LITERARYVIBES - SPECIAL POOJA EDITION
Title : Maa Durga (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.
Dear Readers,
My heartiest Pooja greetings to you. May the Goddess Durga shower her benign blessings on you and fill your life with joy and peace.
I am happy to offer you sixteen excellent stories as a gift for Dussehra. Hope you will enjoy them during the festive season and for rest of the year.
Please share this Special Pooja edition with all your friends and contacts through the following link:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/562
Wish you a very happy festive season with your family and friends. When you find joy in the pages of LiteraryVibes please send your blessings to the poets and writers in the LV family who are always eager for your touch of love and appreciation.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
LITERARYVIBES - SPECIAL POOJA EDITION - A CURTAIN RAISER
MYTHOLOGY COMES ALIVE
Sreechandra Banerjee
As the drum (or dhak) beats reverberate in the flaky-white cloud-clad blue autumnal sky and every corner of the city goes agog with revelry, The Devi and Her entourage descends on Earth. It is mythology that comes alive with the homecoming of the Devi from Mount Kailash!
She is Devi Durga who is triumphant over the buffalo demon King Mahishasura and thus She is known as “Mahishasura-mordini” or “The Killer of Mahishasura”.
This slaying of demon by Devi Durga is celebrated as Durga Puja all over India. In West Bengal, it is revered with stunning spectacular splendour.
Different Puranas and Shastras (religious texts) have given different names to Durga Puja.
The festival, held in the lunar waxing phase in the month of Aswin, is symbolic of the victory of good over evil, light over darkness (knowledge over ignorance). It also embodies the belief that it is the power of the Divine that protects the world.
The demon of Mahisha is also symbolic of negative qualities such as laziness, lethargy, small-mindedness and ‘tamoguna’. Tamoguna comprises the negative qualities attributed to darkness, ignorance, etc.
Thus, slaying of buffalo-demon signifies killing of all these negative qualities.
The religious text Devi Mahatmya (or Devi Mahatmyam or Durga Saptashati) was the first to describe The Goddess as slayer of demons.
This Devi Mahatmya forms a part of Markandeya Purana (5th or 6th century ce), written by Sage Markandeya.
As per this Purana, it was King Suratha of Chaitra/Chedi Dynasty (of Kalinga or modern-day Odisha), who first started Durga Puja in spring season during 300 BC. So, originally it was not an autumnal festival.
It was King Rama, who had invoked the Devi in autumn before he set out for Sri Lanka. With Devi’s blessings , King Rama was victorious and returned to Ayodhya on the day of the new moon. King Rama’s return was celebrated in Ayodhya. Today, we celebrate this day of Rama’s return as Diwali.
The pomp and splendour of the festival with beautiful pandal decorations imparts life to mythology. Arts gets manifested in myriad dimensions.
Apart from visual arts, performing arts, fashion designing and other applied arts, all take the centre stage during this festival.
Some pandals (marquees) are traditional whereas some are made to represent a monument (of India or abroad).
Various puja committees decorate the pandal so as to represent some theme, like this year, one puja committee is representing the theme “Waves” in their pandal design.
The photo below is from a Puja Pandal here in Kolkata. This pandal was made to represent Vatican City (Rome, Italy)
In most community puja pandals, idols are made of clay, but sometimes idols are made of other materials. Years back, idols at a Puja pandal were made of sugarcane and at another pandal, they were made with coconut shells.
The festive fervour fascinates all. It is indeed a time for joyous celebrations transcending barriers of caste, creed, and religion. The great gorgeous gaiety with which this gala event is celebrated ushers in joy. As I have always written, it is this joy that binds us to Divinity.
Many years back, I had seen a Muslim woman doing Adab at a Durga Puja Pandal.
And now, it is time for the Devi to bid us adieu on the tenth day of the waxing lunar phase. This day is celebrated as Bijoya Dashami or Dussehra.
It is a time to exchange greetings and so let me greet you all by a poem.
Triumphs the Godly Good over evil
As Rama vanquishes Ravana, the devil!
Demon Ravana had taken Sita away
To bring her back, Rama had to pray.
So untimely invocation of the Goddess
To fight Ravana with blessed prowess!
King Surath invoked the Goddess in spring,
This autumnal call to fight the Lankan king!
Rama had eyes like that of bright blue lotus,
Wanted to give for Puja, he was so focused!
Then before him the Great Goddess appeared,
Blessings bestowed and all obstacles cleared.
Thus, set out Rama and Hanuman troupes to fight,
To conquer demons in a battle of mighty might!
This story performed in Rama-Leela acts today,
Symbolize conquest by Goodness in a dramatic way!
Thus, Durga Puja blesses our lives every year,
With Dussehra comes to an end, a festival so dear .
Shiuli withers, Kash flower looks up to the sky,
As Ma Durga mounts Her vehicle to say goodbye
Riding a palanquin, She came this year,
Vehicle depends on day of week that is here!
Garba Dance, Dandiya Raas, Navaratri or Durga Puja
The Devi has blessed us all with Her ‘dasha bhuja’.
As reverberates now the farewell beats of dhak,
“Come again next year” we all harmoniously harp.
Hope She has bestowed Her blessings on Earth!
To fill our lives with merriment, might and mirth.
SHUBHO BIJAYA DASHAMI
and
HAPPY DUSSEHRA
To You All.
(Information and images are from books and the internet,
to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee.
All rights reserved except as noted.
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.
Table of Contents :: Short Stories
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
1947, A LOVE STORY
02) Sreekumar K
THE FIFTH BANANA LEAF
03) Dilip Mohapatra
OLD FLAMES
04) Ishwar Pati
THE BOY AND HIS FLUTE
05) Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
MONUMENTAL BLUNDER
06) Snehaprava Das
UNCLE SAM’S TALISMAN
07) Meena Mishra
CUPID CAME CALLING
08) Surya Rajesh Kavi
AN UNEXTINGUISHED LAMP IN A STORM
09) Sujata Dash
THE HOUSE WITH A BIG PORTICO AND SWINGS
10) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
NALI
11) Ritika S
CURIOUS CASE OF SLEEPY HEADS
12) Dr. Satya Narayan Mohanty
OUT OF THE BLUE
13) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
POETS` GATHERING
14) Ashok Kumar Mishra
VIDROHI (THE REBEL)
15) Shri Satish Pashine
LOVE, FESTIVITY, AND NEW BEGINNINGS
16) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
YAA DEVI SARBABHUTESHU
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
(Part-1)
A balmy late afternoon in the middle of August, the rains had receded for a week by then. Streets of Calcutta were dry. Sunetra was out with her husband for weekly buying of vegetables. They were suddenly caught in a communal riot in a narrow street. The riot had erupted without warning. When the angry mob killed her husband in front of her eyes and was venting its anger by trampling over his puppet-like limp corpse, Sunetra stood dumbstruck, pressed to the wall of a house flanking the street. The mob by its look and shouting appeared to be Muslims hunting for Hindus.
Sunetra had read from the English Daily ‘The Telegraph’ that their country Bharat was going to be free from British rule but would be divided into two parts. A part would be India with majority of Hindus, and the other, Pakistan, for majority of Muslims. The mapping of separate areas was still on the controversial drawing board.
But certain leaders were fishing in the muddy waters of emotion that arose from the issue of partition. A partition of communal nature, they knew, might lead to a scuffle and clashes. Those selfish leaders were trying to instigate Muslims in the West and East to rise in riot to hasten the process of division, so that they could rule the new country and enjoy power and pelf. Hindus rioted in response.
When Sunetra had tried to merge herself, pressing harder to the wall like a street mural, she could not stand the sight of people being dragged out of houses and butchered in cold blood. She became unconscious. She felt someone supported and lifted her before she fell to the ground. When she came to senses, she found herself carefully cradled over the huge shoulders of a man of giant size who walked fast and ran alternately through the narrow and dimly-lit lanes like a thief stealing a woman.
She tapped on the man’s shoulder and said, “Eh, you, please put me down. I can walk. Where are you taking me?” The big-size man, almost her age, around forty, but strong like a young bull, put her on her feet and said obsequiously, “Bibi ji, I am Nabab, a Muslim Porter and taxi driver. I saw your husband butchered, my condolences to you. When you collapsed, I was afraid the mob might notice you and kill you.”
“So, I decamped with you through safe areas, and thank Allah, we are far away from that scene of riot. But we have to run to a safe house, my mother Hamida’s, as riots may soon erupt in these areas also. So run with me Madam. He took her hand and ran, pulling Sunetra with him.
They reached Hamida’s hutment huffing and puffing. Hamida appeared like in her sixties and took them inside without wasting time for explanation, “Come in, you two, hide first and fast, before this area erupts,” Sunetra was given a black burqa of Hamida to don on her sari. She did as was told, though sweating under the black cloak. That would give her the external look of a Muslim woman, a right identity in that Muslim residential slum area. There was a netted area in front of her eyes that enabled her to see. Sunetra would stay with Hamida as her adopted daughter henceforth.
It took almost a year for the heat and dust to cool down and settle in riot-torn streets and lanes of Calcutta. Two healers, the passage of time, and M K Gandhi did the magic. Mahatma Gandhi had already visited the city two times as a messenger of peace.
The vanguard leader of the freedom fight, M K Gandhi, was also the preacher of Satyagraha, a form of love, truth and non-violence with no self-interest involved; a preacher of Hindu-Muslim unity and brotherhood, besides other similar philanthropic projects like untouchability. He camped at Calcutta in a big Muslim slum, fasted for his riot-suffering brothers, the Hindus and Muslims, applied his balm of peace and brotherhood to the communal wounds. The passage of time healed riot-wounds, added to the peace-messiah’s guidance.
In that tumultuous time, around August 1946 to August 1947, Sunetra read in news dailies the history of her country being written with indelible blood. The former British India was freed from the British clutches, but in two parts, Bharat and Pakistan. Bharat was a secular republic under the prime-ministership of Jawaharlal Nehru. Hamida and her son Nabab and the people of their Muslim slum were followers of Mahatma Gandhi and decided to stay in India, in their old hutment.
The supreme leader of the freedom fight, who also had fought tooth and nail against the division of India, as the messiah of Hindu-Muslim amity and unity, Mahatma Gandhi, however, remained away from power-politics. He sulked and mourned over the partition of his land, hoping against hope that his followers from both the flanks of divided India would come to him, cajole him to end his mourning and sulk, and join the divided parts into an undivided India again. But that was not willed by God.
But alas, as the next year wore on, Sunetra came to know that the Gandhian-dreams were put to naught. Bapu, Mahatma Gandhi, was killed by a bigot who had his instigating-group that wrongly believed Gandhi was anti-Hindu and a pro-Muslim prophet. Beloved to trillions all over the word, Father of the Nation, Gandhi fell to the assassin’s bullets with ‘Hey Ram’ on his lips, proving to the killer that he was a devout Hindu.
Two years had passed for Sunetra at Hamida’s kholi, a two-room affair in the middle of a Muslim slum. Sunetra for the first time experienced the joy of living. The slum dwellers, living around Hamida, mostly hand-to-mouth poor Muslims, taught her the secrets of living in love, tender feelings, and the spirit of giving. They were rough and tough externally, prone to combative fights, but were tender inside. Their kindness and large-heartedness compensated for their poverty. She would also fondly recall her umpteen affectionate encounters with Nabab, Hamida’s giant-sized son.
After leaving Sunetra with Hamida, his mother, Nabab had gone to his own kholi, a one-room hutment, and he visited her after a week. He appeared to have taken toiletry care to impress her. He arrived bathed, clean-shaven, scented with itar, the local perfume, and carrying gifts of Kachori and Jalebi for her, two of the famous street-food delicacies of Calcutta. Hamida teased, “Aha, see Sunheri baby, you have made my son reform into a gentleman.” Sunetra visibly blushed, so did Nabab. That made Hamida’s experienced eyes go moist, “Am I not hoping too much?”.
That moment signalled for Sunetra, Hamida’s Sunheri baby, the end of an era and dawn of a new era at her forty-first year. And Hamida would notice with joy and tears, her son getting drawn into an unknown territory, called infatuation, though he had so far stubbornly resisted all efforts of his mother to get him a female companion.
Hamida would soon learn a lot about Sunetra from her mouth, hats off to feminine camaraderie, in spite of their age difference. Sunetra had a strict father who gave her hands in marriage to another similar stern man’s hands. Her union with her college sweetheart was swept aside, called by her father ‘a cheap physical attraction’.
Her life became a military regimen, her husband, a retired short-service army man, had brought home those iron-clad disciplines of his army days. Sunetra’s son and daughter surprisingly would be chips of the old block, the retired military father. As they grew up it was a house of three robots versus a woman of flesh and blood. Sunetra lived an unreal life.
Sunetra used to be jolly, fickle, and playful, normal for a girl of eighteen that was abruptly cut short into a dreary disciplined married life. She confided a secret as an example, “During bed time my husband would be very aggressive, like it was an arena of combat, not of love. He would be brutal as if fighting an opponent to win, and afterwards, I will be sore everywhere, hurting in all parts of my body.”
Hamida would fondly share with her Sunheri baby her heydays with her late husband. She recalled how he tenderly touched and worked on her body,, as if she was a fragile toy, how sweetly loving he was. Hamida realized why a woman’s body could sing or cry like a Sitar, depending on how her chords were tweaked.
Hamida would tell Sunetra her story. She was an orphan at fifteen and living precariously alone in her little parental kholi (hutment room), protected by the love of immediate neighbours. She got a newborn baby boy in a garbage bin, brought him home, and brought him up as Nabab. She married Habib when Nabab was five. She lived with Nabab, her adopted son, and Habib, the husband who loved her like she was a princess, for twenty years. Habib was killed in a fire accident in the factory where he was working as a supervisor. Out of the hefty compensation money, Hamida had bought the present big kholi in the same neighbourhood.
Nabab grew up into a giant sized man. When he stood to his full height of six and half, he towered above the most in any gathering. During the riots, his size and loud roar had helped him keep the wolves at bay. But he was a gentle giant.
As time passed, Nabab’s gifts for Sunetra increased in varieties. Food items were added with fragrant gajras (rings of fresh jasmine), for wearing in her tresses, colourful bangles for her wrists, trinkets for wearing as anklets and as waist bands. The gifts were new for her, none ever had given her gifts, so, a fascination. Nabab’s worshipful and adoring behaviour was like that of a slave for his queen. She enjoyed his attention, and often felt a hot sensation in his presence, as if she was in a spell.
Hamida once asked her when she was planning to return to her father and children in Delhi. Then she quickly added, “Do not misunderstand me baby. Nabab and I would be the two happiest creatures if you decide not to return but settle down with us, here.” Her offer would dangle like a gold medal spurring an athlete to aspire for. But Sunetra wondered, if she stayed, in what way would she relate herself to this Muslim mother-son pair?
One Sunday brought the answers to Sunetra’s dilemma. While looking at Nabab fawning around her she felt her knees going weak as if she needed a support to stand, a tender support. Looking at his muscular body, her passions overwhelmed her senses, engulfing her with a fire of irresistible desire.
Nabab said, “Su madam, I have not brought my taxi today. I have brought a horse cart to take you around the new Calcutta city, you have not seen the city after independence.” Hamida encouraged her, “Go girl, go, see the world as queen Razia Sultan. Your bandaa (slave) Nabab Yaqub at your service, your Majesty!”
Sunetra was on her joy trip like Razia with her Yaqub. Recalling the historic characters and their intimate love affair, again she felt her passion rising. The fire smouldered within her and was trying to burst into flames. But was she in love with Nabab? What were Nabab’s feelings? Of a slave or lover, towards her?
The Sunday passed like a few blinks of happy interludes between mouth-watering Gol-guppa, Kachori-Rassogolla, Alu Dam, Dahi chat, and many other savouries. Even at her forty plus she laughed and ran around like a teenager, often to raised eyebrows of passersby. It was time to return home.
Sunetra blurted out, “I want to see your Kholi, Nabab.” Nabab hesitated, “What is there to see, Su madam. It is in great disarray, a smelly room not swept or mopped daily.” But he relented at her insistence.
On the way, Sunetra asked, “Why did you leave your mother’s Kholi, Nabab?” He stopped the horse cart by the roadside, came down from his driver seat, sat by her side and said with tears in eyes, “My mother was young, young like you, when my father died. Many wanted to usurp her body but more so her big kholi and her savings. She kept the baying wolves at arm’s length. My big size intimidated the preying predators.”
“One day Amma picked up a destitute from the streets. She brought him home and nursed him to good health. He was maybe twenty years older to her and a Hindu. But overwhelmed by my mother’s kindness, generosity and grace, he accepted her as his wife. They made a nice couple and lived together happily. By then I was a young giant of six and half feet tall, a hefty man of twenty-five. I felt my presence intimidated the old husband of my mother, as it used to intimidate her stray suitors. I felt he was not comfortable in my presence or free with my mother.”
“I ran away to give him and her their space. Later my mother found me out and made a solution by buying a kholi for me in another hutment colony. But my Amma’s happiness was short-lived. Her Hindu partner lost interest in her, that was based on generosity and obligation to her, not on love. He disappeared one night.”
Sunetra and Nabab reached his kholi. Calcutta looked magical in dimly lit street lamps. A cool breeze of autumn made the evening more magical. Once inside the kholi, she kissed Nabab’s paan-masala smeared fragrant mouth, flames of raw passion consuming her with incredible force. She then jumped into Nabab’s arms, giving herself to him lock, stock, and barrel. After an hour they drove to Hamida’s kholi, happy, satiated, sitting side by side, sharing the horse-cart’s driver seat. Hamida smiled mysteriously when she saw them.
Sunetra announced the next day, “Tomorrow, I leave for home.” Hamida broke down, “I thought you would change your mind. But Sunheri baby, keep coming once in a while. We really made you a part of our life. We will miss you.” Sunetra replied, “But I am not going very far.”
She was surprised to hear the shy giant butting in, “That Amma knows madam, you and she would never go far from one another in minds and hearts.” That satisfied Hamida but Sunetra could not know why Nabab stopped her from informing Hamida the truth.
Next day Sunetra packed and left, crying profusely on Hamida’s shoulders before leaving.
(Part – 2)
Many years passed. Hamida never had a visit from Sunetra. One day Hamida fell seriously ill, counting her last breaths. Nabab, her son, sat by her side, holding her hand. She was at peace. She noticed someone lurking at the door of the outer room. She asked, “Who is at the door?”
"It is Su madam, I mean Sunetra madam, Amma. She has come to say salam to you." Hamida smiled and lapsed into silence, closed her eyes. When she opened them, still smiling sadly, she found Sunetra behind Nabab, and asked, "All the way from Delhi? It has been ten years since you went away. Let me have an eyeful of you, Sunheri baby, and bring your children to me who have escorted you here. You look younger.”
She looked younger, rosier, and happier to Hamida, rather ten years younger even after the passage of ten years. Sunetra nodded, "No, not my children but my husband brought me here." Hamida strained, "It must be your new husband. Call your new husband. Let me see him, touch him, ask Allah's blessings for him." Sunetra smiled with a bit of mischief, "He is here, I mean my new husband. He is holding your hand."
Sunetra stood closely with a rare fondness and intimacy behind Nabab, her body touching his, “Ten years back I left this Kholi for my home, but did not go to my father’s house. I recalled, none of them, neither my father, nor my children, loved me. But your son, Nabab loved me, as Yaqub had loved Razia. So, I went to his Kholi, married him, and we have shared an enchanted life for the last ten years, every day of those years.”
Sunetra went serious, “Forgive me to stay away from you for so many years, Amma. Nabab and I, we were at a loss how you, from the old-world days, would react to the union of a Hindu woman with your Muslim son. Because I never converted but lived as his Hindu wife, as did Jodha lived as the queen of Akbar. We read marriage oath to each other in a mosque yard keeping Allah as our witness, and in a temple-yard keeping Krishna a witness too. Please forgive us if we have hurt your feelings.”
Hamida did not open her eyes, only smiled beatifically as her signal that she had lovingly forgiven her for not visiting her for ten years, and accepted their inter-religious love marriage. Nabab started humming a movie song, that was a favourite of his mother, “Suhanaa Safar aur ye mausam haseen ……” Sunetra joined him to make the song sound more sonorous.
All along Hamida was listening, her eyes closed, with a beatific smile playing on her lips, as if she was finally in bliss. They could not know, when she set forth on her Suhanaa Safar, the joyous trip to Allah, her maker. When Sunetra shook her with immense tenderness, all that was left were only her mortal remains. (END)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
Sreekumar K
Onam arrived on the wings of butterflies, carried by seasonal winds. The scent of freshly blossomed flowers filled the air, mingling with the joyful laughter, the rhythmic beats of the chenda and chengila, and the vibrant energy of the festival. Everywhere, people of all ages were on the swings hanging from the flowering branches of trees, their carefree voices mingling with the festive air. Down by the river, boats sliced through the water in practiced precision, preparing for the races that marked this time of year. Along with Onam, those who had long left the village returned home, just as the legendary King Mahabali was said to visit once again.
In the heart of the village, a local club had arranged a grand celebration. There were competitions, dances, and songs. But the highlight of the event was the visit of a person dressed as Mahabali, who would go from house to house, choosing only one home where he would partake in the Onasadya (the big feast). The family chosen by Maveli would receive a gift of Onapudava, traditional clothing, bestowed upon them by the club—a rare honor.
At the farthest edge of the village, in a crumbling shack barely standing, lived a family struggling with poverty. A father, mother, and two children lived in silence, their names as insignificant to the villagers as their lives were invisible. Day after day, they fought against hunger, pushing back the despair that clung to them like shadows. And yet, beneath the weight of their poverty, there was still a small, stubborn hope that flickered in their hearts.
In the days leading up to Onam, the father and mother took on whatever extra work they could find, scraping together what little they had. They had no illusions of grandeur, but they clung to the hope that they could still experience a real Onam, however meager it might be.
It was afternoon on the day of Thiruvonam. In the distance, the steady pulse of chenda, chengila, and the thrilling sound of conches echoed through the village. The man dressed as Mahabali, resplendent in royal attire, tall and broad like the myths said, began his journey through the streets. His regal appearance sparked admiration wherever he went, and the anticipation of his visit rippled through each household.
The poor family had little expectation that Maveli would visit their dilapidated home. But even in the face of doubt, they had managed to prepare a decent feast. Their thoughts drifted to the Onapudava prize, whispered in conversations the night before, a promise of something they could scarcely dream of.
The four members of the family stood in their small yard, after having placed the few dishes they had on the banana leaves, laid out with care. The food was less than modest, almost pitiful in its sparseness. Somewhere, from the heart of the village, the sounds of drums and celebrations grew louder.
Then, unexpectedly, an old man appeared in their yard.
He was thin, dressed in tattered clothes that seemed to blend into the dust and dirt of the earth. His face bore the lines of many years, but it carried a soft smile, one filled with a quiet dignity. He looked at the family with eyes that shimmered with hope, though it was a hope of a different kind—one that asked for nothing in return.
They could not turn away from the question in his gaze. Something in that moment was sacred, as though the weight of the entire Onam season rested not in the festival or the feasts, but in that simple exchange of kindness between the forgotten souls of the village.
They hesitated only for a moment before inviting him in.
The old man smiled wider, his gratitude wordless but profound. The music in the distance seemed to fade away, replaced by the simple, quiet sound of their shared meal.
"What does one give on Onam, even to a beggar, other than sadya?" The woman whispered to her husband, worry creasing her face. "But how can we offer a feast? Even Maveli himself would hesitate to ask for another helping."
The man and the woman stood aside, discussing what little they could do.
"Nobody ever visits our shack, not even if they’re dressed as Maveli," the husband said, resigned. "Let’s give this meal to the old man. Forget Maveli this Onam! A good King, he would understand," joked the husband.
"I was thinking the same," his wife replied.
When they turned to look at the old man who had entered their home uninvited, they saw their children had already taken him inside. He was seated where they had hoped Maveli would sit. Together, they shared the meal they had prepared for the festival.
Though the food was not enough to fill their bellies, the children, whose hearts were brimming with joy, didn't ask for more. For a moment, they felt as if they were part of the village’s celebration, despite their poverty.
After the meal, they all rose, but the old man continued eating. The family stood patiently, waiting for him to finish. Just then, a commotion outside drew their attention. The children rushed out, leaving the banana leaves behind, and their parents followed.
Outside, the man dressed as Mahabali, accompanied by musicians and instruments, paraded down the narrow path that passed their yard. It was clear from his hurried pace that he was heading for the grand mansion farther down the road.
The family watched anxiously, silently praying that Maveli would not enter their house. They knew they could not offer him anything more. Onapudava—the traditional clothing gifted to the chosen family—seemed like a distant dream.
Just as they had half feared and half hoped, the figure of Mahabali walked past their home without so much as a glance in their direction. The king, or rather the man in costume, seemed eager to avoid their shack, setting his eyes on the wealthier home beyond. Neither he nor the procession following him acknowledged their existence.
Relieved, the family clasped their hands and bowed in respect as the kingly figure passed. They watched until he entered the courtyard of the distant mansion, where laughter and music greeted him.
Only then did they remember the old man was left to himself. Rushing back in, they expected to find him still seated, perhaps needing more food. But when they entered, he was gone.
The leaf where he had been eating remained untouched—the rice and curries they'd served him were left as they were, as though he hadn’t touched a bite.
But that wasn’t what shocked them the most.
Where the old man had sat, four neatly folded Onapudava now lay on the floor, one for each member of the family.
The wife pointed to the untouched food, her voice trembling. "Look at this... it’s like an offering."
"Yes," her husband replied proudly, "for us and the neighbours."
As they stood there, stunned, the gentle wind blew through their home. The palm leaves rustled, and they swore they could still hear the faint clap of the fifth leaf, the one they had placed for Maveli, dancing in the breeze as if touched by a hand unseen.
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.
Dilip Mohapatra
Sandy loosened the seat belt and adjusted the lever of the recliner to suit to his comfort. He then fixed the AirPods in his ears snugly and clicked on his favourite playlist on Spotify apps on his latest generation iPhone. The AirPods effectively canceled the noise of the aeroplane and the clear and sonorous voice of the ghazal maestro Ghulam Ali wafted in to levitate him into another world. He never gets tired of the ghazal ‘Chup ke Chup ke Raat Din…’ that fills him with nostalgia every time he listens to it. His eyes always become moist as the meaning of the ghazal sinks in : ‘I still remember shedding tears quietly and silently, all night and day. I still remember those days of love.’
Sandy nee Sandeep Sharma was a successful entrepreneur, the Chairman and founder of an IT consulting company, ‘Mindspace Consulting’, which boasted of a significant market value and was counted as one of the best global Indian consulting companies giving a run for their money to reputed international companies like Boston Consulting Group. After graduating from the Indian Institute of Management, Ahmedabad he partnered with a friend to establish a start up company in the consulting space, which over the years had blossomed into its current stature. Sandy in his early fifties lived with his wife and two children, one son and a daughter in Bangalore and was on the flight to Bhubaneswar. He was invited as the Chief Guest to preside over the annual convention of the Rotary International of Bhubaneswar district which was to be held at the Mayfair hotel, a seaside resort at Gopalpur-on-Sea. His busy schedule doesn’t permit him to participate in such events and generally he declines such invitations but he had made an exception this time. When he opened the invite from the stack of mails his secretary had put up to him, his heart did a flutter when he found the name of the signatory on the invite. In the quiet corridors of memory where love’s embers never truly die, he found that the sender was none other than his college sweetheart Tanushree, who happened to be the district governor of the Rotary club. There was also a small handwritten note that urged him to accept the invite. The handwriting was vivid in his mind though he was a seeing a written note from her almost after three decades. He clearly remembered the handwriting which had a distinct touch unique to her. While mostly people write in the cursive style hers were different, each letter independently written without joining with each other and the script resembled a printed sheet of text using the Times New Roman font. In fact this style of her writing had caught Sandy’s attention way back in the late sixties when he first met her in the Chemistry laboratory of Ravenshaw College at Cuttack where they did their B Sc together. He had a chance to see her practical records which revealed her unique style of writing and he was stuck with awe. Another characteristic which had attracted him to her was her simplicity in dressing. While the other college girls came to the classes in vibrant colourful dresses she always chose white or pastel colours. He was not sure if she was also attracted to him. But he noticed that in the Chemistry lab while they did their respective experiments she used to cast at him enigmatic sideways glances and if their eyes met she flashed an equally mysterious smile that was bewitchingly magnetic. Sandy remembered how his titration results always faltered when such sly encounters happened. While he would slowly add the base solution from the buret into the flask below containing the colourless acid while constantly swirling it, his attention invariably got diverted at the crucial neutralisation point when the colour changed. He thought of changing his experiment table but took the short cut. He couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity of this silent and secret delightful communication between them. He greased the palms of the laboratory peon and managed to get the strength of the solution to fill up his records.
