Literary Vibes - Edition CXLVIII (31-Dec-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Gods and Humans (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
ANOTHER
02) Prabhanjan K Mishra
SCENT OF A SAGA
03) Ishwar Pati
THE LOST RUPEE
THE CANAL
04) Krupasagar sahoo
THE GYPSY GIRL
05) Satish Pashine
MUMBAI: THE CITY OF DREAMS
06) Snehaprava Das
OF ALL THE LOVE IN THE PORTRAITS
07) Shafeek Musthafa
AGAIN ON A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT?
08) Dr. R. Unnikrishnan
NEW YEAR—THE CYCLE OF RESOLUTIONS AND SOLUTIONS:
09) Manjula Asthana Mahanti
A MAN OF RARE IMAGINATION
10) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
THE RAINBOW
11) T V Sreekumar
SWARNACHITRA
12) Bankim Chandra Tola
MAN AND ANIMAL
13) Gourang Charan Roul
HARBINGER OF MULTICULTURALISM: DIWALI AND HALLOWEEN
14) Soumen Roy
SOCIAL MEDIA TRIAL
15) Sreechandra Banerjee
A LETTER TO MR SANTA CLAUS
RHAPSODY OF RHYTHMS
16) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: AN INDIAN WOMAN LEADER AND THE INTERNATIONAL DAY!
17) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE EAGLE
When I heard about Harish’s death, I instinctively felt it was a suicide. I didn’t need to wait for the post-mortem report to confirm it.
Since his wedding, I had never seen Harish genuinely happy. Ask him anything, and all you'd get was a dismissive, "It’s fine. Just going on."
It was Harish’s father-in-law who first brought the matter to my attention. He approached me one day, looking uncomfortable.
“You should talk to Harish,” he said. “Advise him on how to handle things.”
“What things?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
His response was vague. I couldn’t make much of it, but something about his tone bothered me. The next day, I decided to speak to Harish directly.
At first, he was reluctant. After some prodding, he opened up a little. His married life, he said, had become monotonous. The main issue, according to him, was Hima’s demeanour.
“We just… don’t get along,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
“Can I talk to her?” I asked cautiously.
He hesitated but eventually nodded. “You can try. Though, honestly, I don’t think it’ll help.”
Harish and I went back a long way. I had taught him for a few years, and over time, we had developed a strong mentor-friend relationship. The fact that he, of all people, felt hopeless made me uneasy.
I insisted they see a marriage counsellor. “There’s a friend of mine, John,” I suggested. “He’s good. Maybe I can tag along to help smooth things out.”
Two months later, Harish and Hima, along with Hima’s parents, met John. Despite professional boundaries, John filled me in on the details afterward.
“Your guy, Harish, is just like you,” John said with a chuckle. “Workaholic. Busy round the clock. Meanwhile, Hima stays at home, looking after his aging mother. He barely sees her for one meal a day.”
“What about Hima?” I asked. “Did she open up?”
“Not really,” John admitted. “She’s not the talking type. Her parents did most of the talking. They’re sweet people, though. They even gave Harish advice right in front of me.”
“Advice? Like what?”
“Stuff like, ‘Son, you should spend more time with her. Don’t let work take over your life. Come home early, take her out, maybe sit and chat.’ You know, the usual.”
“Did you agree with them?” I asked.
John hesitated. “Look, they weren’t wrong, but something felt off. Anyway, I told Harish to try. Told Hima a few things too. Let’s see what happens in a couple of months.”
A month later, Harish came to see me again. He looked worse—exhausted and defeated.
“How are things now?” I asked.
“They’ve gone from bad to worse,” he admitted bitterly.
“What happened?”
“Hima’s parents keep coming over to advise me. It’s endless,” he said, mimicking them. “‘You need to understand her, son. Sorry, she’s been pampered all her life. She loves you; she just doesn’t know how to show it. Why are you working so hard? For whom? What’s the point of earning if there’s no peace at home?’”
He sighed. “I did everything they said, sir. I cut back on work, spent more time at home, even planned little outings for her. For a few days, it felt like a second honeymoon. But she didn’t soften. If anything, she became more distant.”
I didn’t have much to say to that. Frustrated, I called John to discuss the situation. The conversation quickly turned into an argument.
“Counselling doesn’t work miracles,” John said bluntly. “Behaviour might change a bit, but deep-seated nature? That rarely changes. People think love can fix everything, but that’s just a fantasy. It’s a lie we tell ourselves.”
A week before his death, Harish came to see me again. This time, he handed me an envelope.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“My passwords,” he said. “I keep misplacing them. Thought I’d write them down and leave them with you.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I should give you mine too. Who knows, I might kick the bucket before you.”
He didn’t laugh. “Don’t say that, sir. I can’t imagine you gone.”
As he left, he hummed a line from N. N. Kakkad’s poem: ‘When, where, and how—who knows?’ I had an odd feeling it was the last time I’d see him.
After his death, I found more than just passwords in that envelope. It was, in a way, a key to his mind. Harish had sacrificed so much for Hima, prioritizing her over his own mother. But his efforts had only deepened his despair when nothing changed.
Hima’s parents knew she was difficult. Even Hima might have sensed it on some level. But the human mind is a strange thing—it likes toy play fatal games.Haris h’s love for her, instead of bridging the gap, worsened her behaviour. Her mind, perhaps unconsciously, took his affection as a reward for her irritating nature and bad manners. It dawned upon me that this is what commonly happens. The sacrifice from one and the craving for more of it from the spouse.
At his funeral, Hima’s cries were heart-wrenching, but I couldn’t feel sympathy. They seemed less like the mourning of a lover and more like the panic of someone who had lost control.
Death isn’t the only enemy.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
1.Nakphodi
Sundar’s office room was being cleaned, vacuumed, anti-pest treated, and pruned of junk files and articles. Sundar for the time being sat elsewhere. Two staff members brought to him a very old trunk for scrutiny. After rummaging into its contents, he found a long-lost old leather pouch. The rest were returned for junking.
He recalled the leather pouch from a time, a little less than two decades ago. He clasped it now to his chest as if he had got back a lost treasure. It reopened floodgates of memory, and brought tears to his eyes. His mature lady secretary, perhaps noticed her boss going emotional, so, left the room on the pretext of some work, leaving him to cry in privacy.
The leather case contained a bright red bridal sari of the finest Banarasi silk. He gingerly felt it against his cheeks and deeply inhaled into it like searching for a lost love, a lost glory, a bonhomie; an intimate aroma. It was wrapped over her grandma for a few hours during her last journey and before going to the pyre.
. Sundar recalled how he had rummaged among two mounds of old and used textile items heaped together by his bua, Subhadra Devi, the stern elder sister of his father. The items were to be ritually given away to the family’s washer-woman, being the used clothes of a dead person, considered ritually unclean. Sundar had finally found granny’s red sari and secreted it away in that leather pouch. In a house, turned upside down by the great tragedy, he forgot where he had stashed away the pouch.
Sundar would recall, away at Bombay (later renamed Mumbai), he had received a telephone call from his father one morning, with a scary message, “Your grandma has been missing for two hours, along with her day-and-night-companion Nakphodi. We are searching for them.”
Grandma, during one of her rare visits of her parental village, had found an orphan girl of around five years. The kid had been roaming, homeless. She had no name, except being called – ‘Hey you!’ During her toddler years, grandma learnt, the kid lost her parents and close relatives to dreaded cholera. The toddler then survived on uncertain meals and sleeping space provided by villagers. Sundar’s grandma took a liking to the kid, and brought her home as her grand daughter.
The five-year old kid had a minute hole on the left side of her left nostril’s lobe, a birth defect, just as Sundar’s grandma had, that she hid behind a diamond nose-stud in her youth, but now left bare. The little hole convinced grandma that girl had a blood line with her.
Sundar who just had celebrated his tenth birthday, wrinkled a naughty nose at the hole on the girl’s nostril, and teased ‘Nakphodi’ meaning, ‘A girl with a hole in the nose’. Surprisingly his tease struck a chord in grandma’s heart and stuck to the kid as her nick name. Everyone addressed her as Nakphodi, thereafter.
Nakphodi ate and played with other little kids of the family but slept with grandma. Before Nakphodi, Sundar used to sleep with grandma but he had stopped because his peers teased it as a sissy-habit. Grandma was growing lonelier in bed, haunted by her stark and prolonged widowhood. Nakphodi moved in to the empty space vacated by Sundar and returned grandma’s affection with lots of kiddish love, that came naturally to a love-starved five-year old.
Nakphodi, grew as the apple of grandma’s eyes, and Sundar’s pet, but other kids became jealous of her because she had apparently stolen their portion of grandma’s love also. Nakphodi was put to the village school as Sharvari Pandit, proudly flaunting the family title ‘Pandit’. She was a fast learner and would excel over kids of her age in the school, later in college also.
In two years in grandma’s house, Nakphodi left her dollhouse-days behind, though other kids of her age continued playing with their dolls and toys; and she came to kitchen to give a helping hand to Sundar’s docile mother in cooking the joint family’s multi-tier meals – breakfast, lunch, evening snacks, and dinner, with umpteen cups of tea throughout the day.
Nakphodi quickly learnt to prepare the special snacks and meals for the grandma, keeping with her advanced years, and delicate digestion. That was a real relief to Sundar’s mother. Knowing that Nakphodi had prepared her meals, grandma relished her food with extra satisfaction, eating a few spoons more during her frugal meals, which gladdened Sundar and his parents. They loved Nakphodi all the more.
Soon Sundar had to move away to cities for higher studies and then joining his government job at twenty-one. He visited his village only during festivities and holidays. Nakphodi, studying in their village junior college, growing fuller and lovelier, would pleasantly surprise him during his visits, but it pained him to see grandma growing feebler.
Sundar could not make head or tail of father’s message over phone that morning about his missing grandma, but panicked. How did a person in her eighty-fifth year with a seventeen-year-old girl, Nakphodi, studying in junior college go missing in a quiet village, everyone almost knowing everyone else’s whereabouts all the time?
He rushed home by flight within hours, with his heart in his mouth. After alighting from aircraft, he took a taxi to his village. When his taxi was passing over the little river behind his house, he inhaled a whiff of the approaching spring. The air was laced with the smell of ripening paddy in surrounding fields at that hour of the sundown. His worried mind however refused to dwell on the lovely aroma.
When he reached his house, he found it crowded with neighbors. He entered gingerly on tiptoe. On a veranda by the second inner courtyard of their sprawling multi-tiered mud house, in the fading pink light of the setting sun turning the fronds of coconut palms golden, he found his grandma lying on a white bed. Holding his breath, he approached her, and found her in death’s pallor.
Some villagers were hanging a translucent canopy-mosquito-net over her to keep away the bothersome houseflies. Her mortal remains lay wrapped in her bright-red bridal Banarasi silk sari, Sundar remembered it as one of her prized possessions from her own marriage days. She was also bedecked with gold and diamond ornaments. She dazzled like a bride. That was her last wish when she spent almost five decades of widowhood wearing only white saris and a string of Rudraksh beads.
Sundar broke down by grandma. When he rose from his immediate sorrow, his teary eyes searched for his parents and Nakphodi. His father rose from grandma’s other side, a stumbling ghost, looking like a cyclone-devastated tree, broken at the waist.
There were no tears in his eyes, only a rising frost. He saw his father’s feet dragging themselves behind him like deadwood, his hands lifeless in their pallor and his voice, a defeated raw whisper. He was the youngest of grandma’s brood and her pet son among her five living children.
His father rasped in a low voice, “At eight o clock in the morning today, your mother informed me, 'Mother and Nakphodi have not come down, check if they are alright?' A discreet check found both missing from their room and were nowhere in the neighbourhood. A passerby from village asked me, ‘Why Nakphodi is searching something in the river water by the bathing ghat all by herself?’ That unnerved me and I ran there with a few neighbours.”
His father’s narrative moved fast. The search party found Nakphodi in the water, searching for something frantically. When asked about grandma, she pointed into the water. She looked dazed. Grandma was nowhere. What Sundar’s father gathered from the panicked girl’s incoherent talk, the previous evening after her early dinner, grandma had wished for a dip in the river like many of her secret excursions in the company of Nakphodi.
Apparently, grandma soaked herself in the shallow cool water near the bathing ghat on the riverbank, asking Nakphodi to sit on the dry earthen highground and wait. Nakphodi while watching grandma in shallow water, dozed off. When she woke up, the day was breaking, the night had passed apparently. She could not see grandma anywhere. She panicked and fainted. When she regained consciousness, she started searching for her in the water.
A search for grandma started downstream. The water was chest high at its deepest. The current was very mild. But it appeared overpowering for an old and frail woman pushing her eighties if she was caught in its grip. Grandma was found by around twelve-thirty, a mile downstream from where Nakphodi sat, floating face down like a big dead fish among the reeds, weeds, and rushes by the river-edge. The village doctor made a guess that she might have died in water the previous evening.
Father and Sundar grieved together. Their tears mingled, and hours, days and ages seemed flowing down their cheeks. They had lost their last mooring, Sundar’s father his mother, and Sundar his grandmother.
Sundar enquired about Nakphodi, and his father informed that after fishing out grandma’s corpse when villagers went to bring Nakphodi home, they found her searching for grandma in the river’s water in a frenzy muttering incoherently. She did not listen to villagers that grandma had been found and taken home, but continued her search in the river. Village doctor said, she was suffering from an anxiety seizure.
She had to be taken home forcibly and the doctor gave her a sedative injection. She was sleeping in grandma’s room heavily sedated. Sundar’s million-dollar questions had to wait for Nakphodi, the last person to have witnessed grandma alive.
The time came for grandma to be readied for the pyre. The bridal attire and ornaments were replaced with her religion-sanctioned-attire of a widow: a white saree and a Rudraksha string. Sundar found his bua making heaps of grandma’s used clothes and other textile articles to be donated ritually. From there he smuggled grandma’s bridal sari, just taken off her body, and secreted it away. Late night, he lighted grandma’s pyre most lovingly like igniting a holy fire.
Next day saw a new bad development. Again, Nakphodi had a seizure attack. She ran and jumped into the river and started searching for grandma with a frenzy. That time it came to light, except Sundar and his parents, none in the family liked Nakphodi. After the old relative’s death, for which they held Nakphodi’s carelessness to be squarely responsible, they ganged up to throw her out, the orphan girl, from the house. Sundar had to stand his ground and did not leave Nakphodi’s side for a minute. He feared worse harm from his uncles, aunties and cousins for Nakphodi.
Though Nakphodi’s seizures became less frequent and shorter in duration and less intense as days passed, but grandma’s death and the hatred of household members made her depressed and traumatic. She lived like a shadow of her earlier jolly-self.
Sundar could not increase the burden of her mother by leaving behind Nakphodi in her traumatic state. So, he decided to take her along with him while returning to his job. But his parents and villagers looked bewildered. How could it be socially allowed? So, Sundar expressed his willingness to marry the orphan girl and take her to Mumbai as his wife. Sundar’s father organized a simple marriage and dispatched Sundar and Nakphodi to Mumbai as husband and wife.
2 - Grandma
Sundar would often trace back his family’s history by listening to, and piecing together the bits and ends of what he heard, from the mouths of his grandma, parents, uncles, relatives, old servants, and neighbours.
His grandma, Soudamini Devi, meaning lightning, had come as a young wife of fourteen years of age into his grandpa’s life. She was not less naughty and swift than her namesake, lightning. Grandpa was a rich young landlord, and had recently taken the reins of his responsibilities as the Zamindar into his hands after the death of his father. Grandpa was all of fifteen years.
India was ruled by the British those days as one of the colonies of their British empire, headed by King George V. The rich and high-caste Indians, like Sundar’s grandpa, had fallen into the trap of the ‘Divide and Rule’ policy of the colonizers, and saw the British as their savior and mentor in retaining power over the ordinary people.
With the style of an administrator and the zeal of a missionary, Sundar’s grandma, the new bride of the household, ruled her home territory. She was a domineering little woman with a strong will. She ruled her nuptial bed like its queen.
The British monarch ruled the British empire on which the sun was said never to set. As an antithesis, grandma did not allow the sun to rise in her empire, her bedroom, where she remained twenty-four hours a day ensconced with grandpa, with all blinds drawn for many days after her nuptials, such was her and her husband’s passion for each other. Their family members and servants said they did not know what was happening behind the blinds, except grandma’s telltale giggles now and then.
In the years that followed, the virile couple bred like a pair of lemmings, eleven pregnancies in twenty years flat, a full co-sexual cricket team. Of them five survived, four boys and a girl who was older to all of them, Sundar’s present Subhadra bua and the youngest of the brood was Sundar’s father. Had Sundar’s grandparents’ virile project gone unabated, it could deliver further teams of football, Kabaddi, etc., but unfortunately his grandpa died young at the age of thirty-five only.
It was a rising and rousing period for India under the British Rule, stirred by freedom call of M. K. Gandhi, a Gujarati Bar-at-Law (Barrister) done at London, who had served a successful stint as the counsel to a rich Indian firm at Durban in South Africa, had returned to India, his native soil. He was the apple of the eye of Indian freedom-lovers, adored as ‘Bapu’, who had brought the mantra, Satyagraha, a fight to finish for one’s rights but following truth and non-violence. He prodded the Indians to claim freedom and self-rule as their birth right from the British colonial rulers.
Barrister Gandhi before returning to India had worked as a social reformer and activist fighting in Africa for the rights of the Indian diaspora, mostly Indian migrant workers, with the power that be, and was successful in many issues with his formula called Satyagraha, the passive resistance.
Gandhi ji after arriving in India was making waves in minds of most awakened Indians, reaching to even the remotest villages and the most sleepy-Indian minds, as well as quite a few among the British-boot-licking zamindars, native princes, Rai Bahadurs, etc.
Gandhi ji, besides political freedom, fought for social freedom by encouraging female education, giving up untouchability and hatred for the so-called low-caste or low-born people, etc.
Sundar’s grandparents at that juncture of time, however, rejected this secular, vegetarian Gandhi, and his views of renouncing untouchability and giving education to the girlchild. They were brainwashed to think of Gandhi as an ungodly heretic. They totally disliked Bapu’s call for a secular and casteless India, also his call for freeing India with Satyagraha. They disliked Gandhiji’s call to use only Indian products in spite of their raw quality, and reject the refined articles of British make.
They rejected Gandhi in favour of another theorist of freedom. The guy was Vinayak Savarkar, a Maharashtrian, who envisioned a free Hindu Rashtra to be carved out of the British-ruled Indian Peninsula with the help of the British Rulers, and receive it as a friendly legacy.
One night Grandpa died in grandma’s arms. To the best of Sundar’s guess from grandma’s various hints, ramblings, and monologues, his grandpa had died during coitus, as his weak heart did not sustain the extreme excitement, resulting in a massive cardiac arrest.
A hazy sepia photograph, mottled with spots of greying and dark patches showed a vain young man suppressing a smile as if taking his life as a joke. It was Sundar’s only link to and memory of his grandma’s mysterious husband, his grandpa who died young.
Grandma brought up her children well, educating the boys in the best schools and colleges available. But keeping alive her dislike for Gandhi’s call for female education, she taught her only daughter, Subhadra, the oldest of her surviving brood, up to rudimentary reading and writing at home with the help of a tutor, and got her married when she was a pubescent child of thirteen.
But the pubescent girl, Subhadra, whom Sundar addressed as bua, became a widow shortly after her marriage and was sent back to her mother by her in-laws; considered unlucky and inauspicious for their family. Sundar’s grandma was adjusting her life to her own recent widowhood, when her young daughter returned home as a grumbling child-widow. She reeled under the deluge of those misfortunes. But she rose like the proverbial Phoenix from the ashes of her tragedies.
She established her control over the family as a young dowager and matriarch. Her impartiality and care as the family head, earned her the love, respect, obedience, and fear of all family members.
But Sundar’s family tenderly accepted grandma’s weakness for her youngest son, Sundar’s father, who stayed with her all through the thick and thin of life, managing the vast landed property. Her other three sons, Sundar’s uncles, had fallen in love, married, and brought home highly educated wives to grandma’s great dismay, defeating her objection to female education. The three sons had jobs in cities and lived there, their wives visiting the village off and on.
But her big and last bastion, rejecting Mahatma’s call to reject untouchability and abominable hatred of low-castes, fell next in a dramatic way. Her eldest grandchild, a college going girl, eloped with her lover-classmate. To add insult to her injury, it came to her knowledge that the lover-boy belonged to a caste of untouchables, who were liquor-brewers and leather-artisans.
The day, the bad news was delivered (of course, Sundar at five was too young to understand the impact, but he would learn it later), grandma received the news with exemplary calm, her family interpreting the calm as that before a storm. The worst detonation was feared any moment. As if to ignite the detonator, Sundar’s father, a young follower of Gandhi ji behind his mother’s eyes, giggled non-stop.
But the other name of Sundar’s grandma was ‘Surprise’. She did a few somersaults in her arena of principles, and her much-feared explosion turned into a smile. With a beatific smile grandma ordered, “Call those elopers, the gang of loafers and rascals; let’s roll out our red carpets for their welcome our prodigal children into our family.” Her humorous mood made her family uncomfortable and nervous. But Sundar’s father continued giggling, as if more privy to his mother’s reality than others.
Pulling a long face with an expression of disbelief and dismay, she burst out, “Haven’t you, my bloody ignoramus flock, read or heard of the ‘The parable of the Prodigal Son’ of Jesus from the holy Bible?” No, they had not read or heard. It was not less than a bomb blast of knowledge.
Hurt and angered, the family heads of Sundar’s village gathered in grandma’s courtyard that evening for raising their voices against her decision of welcoming a Scheduled caste boy as her grand-son-in-law into the Brahmin fold. But the grand lady roared like a tigress, “You fools, you blind believers, followers of outlived shibboleths, don’t you sense the change of wind, see the societal weathercocks?”
The only protest her family heard was from a feeble old man, “What is a weathercock, Soudamini Devi?” Grandma waved away his feeble ignoramus detractor like a bothersome fly on her nose.
She changed strategy, smiled crookedly, and quietly reasoned, “Please read great thinkers like Marx, Rousseau, Immanuel Kant, or your own native philosopher Gandhi. Don’t be born-deaf and blind, die-deaf and blind cases. Read these authors to know that females are equal to males, all humans are equal across the casts and creeds, and God is one. Read Darwin to know that unless you marry far and wide across castes, creeds, and races, your progeny would be physically and mentally weak.”
Her family, anticipating the downfall of the female autocrat that evening, was wonderstruck to see the village elders eating ladoos (sweets) from her hand, extending ‘congratulations’, taking packets of ladoos for their families, and leaving one by one.
3 - Grandma Returns
Sundar brought the old leather pouch home and left it in his cupboard. He did not tell Nakphodi anything because of her delicate mental health. Though he and Nakphodi were married for twenty-one years; and lived in great marital harmony of love and care, yet they slept on separate beds. Obviously, they had no children.
When he came out of the shower feeling fresh, he was surprised to find Nakphodi already wrapped in grandma’s bright red bridal sari. Nakphodi looked very pretty, and was all smiles. She took him in her arms and whispered, “Thank you Sundar, for the thoughtful gift, this I recognize as our grandma’s lost and found sari. Love me, and make me a mother this very moment, dear, and hurry.”
During her next appointment, Nakphodi was declared by her shrink as fully cured of her mental trauma. Her medicine was stopped. She was allowed to be a mother. After a year, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and to her and Sundar’s surprise, their baby bore an identical little hole in her nose like grandma. They felt their grandma had returned. Their lovely eighth wonder was named Soudamini. (End)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
When I was posted in Mumbai, I had to travel extensively by local trains. Although the service was fast and efficient, there was a downside. The network had spawned pickpockets like locusts on the trains and on the platforms. There was not even a single passenger who could claim to have escaped unscathed from their vicious clutches. Even after years of commuting on the local trains, I could never be sure when a descendant of the Artful Dodger—or the ‘artiste’ himself—would descend on me. In fact, every newcomer who took out an annual pass would be ‘baptised’ by the crowd on sacrificing his purse or pouch. The event would be celebrated by distributing ‘vada pau’ all around!
Once my father came to Mumbai on a visit. In the course of our conversation, the discussion veered round to these notorious bag-snatchers. I cautioned him to be on his guard. No one had escaped intact from their wily fingers, I warned him.
My father guffawed. “You mean you let a trifling pickpocket hoodwink you? What a shame!” A seasoned professor, he had confronted many notorious elements in his life. To him, pickpockets were just another unruly breed that needed to be ‘broken-in’.
Next day we walked down to the train depot to catch the Borivli Fast. My father fumbled his way in the crowd, but managed to get on the train. He marvelled at the way people packed themselves in the compartment like sardines. The stench emanating from the bogey was no less ‘fishy’!
When we reached our destination, once again the crowd swelled and swept us out on to the platform. We got up and dusted ourselves. When I enquired from my father how he had fared, his response was a hearty laugh. “Hats off to your pickpocket friends,” he said and turned his pockets inside out. They were empty. “I had put a one-rupee note in one pocket to entice the thief,” he said. “I don’t know when and how it was swiped from me without my knowledge! Thank God, the thief had spared my other pocket, which contained my currency notes.”
I had to admire his vision. “I think, father, you are much too clever a guy for the pickpockets. Knowing how they target your pockets, you didn’t put all your eggs—I mean cash—in one basket. Good thinking. But how did you decide which pocket to pack the money in?”
He smiled and quipped, “Elementary, my dear smart son!”
Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…
Our house was situated right on the banks of a canal. For ages it had served the surrounding villages as a lifeline to the hinterland. It remained busy throughout the day—and at night as well—with country boats carrying their cargo up and down the waterway. After the paddy was harvested, it was hulled and then loaded onto large barges by an army of labourers. They carried the sacks to the boat and covered them against the elements with mountains of straw. The entire boat turned into a mobile godown with grains stored right up to the roof.
