for his further studies left for Britain in February 1909 with
?1200.The then dean of St. Bartholomew Hospital was reluctant to accept an Asian student. So he rejected Bidhan’s application. Roy submitted several additional applications till the Dean, after 30 admission requests, admitted Bidhan. He completed his studies in two years and three months. No surprise that this talented guy ,became a member of the Royal College of Physicians (MRCP) and a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons (FRCS) in May 1911. He also returned home after some month in the same year.
In his medical career he was immensely respected. He showed full dedication and hard work in health service. He even served as a nurse when needed. Besides that, he practiced privately, charging a nominal fee. He was personal physician to Mahatma Gandhi. He played a key role in establishing the Indian Medical Association and the Medical Council of India, also establishment of several medical colleges. He believed that freedom would remain a far dream till people are healthy and strong both physically and mentally.
He served as the Chief Minister of West Bengal from 1948 to 1962 an unprecedented 14 years . As pointed out above , his tenure transformed many cities such as Durgapur, Kalyani, and Bidhannagar (Salt Lake City) into urbanized cities with good infrastructures and facilities. For championing the cause of education, industrialization, and rural development, Dr. Roy is known as the “Architect of West Bengal’s Renaissance.” His vision transformed Calcutta (now Kolkata) into a hub of culture, education, and scientific progress. He was a member of Indian National Congress and actively participated in Indian Independence Movement. He had a key role in the establishment of several educational institutions, including the Indian Institute of Technology Kharagpur.
Dr. Bidhan Roy, renowned for his uncanny diagnostic powers, left a lasting legacy. One incident stands out: A few years before his death, he traveled to Vienna for an eye operation. As preparations for the surgery unfolded, he heard a cough. His immediate demand—“Who coughed?”—startled the room.
The culprit? A fellow doctor. Dr. Roy insisted on an X-ray, convinced the doctor had tuberculosis. Despite scepticism, the junior doctor was X-rayed—and the diagnosis confirmed Dr. Roy’s intuition. His fame had indeed reached Vienna, where even a cough didn’t escape his diagnostic radar. Dr. Bidhan Roy’s ability to perceive beyond the obvious remains an awe-inspiring tale in the annals of medicine
A healer and leader, the renowned physician, Dr. Roy healed countless bodies. Beyond physical health, he also worked tirelessly to heal the social and economic disparities plaguing post-independence India. He was awarded the Bharat Ratna in the year 1961. July 1 is celebrated as National Doctor Day in his honour. Interestingly July 1 date was significant in his life, he was born and his demise was on the same date. After his death, his house became a nursing home named after his mother, Aghorkamini Devi. He had also constituted a trust for his properties at Patna to carry out social service. His legacy continues to inspire many in the fields of medicine and public service in India. His legacy extends beyond his lifetime. The Dr. B.C. Roy National Award, conferred for excellence in various fields, stands as a testament to his enduring impact.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
WORLDWIDE CELEBRATIONS OF RATHA YATRA
This year (2024), the Chariot Festival or ‘Ratha-Yatra’ was held from 7 th July to 16 th July. God Jagannath, Goddess Shubhadra and God Balarama are revered during this festival and taken out on chariots or ‘Ratha’s.
The festival of Ratha-Yatra is held with great pomp and splendour in many places. Celebrations reign supreme in the whole country. Ratha Yatra at Puri deserves special mention as it is the largest chariot festival in the world and dates back to thousands of years.
Chariot festival at Mahesh is also regarded as one of the oldest festivals where this festival is carried out since 1396. Mahesh is a historical locality within Srirampur subdivision (located on the west bank of Hooghly River) of West Bengal.
Concept of Ratha Yatra:-
The concept of such chariot festivals finds mention in medieval Indian texts such as Puranas where Ratha Yatras of Sun God (Surya) and other deities have been mentioned. Often these yatras were held to enact some mythological tale.
Significance of Ratha Yatra:-
Just as the chariot carries the deity – so the chariot of life carries the eternal soul in the transcendental journey from one life to another. Here-in lies the importance and significance of Ratha-Yatra.
Life itself is a Yatra or a journey. As is said in the Kathopanishada: -
“The body is the Chariot and the soul is the deity installed in the Chariot. The wisdom acts as the charioteer to control the mind and thoughts.”
Skanda Purana also glorifies this concept.
Earlier, have authored many articles on Chariot festivals. This time, thought of writing for our esteemed canvas of Literary Vibes. So, it’s time to board the train of lore to know how, why, and where Ratha Yatras are held.
Ratha Yatra at Puri, painting by James Fergusson
The Almighty in the form of Lord Jagannatha (meaning Lord of the Universe), who is said to be an Avatar of Lord Vishnu, comes out of the confinements of the temple walls and the man-made idols, and rides the chariot making it possible for tens of thousands of people to experience the ecstasy of attending on to The Supreme Divine, irrespective of caste, creed and religion. A famous Odia song says that this Ratha Yatra results in the chariot, the grand avenue, and the deities all becoming one with Lord Jagannatha Himself.
As I have written in many of my articles that it is the joy during festivals, that unite us with The Divinity. It is the well-known Indian Philosophy that eternal bliss can be found on union with the Divine. Yet this Divine, though its invincible power is omnipotent, is incomprehensible.