What started so very innocuously soon took concrete shape and both started seeing each other outside the classrooms. Sandy became a constant visitor to the ladies’ hostel where Tanushree resided and the initial meetings which centred around studies and exchange of books, soon turned into chatting sessions, mostly sharing sweet nothings. Before they could realise they were seen sitting in the visitors’ room holding each other’s hands and looking into each other’s eyes vacantly as if in a state of trance. Soon their affair became the gossip of the college corridors and they were admitted into the young lovers’ club which had the membership of quite a few pairs from various departments. The time flew away quickly as they completed their graduation. Sandy decided to pursue his higher studies in Management while Tanushri took admission in the local university to pursue her Masters in Science. She had decided to pursue an academic career.
When Sandy saw the venue of the Rotary event as written on the invite as Hotel Mayfair at Gopalpur-on-Sea it rang a bell. During his college days it was known as Palm Beach hotel. Established by an Italian Signor Maglioni in the year 1914, it had the distinction of being the first beach resort in the country. Later it was taken over by the hotel tycoon Oberoi and in recent years by the Mayfair group of hotels. Its rustic splendours and serene surroundings made it a perfect place for retreat and was visited by well heeled picnickers. Sandy remembered this place quite vividly which he and Tanushree visited during a weekend with some select friends to celebrate their graduation. During the camp fire while the rest of the gang was busy singing and dancing he and Tanushree sneaked away towards a dilapidated jetty slightly away from the hotel’s private beach area. Here for the first time they held each other in an embrace, with some hesitation at first but soon their arms tightened around each other.
In that moment, their hearts raced in unison, a symphony of youthful fervor and trembling anticipation. Their intense embrace was a dance of discovery, where every touch was a revelation, every heartbeat a whispered secret. They clung to each other, not just with their arms, but with the raw, uncharted emotions that surged within them. It was an embrace that spoke of innocence and longing, of the thrill of the unknown and the delicate fear of what lay beyond.
As their faces drew closer, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the electric charge between their lips. Their first kiss was a hesitant brush, a tentative exploration that quickly deepened into a fervent connection. It was a kiss that tasted of dreams and promises, of the sweet and the uncertain. In that kiss, they found a universe of emotions, a blend of excitement and trepidation, of passion and vulnerability. It was a kiss that perhaps marked the beginning of everything and the end of their innocence. It was as if for them the time stood still. Both of them feeling almost feverish, disengaged and avoiding each other’s gaze slowly retraced their steps to the camp fire site.
The next day they returned to Cuttack. Sandy packed his bags for Ahmedabad and Tanushree for Bhubaneswar. They didn’t even meet to say bye to each other. Before leaving for Ahmedabad Sandy had called her home to speak to her and was told that she was unavailable. Later he posted a letter to her and he received a curt reply asking him to forgive her for her behaviour at the Mayfair beach. Sandy was at his wits end and didn’t understand why she was cold shouldering him. He asked one of his close friends to meet her and find out. What waited for him was a great shock. He learnt that her parents had fixed her marriage with a well settled IAS officer, who was the collector of a district. He was frantic and rushed to Bhubaneswar to confront her. She refused to meet him. She called him later and told him to stay away and not to interfere in her marriage and her secured future, if he really loved her.
All of Ghulam Ali’s songs on his playlist were over and the first song ‘Chupke Chupke…’ was looped back to play again. Sandy remembered how those painful days sucked him into the tortuous whirlwind of emotions and how he had cried silently while a helpless rage stirred within. He took out the invitation card from his brief case, that was a stark reminder of a past that he thought he had buried. He looked at it vacantly and pondered:
Was it love? Or merely the folly of youth? He remembered the thrill of their secret meetings, the stolen glances, the whispered promises. But was that true love, or just infatuation? A fleeting fling, a flirtation that had spiralled out of control?
He pondered over the difference. Infatuation was a wildfire, burning bright and fast, leaving ashes in its wake. A fling was a brief, passionate encounter, exciting but ephemeral. Flirting was the playful dance of attraction, light and inconsequential. A crush was an innocent, unrequited admiration, sweet but naive.
But true love? True love was supposed to be enduring, steadfast, and selfless. It was supposed to withstand the test of time and trials. Had they ever had that? Or had he been chasing a mirage, a figment of his youthful imagination?
As he prepared to face her again, he couldn’t help but wonder: had she ever truly loved him, or had he been just another chapter in her quest for success? And more importantly, had he ever truly loved her, or had he been in love with the idea of love itself?
He woke up from the reverie as the pilot’s announcement wafted through the speakers instructing the cabin crew to close up on landing stations and the seat belt signs came up. As he came out of the Arrival hall he was greeted by the event organisers with a bouquet of orchids and was escorted to a waiting limo that was to convey him to the venue, almost two hours away from Bhubaneswar.
He reached Mayfair, Gopalpur at around five in the evening. The car stopped under the expansive porch and the security guard rushed to open the door. He stepped out of the sleek black car, and was greeted by the hotel’s manager. The salty sea breeze tousled his hair, carrying with it the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. He paused for a moment, taking in the view of the azure ocean stretching endlessly before him, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.
The resort was a picture of tranquility, with its whitewashed walls and lush gardens, but Sandy’s mind was anything but peaceful. He had accepted the invitation to preside over the Rotary event only because it carried the signature of Tanushree, the very woman who had once shattered his heart almost three decades ago. The invitation had come as a surprise, stirring up old memories and unresolved emotions.
As he walked through the grand entrance, the cool air of the lobby enveloped him, a welcome respite from the heat outside. The decor was elegant, with marble floors and tasteful art adorning the walls. Sandy’s eyes scanned the room, searching for familiar faces, but he found none. He checked in at the reception, her fingers tapping nervously on the counter.
“Welcome to Mayfair Seaside Resort, Mr Sandeep” the receptionist said with a warm smile. “We hope you enjoy your stay,” and handed over the key card.
Sandy nodded, forcing a polite smile in return. He took the key card and headed towards the room escorted by the bellboy his mind racing with thoughts of the upcoming event and the inevitable encounter with his past. The corridors were quiet, the only sound being the soft hum of the air conditioning. He reached his room and opened the door, stepping into a space that was both luxurious and serene. It was the hotel’s exclusive Imperial Suite specially reserved for him.
The room overlooked the ocean, with large windows that let in the golden light of the setting sun. Sandy walked over to the balcony, leaning against the railing as he watched the waves dance in the fading light. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. This was just another business event, he told himself but deep down he knew it was much more than that. It was the same very place, where he had experienced the subtle yet carnal taste of his first love and the memories were indelible. It may now be a confrontation between the present realities and the ghosts of his past.
To take his mind off the gnawing feelings and to assuage his tiredness due to his long air and road travel he needed some relaxation. He called up the hotel’s Spa Services to avail of their massage services followed by a soak in the soothing waters of the hot tub. The dip literally, melted away all his stress, tension and weariness. He came out of the spa fully refreshed and rejuvenated. He then changed into evening formals, had an exquisite cocktail at the hotel’s well stocked bar and proceeded for his dinner. He believed in the maxim: ‘early to bed and early to rise.’ Over the years he had picked up another interesting habit. Whenever he visited a sea side resort he always loved to enjoy a swim in the sea during the early hours of the dawn and watch the crimson sun rising over the distant horizon. He called home to wish his wife Lara good night and pulled the soft quilt over him.
Exactly at five in the morning, he got up from bed and quickly completed his morning routine. He then packed the beach towel and his swimwear in a beach bag and walked down the central corridor of the hotel leading to the sea. He changed in the makeshift change room that the hotel had constructed for the delegates on the beach itself and walked into the sea without a care.
Sandy had always found solace in the sea, especially in the quiet moments before dawn. The world was still cloaked in darkness, with only the faintest hint of a reddish light on the horizon. The water was cool against his skin as he swam, each stroke bringing him a sense of peace and clarity. The ethereal light of the pre-dawn cast a mystical glow over the ocean, making everything seem otherworldly.
As he swam further out, he noticed the silhouette of a woman sitting at the edge of a broken, dilapidated jetty. He remembered the jetty, where he and Tanushree had spent those unforgettable intense moments about three decades ago. The figure was shrouded in shadows, but there was something hauntingly familiar about her. Sandy’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be a wayward sea siren or a mermaid who had lost her way? He shook his head, chiding himself for such fanciful thoughts, but curiosity got the better of him.
He swam closer, the water parting silently around him. As he neared the jetty, the figure became clearer. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized her. It was his old flame, looking just as she had nearly three decades ago. Time seemed to stand still as he stared at her, a mix of shock, disbelief, and a strange sense of longing washing over him.
The woman beckoned him alluringly, her movements graceful and almost ethereal. Sandy’s heart pounded in his chest as he swam closer, unable to tear his eyes away from her. When he finally reached the jetty, he pulled himself up, water dripping from his body. He stood there, staring at her in stunned silence.
“Oh my God,” he exclaimed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What are you doing here at this time? I expected to meet you later at the convention.”
Her eyes held a mysterious glint, and she smiled softly, but said nothing. Sandy felt a shiver run down his spine, a sense of unease mingling with the joy of seeing her again. The next moment he remembered her betrayal and the momentary joy changed into subdued anger. But for now, all he could see was the woman he had once loved, standing before him as if no time had passed at all.
‘ Hi Sandy, you won’t be able to fathom how glad I am to see you after all these years, standing here so close to me. Do you remember this place? Well I can’t forget those few moments that we shared together.’
‘ What’s the point in talking about it now? For me it’s done and dusted, buried deep down which can never be dug out.’
‘Don’t say that my dear. You had been my first love and would always remain so. Please forget about the past. Here I am. This is the present. I have detached and freed myself from all my worldly obligations and am waiting for you. Take me in your arms. Give me the same very kiss with the same very passion, that you gave me years ago. Let’s get united. For ever. Till eternity.’
‘Are you out of your mind? Do you know what you are saying? Have you ever thought about my obligations to Lara and my kids? We could have lived our life together but you made your choice. Did you ever try to find out what all I had to go through emotionally?’
‘ How about you? Did you ever try to find out what happened to me? How happy was I?’
‘ Hold on, do you remember what were your last words before we went our own separate ways? You only told me to stay away from you if I truly loved you. I thought my love for you was true and I respected your wish. Though till today I am trying to find out if we ever loved each other?’
‘ You might have your doubts. But I am certain that our love was true and both of us were victims of circumstances. If our love wasn’t true I wouldn’t have been here begging you to take me in your arms. Look, the sun is about to come up. Let’s both of us swim into the sea and seek its blessings. Let’s not say a word to each other. Let the sea and the sun decide for us. You will see the light and when we return you will realise how honest I am and we would achieve our salvation together.’
‘ Just a moment, aren’t you going a bit fast. Have you forgotten that the sea in the direction of the rising sun here is rather unsafe and unpredictable. There had been many deaths by drowning due to strong undercurrents. Let me think about your proposition. Now that the sun is up the horizon let’s go back to the hotel and prepare for the event. Once the event is done we will sit comfortably and discuss. I am sure, we would find the best solution. ‘
He started walking on the jetty towards the beach. Tanushree followed him quietly. They walked along the shore, the silence between them filled with the whispers of the waves. The sun began to rise, casting a soft, golden hue over the water. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt and seaweed. They stopped near the makeshift change rooms, a relic of simpler times. Sandy and Tanushree entered their respective stalls to shower and change. The cool water washed away the salt and sand, but not the memories.
When Sandy emerged, the beach was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the distant cries of seagulls and the gentle lapping of waves. There was no sign of Tanushree. He glanced around, puzzled. She must have changed quickly and headed back to the hotel, he thought. With a growing sense of unease, he made his way back, the sand crunching under his feet.
As he approached the hotel, a crowd had gathered. An ambulance was parked at the entrance, its lights flashing ominously. The air was thick with tension and the murmur of concerned voices. Paramedics were carefully lifting a body draped in white onto a stretcher. Sandy’s heart pounded in his chest. He grabbed the arm of a nearby Rotary member, his voice trembling, “What happened?”
The member’s face was pale. “It’s the District Governor. She met with a fatal accident on her way here.”
Sandy stood there, his mind reeling. The world around him blurred as he struggled to process the news. How could this be possible? He had just seen her, spoken to her. How could the old flames that had flickered to life moments ago be extinguished forever?
The realisation hit him like a tidal wave. If Tanushree was gone, how would he get the chance to convince her to return to her life ? Because he was quite sure, the embers of their old love could never be rekindled without leaving destruction and devastation in their wake.
Desperation clawed at him. He turned and ran, his feet pounding against the pavement. He retraced his steps to the beach, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The salty air stung his lungs, and the morning chill bit at his skin. He crossed the change rooms and stopped, his eyes scanning the shoreline.
The beach stretched out before him, empty and desolate. The soft morning light cast long shadows on the sand. His gaze swept the beach, and he saw only one set of fresh footprints: his own.
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
Ishwar Pati
Dusk fell and covered the mountain peaks with crimson. The colour of the sky changed stealthily from orange to red as the setting sun lost its way behind the hills. Birds had already gone hoarse from chirping all day long. A few cottages below were lit briefly before they too were lost in the marauding shadows of the majestic trees. We collected some firewood, built a bonfire and gathered around to enjoy its warmth and the winter chill. Darkness reigned supreme in the hill station.
It was one of those impulsive moves that had put petrol in our car and propelled us to drive to Daringbadi. The place is not far as the crow flies. The roads are also good for driving. After we reached Daringbadi and settled in our rooms, we spread our chairs overlooking the valley. The weather was capricious and bracing. Menacing clouds gathered on the horizon and overshadowed the bright sun. Soon it started to rain. What a torrential downpour it was! I had rarely witnessed rain of such intensity.
The scenery changed with the onset of a spectacular hailstorm. I ran around picking up the snowballs like a little boy playing in the rain. It was so much fun to watch the hailstones melting in my palm. I could feel the water trickling through my fingers—an ephemeral yet intense nature of a passionate life!
After the birds had retreated into their nests, the evening was left to the elements. There were no cars or trucks disturbing the aura with their honking. A chill settled in like a thick blanket and we too cosied around the bonfire. Soon we were exchanging tales that came tumbling out over cups of steaming coffee. I was reminded of William Wordsworth’s lines written on Westminster Bridge: ‘All that mighty heart is lying still!’
As if on cue to bind us to its spell, the piercing strains from a flute came floating up from the valley below. A simple yet melodious tune! When the flutist emerged from the mist, I observed that it was a young Adivasi boy playing on his flute with heart and soul. It struck a chord in my heart and held me spellbound for the rest of the evening, making the dinner that followed all the more pleasurable!
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.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
The deserted main road of Gangapur that morning was an unusual sight. This road leading to the renowned Sakaleshwar (‘Lord of everything’) Temple remains busy with devotees from nearby villages who flock to the temple seeking divine blessing. In the area, Gangapur’s name is inextricably linked to its temple, whose fame is shrouded in local folklore. As legends go, the king of the erstwhile royal estate, in his desperation for a male heir, had made the pilgrimage to all the holy sites in the country with no success. Finally, fortune smiled on him. Lord Sakaleshwar appeared to him one day and blessed him with a son. No one can vouch for the authenticity of the story, but nobody dares question it, either.
The shrine has since stood there like a magnet, attracting worshippers from all walks of life. Rich or poor, young or old, illiterate or educated, they have one thing in common. All hope to move God by their prayers to grant them their most ardent wish. Their wishes are wide-ranging: marriage of a daughter, a job for a son, a promotion at work, admission to a top college, or good grades on school tests. The targets of their heart’s desires change with life circumstances, but the wish lists show no sign of dwindling.
The morning is always the peak time when the crowd is the thickest. The road gets clogged by men, women and children who simply can’t imagine starting their day without a glimpse of the Lord. Well-groomed in their finest clothes, they jostle to offer their prasad to the deity in exchange for divine blessings. Not only the main road to the temple but even the side lanes lined with rows of vendors selling flowers, coconuts, bananas and agarbathies. , burst with life in the morning.
That day, there was no crowd. Hardly anybody was on the road or in the adjoining lanes. Even the normally busy tea stall by the bend in the road which usually catered to the hectic morning activities, was quiet.
Alec Smith, an American tourist from a small town in Oklahoma, was on a trip of a lifetime to India. With an abiding interest in spirituality, he was fascinated by all things oriental. He was baffled by the arcane religions with esoteric traditions and mysterious practices. Having done extensive studies on subjects ranging from Tantra to Transcendental Meditation, he had carefully planned his trip. His travel agent arranged a special package tour for him, which, at his explicit instruction, avoided the usual tourist spots. Few popular tourist attractions figured in his itinerary. In his thinking, such places had been spoiled by commercial interests and their charm marred by tourist hype. He was after something different: a tour of India off the beaten track. He wished to experience the real India. Meeting the average Indian and spending time with the common man in his daily routine would give him an understanding of what makes India special. With careful planning and considerable thought, his first stop was Gangapur, a little-known village about a hundred miles from the capital. From the airport, he took a taxi straight to Gangapur.
On the road, stray dogs lazily sauntered, hoping to find human activities that would bring them some food. A few monkeys rested on rooftops with a subdued look; they didn’t have a clue as to what had gone wrong that morning. At the sight of the empty streets, Alec wondered if some tragedy had struck the village overnight. He had seen pictures of and read about India’s infamous crowds. Their cacophony combined with their vibrant colours, he was told, could be an assault on one’s senses. But what confronted him could not be more different from his expectations. He had read about 33 million gods in the Indian pantheon and their over-ornate temples. He had eagerly waited for the moment he could plunge into the exotic world of Indian temples. So, where had he gone wrong? How did his careful planning go so badly awry?
It was just as well that he had a local contact to guide him about India. His first encounter proved far too baffling, and India turned out to be even more enigmatic than he had imagined.
***
While Alec was busy researching India’s spiritual past, preparing for the tour of his lifetime, thousands of miles away in India, Home Minister Lokpriya Prasad was deep in discussion in his chamber with his special advisor, Kul Bhusan (nicknamed KB). Security was tight, for the matter under discussion was of supreme significance, and they could not afford to take any chances with its planning and execution. For a project of such gravity, no one could be more trustworthy or dependable than KB, the foremost among a host of advisers to the minister. KB was not an elected politician, nor did he claim any experience in high office. Neither could he boast of degrees from prestigious universities or any foreign qualification. Nonetheless, his clout was far-reaching. His power easily eclipsed that of any bureaucrat or minister. His designation was simply Special Advisor, and true to his title, nothing could be more special than the status he enjoyed.
The minister had been grappling with the issue since long before he’d assumed his office. He remembers several sessions with KB when they would discuss how to solve the national problem of low productivity. In the last few decades, India’s immediate neighbour, China, had progressed by leaps and bounds and had long since overtaken India to become a global superpower. Numerous political leaders, economists, and scholars of India had suggested remedies, and many of them attempted to improve the country’s woeful productivity record. Sadly, their measures had only tinkered at the edges of the problem and, understandably, had minimal impact. The minister was looking for a remedy that would solve the problem by striking at its core.
When KB first put forward his outlandish plan, the minister did not believe him, let alone take it seriously. He must be joking, the minister thought. But he also knew KB was not in the habit of cracking jokes on serious matters.
‘In all the foreign tours I have accompanied you, I was struck by the sheer number of churches in some countries.’ KB said.
‘Of course, their tall spires are a sight to behold. Their ornate interiors are a feast for the eyes.’
‘But churches do not produce anything. They hardly contribute to the prosperity of the nation. I would rather see factories and warehouses, even though they are nowhere as pretty as ornate churches.’
‘What is your point, KB?’
‘You must have noticed churches are numerous in countries with a predominantly Catholic population?’
‘What does it say about productivity?’
‘We have always looked up to foreign countries as models of progress, where Christianity is the predominant religion.’ KB paused before putting forth the next strand of his logic. ‘But the economic achievement in Christian countries is far from uniform. I have noticed countries which are predominantly Catholic are poorer than non-Catholic countries.’
‘So what?’
‘Have you also noticed the churches are full of people during working days? I have carefully observed them. Surely, some of them are tourists, but many are local. More to the point, not all are old.’
‘Let us better hear your main point.’ The minister quizzed.
‘During our visits to churches, the first question that came to my mind was: “Don’t they go to work? How can they spend so much time praying?”’
‘I am still not sure what you are driving at.’
‘Can’t you see the link between the lack of prosperity and a wasteful activity like praying?’
‘Oh, you mean Catholic countries are poorer because people there are busy praying instead of working?’
‘Of course. Prayers may be good for the soul, but they don’t feed hungry stomachs!’
‘I see. Even if your theory is correct, how is that relevant to our problem?’
‘Just think – how much time and effort do we put into visits to temples?’
‘It varies, of course. Some spend a lot and others much less.’
‘Let us take an average of, say, three hours a day. It is a matter of simple arithmetic. An average person wastes three hours on temple visits. Only a fraction of that time, say about three minutes, is spent worshipping the Lord. Most of the time goes into preparing for the visit and the journey to the temple. The vast majority of villagers and a significant minority in cities visit temples every day. You can calculate how many hours are lost in non-productive activity.’
‘Hmm, our poor productivity results from what you call wasted time and energy?’
A glow of satisfaction came across KB’s face as he felt the first strand of his logic was being considered by the minister. At least he did not discard it outright. KB was itching to advance his argument – an obvious follow-up from the cause of the problem to the proposed remedy. He was anxious about how the minister would receive his radical proposal. Could he convince the minister of his theory behind the great national malady and persuade him to follow his proposed remedy?
‘For the sake of our discussion, let us assume you are right. What is your solution?’ asked the minister.
‘What about shutting down all temples?’
The minister almost fell off his chair. ‘Shutting down all temples! Are you out of your mind? It is nothing short of blasphemous.’ He bellowed, ‘A trip to the temples is our most cherished tradition and one of the oldest rituals in our religion. I can’t bear the thought’.
‘I know, it sounds crazy. That is why we need to be creative about selling the idea in the first place.’
‘Can you ever convince our people that worshipping God is a wasteful activity? It is well-nigh impossible! Even the thought is preposterous. It will strike at the heart of our spiritual heritage. It is so outrageous; it is bound to spark riots.’
Not surprised by the minister’s reaction, KB persisted, ‘Of course, I am not unaware of the danger, sir. We need careful planning in devising and, more importantly, in implementing it’.
‘I don’t think any amount of preparation or planning can sweeten this poisonous pill, KB. This is the end of this discussion.’
‘Please, hear me out, sir. The final decision will be yours’, KB pleaded.
Lokpriya Prasad was astonished by KB’s dogged persistence.
‘First of all, we are not banning worship of any god or goddess. No doubt, that would be a sacrilege. We are merely shutting down temples.’
‘But they are the same thing, more or less.’
‘Ah, now you see my point. Worshipping the Lord is our dharma, our supreme duty. Visiting temples is a ritual which promotes corrupt practices and perpetuates an outdated institution. My humble suggestion, Sir: We project this as our desire to return to our roots. To reach this goal, we should be prepared to put up with any necessary hardship we have to endure and make whatever sacrifices are necessary. If it entails the closure of temples, so be it. It is merely a means to achieve our end result.’
The minister still did not look impressed.
So, KB continued. ‘If we can cast our message to people as a progressive ideology, we might just succeed. Centuries of servitude have blinded us to our glorious heritage, and we have finally woken up from the slumber of superstitions to reclaim our proud spiritual legacy. Our Sanatana Dharma, the oldest religion in the world, teaches us that God resides within us. The creator and the creation are fundamentally one and the same. The distinction between them is an illusion; it is a product of our ignorance. We can pray just as well silently at home, without wasting time visiting temples.’
‘Perhaps, but it will be a hard sell. Age-old habits are very slow to change. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, we can somehow make people accept this new idea in principle. But it will take years, if not decades, for the result of the experiment to come to fruition. And remember, this is not just an ideology: it is a matter of livelihood. Millions of people work in the mega-institution of temples. For them, it is a question of survival. They earn their living from offerings made by devotees during temple prayers. They will starve to death.’
‘Ah, you don’t appreciate how well-off these people are. You underestimate their financial cushion. I am certain they will survive in the short term. If we can somehow justify the programme as a temporary measure necessary in the national interest, we can then extend it further under some pretext. Gradually, as habits change, people will accept it as the new normal. In the meantime, we can implement a scheme for paying those working in the temples a stipend, which could come from the temple funds.’
‘But I fear it would unleash chaos, and the result could be catastrophic. I can see bloodshed.’
‘Not if we close all temples by an emergency order for, say, four weeks to start with.’
‘But we can’t create an emergency without solid reasons. How would we justify it?’
KB pointed at the laptop screen in front of them. ‘The latest news from the border should come to our help.’
‘The stand-off with the Chinese at the Arunachal border? Such minor skirmishes are almost a daily occurrence’, the minister said sceptically.
‘Nonetheless, we can argue we must be proactive when it is a national security. We must rebuff any such advance with a strong response. We might even consider pre-emptive strikes if we are pushed. Any danger to our sovereignty or threat to our national security should be sufficient to justify a declaration of emergency.’
‘Won’t it be difficult to pull it off, without a major incursion?’
‘Difficult- maybe - but not impossible. But the bigger challenge that has been bugging me all along is how to police the closure of all the temples. Given their sheer number, surveillance would be a Herculean task. Now, it occurs to me that effective policing is possible with the latest in cyber technology. We can monitor activities remotely from a central office through a closed-circuit television network. Imposing stiff penalties for offenders who violate the order to keep temples closed would ensure its strict implementation.
‘It is important we keep the plans under wraps until all the necessary arrangements are in place. The emergency order would follow with little notice, leaving no time for activists to foil our plan by morchas. Under the aegis of emergency, we will leave no room for the public to protest or oppose our programme.’
‘Are you proposing the ‘Mandir Bandh’ – Operation Temple Closure?’, the minister asked.
‘No, sir. We must avoid sending any negative messages. Under the progressive ideology, as I have alluded to, we should put a positive spin on it by naming it Griha Pooja – Operation Home Worship.’
At the beginning of their discussion, the minister found KB’s proposal laughable. Even by the end, he still had doubts about the feasibility of the programme. Yet, he reminded himself, sticking to unpopular decisions is a sign of strong government, and backing down for fear of public opposition is not a mark of a decisive leader. The minister’s passion for the country’s progress and excitement at the prospect of cracking its core problem finally swayed him in favour of KB’s innovative approach.
The title of the new programme was thus decided and duly proclaimed as a national decree.
***
Alec’s local contact, Mohan, filled him in with the news of the emergency order, which had been declared the day before and had come into effect overnight. He explained it was necessary because war had broken out on the India-China border. Alec could not understand the link between the war and the closure of temples. When he inquired into the logic behind the temple closure, Mohan drew a blank. ‘There is little news on that front yet. But the emergency had been declared. We must await further clarification from the government,’ Mohan told him.
Mohan tried to cheer Alec up. ‘India is one of the ancient world civilisations. Religion is only one facet of India’s glorious history. Her achievements in the fields of medicine, science and astronomy are legendary. The country boasts of numerous forts and palaces. Umpteen museums and galleries are a testimony to her heritage. All we have to do is tweak your itinerary, and you will still have a memorable India trip.’
But the pep talk did little to soften Alec’s disappointment. None of India’s achievements mattered to him as much as her religion. And nothing could quench his thirst for insight into its mysticism. He reluctantly accepted his host’s suggestion and decided to visit a few forts and palaces.
Despite the interesting history those places offered, Alec cut his trip short and returned to the USA after ten days. But he remained in touch with Mohan. Soon, Alec received an update from Mohan on India’s Temple Closure programme. It had collapsed in a matter of weeks. Temples were again open, back in operation, full-swing. Alec was curious to know what had transpired and why the programme failed.