For the boatman the boat was his home. It was not exactly 3-BHK accommodation, but the men had the ‘basics’ of a kitchen, bedroom and rest area. What about a restroom? Why, the entire expanse of the canal was open to them to answer nature’s call! Taking a bath was no problem. They had a vast ‘outdoor’ swimming pool to jump and play.
When I was a young lad, I used to humour the ferrymen as they cooked their frugal mid-day meal of rice, dal, lentils and a couple of vegetables. They waved their bamboo pole at me. “Do you want to go to Rangoon?” one of them asked.
“Is it very far?” I expressed my curiosity.
“No,” he replied. “I will take you there on my magic carpet and bring you back in a jiffy!” He laughed and told me stories of his travels, till it was time for them to depart. “I will take you with me next time!” He promised. But Burma has been lost to Myanmar and still his promise remains to be fulfilled.
An old stone bridge stands as a sentinel over the old canal. It had a very narrow parapet on which the street urchins stretched themselves and told each other stories. They were no trapeze artistes, but I had to admire their feat of lying prostrate on that narrow shelf. Night after night they slept on it without falling into the water. That too without the instructions of a Yoga guru!
The law of averages has a way of catching up with a vengeance. I came across a news report recently that a street urchin sleeping on the parapet had suddenly fallen to the water below. His identity was yet to be established.
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.
THE GYPSY GIRL
Krupasagar sahoo
34 UP Bilaspur-Indore fast passenger train was about to leave Bilaspur station when two people boarded the 1st class compartment; a young Divisional Safety Officer (DSO) from the platform side and a gypsy girl from the offside.
‘Niklo… Niklo…get out … get out’ screamed the coach conductor and coach attendant, both rushing towards the young girl.
The sudden noise in the corridor was enough for the Safety Officer to come out of the 1st class compartment. He saw a gypsy girl holding a cloth bundle close to her bosom and leaning against the bathroom door trembling in fear. The conductor in black coat and the coach attendant in khaki uniform were vigorously gesticulating and shouting at the girl to get down from the compartment. But by then the train had picked up speed.
The DSO noticed the young dark-complexioned girl wearing choli ghaghara with a black coloured veil on her head. In her arms were silver bangles. Her well-shaped eyes were a striking feature on her face.
‘What happened?’
‘Sir this gypsy girl has got into this 1st class compartment.’
‘Must be by mistake. Why are you being harsh on her? Haven’t you read the rule book of railways? Have you forgotten how to treat women and girls found alone?
He was in a mood to start a lecture on how Indian culture respects women, but the conductor intervened saying, ‘Sir she is a without-ticket passenger. When the squad comes they will catch me only’
DSO looked at the girl; terror was written large on her beautiful eyes.
‘Write in your chart as my attendant. OK?’
‘Ok Sir but shall I make her sit in the 2nd class portion?’
‘Ok’
‘Hey girl! Go that side’ the conductor’s voice was stern.
The girl was still trembling in fear. Her eyes were looking more and more terrorized.
DSO intervened, ‘I see for some reason she is extremely frightened. Let her remain here’
He came back to the compartment and the girl followed him.
Conductor and coach attendant looked meaningfully towards each other.
The girl stood in front of the DSO.
‘Go and sit there’ He pointed towards the opposite seat’
The girl squatted on the floor. The DSO realized that she would have never got an opportunity to sit on a chair or sofa, hence her diffidence.
‘Where will you go?’ She remained silent.
‘Ok…Where is your home?’
She looked confused. DSO understood his mistake. How will the nomads have a house? They keep moving from place to place.
His mind pictured the gypsy camps that he had seen coming up at the outskirts of Bilaspur station. Under the open sky inside the make-shift tents the daily life of the nomads used to go on. Sometimes they were seen squatting on the roadside, selling their wares which included lizard-skins, pangolin-bones, bear-nails, varied herbs and roots, medicines for snake-bites, scorpion-bites etc. Lucky charms, amulets and talisman for ghosts were found among their wares as well. It was also rumored that they were adept at burglary and their girls enticed young boys. He was one never to give in to such rumours. Rather they appeared simple folk to him.
One from that group has strayed into the compartment he assumed.
‘Where are you father and mother?’The girl started sobbing loudly.
‘My mother has died’
‘What about your father?’
‘Father has sold me to an old man. That old man…’
‘What happened tell me?’
‘He was forcing him on me…I bit him and ran away and got into this railway dabba’
‘Where will you go now?’
‘I don’t know’
DSO was in a fix. Should he take him to the police station? But the atrocities meted out by the law-keepers were not unknown to him. Better to rehabilitate him in the railways, he thought.
‘Have you gone to school?’
In Railways even for a class IV job, 8th pass is mandatory. Then the issue of birth certificate - the girl would have never had one - on her. Without these basics it is impossible to get even a menial job in the railways. She can be kept as a domestic maid.
‘Will you stay in our house?’
By now the girl had sensed the kindness of the officer; her terror stricken eyes were now looking calmer and happier.
‘Do you know cooking?’The girl was speechless.
‘Can you make rotis?’
‘Yes’
‘Dal, sabji?’
The girl was a bit confused. DFO knew that these people eat their rotis with onion and chillies. To expect them to cook dal sabji would be a bit too much.
In the mean time the train halted at Kargi Road station and there was a knock on the compartment door. Conductor and attendant had come with tea in two kulhads.
‘Sir! Tea and biscuit’
‘Will you take tea? DSO asked the girl.
She shook her head. She would have never tasted tea he realized. It is a middle class luxury. DSO handed over the biscuit packet to her. The conductor and attendant left the compartment closing the door behind.
The girl started munching the biscuits turning her back. The DSO took out a book from his attaché and started reading.
At Pendra-Road station, again there was a knock at the compartment door.
‘Sir the khoya Jalebis are too good here…For you Sir… ‘Along with conductor, had come the station-master, tea-stall-owner and firewood-merchant. All greeted him. The jalebis in leaf bowls were handed over to him.
‘How much?’ asked the DFO
‘Sir don’t embarrass us’. The tea-stall owner was smiling politely. Others were observing the gypsy girl from head to foot. She put the jalebi in her bag.
DSO was wondering why suddenly these officers were showing such courtesy to him. There was no scope in his post to the ‘so-called help’ to any business-man or supplier. His post was considered a dry-post for which he was at times looked upon sympathetically by some of his colleagues. So getting this unexpected hospitality was a bit surprising.
So is this gypsy girl an object of attraction?
The next stop was Anuppur. It had a fifteen minutes halt. The employees took their meals in the station refreshment room.
‘Sir shall I order for your lunch?’ Conductor asked.
‘Ok order for two.’ The lunch box from home with roti sabji was in his attaché, but he preferred the railway meals.
Two lunch trays were delivered. Again the girl devoured the lunch turning his back to him, as if she had never eaten since many days…
After lunch he lied down on the coach, while the girl kept her cloth-bundle under her head and went to sleep.
At times trinkets on her feet and bangles in her hand made some noise. There was no one in the first class compartment except the two. One or two people passed by, but they must have been railway employees thought the DSO as other than railway officers, few outsiders hardly reserved this bogie due to its high tariff. A fleeting thought passed his mind. Is anyone trying to insinuate him for taking this girl along? But he brushed it aside as he thought what he was doing was according to his conscience.
His destination; Shahdol station arrived. He was given a rousing welcome by the staff. Some days back two trains in this station had had an averted collision. Two trains had come face to face but had just stopped short of a collision at the nick of time. As Safety Officer he had come to Shahdol station to conduct an enquiry of the averted collision.
At the station, he was expecting only Station-Manager and Divisional-Traffic-Inspector, but with them had come Permanent-Way-Inspector, Loco-Inspector, Signal-Inspector and his staff members. They were all greeting him but their eyes were on the gypsy girl.
He sent the girl along with a peon to the guest house and started working on his enquiry.
While working, a call came from his Divisional Railway Manager.
‘Where are you?’
‘Sir at Shahdol’
‘What’s happening there?’
‘Sir! Enquiry is going on...That averted collision case’
‘Ok…OK..Carry on’
He was scheduled for a night halt at Shahdol station. In the night a phone call came to the guesthouse. Operator said, ‘Sir! Madam’s phone’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the guest house’
‘What is happening there?’
‘You know I have come for an enquiry’
‘What am I hearing?’
‘What are you hearing tell me?’
‘Don’t conceal. Tell me openly’
‘Why should I conceal? You tell me what you are hearing’
‘You are with a gypsy girl?’
‘Yes, she is there’ A few second of silence followed. Then from his side
‘Who told you all this?’
‘Why are you travelling with her?’Then a muffled sob sound came from the other side. Before he could say don’t misunderstand, the phone was banged down from the other side.
To placate his wife he tried to connect again, but the operator said, ‘No reply Sir!’
In the night he felt restless, realizing that he is under terrible suspicion. Sound-bites travel faster than light; the truth dawned on him. From Bilaspur to Kargi Road to Anuppur to Shahdol the news has travelled the entire Bilaspur-Anuppur-Katni circle. But his tour programme was approved by the DRM himself! Then have some jealous colleagues spread this piece of juicy news against him? But are all men after the allure of females? Must all females be under the male gaze? Don’t females have an identity of their own?
Should he then abandon the gypsy girl at Shahdol and return to Bilaspur? Let her eke out her own fate. Next moment he thought it won’t be the right thing. There are predators everywhere. The helpless girl will not remain secure. Rather he will take her home and reason with his wife that the gypsy girl will be a good domestic help. He would tell his wife, ‘Your hands are always full with cooking, cleaning and taking care of our infant son. You don’t get regular domestic help. This girl can be groomed for cooking and baby-sitting. Chotu, their son would find a play mate too’ He thought, this would be a surprise gift to his wife.
He decided to cut short his Enquiry and catch the next train back to his headquarters. He can always come back for wrapping up the Enquiry.
The next day he caught the Utkal Express to Bilaspur. At the exit gate there was a huge crowd. So he came out through the Parcel Gate with the gypsy girl in tow.
On the way to his bungalow he thought Chotu will rush out hearing the sound of the horse-carriage and start clapping looking at the horses.
At the gate, the bungalow-peon informed, ‘Madam left for the station with Chotu to go to her maike (mother’s place).
(Translated by Malabika Patel)
Krupasagar Sahoo, Sahitya Akademi award winner for his book ‘Shesh Sharat’ a touching tale about the deteriorating condition of the Chilka Lake with its migratory birds, is a well recognized name in the realm of Odiya fiction and poetry. The rich experiences gathered from his long years of service in the Indian Railways as a senior Officer reflect in most of his stories. A keen observer of human behavior, this prolific author liberally laces his stories with humor, humaneness, intrigue and sensitivity. ‘Didi from Dum Dum’ is one of many such stories that tug the heart strings with his simple storytelling.
OF ALL THE LOVE IN THE PORTRAITS
A rainy Sunday morning of July. The rain that has been pouring incessantly and heavily since last night had frittered out to a slow drizzle. Lounging in the swinging chair in the porch I watched the house boy assisted by another two young men hurrying up and down the flight of stairs at the right corner shifting out the bed and other furniture down to the big hall downstairs from the room at the extreme end of the corridor upstairs and which grandfather used as his bed room for many years. Mother stood supervising the cleaning work and instructing the boys.
A year back on this day grandfather had succumbed to the deadly covid. The rituals of his death anniversary were to be performed today. The priests would arrive soon. My uncles and aunts had arrived since yesterday. The house was all set and prepared for paying homage to the departed soul. The large room upstairs which grandfather had occupied since he came to live with us after the demise of my grandmother had been under lock and key for a long year. Mother and the houseboy made short, infrequent visits to the room to get the room swept and the furniture dusted. I had not stepped into the room for even once. I don’t know why but every time I climbed up the stairs to go to the other rooms one of which served as a guest-cum-study room with book cases lined up against its walls and had to step past the locked room that once was grandfather’s I feel a creepy heaviness on my chest, as if a hard, tight band was pressed across it.
I had always been grandfather’s pet, not my elder brother who now lives abroad. Grandpa could know my mind even before I could think of speaking it out. I could not accurately recollect those days when I visited his house at his workplace along with my parents when he was still in service and lived with grandma. I was maybe four or five at that time but I knew for sure even at that age if I was asked whether I would like to stay back with them when the time of returning arrived, my answer would have been an unhesitant and bold ‘yes’.
They went to live in their native village after his retirement and for the next few years were preoccupied with settling the division of lands and properties among his brothers. Later he got the busy in the renovation work of the portion of the house that came under his share. Grandfather was a man of a friendly and convivial nature who loved to spend his leisure times with both the young and elderly in engagements conveniently suited to both the age groups. I do not know exactly at what particular phase during his stay in his native village, but it may be while grandpa felt that he had discharged his filial and material responsibilities, he made a turn to look back at one of his long-nurtured childhood hobby of painting, a passion that had been since a long time lying dormant under the load of his heavily-demanding official and familial engagements. He got the art-sheets, paints and paint brushes and other requirements collected through one of his nephews from the town. He set out indulgently to painting the landscapes and animals, flowers and faces. May be grandpa wasn’t an artist with rare expertise but his paintings were good, especially the faces he portrayed, whether if the gods and goddesses, humans or animals, looked strangely alive, vivid, and pulsating with life. I had not discontinued the practice of visiting my grandparents in vacations and always looked forward to the days of exhilaration amidst my cotemporaneous cousins, it was a pleasure savoured in anticipation. While I lived with them grandpa used to paint my portraits.
Grandpa did not ask the person he portrayed to sit in his front for long hours while he painted like the professionals do. He would instead, take a snap of the person with his trusted good old Nikon camera and use the photo for the purpose.
I liked to watch him engrossed so assiduously in his work. I found it tough to keep clung to my patience till the unravelling moment. Grandpa will never let me take a look at the unfinished image despite my urgings and ask me calmly to hold on for a day or two. I found several portraits of grandma in different ages, mostly when she was young and was in a bride’s attire. My grandma was a woman of arresting beauty, though not very fair in complexion she owned classic features, a sharp, aquiline nose, big, speaking eyes, thick, long and arched eyebrows and a slightly wide full mouth. Even at that age grandma looked graceful and elegant, wearing a small smile on her face that enhanced the engaging amicability in her personality.
Grandma suffered from some serious ailment and quit the mortal world about a decade or so after grandpa retired from service. Her departure from his life had brought in a great change in grandpa. He seemed to have retreated into a cocoon of silence. A man who loved people around him involvedly, who spent most of his time outdoors amidst friends and relatives had all of a sudden been metamorphosed into a shrunken, resigned and pathetic recluse. He had totally withdrawn himself from painting and the pictures he had portrayed so passionately lay scattered in his room like the abandoned memories of some non-existent time, like the orphaned leaves of storm-blown trees floating aimlessly in the wet air before taking a dive down.
Despite grandfather’s vehement protests, father did not let him continue staying in the village and brought him here, to our home. I was delighted at first at the prospect of having grandfather living with us under the same roof, but the creases of suffering settled stubbornly on his otherwise jovial face disappointed me. The changes that had come over him after grandma’s death were well-pronounced and obvious. He avoided human company, came down only to eat ate a simple, frugal meal only a couple of times a day and went back to the solitude of his room. His seclusion was interrupted only by my occasional invasion to his room on holidays and those evenings when I was not attending the coaching classes. I could still take all liberty with him and it was only I who could make him talk. In those hours of loneliness and dejection he preoccupied himself with books and newspapers. Father had noticed that and got him suspense thrillers from time to time (grandpa was an avid reader of suspense thrillers and father knew of his choice), hoping to God that the engagement would keep grandma away from his mind at least for a few hours in a day. But, perhaps, destiny had another interesting engagement planned for him. And soon.
**
In the form of Roxy, the labrador.
I wouldn’t recount the details of Roxy’s entry into the threshold of grandpa’s reclusion. But just this much that a friend of my father, had bought the twins while visiting Bangalore on an official tour. He had chosen one for himself and inquired if father would care to buy the other to which father had readily consented presumably with a hope that grandfather who harboured a genuine love for animals and birds would find in Roxy, a filler for the blank caused by grandma’s absence.
His presumptions proved true. Grandpa seemed to have taken an instant liking at the creature.
I even noticed a tiny sparkle in his eyes that looked dull and glazed. He caressed the tiny head of Roxy and for the first time in many months I could trace out a semblance of a benevolent smile on his face that smoothened out the hard lines of pain.
Just in a few days he got so fascinated with Roxy that it became a part of his routine to take the dog out to a walk, to feed and bathe it. Roxy could, in a short time succeeded in moving grandpa out of the dark, nightmarish tesseract of grief where he had kept himself confined for so long. Father breathed a sigh of relief watching normalcy returning to grandpa’s life, slowly though.
I and Rocky had the maximum shares of grandpa’s waking hours.
Days slipped into weeks and weeks into months.
Rocky was growing fast. I, too was doing my graduation in engineering after completing the higher secondary course. Though my college was in the same town, I had to shift to the college hostel for facilitating the attending of extra classes and better interaction with the teachers. I came home on Sundays and holidays and grandpa was very happy to see me. I spent most of my time with grandpa and Roxy during those short visits. It was in one of such brief visits I had suggested grandpa to resume painting. He did not show any interest at first and tried to brush the topic aside, but I was not to give up and after long and constant pleadings and persuasions he, just to satisfy me( he said that but I knew he had changed his mind and now trying to relocate his lost interest I painting) picked up the paintbrush. He was keen on acrylic painting and I brought him the easel, art sheets, and colours and brushes.
‘I have lost practice, son,’ he would often say but I urged him on and he did not have the heart to refuse me.
***
‘Come to take a look at it’, grandpa called one day, leaning out from the balustrade, while I was leafing through a textbook lounging in the chair-swing, a mug of coffee in the other hand (my favorite place to sit on). it was a cool, sunny day of late autumn and I loved the luxury of sipping hot coffee soaked in the soft warmth of a benevolent sun.
I went up the flight of stairs, curious to know what grandpa is so excited about. I followed him to his room. He turned to look at me, his eyes twinkling mysteriously and then lifted the cloth draping off the easel. I looked and then stared at the painting. I knew grandpa was a skilled painter but what was in my front was something of which I found difficult to believe was a creation of grandpa! It was an altogether different piece of art, out of his usual line of work, something that revealed a surprising expertise, almost the work of a professional.
It was a painting of Roxy, who was now grown up to be a full-sized dog, sitting on the floor, looking straight forward, presumably at grandpa, with its large liquid eyes. It sat in an upright position, with tucked-in feet, in the full glow of the sun light that invaded the room through the steel- railings of the big window. The background was opaque, not receiving the sunlight, and the image of the dog capturing the full impact of the light on its off-white body looked as if it was embossed on a some kind of a metal sheet of gray and black, creating a brilliant chiaroscuro effect. Its eyes looked alive, as if it was communing something to the one in its front, a pleasant, indulgent glow on a contour exposed to the light. My unblinking eyes remained fastened to the painting for a longtime, wonderment and joy sweeping over me in turns.
‘Liked it?” Grandpa asked after a while, his eyes fixed on the changing shades of amazement my face. ‘Liked it?’ I blurted out without thinking. ‘It is an incredible piece of art. I had no idea you were so brilliant, grandpa.’ I ran back and hugged him tightly. ‘We will put it to display in some art gallery,’ I said, excitedly.
‘I did not paint it with any such intention. It just came out automatically, I do not know how exactly.’ Grandpa refused in his cool and calm voice. ‘I would like to paint one of you and Roxy if you have no objection,’ he added a little dubiously. ‘I would love to be your subject, grandpa. There is no need for you to ask me. Grandpa was tall man, almost six and he bent forward to kiss my forehead. ‘God bless you child,’ he exclaimed fondly. ‘I will take a short break before I start. When you come home in the winter vacation.
Grandpa’s growing years had never been a handicap when it came to his interest and involvement in painting. He was a natural and was in no need of a professional training. Even at that age he was capable of giving complex to quite some professional and younger painters. But he was not in favour of self-advertisement and loved to paint in seclusion, away from the eyes of the world. Sometimes, while he painted I used to watch him intently, wondering secretly if his hand would shake or he might lose focus while he worked at the easel, but nothing of that sort happened ever.
**
I stepped cautiously past grandpa’s room and entered the study, my heart heavy with sorrow. I knew it was not just sorrow, but something much greater than it, and I flinched away from facing it. I was feeling breathless and there was a slight tremble in my legs. I lowered myself to a straight-backed chair by a writing table to regain my calm. I waited for a brief while and then came out and went into grandpa’s room. The houseboy and his helpers had completed the shifting pf the things downstairs and were now washing the room. The easel and some paintings which grandpa had not kept locked in the built in in the wood-paneled wall-shelves, were outside in the corridor perhaps waiting to be carried down.
‘Why haven’t you taken these down?’ I asked Mohan, the houseboy. ‘Ma wants them to be kept at the extreme-end wall of the corridor and to be brought back to the room after the puja is over,’ he said and went back to the job of washing the floor. The easel held no art sheet. I fingered through the paintings and took out one by one to have a closer look. The painting of Roxy was there, sitting in a pool of bright sunlight, against a dark and gray backdrop, looking at grandpa in fond eyes, muted words of love trailing out of its unwavering gaze. I took out another, the one that peeped out from behind Roxy’s, the one that had I and Roxy , both, I sitting on a chair and Roxy sprawled cozily by my leg. It was painted perhaps in last summer. Grandpa had that extraordinary knack to capture the genuine expression in the face, be it an animal or a human and recreate it with an incredible exactness. Roxy did not have to sit for hours together in front of grandpa while he portrayed it, nor did I. It was amazing how he could portray a face so accurately. May be the image that his eyes caught remained etched indelibly in his mind to be reproduced later in his tranquil hours, like Wordsworth’s daffodils.
Roxy was an amazing dog and had a unique way of looking at your face as if it was trying to read the mind of the person it was looking at, a boring and speculative gaze, intense to the extent of bringing in a strange discomfort. In the portrait where I and Roxy were both, it seemed to be looking at my face, I don’t know why, while in all probability it should have been looking at grandpa. I wonder if that was how grandpa’s mind and not his camera had captured it and stored the picture in some secret recess of his mind to be re-lived on the drawing sheet.
There were a few others too, but my attention was caught by these two, grandpa’s favourite ones and mine too. I hadn’t set my eyes on them since Covid snatched grandpa away from us, and from Roxy.
The corridor wore a deserted look, sad and gray. A curious melancholy hung in the air. I could see Roxy scampering and scuttling along the corridor, coming in and out of grandpa’s room, and climbing up and down the stairs. I rubbed my eyes hard and Roxy was gone. Just as grandpa had gone!
Tell Ma I have taken a couple of paintings down to my room,’ I said to the houseboy and picking up the portrait of Roxy and the other one that had both Roxy and me, I came down the stairs.
**
The sound of an impatient scampering at the door brought Amrit abruptly awake. He rubbed his eyes and peered at the mobile screen. It was half past eleven in the night. Why is Roxy scratching at the door at this time of the night? It was not unusual for Roxy, however, to scratch at the door of his room to call me, to draw Amrit’s eyes to something it wanted him to see.
‘What is it Roxy? Why do you disturb me at this time?’ Amrit grumbled. Switching off the air conditioner he got down the bed to open the door. The slumbering house was wrapped in a dark silence. He pulled back the door panels to let Roxy in. A waft warm and moist breeze of late June assailed his face before invading its way into the room. Roxy was not there. He stood silently for a long moment, trying to recollect what made him open the door. The rituals of his grandfather’s death anniversary were performed the day before. And his uncles and other relatives too had left for their respective places. There was a spooky throb in the air that made the hair on the nape of his neck bristle. He looked into the darkness that was slightly relieved by a thin streak of light from the distant light post across the street.
It came to him like a sudden flash of light. Roxy no longer lived with them. They did not know where he was. What was the scratching, scrubbing sound, then? The wind? Some nocturnal bird? Sweat beads on Amrit’s forehead, gathering up together had changed into thin rivulets that trailed along my neck down to his shoulders and chest. Suddenly the wind felt very hot.
He shut back the door and drank some water from the bottle. Then switched on the air conditioner and the light.
Rocky looked at me from the painting; there was an indecipherable and queer look of in its gaze. Was it unhappy? Cross with Amrit because he had let it down? Because he had been responsible to a certain degree for orphaning him? For being a part in destiny’s plan to snatch the man it loved more than its own life, from him? For exiling it to the anonymous streets it was frightened of paving?
Then Amrit heard a small sound, barely above the rustle of a breeze. He let his startled gaze rove around the room. Everything in the room was at its place, untouched, undisturbed; the bed looked cozy and welcoming and the soft hum of the air conditioner sounded soothing. He switched off the light overhead, turned on the bedside lamp, got into the bed and lay down, looking at the portrait of Roxy that stood facing him on the table. It looked even more alive in the silent and dimly lit room. He turned his gaze towards the door and again looked back at the portrait. Roxy seemed to have shrunken slightly in size and somehow diaphanous as if it was slowly dissolving away.
He stared at the big, black eyes of the dog.. at the shade of accusation and grief blended together that lurked there. Startling him the sound of something like a small creature scampering outside the door and scratching at its panels filled the room. This time it was louder and was accompanied by a soft and moaning, as if of some animal that was in pain. The noise grew louder and louder and Amrit pressed his hands to his ears to stop it. But it seemed to have found its way down to his head that was now hammering wildly.
The lights went out.
Rattled out of his wits Amrit groped for his mobile phone and turned on its torch. He was shaking badly and reached forward at the painting of Roxy on the table. The space where Roxy sat, was now blank, a brilliantly lit emptiness against a backdrop of gray and black. Before his fingers touched it the portrait fell down, with a thudding sound. The lights came back synchronizing with the thud. And Amrit sat up on the bed, trembling all over, his breath coming out in erratic gasps.
Both the paintings stood on the table by the window in the similar position as he had put them in the morning. The soft whirr of the air conditioner sounded pleasant and comforting. His throat was parching and he drank more than half a bottle of water in a few swallows.
