Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVII (29-Nov-2024) - SHORT STORIES
Title : Autumn (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
An acclaimed Painter, a published poet, a self-styled green woman passionately planting fruit trees, a published translator, and a former Professor, Lathaprem Sakhya, was born to Tamil parents settled in Kerala. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor of poems, short stories and paintings to several e-magazines and print books. Recently published anthologies in which her stories have come out are Ether Ore, Cocoon Stories, and He She It: The Grammar of Marriage. She is a member of the executive board of Aksharasthree the Literary Woman and editor of the e - magazines - Aksharasthree and Science Shore. She is also a vibrant participant in 5 Poetry groups. Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, Literary Vibes, India Poetry Circle and New Voices and Poetry Chain. Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English, Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni) and currently she is busy with two more projects.
Table of Contents :: Short Stories
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
NO WOMAN NO CRY
SALVATION
02) Sreekumar K
NEIGHBOURS
03) Ishwar Pati
LOVE IS NOT 2+2
04) Snehaprava Das
LOVE IS A THING WITH ANOTHER FACE
05) Sujata Dash
IT FEELS DIVINE
06) Leena Thampi
PINCH ME
07) Dr. Elham Hossain
ODISHA: A BELOVED CRADLE OF POETRY
08) Ashok Kumar Mishra
AKSHIYA, THE MILK MAN
09) Jay Jagdev
THE SLEEP-RESTFULNESS CONUNDRUM
10) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
SPARROWS
11) Meera Raghavendra Rao
THE SYMBOLISM OF ANGKOR WAT
12) T. V. Sreekumar
I AM MOHAN
13) Shri Satish Pashine
THE BRAVE JAWANS OF SIACHEN: A TALE OF COMPASSION AND COURAGE
14) Bankim Chandra Tola
THIRST DIED UNQUENCHED
15) Dr. Rekha Mohanty
THE PLACE I FELL IN LOVE WITH
16) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
STRESS AND THE MODERN FAMILY
17) Sreechandra Banerjee
LOVINGLY YOURS
18) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: SHINKANSEN, A TECHNOLOGICAL MARVEL!
19) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A SUNSET MOMENT
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Sabir got up at eight and looked at the cot on the other side of the lodge room. Kabir, his roommate and close friend, on that fourposter was still lightly snoring. Sabir did not disturb him as it was a Sunday-morning. So, he went down quietly to have a cup of tea from a little kiosk serving tea on the other side of the road on which their deluxe Sarkaria Lodge stood.
Sabir and Kabir, lived in the double-occupancy room of the lodge, located in a posh locality of Chembur, Mumbai. They had entered that spacious room fifteen years ago, when Mumbai had been Bombay, as young men. They had landed jobs in Indian Overseas Bank (IOB) and had joined at a branch in Chembur together as bank clerks, and had moved into that room of the Sarkaria Lodge, the best among all cheap rental places.
After living in Mumbai for fifteen years, they had shed their small-town attitude of Lucknow where they had their origin. To be brief they had nothing memorable or happy in their past as memories at their native town, no specific affinity to anything of their nativity. Mumbai had become sort of their native soil.
Both the friends stood on the threshold of forties, the so-called middle age, and were still unmarried. But neither Sabir, nor his friend Kabir felt the passage of time. They felt like spring chickens in worldly matters. Two happy-go-lucky men and in Mumbai tongue, they loved living a bindas life style, carefree with no attachment.
They had done college together, and had hardly anyone to call their own except some distant cousins, who never bothered about them. Sabir and Kabir reciprocated to that sentiment with equal indifference.
From the time they left school, they did tuition and other odd jobs like newspaper sale in mornings to afford a living and the study. They were average students, therefore, had joined the Commerce stream in college for which the percentage required for admission was lower than Science or Arts streams. They passed out as Bachelors of Commerce (BCom), before competing for Bank-jobs. Luckily, they succeeded to land bank jobs.
In their bank posting they were never ambitious. They never grovelled before bosses or helped any customer who would grease their palms. They were not interested to make money outside their salary. Though reputed for their hard work and honesty, for some mysterious reasons, they never got excellent annual performance reports, and their contemporaries had been promoted as officers out of turn. They could reach only to the senior clerical level. They never felt bad for their lack of capacity for Jugaad, an euphemism for underhand dealings, for promotions or other benefits in life.
They would come to office together, leave together, year after year, and were jeered by their jealous colleagues as having a Dostana relationship. Dostana was a cushioning euphemism for male-intimacy, or homosexuality, a socially used rude word. But though they never bothered to protest with loud retort, they were no homosexuals and most of their colleagues knew their sexual orientation, as they had seen Sabir and Kabir moving with their steady girlfriends in Holi or Diwali times.
They had also no religious ostentation or pretentions. Sabir Ahmad and Kabir Rajak being respectively a Muslim and a Hindu, were equally visible at Tazia processions and Chhath Puja gatherings year after year with their steady girlfriends.
Sabir returned to his room that Sunday morning after having his tea and carrying a glass of kadak chai as Mumbaikars referred to a strong and spiced brewed tea. The kadak chai launched Kabir into the new day for which he smiled with immense thanks to Sabir.
After getting ready, shining and fresh after bath and toiletry, both the friends took an autorickshaw to the posh flat in a business locality where their girlfriends lived together in their two-bedroom-hall-kitchen house, referred to as 2BHK Flat locally. They rang the bell expecting Shama, Sabir’s girlfriend or Reshma, Kabir’s, or both the girls would open the door.
But surprising them on the other side of the door stood two well-built men of undeterminable age. Out of confusion they checked the house number and found it was right. The two strangers rudely and loudly barked together, “Yes?” Sabir and Kabir were nonplussed and in utter confusion said, “Sorry,” and left.
Down the building, Sabir confirmed over his mobile from Shama, his girlfriend, about the unbelievable turn of events. The friends learnt that suddenly the big brothers of Shama and Kabir’s girlfriend Reshma had arrived without prenotice as Shama’s big brother was going to marry in a week’s time. Their brothers were sent by their fathers, who were childhood friends and neighbours at Panchkula, Chandigarh, to take the girls home to attend the auspicious occasion.
But Shama assured her boyfriend Sabir that he had not to worry as she and her friend Reshma had decided to return after a week of the marriage of her older brother. She also informed that their brothers were given a cock-and-bull story about the two men who had rung the bell of their flat in the morning, “They might have come to the wrong flat by mistake.” She requested Sabir to stand by her lie if there would be another chance meeting.
The two women, Shama Singh and Reshma Khan, both extremely good looking and softspoken girls, worked in a big upmarket jewellery store as sales women. They were almost ten years younger to Sabir and Kabir. Their life stories apparently were not much different from their boyfriends’ except having loving families back at homes, located in Panchkula, Chandigarh, happy memories of childhood in their beautiful and peaceful home-city, and they had run away to the megacity from home to try their fate in movies.
Like a pre-destined fate, the two girls had arrived at Mumbai together as runaway friends from their mid-graduation course at Chandigarh to be heroines in movies, both innocent in terms of movie trade and worldly ways. They waited in wings of movie shooting platforms for long, were cheated of their money, charm, simplicity, virginity, and were reduced to hand-to-mouth hardship by the movie-touts frequenting studios as false talent-hunters.
They in their hardship days, worked as junior artists in movies where payment was very low, but the two friends remained together in the thick and thin of life. They also did small time dubious jobs like escort girls and workers in massage-parlours. During a foreign trip escorting an elderly industrialist attending overseas business meetings, when she assisted the old boss to handle new smart gadgets, she tweaked the kind man’s heart strings.
The man took Shama into his daughterly affection, heard her tragic experiences, and employed her in one of the major jewellery outlets in his chain of stores, the outlet branch located at Chembur, Mumbai. She having the big boss’s blessings, in no time rose in ranks among the trusted staff-members, trust being the bedrock of a jewellery industry where even the dust under feet was valuable. Shama was employed as the chief supervising sales executive of her branch.
She then introduced her friend Reshma to her big boss and roped Reshma into her team of salesgirls. Finally, both the Chandigarh girls had stable jobs in the metropolis with decent salaries, bonus and perks thrown in. Now, they contacted the parents after a passage of four years of their Mumbai stay. With a loan from the Indian Overseas Bank, they bought a 2BHK flat, a little away from their workplace.
Both the girls visited the Chembur branch of the Indian Overseas Bank where Sabir and Kabir from Lucknow had been working. But the men did not know them, nor did the girls know them. The girls, as a part of their training never ogled at men, so they had no idea how the two men behind counters looked, but each of the men, as all Indian men ogled women, had eyefuls of Shama and Reshma visiting their bank together and separately. Sabir fell for Shama and Kabir for Reshma in their heart of hearts.
A terrible thing happened to Reshma one day. She was having a coffee in a CCD at Sion, Mumbai, and she was alone on a jewellery delivery-job for a client. Her purse containing the jewellery was by her hand. Suddenly a man from the side table rose and ran away with her purse. She raised a loud alarm and the people in the coffee joint looked stunned. But a man from Reshma’s neighbouring table said, “Mam, don’t worry. Let me teach the thief a lesson.” He sprinted after the thief and returned after a while with Reshma’s purse.
The good Samaritan rued, “I couldn’t catch the thief, sorry mam, but saved your purse.” Reshma checked the contents of the purse; the jewellery and her personal tidbits were untouched. She was immensely thankful to the man, “I am Reshma Ahmed. Thank you, Sir. It will be my pleasure if you join me over coffee at my table.” The man smiled, moved to Reshma’s table with his half-finished coffee mug, extended a hand, “This is Kabir Rajak. I am a banker.” They shook hands.
That is how the two had met, Reshma and Kabir. The meetings were repeated at various joints at Chembur on days when they were let off from their work. Reshma kept her man-friend, not yet a boyfriend, Kabir, hidden from her friend Shama’s eyes, waiting to unleash the surprise at an opportune moment.
Surprisingly a similar incidence repeated with Shama. The rescuer of her handbag introduced himself as ‘Sabir Khan, a banker’. She also held her trump card, discovery of a friendly man, to play before her friend Reshma ar a more propitious moment.
But a third incident was the biggest surprise of all earlier surprises for the two girls. Reshma and Shama were shopping one evening in the R City Mall of Ghatkopar. They saw two men moving down an escalator together, laughing and talking with a ‘who cares’ attitude. Each of the girls were stunned. Reshma found her once-upon purse-snatcher and the purse-salvager together, and so did Shama, as well.
After their initial shock, the girls quickly shared their surprises and knew the tricky truth. They followed Sabir and Kabir without the latter’s knowledge and discussed between them how they had been taken for a ride.
They laughed a lot and Shama said, “I guess the simple Wodehousian game was played on us not with any malice or ill will, rather for winning our favour. The guys appear good at heart and desperate to come closer. Goodlooking. And if truly bankers as they claimed, not bad choices for knowing more about them.”
When they accosted the men, the two went pale, but got back their colours when the girls giggled, Reshma telling, “You two funny men! If you liked us so much, you should not have gone into the cheap Hindi Movie stunt to win our favours. Had it gone awry, you would have lost your girls and landed in police lockup. You two are not bad as lookers, seem educated, both of you claim to be bankers, and if you are true, let’s go to the CCD on the third floor and have a session of proper mutual intro.”
All that had happened almost four years ago and they had signed unwritten bonds of eternal courtship, deep and not stopping at any hurdle or stop-signal except with a tacit understanding not to speak of marriage because none of them was yet ready to adopt family responsibilities.
Shama Singh, a Hindu girl, had taken Sabir Ahmad, a Muslim man, into her fold like a fish would take to water. The same was the case between Reshma Khan, a Muslim girl, and Kabir Rajak, the Hindu man. Their intimacy grew over weekend-meetings and spending quality times at outstation-resorts during holidays.
The gentle bankers had retreated from the door of their girlfriend’s flat and after talking to their girls, and knowing the upsetting details, they went back to their lair to lick their wounds for the rude affrontery from the two strangers, an unknown future, and a possible starvation period without their wife-like girlfriends. But Shama’s message had given them the heart, perhaps, it would be a short separation.
But the girls sort of vanished into thin air. Their telephone numbers showed ‘don’t exist’. Sabir or Kabir had never bothered to know their Chandigarh addresses. In their net-age comfort, a mobile number had seemed enough connect to anyone.
The last they had heard from Shama that her family was trying to marry her off on the day of her brother’s marriage to a guy, she hardly knew, a brother to her own big brother’s would be wife, because of a system of exchange of brides between two families like the exchange offer for buying durables. That social system helped to avoid the payment of hefty dowries to the grooms from either side. So, the girls were planning to run away again like their adventure to Mumbai, years ago.
Sabir and Kabir never could know if their girlfriends ran away or not. They assumed while on the run, to shake off the tails of pursuers, the girls might have destroyed their sim cards. So, the distraught men patiently waited to get the calls from new numbers. But the calls never came.
A harsh full-year of waiting passed. The men remained loyal to their girls, more loyal than husbands. The happy memories of their togetherness, the first feeling of affinity in their earlier drab lives, the memories of the whispers of sweet nothings between the couples, the wishful dreams seen together kept their hopes alive for two more years.
Then followed frustration, depression, sad days and tears. One night, Sabir lying awake and crying in the dark heard Kabir’s sobs and low moans. Both cried in each other’s arms.
From the next day, Sabir, the more practical and less sentimental of the two, started planning a different life style to forget the girlfriends. Once, he said in a loud soliloquy not specifically to Kabir but like musing, “These girls have no care for us. They were only our fair-weather friends. As soon as they sniffed like a bitch a better piece of bone, they forgot their old affinity.”
He noticed Kabir getting angry, and charged aloud, “Bullshit Sabir, pure nonsense. Do you think such shit about your Shama?” Sabir looked down ashamed, “No, I was trying to divert you, bhai.” They would cry together for their loss and foolishness for not keeping more details of their girls at least to go to Chandigarh and look for them at their addresses.
Sabir knew deep down his heart it was not so easy to assess the girls’ zero response over the last four years. It was something dubious, and morbid. What exactly had happened was beyond his grasp. But something sinister. But he could not see his friend fade away for a piece of ass. He searched social media for a match for his Kabir. But all efforts failed as Kabir put his foot down, “None can take Reshma’s place in my life.”
Sabir bought a two-bedroom flat with a bank loan and they moved into their separate bedrooms of the flat. Kabir put a signboard on his bedroom, ‘Reshma & Kabir’s Nest’. Total eighteen years of waiting passed like eighteen decades and often they would share their sweet moments with their girlfriends who would be in their fifties by then. The two friends tearfully waited their return, in full faith on their fair love, celebrating each of their girlfriend’s birthdays like they were around.
They were transferred out of Chembur branch of IOB bank on promotions to officer ranks, one to Prabhadevi branch and the other to Colaba’s. It was after eighteen years, their long wait for Shama and Reshma appeared to near a happy ending. A friend informed, “A middle aged lady was asking about them. She had temporarily checked into the Grant Hotel, a cheap joint in Chembur. Both Sabir and Kabir ran to Grant Hotel, not very far from their residence and who opened the room? It was Shama! Gray, bob-haired, middle-aged, but Shama in one piece.
Sabir and Kabir came to know why their girlfriends became incommunicado. They had run away to the border town Katara where an aunt of Reshma lived, but they overheard their aunt speaking to Reshma’s father that very evening. So, behind the aunt’s watch they fled into the night on foot putting as much distance between them and the aunt. On the small hours of that night, they entered a village, where they were arrested by a night-petrol posse of Pakistan Police as Indian spies. Without knowing they had strayed into Pakistan territory.
They were put behind bars as a precaution as nothing could be proved for or against them. They did not give their real names, home addresses, or contact numbers out of fear that they might be returned back to their families. Those details would have been evidence in their favour.
Year after year they represented to the Indian Embassy to be released. After eighteen years in an occasion of prisoner exchange scheme between India and Pakistan, Shama was released but Reshma’s number in the queue missed the magic number. Now Shama at Mumbai moved into the room reserved as ‘Reshma & Kabir’s Nest’. Sabir did not move in with his girlfriend but decided to give company to Kabir until Reshma’s return.
Kabir knew it was a question of time and one day his waiting was going to end. But when? Now, revived hope made the waiting more painful. Shama kept her contacts alive with certain level minded authorities in Pakistan for news about her friend Reshma. News were received that Reshma might be included in the forthcoming exchange of prisoners’ list programmed on the occasion of Eid. One day a call came from a PCO telephone of Amritsar that Reshma was taking the train for Mumbai.
The good news was too much for Kabir’s weak heart, and he had to be shifted to hospital for severe chest pain. The pain proved fatal. In a major heart attack, Kabir passed away. Next morning, Sabir and Shama brought Kabir home and laid him down in the room marked ‘Reshma & Kabir’s Nest’ in a casket filled with ice, waiting for Reshma who was arriving in a few hours.
Reshma, now a greying woman of fifty-one, telephoned from a PCO at Dadar Rly Station, and said to Shama as Kabir’s number was out of range, “Alighted from the train at Dadar, coming straight to our flat by taxi. But I don’t have money to pay taxi fare or a mobile to make contact. So, stay down, all three of you, to receive me and pay the taxi fare”.
Reshma, alighting from taxi, found Sabir and Shama waiting for her. She was outraged, “Where is my Kabir?” The two friends, looking distraught, pointed up to the flat on 16th floor, “He is waiting for you there.” Reshma was confused but quietly rode the lift with them and entered the flat. There she found “Reshma & Kabir’s Nest”, and entered it with pounding heart, to meet her beloved after more than eighteen years.
She found her Kabir in air-conditioned comfort, sleeping in eternal rest. She noticed before breaking down on Kabir’s body, a smile of immense contentment with a big smile and tears flowing down his eyes, perhaps his happy tears welcoming Reshma, his sweetheart to their ‘Nest’. (END)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Madam, you often tagged me as unreal, compared me to the theme of an abstract painting, and said, “You saying nothing are eloquent enough for me with a vast saga of feelings.” That you claimed as your serendipitous discovery to keep it to yourself like a private collection, like a pack of personal cards to play solitaire.
But my discovery was real - your eyes brimming with love that often overflowed in moistness and as mystery. You loved me as I was, might I be unreal. But, wasn’t that unreal persona a figment of your abstraction?
I had to change my fundamentals, the longitudes and latitudes of my layered thoughts, and position them aligned to the topography of our relationship. Condemned as a selfish, businesslike, and mindless foolish woman, with only a mind focused on self, yet you loved me, and not only could love, but feel, bleed, weep, and finally commit suicide, the highest rung up a ladder of feelings. That negated the blemishes you were associated with. Bhaskar once described you as a whore in anger, and I had to slap him for that slip of tongue and made him apologize.
Did you ever whore, Madam? Bhaskar had introduced you to me, and for that I was ever indebted to him. And did you do that horrendous last act, an enactment of the drama of suicide that went awry, taking your life? Again, Bhaskar had brought the news of your death, and though, he had had nothing to do with it, I never would forgive him.
Did you really die or returned after experiencing the NDE (Near-Death-Experience)? Or was it to put your indelible signature on the life’s graph, stating that you were no whore as Bhaskar had tagged you, but an experimenting buff of body-mind-science? Even that whoring now and then, so incredible an association for your personality, could that be a few experimental stunts?
Madam, after eleven years you are here again, coming all the way from Frankfort by flight, changing craft at Delhi airport, you say, just to repeat a lovable experience, walking by my side on sands of the Gomti River, that we did over a few evenings, roughly fifteen years ago. I had taken you there with that special pleasure in mind, mine not yours, to walk on the sands of Gomti with you, the keeper of my soul and values, but I would know later you fell in love with those sands.
That evening, when we had walked on the bank of Gomti, was an autumn sunset, a balmy late afternoon, just like today. I feel flattered for this honour, Madam, and feel grateful to you today to come such a great distance just to walk with me.
Now I live around here, an unkempt old fellow, in this quiet and gregarious town of famed Tawaifs and Mujra dancers and Nautch girls who dance away on steps of classic Kathak but enriching their dances with sensuality in words, songs, and dance-mudras.
Oh, why do I address you as ‘Madam’? Because the distance in time, eleven years, holds my tongue in a grip of modesty, from slipping into a more familiar address ‘Lolita’, your name.
I never was in the list of who’s who, but that I was special to you was revealed to me as they say with an overdose of mystery, soaked with puzzles, but at bottom creating an undecipherable riddle, all wrapped into a capsule and placed on my tongue by you to swallow. I swallowed and saw you in a new light, realizing that I could still fall in love, after the ‘Blue Jay’ called love had been killed by my college-sweetheart wife with meticulous efforts.
After you ran away, when I visited your parental house in Delhi, by all probability, the woman who opened the door was you yourself, my Lolita. But in my spontaneous hug, you remained cold and frigid, and said, “I am not your Lolita but her lookalike twin Gita.” Yes, you might be Lolita, but no more ‘my Lolita’, I thought, though you had all the attributes of ‘my Lolita’ that my senses could feel and recognize. I returned heart-broken. That very act of yours eleven years ago changed you for me to an alien, Madam ji.
I knew you had serious intent to stay away from me, possibly our familiarity had grown stifling and you wanted oxygen. I decided to let you do what you loved to do. Love ought to be like that. In its package one noble thing was charity, that I preached to all as forming both the X-and-Y axis of love. When I preached charity-in-love to myself, the eleven years of painful hiatus of yours tasted a sweet-loss.
I am baffled. I had the news of your getting killed in a suicidal accident as you hanged yourself from the bedroom fan. Your note on the mantel piece read, “If found unconscious, in my experiment, take me to hospital. I am only looking for a Near-Death-Experience and not dying.” I knew you loved discovering new grounds, and secrets of life, as you claimed to have discovered the unreal mystique of me. But wasn’t going to the brinks of kicking the bucket a bit too much?
