Literary Vibes - Edition CXLIX (31-Jan-2025) - SHORT STORIES
Title : The Woman Within (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
An acclaimed Painter, a published poet, a self-styled green woman passionately planting fruit trees, a published translator, and a former Professor, Lathaprem Sakhya, was born to Tamil parents settled in Kerala. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor of poems, short stories and paintings to several e-magazines and print books. Recently published anthologies in which her stories have come out are Ether Ore, Cocoon Stories, and He She It: The Grammar of Marriage. She is a member of the executive board of Aksharasthree the Literary Woman and editor of the e - magazines - Aksharasthree and Science Shore. She is also a vibrant participant in 5 Poetry groups. Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, Literary Vibes, India Poetry Circle and New Voices and Poetry Chain. Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English, Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni) and currently she is busy with two more projects.
Table of Contents :: Short Story
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
TO JAYANTA SIR, WITH LOVE
02) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
WATER WATER EVERYWHERE
03) Ishwar Pati
CYCLONE IN A TEA CUP
OVER THE WALLS
04) Sujata Dash
A QUIET SUMMER EVENING
05) Snehaprava Das
BLUE UMBRELLA
06) Bidhu K Mohanti
50TH YEAR, WOW!
07) Anita Panda
NAKSHA (PLAN)
08) Minati Rath
A WINTER EVENING AT ROURKELA
09) Deepika Sahu
LIFE LESSONS LEARNT FROM THE NEWSROOM
10) Shri Satish Pashine
THE CLOUDS ON THE MOON
11) Ashok Kumar Mishra
THE SPARK OF LIGHTNING
12) Hema Ravi
MUSIC IN LIFE
13) Surendra Nagaraju
JAMMI
14) Rekha Mohanty
MAGNIFICENT MAYURBHANJ
15) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: CELEBRATING A WOMAN, WHO BROKE BARRIERS AND ROCKETED INDIA’S FAME TO THE SKY!
16) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
POET
17) T. V. Sreekumar
SEVENTY PLUS SUMMERS
18) Sreechandra Banerjee
RHYTHMS OF THE HEART
19) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
MY FRIEND DIGAMBAR AND HIS DEAD SON
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Jayanta Sir, the colossus who strode the spans of English poetry, the best ever among all the poets in India and outside, young and old, now or earlier; the Jayanta Mahapatra from Cuttack, Odisha, India, simply ‘Sir’ to many like me, and to others, young and old, who held him in affection, simply ‘Jayanta’ that he loved and insisted upon to be addressed as.
Speaking of his inimitable meditative poetry qualified by an inner silence and connected to his soil and personal, spiritual, and sensual soul-searching words, I summarize his essences by quoting him, “All the poetry there is in the world appears to rise out of the ashes.” (from: Jayanta Mahapatra a journey)
A poem of his, I loved much, that say in essence his attachment to his soil, its climate, moods, his personal connection to it, its ways of loving and timidity, its unconditional surrender and serendipity:
A HOT MAY AFTERNOON
Not a breath of air anywhere.
Just my sinful sorrows
Keep craving for a kindred being.
Windows are shut tight
In houses everywhere.
And outside, farewell after farewell.
How can I break
This grating silence of the river’s
Burning sands inside of me?
When I muster
Enough courage
And reach for my lover’s breasts,
With a half smile
She hands me the first book
Of an untouched life.
X X X
1969, late forenoon of February. I was standing on the library verandah of Fakir Mohan College, Balasore, with some friends. We were students of final year of BSc. with Physics Honors. We had finished our theoretical classes of the final year but were attending college to finish practical experiments in Physics, Chemistry, and Biology.
Before our eyes a man with a dapper ensemble of dark trouser and white bush shirt but looking down with a brooding demeanor was crossing the front lawn. He had a bunch of books in his hand. I recall, it was the parting days of winter and a balmy spring was across the threshold. In that small intimate town, Balasore, almost everyone knew everyone else. Yet I didn’t know this stranger. ‘Was it because of his silences, gentle manners?’, it bothered me.
A friend pointed out, “He is Jayanta Mahapatra, our new lecturer of Physics. He is a strange man. He reads English poetry all the time, but teaches Physics. Those books in his hand, if I am not wrong, should be books of English poetry.”
It was a strange way of introducing a college teacher, and the tone of my friend oozed disapproval, rather insolence. Others behaved as if they had not heard the comments. I grew curious. He never took any of my physics classes because we had no theoretical classes left. He appeared to be maintaining a silent gentle low profile. He also appeared mild and amiable from his brooding face when he entered the library by my side.
being in physics department’s teaching faculty was like being in news in that small town, so our physics teachers claimed a brighter profile than other teachers and rightly or wrongly they were considered brighter than their peers in the college. Jayanta Sir was ignored by our college and even by our small intimate town like a non-event. I guessed few valued the value of silence.
Those days, I was trying to be an Einstein and some misplaced praise including that of a few college teachers for my insight into physics had, perhaps, made me a bit swollen-headed and thick-skinned to appreciate a physics teacher having a love for English poetry. So, I least bothered to seek this mystery man Jayanta Mahapatra out of the wilderness of the then poor town Balasore, in spite of my curious nature. I forgot him.
I met him face to face for the first time, in a sweating April afternoon (in poet’s language a ‘sultry and sweltering April’) in1986 in his famous residence at Tinkonia Bagicha of Cuttack town. The front of the simple two-storey-bungalow, that stood in the heart of the town, was thickly canopied by the low hanging branches of a huge mango tree, a few clumps of decorative bamboo and strands of giant climber-money-plants, all of which competed for accommodation in the remaining little free space after the big brother Mango tree had its lion’s share. A narrow, paved path joined the iron gate in the compound wall to the door of the house.
The small sitting room, where I sat with the then iconic Indo-English poet Jayanta Mahapatra, was cool under the green marquee created by the plants outdoor. The atmosphere had the air of a modern hermitage. I was meeting him on a very selfish purpose to try and occupy a fringe spectrum of the space belonging to English poetry by Indian poets.
After my MSc, giving up my Einsteinian dreams, I was a revenue officer in IRS of the Revenue Department of Govt. of India. A year before 1986, I was launched into writing poetry in English by an association of Indo English poets, the Poetry Circle, Bombay, a really late starting for a poet. I showed Jayanta Sir my notebook with roughly twenty poems, the better ones in my own opinion from among my efforts at poetry in a year’s time.
Over cool nimbu-pani, or Karanji as called by Delhi Walas, that we sipped together, he looked at my poems with attention. Then without uttering a word if he liked or disliked them, he chose a one-page poem on Mahatma Gandhi, and said, “I will take this for my magazine Chandrabhaga. I advise you to read as many poets as possible, from India and abroad, that would enable you to write good poetry.” With that he stood up and folded his hands in a gesture of ‘You may leave now’ and I left with an ingratiating smile.
Selecting a poem of mine for Chandrabhaga, Jayanta Sir had pushed me up to the top of cloud nine; for publishing in Chandrabhaga would be a feather in the cap of any Indian poet writing in English, such was the magazine’s reputation. Jayanta Mahapatra was the journal’s founder editor.
After my first publication of a poem, my poems got regularly published in Jayanta Sir’s Chandrabhaga and other prestigious literary journals, but the icon of the Indo-English poetry, Jayanta Mahapatra would always say about my poetry, “What do I know of poetry, Prabhanjan? Show your new poems to Nissim, Adil and other established Indo-English poets living near you in Mumbai and seek their opinion.”
Around 1990, he was invited by Bombay University to read his poems, a solo reading. Like me many curious listeners among the audience asked him how, when and with what as inspiration, he wrote his inimitable lovely lines. He had the stock answer, “What do I know of poetry?” I would understand his aloofness much later - he was trying not to create spoilt brats in the charged arena of Indian English poetry of those days where patronized poets with swollen pomposity spent more time in shadowboxing than they spent in creative work, and occupying themselves in forming groups of literati-bullies capturing important platforms by quid pro quo technique of maneuvering.
Then he kept visiting Bombay (that turned into Mumbai around 1995), frequenting the city for his wife’s treatment and we had many meetings while running hospital errands together. We used the opportunity to go around Bombay. He and his wife were foodies and his favorite haunts were places like Sion-Koli Wada’s narrow lanes where fish and prawn fries were mouth-watering at affordable prices for us, the two mavericks without deep pockets, or Sindhi Camp in Chembur where chicken and mutton curries were riots for food lovers and Chowpatty at Girgaon as well as that at Juhu for Pao Bhaji.
We had also frequent visits to Arrey, where a large patch of the prime jungle, an extension of the Western Ghat biodiverse flora, was preserved to serve as the lungs of Bombay, as the Amazonian Rain Forests were maintained as the lungs of our planet Earth. Initially I took him to the well-kept parks like Chhota Kashmir inside the Arrey but he had no liking for either the topiary or other art forms of pruned trees standing in discipline. He loved the naturally and irregularly growing plants and creepers and preserving the secrets of nature in their shaded dark, serenaded by birds, bees, thrush and cicadas.
To describe his down to earth simplicity, I would quote one occasion. During his Bombay stay at his son’s place. Menka Shivdasani, a friend of mine and a well-known poet of Mumbai, one of the founders of Poetry Circle, the haloed association of Bombay Indo-English poets, asked me if I was available to have lunch with the poet Jayanta Mahapatra in her house? I reached her Santacruz flat, my memories might be hazy about the location, and found many young poets hobnobbing there. I missed the lunch for my late arrival.
I looked for the presiding poet and finally found him not reading or discussing poetry with others, but at the kitchen sink giving his hand in washing the dishes. He and a woman poet were doing the dishes. He was like that, a bit Gandhian, always eager to help and accommodate others with a personal touch.
Though we became personally close, we hardly discussed poetry or literature. I never directly knew if he found my poetry of any standard. My wife was very unhappy about the company I kept among the poets and was very critical of my poetry. He found my writing too sensual for her taste. I had a poem on Mira, the Bhakti poet of Mewar royal house. My wife would say, “It’s a pity, you even did not spare Mira.”
I overheard she discussing Mira with Jayanta Sir once when he was having a cup of tea at my place. But Jayanta Sir explained, “He writes very good poetry. Sensuality is a side of Mira’s spiritual songs. Your husband is not wrong. I have observed him developing a new style of his own.” His words behind my back made me as happy as he had made me during our first meeting by selecting my poem on Bapu for Chandrabhaga in 1986.
My moves out of Mumbai on transfer to other Indian cities reduced our person-to-person meetings to almost zero. We would write letters to each other, or talk on telephone. Again, I stress, in all our small talk, poetry was conspicuously absent.
His peregrination reduced because of bad health and age. He was in late seventies when his son passed away and he lost his wife, who had grown close to me also. He had also lost another soul close to his heart, the old and sprawling mango tree in his little garden. The giant fatherly tree was uprooted in 1999 Super Cyclone that devastated Odisha. With the tree he lost as if one of his guardian angels. Then, after a decade and odd years his faithful, lifelong maid-care taker, and emotional support Sarojini passed away.
During my annual visits to Odisha, I would meet him invariably and would see him growing feebler at every meeting. But his mental fitness would amaze me. He had a photographic memory. He would badly miss Mumbai’s Pao-bhaji at Chowpatty and fish fry at Koli Wada. But he never missed the poetry scenario at Mumbai. I felt he considered us, the Mumbai (Bombay) poets, more-gloss, less-gold, more-sound, less-action.
The last we met a few months before he passed away. He was bound to his easy chair mostly. He looked shrunken in body but robust in spirit, his toothless face beamed as beautifully from among the creases and wrinkles.
I recall presenting him a poem I wrote on him when Nani and Sarojini were alive, that he read and beamed. –
SILENCES
We crowded you, your room,
your personal space
by the Mango tree,
like clucking hens, we three
made a commotion of thirty.
And you sat in your bubble
of solitude, silent, wearing
an inscrutable mood
between downcast and detached,
a praying Buddha, with eyes ajar.
You encompassed the silence
of eons, of humans, animals, plants;
living, dead, spiritual, and feral;
on the earth, in sea, and the sky,
visible, sentient and beyond.
After the informal tea, Sarojini,
Nani, and me, the three of us,
making the hubbub of thirty;
Sarojini, Nani and you stood
beneath the iconic Mango tree
The tree was no more physically there
but still existing like the river Saraswati,
a benign myth; resolutely dead
but living indelibly in memory like
an unfinished yawn, an arriving sneeze.
Gone were the tree’s nesting birds
the scurrying ants, but their ghosts
hobnob like the fruitlets that once
lent freshness to the swishing wind.
I joined you three to bask in its aura.
For a change, we fell silent, the infection
from you was catching us up, late
perhaps, like a footnote.
Nani and Sarojini appropriately wearing
their moods, to say 'bye' to me.
But, you, the Buddha, parted your lips,
making me, the poor greedy devil,
to spread my napkin to collect
the crumbs from your lips. But you only said,
"I love the cacophony you bring."
Disclaimer - The above personal reminiscences about the eminent late poet, who is only ‘Sir’ to me and many, are reproduced from memory spanning over 50 years and more, from the late afternoon day in February, 1969, the day I cast my eyes on him. So, everything might not be accurate. But I have been honest in their essence, if not scholarly in inking them. (END)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
The room was cold, the AC humming faintly in the background, yet I felt sweat bead on my forehead and trickle down my temples. The irony wasn’t lost on me—the room designated for senior doctors, where comfort was promised, had become a suffocating cell. My eyes drifted to the photograph of Mahatma Gandhi on the opposite wall, the inscription beneath it glowing faintly in the sterile light: Satyameva Jayate. Truth alone triumphs.
But what truth? Whose truth?
His face swam before my eyes—the real estate agent. His trembling hands. The hollow in his eyes as he received his son’s body after the post-mortem. A face ravaged by time and something darker. A line from Hamlet floated to me unbidden, reverberating in my mind: Who was he to me, or me to him?
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him, though I doubt he recognized me now. Years ago, in a distant town, I had seen him on his knees, his pride shattered like porcelain under a boot. "Doctor, please," he had begged, his voice hoarse and his hands clasped as if in prayer. His breath reeked of despair. "You must help me. I’ll lose everything—my life, my son, my name."
He had killed his younger sister in a fit of rage, a single, monstrous kick that sent her into oblivion. When he found her lifeless body, panic had taken hold. He’d hung her from the ceiling fan to simulate a suicide. It was a crude tableau, and he needed me to write the final stroke of the forgery—a false post-mortem report.
I hesitated then, wrestled with myself. But in the end, his wealth spoke louder than my scruples. An apartment in the city sealed the deal. The truth, or whatever semblance of it remained, was buried with his sister. His young son had accompanied him that day, a wide-eyed boy clutching a toy car. His innocence was a silent rebuke, one I buried as easily as the truth.
Years rolled by like slow, grinding wheels. When I was transferred to this remote hill station hospital three days ago, I thought fate was finally giving me a reprieve—a place to disappear into quiet obscurity. But fate has a twisted sense of humor.
The boy, now a man, had drowned in a pool notorious for its treacherous depths. He had come here alone, celebrating his success in some national exam. The water claimed him in silence. His father, now stooped and grayed, had to cross half the country to retrieve what was left of him.
I watched the man as he sat in the corner of the mortuary, clutching his son’s belongings—a damp wallet, a soaked certificate, and that same toy car, now rusted. He didn’t cry. His grief was a vacuum, pulling all sound from the room.
"Doctor," he croaked when he saw me, his voice faint and brittle. "Is it true? Was it quick?"
I didn’t have the heart—or the cruelty—to tell him that the autopsy suggested otherwise. "Yes," I lied. "It was quick. He wouldn’t have suffered."
He nodded slowly, the words falling on him like a benediction. "Thank you," he whispered, his gaze lowering to the toy car in his hands.
I walked back to the office, my legs heavy, my mind cluttered. The photograph of Gandhi stared at me again, unblinking, unyielding. The words beneath it burned into my thoughts: Satyameva Jayate. But what did truth matter when lives had already been shattered, twisted into something unrecognizable?
The AC continued its low, mechanical hum. Outside, the mist curled through the hills like ghostly fingers. I closed my eyes and leaned back, feeling the weight of years, of choices, of truths I could no longer run from.
I rang up my family just to make sure they were safe.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
I stood for a while in front of the a wide open piece of land surrounded by low walls. No doubt about it—this was the place. But apart from a couple of nosy neighbours and a few tired faces peeking over the back wall, there wasn’t much activity. A line from G. Sankara Kurup’s poem "Today Me, Tomorrow You" popped into my mind:
"No festival of flowers, only the rhythm of despair;
No showering of flowers, only tears of the child in grief."