Roxy, in its real size, eyed him from the portrait, its face benevolent, a speculative look in its innocent, black eyes as if it was trying to make a guess at my mood.
**
The scratching and scraping at the bedroom door brought me awake with a startling suddenness. I sprang off the bed and flung open the door. Roxy was there, wagging frantically its tail and whimpering like crazy. ‘What happened Roxy? Why are you here now, at this time? Are you hungry?’ Roxy scrambled up the stairs still moaning and whining. ‘May be, it is hungry or has hurt itself,’ I guessed as I stood undecided at the foot of the stairs. After climbing up a few stairs Roxy stopped and turned to look back. Finding me still standing at the foot of the staircase it hopped down, pulled hard at my trousers. There was an urgent pleading in its behaviour I found difficult to ignore and followed it up the staircase.
Grandpa lay on the floor, panting for breath, his frail body looking stiff and shrunken.
‘Come down Amrit, immediately,’ Ma called from the hall downstairs. ‘Your father has called the hospital. They are sending the ambulance.’
‘But Ma!’ I called back, ‘Grandpa has fallen off the bed and he is breathless,’
‘You come down first, you silly boy. How could you come near a covid patient without wearing a mask and a face shield?’
I cast a brief look and ran down the stairs to get his mask.
The world was passing through a horrible, once-in-a-century kind of crisis, mercilessly ravaged by a dreaded virus that seemed to have invaded it with a vendetta to kill. Covid was on a rampage across India, too, taking the country in its deadly sweep, destroying lives with a calculated brutality. The newspapers and the social media sites were flooding with facts and fictions about the mysterious virous, that made its way up to the abode of humanity from some anathematic abyss of black horror.
The country was under a lockdown and people remained confined within their houses. Offices and educational institutions were shut down. Most of the official work was done from home barring a few that made physical presence indispensable. Amrit’s father worked from home on his laptop. His college too was closed.
‘The ambulance will be here in minutes. ‘ father said. ‘You need not worry. They will carry him to the hospital.’ Ignoring him, I picked up a face mask and rushed up the stairs. Grandfather, emaciated and pale, peered at me intently. His lips moved as if he was trying to say something. His eyes were like slits and his face was puffy and red. I could not make anything out of the incoherent mumblings except making a guess that he wanted some water. Deciding to give him the water first and then lift him up to the bed, I moved towards the table where stood a water jug and glass. Grandfather mumbled something again, and I turned to look. Grandfather lifted a feeble hand and pointed towards something. I let my eyes travel around the room. There was nothing he could be wanting so desperately at the present condition. A portrait of grandmother hung across the door-side wall. ‘The sickness had made him delirious,’ I presumed and turned towards the table.
**
It was really surprising how grandpa, who never went to crowded places nor was in contact with people who could possibly have been infected with the disease, had caught the virus. He was, as such, a man of healthy and robust built, though a bit on the downslide after the departure of grandma from his life. But he had noticeably succeeded in freeing himself from the grip of that terrible sense of loss. He had befriended Sinha uncle, who had retired from the service of an engineer in the south eastern railways some years back and lived with his wife in a house adjacent to ours. Sinha uncle had two sons, both of them comfortably settled abroad. Uncle and aunty lived alone, in the big house part of which was rented out to one of Sinha uncle’s junior colleagues. He and grandpa did the morning walk together, and had their morning tea routinely either at Sinha uncle’s place or ours. They spent most part of their time in playing chess or discussing politics. There was a remote possibility of Sinha uncle contacting the virus since he too never went to the market or other crowded places. His driver, who lived in the out-house with his wife did all the marketing and his wife managed the household chores. So, when grandpa complained of headache and fever and loss of appetite that night while we were having dinner, none of us gave it a serious thought. Next day he developed a fever and a bad cough. Father called one of his friends’ son, a doctor, who advised to keep him in quarantine and start the protocol treatment.
In the two days that followed grandpa never came out to the corridor and spent most part of the day lying in bed. The houseboy wrapping his face tightly in a thick towel carried the disposable tray of breakfast, lunch and dinner upstairs and kept on the table that stood outside the door. The doctor had got the sputum and blood sample collected through a technician from the hospital where he worked, and proving our worst fears true it was confirmed that grandpa had covid.
Grandpa would phone father and let him know if he needed anything. Father spoke to him many times a day to ensure if he was taking food and medicine in time. On the fourth day he did not call father. The breakfast tray had remained untouched, and the lunch tray too. The houseboy said that grandpa did not answer to his callings and all he could hear was only a faint wheezing. Father called grandpa’s number. It was only after three more calls grandpa picked up the phone. ‘Are you feeling okay father? Why didn’t you eat your meals? Should we go to the hospital?’ ‘I am not hungry,’ grandpa said in a voice that was feeble and shaky. Send something to drink. I am very thirsty.’ ‘Yes, father. I am sending a flask of tea and another of orange juice immediately.’
‘All right son,’ grandpa said in a small voice.
‘Are you sure there is no need to go to the hospital? Should I call in the doctor?’
‘I do not think that is required. Do not worry. I will be fine in a day or two,’ grandfather slicked the switch off.
‘Shall I take a look?’ I asked father. ‘He sounded so weak.’
‘The doctor had strictly warned us to keep him in isolation. We shall wait for one more day. If the fever continues, we shall shift him to the hospital,’ father said.
Roxy darted down the stairs. ‘Had it eaten?’ father looked at Ma. ‘It is not eating properly since the day father came down with fever. Dogs are very sensitive about their masters. Roxy is so fond of father! It could sense that something is wrong with him. it did not eat even from Amu’s hands.’
‘Give it a little milk or something. It has gone skinny and emaciated in these few days.’
Roxy looked at me intently. ‘What was it trying to tell me? I wondered if it was accusing me of neglecting grandfather who loved me so much. There was an irrepressible urge inside me to go upstairs and sit by grandpa, speak a few comforting words to help him keep up his moral strength. The little act of love could have induced some hope in him. But I was scared of the virus. I was afraid for myself. I felt ashamed to look in Roxy’s eyes. What was there in the eyes of grandfather’s dog? Hatred? Condemnation?’ The loving animal in Roxy denounced the selfish human in me.
**
‘Amu! Come down,’ There was an urgency in mother’s cry. I came out of the room and looked down.
Mother stood at the bottom step of the staircase. All the lights in the hall and the porch too were on. Amrit could make out the furrows of fear and agitation on her forehead. ‘Please come down. He is suffering from Covid. Let the medical people take care of him. Do not go very close to him, son’ she pleaded pitifully. The frightening quiver in her voice did something to me. It occurred to me suddenly what a great risk I was running by being in the room with a covid patient. The lethal virus could be easily transmitted through even a brief contact and closeness with a person with covid. I turned back and looked at the pathetic figure that lay curled up on the floor by the bed, partially covered by a blanket. Roxy whimpered and roved around the room. It came out and bit the fringe of my trouser pulling me into the room. But I shoved it aside with a kick from my leg, ran down the stairs, and on reaching down rushed into bathroom. I turned on the hot water tap, picked from the wall cabinet a bottle of Dettol that was one-third full and emptied the contents into the water. I cleansed himself thoroughly with the disinfectant and when I felt satisfied that all the virus I might have carried from my grandfather’s room were washed off, I dried himself and came out.
**
Just as I was putting on a clean pair of trousers and a singlet, I heard the blare of the ambulance. The next minute it rolled into the compound and a pair of uniformed attendants emerged carrying a stretcher between them. They ran across the lit up compound towards the porch. Father pointed at the staircase and they climbed up. Roxy, wagging its tail, followed at their heels. I and my parents waited, holding our breath till they brought grandfather down. Grandfather lay on the stretcher, a frail, scanty figure, his hand was still slightly raised as if pointing at something, a glazed look in his eyes those were now slightly open. He turned his eyes to look at me, and his lips curled. In the hard light of the porch it looked like a rueful smile. It was not exactly a smile, an ugly twist of lips that could have been something between a sneer and a sob. I cringed away from the accusing glance in his eyes.
Roxy shambled after them whining loudly, turning back from time to time to cast an imploring glance at us, probably urging us to bring him back. Father heaved out a sigh, pulled Roxy back into the compound and closed the gate. I could discern a wet look in his downcast eyes, a blend of sadness and guilt.
**
‘Come in, Roxy’ Father closed the gate and called as he moved towards the door. Roxy stood still by the gate, looking unblinkingly at the closed gate as if expecting it to open any moment and grandpa would come in.
‘You call Roxy back,’ father looked at me. ‘It won’t listen to any one else.’
‘Come back here, boy’, I called fondly. The dog did not even turn to look. I walked towards the spot where Roxy stood. ‘I stroked its head. Come back dear. Grandpa will come back soon.’ Roxy flinched away from and lumbered towards the clumps of jasmines at one corner of the compound. It crouched by a jasmine bush and began to pant. I followed it to the jasmine bush and knelt by it. It cast a brief glance at me, but the look of obstinate indifference in its eyes made me feel uneasy. The mute accusation in the large liquid eyes combined with which I guessed could be close to something like loathing, gave me the creeps. Instead of trailing behind me wagging its tail as it used to do earlier, Roxy crouched down, tucking its legs under the belly and rested its face on the ground. A soft, growling sound escaped it and its belly rose up and down in quick succession as it panted heavily. It was behaving strangely, at least I had never seen Roxy like this. I wondered what must be going across in its mind. It was obvious that the shifting of grandfather to the hospital had affected it seriously. I waited for a minute or two, and then touched its head once again. ‘Come on Roxy, have some milk. You are going without food for the last two days. come on boy,’ I coaxed and turned to walk back to the house. Roxy did not budge. It closed its eyes and continued with its panting.
‘Keep a bowl of milk near it. Do not disturb it anymore. It is highly agitated now.’ Mother said.
I placed the bowl of milk by Roxy and patted its head. ‘There is no hurry boy. Finish the milk in your own sweet time,’ I said and left it lying there by the jasmine bush, alone and silently moaning.
I waited for an hour and then moved cautiously towards the gate, hoping Roxy would have finished the milk. The night was fast fading away. The first light of the dawn had sprawled over the compound and on the plants, flowering creepers and the lumps of roses and jasmines. Roxy lay in the same position as I had heft it. the bowl of milk stood by it, untouched.
(hallucination.. present night 2 to 3 am)
Amrit turned on his sides restlessly. It was unusually hot in the room. ‘Who has turned the air conditioner off?’, he asked himself and sat up on the bed, sweat pouring down from him in thin rivulets. He heard the faint rustle of like a sheaf of paper being leafed through and looked around to find out where it came from. He saw his grandfather sitting at the window, painting. The sound came perhaps from the quick and calculated stroke of his brush giving the final touch to whatever he was portraying.
‘What are you painting in the dark, grandpa? He called. ‘And why have you turned off the air- conditioner? Grandpa turned towards him. There was a queer look in his eyes. He did not say a word. ‘What is that you are so busily painting at this time?’ Amrit asked and getting down the bed wandered to where the old man sat. It was the same portrait of Amrit and Roxy, where Roxy was looking intently at Amrit, as if he was trying to read his mind. But now, the Amrit in the portrait looked shrunken and pale, sort of faded, a dispassionate look in his eyes as he touched Roxy’s head. Amrit stood watching, amazed the fading picture in the painting which began to get diminished before his eyes, and grandfather laughed. It was a hard, brittle laughter that made Amrit’s flesh creep. ‘No,’ he cried and his eyes snapped open.
He was bathed in sweat despite the air conditioning. The room felt stuffy and close. His eyes darted towards the window. The chair that stood by the window was empty, and his gaze travelled back to the table where the two paintings were kept. He gazed deeply at the one where he and Roxy were there. In the faint moonlight that filtered through the window glass the portrait appeared to have touched with a mysterious shade. The picture of Amrit in the portrait was changed, like the way it had when grandpa had retouched it. It looked even smaller than it was in the one grandpa was redoing. And Roxy stood over him, a towering, dominating figure.
‘Ma,’ Amrit called out loudly and stretched a hand towards the painting but his hand did not reach it. He could only touch the fringe with the tip of his index finger. The painting fell face down on the table and a low moaning sound filled the room. almost at the same time he heard the bangs on the door, and the voice of his father. ‘What is it Amu? Open the door.’ His father asked anxiously from the other side of the door.
Slowly, secretly Amrit opened his eyes and looked again. Both the paintings lay face down. The room was silent except the low hum of the air conditioning machine. He got off the bed and opened the door. ‘Why are you screaming? ‘ his father looked wary and agitated. Amrit’s uncle, who stood close entered the room and looked around. ‘No one is there? He must have had a bad dream,’ he said, ‘Take care son,’ he said soothingly. ‘Don’t get your mind heavy with absurd thoughts.’ He said and patted Amrit’s back. Amrit’s father looked at him curiously. ‘Go to sleep son,’ there is still some time left before the break of dawn.
Amrit closed the door and went up to the table. He did not have the courage turn them up. He sat on the bed for a long time, breathing heavily hearing the faint screech of the nocturnal birds outside. A strange lassitude swept over him and he closed his eyes.
**
I went to look at Roxy. We had a simple lunch. Father looked grim and his face hung in an unspoken worry. He had called the doctor at the hospital to inquire about grandfather’s condition. The news was not good. Grandpa was on ventilator and was not responding positively to the treatment. I saw father secretly wiping his eyes as he disconnected the call. I felt something hard stuck at my throat, choking me. I wanted to sit by father, to speak a few comforting words to him to assuage his distress, but my lips were frozen stiff. The sun went down the west. Roxy lay listlessly by the gate, its gaze constantly travelling to the street through the iron railings, and returning to wander across the compound and then going up to the corridor in front of grandpa’s room upstairs. Ma and father coaxed it to have something to eat, but Roxy did not cast even a glance at the chicken piece in its plate that used to be its most favourite food. ‘You try,’ Ma suggested looking at me. ‘Roxy will listen to you.’ I could somehow make a guess t what was passing in Roxy’s mind and I winced away from that. But Ma asked me again, and I moved closer to Roxy gingerly.’ Hey, old boy!’ I said trying to sound easy and light. ‘Enough of your silly tantrums. Be a good boy and eat you meal.’ Roxy raised its head and cast a long, lingering glance at me. then it did something which it had never done in all these years and nor had I thought it would do ever. It bared its jaws slowly and snarled at me. The rims of its eyes had a reddish tinge, I was not sure whether of anger or sorrow. But Roxy had changed overnight. It was not the dog I used to feed, coax and play with.
Father kept calling the doctor from time to time desperately hoping that grandpa would have responded to the treatment and was doing better. But the doctor’s reply did not help a bit to revive father’s sinking spirit.
None of us could eat dinner that night. My uncles and aunts kept calling to know about grandfather. Our mobile phones were constantly abuzz with the incoming calls. But father had not much encouragement to offer in his reply to the callers.
**
Night of the Past reality
I lay in the bed, wide awake, staring at the bizarre, shifting patterns the light from across the street made on the ceiling. My parents were awake too, I presumed. But they did not talk to each other as if they both in their own way, trying to remain closed in the tesseract of their own nightmares afraid that once they tried to commune with each other the fear will grow oppressively overwhelming. A strange sound outside jolted me out of my thoughts. I pricked my ears to listen. It was a weird, guttural sound like one made by an animal. l was suddenly alert. Roxy?? Why is Roxy making such uncanny, odd sounds? Is it hungry or in pain? I opened the door and came out. Roxy!! I called loudly and stopped short. It stood facing me, in the porch. There was an ominous look in its eyes and then it began to whine. Loud, ominous, spine-chilling whines! It gave me goosebumps. Father came out to the open. ‘What is it? What is the matter with Roxy? Why is it howling like this?’ he looked at me questioningly. I had no answer. The strident rings of the land phone that almost synchronized with Roxy’s frightening wailing startled both of us. even before father’s trembling hands lifted the receiver I knew instinctively what the news could be, and father too knew that. ‘Hello’, his voice was a quivering whisper. And the doctor broke the news of grandfather. Despite all possible treatments grandfather could not pull through and had passed away just a few minutes ago. ‘Just when Roxy had begun to wail,’ I thought, a chill sweeping over me.
**
My uncles arrived in the morning. They were heavily masked and it was not easy to know from their covered faces whether they were more sad than frightened or the other way round. The car they had travelled in was sanitized and all of them carried a bottle of sanitizer. All of them mourned a little and looked discomfited and seemed to be in a hurry to do away with the funeral rites as early as possible. The van from the hospital mortuary arrived at about nine carrying grandfather’s body wrapped in thick black polythene. No body bothered even to check if it was grandfather or someone else. The tag tied to the covered toe showed a number, date and grandfather’s name. Mother wept for a while. I stood by the gate my gaze fixed on the polythene wrapped figure, feeling nothing, nothing at all, numb, as if all the emotions were drained out from me by some strange device. Roxy circled the van, moaning and scratching at the doors. An hour or so later the van moved away towards the electrically operated crematorium at the outskirts of the town. Father and uncles followed it in the car. Roxy scrambled after them till the vehicles reached the curve beyond the tree-line. It stopped there, looked up at the sky and began to whine, a harsh, heart wrenching sound that reverberated ominously and stormed into my mind, the impact making me flinch inwardly.
A few windows of the houses in the neighbourhood opened and indistinct, masked faces peeped out and disappeared immediately. Death in a neighbouring house usually draws people out to the misfortunate house, but corona and lockdown forced them to keep indoors. As I stood by our gate watching the van slowly disappearing out of sight, I thought how alone man is in death. The only solace is he can’t realize it.
Father and uncles returned in the afternoon, completing the formalities of the funeral ceremony. Grandfather’s mortal remains came back too, ensconced peacefully now out of the reach of all sickness and sorrow, in a small bronze slim-necked pot.
The rites of the funeral were observed in the following ten days. finally, when the mourning bperiod came to an end, a modest get together was organized. After the uncles and a few other relatives who came to attend the cleansing rites left, father got the house thoroughly sanitized through the municipality people.
Not much of Roxy was seen in all those days of mourning. It used to dirt along the road like crazy and lay down and panted when got exhausted of the exercise. Every time I put a bowl of food or milk beside the dog, it turned to look at me in a queer way, almost like a human, sorrow and hatred oozing out of its glazed eyes. It did not touch the food and lay listlessly by the gate, and let out a wild howl now and then.
That morning Roxy was not found lying by the gate. It was the day after the whole house was sanitized. I searched for it in the compound, fearing it might have fainted or something. it had practically stopped eating and drinking only except in a few occasions when it was very thirsty. It would just lick a little milk from the bowl and go back to sleep.
‘Where are you Roxy? I called out loudly. ‘Please come back home’
No response. No growling or moaning sound. It was as if a sepulchral silence had swallowed Roxy’s voice. I opened the gate and looked out, something like a grey shadow moved fast into the dense growth of shrubs edging off the tree-lined street. I moved out and looked closely into the shrubby patches. Not a soul was in sight. There was no breeze and an eerie silence hung from the trees like a wispy canopy of gloom. I stood by the roadside for a few long moments staring at the knee-high shrubs. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. No sound except my heart beating fast and irregularly. A deep sigh of anguish escaped me as I dragged my exhausted feet back towards the front gate of our compound.
**
Amrit could hear Roxy barking. Perhaps it was somewhere in the compound. At first it was a muffled, indistinct sound but grew louder as if the dog was moving closer towards the house. Amrit did not open his eyes but tried to listen carefully. Roxy was no longer whining or moaning, but it was a robust kind of barking, normal in every way.
A hand ran fondly over his forehead. Someone was touching his forehead gently. It was a pleasant feeling. Amrit opened his eyes slowly to see who touched him. Grandfather sat in a chair by the head of the bed. he smiled his easy, genial smile when he saw Amrit looking at him.
‘Why is Roxy barking, grandpa?’ Amrit asked. ‘ It wants to play with me and is asking me to come out. Poor old boy! It does not understand how tired I am. I would have certainly gone out to play with that old boy had I not been so breathless. It is such a struggle to breathe!’
Amrit sat up in bed. Grandpa sat in the chair leaning forward, his eyes red and brimming as if he was in a great pain. ‘Help me dear,’ he wheezed. Amrit tried to stroke grandfather’s back but he moved back from his touch farther and farther towards the table where the portraits stood and melted into the one where Roxy sat watching Amrit. But Amrit was no longer there and Roxy seemed to be gaping at an empty space where Amrit’s portrait was. And now grandfather filled up that empty space and there was a sparkle in Roxy’s eyes as it watched grandfather leaning forward to touch its head.
‘Forgive me grandfather!’ Amrit cried out, ‘Forgive me Roxy. Forgive me for being so selfish, for deserting you when you needed me the most. Forgive me Roxy for not helping the man you loved more than your life. Forgive my sins, O god!!’ Amrit tried to get off the bed and reach the portrait but the portrait began to grow larger and wispier. It seemed to have pulverized into tiny specks of bright light that whirled around the room as if blown by a gust of wind. Amrit’s hands contacted nothing as he stretched them out struggling hard to grab at the melting portrait and he lost balance and fell.
**
‘The sodium level had gone low,’ the doctor said stopping his examination of Amrit. ‘That makes him a bit disoriented. Nothing to worry.’ He checked the vial connected to the syringe that passed the hypotonic fluids intravenously to Amrit’s body. ‘He will be okay by the evening.’ He assured and left instructing the nurse to keep him informed from time to time.
**
‘It had come back on its own,’ Amrit’s mother stroked Roxy’s head who was licking from the bowl of milk thirstily. ‘Dogs do not forget the way to their home. It had been living here with us since it was a baby. Father’s sudden demise had rattled it. It seems to have gained back its calm and that is why has come back here.’ Amrit’s father said.
‘Yes, it is very fond of Amu, too. It left home because it was terribly upset by father’s death. It has come back mostly for Amu.’ Amrit’s mother agreed. Her eyes were moist. ‘Amrit always keeps his emotions to himself and never shares them. But I know how disturbed he had been for the last one year. as if he is blaming himself for the mishap.’ Her voice broke towards the end.
She looked at the painting of her father-in-law and Roxy. Her son had forgotten to carry it back along with the other two. She had put it on the table. It was slightly larger in size and when it stood on the table it hid the picture of Amrit in the painting that had Amrit and Roxy in it. ‘He loved his grandfather immensely. The occasion of his death anniversary had upset him emotionally and has affected his health.’ Amrit’s mother wiped her eyes and glanced at her son, her heart heavy with pain.
‘Do not you worry. He will be alright. It is the exertion and had work of the last week that is taking its toll on him.’ Amrit’s father said consolingly.
**
A dog was barking somewhere at a distance. I tried to guess wherefrom the sound was coming. There is something familiar about the way the dog barked but I was too tired to place it. I wanted to open my eyes and look, but my eyelids felt too heavy to lift. The sound of the barking grew distinct and loud as if the dog was advancing towards me. I pressed my hands to my ears to shut off the barking, and almost immediately a cool hand touched my forehead tenderly. ‘Amu, darling! Are you awake? How are you feeling, son?’ a tear-glistened voice asked. I could know that voice anywhere. It was my mother! I opened my eyes with an effort and looked at mother. She was leaning over me, anxiety painted all over her delicate face. I saw another figure standing by the bed. He was a stranger and wore a formal outfit. He lifted my hand and felt my pulse, watching me intently. Then his lips curled up in a satisfactory smile. ‘He is perfectly alright. The weakness will go in a day or two.’ ‘Stop giving such frights to your parents, young man!’ He said, the amicable smile still on. Then there was father, watching me in consternation. I tried to flash an encouraging smile at him but my lips felt glued to each other. He leaned forward and touched my face. ‘Don’t overthink, son. take as much rest as possible. Everything is just fine.’ He smiled shortly. Then he accompanied the doctor out of the room.
The barking sound was heard again. Now it was close, immediately beyond the door, as if the dog was just outside. A shudder ran through me. It was Roxy! I tried to sit up, trying to shake the lassitude off, to convince myself that it was not a dream. My father who was now back in the room, helped me to sit up while my mother propped up two pillows against the head-board of the bed to give me support. I looked at the door and then at mother. There was a small smile on her face, a pleasantly mysterious smile. She touched my forehead. ‘Look who is there!’ she said fondly. I stared at the door that was beginning to open slowly as if someone was pushing it gently, and then there it was!
Roxy! Our Roxy! Grandfather’s Roxy!!
Now I was sure that it was another dream, no another nightmare. I closed my eyes tightly and pressed my hands hard on my face to block out the sight in my front. ‘It is our Roxy, dear!’ Father said soothingly. ‘It had come back last night. It had not forgotten us the very same way we haven’t forgotten it. your grandfather’s sudden death had left it haywire for a while, but it really loves you. that is why it has returned.’
I looked at Roxy. ‘Come here,’ I said, not believing within that Roxy would obey. It was so full of loathing for me when I had last looked into its eyes. but Roxy waggled in, and reached the bed its tail wagging excitedly. It was panting and sat up tucking its hind legs under him. I lifted one weak hand and touched its head. It was not a dream. This was real Roxy! Tears of remorse ran down my eyes. forgive me old boy! I could not help any to save the man you loved more than yourself!’ I mumbled as mother took me in her arms. I hid my face in her lap, dry, hard sobs racking my body. and Roxy sniffed at me fondly and licked my hand. Its usual gestures of expressing love.
I turned my eyes to the table. Grandfather looked at me fondly from the portrait. I had never seen that portrait earlier. I remembered clicking a snap of him with Roxy last year but I did not know he had portrayed it this way. It looked so alive!!
I smiled at grandfather. A relieved, contented smile.
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.
AGAIN ON A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT?
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
We vehicles do have a god of our own, a god who is short of hearing. Only half of our prayers are heard—or perhaps even if they are heard fully, only half are answered. Our god is a massive lorry, a colossal one with sixty-four wheels. But here lies the issue—only half the prayers are ever heeded. When it comes to my case, not even a quarter of my prayers were heard. From the very first spark that flickered within me, I dreamt of traveling countless miles. Not along mundane, fixed routes but through as many varied landscapes as possible. I yearned to see towns, forests, to speed endlessly across roads stretching from one mountain to another. I wanted to traverse bridges over serene backwaters and rivers and eventually arrive at some tranquil, beautiful place. There, parked in the carport of a solitary house, I dreamt of standing ready like a steed awaiting the call to race. Such were my desires, my prayers.