‘We knew it would not work for long. We were certain it would be called off,’ Mohan said. ‘In fact, we are surprised it lasted so long.’
‘Why was it called off?’
‘The minister was struck with a heart attack. Power had gone to his head. In his ignorance, he did not know what a sinful act he had committed. How could he escape divine wrath?’
‘So sorry to hear of his heart attack. How is his condition? I assume he survived.’
‘Yes, he was lucky. As soon as he realised his mistake, he immediately repealed the emergency diktat. I am sure, had he retained the idiotic Temple Closure programme much longer, he would not have survived.’
Alec paused briefly to digest what he’d heard before asking, ‘Could the minister’s heart attack be sheer coincidence?’.
‘No. There are no coincidences in nature. Every event is governed by cosmic design. Only non-believers mistake them for coincidence.’
Alec had been too busy since his return from India to keep abreast of the latest developments there. After his conversation with Mohan, he surfed the web to find updates on India. The story, he gathered, was somewhat different from Mohan’s version.
***
As the Temple Closure programme rolled out, it was a rude shock to the system. Although life went on, nothing was the same as before. Full of apprehension, the minister remained fully alert, waiting with bated breath for the people’s first reaction. He was surprised to see no violent protests or ugly clashes. KB had anticipated such an unsavoury response from the public that he had made full arrangements to nip any adverse reaction or criticism in the bud. The minister silently congratulated himself on the success of the programme and couldn’t thank KB enough for his ingenuity. Sadly, the euphoria did not last long. Everything ground to a halt with a new development.
Back in the minister’s special chamber, an urgent crisis meeting was convened. The latest news from KB struck at the heart of Operation Home Worship, throwing the entire programme into question. The technology which they relied upon as the key to the operation’s success turned out to be its undoing.
‘What exactly has been captured in the CCTV footage, KB, that the entire programme has to be scrapped?’ the minister asked.
‘They have got the video footage of our agent’s secret meeting negotiating with the opposition party. You remember – we discussed in our last meeting winning some of the opposition MPs over into our camp.’
‘Yes, I know. I did not think it would work anyway. But we have other strategies to pursue, don’t we?’
‘Yes, Sir. I, too, was sceptical of the initiative. But I wanted to test the waters. So, we went ahead with the meeting as planned.’
‘But, nothing materialised anyway. We have not gone ahead with the deal. So, perhaps, no damage done?’
‘The opposition party has turned out to be more cunning than we imagined. They had no intention of making a deal of any kind. But they set up a sting operation. They recorded the entire negotiation in all its details. For example, the portfolios we guaranteed to them in exchange for defections to our party were outlined in the bargain. We also spelt out the number of MPs required to defect.’
‘And, they managed to record everything? Ah, that is terrible.’
‘Exactly, sir. The damage to our reputation from this recording going public will be huge. Their agent, captured in the recording, has a criminal background. Any association with him will tarnish the image of our party, and it will cost us dearly in the forthcoming election. We have painstakingly maintained our clean image and take pride in our party’s record of honesty. This untainted image is the central tenet of our election manifesto, which we were banking on to win the election. We are promising a new era in our national politics. Corruption was the signature of the opposition party whilst they were in power. Eradication of corruption is our mantra.’
The minister had no doubt that the image of the party would be in jeopardy if the recording was let out. Rampant corruption was the bane of the previous government, and the country was desperate for a change. The clean image of their party was critical to their future election success, and any blot on that image had to be avoided at any cost. He thought about watching the video clip himself before deciding on the final course of action. But his faith in KB’s judgement was absolute. It was not necessary to check anything.
‘This is blackmail!’ he blurted out.
‘Yes, sir. We failed to anticipate their deviousness and couldn’t put sufficient safeguards against their tricks to trap us. But we must move on.’
‘Who was the mastermind behind the sting operation?’
‘The temple authorities. The closure of temples dried up their revenue stream. They liaised with the opposition party and masterminded this operation.’
‘KB, are you sure we can guarantee the recording will remain a secret forever?’
‘Yes, sir, I am one hundred per cent positive. But the price paid for this deal was enormous. We have no choice but to repeal Operation Temple Closure. That is the demand from the temple authorities, and the demand is non-negotiable.’
‘So, our cherished project is ruined. All our planning and preparation have gone up in smoke!’, the minister bellowed.
Lokpriya’s heart sank at the thought of his dream solution for the national malady being thrown out in one stroke. His head reeled and he swooned. Immediately, the emergency medical team was summoned. Mercifully, the medical checks carried out in a matter of minutes ruled out anything serious. But in the meantime, the ambulance had arrived, ready to transfer the minister to the hospital.
‘Thank God, it is only a faint,’ the attending doctor said.
‘Are you sure?’ KB asked.
‘Yes, minister-sir is out of danger. You should be able to resume the meeting.’
‘No, doctor, I think you can’t take chances with the minister’s health. Take it from me, Sir must be rushed to the hospital immediately.’
‘But you are overreacting, sir. It is completely unnecessary.’
‘Just leave it to me to decide what is necessary, doctor. In critical matters of national importance, medical knowledge alone is not enough. You’d better follow my advice; this is good for the minister and also the best thing for the nation.’
The doctor was in no doubt about who he was talking to. He also knew it was not his medical skill that was being questioned. Any request from KB was an order ignored at one’s own peril.
‘I am glad you appreciate the gravity of the situation, doctor. Let’s transport him to the hospital immediately under the highest security. Nobody else must know the details of our conversations. You must accompany us in the ambulance to the hospital. This entire operation must be conducted with military precision and under the highest security. I will decide when we will release the news on the minister’s health to the nation.’
The hospital cubicle was now sealed to the public. Locked inside were the trio: KB, the minister, and the doctor.
‘The news bulletin will soon go out to say that our beloved minister Lokpriya Prasad has suffered a heart attack, but his condition is stable. He is receiving the best possible medical care, and let’s pray for his good health and smooth recovery.’
The next task for KB was to contact the caretaker minister, who had to take charge of his office while Lokpriya Prasad remained indisposed. After the official protocols were completed, he instructed the doctor to keep all details of the minister’s health condition strictly confidential, not to be divulged to a soul.
After all protocols were out of the way, KB turned to the minister to resume their serious discussion on Operation Home Worship. The hospital cubicle had now essentially become their Special Chamber.
‘KB, what is all this drama about? What about our Operation Home Worship?’
‘Let me handle this, sir. In your current state of health, you are best spared all these worries. I will explain it to you when the time is right.’
‘But the doctor says it’s only a faint. He has given my health an all-clear: I am in no danger.’
‘The situation is rather delicate, sir. A full discussion is best left for another time. Now, let’s deal with the immediate issues. The news of your heart attack will pull at the heartstrings of the people, and they will hesitate to be critical of you. Public sympathy will be your saviour. Moreover, repealing the hated Home Worship decree will make everybody ecstatic; they will soon forget this recent fiasco as nothing but a bad dream. Now, do I have your permission to issue orders for the second news bulletin: the cancellation of the Home Worship programme, to be in effect from midnight today.’
‘What reason can we give for this humiliating turnaround?’
‘It’s far from humiliating, sir. And we must not consider this as a turnaround, either. After careful deliberation, we have reconsidered our position and have come up with a revised plan of action.’
‘Our government has been heavily criticised for deviating from the secular traditions envisioned by the founders of our democracy and enshrined in our constitution. We can capitalise on that and reclaim our credentials of being a responsive government. We have listened to the grievances of the people and their voices of protest. Upon reflection, we accept that the policy amounts to religious discrimination. Although our logic was sound in principle, the new programme is unfair and unjust, in practice. By banning visits to temples, we have erred in unfairly restricting the practice of a single religion. As none of the other religious institutions were covered by this programme, we hereby cancel Operation Griha Pooja. We regret the disruption and apologise for any distress it has caused.
‘By a happy coincidence, our enemy’s aggression on the Indo-China border has also subsided. Thanks to swift thinking and prompt action from the Ministry of Defence, an imminent war has been averted. So, the emergency order is repealed too with immediate effect.’
***
After the dust settled over this unpleasant saga, life was almost back to normal, as if nothing much had happened in the interim. The minister and KB were back in their special chamber.
‘What have our IT experts been working on lately?’, the minister asked.
‘Their work has expanded manyfold in the last few months. A newly opened department has been busy conducting research, and soon, we will vastly improve our cyber capabilities. And that will guide our new venture.’
‘Are they now able to hack into high-security websites?’
‘Sir, we don’t recognise this old-fashioned term, hacking. We have revamped all the high-tech operations in the department under a brand-new initiative. We have named it RIPE.’
‘Is it the new name for spying?’
‘No, sir. In this cyber age, spying is a dirty word. RIPE stands for Research in Programming and Encryption.’
‘Ah, that sounds really clever. But have you tested their capability? Does it match their grand title?’
‘Yes, sir. Their biggest scoop so far is the vast treasures of gold in the shrines that they have managed to unlock. Perhaps our next project will be how to lay our hands on them. We won’t need to worry about productivity anymore: all our problems will be solved.’
‘Are you sure this time round, KB? Although it sounds tempting, that amounts to an unredeemable sin. Even God won’t forgive us. That would be truly a monumental blunder.’
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Although some events or characters of this satirical story may bear resemblance to real-life events, it is not meant to be a criticism of any individual, political party, government or religion. Any offence caused inadvertently is regretted.
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.
Snehaprava Das
Rain began to fall in lazy splatters as I got down from the city bus. I looked up at the sky. It was grim. Large patches of rain-swollen clouds that loomed across its visible expanse gave it an ominous look. There was some more time left for the evening to settle, but the clouds cast a deep shade of dark around. I opened up the umbrella against the rain that was now coming down in big drops. The trees that lined the road which led to my residence, swung ominously in the wet gush of the wind. I quickened my pace, hoping to reach the house where I was staying as a PG, in the next block about a hundred and fifty meters away.
And then I heard the sound of heavy footfall, but I did not turn to look back. I had been hearing them for the past few days, as if someone was following me, stalking me! In the beginning I did not take it seriously and let it pass as a chance occurrence. But I heard them in the next evening and the one after that. The footsteps were heard till I turned round the corner and then retreated and faded away, as if the one following me had chosen to turn and go back the way he had come. I let my hand fumble around my throat trying to get the comforting feel of the pendant hanging from my chain. It was not there. Surprised and a little desperate now I searched again but the chain was not around my neck. Has it fallen down somewhere in the bus? In the law firm where I worked as a data analyst? I was worried. The chain with that pendant had become indispensable for me during the past few weeks. It kind of protected me, as Uncle Sam said it would and I had come to believe it, and I felt myself desperately vulnerable when it was not with me. I was beginning to sweat and my ears felt hot and my heart hammered. Once again, I let my frantic hands grope around my throat and inside my innerwear praying desperately to feel it, to retrieve my confidence that was sinking fast.
It had been happening regularly for the last few days. As I got down the city bus and began walking down the street I heard the heavy and bold footfalls as if the one(or more?) following me was deliberately trying my patience, determined to prick a puncture into the false complacence I displayed in apparently not caring about it. Or, did he have some other heinous intent? I know that this walking alone, even if the walk was a short one, in a street of a city where you were new was not safe enough for a young woman. I, somehow, believed strongly, that the person, whoever he was or they were, would not venture to make a physical assault since there will be one or other pedestrian in the street and the house where I lived was just around the next bend.
Who could be the secret follower? Why did he stalk me? To attack me physically? To molest me? it had been happening just about a week or so before. The most possible suspect could be the robustly built young man who was handsome in a crude way, I admitted to myself reluctantly. I had had only a brief glimpse of him while he passed along the aisle to the back of the bus. He had cast a brief look at me but I instantly abhorred that look. It was synonymous with some sort of an obscene leer and I cringed away from it. He was a new passenger in the downtown-bound city bus which officegoers board regularly. I guessed he must have been a new recruit in some office. But why in the name of God would he follow me like this? It did not appear from his body language, from the little much notice I had taken of him, that he could have any such romantic interest a young man could usually have in a girl. Why then?
I was reasonably new in the city of Adarsh Nagar arriving from a town that was cozy and small and reliably safe. I had moved in here on being hired by a reputed law-firm here. The place had a heterogenous demography and so sported a mixed-up cultural ambience. But I liked it here, finding an opportunity to blend in with people of different ideologies and predilections. I lived with a kindly South Indian elderly couple who accepted paying guests, mostly working girls. The couple lived alone since both their children had settled abroad. It was a big house and they let out all the five bedrooms on the upper floor to working girls like me. The breakfast and dinner were on the house. Since we all worked in our respective offices during the day time we usually took our lunch out in weekdays. Like most others who had to leave the comforting ambience of their homes to settle in an alien place, I too dreaded staying out and moved here with a lot of premonitions, but Mr. and Mrs. Rao were so amiable and cooperative that I got over my fear. There were two other girls who were paying guests like me, Seema and Samita. Seema was an IT professional and Samita worked as an Assistant Manager in a private manufacturing company. We became good friends in a couple of months. Life was beginning to get easier with the Rao couples and the palatable south Indian delicacies which their cook made.
But the mysterious stalker was beginning to get on my nerves. I alighted from the bus with an uncanny fear, expecting to be ambushed by the strange, horrible characters at any moment, relieved enormously at the sight of a pedestrian walking by and strode forward to catch up with him.
But, this rainy evening, the lane was eerily deserted. Even the lone tea stall at the corner where the street curved to the left leading to the lane where my residence, was closed. And the heavy footfalls, bold and determined now were heard just a few meters behind me. I rummaged through my handbag hoping to God that the chain with the pendant was there. The footsteps were now almost behind me. The person who followed me was closing in on me. I began to scream in a frenzied fear and almost synchronizing with it my hand grabbed the chain that was lying under a small purse containing loose money.
The sound stopped abruptly. I wondered if the stalker was waiting, like an animal lying in ambush, enjoying my panic, gearing himself up to pounce upon me and maul me with his brutish wildness. I stood frozen, unable to take a step forward. Waiting for the inevitable attack.
After a moment, which seemed like an age, I heard the sound of a heavy rustle behind me, like two people engaged in a fierce scuffle, and then the thud of someone falling down. It was followed by another sound. Of feet in shoes being dragged away. I heard a chilling moan and then there was total silence. I stood there rooted, still not able to move forward. And then I heard the footfalls again. But it was a different sound, not heavy like the ones that followed me all these days. But, slightly unsteady and faltering. The sound was slowly receding as if that someone whose footfalls they were, was moving from the spot, in the other direction.
Gathering up all my courage I turned to look. A tall man in a red and white chequered shirt, groping his way ahead with a white stick was walking away.
My heart skipped a beat, and then began to race. It was Sam Uncle!!
I stared at the tall, slightly hunched forward figure moving out of sight, disbelievingly. Was it really Sam Uncle, the partially sightless old man of above eighty who had fought the vicious stalker off? I stood there for some more time, unsure of myself, presuming that everything that happened was some sort of a bad dream. But I knew it was not a dream. It was Sam Uncle who had come to my rescue in that dark lonely street, to punish the evil one. I decided to thank him I met him next.
**
I had first met Sam Uncle in a warm, sunny morning of June. The sun, that had dutifully reappeared with all its brilliance and an irrevocable promise to torment the people with its scorch had come up a good height in the east. I had arrived a little early that day at the bus stop. I happened to be the only passenger waiting there at that time. I turned my gaze around to keep my mind away from the sultry heat that was getting increasingly discomforting. My eyes fell on a fair skinned, white bearded, tall and slightly hunched forward old man who stood under a light post carrying a long white cane. He wore big dark glasses that covered most part of his upper face. To me he looked a little uncertain as any blind man would before deciding to cross the road. I felt a strange connectedness with the old man who was a total stranger in an alien city. Actually, it was not he but the blue and white chequered shirt he wore. It looked so familiar, as if I had seen the same shirt, the same pattern sometime long back. When? Where? I tried to think hard but remembered nothing.
A stream of automobiles rushed unstoppably along the broad street with their usual loud blare. Perhaps he was waiting for some kindred soul to help him in the precarious journey across the busy road, I guessed and looked at my mobile phone. There were some five minutes more before the city bus arrived and I walked up to the old man. He was still groping the emptiness around his legs with his white cane when I reached up and asked, ‘Do you want to cross the road, uncle?’ I asked. ‘His hand waved in the air blindly and then he felt my head. ‘Thank you, my dear girl!’ He sounded relieved. ‘If it is not too much of trouble to you.’ ‘No trouble at all.’ I clasped his hand and led him on across the wide road. His hand felt strong and stiff in my hold. I wondered for a moment how an old man who must be above eighty could have this tightness in his skin. ‘I had to cross that road every day to reach the cemetery on the street across. The rest part of the journey is hassle-free once I cross the road. There is always some kindhearted fellow who helps me across the busy road. but you seem to be a special person. Very sensitive, very affectionate, I can see that even through my blindness.’ He chortled amusedly. Thank you so much.’ Then he asked me about my job and my office. and about my parents and my hometown. He seemed to have taken a genuine liking towards me. Surprisingly enough, I too felt I knew him before. But it was not so. I was a new arrival in this city and he was an old resident here. I smiled away the thought.
He turned and walked away navigating the black emptiness ahead of him with his white stick. I saw him again the next day. He was standing at the same spot, under the same light post. But he did not look anxious as he did the previous day. As if he knew instinctively that I would come to help, to lead him through the crowded, busy road to the other side. Today he was in a red and white chequred shirt, but the pattern was the same as the one he wore yesterday. And once again I felt deep in my heart that I had seen the shirt somewhere. On someone else. And once again I drew a blank after racking my head for a long time to recollect who had worn that shirt. I was early that day. The bus would not arrive until after ten minutes. I walked up to him and caught hold of his hand. His lips curled in a fond smile. ‘I knew you would come. You are such an angel!’ He exclaimed as we moved across the road. ‘I knew you would come.’ He said again. It was so small a voice that was almost drowned by the aggressive blares of the countless automobiles, but I could hear it, clear and distinct. It was not strange though, his saying that I would come to help him across the road, but there was something odd the way he said it. Something that did not sound like a casual expression. I looked up at his face. There was the same beatific smile on his lips and it was so genuine that I reproached myself for misconstruing his intent. ‘I am Samuel Davidson.’ He said affectionately. ‘You could call me Uncle Sam. You are a very considerate young woman. God will always be by your side.’ I led him to the narrow street that went up to the cemetery. ‘Do you come here every day, Uncle Sam?’ I asked. ‘Yes, unless the weather is very bad. I like it there, calm and lonely.’ ‘Why the cemetery?’ I thought feeling a bit uneasy.
‘Where is your son,’ Uncle? I asked, guardedly.
‘He has left here, moved away with his wife and the second son to some other place. I cannot recall the name of the place now. I am old and memory plays nasty tricks with me. But I remember every little details about my grandson. He is the firstborn one. He is never out of my memory.’
‘Your elder grandson? Where is he now?’ I asked, puzzled. He did not say anything to that and pointed a bony finger ahead, at the narrow lane branching off the wide, crowded road. ‘Over there.’
I stared at him. His grandson? In a cemetery? My heartbeat quickened. Is that why the old man is visiting the place routinely? A crowd of disturbing thoughts crisscrossed through my mind. But I could sense intuitively that he wanted to evade the subject. I decided to drop it at that.
‘I live in an Old Age Home run by a non-government organization. But they provide us with all sorts of comforts.’
‘Why did not you go with your son? And what happened to your grandson?’ The words just slipped out before I could make an effort to fight them off my tongue. I was finding it difficult to hold back the curiosity. Here was an old man who had buried deep secrets in his heart. Choosing to live away from his son and daughter-in-law, and eager to spend time by the grave of his grandson who had died young. I was getting drawn towards him as if he had cast some magic over me.
‘I will tell you about him some other time.’ he said. We had reached the narrow foot track that branched off the road. It led to the back gate of the cemetery. I always shrink away from visiting graveyards. Despite the clear blue sky over and the flower laden bushes and climbers that thronged it, the place looked somber and, to some extent, weird. I left him there to grope his way to the place and hurried back to the bus stop.
It was Saturday. Weekend. We had planned for shopping and lunch out. But a heavy and incessant downpour foiled our plan. I sat by the window watching the rainwater running down in rivulets along the sidewalks and disappear into the drain. I thought about Uncle Sam. Would he have gone to the cemetery in this inclement weather? Did he find some sympathetic soul who assisted him to reach there, or had he decided to drop his visit there for the day? I was still wondering vaguely where I had seen someone else wearing the shirts with exactly the same colour and designs. I remembered nothing. I did not know why but I missed the little act of guiding Sam Uncle across the road. I, in a strange way had grown fond of his company and listening to his soft, drawling voice. I realized he desperately needed someone to whom he could open his heart up, share the sorrows lying dormant god knows since how many years. I wanted to help him shed the crushing load on his heart by listening to him without interrupting him with questions.
He was not there on Monday. It was a fine morning, with a slightly cool breeze blowing and a mildly warm, languid sun in the east sky. I hoped Sam Uncle would be there since the weather was good, presuming that he might have missed his routine visits to the cemetery in the last couple of days. I felt a frisson of disappointment. I had got used to my routine of holding his hand and guiding him through the traffic to the street that branched out of its edge on the other side to another narrow lane that went to the cemetery.
My heart leaped in joy when I saw him standing under the light post the next day. ‘I have missed you,’ I said before I realized that he might take offence since it was not even a month since we had met. But he didn’t. I could feel instinctively his eyes sparkled behind the big black glasses. There was an amused smile on his face. ‘I knew you would. I too missed you.’ he said. We had reached the other side. I wanted to prolong the discussion but the city bus was beginning to roll forward and I had to rush back to catch it.
**
I woke up early the next Saturday and walked up to the bus stop. It was weekend and I, like the other paying guests in the house was supposed to be enjoying a lie-in. But I wanted to spend some more time with Uncle Sam and listen to his story. He was there as always. In a white and black chequred shirt this time. And, we walked hand in hand across the road. ‘I know you do not have office today. But I knew, call it my intuition, that you would come. That is why I have been refusing the ones who volunteered to help me cross the road. ‘ I will accompany you to the cemetery today.’ I said. He smiled his usual beatific smile and his long, gaunt fingers tightened around mine.
On the way he told me he had spent most part of his life in a nondescript but cosmopolitan township where he lived with his family of a wife and a son in a railway quarter. He worked as a railway guard for the Central Railways and spent most part of his time in travelling in the trains. He had no trouble with his eyes, he said, un -till years after he retired from service. It was only a few months before they had moved here to this alien city, he said in a heavy voice, that he had developed this ailment in both his eyes that had made him almost blind. ‘I have no regrets,’ he said, sounding reconciling. ‘I can manage a few more years with the support of this cane and of benevolent souls like you. It is a pity that I passed on the blindness to my beloved grandson and there was nothing and no one to help him out of his dark world where he rotted to his death.’
I was now more than interested and urged him on to tell me more about himself and his grandson who lay there peacefully in that sepulchral solitude beyond the church, under a black rectangular stone.
He thought for a while, his face creasing with the lines of indecision. I waited. Slowly the hard lines smoothened and his face cleared like a sky after a rainstorm.
And he told me, unpretentiously and with a calm seriousness, trying to assuage his pain by venting out the pent-up pangs that were slowly but tenaciously eating him up.
He had got his son Robin married to a girl of his own choice, Mary, one of his colleague’s daughter and Robin was happy with her, Uncle Sam continued. The next year Roy was born, a fair, chubby faced little angel of a boy. The next year Robin got a promotion and was appointed as a loco pilot.
Now that Uncle Sam had retired from his service, he had plenty of time to spend with Roy. He and his wife doted on their grandson. It was a happy family, straight out of a picture postcard, where spring hung like colourful streamers from a sky that did not have even a thin strip of black cloud. But destiny had some other plans for them- a vicious, vile plan to maraud the blessed cornucopia of its simple, pure joys. Mary conceived her second child and the family rejoiced at the prospects of another new arrival. Roy was two and he too was excited about having a baby sister, Roy always wanted a sister to play with, for a playmate. Mary developed some complicacies in the sixth month of her pregnancy and on the advice of the gynecologist she was moved to the railway hospital. She suffered a miscarriage there and bled profusely. She could not pull through the ordeal despite all the efforts of the doctors. Mary’s untimely departure plunged the family into a black abyss of gloom. Robin took to drinking and spent the best part of the day outside home, nor was he serious about his job. It was only because of uncle Sam, who had a good track record all through, Robin was given a desk job in the Station Master’s office, and the boss, a kindhearted sympathetic gentleman, deliberately overlooked Robin’s lack of seriousness in his job. He realized the trauma Robin was passing through and decided to give him a little time to get over the shock. Roy, who was growing up under the love and care of his grand parents had come to live with the loss without much complaint. He was an introvert type, loved to play with his toys, enjoyed his own company and had a way of keeping things to himself. At an age in which kids usually give vent to their grievances with a lot of loudness, Roy preferred to hide them behind a visor of calm nonchalance. He was not the demanding type and obeyed his grandparents, especially his grandfather with whom he appeared to have a strong emotional bonding. If at all he missed his father and was troubled by his father’s drunken apathy he never let it reveal in his expression. It was getting more and more insufferable for Sam uncle and his wife to see their only son letting alcohol ruin his life. At last, when Roy was in class five or six Samuel uncle decided to have an open man to man discussion with his only son. It needed quite a lot of persuasion but in the end the Robin had to give in to his parent’s tearful pleading. He agreed for a second marriage, more for getting Roy a mother than a life partner for himself.
And, Sarah entered Robin’s life, and his family as a fresh waft of cool breeze. Even Roy’s pale, depressed face registered the faint semblance of a smile. Sarah seemed to be genuinely fond of Roy and took care of him and his grandparents with an unalloyed sincerity. Robin’s life appeared to be getting back to tracks and the cloud of gloom that loomed over his life began to dissipate slowly. Mary had become a sweet and distant memory than a constantly haunting sense of loss. Things apparently had got back to normal. Robin was back at his job and with a new vigour and enthusiasm.
Then Sarah got pregnant. Once again there was rejoicing and laughter in the family when she gave birth to a baby boy, Zaran.
**
At first it was like a brief sweep of neglectfulness. Sarah was busy in taking care of infant Zaran and understandably could not spare much time for Roy, and no one had to take it amiss. But, Sarah, as days rolled on, grew increasingly oblivious of her responsibilities towards Roy and even to her parents-in-law. Robin, now a senior loco-pilot, spent several days in a month travelling in trains and the few days he spent a home were filled with Sarah and his baby son. it was just a simple formal ‘Hello, how is your school going?’ kind of greeting or a toy or cricket kit for Roy. Uncle Sam could see the misery of Roy in his big, blue eyes, the pain of drifting away from a home he had learned to love and belong in.
As Roy grew up the escalating despondency, ironically, found expression in his laconicism and a deliberate recalcitrance in abiding by the regulative principles Sarah had set to discipline him as well as Zaran. It was like a silent revolt, an unvoiced resentment against the disregard and oversighting he suffered. But Sarah and Robin had neither time nor intent to work out a redressal to assuage his pain. Uncle Sam and his wife understood and poured their love and generosity on the boy without reserve. But Roy was now in his adolescence, almost at the threshold of youth, a crucial stage, where life drifts rudderless through the untamed tides of emotions. And Uncle Sam noticed the changes in Roy, the telltale signs of his usual calm yielding to the surge of emotions.
**
‘One afternoon I saw him sitting in the premises of the small church, on one of the pedestals where statues of angels were installed. He had perhaps come there straight from his school. Yesterday was a Sunday and we had routinely attended the mass prayer in the church. There was no need for him to repeat the visit there today, and at this time! As I was taking an afternoon stroll, I passed by the church and saw him sitting there, his body partially hidden by the vines of Bleeding-heart. The afternoon sun caressed the tiny pink and white blossoms and reflected on his face. Settled by the statue he looked like a twin angel of pink, serene and ethereal, in that blissful solitude. I wondered what he was doing there. It was quite sometime after his school was over, and he should have been at home by now. It was his final year at the St. Matthews Public school, a few hundred meters away from the church. He had to cross past the church on his way to and back from the school. But I had never seen him in the church at that hour. I knew he was feeling cast off because of the neglectfulness of Sarah and Robin and my heart wept for him. I and my wife try our best to fill the vacuum in his heart caused by his parents’ indifference. And he seemed to have reconciled to it in a way. Then why was he here, instead of being at home? I wandered over to him leisurely, trying not to let my expression betray my concern, and called ‘Roy, my darling! What are you doing here?’