Ratha Yatra finds the means to experience this joy. It is believed that viewing of the deity of Lord Jagannatha on the chariot, touching the chariot or hauling the ropes of the chariots, purifies one of all sins and leads the path to emancipation from the cycle of birth and death. From the downtrodden to the socially well-placed, this festival is for everyone.
Yoga also refers to this holy union with the Almighty. As the Bhagavad Gita (6.47) says:- the highest Yogi is “he who always abides in Me with great faith, worshipping Me in transcendental loving service”.
This faith is expressed in the various activities or ‘loving services’ of this festival. The chariots and road are swept clean, which are essential features of this grand chariot festival.
ISKCON Ratha Yatra at Tiruvananthapuram
The Chariot Festival started thousands of years back in the great city of Puri, now in Odisha, on the coast of Bay of Bengal. The parade starts from the Jagannatha Temple (Srimandir) and ends at Gundicha. The grand avenue (Bada Danda) of Puri comes alive as thousands throng to celebrate. The majestic sounds of cymbals, conch shells, drumbeats often go to add to the festive spirits of the occasion.
ISKCON Ratha Yatra
Legend has that the King of Utkal, King Indradyumna had dreamt of a blue Krishna called Neelmadhava, residing in the caves of Nilachal Hills. It is a long story as this Neelmadhava could not be found but from another dream the King came to know that a wooden trunk on the shore of river was to be carved out to form the image of this God. The veteran craftsman, Viswakarma finally carved out the idols of Lord Jagannatha, Lord Balbhadra and Goddess Subhadra from the wooden trunk found afloat on the shore.
Though these idols were incomplete, yet they were enshrined by the King and regular worshipping of Lord Vishnu (or sometimes Lord Krishna) as Lord Jagannatha commenced.
Lord Jagannatha is worshipped as the Savior in this Kali Yuga. The original deities are not taken out but representative ones are paraded on the Chariot. Viewing of this dwarf forms of the Gods and Goddess is considered to be very auspicious.
The various personal pastimes of Lord Krishna, as He sets Himself on the mission of bestowing His blessings, are well known to His devotees. Thus, He manifested Himself 5000 years ago as the King of Dwaraka. Lord Balarama and Goddess Subhadra were His close companions when He reigned in Dwaraka. Lord Balarama symbolizes the first expansion of The Supreme-being and Subhadra is one the forms of eternal spiritual energy.
However, before He went to Dwarka to become a King, Krishna was a simple boy in the rural village of Vrindhavana, where he played with the cowherd boys and girls (Gopinis). He even indulged Himself in playful pranks that only manifested His Supreme omnipotence. All these were the manifestations of Krishna-Lila. Vrindavan was the place which witnessed the eternal romance of Krishna and Radha This love essentially resembles the divine mutual love between The Supreme and the mortal people on earth.
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The people of Vrindavana and Srimati Radha wanted the Lord to come back. So, on a solar eclipse day, Lord Krishna led His regal entourage to the pilgrimage site of Kurukshetra. It was here that Srimati Radha met Lord Krishna once again.
Ratha Yatra celebrates this meeting of Radha and Krishna (meeting of the immortal and the mortal); years after Krishna had left Vrindhavana. The main temple at Puri represents the Royal Palace of Dwarka and the Temple at Gundicha is the site of the meeting of Radha and Krishna.
Ratha Yatra crowd at Puri
Gundicha Temple (built in typical Kalingan style) or the Garden House of The Lord, was built in honour of Queen Gundicha, who was the wife of the legendary King Indradumnya. This is located at 2.688 kilometres from the main Jagannatha Temple (Srimandir). Every year the chariot parades to this Gundicha Temple on the second bright day of the lunar phase in the month of Ashada. The deities parade back on the ninth day after the start of Ratha Yatra (called Ultoratha).
Gundicha Temple
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Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, an ardent devotee of Sri Jagannatha, believed to be a reincarnation of Lord Krishna himself, stayed for some 20 years in Puri and had further glorified the celebrations of Ratha Yatra festival with His devotion and Sankirtans in praise of the Lord. He first came to Puri in 1510 and returned back here in 1512 after his tour to the holy places of South India.
Sri Chaitanya praying
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Thus, this festival commemorates the Lord’s descent on this earth. Even the colours go to signify special meanings:
Black colour of Lord Jagannath is for faultless qualities of being The Supreme. Yellow colour of Subhadra is for eternal goodness and white colour of Balarama is for enlightenment.
Lord Jagannatha’s chariot canopy is decorated in red and yellow colours, as Lord Krishna in Pitambar form wears yellow. Chariot is called ‘Chakradvaja’ or ‘Nandigosha’ meaning tumultuous and blissful sound. Sixteen wheels adorn its sides and the wooden structure is about 45 ft high, weighing 65 tons. The figure of Garuda goes to adorn the crest of the chariot drawn by four white horses.
Goddess Subhadra’s cart is called ‘Padmadvaja’ or “Darpadalan” meaning destroyer of pride. Crested by a lotus, the canopy is made of red and black colours. Black is associated with Shakti or eternal energy. Chariot is drawn by four red horses on 12 wheels.
The chariot canopy of Lord Balarama is decorated in red and green/blue. The Hanuman crested chariot called ‘Taladvaja’( meaning the sound of prominent powerful rhythm) is drawn on fourteen wheels by four black horses. Sometimes it has a palm tree on top.