You had died in your room in a hotel at Frankfort last winter. I had cried like a child bawling for his mother at her death. My tears were shed to its last drop and from then on, I lived dry-eyed. Today, I saw you walking across the lawn from the gate in flesh and blood and taking me in your arms, I won’t deny, for minutes, I had tears soaking my inner being but my eyes remained dry. My dry-eyed-tears were my happy tears that you were not dead, and also half of the dry-drops were crying in happy-pain, happy over the ending of the painful hiatus.
Bhaskar who brought the news of your death must eat crow. He might have the wrong news from a wrong source. Would you come with me to meet him, or at least let him know on telephone that you are alive. Better by a video call, either by you or me or together, to dispel his idea that you are dead. I wish the world to rejoice with me.
No? You don’t care what Bhaskar thinks, that rascal, rather feel better this way, walk with me in flesh and blood, and let Bhaskar remain baffled to see me walking with a female ghost. Do you mean it seriously, Madam? Do you really wish to live as a ‘dead-Lolita’? Alive for me, dead for Bhaskar and others, what a wonderful experiment, Madam? Really, spooky!
I remember our first meeting. My friend Bhaskar, when I was unaware that he was a pimp, had arranged it, saying you were a needy friend and earned a little extra income that way by pruning up a man’s personal life, as they do in grooming classes, for a better life, happier life.
He told me you had a busy schedule but you had found time for me, taking it out of your busy itinerary while trotting from one needy to the other. Those days I was floundering in life after my college-sweetheart wife had left me, declaring me evil, abominable, beastly etc. I had been unsuccessfully trying for a foothold in involvements with yoga, crystals, perfumes, Reiki, Gurus, and what not. I thanked Bhaskar to have given me a new avenue, you.
He had accepted a hefty payment on your behalf, saying you would be with me until I would be in one piece, a package deal. He said you were too proud to sell your craft over a counter as you had not yet rubbed off your sheen of respectability as a woman. So, you received a payment indirectly as an appreciation of your artform, healing of a cracking soul.
Those days, I was feeling lonely and sunk. My son and daughter, who lived with me, were in the last leg of their schooling. They were growing strangers to me. I read on their faces, resentment, as if I had thrown away their mother, and my clarification held no water. I was swimming alone across the difficult sweep of life, the approaching mid-age crises.
I met you, and an intimacy bridged the chasm between us during that first meeting and grew cozier by the day, which was neither included in the package that Bhaskar had sold me, nor expected. All changed after that. I had a robust time, deep, meaningful, and of substance, better than any earlier time. You had grace, vivre, style, oomph, and a peculiar coyness. The combination was like a napalm bomb. I was not ready to burn but was on fire, named Lolita, you Madam.
I heard you were like a gorgeous Geisa of love-craft, going to bed with someone of immaculate taste in the finest game of life. But I found that they were lying, you were million miles away from whoring, might that be most refined high and mighty Geisha-whoring. You were anything but a sex-worker, not even a seducer of the Geisa-class or taste. Because you understood ‘love’ and its delicate nuances.
One afternoon, at the height of our intimacy, I tried to make love to you, but you held me back, “I am not ready, Ashutosh. I am not a whore. I am your love.” Surprisingly, I was not hurt, rather, felt very warm and immensely loved at that moment, the first ever experience of that exalted and unblemished feeling in my life.
I learnt from you on terms of keeping it to myself that my friend Bhaskar was an undercover pimp and there were many young and smart mares in his stable. Even his stable boasted of studs, who gave the other types of services to the lonely middle-aged or elderly females with indifferent husbands or no husbands or paramours. Out of the payment he would keep a fifty-percent as his cut just for a telephone call.
But I decided to play a little game of sulking with you, after your refusal to my advances. I acted feeling hurt. I walked on you from the hotel room where we had checked in. You tried to warm up to me, humour me, but I decidedly remained aloof that day. Today, I cannot recall what was my final call on that and how the spell broke.
You apparently played back my game on me. It was my turn to be ignored. You did not take my calls. Then I would know you were not taking anyone’s calls, and it was no game. Even Bhaskar came calling. He forgetting the niceties of camaraderie, directly came to his point, “Just release Lolita, dear Ashutosh, from your harem. Take your cut. I am ready to share half of my half cut, what I get for her. She is highly rated in my market and now a very rich patron is waiting for her type in exchange of a fortune.”
I hissed at him and fought back, even surprising myself, was I not fighting like a pimp myself? One of those days, Bhaskar informed me with glee, “Your bitch is in ICU. She is dying.” I knew the real cause of you going out of touch, no game, no sulk, but bad health that you kept to yourself like a secret ulcer.
I rushed to your side with no loss of time, and cried holding your hand burning with fever. But you said cooly, “You have come Ashutosh. I can now fight with Yama himself.” And you recovered from Pneumonia amazingly fast. I took you to your one PG accommodation and stayed by your side except returning home to sleep a few hours at nights until you fully recovered.
The eight days by tour side, like living by an ailing wife, whom I spoon-fed, press the head and feet to relieve your aching, supporting you walk as far as balcony to sit and look at the free world. I realized I was in love again. The love, that had died years ago when my college-sweetheart wife had treated me fiendishly, started blossoming again. Excuse me, I may be mixing up the sequential timeline, ah, my wooly memory!
I realize today, a sickbed is a playground of real love, where one learns to love the lover’s unwashed body odour, love to see the partner without her toiletry, love to kiss her unwashed mouth. My reward – you, my love, got well.
One day my children were out for their college picnic. We sat in our drawing room and talked for hours over tea. You said, “You have broken my heart, Ashutosh. I have lost my zeal to live. Bhaskar lied to you, I never do any work, except giving lonely men temporary company, I know no other work. But after meeting you, I lost all zeal to live without you, and when you did not propose to me to be your wife, my heart splintered. Not that I would have married you, but I wanted assurance that I was still desirable to a man I loved.”
You looked with downcast eyes, and whispered, “No, that was a lie, just a rumbling of my madness. Forget it. I am looking for a job. My uncle has promised to find one for me at Mumbai. You know, I am post-graduate in English literature, romantic poetry was my specialization.” If it was another ploy to keep alive your womanly pride, it sounded hollow.
When you were getting up, I quietly placed five thousand-rupee in currency notes in your purse. But you took them out, put it back in my hand, and whispered, “I am not a whore, or an escort woman, at least, no more. Please don’t misunderstand me. Don’t insult me by buying my time.”
When I walked you to the bus stop in the next lane, from where you used to take a bus to your PG, you stopped, turned to me, embarrassment writ large on your pretty but disheveled face, and asked, “Could you give me a small loan, Ashutosh? I am broke. I would return every pie of it the moment I have my resources.”
I walked you to the nearest ATM and took out fifty thousand cash. I asked, “Would that be enough?” You shivered for an imperceptible instant, accepted the notes, and said, “Thanks, enough, more than enough. But I insist, I would repay you back, in full.” That was a dignified statement. I learnt even a loan could be taken with dignity.
How we understood our currents and under'currents so well always! Our turbulences as well! You never worked after that, and became my de facto wife for long thirteen years but without marrying me, yet devoted, loyal, concerned, and caring for me and my children, managing my house.
How you came, how you continued to stay in my house, when you started saying ‘our house', and ‘our children’ is now a blur in my memory. I would listen to that one day from your honest lips. The details.
What I recall you came home to pay condolences to me and children after my wife’s death in a heart attack. You lingered after that as a part of my house, a housekeeper, a caretaker, a house help, a wifely caring person, all rolled into one, but never a de jure wife.
You would sleep in my bed every night like a regular wife, soak me with your love and care all hours of the day; but we never made love. In your company, I would realize how irrelevant was sex in an intense affair, the so-called great driving force between passionate lovers had just been a myth, a ghost, haunting lovers over centuries. It could be swept into an inconsequential corner like a dead insect in Kafka’s novella ‘The Metamorphosis’.
After you left, I didn’t know why should I live longer without you, our children gone to settle down with their spouses at their work stations, leaving me as a crusty, corny and seedy lonely middle-aged man in my empty pod like house.
This bank by Gomti we walk now, leisurely on its moody sands perhaps, has apparently not forgotten the rhythm of our footsteps altogether, and I don’t know if this sweet fragrance of cut-ripe-crops is the river’s jubilation, or the sweetness of your urine’s breath rising into air as you relieve yourself behind the bush behind me.
Also, there is a murmur of gibberish by the river, is it the sound of our grumbles during those winters before the great hiatus in our togetherness? Rivers have long memories if not erased by great quakes like it was to Harappan civilization, or the River Saraswati.
Oh, who was that woman at home? Rather young and comely, who served us tea an hour ago with a sublime smile, with no trace of malice, or curiosity? She is not my second wife, nor my old age excuse for virility, or live-in young fire urn to keep me warm in wintry nights. Not also my ‘Experiment with truth’, I am not as noble as my icon, Bapu. Her focus is my wellness. If she looked melancholy under the veneer of a smile, it is because I fade away under her best care. First, it was money that bought her services, now it is nothing, only a thin line of affection spinning between us.
This woman, Shanta, how unromantic sounds her name, rather I would designate her as the ‘noble woman’ appeared in the middle of my leaf-storm in those days of floundering when you deserted me. She was an angel, worked as a maid to start with, promoted later as my housekeeper, slowly growing like a flowering plant with blossoms, that I call a motherly lap, the most intimate of all love. Haven’t you read, Madam, D H Lawrence in his astounding ‘Sons and Lovers’? You may say, I am her Paul, the youngest son of the mother in Lawrence.
My children come and go entrusting their old father to Shanta and the old man’s frugal needs. Yes, I will tell you how I spend my time, earn my bread, and about my present profession that still gives me a little wherewithal to pull on.
I do sundry jobs, like advising in cases that benefit people in my sector of management and law. Saving people from the tax-loot by the dishonest government agencies, helping people in court from being unjustly implicated for crimes they have not committed, assisting people to get back money extracted from them on wrong premises because they did not agree to grease palms. The authorities designate me as an ‘Urban Naxal’.
If I am not busy, I donate my services, time and labour, sweep platforms, join the Municipal squad for cleaning city’s storm-drains, help old and infirm people to pay their electricity bills, municipal taxes or gas bills through net payment.
Oh, what happened to my high-payment job at the law firm, that I served to run my family? After you left, as children had already left to weave their own nests, I lost my zeal for work. I resigned and slept like a hibernating animal in a winter sleep that lingered for about a year. One day I was awakened by a friend and I found I was still alive. My grown hair and beard gave me the look of a godman or a man from the wilds.
There was no food in the house, no money in the bank, and nothing to keep me alive from that suicidal lethargy. The generous friend, lent me a hefty loan, brought his son’s old laptop, brought Shanta, the young motherly lady. Shanta worked to put my life into order, spurred me to start working, to work for the poor and needy, and at times a little on the side to earn a pittance to keep the fireplace alight.
I did her bidding, paid back my friend’s loan and Shanta’s pending salaries from my earning, but kept his and Shanta’s kindness in a fixed deposit in my heart’s bank, and asked for the Lord’s blessings for them, the interest. See, Madam, nobody dies of hardship till kindness exists even in small doses.
Do you recall how a few early meetings between us were like talks between two pall bearers, talks hovering around the corpse we carried. We both carried the corpses of our own, our past. We shared our past like two competitors in the field of suffering. We never talked as if we had suffered ourselves. We spoke in past participles in passive voices, third person and singular number. Today I have risen from the dead, as you apparently have done. I would, rather, like to die in a tight embrace with you like the two lovers in death-cuddle found in Pompei beneath the volcano Vesuvius’ ashes.
We have walked enough today, honey, sorry, Madam. I have narrated our saga to you that is also being recorded in the gadget at my waistband, as a testament of my honest love for you and my thanks giving to a woman named ‘Lolita’. My old legs are tired, let’s return home. Had it been old times, I would love to place my aching legs in your lap for rest, believe me, these legs have all along been faithful to only one lap, your lap, their first and their last lap. To place them in Santa’s I feel like disrespecting hers. Surprise of surprises, the same act assuages a salutation as well as soiling, depending on the domain, depending whose legs and whose lap.
I open the gate, enter, look behind, but I can’t find you? I return along the road to look for you in the invisible portion of the road beyond the turn. None is there. I walk into the house thinking, you would return from wherever you are. You returned from death, from Frankfort, from a hiatus of eleven years to me, now, what possibly could stop you from returning from a neighbouring lane?
In my sitting room a little urn awaits my attention. The marker reads, “LOLITA’S MORTAL REMAINS’. Shanta reports, “It came by courier when you were out with madam after tea. Who is this, Lolita, Sir?”
My heart gives a lurch, followed by a somersault. I feel excruciating pain and cannot breathe. A dark descends around me and in the dark, the disembodied voice of yours, my Lolita, is calling my name. I savour the moment, ah, I savour your call, perhaps, a Near-Death-Experience…... (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
The next day was Diwali—a holiday. Ananthu knew he had plenty of time to finish his homework, so he closed his books and stepped out of his study room.
That evening, his father had brought home fireworks, lighting up sparklers, spinning wheels, and tiny crackers, each crackle and bang adding to the thrill. Although the government’s cut-off time for fireworks was ten, his father insisted they be done by eight .
Ananthu took his younger sister Aditi up to the terrace. From there, they could see the whole neighborhood. Last year, a couple of coconut trees had blocked the view, but when the neighbors built their new house, his father cut the trees down without them even asking. The same neighbors had bought him shoes when he went to his athletic meet. Ananthu often wondered how they could afford it.
Around them, stretching to the horizon, fireworks illuminated the sky with a riot of colors, bursts and crackles filling the air. He and Aditi pointed out each new flare that blossomed in the distance, laughing as each new color lit up the night.
“Maybe we should bring the others up here too,” Aditi suggested. Their grandmother was sixty but would still rush up the stairs if Ananthu called her.
He agreed. They headed back down, taking care to bring Aditi along—leaving her alone on the terrace didn’t seem safe, not on a night like this.
Inside, as usual, his father, mother, and grandmother sat in the living room, eyes fixed on the TV. But tonight, it wasn’t a serial; it was the evening news. Breaking news flashed across the screen: a fireworks factory in the south had caught fire, killing half a dozen, including young children working late into the night.
His father let out a deep sigh, and both his mother and grandmother dabbed at their eyes, unable to look away from the screen. They didn’t even notice Ananthu and Aditi enter.
Ananthu glanced at his sister, who lingered by the doorway, still watching the fireworks in the distance. Her expression remained bright, untroubled. He skimmed the news scroll—no one they knew, no famous names, no family ties. So why did his family seem so affected?
His mother called him over, pulling him into her lap. His grandmother reached out, brushing his back with her fingers. He could feel his mother’s tears landing on his cheeks, hear his father’s heavy sighs, and listen to his grandmother whispering, “Krishnaaa…”
“Aditi, come inside—there might be snakes out there,” his father called. She entered and settled onto her grandmother’s lap.
Ananthu didn’t feel like going back to the terrace. Not tonight.
Sreekumar K, 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.
Ishwar Pati
‘Jane kya dhoondti rehti hain ye aankhe mujhme...’ The words from the poignant song of yesteryears sends a shiver down my spine as it floats down from the radio. Touching the soul, as it were. A wonderful quantity—love—either requited or rejected! Poets have waxed eloquent through the Ages about the turbulence of love. How it ebbs and flows and changes direction like the unpredictable tide, and effortlessly scales the intensity of a tsunami with glorious ecstasy! Can one measure this expressive experience in quantity and numbers?
Yet science, founded on rationality and empirical observation, would have us believe otherwise. Science doesn’t deny love, but reduces it to scientific terms. For example, love is a reaction of ‘chemistry of hormones’, it explains, which creates a magnetic field of ‘physical attraction’. The undulating curves of the beloved that catalyse this reaction of love are classified as ‘vital statistics’; thus depriving those gorgeous curves of their aesthetic splendour! And reactions, sorry relationships, not anchored on physical magnetism are set aside as freak ‘Platonic love’! Albert Einstein, the great scientist, did not spare love from his analysis while illustrating his Theory of Relativity. ‘Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute,’ he said, ‘and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.’
Science uses mathematical tools to court love in a calculated fashion. For example, in tennis scoring starts not from ‘zero’ but with ‘love’. 30-love; not 30-0. Love thy competitor, I imagine, in keeping with a charming game like tennis. On the other hand, a ‘love triangle’, where two men fall for the same woman (or vice versa), is more about hate than love. Can the scorching and conflicting passions of the participants remain confined within the contours of a triangle? A triangle has only three angles, against the umpteen angles that such affairs are capable of generating (and also destroying). Anything is fair in love and war. Thousands of films have been made and continue to be made on this eternal theme; still we have not run out of angularities in love triangles. Then there are the research scholars, always in search of new subjects for scientific study. After weighing the intelligence of a person and comparing it on a scale in terms of his Intelligence Quotient (IQ), as if it were as simple as measuring his weight, they are now thrusting their calculators into the world of emotions. Every person’s emotional intelligence can be evaluated through his or her Emotional Quotient (EQ). ‘EQ is the capacity of individuals to recognise their own and other peoples’ emotions, to discriminate between different feelings and label them appropriately, and to use emotional information to guide thinking and behaviour.’ I shudder with apprehension at the very sight of such an incisive ‘definition’ of EQ. Measuring such a volatile and fragile sentiment as one’s capacity to love? Emotions vary from person to person not merely in degree but also in nature. The same person too exhibits contrary emotions from time to time and situation to situation. Unlike reactions in standard scientific experiments, the response of moody people to disparate situations cannot be placed against any benchmark.
Love is not a sure 2 + 2 = 4 thing. Like a roller coaster it can take us from one infinity (plus) to another infinity (minus).
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
LOVE IS A THING WITH ANOTHER FACE
Snehaprava Das
He saw the small crowd in front of his house as he neared it and got behind a Ganga Siuli (night-jasmine) tree. The tree hid his small and frail body perfectly. His pulse rate quickened. Taking absolute care that he was not seen, eight-year-old Biju peeped from behind the tree, his breath coming in irregular gasps. He had been running hard all the way from the school to his home. But Dinu, the paan-seller in front of the school had beaten him to it. Because he had rode his bicycle. Biju had not expected it. It had never crossed his mind that Dinu would reach his house with his allegations before Biju could gain time to narrate his own version of the story to his father. His thoughts went back to the happenings of the morning as he watched his father speaking to Dinu who was waving his hands excitedly and at times joining them together in a gesture of respect.
It was the morning of the fifteenth of the August, the Independence Day. Biju and Jitu, his close friend, had taken an early bath and donned in white shirts and half-pants had arrived at the school. Students of the senior classes had reached even earlier and made all the arrangements for the flag hoisting. After the flag hoisting and the speeches, they were given a packet of refreshment each. Biju and jitu along with some other classmates walked back home. Some older boys were playing football in the large ground adjacent to the school. ‘Let’s watch the game for a while,’ Biju suggested and they settled on one of the empty benches of the gallery. They ate the refreshments as they watched the boys playing. The football game continued for about another half hour and then the players dispersed. Biju and his friends too came out of the ground.
As they crossed Dinu’s paan-shop on their way back home. Biju’s eyes fell on the miniature tri-colours that hung in a row at one side of the cabin. They looked so beautiful!! And there was also the mouthwatering display of lozenges in attractive colours and shapes inside glass jars. Dinu was busily dabbing the paan leaves with chuna ( paste of lime stone powder )with a brush, making paans for the customers who stood waiting in front of the shop. Some were taking out lozenges and biscuits from the jars and putting the money on the small wooden platform behind the row of the jars. Biju rummaged in the pocket of his pants. There was only a two-rupee coin. ‘Look, how lovely the tiny national flags look,’ he said to Jitu. ‘Yes, and he lozenges, too. They are in the shapes of tiny animals and flowers and fruits.’
‘Do you have any money with you?’
Jitu shook his head, his face registering his disappointment.
‘I have two rupees’ Biju said. ‘Come with me.’ Biju said, a note of confidence ringing through the words.
‘What can two rupees fetch?’ Jitu remarked discouragingly. ‘You go and buy whatever you can with your big money. I am going home.’ He walked away. Biju walked up to the shop. Dinu was still busy in making paans. ‘Well?’ he glanced at Biju.
‘How much for a flag?’ Biju asked hesitantly.
‘One rupee each. How many of them you want?’
‘One’
Dinu took one of the metal flags off the string and handed it to Biju. ‘How much for the orange coloured lozenge?’
‘Two for a rupee,’ Dinu said irritably. ‘Tell me soon what do you want? Can’t you see I am busy?’
The orange-coloured lozenges looked so tempting!! What shall he do with only two of them? The tiny things will melt away as soon as they go into the mouth. Biju stood in front of the shop eying the lozenges, his mouth salivating, and feeling disappointed. He was not able to decide whether to relinquish the metal national flag or the lozenge. Both were important, both were not to be done away with. Dinu had no time to wait for Biju to make his decision. Morning- hour customers had gathered by his shop, and he was preoccupied in catering to their demands. One of the customers, an elderly person, took off the lid of the jar of the lozenges and took out a handful of the delicious looking orange cloves and spread them out on the wooden counter. He began picking out the good ones and keeping them at one side. ‘My son loves these.’ He said as he counted them. Guardedly, Biju made his way to the counter worming through the waiting customers. No one seemed to take notice of him. Even the man who was counting the ones he had chosen had turned to talk to another man who stood a little away from the shop. Biju’s eyes riveted on the small piles of lozenges which lay spread out on the counter. Dinu was taking out something from the shelves, his back towards Biju. The customers were busy chatting amongst themselves. Some were scanning the newspapers. When sure no one looked in his direction, Biju reached out at the counter, grabbed a handful of lozenges and backtracked cautiously trying to lose himself in the gathering crowd. As he was about to turn and run, one of the customers sighted him and called out. ‘Hey, boy! What are you up to? Keep them back.’ All eyes turned towards Biju who, his heart pounding, began running as fast as his legs could carry him. But Dinu rushed out from the small door by the corner of the shop and chased him. Frantic in fear Biju ran faster to escape Dinu who was chasing him like a devil from the hell. Suddenly his feet struck something hard. Biju stumbled and fell and the next moment Dinu was on him, grabbing the collar of his white shirt, now soiled with dust and dirt. Dinu gave him a hard slap and recovered the lozenges. ‘Wait, I will complain to your father. You thief!’ He screamed, pointing a menacing forefinger at him.