**
Something crossed my mind like a lightning flash. St. Matthews Public school?? I recalled the few months I spent in a town that was a railway junction long back. There was a St. Matthews Public school in that town, and a small but elegant church too. I could not remember the exact details though. I went to a Girls’ High School there. My father worked for a brief stint in the town as an executive engineer in the Railways but he got a promotion and moved in to another town, and I had to change school even before I could find adequate opportunity and time to blend in. But I did not tell Uncle Sam about all that. I decided to wait and listen to his story first.
I looked up at Uncle Sam’s face. I could not see his eyes behind the dark glasses, but a cloud of despondency hung over his face. I understood the misery that pricked at his heart at the memory. For one moment I wondered if I should ask him to stop. Too much brooding over a bitter past might harm his health, I apprehended. But my curiosity got over my sense of propriety and I waited anxiously for him to continue.
**
‘Roy did not respond, nor did he look at me,’ Uncle Sam resumed. ‘I waited for a fraction of a moment and then gently touched his shoulder. ‘Roy!’ I called again, a little louder this time. He turned his face and glanced at me, there was something abnormal in that glance, an odd remoteness as if he was looking at a stranger. Then he seemed to get his hold back on his thoughts and smiled. It was an innocent but mysterious smile. As if he was amused at succeeding in concealing some secret in the depth of his heart.
‘What are you doing here?’ I queried trying to sound casual.
‘Just enjoying the sundown hour, grandpa. It is so enchanting, to watch the sun dropping under the peak of hills and listen to the faint rustle of the breeze in the vines of the Bleeding Heart.’
‘It is indeed lovely. But aren’t you hungry?’
‘You do not feel hunger and thirst in love,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes fixed on the clouds that were fast turning from yellow and mauve to a grayish lavender.
I looked sharply at him, surprised. ‘Love?’
‘I mean when you love nature’ He replied with a quickness I found unusual. There was a shifty look in his eyes which disturbed me slightly. But I did not press on it. ‘OK. It will soon be evening. Let us go home.’ I said.
‘Yes, grandpa.’ He rose to his feet, slung back his school bag over his shoulder and strode out of the gate of the church. I followed him out. He cast a furtive glance around as if he was searching for something or someone. ‘What is it? Are you looking for something?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said evasively and smiled at me. It was a different sort of smile, not like that pure, innocent smile that used to light up his face, but an uncanny, mysterious one.
I could see he was changing. He had shed the revolting, recalcitrating shade off his persona and had become pleasantly accommodative. He no longer looked morose or withdrawn but responded everyone with a sweet, slightly shy smile. Even Sarah and Robin were astonished at this change in his behaviour. I had no idea if Robin had ever felt guilty of ignoring his firstborn, but I could sense the relief in his eyes as if a heavy load had been taken off his chest. Robin’s mother looked relaxed too. ‘Roy is growing up. He is learning to adapt himself to the circumstances.’ She remarked. We both thanked the Lord for helping Roy out of the labyrinth of his despair. I had no idea at that time I had to thank someone else too for changing Roy. It took some more months and rather a chance occurrence to discover that mysterious someone.
**
It rained nonstop that day. I was reading a novel, I enjoy reading. It was my favorite pastime after retirement. Reclining in a couch in the enclosed terrace after a good lunch, I opened a book at the page where I had stopped last evening. Zaran, who was still attending the morning school had returned and was having his lunch while Sarah hovered between the kitchen and the dining hall fussing over her son. Roy was at school. These days he was studying hard and spent most of his time in his room. Though his response was always pleasant and decent, he loved to be alone and lapsed into a plaintive mood time and again. He did not prefer to communicate too frankly with us. it was no wonder because Roy was the introvert type since he was a baby. He seemed to get uncomfortable amidst people and shrank away from the crowd.
I turned my eyes to the pages of the book that were beginning to look a little bleary now. I closed my eyes to rest them for a while. I had no idea when I had dosed off. The sound of a thunderclap jerked me out of sleep. The book, that was lying open on my chest fell down with a mild thud. The rain had slowed down but it was dark. I glanced at the wall clock. It showed ten minutes after five. The house was quiet. Sarah and Zaran were perhaps sleeping. My wife too was in the bedroom, asleep. I got to my feet and wandered over to Roy’s room. I would make him a sandwich or warm a glass of milk for him, I thought, since he preferred to have something light on returning from school. I pushed open the door gently and peered in. A flimsy darkness carrying the smell of rain loomed about the room. Roy was not there.
I took out an umbrella from the shelf in the dining hall and stepped out of home without disturbing Ana, my wife who slept peacefully. She looked frail and vulnerable as she slept gathering up her legs to her chest against the cold. I drew a counterpane up her and came out closing the door behind me. As such Ana was not keeping good health over the years. She was no longer her agile, alert self, ready to plunge into action at any given chance. The depression she passed through on account of Sarah’s aloofness and Roy’s unpredictable mood swings coupled with the household responsibility she had to take up was beginning to take toll on her. She suffered from various ailments, did not eat properly and was losing weight. Robin and Sarah had neither time nor any intent to take note of that.
**
I stepped down the front veranda. The sky seemed to be unleashing sharp, liquid blows on the earth with a vindictive fury. The sporadic gusts of cold wind hissed through the boughs of the trees that stood drooping and wet under the driving sheet of rain. I had to tighten my grip around the shaft as well as the handle of the umbrella again and again as I struggled with the rushing sweeps of wind that threatened to blow it away. I was now very worried about Roy. He had not taken an umbrella with him. Was he still at school waiting for the rain to slow down, or had taken shelter in some shop or tea stall to escape the rain? To my good luck the rain began to slow down as I turned the bend of the lane and stepped on to the main street that led to Roy’s school. Drawing in a breath of relief I increased my speed, hoping to find Roy somewhere on the way, returning. There was no sign of him. The entrance gate of the school was locked and the security guard was nowhere in sight. I decided to walk a little farther up towards the church. It somehow occurred to me that he could be in the church, it had become one of his choicest hang out these days. As I neared the church I saw a boy and a girl standing by the pillars at the archway entrance of the church. The rain-lashed vines of the Bleeding Heart that had wound thickly around the pillars were now hanging in a shambolic mass of green and white and red. I could guess the boy was Roy, but who was the girl? She had her back to me and had an umbrella overhead. She was holding out something that looked like a notebook from that distance towards Roy. Suddenly Roy laughed. May be the girl said something that tickled him to laughter. Then the girl moved away, her head hidden under the umbrella, And Roy stood there, drenching in the gentle rain watching her cross past the church wall and disappear down the curve to the right. I had reached close to him and was about to call when he turned to glance at the vines of Bleeding Heart. There was that extraordinary look of adoration in his big, blue eyes that startled me for a moment. It was a look I had hardly ever seen in the eyes of a boy of his age. It said plainly: you are the centre of my universe, without you there would be no sun, no moon, no stars, no nothing!! It was a look of complete and candid love.
I desperately wanted to know who the girl was and why was she in here in this church with Roy. Should I ask him? I was in two minds. After dithering a little I decided not to discuss it with Roy and wait for him to reveal it himself. I knew that if Roy would be frank enough to discuss his private thoughts with one single person, I would be the one. I did not want to hasten him and allow him to take his time before opening up his heart to me.
Perhaps that is where I went wrong.
Uncle Sam sighed heavily. A drop of tear trickled down from behind the dark glasses. ‘Please uncle. Don’t.’ I said consoling him. I would not press you on if it hurts you so much. I said conciliatorily.
‘No, my dear. Let me speak my heart out to you. It had been a lifetime since I have been waiting to tell you this.’ There was a strange, almost a boyish smile on his lips that made him look very young. I crumbled under the impact of that smile I did not know why.
‘I was curious about the girl carrying the umbrella, the girl whom Roy thought the world of, I had understood, the girl who could bring a glow of laughter into the shadow of gloom that loomed across his face. Who was she? She wore a school uniform, a knee-length skirt of slate-gray and a white half-sleeved blouse. Her long, wavy hair held in an elastic hair band that hung in a lazy length along her back swung gently as she hurried down the road.’ He paused. The sightless eyes under the black glasses seemed to be fixed on some faraway point, beyond the road, beyond the melancholic black marbles and the lush flowering bushes that crowded the cemetery.
I did not know why but he was beginning to disturb me. It was a spooky feeling, but it was as if I was getting drawn into the centre of Uncle Sam’s story. I felt as if I was somehow, someway linked to it. It was all so perplexing. I could feel intuitively I knew this fragile, handsome, blind old man in his creaseless blue and white chequered shirt long back in time. I had seen him somewhere, in the same outfit, in another time zone, in another world. But it was only an obscure perception. I was eager to know about the girl too, and of course Roy.
He fixed his sightless eyes on me and as if he could read the anxiety in my face, he flicked a rueful smile at me. I could understand how hard it must be for him to relive the painful past.
But he continued, his voice now suffused with a deep pathos. ‘Roy was a changed boy now. He sat hunched by his study table cluttered with opened books, assiduously scribbling down in the copies, his face pensive and intent. Sometimes he would tear up the pages he wrote on and throw the scraps out of the window. One day while he was at school I retrieved some of the scraps that had remained stuck in the hedge-fence and tried to read. The letters had faded and were blurry, but I could make out random words like sweet, rain, dream and others. It instantly occurred to me he was writing these love notes. I guessed it must be the girl in that rainy afternoon to whom he wrote the letters. Though I was ashamed of myself for doing it, I began spying on his movements, to find out who the mysterious girl was.’
‘Did you see her again?’ I was more than curious.
‘Yes, for one last time, at the same spot, under the Bleeding Hearts by the archway of the church. That day too it rained heavily in the afternoon. But it had slowed down when I reached the church. I saw her there speaking to Roy. I waited to catch a glimpse of her face, careful not to show myself. She stood facing Roy, her back to me. I waited for her to turn. But she did not. She was speaking something excitedly, waving something like a folded paper at Roy. I tried to get a close view of Roy. The look of bleak despair in his face frightened me. As I looked, his face went ashen pale and crumpled like a parchment. He tried to hold the hand of the girl but she shoved his hand away with a rude rejection and strode away with angry steps and disappeared beyond the backside wall of the church. I turned my gaze back to Roy who was now moving towards a pedestal where a statue of some angel was installed. He slumped on the pedestal and hid his face between his hands. I walked up to him and touched his shoulder gently. ‘Roy,’ I called. He gave a startled gasp and looked up. Then he clasped me and cried, his body racking violently under the impact of the pain he felt. I stroked his back silently till he calmed down.
‘Forget about everything, my boy and concentrate in your studies. You know I have great hopes in you and I know you will not let me down.’
‘Sure grandpa. Please forgive me for behaving in this irresponsible manner.’ He wiped his face and tried to force a smile. We walked back home in silence.
**
Then Ana got diagnosed with an incurable ailment. Robin took her to several doctors and spent a lot on her treatment. It had cut a sizable scrap out of my own savings too. But Ana could not pull through her disease. Her sickness had completely erased Roy’s depression out of my mind. There were times when he would sit a long time by his grandmother’s bed in silence holding her frail hand.
**
He did not accompany us to attend the burial rites. He was nowhere in the house when we returned. Later I found him on the roof, sitting hunched up in one corner, and crying. I gathered him up in my arms and we both cried, lamenting Ana’s unexpected departure.
‘I will not go to the church any more,’ He said amidst choking sobs, ‘God snatches everyone I love away from me. There is no God!’ The pulsating bitterness in his voice emanated not just from the grief of losing his grandma, but something else. It was about a loss that has a different dimension, immense and colossal. It has turned his Faith to an anathema. It startled me for a moment. But at that moment the overwhelming pain of losing Ana had paralyzed my reasoning. I was not in a state of mind to ponder meticulously over Roy’s words.
**
Time, that never stops to study or sympathize with human suffering also has a way of lessening the enormity of it. Man, with his inbuilt resilience, salvages the scraps from the rubbles of his loss to restructure his life. I too was slowly getting accustomed to the vacuum Ana’s absence had caused in me. But, yes, I was not as keen about Roy as I used to be. He went to the school, attended the special classes and had his lunch and dinner in time. He was always a self-contained boy and I, somehow, was not feeling too inclined to probe into his life. I was having trouble with my eyesight and Robin had no time to take me to an optician. I did not want to add to his worries by asking him to. I was relieved to see Sarah who was beginning to come out of her self- woven cocoon of impassivity, and unlike her earlier callous self, appeared to be involving herself in the household affairs. I knew the long, lonely hours at home while Robin remained away from home for days together weighed heavy on her. But she was trying to put up with that. We all, I, Sarah and Roy, were secretly struggling to keep our pains confined to our individual private spaces and act normal. Roy’s school finals were over and Robin was making plans for his higher studies. Life moved on its usual course, at least it looked so on the surface, till the day Roy came down with chickenpox. His school finals were over a week ago. He had stopped visiting the church with a determined dispassion. I decided not to compel him until he got over his bitter obstinance and grow a genuine interest in it. Robin consulted a doctor in the Railway hospital who advised to keep Roy in isolation to prevent others, especially Zaran from getting infected. Roy groaned in pain. But no one except me dared enter the room. The doctor had assured the blisters will go in a week or ten days. They did. But the ones that had formed under the eyelids affected his sight. He recovered, but the impaired eyesight did not return to normal. He could see things but his vision had become bleary and hazy. Robin took an appointment with a reputed optician of the general hospital and took both of us to his clinic. He advised some tests and prescribed drops and medicines for oral consumption. They did not help much. The ailment in both of us neither aggravated nor deteriorated. This partial blindness we shared brought Roy and me closer than ever. He had become unusually quiet and withdrawing and did not speak to anyone else except me. I could see, though the vision was not very clear, the heaviness in his heart often climbed up to his sick eyes. And he would try to conceal the bitter agony they reflected under his black glasses. Often, in the deep silence of the night I heard him sobbing, a muffled, eerie sound that used to give me the creeps. My heart went out to him. He was fast reducing to a mental wreck. I was an old man. I had seen life, gone through the bitter sweet experiences and was now ready to call quits. But Roy was too young to handle the cruel tricks life played with him. I never asked him, but continued to wonder about the mysterious girl who had stepped into his life as a gentle waft of spring-breeze for a short spell and abandoned him, sending him to his ruins.’
He took a long, thoughtful pause. There was a vague, vacant expression in his face. I wondered what were in the almost sightless eyes hidden behind the big dark glasses. The corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily as he drew in deep sighs.
‘I will listen to the rest of it tomorrow, Sam Uncle,’ I said gently. ‘You are tired.’
‘No, dear. I am not tired when you are with me!’ Once again, his lips twisted in a strange smile. And I was puzzled. Why did he have to smile like that, a teasing, probing ‘I know what you think’ kind of smile.
‘It was a Sunday and Robin was at home.’ Sam Uncle resumed. Sarah was making breakfast. Zaran was still in bed, enjoying his Sunday lie-in. Roy too was in his room. He hardly came out of his room these days and hardly spoke to anyone and replied in monosyllables when asked something.
‘I have obtained a transfer to Adarsh Nagar Junction, Papa,’ he said. ‘We all be moving in there next month.’ He tried to make it sound casual, sort of by-the-way information to allay the surprise.
Despite that the news came as a big surprise and not too pleasant for that matter. But Robin had his reasons. He thought the house we lived in and the place itself had somehow become jinxed. Disasters followed one another and a gloom had set in on the house. Sarah and Zaran did not like to live here anymore. The ambience had turned out to be so depressive and grim. Besides, he added explanatorily, it was a nine to five desk job and he did not have to travel. He said that he had made arrangements to get Roy admitted in a good college for pursuing higher studies through a colleague of him. Robin said that an accommodation was already allotted in his name.
He had made all arrangements before informing me without giving me a chance to have a say. There was nothing left for me to advice or suggest after that. I was not sure how Roy would take the news. But he received the news with an expressionless face, with a stoic apathy. My thoughts went back to the faceless, mysterious girl again. Where was she? Was Roy still infatuated with her? A number of things had happened since the passing away of Ana. The grief of losing his grandma, his passing the school finals, Robin getting a transfer and the partial loss of his own eyesight must have eclipsed his adolescent infatuation, I presumed.
I had no idea then how wrong my judgment was destined to prove!
Next month we shifted to Adarsh Nagar. Robin got Roy admitted in a Junior College and he seemed to be apparently occupied with his studies. Zaran too was happy with his new friends in the new school. Even Sarah had returned to her earlier lively and adaptive self. I was old and reconciling enough to put up with all the changes, good or bad, that came my way.
**
‘So you all settled down happily here,’ I urged on, curious to know what made Robin and Sarah abandon the old, ailing and almost blind father in an old age home here.
‘Try as we might we cannot escape the blows an inexorable Fate has in store for us. The short relief we seemed to have been chasing turned out to be an ever elusive will-o-the -wisp.’
Uncle Sam heaved out a sigh that was more like a soft sob and pressed both his hands to his face.
‘What happened Uncle?’
‘Roy committed suicide.’ He blurted out abruptly, still hiding his face.
I knew Roy had died sometime after they had moved in here. But the bizarre truth of his death gave me a hard jolt. I did not expect it. It took me a few minutes to gather up my composure.
‘Why, uncle?’
‘That is the million-dollar question my dear. WHY? It was only after a month after we buried him here I discovered the letters, there were only three, but all suffused with so much love I had no idea someone is capable of feeling for another, so overpowering, so shockingly indulging that it left me awestruck.’
I waited in silence, even though I was bursting with curiosity.
‘You are eager to know what happened thereafter, aren’t you’ Uncle Sam said as if he could see through my mind with his empty eyes.
I did not answer. Just held his hand in mine.
‘There is nothing more to tell. Robin got a promotion and was transferred again to another junction. I refused to accompany them to his new place of posting. The decision to live in the Shelter Old Age Home was more mine than it was his. I did not want to leave my Roy alone in this alien city, alone and uncared for. I would stay with him as long as I am alive, at least as long as I am able to move.’
The sincerity with which he made the promise brought tears to my eyes. ‘Your grandson Roy happens to be a very passionate young man. I wished I had met him.’ I said on an impulse. Uncle Sam clasped my hand in both of his. ‘Yes, and understood him, Rita!!’
He turned his back to me, disengaging his hand from mine.
My legs trembled slightly. It was the first time I heard him calling me by my name. I could not remember telling him my name. How did he know my name??
Suddenly, again on an impulse, I asked him the question that was nagging at me since a long time. It had now become an irrepressible urge that haunted my lonely moments. And I wanted to know what was it that made him so familiar a character. Had I seen him somewhere before? In a past that had gone into oblivion?
‘Did you happen to live in Mohit Pura junction Uncle? My father was posted there for a brief period as an executive engineer in the Central Railways but he got a transfer in a few months. I had joined the Green Hill Girls’ school there but had to leave before I had found time enough to blend in with others.’ The words just stumbled out of me despite my effort to hold them back.
Uncle Sam swung on his feet to face me. His blank eyes were like twin flames under the glasses. A shiver ran down my spine. It was as if he was looking straight into my eyes. There was a crooked, lopsided smile on his lips.
‘I must leave now.’ He said abruptly. ‘I am getting late for my prayers by his grave. But I have something for you. You are a nice girl, caring and sensitive. I wish you had understood Roy. Here is a small gift for you. Wear it. It will protect you from all danger. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and took out a silk pouch. It was white and glossy. ‘Open it when you reach home.’
He turned and walked away groping the black emptiness ahead of her with his white, collapsible cane. I stood there standing, looking like a fool, watching him walk in long strides along the foot track and disappear through the back gate into the depth of the cemetery.
**
I did not find time to open the pouch on Sunday. Sundays are busy days for office goers. All pending works like cleaning and dusting the room, washing clothes, making phone calls were to be attended to on Sundays. I decided to look at it in the evening when my co-residents were not there in the house. I did not want to discuss Uncle Sam and my mysterious meetings with him with them. I had turned it on my palms and felt the contents inside more than once and guessed there was some metallic thing in it, most probably a necklace. Uncle Sam had told me to wear it.
When at last I was alone in the floor, with both of my friends out in the downtown area shopping I came into my door, bolted it from inside and picked up the pouch from the closet. I did not know why but I felt a frisson of uneasiness as I held it on my palm and drew gently back the thin, silk draw-string. Something hard and cold fell on my palm and a thin ‘aah’ escaped me. it was as if I had touched a livewire. I shuddered under the impact and the thing dropped on the table. I peered at it. It was a chain, an ordinary one made of silver. It looked old and dull but the pendant, it was a cross, shone brightly in the light. I gazed at it fixedly for some time, struggling with my indecision, whether to pick it up or not. And at last, summoning up courage I picked up the chain. I did not feel anything this time. I looked closely at the pendant, then turned it and looked at its back. There was a letter engraved on its back. One, single letter ‘R’. I shivered a little even though the evening was not cold. My eyelids felt heavy and drooping. I closed them and memories came bubbling up, slowly and then in quick succession on the dark well of a long-forgotten past. It was as if someone was unrolling a scroll revealing a series of pictures, that appeared blurry at the first look and got more and more clear.
I saw a very handsome, fair skinned boy with blue eyes and a thick mass of black hair with a golden tinge. He was standing under an archway thickly wound by vines of Bleeding Heart. I could see the path leading off the archway to a small, unassuming looking church. There was a girl quickly walking by the archway as if she was in a hurry to cross it past as quickly as she could. She was in some kind of school uniform … a slate and black skirt and a white half-sleeved top. She had a school bag hanging from her back. She stopped abruptly as she neared the archway. And the boy walked up to her. He held out something to her and the girl, after a brief hesitation took it, and walked hurriedly away towards the bend at the end of the compound wall of the church. She was breathing hard from the fast walking. When she was sure the boy could not see her, she looked at the thing the boy had put in her hand. It was a chocolate bar. I saw them again by the archway of the church and then again. And every time she met him, he gave her a chocolate bar. Then I saw them in a rainy afternoon. It had been raining hard for sometimes and the girl, holding an umbrella overhead was walking cautiously past the church gate. She had guessed the boy was in St. Matthews’ Public school which was only a hundred or so meters away from her own school, on the other side of the same street. Like the boy, she too had to get past the church gate on her way to and back from the school.
She wished the boy was not there. A week before last, on another rainy afternoon, he had given her an envelope that had a letter in it. He wrote how blindly he loved her and begged her to write a reply. The intensity of the boy’s emotion frightened her. She had asked her father to drop her at school and pick her up in his office jeep.
Then she remembered the day she had a showdown with the boy.
It had rained that day too. That day her father was out of station on an official tour. She had to walk back from the school. And cross the church. Her heart was beating fast as she neared the church, hoping earnestly that the rain had kept the boy confined to his home. The rain was beginning to slow down as she approached the church gate. Proving all her assumptions wrong the boy stepped out of the church and stood by the gate, under the drooping Bleeding Hearts, his curly front hair plastered to forehead, rain beads sparkling on his face. She stopped short, numb in apprehension. The church premise was deserted, so was the street.
The boy, in his white and blue chequered shirt, that looked wet and crumpled at places, came out and stood in her front. ‘Did you read the letter?’ He asked, anxiety dripping from his voice. As if it would give him a new life if she said yes with a smile. Mustering up her courage she took out the letter from her school bag and flung it at him with a rude hand. ‘Don’t you ever dare to write such letters to me,’ she hissed through her clenched teeth and ran away from the place, not caring for the slush and puddles of water that assailed her feet hindering her pace.
I wanted desperately to have a look of her face. And she turned to look back as she reached the bend by the church wall. An electric shudder ran through me as I looked at my own face, innocent and vulnerable in its early adolescence. I somehow had guessed it but seeing it gave me the real shakes.
My eyes snapped open. And everything was so clear. Roy waiting for me under the Bleeding Hearts by the church gate, the way his eyes shone at the sight of me and the gloom that clouded his face when , on that rainy day, I had rejected him so harshly. I remembered how relieved I was when father broke the news of his transfer. Good riddance, I thought breathing out a deep sigh.
Later, after about a decade I happened to meet his grandfather who narrated me about his grandson’s obsessive love for a girl whom he knew only for a little time and had wasted away a valuable life for that love. I was so ridden with remorse, and guilt and penitence that tears streamed down my eyes without my knowledge. I spent the night tossing and turning on my sides in the bed, wishing the night to end soon. I wanted to meet Sam Uncle, who, I thought, must have guessed who I was after I have told him about my brief stay at Mohit Pura Junction.
I did not see him standing at the usual spot under the light post. Nor the day after and the day after that. In the next few weeks, I got extremely busy in a task I was assigned with by my senior. I left for my office earlier than my usual time and returned late. This went on for more than three or so weeks.
I was so preoccupied with my office work that I had temporarily forgotten Sam Uncle.
But I wore the silver chain with the cross respecting his wish. I wanted to show him that. To bring him a small relief, to make him feel that his grandson would rest in peace after this. I decided to wait up for him to show once my assignment is completed.
**
And then I was perturbed by being followed by a stranger, perhaps, that crudely handsome and robustly built young man who had his eyes on me as he walked through the aisle to the back of the bus. I was terrified inwardly though I managed to maintain a calm on the surface. Every time I got down from the city bus in the evening, I said a silent prayer and touched the cross hanging from the silver chain around my neck. Uncle Sam had told me that it would protect me from danger and I believed it did. I wore it all through the day but took it off in the nights while I went to bed.
I had observed that the fellow that had been following me for about a week would turn back and leave as soon as I touched the pendant of cross. His footfalls would recede and finally fade out of my earshot. It was only last evening I had forgotten to wear it. I was in a hurry and stowed it away in my handbag.
And in my utter panic when the footsteps were heard just behind me and I began screaming my hand still rummaging desperately in the handbag I discovered it there by a sheer miracle. But by that time Uncle Sam was there on the spot and had handled the evil man.
My mind was in a whirl and my whole body was paralyzed as I listened to the muffled groans behind me and the noise of the scuffle. Finally, when the noise subsided after sometime I ventured to take a look behind me. There was no sign of the sturdy young man who was eyeing me in the bus. I only saw a frail, tall man in a red and white chequered shirt with a mop of grey hair on his head was moving down the street. I stood rooted and watched in he grew smaller and smaller till he looked like a boy, and suddenly disappeared into the corner of the block.
Gathering up my composure I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. Blundered ahead blindly, my eyes half closed and stopped only when I reached the comforting looking main gate of the Rao house.
I lay awake all the night, my eyes closed, and sleep playing hide and seek with me. Every time I dosed off there was Uncle Sam, his back turned to me, scrabbling the darkness ahead of him with his stick. And as I watched his figure shrank down and down, till he looked like a boy!
Was he Uncle Sam? Or…??? I drove the other thought off my mind with a tremendous effort.
Who was there in that deserted, rain lashed street who fought away my pursuer? I swallowed hard, and touched the cross. My assignment was successfully completed and I had no such heavy official engagement for some time to come. I wondered why Sam Uncle did not show up even once in all these days. Perhaps he had gone to live with his son for some time, I hoped feeling a bit disappointed. But I wanted to ensure that. May be, he was sick or something.
‘I must meet Sam Uncle next morning, wherever he is,’ I promised to myself. ‘I will find out the Shelter old age home by any means and confess to him. I will tell him I was responsible for the ruin Roy made of his life. I will go to the church with him and pray with him, seek forgiveness from the Lord.’