But in reality, I only ever covered 9,892 kilometers before ending up like this—immobile. To say my prayers weren’t heard would be untrue; they were, but only partially. That’s why I find myself stranded on this isolated island marked on Google Maps as Lizard Island.
Around me stretches a vast expanse of water. I am trapped, unable even to roll a bit. The waters encircle me, and as though in vengeance, creepers have entwined and bound me. One tendril has intruded into my engine room, mistaking my horn for an ear, and shrieks into it. I wonder, what did I ever do to deserve such treatment? I am not an excavator that dug up their roots! Never have I harmed them. Then why this betrayal? Another bunch of creepers has crawled into my radiator fins and now spills out like blossoms through the slightly rolled-down rear window.
One of my tires has been flat for years. Except for the driver’s seat, all others are decayed, covered in dust and mildew. My memory hasn’t failed yet, thanks to a faint charge remaining in my battery. If someone turned the ignition, my heart would be ready to race, forgetting all my constraints. But a car cannot run on its heart alone.
Perhaps it’s to keep my spirit alive that my owner starts my engine once a week. He listens to the rhythm of my heart, savouring it like music as he sits for a while in the driver’s seat. Sometimes, he even presses the accelerator, his right foot summoning an unfulfilled desire to drive me. In those moments, I hear his heartbeat. Embedded in that rhythm are stories of his struggles—of buying me, of bringing me to this island. We both arrived here so joyfully, didn’t we?
But reminiscing won’t do us much good. Soon, both our hearts begin to ache. After a while, my owner turns off my engine, steps back into his house, and shuts the door.
His wife watches this ritual every day, standing in the veranda. She was marooned on this island long before I was. From her dissatisfied expressions, I can sense the unhappiness of her life. Each time she sees him indulge in his wild obsession, she grits her teeth in frustration. At times, she even takes her anger out on me—stomping on my bumpers or doors.
“Why can’t someone just roll this wreck into the backwaters and get it out of sight?” she mutters. “If Manoj or Vinod were around, they’d have hauled it away. But no, they’re nowhere to be found. The moment I married into this house, their duties were done!”
If my owner ever overhears her grumbling, it erupts into storms and shouting matches. Their arguments often culminate with blows struck upon my bonnet. Fortunately, I’m a BMW 320i—my bonnet endures without flinching. Had I been any other car, their strikes might’ve left me bruised.
One day, in a fit of rage, she jabbed a knife into my left headlamp. My owner, furious but restrained, lifted the same knife, hesitatingly swinging it at her three or four times before relenting. Such was her fortune! Later, when his anger subsided, he came to me, touching my wound tenderly. He stood silently, lost in thought about how to fix the damage. Eventually, he brought out masking tape, patched the spot, and painted over it. But how long could such a bandage last? That very night, the wind and rain stripped it away. The scar remains, even now.
Manoj and Vinod, her brothers, were both newlyweds. I had been part of their weddings, ferrying the bride and groom. My owner had driven me then, with his wife sitting gracefully in the passenger seat and the couple seated in the back. It had been a new and grand experience for me. The fragrance of the newlyweds—mingling jasmine and perfume—lingered within me for days. When left idle, I’d often inhale that lingering scent, reliving those fleeting moments of joy.
Manoj's wife was undeniably the most beautiful among them. Her beauty was complemented by her profound shyness, for it’s often said that the loveliest women carry the weight of modesty. I speak from the limited perspective of comparing merely three women—and if you include a stranger we once encountered while traveling with the boss, that makes four. The boss’s wife, however, lacked those feminine graces. Perhaps she possessed them when he first married her, but living a life alongside him seemed to have stripped her of those qualities. I don't blame her; life has its ways.
Vinod's wife, on the other hand, had no such modesty, which perhaps explained her lack of extraordinary beauty. The moment she entered the car, she bombarded the boss with questions—"What model is this car? What's the current on-road price? What other colours is it available in?"—her inquiries so brusque that even now, I struggle to reconcile with that display from a newlywed bride.
On his wedding day, during that first journey from the auditorium to home, Manoj was a man brimming with romance. Seated next to his new bride, he stealthily pulled her closer by her waist, causing her bangles to jingle and her other ornaments to chime—a melody that delighted even me. Half-turning to look back, the boss interrupted with a sharp admonition:
"Hey, behave yourself. Let us just get there first."
That was a moment when the bride’s shyness could have graced her face, but alas, it did not.
Even after their marriage, Manoj and his wife would occasionally visit the boss’s home, often taking me along on their escapades. They’d drive me into deserted stretches, weaving through thickets of vines and bushes, revelling in the thrill of my suspension’s endurance. Amidst the jolts and laughter, I overheard her once saying:
“Why don’t we buy a car like this?”
“What’s the point of a used car? Let’s get a new one,” Manoj replied.
But his wife wasn’t satisfied. “This car has a rhythm,” she argued, an odd appreciation that, despite its sincerity, was unlikely to sway her husband.
The boss wasn’t particularly thrilled about Manoj frequently borrowing me. After all, his wife’s jewellery, along with her family’s financial support, had paid for me. How could he outright refuse their whims now? Yet, deep down, the boss's wife resented me for this very reason—her contribution to my purchase was now locked in the form of metal and machinery. I could sense her simmering anger; she wouldn’t have hesitated to roll me into the lake if given a chance. What kind of woman forgets so quickly? Hadn’t I carried her to their grand journeys and pilgrimages? I had even rushed her to the hospital once, saving her from a snakebite that could have taken her life on this island. And now, she dreams of discarding me as if I were a burden!
The boss had always dreamt of connecting this island to the mainland with a bridge or a road. Among the thirty-four families residing here, only he harboured such an ambition. The others, content in their muddy routines, saw no reason for change. The younger generation, however, harboured faint dreams of escaping to the wider world. Those who ventured out for higher education rarely returned, and the few who did carried with them an unspoken despair. Two young men even ended their lives, unable to reconcile their studies and ambitions with the suffocating quiet of this island. Without mobile range, how were these youths expected to live? To exchange whispers of love or share secrets, they had only the narrow confines of these thirty-six families to navigate. And once caste and kinship filtered out potential matches, there was barely anyone left.
The children of this island were not talkative by nature. Much like those two unfortunate souls, silence seemed etched into their being. Perhaps the absence of stimulating conversations had muted them. After all, how long can one speak about farming, fishing, drying fish, or sweeping away crow droppings? With no cinema halls, parks, cultural clubs, or political activities, their lives revolved around a small grocery store, two barber shops, a shrine, and a tiny school that barely scraped through to the upper primary level.
The boss had knocked on countless doors in his quest to build a bridge or a road for the island. But who would spend millions for just thirty-four families? The collector once proposed a simpler solution: resettle everyone in flats on the mainland. But for the islanders, the earth beneath their feet carried a sacredness. When the community convened to discuss the proposal, their collective voice was resolute:
“No, we don’t want a road or a bridge. We are fine right here. What’s wrong with this place anyway?”
The thought of trading their sprawling, scattered lives for the cramped verticality of flats was inconceivable to them.
Listening to these tales, I often wondered: What fools they were! Out there lay a vast world—a world with cars, buses, lorries, trains, and bicycles, a cacophony of horns, engines, and noise. Broad roads, traffic lights, and bustling crowds—how could they choose to live in such isolation? Their only glimpse of this grander world came during occasional trips to the mainland. Vehicles, to them, were still marvels of modernity. Even when the boss brought me here, I was nothing short of a spectacle. From the moment I landed on this soil, the noise began—a chorus of amazement following me until I reached the boss’s home. In those early days, people trailed after me, and the boss and his wife served sweetened porridge to mark my arrival.
Over time, the islanders grew fascinated with machines. When construction began for a mobile tower, they gathered around the site from dawn to dusk, entranced. An excavator arrived to clear the ground, accompanied by truckloads of iron, cables, prefabricated pipes, and ladders. Workers brought in drills, welders, and grinders, creating a cacophony that shattered the island’s usual tranquility. While the snakes, lizards, and birds surely struggled with the disturbance, for the islanders, it was nothing short of a festival.
Once the mobile tower's construction was completed, the islanders seemed to undergo a subtle shift in their collective mindset. Nowadays, if a plane happens to fly over the island, everyone—from children to the elderly—steps out of their homes to gaze skyward. In the past, this spectacle intrigued only the children, but now it has transformed into a shared celebration. Although the passengers inside the plane are invisible to them, the islanders wave exuberantly, as if to bid them farewell.
During the floods, the islanders had their first close encounter with colossal machines of the skies. It was then that rescue operations brought massive helicopters to the island, with me aboard. The powerful rotors churned the air, causing the entire island to tremble and quiver.
The master’s wife would often insist, "Why are we still stuck here with these backward people? Can’t we just move somewhere civilized?"
The master, however, rarely responded to such remarks. At most, he’d say, “This is my kingdom.”
On the island, the master enjoyed immense respect. Once upon a time, this entire island belonged to his family. Over time, as the years wore on, laborers and workers gradually began leaving the island. In an effort to retain the remaining workforce, the family had divided up land, streams, and ponds among them. Thus, each family on the island came to own a piece of the land and began to cultivate it. Even then, they remained loyal to the master, offering him the harvest and other produce. In return, the master paid them generously and supported them in all their needs. Consequently, the islanders regarded the master as their protector—a benevolent ruler of a tiny, secluded kingdom.
The suicides of the two young men deeply troubled the master. He even visited the mainland to bring attention to the matter through the press. Headlines such as "Depression Spreads on Palli Island" appeared in newspapers. A few days later, follow-up articles delved into the struggles of isolated teenagers on the island, highlighting the lack of mobile connectivity and the alienation they felt due to the island's remoteness. NGOs and other organizations visited the island to study the prevalence of depression and published reports in various journals. Thus, the tragedy of two suicides stirred up a wave of awareness.
In truth, the mobile network issues weren’t limited to the island. Even on the mainland's surrounding coasts, the signal strength was minimal. While mobile companies had attempted to erect towers on the mainland, opposition from the locals—fearing radiation risks—had stalled their plans. Seizing this opportunity, the master offered a piece of land on the island for a mobile tower. The companies initially planned to bring materials to the island via barges, but the master proposed an alternative: a temporary mud road connecting the mainland to the island, which would facilitate future maintenance.
The master declared, “If it’s for the happiness of our children, all 34 families will join hands to build the road.”
And so, for four months, day and night, the islanders toiled in the backwaters, building the embankment. Who better than them to accomplish such a task? Trucks brought soil and gravel from the mainland, and the embankment slowly rose into a bumpy, uneven road wide enough for a single truck. Thus, the mainland and the island were tenuously connected by a muddy pathway.
Once the mobile tower's construction was completed, the islanders seemed to undergo a subtle shift in their collective mindset. Nowadays, if a plane happens to fly over the island, everyone—from children to the elderly—steps out of their homes to gaze skyward. In the past, this spectacle intrigued only the children, but now it has transformed into a shared celebration. Although the passengers inside the plane are invisible to them, the islanders wave exuberantly, as if to bid them farewell.
During the floods, the islanders had their first close encounter with colossal machines of the skies. It was then that rescue operations brought massive helicopters to the island, with me aboard. The powerful rotors churned the air, causing the entire island to tremble and quiver.
The master’s wife would often insist, "Why are we still stuck here with these backward people? Can’t we just move somewhere civilized?"
The master, however, rarely responded to such remarks. At most, he’d say, “This is my kingdom.”
On the island, the master enjoyed immense respect. Once upon a time, this entire island belonged to his family. Over time, as the years wore on, laborers and workers gradually began leaving the island. In an effort to retain the remaining workforce, the family had divided up land, streams, and ponds among them. Thus, each family on the island came to own a piece of the land and began to cultivate it. Even then, they remained loyal to the master, offering him the harvest and other produce. In return, the master paid them generously and supported them in all their needs. Consequently, the islanders regarded the master as their protector—a benevolent ruler of a tiny, secluded kingdom.
The suicides of the two young men deeply troubled the master. He even visited the mainland to bring attention to the matter through the press. Headlines such as "Depression Spreads on Palli Island" appeared in newspapers. A few days later, follow-up articles delved into the struggles of isolated teenagers on the island, highlighting the lack of mobile connectivity and the alienation they felt due to the island's remoteness. NGOs and other organizations visited the island to study the prevalence of depression and published reports in various journals. Thus, the tragedy of two suicides stirred up a wave of awareness.
In truth, the mobile network issues weren’t limited to the island. Even on the mainland's surrounding coasts, the signal strength was minimal. While mobile companies had attempted to erect towers on the mainland, opposition from the locals—fearing radiation risks—had stalled their plans. Seizing this opportunity, the master offered a piece of land on the island for a mobile tower. The companies initially planned to bring materials to the island via barges, but the master proposed an alternative: a temporary mud road connecting the mainland to the island, which would facilitate future maintenance.
The master declared, “If it’s for the happiness of our children, all 34 families will join hands to build the road.”
And so, for four months, day and night, the islanders toiled in the backwaters, building the embankment. Who better than them to accomplish such a task? Trucks brought soil and gravel from the mainland, and the embankment slowly rose into a bumpy, uneven road wide enough for a single truck. Thus, the mainland and the island were tenuously connected by a muddy pathway.
When the tower was completed, the company's vehicles returned to the mainland, leaving the road deserted for days. Strangely, despite having a new route, no one from the island ventured to the mainland, nor did anyone from the mainland visit the island. The islanders’ habits were too deeply ingrained; they had lived their lives isolated, accustomed to their self-contained world.
During those desolate days, the master set out to find a vehicle worthy of the new road. That search eventually led to me. When I was brought to the master’s coconut shed that night, all my dreams shattered.
I had once imagined a life of purpose. At the showroom, under artificial lights, I dreamt of venturing out into the world’s brilliance. Rolling through city streets, basking in the buzz of life—I was certain such a destiny awaited me. But as the journey unfolded, the city faded, replaced by smaller towns, and then by remote villages. The master and his wife revelled in my newness, caressing my interiors and sharing smiles. Once my boss’s wife asked him, "Do you even know how to drive at speed?"
"Listen, lad, you can't go above sixty for a stretch of a thousand kilometers. Otherwise, the vehicle will break down," the boss said with a mix of sternness and care. That little glimpse of concern from him filled me with a strange sense of comfort and relief.
I raced along coastal roads, through lush fields, and beside railway tracks that stretched endlessly into the horizon. Eventually, as night fell, I reached the edge of the mainland. I slowed down to climb onto a newly built road, and in the light of my headlights, a scene unfolded before me—both mesmerizing and terrifying. A narrow causeway stretched across a vast water body, flanked on both sides by stumps of trees, their roots submerged in dark, stagnant water. The road was riddled with potholes and trenches, as though time and neglect had taken a chisel to it. Above, the sky was a canvas of stars, while in the distance, dark clouds loomed like a curtain of shadows cast by an unrelenting storm.
As I stepped onto the new path leading away from the mainland, my front wheels sank into a rut. Too weary to haul myself out, I paused there like a stubborn ox refusing to budge. But the boss, with his usual knack for spurring me into action, stomped on the accelerator like a herder whipping a reluctant beast. Reluctantly, I climbed out of the hole and rolled forward. The journey across the causeway was arduous—a relentless battle against dips and jerks. My headlights illuminated nothing but an endless series of black, gaping pits ahead, each one more disheartening than the last.
The final moments before reaching the island remain etched in my memory like a glowing ember in the ashes of time. From a distance, I could see them—a throng of people waiting with lamps and torches, their excitement palpable, their shouts of welcome carrying across the still night air.
Within a few short days of arriving, I became one with them. The islanders grew fond of me, treating me not as an outsider but as one of their own. I was addressed with familiarity, as though I belonged among them all along.
When they encountered my boss along the way, they'd inquire, "Where are you taking him now?"
Seeing me idle on the porch, they'd ask, "Doesn't he have any runs today?"
If I was caked in mud, they'd remark, "He's looking all worn out, isn't he?"
And examining my tires, some would mutter, "Seems like he's running a little low on air, don't you think?"
Even though I had wandered into this wilderness, the warmth of their affection made me forget all my weariness. I silently offered my gratitude to the seventy-six wheels of our shared god, who had never truly abandoned me. In return for their love, I gave them mine.
My boss and I became the heart of the islanders' joys and sorrows. Whenever my boss approached me with their needs, I was always ready. As he climbed into the car, placing his left foot firmly inside, he'd issue instructions:
"Sharmila from the southern hamlet is in labor pains. Let's take her to the hospital."
"Rajitha from the eastern side has delivered her baby. Let's go bring the mother and child back home."
"Prasad's baby on the far side of the marshes has a high fever. Let's fetch a doctor right away."
For weddings, they adorned me with flowers, ribbons, and garlands. They'd polish me until I gleamed, transforming me into the centerpiece of their joyous processions. Together, we paraded through the island, the newlyweds seated in grand celebration while drums and cymbals echoed all around.
It was this bond that drove the islanders to risk everything to save me during the floods.
By morning, reports had begun trickling in that the mainland was slowly submerging. The boss grew quieter with each passing moment. Though the island sat a little higher than the mainland, it wasn’t safe from the relentless rise of the waters. News of submerged villages from the north painted an ominous picture, and when the boss saw videos of the devastation on his phone, it became clear that the island's turn would come soon enough.
The waters had already begun licking the edges of the land, and the continuous downpour showed no signs of easing. There was talk of dams being opened, their torrents threatening to engulf everything.
The boss summoned as many people as he could, his voice grave with urgency. "We don’t know how high the water will rise. If it’s anything like what we’ve seen on the news, there’ll be no one coming to save us. And forget about ferrying everyone to safety by car—the roads are already underwater. Our only hope is that mobile tower you see over there."
The island men scrambled, climbing the tower with wooden planks, bamboo poles, ropes, and sheets of plastic, crafting makeshift platforms above the tallest palms. The women gathered their belongings, packing utensils and essentials into sacks tied high on sturdy trees.
Once the women’s task was done, they were hoisted up, along with the children, to the precarious platforms. The elderly, wrapped in tarps, were lifted with ropes and pulleys. The men clung to the tower’s ladders and iron beams, claiming whatever space they could. The boldest among them scaled the very tip of the structure, gazing down at the island’s long tail and its now-submerged connecting road. Only the tops of the roadside trees remained visible above the rising waters.
The water began to lap closer to the base of the mobile tower. From below, the boss called out, "Is everyone up there?"
A voice from above shouted back, "What about the car?"
The boss hadn’t forgotten me, not entirely. Perhaps he had to ignore me with a heavy heart, thinking, “After all, machines’ lives aren’t greater than human lives.” Getting all the islanders to safety was a colossal task in itself. Amid that, he had no other choice but to leave me behind.
“What can we do? Let’s leave it to fate,” the boss called out.
“No, that won’t do. We can get him up there too.”
A group of five or six young men quickly climbed down from the tower. Armed with ropes and pulleys, they ran to the boss’s house. By then, I lay drenched in the cold rain, shivering in my own corner. Watching the houses of the island empty out had filled me with a quiet dread.
The young men dragged out four sturdy logs from the coconut drying shed, placing two beneath my chassis and tying the other two across them. One of them climbed up to the shade where I rested, setting up ropes to lift me. They tied me tightly to the log frame, and six of them pulled me upward. The ropes strained, but eventually, I was hoisted into the safety of the tree platform. Once secure, they tied me to another sturdy tree and rushed back to the mobile tower.
Before long, the water rose, lapping at my tires. Having only ever known the touch of rough roads, the feel of water around me was unsettling. Still, I whispered a prayer to the god of sixty-six wheels who had kept me afloat. “May the kind islanders be protected too,” I prayed.
The skies, dark with heavy clouds, told me it must be close to four in the evening. Suddenly, a loud roar filled the air, growing nearer. Along with it came fierce winds that made the tree sway and groan. A helicopter appeared above the tree, a mighty bird of steel. A man with a megaphone called out from its side, likely asking if anyone was trapped. Another leaned out of the window, taking a photograph of me suspended from the tree. That photograph graced the pages of the newspapers the very next day, a half-page spread with the caption: “A Car, a Flood, and a Tale of Survival.”
Even in disasters, newspapers seek curiosities—it wasn’t a revelation to me. They also captured the islanders clinging to the mobile tower, another spectacle for their readers. Yet, my photograph earned the larger space, while the plight of the islanders received only passing mention. To this day, I fail to understand the contradiction—the boss sacrificing me for the people and the media glorifying me over them.
The helicopters worked tirelessly to rescue the people from the towers. By evening, they had airlifted every soul using makeshift solutions and carried them to distant safe lands. As the helicopters flew further and further from the island, the rescued gazed out in wonder at the view below. Only then did they understand why their home was called Palli Dweep—Gecko Island.
From above, the still-visible tips of submerged trees along the edges gave the island the appearance of a giant gecko. Its tail, however, was severed—the road connecting it to the mainland had long disappeared into the floodwaters.
The severing of the tail and the devastation of the island left both the boss and me disheartened. The interiors of the island were scarred too. Paths I once rolled over were shattered or swallowed by mud. Despite my wheels, I’ve been immobilized in this swampy desolation for months now.
The islanders’ crops were destroyed, their fish swept away by the flood. With it, the boss and the islanders fell into dire financial straits. They now had to start everything from scratch. I often saw the boss resting his head against my steering wheel, lost in thought, his fingers tracing the gear lever absentmindedly. Seeking solace, he would sometimes start my engine, letting its rhythmic hum comfort him momentarily.
I lay here, overgrown with weeds, a silent witness to his struggles. For some time after the flood, he tried to clean me up, to restore me. Those days are gone now. At one point, he even tried to sell me. But the stigma of being a flood-soaked car followed me, and no one offered a decent price. When a trader suggested hauling me to the mainland on a barge, the boss hesitated. Ultimately, he abandoned the idea, returning to sit with me once more, head bowed against the steering wheel, listening to the faint beat of my engine—my heart.
Now, his focus is on rebuilding the road to the mainland. Recently, he brought two cutting machines from the mainland and secretly gathered a few islanders to share his plan:
“We can cut down the mobile tower from the base and topple it. If we do, the company might rebuild it and restore the causeway too. I’ll take care of the rest. Will you help me?”
But the islanders couldn’t bring themselves to do it. By now, the tower had become a sacred symbol, their savior during the flood. Ever since they returned, they’d begun performing rituals and prayers beneath its steel beams.
They told him, “Boss, don’t force us to do this.”
I, too, silently wished he could have sold me off. Yet, now, even I have made peace with staying. If the road to the mainland is ever restored, I’ll begin my journeys again. If not, I’ll rest here among these people and eventually dissolve into the earth, becoming one with the soil. Either way, I am content. I am happy.
Shefeek Musthafa is a storyteller in Malayalam, Living in Alappuzha District, Kerala, a Mechanical Engineer by profession, works for a UK based company.
He has recently published a collection of stories titled "Surround System".
Vishwa bharti university, popularly known as Shanti Niketan, is a place of it's own kind.Cluster of huge trees, surround spacious area besides the main building where students used to sit and study under the trees in pristine ,rejuvenating ambience,where students used to dance, play and enjoy ' Dol' , Holika utsav and many more cultural occasions, was founded by
poet, writer, playwright , composer, philosopher, social reformer,painter of Bengali Renaissance,,shaper of Bengali literature and music as well as Indian art, contextual modernism in the late 19th century and early 20th centuries named Rabindranath Tagore, who was auther of profound, sensetive and beautiful poetry of 'Gitanjali'.
- 1913 first Non European, first lyricist to win
" Noble Prize"" in literature
His poetic songs were viewed as spritual mercurial
His novels were acclaimed for there lyricism, colloquialism and naturalism.
His compositions chosen by two countries as National Antham ,
India's "Jan Gan Man".and Bangladesh's
"Amar Shonar Bangla"
King George V of England, knighted Rabindranath Tagore in 1915 for his great contribution in the field of literature.
However following the tragic massacre at
Jalianwala Bagh in 1919, he renounced his Title, a great patriot.
Bengali culture is fraught with his legacy from language and arts to the History and politics.
His legacy also endeavours his founding of
Vishwa Bharti University.
He Cofounded " Darington Hall School" a prograssive, co- educational institution in
Japan.
Tagore awakens a dormant sense of childish wonder and he saturates the air with all kinds of enchanting promises for the readers.
He worked on all the Genres with superb skills.
Tagore's work is translated in many Indian languages as well as in many foreign languages, that's how his literature spread, reached in the whole world , and touched the heart of the readers.
Anyone who knows Tagore's poems in their original Bengali, can't feel satisfied with any of the translations.
Even the translation of his prose works, suffer to some extent from distortion.
His magical poetry is widely popular in Indian subcontinent.
Bard of Bengal, fellow of Asiatic society,
Known as sobriquets, Gurudeb, kobiguru,Biswa kobi.
Rabindranath Tagore is worshipped everywhere especially in Bengal.
He has been a great source of inspiration and will Keep inspiring the generations to come.
There is a proverb in Hindi ???? ?? ???? ??????
It befits Gurudeb, it's difficult to arrest his multifaceted persona in the Cage of Words..
Salutations to the great literary Saint....
Manjula Asthana Mahanti is a post graduate in Sociology and Hindi. Her Graduation was in English honors. She is a Sangeet Prabhakar (vocal) and has done her B. Ed. She worked in a college as Senior Lecturer. Her last assignment was that of a high school Principal. She lives in Forest Park, Bhubaneshwar, Odisha, India.
She is a published trilingual poet, author, editor, translator and story teller. She has eight collections to her credit along with a long list of participation in national, international anthologies, e-magazines, etc. She is a recipient of several national, international awards, Samman Gujarat and Telangana sahitya akademy award amongst many more. Her recent award was "Icons of Asia"
What’s in a name?