And now he had reached Biju’s home, carrying his complaint. From behind the tree where he hid himself, Biju saw his father saying something to Dinu waving his hand, perhaps, in a gesture of assurance. Dinu once again joined his palms in respect and turned to leave. The small crowd dispersed soon. Father stood looking around for a while and went inside the house.
**
Biju came out of his hiding place and sprinted towards the back of his house. Taking utmost care not to get spotted by anyone he sneaked inside through the backdoor, and crossing the small back yard in a few quick steps he tiptoed into the small room by the staircase. The room was crammed with junks and unused stuff. Careful not to make any noise, he pushed the door open and got inside. A blast of murky smell emitting out of the old, unused articles hit his nostrils as he did so. He waited to get his eyes accustomed to the thin darkness that hovered in the room and then glanced around. There was a rickety, wooden cot on which lay discarded clothes and some other useless items in a heap. He slipped under the cot and lay down on the floor, breathing out a sigh of relief.
He could hear the voice of his father. Then of his grandmother and mother. He pricked his ears to listen. The voice of his father grew distinct as, Biju guessed, he strode towards the staircase. ‘Let that boy come back. I will teach him a lesson he will never forget. He is subjecting me to such humiliation! I will break this stick on his back. The rascal!!’ Biju heard his father swearing.
‘He is after all a kid,’ Biju heard his grandmother protesting. ‘What a big crime did he commit? Just took a few lozenges! And you are raising a hell!’
‘It is your pampering that has spoilt the idiot. He had stolen from the shop! He is a bloody thief!’ His father fumed.
‘Calm down.’ Biju’s mother said. Her voice was cool and composed. ‘He needs to be told that stealing is a crime. Punishment could make a negative impact. I wonder where he had learnt all this!’
‘Do not tell me what I should do,’ His father shouted back. ‘I know how to handle the fellow.’ The sound receded as hid father walked away from the place.
‘I will not come out now. At least until my father’s temper is cooled down a bit.’ Biju decided. He was tired and his legs were aching from all that running. He pulled out a torn sheet from the pile of clothes and spread it on the floor under the cot. He stretched himself on it and closed his eyes.
‘Father hates me,’ Biju thought bitterly. ‘He has always disparaged me, regarded me as a naïve, and a good for nothing boy. And look, how he, on the other hand, dotes on apa.’ A repulsive, pungent fluid filled Biju’s mouth as he thought about how father gave priority to his elder sister’s demands. He would give her extra pocket money and cater to most of her needs without a line of reluctance crossing his face. It was not so with Biju. Biju’s father would always consider him as the black ship of the family, the dumbhead, an ugly scar on his father’s reputation. A drop of tear tricked down the corner of his closed eye as he mulled over the discriminatory behaviour of his father.
The place was somewhere in the middle of a forest. Lonely, but blissfully calm. The air was a cool, enchanting flow. The sun shone through the strips of rain clouds and birds sang from their hidden perches in the lush green trees. Biju stood in front of a wooden cabin where glass jars, covered with lids stood elegantly in a row on a wooden rack. The jars were filled with crystal candys, a cornucopia of colours, green, yellow, crimson, in alluring shapes, fruits, flowers, orange-cloves!! The cabin was empty. He stood there for a long time, waiting for the shopkeeper. A long time passed but no one came. It was too much of an effort to resist the urge to fill his mouth with one or two of the mouthwatering things the transparent jars displayed. He cast a quick, shifty glance around and reached out for a jar filled to its neck with candys shaped like tiny orange cloves. He caught hold of the jar with a strong grip and pulled it out of the rack. He held the jar in his left hand and lifted the lid. Holding the jar in his left hand he put his right hand inside the jar and grabbed as many lozenges he could hold in his fist. And then, to his utter dismay, he found that he could not take his hand out of the jar. It was caught in an awkward angle in the neck of the jar. Neither could he open his fist to empty the contents nor could he bring it out of the jar. He struggled hard to pull his hand out of the jar. As his right hand came ricochetting off its mouth the jar slipped from left hand and fell. It hit a small stone that protruded out of the ground with loud crash. The jar broke into pieces and the colourful candys, went strewing in multi coloured scatter on the ground. Suddenly from nowhere a large mass of black insects crawled in and swarmed around the lozenges, covering them like ugly, wooly shells. When Biju tried to recover some of the candys, the insects stung him with their long proboscises drawing blood out of him. He beat his hands and legs frantically to shove them away. His hands hit something hard and he howled in pain, startled out of his sleep.
The mosquitoes were all around him, humming, stinging him. His skin felt itchy. He slapped at them blindly. Where was he? And where from all these mosquitoes came? And the memory of the morning came slowly sweeping back to him. He snatching the orange lozenges and Dinu slapping him and then coming to complain to his father. His father’s angry vow to teach Biju a lesson, and he hiding under the cot in the junk room. How long had he fallen asleep? He slowly raised his head and looked out. The room was in total darkness. He was feeling hungry but he would not dare to come out from under the cot. He heard voices from a distance and pricked his ears to listen. Someone was crying. Crying? No, may be whimpering. It was his mother, he guessed. ‘Why was she crying? Has father punished her for my wrongdoing?’ Biju’s heart went out to his mother. ‘Poor mother! She had to go through all these pain on account of me!’ Then he heard his father saying something. The voice neared and got clearer. ‘Where are you my precious? My darling son? Come back. Come back. I swear in the name of God that I will not touch you. Biju!!’ His father was sobbing hard. Slowly Biju slid out from under the cot and stood listening, not believing his ears. His father was actually crying. And what did he say about not touching him, Biju tried to recollect, his mouth slightly open in surprise.
‘It is all your fault.’ This time it was his grandmother. ‘He must have learnt somehow that you promised to thrash him and ran away. How could you be so heartless? What did he do after all? He had just taken a handful of candys from the shop. Is that such a great crime and you are all set to hang him for that!’
‘He squanders away his pocket money. He had to steal because he did not have money to buy the lozenges.’ His elder sister said.
‘Did he tell you that he had no money with him?’ his father’s voice.
‘Yes,’ his elder sister answered.
‘And what did you do when you learnt he had no money?’ his father snapped at her. ‘You are his elder sister, after all. He might want to buy certain things. On the occasion of the Independence Day. Shouldn’t you have shared your pocket money with him? Isn’t that the responsibility of an elder sister?’
Biju’s eyes were wide open in a delighted surprise. Father was actually chastising his elder sister and that too because of Biju!’ He tiptoed to the door and peeped out. It was evening but the lights were not turned on. He could see the silhouette of his father who stood his back turned to Biju and waving his hands excitedly at the others. Then he saw him flop himself on the veranda and hide his face between his hands. He cried bitterly. ‘O God! Please bring my son back. I promise I will never punish him. I will never utter a harsh word even. Please God, please!’
Biju could hear his mother and grandmother weeping too. He was puzzled. He knew his father was a strict disciplinarian and would not let an offence like shoplifting go unpunished. ‘But now he promises he will never touch me.’ Biju was overwhelmed with penitence. How much suffering his father had to undergo on account of him! First it was Dinu’s accusations and now this self-inflicted remorse! It was as if a blanket had lifted. Biju could now see how wrong he was about father. Thinking that he did not love him! He actually loved Biju. And loved him more than apa!! The realization washed all his resentments away and filled him with an overpowering sense of guilt. He had been always a nuisance and caused so much trouble for his father who loved him so indulgently. He could not wait to see the joy and relief in his father’s face when he discovered Biju had returned. He came out of the room and walked to where his father sat, hunched down, his face between his hands.
‘Father.’ Biju called softly. His father did not respond, nor did he raise his face to look. But his mother and sister saw him. His sister switched on the light. ‘Biju is here, father!’ She cried out excitedly. His grandmother hobbled in and clasped Biju in her frail arms. ‘Biju, my precious, my darling, where have you gone away?’ She mumbled indistinctly through a flood of tears that choked her. Mother ran to the puja room to offer her prayer of gratitude. She bowed her head before the idols and lifted a flower from the feet of the figurine of the goddess. She ran back and touched the flower to Biju’s head.
The sudden commotion around him gave Biju’s father a jolt and he snatched his hands back off his face. And his eyes fell on the shadowy figure of Biju, who stood in the quasi darkness under the veranda, holding his head down, like an image of guilt and shame.
He slowly got to his feet and wandered over to Biju. In the next instant Biju was in his arms. ‘Where have you gone away child?’ He kissed Biju on his forehead.
Biju could feel his father’s hands trembling slightly. ‘It is because of the sudden relief he experiences.’ Biju thought, feeling gladly relieved himself.
And then abruptly, his father gave him a hard shove. Jerked out of his elation Biju gaped at his father’s face in surprise. There was a hard glint in his father’s eyes. ‘Where have you been all the day you imbecile? Wasn’t the humiliation I suffered in the hands of that darned shopkeeper not enough that you added to my worries by remaining out the entire day? Do you know your mother and grandmother have not eaten a morsel of food the whole day, you dimwit?’ Biju felt a sharp sting as his father brought down his open palm on his cheek. ‘Bring me that stick,’ he screamed in anger. ‘I will thrash this idiot out of his fancy mood.’
Biju stared at his father’s face, bewildered, the burning on his cheek forgotten. Only less than an hour ago his father had sworn in the name of God that he would never hit him! And a minute ago tears had streamed down his eyes. How his face had shone in love when he had caught sight of Biju standing below the veranda!
Little Biju was so confused. Which one of the personae his father wore was the real one? What was real? The love that made him cry for Biju or the dislike that made him break his promise? No one, however, brought the stick to father. ‘Do not give him anything to eat. Let him go without dinner.’ Father glared at Biju for a moment and strode away leaving him standing there, still wondering if his father actually loved him.
But Biju knew intuitively that mother would not let him go to bed without dinner and father would not stop her!!
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.
Sujata Dash
On my odyssey to the USA with my hubby a few years ago, I got to experience a myriad of emotions. Since it was our first trip abroad, the feeling was simply surreal. It was not less than a lethal concoction of ecstasy, anxiety and apprehension.
It started off with our stopover at London. From there , we were supposed to continue our sojourn to Chicago, where my sister resides with family. .
We were thrilled when the aircraft landed at Heathrow airport. I was having a window seat, so had a distinct advantage.I was privy to the scenic beauty of the country and picturesque countryside before landing.
My husband was envious.It was quite obvious -as I made the most out of the tour by then.
I could decipher his muted soliloquies . His grumpy grouchy demeanor was a testimony to his dissatisfaction. I feigned innocence and kept silent. I had made it a point not to spare my privileged position at any cost. You may term this as a selfish act- but I wanted it that way.
“WHY SHOULD BOYS HAVE ALL THE FUN!”
As we disembarked and proceeded to the sitting area of the airport I could feel pain in my ankle. Maybe, my utter excitement hastened steps into a half jog , causing the result.
I dismissed the shortcoming at the outset . But, the pain persisted and caused my limp. I had to drag my right leg all the way to reach the lobby area. After easing myself to a comfy couch, I started my investigation as to what caused the pain. My ponderings deduced that it was a mild sprain, so should not be given much importance.
I was a bit relieved.
"Thank God! It could have been worse!" I mumbled.
I had come prepared under the tutelage of my sis overseas for any such eventuality and had equipped myself with a small Volini spray(pain reliever) to do the needful. The problem now was to scout and find the balm in the oversized handbag filled with anything and everything I could stuff before departure.
Old habits die hard...you know.
I missed the catch each time I searched inside the tunnel filled with everything that I thought I needed in a foreign country.
" I am not getting it" - I spoke to my husband in ' odia' -our mother tongue.
" You will not get it, with the amount of filth stashed inside the handbag, how will you find it? Better, bear the pain for sometime. It will subside . Upon our reaching Chicago, your sister will take care of the whole thing."
I felt like shouting at him in our MOTHER TONGUE
I should have...for no one would have been able to make out what I am saying rather yelling in a fit of anger.
Sighs! I lost my chance. I did not want to create a scene. I was apprehensive of the consequences of indulging in a brickbat in an unknown land.So kept the tone subdued.
A gentleman was passing by when we had our exchange of volleys.He took U turn within a wink of time.He was tall and handsome but not dark and was sporting a beard.
He came , folded his hands to show respect to us and sat next to me.
He spoke in pure odia( my mother tongue )" Mousi, what has happened? You look so distressed and disturbed. May I help?"
" I am Mayank, settled in London.I am a North Indian married to Usha, a gal from Odisha.I can follow odia , but speak a bit. My son is fluent in both Hindi and odia though. I am a slow learner so far as language is concerned.
If you are not flying today, you may drop in. Usha will be really happy. She would prepare a few odissan cuisines for you. She is ecstatic to babble in odia when she gets a chance. By the way, I work with the airport authorities. It was nice meeting both of you."
That much assuage was enough for me at that moment.I forgot that ,I had a sprain in my ankle and it is causing discomfiture.
He sat with us upon invitation, ate a few odia delicacies that we were carrying. It felt like someone near and dear is giving us company. We smiled and prattled non stop till it was time for us to board for the destination.
We expressed our inability to accede to his request and thanked him profusely for his time and courtesy.
It was a pleasant surprise that left some everlasting imprints on our memory lane.
My hubby was so impressed with his behaviour that he wished ..." Nandini, if we are fortunate enough then we may get a boy like Mayank for our younger one. How suave and adaptable he is ! But we can only wish and pray for God's mercy since nothing is in our hands!"
Even a feeble string of MOTHER TONGUE stirs heart and fills core with a mellifluous symphony.
That day we realised it amply.
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.
Leena Thampi
As I stepped outside, the gentle drizzle caressed my skin, yet the sky remained clear. The sun shone brightly, its warm rays dancing in the cool breeze. I sensed a rainstorm brewing miles away, carrying airborne raindrops to this unlikely spot. The atmosphere was alive with the essence of a sunshower.
In that moment, a divine call from the universe stirred within me. I knew I had to leave for Tirupati immediately. This wouldn't be my first visit – my husband and I had traveled there twice before. Each time, the experience was unique, leaving an indelible mark on my soul.
This trip, too, was unplanned. We secured special entry tickets on the spot and navigated through the throngs of devotees. Finally, as I approached the sanctum sanctorum, the crowd's momentum propelled me forward. Before I knew it, I was swept past the shrine without even a glimpse of the idol.Alas! Six hours of waiting in the queue had been in vain.
With a heavy heart, I collected the prasad, the sacred offering. Yet, something unexpected happened next...
Overwhelmed with anguish, I collected the prasadam and retreated to a corner, tears streaming down my face. An elderly man beside me lamented about his inability to receive the blessed food despite enduring the endless queue with a fractured leg. Moved by his plight, I offered him my prasadam, bringing solace to his weary eyes.
But my heart remained heavy, grappling with the thought of being denied a glimpse of the idol. "Why did I travel 200 kilometers overnight, only to be turned away?" I wondered. "Has God forsaken me? Have I committed a sin?" The questions swirled, fueling my despair.
As I turned to leave with a heavy heart, a gentle touch on my shoulder halted me. A banana leaf filled with sacred offerings materialized before me, presented by a mysterious figure shrouded in divine energy. His face remained obscured, but an aura of charisma and compassion enveloped me. The only sound was the soothing resonance of a conch.,as I watched him heading towards the sanctum.
The whole thing left me with goosebumps
That transcendent encounter remains etched in my memory, defying explanation. My husband was stunned to find the sacred offerings, once placed at the Lord's feet, now resting in my hands.
Who's that ?
I never try to narrate the story to anyone because divine experiences are rare and personal ,not everyone get convinced...and do I really need validation?
As the wise saying goes:"For those with faith, no explanation is necessary; for those without, none will suffice."
In that moment, I realized that God resides in every pure heart, awaiting discovery..Our Karmas make our lives.
Born in Jammu and brought up in Delhi ,Leena Thampi is an articulate writer who's lost in her own little epiphanies and she gives them life with her quill. She's an author extraordinaire with four books to her credit -"Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze" , An Allusion To Time' and Embers to Flames.
She has many articles published in India and abroad. She has received many elite accolades from different literary platforms worldwide.She has been awarded by Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips twice for her best contribution towards literature in the year 2021 and 2022.She was also the recipient of Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honours 2022 by Motivational Strips.
Her work mixes luminous writing, magical realism, myths, and the hard truths of everyday life.
Besides her flair for writing and deep-rooted love for music, she is an Entrepreneur,Relationship and life coach,specialised in child psychology.She is also a dancer and actor. She is currently working on her fifth book which is a collection of short stories.
ODISHA: A BELOVED CRADLE OF POETRY
Dr. Elham Hossain
I first came across the wealth of Oriya literature in the early 1990s when one day a book titled Oriya Short Stories: An Anthology edited by J.P. Das happened to embark into my collection of books. The book is forwarded by G. D. Khosla and an elaborate introduction by J. P. Das substantially made me set an expedition into the thrilling world of Oriya literature. That very book was an eye opening incident in my life, and geared up an indomitable craving in me to have an intimate perusal of Oriya literature. Consequently, I embarked on Jayanta Mahapatra’s poetic world. He has an unparallel power to take his readers back to the root of history, heritage, cultural realities and aesthetics, and frankly speaking, I am still obsessed in his poetry. Then, subsequently, it was my great luck to meet the Oriya poet Pradeep Biswal ji in a conference organized by ICMDR in Kolkata, and if my memory does not betray, it might be in February 2019, and since then the generosity and greatness that he is consistently extending towards me, of course, turn into a permanent and enlightening treasure of my memories. Besides, the hospitality and warmth of love that I have received during the last two ‘Toshali Literature Festivals’ have bound me with unadulterated humbleness and gratitude to him. JP Jagdev ji, Mrutyunjay Sarangi ji, Swapna Behra ji, Manjula Asthana Mahanti ji, Sangram Jena ji, Shashiprova Brindani ji, Monidipa Sahu ji and all other noble hearted authors, poets and academics whom I have got an opportunity to come in contact with during the festival are some of the best personalities I have ever met. I do always feel homely in association with all these luminaries that I have mentioned.
It is my great luck to have an opportunity to write for the 147th edition of the Literary Vives to be published from Odisha, a holy land of the Lord Jagannath and many historical sites. Odisha is the land of poetry, music and pageantry of diverse beauty and cultural aesthetics. It is the land of an immensely great and internationally acclaimed poet Jayanta Mahapatra whose poems always embrace the readers with an enlightening panorama of history and heritage. It is a glorious land which has produced many great hearts whose scholarly compositions and light always beacon the readers to pursue the goal of solidarity, brotherhood, egalitarianism and humanity.
Let me initiate my discussion with a reference to the Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran who, in a poem, questions his beloved, “How beautiful is life, beloved?” In answer to this question the beloved asserts,
‘Tis like the heart of a poet,
Full with light and spirit. (136)
Then again Gibran asks her, “How harsh is life, beloved!”
She replies,
‘Tis like an evildoer’s heart, full with guilt and fear. (136)
A poet’s heart is a kingdom without boundaries and inherits the legacy of the history of mankind, of the culture of all the people of the world and creates dialogic correspondence to the diachronic and synchronic stances of time. His world is never compartmentalized; tinged with biases and never stereotyped with clichés. A poet’s mind is ever-flowing, free from stagnancy of superstition and racial prejudices. Everybody in the world inherits what a poet creates. He is everybody’s kin and belongs to the whole world as Schopenhauer asserts, “There is no emptier pride than the vanity of belonging to a certain people or nation.” He does never confine himself within a certain periphery. Parochialism, chauvinism, bigotry dare not embrace him because, in the words of the American poet Walt Whitman, he enunciates boldly:
“I am large, I contain multitudes.”
Whatever is good goes with the poet’s heart and contrapuntally, whatever is evil, guilty and fearful goes with the minds devoid of ‘light’ and ‘spirit’.
While in the digitalized world or the world of cyber technology and AI human beings are transforming into a hackable human machines, poetry and other literary genres will obviously continue doing the job of reminding them of humanity, brotherhood, tolerance, communal harmony and sociability. Poetry has the power of bringing all diverse people, irrespective of caste, creed, nationality, political and economic ethos, on a single platform of fraternity. Literature can be a tool that brings together our multiplicity of identities into a singularity of entity, and thus fights back violence, racism, parochialism and bigotry. Literature constructs paradigm and contains the records of paradigm shifts of our epistemology and history. Man’s enemies are his stereotyped outlook, biases, parochialism, chauvinism and intolerance that lie dormant in his unconscious. When our thoughts and ideas get stagnant and averse to evolution or changes in respect of the demands of ever striding time or history, they turn into corrosive conservatism. When knowledge loses its fluidity it turns into a chronic prejudice which challenges the onward march of progress and prosperity. When the society is unexpectedly divided into centre and margin, and when the centre turns oppressive and tends to exercise hegemony upon the periphery, human entity becomes compartmentalized. In such a crucial time poetry appears on the stage of humanity and turns into a trumpet of the voiceless and resistance to unbridled injustice and dehumanization process. It functions then as a pathfinder and leads humanity through evolution towards revolution. Poetry, thus, has the power to bring about catharsis of human mind, and as such, it inspires us to be empathetic for each other. Mahabharat and Ramayan are a perennial source of dialectical pedagogy of the subcontinent. During the Medieval period Mangal Kabyo helped us to reduce breach between the power structure and the subaltern. During colonial period poetry enflames our patriotism and rebellion against colonial hegemony and led us to freedom and emancipation. Still today, poetry helps us to remain vibrant and respond to every possible issue of our life.