It was not even daylight when I left bed and went to the washroom. I had requested my superior last night for a leave of absence on Monday. I was dressed and ready before it was eight. I skipped my breakfast making an excuse to the kindly Rao aunty that I had an urgent meeting at the office, and hurried to the bus stop hoping earnestly that Uncle Sam would be there. There was no sign of him. There was no shop or any other workhouse in the vicinity where I could have made an inquiry. There was only one way to locate him, explore the Shelter Old Age Home in the next street. I walked on looking at the buildings on both sides of the road searching for the Shelter Old Age Home. There was no such sign board that flashed the name. The street was slowly getting crowded by the office goers and, street-vendors and pedestrians. The shops too were beginning to open one by one. There was small shop with a plaque on its front that displayed Modern Tailors in faded letters. An old man of about eighty or more was sitting by a sewing machine, rolling a pencil in his fingers and studying intently a slip of paper, on which I thought were written the measurements. I walked up to the shop just on an impulse. ‘Uncle, could you tell me where can I find the Shelter Old Age Home?’ I asked guardedly. He raised his eyes from the paper, adjusted his glasses over his nose and peered at me taking a quick up and down. ‘It is just over there at the bend to the right. Who do you want to meet there, child?’ He asked, his eyes curious. ‘Uncle Sam,’ I said without thinking. He looked vaguely at me. ‘Your uncle?’ ‘No, no,’ I corrected myself, ‘His name is Samuel Davidson. He is partially blind, and often wears a blue and white, or a red and white chequered shirt.’
The old man regarded me dubiously. ‘Samuel Davidson? Blind?’
I nodded eagerly.
‘I happened to know a Samuel Davidson. He lived in the other street with his son and daughter in law. An amiable character. His elder grandson committed suicide and the loss made Sam Davidson mentally sick. His son and daughter in law left him here in the Shelter Old Age Home, made all arrangements for him to live in comfort and moved off to some other place. I have never seen them again. But Sam Davidson was not blind. It was his elder grandson who was.’
I was beginning to get goosebumps.
Not blind?
Was Sam Uncle lying to me all through? Why?
Then the old man at the sewing machine dropped another bombshell. ‘But I haven’t seen the fellow for about a year. I do not know if he was still in the Old Age Home or gone away to live with his son. You say you have been seeing him until recently. I wonder how is that possible. You can ask at the Old Age Home. They can give you the details of his whereabouts.’
Another five-minute walk brought me to the Shelter Old Age Home. The manager, a benevolent looking man of around fifty sat in his office studying some documents. He raised his eyes questioningly to me when I approached him. ‘Well, what can I do for you?’ He asked politely. ‘I want to meet Sam Uncle, Samuel Davidson. He has partially impaired eyesight and wears dark glasses,’ I came direct to the point without making a preamble. He looked at me in surprise. ‘Are you a relative of him?’
‘I am the daughter of one of his old friends. I am new here in this place. My father told me to ‘
‘Your father must not have been in touch with his old friend Sam for a long time, I understand. Old Sam Davidson had passed away more than a year ago. Poor soul, his last wish was to be buried by his grandson’s grave, in the cemetery by the church at the park street. You are late my dear. Your Sam Uncle is no more.’
‘And one more thing, Your Sam Uncle had never had an impaired eyesight.’ He added as an afterthought.
I stared vacantly at him for a long, long moment, to let the words sink in. My head began to spin and everything looked hazy and blurred.
The man pointed to a chair. ‘Please sit down.’ He poured a glass of water from a jug and held it out to me. . ‘Here, have some water.’ My lips were stiff and I was unable to say even a thank you to him. I rose to my feet and waited for a minute to let the trembling of my legs stop. Without saying a word I turned and walked out of the office. I reached the light post where I had met Sam Uncle first. Then I crossed the wide road and moved to the foot track that had branched off the narrow street. I stood there and looked at the cemetery. There were a few people by the small back gate, probably the kins of the ones those lay buried under the black granites. I stood for a long time, fidgeting with the cross that hung from the chain around my throat. Uncle Sam’s talisman which he assured to protect me from all dangers.
Who was that who punished the fellow that followed me in that lonely, rain-drenched road?
Was it Uncle Sam’s talisman, or Roy’s last token of love which he had cherished till his own death? And waited till it was finally delivered to me?
Who was the person who walked away in the other direction, his figure shrinking as he disappeared into the darkness?
Who was the blind man whom I guided across the busy road to the church and the cemetery adjacent to it?
I thought I knew the answers!
I kissed the cross on an impulse. That is the least I could do for Roy!
The midday sun shone brightly overhead as I dragged my feet back to the Rao House.
Dr.Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English, is an acclaimed translator of Odisha. She has translated a number of Odia texts, both classic and contemporary into English. Among the early writings she had rendered in English, worth mentioning are FakirMohan Senapati's novel Prayaschitta (The Penance) and his long poem Utkala Bhramanam, which is believed to be a.poetic journey through Odisha's cultural space(A Tour through Odisha). As a translator Dr.Das is inclined to explore the different possibilities the act of translating involves, while rendering texts of Odia in to English.Besides being a translator Dr.Das is also a poet and a story teller and has five anthologies of English poems to her credit. Her recently published title Night of the Snake (a collection of English stories) where she has shifted her focus from the broader spectrum of social realities to the inner conscious of the protagonist, has been well received by the readers. Her poems display her effort to transport the individual suffering to a heightened plane of the universal.
Dr. Snehaprava Das has received the Prabashi Bhasha Sahitya Sammana award The Intellect (New Delhi), The Jivanananda Das Translation award (The Antonym, Kolkata), and The FakirMohan Sahitya parishad award(Odisha) for her translation.
Meena Mishra
“This piece of art is bound to cast a spell over the connoisseurs,” announced the village schoolmaster. The exquisite Madhubani painting hung on the white washed wall. But it had no viewers. Every eye in the room was darting this way and that. When Sitakshi entered, all eyes found their sanctuary in her bewitching form. There was a collective sigh of pleasure. Sitakshi, the girl with eyes like those of Sita, lovely and enigmatic, moved close to her painting. She was the most popular girl not only of her village but of the entire locality. Her enchanting beauty and grace made suitors from far and wide come to the little hamlet of Pindaruch that nestled in the heart of Mithila. Judge Sahab’s Kotdhi, where she resided had become the cynosure of every bachelor's eye.
Sitakshi had grown up with the three daughters of Judge Sahab, whose forefathers had been the landlords of the village and had built this palatial mansion with a pond in the front and a sprawling mango orchard behind. Sitakshi was his caretaker’s daughter and used to live in the outhouse until her father was alive. She was adored by everyone including Judge Sahab’s wife and children. She filled the void of the perfect companion for his daughters as they studied in the same village padhshala and shared a love for painting. All the three girls loved her for her merits and attributes. Judge Sahab would visit this place only on weekends and holidays as he was posted in Patna High Court.
Judge Sahab’s eldest daughter Sunaina and Sitakshi were bosom friends as they had been in the same class from Grade One. Now they were eighteen and were in Grade Twelve of the Village High School. Being with Sunaina served as armour for 220 221 her as it kept the village lads at bay. But almost every boy in the village and the school had a crush on her. Sitakshi's Madhubani paintings had been sent for art festivals that had brought laurels to the school where she attended.
During weekends when Judge Sahab would be home, the suitors would visit his kotdhi posing as art lovers and showing their interest in purchasing the paintings. Judge Sahab knew that these were only pretexts. Their actual target was Sitakshi's hand. Once the sale of the paintings was over, Sitakshi would appear before the buyers to sign dated autographs. She too was no fool, and was well aware that the buyers had little or no interest in her paintings, but only wanted to have a glimpse of her.
Sitakshi had an invisible halo around her of chastity and limpidness that stopped these men from proposing directly to her. Becoming an orphan at an early age had developed in her a sense of detachment from worldly affairs. She would devote the maximum amount of time to reading books and painting. It created an aura of awe and veneration around her that left the pseudo-art-lovers in bewilderment and they would forget all their well-rehearsed dialogues and end up asking, “How many days did you take to paint this, Sitakshi?” She, however, would give her enigmatic smile as an answer. That was by far more than what they could ask for.
Just before her Grade Twelve exams, Sitakshi fell sick. A rare disease that the doctors were unable to diagnose. Many medicines, herbs and therapies were tried but without effect. She grew pale and thin, she spoke little and hardly ever left her bed. Finally one of her art lovers got a plant for her. It was a very rare one that had been procured with as much difficulty as the Kalyan Sougandhik had given Bhim. The plant was called Kamdev as its pinkish leaves were almost bow-shaped and its flowers were like blunt red arrows. The plant was placed on the window-sill of the room where the afflicted girl lay. The juice of a leaf was given to her every day at twilight. The regular dose of the heart-shaped leaves worked wonders. Her condition started improving. She grew less thin, less pale and started moving around the room a little. No visitors were permitted. As all the suitors were turned down, they stopped coming to the Kotdhi. Days grew into months and months into years. Judge Sahab and his family moved to Patna, and no one had any news about the young woman ever since.
Despite the let-up in Sitakshi’s life, the magic plant stayed alive and remained within the confinement of the room where Sitakshi stayed all those years. The plant, however, had other ideas too. It now assumed the shape of a human being with wings on either side. The leaves of the plant had acquired the perfect shape of a bow. There was only one flower left that had become rigid and looked exactly like an arrow placed at the centre of the bow. Someone unfamiliar with the existence of the magic plant would most likely consider it as a sculpture of the Love-God made out of plaster of Paris.
Sitakshi had never been intimate with any man and Judge Sahab’s family was fully aware of this. Yet there was no doubt that a child was growing in her womb. Was it possible that the herbal medicines had played a part in the events that were unfolding to everyone’s bewilderment?
The most renowned astrologer in Patna was summoned to Judge Sahab’s residence. The astrologer spent much time talking to Sitakshi alone. When he emerged out of the room, he appeared to be in a trance. He told Judge Sahab something strange and unheard of until then. Cupid was infatuated by the enchanting beauty of Sitakshi and transformed himself into the Kamdev plant. Sitakshi resisted his advances for a long time and in the end, she had to succumb, the result of which was now in her womb. The child born out of this unreal union was destined to become the greatest painter of his time.
“This is the finest Madhubani painting exhibition I have ever seen,” said Andy Warhol, the American curator and movie maker to Judge Sahab.
“Maa, what is my father’s name?” asked the five-year-old Ishwar. “Ishwar,” Sitakshi responded, all the while concentrating on her painting. “Why doesn’t he stay with us?” he shot his next question. “He is painting a masterpiece for us,” she replied.
“Would you give me permission to shoot a film on the mother-son duo – the finest Madhubani painters in the world?”, interrupted Warhol, bringing Judge Sahab back from his reverie. “Sure,” replied Judge Sahab with his signature enigmatic smile.
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets.
She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles are published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 100 books in 3 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- book various editions for students and teachers .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. Recently published books ‘Cascades- Treasure Trove of Short Stories had 104 educators across the country getting published .She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has been the recipient of Wordsmith Award- 2019 for her short story , “Pindaruch,” from the Asian Literary Society. She has received many awards in 2020 for her contribution to the field of education and literature. She has received ‘ Most Outstanding Teacher of the Year Award,’ during World Education Summit in Feb-2021. Her poems have been translated and published in Spanish magazine. Her latest book – The Impish Lass- Part 2 ( TIL Stories and More) has received raving reviews from the readers including the greatest Indian Nuclear Scientist Dr. R. Chidambaram. It has received 5 stars rating on Amazon .
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
AN UNEXTINGUISHED LAMP IN A STORM
Surya Rajesh Kavi
When the huge gate of the haveli closed behind me, the path to freedom, or perhaps the world of books, seemed to open up. I had been divorced before I was even of marriageable age. Five months ago, they locked me in this golden cage as his third wife. The talaq I received felt like a relief. Some things may seem tragic to those looking from the outside, but they bring comfort to those living through them.
The journey from Delhi’s Nizamuddin Railway Station to Orai stirred up old memories.
My 12th class exams are coming up, and I haven’t finished my studies. I had told Ammi many times that I didn’t want to attend the wedding. Ajmal and Afzal had already gotten ready for the ceremony.
No one notices when you’re starving, but they invite you to weddings to flaunt their wealth. They couldn’t avoid us this time because Ammi is their only sister.
As I leafed through my books, I heard Badi Ammi’s voice from outside.
“Jameela, Ye Teri Ruksana Ko De” (Jameela give this to your Ruksana)
“Ruksa badi ammi ne tere liye ek lahanga leke ayi hei, dekho kaisa he” (Ruksana look at the lehenga your badi ammi brought for you) Ammi said loudly from outside of the house
It was likely some hand-me-downs from Badi Ammi’s daughter, but I knew it was meant to placate my mother.
Once, when we went to Badi Ammi’s house, she made fun of me and my brothers. How could I make fun of her with her ugly teeth and face? I said nothing because making fun of elders is wrong. That day, Badi Ammi’s youngest son, Afsan, got a good scolding from her for saying that I was beautiful.
When I tried on the clothes and looked in the mirror, Ajmal came in after flying his kite.
“O meri bahan, ek rajkumari hai!” (My sister is a princess!) he said proudly.
I smiled and pinched his hand playfully. He’s always been like that, full of love and always ready to stand by me. He’s just like Abbu.
My Abbu, Syed Barkati, used to call me “Ruksa, meri rajkumari…” (Ruksa, my princess). He raised me like a princess
It wasn’t until I joined school that I realized my father’s name wasn’t actually Syed Barkati but someone else’s—Salman Warsi, a name I didn’t know at all.
I cried on the school grounds, begging them to change the name in the register from Salman Warsi to Syed Barkati. Abbu was pained by my tears, while Ammi stood silently on the veranda. Abbu tried to comfort me, but nothing could ease my distress.
I hated being told that my father was a businessman named Salman Warsi from Delhi. In my heart, my father was Syed Barkati. Salman Warsi was just a name on records , a man who had divorced Ammi before I was born. He was a stranger, not my father. Ammi’s first love was Abbu. Ammi’s wealthy father forced her to marry Salman. After getting divorced, she married Abbu without asking anyone.
Omri is a village 20 kilometers from Orai. At the western edge of Omri, a muddy path from the road leads to our one-room asbestos-roofed house. We live there now, in a colony where fish and meat vendors sell their goods, surrounded by filthy ditches. At night, the shadows of the palm trees from the graveyard fall over the huts, creating an eerie atmosphere.
Earlier,we lived in a beautiful little house near Omri Hanuman Mandir. The place was full of fragrance. Abbu’s sudden death resulted in complete starvation,forced us to move. We now live in this house for a rent of just 100 rupees.
Ammi washes dishes in four households, and Ajmal and Afzal help in small ways when they come home from school. I give tuition to young children to contribute to our income. My only desire was to study and get a job somehow.
“Didi, neighbours have called us to go with them to the wedding in the car, come quickly” Ajmal shouted
When we reached the wedding hall. The baraat (wedding procession) had arrived . The groom is dressed like a king and rides on a horse with his face covered with garlands.
When I got out of the car and walked into the crowd, several eyes were stretching towards me. Many eyes were blurred as if due to excessive light, I felt uncomfortable. A man, about fifty-five years old, who had come with the groom, suddenly grabbed my hand. Without a second thought, Afzal hit the man’s hand with his iron bangle, making him cry out in pain, though his cries were drowned by the noise of the crowd.
Ammi trembled slightly at the sight of the man walking next to groom, surrounded by four gunmen. But she kept her fear hidden.
I’ve always disliked noise and crowds, and all I could think about was my exam. After dinner, as I sat alone in a corner, an unexpected guest came looking for me.
“Mei hoon Salman Warsi” (I am Salman Warsi) he said holding out the chocolate towards me. As it was late at night, I was a little drowsy. Seeing the gunmen standing around, I lost sleep in a moment.
“Don’t be afraid, they won’t do anything to my daughter” he laughed and added
“Mujhe chocolate se nafrat ha” (I hate chocolate) I said pushing him away.
“Oh I don’t like it either” he laughed out loudly.
Why was he showing affection now? I was seeing him for the first time in my life. He felt like a devil dressed as a sultan. I was filled with a burning hatred. Abbu’s gentle smile came to my mind like a breeze.
I found it hard to sleep that night. I eventually fell asleep close to midnight.
The sound of bullets and cars was heard from Angan. Afzal was playing with someone’s parked scooter.
Mom… Mom… he yelled
I jumped out of bed and went to the yard. Salman Warsi is present in the yard with all the warm-up. I began to understand the reason for the fear on Ammi’s face.
“Bitiya tera naam kya hei?” (What is your name, daughter)
There was a furious rage in my mind. He has come to ask the name, where has he been all this years.
“Ruksana” said angrily
“Javed meri ruksana bahut khubsurat hei naa. Tu bhagyawan hei, parson tumare sat iski shaadi karvadunga” (Javed, my ruksana is very beautiful , you are lucky, you can marry her day after tomorrow). Not only Ruksana but also Jamila got afraid after hearing this.
A fifty-five-year-old man, the same one who grabbed my arm the previous day, stepped out of a car, chewing paan and grinning with stained teeth.Badi Ammi’s daughter was looking at me and saying something to him about me. She must have told him everything about me.
I wanted to run, but my legs refused to move. My father whom I met yesterday grabbed my hand tightly and dragged me toward another car.I struggled to free myself, and Afzal came running, grabbing me and trying to pull me back. Javed pushed Afzal hard, and Ammi caught him before he could fall.
“Mar doonga ye kute ki aulaad ko” (I will kill this son of bitch), shouted Salman.
Fear enveloped me like a thick fog. I began crying out loudly, my last hope.
Ammi, Mujhe Nahi Jana Hai” (Ammi I don’t want to go)
It is normal for neighbours to be quiet on such occasions. No one came near our house.
But all Ammi and my brothers could do was cry with me. The gunmen fired several shots into the air. The cars started moving. As they drove away, the last thing I saw was the terrified, tear-filled faces of my family, etched into my mind as I was taken to an unknown fate.
Surya is a global citizen with a heart rooted in Kerala, India, where she was born and raised. Her journey took her to northern India, where she shared her passion for learning as a teacher with her students. Today, she finds herself in Italy, embracing new experiences and cultures. With a blend of Indian traditions and international perspectives, she is a teacher, traveller, and tale-spinner, always looking for new inspirations
THE HOUSE WITH A BIG PORTICO AND SWINGS
Sujata Dash
Dread settles deep in bones when the night is eerie and you are miles away from sleep.
I lend my ears to listen. Oh! Some whimpers in the kitchen garden and jackals are howling at a distance.Owls too hoot at regular intervals.
"What is so unusual about it?" I smirk and mutter, forcing a small smile while trying to catch a chunk of sleep.
Some uncanny feeling splutters, peers down at my lonesome being irrespective of my faking intrepidity.
I could sense and deeply feel the disgust inside.I could even visualize the grimace in my face fervently wishing for some noisy cries of my child to calm down my dread.
She is next to me. Blissfully asleep.
Awww! My darling looks so cute and calm - just like Cinderella.
I cannot disturb her at this hour of night.
Let her be at peace, belong to the world of her choicest dreams.
As hours pass, painful lucidity of fear reprimands at length, wreaking havoc on my nerves.
I get up and sit , cuddling a pillow. The best thing a person can do when left to fend and mend alone.
The house is big.
Bigger than our needs.
Just three of us live in it.
Today, virtually two. My hubby Sameer is off for a week. He is visiting his ailing mom/my mother in law. The distance is more than a thousand kilometers away. He must be asleep after visiting the hospital and doing errands.
I was to accompany him like any obedient wife, but the last minute project submission of my daughter refrained me from going. She is her class topper and very serious about studies.
I couldn't let her exuberance fade, so preferred to stay back.
Wish I could accompany him. Anyway, that is a defunct proposition, and cannot be salvaged now.
The night is growing . I have tried my best but unable to calm the ceaseless chatter in my mind.
Like ghosts , they have encircled me. I cannot drive them away nor can slouch past this creepy feeling.
In hindsight, I blame myself more than anything else for this weird sense and disposition.
I always wanted to live in a house with a verandah, a big portico with swings.
Such an impractical proposition-. But that’s how I am, not very worldly wise.
I come from a small town where we had the luxury of living in a house with big rooms, a portico, verandah, an attic, sprawling lush green garden, an orchard that bore fruits to cater to our needs. A kitchen garden where we grew vegetables, adhering to organic farming.
Regular visits of relatives when their children had vacations, made the house roll with peels of laughter and chirps. The house was sprawling and could accommodate many.
To opt for an airy, spacious house with more windows than doors-comes naturally to me A house where I could travel on wings of poesy off and on, chatter with birds , butterflies and squirrels when my daughter is off to school. I wanted to live every second of life in jouissance like I did at my parents’ place.
We got this house for rent after scouting for days . I was a bit surprised when the landlord quoted us the rent. It was on the lower side, far below the market rate. Maybe because the last tenant vacated the house without information- that’s why-I thought.
But Sameer wondered with genuine curiosity…”How come, the landlord is so generous! Usually the clan is not."
Before he could dig further like Sherlock Holmes, the doubt was dismissed with a curt reply and a defiant smile from the landlord. He is a retired government servant.
He appears to be courteous too.
“Nothing like that. We have a bigger house that our daughter purchased for us. So, this has fallen vacant. We rent this out to fund our car loan installments and for small trips across the country."
“I see.” -muttered Sameer- and nodded tersely but not before pouring out sighs of relief.
“Oh God! Thanks for having mercy on me. This cumbersome House hunting is put to rest after a long time."
After relocation , as we were unpacking, fondly holding my hand he asked-
"Happy now dearie? "
“Yes”- I said coyly.
“It was a MI”
“MI?”-I burst into giggles.
“Mission Impossible. But lady luck is on my side." He quipped.
Our house is a few furlongs away from the bunch of houses across the road. It
stands a little aloof. After the sunset, there are very few passers by. A beam from a far away street light seeps through a small crack in the timber partition adjoining the balcony. That is our only connection with the outside world when darkness envelops.The bushes and shrubs around the house have added girth after the first drizzle of monsoon. The sound of crickets rings clearly in my ear when silence pervades.
But, Sameer takes care. He arrives early from the office to give me company, ward off freakish feelings.
I miss him today. My tea filled cup pines for amor and company as a sense of yen shrouds evening.
I am equipoised between doubt and fear . High decibel whines surround me, make me wobble ”Only two months into the house and so much happening! ”
I could clearly feel as if someone was taking a stroll. I start perspiring. The drops tickle down to wet the pillow, the bed too. I take a shawl to cover my face , ignoring all that is happening. The entire night passes off like that. The rote lines of yore-”Not a wink of sleep-the night is dark long and deep” plays in a loop to add to the scare.
Our maid Latika came in the morning. Looking at my unkempt mane, dazed look and circle around eyes , she enquired…
“What is the matter madam? You look so tired and worn out. Are you ok? Baby is having a fever or what?”
I shook my head in silence, lacking energy to speak.
She prepared tea for both. After sipping , rather gulping down the entire cuppa, I asked “ Have you heard anything strange about the house? Any story for that matter? I had a very strange experience last night.”
She did not concede more than a facial movement at the outset. Darting a cautious look she opened up slowly-
“Madam, the owner suffered huge setbacks in life after purchasing this house. He was here for a year or so. His wife could not sleep. Noise came pouring in as night advanced, though outsiders could not experience any such thing. She insisted upon moving out of the locality. Eventually they shifted elsewhere, putting this one on rent. You are the fifth tenant. Haven’t they told you about this?”
My eyes were big, eyeballs bulged and my mouth was wide open after listening to her.
Our conversation faded into uneasy silence.
“Weedy- nutter”- I mumble with all strength.
Latika, comes closer and asks- “Did you say anything madam?”
“No, no- It is nothing.”
“Latika, Sameer will arrive the day after tomorrow. Can you manage a two night stay with us? I will pay you suitably.”
“ I cannot say now. I will let you know in the afternoon after consulting my family.”
“Okay. But try to convince them. It is only a matter of two nights.”
Her ‘yes’ in the afternoon made me relaxed.
At least someone will be there when my child is asleep ,after a tiring day at school.
Three of us had dinner. I had roti and sabzi, my daughter had toast and omelets , Latika had rice. She said “I cannot do without rice for both meals.”
After cleaning utensils and the dining area, she came up with a request-”Madam, I watch two serials. My only source of entertainment after a day-long slog. Can I watch?”
Hesitatingly, I said ‘Yes’, though I wanted to browse through news updates.
I let her watch and take a story book from the bookshelf. I casually flip through till my eyes are tired. By that time both Latika and my daughter had a sound sleep.
I became restless. Last night’s episode muddled my mind. My senses were ajar and ears resembled that of a rabbit…to catch the smallest transmission of sound even. There was some wobble outside. Slowly the intensity increased. I sat erect and called Latika. She had a deep sleep. I walked up to her and raised my voice. She got up.
“Yes madam. What are you looking for at this hour?”
“I want to go to the washroom. Please accompany me.”
She acted as an obedient child.
“Did you hear anything? Footsteps or the sound of the moving swing? Any wobble, groaning with effort particularly.”
“That must be the dog, the last tenant- the one before you, had. She visits this place in search of her masters after having food in the street. Her name is’ Stella’.She misses them a lot.”
“But, Why did they forsake her?” I asked in a tone of disbelief.
“ Stella once had bitten their child. The child was hospitalized for over a month. In a fit of rage they threw her out of the house. They changed their residence too in quick succession to the sad incident.”
“Oh! Such a pathetic story. Does she come hunting in the late evenings sending people like me to the grips of fear?”
“Could be madam. I am staying in this house for the first time. I cannot think of other possibilities like ghosts, spirits etc. I get off to sleep as soon as I cuddle my bed and don't get up in the middle of the night. God is kind that way.”
"Then, why did the previous tenants vacate the house in a hurry?”
“Don’t know madam. To me, when you don’t get sound sleep all kinds of bizarre thoughts explode inside your brain, sending signals of fear and restlessness. This could be one of the reasons. Another thing- this house looks resplendent, breathes happiness and gaiety when more people live and share their love and joy. For small families like yours, the eerie silence is a burden more than pleasure."
"Let me catch some sleep now. I have to go home early to finish off chores there, prepare food for the family before the dose of my daily grind outside. I have to look after my good for nothing son and his drunkard father, who while away my hard earned money. ”
“Han, sure.Please don’t let Sameer know about today’s episode. He will poke fun at me.”
“I will hold this secret for long.... forever may be."
Flashing a smile , showing her nonaligned tobacco coated dentures, she sped off.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I closed the entrance gate. Latika could be seen striding off the distance like a marathon runner. Let me keep myself busy , not allow devils to play errant with my mind.
“That’s the way”- I nose out and dredge up.
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.
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
Sukanya's father was fond of animals, mostly domestic ones. He loved them and they loved him back. When he was a school boy he had a pet dog, named Kalu, the black one. It was of country breed. He followed father everywhere he went.
One day, while Kalu was sleeping, some monkeys came to plunder the vegetable garden. They jumped in front of Kalu but he remained unmoved. One after one followed. At last came Hanu, the male monkey, head of the troop. Kalu immediately pounced upon him and killed him instantly. Other monkeys fled away in fear. Kalu lived with father for many years before he died of old age.
From the mist of the past appeared the stories of life, of everyone she cared for. There was the life of father's favourite cow, Nali. She was like a daughter to him. She was beautiful even in the last days of her life, dark brown colour with a crescent moon on her forehead. She was the darling of her father. Maa recounted Nali's story with tearful eyes when she passed away.
Sukanya held little interest in the cows they had, though she adored the young calves, enjoying petting them and playing with them. Nali remained an unremarkable cow until her passing. Witnessing her parents' grief upon Nalis death sparked Sukanya's curiosity about why Nali was loved so much after all. In a solitary summer afternoon, goaded by her repeated pleading, Maa eventually shared Nali's story with Sukanya.
"When I got married at the age of nine", Maa reminisced "my father gifted me a little heifer. He thought it as a sacred offering to give a minor daughter in marriage with a cow at the same time. As the daughter-in-law of this big house, I came here three years later along with that heifer which was given to a man of my father-in-law's zamindari to be reared. It was before independence. There was a condition with that man - that he would keep the first issue when the heifer became a cow and the second calf would be handed over to them."