Anatomy of The Chariot Wheels
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Ratha Yatra is celebrated with festive fervour and gaiety throughout India and abroad. Miniature chariots or Rathas of all sizes are decorated and taken out on the streets, often with the blowing of conch shells trumpeting the sanctity of the occasion. Fairs are held.
Child with a miniature Ratha
ISKCON or International Society For Krishna Consciousness celebrates Ratha Yatra around the world these days in 79 cities across twenty-five countries . This was started in 1967/1968 through Hare Krishna Movement. AC Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada was its leader.
The word Juggernaut
The English word Juggernaut has its origin in the word ‘Jagannatha. It was common for the Christian missionaries to attend this Chariot festival in the middle ages. Sometime there was some frenzy amidst the devotees probably followed by some stamped. Thus around 1320, one Friar misunderstood this celebration and reported this festival to be one with “advancing force which crushes or seems to crush everything in its path”. Thus came the word “juggernaut” to describe this crushing force.
The Car of Juggernaut as depicted in an 1851,
Illustrated London Reading Book
All said and done, this Chariot Festival is undoubtedly one of the greatest festivals that bestows the Earth. It is when Lord Krishna descends on this Earth.
Now, let us have a look at the worldwide celebrations:-
At Ratha Yatra, Venice beach
Ratha Yatra, Paris
Ratha Yatra Fair, London
Ratha Yatra, London
Ratha Yatra, New York
Ratha Yatra, Sydney
Ratha Yatra, Guyana
Canberra Ratha Yatra
Ratha Yatra at Dhamrai, Bangladesh
Ratha Yatra in Spain
Ratha Yatra in Nepal
Come, let’s greet and pray to
Lord Jagannath, Lord Balarama, and Goddess Subhadra.
And may the chariot of your life
be filled with mirth and merriment always.
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Source: The Internet
Faiths, Fairs, and Festivals of India published by Rupa & Co.
Some photos are from the Internet only and I have no right to these photos (disclaimer).
Top two photos were taken by me at ISKCON's Festival here at Kolkata- many years ago.
Please note that there are different legends and interpretations thereof. I have written about a common legend behind this Ratha Yatra.
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right to information and photos which are from books and the internet and to which I have no right (Disclaimer). No part of this article can be reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
Unlike other days Abdul Mian woke up as late as nine this morning. His eyelids were heavy, face a mask of deep worries when he came up and stood near the door waiting for his cup of tea. Ruksana saw her husband from the kitchen and came running.
"What happened today? Don't you have to go to work this morning? I have been waiting since six o' clock with your tea and breakfast. I have packed your lunch also. How come you kept on sleeping?"
Abdul just shook his head,
"Don't feel like going to work today. I have a splitting headache."
Ruksana's face darkened,
"Hai Allah! That's why you were tossing restlessly last night. I heard some whimpering and some incoherent words. Once you also cried out in pain. I tried to wake you up, but you just turned over and kept sleeping. What happened to you? Did you have a bad dream?"
Abdul winced at her words. Bad dream? Yes, he had a bad dream last night. Except that it was not a dream, it happened with him in the darkness of the road abutting the maidan. On the way to his basti. Last night a little after nine. In a matter of few minutes, a man turned into a monster.
Ruksana touched his forehead with her work-worn calloused hands. There was no fever. Yet Abdul was sweating like a sick, feverish man in this cold November morning. The poor chap must be ill, otherwise who sweats like this on a winter morning?
Ruksana had wormed up his tea by now and handed it to him. He looked at his wife,
"Where is Zeenat? Has she left for college?"
"No, she is taking a bath. Her friend Ameena is coming in ten minutes. Ameena has to take the bus to college today. It seems her scooty broke down last evening in the market."
Abdul had lifted the cup for a sip of the tea. For a moment it remained frozen in mid-air. His heart started pounding. He turned back to his room and wearily lowered himself to the bed. Ameena is coming in a few minutes! Does she know Abdul is at home? What if................
The pounding of his heart almost sounded like the thumping of the lathe machine in the factory where Abdul worked. Like it had done a hundred times after he returned home, his mind went back to last night. A dark night, turned muggy with intermittent drizzles. Abdul had got down from the bus and started walking for home in his basti half a kilometre away. The road was deserted. Almost all the street lights were out.
Abdul saw someone walking a few steps ahead of him. He peered into the darkness and could make out it was a lady with a burkha draped on her. A lady! At this time of the night? She was almost running. The dark night, the lonely road and the slight drizzle must have put some fear in her. Abdul quickened his pace. He looked at her from behind, a sudden hunger rising deep in his stomach - a primordial hunger which knows no conscience and is unfettered by any qualms. For a moment he tried to guess if the woman was young or old, but decided it doesn't matter any more. Her walk was swift and lively, probably a young girl hurrying home. The hunger in his body grew, a silent growl seizing him like a coiling rope out to choke him in an insane desire.
Abdul started creeping up quickly, but silently. The woman should not know she was being followed. She had looked back only once, but luckily Abdul was under a thick tree at the time and she could not see him.
A dark night, a deserted road, a slight, shivering cold, and a frightened, lonely woman - what else one needs to warm up the night with some hot pleasure? For a fleeting moment he thought of his frustration at home - Ruksana was no longer the desirable woman she used to be, and for the last couple of years she has spurned his advances all the time, reminding him of the grown up daughter of marriageable age at home.