Rene Descartes, one of the seminal exponents of modern philosophy, science and mathematics, once declared that he believed his own self only because he knew himself. In his words, “I think, therefore I am”, that is consciousness determines an individual’s identity. Descartes coins this statement in his Discourse on Method (1637). He believes rightly that he has the right to doubt everything beyond his own self. He questions every phenomenon around him. Why? It is because he thinks we start generating knowledge while we start questioning. French poet Stephane Mallarme believes that poetry lies in language, not in romantic imagination. Language is a system, an information bank, a repository of the epistemological wealth which constitutes the body of our history, heritage, culture and aesthetics. Our gods and goddesses, our belief-system, our ideas and ideals dwell in words we use every day for formulating as well as articulating our purposes and desires. Whatever we look around us is constructed by words. Mallarme believes that poetry is a sophisticated art, and so it must have obscurity in its language so that it may not be manipulated by the average readers. He advises to keep poetry aloof from the average readers because, as he apprehends, they may approach and interpret poetry in a wrong way and mar its beauty. Mallarme also argues that in a poem a poet does not use language; rather language uses a poet, guides him and makes him create the wealth of poetry. This language is not a means of communication to a poet. It is rather a part of his self. There is always a celebration of words in poetry. Words are like musical instrument or lyre, and a poet knows how to blow this lyre and produce music. The ancient Greeks called poets creator because they create a golden world while, to the contrary, God’s world is brazen. Matthew Arnold affirms in his Study of Poetry that there will be time when poetry will take up the place of religion. According to Wordsworth, in the vein of poetry there flows human blood. It always challenges the obstructions and resistance that act as a block on the way to the development of brotherhood, tolerance and the secular spirit of humanity. It always bolsters and questions the production of hegemonic imaginaries and narratives that tend to falsify the contribution of the margin.
At one phase of the evolution, poetry was dedicated to the glorification of kings, queens, princes, princesses, that is, poetry was an apparatus in the hand of the power-structure. In course of time, it liberates itself and stands against the power-structure. In the hands of Percy Bysshey Shelley, poetry turns into a trumpet that stands as a counter-discourse against the triumphant march of tyranny, persecution and oppression. Sometimes, it turns into John Keats’ Nightingale which offers the ‘Vintage’ of heavenly taste and delight. And again, it turns into a skylark that reminds us of the essence of truth lying hidden behind human struggle:
“Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”
A poet knows that his readers are not consumers, but creators. They deconstruct and reconstruct the text, and hence, the French theorist Roland Barthes, to our surprise, declares the death of the author. The multiplicity of meanings and the plurality of voices are the strength of a poem, and the readers can, like archaeologists, dig out all the wealth of poetry by developing a dialogic interaction with the poet. Dialogism lies in the heart of a poem. Words negotiate among themselves and engage the readers in this negotiation, and consequently, readers discover as well as generate meanings and implications. A poem is a text in which a reader finds a huge number of meanings well knit, and it is the task of the readers to untie the knots and fabricate its meanings.
The accountability of a poet to the humanity is immensely great. He does not make a utopia in hard time and sing lullaby to wean the readers. He rather enunciates the slogans of revolution and liberty. He produces counter-discourse and keeps it working against the oppressive power-structure. He is Gramsci’s organic intellectual who works himself and makes the whole society work tirelessly for the betterment of humanity.
Poetry pushes the world into new dimension, and it has the power to transcend the constraints of topographical area. It has the power to connect regions and transcend local into a global by embracing the spirit of universality and egalitarianism. It has the power to sustain the narratives of history as Jayanta Mahapatra’s poems have excellently done. It has the capacity to voice the oppressed and deprived like that of Kamala Das who boldly talks about the necessity of freedom of women from politics of deprivation exercised by patriarchal hegemony. It has the power to invigorate the people with the spirit of patriotism, freedom and equality as the poems of Rabindranath Tagore and Kazi Nazrul Islam have exhibited to the people of India and led them to decolonization of their motherland from the British colonial rulers. Poetry inspires the freedom loving people to break through the chains of slavery and look forward to a bright future as Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s ‘Azadi Ka Geet’ emotionally embraced the patriotic generation of India. Poetry has the power to reflect the sentiment and impulse of the patriotic people as Makhanlal Choturvedi’s ‘Pusp Ki Abhilasha’ (Flower’s Dream) does. Poetry has the power to cherish the spirit of Chivalry as Shyamlal Gupta’s poem ‘Jhanda Uocha Rahe Hamaara’ (Let Our Flag Always Fly High). Poetry is capable of invigorating the spirit of revolution as Ram Prasad Bismil’s poem `Sarfaroshi Ki Tamanna’ (Desire for Revolution) does. Poetry has the power to take the present generation to the past and make them acquainted with the narratives that tell them about the narratives of their history and political realities like Jayanta Mahapatra’s one of the seminal poems ‘Grandfather’.
No communal bias can manipulate a poet’s heart and creation. He is a prophet of communal harmony. Humanity is his religion. He does not produce the discourse that persecutes the society. He rather produces counter-discourse to re-create the society which is free from compartmentalization and discrimination. He disseminates justice and solidarity among all irrespective of caste, creed, belief-system and boundaries. Poetry is the voice of the voiceless and always promotes equality and equity. Poetry like ‘Return to My Native Land’ of Martiniqan Aime Ceasire condemns the system that tends to eradicate and debilitate humanity.
Poets are the best teachers of the world irrespective of caste and creed. The teaching and pragmatic directives for life that the people of this sub-continent have received from Mahabharata and Ramayana for millennia is much more than they have derived from any other book. Since last two or more than two millennia these texts have been elucidating, guiding, interpreting the life of the people of this sub-continent. The conversation or dialogues that go on between Sri Krishna and Arjun metaphorically interprets the argumentative Indians, that Amartya Sen has depicted in his seminal book Argumentative Indian. Our dialectical teaching methodology or pedagogy is conspicuously referred to in Mahabharata, which can still fight back the imperializing mission of the defeated colonial force. The chivalry and tragic intensity of the life of this subcontinent are juxtaposed in the great epic Ramayana. The essentiality of these two great epics lies in the . They offer the polyphony of discursive narratives of the subcontinent. They belonged to the past; they belong to the present and they belong to the timelessness.
The capacity that a poet possesses is extraordinary in terms of bringing about revolutionary changes in the society. Probably it is because of the poet’s unparallel ability to encapsulate the vast narrative of a nation’s culture and history into a compact canvass of poetry. For example, Nissim Ezakiel’s poem ‘Night of the Scorpion’ offers the narrative of the culture of rural India and Jayanta Mahapatra’s ‘Grandfather’ highlights the narrative of the colonial, historical, social and economic contexts of a people who being compelled by the emerging situation becomes bound to give up paternal belief-system and culture and comply with the alien ones.
Thus, poets initiate philosophers’ dialogues and extract the essence of truth out of dialectical or argumentative episteme. Poetry celebrates beauty which is not a quality, but an effect. It glorifies passion that elevates human soul and investigates the common places of life where the uncommon things are found. Poetry offers very staunch criticism in the form of art which does not only follow the Kantian Principle of ‘Art for Art’s sake’ but also follows Arnoldian definition as ‘criticism of life.’ In this way poets become, in the words of Percy Bysshey Shelley, ‘the unacknowledged legislators of the world’, that is, poets cannot remain unaffected by the impulse of the time and he feels the pulse of time and serves the time as he believes that it is his accountability to his community. He can aptly feel the pulse of the community in which he lives. He makes the readers question about the time they live and the time ahead. They can also enable the readers to stand against the oppressive discourse and develop counter-discourse. Poets can lead man to self-revelation as Bhagabat Gita does, and make mankind know the history from which they derive the essence of life and living.
In modern age poetry has started using simple words but in its core the poet remains as a philosopher, not an entertainer. He lies in the heart of poetry as a seer, as a prophet, as a critic and as a manufacturer of counter discourses. When poetry descends into the hands of Baudelaire, it turns into a whip and is lashed upon the back of naked capitalism. When it embraces Mallarme it becomes a bundle of symbols, full of indirectedness and ambiguity. When it comes down to T. S. Eliot it becomes a narrative of the fragmented self of the post-First World War generation. In post modern period poetry turns into a complicated network of meanings, linguistic games and experiments. Different theories and techniques have become the way of expressions of the poets’ essence of observation ranging from conservatism to cosmopolitanism, individualism to universalism, self to selves and thus, it turns into a voice consisting of multitudes of voices. Harmonization of disharmonies makes post-modern poetry polyphonic. Heteroglossia permeates through the words in a poem which is segregated from poets. Poets are now wrestling against the Crony capitalist politics of commoditization and corporatization of language, a deliberate attempt to prove language an apparatus of no resistance, no revolution. Poetry is now appearing as a resistance text working for unmasking the western politics of exploiting the people of the Global South in the name of globalization and multiculturalism. Poetry in the hands of those who are called Caliban’s children turns into a write-back discursive form of art, and it is now questioning the imperialist dominance and hegemony of the Global North.
I feel lucky to read some modern Odia poets. I can recollect that several decades ago I read Jayanta Mahapatra’s ‘A whiteness of Bone’ (1992). It was really an amazing experience for me. Oriya landscapes, its diverse people and the poet’s own ancestry have occupied the canvas of Mahapatra’s poems. Pradeep Biswal is one of the seminal poets of Orissa. Kamadev Moharana, Sanghamitra Raiguru, Amiya Ranjan Mahapatra, Narmada Nilotpala, Mamata Pattanaik, Lipsa Patel, Manini Mishra, Gourhari Das, Ipsita Sarangi, Balaram Pujari, Mousumi Das and a handful of Oriya poets create world-class wealth of poetry. I am really impressed at their outstanding capacity of bringing about intersexuality between the binaries of history, heritage, past and present, classicism and modernism, local and international and entertainment and erudition. Their poems deserve to be the sites which like archaeologists the readers are deserved to explore and reclaim the Archie-wealth of history, culture and epistemic aesthetics. Modern Oirya poets are, as it seems to me, are placing themselves in the space between the medieval era of Panchashakha and the present age and bridging the spatiality with the temporality. Sometimes their poetry invites the readers to the fantasy kingdom and remits our burden of anxiety, trauma and troubles, and again sometimes like fearful weapon it roars against oppression, persecution, social injustice, inequality and discrimination in the society.
Poets are the prophets of peace, solidarity, communal harmony and democracy. The future of poetry is immense because it consistently offers the narrative of the history and heritage, guidelines for the present and vision for the futuristic world. Long live poets, long live Oriya literature.
Dr. Elham Hossain is an academic, essayist, translator, editor and literary critic. He did his B.A. (Honours) and M.A. in English Literature. He wrote his M.Phil. dissertation on the colonial literature and doctoral dissertation on the novels of Chinua Achebe in the University of Dhaka. Dr. Hossain has authored sixteen books on the diverse spectrum of colonial and postcolonial literature. He has translated a good number of fictions, non-fictions, short stories, essays and other genres from African, South Asian, and English and Latin American literatures.
Dr. Hossain’s field of studies encompasses a broad spectrum of colonial and postcolonial literature, South Asian and African art, culture and literature, hermeneutics, sociolinguistics, philosophy, anthropology and history. He is a member of the editorial boards of a good number of academic journals and he reviews research articles for national and international peer reviewed academic journals. He has contributed chapters in a good number of international anthologies and scores of his research articles have been published in national and international journals. He has participated in a huge number of national and international conferences as paper presenter, keynote speaker, plenary speaker and resource person. He conducts research work and adjudicates M.Phil. and doctoral thesis of various prestigious universities of home and abroad. Dr. Hossain served as a faculty in Rajshahi university of Engineering and Technology (RUET), National University, Bangladesh. He was designated as Professor of English of Dhaka City College. He has 23 years of teaching experience in graduation and post-graduation levels.
At present he is serving as a senior faculty member of the Department of English of Green University of Bangladesh.
Ashok Kumar Mishra
Bipracharan got down from an auto rickshaw in front of his son’s government quarter at Baripada. Auto rickshaw driver Bhagabat was unloading his belongings. Shadows were getting longer. Amidst approaching darkness Bipracharan was cleaning his power glasses with his handkerchief and was checking out once again the nameplate hanging from the gate.
“ Babu, I know for sure this is Saswat Sir’s residence. I have brought you several times in my cycle rickshaw earlier to this place. Now that I have purchased this auto rickshaw and operating, you are not able to recognise me.”
“I was just double-checking whether we have come to the right house or not. Besides you have put on weight, how can I recognise you in this darkness? I am Bipracharan Dandapat, retired Head master. My hairs have turned white, yet my memory is sharp as before and I remember someone if I see him once. How can I forget you?”
Daughter-in -law Alaka opened the door and fell at Bipababu’s feet to pay respect. Bachu also followed her mother. Taking the luggage from Bipra babu’s hands Alaka said “Saswat was waiting for you but could not contact as your mobile was dead and left for Sambalpur on official tour. He will return after three days. Before leaving he gave instructions to the office driver to pick you up from bus stop after getting any information about the bus in which you were travelling.”
“What to tell you about the ordeal I faced during the journey? The bus with ‘non-stop’ board to Baripada, stopped halfway at Bhadrak and did not go farther. The conductor cheated by saying he has kept a front seat reserved in the bus from Bhadrak to this place, but actually offered a seat in the rear. Fortunately the conductor of the Bhadrak bus was my student. He recognised me and arranged a seat in the front. By the time I could know about the name of the bus I was boarding, my mobile got out of power.”
“Your buddies Balabhadra Praharaj uncle and Dola uncle came enquiring about you and went away . They have promised to definitely meet you tomorrow morning” said Alaka.
“What else Balia was telling? Why didn’t you tell them to wait? Now that he has retired from police service what else he had to do at home?”
“He went away saying he is getting late to go to train Chhau dance to Uttarsahi boys. Dola uncle went back fearing the fog and the cold as he recovered recently from Covid” replied Alaka.
Bipracharan recollected Balabhadra as an accomplished artist of this typical martial dance form, famous worldwide and local to the entire Chhotnagpur belt. Year after year when Balabhadra performs Shiva Tandav the audience remain silent, glued to their seats. With long flowing hairs on head, tiger skin to cover his body, rudraksh bead necklace and toy snakes, huge shining trident on one hand and damru on the other he get transformed as Lord Shiva. His intoxicating passion for the dance form is beyond imagination and very difficult to shun at this age. Now he is training the local youth. He then asked Alaka to give some food so that he can take rest early.
Alaka said “ I have prepared dinner for you. I will serve on the dining table when you come out from the wash room.”
“ I am feeling full and would not take dinner. Rather you give some puffed rice in milk; I would prefer to eat light” said Bipracharan.
While taking puffed rice in milk Bipracharan suddenly threw it out saying “Is this milk or water?”
Alaka said what to say? In the name of pure cow milk, milkman Akshiya is supplying this milk. Other alternative is to take packed milk. Your son never bothers to complain about the quality to him and pay him regularly in time. We are almost at his mercy, if I complain he has been threatening to stop milk supply from next day.
Bipracharan in anger uttered “let Akshiya come to supply milk tomorrow. I will tell Balia to balance his longitude and latitude. Saswat is always like this. For him office is the world, everything else never bothers him. He wants to be ‘goody, goody’ with everyone. Our Bachu is taking this watery milk. That’s the reason why he looks so lean and thin. Where from he will get physical and mental strength if he drinks this every day? “Milkmen in general add a little water to milk but not like your milkman. This is purely adulteration of worst kind.”
Alaka said “you cannot do anything to him. He would listen with full attention in silence without uttering a single word and would nod his head and would fully agree with all your suggestions. But next day it would be all the same again. Nothing bothers him.
He was giving suggestion to me that there is so much space around the government quarter. He would help us purchase a good cow and would take its care. He would also help us grow some green fodder in the house compound. Bachu would get pure unadulterated milk. He would sell the balance milk in the market so that she would have some money and need not have to always look to Saswat for money as at present.”
“The noose rope would have been in Akshiya’s hand thereafter. He was setting a trap for you. Good you did not fall into the trap. Let him come tomorrow. I will teach him a lesson. He does not know me. I have handled so many wicked loafers and black sheeps with strong hands. That crook was trying to spoil my daughter-in-law. He feels only he is smart and rest are fools.”
Next morning Bipracharan was taking tea along with Balabhadra on the veranda. Riding his cycle milkman Akshiya arrived ringing his bell vigorously. He uploaded his milk cane after putting his cycle to stand. Finding Bipracharan and Balabhadra he took off the headgear from around his head and fell flat at their feet.
Balabhadra whispered “Oh so humble and so much show of fake respect”.
“Did you tell me anything sir? I could not hear you properly.”
“I was just enquiring how much milk you are adding to water”, uttered Balbhadra.
“I do not understand what you are telling Sir?”
“Oh, such a simpleton? Balabhadra is asking you how much water you are adding to the milk?” explained Bipracharan.
“I swear by Mother Ganga. I never indulge in such things Sir. I would never speak lies to an elderly person. You would never get a drop of water in my milk. This is Akhsiya’s guarantee Sir. Ask mother Alaka, she will vouch for me.”
“Akshiya, you know me. I am Balabhadra Praharaj. The Inspector in the police station is a friend of mine. If I tell him his cane will make you speak the truth. If you are put behind the bars for a day or two you will confess everything.”
“Sir do not utter such harsh words. I am a simple person and don’t understand critical words Sir. When Alaka madam was complaining about watery milk that was a rainy day. The cow got completely drenched in heavy rain. Milk in Rainy season would be always little watery Sir” explained Akshiya, the milk man.
“What you said? Your cow gives watery milk during Rainy season? Then she must be giving powder milk in summer?”
“You are selling milk without paying GST. There is no purity certificate for your milk. Sometime you sell old milk and it gets curdled. You do not give refund for curdled milk. You neither pay any tax to government nor do you give any receipt to the customers” said Balabhadra.
Akshiya just remained silent and stood still looking at the ground below, without uttering a single word and left after giving milk to Alaka. Both the old men were happy for teaching the milkman Akshiya a lesson.
Next day Akshiya did not come and stopped milk supply to their house. He sent a word that the calf drank the entire milk. When Saswat came back from tour next day he enquired with Alaka about father after returning from office. He was very disturbed. He said I am coming straight from the Police Station. Our milkman Akshiya is the Secretary of “All Odisha Milkmen’s Association”. He complained before the police along with other functionaries and a group of milkmen that our father and his friend have mentally tortured him. If police does not take exemplary action and book the perpetrators of the crime they would start a rally and demonstrate in front of the police station along with their cows and family members. Finally, after lot of persuasive effort I could buy peace with them.
Next morning Bipracharan and Balabhadra were taking lemon tea. Akshiya came to supply milk riding his cycle speedily and vigorously ringing the bell. He came close and fell at the feet of Bipracharan and Balabhadra as before. “Sir I never mind when someone speaks harsh. I am used to it and let it pass over. After all you are elderly and deserve respect. For me customer is king. Yesterday the calf got freed from the noose and drank all the milk. So sorry you had to take lemon tea.”
Bipracharan and Balabhadra remained silent but concealed their anger looking to the other side.
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)
THE SLEEP-RESTFULNESS CONUNDRUM
Jay Jagdev
The thing that we secretly desire to do on a Sunday is ‘Not Doing Anything’ which in common parlance broadly comprises a post-lunch siesta and a good night’s sleep.
The symptom of the need for rest usually starts showing up in our minds from Wednesday. That is why Wednesday is called The Hump Day. Because if we had started our week on a Monday, we would have reached our peak by midweek and are expected to drag ourselves till Friday and take rest on the weekends and revive.
The brain has been conditioned to seek rest and feel restored if we sleep well.
The adage goes, that even God rested on the 7th day after completing all his work of creation. The humans are expected to get ready from Monday to take on the workload of the weekdays. The cycle continues routinely like a point on a Sin x curve plotted on a sheet of graph paper or it’s expected to behave in that pattern normatively.
The big questions for us to answer are.
Are we at that stage where our work and Life are well balanced?
Do we understand the message sent out by our body and mind of its requirement for rest?
Is sleep the only circuit breaker we know of to rest and rejuvenate our body and mind to take on the next batch of workload?
Our own experience shows that many of us even after doing our Sunday rest, and sleep routine feel mentally overwhelmed, emotionally drained, and physically tired by Tuesday.
The weekend looks far away - why?
Dr. Saundra Dalton-Smith who is known as a work-life integration researcher seems to be having the answer. She says - “Identifying your rest deficit is the first step in being your personal and professional best self”. As a busy physician, author, and mom, she understands that life's demands can leave you feeling mentally overwhelmed, emotionally drained, and physically tired. Daily she helps high-achievers deal with their work-rest imbalance and find actionable answers to the thriving lifestyle they desire.
She says sleep and rest are not the same things. We’re suffering from a rest deficit because we don’t understand the various types of rest we need and their true power. She says that there are 7 types of rest that every person needs. Rest should equal restoration in seven key areas of your life.
Seven! And we were trying to open all the locks with just one key – Sleep.
The first type of rest we need is PHYSICAL REST, which can be passive or active. Passive physical rest includes sleeping and napping, while active physical rest means restorative activities such as yoga, stretching, and massage therapy that help improve the body’s circulation and flexibility.
The second type of rest is the MENTAL REST. We all experience that when arrear work builds up on our desks. We lay down at night to sleep; we struggle to turn off our brains as conversations from the day fill our thoughts. Ideas and worries come to visit us in our sleep and keep knocking on our mental doors. Despite sleeping seven to eight hours, we wake up feeling as if we never went to bed. That is a mental rest deficit.
The third type of rest we need is SENSORY REST. Pressure to Stay alert during long commutes, reading traffic signals during driving, Bright lights, Computer screens, Background noise, and multiple conversations touching multiple issues — whether they’re in an office or on a VC — can cause our senses to feel overwhelmed throughout our active hours of the day. The effects of it can eat well into the time we dedicate to rest.
The fourth type of rest is CREATIVE REST. The pressure to come up with new ideas to solve problems at hand and to anticipate them to prevent them from happening occupies the mind of the senior management. They are also expected to brainstorm new ideas to come up with newer value propositions for the organization they lead. The pressure of this leaves them staring blankly at a wall. This type of rest is especially important for anyone who must solve problems or brainstorm new ideas. Creative rest reawakens the awe and wonder inside each of us. Allowing ourselves to take in the beauty of the outdoors — even if it’s at a local park or in your backyard — provides us with creative rest. Select companies are offering unlimited paid vacations to their C-suite executives to let their creative juices flow.