Those were the Bard of Avon’s words in his play. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. He wrote further
The master writer was of the view that a name was not significant.
These famous words were written long ago. Will it hold good now?
Splitting the name, “Swarna” which means gold and “Chitra” which denotes picture, and together it becomes a picture in gold.
The name means a lot to the ones connected and this little baby girl, after years of waiting, is a gift much more precious than the yellow metal to many who had been waiting for years for a child with hope and anxiety. They call it a divine blessing clubbed with medical assistance for the miracle to happen. Having gone through mental trauma, undergoing tests and painful treatments suggestions from any source were precious and helpful. With faith and devotion, the couple treaded through the uncertain path hoping for the miracle to happen.
Me the elderly one eagerly looking forward to be the paternal grandfather could feel their craving and anxiety and sincerely wanted the miracle to happen. I watched from far the trauma, anxiety, hope and struggle with silent pain.
The well-chosen name means a lot to the ones who miss “Chitra” the person in the second part of the name. She lives in name as the late Grandmother of the baby and making her live through the name is an exceptional thought. The untimely passing away of that loving soul had shattered our lives over a decade back. With unsettled children it was a shock unimaginable for me and trying to recover and stabilize proved that it was not possible, except to live the rest of our life with pain as a permanent part of life. With lingering pain years rolled by and in the process, children got settled and built their lives. As already said, it can never be a smooth ride and life is tested at every turn.
If a child is not born within a certain period after marriage, it is traumatic for the couple. Society adds to the pain with unwanted questions. The craving for a child under pressure is a war against all odds. A natural occurrence, if made to happen under pressure is a challenge, both physical and emotional. To withstand it one needs a lot of support within oneself, with right medical assistance, faith and a lot of luck. Not all are fortunate but when it happens with a strong will and dedication all process and procedures turn a reality after years of waiting and the joy, the relief is absolute bliss. Agony followed by ecstasy.
The waiting was worth and “Swarnachitra” the sweet one bringing in joy and relief kept away for years. Perhaps from above “Chitra” might be watching all the happenings with a smile and a shade of grief for not being able to be there and hold the baby closely. Well, life does not always satisfy one's wishes. It is unpredictable and thexsaying "Man proposes, God disposes” is so true in each one’s life. A new born brings in unlimited happiness, diluting all the struggles and pain gone through.
The little one is bubbly and they say she represents shades of Grandmother. Looking at the baby with that thought it appears so and it is a heavenly feeling.
It is customary in a marriage that a child is expected within a time period except in cases where it is delayed for reasons. When it does not happen within a certain time anxiety creeps in. It is often seen that the lady is at the receiving end. Even without medical detection the lady is looked at with suspicion which is unjust. Only a mutual understanding and mutual trust will lead to a successful solution and in many fortunate cases it happens. The understanding and trust help in building confidence which can give positive results.
By the law of nature, I may not be there when my grandchild can read this piece of writing. When it happens, I will be looking at her through these dark letters with love and pride with only one thought.
“Stay blessed always my child ”
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..
Human beings coming under the class Mammals of phylum vertebrate, scientifically named Homo sapiens, are considered superior to all other animals in animal kingdom for the unique traits of conscience and judgment to discern morality, differentiating between right and wrong, good and bad, bestowed with them. Despite all these remarkable qualities, some among them however display unsocial, anti-social, tyrant or inhuman conduct living in a society. The renowned philosopher Aristotle had said – “Man is by nature a social animal; an individual who is unsocial naturally and not accidentally is either beneath our notice or more than human.”
From the observation of Aristotle it is apparent that a man by birth is not unsocial, anti-social, tyrant, racial or communal. Whatever hue is added to him after birth is not the effect of any biological trait but it is due to the impact of society which precedes the individual and other factors such as, environment, circumstances, situation and changes in his nature, behaviour, character, status and needs.
With the growth of population commensurate with development in science and technology, human wants multiplied manifold compared to resources which are scarce. Invariably this disparity led to fierce competition for survival. Charles Darwin in his theory of evolution through natural selection relied on the phrase “Survival of the fittest” coined by the philosopher, Herbart Spencer. Stiff competition for survival has driven humans into a frantic race for acquiring wealth and power by hook or by crook forgetting their evanescent existence in this mortal world.
Despite spectacular evolution in human nature and intelligence, human beings of today are not the same what they had been fifty thousand or more years ago. At that time, men in general did not stoop to evil for anything for their advantage. They had aspirations to acquire wealth and power to prosper and exercise dominance over others but, they had inherent moral bent up not to cause harm to others for the sake of own interest, as evidenced in ancient scriptures. But now, morality has been relegated to the background and cut-throat competition has taken its place for securing personal gain at the cost of others. This may be a negative aspect of evolution in human nature. At the same time there is marked positive evolution in making humans advanced to achieve far-reaching goals in all walks of life, be it academic, scientific, cultural, material or spiritual. Of late, the invention of Artificial Intelligence(AI) is a phenomenal development by which a man sitting at home can perform any job, can obtain anything desired simply by touching electronic gadgets with finger tips.
While positive evolution of humans shines like a polestar in the firmament of modern age ensuring all kinds of material success and prosperity, explosion of negative qualities of some has posed a big challenge to ensure unshattered peaceful co-existence. Why it has happened only with the human beings in the whole of animal kingdom? Evolution is a natural and perennial process that encompasses all creatures on Earth. But no such disastrous change in nature is seen with other animals. For instance, animals other than humans do not abuse their bodies as human beings do. That is why they seldom suffer from any disease whereas, humans invariably suffer from several diseases simply for the reason that they recklessly abuse their physical forms.
Other animals maintain consistency in functioning of their sensual and sensory organs, but human beings have no discipline in regulating their sensual as well as sensory organs. Other animals have their mating just once or twice a year for reproduction but in case of humans, there is no limit, no specific time, no restriction to have mating. Mating is taken as pleasure. So they abuse their bodies, for which they become prone to attack of different diseases.
Certain animals like dogs have a strong sense of smell by which they can detect anything accurately. Humans do have that sense but not to the same degree as dogs. Elephants can hear the frequencies beyond the range of human hearing. Cheetah can run faster than human; Ants can carry loads several times of their body weight but humans cannot do.
Animals contribute to upkeep of environment whereas humans distort and destroy the ecosystem. Animals tend to live in harmony with natural resources. They, in general, consume what they need for survival, whereas, humans are overpowered with greed to consume more and more without caring for their health hazards and scarcity of resources.
Cooperation among ants, bees and wolves is notable whereas humans fight with each other for safeguarding their own interest. Other animals work together to achieve common goals without expecting any interest or reward but humans hardly work together if no self interest is involved.
Ancient sages observing the unique abilities of animals in maintaining optimal health, developed various Yogic postures (Yogasans) to enhance strength, stamina, concentration and flexibility. However in today’s world these invaluable teachings are often overlooked or ignored.
As it were, human beings inherently possess these rare qualities found in animals, but for their indisciplined life style and failure to adhere to the timeless principles of a healthy and peaceful life, they struggle to unlock their potential and face uncalled for sufferings. In the ancient past sages, saints, holy men through their unwavering devotion to self discipline and rigorous penance could achieve what we now consider miraculous and impossible feats. For instance, they could walk on water, air, foresee future events or even influence others from thousands of kilometres away without using any device as used these days. While contemporary humans have harnessed advanced technology to ease their lives, they have lost mental peace and immunity to withstand diseases and the challenges of adverse weather.
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.
HARBINGER OF MULTICULTURALISM: DIWALI AND HALLOWEEN
Festivals are celebrated in all religious and ethnic groups around the world since time immemorial when people started to lead a community life; mostly connected with nature and culture. Festivals are an expressive way to celebrate glorious heritage, culture, and traditions. They are meant to rejoice special moments and emotions in our lives with our loved ones. They add spice to our lives by connecting us to our backgrounds and roots. The world is full of strife and prejudices among the people as they try to compete for wealth and fame. During festivals, they can meet and forge bonds of companionship and love. Mankind has been taught by their practicing religions to love and not to indulge in blind hatred, and therefore it is vital for them to assimilate the teachings and implement them in real life during the festivals. The good will and brotherhood generated during the festivals would go a long way in removing animosities from the prejudiced minds and make the world a better place. With the age of enlightenment, the divorce of religion from science, led to the remains of spiritual threads that people hung on to. A world view which came to be judged in terms of their sustainability under existential beliefs and spiritual progress, has created the venue for cross cultural exchange. Hence the expat Indian Diaspora started celebrating Halloween and the White House began to celebrating Diwali in its traditional fashion with pump and show. This paradigm shift of cultural and festivals is to draw the parallels between Diwali and Halloween, essentially those good and evil.
Halloween is a celebration in remembrance of the dead that occurs annually on evening of October 31. The people of America and Canada to mark the end of harvest and to remember the dead, celebrate from sun set on 31st October to sun set on November 1st.Generally, Christians celebrate ‘All Saints Day’ on November-1, honoring people who had gone to Heaven. All saints day is otherwise known as –All Hallows Day. Hallow means holy, so the day before all saints day is called –All Hallows Eve. In much of Europe and most of North America, observance of Halloween is largely nonreligious. Halloween had its origin in the festival of Samhains among the Celts of ancient Britain and Ireland. Halloween was considered the beginning of winter when the herds were returned from pasture and tenures were renewed. During the Samhains festival the souls of those who had died were believed to return to visit their homes, and those who had died during the year were believed to go to the other world. They used to attire in funny ghostly fashionable costumes like proverbial vampires, witches and celebrate throwing dinners amongst family and friends. People remain thoroughly engaged in Costume parties, making Jack-O-Lanterns using pumpkin and lighting bonfire. People set bonfires on hill tops for relighting their hearth fires for the winter and frighten away evil spirits, and they sometimes wore masks and other disguises to avoid being recognized by the ghosts thought to be present. It was in those ways that begins such as witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and demons came to be assembled with the day. The period was also thought to be favorable for divination on matters such as marriage, health, and death. In many parts of the world, the Christians abstain from meat on Hallows’ eve, a tradition reflected in the eating of certain vegetarian foods on this vigil day, including apple, potato, pancakes, and soul cakes. In many parts also Christians observe All Hallows ’eve, visiting churches and lighting candles on the grave of the dead. The children usually dress in funny costumes inspired by fantasy characters and visit neighbors to ‘Trick or Treat’ and receive treats from neighbors. Pumpkins are abundantly used to make lanterns and masks of vampires and ghosts. Pumpkin lanterns are put near the window and alleyways to lead the ghosts away.
Diwali is the festival of lights and one of the major festivals celebrated by Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, and Buddhists. The festivities last for five days and celebrated during Lunisolar month of Kartika(between mid-October to mid-November).Diwali is considered one of the most popular festivals of Hinduism, which symbolizes the spiritual victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance. People usually in the celebration mood lead up to Diwali will renovate, clean up their houses and work places decorating adequately with diyas(oil lamps), electrical decorative fancy sparkler lights and rangolies .People wear their finest clothes, illuminate the interior or exterior of their homes with diyas, and perform worship ceremonies of Goddess Lakshmi. The Hindus in eastern India and Bangladesh generally celebrate Diwali by worshipping Goddess Kali. In eastern part of India, particularly in Odisha, Diwali is celebrated in remembrance of their forefathers by offering ritualistic shraddha to propitiate their souls and show them lights by burning Kaunria kathi (jute stick) smeared with ghee. They usually offer prayers to forefathers for their blessings with a request to return to their heavenly abode via- Sri Purushottam-Puri, Ganga, and Gaya. Sri Purushottam Puri, since time immemorial, avows as a sacred place, a tirtha and a place of pilgrimage. The glory of Puri has been described:
GANGAYAM CHA JALA MUKTIH VARANYAAM JALE STHALE;
JALE STHALE CHA ANTARIKSYE MUKTIH SRI PURUSHOTTAME.
(One can attain spiritual liberation-moksha, in the water of River Ganga; in the water and soil of Varanasi . But one can achieve nirvana in the water, soil, and space of Sri Purushottam-Puri) .
Gaya situated on the bank of puranic Phalgu River in Bihar is the holy place where Rama, with Sita and Lakshmana offered pinda-daan for their father Dasarath. Since the time of Ramayana, Gaya is considered a major Hindu pilgrimage site for pinda-daan ritual. In the north-western region of India Diwali festival is widely associated with Lakshmi-Goddess of prosperity, with other regional traditions connecting the holiday to Rama and Sita, Kali, Dhanvantari, or Viswakarma. In some regions a commemorative celebration of Diwali is used held to mark the day Sri Rama returned to his kingdom Ayodhya with his consort Sita and brother Lakshman after defeating Ravana in Lanka and serving 14 years of exile in forest. On this auspicious day Goddess of wealth and prosperity Lakshmi is worshipped in the northern part of India.
It is worth mentioning that Diwali is an official holiday in Singapore, Mynamar, Nepal, Pakistan, SriLanka, Fiji, Guyana, Malaysia (except Sarawak), Surinam, Trinidad and Tobago and India. Festivals like Diwali and Halloween act like cultural bridges for ushering peaceful cultural coexistences. The Indian diaspora celebrates Halloween in the traditional fashion as their neighbors celebrate in America and Canada. Halloween is another addition to the palette of festivals for the festivalholic Indians settled in the western hemisphere. Likewise, Diwali, the traditional Hindu festival, has found large acceptance in foreign countries. Diwali was for the first time celebrated in the white House in 2003 when G.W. Bush was the president of USA. In 2009,Barak Obama became the first president to personally attend Diwali in the white house . Since 2009, Diwali has been celebrated every year at 10 Downing Street, the official residence of British Prime Minister.
Incidentally Diwali joins hands with Halloween in being the only Hindu festival to be finding its roots as an ancient harvest festival of the Celtics. Coincidentally, Halloween and Diwali are observed after the harvesting time and before the onset of winter season. These festivals are having agrarian background and being observed from primordial time. Diwali and Halloween have simple parallels like the good, evil, and the balance between the two forces. Beyond that, Diwali joins hands with Halloween in being the only Hindu festival to be celebrated across the world, bridging the cultural divide as well as spreading peace and goodwill. In a way, observance of these festival is seen as growth of multiculturalism, a step nearer to our indigenous concept of Vasudev Kutumbakam-international brotherhood.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
The train blew its whistle and ground to a halt at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, its sound an ear-splitting yell that appeared to mix with the muddled symphony of Mumbai. Ramesh, just 21, stepped cautiously onto platform number 3, clutching a small cloth bag in one hand and a rolled-up bedroll under the other arm. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him: a roiling tide of humanity gushing in every direction. The sheer energy of the place hit him like a tsunami, almost throwing him off balance.
The noise outside was unrelenting. hawkers hollered over the clamour of rushing trains, auto-rickshaw drivers honked impatiently, and commuters weaved through the throng as if possessed by an invisible force. Even the simplest task—crossing the road outside the station—seemed an impossible ordeal in the face of unyielding traffic and hurried crowds.
“This is Mumbai, the city of dreams,” Ramesh thought and whispered, more to himself than anyone else, his voice nearly swallowed by the surrounding din.
His friend Mohan was waiting for him, standing a little away from the chaos, grinning as he waved. Mohan had moved to Mumbai a year ago and had promised Ramesh, he’d help him find work. Maybe something in the factory, he worked at. Mohan greeted him with a hearty slap on the back and a wide toothy smile. “Ramesh,” he said as they set off through the maze of narrow streets, “This city shows you big dreams, no doubt. But don’t forget—those dreams come with a price.”
The streets they walked through teemed with life. Street vendors called; their carts laden with everything from fresh fruits to shining trinkets. The smell of frying Vada pav drifted in the air, mingling with the unpleasant odours of sewage and damp concrete. Ramesh couldn’t help but notice how everything here seemed to push around for space—the people, the sounds, even the smells.
Finally, they reached a ramshackle chawl where Mohan had rented a small room. The building seemed to hang down under its own weight, its crumbling walls streaked with grime and streaked further by the monsoon rains. Mohan led him up a narrow staircase that echoed with the laughter of children and the clatter of utensils from unseen kitchens.
When they entered the room, Ramesh was struck by its size—or lack of it. The single space, barely large enough to fit two cots, was sparsely furnished with a wobbly wooden table and a single steel trunk pushed into a corner. The air smelled faintly of phenyl, a sharp contrast to the musty dampness emanating from the walls.
Ramesh set down his belongings and stood awkwardly for a moment. He wanted to say something—about the space, the smell, the overwhelming chaos of the city—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just looked at Mohan, who was already moving around the room, rummaging through a pile of clothes.
Mohan looked up and smiled, “Don’t worry, buddy,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does eventually.”
Ramesh nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. Still, he didn’t complain. After all, this was Mumbai—the city of dreams. And for now, at least, he was willing to pay the price it demanded.
“This is our palace—One RK,” Mohan had declared with a grin as they had entered into the room. His tone carried a mix of humour and pride. “The space is tight, sure, but we have a separate bathroom. That’s a luxury in this city.” He gestured toward a tiny, darkened corner where the bathroom door stood slightly ajar. “You can rent a folding cot and mattress until you’ve saved enough to buy your own. I’ll recommend you to the guy who rents them out.”
Ramesh nodded, but his eyes betrayed his unease. The room felt suffocatingly small, its walls pressing in on him like the city outside. Yet, he forced a smile. “I just need one chance, Mohan. If I get a job, everything else will fall into place.”
Mohan slapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit, Ramesh. Mumbai rewards the ones who don’t give up.”
That night, Ramesh lay on the thin mattress Mohan had spread on the floor for him. Sleep danced just out of reach, teasing him with fleeting moments of rest before his mind snapped awake again. His thoughts churned —questions, doubts, and remanants of hope weaving an insistent narrative: What will happen next? What if I fail? What if this city swallows me whole?
Back in his village, Ramesh had been different. He wasn’t just another boy working the fields; he had a sharp mind and a knack for creating something out of nothing. He’d finished high school, often topping his class, and harboured dreams of doing something bigger, something meaningful.
As the night deepened, the hum of the city outside softened, though it never truly stopped. Lying in the dim glow of a distant streetlight seeping through the lone window, a rush of emotion overtook him. Words began forming in his mind, unbidden, flowing as if they had been waiting for this exact moment. Without hesitation, he reached for his bag, pulling out an old, battered diary and a pen.
**My village,
Was too small for me.
I thought I had potential,
So, I left, to chase my dreams.
I have come here,
To the financial capital of the country,
To Mumbai!
But here,
Life is cheap,
Homes are expensive.
They run all day,
Even at night,
The noise echoes in my dreams.
Every morning,
The sun rises
With new hopes.
People start running.
They are tired,
But still,
Carrying the bundles of dreams
On their shoulders,
They keep running.
Yes, there’s noise here.
But in that noise,
Are hidden
Thousands of dreams
That call you.**
As Ramesh wrote these lines, he hummed them softly, as if making a promise to himself and the city. He paused, staring at the words as if seeing himself reflected in them. He ran a finger over the ink, now drying on the page, and felt a strange mix of fear and determination well up inside him.
This was Mumbai—a city that never rested, a city that challenged you to prove your worth. He had stepped into its embrace willingly, and now it was up to him to decide whether he’d soar or be swept away.
With that thought, he finally lay down, the diary still clutched to his chest, and drifted into a restless, dream-filled sleep.
Days blurred into weeks, and Ramesh fell into a rhythm of survival. He took whatever work came his way—delivering tiffin, hauling sacks of goods for shopkeepers, scrubbing grimy dishes at a roadside eatery. His hands, once soft and unmarked, were now rough and cracked. His back ached every night, but he never let himself crumble under the weight of enervation.
In the quiet moments, as he lay on the rented folding cot in his cramped room, his mind would drift to a future he desperately hoped to build—a small but clean One BHK apartment, a space he could call his own, where he didn’t have to share water or endure the smell of damp walls. It was a dream that kept him moving forward, even when the days felt unbearably long.
The Morning Struggle
One morning, Ramesh woke to the sound of distant shouting, a familiar accompaniment to life in the chawl. It was his turn to fetch water today, and he hurried to the common water point, a tin drum placed near the edge of the building. By the time he arrived, a long queue had already formed, mostly women with steel buckets and plastic pots in hand.
Water had become a precious resource over the past few weeks, its supply frustratingly unpredictable. The air was thick with tension, and tempers flared more easily with every delay.
As Ramesh joined the back of the line, the argument erupted.
“You think you can just jump the queue? Who do you think you are?” a woman in a faded saree yelled, her face flushed with anger.
“I’ve been waiting here longer than you!” the other shot back, clutching her pot defensively.
Ramesh stepped closer and recognized one of the women—Aarti, his neighbour. Aarti was known for her fiery temper, but she was also a hardworking mother of three. Her anger wasn’t unwarranted; juggling her children and household chores with limited resources was no small feat.
Ramesh raised his voice, firm but calm. “Aarti Bhabhi, please. We’re all in this together. Fighting won’t bring more water.”
Aarti glared at him, her lips pressed tightly together, but she didn’t interrupt. Ramesh turned to the elderly woman she’d been arguing with, her weary eyes lined with frustration. “Amma, we can figure this out. If we waste time arguing, nobody will get their share.”
A murmur rippled through the line as others began nodding. Slowly, the heat of the argument began to dissipate.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Ramesh continued. “We’ll set a time limit—two buckets per person, so the water lasts. And everyone gets their turn, no matter what.”
Aarti crossed her arms, muttering under her breath, but she didn’t object. The elderly woman let out a sigh and stepped back in line. The others followed suit, the tension easing as they began to accept Ramesh’s plan.
Within minutes, the queue moved smoothly. Buckets were filled, pots were carried away, and even Aarti managed a reluctant smile when her turn came.
A Community Reimagined
As the water point emptied and the line dispersed, Ramesh lingered for a moment, watching the neighbours who had, for that brief morning, come together rather than tearing one another down.
For the first time since he’d arrived in Mumbai, Ramesh felt something new—a sense of belonging. The chawl, once just a cluster of overcrowded rooms filled with strangers, felt different. It wasn’t perfect; it still smelled of damp walls and echoed with arguments. But in that moment, it became something more: a community.
Walking back to his room with his canister, Ramesh felt a quiet pride swell in his chest. It wasn’t just about solving a water problem. It was about showing people that even in a city as unrelenting as Mumbai, small acts of cooperation could turn the chaos into something meaningful.
As he stepped into his room, he placed the canister carefully in the corner, his dreams of a better life momentarily overshadowed by the satisfaction of making a small difference. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And in Mumbai, even small starts could lead to big changes.
A Rainy Evening and the Unity of the Chawl
The rain came down in torrents, turning the narrow lanes of the chawl into rivers of mud and murky water. By the time Ramesh returned from his temporary factory job, he was drenched to the bone. The chawl was in chaos. The power had gone out, leaving the already cramped quarters in complete darkness, and the water rising steadily outside the ground-floor rooms added to the growing panic.
Elderly residents clustered near their doors; their faces etched with worry. A frail old man clutched his walking stick, his lips moving silently in prayer. Nearby, an older woman tried to calm a crying child, her voice trembling with fear.
Ramesh quickly took stock of the situation. The ground floor was clearly at risk of flooding, and the residents’ growing anxiety was turning into confusion. Without hesitating, he raised his voice above the patter of the rain and the murmur of worried conversations.
“We need to move the elders and children to the upper floors,” he said, addressing the crowd. His voice was calm but commanding. “The water won’t reach there. Let’s clear out the ground-floor rooms and make space for them upstairs.”
At first, there was hesitation. People glanced at one another, unsure if they should follow his lead. But when a particularly strong gust of wind rattled the windows, fear spurred them into action. Ramesh, leading by example, helped an elderly couple up the narrow staircase, their frail hands gripping his arm tightly.
Facing Resistance
Not everyone was as cooperative. A group of young men, who often loitered near the corner tea stall, muttered their discontent. “Why should we do all the hard work? Let them handle their own problems,” one of them said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
Ramesh approached them, his expression steady. “This isn’t about individuals,” he said firmly. “If the ground floor floods, it won’t just affect them—it’ll impact all of us. We need to stop the water from spreading, and that takes all of us working together.”
His words hung in the air for a moment before one of the men, a tall boy with a frown, picked up a sandbag. “Fine,” he muttered, “but only because we don’t have a choice.” Slowly, the others followed, unwillingly at first but with increasing determination as they joined the effort.
A Collective Effort
Under Ramesh’s direction, the chawl sprang into action. Sandbags were stacked against the entrances to prevent more water from seeping in. Ropes were tied to makeshift barriers to hold them in place. Buckets were passed from hand to hand as the residents worked to drain water out of the lower rooms.
Even the children pitched in, running small errands, and delivering dry cloths and candles to those who needed them. The women, who had initially huddled in the dark, began boiling water over gas stoves to offer hot tea and comfort to the soaked and weary workers.
Ramesh moved from group to group, encouraging everyone and offering practical suggestions. When an older man slipped and fell, Ramesh was the first to reach him, helping him to a chair and checking that he was unharmed. Despite the relentless rain and the rising fatigue, the residents kept going, driven by Ramesh’s steady leadership.
The Spirit of the Chawl
By late evening, the worst had passed. The temporary barriers held, and the water levels began to recede. The residents, exhausted but relieved, gathered under the dim light of a single candle in the central hallway. The sound of the rain had softened to a steady drizzle, and for the first time all evening, there was silence—not of fear, but of shared accomplishment.
As Ramesh sat on the stairs, drenched and weary, a warmth spread through him. It wasn’t the kind of heat that made the Mumbai air heavy; it was something deeper, a sense of belonging. In this cramped, damp chawl that barely provided shelter, he had witnessed something extraordinary: the strength of a community when united.
Aarti Bhabhi approached him with a cup of steaming tea. “You did good, Ramesh,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “We would’ve been lost without you.”
Ramesh shook his head, smiling faintly. “We all did it together. That’s what matters.”