Before I could shake off the unease brought on by the scrutinising, sneering eyes of the new tea maker I had to put up with in roadside tea shop, this piece of land and an old shed in it appeared on my way back. The sun was about to rise and the shed could be hardly seen.
It had all started a couple of months ago. Some of us at the office decided to make a short film. The idea came from a real life incident. A young man had been working as a sweeper at our office—a guy with an almost feminine grace. Watching him sweep and mop, you’d think he loved the job so much he’d do it even without pay.
But soon, he lost the job. The position was reserved for women, and his name—Baby—had initially misled everyone. The day he was left, he cried his heart out, and the office felt like a house of mourning. None of us even felt like having lunch that day.
Someone remarked that if he’d lied and claimed to be a woman, he could have kept the job. That sparked the idea: what if someone actually did that? There was a story there. Hari Prasad with no delay wrote it down for our company’s monthly newsletter, and when Aravind, our computer operator read it, he said, “Let’s make it into a movie.”
The set? Our office itself. The actors? Us. The only problem was casting the role of Baby. We tried finding him, thinking he should play himself, but he’d gone somewhere in the high ranges looking for work.
That’s when Satyan dragged me into it. Jokingly, he said, “You’re barely five feet tall—you’d be perfect for Baby’s role.” Everyone took the joke seriously, and I had no choice but to agree.
I’ve always been nervous on stage. How was I supposed to act in front of a camera? Thankfully, the film didn’t have too many dialogues. It was titled "Muted Wails of Thulsi."
But there was another problem—my gait. Five years of NCC parades in college, plus some inherited mannerisms, meant I had a very stiff, masculine way of walking. My strides were firm, inward, and balanced by a slightly stiffened neck and swinging arms—hardly suited for the role.
That’s when Sobha Devi from accounts stepped in. She was also a part-time dance teacher and taught me how to walk differently. She drew curving lines on the floor and showed me how to soften my movements. Sudhakaran Sir joked that Mary Lincoln had trained Abraham Lincoln the same way.
But learning wasn’t enough—I had to make it natural. So, I came up with a solution. I started taking early morning walks, practicing a more delicate, tentative stride. If anyone saw me tiptoeing around like that, I don’t know what they’d think.
And that’s why, as I stood outside those walls, mustering my courage to be seen like this.
I had found a way out of this—one that served a dual purpose. Not only would it help me perfect my role, but it would also let me amaze everyone in front of the camera. I had to shine in my role, no doubt about it. No one had ever even jokingly said I had a feminine side. So, what was there to hesitate about?
Every morning, I started dressing up as Tulasi (different from how Baby looked), my character from the short film, and went out for a walk. After a couple of days, the regulars along the path stopped noticing me, as if I’d become part of the scenery. Yet, some odd incidents did occur.
The first was when I bumped into a woman one morning. Had I been in my usual male attire, I might’ve gotten scolded—or worse, slapped—for grabbing her arm as I stumbled.
Another unexpected benefit was how I quit smoking. The urgency to light a cigarette didn’t align with my new routine, and over time, I stopped entirely. That alone saved me more than two thousand rupees.
One day, Sobha Devi, who had shown me how to mince my steps, casually remarked, “Something seems different about your stride.” Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice.
At five in the morning, there’s a tea stall that opens nearby. A fat Tamilian minds the counter and a lean and hungry looking Bengali youth makes tea. He started calling me “Ladies” with exaggerated respect. Whenever I went there, he’d find a way to stand close to me and serve my tea with extra care. Even if the place was crowded, I was served first. While others got their glasses slammed onto the granite table with a loud clatter, he handed mine over gently.
Once, I accidentally left my umbrella there. He came running after me, shouting “Ladies!” and handed it back with a shy grin.
This morning, though, he wasn’t at the tea stall. When I asked the owner about him, I learned his mother had passed away. He lived just across the road from the stall in a shed used to store construction materials for a building under construction.
Something compelled me to visit his house. I used to dread attending rituals and ceremonies, but this time, I felt no hesitation. Perhaps because I knew there wouldn’t be a crowd, I didn’t even go home to change. If I went like in shirt and pants, he might not recognize me—this was the only way he’d ever seen me.
I walked through the open gate and stepped inside. In the middle of the shed lay his mother’s body, draped in a tattered cloth.
Death doesn’t discriminate—it commands respect, no matter where or whom it touches. I went closer, bent down, and touched her feet as a mark of reverence.
The boy, who was sitting on the floor sobbing, looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. Then, suddenly, he stood up, came forward, and hugged me, crying uncontrollably. Through his wails, I could hear him, “Deedee, Deedee.”
As I held him close to my pounding heart, a few tears fell on my wrist. I wasn’t sure whose they were—his or mine—but I instinctively wiped my eyes.
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.
Ishwar Pati
The Bay of Bengal has been host to a series of the dreaded weather system—the cyclone. Cyclones roar and recede. But not so the storms generated at home with my wife. In fact, if all of them were harnessed in a tea cup, they would make Cyclone Fani look like a tea party. The hot air of one partner rides over the cold air of the other to unleash wind speeds approaching infinity! To the lay observer the war-like situation at my home may appear amusing, but does he have any idea of the criticality of the issues at stake?
What are the issues that invariably draw us out with our daggers drawn? A major one is the manner of making the bed in the morning. We start the day with a tug of war over the bed sheet and the bed cover. When I try to spread the bed cover over the crumpled bed sheet, she rips it away in frenzy. “Don’t you have any common sense?” she screams. “You have to shake and ‘air’ the bed sheet before covering it with the bed cover!” I leave the bed sheet shaken but not stirred! My argument, that both the bed sheet and the bed cover will have to be ventilated anyhow before we go to bed, has her eyes rolling and her tongue tied.
Another time is when she issues clear instructions not to disturb her in the kitchen no matter who comes. “I don’t like to meet anyone in the ‘state of my dress’,” she explains. I agree with her totally as I shoo away a few ‘unimportant’ visitors. After they have gone and the work in the kitchen is over, I casually mention their names. Suddenly she is at my throat! Why did I not tell her when Mr. B had come? Her ‘clear’ instructions apply to Mr. A and C, not to B! She doesn’t mind meeting him with her dress in a mess because he is like a family member! I can sense a storm brewing as she picks up velocity, “I had to talk to him about the servant he had promised to bring. You don’t know about that, do you? How could you? You are not bothered even if I die from overwork, as long as you get your meals on time!”
I feel it prudent to ride out the gale rather than join issues with her. Cyclones pass, but storms in a tea cup hound me like a dog chasing its tail.
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.
Sujata Dash
I am in my twenties.
Not married till now.
Never married rather.
I had some flirtation though.
Those small misadventures cannot be termed as affairs.
I think everyone has some such experience or the other.
A few openly admit. Some cherish these moments quietly.
I met this guy in a gathering the other day.
His roving eyes made me feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. But , let me confess ...I enjoyed the kind of attention I received , being my maiden experience so far.
Does this happen to all of us?
Are we all attention seekers?
I kept on prodding my cranium and received a deep silence as the answer.
I gave credence to the silence as an affirmation and went with it.
The gentleman I met , was roughly in
his late forties.
He was suave , tall , fair and attractive. The mustache he wore ,sat perfectly well on his sharp featured demeanor .
His mischievous and bewitching smile had some magic in it. It made me look back at him in the crowd, more than once and our eyes met.
My initial impulse was to brush him off at the outset, but I was held back by the flattery he had held in his eyes.
In fact I was floored by his gestures.
It was like waking up to a new reality. Till now I did not know that, I savored adulation to this extent.
"So persuasive he was...Omg! His silence too spoke loud and conveyed."
He gave a jerk to my apprehensions as he spoke gently.
" Sorry to bother you miss. I saw you in the gathering. I am new to the city. It seems you are well versed with the place unlike me. I could make out from the way you get along with folks."
" Please don't mind miss when I say you are quite attractive, especially your eyes. I mean it. Well, can we know more about each other?"
" The coffee shop is a few furlong away. Would you please accompany me?"
My curt reply..." I just had coffee " did not deter him from persuasions.
" Well, may be an hour later. Till such time we will chat on random topics. Come along please."
I didn't budge an inch even.
" A few hours later may be."- He proposed.
" I shall wait for you miss at the shop."
There was something more to his persuasiveness.
His words surreptitiously struck a tender chord and I was at a loss for words. Should I meet him ? Or, should not I? It was tough for me to decide.
The story does not end here.
My urge to meet took the better of my meek dispositions and initial resistance took nosedive.
From " I am not sure " to "Maybe " ....it was seamless transition, without any conscious attempt.
Applying some face cream , brushing neatly manicured hair and adjusting my skirt belt to look slim , I headed to the place he had referred to.
As I pushed the glass door if the cafe, I could immediately notice him seated in a corner occupying a small table.
A table for two , leaving no scope therein for any more encumbrance.
Did he do it intentionally to grab my attention or is it his way of doing things as such!
It was a subject for me to ponder.But, I did not go much deep into it.
He was biting nails when our eyes met. He immediately refrained from the offensive act and waved at me , signaling his presence.
I crossed a few tables to reach there. My whole life, I can never forget the warmth that he held in his eyes as he pulled the chair for me to sit.
"Awww! So suave and gentlemanly and such act of chivalry!"- I thought.
"Must be very romantic ."- my wild guess surmised.
He lived in another city. Today, he was there as per his professional commitments. More so, he was part of the gathering as per dictates of his boss. "The boss is always right, needs to be obeyed as such".
The saying goes.
His boss was holidaying elsewhere and had entrusted Aman to attend the so-called family function.
He prolonged his talks. But, I would not say ...
" He was talkative."
Rather he was someone , who mesmerises you with his manners, depth of knowledge and baritone voice. I enjoyed his company.
I know ...I am partial. Let me be.
Crowd at the coffee shop started thinning as evening advanced. At one point of time, It was just the two of us.
We had lingered the conversation sipping our cuppa nice and slow. The snacks he had ordered remained redundant as we munched, gorged on , devoured and gulped down the endearing whiles . Time became memory and we were engulfed in its momentary surge.
The story does not end here.
For, we met several times thereafter.
I knew this much- he lived in another city.
I never enquired the details and he did not elaborate.
But, we met off and on. Especially, when he had to meet some professional commitments in the city. Also, whenever he felt like meeting me.
It was a strange kind of a bond. Neither of us was demanding.
If you are taking it as " None of us was serious about it"
Then probably, you are not wrong.
He would often initiate the talk . I was besotted by the way he spoke and enjoyed the advances thoroughly.Let me not be shy and lie.
I was desperate when he did not contact. At the same time was bemused when he rang. I didn't mind if he called me at the middle of the night knowing well I will not get a wink of sleep even thereafter.
There was something strange, magical yet inexplicable about this feeling.
Some call it "love"
Some " Infatuation" ..
To some other "It is just a dalliance."
He had a family to support. His spouse had a good job. They had two children .
I came know all these details when he showed me the happily married family picture only recently.
Just after showing me the family picture, he confessed about "lack of love" and " marital discord."
I was not a bit emotional as I have listened to such testaments before.
Men need some plea or the other to validate their sorry state of affairs always! He too was trying to do the same.
I was happy that , he appeared brutally honest in his presentations. He acted really well.
A few weeks later he called on me to spring a surprise. Believe me, I was not at all surprised.I could hazard a guess of the move.
We drove to the sea shore ...for I suggested to watch the swell and the surge. He agreed at once.
The foaming sea always fills my heart with love and serenity. He brought the wine bottle and two glasses from his car. He poured some for me. We raised our glasses looking deeply at each other. We didn't utter a word even as our gazes spoke.
He muttered something...
" How subtle is the splendor of the sea! Wish We could spend more time on the beach. The sea entices both with its roars and calmness. Divine and magnificent, Is not it !"
I could read his lips and nodded.
He was about to pour more to his glass and he did , then sipped courting my unkempt mane swaying in the breeze.
I just shook my head when he offered to fill my glass , signaling " This is enough for me. Let's get back ."
He raised his thumb in affirmation and we drove back. We exchanged glances but did not utter a word.
I went to my residence. He headed for his hotel after planting the parting kiss on my cheeks.
But it was not " Goodbye " for lifetime.
May be, I have grown tall, brave , free and wild. Still some element of love and dream exists, I feel.
Another Sunday today. The effulgent glow of the sunset has painted the sky in hues of orange and pink.
Sitting in the balcony, enjoying the quiet summer evening ,my mood of contemplation tips off that-
"My longings have started growing from the cracks of broken heart and dreams."
I don't know ...If Aman feels the same way today!!!
But, one thing is for sure that- " I will not call him, nor send him any message."
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has four published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm and Humming Serenades -all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
Snehaprava Das
Rishi entered the room eleven days after they had carried her away from there. Everything looked neat and carefully looked after. His mother always liked things to be kept in their appropriate places. There was not a single crease on the bedspread. The pillow covers too looked washed and perfectly fitted to the pillows.
His sister perhaps had kept the room in its right shape. The wooden idol of Lord Jagannath that stood on the top of the closet did not have a speck of dust on it. The mirror fitted to the door of the closet too was dusted and polished. The TV set, the writing table and the large book case filled with many books of English and Hindi and Odia which his mother had either bought and collected ...everything looked neat. The assortments of decorative pieces on the shelves looked the same as they used to look years ago.
Rishi looked at his father who lay
on the armchair, looking sightlessly at the roof. His father who loved to talk and snapped at mother at the smallest slip had suddenly become mute. The tastefully furnished room sagged under the load of a strange silence.
A blue cylindrical object lying at one edge of the top of the closet caught his eyes. Curious, he pulled it out carefully. An umbrella, that was perhaps bright blue once but now had gone patchy and faded, was kept neatly folded in its plastic cover.
He remembered the umbrella. It was the same one his mother used to carry in her handbag while going to office. She held it over his and his sister's head while they walked to the the school which was some three hundred meters away from their home. During those days children did not go to school in the school bus or in their parents' car or on the bike of the father, like they do now. They mostly walked to the school.The umbrella served a double purpose. It protected him and his sister from rain when it rained and from the heat of the sun too. Mother never let them walk without the protective shade of the blue umbrella. The umbrella, like his mother always held its caring drape stretched over her children, anxious to keep all the trouble at bay.
He had forgotten the umbrella after leaving school. He studied higher secondary for two years in a local college and then left his hometown. Later he went out of state for doing a specialized course. Life had been so rushed that he did not find time to communicate much with his mother. Most of his conversations were with his father. His sister too got married in the meantime. Somehow, he shrank inside as he confessed to himself, he had begun to feel indifferent towards his mother, as if he had lost the need of her in his life. Father continued to snub mother as ineffectual and incompetent as he had been doing all through out drowning mother's feeble protests with his loud counter arguements. Rishi and his sister too had now realized that their mother knew nothing much about outside world.
A laconic, self-contained person, mother never tried to defend herself or explain things to the children whom she had given birth and reared up with utmost care.
She did not dress in the way sophisticated ladies did. She wore her hair in a long braid, did not apply make up to her face. Rishi could not remember a day when mother had clad herself in an expensive sari or did her hair in modern fashion. All put together, his mother to Rishi, was an outdated woman who loved to live in the past. The glamour of the institute where he did his specialized course had gone into his head. Whenever her mother wanted to pay a visit to the hostel, Rishi stopped her on several pretexts.
He remembered the convocation ceremony. Almost all the students had invited their parents. But Rishi had shied away from the thought. Father could have come but he was afraid that if father mentioned the convocation ceremony mother might want to accompany him
So he did not let them know about the ceremony. Later, mother had learnt about it from one of her colleagues whose son also studied in the same institute. 'Have you not told aunty about the convocation ceremony?'
His friend asked. 'Why do you ask that?'
'She said she did not know about the function when my mother asked her why she didn't come,' his friend said.
'I told her. She might have forgotten it. You know she keeps so busy ...'
Rishi was preparing excuses to justify his fault as he travelled home in the holidays that followed the function.
But mother never mentioned it. She got busy in preparing the dishes he loved and taking all care to see that he spent his days at home in comfort and happiness. The day on which he returned to the institute his mother got up early in the morning, did the puja and made breakfast for him. She had packed snacks and sweets in plastic jars for him. For a brief moment as he bid goodbye he looked into his mother's eyes. There was something in them he could not describe but which made him feel guilty. It appeared as if she strove to push back words that were about to escape her defying all her resistance.