The narrative of Nali persisted: "Upon receiving instructions, the man adhered dutifully. He kept the first offspring and restored the cow alongside her second newborn calf to your grandfather. However, following each day of grazing, the cow, in her unwavering loyalty to her prior master, would escort her calf to his residence, granting him the privilege of milking her. Not even her own offspring was permitted to partake of her milk until her previous custodian had completed the task. Such was the depth of her allegiance that night after night she continued this and she would stealthily abscond, only to reappear the following morn with her calf in tow. Upon unveiling the reality, my father-in-law felt a surge of ire towards the man, despite harbouring a degree of admiration for the cow's fidelity. After dealing with the man with a command to bring the cow back to him immediately when she came to his house from the grazing-ground he personally assumed responsibility for the well-being of the cow, a gesture that kindled an affectionate bond between them over time. Within our affluent, expansive household, your grandfather emerged as a beacon of compassion, particularly towards me- I who was orphaned by the untimely demise of my father shortly after my marriage. Amidst the solitude that enveloped me, a consequence of your father's prolonged work-related absences, limited to weekend returns, it was my father-in-law who extended his love and care to both myself and the cow, regarding us as his very own daughters."
"Then?"Sukanya was listening with rapt attention as Maa resumed.
"Time passed. Years drifted by. I was born unfortunate, remained unfortunate with my unlucky star still controlling my life. Providence did not bless me with a child. I was being called on my back a barren woman.My cow bore only male calves, drawing a lament from your grandfather, a worry for our lineage's continuity. You know Lily, in our Bramhin household we cannot keep male calves and employ them ploughing the land when they become bullacks. Therefore, they were all sold when young.
A curious twist of fate unfolded then. The aged cow gave birth to a heifer, a dainty one. Named Nali for her hue, her body was of deep maroon colour with a white spot like a crescent moon on her forehead. She was the eighteenth and last child of her mother. Your grandfather literally celebrated her arrival as if a granddaughter had been born.Maa paused, drawing in a deep breath. Then she resumed:
"Nali's mother, being quite old, led to your grandfather instructing the keepers not to milk her. Extensive arrangements were made for Nali so she would not be isolated, instead she was granted freedom. She was favoured by the other cows in the shed, as she was having her share of milk from them too and did not eat any other food. One day she joyfully circled your grandfather, resting her head on his shoulder. Touched by her affection, he resolved to take her to our ancestral garden for lush leaves and tender grass. Securing a long rope, he looped one end around her hind leg, the other around his right wrist, guiding Nali tenderly across the meadow towards the garden. Experiencing the outside world for the first time, the exuberant Nali leapt ceaselessly. This newfound excitement led to a tumble, leaving grandfather with a broken wrist."
While serving lunch, I noticed the bandage on his wrist and inquired about its cause. He responded quite cautiously, "Nothing to worry about, dear. Our Nali. She was never tethered by a rope. When she leaped with the spirit of a kid, I, an elderly man, could not restrain her."Distressed by such a consequence involving Nali, I impulsively reproached her. Yet, your grandfather intervened, cautioning me, "No, dear one, please refrain. She is destined to usher prosperity into your life; your afflictions will dissipate, and your children will flourish because of her divine presence."Piqued, I questioned, "My children, father! Where do they reside?"My voice was tainted with sorrow. He soothingly reassured me, "Do not lose heart, my daughter. I shall reincarnate as your first-born after I am gone. Today, Nali foreshadowed my impending passage; during my fall, I glimpsed a celestial spectacle, a chariot approaching to convey me the message. In a month, I shall depart for my celestial abode."He gestured towards the heavens. Overwhelmed with emotion, I dashed to my chamber.Sukanya was listening to her mother with rapt attention as she continued:
"According to his prophecy, your grandfather peacefully departed a mere month later. The day prior to it, amidst Shivaratri arrangements, he inquired of your grandmother, 'When shall we visit our garden?' This garden, a mere kilometre distant, serves as the final resting place for generations of your ancestors. Sensing his allusion, my mother-in-law, gesturing towards me, asked, 'Tell me, who is she?' To my astonishment, he responded, 'Our divine deity, Ma Durga.' Strangely, your grandmother's countenance changed. In a hushed tone, she disclosed, 'Your father has transcended this earthly realm.' Before I comprehended her words, your grandfather summoned me, entreating a reading from the Odia version of Bhagavad on the forthcoming Shivaratri night. I happily complied. Engrossed in sacred verses, he clasped his hands in devotion.
A misty dawn followed the night. Upon my approach, he implored for a swift bath with tepid water. Asked me to make his bed with a clean bedsheet, where he reclined on dual bolsters, urging me to eat something before starting reading Bhagavad again. A little surprised I asked him, 'How can I dine, father? Ma has yet to finish her morning rituals. I shall partake only following her ritual.Sorrow engulfed your grandfather suddenly. Tenderly, he imparted words that resonate within me still. ' My mother, delay not for your mother-in-laws widowhood shall loom soon. This truth she discerns. Who shall shoulder burdens post my departure but you? I implore, hearken to me for the final time. Nourish yourself and join. Recite the Bhagavad from yesterday's pause. And remember, the sooner I depart, the sooner I shall return to you as your progeny.' With tearful eyes and a heavy heart I took a little food and sat near his bed. He continued touching his forehead with folded palms when I recited the sacred lines from the Bhagavad. Urging me to take care of Nali, he peacefully departed in the embrace of the Bhagavad. Great soul as he was.
After one year of his departure, I expected the arrival of a child, convinced it to be his soul yearning for a rebirth. A boy, the first fruit of my barren married life in twenty long years, emerged lifeless, plunging me into sorrow and loss of sense. In a daze, your uncle bore the babe to its final resting place. A handsome lad he was, with fair skin and a crown of dark strands upon his innocent brow,"Maa lamented. Her recounting reverberated with raw feeling, each word soaked in emotion.
The rest of the story was like this: Nali was left behind in the village when Sukanya's father took her mother to his workplace after the loss of their first child. He had a quarter in the school compound where he stayed with Maa. After one year father got a letter from a villager,"Babu, why have you left your cow here? She is not properly taken care of". Father felt guilty and immediately arranged to bring Nali, but where would she stay? There was no cowshed there, besides due to the rainy season it was not possible to build one. The school was adjacent to a Brahmin community. There, father had a god-sister in whose house provisions were made for Nali to stay. Father had to cross a low-lying lane full of water to see Nali once every three days. When he visited her the second time Nali was crying. He enquired of her, assured her that after the rainy season she would come to stay with him. But when he was crossing that waist deep waterlogged lane, he heard a noise and saw Nali swimming speedily behind him. She had broken the tethered pole and came after him. Worried, father took her to school. Nali was made to stay in one classroom. Father asked Maa to clean it in the morning. But it was seen that Nali had kept her place clean. She attended her Nature's call when brought outside only.
There was a unique bond of love between Sukanya's father and Nali. She became his favourite. When father called 'Nali' she would come running towards him from any distance. Wherever he went she must follow him. She loved them by giving every bit of herself and taught them to love an animal like a child. She guarded Sukanya and her sister when they were small as if she was protecting her own children.
Maa said to Sukanya concluding the story that, "Your grandfather was wise. Nali was the jewel of a cow with a very developed consciousness."
Nali's death was graceful, she passed away peacefully with her master by her side, stroking her head when she closed her eyes forever.
Sukanya was left with a question; 'what is death? Where is that no-man's land to which all the dead are going?'
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English in the Higher Education Department, Govt. of Odisha is a bilingual writer writing both in Odia and English with equal flair. Her poems, stories and articles are published in many state, national and international magazines and journals. She has three published anthologies of poems to her credit. Besides, she has published many research articles in different research journals. She contributes regularly to Radio Bulbul.
Ritika S
It has to be a dream! Damn, it feels so real! But could you smell in a dream? It is a sweet progression from lavender to cinnamon as her breathe slowly glides towards mine. Her warm words slide into my ears erecting goosebumps on their way. I wonder how long it takes before my brain finally process her words "I love you Atharva! …………Please wake up!"
I want to jolt right up but fail to. I can feel her receding. Nooooo, please don't leave! Only my eyes seem to move in my exhausted body. Blinding light, chaotic clutters, buzzing beeps and sharp smell of alcohol bombard my senses. My dazed sight is confusing me even more! Where am I!!!!
Finally my foraging eyes settle on the most beautiful thing in my world! She is there! Is she? The weird mix of perplexity, smile and sobs is making her look even more beautiful. I want to hold her tight, pour out all those feelings I had stubbed for so long! But my disoriented senses choose to only mumble, "Where am I!"
After many blinks and blanks she states, " You are in Apollo hospital Atharva. It is 10th April 2002, it is 23 days since you fell asleep!"
—-----------------------------------------
I am still trying to come in terms with the chaos. My cramped limbs seem to move, but my mind! It has just gone blank! The hospital staff seems to have found a celebrity in me. They are taking all measurements around my body and mumbling undecipherable jargons. I do not see any familiar face around me, but all my attention is to spot her. Was it a dream, or it really happened? But why would Swaroopa ever come near me, let alone confessing her love for me. She didn't even know I existed.
Just then she enters the room. It cannot be another dream. She has a vermillion mark on her forehead and a packet of sweets in her hands. She is distributing it to everyone around. Did she really blush looking at me? Oh Atharva, somethings really weird with your brain! And she stops right next to my bed. I can see a meek smile on her lips, a tiny teardrop slides down her cheek. We stare each other for ages, I badly want to ask her about the dream, but my brain chides me into reality.
"How are you feeling now?" She asks reassuringly.
"Fine" I reply, unsure.
She sits on the bench next to the bed and says, " I know it must be very confusing for you, on what's happening here. Well, we all are confused actually. 23 days back you were found in your apartment asleep. Your roommate tried waking you up multiple times and when you didnt wake up for 2 full days, he got very worried and called up for medical assistance. You have been in this bed ever since. Doctors had you tested for everything possible but couldnt understand what was wrong with you. You were just sleeping blissfully."
(I was sleeping, so was that a dream?!)
"Why, sorry when did you come here?" I blurt out cutting her short. ( Damn, what am I asking! )
She has an anxious smile on her face. Gazing her twiddling fingers she mumbles, "I know this will sound very weird. I came to know about you from Aparna, not sure if you know her. Your roommate had mentioned you. He was quite concerned about you, but knew very little about your life. He wasn't even aware of your parents or any relatives. And while searching for any certificates or contact cards he…. he found your diary. "
Our eyes met briefly, but instantly she shied her gaze away, "Atharva, I know it is your personal diary, and I really understand no one should be sneaking into your life. But…but at that point everyone just wanted to help you out. He found mention of my name…well.. quite a lot about me. ( she blushed, wow! She didnt slander me!!?? ) Not finding any link to your relatives or friends, he thought he should inform me about the diary."
Now it is my turn to fiddle with my fingers. (Oh, who writes everything they feel in a diary and not even lock it. What she must be feeling about me! Idiot!)
Her soft voice chides me back, " That diary gave me a whole new perspective. I was looking at the same things from your eyes. I do not believe in love at first sight, or just going by someone's look. I feel one should know a person deeply to love them. Through your diary, or rather diaries….I could feel you. I wonder how you kept those feelings inside you for 3 long years. You saw me during our orientation in 2002, but never ever could you talk to me even once. It isn't your fault either. I am always in own world, am I not!"
"Listen Atharva, this may sound very weird, it felt ridiculous to me also. I couldn't stop myself from just visiting you daily, gazing at your face all through. Trying to understand what you must be dreaming about and praying every moment that you wake up. Today, I just couldn't control myself. I had a sense of fear that the way your feelings for me were never confessed, what if my feelings would also just stay locked up inside me forever. And thats the reason, that's the reason I…. I confessed my love for you!"
(It wasn't a dream!!!!!!)
" I know it may sound illogical, we haven't even talked to each other. But I know I love you. And it is not sympathy or an infatuation. I have brooded over it every moment of your slumber. I know that I love you, most ardently!"
The next moment elongates into eternity. I keep staring at her wide eyed. It seems so impossible that I keep waiting for people to jump out with handy cams yelling MTv Bakra! Did she really fall for me? And I was sleeping all the way long? It sounds unreal, like a cheap fantasy pulp fiction.
I am startled by her touch. Her hand is placed soothingly on mine. "Atharva, I know all of this sounds weird. It has been the same feeling for me as well. I am not one of those girls who will just pass her time with boys. If someone told I would confess my love to a total stranger, I would have called them insane. Initially, I was angry at myself for visiting you everyday. I was confused about my attitude and concern towards you. But your diary has become my bedtime story, which soothes me to sleep every night. It transcends me to a dream I now cherish."
I just mumble, " It still feels like a dream to me!" She smiles at me, I reciprocate with a meek smile.
—--------------------------------
It's been 15 days post I woke up. Yes, it was all real. It still sure feels like a dream- a dream I may wake up anytime. Yes, we are madly in love. We eat together in the cafeteria now, watch the sun set in the marine drive every evening, we linger next to her hostel for hours and talk on the phone as much as I can afford. And yet, I always feel uneasy! My life will crash if I ever woke up from this dream!
I feel she has also started to notice my anxiety. She is so perfect, gorgeous and I am a nobody. If I hadn't slept for so long, if she hadn't read my diary, would she ever have fallen in love with me! She didn't even notice me for three long years. I know I don't deserve her, and what if she also realises I am not worthy of her. Will she leave me forever!
My mind is full of such anxious thoughts every wakig moment. What I wished for so long finally happened, but I am feeling something is missing. Like someone did some cheating in the exam, and all the shining marksheet would be taken away as soon as they find about the cheating. I am feeling a huge void which those 23 days etched in my life, which I cannot fill. This has started creating rift in our relationship as well. She is not understanding my worry, and me! If I was able to express my feelings, wouldn't my life been much easier all through!
"Atharva, I said shall we go for the matinee show? You always seem to be lost these days. All ok?"
"Huh, yeah…nothing." My mind is still stuck on my slumber. I have found no leads from the doctors, the library, no newspaper seem to mention any such cases. I have even kept a track of the obituary details. Was I the only person on earth who lost 23 days of my life in such mysterious ways!!
"....lost it and won't even know. You get it?" Her worried tone and grip on my shoulder brings me back to reality.
"Atharva, let me be honest! I somehow feel a disconnect between us. as if there is something you are hiding from me. Is there something you don't like about me? Am I forcing this relation on you?"
( No no, she is taking it all wrong, how do I explain it to her! Man! It has to erupt out today! )
"Roopa, if I hadn't slept would you have never known of my existence??"
We stare blankly at each other, was this a question raging in both our minds?
"Roopa, I feel I don't deserve you, I think I never did win you, you just accepted me. Like a lottery ticket! You were my most sincere wish. And it somehow magically turned true. I mean, I mean like…."
"A wishful blink fulfilled my ardent desire"
" A wishful blink fulfilled my ardent desire
I wake up, gazing wide eyes..
Dream, now is one with reality! " she quotes.
"Wow! Swaroopa, I mean… you nailed it! And that too poetically, huh! "
"Yes, but they aren't mine!" she states.
"What do you mean?"
"I just saw them in this newspaper lying on the table. Here, see."
–
The best of poem in the whole book is "Mystic Dream", the following lines stand out:
" A wishful blink fulfilled my ardent desire
I wake up, gazing with wide eyes
Dream, now is one with reality! "
This seems to be some book review, but those lines seem to be describing my exact state of mind. As if someone lived my life and penned it down. You were my dream Swaroopa, and it just happened. My dream is now one with reality! My hands are holding the paper, while my shoulder is being turned by Swaroopa. I snap back.
"Atharva, I repeat, all of this was unreal even for me, I have questioned this as well. But you cannot doubt our love, the past 15 days! Haven't they been real, and so beautiful!"
"Roopa, I am sorry. I do not doubt your feelings, its just that I am utterly confused between my dream and reality. I really need to find what has happened in my life…. Sorry, I need to go!"
"Wait, what happened, where are you going…." I can hear her voice trail off as I pace outside the room. The newspaper is still in my hand. I am feeling really bad for leaving her alone, without explaining what I am about to do. But how can I, even I am not sure. My legs are just taking me somewhere. My mind is still stuck at those lines from the poem. " Dream, now one with reality" All the time, I was searching as to why I might have slept. None of my medical records, my consultation with doctors revealed anything. I searched all through the news articles, medical journals in library. I wasn't able to find any clue on what happened. There were no leds I could follow. But this poem, for some strange reason, it feels so deeply connected to me. As if, it was written about my dream. I am feeling a strong will to unravel more about it. But how! There are no details given about the author. Only the mention about the publication house. I find myself standing in front of Rupa publication. It is such a prestigious publication house, will it even let me in! I reach the reception and explain my case. " Sir, it was a pre release review you read, there are only a handful of prints available of that book and we are not allowed to distribute it"
I insist, "I understand ma'am, but I really need to get one. I cannot explain, but I am deeply connected to that book somehow, I really need to read the whole of that poem. Can you please try to talk to your publisher and check if I can do something, I am ready to pay advance or whatever you want, I can also sign confidentiality agreement if it helps"
After a lot of pursuasion, she agres to call and check with her higher officials. After an hour of wait I am called to a meeting room.
"Pleased to meet you. Tell me, how can I help you. Can I know your interest in this book?"
I try to explain my case in the sanest possible way, although his eyebrows are up more often than he wanted.Finally, he gives a sigh.
"Look mister, your story seems worthy to be published as a suspense novel, I am sorry but I cannot give you a print of that book. Well, no one can because that book as it hasn't been printed yet. As for the review, it was published on my request. Sometime back, on my way back to Mumbai, I found a muddy tattered book lying on the train seat. Being a publisher always curious for anything with words, I opened it up. It was a beautiful book with poetic depth in every page. I instantly wanted to publish it, but sadly there was no mention of any address in it. The name in the front also seemed to be a pen name. I wanted to just leave it, but there was a strong urge for me to keep it. I waited through the journey to see if someone would come to reclaim it, but noone did. I was convinced that it was either lost or abandoned. In either case, I really wanted the words to not be lost forever. But as a publisher, I need to be mindful of royalties and all the financial battles that comes with it. I could have simply explained the case and put up newspaper ads asking the writer to claim the book. But you know the amount of plaigarism out there, such an ad from Rupa press would create a frenzy and everyone would want to try their luck at completing the poem and claim royalty. So, I thought of trying out another way. Every writer would always have an eye on the book review section, both for the potential competitor, plagiarism and inspiration. So I thought of creating a pre book review. If the writer caught it, they would definitely try to contact me. If this didn't work I could always go the conventional way of giving the advertisement. Well, you are the first person until now who has contacted me, and clearly you are not the writer."
I give a long sigh, as long as his explanation. He really has a lot of time on his plate to be doing such things. And now I am feeling stupid to have chased a poem until the publication house. "In case someone ever contacts you, would you mind informing me?"
He eyes me for a while and shrugges a nod.
On my way back home, I find myself retrospecting everything. The sleepiness had been a mystery, but that is causing much more effect on my life than it should have. I am feeling silly to be overwhelmed by a poem. Looking back, it was a very generic one. Anyone who had wished for something badly could have written it. What a stupid face you put in front of that publisher!
I have researched about post traumatic depression and how people who suffered head injuries or woken from coma struggled to get back to the normal life routine. They need long therapies to adjust to their new life. But most of them have some physical ailments, deformaties or lost dear ones in that traumatic experience. On the contrary, I have found a precious gift and still it feels unreal.
Oh no, I left Swaroopa so ubruptly! What must she be thinking! You moron, she doesn't deserve you! This was never meant to be!
I sincerely wish I hadn't slept, what if I had asked her out! Maybe sent her a letter? Sure, she would have rejected me, but at least I would have tried! I would have done everything needed to woo her. At the end when she would have accepted me, she would really be mine. I wouldn't have this fear. I would have the confidence that come what may, I could win her back. Now, every moment I am fearing one or the other act of mine would make me lose her. I have not been myself living in this fear. And Swaroopa, my behaviour made her doubt even her feelings. She has tried her best to ensure that her love for me was their to stay. Again, she knew it because she gradually developed the feelings when I was asleep maybe. It didn't just happen in a blink of eyes like me. Oh Atharva, don't start it again.
"Atharva, great to see you. How have you been?" Doctor Raj's voice brings my mechanical gait to a halt. Like my overthinking brain, my legs have wandered off, now stationed at Apollo! "Atharva, I was thinking of you yesterday. You won't believe it! I was at the yearly medical conference and I happened to talk to an old friend of mine. He is currently posted in Mussoorie. During our lunch conversation I casually brought up your case. To my surprise, he happened to see another such case in a town near Mussoorie. Although he isn't sure if that boy woke up or is still asleep. It was in some medical drive in a small town, the name slips my mind. Wait, I noted it down, in case you were ever interested. Here it is."
The piece of paper is in my hands, my eyeballs stuck on it while my legs trod on. Half of my mind is already creating an itinerary for Mussoorie, but the logical brain is making me rethink - what if I was trying to find pattern in randomness?
I notice her, her contentious eyes seem to have scanned my brain! Can I even justify myself!
"Swaroopa, sorry… I mean…Umm…I know it may sound weird to you. Well, my whole life has recently been weird. But…. I got contact of another person in Mussorie who has been sleeping just like me. I have a strong urge to go and check on him. I want any leads to know why this happened to me! "
"And will it give you those 23 days back in your life? Huhhh! Ok, See Atharva, I really understand there has been some chaos in your life because of that slumber. But please, try to get over it. I mean, if it means visiting the boy in Musoorie, sure do! But understand, you have lost lot many days already just thinking about the slumber. And you may not get those back either!"
Her words make complete sense to me. But my mind seems to be obssessed with this mystery. What else could make me leave her and board this train to Mussorie? As I board down the train, each step seem to make me feel heavier. What if this lead was also a bummer like the last one? But could I be without finding out?
I am in front of the government hospital. The boy still seems to be asleep. As I enter his ward, it feels as if I am watching my own life through the eyes of Swaroopa. He is lying on a tattered bed sheet. I sit next to him. Hours pass by, as I keep imagining what Swaroopa must have felt looking at me, unsure whether I will ever wake up. The evening breeze reminds me of her swaying forelocks, the clatter of her bangles. How long she may have sat like this, praying for me. I have done it all wrong, she was there for real in my life! And here I am pursuing the dream, away from her. What if the distance waned her love for me? It is sure having the opposite effect on me. I canno't think anything other than her. Maybe it is time to start fresh. Maybe she is to stay and the dream won't to break. I feel silly for having behaved weirdly with her. She should have been my obsession, nothing else!
I notice a shiver in his hands, his eye balls seem to be moving. Is he waking up? Her lavender fragrance wafts in my mind, I love you, it's a jolt out of the slumber. Maybe he is going through the same jolt? He is awake. "Where am I?" his lips sputter.
"You are in the government hospital, you have been sleeping for quite a long time"
"Who are you?" His eyes seems to hop from ceiling to my face to the bed like a question mark.
"Ummm. I am Atharva, you don't know me. I mean, I also didn't know you. Well, I was also sleeping for 23 days and came to know about you and thought of visiting you. I know it may sound weird, but like, just try to relax a bit?"
He sure doesn't seem to relax. Who can understand his state of mind more than me? He seems to be utterly lost, just like me. But at least I had Swaroopa to explain what I lost when I slept, or rather gained, in the form of her. Gradually I enquire his whereabouts. It is very weird, I only got the address of the hospital and had no clue about the history of this boy. He told me that he lived in an orphanage nearby and didn't have anyone except some namesake friends. I pay the bills in the hospital and offer to take him to the orphage. It is a bit of a travel, into a smaller town. The boy seems to be lost all throughout the journey but suddenly jolts up while we were passing a valley. "Uncle, can we please halt here a bit?" I am anyways uneasy with the whole of the happenings, the journey I started to answer my questions seems to be heading into bigger open ends. But I oblige.
We both sit on a bench facing the valley. No words are spoken for a long time. To break the ice, I share my story of slumber to ease him out. "You know, I may understand your state of mind a little bit maybe. I was also sleeping for 23 long days and even now it feels like a part of me got lost. It was very very chaotic when I woke, I couldn't make sense of anything. Thankfully, Swaroopa was there. I still cannot believe she fell in love with me when I was asleep, it was a dream come true. Dream, now is one with reality!"
He has a sudden spark in his eyes. He is looking at me quizically.
"Oh sorry, I got carried away with my banter. I know it must be so difficult for you, I have not anything to make it better."
He remains silent for a very long time. He whispers, as if talking to the hills, " I have not been able to make sense of things. But you know, what's the last I remember from my life? Dream, now is one with reality!"
Now it is my turn to look quisically. His lips curve a mystic smile.
"Have you ever wondered what happens to the echoes of words we say to this valley? I think they just get lost. Just like my dream of being a renowned poet, just like the words of my poem. Well, this 'Valley of wishes' cannot just fulfil impossible dreams right! That phrase you used, I had written a poem that ended up in that phrase. I had named it…"
"Mystic dream?" I voice.
His eyebrows resemble the hill peaks now. ( Is it really THE mystic dream? )
I recite the lines, " A wishful blink fulfilled my ardent desire
I wake up, gazing with wide eyes
Dream, now is one with reality!"
He has a confused look. "Those are the lines, how do you know it?"
"These lines were published in Times Of India book review. Rupa publication has been looking for the author of this poem since a long time. They badly want to publish it. Well, maybe your dream is one with reality now!"
He remains dazed for a very long time. Utter mix of disbelief and chaos seems to hover on his face. He finally sighs, " This sounds like a dream, I so wish it is real. But it feels I am in a dream and it may break anytime."
I smile sympathetically, "You wont believe, I have been feeling exactly the same thing since the time I woke up. It just seems unreal, it felt so crazily unreal that I came all the way here to find the reason I slept. But maybe I found it now. We both just slept for our dream to come true."
After a pause as deep as the valley, his voice wafts like a gentle breeze,"You know before I fell asleep I had got so hurt that I had decided Mystic dream would be the last poem I ever write. But a poem seems to be flowing out of me now, care to listen?"
I nod.
" And even if a blink
Can turn the long yearned dream into reality
Worthless are even the stars"
….
( We both say in unison )
If I wasn't part of the journey…."
Ritika likes to find an unusual angle in the usual things. Her work is mostly written in hindi and english, but she likes experimenting in other languages as well. Her articles are often published in the newspaper ‘The Hitavada’. Her poems can be found under the pen name ‘Rituational’ in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rituational and in her blog: http://songssoflife.blogspot.com/ & Her Contact: ritika.sriram1@gmail.com
Dr. Satya Narayan Mohanty
The message from the doctor was a bolt from the blue. Purnima’s condition was serious and the medical team was doing their best. But she could sink anytime and become comatose. It was a case of touch and go. She had not come back to sense after she reached the hospital.
Prahlad Bal was distraught. Too many things were prancing in his mind. He drove to the hospital immediately in a taxi after she had passed out. Fortunately, the doctor on duty, Dr. Senapati, the young man from the neighborhood was there. There was no contusion on her head. The documentation was done without much problem and Purnima was attended to almost immediately. The senior doctor was called in and he reached within fifteen to twenty minutes of their arrival. The entire team swung into action to attend to Purnima. Everything possible was being done. It was three hours after that. The x-ray has been taken; she has been shifted into the ICU. But she was not recovering in a hurry. Now on top of it the explanation given by the doctor was not doing anything to give him hope.
Meanwhile, some of the relatives had started trooping in. Purnima being in the ICU, he was the only line of defense and he had to explain to everyone how she passed out while trying to get off from the bed and just doubled over hitting the top of her head on the floor. There was no outward injury, no bleeding and no contusion. But her condition had aggravated because of the sudden hitting of the top of the head on the floor. Prahlad was getting tired and irritated; he wished he had moved away from the line of vision. Now the relatives had started dispersing. He was also getting ready to spend the night in the hospital. The doctors would keep her under watch overnight and if there was no improvement she was to be taken to the CARE hospital in the morning for MRI and neurological attention. If need be an operation would take place there.
It would have been okay had he returned home. But for emergency medical purchases someone had to be around. In any case, it was pointless going back home as he would toss and turn on the bed with Purnima being in such a critical position in the hospital.
But now the crowd in the hospital had thinned. He was the only person outside the ICU on the bench. He made up his mind that he would catch some nap on the bench itself. But now the sleep had deserted him.