"Tobah, Tobah, what will Zeenat think if she gets the slightest hint of your insatiable appetite? Her Abba is a lecherous old man? Chhi Chhi, control yourself Zeenat ke Abba! Do your Namaz and read Quran for two hours everyday."
Namaz? Of course he does his Namaz five times a day, but at night his frustration becomes unbearable. Abdul tried to remember when was the last he had touched a woman's body. May be three months back. He had gone to the red light area one evening on the way back from office. But the woman who had charged him five hundred rupees for half an hour was not even worth a fifty. She had just lain on the dirty bed like a corpse when Abdul was humping all his passions into her. It was all over in ten minutes and she had kicked him out.
Abdul remained frustrated, the invisible hunger gnawing at his body all the time. The few women at the packing section in the factory flirted with him once in a while, but whenever he made a pass at anyone of them, they would roll in laughter, leaving him more frustrated and in nagging humiliation.
Abdul shivered with anticipation. Tonight he will not be kicked out. The woman under the Burkha will be at his command once he drags her into a bench in the park. She will do whatever he wants her to do. Abdul was only a few steps behind her now. Looks like a slim body, probably a young woman, he thought. Ah, let this be a night of intense pleasure, a compensation for months of frustration and deprivation!
Abdul looked to all sides. Nobody was in sight. The area outside the maidan was very very dark, the lights at the entrance were not working, thanks to the incompetence of the municipal staff of the small town. A slight drizzle had started falling. The night was getting colder.
With stealthy footsteps he came behind the woman. She must have sensed his presence. She tried to turn but Abdul gave her no chance. He pounced on her, put a hand on her mouth ad gripped her firmly. She started exerting to escape, but Abdul was too strong for her.
He started dragging her towards the entrance of the maidan. The body was light, and slim. Abdul's excitement was growing.
Suddenly he stumbled on the broken pavement near the entrance and his foot slipped. But he kept a firm grip on the woman. For a moment his hand slipped from her mouth and she started screaming,
"Please leave me, let me go, in the name of Allah have mercy on me".
Suddenly Abdul stood still! The voice sounded familiar! Is it some one he knows? Seizing the brief interlude of dilemma the girl looked back at the precise moment when there was a big lightning, the first lightning of the evening. She saw his face and shrieked,
"Chachajaan, I am Ameena, please let me go, please!"
Abdul winced as if a snake from the maidan had bitten his leg. Ammena? Zeenat's friend, who lives in the same street five houses away! Ya Allah!
Abdul's grip loosened and before he could recover, Ameena freed herself and ran away into the dark night towards their basti.
Abdul sat down on the pavement leading to the gate of the maidan. His mind was in a turmoil. Ya Allah, what did he do? How could he fall so low? How will he show his face to Ruksana and Zeenat when Ameena tells them about this?
With his head bent with worry, Abdul came home at midnight. Ruksana was waiting for him with dinner. He just shook his head and went to the bathroom to change his soggy dress. When he came to bed, sleep eluded him. In the longest night of his life, he tossed and turned and had recurring nightmares. Once he saw Zeenat falling at his feet and begging him, Abba, let me go, please leave me. Another time he saw in his dreams a police man coming to his house and arresting him, telling everyone, this old man is a pervert, a criminal, and Ruksana falling at the policeman's feet, saying, do whatever you want with me but.please spare him. Every time Abdul closed his eyes, Ameena's shriek came back to haunt him. He would get up as if an electric current had passed through him. He desperately wanted to drink a glass of water but his limbs felt lifeless, refusing to carry him to the kitchen.
Remembering all these dreams brought tears to Abdul's eyes, Will Allah forgive him?
Abdul woke up from his reverie. Bits of conversation were wafting from the entrance room. Ameena must have come! Abdul broke into a sweat. He started shivering. His throat felt constricted as if a big ball had got stuck there. With leaden feet he dragged himself to the connecting door and stood there. Ruksana and Zeenat were sitting at the small dining table facing the main entrance door, with their back to Abdul's room. They could not see him standing at the door. But Ameena could, she was facing the connecting door.
Ruksana was asking Ameena,
"Hai Allah, how could you leave your scooty in the market? What if somebody steals it?"
"Chachijaan, how can someone steal the scooty? It refuses to start!"
Zeenat looked at her,
"So you came by bus from the market?"
"Yes, but you know what happened to me when I was walking down from the bus stop? I had the most horrible experience of my life. You won't believe if I tell you!"
Zeenat could not wait to hear what was the most horrible experience of her friend.
"What happened?"
Suddenly Ameena's eyes were drawn to a slight movement at the connecting door. Abdul Mian was standing there, like a forlorn, fallen ghost, with tears in his eyes and hands folded in a prayer for mercy.
It was just a fleeting glance, lasting fraction of a second and Ameena continued her tale.
"It was dark last night, almost all the street lights were out. The roads were deserted, thanks to the drizzle. I was scared, walking alone. Near the gate of the maidan someone pounced on me from behind. I almost died at the spot. I wanted to shout for help, but could not. The man held me in a tight grip and closed my mouth with his hand...
Ruksana jumped up,
"What? What are you saying?"
"Yes, Chachijaan, I felt as if my limbs were going limp. He started dragging me towards the park"
"Hai Allah, what kind of sick people are there, jumping on a young girl?"
"Chachijaan, I was in a burkha, he had no way of knowing whether it was a young girl or an old woman under the burkha"
Zeenat shouted,
"Even then the pervert had no business to pounce on you. How did you escape?"