Thereafter whenever he met his mother he found her strangely quiet..She never made him feel that she was trying to distant herself from him but he could sense it and felt ill at ease in her presence. He got a job and was posted in another city. Mother came and arranged things in his new house. Both father and mother stayed there for a few days and left. He too got married after a couple of years. Mother loved Sheila, his wife and cared for her in the same way she did for him.
Though not obvious but the distance between them some how increased after his marriage. Mother and father came to live with them after his son was born. They were very happy and spent most of their time with their grandson. Since he and his wife worked in a multinational company and had to leave home around eight in the morning mother had to take care of the household responsibilities. She had to look after the baby too which in itself was a full time job. Sometimes he felt guilty to burden his parents especially his mother with these responsibilities at this age but he too had no alternative. May be mothers are, as his father often commented, are taken for granted people.
If she felt overworked or weary mother never complained. She appeared to be really enjoying herself in the company of her grandson. However his wife was not too happy about the way mother cooked traditional dishes of his choice. Like all women she also had her dreams of cooking new items for her husband. But she had no choice too.She had to depend on her parents-in-law for the safety and proper rearing up of her child. But she was dissatisfied with the whole arrangement. Rishi realized that his wife disliked her mother-in-law's extra involvement in certain matters, especially her interest in cooking special dishes for her son and the rearing up of the baby. Mother liked to feed the baby the food which she used to feed her own children. But his wife was in favor of following the nutrionist's diet plan for the baby. Though she never expressed it Rishi could understand his wife's unspoken resentment. He also understood that it was his duty to keep his wife happy. He recollected how he had adopted an apparently discrete way for doing so.
'I have made coconut cutlets, your favorite', mother said, coming out of the kitchen. 'Taste this one...' she put one cutlet on the plate. Rishi and his wife were eating a quick breakfast. His wife cast a glance of disapproval at Rishi. Rishi picked up the cutlet and kept it aside on another plate. 'Pack them in my lunch box mother, ' he said, 'we will eat it during lunchtime.'
'I have packed them for both of you in your respective lunch boxes. This one is just for tasting..'
'We are getting late,' Rishi cut in. 'There is no time for tasting it. We will eat it with our lunch', he said and got up.
He knew he sounded rude but he had no choice. 'Mother would forget it. She never minds my words,' he thought to himself and left for the office.
He couldn't detect any sign of accusation on mother's face when he and his wife returned in the evening. Mother and father were playing and laughing with his son and looked happy. But, Rishi could now recollect, mother had thereafter never urged him to eat any of her specialties. She would cook and serve but never ask to eat more as she had been doing. Every thing seemed to have become very formal. He had not taken note of it at that time. The memory of one after another such incidents like this, which he had not cared to take seriously then, came flooding back, drowning him in a deep sense of regret. After his son started going to school, mother and father returned to their hometown. A year or so after Rishi and his wife left India to settle abroad.
His father, who was used to touring places while he was in office, found it difficult to spend long hours at home. And he took his frustration and boredom out on mother. Mother too had retired but her retirement was not taken seriously as her doing a job. Rishi and his wife mostly communed with father. Mother only wanted to ensure that they were all happy and in good health.
She hardly discussed anything beyond that.
Perhaps, Rishi tried to reason now, father would have cut her short or snapped at her if she tried to prolong her conversation with her son.
Rishi could not remember any occasion since his childhood when his mother had countered his father. That might be the reason why he and his sister had got to ignore their mother's advice and suggestions, and believed her to be thoroughly incompetent and useless as other family members did. Even after all these years it was father who dominated the conversation.
Now as he stood holding the umbrella neatly packed in its plastic cover he realized why the woman who had spread out herself like an awning of love and protection over them became cocooned inside a closed world. She had ungrudgingly folded herself and squeezed into the cover of her self-rejection.
Rishi took the umbrella out of its cover and opened it. He held it over his head for a while and then folded it. He ran his hand over the cloth that had gathered the patina of time over it and then put it back inside its cover.
His wife was doing the packing. They would be leaving the next day. His sister would stay for some more time with father and make the necessary arrangements.
'What is this?' His wife asked, holding out the blue umbrella. 'Why have you put it here in this suitcase?'
'I will take it,' Rishi said grimly, 'pack it along with my clothings'.
'But...' His wife tried to say something but held her words back.
'I will take my mother with me ... she has always tried to keep me close to her but has always been cruelly defeated. From now on she will always be with me.' Rishi promises to himself as he wiped his eyes
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.
Bidhu K Mohanti
A student is in between different addresses. I got down at the railway platform of Cuttack Station, and placed the steel trunk and bed holder on the ground. It was a hot and humid mid-day on 22 May 1976.I had left behind the hostel life in the small town of Berhampur. A short tricycle rickshaw ride, on way assisting the rickshaw puller on an uphill stretch, took me to reach the parental house. Here, the address changed. I had passed the MBBS (Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor of Surgery) and completed the mandatory one-year internship. A day later, on 24 May 1976, a permanent medical license was given to me by the state medical council without a whimper. The medical profession took a journey outside Odisha, yet I have held unto this registration for all these years.
50th Year, Wow! Without a preamble, the batchmates in an indolent way have exchanged, “Come 2025, we will plan to celebrate our 50th year of pass out in 1975 from MKCG Medical College”. WhatsApp has become the go to rendezvous platform. There is no disbelief for me. Yet, counting the years give a sense of weight. In our own small ways, each of my batchmates alongside thousands of other doctors, nurses and health workers have never shirked to work for the ‘health of the nation’. As a cancer specialist, I have seen the success of cancer cure and the dread of cancer failure. She had looked vacantly into my eyes, “When would the bleeding stop? I can not anymore bear the pain”. I have had by own share of mental uncertainties and sleepless nights. And then, lo and behold, six months later she returned for a follow-up and demanded to be noticed, “Look at me, is this yellow saree nice on me?” Her disease had responded well to the treatments and she was tumor-free. In our journey through the medical profession, there are always those moments when you could make a patient happy with himself or herself. She left an irresistible sprinkling of joy within that out-patient corridor on her out of the hospital.
‘Wow’ is unlike most other words in English language. The three letters are spoken with various facial expressions by millions daily all over the world. Its origin is traced to Scottish verbal exchanges in the early 16th century and has taken nearly five centuries for its infectious spread across all spoken languages globally. An interjection or expression of amazement and excitement toward the others in your company, “the pathology teacher wowed us all by a demonstration of human tissue sectioning through a rotary microtome”. In a world captivated by such ‘wow’ moments, the humanity has struggled to understand the body-disease-mind connection. Fifty years in the practice of medicine is such a small fragment of the medical history. In the last decade or so, I often sit through all the opinions and information the patients and their family caregivers have gathered through social media and informal well-wishers before they would reach me. Often, I would not hesitate, “Wow! Your knowledge about your uncle’s mouth cancer and its possible treatment course is superb. I can’t add anything more”. Nearly a decade after the cancer diagnosis and its treatment in 2015, my cancer has recurred leaving the colleagues who treated me earlier to re-understand the disease course.
In our eighth decade, there is an upbeat chaos around the 50th year pass out Reunion. Who knows, the old age adrenaline rush would make them wildly sing, “Chal chal re naujawan”-the cheeky duet sung by Mohammed Rafi and Asha Bhonsle.
Dr. Bidhu K Mohanti, is an oncologist, former Professor at A.I.I.M.S., Delhi and is presently the Director-Academic, Bagchi Sri Shankara Cancer Centre & Research Institute, Bhubaneswar 752054, India. He occasionally writes non-medical pieces in popular medium. Email: drbkmohanti@gmail.com
Anita Panda
Eight months have passed to come to Delhi leaving Kithor Rural . This is my first experience to reside away from birth place. Often it comes to my mind that a Govt job in a small place was much better than this city life. To serve those innocent and needy people was providing utmost satisfaction. To compete with the rat race is beyond my scope as I find here people are self centered and running after money only.
My husband, with commercial temperament, a nonmedical person , born and brought up in a metropolician city . I wonder, would he ever understand the value of serving the needy folk. Ever since we were married he rebucked me for the choice of my life. My parents were also acknowledging my husband and motivating me to go to Delhi for a happy married life. My Husband would say; “ Half of your life journey is already over, although it is difficult to accept the change either at work place or home, but in due course of time, one adopts. So far you have learned only about that Kithor Rural, Sadulpur, Sakarpur, Surajpur etc .Thank God, since in that rural areas there was no medical school, so you got the opportunity to go to Meerut for MBBS degree. Although in study you have spent much, struggled hard, but not shown to the world your brilliancy. Though you worked for others, what have you got for yourself! Now it is the right time to progress golden; open a clinic at Delhi, earn well and enjoy.
I argued ; “ I know Delhi does not value a plain MBBS. I will forget what all I had learned in my Medical School. “
He would answer back; “No doubt, you will remember what you have learned. Besides you will earn money, stay with your loving husband and above all will learn about the culture of city life.”
Though I am not accustomed to argument, but asked to myself, “ City Life ! Here people are selfish to the extent that they forget even their parents if that suits them.”
He opened a grand clinic for me. But, as I was oriented to selfless service even in private practice I kept my consultation fee very nominal against the will of my husband. Perhaps due to my social and friendly dealing , efficiency and more importantly low fees, I was getting many patients for consultation every day.
One day I was getting ready for clinic, the phone rang. Before I picked up the phone, my husband read the name and sarcastically said to me; “Wish you all the best! Enjoy your whole day with the mad lady.” He further continued putting his hands on receiver and speaker; “This woman is totally psycho. Her demands are turning the whole family mad; she complains she is neglected all the time.”
I resented the comment about my patient but kept quiet. I was uncertain if my answer will just speak about my rural background social knowledge as I was ignorant about the tradition of urban family.
However, the word ‘ psycho ‘ provoked me to know more about the patient’s background. Mrs Samiksha Mathur,60 years is the wife of a rich personality who remains busy with other women but no time for his own wife! Son works in a corporate.
Mrs Mathur was told by some doctor years ago that she is suffering from a serious brain disease for which she needs regular follow up, but none of the family members was serious about it. Also because of her old age she was neglected otherwise. Therefore, she used to visit Doctor’s chamber alone always.
Somehow I was not convinced. If the brain disease is a serious one how come it is not progressing for last so many years and she appears very healthy! I examined and investigated her thoroughly and found out that she has a minor ailment ‘Focal Epilepsy’. But I questioned myself “Knowing it is a serious disease how come the family’s attitude is casual ! May be this is the City Life. However, I must teach them a lesson. But how ?”
Next morning I called Mrs Mathur and asked her to keep the phone speaker on. Then I said; “ you need an urgent brain surgery Mrs Mathur. If it will be done now it may cost 2-3 lakhs. So deposit one lakh tomorow as advance at hospital. Also I want to discuss the seriousness of the disease and surgery with your children .”
I could over heard her discussion with some family members. “We have planned to go for outing, so it can be done only at a later date, not tomorrow.” Once she was back to the phone I continued, look Madam, you are not understanding the seriousness of the disease. If not done urgently it may spread to the other organ of the body . Not only then it will cost more but it may be life threatening also.” Someone perhaps kept the hands on mouthpiece and mouth piece of the phone, so I was unable to hear their discussion. After sometime ,“ Madam , it is about my life, I don’t want to die;” Mrs Mathur spoke in a chocked voice. Again I could hear; “ Don’t be so fussy , on my way I will deosit the money, but no way I can cancel my trip. Disgusting.” After disconnecting the phone I called the father of Rahul , a child ,for MRI same time as I gave to Mrs Mathur.
Next morning , reaching in clinic I asked the attendant to send both the patients to the chamber simultaneously. While examining Rahul, I had an eye over Mrs Mathur’s two accompanying persons ( I guessed they are her son and daughter inlaw) who repeatedly were looking their watch. Then I said to Rahul’s father; “ Mr Jain, you mentioned earlier that both of you are jobless and today is your interview . You can go and appear the interview. If at least one person will be selected that will be an asset for you all .The Test can be done some other day.” Both parents exclaimed together; “ No Doctor, Rahul’s health is much more important than the job.”
“Did you hear Rahul? For your health, your parents are sacrificing their carrier. But once you will grow up you would not have time for them.” Then I consoled Rahuls parents that this is not brain surgery that if not done immediately it will affect other organs and may be fatal. You can bring him tomorrow.
After they left,I called Mrs Mathur and started in a howling voice ; “ Today also you have come alone. But without family members consent the surgeon’s hands are tied. I am sorry, you go back, when your children can spare some time for you, then come.” I left the chamber.
Evening, I got a phone call from Mrs Mathur’s son; “ I am sorry doctor, you have taught me a very relevant point. Please give me an appointment, I will bring my mother for surgery. ”
I was smiling to myself. Neither the surgery is needed for Focal Epilepsy, nor I am a neuro surgeon, simply a MBBS Doctor. This was just a plan to provide some lesson to the children who don’t understand the value of the parents.
Repeatedly it was coming to my mind, To ignore the parents in old age, to send them to Elderly Care, now became a trend in urban population . Within no time it will spread to rural area also.
We often comment, the modern children are bad. They don’t understand parent’s value. Yes, it may be partly correct as the trend is to follow the modern culture. But this is the parents who had not taught their children about right and wrong. Parents are the first GURU for the them, so they blindly follow the parents . Of course in due course of time they adopt whatever suits them. I remember a phrase;“when you blame and criticize others, you are avoiding some truth about yourself.”
So the moral of the story is “Rather than commenting the children are bad, it is the duty for all of us to solve the upcoming issues, we parents have to show the children the right path.”
I am sure, we can change their attitude. “ Rome was not builted in a Day “. “The sea is formed with the accumulation of water drops only.”
Dr A. Panda Professor of Ophthalmology Dr Rajendra Prasad Centre for Ophthalmic Sciences All India Institute of Medical Sciences,New Delhi, India Fax-oo91-11-26588919 Tel: 0091-11-26593177
Minati Rath
Reading of what happened recently with Saif Ali Khan brought back memories of something I went through ... an anecdote which is a very pivotal experience in my life which I want to share with all.
23rd November, 2009, a date that I will always remember. This was close to the time we had gone to attend the shraadh ceremony of my father and had just returned back to Rourkela. Both children were studying outside of the city at that time and it was only the two of us - my husband and I. Those who have ever been to Rourkela Steel Plant would remember, the houses are typically very large with huge gardens, servant quarters a little farther out, surrounded by lots of big bushes and fruit trees. This meant the space between neighbours could be quite high. Winter evenings tended to look dark due to fog and streetlights could sometimes be not adequate to light up the place.
There used to be a black dog that always made itself comfortable on the front porch but that particular night of 23rd November he wasn't there. It was raining outside and I had just come to the back of the kitchen to close the doors and windows when I heard a noise coming from the drawing room. I thought it was some routine noise and went out to see what was happening. Typically, at that time Dr Rath, my husband, would always be in the drawing room so I wasn't very alarmed. But what I saw when I entered the room would forever remain etched in my memory. Two people, covered from head to toe in some black garment, with masks on their face, had entered the house. One of them was holding a knife to the neck of Dr Rath.
Startled at seeing me enter the room, the other man ran towards me brandishing the same kind of knife. I was so shocked that without thinking I caught hold of the knife in my hand. I grasped it so tightly that it cut my hand slightly, with some amount of blood coming out through my elbow. He released my hand and asked me to sit down. His companion kept holding my husband’s neck with a knife glued to it and made him sit down next to me. They asked us for the locker keys. Unfortunately, the almirah was open with the key hanging on the almirah itself.
At that moment all I could think of was a similar incident that had happened two years back in Rourkela where a retired GM & his wife were killed at their home by robbers. My heart was pounding, thinking of that situation. I was thirsty and requested for water and at knife point he took me to the kitchen to have some. Bringing me back to my seat they tied us both to our chairs and proceeded into the house to raid the almirah. I still remember they took everything out ……all the ornaments ..…gold and silver, not even leaving behind the junk jewellery. Mobiles, cameras, purse with personal documents - they left nothing. Having ransacked the house they closed the door and vanished.
It took us a little time to struggle out of our chairs and then we rushed to call out at the servant quarters and dialled a call to the police. They responded immediately and sent men in uniforms to guard the house through the night. Investigation was started on war footing, and both the culprits were soon arrested. Funnily enough, they were identified through the drops of my blood on the knife and were eventually caught by Rourkela police while sleeping in the railway station. We will always be grateful to the police department of Rourkela for their swift action. We were deeply thankful to all the well-wishers, neighbours and friends who stood by us with their unwavering support and kindness.