He started thinking how Purnima had attended to him when he was convalescing twice, once after marriage and once before. Prahlad was always fond of Purnima who grew up in the neighborhood. That time he stayed with his parents. He was first to notice that Purnima had come of age and turned into a real beauty. But she had also become shyer and his best effort to break the news of his special feeling for her was never successful. Only saving grace was that she was very fond of football and always went to the league match in the stadium. Prahlad was officiating as a referee in all important matches and he had a formidable reputation of being a very impartial referee. Not only was he impartial, his USP was he could spot a smallest foul, tackle and infringement from a distance. His line of vision was not only 180º ahead of him, but he had a sense of what was happening 45º each to his left and right towards the back. That gave him either a view or a sense of what all was happening with 270º. Truly a wide angled lense. He was never afraid of calling a foul and his reputation was such that players though showed some surprise were aware of a very vigilant and impartial decision and never pushed for a contest.
Players used to say that he was the 12th player of both the sides. He conducted the match with dignity, did not allow any let off. Called out fouls without fail and ensured a fair game was played. He was once a left back but he didn’t like the position and was tempted to go to the forward line. But he had to rush back often when the opponent’s forward line made any move into his side. Once he was caught in no-man’s land and could not come back. The rivals scored a goal unimpeded and he was benched for 15 days in the school. Once the referee had to be rushed out. Since he was free and it was a school match, the referee while going out told him to supervise the match. That was when he discovered his calling. He liked it, he was near the action point almost go to 90 percent of time. He could see who was doing what and he called out, handed out yellow cards and everyone appreciated his agility, alertness and fairness. After the school exam, he did the referee’s course and always used to step in as a junior referee in case of any need.
He liked sense of control he had in the field. His whistle calling out froze everyone. No one dared to move. Even if handed out a red card, except for looking plaintively at him and almost surrendering, no one dared to surround him. A longish whistle from him made everyone approach him with humility and submission, so that the punishment could be a little lighter. It didn’t make any difference to him, but the play was more orderly. He took a few more courses and was ready to join the league as a referee.
The city league recognized his quality as a referee. Whenever he used to give a penalty there was a clap for him. Whenever the game ended and he came out of the field there was a standing ovation for him. He liked the adulation but it never went to his head. His job was to conduct the game in a fair manner, no infringement should be allowed to go unnoticed and without fail a foul would be called out. Whenever he entered the field with the linesmen there was a clap for him. The linesmen were proud to officiate the lines with him as the referee.
He had become an icon. While several other referees used to run for their life when one side considered him to be unfair, that contingency never arose in case of Prahlad. He was a star. His neighborhood was proud of him too.
It was one such league match when he spotted from the corner of his eye that when a player jumped to take a header of a cross pass, his shadow pulled his shirt. He had also jumped to camouflage it. He called it a foul and awarded a penalty. Out of the blue someone pushed him from his back and he saw stars and blacked out. It happened from the V shaped ninety degree at his back which he could not see. He was so confident about his invincibility that he never bothered to observe the face of the player. He was a player who had received red card from him once and stopped playing the whole season. He was shimmering inside and this time he thought that the referee was arrogant and unnecessarily given a penalty which every other referee would have ignored. The crowd was appalled. He was rushed to the hospital. Purnima was there in the stadium and she broke into tears and straight away went to the hospital.
In Prahlad’s house, his mother was long since dead and his father held a high office going by the neighbourhood standard. He was a superintendent in an office in the town. Purnima kept on visiting him in the hospital for 3 days and after Prahlad shifted to his house she continued her visit. That was when Prahlad realized that she was also in love with him and her visit to league matches was to see him refereeing. Prahlad recovered in time, the errant player was banned from the league and he was back in the stadium as a start referee. This time around he learnt to look around for his safety. He got a job of a clerk in a local office under sports quota.
He broke the information to his father and wanted him to take the proposal to Purnima’s house for marriage. The marriage took place much to the delight of his acolytes in the neighborhood.
But the problem started after marriage. Prahlad was alert in the field but absent minded at home. He had a habit of thinking of imaginary movement of players and fouls and tackles coming out of that. His proficiency in refereeing could be traced to such thinking. But a married man who does not respond to his wife’s intentions was bound to be in trouble. He would go to the market, get half the stuff and half the stuff he would forget. Purnima who was a shy girl earlier took on him from time to time for these infractions.
Purnima was also not a great cook. To be fair to her she was trying to learn and had a chance of enduring. But she had a problem of cooking with half of the items she had ordered for. Either the right condiments were not there or the right oil.
It also didn’t help that her parents moved to another town. Had her mother been around she would have been able to guide her. Prahlad’s parents moved to their village which was only 20 kms. away after their retirement. That happened almost a month after Prahlad’s marriage.
Prahlad used to get the shopping done in some perfunctory manner in the morning and used to go to the nearby field wearing his track suit. He used to supervise neighborhood football practice, come back and get ready to go to the office. After office hours, he used to supervise a football match and come back home around 7 PM. Purnima was lonely all through the day. Her mobility was highly restricted and she was no longer going to football matches.
To make matters worse, Prahlad was a foodie. Worse still, he had to give an immediate comment about the food.
‘This mutton curry is insipid’, he said.
“I didn’t have the masalas. Whatever I had I have cooked”, was Purnima’s reply.
“Didn’t you learn anything about cooking earlier”?
“Do you think I have come here as a Khansama?"
“Terrible, I will have to eat my food outside'’. Purnima was serving him and she went back to the kitchen which was to the back of the place Prahlad was sitting.
Out of the blue, something hit him on his head and he passed out. Actually, Purnima was so irritated that she got a steel plate from the kitchen, held it with both her hands and banged it on his head.
That she did out of irritation. It was no fun listening to all these criticisms about cooking. They were married for three years but they didn’t have any children yet. Prahlad might have learnt to watch his back on the field but he had not learnt to keep a watch on the happenings in front. Infraction and loneliness of Purnima was not visible to him.
Purnima regretted after banging the steel thali. She had to rush him to the hospital. He got well. Doctor asked him how did he pass out. He could not recollect anything. Purnima was asked and she said he just passed out.
“It must have been fatigue. You had refereed one match that day. Delay must have taken place”, the doctor said.
But Prahlad remembered a sound of a steel thali drilling his head. He was not sure and he did not say anything. But he fell silent and did not talk much. Outside the football field, once he was free, the din of the steel thali kept on ringing in his head. This had two results; he became even more absent minded and did his domestic chores even worse. Purnima watched Prahlad for five or six days and just to give the information that everything was fine, she started chatting a lot. She started asking a lot of questions. Of course, the answers were often in monosyllables which irritated her even more and her nagging increased. Prahlad’s behavior was exemplary. He never raised his voice, never argued, and kept his head down. But now he had learnt how to observe his front and back.
“Tomorrow afternoon, you take me to the doctor. I have some problems.”
“I have my match tomorrow. I can’t go. You go directly.”
“If you can’t take care of your wife, why did you get married?”
Prahlad thought he had heard this pitch of voice just before he had passed out. Purnima had gone to the kitchen and was speaking from there. Out of the blue, he connected the noise of thali, the irritated pitch of talk. Today Purnima was sitting on the chair where he was sitting. He got up, collected his plate and went to keep it on the kitchen sink. Now things were clear to him, Purnima had hit him. It is time to get even. He opened the tap to wash the utensils. But tiptoed back with a steel thali.
Purnima had no way to sense he was coming back. A bolt from the blue hit her and she passed out.
Now the nurse came to him and told him that Purnima had returned to sense. She was chattering that someone hit her head with a steel thali. “I am calling the doctor. Would you like to go and talk to her,” the nurse offered.
This was a bolt from the blue for Prahlad again. He did not know whether to go in or stay back. Being face to face without credible replies would be a clean giveaway and what would follow was no rocket science.
“No, I would wait for the doctor”, he said. The nurse went back to the ICU after asking the receptionist to call the doctor.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
One Sunday evening, those who had the flair for writing and listening to poetry watched a wonderful program on TV. It was the poets' gathering at Bhuvana Vijayam, the royal court of Poet-King Srikrishnadevaraya, Andhra Bhoja. All the eight poets, the gems participated in it by presenting their poetic excellence.
It seemed that the program inspired all poetry lovers. They felt like having a poets' gathering in their town, Kavitha Nagar. They met at a place and discussed the possibilities of holding the poets’ gathering program. After discussion, they felt the program was possible. They wanted to involve the prominent poet Abhishek in the program to look grand and make it a grand success.
Adbhuth, a poet took the responsibility of inviting and convincing the prominent poet, Abhishek to participate in the Poets’ Gathering when all wanted Abhishek to grace the occasion as the Chief Guest. He along with the poets went to him and expressed his views in his earnest appeal.
"Sir...with your kind cooperation, we can have a Poets' Gathering in our town, Kavitha Nagar," said Adbhuth.
"I haven't participated in any poets’ gathering...The people know me write poetry...They respect me as a poet highly," said Abhishek.
"We wish that you would recite a poem in the Poets' Gathering to be held in the town, Kavitha Nagar. You’ll be the Chief Guest and the chief poet…You’ll be the highlight and special attraction of the program," said Adbhuth.
"I treat poetry as the divine art and encourage it in our town... I, therefore, want to recite my poetry at the sanctum sanctorum and dedicate it to Goddess Vani, the Goddess of Muse in the shrine," said Abhishek frankly.
"Without you, the program will be a flop...It’ll not be a blockbuster movie for its success, grand success. To bring the name to our town and to be worthy of the name, Kavitha Nagar, you’ve to recite your poem. It’s your hometown sir," said Adbhuth appealingly.
“How can I violate my principle in devotion?" said Abhishek.
"Unless you're present in the Poets' Gathering, the people won't be present. The people laugh at us. All the poets in the town Kavitha Nagar wish that you should be present and recite a poem. They will attend in good numbers. It’s the view of the people," said Adbhuth while all others were repeatedly nodding their heads.
"Please...please...please...please...please...Please never say 'No'... Say 'Yes', sir" said all with folded hands.
.
"For me, poetry is not showy. It dawns from the mind, gushes from the heart through the pen, shines in letters and word clusters in books, and finally dwells in the readers’ minds. It’s a flow like a living river. It’s a holy act…I therefore welcome it on your request," aid Abhishek.
"Our Poets' Gathering starts after the invocation to Goddess Vani," said Adbhuth.
"The poets and audiences must be attentive in reciting their poems in your gracious presence," said all with all reverence to the town Kavitha Nagar.
. "Mind that poetry is the lesson of lessons on morals...If the poem is on the truth the poet must be follower of the truth. All the poets are to follow the truth as they are model to society," said Abhishek.
"We sincerely follow whatever you say. You’ll be happy with our presentations... It’ll be a success," said all, clapping.
"I'll be with you for your sake...for the pleasure of all in our town though it is against my principle as my poetry is not for a show," said Abhishek with all smiles.
"There’ll be a big gathering and a good number of poets to present their poems, learning the way to write poetry from you," said Adbhuth.
"Okay...," said Abhishek.
The poets in the town Kavitha Nagar fixed a day for the poets' gathering and the news appeared in the newspapers for the information to all poetry lovers in the town.
… … … …
On the day, the programme of poetry recital was to start in a few minutes as per the schedule. The organizer, Adbhuth invited an elderly person on to the dais to be the Chairperson. Then he called Abhishek to be the Chief Guest-poet. They occupied the seats provided on the dais. There was the lighting of lamps to the silver idol of Goddess Vani by the guests in devotion. The prime programme was over in a befitting manner.
Adbhuth come to the Chairperson on behalf of the poets in the town with his earnest appeal to him in his ears,
"Dear Sir, I've some urgent work. In the first five minutes, I recite my poem and go out on some urgent work...I'll come back and join you soon as per my promise…Sure…," whispered Adbhuth into the Chairperson’s ears.
Adbhuth included his name in the list as the first one in the list of poets to recite his poems. After that, he added two names of two more poets below his name, saying.
"They’re poets, but they are busy political leaders. I assure you that they recite their poems after me. They go out on their urgent works and come back soon," said Adbhuth
. While Adbhuth was first reciting his poem, there came four more poets and submitted a fresh list, including their names after the third poet, disturbing the order. They wanted to go out on some pretext or the other after reciting their poems. They very often disturbed the order of the poets to present their poems.
First, Adbhuth recited his poems and left with a promise to come back and join but he did not come back as per his promise. His poem was dull. It all appeared a fancy poet show. Next participant, a political leader, was on the stage, reciting a poem against corruption.
A man from the audience raised his voice at the participant while he was reciting a poem getting engrossed into it,
"Hello, you are a big corrupt... You’re reciting a poem against corruption...It looks all odd… It’s all fun… Stop your recitation against corruption… Get down the stage..."
There were shouts from the audience, but he did not stop his recitation. He did not care for all shouts. After reciting his poem, he went out after Adbhuth, the organizer of the programme of poets' gathering.
. After reciting the poem, the next participant recited his poem on nonviolence. All knew that he was a man of violence, all kinds of incidents. All commented against him openly. Somehow, he recited it, hearing and not caring for the comments. Later, he went out calling one from the audience, speaking to him loudly.
Next a poet was presenting a poem on the truth, saying that it would be surely successful. Then a man stood up, shouting in a whip of anger,
"You are a liar...You talk about the truth and pose to be the emperor Harischandra here."
The poet did not care for any man to comment openly and recited his poem in a fast manner like a child. After completing the poem, he quit the hall, calling his friend from the audience to join him. Then they went together, conversing with each other loudly.
The next poet went to the dais to present his poem. He was an officer to take exorbitant bribes. All there knew him for that. To everybody’s surprise, he was presenting a poem against bribery in a serious manner.
A man from the audience who bribed him to get his work done in the office, laughed at his highest pitch. They all looked at him in surprise. The poet continued to recite his poem amid the laughter, continuing in the highest pitch. While he was going out his friend from the audience joined him.
Next a poet was reciting a poem on caste-system in diversity. All knew him to be a man caste prejudices. A man from the audience shouted, and went out, looking at the poet, casting his angry looks. The poet completed his poem later and went out immediately. A fellow from the hall went out along with him.
It all seemed that most of the poets brought their friends to listen to their poems and clap for them. After they recited poems, they left the hall along with their friends, speaking to each other loudly on the poems,
"Dear guy, how was my poem?" said the poets.
"Super... Congrats, my friend," said their friends.
Some people, who had come on their own to listen to the poems, also left one after the other, as they found the poems reflect hypocrisy and dullness. They commented loudly while leaving the hall,
“The poems recited were free from thematic content and rhythmic intent.”
“They thought that they wrote something to say that they were honest, and others were not.”
“We knew the poets here to be hypocrites. We wish that poets could be models to society. Their poems should reflect their respective character and ideology as lessons to mankind, but they are different…”
They went out commenting loudly on the poets like that while leaving the hall. All of them had no patience to listen to all those of other poets. Moreover, the audiences did not find the poems interesting.
The program was coming to an end. All the seats were vacant except a few.
By the time it was Abhishek's turn, he was only the poet present on the stage along with the Chairperson. All the others who promised to come back and join them soon were obviously missing.
When the Chairperson called the name of Abhishek, he was unhappy about what was happening in the program. He felt sorry for having promised to be in the Poets' Gathering. Abhishek recited his poem on human values and social virtues and the Chairperson enjoyed the poem, congratulating him on the occasion,
"Abhishek Sir, very excellent poem you've presented. It's very relevant to present society. Your poetry mirrors society. It mirrors the truth. Sensibilities must reflect realities. Your poem reflects so. You’re the poet indeed. You're a true follower of whatever the message you write in your poem," said the Chairperson.
"Thank you, sir," said Abhishek.
Then the Chairperson found only two people sitting one corner opposite the dais of the hall. Another person was sitting in the other corner. It seemed that he was not happy with the performance of the poets. The conspicuous absence of almost all the poets and the audiences was stunning him again and again. He expressed his views with a feeling on his face.
"It’s not poets' gathering...It’s the show of poets. It’s something else. The participants are not poets indeed".
The two members sitting in the corners opposite him appeared to be in a hurry, but they cultivated patience. He referred to one for evincing interest in poetry,
"I thank you profusely for your presence here, listening to poetry..."
"Sir...I'm not a poet...I'm the in-charge of the stage arrangement with the silver idol of Goddess Vani, mikes and so on." said he.
"I wholeheartedly thank the other sitting in the corner, my dear," said the Chairperson,
“Sir, I'm not a poet, Sir. I'm the in-charge of the hall...Soon after you leave, I shut the windows and lock the doors of the hall. I lock the gate of this hall as well," said one standing politely.
There was only one sitting in the other corner, cultivating patience till the programme was over. He learnt that the man had come to attend the poets’ gathering.
"I thank you for patiently sitting and listening to poems...," said the Chairperson.
Abhishek was sorry and opined that the poets including Adbhuth were not poets. They pose to be poets... They showed themselves to be poets. It was like the fancy-show. They weren’t lovers of poetry. They were unworthy of writing poetry. He only said while tears were welling in his eyes for the unwanted situation,
"Poetry is a prayer. Poetry is penance. Poetry is meditation. Poetry is an incantation. Poetry is a mantra. Poetry is philosophy. Poetry is wisdom. Poetry is everything. Poetry is after all life."
The Chairperson was sorry for the poetry recital was not a success. He was to present the presidential remarks at last for the prominent poet, Abhishek. However, he presented his remarks:
"Nowadays, people have to regard the fine arts: music, dance, poetry, painting and sculpture. Poetry is still our special, though it’s losing its true sheen in the current society. Today's poetry recital holds a mirror to reflect how much regard poetry has got. Prejudices like caste, creed, race and so on can’t lay the foundation for poetry. Virtues and values in the welfare of man's race are the focus and fulcrum of poetry as the thematic brilliance in artistic excellence...A good poet can write good poetry when he’s experience. I'm bound to appreciate the poet, Abhishek for his poetic merits that are to our credit. He promotes the image of our town, Kavita Nagar… The pity is that today all the other poets in the recital have failed to listen to his poem par excellence... I’m sorry for their attitude towards the prominent poet."
The poet Abhishek stood and hugged the Chairperson heartily. He as a poet expressed his feelings:
"All went contrary in the poetry recital against their promise…against my principle. It humiliated not me but poetry, the Goddess of Vani, the Goddess of Muse. This is a bitter experience to me in my town... to my region... to my nation. I feel sorry for what I experienced against my will..."
With deep feelings, Abhishek recalled the incidents in the poetry recital. He felt sorry for accepting to be the chief guest in the poetry function. He came down from the stage. His eyes were brimming with tears for poetry was disregarded and Goddess Vani, Goddess Muse was hurt. A liar wrote poetry on the Truth. A corrupt wrote poetry against corruption. A man of violence wrote a poem on nonviolence. A man with caste prejudices wrote poetry on secularism. A cheat wrote a poem against deception, corruption, and exploitation. Poetry in fact reflects the poet's real nature as it holds a mirror to his nature. He said openly,
"I love poetry...I love poetry lovers. I love writing poetry. I love the days when the people respected my poetry. The people used to respect me by bowing their heads and greeting me duly. I love them to adore it as the Divine art."
The following day the people stated in the next day newspapers their open opinion about the Poets’ Gathering, “We Are Sorry for What Happened.”
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
Ashok Kumar Mishra
(At the time of India’s independence British colonial rulers not only left mother India divided into two nations on the basis of religion, but also left five hundred sixty-five Princely states independent whose amalgamation and merger with Indian Union and Pakistan was a challenge and became an apple of discord between the two nations. Together they covered forty percent of the land area and twenty-three percent of the population. The rulers of erstwhile princely states were paying tribute to the Colonial rulers and were independent to rule over their subjects as per their sweet will. These feudal lords, barring a few benevolent ones were mostly despots and ruled their subjects with iron hand. These Princely States were a picture of backwardness and underdevelopment, with their people at the mercy of the rulers, without any semblance of rights to life and property. People were subjected to inhuman torture and exploitation and any discontent against the misrule were suppressed with the support of army and Police of British rulers. In Odisha similarly, there were twenty-six Princely states (known locally as garjats )at the time of independence, who were yet to merge with the Indian union. In most of these princely states, peoples’ organizations called Prajamandals were formed to unite and raise voice of the people against despotic rule of the Princely rulers as well as for freedom from the foreign rule. The leaders of such Prajamandals were subjected to inhuman sufferings, tortures, incarceration and death. Gradually the sacrifice and struggle of the leaders of these Peoples’ organization initiated the process of merger, which started from Odisha and forced the feudal rulers of these princely states to join the Indian Union. Present historical story is a story of sacrifice and struggle of such patriots who led the prajamandal movement. A befitting tribute to the unsung heroes when we celebrate our independence day)
Darkness engulfed the entire forest area and everything looked hazy. Night was yet to set in. Gourmohan was running for his life. The arrows of the cavalry following him, were zipping past inches away from his body in all directions. The arrow-heads were making raucous sound while hitting the woody trunks and surrounding foliage. The rhythmic clip- clop sound from the hooves of the horses was faintly audible from far behind. The twang of the arrows of select cavalry force of Rajasaheb and the neighing sound of the horses were agitating the accompanying red hound. It made him bark ferociously while keeping pace with the horses. Gourmohan had to navigate through huge trunks of trees with rocky path below, full of sharp boulders and thorny shrubs, cutting and bleeding his feet. But he had no other option except to move ahead to save his life. The army of the king had set fire on both sides and blocked his escape either to his left or to the right.
Gourmohan was organizing a big crowd of the villagers in a nearby village for voicing their discontent against the despotic misrule of the king. The news of revolt, reached the king through his secret service and his royal guards had already taken position in the village. Gourmohan escaped the trap in time along with his elder brother Manmohan and tribal chief Madhab Sardar, but Balraj had been arrested by Kundangarh royal police along with hundred other villagers. They were hand cuffed, leg shackled and whipped mercilessly and made to walk in public view. The henchmen of the royalty along with royal police soon got engaged in loot, sexual assault and arson in the village. With bleeding wounds and cuts in both his feet Gourmahan was moving with a lot of difficulty.
Gourmohan remembered how the garjats like Kundangarh have remained in dark ages, with its subjects suffering in extreme poverty, hunger, illiteracy as well as torture and exploitation by their feudal rulers. They have no rights whatsoever and there was no respite from physical torture. Any resistance was met with beating with baton, whipping, penalty and prison sentence. There was no rule of law and like divine rights of kings, king’s words were law. Recently the poor subjects of the estate had to pay through their nose for the brand new, imported Bentley car for the Ranisaheba. Those who objected to the forcible collection faced police atrocity and made to sit naked on riverbed under hot sun the entire noon. Police hurled salt on the wound. It was touted that the luxury car was a gift of the citizens of Kundangarh to her highness, the queen and those who opposed were declared as traitors.
Gourmohan completed his education from the Upper Primary School in the village and moved to the British government school in far off town for high school education. Elder brother Manmohan had to look after farmlands after their father passed away. In the entire garjat the farm lands had no irrigation facility. All fertile wet lands belonged to the royal family and dry sloppy waste land with hardy soil belonged to the farmers. Manmohan’s less than two acre land was not sufficient to feed the family. With lot of hard work he turned another two acres waste land cultivable but the king soon arbitrarily fixed very high land revenue on that. Farmers’ misery compounded as they suffered heavy loss due to repeated droughts in Kundangarh. Their appeal to the king for revenue waiver fell in deaf ears. On the contrary heavier tax compared to fertile land i British ruled areas were fixed and the same were forcibly collected by revenue officials with the help of royal police. Land was taken away from farmers for non-payment of revenue and the farmers were incarcerated. Manmohan was put in prison on charges of organizing the distressed farmers for non-payment of land revenue.
Manmohan secretly formed farmers’(raytu) organizations in every village to raise the voice of protest against atrocities on farmers and heavy land revenue was collected forcibly from them. Farmers were subjected to inhuman torture and exploitation in the hands of royal family, their officials and the police. The ruler perpetrated reign of terror and brutality to suppress any voice of dissent and tried to terrorise the farmers. Garjat police made plans to kill Manmohan by trampling him under the royal elephant. Another farmer leader Gangadhar was invited to the palace for discussion but was drowned in the royal pool.
Formation of any forum of citizens, organising meetings was banned in entire Kundangarh. Subjects did not have any say in the administration and raising voice against misrule, injustice, torture and exploitation was a dream for them. The Royal family and their officials on the other hand used to lead a life of pomp and luxury at the cost of their subjects. Moreover they spent lavishly on imported liquor, dancing girls, hunting expedition to please British colonial officials. Ruler’s secret service appointed spies in every village to collect information in secret. When elder brother Manmohan was arrested on charges of treason Gourmohan, who was preparing for his Entrance test had to leave his studies and return home.
In Princely states there were no facility for education for girls. Kalpana was one among the handful of girls who was studying in Gourmohan’s class. She was daughter of Gourmohan’s teacher, Paramananda. Tender love developed gradually between Gourmohan and Kalpana and both were in touch with the freedom fighters, who were active against the colonial rulers. Both wanted to convince that along with struggle for freedom against the colonial rulers, there was a great need to support peoples’ movement against the despotic rule in princely states. But most of the freedom fighters, barring a few never considered it to be a priority. Spontaneous resistance movement against free labour(Bethi), forceful levy(Magana) and high land revenue was gaining momentum under Prajamandal in princely states in spite of ban on them to formally open office and function. Kalpana and Gourmohan organized movement for rights of citizens over the fruits in their backyard and fish in ponds in their homestead land.
People even feared to openly get their daughter married as the goons of the royal family used to kidnap the brides and loot the ornaments. Royal police arrested Gourmohan and Kalpana on several occasions when they raised their voice against the practice.
While running in the dark Gourmohan stumbled upon something. He could listen to the grunt in a very gentle human voice and sat on the ground to listen to it. When he searched around he found an arrow piercing someone from behind his back and the bleeding body falling flat facing the ground below. Gently he lifted the body and placed him on his lap to find elder brother Manmohan. Manmohan was gasping for breath. When Gourmohan called his brother to open his eyes, Manmohan raised his finger towards the front as if directing him to move forward quickly and breathed his last on former’s lap. Goura took out the arrow, lifted the body to the foot of a large tree and kept stones around after paying last respect to his brother. He had no time to spare as death was following him fast. He moved ahead with teary eyes.
So far elder brother Manmohan was at the front of the resistance movement in Kundangarh. Condition and where-about of tribal chief Madhab Sardar was not known to Gourmohan, after they left the village meeting. Gourmohan pondered whether he would be still alive. Kalpana had been staying with her father and was maintaining link with the Congress party, that was leading noncooperation movement against the colonial rulers and the Prajamandal, which was fighting against the misrule of princely states. She got information that British Political agent in charge of the tributary mahals (princely states) would soon visit Kundangarh to assess the moods of the subjects. Neither the Political agent knew the language of the subjects, nor did the subjects knew the language of the political agent. Whichever way Rajasaheb would communicate to him will be final. Foreign liquor, hunting expedition, show of dancing girls would be arranged for him and the subjects as before would be offering free labour, pay levy and revenue. British rulers would be happy collecting the royalty/tribute from the ruler and would leave the subjects at their mercy. Kalpana was telling this time she along with Gourmohan and Congress leaders would try to meet and appraise the political agent about the distress and exploitation of the poor subjects and excessive police brutalities.
Last time during visit of the political agent people of various tribes encircled the palace and protested against free labour during hunting expedition. Royal police brutally whipped, bayonet charged and killed many protestors. Leaders of Prajamandal sustained injuries.
Gourmohan slowly realised his tiring legs were not able to carry his limbs further. His sleepless eyes were closing and body is seeking rest. Death of brother Manmohan was worrying him. Rajasaheb had already tasted blood and was determined to catch or kill him. If Gourmohan stops it would invite sure death. At the very moment he realised someone was patting on his shoulder and whispering in a feeble voice “ Goura, Panduri river is a few meters away. If somehow you could reach the riverbank, try to jump into the river. We will be safe thereafter”. It was Madhab Sardar. Both did the same and in darkness jumped into the river water and soon Gourmohan lost his senses.
Gourmohan opened his eyes to find Kalpana, Paramananda, Madhab and many Prjamandal leaders around him. Everyone was happy to find Gourmohan regain consciousness and Kalpana and Madhab garlanded him. “That night when you jumped into Panduri River and lost consciousness Madhab brought you to the shore, but it was Dr Ray’s continuous medical care in his intensive care unit which brought you new lease of life” said Kalpana.