"He stumbled on the pavement near the gate and I freed myself. i kept running till I reached home. I was so scared, I was shivering on the bed throughout the night. My Abbu had already gone to sleep, and you know Ammijaan has gone to Khala's place. I felt shy to tell Abbu, Anyway he would have scolded me for going to the market in the evening. So I am waiting for Ammijaan to return tomorrow. I will tell her".
Zeenat was seething with anger,
"What kind of horrible demon would do a despicable thing like that? Was he someone from our basti? Did you see his face?"
Ameena shook her head, with a deliberate, painful slowness.
"No, I told you it was pitch dark. I could not see his face."
"So, what are you going to do? Will you file a complaint with the police? May be the wretch had also got down from a bus and was following you. The police will find out in no time. He should be caught and sent to jail."
Ameena sat with her head bent for a few seconds, then she looked up. There was no anger in her eyes, only the hint of an infinite sadness.
"You know last night when I was shivering on bed out of fear, I was thinking on that line. but now I have changed my mind."
"Changed your mind? Are you crazy?", Zeenat shrieked.
Ameena shook her head,
"No, I am not crazy. May be the man has a family to support and his going to jail will devastate them. May be at this moment he is standing somewhere, with tears in his eyes and with folded hands begging for mercy and forgiveness. I want to give him a chance to reform."
Before a stunned Zeenat could recover, Ameena got up,
"Come, let's leave. We are getting late. With some luck we will still be able to catch the college bus".
A MAROONED BIRD
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
When Sujata Aunty telephoned on a Sunday morning and called me home, little did I know I was being summoned as a referee in a friendly fight between her and Mahesh Uncle. When I reached their apartment, the fight had already commenced, although to experienced eyes it looked like an episode in a series, like one of those TV serials.
The moment uncle saw me, he exclaimed,
"Sadanand, you should never get old, the world is too unkind to us....."
I cut him short,
"Uncle, who is old here? Although you are retired, you hardly look to be in your late forties. And Aunty? She can go to any film studio and walk away with the role of the heroine's elder sister."
Nothing soothes frayed temper better than a massage of the egos by practised hands. And I can claim to be an expert masseur, being an official in a bank, dealing with irate customers, demanding netas and prickly bosses every day.
Aunty laughed,
"See Sadanand, can I really cope with the demand for fifteen cups of tea every day? Added to regular meals and snacks in between? Staying at home your uncle craves for pakodas, aloo chops and vadas all the time. Tell me, for a diabetic is it good to have all these?"
Uncle's tone descended into a pitiable whine,
"It's not because I am a diabetic that I am being denied my fundamental right to wholesome meals and nutritious snacks, it's because I am retired, no longer earning a monthly income. Sadanand, find me a job, I want to be away from home, ten to six."
"Uncle, who can afford you? A retired Distinguished Space Scientist?"
Aunty chipped in,
"But there must be something he can do, instead of sitting at home and eating all the time. Not good for his diabetes you know!"
Uncle looked at me and smiled guiltily.
Mahesh Uncle had retired eight months back from ISRO, Trivandrum, and came to Bhubnaeswar to live among his friends and relatives. He was still trying to find his footing in this town, his home town, where he had studied at the University before being selected as a Trainee Scientist and leaving for Trivandrum. The next thirty nine years he had spent in Trivandrum. He told me he loved the city and the people but his heart was always where he had left it, the tree-canopied roads, the simple, bustling markets, the cute parks, gardens and the numerous temples.
But soon Mahesh uncle and Sujata Aunty became a disillusioned couple, the relatives were busy with their own world. Mobile phones, WhatsApp, FaceBook and Twitter had taken over most lives in a way beyond anyone's control. They met his college friends in an annual get together. The welcomes were effusive, memories flowed unabated, the lunch was superb. But it was good as long as it lasted. There was no call from anyone after that, uncle's calls to his old class mates mostly remained unanswered.
Mahesh uncle was academically brilliant and the kind of exposure he had at ISRO was unique. He wanted to hold a few seminars on the latest trends in Space Research and Quantum Physics with the students in his old department. The Head of the Department was his class mate, since the Professors had two additional years of service, they retired at sixty two. He just smiled at the enthusiasm of the distinguished scientist from ISRO and arranged a seminar. It was on a working day, the other professors were busy. Only a junior lecturer introduced the Speaker and left. The students came, sat through the seminar and left. No one asked a question at the end of it. No one could answer a single question posed by uncle. He gave them copies of some journal articles he had taken with him and asked them to prepare themselves before the seminar next week.
With great enthusiasm uncle went for the seminar next week, the attendance was not even half of the previous seminar and when he asked how many of the students had read the journal articles, not a single hand went up. The students sat through the seminar like drugged zombies, many kept themselves busy with their mobile phones under the desk. No one asked a question, they obviously had no interest in anything the speaker had said. Mahesh uncle did not go back to his Alma Mater again. He had hoped that a few sutdents or his old friend, the HOD would call and ask him to come and hold a few more seminars, but no one called.