As the residents slowly retreated to their rooms, Ramesh lingered, listening to the soft patter of rain against the tin roof. He realized that the chawl, for all its challenges, had a heart. It was noisy, chaotic, and flawed, but it was also resilient and alive.
And in that moment, Ramesh knew he wasn’t just surviving in Mumbai anymore—he was becoming part of it.
Radha and Ramesh: A New Beginning of Dreams
One balmy evening, Ramesh sat on the cracked concrete steps of the chawl, staring at the dusky sky streaked with hues of orange and pink. The air was alive with familiar sounds—the clatter of utensils, children’s laughter echoing in the narrow alleys, and the faint strains of a radio playing an old melody from a nearby room. Yet Ramesh was lost in his thoughts, his gaze fixed but unseeing, until a clear, resonant voice caught his attention.
“Work hard, dream big, and never give up. Without hard work, we can achieve nothing,” the voice said.
It came from the far corner of the courtyard, where a group of children sat on the ground under a flickering bulb. A woman was teaching them, her hands gesturing animatedly as she explained something. Her voice wasn’t just instructive; it was filled with a passion that made even the youngest child sit up and listen.
Ramesh couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about her presence—the way her words carried a sense of purpose, as though she wasn’t just teaching lessons but sowing seeds of hope and resilience.
Mohan, who was sitting beside Ramesh, nudged him. “That’s Radha. She’s been living here for a while. She teaches the kids in the evenings to make ends meet. A remarkable woman if you ask me.”
A Growing Friendship
Over the following days, Ramesh found himself crossing paths with Radha more often. She was always busy—teaching children, helping an elderly neighbour, or mending torn books for her students. Despite her bustling schedule, she always had a kind smile or a word of encouragement for anyone who needed it.
One evening, as Radha wrapped up her lessons, Ramesh approached her, hesitating slightly. “Your teaching… it’s inspiring,” he said. “You don’t just teach from books; you teach… something more.”
Radha smiled, her eyes crinkling. “These kids need more than just math or language. They need to believe they can rise above this life. If I can give them that belief, my work is worth it.”
Their conversations became a regular occurrence. Radha would share stories of her students, and Ramesh would talk about his dreams of a better life. Over time, Ramesh’s admiration for her deepened into a quiet respect and then into something more profound.
One day, as they sat on the steps of the chawl, Ramesh opened up about his ambitions. “Radha, one day I’ll buy a One BHK flat. There won’t be floods or power cuts, and you’ll have a proper space to teach. We’ll create a little world of our own, where dreams thrive.”
Radha listened intently, a soft smile playing on her lips. But her reply was steady, almost firm. “Dreams are vital, Ramesh, but we mustn’t lose sight of the present. If we give our best today, the future will take care of itself. Don’t let tomorrow steal the joy of what we can do now.”
Her words stayed with him, anchoring his restless spirit while still allowing him to dream.
A Simple Wedding
It wasn’t long before their friendship blossomed into love. The chawl residents, who had watched their bond grow, gathered one morning in front of the small temple at the end of the street. With garlands strung from a nearby mango tree and the blessings of their neighbours, Radha and Ramesh were married in a ceremony as simple as it was heartfelt.
They rented a small room in the same chawl, a modest space where they began their life together. The room was cramped, the walls peeling with age, but it was filled with the warmth of shared dreams and quiet companionship.
Building the Dream
Ramesh continued working at the factory, now as a permanent employee. The job was stable, though the salary remained modest. He saved meticulously, each rupee a step closer to the One BHK he envisioned. His routine was gruelling—long hours at work, odd jobs on weekends—but he never wavered.
Whenever Ramesh passed an under-construction building or saw an advertisement for new flats, his heart swelled with determination. He’d imagine Radha teaching in a bright, airy room, the children sitting on proper chairs instead of the dusty ground. The image kept him going through the toughest days.
Radha, too, contributed to their shared dream. She took on more students, her teaching now reaching children from neighbouring chawls. But she never let Ramesh’s aspirations overshadow the present. She would remind him gently, “What we’re doing now, every small effort, is already building our future. Don’t forget to live these moments.”
A Shared Journey
Their life was far from perfect, but it was theirs—a tapestry of challenges, small victories, and unshakable faith in each other. The chawl, once just a cluster of rooms, had become a community where Radha and Ramesh found not just neighbours but a family.
And as they sat together one evening, watching the sun dip behind the crowded skyline, Ramesh turned to Radha and said, “One day, that flat will be ours.”
Radha smiled, resting her hand on his. “I know it will, Ramesh. And until then, we’ll keep building our little world, right here.”
In that moment, amidst the noise and chaos of Mumbai, they found a quiet certainty: their dreams weren’t just about a better life—they were about a life built together.
Ramesh and Radha: The Journey of Struggles and Dreams
On a rainy night, the dim light of the single bulb in their room flickered as thunder rumbled outside. Ramesh lay on the creaky cot, staring at the stained ceiling, murmuring lines from one of his poems:
“The destination is illusion,
The road too is illusion,
On the road there is muck,
Below it is shredded glass.”
Radha, folding clothes nearby, paused and looked at him. She walked over, her feet making soft sounds on the damp floor, and gently tapped his shoulder. “Your words, Ramesh… they capture the pulse of this city. Sometimes, though, I wonder—are our dreams bigger than Mumbai itself?”
Ramesh turned to her with a weary smile. “Maybe they aren’t bigger, Radha. But they’re necessary. Without them, what would keep us going?”
Her gaze softened, and she sat beside him, placing her hand on his. They didn’t need more words; the quiet bond they shared spoke louder than anything else.
Building a Future
Years passed, and life, though still a struggle, began to show signs of progress. Their family grew with the birth of their two children, Arjun, and Nisha. Parenthood added new layers of responsibility but also joy. Ramesh worked long hours at the factory, while Radha found new ways to support their growing household.
Early mornings in the chawl saw Radha bustling around their tiny kitchen, preparing meals for the tiffin service she had started. At first, she cooked for just three clients—workers from Mohan’s factory who lived nearby. The aroma of freshly cooked food filled their room as Radha packed the meals with care, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.
“Are you ready, Ramesh?” she called out one morning, handing him a stack of tiffin carriers.
“Always,” Ramesh replied, slinging the carriers over his shoulder. He navigated the bustling streets of Mumbai, delivering meals to their clients.
Word spread about Radha’s delicious food, and slowly but surely, their small business grew. Workers praised the homely taste of her cooking, and more clients came knocking. The extra income allowed them to provide Arjun and Nisha with better opportunities.
The Children
Arjun and Nisha were the light of their lives. Arjun, the elder of the two, was curious and quick to learn, while Nisha had an artistic streak, often drawing with chalk on the cracked walls of the chawl.
Despite their struggles, Ramesh and Radha were determined to give their children a good education. Arjun was enrolled in a local English-medium school, while Nisha joined a nearby nursery. It wasn’t easy—school fees meant cutting back on their own comforts. Radha often wore the same two saris for months, and Ramesh postponed buying a new pair of shoes even when the soles of his old ones gave way.
But watching their children thrive made every sacrifice worth it. When Arjun excitedly recited an English poem or Nisha proudly showed her colorful scribbles, their hearts swelled with pride.
Dreams That Persist
Despite their progress, the dream of owning a One BHK flat remained just out of reach. Mumbai’s real estate market was unforgiving, and even the smallest flats demanded an astronomical price. Still, the dream persisted, like a beacon guiding them through the haze of daily struggles.
One evening, after tucking the children into bed, Ramesh and Radha sat by the window, sharing a cup of tea. The rain had stopped, and the air was thick with the earthy smell of wet ground.
“I saw a new housing project today,” Ramesh said, his voice tinged with hope. “It’s not far from here—a one-bedroom flat with proper ventilation. Imagine that Radha—a room for us, Arjun and Nisha, and space for you to cook and teach without feeling cramped.”
Radha leaned against the window frame; her face lit by the soft glow of a streetlamp outside. “We’ll get there, Ramesh. It may take time, but we’ll make it happen. After all, what’s Mumbai if not the city where dreams are chased, no matter how long it takes?”
Ramesh nodded, holding onto her words as tightly as he held onto their shared dream.
A Life Full of Hope
Theirs wasn’t a life of luxury, but it was rich with love, resilience, and unwavering faith in the future. Every struggle they faced brought them closer as a family. They celebrated small victories—the day Arjun topped his class, the time Nisha sold her first handmade card, or when Radha’s tiffin service crossed its 20-client mark.
Each milestone felt like a step closer to their ultimate dream—a modest One BHK flat where their family could finally breathe freely, unburdened by the constraints of the chawl.
Through it all, Ramesh and Radha learned that dreams weren’t just about achieving something—they were about the journey, the sacrifices, and the moments of joy and togetherness along the way. And as they moved forward, hand in hand, their faith in their dreams—and in each other—never wavered.
Ramesh and Radha: A Dream Passed Down
Years flew by, and the children grew into the very dreams Ramesh and Radha had nurtured for them. Nisha, now a college graduate, had secured a job as a desk head at a food delivery company. Her steady income not only brought her a sense of independence but also deepened her bond with her family. Every month, she handed part of her salary to Radha with a determined smile.
“This is for the One BHK, Mom,” she would say, her eyes glinting with resolve.
But Radha would laugh softly, brushing a hand through her daughter’s hair. “This is for your wedding, my dear. We’ll worry about the flat later.”
Meanwhile, Arjun, after earning his BA, started working at a mall. The daily commute from their chawl was gruelling, and he eventually decided to move closer to his workplace. Despite being away, his family remained at the centre of his heart. On his monthly visits, he would slip some cash into Ramesh’s hands.
“This is for you, Dad. Your dream is our dream too. We’ll make it happen together.”
The love and dedication of their children rekindled Ramesh and Radha’s faith in their long-held dream. The years of sacrifice had not been in vain.
The Call That Changed Everything
One humid afternoon, Ramesh was resting after his shift when his phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number. On the other end was a builder announcing a new housing project nearby. One-BHK flats were available for ?35 lakh.
Ramesh’s heart raced as he hung up. Hope flared, but reality quickly tempered it. “Radha, we only have ?20 lakh,” he confessed, his voice tinged with both excitement and worry.
Radha, as always, stood strong. “Then we’ll take a loan for the rest. This is our chance, Ramesh. Let’s not let it slip by.”
The family came together like never before. They pooled every bit of savings they had, and Arjun and Nisha stood as guarantors for the loan. The paperwork was endless, the process nerve-wracking, but they persevered.
A Palace of Their Own
Four years later, the dream they had chased for decades materialized. On a crisp winter morning, they stepped into their new One BHK flat. It wasn’t lavish or spacious, but to Ramesh and Radha, it was nothing short of a palace.
Their children surprised them with gifts to furnish their new home—a refrigerator from Arjun, a dining table from Nisha, and curtains from both. The flat, though modest, was filled with warmth and laughter.
Radha Ka Tiffin
Radha continued her tiffin service, now catering to 15 clients. The income wasn’t extravagant, but it was steady and allowed them to cover household expenses and loan instalments. Yet, as the world around them evolved, so did their aspirations.
One evening, as the family sat together, Nisha presented an idea. “Mom, your food is amazing. What if we share it with the world? Let’s start a YouTube channel—‘Radha Ka Tiffin.’”
Ramesh raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “YouTube? What will that do?”
“It’s like a window to the world, Dad,” Nisha explained. “People can watch Mom cook, learn her recipes, and maybe even order tiffin.”
Radha was hesitant at first, unsure about facing a camera. But with Nisha’s encouragement, she agreed. They used their small kitchen as the backdrop, with Radha cooking and narrating her recipes while Nisha handled the filming.
The channel started small, with just 50 subscribers, mostly friends and neighbours. But slowly, word spread. Viewers loved Radha’s simple, heartfelt cooking and her knack for turning basic ingredients into something magical. Within months, the subscriber count grew to 1,000, and Radha began receiving messages of appreciation from across the country.
The Dream Evolves
Sitting in their cosy flat one evening, Ramesh looked around. The walls were adorned with family photos, the kitchen smelled of Radha’s latest recipe, and laughter filled the air as Arjun and Nisha joked about the day’s events.
“This is it,” Ramesh said, his voice thick with emotion. “We worked so hard for this—a home where dreams don’t just live, they grow.”
Radha smiled, her hands busy folding laundry. “And now, it’s time to dream even bigger.”
Their One BHK was no longer just a destination. It was a foundation—a testament to their struggles, unity, and unshakable belief in the power of dreams.
The Dream That Reached New Heights
Nisha, driven by her ambition to make “Radha Ka Tiffin” even more successful, began taking digital marketing tips from a colleague. She worked tirelessly alongside her job, researching strategies, and experimenting with content promotion. Slowly but surely, the subscriber count climbed, first to 10,000, then 25,000.
With the growing audience came opportunities. Advertisers reached out, offering sponsorship deals. For the first time, Radha’s simple kitchen had become a bustling hub of creativity and business. The extra income was a blessing, and the family decided to reinvest it.
They converted a small corner of their flat into a professional YouTube studio. The modest kitchen, once the heart of their home, transformed into a space adorned with proper lighting, sleek counters, and organized shelves. Radha, always hesitant about technology, adapted quickly. Her calm, warm demeanour and authentic recipes struck a chord with viewers, and the channel became a sensation.
Soon, “Radha Ka Tiffin” was not just a channel; it was a brand.
From One-BHK to the Sky
As their YouTube venture flourished, the family began to dream bigger. The one-BHK flat that had once symbolized a dream achieved now felt small, not for its space but because their aspirations had grown.
Together, they scoured listings and visited properties across the city. It was during one of these visits that they found it—a spacious three-BHK flat on the twenty-fifth floor of a towering building. The balcony overlooked the sprawling city of Mumbai, its chaos and lights stretching endlessly.
It wasn’t easy; the flat was a significant financial leap. But with their combined savings, the revenue from “Radha Ka Tiffin,” and a carefully managed loan, they made it happen. The day they moved in was nothing short of a festival. Friends, neighbours from the chawl, and even their first YouTube subscribers joined the celebration.
A Balcony Full of Memories
One evening, Ramesh stood on the balcony of their new home, his gaze sweeping over the city below. The noise of honking cars, distant trains, and faint chatter reached him even at this height. As he leaned on the railing, he hummed lines from a poem he had written years ago:
“City and dream, they walk shoulder to shoulder,
In the darkness of the night, light hides away.
The illusion of a destination, the illusion of a road,
Where there’s dust sometimes, and shredded glass at other times.
Even in the thick darkness, lights of hope burn.
Here, every alley holds stories,
And every heart has shadows of dreams woven.”
Radha joined him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking, Ramesh?”
He turned to her with a smile. “About where we started. Do you remember the lines at the communal tap? The damp walls of the chawl? And now…look at this. From that place to this height, it feels surreal.”
Radha chuckled, her laughter as comforting as always. “This is what your dreams and hard work have achieved.”
“No, Radha,” Ramesh said, his voice firm. “This wasn’t just my dream. It was ours. You stood by me through every struggle, and the children carried this dream forward. This is their victory as much as ours.”
Radha nodded; her eyes misty as they looked out over the glittering cityscape. “This city… it tests everyone, but for those who dare to dream and work for it, it always gives back. That’s the magic of Mumbai.”
A New Chapter
Their reflections were interrupted by laughter as Arjun and Nisha stepped onto the balcony.
“Mom, Dad, you’re stuck in nostalgia again!” Arjun teased.
“And why shouldn’t we be?” Ramesh replied, grinning. “These memories are what make today so meaningful.”
Nisha, always brimming with ideas, jumped in. “Speaking of today, I’ve got a new concept for the channel, Mom. We’ll call it ‘From Kitchen to Life.’ It’ll be more than recipes—your advice, your experiences, everything that has made this journey special.”
Radha looked at her daughter with pride. “Your generation is incredible. Always thinking of new ways to grow. Let’s do it.”
Ramesh looked around at his family—his partner in struggle, his children who had grown into his dreams, and the home they had built together.
“We started with a one-BHK, but we didn’t just buy flats; we built a life,” he said softly. “A life woven with hard work, struggles, and dreams.”
The City as Witness
That evening, the family stood together on the balcony, watching the city of Mumbai—its unending stories, its bustling streets, its relentless pace. For Ramesh, it was no longer the overwhelming, chaotic city he had once feared. It was the witness to their resilience, their unity, and their ultimate triumph.
This wasn’t just the story of a flat. It was the story of a family that dreamed, struggled, and built a future together—one that sparkled brighter than the lights of the city below.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
NEW YEAR—THE CYCLE OF RESOLUTIONS AND SOLUTIONS:
With the ending of every year and the dawn of every New Year, it’s time for making a resolution ostensibly at ending an old habit or beginning a new one.
It doesn’t take much time to arrive at a resolution to keep, but it certainly takes time and effort to put that into practice.
I too have taken many, only to be broken after a few months or rather weeks.
Perhaps the intensity of determination was weak to carry forward the “Resolution“.
On the eve of a “New Year,“ two things invariably happen.
One is staying awake till midnight and wishing each other a “Happy New Year“.
Many a time, these happy wishes are also delivered after waking up a person from his bed. For reasons of etiquette, the person on the other end of the communication line welcomes the greeting, despite the wishing at such an odd hour having robbed his/her sleep and potentially made his or her life miserable the next day.
I have experienced this too.
Now coming back to resolutions, after a few weeks or months, there starts a thought creeping in the mind.
Why should this resolution disrupt my otherwise happy way of life?
Initially this thought gets easily suppressed, and the spirit of continuing with the resolution stays.
The fact of the matter is, anything that needs some kind of a focused effort towards a new change is not liked or accepted by any individual. The makers of the “Resolution“ themselves being no exception.
After many debates in the mind between why the “Resolution“ and for the “Resolution“, the need for making change through Resolution snaps.
Life then continues in the same old ways.
Somewhere during the year, there again arises the question of how to make changes in the present way of life.
The “solution“ that springs up in the mind is to make a “resolution“ for the upcoming New Year.
This cycle of solutions and resolutions, in my life, has now become like a weather cycle, which is least predictable, yet life goes on happily with seasonal changes!!
Dr. R. Unnikrishnan, a Veterinary Surgeon from Ernakulam, Kerala, was associated with Sulekha for around 20 years and has published around 1000 blogs. Educated in Karnataka, Hyderabad (then AP ) he was with the Animal Husbandry department, Govt of Kerala for around 25 years. Was also a consultant to a few NGO's (RRA Network) and also to MANAGE (National Institute of Extension Management, Hyderabad)
It had rained heavily for an hour in the evening before he came out for a walk. It became quite calm in the wake of the constant and steady downpour, accompanied by the blowing of wind, thundering and lightning. Then the birds fluttered and twittered in a happy gesture across the sky. The radiant rainbow shone in its seven spectacular colors VIBGYOR on the eastern horizon as if it were ready to invite the lovers of nature to enjoy its exquisite beauty. He was bound to turn a captive of its bounteous beauty. The cuckoo was singing in a hilarious mood. The rain drops on the grass were glistering like pearls. He heard the beautiful surroundings echoing with the sounds of birds and the bubbling and gurgling of streams flowing nearby. The breeze was blowing while spreading the fragrance of freshly bloomed flowers. The glow of the rainbow evoked all his feelings in his heart like the reel of real life shone at the speed of light on the screen of his mind:
“How beautiful is the rainbow with the heavenly hues, shone brightly in the sky like the dreams once in my life.”
He was Chakravarthy recalling the events of his past life while taking rounds in his evening walk. He was walking down the memory lane at the sight of the radiant rainbow:
‘Trin’… ‘Trin’…. ‘Trin’… (A call on his mobile)
“Hello! Chakravarthy here”
“Hello! I’m Gangadhar here. You gave me consent to have lunch with us today. Sumptuous lunch is waiting for you and your wife, the newly married couple,” said Gagadhar in a friendly manner.
“We’re on the way coming to you. We shall be there in ten minutes,” said Chakravarthy.
“Welcome...,” said Gangadhar.
In ten minutes, Chakravarthy and his wife entered Gangadhar’s house, saying, “Here are Chakravarthy and his wife… at your doorstep”, said Chakravarthy drawing their attention to them.
“Welcome… hearty welcome to you,” said Gangadhar’s wife.
“l’m Chakravarthy and this is Sowmya, my wife”. said Chakravathy.
“I’m Gangadhar and this is my wife Gowri, Mrs Gowri Gangadhar…Very glad to have you here in my house as guests for lunch,” said Gangadhar.
“Thank you, Gangadhar,” sad Chakravarthy.
“Come on. Let’s have lunch when it’s hot and fresh… It is readily waiting for us. Take your seats at the dining table.” said Gangadhar.
When all were seated, they started to dine. All food items spreading their flavor were waiting for them on the dining table. Gangadhar said in an affectionate way, “Guests… Let’s have lunch …Enjoy it fully”.
“Ok, I with my wife enjoy lunch all you serve, my dearest friend,” said Chakravarthy.
“Thank you… How’re the dishes? These are specially prepared for you,” said Gangadhar.
“Very sumptuous and delicious … One is competing with the other in taste and flavour. All are relishing well," said Chakravarthi.
“I feel like talking about my wife, Gowri’s skill of cooking. She prepares both vegetarian and non-vegetarian items with equal dexterity and skill. I profusely praise her for cooking so excellently. I hope your wife is also good at cooking,” said Gangadhar.
“Surely, she must be …," said Gowri, Gangadhar’s wife inquisitively.
“I cook in my own way” said Sowmya, Chakravarthy’s wife.
“Cooking is an art, the art of arts. The right way of cooking saves bills, preserves health, conserves energy and reserves wealth. We enjoy wealth when we have health… Health is wealth,” said Gangadhar.
“It’s quite true in every respect,” said Chakravarthy.
“Gowri is not only adept in cooking but also perfect in keeping the house neat and tidy. Her principle is that cleanliness is next to godliness…See… everything in the house well-arranged and well-decorated; apt and becoming. The house interior decoration deserves high acclaim for its grandeur and spectacular display…, “said Gangadhar.
“Certainly… A house like this surely bestows on its members peace and joy. Credit goes to Gowri. For all these skills she is praiseworthy. You, Gangadhar, are lucky enough to have Gowri as your wife”, said Chakravarthy.
“Thank you for your compliments. She still feels that she’s a learner in the field of cooking and interior decoration”, said Gangadhar.
“I really like the tidiness and orderliness of your house. A house is a home of peace when it’s tidy and orderly. The beauty of a house mirrors the skill of the lady in the house,” said Chakravarthy.
“True…,” said Gowri and Gangadhar in one voice.
“Everything is okay but you’re forgetting to eat all in our busy talk. Enjoy everything on the dining table in a leisurely manner. You’ve date-juice specially prepared for you as the final item in this lunch”, said Gangadhar affectionately.
“It’s prepared for you, the newly married couple. It’s a special item for you in the wake of your marriage. It’s energetic and healthy. Please have all, enjoying it fully,” said Gowri.
“It’s for the first-time hearing about date-juice. A talented woman tries to make something new for the health and in turn for the wealth of the family”, said Chakravarthy.
“It is time for us for the date-juice. Let’s have date-juice now, cheers…. Enjoy the juice,” said Gangadhar.
“It’s highly relishing. What do you say Sowmya? It is very enjoyable, isn’t it?” said Chakravarthy relishing it.
“When dates are sweet, the juice of dates must be sweet…,” said Sowmya.
All others understood by Sowmya’s comment that there was nothing special in preparing date-juice, and so they did not continue to comment on it further. To divert their attention, Gangadhar said, “The light music, you’ve listened to, is enjoyable. It is melodious indeed, isn't it?" said Gangadhar.
"Yes, it’s befitting and becoming", said Chakravarthy.
As per the invitation, Chakravarthy and Sowmya came for lunch and feft expressing their delightful gratitude to Gangadhar and Gowri: "Thank you very much for your visit."
... … … … …
Chakravathy understood that Sowmya was interested in cooking as she watched all TV programmes on cooking daily.
One day Chakravarthi had milk with Horlicks prepared by Sowmya as he didn't have the habit of drinking tea. He felt it different and said, "I hope it is not Horlicks added to milk. Is it tea-Horlicks or coffee-Horlicks? You didn't mix Horlicks to milk but add the flour of wheat to milk".
"How is it possible? I test it by tasting it to confirm whether wheat flour was added, or Horlicks was added to milk…. O! It’s flour. There is nothing to worry about, I did it unexpectedly. People don't do anything so, do they?" said Sowmya without a bit of realization.
"O! It is wheat flour; you’ve got to mix to milk!" said Chakravarthy.
"What happened? Nothing happened. Heavens have not fallen. Throw it outside." Sowmya said without any feeling.
… … … … … …
“It’s a holiday today on the eve of our festival. What have you prepared? I hope it’s all relishing… It is palkabaji, full of iron and proteins." said Chakravarthy.
“It is palkabaji, a special item on the eve of the festival,” said Sowmya serving food to Chakravarthy.
"Come, see it. An insect has been crushed in the curry. We can clearly see its parts: body and legs," said Chakravarthy.
"No, it’s not… It's garlic," said Sowya.
"No, these are the pieces of a tiny insect that lives in kitchen cupboards," said Chakravarthy.
"I don't know how it has fallen into it. It did not come to my notice. It's an insect that lives in cupboards. It might have fallen into it when I was busy. I will prepare another curry soon," said Sowmya.
"You needn't... I'm prepared to eat food with pickles in stead of the curry you prepare now… Sowmya…I want to tell you many things…You need to know how to speak to friends, how to prepare fooditems and how to keep household things in the apple pie order. I have seen all in our house… Once the bottle is open, its lid is to be kept back after serving any from it. We should find any bottle with a lid on it, but the bottle is found somewhere and its lid somewhere else. They’re never together to be intact or always separate in fact", said Chakravarthi with a sense of advice.
"What happens when the lid is somewhere... I put it in the order when I feel like putting it back," said Sowmya.
"Where is the lid? Where has it gone? said Chakravarthy in one case.
"I'm saying that it’s somewhere to be found sometime later. Is a discussion on it so necessary now?" said Sowmya.