Support from Delhi police was timely and valuable. Without their prompt action to expedite the recovery of the stolen property, we would not have received back every single thing that we had assumed we would never see again. When we were called to the police station we met the two miscreants. Seeing them without masks and in a civil dress, we realised they seemed just like normal people. We were not sure what compels people to act like the way they did.
When I think back on those harrowing moments, staring at what we thought was sure death, the disarray in the house reminding us of all we had been through, I shudder. But what I realised is that not losing one 's head in such situations is the most important thing that we can do. While I am eternally grateful to God for sparing us that evening, the trauma of the incident is secondary to the fact that having the right people around can get you through anything. Our calmness in the face of this life-threatening danger was probably what got us through while panicking would surely have been fatal. All I can say is that I will always remember this but would always be thankful to God for getting us through it. People get out and about in the neighbourhood. Kids play together, neighbours head out of town on vacation, people visit, and inhabitants tend to their yards. The wonderful thing about neighbourhoods is that they support a sense of community, and a sense of community means safety. But, in order to make your neighbourhood safe, everyone must come together. Every child deserves a safe and healthy childhood and a place where he or she can play without worries. That’s why it is important that we help each other build a safe neighbourhood where kids, neighbours, and friends feel secure.
While a perfectly safe neighbourhood is a tough ask, it’s a challenge that each of us can do something about. In many ways, some steps can make it easier to protect our homes, neighbourhood, and community, and ensure we come together to live safely.
1. Know Your Neighbours - Always get to know your neighbours. Don’t just meet them but really try to get to know them. Communication is a big factor in safety.
2. Enhance Your Home’s Security - Always keep your doors locked and keep spare keys with a trusted neighbour or family member instead of under the doormat or near your home. Invest in a home security system, a doorbell camera, or a combination video/alarm system. Doors and windows with alarms are a crime deterrent and cameras allow you to capture any mischief in real-time. Not only can you see who is on your property, but you can also typically watch for anything that doesn’t seem right within a couple of hundred feet of your home.
3. Make it Less Appealing to Steal - Keep your doors, windows closed at night so thieves can’t see your belongings, such as a big-screen TV, appliances, or other technological gadgets. Also, keep your windows closed when you’re out during the day and at night.
4. Don’t Announce When You’re Away on Social Media - You’re telling criminals just what they need to know to get in and out while you’re not at home. This also puts your neighbours at risk.
5. Get to Know Your Local Police Officials - Get to know your local police officials and express to them your desire to make your neighbourhood safe. Put Neighbourhood Safety First and Everyone Wins. Improving neighbourhood safety is a team effort, but it needs to start with someone. As you get to know your neighbours, discuss your concerns, and apply some of the ideas above. You’ll find that your neighbourhood becomes not only a safer place to live but a more enjoyable one for everybody.
Minati Rath is a member of the Krishnamurty Followers' Group and an active paricipant in the group discussions. She is also a social worker. A regular reader of LV and other literary journals, she lives in Hyderabad with her husband who is a retired doctor from SAIL.
LIFE LESSONS LEARNT FROM THE NEWSROOM
Deepika Sahu
The year 2025 marks the 30th year of my professional journey as a journalist. Journalism as a profession has undergone massive transformation in the last three decades. News is now at the click of one’s finger. Whatsapp forwards are now unfortunately being termed as news. We are living in strange times amid an overdose of information, fake news and issues of ethics plaguing the media. It's not easy to be a journalist in today's time. But then for a journalist, it's almost impossible to resist an authentic story and the urge to let it travel through the world. A lot of people perceive journalism as a glamorous profession. However, not many are aware of the grime, the sweat and not to talk about long working hours with erratic shifts and very few holidays. But it is definitely one profession that gives you an ability, a perspective to look at even your own life like an outsider. It’s intoxicating to be in the newsroom day after day, week after week and actually year after year. The joy of finding the story and holding the story within you and then letting it travel to the world is unexplainable. Once you let it go, you have no control over it. And it's that juxtaposition of brutality and tenderness that has fascinated me all these years. The brutality of telling a story as it is and the tenderness of the story becoming a part of my inner life is truly joyful. I believe, if you don't have it in you to come face to face with death, violence, loss and grief then you can't be a journalist. You got to be somewhere else.
The newsroom has been my shrine for years and I have learnt many lessons from the newsroom. I am sharing a few of these lessons here.
Every day is a new beginning: What will be the big story at the end of the day? On most days, journalists start their day on this note and we navigate through the day as per its destiny. I still distinctly remember the evening of November 12, 1996. The editor-in-chief of India’s leading news agency (my workplace then) was having a conversation on the perils of having a dull news day and we were all discussing what would be the next day's headline. And exactly after 30 minutes, we got a panic call in the newsroom. And then came the horrible news of the mid-air collision at Charkhi Dadri which killed 349 people on board. We all worked at the office till the wee hours.
Time and events unfold before our eyes and being in the newsroom gives us an intoxicating feeling. We can’t bask in the glory of bringing out an error-free edition which has already been a part of history or an already published wonderful story/article, headline or very well-designed page. We have to take each day as it comes. Every day’s performance comes under scrutiny. We embrace each day as a new beginning and we learn and unlearn from each day’s work.
Life lies in details: A wonderfully written story in a newspaper will lose its charm even if there's a small spelling mistake. Newsrooms have taught me the importance of the power of detailing. A wrong caption can kill a mesmerising picture. Some years back, I did an interview with a leading theatre personality and director. My editor praised me for a 'well-written interview' and I went home feeling happy that night. The next morning, I woke up to horror. The reason: the desk person did not pay attention while doing a spell-check in the copy I had written. And the theatre personality's name Rita Mafei was published as Rita Mafia. And to top it all, she was an Italian (So 'Mafia' became more deadly in this case). I wanted to go underground that day. However, Rita was gracious enough to say, “Even prominent international newspapers have made similar mistakes.” And she had a hearty laugh too. But there is a life lesson to it – Pay attention to even the smallest details.
The beauty of life lies in its interdependence: Like life, a newsroom is all about interdependence. It is like a game of cricket or soccer. The newsroom is not only about reporters, sub-editors or editors. The newsroom is about working very closely with photographers, graphic designers, illustrators and tech support teams. So, it’s all about interdependence and interconnectedness. In a newsroom no one can work and thrive in isolation. The newsroom is also a wonderful space for reverse mentoring. I have learnt a lot from my younger colleagues and those lessons have made my life rich and textured. Same goes in life too. If we are open and attentive then we can learn from our young sons, daughters, nieces and grandchildren. The beauty of life lies in acknowledging our interdependence. The basic philosophy that holds true is : “I am there because of you.”
Life is full of possibilities: As journalists, we never in our wildest dreams ever thought that we could bring out a newspaper sitting in our homes. The COVID-19 pandemic threw all our earlier life and professional experiences into the wind. As we worked from our homes (from different locations), we collaborated with each other and brought out the newspapers as per our daily strict deadline. It was a journey which was intense, deeply exhausting and full of challenges but it also taught us the most important lesson that life is full of possibilities. We learnt that human beings have an innate ability to push boundaries under challenging circumstances.
There's no greater virtue than credibility and compassion: You can't be a good journalist if you lack credibility and the virtues of compassion. If you are a journalist then you should be able to talk about anything to anybody with dignity and compassion. A good journalist needs to be a mindful communicator which means having a sense of empathy and compassion. Being credible means those around you will trust you. The same goes for life. If one wants to live a fulfilling life then one needs to have credibility apart from being compassionate and non-judgemental. The newsroom teaches us to say no to stereotypes and to be sensitive to community, gender and differently abled. We can live better when we become inclusive and open.
Be in sync with change: When I first started my career in 1995, we had no idea that one day the internet would be so overwhelming in its presence. It has changed the way we read, write or gather news. The times have changed. Today, we look at both print, videos, web stories and social media posts as part of our profession. So, the lesson is – always be open to embrace change.
Look beyond the tag: I often remember that 'nameless' person (from a small place in Haryana) who made a phone call to the PTI office in New Delhi to tell us about the mid-air collision. He kept on saying, "saab maine dekha...maine dekha (I saw it, I saw it)." For a journalist, every source is sacred. The newsroom teaches us to be open to having conversation with people from diverse backgrounds. The same goes for life. The lesson is not to live in your cocooned world. Take a step forward and talk to people around you. Get out of your comfort zone – the newsroom mantra has immense value in life too.
Knowledge is power: The world might say anything but knowledge is powerful. Senior colleagues of mine read five to seven newspapers in a day apart from books on different subjects. Everyday they add something to their knowledge universe. There is no limit to knowledge. At the same time, the newsroom also has taught me that there is a difference between information and knowledge. To flourish in life, one has to be a seeker of knowledge not an information chaser.
The story is the ultimate hero not the story-teller: A journalist tells the story but he/she is not the story. It's the story that is much much larger than any journalist. It's the story that matters, not the story-teller. A journalist is just the narrator bringing the story to the world. People bare their vulnerable souls in front of journalists and share with them their own intimate stories of love, loss, success, failure, vulnerabilities and aspirations. The problem starts when the story-teller thinks that he/she is the story. The narrator can't be the story and he/she has to draw the boundary of telling the story and separating the self.
This is probably best explained by Sebastian D Souza (who worked in Mumbai Mirror), famous all over the world for his photograph of Kasab in action in CST (Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus) station in the 2008 Mumbai terror attack, which eventually led to Kasab's conviction. My close friend, who worked with Sebastian, asked him once, "Sebastian, didn't you feel scared while you were clicking photographs of Kasab?" He said nonchalantly, "What was there to feel scared? I was just doing my job -- shooting Kasab with my camera. That’s it." He didn't glorify his moment of truth, how brave he was or how he put his life into risk.
The same works in life too. We have to remember that the world is much bigger than us. Everything in this world need not revolve around us. This lesson becomes more precious now as we are living in an age of social media with an inflated sense of self.
Even as I reflect upon these life lessons, I also feel that we are all stories in progress.
Deepika Sahu is an Ahmedabad-based senior journalist with a career spanning since 1995. During her career, she has worked with India's premier media organisations, including the Press Trust of India (PTI) in New Delhi, Deccan Herald in Bengaluru, and The Times of India in Ahmedabad. Currently, she is contributing India-centric features to Melbourne-based The Indian Sun, a cutting edge media platform. In addition to her journalism career, Deepika is involved in teaching English and Communication Skills to learners from different parts of India through Manzil, a Delhi-based NGO. Beyond her professional endeavors, Deepika is passionate about India's rich diversity, literature, blogging, quiet hours at a cafe and enjoying a cup of tea.
Shri Satish Pashine
Priya Mehta’s life unfolded in the sun-drenched streets of Jaipur, where the aroma of freshly fried pakoras wafted through the narrow alleys, mingling with the heady scent of marigolds during the festival season. Jaipur, with its vibrant colours, bustling bazaars, and echoing temple bells, was a city that thrived on tradition and community. Yet, the lively chaos of its streets was a stark contrast to the quieter storms brewing within Priya’s heart.
From a young age, Priya had shown an insatiable curiosity, devouring books far beyond her age and peppering her parents with questions about the world. Her intelligence, however, often went unnoticed, overshadowed by society’s unyielding expectations of beauty. In a family where physical appearance was almost a form of currency, Priya felt like a poor relative in a world where everyone else seemed to be wealthy in charm and grace.
The family’s sprawling courtyard was always alive with noise and activity—a cricket match among the cousins, the clatter of steel plates as chai and snacks were served, aunts whispering the latest gossip under their breath, and the background hum of a television tuned to the latest Bollywood hit. To an outsider, it was a picture of warmth and connection. But to Priya, it was also a minefield of sharp words and careless comparisons.
“Priya is so smart,” an uncle would say, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “If only she had a little more charm, like Meera or Radhika. Then she’d be perfect.”
Each comment felt like a needle prick, small but deeply painful. The words always lingered longer than the laughter that followed. One summer afternoon, Priya stood in front of the mirror in her room, adjusting her hair as she prepared to join the family for lunch. She stared at her reflection, trying to see what they saw, and wondering what she lacked.
Her cousin Meera entered the room with her usual radiance, her bracelet jingling softly as she brushed back her perfectly styled hair. She paused to look at Priya critically. “You should try kajal,” Meera said, tilting her head as if considering an art project. “It might make your eyes look bigger.”
Priya forced a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
But instead of trying kajal or experimenting with beauty tricks, Priya turned to books. They became her refuge, her escape, her armour against a world that seemed determined to overlook her. In the pages of novels, she found heroines who didn’t rely on beauty to define their worth women who overcame their struggles with intelligence, wit, and resilience.
As the years passed, her refuge in academics transformed into a shield. By the time she reached her teens, Priya was the pride of her school. Her name regularly topped the list of exam results, and her teachers often praised her sharp mind and dedication. Yet, despite her accomplishments, she couldn’t escape the shadow of her extended family’s shallow judgments.
One evening, during a family gathering, Priya was helping serve snacks when she overheard her aunt’s voice rise above the din of conversation. “Priya’s brain will take her far,” the woman said, her words loud enough for everyone to hear. “But let’s hope someone overlooks her looks and marries her.”
The remark was met with chuckles from some and awkward silence from others, but Priya didn’t wait to see their reactions. She excused herself quietly, her cheeks burning with shame, and slipped away to the sanctuary of her room. Once inside, she shut the door and leaned against it, tears stinging her eyes.
For a long time, she stared out of the window, the familiar Jaipur skyline blurring through her unshed tears. That night, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Priya cried herself to sleep.
Years later, when Priya enrolled in a coaching class to prepare for competitive exams, her resolve to focus solely on her studies wavered for the first time in years. It wasn’t the challenge of the coursework or the pressure of looming deadlines that shook her. It was Rakesh.
With his easy charm and infectious laughter, Rakesh was the kind of boy who seemed to glide effortlessly through life. His presence was magnetic—he turned heads without even trying, drawing people into his orbit with a natural ease that Priya couldn’t help but notice. She didn’t expect him to notice her in return.
One day, after class, as they walked toward the bus stop, Rakesh turned to her with a smile that made her stomach flutter. “You’re different,” he said, his voice warm and confident.
Priya glanced at him, startled by the sudden compliment. “Different how?” she asked hesitantly, clutching her books tighter to her chest.
“Not like the other girls,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You have something special.”
The words caught her off guard. Priya blushed, her cheeks flushing a deep red. Compliments like these were foreign to her. She tried to brush it off with a shy smile. “I am not sharp I just study a lot,” she said, her tone dismissive.
But Rakesh wasn’t one to let things go so easily. “No,” he insisted, stopping in his tracks to face her directly. “It’s not just that. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. I’m lucky to even know you.”
The sincerity in his voice was disarming, and Priya felt something stir within her—a fragile, unfamiliar sense of being truly seen. It was intoxicating, this newfound attention. For years, she had been defined by what she lacked in the eyes of others. Now, here was someone who seemed to notice her for what she had.
Their relationship blossomed quickly, the lines between study sessions and personal conversations blurring as they spent more time together. Rakesh would walk her home almost every day, finding excuses to linger at the gate, sharing jokes and stories that made her laugh in ways she hadn’t in years. For the first time, Priya felt like someone’s first choice, like she mattered.
But as the weeks turned into months, the sweetness of their early days began to sour. Rakesh’s adoration, once so flattering, started to feel like something heavier—something suffocating.
It began with small things. He’d ask her not to sit next to certain classmates in the library, his tone casual but his intentions clear. Then came the constant questions: Who were you talking to after class? Why didn’t you reply to my message? Don’t you care about me?
One evening, as they sat together on a bench in the park near her house, Priya decided to share her dreams with him. Her goal was clear—to study in Bhubaneswar, where she could build a future for herself. But the moment she mentioned it, Rakesh’s expression darkened.
“Why are you always thinking about the future?” he snapped, his voice sharp. “Am I not enough for you?”
The accusation stung. Priya hesitated, unsure how to respond. “It’s not about that, Rakesh,” she said carefully. “I just want to build a life for myself. You know how important this is to me.”
Her words only seemed to fuel his anger. “Then why are we even together?” he retorted, his voice rising. “If you’re so focused on leaving, maybe you should just go.”
Priya felt her chest tighten. She had never seen this side of him before—this mixture of insecurity and anger that turned every conversation into a confrontation. She tried to reason with him, to explain that her ambitions didn’t diminish her feelings for him. But it was as if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear her.