The fifth type of rest is EMOTIONAL REST, which means having the time and space to freely express your feelings and cut back on people-pleasing. Deep inside us we feel ignored, neglected, and used by our family members, relatives, friends, and colleagues at our workplace. We are conditioned to say ‘I’m Good’ with a sunny smile each time someone wishes us a ‘How are you? We are taught to rise spiritually and not to complain but to accept things as they are. This can lead us to a pressure cooker situation which can explode unless released periodically. With our ever-expanding social and professional circles, we can ask ourselves if we have that person, we can be open with our feelings be it sharing our joy, frustration, and sadness, and hope to be understood?
Unknowingly we could be suffering the sixth type of rest deficit which is SOCIAL REST. Many a time we find ourselves in situations in which have people we are inseparably intertwined with who exhaust us with their predictably frustrating behavior. Despite flagging it politely, objecting to it, and warning them not to repeat it, people who are close to us force us to bring out the worst in us. Repeated exposure to these situations exacerbates it. To experience more social rest, we need to surround ourselves with positive and supportive people who inspire us to ignore our situations and revive us.
The final type of rest is SPIRITUAL REST, which is the ability to connect beyond the physical and mental and feel a deep sense of belonging, love, acceptance, and purpose. To receive this, we must engage in something greater than ourselves and add the practice of gratitude, prayer, meditation, or community involvement to our daily routine.
The present-day society celebrates only the success of a high-achieving, high-producing performer. This puts enormous pressure on its actors. It doesn’t bother to know what the person is going through in his personal life or deep inside his brain.
We all experience residual fatigue even after resting well the day before, we call it by so many names stress, irritable behavior, frustration, feeling used, defeated, and exhausted. As you can see, sleep alone can’t restore us to the point we feel rested. Now we know that each word above points to a completely different cause which is behind the feeling of rest deprivation.
So, it’s time we focused on getting the right type of rest our body and mind need to function normally, or else we will be a society of high-performing, high-achieving, chronically tired, and chronically burned-out individuals who are ripe to pop anytime like a soap bubble.
The choice is ours.
Jay Jagdev is an entrepreneur, academic and author. He is a popular blogger and an essayist. His foray into poetry is new. His essays are regularly published in Odishabytes and his poems on life and relationships have been featured in KabitaLive.
He is known for his work on sustainable development and policy implementation. As the President of the Udaygiri Foundation, he works to preserve and develop native language, literature, and heritage by improving its usage and consumption. More can be known about him on www.jpjagdev.com
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Animals and birds can do sometimes what man is not able to do for man’s joy. The dog wags its tail as a sign its love for man especially at its master; it watches his house and barks at the sight of enemies who do harm to the master and thieves to steal his treasures. So is the case with the birds like sparrows chirping on the arrival of the house-owner as a mark of love and affection for him. They live in human settlements with sentiments and attachments with man. How great they are to display their attachment with man!
In a house, a pair of sparrows have been living with its master for a long time. They are small in stature but hearty in nature. They wake up early in the morning along with the other birds on trees among human settlements in the surroundings. The parent sparrows have young ones to grow in the nest and fly away to live on the premises of the house like the members of the family.
The elderly members are Rameshwar and his wife Rashi who are the parents of two sons, Sahriday and Savinay. The parents are very disciplined and very particular about the image of the family. They have built up their image, gaining recognition and regard. They have lived for three decades in a thatched house very affectionately. They have offered an ample source for the sparrows to build their nests in the cavities. The house is in the olden design, but it is golden for Rameshwar and Rashi, as well as for the sparrows to build their nests in the cavities. They have aspired that their sons would keep the house as a monument for them. They have repaired it whenever necessary for its long life. They took all the care of providing shelter to the sparrows to live with them as their friends with their short but sweet communicative chirps at dawn and dusk.
As parents, Rameshwar and Rashi did their best to bring up their sons Sahriday and Savinay and gave them a very good education. When their sons got jobs, they performed their marriages on a grand scale as per their wishes. They selected the most suitable matches for them as they wished that they would luckily get suitable matches for them to fulfill their expectations.
Rameshwar and Rashi did not expect any other thing like the dowry in their marriages. All went according to the choices of their sons. That was a clear sign of greatness on their part. They gave full freedom to them. They happily welcomed their daughters-in-law, Shriti and Sneha as the new members of their family. The daughters-in-law put hold in their house one after the other with one-year gap on the auspicious occasions. What the parents wanted was their love and affection for them as there were many incidents of their going away along with their husbands to settle somewhere leaving the in-laws to their fate.
However, Rameshwar and Rashi were optimistic and hoped that sons and daughters-in-law would treat them cordially and safeguard the image of their family as they were educated and were from the cultured families of high repute.
Sahriday and Savinay joined their jobs on auspicious occasions in the state capital and started their careers successfully. In due course, the elder had a daughter and younger had a son. Their parents graced the occasions named the grandchildren Srivarshini and Sriharshith. They were all glad on the occasion. When they grew well, their affection towards their grandparents also grew abundantly. They played all games with them when free from school. The grandparents were in excessive happiness. All went well.
The grandparents in the course of time found their sons and daughters-in-law neglecting them and looking down upon them. Unexpected things happened on their way to find their castles built in the air collapsing. They came back to their house in the rural set-up while the sparrows were welcoming them, flying joyfully and chirping lovely. Their happiness knew no bounds for the chirpy welcome of the sparrows.
… … … …
The days passed in a slow manner for Rameshwar and Rashi in the village. The sparrows were friendly with them. They woke when the sparrows woke up them at dawn. They watched the sparrows leave the nest in the morning. They also waited for the sparrows to come back to their nest. The sparrows with their lovely chirps greeted them daily.
In their leisure time, all parents like Rameshwar wanted to render some social service to the people as a pastime and so they formed an organization called Praja Sankshema Samstha (People's Welfare Organization). They evolved various plans for educating illiterates, enlightening people regarding the enfranchising of vote-right in a right way, educating agriculturists in the ways for them to have a high crop-yielding and encouraging the bridegrooms not to practice dowry system. Their main plan was to eradicate social evils confronting society. One day the press had a conference with them all. In the conference, the people one after the other appraised them of their plans and expected results.
‘On behalf of the organization, I feel privilege to make all illiterates literates as I find illiterates in the village and around. Owing to illiteracy, people became victims to exploitation and are put to irreparable loss. When they are literates, they will rise against the evil forces and malpractices. I want to provide education to emancipate them from the clutches of the prevailing deception,’ said Parameshwar.
To educate all the agriculturists in their field, we will hold meetings with the agriculture officers to enlighten them to get better yielding without the use of fertilizers and pesticides. They’ll rise to the level of being model farmers,’ said one.
‘Regarding health consciousness, I, as a doctor, advise all the people here to come to the club which has free entry for all for a walk daily. I make them aware of the fact that prevention is better than a cure. I enlighten them on what to eat, what not to eat for a healthy, happy living. I advise them to refrain from smoking and drinking to keep healthy and fit in life,’ said another.
‘I make the people realize their fundamental rights. I advise the people to oppose corruption vehemently. It is the worst problem that our country is facing helplessly. I wake up all to the reality that I stop it permanently. I insist on them not to offer any bribe to anyone to get their works done. All must feel duty-mindedness and I see that people are free from corruption,’ said the other.
‘I want to see the flocks of cows grazing in the fields. It is the most welcome spectacle for me. The day should come when every house has a cow. The people should drink the milk of cows. I see that the farmers use manure for better crops, get good crops and turn the soil fertile for the future generations. In this I convene meetings with the veterinary doctor and the agriculture officer for the welfare of the farmers,’ said the other.
‘I see that cottage industries are developed, and handy crafts are encouraged. I see that the existing forests are conserved for ecological balance. I also have fascination for social forestry. I encourage all to plant minimum ten saplings on the premises of every house and see them grown into trees to give oxygen, blooming flowers and have ripe fruits.’ said the other.
‘I see that every house and every street are kept clean and see that houseflies and mosquitoes fly to a different world, enabling us to be free from diseases,’ said the other.
‘I’m for the child-welfare as the child is the father of man. The child should grow well to be a full man in the way the sapling should grow well to be a huge tree. I see that all the women pregnant get right guidelines for a natural delivery and I feed their babies and bring up well. A healthy child is most essential for a healthy society,’ said the other.
Like this, others also expressed their views in other ways for the welfare of the people as part of responsibility in the organization.
The next day, all the newspapers featured the headlines: ‘New Dawn of Civilization’, 'Man-to-Man Relation for the Welfare of Man', ‘Model Village to Shine’, ‘Humanity in Life’ appreciating Rameshwar for his true commitment to the organization.
… … … …
While Rameshwar was busy seeing the newspaper with the headlines showering praises on him, a ball came into his house moving. He saw a small girl and small boy run after the ball. They were in the ages of five and four. He was with Rashi having tea then. The unexpected emergence of the two children reminded them of their grandchildren, Srivarshini and Sriharshith with their dimpled cheeks and shining smiles. Tears rolled down their eyes when they recalled their grandchildren at the sight of the children. They made them sit in their laps and planted their lovely kisses on their cheeks. Rashi also joined him, asking
'What are your names?' said Rashi.
'Megha and Varsha...,' said Megha.
‘Your names are sweet...You are cute...Where have you come from?’ said Rameshwar.
‘We … We… We came…here... to stay… in Holidays … to … my grandparents … for our play ...from city,’ said Varsha.
‘Very good, did you come with your parents?’ said Rashi.
‘Yes … yes … what about... your grand children?’ said Megha.
What Varsha, you are not speaking...You are sharp like our Harshith, ' said Rashi.
'I came...here...holidays...exams over...only play...' said Varsha.
‘Like you, my grandchildren are in the city...But they have not come...,’ said Rameshwar.
‘Why … Why haven't… they come here?’ said Megha.
‘You’re with us now. I see my grandchildren in you... You are our grandchildren...,’ said Rashi.
‘How...Where... are... your grand daughter...your grand son?’ said Varsha.
‘They, Sriharshini and Sriharshith are lovely. They are studying in the city like you, said Rashi.
‘Srivarshini and Sriharshith ...are...well in our school… very good … Now… no school… We have...holidays... Only play in holidays. No books… no homework… Only play with grandparents. We... expect... them here. Why your grand children …not here…?’ said Varsha lisping.
‘You’re here. It gives full pleasure. I see your smiles. You want to play. You can play. I will give you chocolates. You can eat them. Sit in chairs,’ said Rameshwar and Rashi.
‘Okay’ said they and sat in chairs.
Rashi and Rameshwar gave them nice chocolates to them, saying, ‘Eat as many as you like’
‘Thank you…enough… We go to play,’ said the children.
‘Okay! Come here tomorrow’ said both Rameshwar and Rashi.
While they were going away, tears were rolling from the eyes of the grandparents...They thought that the children would come to them the following day.
Next day, they came again as promised. They spoke to them many lovely things. Rameshwar and Rashi listened to them attentively, smiling all the time. Every time they remembered their grandchildren as long as the kids were with them eating sweets and speaking to them. They asked them to come to them to the city.
‘Small holidays… completed… School …tomorrow. We go... We …come next holidays,’ said Megha and Varshith.
Saying, ‘Good …I wish you all the best. We miss you a lot. I wish you all the best, my dear kids,’ they took them into their laps and kissed them saying to them, ‘Bye… bye,’…’See you.’
… … … …
After holidays, the children were in schools and households and kept talking about their happy holiday trips to their grandparents. They narrated their happy time spent with their grandparents. Srivarshini and Sriharshith heard the conversation of their friends. They felt sorry for they had missed that joy of living with their grandparents. After going home, they were found shedding tears. When their parents enquired about their unhappiness, they told the reason for that. They forced their parents to come along with them to their grandparents every time during holidays. The parents were bound to follow their children to go to their parents, during the next vacation.
Rameshwar and Rishi kept spending their time for the welfare of the people in the village. When they were free, they very often talked of Megha and Varsha who pleased them by coming to them during their holidays.
Whenever Rameshwar and Rashi saw the photos of their grandchildren, they recalled all their lovely talk and funny games. They could glimpse dimpled cheeks and charming smiles of their grandchildren. All such recollections left them swung in the swing of joy while smiling to each other.
Rameshwar and Rashi were delighted to live happily amidst the short communicative chirps of little sparrows in the house. They did not wish to have big buildings. They were happy with old-fashioned and old-styled houses with sparrows to live in cavities. The house was a house with sparrows to be joy-bound for them to bestow on them endless joy.
All the people in the village were happy as the organization brought about all the welcome changes. It became a model village to get an award from the central Government. Rameshwar with Rashi was felicitated on the occasion.
… … … … …
Time was in its fleet to witness the day when their Srivarshini, the elder granddaughter to call Rameshwar on the mobile after a long gap.
‘Trin… trin … trin…. trin… trin … Hello, this is Srivarshini, Good morning, Grandfather. Good morning... Grandmother. We love you. We love you. We miss you...,' said Srivarshini.
'This is Sriharshini! Lovely kisses to both of you. We are coming to you my dear grandparents,' said Sriharshith.
'Very glad...We cordially receive you...my dear hearts...Most welcome…We eagerly wait for you at the gate.' said Rameshwar.
‘We’re coming to you today, my dear grandparents. We have forced our parents to come with us. We made them realize their responsibilities towards their parents. They are ready to come to you. We’re all coming to you… Keep waiting for us,’ said Srivarshini.
‘What a wonder. Welcome... Grand welcome to you. Now we are to receive you... We are at the threshold, waiting for you…Heavens are coming to us... O! you have come. A thousand springs have entered the garden of our life in the old house with chirping sparrows.... You are our little angels to have descended from heaven to us...A hundred suns have risen to shatter our pitch gloominess spread in your absence. Our hearts are filled with infinite joys,’ said Rameshwar and Rashi together in one voice.
Their grandchildren, Srivarshini and Sriharshith rushed to their grandparents happily. The grandparents received them in full joy. Net their sons and the daughters-in-law were entering the house with a deep sense of realization in their faces. They welcomed them with open hands. The sparrows flew over them, giving a warm chirping welcome while their young sparrows were making little tender chirps from the nest.
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
Meera Raghavendra Rao
It was during our trip to Cambodia we thought we should not miss the famous Buddhist temple which is also a tourist attraction where people from all over the world visit.
We entered Angkor Wat through the western entrance gopura, which is also the main entrance, for the temple faces west. Once inside, we realised the complicated structure of the architectural plan with a series of elevated towers, covered galleries, chambers, porches and courtyards on different levels linked by stairways.
A slight detour to the right took us to the shrine under the southern tower and there was an idol of Vishnu, tall and majestic with eight arms standing under a saffron coloured umbrella made of shining silk.
combodia VISHNU
The headgear was shaped differently from that adorning deities in south India. A few flowers were placed at the foot and a middle-aged woman with tear-filled eyes was sitting and praying there. The place has an aura of its own.
There is just enough space to prostrate before the deity and to circumambulate. You look around for his consort, Goddess Lakshmi, and you shrink at the sight of a headless figure nearby! When I expressed my shock and disappointment, Chi observed, “The bad people caused all the destruction.”
A word about the architecture of Angkor Wat and its symbolism:
Suryavarman II (1113-50) had a long reign in which he was besieged by invasions from neighbouring enemies – the Chams in South Vietnam and the Siamese (the Thais today) in Thailand.
Despite waging wars with these two kingdoms, he built Angkor Wat , the greatest architectural achievement of the Khmers. The height of the temple is 213 metres (699 ft.) with three rectangular or square levels .Each one is progressively smaller and higher from the one below starting from the outer limits of the temple. Covered galleries with columns define the boundaries of the first and second levels.
The third level supports five towers – four in the corners and one in the middle which are the most prominent features of Angkor Wat. Graduated tiers, one rising above the other, give the towers a conical shape and, near the top, rows of lotuses taper to a point which makes the overall profile look like a lotus bud.
The ingenious plan of the temple is quite deceptive from the entrance which appears like a colossal mass with one level and you get to see all the five towers only from certain angles.
Symbolism
Angkor Wat is a microcosm of the Hindu Universe in stone and represents an earthly model of the cosmic world. The moat represents the mythical oceans surrounding the earth and the succession of concentric galleries represents the mountain ranges that surround Mount Meru, the home of the Gods. The towers represent the mountain’s peaks and the experience of the ascent, to the central shrine is, may be intentionally a fairly convincing imitation of climbing a real mountain.
We were amply convinced after reaching the top puffing and panting , drenched in sweat , but with a great deal of satisfaction of having made it to ‘Mount Kailash’ as Chi compared it to the ultimate experience of reaching God “which was not easy”, he said.
Gallery of bas-reliefs
One of the most famous creations in Khmer art cover the exterior walls of Angkor Wat’s third enclosure, just above ground level. Except for two panels which depict the historic procession of Suryavarman II and the Heavens and Hells, the source for themes for bas-reliefs is mainly our Hindu epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharatha.
We were fascinated by the detailed presentation of the battle of Kurukshetra along the south half of the western gallery and the churning of the sea of milk along the south half of the east gallery.
In the north-west corner pavilion a scene has Vishnu with four arms depicted in sitting pose surrounded by a bevy of Apsaras (here Chi enlightened us about their importance in Khmer art). On top of this scene we see the celestial beauties floating with lissome grace and underneath, Vishnu reclining on the serpent Ananta and floating on the ocean. His upper torso rests on his shoulder and his consort Lakshmi sits near his feet.
Finally, after a tour of nearly two hours we emerged from the temple quite exhausted when Chi said it was the right time to view the sun set in all its glory. We expectantly walked towards the moat from where we could also have a view of all the five gopuras but the sun set eluded us because the sky suddenly turned cloudy.
The row of shops on our way out seemed to beckon us with oversized tender coconuts displayed prominently. “One dollar each,” said the young girl and it didn’t appear too much of a price to pay at that moment!
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao , M.A.in English literature is a freelance journalist, author of 10 books(fiction, nonfiction) a blogger and photographer .Her 11th. is a collection of 50 verses titled PINGING PANGS published in August 2020. She travelled widely within and outside the country.She blogs at :justlies.wordpress.com.
T. V. Sreekumar
The changes in him were gradual and I happened to notice it from the start. One who had razor-sharp memory started forgetting simple things like placing his comb, razor and other personal tools at the right place. Initially I found it a bit odd but with doubts lingering medical help confirmed it.
“Early stage of Alzheimer’s”
I struggled for a response but no words would come. I kept on staring at the doctor when he said,
“A different phase of life with no solution. The best you can do is walk along with him”
That’s exactly what I did. Walked along with him and tried to decipher his thoughts and needs and make him feel comfortable.
Each day something new was happening which displayed the fast rate at which his brain cells were eroding. A rank holder in Architecture, his own firm named “Mohan’s Arch” was a success right from start. A man who adored the low-cost housing Architect Laurie Baker to such an extent and often said “He is my God on the professional side and the master architect for the common man”. Mohan’s designs fitted into the budget of all, adding luxury with minimum investment and above all aligning with nature. He was very particular in visiting the site before going ahead with any plan. No trees, if any, were uprooted and the construction did not damage the earth or surroundings in any manner. On his visit to the site the first thing he always did was remove his footwear, touch Mother earth and bow before her and ask her consent. This practice was never ever broken and some looked at his behaviour with amusement. Many passed through his school and set their own business learning through him.
One day during his illness period he told me,
“Our house should have been eighteen degrees towards the east”
I nodded in agreement and thought it would end there but he wouldn’t stop.
“You know the reason?"
I shook my head in the negative,
“With this wind velocity and position of Sun the rooms would have been more bright and airy. I somehow overlooked it earlier”.
His brain was working overtime in spite of his illness. During this occasional brightness, he confessed that he could not remember many things and felt his memory was fading. I encouraged saying that with age it was a natural happening and not to worry.
We knew each other before marriage and the attraction was mutual. My name Geetha he affectionately modified to Geethu saying the former sounded like calling from far and with nectar dripping in excess at times it became just Gee with the “e” extending and tone varying according to the emotion. Stuck to it for reasons the Gee often resonated in the house and our life together over five decades was bliss. He never liked being disturbed while at work and whatever the urgency I made it a point to leave him alone during his private moments. He gave me my space and never directed or questioned me on anything. I wouldn’t say it was a bed of roses all through as we had our differences and arguments which were resolved before they turned sour. Having no children bothered us during the initial years but later both of us had to accept the reality and live accordingly.
As days passed it was obvious that his memory was fading at a fast pace. His “Gee” calls had almost stopped which left me wondering if he had forgotten my name. That was a thought very painful. Relating time was becoming difficult for him as he would often ask if it was day or night. Help was needed for most of the activities and with food he appeared confused. I started feeding him and even chewing was a challenge as he never knew what to do with the food and I had to take care that the food never choked him.
Even with all the drawbacks I took him outside on a wheelchair showing him the beauty around and talking about it. Sometimes his face brightened but many times it remained blank. I held my grief to myself thinking of the happy moments of yesteryears. The bliss of holding our hands and watching the sunset in silence during those good days immersed in our own world of togetherness gave me shades of joy during those difficult days.
One evening he was lying on my lap and relaxing. I heard a sound and saw that he was talking. Couldn’t hear him properly and I sharpened my ears. Yes. I could hear it. He was repeatedly saying faintly but audibly
“I am Mohan, I am Mohan.”
I could understand that he had forgotten his name and it was a sudden recollection. His face was bright reflecting an achievement and a smile of success. It went on for a while and then I heard it loud and clear which I felt like dew drops on me.
“Gee”
I closed my eyes listening and feeling that call which was our lifeline. Embraced him with all the feelings that surged and held his hand.
Holding him for a while I realized that his body was still and with no movement. I knew that he had left with pride and joy.