The guilty smile on that Sunsay morning spoke loud and clear of Uncle's boredom. Suddenly an idea struck me. I knew he was a voracious reader and suggested to him that he should become a member at the State Library. Uncle jumped at the idea. He was always fond of good books and the idea of the library promised to be the answer to his boredom. Luckily his apartment was only half a kilometer from the Library, it was a walking distance. Uncle started making plans in my presence, he would leave everyday after an early lunch, spend the whole day at the library and return in the evening. He looked at Aunty and said, "Good for you, Suji, I won't trouble you for endless cups of tea any more, and if I don't sleep in the afternoon I will go to bed early. Then we won't quarrel in the night. Hah, this is what I was waiting for. This Sadanand (me) is a gem of a boy, what a brilliant suggestion!" Aunty was ok with the idea, she only reminded him of his high diabetes and forbade him to drink too many cups of tea at the library canteen.
The next day uncle went to the Library. He was stopped at the gate by the watchman. Was he a member? No? Then he can't get into the Library, it has thousands of books, some of them costing thousands of rupees. So any Tom Dick Harry (the watchman used the words Radhua, Madhia, Gadhia) cannot enter. You have to be a member. Uncle, suitably chastened, asked, how does one become a member?
"Go to the Chief Librarian Sahab" he was shown the general direction of where the exalted official sat. Uncle was stopped outside the room, "Sahab is busy, you have to wait". Uncle looked around, there was no chair in sight, so he forced himself into the room. Sahab was reclining in his chair, his back to the door, busy on the mobile phone. Sahab was discussing a land deal with a great degree of zeal and did not feel the presence of a visitor. When the call ended after half an hour Sahab swivelled himself and was shocked to see an intruder. Sahab rang the bell, the peon came running,
"You bloody swine, I will put you under suspension! How did you allow this man into the room when I was doing a confidential talk?"
Before the trembling peon could answer, uncle said apologetically,
"Not his fault Sir, he asked me to wait outside, but since there was no chair outside I came in."
The peon fled from the room as if it had suddenly caught a virus which was advancing menacingly towards him.
Sahab focussed his burning gaze on uncle's face like it was an acetylene torch and he would drill a hole on his forehead,
"What do you want?"
"I am a retired person, I want to become a member here".
"Why?"
Uncle didn't understand the question, unnerved, he asked,
"What is why?"
Sahab's burning gaze became intense, as if the flame was about to burst, it was apparent Sahab had not taken the unwelcome intrusion to his chamber lightly,
"What to you mean what is why? Don't you know simple English, what, why, who, when? Why do you want to become a member now? At this late age? Why were you sleeping till now and woken up like Kumbhakarna today?"
"I was working in Trivandrum, a distinguished scientist at ISRO. I retired..."
Sahab raised his hand and cut him short, he had never heard of a distinguished scientist,
"You mean extinguished?"
Uncle got a jolt, he was certainly not extinguished, not yet, but he could not recollect in a hurry the definition of a distinguished scientist, so he let it go,
"I retired a few months back and decided to settle in Bhubaneswar. I want to spend my days reading books here in the library. And also borrow books to take home."
Sahab registered a shock on his round, polished face, as if he saw a snake jumping up on the table before him, he was truly scandalised,
No no, NO! Borrowing books not allowed. Only Ministers and top government officials can borrow books, not public."
The way he spat the word, uncle flinched, conscious that he was regarded as 'public' by the powerful official.
"Go to the counter, buy a form for fifty rupees, fill it up and submit at the counter with all documents and 500 rupees caution money."
"Can I get the membership card tomorrow, so that I can start using the library immediately?"
A slow, vicious smile spread over Sahab's face, like a swarm of locusts descending on a fat patch of leaves,
"Tomorrow? Are you dreaming? If you are eligible your case will be put up to the Executive Committee and after they approve you will get a membership card. That Commiitee sits four times a year, next meeting is two months from now. You have to wait till then. Now go, don't eat my head!"
With that Sahab dismissed uncle and dialled a number on his mobile phone.
Uncle got the form and the next one week it became a nightmare for him and Aunty. One of the "essential" documents to accompany the application was the matriculation certificate, "without which the application will be rejected in toto and ab initio', it was grandly mentioned. And despite their best efforts they could not find the folder where uncles certificates were kept. They opened all the trunks and in the process cleaned up many unnecessary papers, but the all important folder eluded them. They repeated the search after a week, still no luck. Fortunately the Ph. D. Degree which uncle had got from IIT, Madras, was available, probably because he had done his Ph. D. while in service and it was kept separately.
Uncle made a copy of his electricity bill as a Proof of residence, signed an affidavit before a magistrate that he was a domicile of Odisha, and attached a copy of the Ph. D. degree to the application along with a bank draft for 500 rupees. The clerk at the counter at State Library took a look at the from and threw it back at him,
"Attach the Matriculation Cerificate, without that the application will not be accepted", he barked at Uncle as if he was dealing with a daily wager asking for his wages.
Uncle started sweating,
"But I don't have the Matriculation Certificate, all my certificates have been lost when I ...."
The clerk did not let him finish,
"Go and meet the Chief Sahab and narrate your story, I have no time for that."
So uncle was back at Sahab's door. This time he waited for a few minutes and was admitted. Before he could sit on the chair, Sahab groaned,
"Didn't I tell you to deposit the form at the counter? Why have you come here?"
Uncle felt very humble, truly remorseful
"Sorry, there is a problem, I have lost all my certificates while transporting our belongings from Trivandrum. I have attached a copy of my Ph. D. degree as proof of my educational qualification"
Sahab's round, fat face became red at this affront to common sense, he thundered,
"Who is asking for your educational qualification? The rule says you should be.a matriculate to be eligible for membership. Does your Ph. D. degree say you are a matriculate?"