The cracks in their relationship grew deeper with every argument. Rakesh’s possessiveness became a constant weight on her shoulders, and Priya found herself retreating into silence, unsure of how to navigate the growing tension.
Her parents, however, began to notice the change in her demeanour. Her once-bright eyes were now clouded with worry, her energy drained by the emotional toll of her relationship. One evening, as Priya stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables, her mother approached her quietly.
“Beta,” her mother began, her voice gentle but firm, “is everything alright? You don’t seem like yourself these days.”
Priya paused, her hands trembling slightly as she set down the knife. She looked at her mother, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know, Ma,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Rakesh… he’s different now. He doesn’t understand what I want.”
Her mother placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me, Priya,” she said, her tone steady. “You have so much ahead of you. Don’t let anyone hold you back—not now, not ever.”
The next morning, Priya’s father took matters into his own hands. Rakesh was summoned to their house, where he faced a stern reprimand. Her father’s voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “You will not interfere with my daughter’s future,” he said, his words ringing with finality. “If you truly care about her, you’ll let her go.”
The relationship ended soon after, leaving Priya with a mix of relief and heartbreak. Though part of her mourned the loss of what could have been, another part of her felt an overwhelming sense of liberation. For the first time in months, she could breathe freely, her dreams no longer weighed down by someone else’s insecurities.
And as she stood at the threshold of a new chapter in her life, Priya felt a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead was still uncertain, but one thing was clear—she would never again allow anyone to stand in the way of her dreams.
When Priya entered college, she was determined to focus on her studies, burying herself in academics with the single-minded resolve of someone who had weathered heartbreak and was ready to move forward. Her world revolved around lectures, assignments, and endless hours in the library. Yet, life, with all its unpredictability, had other plans.
It began innocuously enough. Arvind was a fellow student, confident and ambitious, with a magnetic charm that seemed to draw people toward him. He wasn’t loud or flashy, but there was an ease about him—a quiet confidence that made him approachable. Their first real conversation happened during a break between classes.
The professor had just wrapped up a lecture riddled with outdated theories, and as Priya jotted down notes, she heard Arvind mutter under his breath, “I think that textbook belongs in a museum.”
Priya glanced up, startled, before stifling a laugh. “It’s not that old,” she countered, unable to suppress her smile.
“It’s practically a relic,” he said, his grin widening. “But I guess some relics are worth preserving.”
From that moment, their bond began to form. They started exchanging ideas in class, often staying back to debate theories long after everyone else had left. Priya found herself looking forward to those conversations, drawn to Arvind’s sharp intellect and the way he made her feel at ease.
One evening, as they sat side by side in the library, Arvind turned to her with an intensity that caught her off guard.
“You’re different,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
Priya looked up from her notebook, her heart skipping a beat. “Different how?”
“You challenge me,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “You make me think in ways I never have before. It’s… refreshing.”
The words hung in the air, and for the first time since her relationship with Rakesh, Priya felt the stirrings of something she had almost forgotten hope.
Over the next few months, their bond deepened. Arvind was attentive and encouraging, always pushing Priya to aim higher. He didn’t just listen to her dreams; he seemed to believe in them as much as she did. For someone who had spent much of her life doubting her worth, Priya found his faith in her intoxicating.
One evening, as they walked home after a late-night study session, Arvind stopped abruptly. “Priya,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with nervous energy. “Have you ever thought about us? About… the future?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “The future?”
“Yes,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I mean… us. Together.”
Priya’s heart raced. She had thought about it, of course, but she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on the possibility. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above audible.
Arvind smiled, reaching for her hand. “Well, I have. And I know one thing for sure—I want you to be a part of mine.”
His proposal came weeks later, catching Priya off guard. Her heart said yes before her mind could fully process what was happening. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of a future built on love and mutual respect.
But when she introduced Arvind to her parents during a semester break, the reality of their situation came crashing down.
“He seems like a good man,” her father said after Arvind had left. “But how will he provide for you? Love isn’t enough to build a life on.”
Priya felt her chest tighten. She tried to explain that Arvind was hardworking and ambitious, but her father remained unconvinced.
“Think about it, Priya,” he said firmly. “You need stability. This isn’t just about feelings—it’s about building a life.”
Her mother was quieter, but her expression spoke volumes. Priya felt cornered, torn between her family’s expectations and her own heart. In the end, she and Arvind made a bold decision—they married in secret.
The ceremony was simple, just the two of them exchanging vows in a small temple. There were two mutual friend witnesses, but no celebrations just whispered promises of a future they would build together. For months, they lived separately with their respective parents, pretending to be nothing more than classmates. They would steal moments together between lectures, sharing stolen smiles and whispered conversations about the life they would someday share.
But as the months passed, the cracks in their relationship began to show. Arvind, who had once been her biggest cheerleader, started to change. His encouragement turned to indifference; his understanding replaced by irritation. Meanwhile, both had found jobs in the town.
“Why do you need to do an MBA?” he asked one evening, his tone clipped. “Isn’t your job enough?”
Priya stared at him, her heart sinking. “I want more, Arvind,” she said carefully. “For us. For our future.”
He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Our future doesn’t need you running off to some fancy college. You’re already doing enough.”
The words cut deep. Priya had always known that her ambitions were larger than most, but she had believed Arvind would understand. Instead, his resentment seemed to grow with each passing day.
Their arguments became more frequent, their once easy rapport now strained and brittle. Priya found herself retreating into silence, unsure of how to navigate the growing distance between them.
One evening, after yet another fight, Priya sat alone in her room, her mind racing. She thought of all the dreams she had shared with Arvind, the promises they had made. But now, those dreams felt like distant echoes, overshadowed by the harsh reality of their present.
Desperate for clarity, she turned to the one person she trusted above all—her mother.
“Ma,” Priya began hesitantly, sitting down at the kitchen table.
Her mother looked up from her work, concern etched across her face. “What is it, beta?”
Priya hesitated, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “I think I made a mistake,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her mother set down the rolling pin she was holding and reached for Priya’s hand. “Tell me everything,” she said gently.
And for the first time, Priya poured her heart out, the words tumbling out in a rush. By the time she finished, her mother’s eyes were filled with quiet understanding.
“Priya,” she said softly, “sometimes love isn’t enough. You have to think about what truly makes you happy—what will allow you to grow.”
Her mother’s words lingered with her, planting the seeds of a decision Priya knew she would eventually have to make.
“Ma,” she began hesitantly, “I think I made a mistake.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Priya admitted, tears spilling over. “I want to go to Delhi for my MBA. I need to start over.”
Her parents, though initially shocked, rallied around her. With their support, Priya filed for divorce and left for Delhi, carrying the weight of her past but determined to build a brighter future.
In Delhi, she found the freedom she’d longed for. The MBA program was gruelling, but Priya thrived, earning the admiration of her professors and peers. At a corporate networking event, she crossed paths with Vikram, a dynamic professional whose charisma was impossible to ignore.
“You have an incredible energy,” he told her after their first conversation. “I’d love to work with someone like you.”
Their connection was immediate, their conversations flowing effortlessly from work to personal dreams. One evening, as they sat discussing a project over coffee, Vikram leaned forward.
“Tell me something,” he said. “What drives you, Priya?”
She hesitated, then smiled. “I suppose it’s the need to prove to myself that I can overcome anything.”
Vikram’s admiration deepened, and their partnership soon turned into romance. When Priya opened up about her past, her voice was steady but vulnerable.
“I’ve made mistakes,” she admitted. “But they’ve taught me who I am.”
Vikram reached for her hand. “Your past doesn’t define you, Priya. It’s part of your story, but it’s not the whole of it.”
Their love culminated in a grand wedding, and within two years, they welcomed a daughter, Anaya. For a time, Priya believed she had finally found her happily ever after.
But perfection, as she learned, was an illusion. Late nights at the office, secretive phone calls, and Vikram’s growing emotional distance raised alarm bells.
“You’re imagining things,” he would retort dismissively when she confronted him.
The truth, when it came, was devastating. Discovering his infidelity felt like a betrayal of everything she’d worked so hard to rebuild.
“How could you do this to us?” she demanded, her voice shaking with anger and sorrow.
Vikram’s response was cold. “You think you’re perfect? What about the things you hid from me before we married?”
Her voice trembled with fury. “I told you everything. You promised it didn’t matter!”
Realizing she could no longer stay in a relationship built on lies, Priya thought about the painful decision to leave him but was it so simple? She still secretly wanted their marriage to work.
Priya sat on the edge of her bed, staring out of the window at the rain streaking the glass. The room, once a shared sanctuary, now felt like a hollow shell. The sound of Vikram’s muffled voice on the phone carried faintly from his study. It was late, but Vikram’s late nights had become a pattern—first for work, then for reasons Priya didn’t want to imagine anymore.
The revelation of his infidelity had come not as a sudden blow, but as the final confirmation of what her heart had long suspected. The dismissive tone, the secretive phone calls, the way his eyes no longer lingered on hers—they had all been pieces of a puzzle she wished she’d never had to solve.
“How long has it been?” Priya had asked him once, her voice trembling with the effort to keep her composure.
He had barely looked up from his laptop. “You’re overthinking, Priya. Stop making everything a drama.”
The confrontation had escalated from cold indifference to heated accusations. “I know you’re seeing someone,” she had said, her voice breaking. “Why don’t you have the decency to admit it?”
“And what if I am?” Vikram had retorted, his voice sharp with irritation. “Do you think you’ve been the perfect wife? You’re here only because of Anaya. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Those words had shattered whatever hope Priya had clung to. But even in her pain, her thoughts had turned to her daughter, Anaya.
Fifteen-year-old Anaya was the light of Priya’s life. A spirited teenager with a sharp wit and an artistic soul, she was everything Priya had once hoped to be at that age: confident, unapologetic, and full of promise. It was for Anaya that Priya had made the hardest decision of her life—to stay.
Late at night, as Priya tucked Anaya into bed, she would stroke her daughter’s hair and whisper, “You’ll always have me, no matter what.”
Anaya often asked questions that Priya found hard to answer. “Ma, why doesn’t Papa spend more time with us? He’s always busy.”
Priya would force a smile, hiding her pain. “He’s working hard, beta. He loves us in his way.”
The truth was far more complicated, but Priya couldn’t bring herself to burden Anaya with it.
Priya had left her corporate job two years ago to be more present for her daughter during her teenage years. Vikram’s income was more than enough to sustain the family, and at the time, it had seemed like the right choice. She had thrown herself into motherhood, attending every parent-teacher meeting, helping Anaya with her school projects, and even organizing art workshops for her and her friends.
But after Vikram’s betrayal came to light, Priya began to question everything. Had she lost herself in the process of putting her family first? The vibrant, ambitious woman who once dreamed of conquering the corporate world now felt like a shadow of her former self. She tried to get a job but there was a recession in the job market and despite good interviews, she didn’t get suitable employment.
Her days were now filled with chores, errands, and fleeting moments of joy with Anaya. Her nights, however, were a stark contrast—long stretches of silence broken only by Vikram’s footsteps as he came home late. They moved through the house like ghosts, avoiding each other’s gaze, their conversations limited to the bare essentials.
“Do you need anything from the store?” Vikram would ask without looking up from his phone.
“No,” Priya would reply curtly, walking past him without another word.
The chasm between them was vast, yet they remained under the same roof, tied together by the fragile thread of their shared responsibilities.
One evening, as Priya prepared dinner, Anaya walked into the kitchen, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.
“Ma, can I ask you something?” Anaya said, her tone hesitant.
“Of course, beta,” Priya replied, setting the knife down and turning to her daughter.
“Are you and Papa… okay?”
Priya froze. She knew this moment would come. “Why do you ask?” she said carefully.
Anaya shrugged, but her eyes betrayed her concern. “I just… I don’t see you two talks much anymore. It’s like you’re always avoiding each other.”
Priya knelt to meet her daughter’s gaze. “Your father and I… we’re going through a difficult time, Anaya. But no matter what happens between us, we both love you very much. That will never change.”
Anaya nodded ; her expression thoughtful. “I just want you to be happy, Ma.”
Those words stayed with Priya long after Anaya had gone to bed. Happy. What did that even mean anymore?
That night, as Priya sat alone in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp barely cutting through the darkness, she let herself imagine a different life. Outside, the rain lashed against the windows, the storm a relentless symphony that seemed to echo the turmoil in her heart. She closed her eyes and pictured mornings when she didn’t wake up to Vikram’s cold indifference, where the silence between them didn’t hang in the air like a punishment. In this imagined life, her steps didn’t falter, her voice didn’t tremble, and her laughter—something she hadn’t truly heard in years—rang freely.
In this alternate existence, there was no tiptoeing around his presence, no pretending that the occasional hollow words they exchanged counted as a marriage. There was freedom—freedom to breathe, to dream, to simply be.
For a fleeting moment, the thought felt liberating. She pictured herself and Anaya in a small but cosy apartment, just the two of them, building a life on their terms. Priya imagined herself smiling again, not the polite, practised curve of her lips she wore now, but a genuine smile that lit up her eyes. She imagined Anaya thriving, her daughter’s laughter filling their new home, no longer dulled by the weight of the tension that permeated their current one.
But as quickly as the vision came, it was replaced by a wave of guilt. What would it mean for Anaya to lose the stability of a two-parent household? Would the cracks in their family grow into chasms too wide to bridge? Priya opened her eyes and stared at the shadows on the wall.
She had stayed for her daughter, after all. Every decision she had made since Vikram’s betrayal had been rooted in one thing: Anaya’s well-being. Priya had convinced herself that enduring the loveless marriage was a small price to pay for giving her daughter the semblance of a whole family.
But was it?
Priya’s mind flashed to the moments that had unsettled her—Anaya’s quiet questions about why her parents never seemed happy, the hesitations in her daughter’s voice when she talked about home as if the walls themselves weighed on her. Priya couldn’t ignore the growing suspicion that Anaya wasn’t fooled by their facade.
The thought gnawed at her. Was she truly protecting her daughter, or was she teaching her to settle for less than she deserved? Was she showing Anaya that endurance, even in the face of emotional neglect, was the only path forward? Priya felt her chest tighten as doubt crept in.
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, the weight of her choices pressing down on her. The storm outside raged on, the thunder rumbling like a warning. Priya thought about all the ways she had prided herself on her strength over the years—her ability to endure pain, to navigate hardships, to keep moving forward no matter the cost. But now, sitting alone in the dimly lit room, she wondered if that strength had been misplaced.
Endurance wasn’t the same as living. She could feel the truth of that realization settling into her bones, heavy and unshakable. Living meant joy, growth, and freedom—not just existing in the narrow confines of duty and sacrifice. But could she risk turning that truth into action?
Her gaze drifted to the window, where rain streaked the glass like tears. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, cutting through the storm. Priya thought about rewriting her story—not just for herself, but for Anaya. It wouldn’t be easy, but perhaps it was necessary.
And yet, the uncertainty lingered. Could she, do it? Would leaving Vikram free them, or would it create scars that neither of them could heal?
Priya pulled her knees to her chest, her breath unsteady. The answers didn’t come, and maybe they wouldn’t—not tonight, not for a long time. The storm outside showed no sign of letting up, and Priya sat there, caught between the life she had and the life she might build, wondering which one was the greater risk.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Ashok Kumar Mishra
On a cloudy rainy day it was drizzling incessantly since morning and puddles on the roads were splashing with muddy rain water. Darkness shrouded everything and faces were nearly invisible from a distance. Charubala went along with Binodini to see off Sudarshan and Biswanath at Cuttack railway station. Makhanlal and Manindra came from Calcutta(now Kolkata) to accompany Sudarshan and Biswanath to Calcutta. Police had prior information that some revolutionaries were coming to Cuttack from Calcutta. They were on look out at every suspicious movement around railway station, bus stand, hotels and lodgings. To avoid police suspicion everyone had booked their individual tickets in different compartments and boarded accordingly. Binodini waited and kept a watch from a distance. Charubala moved ahead to meet Sudarshan and handed over a clay pot to him and said all necessary paper and a letter was inside the pot.