Gourmohan could not believe his ears that almost a year has passed since he jumped to Panduri river. Kalpana further continued Rajasaheb spread the news that wild animals have killed you, Manmohan and Madhab Sardar. We did not believe the news and looked for you. Prajamandal organised protest march and the subjects did not cooperate with the erstwhile rulers and against the foreign rule. News of you and Madhab Sardar were received from the tribals residing near the forest. Although we received news of death of Manmohan, his dead body could not be traced. In the mean time the colonial rulers have left our country and our motherland has become independent. Army of independent India entered into Kundangarh and seized power from the hands of Rajasaheb and his family. The despotic feudal rule has come to an end. Everyday thousands of people come to meet and pray for your recovery.
Gourmohan’s eyes became numb with humility. He took a breath and raised his hands and prayed the almighty. He then raised the slogan “Hail my motherland and hail to the power of the people”.
(The End)
Ashok Kumar Mishra’s stories are rooted in the soil and have sublime human touch. He has authored several books and written several articles on micro credit movement. Four tele films were made on his book titled “A Small Step forward”.
Did his MA and M Phil in Political studies from JNU and served as deputy general manager in NABARD.
He made pioneering contribution in building up Self Help Group movement in Odisha.
Served as Director of a bank for over six Years.
Many of his short stories in Odia vernacular and in English have been published in reputed magazines. (9491213015)
LOVE, FESTIVITY, AND NEW BEGINNINGS
Shri Satish Pashine
The air in Bhubaneswar was alive with festivity. The sound of conch shells, the distant beats of dhol, and the earthy scent of sandalwood incense mingled with the cool October breeze. Durga Puja was reaching its crescendo, and Vijaya Dashami—the grand finale of the nine-day celebration—was just a day away. It was a time for families to reunite, old friendships to rekindle, and new connections to form amidst the celebration of the triumph of good over evil.
For Priya, this year’s festival carried a special weight. The thirty-year-old independent Odia woman had returned to her hometown, Bhubaneswar, after five long years in Bangalore. Though she enjoyed the comfort of home, Bhubaneswar had always felt a bit small compared to her fast-paced, cosmopolitan life. There was another reason she had stayed away for so long—her mother’s constant pressure for her to get married.
Priya had once been in love with Sumant Rath, her high school crush. After parting ways for college—Priya to IIT Mumbai and Sumant to Delhi for UPSC preparation—their relationship had slowly unraveled. Despite his best efforts, Sumant had exhausted all his UPSC attempts and eventually took up teaching at an IAS academy. His pride and sense of inadequacy made him drift away, believing he wasn’t worthy of Priya.
But this year, something was different. For the first time in years, Priya felt a deeper pull toward home, something beyond nostalgia. There was a quiet anticipation in the air, and she had no idea that the festival, her family, and an unexpected encounter with a charming stranger would soon change her life forever.
A Homecoming
As Priya stepped out of the cab that brought her from the airport to her parents’ home in Nayapalli, her father, Ramesh Mohapatra, a retired DIG of police, greeted her with a big, toothy smile. He pulled her into a warm embrace, and the familiar scent of her childhood home washed over her. Her mother, Gita, was busy in the kitchen, preparing for the upcoming celebrations—mutton curry, aloo dum, Bengali sweets like rasgulla, and the Odia specialty, Chhena Poda.
“Ah, our globetrotting daughter is finally home,” her father teased, helping her with her luggage.
Priya grinned. “Five years isn’t that long, Bappa. Besides, you and Bau have visited me in Bangalore enough times.”
“Yes, but nothing beats having you home for Durga Puja. Bhubaneswar has missed you.”
The Mohapatra family was close-knit, and Durga Puja was always a time for their big, loud extended family to gather. Cousins, aunts, and uncles would all flock to the Mohapatra home for the festivities, bringing laughter and debates about modernity versus tradition. This year, however, there was an added twist—Priya’s cousin, Rajiv, had recently gotten engaged to a Bengali girl, Meera, from Kolkata. The engagement had brought a fresh blend of cultures to the family, and this year, for the first time, there would be a grand dandiya night at Hotel Mayfair.
The Night of Dandiya
Priya stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the soft chiffon sari her mother had insisted she wear for the dandiya night. The pastel green fabric shimmered in the light, and her long, dark hair cascaded in loose waves. As she applied the final touches of kajal, she felt an excitement she hadn’t experienced in years.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Rajiv.
“Priya, get ready fast! The dandiya night is going to be amazing. Everyone’s already at Mayfair, and I’ve saved you a seat next to someone special,” Rajiv’s voice was full of mischief.
“Oh God, Rajiv. Don’t tell me you’re playing matchmaker again,” Priya groaned, knowing his penchant for introducing her to every eligible bachelor in Bhubaneswar.
“Just trust me this time,” Rajiv laughed. “You’ll thank me later.”
Hotel Mayfair was ablaze with lights. The lawns were filled with families, both Odia and Bengali, dressed in their festive best. Dhols echoed across the garden, mixing with the peppy beats of Bollywood dandiya songs. Couples and families swirled in rhythmic circles, their vibrant ghagras and kurtas creating a dazzling scene.
Priya found Rajiv near the stage, chatting with a group of friends. Beside him stood a tall, handsome man with sharp features and an easy smile. His white kurta-pajama, embroidered in subtle gold, complemented his sharp features. As Priya approached, Rajiv wasted no time introducing them.
“Priya, meet Arjun. He’s Meera’s cousin from Kolkata. He recently cleared the civil services exam and is now the Collector and District Magistrate of Khordha. Arjun, this is Priya, my brilliant cousin who thinks she’s too good for Bhubaneswar,” Rajiv teased.
Arjun chuckled, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Priya. Rajiv’s been telling me about your Bangalore adventures.”
Priya smiled. “Don’t believe everything he says. He has a habit of exaggerating.”
As the evening progressed, Priya found herself drawn to Arjun. He was intelligent, well-read, and had a calm charm that put her at ease. The music picked up pace, and soon, the dandiya sticks were brought out, and the two of them joined the others in the traditional Garba circles.
As they danced, Priya felt a sense of joy she hadn’t expected. The night felt magical, not just because of the lights or the music, but because she felt something stir inside her—something she hadn’t felt in a long time. A spark of connection.
Family Matters and New Beginnings
The next morning, Vijaya Dashami dawned, and with it came the rituals of farewell. As Durga Maa was prepared for her immersion, Priya stood in her family’s courtyard, helping her mother prepare for the traditional family lunch. The aroma of freshly prepared bhog filled the air, and relatives began to arrive.
Priya’s mother, Gita, noticed her daughter’s distracted mood. “What’s on your mind, Priya? You’ve been lost in thought all morning.”
Priya hesitated before finally confessing, “I met someone last night, Maa. Arjun—Meera’s cousin.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow but smiled. “And?”
“And… I don’t know. It’s strange. I’ve just met him, but there’s something about him. It feels like we’ve known each other for longer than just one night,” Priya said, her cheeks tinged with pink.
Gita smiled knowingly. “That’s how it often starts. Vijaya Dashami is about new beginnings, after all. Sometimes the most meaningful connections happen when you least expect them.”
As the day went on, the Mohapatra house buzzed with activity. Elders exchanged pleasantries, cousins cracked jokes, and Priya found herself pulled into lively discussions with Arjun, Meera, and Rajiv. She noticed how effortlessly Arjun fit into her family’s dynamic. He joked with her cousins, respectfully engaged with her parents, and even helped her mother serve sweets.
It was a small thing, but it meant a lot to Priya.
Vijaya Dashami’s Farewell and New Love
By the afternoon, it was time for the traditional sindoor khela—a custom where married women smear vermillion on each other before Durga Maa is taken for immersion. While Priya wasn’t married, her mother playfully dabbed a bit of sindoor on her forehead.
“Someday soon, maybe you’ll be part of this properly,” Gita said with a twinkle in her eye.
Priya smiled, her thoughts drifting once again to Arjun. He had been at her side all day, and now, as they stood together watching the Durga idol being taken to the river, he turned to her.
“You know, in Kolkata, we believe that Durga Maa’s departure isn’t just a goodbye. It’s about trusting that she’ll return next year, stronger than ever. It’s a time for hope and new beginnings,” Arjun said softly.
Priya looked at him, their eyes locking. The connection she had felt the night before was undeniable now. She didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, with the sound of conch shells and rhythmic chanting of “Bolo Durga Maa Ki Jai!” in the background, she felt a sense of peace and excitement.
As the idol disappeared into the river, Priya turned to Arjun. “Maybe it’s time for a new beginning for me too,” she said, her voice soft yet confident.
Arjun’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that.”
New Beginnings: A Love That Grows
As the festival drew to a close, Priya and Arjun’s bond deepened. They spent more time together, learning about each other’s dreams and values. Their connection felt natural, almost fated, but a serious conversation was inevitable. One evening, as they sat on the terrace, watching the sunset, Arjun spoke up.
“Priya, I’ve been thinking about us. I never expected to meet someone like you, but now I can’t imagine a future without you.”
Priya’s heart fluttered. She had been feeling the same way. But before she could respond, Arjun gently took her hand.
“I want to marry you, Priya.”
Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. She looked at him, the warmth of his hand steadying her, but beneath the surface, her mind was racing.
“I want that too, Arjun,” she said softly, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “I’ve never felt this sure about anything before. But…”
He looked at her, sensing the hesitation in her voice. “But?”
“There’s something we need to talk about,” Priya continued, her voice steady but firm. “You’ve mentioned before that your job as a civil servant means you’ll be posted in different places. I understand that, and I admire what you do. But I’ve worked hard to build my life, my independence, and my career. Bangalore has been my home for years, and I’ve made a name for myself there. I don’t want to lose that part of me.”
Arjun listened quietly, his expression thoughtful. He had always admired Priya for her ambition and independence, but he hadn’t fully considered how his work might affect their future together.
“I understand where you’re coming from,” he said after a pause. “But being in the civil service means I don’t have control over where I’m posted. I want us to be together, no matter where that is. I want us to build a life together, side by side.”
Priya nodded, appreciating his honesty. “I want that too, but I don’t want to be someone who just follows you wherever you go. I need my own space, my own purpose. I don’t want to give up my career or my sense of self. I’ve worked too hard for it.”
Arjun sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I get it, Priya. But a marriage means compromise, right? We can’t have it all. There has to be a way for us to make this work.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city humming below them. Priya looked out at the lights of Bhubaneswar, her mind conflicted. She wanted to be with Arjun, but she couldn’t imagine giving up everything she had worked for.
“I don’t have all the answers right now,” Priya admitted, her voice soft. “But maybe there’s a way for us to have both. Maybe we don’t need to compromise as much as we think.”
Finding Balance
The days that followed were filled with introspection for both Priya and Arjun. They spoke frequently, sometimes agreeing, sometimes debating, but always with mutual respect and understanding. They knew they were both strong individuals with their own dreams, and neither wanted the other to give up too much.
One evening, they met at Priya’s favorite café near Lingaraj Temple, a peaceful spot away from the buzz of the city. Over cups of steaming chai, Arjun brought up the topic again.
“Priya, I’ve been thinking about what you said—about finding a way for both of us to keep our independence while being together. I don’t want you to lose yourself in our marriage, and I don’t want to lose myself either. But we can’t live separate lives forever.”
Priya nodded, grateful for his honesty. “I’ve been thinking about it too. And I realized, maybe it’s not about compromising everything. Maybe it’s about flexibility. I can work remotely, at least partially. I can try to be a consultant so I can work hybrid from new places, even if it’s not exactly the same as what I’m doing now.”
Arjun’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope. “You’d be open to that?”
“I would,” Priya replied, her voice steady. “But it has to be a partnership, Arjun. We have to be equals. I need to know that my career and ambitions are as important to you as yours are to me. I don’t want to feel like I’m just trailing behind you.”
Arjun reached across the table, taking her hand in his. “You’ll never be trailing behind me, Priya. I want us to stand side by side, always. I know my job will take us to different places, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up what you’ve built. We can make this work.”
A New Beginning
Priya called her office and took work from home option as she wanted to sort out her new found relationship.It took weeks of conversations and planning, but slowly, Priya and Arjun began to carve out a vision of their future that honored both of their identities. Priya would continue her career as a consultant, working remotely whenever possible and exploring new opportunities wherever Arjun was posted. Arjun, on his part, made a commitment to support Priya’s professional growth, ensuring that wherever they moved, she would have the space and resources to thrive.
By the time they made the decision to marry, both of them felt confident that their relationship would be one of balance—where love, respect, and independence could coexist.
The day of their wedding arrived on a breezy December morning in Bhubaneswar. The ceremony was an intimate affair at a heritage venue, surrounded by family and close friends. Priya wore a traditional red Benarasi saree, her face glowing with joy, while Arjun, in his crisp sherwani, looked at her with an expression of pure admiration.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The tea had turned cold. Ambarish had not noticed when the steam from the tea cup had died down like a cloud dissipating in the sky. This was nothing new in his lonely life. Throughout the day his cook made many cups of tea and brought to his master. Some it of it got used, some went unnoticed.
The damp evening in his government bungalow had turned to a depressing night long ago. Rains outside matched his dark mood and the silent rage brewing within him. He wanted to skip dinner and go off to sleep to smother the frustration churning his heart. But he knew if his nights were somber, his mornings were no better.
In fact for Ambarish the mornings were always the most painful - starting with a stark reminder about the emptiness on the other side of the bed. For a few months after marriage his wife Chandrika had earned the right to sleep there, but one day it ended like a wisp of smoke. She had vanished from his life like a forgotten dream. The millionaire's daughter had discovered her marriage was a big mistake, She never knew what her father had found so enticing in his son-in-law except of course, the tall, handsome looks.
Chandrika's father had actually got tired of his wild daughter's reckless ways. She had embraced the city life of Delhi like an article of faith, spending time and money like there was no tomorrow. She was a strikingly beautiful girl, boyfriends appeared and disappeared in her life like fleeting shadows. Her days were fun at the college canteen, movie halls and restaurants, evenings were spent in clubs and bars. One day her father decided to return to his hometown in Bhubaneswar where Chandrika felt like a fish out of water. Her father found what he thought was a suitable boy for her, an officer from the State Forest Service, a handsome hunk from a reputed family. He told his daughter firmly and decisively that he would disinherit her and donate his wealth to a religious trust if she refused to agree to the marriage.
Ambarish was posted as a forest ranger at a remote corner of the state at the time of his marriage. His days were spent in office, but most nights were meant for tours inside deep forests to catch poachers and illicit tree-cutters. Chandrika had gone into the forests only once with her husband and had found to her horror it was a far cry from her club days, the wine-filled evenings, the dances and the flirtings. The rebel in her wanted to escape from the dull and drab life of a forester’s wife. Her taunts against the husband became more and more aggressive and the tantrums insufferable. And one day she ended her suffering by running away to her parents, never to return. Ambarish rushed to meet her, but she had made up her mind to call it quits. She handed him a piece of legal document ending her four-months-old marriage and relinquishing her rights as a wife. In a couple of months she left for the US, and Ambarish heard from some friends that after finishing her studies there she had settled down to a job and a life with a live-in partner.
Ambarish had got reconciled to his lonely life for the past eight years. He was in love with the forests, the trees, birds and animals. His only regret was, Chandrika could never see the soft, kind heart that throbbed within him for everyone around him.
However, this evening opened up a trauma he had hardly experienced in his life. Little Mantu, all of four-years, son of his friend’s sister, never realised how he had pierced his uncle’s soft heart with a deadly spear.
As he sat brooding, the dark night slithered around Ambarish like a silvery snake, filling his senses with an unforgiving rage. He had been posted in this little town three months back and had rediscovered himself with a nostalgic aroma. This was the town where he had spent his childhood in the government colony half a kilometer from his present DFO's bungalow. And he was happy to be back. His childhood friend Debasish was still here, living with his parents, wife and two kids.
Ambarish and Debasish were friends ever since they were small, primary school kids, their parents being neighbours in the government colony. They parted ways in college, Ambarish going to the Science stream and Debasish sticking to Arts. After post-graduation Amabarish joined the State Forest Service, Debasish stayed back in Sambalpur to join as a Lecturer in Larambha College. His wife was a teacher in a local private school and they decided to live in the little riparian town with Debasish's parents.
It became a normal habit for the two friends to meet every week, sharing endless cups of tea and delicious meals. They relived the past days, their happy, Innocent childhood. Ambarish, an only child of his parents, used to spend most of the day at the home of Debasish. Anjali, the cute, adorable sister of Debasish filled their days with fun, playing incessant pranks with the two friends. Three years elder to her, they used to love Anjali with great abundance, protecting her like a delicate angel.
Anjali was a live wire, fleeting from place to place like a lovely butterfly, spreading charm and laughter. She would snatch food from both her "brothers", claiming that since Ambarish didn't have a sister she had the right to an extra share of the sweets, ice creams and toffees. There was hardly anybody who did not love her.
As years passed, the only one who did not love Anjali was Bijay Singh, her husband. A lawyer at the local courts at Sambalpur, he was a towering personality, huge, handsome and smart. Anjali’s parents wanted her to live near them and after her graduation from college gave her in marriage to the lawyer, impressed by his personality and professional success.
Little did they know he was a devil in human form. During the day he was an aggressive lawyer in the courts, in the night after seven, eight pegs of whiskey at the local Bar Association club he became an aggressive husband at home. Around midnight the driver would drop him at home, and the terror would start. He would throw the food at Anjali’s face and took devilish pleasure in beating her and torturing her. The first few days after marriage were spent in taunts, insults and humiliation of his wife and in-laws. And within a couple of months the beatings started.
Ambarish was shocked to know all this from his friend. He could never imagine a sweet girl like Anjali being subjected to inhuman torture. He asked Debasish,
"Why is she still with this devil? She should have left him long back!"
Debasish's face darkened with anguish,
"Anjali, the delicate, decent girl tolerated it for some days and one day when we asked her about the swollen face and black eyes, she broke down. We persuaded her to come and live with us. You know what the rogue did?"
Ambarish was speechless - swollen face and black eyes? How can someone do it to a sweet angel like Anjali? He looked at his friend and shook his head.
"He filed a case against my father in the local courts alleging that he was depriving him of his conjugal rights. Another case against me that I was keeping my sister in illegal confinement to force her to sign papers relinquishing her rights to parental property. Can you imagine me, forcing my dear sister to sign property papers? You know quite well, for her happiness I can forego all the properties in the world, and this crook levels such silly allegation against me!"
Ambarish shook his head in disbelief,
"What did the judge say?"
"The judge? He seemed to be a friend of the rogue lawyer. He asked for proof of domestic violence. What proof could poor Anjali give? He directed my parents to send her back to her husband and not to interfere with their marital life."
Ambarish couldn't believe his ears. If judges did not protect abused women who would? Debasish continued,
"For about a month or so, he was a little better. And then the torture started again. Now Anjali has to take care of a son of four years and deal with a brutish husband. Her life has become a hell. Sometimes late in the night when he beats his wife, the son wakes up and starts crying. This animal gives him a slap or two to quieten him. You have seen Mantu, such a cute, lovely child. Can you imagine how inhuman a father could be to beat such a sweet child?"
Ambarish's heart ached for little Mantu. In the past few months he had visited Anjali’s home a number of times in the evenings, accompanied by Debasish. Mantu would always come running to them, sit on his Mamu's lap and chatter constantly, like Anjali, his mother used to chatter when she was small. Anjali would make tea and snacks for them, urge them to stay for dinner, but Debasish would take his friend home for dinner so that he could meet the parents also and they would talk about the good old days.
Whenever the two friends visited, Mantu would bring the Ludo game or the carom board to play and would clap in joy to defeat the elders. For a few moments the house would be filled with joy and laughter in the absence of the master of the house - the monster who held his family in terror. He would be busy drinking and playing cards at his club.
The evening he had sat brooding at home Ambarish had gone to meet Anjali and Mantu at home, for the first time unaccompanied by Debasish. He had called his friend in the morning about the evening's programme but Debasish had told him he would not be free for that evening and the three subsequent ones as he was in charge of organising the cultural festival at the college for Dussehra and would return home late.
Amabarish had knocked at the door, his hands full with chocolates and candies for Mantu. The little boy was ecstatic with joy, seeing so many candies for him. He had grabbed Ambarish's knees, looked up with a big smile and announced in a loud voice,
"You are my favorite uncle!"
Anjali had corrected him,
"Hey naughty boy, what is this uncle business? Shouldn't you call him Mamu?"
Amabarish was shocked at the pale, swollen face of Anjali, with two dark circles under the eyes,
"What happened Anjali? Why are you looking so pale?"
Anjali became even paler,
"Nothing Bhai, just a night of bad sleep. It will be alright by tomorrow."
She left for the kitchen to make tea and some snacks for Ambarish. Mantu went to his room and brought out a lot of toys,
"See Mamu, my new toys. Mama has brought them for me. She is my good Mama. Baba doesn't buy anything for me. Bad Baba! Look at this car, how the light comes up on the top when it runs. And this fire engine. Looks so big. But it has no water. How will it fight fire?"
Suddenly Mantu remembered something. With a mischievous smile he asked,
"Mamu, you want to see my Baba's toys? He has kept them in his almirah. I found them in the afternoon when Mama was sleeping. Let me bring them".
Mantu went in and brought what he thought were his Baba's toys - a pair of handcuffs and a leather belt. Ambarish was wondering what kind of toys they were, when Mantu blurted out,
"Last night my Baba had locked Mama's hands to the bed with these round toys and beating her with the belt. Mama was shrieking in pain and I woke up from sleep. Baba saw me get up from the bed. He stopped beating her and opened up these locks. Mama gathered me in her arms and ran to the next room. We slept there."
Ambarish's head had started reeling. He suddenly knew why Anjali was looking pale and her eyes had dark circles under them. He was so angry he thought of rushing to the Bar Association Club, drag Bijay out and choke him to death.
Mantu had changed the topic in his playfulness,
"You know Mamu, Durga Puja is only six days away. Mama has taught me the mantra for Durga Maa. You want to hear?"
Mantu started reciting the mantra in his soft, sweet voice -
"Yaa devi thalbabhutethu matlu lupena thantitha, namastasa namastasa namastasa namo namah."
Amabarish loved to hear the mantra, although his heart was heavy with sorrow.
Suddenly Anjali appeared with a tray of tea and snacks. She smiled at her son,
"Hey, naughty boy, showing off your knowledge of mantras to your Mamu? Don't you know how learned he is?"
Suddenly her gaze fell on the handcuff and the toys. All colour drained out of her face and she shrieked,
"Mantu, where did you get them? Why did you bring them here?"
Before Mantu could reply, Ambarish tried to calm her.
"Don't worry. He thinks these are toys his father uses to play games with you. What's going on Anjali? Why are you putting up with this monster?"
Anjali slumped on the sofa and burst into tears,
"I don't want to Ambu Bhai, but this man is a Rakshyasa in human form. He filed cases against my parents when i went to stay with them. He did not spare Debu bhai also. You keep away from him and don't interfere with our problem. Otherwise he will drag you to courts."
Ambarish scoffed at her,
"He can do nothing to me. Anjali, how long you want to put up with this torture? Why don't you do something?."
Anjali shook her head,
"I won't live long Ambu Bhai. My heart bleeds, thinking of what will happen to my precious little Mantu after me."
Ambarish had no words to console her. A rage engulfed him like a heap of fire and he returned home, burning within.
Two days after that the week-long Pooja vacation started. The courts were closed. Bijay was growing restless as the evening was drawing near. The Bar Association club was closed and he desperately needed some company to drown himself in alcohol. Suddenly he heard the sound of a jeep stopping outside his house. Debasish and Ambarish entered. This was one of the rarest occasions they had the privilege of finding the master of the house at home.
Ambarish greeted Bijay,
"Hello big brother, what are you doing sitting at home? Why don't you come with us? We are going for a tour of the forests. May be we will spot some rare animals."
Bijay Singh laughed at him, a mocking, derisive laughter,
"Hah, have you forgotten, my name is Singh, I am a Lion. What little animals will you show me in your forest? Some rats, a few rabbits? A lion is happy only when he sees a tiger, nothing less."
Ambarish smiled,
"Come on brother, maybe, we will be lucky to see a tiger."
An evil grin spread over Bijay's face,
"I will go with you only on one condition - you will let me carry this bottle with me. Hah, khoob jamega jab ham chaar saath challengey - Mey, tum dono aur meraa yeh jigri dost!"
With that he planted a kiss on the Whiskey bottle.
Debasish was enjoying the passionate show of love for alcohol by his brother-in-law. Out of fun he asked Bijay,
"What if the tiger attacks you? Do you know how to fire a gun?"
Bijay twirled his thick moustache and roared with laughter,
"Of course I know how to use a gun. Ask my classmates - who was the champion in shooting in the NCC camp of the Law College? It was I, Bijay Singh , a lion among ordinary men. Come, let's go. My throat has become dry. I must moisten it with my heavenly liquid."
They set out for the Sitakoti jungle twenty two kilometers away from Sambalpur. Because he kept on drinking his whiskey, Bijay had to sit in the back seat of the official jeep which had wire-mesh protection on all sides. Ambarish drove the jeep and Debasish sat in the front with him. Ambarish was quite familiar with the route.
Evening was setting in when they started for the forests. Soon it got dark, and the road became lonelier. Public was not allowed to enter the reserved forest beyond the check gate after five pm. The guard at the gate saluted Ambarish and opened the gate. Thick forests made the evening eerie, strange sounds pierced the air with a scary shrill. Ambarish's eyes were alert to check if illegal tree-cutters or poachers were lurking in the darkness.
Bijay Singh had started drinking right from the moment they had left his home. Midway through the two hour journey he had got drunk and started shouting in a loud voice, abusing everyone, from the corrupt government to the useless Gods. Every passing vehicle was a target of verbal abuse and poor men and women carrying fuel wood or farm produce on their head were objects of ridicule. He had offered whiskey to Ambarish and Debasish, and when they declined he abused them, calling them nincompoop and eunuchs. When he started abusing his in-laws in filthy words, Debasish wanted to shout back, Amabarish restrained his friend, asking him to keep quiet, since they were very close to the check gate of the jungle and Ambarish didn't want to create a scene.
By the time they entered the forest Bijay had gulped down about eight pegs of whiskey straight from the bottle, in less than two hours and was horribly drunk. He became louder, his abuses got filthier,
"Hey, you two idiots, where are the animals? You brought me here to listen to the grunts and moans of rabbits and jackals making love in the night? Where are the tigers? Bring the tigers if you can. But how can you? Both of you are sons of eunuchs. How will you produce a tiger? You can produce only rabbits, nothing else. Father rabbits producing baby rabbits....."
Debasish was getting livid with anger. Amabarish gestured him to keep mum. The jeep was rolling on slowly, its headlights dimmed. Suddenly a big roar shook the jungle. The roar of a tiger! And it was quite close. May be somewhere within a hundred yards! Ambarish switched off the lights and the ignition. There was another roar. The tiger must have sensed their presence! There was a cacophony of noise from other animals, they were alerting each other, to scurry to safety.
The roar of the tiger excited Bijay, as if the evening had become alive for the first time. He shouted within the jeep,
"Hah, here he comes, here comes the son of a turd. I knew he would come - the tiger would come to meet the lion. Wait, you piece of shit, I will show you what a Singh is made of!"
Bijay lifted the gun from the back seat and jumped out of the jeep. Debasish was terror-struck, he shouted,
"What are you doing, you fool? Get back into the jeep!!"
Bijay was beyond listening to any sense. A violent rage had seized him. He threw the gun back into the jeep and slammed the door shut,
"For a lion, bare hands are enough to kill a stinking tiger. Come, you son of a scum, I will show you what a Singh can do!"
He tottered towards the dense forest, looking for the tiger. Debasish was shivering in fear, his body drenched in sweat. Amabarish held the steering wheel in one hand, and the other hand on the ignition key. Suddenly Anjali’s tear-stained face and Mantu's sweet, cute little face flashed before his eyes. Quietly he started chanting,
Yaa devi sarva bhuteshu Nyaya roopena sansthita,
Namastasyey, namastasyey,
Namastasyey namo namah......
The tiger roared again, and yet again, he must have sensed a shadow moving towards him. As the roars became louder and angrier, no one knew when the bleats of a drunken beast got drowned in them.......
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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