Uncle protested,
"But Ph. D. is way above Matriculation, one cannot enrol in a Ph. D. course unless he is a post graduate, and you cannot be a post graduate unless you are a matriculate!"
These calculations must have been mind boggling for Sahab, he quickly gulped a glass of water and re-thundered,
"A rule is a rule, do you have any idea how a rule is sacred? Is your ISRU FISRU an NGO or what?"
Uncle smiled at Sahab's ignorance,
"ISRO is very much a part of government. It is under the Department of Space."
Sahab looked outside, at the sky above, but its azure vastness had no calming effect on him,
"Is there a department in space? ISRU is in space? But you said you came from Trivandrum?"
Uncle squirmed, sensing that it was going to be a long haul,
"I said Department of Space, it is under Government of India."
Sahab smiled in relief, the burden of his own ignorance had probably mildly suffocated him,
"That's why I don't know about ISRU. I know all departments in Odisha, but not in India. Now go and search for your Matriculation certificate. We also need it to confirm your date of birth. Even if it is there in Ph.D degree we will not accept it. The rule says date of birth as in Matriculation certificate only will be taken as proof of age."
"Why do you need a proof of age? To establish I am an adult?"
"No, to give you special facility as a senior citizen."
"What special facility?"
"You can bring your own water bottle into the library and you can use the toilet inside. Others will have to go to the row of urinals outside at the back of the building."
A smug smile spread over Sahab's face as if this was a gift bestowed by him personally to the senior citizens and his name will go into history in the same league as benevolent emperors like Akbar and Ashoka.
Uncle was crestfallen,
"But I don't have the Matriculation Cerificate, can't you accept copy of my passport as a proof of age?"
Sahab appeared scandalised,
"Passport? Are you crazy? Which country you live in? If the Rule says only Matriculation certificate can be proof of age, nothing else will work. A rule is a rule."
Uncle almost burst into tears.
"Please help me, I am really keen on using the library. Let me put in an application for exemption from Matriculation certificate and for treating passport as proof of age. Please accept the alternate documents."
Sahab shook his head as if uncle was asking for a part of the vast Empire from Emperor Akbar and the Din-Ilahi was in no mood to oblige,
"Impossible, a rule is a rule and who am I to unrule it? And just imagine what will happen if I make an exception in one case. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, I had learnt it as a rule made by some scientist named Newton Fewton. Everyone will ask for an exception, the library administration will collapse! The books will disappear, this room will evaporate, you will evaporate, I will evaporate. How can I show my face to Sarkar Bahadur sitting in Secretariat?"
Uncle saw a ray of hope,
"Can you please forward my application for exemption to your Sarkar Bahadur?"
For some unknown reason the idea appealed to Sahab,
"OK, I can take a chance, but let me tell you, two exemptions? Next to impossible. Even one exemption is difficult, asking for two exemptions is crazy. You try at your own risk, submit the application tomorrow with your application for exemption. Don't forget to attach the bank draft, the Rule is clear that bank draft must accompany the application."
That is how uncle's application was forwarded to the Department of Culture. I had a class mate, Damnaru, working as Under Secretary in Home department. I asked him to follow up. He had a chance to take a look at the file at different stages and kept me informed about its progress. Somehow uncle was confident that the exemption order would come in a week or so. He was wrong, wrong by a long shot!
When the letter from the Chief Librarian reached the Department of Culture, the clerk simply put it aside, as something undeserving of immediate attention. More pressing matters were pending, selection of a contractor for repair of the Library building at a cost of two crores of rupees, meting of the Purchase Commitee for new books for the current year worth fifty lakh rupees, selection of the Vice Chancellor for the Sanskrit University. All these files had Bribe written on them in invisible ink, so exemption for an applicant from submission of Matriculation certificate could wait. He processed the letter after a month and simply sent it up to the Joint Secretary for orders after paraphrasing the comments of the Chief Librarian. The Section Officer vehemently opposed such exemption,
"This pernicious proposal will open the floodgate of requests from others for similar kinds of absurd, unsustainable exemptions," the wise Section Officer who took a lot of pride in his flowery English, wrote.
The Joint Sectretary tossed the ball to another court,
"Since the matter relates to educational qualification the decision for exemption should be taken by the Education Department."
By the time the file reached the Secretary of the Department of Culture four months had passed. He concurred with the Joint Secretary and endorsed the file to Education department. It travelled from Under Secretatry to Deputy Secretary to Joint Secretary to Additinal Secretary to Secretary with a brilliant suggestion,
"This is a unique case of its kind. Hence the University should be asked to give an opinion whether a Ph. D. degree can be treated as equivalent to a Matriculation certificate for the sole purpose of eligibility for membership of a public library."
The Secretary simply put his signature and the file travelled back to the section. A letter was put up to the Registrar of the University to
"carefully examine and give a considered opinion in the matter since it has the potential to create a precedent".
The Registrar got the file examined by the Legal Cell of the University and wrote to the Education department in Secretariat that for the limited purpose of eligibility for membership in the Government Library a Ph. D. degree holder can be considered equivalent to a "Deemed Matriculate". The Education Department returned the file to Culture department with the advice, "Since exemptions to rules are being sought, it is strongly advised that consultation with the Law department is a must. The issue of date of birth to determine the proof of age should also be examined by the Department of Law as they had the final say on matters requiring legal proof."