The locomotive blew its horn which was an indication that it is ready to leave the station soon. There was hardly any time for conversation. Sudarshan in a low voice uttered “ the goal may be one but there are many ways to reach the same. Do not misunderstand me. Do not know when we will meet again.” Charubala could not give too much importance to Sudarshan’s words that very moment. She thought Sudarshan was going for a month-long training to Calcutta to become a Satyagrahi( attend freedom fighter training programme). Why then Sudarshan said this to her? She too had lot of things to share with Sudarshan, but remained quiet. Hand umbrellas were not providing enough protection from rain. In a hurry half drenched Charubala and Binodini, both left for their hostel surreptitiously to avoid police patrolling, the moment the train left the platform.
Charubala and Sudarshan were students of Ravenshaw college. Both came from well-to-do families of Odisha to Ravenshaw College for pursuing higher studies and met in a college debate competition. That’s how their friendship began. Sudarshan was one year senior to Charubala. Ravenshaw College which was earlier affiliated to Calcutta University had recently came under Patna University.
Movement for formation of a separate linguistic state for Odia speaking people was gaining momentum and Cuttack was the hotbed of this movement. College students were clandestinely attending the meetings held to chalk out plans for agitation to achieve this goal. Exactly at the same time the struggle for freedom struggle was spreading like wild fire to every corner of India. Colonial rulers had kept an eye over the college educated youths, who in large number were getting attracted to the call to fight for India’s independence. Professors were keeping a prying eye on the students. The young minds of Sudarshan and Charubala used to rebel against the oppressive foreign rule and exploitation of native Indians at the hands of these colonial rulers. Both were secretly trying to mobilise students, who shared the same vision of a free India and organise student community to protest against colonial rule.
By that time Gandhijee had returned to India from South Africa. Sometimes these young students used to meet at a common place and read Hind Swaraj, Young India written by Gandhi and Yugantar newspaper published from Calcutta. Among the Professors in Ravenshaw college there were a few who sympathised with the freedom movement and were in touch with these young students. At regular intervals these students used to meet at the house of those professors with Satyanarayan puja as cover up and discuss about the freedom movement erupting in different parts of the country. When revolutionaries from Calcutta Anushilan Samiti and Yugantar used to visit Cuttack they used to stay in Professor Ghosal’s house as it helped avoiding police suspicion of their activities.
Police patrolling especially during nights had increased manifold to keep an eye over the frequent visits and movements of revolutionaries from Bengal to Odisha after Bagha Jatin’s (famous Bengal Revolutionary Jatindra Nath Mukherjee) secret move to take shelter in adjoining forest areas of Odisha and covertly train the revolutionaries to prepare for armed struggle against British colonial rulers. British spies were moving around to keep track of suspicious activities of freedom fighters. Makhanlal had a cloth store at Cuttack and he used to frequent between Cuttack and Calcutta in business connection. He worked as the link between freedom fighters of Bengal and Odisha. After police encounter death of Bagha Jatin and his friends, entire Bengal and Odisha was on fire and the fight for liberation of mother India was gaining momentum everywhere. Discontent over the policies of the colonial rulers and against inhuman torture and brutality of police force was simmering among masses for years together and was erupting here and there throughout the country.
Charubala was observing change in behaviour of Sudarshan for past few days. Sudarshan had started undertaking regular physical exercise and had been learning civil defence tactics with lathis (Bamboo sticks). Massacre of hundreds of unarmed civilians at Jalianwalabagh after point blank police firing on them, disturbed Sudarshan deeply and he locked himself in a room for several days without talking to anyone. While returning from the meeting of Gandhijee on Kathjodi riverbed Sudarshan argued vehemently with Charubala about the folly of nonviolent path in struggle for independence. He lost complete faith on non-violence and non-cooperation as weapons against the mighty and oppressive British rule. He reposed faith on violent armed struggle as the only alternative to gain independence.
Charubala however could not agree with the views of Sudarshan. Sporadic violence here and there for her had no future as a means to fight against the mighty and brutal force of Britishers. She opined such sporadic incidents would only fuel and invite more repression and persecution of freedom fighters at the hands of tyrannical rulers. Sudarshan did not argue further with Charubala that day. It was enough for Charubala to get a glimpse of the spark of lightning that remained hidden under the cloudy sky like simmering hot lava ready to erupt anytime from a live volcano. Hardly a week after that Sudarshan was undertaking this train journey from Cuttack to Calcutta.
In the blind alley of time everybody soon lost their address. Sudarshan wrote only once, soon after reaching Calcutta, mentioning briefly that he reached safe and was well. Thereafter there was no communication from him and meanwhile three years passed away. Charubala was in final year of Masters’ degree in English.
In the mean time Ravenshaw College had shifted to the new premises in Chakkar Maidan. While searching for books from elegant Kanika library building of Ravenshaw college, Charubala on several occasions fantacised how suddenly Sudarshan would appear from behind a book-self and tell her “See I have come to surprise you Charu” and she will remain unmoved and silent without uttering a word in response.
Unmindfully several times Charubala used to visit college’s old campus( in nearby Collegiate school) field looking for Sudarshan in the open. She longed to feel the fragrance of Sudarshan from below the tree where they used to sit with friends and discussed issues pertaining to formation of a separate state, misery of people under oppressive Princely states, police atrocity against freedom fighters etc. At times she sat below the Sun dial in Ravenshaw college lawn for hours together. She felt the rising sun is hiding behind the sky and testing her patience. The suffering of a lone heart in solitude is always a unique experience like pleasure of unconditional love.
Meanwhile Charubala had learnt to make thread running spinning wheel. She used to visit nearby villages and spread the skill of making thread by running spinning wheel among village women besides spreading awareness for prohibition and fight against untouchability. Several times she thought of enquiring about Sudarshan from professor Ghosal but refrained from doing so.
Binodini got married in the mean time and was staying in Cuttack with her family. Charubala’s father came with several marriage proposals to fix her marriage. When she went to her village mother too urged her to quickly tie the knot with his life partner soon, but every time Charubala avoided saying she will inform about marriage at an appropriate time.
On another cloudy day it was drizzling throughout and Charubala was indoor lying on the bed. She fondly remembered Sudarshan and the day she bade farewell to him at the railway station. Intensity of warmth and affectionate memories for Sudarshan was troubling her and the long wait was very painful to bear. She recalled the time they spent together in the college and Sudrashan’s enduring presence was occupying her mind. The wait was too painful. Now she realised why Sudarshan was telling at station that he did not know when they will meet again. He was sure not to return but did not divulge his plan to her?
Tear drops rolled down her cheeks while it was pouring outside. River Mahanadi was swelling, so also the broken heart of Charubala. She was shedding tears lying on the bed. Suddenly she heard someone knocking at her door. She quickly got up, controlled her emotions and opened the front door of his house. On the other side of the door she was surprised to see Biswanath standing along with Binodini. She looked behind them for Sudarshan, but was disappointed. Both quickly came in and closed the door behind them. Charubala could not believe her eyes. Suddenly happiness entered the room with a gush of wind.
After a cup of tea, Biswanath opened up. “We were taken to Yugantar’s freedom fighters training centre in Maniktala Bagan, soon after reaching Calcutta. There we got training in shooting from pistol, bomb making, use of small weapons and grenade use for several days. Small groups of revolutionaries were formed after the training and they were sent in different directions to loot government treasury and arms depot as weapons were badly needed to support freedom struggle. Sudarshan moved with a group to North India. The money looted from government treasury was utilised to buy more weapons. I along with Manindra stayed back with bomb making squad in Maniktala Bagan” said Biswanath.
Maniktala Yugantar Head quarter used to get regular information about activities of various groups including group headed by Sudarshan. At Maniktala head quarter we soon got information about bomb attack on a very repressive British Police Officer under Sudarshan’s leadership in Meerut. Meanwhile police actively started raiding the hideouts of freedom fighters throughout the country.
“On one midnight operation Maniktala Bagan hideout of revolutionary freedom fighters was raided by police and they lifted away about thirty persons including me from our Maniktala centre and put us in gallows without food and water. Above it we were chained, canned, bayonet charged, whipped and kicked mercilessly. Under unbearable police torture, our bomb trainer Manindra gave away information of various hideouts to the police including that of Sudarshan.
Later on came the news that Sudarshan was seriously wounded in police firing and with bullets in the body he was shifted to some hospital. Many of his friends were sent to gaols in Mandale and Kalapani jail in Andaman. Large number of freedom fighters lost their lives in police firing. As There were no charge of murder against me I was freed from Alipur jail after two years. Before returning to Odisha I looked out for information about Sudarshan throughout Calcutta but nobody had any information. Maniktala Bagan hideout was devastated and was under lock and key of Calcutta police. I went to Makhanlal’s house and found out that he and Manindra were killed in police encounter. Most of the revolutionary leaders were behind bars. Who would give information about Sudarshan? I finally returned to Cuttack” said Biswanath.
Charubala felt dizzy and lost her sense for a while listening to Biswanath’s account. With the care of all she soon got back her sense. All were shocked to know about the fate of Sudarshan. They thought it wise to consult Professor Ghosal for way out and took a firm decision to find out whereabouts of Sudarshan.
Professor Ghosal gave a patient hearing to Charubala, Biswanath and Binodini. He informed that after death of Makhanlal it was Shyamalee, wife of Manindra who had been trying to regroup all the active freedom fighters and coordinate their work from some unknown hideout in Calcutta. She had been clandestinely operating from Shyambazar area of North Calcutta. But it is very difficult to contact her as she was changing her secret hideout too often to avoid police suspicion. If somehow they could contact Shyamalee, they could get some information of Sudarshan. He further advised that it had become increasingly difficult to coordinate the freedom fighters of Bengal and Odisha after Makhanlal’s death. At Srirampore, Professor Ghosal had a parental house property where one Bairagi Haldar was working as a caretaker of the house. They could meet him and he would be of help to contact Shyamalee and get information about Sudarshan.
Biswanath and Charubala accordingly travelled to Calcutta at intervals, within one or two days and reached Ghosalbabu’s house in Srirampore. There they took help of Bairagi to reach out to Shyamalee. But meeting Shyamalee was an elusive affair. Several times they went in search of Shyamalee with Bairagi but returned unsuccessfully.
One day they got information that Shyamalee would be available at Baranagar but Shyamalee had moved to Belgharia by the time they reached. They quickly followed her to Belgharia where they could meet her. Shyamalee informed that seriously injured Sudarshan was taken to Meerut Army hospital for treatment. After that there was no news of Sudarshan. But she passed a vital information that one Odia boy Subodh had a tea stall adjacent to the Army Hospital in Meerut. Only he and his wife were allowed by police to render necessary care to Sudarshan. They might have some information of Sudarshan.
Finally Charubala could see some light at the end of the tunnel. Now she could see some rays of hope to find Sudarshan. Next morning they left for Meerut and from railway station took a cycle rickshaw to Army Hospital. Soon they could trace the tea stall of Subodh. He took them to his house where they could meet Sumati, wife of Subodh.
Sumati could not control her tears seeing Charubala. She mentioned how Sudarshan was fondly remembering Charubala after slight recovery. Sudarshan was under strict vigil of police in hospital cabin. Due to his poor health British government decided to spare him from capital punishment, but planned to send him to some high security prison after recovery. No one was allowed to visit him except the two of them.
Some revolutionaries from Dhaka visited Meerut and planned to take Sudarshan away but Sudarshan did not agree with them. Finally one day he closed his eyes. He used to remember Charubala and Biswanth before his death. Sumati handed over a letter written by Sudarshan for Charubala. Charubala took the letter and started reading.
Dear Charubala
Please do not misunderstand me. We both followed different path for liberation of Mother India but our objective was same. Before leaving Cuttack and subsequently did not get any time to open up my mind before you. I was always remembering you. We have chosen this path of our own. We both have served Mother India to our capacity. I am sure it will not go waste. This is true that as a revolutionary fighter I could not return anything to you for your love and sacrifice. I guess sometimes the past just catches up with you. Please do not misunderstand and forgive.
Bharat Mata ki Jay.( Hail to mother India)
Bande Mataram.( I praise thee mother)
Your I guess sometimes the past just catches
Sudarshan
(The End)
Ashok Kumar Mishra’s stories are rooted in the soil and have sublime human touch. He has authored several books and written several articles on micro credit movement. Four tele films were made on his book titled “A Small Step forward”.
Did his MA and M Phil in Political studies from JNU and served as deputy general manager in NABARD.
He made pioneering contribution in building up Self Help Group movement in Odisha.
Served as Director of a bank for over six Years.
Many of his short stories in Odia vernacular and in English have been published in reputed magazines. (9491213015)
Hema Ravi
Waking up to a gloomy winter morning, I decided to spend time creatively to (re)discover the joys that life offers amidst the vagaries of nature. Watching the video of a regional language thematic concert entitled ‘Nature and Music’ proved catalytic enough to induce me into writing down some random thoughts. “We see Nature in everything.”
Music has been with humans since our existence; it is said to have laid the foundation for the human language. Not restricted to humans alone, even animals, and birds use song and dance to express their emotions. Some time ago, I watched a short film that featured animals communicating through dance to enchant, impress, and express themselves. Gibbons, Howler monkeys, and other mammals are known for their “singing,” which they use to attract mates and threaten rivals.
Most Homosapiens, aka ‘thinking’ men (irrespective of gender and ethnicity), enjoy singing, listening to music, making music…., and associating themselves with varied rhythms! Music’s core effects and therapeutic properties have been recognized for enhancing humans' “humanistic and financial” health worldwide. That said, music therapy still has unexplored avenues for its integration into the strife-riddled world we live in. Is music therapy truly a panacea for stress, pain management, mood disorders, palliative care, and more?
Research studies reveal musical skills and abilities impact literacy, numeracy, intelligence quotient, creative thinking, motor coordination, concentration, and more. Training in music helps in enhanced intellectual growth and development, rhyme and rhythm help to remember verbal information better. Besides relaxation, music also helps in the development of social skills, and team spirit, and offers a sense of accomplishment, particularly to sensitive individuals struggling to make a mark for themselves in a materialistic-driven society.
Have you ever heard anyone calling a loved one, not with words but with music? Kongthong, a village in Meghalaya, is a magically exciting place where culture and nature blend brilliantly… Apparently, pregnant women compose a short melody inspired by nature for her unborn child; this unique tradition called ‘jingrwai lawbei’, or 'whistling lullaby’, becomes the child’s identity. When the child is born, the mother introduces the tune to them and as the child grows up, they learn that it is their "unique sound." Not just that, the residents have a “regular name,” “ a distinct melody and a shorter tune” akin to a “nickname.”
Such musicality, I believe, is proof enough to declare that music in our daily lives offers fulfillment, harmony, and bliss…
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently
Surendra Nagaraju
Original (Telugu): Skybaaba
Translation: Elanaaga
It was the day of the Dasara festival.
As decided in advance, my friend Saidulu and I reached our village by the afternoon only. We were waiting in our homes to go to the jammi tree in the evening.
It was long ago that we came home. As I have been staying in Hyderabad and my friend in Warangal, our wish to meet each other in our village couldn’t be realized all these days. We decided to meet this time somehow. Another important thing: Saidulu told me long ago that he wanted to see Nirmala whom he had loved in his early adolescent age. He said Dasara is an opportune occasion to get his wish fulfilled.
I wanted to ask what he would achieve now by seeing and meeting her except by inviting an unnecessary headache. However, I resisted that urge of mine.
But he did not budge. “I saw her many years ago. Of late, she is coming to my mind frequently even appearing in my dreams. I have a strong desire to meet her and talk at least once. You, too, must come this time. There would be some cheerfulness if you come,” he requested me earnestly.
As it was getting late, I took a bath and wore a new dress. I informed my mother that I was going out and walked onto the road.
It was four-thirty in the evening. People started to trickle onto the road one by one. I called Saidulu on my phone.
“I am putting on my dress. I will reach the road in two minutes,” said he.
People coming onto the road were dressed in new attires. Grown-up children followed them, while tiny tots held their father’s little finger. Women usually appear a bit late after all the men hit the road.
Chitchatting with my friends, I stood under a neem tree beside the road. As all the buddies whom I had not met for long were turning up, I felt very exhilarated. They formed a mob around me and introduced their children one by one to me. I talked to them; asked the newcomers about their welfare. Many of my friends said, “You should have brought your children.” I, too, felt that way. Meanwhile, my friend Saidulu has arrived. Some started to make fun of us saying, “Aha, the two friends have met each other after a long time. It seems they have planned the visit and arrived now. Somehow, our village has got lustre after a long time.” Saidulu mingles with people easily. He converts any serious matter to a lighter one with a joke. All would then laugh delightedly. He similarly replied to them now and made them laugh.