"I feel irritated whenever I find the household things in disorder. You’ve never kept things in order. I find nothing neat and orderly. The combs are found with left or fallen hair and dirt. It’s mere common sense to clean the comb after combing and put in a vase on the dressing table but not on the dining table or the kitchen platform," said Chakravarthy.
"I’m busy. Sometimes I forget… I keep all the things in order and a neat manner whenever I remember and whenever I find time," said Sowmya with a sense of anger on her face.
"Everybody has twenty-four hours a day. For you it can't be thirty-six hours or forty-eight hours a day. A mere idea to keep the things in the apple pie order is enough as it’s very essential to maintain cleanliness in the house. That’s all you’re supposed to know," said Chakravarthy.
"I do everything well, whenever I’ve ample time. The thing is that I don't have time… I sometimes forget, what should I do?" said Sowmya.
"You don't try to understand the fact that mere insightful interest makes us set everything in order. If you have zeal, inclination, and taste for it, you can have it. We needn’t take extra time or care to keep the things in the apple pie order. You should have that sense and common sense and that is all," said Chakravarthy.
"I do it in a way possible. There is nothing great in arranging things in order. If I’ve sufficient time, I can do it," said Sowmya.
"Gowri, Mrs Gangadhar speaks to others well, cooks fooditems well and keeps all her household things in perfect order. You witnessed it with your own eyes on the day we visited their house after our marriage. You needn't take extra care to maintain that. A mere idea is enough. Instead, you keep the mirror in one place and the comb in another place. When we need them, they aren’t found. Similarly, bottles and lids, pens and caps; dishes and lids and all the other things are to be in their togetherness but not in their separation as a sign of disorderliness resulted in negligence," said Chakravarthy.
"This is the situation in everybody's house. You do not know… I don’t like you to appreciate Gowri, your friend’s wife all the time. I always find you appreciating her… You never appreciate me… See… I clean utensils, wash clothes, sweep the house apart from cooking. All the housewives employ servantmaids for such works. I’m doing all of them on my own. You don't recognize my hard work. Moreover, I will save money for you. All these are due to my hard work and restless routine," said Sowmya.
“I don't say that you are not doing all the work. What I want to say is that you should keep the house neat and all things orderly and it is a part and parcel of your work. You never realize that home is meant for orderly keeping… for peaceful living. Your hard work is incomplete without proper planning for orderliness and cleanliness of a house," said Chakravarthy.
"How are my fingers? They’re getting rough. Women avoid works to keep their hands smooth, " said Sowmya.
"What I want does not take much time and much work. It’s a work culture rather than work-labor. By singing or humming, you can do all proper arrangements of household things, suitable placing of furniture, apt setting of flowers in the vases, neatly placing of kitchenware, setting models and art pieces in show cases, maintaining a beautiful garden in the surroundings, etc., bestowing on its dwellers bliss. It’s real. You can do it if you try," said Chakravarthy.
“I don't find time to do all these things," said Sowmya.
"To tell in a nutshell, it isn’t a problem of time. It’s due to the problem of negligence and indifference to work culture. It’s mainly because of the lack of interest or concern for it. When everything is in disorder, how can we feel at home?" said Chakravarthy.
"You can appoint someone to do all these things. I’m not your servantmaid to do all these things. You didn’t buy me to do all these things," said Sowmya.
… … … …
"Good morning, Sir. We’ve come here to see you." said Chakravarthy’s colleague and students.
"O! My students and my colleague have come to see me... Be seated," said Chakravarthy.
"We have come to congratulate you on your performance at the annual day celebrations yesterday. All your performances were superb and stupendous. We were overwhelmed with a thrill throughout. We’re bound to congratulate you on your possession of multisided and multifaceted interests in singing, drawing, creative writing and so on. Your singing receives tumultuous applause. Your art pieces in the exhibition won the special attention of the viewers. Moreover, you guided us in various ways to be bright. You’re our beacon…our role model", said the students and the colleage nodded her head.
"Thank you for your appreciation. What you’ve seen and heard about me is still to be improved to gain perfection," said Chakravarthy.
"For us, your skills are appreciable and remarkable," said the students.
"Thank you so much madam and my dear students for your appreciation…It is all love and affection you have towards me," said Chakravarthy.
"We take leave of you, Sir," said his colleague and students.
"OK...Thank you for your visit, " said Chakravarthy.
Sowmya did not respond to their talk not even by her nod or smile, nor did she interfere in their conversation as a mark of love and affection for them. Chakravathy felt hurt for her indifferent attitude towards them.
When the colleague and students left, Sowmya expressed her feelings to Chakravarthy, “Can’t they congratulate you on all your performances at school itself? Is it necessary for them to come here? The girls, who outnumber the boys, presented bouquets to you, admiring you a lot. All of them are work-shirkers. The girls avoided helping their parents and came here. They can’t do work at home helping their mothers, can they? Never…”
“How can you criticize my colleague and students, particularly the girls? They came here to congratulate me heartily on all my performances in the annual day celebrations. It’s not proper to have prejudices on your part against innocent girls," said Chakravarthy.
“Girls especially women-teachers overrpraise others. They do so…This happens in co-educational institutions where there are women-teachers. It’s the situation in evey instititution." said Sowmya.
The irreversible flow of time went on, but it has not brought about a change in Sowmya but has taught him the sense of adjustment to be cultivated. He said to himself in the heart of his heart, “Either of the two, the couple is supposed to adjust. It’s I who am to adapt to the circumstances. The most essential thing that she should keep the house neat and tidy and cook food items tastily is ignoned. This isn’t her mere role but sheer duty and responsibility as a betterhalf. I’ve taught students in multitude and shaped their future in magnitude beyond their expectations. They revere me highly. The image I’ve, will never remain eclipsed in society. As a teacher I should maintain so and keep the prestige of my family.”
… … … … …
When Chakravarthy was blessed with a son, he was happy expressing his feelings: “My heart blooms into a flower with the fragrance of joy. My life assumes a greater responsibility as a parent. In baby care, life is delightful. The boy’s joyous smile and his innocent eyes captivate my heart. The baby grows to lisp ‘da’… ‘da’… ‘daddy’… and toddle on the floor to serve to be the nucleus source of my pleasure”.
Sowmya was busy appreciating herself on their first son’s birthday, “I’m only the mother who is blessed with a son. See the others who delivered female babies. I’m in many respects far superior to the other women. For that, you must be proud of me.”
When they were blessed with their second son, Sowmya was found appreciating herself again, “How distinguished I’m to deliver one more son within two years! I’m unrivalled in all respects as mother,”
“Who goes contrary to your opinions? None … Never... Not at all…,” said Chakravarthi.
“See how smart he looks! The baby looks very cute in the way the bud spreads its perfume on its blooming into flowery excellence. To glimpse the baby is a pleasurable and lovable experience as its budding smile lingers over rosy lips in a spectacular way. It’s surprising that the baby spells all the primary words at ease before learning the alphabet,” said Sowmya.
Those were the days when people were clinging to custom-based virtues and system-based values. Elders used to advise the parents with two male children in the way:
“You’d have a daughter, at least one daughter in the family,” said Chakravarthy.
Chakravarthi was impressed upon by the advice. The feeling of having a daughter arose in him after being blessed with two sons. Three years passed to find him blessed with a daughter as per the blessings and benedictions of God. When the third was a breast-feeding baby, his sons grew to be school going. It was a delightful experience as they were bright, and achieved merits, certificates, medals, awards, prizes, badges, etc. In pursuit of their studies, they evinced keen interest in studies and reached their goals.
. … … … … … …
Chakravarthy’s sons and daughter grew to be married. He wanted to celebrate his daughter’s marriage first. That was the season of marriages to draw the attention of the parents. A man with his near and dear came for the marriage alliance to Chakravarthy’s house. He was good at convincing and impressing. He said to Chakravarthy, “I’m very much impressed by your charming manners, rich culture, and preeminently your polite way of speaking. You’re a headmaster with commitment towards your job. People talk of your virtues and values. We like the members of your family. Generally, the children of a teacher are disciplined and well-versed.”
When he persuaded, Chakravarthy was to accept his proposal saying, “I cordially invite you to see my daughter, Kavya, to admit her into your family as your daughter-in-law. I invite you to my house to see my beloved daughter some auspicious day.”
The auspicious day came soon for Chakravarthy to welcome him with the party, saying, “I have three children, two sons, Bharath and Sharath and one daughter...This is my daughter Kavya. She completed her studies last year. Some popular company bestowed on her a good job in the opportunities galore of a Banglore company on the day when your son was also selected,”
“The girl is good looking, modest and intelligent. She’s suitable to our son in all respects…. Prashanth! What’s your opinion?” said the boy’s father.
“OK...I like the girl,” said Prashanth to his parents, nodding his head with a charming smile and a glow in his face.
Marriage of Kavya and Prashanth was celebrated in a befitting manner. Lunch was served with all kinds of fooditems with a variety of tastes. Sowmya began to speak in her characteristic tone, “The food items are tasty, aren’t they? I prepare all to feed my children even today with these hands. I help them execute all their work. I brought up them with loving care. They can’t spend a day without seeing me. For anything they seek my advice."
Chakravarthy’s sons hinted at their mother, Sowmya, to keep her mouth closed. Their father, Chakravarthy, had tolerant nature and enduring disposition, to keep himself cool and his heart unruffled.
Chakravarthy celebrated the marriages of his sons in a befitting manner. In marriages, Sowmya talked of her gtreatness as mother and so he interfered and said, “All mothers are like you…You are not to talk about yourself and your greatness.”
“No… never …as mother I’m unrivalled and matchless. I’m a thousand times better than all other mothers," said Sowmya.
One day Sowmya had a chit-chat with her daughters-in-law. They were not able to bear with her when she praised herself, “As a mother I’m meticulous in all respects to bring up my children very affectionately. I don’t think that there is a comparison to me... especially to my motherhood. You as my daughters-in-law can respect my special services and distinguished status as the mother of my sons and the mother-in-law of my daughters-in-law,” said Sowmya.
“Sure…?” said the daughters-in-law one after the other.
“Mother is to carry for nine months and gives birth to a baby with no certainty of life during delivery. For that she is supposed to be respected most in the family,” said Sowmya.
“You’re right,” said the daughters-in-law one after the other.
… … … …
“You’ve attained rich experiences by seeing all in the houses of our new relatives. Even now you can’t maintain the house in a neat and orderly way. The cobwebs are in the corners, and clothes, bags, pieces of paper, etc are on sofas and tables. The refrigerator is to bear the load of cosmetics, nail paints, mehandi, coins, fruits, nuts, bottles, vegetables, dry fruits, medicines, and many others inside it in such a manner that all are found fighting with one another. We find hairpins, spoons, pens, combs, pencils, calculators, keys, purses, screws, threads, buttons, screwdrivers etc on the top. The dining table can display all kinds of dishes, fruits, hairpins, combs, medicines, brushes, nail-paints, etc. I need not tell you about the things on the platform in the kitchen. It accommodates folks, cups, screws, utensils, boxes, cups, watches, photos, pens, pencils, calculators, glasses, spoons, trays, coins, shampoo packets, forks, knives, bottles, etc. Nothing is in its proper place. Anything can be found in any room though there are five rooms, cupboards, racks, etc. The things in the refrigerator create a creative picture in the chaos. The fruits inside become spoilt to give foul smell. She only says, “What happens if they are there, nothing happens. She’s a rich variety of stock replies based on various reasons,” said Chakavarthy.
Sowmya kept quiet all the time listening to Chakravarthy with all patience. But Chakravarthy went on speaking to her sometmes,
“What have you learnt by watching T.V programmes and cinemas and reading magazines and journals for decades together? You cook in the way you cooked in the past three decades ago. You are unique …,” said Chakravarthy.
“I don’t find anything to be learnt,” Sowmya.
“You don’t know that you’re the laziest and most ignorant fellow on earth. You’re a bumpkin not to do anything properly. You ascribe your lapses either to your lack of time or to your tiresomeness in toil but not to your lack of sense and common sense... not to your carelessness and idleness,” said Chakravarthy.
“Why don’t you do it? Why should I only do it….? I saw some husbands work for their wives in the kitchen,” said Sowmya.
“I do my own my avocation of creative writing and vocation of teaching. said Chakravarthy.
“You always read and write. You appear as if you were busy preparing for the examination. You can teach whatever you know. Who is going to award you duly if you do your duty with devotion? Any how you aren’t paid for your committed work.,” said Sowmya.
“How foolish it is to say that one shouldn’t be committed to one’s profession! You yourself don’t realize your responsibilities,” said Chakravarthy.
“I’m getting tired of doing household things or chores, for that you are giving me two meals a day. For my work, the daily routine, others are pleased to arrange two meals a day for a servant maid. I’m not a slave, drudge or bonded laborer to work for twenty-four hours. You’ve not bought me for crores. You’re using me as a machine...a tool. If I’m not there, you’re sure to realize my necessity…Who will come to my rescue in the future in case I become unhealthy due to over work?” said Sowmya.
“You hide your inabilities…You talk of many things…You don’t know how to cook even after reading cooking magazines and watching ‘Sakhi’ cooking programmes daily on TV. You’re an ignorant fellow, the most inferior type to pose superior. You never accept that you don’t think properly. You’ve never had the suitable bent of mind,” said Chakravarthy.
“You can’t certify my cooking. I prepare food items in the way I can. My food items according to me are good. Food items generally cannot be tastier than these I prepare. You can eat it if you like. In neighbors’ houses they humbly eat the things prepared yesterday... the day before yesterday and sometimes three or more days ago,” said Sowmya.
“You’ve a mouth to chatter, a chattering mouth, and an uncontrolled tongue to avoid the most essential work to keep the house clean and make the members of the family happy. The most bounden responsibility you forget...,” said Chakravarthy.
“What’s your responsibility then?” said Sowmya.
“What’s that?” said Chakravarthy.
“Others hold unfurled umbrellas in their hands and let no hot rays of scorching and sweltering sun fall on their wives. They supply bed coffee when their wives wake up late in the morning,” said Sowmya.
“O! Do you want such things to be done by me? They do all to win their false favour. Husbands should help their wives when they’re sick or weak...It is good...,” said Chakravarthy.
“I’m not a bonded labourer or drudge or toy in your hands. I’m equal to you in all respects. I’ve heard you telling several people that it’s your house but it’s not yours alone,” said Sowmya.
“What’s wrong? Isn’t it OK? Generally, everyone says it’s his house. What did you invest for the construction of this house?” said Chakravarthy.
"I was with you doing something or the other during the construction of this house...,' said Sowmya.
"It is done by all wives...Okay you have done some work... It is a common saying... It is owned and named after the father in the family..., ' said Chakravarthy.
"When it is so, why should I work in the house?” said Sowmya.
“What hell are you? You never realize your responsibilities as a wife. Today’s news on TV-9 channels that a seventy-year-old-man who was fed up with his wife, is prepared to divorce her but she says that she doesn’t want to get divorced,” said Chakravarthy.
“O! You think on those lines… As a wife, what I’m doing is more than enough. If I do the same house-hold chores outside, I get more than what you are spending for me,” said Sowmya.
“This is all due to your cantankerous nature. You’re blinded by your arrogance and ignorance. You never try to gain wisdom to delight me and my parents by your lovable talk, endearing nature, fine culture and due regard or at least keeping the house in the apple pie order. Wife and husband are not only for a married life for the perpetuation of the race but also for a happy married life... It is two lives to be one life to make married life meaningful and blissful,” said Chakravarthy.
“I’ve my own parents. I’ve to think of them,” said Sowya.
“Our family is to promote the image of my dynasty by treating my parents cordially. Instead... you scare them to go away…Your muted reaction never lets others know your tactics and gimmicks; your treatment and my adjustment,” said Chakravarthy.
“What did I do to make them go away?” said Sowmya.
“Then why do they not stay here with us?” said Chakravarthy.
“Then you can stay with your own people… I don’t want to stay here…with you. You can rule your own house with a new queen of your choice,” said Sowmya angrily throwing away her plate with meals, crying in a high sound letting the neighbours hear her.
“You lack wisdom, and you don’t realize your defect, and none is there to make you realize it. You’ve learnt to be aggressive and pass foolish comments at a high level letting the neighbors listen to them. You can’t overcome your egoistic and egocentric nature. You know how, where, when and why to weep only to gain the sympathy of onlookers but you don’t know how to keep the house neat and tidy with proper arrangement of the interior household things in the order,” said Chakravarthy to make her realize the essentials but it was of no use.
… … … … …
While Chakravarthy was taking rounds for his stroll, his mind flashed all this flash-back while the spectacular rainbow was still shining in scintillating charms, making his heaved heart light. Suddenly his cellphone rang to bring him back from the past to the present to think of the future. He was to respond to the call while the cool breeze was soothing his heart against all these heaved reflections… He got a call and received it. He heard the most intimate tone with a tinge of sorrow after a long time.
“I… It’s me, your wife Sowmya, your life-long life-partner. You and I… we are a couple and are to cooperate with each other. After a long year I’ve realized where I ought to be and whom I should serve. In the lifelong journey, I missed you for a long, long year. I pray to the Almighty to see that you wholeheartedly pardon me for all I had done in sheer ignorance,” said Sowmya.
“What a surprise! It’s a sudden surprise to surprise any usual surprise of others. It seems you have added new meaning to ‘surprise,” said Chakravarthy.
“Not to miss you in my life journey, I’m on my journey by the Navajeevan Express to reach you and restart my journey with you as your life partner,” said Sowmya.
“You’ve finally realized the meaning of ‘better-half’ though you were a bitter half all my life. What one expects in life is only transformation. You’ve a lot of transformation,” said Chakravarthy.
“I happened to speak to a beggar-maid who was in all respects far better than I thought. She was illiterate. She’s more than my teacher. Her words serve a message to me: ‘Woman as wife is a homemaker rather than a home-ruler. As a homemaker she must be a bower of comfort and shower of peace, for home is the fountain of bliss to her better half… Wife and husband must be complementary to each other in all respects'," said Sowmya.
“How great the beggarmaid is to transform you so greatly!” said Chakravarthy.
“The comments I made in life pinch my mind and prick my heart time and again and I repent a lot for them... My ill-treatment to you is making me suffer all the times when I am awake. All my foolish comments are endlessly flashing in my mind, piercing into my heart like arrows:
‘Am I your servant? I’m never a slave to you. I don’t serve you as I’m also like you. Are you God to be served whenever you want?’
“You wished to keep our house neat and tidy and everything of the house in order. I didn’t care about your wish. I asked you to appoint a servantmaid for all that.’
“When you asked me to polish your shoes on your being in a hurry in going to school. In response I said I was not your slave to polish your shoes. Woman is not to serve man,”
When Sowya realized so, Chakravarthy was surprised at her realization and said,
“How wonderful you’re to remember all your flippant remarks!”
‘Now I feel sorry for the treatment of my own people: parents, brothers and sisters-in-law during my stay with them. They treated me more as a slave and less as a servant-maid. I never tried to make them realize that I was helpless. I was a muted sufferer. Now I realize that to serve you is my privilege and the rarest privilege you bestowed on me on the day of our marriage. Now I want to be a model...,’ said Sowmya.
“I see,” said Chakravarthy.
“I can’t keep quiet without revealing a dream I had when I slept last night. I saw you living with a woman of your choice in my dream. She kept herself and your house excellently neat and tidy in the apple pie order. She spoke to you softly and cordially. I felt envious of her and her intimate movements with you. I saw her kissing you while going to and coming from school… Meanwhile a bowl fell onto the floar in the kitchen. I awoke suddenly and realized that I had lost the most precious ones in my life. When I enquired about you, I’ve learnt that you’re living all alone for me.”
(The writer was inspired by the news on TV9 that an old man in his seventies wanted to give divorce to his wife, but his wife was not ready for that.)
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
"Trials make a balance between good and bad, a beam of hope in between darkness." _Soumen Roy
Trials itself is a mirror that reflects as a nurturer of a civilized society. Henceforth, every country has its judiciary based on the law of that particular country. These laws are made to maintain peace and discipline, thereby conducting our activities in such a way that is beneficial to one and all.
*Law is above all, and nobody is above law.*
Whoever violates the law by arrogance or the other going against the standard rules is an offense and thereby becomes sub judice and faces the trials that lead to punishment most of the time, depending on the nature of the offense or crime.
Earlier, law and order were controlled by the government, but later on, the media played a great role in spreading awareness among the common masses. At present we have also witnessed media in our country intervening in the sub judice matters by their own interpretation and circulating as a whole in social media, thereby creating an impact on undertrial cases. Although this kind of journalism is not prohibited in our country, proving someone guilty only by media coverage is a matter of concern.
*What happens when everyone becomes a judge?*
We all are living in a society that is vastly dependent on information technology. It's always been believed that half knowledge and half truth have always been dangerous. At present almost everyone has a social media account, and almost everyone expresses their own opinions and views on various social media platforms. We have freedom of speech in our democracy, but we must be aware of where and how it violates the law of the country. Moreover, everyone can't have an opinion just on any matter since it's harmful for the state and the individual too as well. These days trolling has become a common trend that has ruined many lives. In short, we can say someone's pain and someone's gain. Recently in our country we have seen people getting trolled even for their looks or something else. Law decides one guilty or not by its own process. By such trends, a huge mass has destroyed so many innocent lives. Moreover, how does it reflect a civilized society, sometimes commenting on undertrial cases and commenting on one's look peeping into their personal life? For example, we have seen Ranu Mondol, a singer who evolved through social media. It's really a nuisance making fun of someone who has no formal education. Why should we expect from someone how they should remark, and why should we get such privileges to quote on someone's personal life or intervene in trial cases? This shows disrespect towards the judiciary system.
Trials are necessary, thereby giving an opportunity to bring out the better version, like a new dawn, but only in a proper manner abiding by the law and its process only.
Soumen Roy is a professional writer, best selling author and a tri-lingual poet. He has been vasty anthologized. His novel and poetry books have been part of International Kolkata Book Fair as well as Newtown book fair. He is the receiptent of Laureate Award 2022 along with many others. His poetry has been a part of international poetry festival 2017 and Panaroma international Literature festival 2023. He has published in different newspapers, magazines and web portals. He has been part of a web series named Showstopperzz, a cinema for a cause. He loves photography, painting and music.
To
Mr. Santa Claus.
Santa’s Grotto,
Reinderland,
XM4 5 HQ. 24th December 2024
Dear Mr. Claus,
Hope you and Ms. Claus are doing fine.
You must be very busy now tying satin ribbons onto the gifts.
The red-nosed Rudolph, your ninth and youngest reindeer must have shed his antler by this time. So, it must be Rudolph’s wife who will pull the sleigh tonight.
I read in the papers that Edinburgh University professors Gerald Lincoln and David Baird have said that Santa’s sleigh is drawn by female reindeer. This is because female reindeers don’t shed their antlers until spring while male reindeers shed their antlers before Christmas and don’t grow them until the following spring or February.
What are you bringing this year? Well, I know you will say that it’s a surprise.
But, but don’t in any case give me masks. I heard that you met King Ravana and gifted him masks to cover up his evil faces. I don’t have evil faces. Rather, I too kill demons and drive away evil from earth. In fact, Mr Claus, you, Devi Durga, I, we all drive away evil from earth.
How is Ms. Claus? You said that this year she herself in a red gown would go on globe-trotting and you will take rest. Last year you wrote that she is becoming a feminist and had protested your going around the world!
And now that she has become a feminist she will sure appreciate it if a female reindeer pulls her sleigh!
We will now start making preparations for Christmas. There are problems with the oven this year– so maybe we will have no blueberry cakes and peach-cookies this year!
No, I won’t ask you to get our oven fixed as a Christmas Wish!
My Christmas Wish – is that I would like to visit India. It’s a fabulous land, White Himalayas garlanding on the North and the waves of Indian Ocean caress the South Coast. Then there’s more to it – Thar Desert on the West and picturesque mountainous terrain on the north-east.
Festivals are there throughout the year. They have Festival of Colours, Festival of Lights, Durga Puja, and many other joyous occasions!
Goddess Durga kills the demons herself; you know? I am simply fascinated. They say that her killing of demons symbolizes the triumph of good over evil! I also vouch for the same – you know – triumph of good over evil. So sure, there’s lot of scope for adventure there too! Why don’t you tell her to send me to India?
Oh, Father Christmas, please do tell Ms. J.K. Rowling that I want to have my next adventure in India. She wants me to fight the witches and others – so there in India – I can help Ma Durga too.
So please do tell her.
Yours forever,
Well, guess who am I?
I am…, yes Mr Claus, you got it right I am Harry Potter.
MERRY CHRISTMAS
and
A VERY HAPPY
NEW YEAR
2025
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee.
All rights reserved.
Photo of Santa Claus toy is from our home collection.
…Tete Dhin Dhin Dha, Dha…….
Heaven now reverberates with his scintillating beats while we here on earth feel mournful as we will not see his live performances again.
The reminiscences of the rapturous renditions at soirées and programmes take us back to the golden era when the vibrant vibes of rhythms enchanted the audience.
Indian or Western music, his fingers gave a new dimension to the world of rhythms.
Well, that was about Ustad Zakir Hussain(birthname : Zakir Allarakha Qureshi ), the Legendary Tabla (a pair of drum-like-instruments) player, a distinguished performer whose rhythmic beats have mesmerized the world over. He was not only an all-time Legend of Rhythms in India and abroad, he was also an actor and a composer.
As a percussionist in music or in dance, or as a solo performer, Ustad-ji’s rhythmic repertoires always resonated well with rains and rainbows, thunder and lightning, sunshine and moonshine, light and shade, laughter and cry, tears and smiles- that touched all and sundry. His solo playing of pigeon sound still rings in our ears.
BBC has regarded him as “one of the world’s greatest tabla players”.
It is the rhythm of this universe that binds us all. Rabindranath Tagore in his song “Dui haate Kaaler mondira je sadai baaje”, describes how the eternal rhythmic bells are perpetually played with both hands.