My man was laid to rest in our compound and a few weeks later I had a beautiful marble slab placed above and had his words with the smile engraved
“I am Mohan ”
T. V. Sreekumar is a retired Engineer stationed at Pondicherry with a passion for writing. He was a blogger with Sulekha for over fifteen years and a regular contributor writing under the name SuchisreeSreekumar.
Some of his stories were published in Women's Era. “THE HINDU” had also published some of his writings on its Open Page..
THE BRAVE JAWANS OF SIACHEN: A TALE OF COMPASSION AND COURAGE
(Based on true events- names changed)
Shri Satish Pashine
The Siachen Glacier, often called the world’s highest battlefield, is a place where only the brave dare to tread. Stretching over 76 kilometers, this frozen wilderness lies at the northern tip of India, where the Karakoram range meets the heavens. Life here is a relentless struggle against nature—where temperatures plunge to -50°C, oxygen is scarce, and every breath is a challenge.
For the soldiers of the Indian Army stationed at these perilous heights, every day is a battle, not just against an unseen enemy but against the brutal forces of nature itself. Amidst these unforgiving conditions, a remarkable tale of courage, compassion, and friendship unfolded—a story that began with the soldiers of Bahadur Company and a young Himalayan Brown Bear.
The Arrival
It all started one frigid winter morning, the kind that turns breath into frost before it can be exhaled. The sky was a pale gray, and the vast expanse of snow stretched endlessly in every direction. Captain Aryan Sharma, the company commander of Bahadur Company, stood at the observation post, his binoculars scanning the desolate horizon.
“Snow as far as the eye can see,” he muttered to Naik Singh, his second-in-command. “It’s like standing on the edge of the world.”
Singh, a tall, burly soldier with a thick beard that did little to shield him from the cold, nodded. “It’s beautiful… and deadly. This place doesn’t forgive mistakes.”
As they watched, movement near a distant ridge caught their attention. A family of Himalayan Brown Bears—rare visitors to these heights—was foraging near their post. The mother bear, cautious and watchful, led her cubs through the snow, their thick fur providing some protection against the biting cold.
“Bears?” Singh raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think we’d see wildlife up here.”
?
“Even they must be struggling,” Aryan replied. “There’s little food this far up.”
The bears kept their distance initially, visiting only at night, drawn by the scent of food scraps left by the soldiers. Over time, the soldiers, driven by empathy for the creatures enduring the same harsh environment, began leaving food for them deliberately.
Among the family was a cub, barely a year old, who often ventured closer to the post with its mother. The little one’s curiosity seemed to outweigh its fear.
“Look at that little one,” Singh observed one evening. “Braver than most. Comes closer every day.”
“Maybe he knows we mean no harm,” Aryan replied, a smile tugging at his lips.
But soon, the cub began appearing alone. Its mother was nowhere to be seen. The soldiers speculated that she might have fallen victim to the unforgiving terrain or been forced to abandon her cub in search of food.
The cub, now on its own, struggled to survive. It would cautiously approach the post, only to be chased away by the guard dogs stationed there, their barks echoing across the icy expanse.
“Poor thing,” muttered Lance Naik Joshi, watching the cub retreat into the snow. “It doesn’t stand a chance out here on its own.”
Captain Aryan noticed the growing concern among his men. “We’ll tie up the dogs during the day,” he decided. “Let’s give the little one a chance to come closer.”
A Growing Bond
The soldiers began to care for the cub, leaving food and water for it. At first, the cub was wary, keeping its distance. But hunger and the cold eventually drove it closer. Slowly, it began to trust the humans who had shown it kindness.
“He’s getting bolder,” Joshi remarked one afternoon as the cub ventured near the edge of the post.
“He knows where the food is,” Singh replied with a chuckle. “Smart little fellow.”
They named him Bahadur, after their company—Bahadur Company.
Despite the cub’s growing familiarity with the soldiers, Aryan remained cautious. “Remember, he’s still a wild animal,” he reminded his men. “Bears can be unpredictable, especially when they feel threatened.”
“Understood, sir,” Singh acknowledged. “But it feels good to have him around. Makes this place… less lonely.”
Indeed, Bahadur’s presence brought a sense of normalcy and warmth to the otherwise cold and isolating environment. He would play near the post, responding to the soldiers’ calls, and even offer comfort during moments of homesickness and fatigue.
The Dangers of Siachen
Life on the glacier was a constant test of endurance. The soldiers faced not only the physical challenges of the extreme cold but also the psychological strain of isolation and the ever-present threat of avalanches, frostbite, and altitude sickness.
“Every step here is a gamble,” Aryan once said to his men during a routine patrol. “The snow beneath our feet could give way without warning. Stay alert, always.”
The men knew the risks well. Stories of comrades lost to the treacherous terrain were shared in hushed tones around the campfire. Yet, they remained resolute, their sense of duty unwavering.
“We signed up for this,” Singh often reminded the younger soldiers. “Our families sleep peacefully because we’re here.”
A Cry for Help
One day, Bahadur disappeared. Days passed, and the soldiers grew anxious. The bond they had formed with the cub had become a source of joy in their otherwise grueling existence.
“I hope he’s all right,” said Singh, scanning the snowy horizon with a worried expression.
Then, a message crackled over the radio from a nearby post situated 800 meters away.
“We’ve spotted a bear cub… looks like Bahadur. He has a tin box stuck around his head.”
Captain Aryan’s heart sank. The image of the cub trapped, unable to eat or drink, was unbearable. Worse, Bahadur had wandered dangerously close to a cornice—a massive overhanging shelf of snow that could collapse at any moment, triggering a deadly avalanche.
“We have to get to him,” Aryan said firmly. “He won’t survive much longer.”
The Rescue
Despite the risks, Aryan assembled a rescue team. The journey to the site was treacherous, with each step sinking into deep snow, the air thin and biting. The men moved cautiously, aware that the slightest disturbance could trigger a disaster.
As they approached the site, the sight of Bahadur was heartbreaking. The cub was weak, disoriented, and stumbling in circles. The tin box around his head had left him blind and starving.
“We have to act fast,” Aryan said. “The cornice won’t hold for long.”
He devised a plan: one soldier would approach Bahadur, tie a rope around him, and lead him away from the danger zone.
“I’ll do it,” Singh volunteered, though his voice betrayed his apprehension.
But as he took a step forward, the snow beneath him shifted slightly—a reminder of the precariousness of their situation.
“No,” Aryan decided. “I’ll do it.”
With measured steps, Aryan approached the cub, speaking softly to calm him.
“Easy, Bahadur… we’re here to help.”
The cub, though disoriented, seemed to recognize the voice. Aryan crouched low, avoiding sudden movements, and carefully tied a rope around Bahadur’s neck.
“Pull slowly,” he instructed the team.
The soldiers, holding their breath, began to pull Bahadur away from the cornice. The snow creaked ominously, but the team moved with precision and care.
Finally, they were clear. Bahadur was safe.
A New Beginning
Back at the post, the soldiers worked meticulously to free Bahadur from the tin box. It was a delicate operation, as any sudden movement could injure the cub. After hours of effort, they succeeded.
Bahadur, now free, drank water eagerly and devoured the food offered to him. His energy slowly returned, and the sparkle in his eyes was back.
The soldiers expected him to leave, to return to the wilderness. But Bahadur stayed.
“He’s one of us now,” Singh said with a smile.
Bahadur became a part of their daily lives, a symbol of hope and resilience.
A Testament to Courage and Compassion
The story of Bahadur and the jawans of Bahadur Company spread across the glacier. It became a symbol of the soldiers’ indomitable spirit—not just their bravery in defending the nation but their compassion in the face of adversity.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the towering peaks, casting a golden glow over the icy expanse, Aryan reflected on the journey.
“Bahadur taught us something,” he said to his men. “That one act of kindness, one moment of courage, can make all the difference.”
The men nodded in agreement, their eyes fixed on the playful cub who had become their friend.
In the frozen heart of Siachen, amidst the endless snow and biting winds, a bond was forged—a bond that reminded them all that even in the most desolate of places, compassion could thrive.
Jai Hind!
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Bankim Chandra Tola
“Sunil! Wait a moment.”
As I looked back I saw Pramila was calling me from behind. I did not care listening to her and quickened my steps to reach the school on time; but she did not stop and yelled, “Sunil, walk a bit slow, I need to ask you something urgent.”
Curiosity piqued, I slowed down my pace so that she could catch me before reaching the School.
Both Pramila and I were stydying in class eleven, the final year of Matriculation in a reputed Govt. High School in our locality. Unlike the present system of education, at that time matriculation course was for four years from eighth to eleventh class. Out of 45 students in my class, Pramila was the only girl student. For her a separate seat was allocated in the classroom a little away from all other boy students to maintain decorum. Strong discipline was in force in our school and none of the boy students had any scope to talk to any girl student in the school even during leisure time. Particularly for me it was never pissible, except for a minor incident when Pramila, one day asked me in the classroom to solve one sum from algebra for her. As I was going to help her, suddenly our Sanskrit teacher entered the classroom and on seeing us together near her desk, cautioned me in a hard tone to maintain distance and never come near any girl student of the school in future.
The High School where I was stydying was established by the British Govt. prior to independence and the discipline followed in the school was like that of a Gurukul Ashram of ancient days. The teachers were very strict to enforce discipline and emphasize moral education in every class while imparting lessons.
At that time, people in rural areas, especially in the villages of my locality, were not very inclined to send their daughters to schools except, some well-to-do families who were sending their girl children either to a Pathshala or a Primary School if there was any, to learn reading and writing so that they could, at least, recite the mythological texts. However, a handful of affluent families with some command in the villages were taking the bold step of sending their girl children to High Schools and colleges. As a result in my High School only three girl students including Pramila were studying in different classes.
Ever since I was cautioned by our Sanskrit teacher, I made conscious effort to distance myself from Pramila even if she and I were coming from the same village to the school by walk everyday covering a distance of more than a mile. During my school days I was deeply focussed on studies with ambition to fetch success and rise in life. So I did not, even for a moment, think of anything other than academics. In fact I did not see Pramila’s face fully except having a casual glance at her while entering the classroom. As far as I remember she then looked like a fairly tall girl with white complexion sitting on a separate desk little away from the benches for boy students.
Walking fast she joined me and asked, “Sunil, do help me to solve one factorisation that I could not do. My tuition sir has adked me to submit the homework today in the coaching class. Help me, otherwise I may be taken to task.”
As I heard her attending coaching class, I lost my temper and shouted with a sharp tone, “Why should I do your home work given by your coaching sir? Why don’t you follow the lessons given in the classroom attentively? Ask your coaching sir to solve your problems for which you are paying. I hate coaching. Do not disturb me.”
She did not expect such rough outbursts from me and started sobbing. At this I was perturbed. Without looking at her I said, “Okay, okay don’t cry, show me the problem.”
With a sudden change in her emotion, she opened the book as if she was prepared beforehand and showed me the sum. I said, “What a fool you are! This is a very simple sum, what did your tuition teacher teach you?” Quickly I solved it in her rough notebook and hurried to school. On the way I thought how careless was Pramila? Why she did not follow teachings in the classroom? Was it due to her affluence that she did not care to grasp lessons in the classroom and hung on to coaching? It seemed abundance of wealth had spoilt her upbringing.
Days rolled by. The test examination before final was completed and all the students who passed in test were selected and sent up for final. Classes were suspended and we started preparing for final exam at home. For my convenience in making thorough preparation, my uncle who was then a primary school teacher arranged my stay in the school boarding where I shifted soon.
One afternoon when all other boarders were away for playing volley ball, I was working with Mathematics optional subject sitting in my room. Suddenly I saw, Pramila entered without prior information. At her unexpected entry, I panicked anticipating thrashing from boarding superintendent who was our science teacher. I scolded her right and left for coming to the boarding room like this. She was trying to tell me something but without lending my ears to her I went on thrashing her in a harsh tone. She turned pale and nervous. Then she started shivering and suddenly fainted and fell down. I did not anticipate such situation and out of anxiety and fear I started calling out for anybody who was there. But none came to my help. I ran to the superintendent’s room and reported all details seeking his immediate help. Without wasting time he hurried to the boarding room and asked me to bring some water. Then he sprinkled water on her face and gradually she came back to consciousness.
When sir asked her the reason for her coming, she said, “I came to Sunil to get some problems of mathematics solved, but he became angry and shouted at me.”
Suddenly I quipped, “If you wanted me to solve some sums for you, you should have come with someone from your family but not alone.”
By that time four to five other boarders gathered in the room to know what had happened. The Superintendent left for his room then. Quickly I worked out all her sums in her note book and with folded hands before all inmates present there I told her not to venture like this in future lest I may be taken to task. Then she left quietly and I heaved a sigh of relief.
Thank God thereafter she never met me again until we assembled in a different High School far away from our village for appearing in the final examination where examinees of five other High Schools also joined. We had no time to talk with any of our classmates even as two teachers of our school accompanied us to guide and monitor. Examination was completed as scheduled. Our teachers, on the day of our return, arranged a parting meet before lunch. For many of us that was our last meeting with each other after long four years of studying together. It was a pleasant day for us. I was totally free from all tensions and I was enjoying a friendly gossip with my classmates. Pramila, as if waiting for this moment, came near me with her face lit up with smile and said in a sweet tone, “Sunil, don’t worry, I shall not come again to disturb you. I do not know whether we may have a chance in future to meet again but I shall not forget your help and will pray to God for your bright future. I think you will shake off from your person the dust of a memory that once a stupid girl like me used to disturb you very often.”
At this, I was left speechless offering her a meek smile with a slight nod. But beneath the surface, I was washed by the turbulent waves of past events making me restless. Memory of my rude behaviour to her over something trivial, stung me like hundred scorpions falling upon me at a time. Recapitulating my past demeanour shown to her I felt utterly ashamed. What an indecorous chap I was a few months ago to tear a pretty girl like Pramila into pieces for her innocent and may be unintentional approach to me for help. I cursed myself. I tried to mask my inner turmoil and as I was about to say sorry to her for my indecent behaviour, our sir called me to come near him to ask something. Instantly I ran towards him and my words for Pramila remained unspoken forever. I was not sure as to whether she knew my anguish but for that moment my meeting with her came to an end. Then we joined the group lunch after which we hurried to board the bus with luggage.
At home I had no work. It was summer season. There was also no work in the field since after the harvest of paddy crop, pulses and sesame were sown and those crops had also been harvested by then. So for me there was no work at all. Sitting at home I started reading Puranas and Gita. In between the parting words of Pramila were reverberating in me. Again and again those words, "I think you will shake off from your person the dust of memory that once a stupid girl like me used to disturb you very often” were hitting me hard like beating with a whip. I wondered why I did not beg apology from her for my rude behaviour? Why I remained silent and what she might have thought of me? I was wrong. I could have said sorry at least. All these conflicting thoughts gnawed at me whenever I was sitting idle.
Two months later the Matriculation result was published. All my classmates were declared passed. Like me all others must have been busy in selecting their future course of action but I could not keep any track of them and moved to a far off city for college education in quest of excellence. We were so scattered that there was no chance of meeting with any of my classmates. By degrees, I forgot my school days being animated by the charisma of college atmosphere.
Six years elapsed merrily. After completion of post graduation I secured a prestigious job with handsome salary and a posting in a different city. I was busy with my preparation for moving out to join soon. My train ticket for onward journey for the place of posting was also booked. I was scheduled to start next day morning. It was Saturday. I thought, why not procure some bare necessities from the nearby market and carry them with me, so that I may not have to face any difficulty on reaching the destination. Then coming out of the hostel I took a town bus to go to the market.
I thought I should first of all go for purchasing two T-shirts and for that I moved towards an apparel show room. As I stepped into the shop, I was taken aback to see an exquisitely beautiful lady in a bright yellow sari with long open black hairs cascading her back and shoulder standing on the counter of ladies dress materials. For a moment I was stunned and my footsteps clogged when our eyes met. Before I could guess, she advanced and exclaimed, “Hi Sunil! How are you?”
I thought she must be Pramila only. Then I said “What a pleasant surprise! How are you here?”
She blushed and said, “I just came here yesterday to visit this city before I go for joining my new job. I came to this market for some purchases; but tell me, what are you doing here? You had disappeared for last six years.” She said.
“I was pursuing my studies here. I am also going to leave this city tomorrow for joining my first job.” I responded promptly.
She said, “Congratulations Sunil. In that case why not you accompany me to go round the city and celebrate our employment. After a long time we have met, let us enjoy this event.”
I did not expect such proposal from her. I was feeling exceedingly elated from within to have a close company of an angel like her. What a change had come upon a shy village girl to be a grown up aristocratic lady during last six years! Really, she looked like a paragon of beauty. Anybody in that situation would have jumped in to accompany her for going round the city and enjoy, but my stupid sense of propriety could not make me accept her suggestion. I was clueless ss to what I should tell her at that moment. At my pause she interfered and said, “What happened? What are you thinking. Are you confused?”
I said, “No, actually today I have a lot of work to complete before I leave the hostel for good and get ready for departure tomorrow early in the morning for which my ticket has been booked. I would have been very glad to pass some time with you merrily but for my preoccupations that stop me from doing so. Leave me this time, if God permits, we may meet some other day to talk and wander about freely.”
I watched her radiant face turn pale, a shadow of some unspoken emotion clouded her eyes. She seemed hurt and with a heavy sigh said, “Okay, I understand Sunil, you haven’t changed. Still you are sailing in the same boat as before. Earlier you were a bookworm and now a workaholic.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Anyway, best wishes for your new job. Thank you, if God desires we may meet some day in future.” Without another word she turned her face and walked briskly away vanishing from my sight.
O God! What did I do? I could not believe how foolish I was. At least I should have invited her for a lunch together in a good restaurant if I could not accompany her for the whole day. What a fool I was. I have trampled a burgeoning bud under my feet before it flowered. She was right to say, “You have not changed.” At least I could have begged apology from her for my harsh behaviour done to her in the past.
Life does not stop at any point for long, it goes on its way. I joined my job on time and carried on. Decades passed by and I achieved many incredible successes in life. I was happy with my family and the society around me. A day came when I was retired from service and settled in my home town. One day about a decade after my retirement, an unanticipated call was received by me when I was relaxing on an arm chair. The caller was Dhananjay, one of my classmates in the High School. Dhananjay roared from other side in a high voice, “How are you Sunil? You have become a big man, why will you remember us? I thought, let me at least have a talk with my old friends at my ripe age and so I searched for your contact number to call you.”
I was excited to respond to him delightfully and said, “Arrey Dhananjay, where have you been so long? Yes, I could not keep track of you because of several unavoidable circumstances in course of the rough journey of my life but why didn’t you contact me? Now during the last chapter of our life you remembered me. How could I forget our golden days in High School when you used to fall back upon me always for every small matter?”
He said, “No Sunil, that is not the case. My life was not so easy at all as you think. Leave it for now. Let me tell you a very serious and sad news for which I had to search your contact number frantically to inform you.”
As if the sky fell on me. I was caught with horror and said, “Tell me quickly, what is it?.”
Then Dhananjay said with a sad voice, “Do you know a few days back Pramila passed away. She was staying alone in her house built near my residence from out of her own income. One day about a week before her sad demise she called me to her house and requested me to convey her sorrowful plight to you.”
My curiosity by that time had risen to the peak and I asked Dhananjay to state every bit of her words in detail.
Dhananjay continued, “Pramila had a very painful life. She loved you but could not communicate, for it was one sided. As she told me, she tried several times both in High School and thereafter to express her love to you but she failed. Her father was a rich man who forced her to marry the son of the richest man of our area. But that man was a rogue. He was a drunkard and completely wayward. Knowing this she tried to reject the proposal by telling her parents to send her marriage proposal to your house but her father vehemently objected because of their status and wealth. Finally her marriage was conducted with that bastard who tortured her for money. She could not bear inhuman atrocities inflicted on her every day and filed a petition for divorce and got separated. By that time she had lost her parents and her brothers did not cooperate with her. She was forced to stay away from all of them and built a small house near my residence and lived on income from her teachership. But sadly enough, she suffered from cancer thereafter and died.”
Having heard the sorrowful life of Pramila I was crestfallen and said, “O my God! Pray save her soul. Truly speaking I could not get a whiff of what you said to me now. Yes, one day Pramila had met me in a show room for dress materials in the market just before I was moving out to join my first service and she offered me to accompany her for a city tour which I declined due to my preoccupations. Perhaps she might have come to my town after collecting my whereabouts to convey her desire. Sorry Dhananjay I feel guilty to have refused to pass some time with her. Now I feel guilty that I might have been responsible for her misery also. Who knows, had she made a proposal for our marriage then and if I had rejected it, she might have taken some other step to lead a better life. This was a big communication gap for which she was landed on a state of disaster. May God bless her soul”
Human life is a typical mix of wills and woes. What we think and, what we desire are not accomplished always. In many crucial matters of life we fail to open our heart. Sometimes our thirsts remain unquenched as it happened with Pramila. What an illusion!
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker likes to pass time in travelling, gardening and writing small articles like the one posted here. He is not a writer or poet yet he hangs on with his pursuit of writing small miscellaneous articles for disseminating positive thoughts for better living and love for humanity. Best of luck.
Dr. Rekha Mohanty
I have been a travel bug since my childhood.During my student days we had been changing places every one or two years due to posting of my father who was a police officer in Odisha state. After marrying to an Army officer I also joined Indian Army and we travelled throughout India and many places abroad in a span of 30 years experiencing wide range of culture and history.This travelogue I am writing is very special to me.Being a nature lover I like revisiting the place I love again and again in my dream where I fell in love with its everything from trees, homes, mountains,terrains and water. I had zeroed in on Hallstatt ,a picture perfect village in upper Austria as it was already in my bucket list.