Meanwhile, the road was filled with people. Some women were accompanied by their kids while others had tiny tots clung to the sides of their chests. Young girls came along with their friends. Ah, as that place was filled with people in attires of numerous bright hues, the central road of the village looked as if it was overflowing with a carnival of multi-coloured flowers.
Everyone started to move slowly to the end of the village, where dappu sounds boomed. The flag was not hoisted yet. With the thought of the flag, an incident came to my memory:
I had come home a few years ago like I did this time. We all similarly met on the road. The main flag of the village was not hoisted yet. Meanwhile, a mob came onto the road from a small gully with a saffron flag and chants of “Bharat matha ki jai.” My heart withered. We came to know that they had recently opened a branch in the village, set up the BJP flag, and were creating a stir. My friends told me that a man, who recently started residing in the village and was wholly in charge of organizing such activities, was responsible for the boys’ behaviour. I didn’t feel like going to the jammi tree. I rushed home despite my friends calling me. Later, I came to know that no other Muslim went to the jammi. But the strange thing is, those youths have not brought the flag the next year. Usually, people belonging to all castes including Muslims and Christians come to jammi. Later, it was revealed that some persons had given a strong warning to the boys.
Pushing my old memory aside, I came back to the present situation. It seems the flag was hoisted. Dappu sounds became intense. We moved in that direction. The youths were blasting Laxmi bombs and sutli bombs at the centre of the mob. Ears were ringing with the loud echo and smoke billowed up. It is a common occurrence that every year, at least one or two persons’ clothes are singed due to sparks.
Holding Laxmi bombs in hand, lighting them with fire and hurling them into the air soon after it made the sputtering sound … the bombs exploded in the air … sometimes falling amid the crowd - this is what happened. Youngsters like to do such things despite some people scolding or others laughing. The most interesting thing is young girls wear langas and vonees. Some, however, wear saris as it is a festival day. They tantalize the youths a lot. Of late, salwars and kameezes have become the vogue; they reduced the oomph a bit though. Otherwise, they would look hotter. The damsels who come to their mother’s home from that of their in-laws for the festival looked highly fascinating. Those who were married less than a year ago were even a bigger attraction. Others who carried a kid were still more attractive. Another interesting thing is some young men who come to meet their old flames try their level best to impress them with their affected style. Those in their twenties hoodwink their wives, meet their lovers, become the glint of their eyes, meet them, and talk as well. Their adventures resemble those of brave heroes. Similar is the story of our Saidulu!
Saidulu spruced up himself well and came. He got his hair cut, dyed them, dabbed powder on his face, tucked his new shirt into the new trousers, and put on the shoes. On seeing his trim appearance, I felt like teasing him a tad, but fearing that he might feel slighted, I resisted my urge to do so.
Then we moved along with our sarpanch and other prominent people of our village. Our flag was in the front. We have to walk for about a quarter kilometer on the road and then take a left turn to tread the mud path. If we walk for three-quarters of a kilometre on that path, we would reach the junction where the two halves of our village, i.e., the main village and sub-village join each other. Saidulu was very eager to reach that place. But everyone has to move. Only then, will his anxiety be alleviated. Dappus raged and dances went on. Each person danced in a different style. The loud noise of the drunkards also was considerable. They neither dance nor let others do it. That’s another amusement. But they provide much fun. Don’t they? Meanwhile, somebody pulled me to the midst of the crowd and asked me to dance. Feeling embarrassed and shy, I moved to the side.
I was on cloud nine, for I could see all the people of my village in one place after a long time. We reached the spot of the road’s bifurcation. Usually, women stay back there and men take the mud path. Their enthusiasm wanes a little though. The same thing occurred that day. Because Nirmala lives in that sub-village, Saidulu was full of excitement. He was walking in the front along with his school day buddies, exchanging words with them. I walked with my buddies of schooldays. Though I was conversing with them, the thought of Saidulu’s predicament kept moving in my mind.
Saidulu’s classmate, Nirmala, was very beautiful. It was she who used to die for Saidulu. He too liked her but did not express his feeling overtly. Yet, their interest in each other was publicized in the whole village. That is okay in the main village, but wouldn’t be so in Nirmala’s area. The youths of that area had bitter animosity toward Saidulu. ‘How can he love a girl of our village? Moreover, Nirmala is very beautiful. Besides, Saidulu belongs to a different caste. Something has to be done about it,’ they thought. During every Dasara celebration, Nirmala used to show herself up before Saidulu at one place or the other. She would glitter like an angel amid her companions. With bright-coloured langa, voni, large eyes, a long beautiful nose and a long plat that is decked with plenty of flowers, she used to be pretty ravishing. Saidulu would be all eyes on Nirmala; she too would scout for him. Only their eyes knew their secret language. With great difficulty, she would part with the sweetness of his looks and accompany us to the jammi tree. Meeting Nirmala on the way back and giving jammi leaves to her used to be a big challenge for Saidulu. Her relatives as well as cousins would wait for an opportunity to thrash Saidulu when he is alone. We, too, would form a protective force for Saidulu and give the impression that we would attack anybody trying to lay hands on him. Nirmala was always ready to meet Saidulu. Somehow, they used to meet each other behind a fence or a wall. They would then converse with each other in solitude. Saidulu would put jammi leaves in her hands and have a kiss or hug if the situation permitted. Then, we all used to move toward our village.
We reached the sub-village. From its inception, it has been our practice to carry the flag of our village and leave for the jammi event. The people of the sub-village would wait for us. Soon after we join them, we all proceed to the jammi tree which is located nearby. As there was some delay in our reaching there, they asked us the reason for the same. Some hurried and said, “Let us move. Else, it will be night.” When all the men go to the spot as a group, women stand aside and follow us to the frontier of the sub-village.
Saidulu searched for Nirmala, but couldn’t find her in the crowd. It seemed he got a bit disappointed. I have been noticing his anxiety. It appeared he didn’t know whom he should ask. He looked in all directions for some time. It seemed he consoled himself thinking that he can meet her on the way back. He moved toward the jammi tree along with us. Dappu sounds, firecrackers and shrieks of the kids abounded. Oh, it was a great celebration!
All walked around the tree reading the sloka, “Samee samayathe” and worshipped it. No sooner was the worship was over than all boys and youths started climbing the tree as if it was a contest. Saidulu, other friends and I stood a little away from the tree. Some were scouting for palapitta. Surprisingly, a palapitta came and perched on a nearby acacia tree. It is said that sighting a palapitta on Dasara day augurs well, and is considered an auspicious sign. Hence all started looking at it and discussed it as well. In the meantime, an impish boy rushed towards it. This made it fly away. Many people climbed onto the jammi tree. Those who climbed down the tree gave jammi leaves to others and took alaibalai. When Chakali Maraiah came and embraced us, I reflected that Muslim culture had taught people the great culture of embracing. The alaibalai that joins hearts! How nice a habit it is!
It was getting dark. Mischievous boys were lighting firecrackers and hurling them onto the trees and people in that twilight. Timid people admonished them severely. The atmosphere around the tree was filled with the bonhomie of alaibais.
How satisfying it is, to be amid so many dear ones belonging to the village?! Oh, the embraces give us inordinate pleasure and fervour. Shucks, forgoing all this, migrating to city and not belonging to anyone is a true hell. Tomorrow, I will have to leave all these people and go to the city. How much did we love Dasara! How far away have we gone and resettled for the sake of livelihood! However much we try, we cannot come home for Dasara every year. It may not be possible at all after a few more years. Does it mean that Dasara is going to remain an incomplete joy of love in our lives? I felt bitterness in my heart.
All have turned back to go. Some were already on the way to our village. Saidulu and I, too, exchanged alaibalai genially. We embraced our friends, prominent persons of our village and sarpanch, and headed in the direction of the sub-village. It was dark when we reached there. Everyone was going to the houses of known people and meeting them. I sat with my two friends on a raised cement platform around a tree having long flowers at the end of the sub-village. Searching for Nirmala, Saidulu was somewhere behind. We were waiting for him.
After a very long time, he arrived with a long face.
“What happened?” I asked eagerly.
“It seems he could not meet her,” said one of my friends.
Saidulu said languidly, “Let us go,”
He and I were walking a little ahead while the other two followed us. All the people of our village were moving towards their homes. Many have already reached the village. “What happened raa?” I asked Saidulu consolingly.
“This time Nirmala hasn’t come raa.” His voice was husky. I remained silent. Saidulu resumed his talk: “It seems she came for three years in succession. But I didn’t come, you know. She told the same thing to Janamma. And she added that she had been extremely tormented by the memories of me. ‘Better not to come, Janamma. That’s why I don’t feel like coming.’” Saidulu’s voice got fully choked. I was at a loss for words.
We reached our village. Many people were meeting us, giving jammi leaves and embracing us. My fondness for alaibalai multiplied. Many people in our village don’t want to touch Saidulu. No sudras come to his house. Those of high castes don’t even prefer to have a glimpse of it. Saidulu and I go together to the houses of all people. I didn’t understand this aberration at the beginning. Sudras sent gifts to Saidulu in his marriage but did not attend the feast. When I asked the reason for it, he simply smiled and kept calm. I was bewildered at the atrocity. Even my parents, brother and sisters stayed till the evening but vanished when the feast started. On probing the matter, it became known that they had done so because the goat was sacrificed to Maisamma. I somehow attended the feast stealthily.
We went to Saidulu’s home. I gave jammi leaves to his parents. When Saidulu bowed to his parent’s feet, I too tried to do the same. But his mother resisted and screamed, “Oh, no my son. Don’t do that.” When I asked the reason for the same she said, “You should not bow to us.”
We went to my home. Saidulu gave jammi leaves to my father and brother and embraced them. Gave those leaves to my mother and sisters and touched their palms with his eyes. Then, we went to the homes of our friends and some others who were close to us and returned.
Everything was all right but Saidulu’s face showed no enthusiasm. He was slipping again and again into distraction. Realising that something has to be done, I took him to the house of Bhiksham goud. Palm wine is not usually available at the goud’s house on festival days. However, I arranged in the morning by sending advance money to him with my mother.
Bhiksham talked something, laid two chairs under the neem tree, gave us tumblers, brought the palm wine pot, and poured it into the glasses. “How are you? You are friends with each other. You left our village. The days when you were here were different. Nowadays everybody has resorted to cheap liquor,” said he. After we drank two glasses each, he filled them again, settled the pot and said, “You pour the palm wine for yourselves from the pot. My children came for the festival.” Later, he closed the door and went inside.
I called my brother on the phone. He brought a boxful of fried beef pieces. The palm wine was foaming and the beef pieces were spicy and tasty. Our party was alluring and seductive.
After having four glasses of palm wine, Saidulu opened up. I was waiting for that only. He started to unravel the entire torment that had been wrenching his heart. I already knew all those matters. Yet, I nodded to him while he talked. After drinking some more wine, Saidulu’s voice became husky. After a little more time, his pent-up grief jetted out forcefully. He wept while talking. I thought it would be better to let him cry adequately. He went on talking:
“I yearn for Nirmala immensely raa. She too would die for me. I was told that she fought tooth and nail with her parents and brothers in her house, but they never agreed to her wish it seems. Her father even beat her and warned, ‘If you insist doggedly, we will kill you and ourselves.’
She came and met me after her marriage was fixed. Held my feet and proposed to elope somehow.” He was sobbing and crying. However, he controlled himself and continued: “You know I am the only son of my parents. They cannot withstand the shock of such an action. Will her people be quiet if we elope? They will attack my people and create a big scene. Thinking about all these, I did not agree with her proposal. Nirmala wept bitterly raa. Then she lambasted me severely saying, ‘Why did you love me when you are so spineless? You are not budging even when a girl proposed to elope with you. Is there any manhood in you? You will repent later Saida! I am leaving. You will never see me again. It’s up to you.’ Then she left. I could never see her again.” He cried like a child.
At last, he controlled himself and said: “My caste and hers both are considered untouchable. The people of our both castes live outside the village only. Then why did my caste become inferior? Why did we madigas become inferior to malas raa? When will these differences vanish?”
I felt as if he was questioning and challenging the whole society.
Notes:
Jammi: a tree believed to be connected with the Dasara festival as per Hindu
mythology, and therefore regarded auspicious
Neem: Azadirachta indica. Also called margosa, which grows abundantly in
rural areas of India
Dappu: a percussion instrument made with cattle hide
Gully: alley, a narrow lane
Bharat matha ki jai: hail thee India (in Hindi language)
Sutli bomb: a firecracker made with sutli, i.e. jute chord
Langa: a petticoat. An inner garment worn by Indian women inside the sari
Vonee: a kind of half-sari worn by young girls in South India
Salwar: light loose trousers/pants worn by South Asian women
Kameez: a long shirt worn by many people in South Asia
Sloka: a canto often composed in the Sanskrit language
Samee samayathe: The sloka which means jammi (samee) drives away (samayathe)
sin (papam)
Palapitta: jay bird the sighting of which on Dasara day is considered auspicious
Alaibalai: Urdu term for mutual embracing
Chakali: Telugu word denoting a washerman or the caste to which belongs
Raa: a particle expressive of a close friendship (in Telugu language)
Sudras: people belonging to one of the four classes, viz. Brahmins, Kshatriyas etc.
Maisamma: a minor deity (demigoddess) in the Telugu land
Goud: the name of a caste. The work of people belonging to it involves tapping
toddy from palm trees.
Madigas: a sect among Scheduled Castes
Malas: a sect among Scheduled Castes
***
Brief Bio of Original Writer:
Skybaaba is a popular Muslim poet, story writer, and activist. He worked as a journalist in some newspapers before. He published many literary works of which “Adhoore” is worth mentioning; it bagged Telugu University Award. He edited anthologies of poetry titled Zalzala, Alaava, Mukhaami, Razmiya, and Dard. He is the editor of Chaman magazine. He took active part in Telangana movement.
Dr. Surendra Nagaraju, born in 1953 in Telanagana State, Elanaaga is a well-known poet, translator and critic in the field of Telugu literature. He is a paediatrician, but now only pursuing his literary interest. After working as a Medical Officer abroad for 6 years, he rendered his services in Andhra Pradesh Vaidya Vidhana Parishat and retired in 2012 in the rank of Deputy Commissioner.
He penned 32 books so far, 15 of which are original writings and 17 are translations. Of the latter, 8 are from English to Telugu, and 9 are from Telugu to English. His works comprise books of free verse, prosodic poems, experimental poetry, language-related essays, essays of criticism, standard crosswords and so on. He is an ardent fan of Indian classical music, especially Hindustani.
Rekha Mohanty
Travel entails many things. Most of the times it needs a meticulous planning on suitable time,duration, distance , itineraries, documentation and finances . But if it is part of an official tour, it may be a decision spontaneous without much hassles.Travels often leave a lasting impression. Good ones we remember for ever. We learn from not so good ones.These help enriching our memory diary. Taking a break at intervals from daily mundane routine is a must for mind and body rejuvenation, otherwise life becomes monotonous, boring even toxic.
I have seen often my parents were going on short trips with us when we were school going kids and we had enjoyed the time thoroughly in different places of posting.
To day I thought I will refresh my memory by writing about my childhood travel experiences of Mayurbhanj, Odisha to recreate the feeling and share with readers.
I have remembered vividly some incidents and descriptions of localities. Later I found out more from father’s biography, diary and some facts from study materials available. Some excerpts I reproduced here to corroborate my early year experiences.
it is all about the beauty of Mayurbhanj district which can be said the North Pole of state of Odisha.
UDALA is a sleepy small town where my father was posted .It is surrounded by places full of scenic beauty, forests, wildlife, lakes, old palace ,vibrant waterfalls and thick coverage of foliage offering a breathtaking view to the connoisseurs. Life was then simple ,uncomplicated and was full of study and cultural activities. Udala is headquarter of Kaptipada subdivision of Mayurbhanj district. The area was somewhat familiar to father as my grandfather, a medical practitioner was earlier posted in Bangiriposhi, a nearby town .My father did his education in Baripada, the district Head Quarter which was capital of erstwhile princely state of Mayurbhanj . The royal family of Mayurbhanj were extensively patronising educational development including art, culture and architecture.Sriram Chandra Bhanj Medical College
(SCB Medical College )Cuttack,is named after Maharaja Sriram Chandra Bhanj Deo and I became an alumna of this oldest prestigious Institution.The impressive mindset of rulers can be fathomed from the fact that in 1905,Mayurbhanj state railway had started from Rupsa , Baleshwar to Baripada.They were donating huge sum of money and land for establishment of educational institutions.