And when this ethereal rhythm is brought to us on earth by the maestro, it is indeed an enrapturing experience for connoisseurs and commoners. The music that he created went straight to the heart.
Worthy son of the celebrated all-time legendary exponent of tabla, Alla Rakha-ji, Ustad Zakir-ji’s ethereal, elegant expeditions to explore the exuberance of rhythms always enthralled the audience.
It is not possible to write about the maestro’s illustrious life in a single beat of an article, so would just share some of his accomplishments.
As a child prodigy, he started performing at the age of seven. His performances always bore testimony to the musician that he would become!
Later, he also collaborated with many renowned musicians to give the world some trailblazing albums. This brought him Grammy Awards.
He acted in some films like “Heat and Dust” ( a Merchant-Ivory film production), composed music for many films like “Manto” and “Mr and Mrs Iyer), composed three concertos (instrumental composition where one or more soloists is or are accompanied by an orchestra or band).
In 1973, English guitarist John McLaughlin, Indian violin player L. Shankar, and percussionists Zakir Hussain, T. H. "Vikku" Vinayakram (on ghatam), founded the fusion Band “Shakti”. This band initially had the name "Turiyananda Sangit" which means “The pinnacle delight in music”.
A global icon who has many feathers on his cap. To mention a few, he was awarded Padma Shri in 1988, Padma Bhushan in 2002, Padma Vibhushan in 2023, Indo-American Award in 1990, Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1990, four Grammy Awards, USA’s National Heritage Fellowship and Officer in France’s Order of Arts and Letters (Ordre des Arts et des Lettres), etc.
After the Grammy Award Ceremony in 2024, Ustad-ji wrote on Instagram,
“I am overwhelmed and humbled by the outpouring of love, affection, and blessings for my multiple Grammy wins. It is impossible for me to individually respond to all of you but be assured that you are all in my heart and I’m bowing to each and every one of you in thanks. It was a great day for India at the Grammys and I’m proud to be carrying the national flag,”
(Courtesy Hindustan Times)
No matter how complicated the rhythmic cycles and variations were, Ustad-ji’s fingers gracefully alighted on “Shom” after completion of each cycle!
“Shom”- the starting beat of each cycle to restart the cycle again and again.
But now he has probably reached a ‘Shom’ of a new life in heaven, leaving behind a legacy of divinity on earth. It was on 15 th of December 2024, that he started this new cycle in heaven.
Said Rabindranath Tagore in his famous philosophical song “Mawmo chitté niti nrityé:
“Naché janmo, naché mrityu paché paché” which says that birth and death dances side by side always.”.
Life and death are two opposites that always complement each other. But Ustad-ji is immortal and his illustrious creation will transcend the barriers of life and death.
Milton had said: “Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity”.
For legendary stalwarts like Ustad-ji, this ‘palace of eternity’ is the Eternal Kingdom of Bliss of ‘Suroloka’.
May his soul rest in eternal peace amidst the rhythmic waves of heaven.
My respectful pranams to the great soul.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The above photo is from the Internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer). Quotations are also from the Internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except as noted. No part of this article can be reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: AN INDIAN WOMAN LEADER AND THE INTERNATIONAL DAY!
The International Day we are discussing is International Human Rights Day, observed annually on December 10. This day commemorates a pivotal moment in history: on this date in 1948, the United Nations General Assembly, in the backdrop of devastating Second Great War and Nazi holocaust, adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). The declaration marked a significant milestone in the global recognition and protection of human rights. It established fundamental rights and freedoms that are supposed to be universally protected, laying the groundwork for a more just and equitable world. As we reflect on this momentous occasion, it is essential to acknowledge the invaluable contributions of women who played a crucial role in shaping the UDHR, and one such woman is Hansa Mehta, from India.
We would recall that the phrase, "All men are created equal," is famously found in the United States Declaration of Independence. Over time, its interpretation and application have evolved significantly, especially in the context of human rights.
Eleanor Roosevelt, who served as the First Lady of the United States from 1933 to 1945, was appointed by President Harry S. Truman as a delegate to the United Nations General Assembly in 1946. As the first Chairperson of the UN Commission on Human Rights, she played a critical role in drafting the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Amidst the rising tensions between East and West, Roosevelt utilized her influence and credibility with both superpowers to steer the process toward a successful outcome. Her outstanding contributions were posthumously recognized with the United Nations Human Rights Prize in 1968.
While Eleanor Roosevelt's name and contributions are widely known, the equally significant role played by an Indian woman leader Hansa Mehta remains less celebrated. Hansa Mehta, a distinguished Indian leader, was among the few female delegates to the UN Human Rights Commission in 1947-48. As a passionate advocate for women’s rights, she played a pivotal role in changing the wording of Article 1 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights from "All men are born free and equal" to "All human beings are born free and equal." This critical adjustment was instrumental in promoting gender equality.
For Mehta, women’s rights were human rights. Throughout her career, she had pushed for greater female participation in public and political spheres. Mehta argued that the phrase “all men” was outdated and could potentially exclude women.
Roosevelt responded by stating that "men" was widely understood to encompass all human beings, as per the meeting minutes. However, Mehta—despite her gentle demeanour and traditional Indian sari attire—stood firm, insisting that the phrase be changed to "human beings."
Reflecting on Hansa Mehta's remarkable journey, we can briefly recall her background. Her education and activism were significantly shaped by her experiences both in India and abroad. She attended an all-girls high school in India during a time when female literacy rates were exceptionally low. Pursuing further education in England, she studied philosophy, journalism, and sociology, and connected with influential leaders like Sarojini Naidu, who became her mentor. Mehta's involvement in the 1920 International Woman Suffrage Alliance conference in Geneva marked the beginning of her lifelong dedication to women's rights.
She played a crucial role in India's struggle for independence, actively participating in protests and facing imprisonment multiple times for her activism. In the post-independence era, Mehta was among the 15 women who contributed to drafting the Indian Constitution, advocating for gender equality and the establishment of a civil code that would ultimately take precedence over religious laws. Mehta was a reformer, educator and a prolific writer.
Hansa Mehta was instrumental in drafting the Indian Women’s Charter of Rights and Duties, presented at the 18th session of the All India Women’s Conference (AIWC) in 1946. This charter asserted women's equal rights to education, suffrage, pay, property distribution, and equal rights with men in marriage and divorce. Mehta fervently advocated for the abolition of child marriage and the devadasi system. When the panel that eventually became the U.N. Commission on the Status of Women was developing its guiding principles in 1946, it drew inspiration from her ideas.
Hansa Mehta was born on July 3, 1897, in Surat, which is now part of the northwestern state of Gujarat, India. Her parents were Harshadagauri and Manubhai Mehta. Manubhai, her father, served as a philosophy professor at Baroda College (presently Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda) and later ascended to the role of prime minister of the state of Baroda.
Her paternal grandfather, Nandshankar Mehta, was a headmaster of an English-language school, a civil servant, and the author of the historical novel "Karan Ghelo" (1866). This novel, which chronicles the story of the 13th-century ruler of Gujarat whose imprudence led to the loss of his kingdom, is celebrated as the first novel written in the Gujarati language.
“I was fortunate enough to be born in a family which had liberal ideas on all questions of life,” Mehta is reported to have said in 1972 in an oral history at the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library in New Delhi.
In the 1920s, she visited Mohandas K. Gandhi while he was imprisoned in India. By 1930, she answered his call for women to participate in the freedom movement. She took part in picketing stores that sold English-made instead of Indian-made cloth and played a leading role in protests, which led to her imprisonment, as mentioned, three times.
In 2018, during the 70th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights at the UN headquarters, Secretary-General António Guterres praised the "essential" contributions of the Indian reformer Hansa Mehta. In his tribute, he remarked, "Hansa Mehta of India, for example, without whom we would likely be speaking of the Universal Declaration of the Rights of Man rather than of Human Rights."
Guterres rightly acknowledged how the Universal Declaration of Human Rights has influenced policies and constitutions worldwide, empowering women's full participation and driving the fight against discrimination and racism. "It has given rise to a rich body of legally binding international human rights treaties and continues to be an inspiration to people around the globe. However, we still have a long way to go before respect for human rights is truly universal," he had sounded a note of caution.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
The May afternoon was hot, much hotter than anyone in Kolkata remembered. Heat was pouring like molten lava from the sky scalding anything that was exposed to it. Raja was asleep, a dream playing hide and seek with him. In his dream the sky was gradually turning into a blazing oven, getting redder by the minute. A huge eagle hovered, its angry face silhouetted ominously against the red canopy of the sky. Suddenly it soared high and crazily pricked the sky with its sharp beak, drawing blood. And the blood fell, drip by drip, on Raja's face. He woke up with a start. His face felt wet. His hand went up, he wondered if it was blood that had turned his face wet. He looked at the hand and sighed in relief! No, it was not blood, just drops of water which must have dripped from the air-conditioner from the room above his, ricocheting off the window.
Raja always slept light, his mind in a state of constant alertness. As a professional killer he could never let his guard down, never sink into deep sleep. His subconscious mind always heard mild noises - the slow, sinister footsteps of approaching death. Often he heard them very close, sometimes from far away, but some of his waking moments were meant for death, locating the prey, watching his movements, planning the kill and finally pulling of the trigger of his favourite pistol - a 9mm beretta Ustaad had given him when he was initiated into the rarified world of professional killing.
With the pulling of the trigger one more life got extinguished, like the dying flame of a lamp blown away by a gust of wind. The icy hand of death gripped the prey and led him in the dark path of the unknown. And Raja returned to his one-room apartment at Beliaghat. He lived alone, brushing away Ustaad's suggestion to take Felu as a room mate. Ustaad thought there was safety in living with a room mate. A professional killer was always at risk, someone from the scene of shooting might follow him to his apartment and blackmail him, or some relative of the prey might come to know the identity of the killer and plan to kill him. A room mate would provide safety. Raja would dismiss him with contempt - no one could ever follow Raja to his den. After pulling the trigger Raja melted in the air, beyond the sight of ordinary mortals. Felu would be a liability, a burden. Although two years older to Raja, Felu was still immature. His aim as a sharpshooter was accurate, but he was prone to impatience, always in a hurry to pull the trigger and finish the job.
Ustaad also knew no one could be like Raja. A priceless gem like Raja is as rare as a Husain Bolt in athletics or a Sachin Tendulkar in cricket. Flawless, patient to the core, with a sharp sight and an unfailing aim, Raja was a genius and destined to rule the crime kingdom of Kolkata as a Badshah in a few years. He was a marvel - no bad habits, no paan, tobacco, alcohol or cigarettes. No visit to the red light area which was a favourite pastime of the other three killers Ustaad had - Felu, Krishna and Murad. Ustaad needed to have two teams - his portfolio had expanded in the last five years - since he could not expose the same team at all the killings. Raja and Felu formed one team, Krishna and Murad the other. Every team had a lead shooter and a Doosra, a duplicate, who would pull the trigger only if the lead shooter gets distracted or failed for some reason. Raja never failed, Felu was always his Doosra. That's why, although Raja had more than thirty victims, Felu was yet to open his account for Ustaad. Before he was recruited Felu had killed half a dozen fellows, not big shots but some drunks, some labourers, who had developed illicit relations with a neighbour's wife. The kind of fellows who would not be missed by anyone. But Ustaad's clients were high class, they paid good sums. Ustaad charged minimum fifty thousand rupees for a killing, kept fifty percent and gave fifteen thousand to the lead shooter and ten thousand to the Doosra. Ustaad never cheated his boys, he was a thorough gentleman, his only failing was an obsession with call girls on whom he spent lavishly.
Ustaad had dropped out of college at the age of twenty two and started his career as a small time thief and pick pocket. In five years he had formed his own gang of pick pockets, recruiting small boys with nimble fingers. He used to steal the boys from orphabnages and shelter homes, fed them well, trained them, allotted routes to them, made them familiar with their areas like the back of their palms so that they could escape uncaught when cornered. Soon he had five boys who had monopolised all the major routes of Kolkata. They would never repeat a route on the same day, never talked to anyone, made no friends, only their eyes were alert, hands itching to pick a pocket at the slightest opportunity. They scanned buses, local trains and crowded markets for a wallet peeping out of a half open pocket, a purse dangling carelessly from a dozing lady. There was competition from other gangs but Ustaad's boys were the best. They would start at eight in the morning and wind up around ten, come to Ustaad's house and hand over the day's earnings to him. They never cheated Ustaad who took good care of them, providing great food and sleeping space in his spare bedroom. He also paid them a salary of three thousand rupees a month which they kept in an account at the post office, declaring their profession as a daily labourer.
The sixth boy of the household was Khagen, everyone used to call him Khagoo. He used to do the cleaning of the house and cooked for everyone. Twice in a day - both morning and night - he used to give an oil massage to Ustaad who believed in maintaining a well-toned, muscled body to impress his numerous partners in the red light area where he was a frequent visitor. He spent most of the evenings there, but always returned home in the night. Khagoo would be waiting for him to give an oil massage, in turn Ustaad would give him some fish fry or chicken pakoda he would have got on the way. Khagoo was a big eater, proud of his protruding belly and round, chubby face.
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Ustaad would often remember, with a happy smile on his face, the day Raja came to his life. He had gone on his annual trip to Puri, the famous Jagannath Dham and was on his way back to Kolkata. The train had stopped at Khorda junction. Ustaad had just finished his bread pakoda and a cup of tea and got into his compartment. The train started moving and suddenly a boy jumped into the compartment and with the train's momentum lost his balance. Ustaad caught hold of the boy before he fell and steadied him. The next moment he pulled his hand back, his mouth fell open with shock. The boy's shirt had got drenched in blood. Ustaad's hand had become red. He locked the door of the apartment and caught hold of the boy,
"My God! What happened to you? Why are you bleeding so much?," Ustaad asked in Bengali.
The boy looked at him, his body in the arms of Ustaad. He was probably around fourteen or fifteen years of age, quite strong for a village boy. In a moment he broke down and started crying, loud, helpless sobs racking his body. Couple of passengers came running, they led the boy to a vacant seat.
Ustaad gave him some water and repeated the question. The boy shook his head, he didn't know Bengali. A passenger asked him in Odiya why he was crying and the boy's story came out, in a mix of sobs and incoherent words. His name was Raja, he was a fourteen year old from a nearby village, three kilometres from Khorda. His father had passed away a few years back and goaded by the relatives his mother married her dead husband's cousin. The new man of the house was a heartless monster whose aim in life seemed to be to inflict the maximum pain on Raja. Within a year of marriage his mother gave birth to a lovely daughter and Raja's misery piled up. His step father got angry with him at the slightest pretext and would beat him mercilessly, often tying him to a tree in the courtyard and breaking a long twig or two on his back. Raja's mother used to cry at her son's misery but she also was beaten up by her rogue of a husband. When her daughter Meenu reached the age of five she became an absolute fan of her step brother who used to love her like the best thing in the world, take her round the village, pluck fruits from the trees and feed her. But the moment the step father returned home the reign of terror started. Often Raja's mother and little Meenu would stealthily visit Raja writhing in agony in the small store room, gave him food and applied balm on the aching body. Raja would cry, hiding his face on the lap of his mother whose sobbing would hardly soothe the agonised boy.
The day Raja boarded the train to Kolkata, was the worst day of his life. For some reason his step father had picked up a quarrel with a couple of villagers, got terribly angry and came home to find the boy at home. Raja would have left to work in the field after his mother served him some food, but the merciless man lost his cool. He shut his wife and daughter in a room, tied Raja to a tree and kept thrashing him till blood came out on the poor boy's back. When one cane broke he brought another one. He had gone mad with anger. The loud wails of his wife and daughter finally stopped his beating and he left home in a fit of uncontrolled anger. The moment he left, Raja wriggled his bloody frame and somehow freed himself. He knew, this was going to be his last day at home. He knew the railway station was three kilometres away, he had gone there a few times to look in amazement at the colourful trains lazily leaving the station and chugging on.
Raja unlocked the room where his mother and little sister had been locked up. Before the wailing mother could gather him in her arms, he took a look at them and with tears streaming down his eyes he ran away. He was just in time to board the Kolkata bound train. Ustaad had rescued him at the right time, otherwise he would have probably fallen off the train. Once his story came out, everyone was all sympathy for him. One of the passengers asked him what he wanted to do, whether he had any relatives in some other place who would keep him. Raja stared blankly at the man. He knew no relative other than his mother, sister and step father. Ustaad asked him whether he would like to come with him to Kolkata. Raja looked at him, burst into tears and nodded. Ustaad got down at Bhubaneswar station and ran to the ticket counter to buy a ticket for Raja.
Raja settled down at Ustaad's place and in a few days would have received his training and joined Ustaad's band of thieves and pickpockets. But destiny had other plans for him. Two days after he arrived, the six boys in Ustaad's household ganged up against him, an unknown competitor from a far away land. They waited for every opportunity to corner the boy from Odisha and shower him with kicks and beatings. Raja, although stronger than all of them, put up with it for some time. On the third day, he flared up, he decided he had not come all the way to Kolkata to suffer fresh rounds of humiliation and beating. He gave them back kick for kick, slap for slap. On a hot afternoon Ustaad was returning home for lunch when he saw Chhelu and Montu beating up Raja on the street outside the house. The moment the two boys saw Ustaad they ran away. Raja was mad with anger. He picked up a stone from the street and threw it at them. They were already a hundred feet away. The stone hit Montu on the back and with a loud cry he fell down. Startled, Chhelu, a little ahead, looked back. The next moment another stone hit him and with a big cry of 'O Maa' he also fell to the ground.
Ustaad's eyes popped out. What accuracy - hitting two boys a hundred feet away! Didn't miss even once. He went to Raja and calmed him down. He was curious to know how Raja had developed such accuracy in throwing a stone. Raja told him his exploits in the mango groves where he would visit in the summer afternoons with his friends and pluck mangoes by throwing stones at them. With pride in his voice he announced he never failed to hit a mango. Ustaad took a nap after lunch. An idea had started in his mind. For a long time his friend Latif had been after him to give up the paltry pickpocket business and move on to the more lucrative and heroic profession of supari killing. He got up and took Raja with him and went to the nearby maidan which was almost empty in the summer afternoon. He gathered about twenty stones and asked Raja to throw them at a broken down wooden goal post about a hundred feet away. He could not believe himself when Raja succeeded in hitting the goal post eighteen out of twenty times. He knew he had hit a jackpot. This boy had the potential to be an excellent sharp shooter, he needed training and Ustaad had to wait for four more years before he could hand over a gun to him and ask him to shoot. For the next four years he let the boy roam around to know each and every nook and corner of Kolkata
Ustaad started taking Raja everywhere with him, except the red light area. The boy was very sharp, had a good memory, was disciplined in eating and had no craving for food. He often took the name of his sister Meenu in his sleep and would murmur Maa, Maa, and then get up screaming. But time healed his wound. By the time he was eighteen, Ustaad bought a gun for him and asked him to practice shooting. Soon Felu, an experienced shooter joined. But Ustaad made sure Raja was the leader of the team. Ustaad sold away his pickpocket business to another small time criminal who took the five boys with him. Only Khagen remained with Ustaad to do the cooking and cleaning of the house. Ustaad had never made Raja do household work. He wanted to turn Raja into the Badshah of the crime world in Kolkata.
The first time Ustaad took a supari to kill a businessman, he was nervous. Raja, all of eighteen years, wanted to know why he should kill someone he didn't know. Ustaad told him the man was bad, he beat his wife and harassed everyone in his employment. Raja's face hardened, he agreed to killl the evil man. Ustaad helped him to recce the place, observe the movement of the prey for three days. He knew the man left his office around five thirty, walked down the street to the parking place and got into his waiting car. On the day of the killing Raja went to the office of the business man accompanied by Felu, his Doosra. Ustaaad waited a hundred meters behind, his heart beating violently, unsure if Raja would pull off the job. The prey came out of the office a little later than five thirty and started walking towards the car. Raja and Felu stood a few feet away, observing him keenly. The man neared the car, Ustaad waited, Felu waited. Both of them started sweating. Doubts sailed through their mind, would Raja pull the trigger, or would he develop a cold feed? When the prey bent to get into the car, Ustaad sighed, Felu gave up, he would have pulled the trigger had he not been strictly forbidden by Ustaad to do that. Ustaad wanted Raja to succeed at any cost, but he wasn't sure anymore. He blinked and the next moment the prey slumped forward, blood oozing out of his head. Ah! Raja had finally pulled the trigger and made his first kill! The future Badshah of crime kingdom had set his foot on his predestined path! Now nobody could stop him! Raja and Felu melted into the crowd. Ustaad smiled in satisfaction and walked away.
From then on Raja became busy, the first killing was followed by another in fifteen days and it went on till Raja lost count of it. He was always calm, steady, never lost his way, never failed to kill the prey with the first shot and always melted into thin air after finishing the job. His only fetish was taking a bath before going on the killing mission and after returning home. He would wash his body thoroughly, trying to clean off the guilt of the act. Or was it the agony, the anguish of his younger days he was trying to get rid of, with a scented soap and buckets of water? He was not sure.
Raja never forgot his mother and the little sister. He would often sit, pensive and nostalgic, seeing his mother bending over him, putting some food into his mouth, his little sister trying to soothe his pain by applying balm on his body. He would shudder at the memory. Ah, how old his little sweet sister would be? Eleven? Twelve? He longed to see her and to eat food prepared by his loving mother. Twice he wanted to go to his village to meet his mother and Meenu, but Ustaad dissuaded him. Raja was being groomed by him to be the Badshah of Kolkata's underworld. With more than thirty killings he had already become the biggest sharp shooter of the city, in a few years, he would move into the big world of organised crime, Ustaad would retire and hand over his business to Raja, drawing a fat pension from the conscientious boy. Why should he go back to his small, nondescript village, what was the guarantee his stepfather would even admit him to the house? His sister was no more the little girl he had left seven years back, what was the guarantee she would recognise him? And his mother? May be she would have become a slave to her cruel husband. Ustaad knew the world better than Raja. It would be wise to forget the past and look to the future. The kingdom of Kolkata's crime world was waiting for Raja, to welcome him as its master. Why should Raja take a risk by going back to his past? Raja was not fully convinced, but doubts assailed his mind. He kept postponing the trip to his village.
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Raja looked at the watch. Three thirty in the afternoon. He had to get ready, to leave by four fifteen. It was a long walk to Kidderpore, where his prey would walk out of his office exactly at five. His car would be waiting on the other side of the road. He simply had to cross the road when the traffic light turned red, walk a few feet and get into his waiting car. Raja had been watching him for the past four days, accompanied by Felu, his Doosra. They had identified the place where they would stand behind a big garbage bin about fifty feet from where the car would be waiting for the prey and Raja would pull the trigger. There was a small lane right behind them, after the prey fell to the ground they would escape through the lane.
Raja came out after a bath. Felu was waiting for him. They reached the prey's office a few minutes before five and mingled with the crowd, keeping an eye at the door of the building form where the prey would walk out, probably the last walk of his life. At exactly five he came out, looked to both sides and started walking. The traffic signal was twenty feet away, he stopped for the light to turn red on the big street so that he could walk to cross over to the other side. Raja and Felu had taken their position near the garbage bin, their hands on the pistols in their pocket, ready to shoot as soon as the prey crossed the street.
Suddenly a lady, accompanied by a young girl appeared on the side of the prey. They started talking to the man. Felu lost his cool. What were they doing? Why were they distracting the prey from his predestined walk to death? The man seemed to be giving some direction to them, showing which path to take after crossing the road. He probably asked them to accompany him while crossing the road. They nodded. The light turned red on the Main Street, it was time to cross over. They started walking....
Raja squinted at them. The prey was walking on the left, the lady and the girl to his right. The girl was probably the same age as Meenu, his darling sister. She held the lady's hand to help her crosss the street. Ah, a mother and daughter! Probably, in some other life, in another world, it could have been his mother and the sweet Meenu walking down the road to meet Raja! For the first time in his shooting career Raja got distracted. Anyway, he could not pull the trigger when the prey was shielded by the lady and daughter on his right. He would have to wait till they got separated and went in their different ways.
They crossed the road. The prey started walking towards the car, the lady and her daughter following him. Raja took the aim, but had to wait for the prey to get a little away from the two women. Felu was getting impatient, he whispered - Raja, shoot! Raja could not pull the trigger, his mind mesmerised by the two women walking behind the prey. Felu was angry, Ustaad had given clear instructions that the job had to be finished that day. Why was Raja wavering, it was so unlike him! Felu watched as the prey and the two women approached the car. In a few seconds the prey would get into his car and vanish. Felu looked at Raja who appeared to be in a daze. He lifted the pistol and took the aim. Raja saw from the corner of his eyes Felu was about to shoot. He was shocked! What if Felu shot the lady and the girl. He wanted to stop Felu and moved forward to wrest the pistol from his Doosra's hand. He was late by the fraction of a second, the bullet hit him right on the chest, drawing blood. He screamed and fell down. Horrified, Felu looked at Raja, but he could do nothing. In a moment he melted into the lane and escaped.
Raja's loud scream had startled the prey and the two ladies. The prey got into his car, the two ladies came running to where Raja was lying on the ground, his life drifting away in fits of agonised gasps. A crowd had started forming, but no one did anything.The lady screamed 'O Maa', and sat down on the ground, bringing Raja's head onto her lap. She shouted at the girl to fetch some water from the nearby shop. Tears streamed down from her face and fell on Raja. His vision blurred, Raja saw Meenu running away, his mother bending over him. Beyond her, the huge eagle he had seen in his dreams was hovering against the sky. The eagle let out a big scream and pierced the sky. Red blood started dripping over Raja. With his strength webbing away, he tried to hold the hand of his mother, crying in a feeble voice, Maa! He looked at Meenu who had come with a bottle of water and was trying to pour it into his mouth. As his life ended, he saw the eagle soaring into the sky, angry and crazy, its beak soaked in blood.
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 . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. 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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