It’s a small ancient village with houses seemed clinging to side of Austrian Alps having a population of about 800 people. It is said to be one of the best ten villages of world. I had planned to visit the oldest salt mine,a trip to breath taking cave world, a boat ride on lake Hallstatt where this village sit on its shore. The mighty high mountain range overlooking the village with Dachstein glacier offers treks to adventurous people but not for me now. Every thing attracted me,the shining white snow ,serenity ,friendly people ,local food and the famous cultural history. Let me start with its unique interesting history.The saltiest village of Hallstatt sandwiched between Alps and lake Hallstatt with elevation of1677 ft at down town with its cobbled lane and tall Catholic Church seen from a distance is really fascinating. The history of place dates back to 12000BC.The salt mine here is 7000 years old.Nestled amidst the breathtaking Austrian Alps, the enchanting village emerges as a jewel of timeless beauty and cultural richness.
Post Neolithic period ( 5000BCE) between 2100-800BCE( Bronze Age) organised salt mining was not started here when local people engaged in mining in crude and risky way.The Iron Age came after Bronze Age that spans from 800-400BCE, when organised salt mining was initiated and that’s the reason this period is also known as Hallstatt Age.Mines offer a glimpse into early industrial activity that led village’s first success via trade with other cultures throughout Europe.
So knowing the historical context we decided to visit the place and planned going in a small group so that we could explore more about the place.From NewDelhi reaching Salzburg is easy.September was ideal month for us as the fall season is good in Eastern Europe.We first flew to Prague in Czech Republic and spent few days there .We drove to Cesky Krumlov ,another small beautiful fairy tale town in Czech Republic.From there we headed for Salzburg next day which was almost 3and half hrs(217km) by road. After a night stay there we started for Hallstatt next morning after having breakfast around 9 am and reached after one hour 15 minutes. The drive was beautiful on a rainy and cold day.I was ready to immerse myself in a fascinating and adventurous subterranean realm seasoned with healthy pinch of salt and energy.I was reviewing the pages from history in my mind.
Importance of this village from ancient age is due to its rich valuable natural resources of rock salt. The quality of salt is to preserve food. Those who can preserve and eat the food later could survive and progress .The salt deposits formed in the Alpine region about million years ago due to continental plate shifts. I was comfortable in big Setra coach totally engrossed with enchanting view of high snow capped mountains on both sides of road half covered with black and white clouds while others were engaged in light chatter in off beat moods.Continuous shower of rain with its musical sound , cold wind blowing outside was rendering a calming and soothing effect on body and mind. Natural beauty of still blue white water of lake was visible on our left side embarking the road after we covered about two third of distance was awesome.My senses were numb and I was mesmerised happily in the environment.I could feel my self on cloud nine.The destination arrived soon.
I got down from the coach after reaching at bus terminal at foot hill with my jacket and cap on,balancing the umbrella on right hand and hand bag on my left shoulder. I started slowly walking on the narrow cobblestone lane along with others.We were heading to the top of the mountain that stood on our right. After about 15 minutes we entered into the base station of funicular train.The entrance was decorated with big and medium sized translucent chunks of pink rocksalt. The funicular railway was there up to the high valley that rises 325 vertical metres in about 2 minutes. The funicular ride started from below through the steep mountain was really exciting. It had one lower and one upper glass cabin of capacities about 10 -12 people each. The panoramic view of tall Pine and Fir trees from top was too good. I wished the speed would have been more slower to see the trees top to bottom in slow motion .
After reaching at the height we got down to an open area covered with fresh snow.The thin layer of snow was giving an effect of a white and green chequered blanket all over.We took pictures there overwhelmed by the scenic beauty.I started slowly climbing up the hill on the rocky track for about 20minutes enjoying the white slopes on both sides intercepted by gushing small water falls. On the way I came across a small room built to pass through. That was a room for remembering an ancestor salt miner whose skeleton was kept well preserved as a mute testimony of the rich past.Their adventure stories were shown later in side the salt mine.
Then we reached at an office building where the identification tags and protective clothings were issued. I got prepared with wristband and put on the suit covering head to toe over my dress. Then we together walked till the entrance point of salt mine about few yards from the building.We finally entered inside a tunnel of mine in the mountain . The tunnels were narrow and long with many branches spreading in different directions having tracks laid down on floor for transportation of goods.After walking inside tunnels for about 30 minutes I wanted to have a break. But there was no such place to sit. I was touching the tunnel walls which were damp and tasted salty. The roof of tunnels were kept patent by wooden board panels systematically designed.We were inside the world’s first known salt mine named Salzwalten. We were going more and more down in the mine. There was wooden narrow miner’s slide to hurtle down 64 meters deep in few seconds. But some how the speed of sliding was fearful and I climbed down through short and uneven wooden steps slowly and cautiously though it took me a longer time.The area inside the deep mine was well ventilated and lighted . The audiovisual screen was big and the area had sitting arrangements .
I saw the short movie on history of the salt mountain.This place existed under water about 250 million years ago . About 50 million years ago due to continental plate shifts the sea water dried up and salt was deposited in the mountains in the area. This place gradually evolved since 3000 years for salt, timber and diary. The film depicted the life in Bronze Era inside mines. How 300 yrs ago they were digging tunnels 200 metres deep inside the mountain equipped with simplest tools and antler picks was a story of human grit and spirit.It was definitely risky and many had succumbed to the unfamiliar conditions.A staircase of that era was discovered later in 2002 which they were using inside for moving up and down.The natural salt mined in shape of hearts owing to use of antler pick. We went ahead and got intrigued to come across a dark corner inside where sheer human will and strength can survive and win.I stroke roughly hewn rock walls to feel the pulse of bravery. The salt, essential for food preservation and progress of humans gave way to trade and prosperity to the region.Being a vital part of body fluid ,the essence of life and civilisation, salt ruled and dominated.
Through passage of time due to land mass flow, the people have perished and many miners skeletons are well preserved in salty mountain to tell the history of human survival at late Bronze Age and Iron Age.In this village also on display is a unique ossuary where remains of deceased are stored in decorated wooden coffins. We had a curious engrossed visit of salt mine for about 4 hours.
I was bit thirsty then and I had some water that I carried in my pocket.In the meantime I was observing around some people from different countries.The village had attracted tourists from all over world and I was told this is the most photographed village of the world.The small place has earned a big reputation.The rich cultural heritage, traditional festivals and customs are part of the Celtic Hallstatt culture of 800-400 BC . This was followed by the Roman period ,then medieval time and now the modern era has arrived and all could visit the place without much hassle.The tours are well organised now with audio visual aids over LED screens with lights at strategic turns and blinds keeping safety as a priority.
In the mean time we slowly were walking inside the mine and approached the miner’s train.After the very different experiences we sat on a long open wooden bench like train rattling along for 15 minutes to the open day light.
There after we came down walking for changing room. After depositing the protective suits we started walking again to the world heritage view of SKY WALK. It was really breathtaking. The lake view below ,snow covered greenery around and scattered clouds crossing high mountains up can’t be described by any word.Thats the reason this village is tagged a world heritage site by UNESCO. Then we came down to the funicular station through an elevator and entered into the glass cabin .Again I enjoyed the down ride over the tall trees to reach at the small village square.
It was still drizzling . I was feeling hungry and was in lookout for a nice cosy restaurant to have some local food.We toured on foot and it took just 10 minutes to cover the village. The local people were very friendly, but communication was a problem as English is not a spoken language there.We had some dumplings topped with cheese and onion with some gravy like sauce accompanied by bread and baked potato.They have small shops of eateries and salt bottles of various sizes and shapes were kept for sell.I bought one small salt bottle as souvenir.
Another site in village was famous Hallstatt burial ground which was excavated in 1846.The prehistoric cremation grave was a testimony to the style of costume and historically wealthy decorative jewellery or grave goods. Many Hallstatt grave goods are robbed around 500 BC.The find became eponymous for an entire epoch of European cultural history known as Hallstatt culture.
I couldn’t visit the Hallstatt museum with materials of excavation due to lack of time. The history also depicts that 400 year old
brine-pipeline is oldest in the world .It transports salt brine to 40 km through 13000 hollowed out trees.Hallstatt culture was an early Iron Age Celtic culture that flourished in Central Europe.The culture was based on farming,but also included advanced metal working.It spreads from east to west from the Alps to Northern Italy, parts of Britain and adjoining parts of central and eastern Europe.
I saw few old abandoned Castles in village that stood as testimony to Nazi infiltration with their secret mission and they used the lake for dumping.The lake was known as Devil’s dustbin after World War II.Now this title doesn’t exist.
Same evening we came back to Salzburg.The road we travelled was first built in 1890 by rock blasting. Before that people were accessing through water and mountain route with difficulty. The planning of this trip went precisely well with perfect execution. I loved the place so much that sometime if I close my eyes I see the picturesque post card village touching the clear shining vast water bodies of lake.The snow capped mountain with thick tall Firs and Pines overlook the village as if guardian .
I fell in love with Hallstatt.
I savoured old world culture and charm.
I loved this ‘pearl of Austria.’
The rugged snow capped mountains, blue lake,the quaint village , water falls spilled into it,houses in a cluster captivated me with absolute beauty and mystique. My curiosity not yet quelled but ignited again and again to match the inspiration and I left a bit of my heart there.
Col( Dr) Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College, Cuttack, Odisha and she has spent most of her professional life in military hospitals in peace and field locations and on high altitude areas.She has participated in Operation Vijay (Kargil war)in 1999 and was selected for UN missions in Africa for her sincere involvement in crisis management of natural calamities in side the country and abroad where India is asked to do so in capacity of head QRT in Delhi for emergency medical supplies.She had also participated in military desert operation
’ Op Parakram’ in Rajasthan border area.After relinquishing Army Medical Corps in 2009,she worked in Ex Servicemen Polyclinic in Delhi NCR and presently is working in a private multi-speciality hospital there to keep herself engaged.
Her hobby is writing poetry in English and Odia.She was writing for college journals and local magazines as a student in school.
Being a frequent traveler around the world,she writes travelogues.The writing habit was influenced by her father who was a Police Officer and used to write daily diary in English language he had mastered from school days in old time.Her mother was writing crisp devotional poems in Odia language and was an avid reader of Odia and Bengali books.Later her children and husband also encouraged.
Dr Rekha keeps herself occupied in free times for activities like painting, baking and playing card games the contract bridge.
She is a genuine pet lover and offers her services to animal welfare organisations and involves in rescue of injured stray dogs.Being always with pets at home since early childhood ,she gives treatment to other dogs in society when asked for in absence of a vet.She delivers talks on child and women health issues to educate the ladies in army and civil.
After sad demise of her husband Dr( Brig)B B Mohanty in February 2023,she devoted more time to writing and published her first poetry book’Resilient Leaf’in August 2023.Since then there is no stopping and she is going to publish her second book of poetry soon.
She enjoys reading E magazine LV , newspaper current affairs ,writing poetry and watching selected movies whenever she gets time.She keeps travelling places of interest in between for a change which is a passion as a girl since days roaming with parents and siblings .Her motto is to be happy by giving the best to self and to the society.She is lucky to have a supportive family.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
“The most important thing in the world is family and love.” -John Wooden
A family is an organization set up by the members of the same in different places according to their priorities. Some people prefer to reside in villages, and some wish to live in cities or towns, leaving their farms or agricultural fields. Why do families move from one place to another? The reasons are plentiful. For example, medical facilities, education, luxurious life, attraction towards the city, jobs, etc.
The neutral families can no longer have help from extended families as they wish to be isolated from them, despite their requirements. Financial priorities make the woman work outside and play various roles as a mother, wife, employee, and friend. Modern women shoulder different responsibilities at different times, putting the children in trouble. They may not get care and time from their mother whenever they need it. Being an employee and parent both wife and husband get frustrated to fulfil the needs of the family members. Especially, the children would miss their parents whenever they needed them.
“Children are not things to be moulded but are people to be unfolded.” – Jess Lair
Children certainly long for their parent’s attention and assistance every day which is impossible in a family where both partners go to work. Care centres are spreading like mushrooms in which the kids are put up whose parents are busy. Especially, infants and babies should be joined to complete household responsibilities or work assignments. Some babies can adjust whereas some may not adjust in such places and such babies may get multiple diseases. Like the developed countries, every country cannot afford to have very good babysitting centers. Moreover, they are not affordable to all parents.
There is a difference between working from home and working at an office. The employees who work from home may have to deal with multiple tasks at home as well as in official chores. The employees who work at an office can concentrate on their job well as it is the only task which is in front of them. However, in both cases, they get frustrated or tired which makes them get annoyed and hold the responsibility of their family members.
Stress levels make a person mentally and physically weak at times. When they depended on joint families, things were shared including money management. Now, priorities and ambitions have changed, so their thought processes that alter their minds to focus on the situations or desires. The goal-oriented mankind travel to the path of success, facing all the hurdles or adversity, whatever reason it is. Nobody can stop them from achieving triumph.
Similarly, education, financial status, family responsibilities and techniques to reach destiny make everyone stressed. Everyone in the family wants to be independent in thoughts, deeds, voicing views, and decision-making. Choices have been changed, and so has the lifestyle. From a five-year-old child to an adult, everyone endures stress levels due to which peace is obstructed. Thus, most families face distress, depression, and dissatisfaction.
“Stress is a download spiral, and you can only overcome it with a positive perspective.”
No man is the same person either in attitude or skill to deal with duties. So, the talents and capabilities certainly differ from one person to another. Some people may succeed faster than others. This also increases their tensions which makes them feel inferior to others. The organization of families is the main reason for these changes and mental setups. And the more we hold responsibilities, the more we must be organized in dealing with them. When a person lacks organizational skills, he or she may have to face a lack of time, mental disturbance, and poor work performance.
Is it easy for everyone to depend on family members today? To be frank, it is not. As we know, the changes in the thinking process and the main concerns are the reasons to keep people away from sharing responsibility or resources. Since the stone age, man is dependent on others, nature, and animals. One should realize that man is interdependent and a social animal. The blue planet provides everything a man needs to have, but it cannot tolerate his greed.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com
Sreechandra Banerjee
‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds…’
Anand suddenly remembered the lines of Shakespeare’s 116th Sonnet, taught in Class? Yes, Class X it was. Strange that he remembered these lines after so many years. Must be! Literature was his passion too.
So many years have now passed and now this patient of his!
But could she understand that it was he, Anand, who was the doctor attending to her.
No, probably not! In such a state of delirium, she probably couldn’t.
To think of those days! They were in the same class and same section too. Not only that, staying near-by, they often returned home together. Class IX to XII –a brief time in life yet a long-standing attachment that had provided him with a desire to live! To carry on…, if he could see her again!
And now, she was here! Right here!
It was Physics class, the teacher was babbling away about friction- probably memorizing his own physics lessons!
What is frictionless in life? Nothing, simply nothing!
Yet he couldn’t resist his impulse to hold her hands:
- “See, there is friction, so your hands are not sliding away from mine!”
Not only did she quickly retrieve her hands, but never again did she sit beside him. She also started avoiding him.
It was at the end of Class XII. He didn’t see her much after that!
Probably she opened her eyes now! Looking at Anand she seemed to frown. Did she recognize him? Was it possible after so many years and in such a state?
Why did things turn this way? Why? Why? What a sweet girl she was!
At that time, there was no hype over Valentine’s Day. They were in Class X then. It was in early February. It was Tiffin time. Suddenly she said:
- “My aunt, she is in the US, she has written that Valentine’s Day is near, know what it is?" And she went on to explain it.
- “You know Anand, different shades of roses have different significance.”
- “Really!” Anand had exclaimed.
- “Yes, red is the most common one. It was the colour of the Goddess of Love in Greek and Roman Mythologies.”
- “What do the other shades signify?”
- “Many things!” Sometimes it depends on culture too. Deep pink means gratitude and admiration whereas light pink is more subtle and reveals gentleness. Yellow, white, shades of lavender all have different meanings… I forgot.”
It seemed that she was the Love Goddess Herself lecturing Anand on the different hues of love.
Now that she was on dialysis, Anand couldn’t bear to look at her face.
She, who loved life so much, wouldn’t she be spared from the all-embracing, not-so-warm death?
Anand would never forget the first day at the Chemistry laboratory. Their roll numbers were next to each other. So, while selecting partners the teacher had called out:
- “Anand Desai and Anisha Debnath are partners.”
Already things had gone wrong with the Physics lab. They had all wanted to form partners themselves, but the teacher had snapped:
- “Choose your own life partners, but now leave this job for me.”
One day when Anisha was heating a test tube over the Bunsen burner, Anand told her:
- “You know there is difference between ‘I love you’ and ‘I am in love with you’.”
Sure, she didn’t know, and so Anand explained:
- “I am in love means the mental aspect.”
- “Hey, did you complete all the oath taking rituals for marriage with the burner as witness, I mean Agni Shakshi is over?” It was Pradyot who was standing next to them, trying to light his burner which had gone out.
When nobody was around, Anisha had said:
- “You boys are always talking of bad things- of mental and physical aspects of love.”
Probably she referred to the other day at biology lab when Anand and some of his male friends were discussing why toads call out during monsoons.
Anand had then glanced at her across the table. She was busy dissecting the artery of a toad. He could see that she had blushed.
Anisha always preferred working with the arterial system. Her friends used to tease her:
- “See, you always like piercing hearts!”
Oh, those days were real fun! How nice it was to share the adolescent days together.
How did a mere adolescent attachment leave such a deep mark in Anand?
She went on to study English Honors, while he went for Medicine.
- “No more science subjects” her father had said. Both her parents were ailing and probably had wanted her to settle early. They had disliked Anand’s befriending her.
- “Don’t call me, my parents always make a fuss. Besides with medicine, it would sure take time to settle, neither would they wait that long. .... What’s the use?” her voice was choking!
He never saw her again. Just after the Higher Secondary exams, Anisha’s family had moved out to another locality.
Later, Anand heard that her parents had married her off even before she could complete her Part 2 examinations.
- “Please doctor, can nothing be done?” asked Anisha’s husband, apparently affectionate towards her.
- “Let me see, but she needs a kidney transplant immediately. Both her kidneys are damaged.”
- “Oh, no! We are not that rich. No other way?”
- “No, that’s the only remedy. But let me see…”
Oh! Anisha, where have you been all this time! How I wanted to see you. I wanted you to be happy. I can understand that you are happy. Why, why did this happen to you?”
Yes, he would have to do it!
She had a family – a happy family, he had none! He wanted her to be happy. Yes, to be happy and to live!
- “I’ll go for some tests, I’ll give one of my kidneys” he told his assistant.
- “What Sir! With your heart condition? You may not survive the operation!”
- “Let it be, don’t worry for me…..” Anand could hardly reply.
…………………………………………………………………………
Above image is from the internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
This story I Wrote for my book ‘Tapestry of Stories’ which was published in 2011/2012.
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right of the image taken from the internet.
No part of this story 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.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: SHINKANSEN, A TECHNOLOGICAL MARVEL!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
If speed is the sign of progress and development, then the Shinkansen is its other name. It stands as a significant engineering marvel and a symbol of Japan's technological prowess. Shinkansen has greatly contributed to efficient commuting between long-distance places, effectively shortening travel times. Rapid connectivity between cities facilitates economic growth while mitigating population migration from smaller towns to larger metropolitan areas. While air travel often comes to mind for fast intercity travel, high-speed trains offer a compelling alternative. Unlike air travel, the Shinkansen eliminates the need for passengers to arrive hours in advance, providing a more time-efficient and seamless experience, with departures available at frequent intervals.
Japan faced significant challenges in the aftermath of World War II. However, on October 1, 1964, exactly sixty years ago, the launch of the Shinkansen, meaning "new trunk line," marked a pivotal moment in the nation's recovery. The first Shinkansen journeyed from Tokyo to Osaka, symbolizing Japan's resurgence and technological advancement. That same year, Japan had further demonstrated its recovery by hosting the Olympic Games, showcasing its resilience and progress on the global stage.
Japan continues to lead the world in rail technology, with major corporations like Hitachi and Toshiba exporting billions of dollars worth of trains and equipment globally each year. The iconic Shinkansen operates at impressive speeds of up to 320 kilometers per hour, exemplifying Japan's innovation and engineering excellence. The Shinkansen is a major factor in Japan’s ongoing economic development and serves as an agent of change in a country steeped in convention and tradition.
Japan's complex topography and diverse climates—ranging from the freezing winters in the north to the tropical humidity in the south—have positioned Japanese railroad engineers as global leaders in solving unique challenges and advancing rail technology. One of the most significant challenges is seismic activity. As one of the world's most geologically active regions, Japan faces frequent earthquakes, tsunamis, and is home to nearly 10% of the planet's volcanoes. Remarkably, despite these challenges, the Shinkansen network has maintained an impeccable safety record, with no passenger fatalities or injuries caused by derailments throughout its history.
Before the advent of the Shinkansen, railway transportation was in decline in many countries. However, Japan’s success with high-speed trains inspired other nations to invest in similar technologies. In 1981, France introduced its TGV train, followed by Germany's Inter-City Express in 1991. Today, Japanese rail companies are extending their expertise worldwide. Key elements of Shinkansen technology, such as specialized tracks and advanced safety systems, have been adopted by other rail networks. In 2007, high-speed rail services in China and the Taiwan Shinkansen began operations. Additionally, countries like the United States and India are exploring the adoption of Shinkansen technology for their own rail networks.
As the world knows, India is undertaking its first bullet train project in collaboration with Japan, which will run between Ahmedabad and Mumbai, a key initiative of Prime Minister Narendra Modi. The foundation stone for this project was laid on September 14, 2017 by Prime Minister Narendra Modi and his Japanese counterpart, Shinzo Abe. With the expertise and collaboration of Japan, it is bound to be a milestone in India's transportation infrastructure and promote economic growth in the region.
The Shinkansen incorporates cutting-edge technology, such as automatic train control systems and earthquake detection systems, ensuring a safe and efficient journey. It is an environmentally friendly mode of transport. Its energy consumption per passenger is much lower than that of cars or airplanes, making it a sustainable option. The Shinkansen network has expanded significantly since the first line opened in 1964. It now covers most major cities in Japan, making it a vital part of the country's transport infrastructure. The Shinkansen has become a cultural icon in Japan, symbolizing speed, efficiency, and innovation. It has also inspired many movies, TV shows, and even anime series.