The Law department, overburdened with numerous files for legal clearance sat over the file for eight months. Close to two years had passed from the day the application was forwarded by the Chief Librarian for an appropriate decision "as deemed fit under the circumstances."
I was keeping uncle posted of all the developments as soon as Dambaru updated me on the progress in the file. In the meanwhile Mahesh uncle and Sujata Aunty had gone to the U.S. to visit their daughter who lived in Boston. They returned after four months. My orders of transfer to Ranchi had just come. I went to meet Uncle and Aunty before leaving for Ranchi. After loading me with packets of chocolates, perfumes and small gadgets, uncle asked me about the fate of his application for exemption. There was a tinge of sadness in his eyes,
"You know Sadanand, when rest of the world is moving at the speed of rockets and space crafts, we are stills in bullock cart age, trying to flog a tired bullock to run our decrepit administration. I enjoyed my stay at Boston so much that I wanted to stay for two more months, but my diabetes is troubling me. But you know what I enjoyed the most there? You won't believe if I tell you."
I looked at uncle expectantly, probably he will tell me about MIT or Harvard,
"We were staying in a small suburb named Framingham, there was a library at ten minutes walk from our daughter's place. She took me to the library on the third day of my arrival and dropped me there. The library was huge, even for a small locality like Framingham. I approached the lady at the counter, she welcomed me with a smile,
'First visit to our library? Welcome! You are from India, aren't you? My colleague Meghna there, she is also Indian, she makes fabulous Chicken biriyani! You are visiting, right? I saw someone dropping you at the gate!"
'Yes, that was my daughter. Thank you for the welcome, can I become a member here?'
'Yes, of course, are you carrying your passport with you? Yeah, give it to me, I will make a copy of the first page. Here we are, take it sir, your card will be ready in two minutes.
My colleague Susan will take the particulars from your passport page and make the card. The Library timings are ten to six Tuesday to Sunday. Monday is off. You can borrow upto five books at any time. Retaining period is two weeks, after which you can renew them for another two weeks. "
'How much should I pay as Caution Money?"
'Excuse me, say that again, what money?'
'Caution money? Like a security deposit?'
'What's that for? Where is the security risk!"
'It's to cover the cost of the books I would be borrowing''
'Cover the costs? Why should you do that? Anyone who loves to read books will return them for others. Library is a place for book lovers, not book stealers. ok sir, here is the card.
Enjoy your reading, any time you have any question please come to us, I am Jessica, these two are Susan and Meghna, I have already told you.'"
Uncle's eyes had become moist at the memory,
"Sadanand, I visited the library almost every day, except when we went on travel to some other place. Can you imagine what a nice experience I had? They have a system of discarding old books every month, paperbacks for fifty cents, hard covers for one dollar. Books are stacked in the lobby outside the main door, you just pick up as many as you want and drop the money in a box kept outside there. No one checks how many books you have taken and how much money you have put in the box. I bought about ten books and then realised I won't be able to bring them with me to India due to the weight limit on baggage. There is absolute silence inside the library, everyone is busy reading books, or watching movies with earphones. What a place Sadanand, if I had not been to a library like that I wouldn't have believed it can be so good. And look at our library here, my application is still pending! God knows if I will ever be getting a chance to use the library!"
I left for Ranchi with family a week after my visit to Mahesh uncle. Whenever I spoke to Dambaru he kept me informed about Uncle's file. It seems Law department, after keeping the files for eight months accepted the Deemed Matriculation suggestion. It also approved the passport as a valid document for date of birth. But since it involved two exemptions from rule, the Law department advised that the Chief Minsister's approval should be taken. The Culture Minstry prepared a Circulation Note and it had a long, meandering, arduous journey through the Secretaries of Culture, Education, Law, the Chief Secretary, the three Ministers and finally reached the Chief Minister's office a full three years after the date of Uncle's application for exemption. It remained there for two months and finally got approved.
Uncle's dream of using the State Library was about to come true. By a coincidence I was visiting Bhubaneswar at the time. Dambaru had managed to get a copy of the letter of the Department of Culture to the Chief Librarian conveying the approval of "the competent authority" granting the exemption. He gave it to me. I wanted to break the good news to Mahesh uncle in person. I had not spoken to Uncle and Aunty for a long time, my work at Ranchi had kept me really busy.
I rang the bell. Aunty opened the door. The usual warmth was missing, some sort of gloom had fallen over the place, the sadness was palpable. I asked her where was uncle, why he didn't open the door the way he usually did. She didn't reply. I followed her to the bed room. Uncle was reclining on some pillows on the bed. I got a shock looking at his sad, gaunt face. His eyes were covered with a pair of dark glasses. I wondered if he had undergone a cataract operation. After I touched his feet I was eager to hand over the letter to him. He took it from me, caressed it with his hand. When he didn't open it, I looked at Aunty. She shook her head.
"Uncle has lost his sight by more than ninety per cent in both eyes due to Glaucoma. It was detected about nine months back, due to his uncontrolled diabetes nothing could be done. The eyes deteriorated really fast. Now he doesn't read anymore, he simply sits there listening to old songs and bhajans."
Sujata Aunty started sobbing.
I looked at the letter.
It was sitting on Mahesh uncle's chest like a marooned bird in an island of darkness.
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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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