The future of Japan’s Shinkansen trains looks incredibly promising. For decades, Japanese engineers have been advancing maglev technology, which uses superconducting magnets to lift trains off the tracks. This frictionless system allows maglev trains to achieve speeds far beyond those of current Shinkansen trains.
Maglev technology underwent successful testing as early as the 1990s, and construction of the first commercial maglev line began in 2009. The Tokyo-to-Nagoya route is projected to launch in 2027, with an extension to Osaka planned for completion by 2045.
At the end, let us note that Shinkansen is the symbol of punctuality that is the significant trait of Japanese culture. Renowned for its punctuality, the average delay of a Shinkansen train is less than one minute. This includes even all delays caused by natural disasters. Japan’s Shinkansen bullet trains have changed the world of rail travel forever. Let us hope that with the introduction and spread of Shinkansen in India, we reap the dividends of speed: progress and prosperity.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Satyajit looked at his watch again. Twenty minutes past two. He shook his head and told to himself - Nilima won't come today. For the past two years she had never come late for their lunch in the park. Today was also unusual because she had never remained absent for three consecutive days.
Satyajit's mind was in a turmoil. Part of it ached for Nilima, but in another part a wind of caution whispered to him - don't be silly, a fifty one year old man had no business to feel restless for a girl of twenty four years.
He thought of going to her office to check, but he knew it would upset her. And there was no way Satyajit wanted to upset a sweet, vibrant girl like Nilima. She was really a one-in-a-million girl. She believed life was meant to be lively, when you laugh, do it with all your heart, when you talk. keep talking as if there was no tomorrow. Her eyes would light up if she heard something interesting, she would sink into a sulk if Satyajit failed to humour her, but bounce back to hearty laughter the moment he praised her for something.
Satyajit got up from the bench and started walking towards the gate. Immediately a young couple - probably students from the local college - occupied the bench. They would sit there till evening, whispering sweet nothings to each other. Ah, free birds, Satyajit thought - no need to think of office, no worries about where the next meal would come from!
Satyajit started his motorbike, his mind heavy with worry. Why was Nilima absent? This had never happened in their two years' lunch meet at the park. Exactly at one-twenty Satyajit would leave his office with the lunchbox in hand, get onto his motorbike and drive the three kilometers to the park. Nilima would start from her office a couple of minutes later and walk down the street for a few meters and both would reach the park around 1.30.
They would open their lunch box and the chat would start. Satyajit would look longingly at Nilima's food,
"Bah, puri, paneer and two pieces of sandesh - is it a special day?"
Nilima would nod her head,
"Yes, guess what?"
Satyajit would plunge into a reverie,
"I know it's not your birthday, that is still four months away.....second anniversary of joining the new job?"
"No, guess again!"
"Your parents' wedding anniversary? Or birthday of someone in the family?"
"No, actually the special day concerns you, now tell me what it is."
Satyajit sat up straight, nonplussed for a moment. Concerning him? What could it be? It was not his birthday. Had he forgotten something?
"Okay, I give up. You tell me what is special about today?"
Nilima broke into a naughty smile,
"Give up? You are so much older to me in age. How can you give up so fast?"
Satyajit would bow in mock surrender,
"I give up because you are an M.A., I am just a B.A.. you are more educated than me."
Nilima would hold his hand and look into his eyes,
"Please don't say like that. You are so knowledgeable, so experienced, you must have seen the ups and downs of life more closely than me. I am just a beginner. In these past two years I have learnt so many things from you!"
Satyajit would break into a smile,
"Oh, is that so? Tell me what have you learnt from me?"
"To look at everything positively, not to find fault with everyone and everything, not to bother about small things, yet fight for what is right......so many things. I often feel you are basically very good at heart. Were you always like this, from your childhood?"
Satyajit shook his head and became serious,
"No, in fact I was quite a brat as a student, both in school and college. Talking loudly, speaking against others, pulling the legs of friends and classmates, sometimes hurting them through my words - I was quite a handful. And then something happened in the final year of my B.A. and I changed completely, became a different person."
It was Nilima's turn to straighten up and listen intently,
"Oh, that is interesting, very very interesting. Please tell me what changed you."
Satyajit looked at his watch,
"No it's a long story, it will take quite some time. We have to return to office in a few minutes. Let's keep it for some other day."
Nilima would be disappointed and make a face,
"Sir, that's very unfair. How can you leave a story hanging like that? You are a heartless person."
Satyajit would enjoy the banter, but still shake his head,
"Not today, some other day. Promise I will tell you. But, wait, we have forgotten where all this talk started....tell me what is special about today? Why all this puri and mithai in lunch?"
"Sir, today is special because it is the seven hundred seventeenth day of our meeting here, in this park."
Satyajit was surprised,
"Seven hundred seventeenth day? O my God, you have kept a count? And what is special about that, the seven hundred seventeenth day?"
"For me it is special, just like yesterday the seven hundred sixteenth day was special and tomorrow the seven hundred eighteenth day will be."
Satyajit would be aghast,
"Really? Will you please explain how each passing day of meeting me is so special for you?"
The naughty smile would return to her face, she would be happy to pay him back in his own coin,
"Not today. It is a long story....promise I will tell you, but on some other day".
Satyajit would try to hide his disappointment, they would start packing their lunchbox. Nilima would make fun of his food,
"What Sir? Looks like you have prepared your lunch today also, you forgot to put turmeric powder, the Aloo fries look so pale! And as usual the rotis are in different shapes resembling the map of countries of Europe!"
Satyajit would be startled,
"O my God! Good you told me, see what a buffoon I am, I have finished eating them, but couldn't know the difference. But your paneer and sandesh saved the day. Thank you."
"Sir, tell me, why madam never cooks lunch for you? I am sure she can make better Aloo fries and rotis than you?"
Satyajit would shake his head,
"If she could cook, I wouldn't have to do it, isn't it?"
"When will you take me home to meet Madam? I am so keen to meet her. She must be really special, whoever is your wife has to be special!"
Satyajit would nod,
"Yes, I will take you home one of these days. Now let's return to office, it's getting late."
Nilima would start walking back to office, Satyajit would get on his bike and ride away. This was their routine for the past two years. Nilima knew on the very first day that she would have a suffocating life in the office - a young, unmarried girl of twenty two in the midst of eight men, looking at her with undisguised lust in their eyes. The boss of the office sat in a separate chamber - he was an oldish man, lost in his own world of books and music, very unlikely to interfere in the proceedings of the big hall outside his room. There was a sort of unofficial competition among Nilima's co-workers to grab her attention, with offers of all kinds of help. One over-enthusiastic chap even offered to put her up with his family as a paying guest. Another youngish chap with a pimpled face grinned at her and declared, "You are like a spring of fresh water in the desert of our office." He would have recited a poem, but Nilima's angry glare stopped him on his track.
After spending a couple of stifling days in the office, Nilima grabbed her lunch box on the third day and came out of the office at 1.30. She had noticed the park a few feet away in the morning. She entered the park and sat on a bench. A few crows came and hovered on the ground, pecking at imaginary grains. Nilima tore a paratha from her lunch box into small pieces and fed them. Next day onwards she brought one extra paratha for the crows.
A few feet away she noticed a man busy with his lunch and feeding grains to a few pigeons to his left. He appeared to be an office-goer like her - modest dress, simple glasses on the eyes and a somber, worry-worn face - she had seen such people in some of the offices she had visited. She wondered which office this middle-aged man worked in, whether they had a lady employee there and if the men treated her with respect or ogled at her, salivating at the mouth and disrobing her mentally.
Nilima's lunch hour absence was noticed by her colleagues with disdain and anxiety. Where was the girl going and why? Did she have a boyfriend with whom she shared lunch? Out of curiosity two young men followed her from the office and noticed her sitting alone on a bench in the park and eating her lunch slowly. The men in the office were not satisfied with the finding - there must be a boyfriend, otherwise why should a girl walk all the way to the park, instead of having lunch under the fan in the office? They decided to continue the probe. Next day Nilima somehow felt she was being followed from the office. On the third day after that she hid herself behind a tree and saw the two men enter the park, looking for her. She suddenly appeared from behind the tree, a chappal in her hand and rushed at them, "Are you looking for me? I am here." They almost fainted out of shock and started running. She chased them out of the park. After that no one bothered her at the office or at the park again.
A week later Nilima took her lunch box and joined the man at the bench,
"Namaskar, I am Nilima, from the Survey and Land Records Office down the road. I thought since we are feeding the birds separately we may as well do it together. The birds can build a friendship and we can spend the lunch hour talking to each other."
The man smiled. Nilima noticed he was older than what she had assumed from her bench, he must be around fifty. He had a sober face, his eyes were calm and his smile was reassuring. He was soft-spoken,
"Good idea. I am Satyajit, my office is about three kilometers away. I have been coming here everyday by my motorbike for as long as I can remember. Ten years? Fifteen years? Maybe more."
"You feed grains to the pigeons?"
"Yes, they are happy with it. Once I had offered pieces of my poor rotis to them. They had rejected it with undisguised contempt. Your crows seem to be lucky, getting home made parathas from you."
"I am happy to spend my lunch hour in the park, away from the office. This park is really cool. With big trees and clean benches."
That's how their friendship had started. Sometimes they would talk non-stop, some days they would sit still, feeding the birds and enjoying the quiet of the park, occasionally broken by the twitter of the birds. Nilima would take pity on the poor quality of lunch brought by Satyajit, wondering whether madam was a really inefficient cook. She would share her parathas and delicious vegetable fries with him and eat some of the food brought by Satyajit and pretended to like it. But she realised over time that Satyajit was indifferent to food, he would eat everything with equal nonchalance.
Nilima would often miss her parents. Sometimes some incident in the office would disturb her. She would tell Satyajit she was thinking of quitting the job and going back to live with her parents in their village. Life would be so quiet, peaceful and uncluttered in the village, she would muse. Satyajit would convince her not to give up so easily. He would remind Nilima of her responsibilities - the needs of her ageing parents and college-going brother. Nilima would forget her worries and keep chatting with Satyajit,
"Sir, you remember you had once asked why the day I met you was special for me? Do you want to know? Do you have time to hear today?"
"Yes, of course. We still have more than half an hour. Please tell me."
"When I first came to this town I was new to the place, basically a village girl just out of the university. The office was a den of horror, I was the only lady in an office of ten employees. Our boss is a philosopher of sorts - he thinks all that matters in life is reading books and listening to music. But the other eight are really weird - for them any lady draped in a saree is like a syrupy rasgulla waiting to be gobbled up at the earliest opportunity. The look of desire in their eyes is unmistakable, their double-meaning talk is sickening."
Satyajit would nod his head,
"Yes, I know the type. We have a few of them in our office also. They have boycotted me as a good-for-nothing nincompoop and I don't mind that at all."
"That's what I like about you Sir and I respect you for that. Your words are so mature, your manners always impeccable. Do you remember I had remained absent for a day in the early days of our lunch meetings?"
"Yes, I had asked you about that and you had told me not to bother, since it was nothing big."
Nilima appeared embarrassed,
"I didn’t know you well and felt reluctant to disclose to you, but it was something obnoxious."
Satyajit urged her to say what was the matter.
"When I got the job letter for Junior Assistant here I was in my village. My mother was reluctant to let me live alone in this big city. A neighbour had come to visit my parents. He was in his mid-thirties and I used to call him Naba Bhai. He told my parents that I could stay in their house in this city since they had a spare room. My parents were relieved, I was not sure if I should accept the offer but they almost forced me to do that. So I joined my office and started staying at Naba Bhai’s place. His wife - my Bhauja, was a semi-literate lady. They had no children . They used to take good care of me, the room was ok, with a big bed. The food was good. I was surprised that Naba Bhai didn't have a regular job. When I asked him he told me he was a broker for sale and renting of houses. I believed him because he was always on the phone talking to people. At the end of the first month when I wanted to pay 10000 rupees to him for my stay and food he made a scene but I could see it was a big drama. Bhauja was looking at the money like a cat looking at fish. She snapped the bundle of notes from me when Naba Bhai agreed to receive the amount after a supposedly big struggle. Sir, are you getting bored of this long tale?"
Satyajit shook his head and asked her to continue.
"One afternoon I had a severe headache in the office and left for home when it became impossible to continue working. When I rang the bell Bhauja opened the door and was shocked as if she had just seen a ghost. Her face lost colour. I was moving towards my room, when she stopped me, 'Nilu, my brother and sister-in-law have come from the village. They are sleeping in your room after lunch. Don't disturb them. Go and rest in our room. Please.' She led me to her room. I normally find it difficult to sleep on someone else's bed. I was tossing on the bed and trying to get some sleep. An hour later I could hear Bhauja bolting the door from outside. There was some conversation and things got quiet. She woke me up a little later with a cup of tea in her hand. I asked her if her brother and sister in law were still sleeping in my room. She smiled and informed me, they had to leave early so that they could catch the bus to their village. Somehow I felt Bhauja was nervous and I kept wondering why she bolted my door from outside while waking up her relatives.
A couple of weeks later I was watching TV in their living room when Naba Bhai came and sat near me. He started a conversation,
'What are you watching?' I told him it was some news channel. He smiled at me, 'You must be getting bored in the evenings. Your Bhauja is not good enough to talk to an educated, smart person like you. If you want I can introduce you to some of my friends who will be happy to have your company. You can go to big five star hotels to have dinner with them. Some of them are quite rich, they will pay you a handsome amount if you accompany them to tourist places like Konark and Gopalpur to spend the weekends. This is the time for you to earn money, who will care for you once you get old?' For a moment I couldn't understand what he was suggesting. The moment I understood his proposal a wave of insane rage swept over me. In a flash I remembered the afternoon when I had returned early from the office to find my bedroom occupied by unknown people. I could not control myself, I got up and gave him a big slap on his cheek and thundered, 'So? This is why you brought me to your home - to make me a high-class escort for your rich clients? Are you and Bhauja not ashamed of yourselves - pimping for sex-trade?' I spat on his face and rushed to my room and bolted it from inside. That night I didn't come out for dinner despite repeated pleas by Bhauja. Next morning I packed two suitcases and left for my office with them. I met our boss and requested him for help in finding a place to stay. He immediately telephoned the Superintendent of the Working Women's Hostel. I was given a single-occupancy room. In fact, you were a big saviour for me those days. I was quite depressed. I wanted to resign from the job and go back to my village. The environment in the office was insufferable and Naba Bhai’s indecent proposal had broken my spirit. You only told me not to quit and be brave. You reminded me of my big responsibility of helping my parents and my younger brother who wanted to study medicine and be a doctor. After seeing the devils in my office and the fiend in Naba Bhai it was a big change listening to you and enjoying your positive talk. You were always supportive and spoke no ill of others. That's why I count my blessings from the day I met you. Everyday is special for me because of you."
Satyajit sat in silence, listening to Nilima. He felt happy for the sweet, nice girl who deserved all that is best in life.
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On the fourth day when Nilima was again absent from the park, Satyajit regretted they had not exchanged their telephone numbers. He had told her there was no need, since they were meeting every day in the park. There was no point in disturbing each other in the evenings also. Now her continued absence for four days bothered her. He could not resist the need to know what had gone wrong. He went to Nilima's office and enquired about her. One of the staff told him that Nilima was on long leave and had probably gone to her village.
Satyajit could see from the corner of his eyes the employees looking at each other with a mocking smile. One of them whispered, "This is the old uncle with whom our Nilima Aunty spends her afternoon in the park." There was a collective giggle. Satyajit ignored it and left the office.
Two months later on a Sunday evening, when the sun was going down the red sky, the doorbell rang in Satyajit's home. He opened the door and could not believe his eyes. It was Nilima standing at the door with a big smile on her face. His heart leapt with joy looking at her. He invited her in,
"Where were you all these days? Do you know how much I missed you?"
Nilima was all smiles,
"Sorry Sir, I had to leave all of a sudden. My mother got seriously ill and had to be admitted to the government hospital near our village. My father called me over phone and I had to rush to be with my parents. I just left a leave application with one of my hostel mates, asking her to submit it in my office. There was no time to inform you."
Satyajit was worried for Nilima's mother,
"How is your mother now? Is she still in the hospital?"
"No, she had an attack of pneumonia and was in the hospital for a week. Then she got discharged and we brought her home. Unfortunately she developed stomach cramps within a couple of days. There was a doctor in the hospital who had taken good care of my mother. We called him home and he treated her with great care. Thanks to him, she gradually recovered and got back her appetite. The doctor had to visit a few times and one day we got a big surprise when his parents came to our place asking for my hands in marriage for their son. My mother had grown very fond of the genial, affable doctor and she insisted I must marry him, 'I don't know how long I will live. At least we will have a doctor in the family to look after me!' That's what she said. Sir, my marriage is two weeks from now. I have come to invite you and Madam."
Satyajit was shocked! Nilima, getting married? Would she continue to work in the present office? Would she come to the park during lunch hour? He suppressed the tinge of sadness that spread in his heart and asked her,
"How did you find my house? I had not given my address to you?"
"But you had told me your house is near the Vishnu mandir in Sahid Nagar. So I went and enquired in the temple. The priests there know you quite well since you go there every morning before leaving for the office. They gave me your address. Where is Madam? Please call her. I am so keen to meet her."
Satyajit looked down, a wave of grief washed over him,
"Come, I will take you to Madam."
Nilima was stunned. Take her to Madam? Was something wrong? Was Madam an invalid? With a thumping heart she went in, accompanying Satyajit. They went to the inner room and there, on a teapoy there was a large, tall photograph of a beautiful woman looking benignly at them, a faint smile adding dignity to her face. A garland of Juhi flowers adorned her neck. It was obvious Satyajit offered a fresh garland to her every day.
Nilima's eyes flooded with tears. She wondered how stupid she had been, it took her two years to know such a sad truth about Sir, despite their meeting every working day during lunch? She burst into tears and prostrated on the ground as a mark of respect to the departed lady.
Satyajit, his voice choked with tears, asked her if she wanted some water. She nodded. He led her to the drawing room and offered her the glass of water,
"You remember, one day you had asked me if I was always a calm, sober person and I had told you I was a brat during my student days and something happened which changed my life? Do you have time to hear that story?"
Nilima nodded, she had lost her speech.
"I was a real nuisance to everyone when I was young. I thought playing stupid pranks, pulling people's leg, laughing at their faces made me smart. But I was a good student and people generally tolerated me. In college I used to pass comments on the girls, cracked jokes with classmates and was like a monkey dancing around. There was one particular girl, Manasi, who I used to like a lot. She was a quiet girl, but had a very pleasing personality. I would pass one comment or the other on her and she would walk away smiling. One day in our final year of B.A. in Ravenshaw college we had gathered in our History Department to get ready for celebrating Ganesh Puja the next day. All of us were busy decorating the room with flowers and paper cuttings. Suddenly one od the scissors broke and we had to buy an extra one. I offered to go to the nearby market in College Square and buy the scissors. To everyone’s surprise Manasi also got up and came forward to accompany me. Her friends started giggling and whispered something to her. She blushed and made a face at them, but proceeded to the door to come out with me. I borrowed our friend Bijay Agarwal's scooter and we drove off. After buying the scissors Manasi asked me to drive to the Mahanadi riverfront at Jobra. It was an evening like today's. The sun was just setting, the sky had turned faintly crimson, the water a wonderful mix of red and blue. We sat there, my heart was filled with a new joy I had never felt before. She turned to me and asked, 'Satyajit, why do you always behave like a joker? You are such a brilliant boy, why do you waste time playing pranks, cracking jokes?' I was feeling light-headed, sitting with a beautiful girl on the riverfront. I asked her, 'So, what do you want me to do?' She looked at me, 'Why don't you study more seriously?' I joked, 'Then?' 'Then you will secure good marks and get a first class.' 'Then?' 'Then you will write some competitive exam and get a good job?' I persisted, 'Then?' She smiled, a white, dazzling smile, it flashed like a tender lightning, 'Then I will marry you.' Saying this, Manasi blushed a deep red, her face looked stunningly beautiful. I could not believe what she had said. I looked at her with an ocean of love flooding my heart and stammered, 'Will you wait so long for me? It may take years.' She held my hand, her touch sending shivers down my spine, 'I will wait for you forever, don't forget that.' My heart leapt with joy, the white clouds, the red sky and the gentle water waves broke into a celestial dance and I wanted to join them. But we had to return to handover the scissors to our friends. We rode back, weaving our dreams of a life together. But our joy was short-lived. Just in front of the college near the traffic stand I applied a sudden brake to the scooter to avoid a passerby running to cross the street. Manasi got thrown out of the back seat, her head hitting the roadside electric pole. There was blood everywhere. I fainted. When I woke up at the hospital I found everyone crying. Manasi had not survived the accident. I went mad with grief. For two years I just sat at home like a zombie, doing nothing, feeling nothing, except a sense of total vacuum. Finally I wrote the B.A.exam and afterwards got my present job. I never married. Manasi is with me, you saw her photograph. I could not marry anyone else, because she had promised to wait for me forever. And I had given her my silent promise that I would never forget her."
Satyajit broke into silent sobs when he finished his incredible story. Nilima had not stopped crying ever since she had seen the portrait of Manasi. They sat silently, sharing a monumental grief. Finally she got up to leave. The autorickshaw she had hired was waiting for her. Satyajit came to the door with her,
"When will you join back in your office?"
Nilima turned back,
"Sir, my husband has arranged a job for me as a Lecturer in the college near our village. So I have already submitted my resignation from the present job."
Satyajit was shocked. He felt as if his heart had just broken into a thousand pieces. In a choking voice he said,
"Ah, the birds in the park will miss you during lunch hour!"
Nilima had already got into the Autorickshaw. She raised her hands in namaskar, her heart in a turmoil. She silently muttered to herself - and you? Sir, won't you miss me? But I will miss you everyday when I sit to have my lunch. I will never forget you.
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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