With such rich back ground of the area,I was lucky to have completed my primary education from there. I can vow the standard of education was much better in comparison to many places in the country.
My mother loved travelling and visiting places around. It was a good opportunity for family to be in various places in connection with father’s transferable job.
In one such occasion we were travelling by road when father was going for some investigative duty from Udala to KAPTIPADA. Kaptipada was a princely estate during British Raj.It is about 9 km from Udala town.This place is famous for the palace or fort and is a historical place of Odisha.
After our arrival there, parents went inside Rajbati and we sisters roamed outside. The architectural beauty of the palace is very much appreciated even today but that time I clearly liked the high walls and beautiful garden playing hide and seek behind the carved pillars.
I noticed a puppy was kept in our jeep by a man from palace. I was always pleading to bring a puppy home.We were curious and loved his cute eyes.
Kaptipada is mythologically famous , was known as
Virata Rajya in Matsya desha during Mahabharat period which as was ruled by King Virata.
After leaving the fort,we went further ahead for about one hour to a place where I could see a high hill with smooth stony surface at one side .I started climbing up clinging to stones to reach the top. But soon my enthusiasm died down as dissuaded by mother lest I would slip and fall. Later I found out the details of that revered hill which is known as
SAMI BRUKHYA HILL .
It is 19 km from Kaptipada town.It is a vertical rock of 500 ft. As story goes,Pandavas during their exile days hid weapons in branches of sacred trees . At the foot hill one can find Bhim mace,Bows and arrows made of concrete for tourist attraction .
As per tradition Hanuman,
Ganesha , Krishna are worshipped on the hill.Melas are held on Makar Sankranti and Maha Shivratri.It is a famous tourist spot of Odisha.
I don’t remember exactly when we came back and reached Udala. The puppy was a German shepherd, one of litter of Kaptipada Raja’s personal pet Alsatian.I named him Tiger and it became our first pet.We loved and played with him while mother used to feed him with mutton rice putting turmeric without salt and oil.
Second memorable travel I recollected was about after a gap of few months . We had school vacation and father planned for visiting the near by place called KHICHING. It seemed a long journey from Udala. Later I found out that we had travelled 130 km in about 3 hours.I faintly remembered a tall blackish shining temple and mother doing some shopping nearby. Father as usual was with some uniformed police menfolk discussing in the street.
I came to know later about the place Khiching .It is famous for its 920 AD Kichakeswari Temple made of chlorite slabs with unique style of carvings on black granites.Khiching is famous for carved idols made by locals out of kalaa muguni or black granite stone. Mother had bought an idol of Ganesha which is still worshipped at home.
While coming back on the way we took a round of Udala town.It is known for its scenic land scape,dense woodland,temples and other attractions like beautiful clusters of tribal huts at the outskirts. The local people are friendly,simple, courteous and fun loving .The tribals with their typical attire could be spotted dancing with joyous celebrations in their community.They used to make their own alcoholic beverage out of Mahula flowers ( Honey or butter flowers)locally available in plenty on big Mahula trees.
We visited some temples .
I recollected later and
found out they were
Panch lingeswar temple,
Shiv mandir,
Emami Jagannath temple,
Ambika temple
and Maa Tarini temple.
We returned home late evening and slept tired.
Time passed and after a few months we were excited as father revealed a plan for family outing to
SIMILIPAL NATIONAL PARK.
It is huge with 2750 sq km area , a famous tiger reserve.Also is a part of Mayurbhanj elephant reserve. The thick forest is home to many species of wildlife and birds , criss crossed by twelve rivers very rich in marine lives.They are flowing into Bay of Bengal . Beauty is added by waterfalls and hill peaks.
DEVKUND WATERFALL with the lake is so beautiful that one tends to forget the time as totally mingled with nature . The roar of water is mind blowing and water falling from hilltop creating a large pond of natural lake is a treat to eye and ear.A temple situated at the cliff 50 meter high renders the area a divine feeling.
Other scenic areas inside are BAREHIPANI and JORANDA waterfalls.
The hill peaks are:
KHAIRIBURU PEAK (1178 m) and MEGHASANI PEAK
(1158 m) in Similipal hill range rendering an exquisite view.
We had a night stay in Sitakund Forest Resort to feel the life in forest at night and were lucky sighting the rare breed of melanistic tiger ,locally called Kalaa Bagha or Black tiger. Their population is found here.
We returned via Balasore to the KHARASAHPUR BEACH which took about 4
hours .The drive through beautiful natural landscape is mesmerising.The beach is a must visit one because of its unspoilt beauty.
This UNESCO World Biosphere reserve is worth visiting.The mammoth forest,the house to many species of animals, birds , fish gives excellent opportunities for ecotourism, nature camp and safari.Odisha Govt OTDC manages nature camps and is developing more to provide facilities for tourists.
The local food of the region is popular and I like it.Mutton with puffed rice, pakhala Bhat( watered rice)and many sweet dishes out of cheese and Khoa is mouth watering.
In a nutshell Mayurbhanj is a fabulous majestic destination for all if one has inclination for wholesome enjoyment and relaxation with spiritual experiences within descent budget. If one wants to plan and explore all these places ,it can be arranged through OTDC.( Odisha Tourism Development Corporation).
Bon Voyage.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: CELEBRATING A WOMAN, WHO BROKE BARRIERS AND ROCKETED INDIA’S FAME TO THE SKY!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
While Dr. Vikram Sarabhai is revered as the Father of the Indian Space Program and Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam is celebrated as the ‘Missile Man of India,’ it is Dr. Tessy Thomas, known as the ‘Missile Woman of India,’ whose story of resilience and achievement stands as a beacon of inspiration.
Hailing from a small village in Kerala, Dr. Tessy Thomas’s remarkable journey has taken her from humble beginnings to becoming the Director General of the prestigious Aeronautical Systems at DRDO. Her contributions have firmly established India as a leading country in missile technology, making her trajectory truly inspiring. Also known as ‘Agni Putri’, Dr. Tessy is the first ever woman scientist to lead a missile project in India. She led the development of the Agni-III, Agni-IV, and Agni-V missiles.
Dr. Tessy Thomas began her illustrious career with the Defence Research and Development Organisation (DRDO) in 1988, where she played a pivotal role in designing and developing the new-generation ballistic missile, Agni. She was selected by Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam to be part of the Agni project team. Additionally, she served as the Associate Project Director for the Agni-III missile, which has a range of 3,000 km. Dr. Thomas later became the Project Director for the Agni-IV mission, which achieved a successful test in 2011. In 2009, she was appointed as the Project Director for the Agni-V missile, which was successfully test-fired on April 19, 2012. On June 1, 2018, she was promoted to the position of Director-General of Aeronautical Systems at DRDO, a role she held until April 30, 2023. The successful launch of the Agni-V missile from Wheeler Island (now Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam Island) off the coast of Odisha marked a significant milestone in India's missile development program, showcasing the nation's advanced technological capabilities.
Dr. Tessy was born in Tiruvalla, Kerala, India, in 1963. From a young age, she exhibited a keen interest in science and mathematics, showcasing a natural flair for these subjects. During her pre-degree years, she scored one hundred percent in mathematics and over ninety-five percent in science. Driven by a thirst for knowledge, she pursued a Bachelor of Science degree in Electronics and Communication Engineering from the Government Engineering College, Thrissur. Notably, like Sudha Murthy, she was the only woman in her class, demonstrating her unwavering spirit in a male-dominated field.
To support her education, she is said to have taken an education loan of ?100 per month from the State Bank of India. She also received a scholarship that covered her tuition fees due to her high merit. This financial support gave her the courage to live in a hostel while pursuing her B.Tech.
After completing her undergraduate studies, Dr. Thomas embarked on a Master’s degree in Guided Missile Technology at the Defence Institute of Armament Studies (DIAS) in Pune. This esteemed institution sharpened her skills and provided her with the technical knowledge required to marvel in the field of missile engineering. She also obtained a Ph.D in Missile Guidance from Jawaharlal Nehru Technological University (JNTU) , Hyderabad and an MBA in Operation Management from Indira Gandhi National Open University (IGNOU) , New Delhi.
Throughout her school and college years, Dr. Tessy Thomas was actively involved in various extracurricular activities too, including political affairs. She also excelled in sports, particularly badminton, earning significant recognition and accolades for her alma maters
Tessy grew up near the Thumba Equatorial Rocket Launching Station in Trivandrum, where her fascination with rockets and missiles first took root. Living so close to the hub of India's space endeavors sparked her curiosity and passion for aerospace. She was captivated by the sight of rockets soaring into the sky and was equally stimulated by the wonderment of aircraft flying overhead. This early exposure to the marvels of flight and space ignited a lifelong interest that eventually led her to a groundbreaking career in missile technology.
Dr. Tessy Thomas comes from a large family, with four sisters and one brother. She has often spoken in interviews about how her parents prioritized education for all their children. They encouraged the six siblings to pursue their individual interests and excel in their chosen careers, fostering an environment that valued learning and personal growth.
Dr. Thomas credits both her hometown and her mother for her personal development. Reflecting on her upbringing, she once said, “I grew up with the picturesque backwaters of Kerala as my backyard. I believe nature instills strength and fosters positive thoughts. The impact of nature on one's development is profound and undeniable.” She also expressed deep admiration for her mother, stating, “It must have been incredibly challenging for my mother—who wasn't permitted to work—to care for us on her own. Yet, she ensured that each of her five daughters and one son received a quality education. I've definitely inherited her strong will. My perseverance and determination mirror that of my mother's.”
The grateful nation has recognised Dr. Tessy Thomas with numerous awards, including Scientist of the Year (2008), India Today Women of the Year Award (2009), DRDO Performance Excellence Award (2011), Lokmanya Tilak National Award (2022), and Woman Pioneer of the Year at ETPrime Women Leadership Awards (2023). Dr. Tessy Thomas had received the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Award for Excellence in 2012 for her significant contributions to making India self-reliant in missile technology. She holds distinguished memberships in the Indian National Academy of Engineering (INAE), the Institution of Engineers-India (IEI), and the Tata Administrative Service (TAS).
Dr. Tessy Thomas's success story is not just defined by her remarkable achievements in the missile program, but also by her ability to balance her personal and professional life. She adeptly walked the tightrope as both a homemaker and a defense scientist, often making significant sacrifices on the home front, including times when she had to leave her unwell son, Tejas, behind for a missile launch. In numerous interviews, she has expressed her gratitude to her parents, in-laws, husband, and son for their unwavering support and encouragement.
"If men can do, women can also do. There's nothing that can stop us," had declared Dr. Tessy Thomas, the 'Missile Woman of India' and the first woman to lead an Indian missile project. Dr. Thomas's story is a testament to her perseverance, determination, and passion, showcasing how a woman with an unwavering spirit can break barriers and reach the pinnacle of success in a male-dominated field. Her journey is not just inspiring but also a beacon of hope and empowerment for countless others. As she said in an interview, “I strive to mentor and inspire young minds, especially women, to pursue careers in science and technology.”
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Vivek had a high regard for poetry and reverence for poets. He believed it as the Divine art. He adored art from his heart, especially the art of the composition of poetry. He wrote innumerable poems to reflect a rich variety of themes for wisdom. He trusted that he had the art of poetry by the Grace of Goddess Vani, the Goddess of Muse.
People knew Vivek to write excellent poetry. They learnt the fact when they spoke to him one day. They never tried to know what he wrote, as they were busy, or his writings were scholarly. They thought that only the people with poetic bent of mind could enjoy his poetry fully. Whenever they happened to see him, they bowed their heads to him as a mark of reverence for him as a poet. He thought that they had respect for poetry, especially for his poetry. He was happy for their good gesture.
Vivek produced many volumes of poetry. He did not know what to do for them. He minded the composing of poetry but not his reputation as a poet. He thought of the poets who dedicated poetry to gods and goddesses. Bammera Potana, a famous Telugu poet, who sought benedictions and blessings of Goddesss Sri Vani to compose poetry and dedicated his magnum opus Srimadhandra Bhagavatham to Lord Sri Rama, was his role model.
As a poet and man, Vivek had high regard for Goddess Vani. He decided to dedicate his works to the Goddess. He kept his poems for himself, having decided to dedicate them to the goddess.
There were bundles of manuscripts pending inside the shelves and on the floor. Sometimes, his wife Vichitra was with him saying,
"You're writing all these. What's the use...?"
"These books are treasures...invaluable treasures to teach morals and ethics, dictums and precepts to readers," said Vivek with all smiles.
"When...?" said Vichitra.
.
"The readers in the future," said Vivek.
"Who's going to read all these books?" said Vichitra.
"Readers are there...born in the future… If the poets in the long past had thought so innocently as you did, they wouldn't have written books like Abhijnana Shakuntalam, Ramayana, Mahabharatha. Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, I wouldn't have read them...I would have lost all those gems of literary values," said Vivek with feelings
"People are otherwise busy in the present society...," said Vichitra.
"There're people to read poetry...especially my poetry. Why do people respect me if they don't like my poetry?" said Vivek.
"You're spending your valuable time, doing regardless and useless work. Instead, you can do something fetching to enrich your financial status," said Vichitra.
"What's more valuable than poetry?" said Vivek.
"Do you think that poetry is more valuable?" said Vichitra.
"Yes...Yes…," said Vivek confidently.
"You can stop writing poetry and do some business to earn some money. Nowadays money is everything. Money makes many things ...You can have material progress… terrestrial pleasures, high mansions for comforts," said Vichitra.
"How can I stop poetry? Poetry is an incessant glow in spontaneous flow. It's indeed a constant stream of ideas never to stop... It's ceaseless like the river, Ganges to flow, the wind to blow, the light to glow...by means of ideas. There are people to read and gain wisdom by reading my poetry," said Vivek.
"You've too much confidence in the people to read poetry," said Vichitra.
"Yes, I've confidence in them," said Vivek.
"By the time they come forward to reading your poetry, a lot of dust gathers with the heaps of your manuscript works," said Vichitra.
"I don’t welcome your thought process…Poetry is divine… I dedicate my poetry to Basara Vani, my Goddess in the way Potana dedicated his poetry to Lord, Sri Rama to tell you once again. I distribute the books to the lovers of poetry... to the pilgrims, her devotees at the shrine," said Vivek.
Vivek was unhappy, as he did not get due encouragement from his family as poetry was nothing for his wife, Vichitra. She was very angry with her husband. She was half illiterate and half literate. Her books were serials telecast one after the other on TV like the film songs broadcast on the radio. She never read his works, as they were nothing for her. She was busy watching only the serials very much. She did not know the value of poetry.
Vivek had a son called Abhi who was interested in his father's poetry. Perhaps he had inherited the skill of enjoying poetry. He appreciated poetry as he considered the skill, his father's legacy. In the recent past, he went to the USA to go for his higher studies.
When Abhi went abroad, he took the manuscripts of his father’s anthologies. In the way possible, he met all who were interested in poetry in the USA.
The people in the U.S.A. who were interested in his poetry advised Abhi to send the poems to poetry contest. Accordingly, he sent them for a poetry contest and journals of high repute.
One of his friends, Madhav found Vivek smiling very often.
"What made you smile heartily?" said Madhav.
"My poems are featuring in the journals of high repute in India and abroad. I’m happy for that," said Vivek smiling.
"Your face is glowing like the morning sun…You feel as if you were the winner of a lottery ticket," said Madhav.
"For me, winning the lottery ticket is not better than composing a poem. Poetry is for wisdom and wisdom is worth more than a kingdom," said Vivek, smiling heartily.
"You feel as if you were to find Goddess Lashmi offering gold coins to you when your poems feature in the journals of high repute," said Madhav.
"I feel that gold is not everything. My poetry is everything," said Vivek.
"I love money. I love to win a lottery ticket as I want to purchase ornaments to my wife...On wearing them, she’ll look like an angel...," said Madhav.
Vivek laughed silently looking at Madhav who expressed his response:
"For me gold is a million times more valuable than your Poetry. By disposing gold, I’ll purchase a building for my comfortable living. I’ll buy a car and take my wife in it to films and beautiful locations."
Vivek smiled longer and longer. Meanwhile he got a call from his son Abhi from the USA. While he was speaking to his son, Madhav disappeared from the scene without staying a minute, saying,
"I’m going to meet my friend and discuss the prospects of the share market today...I wish that all will be in my favour... I’ll become richer and richer as per my plans. See you my dear friend, Vivek."
Abhi told his father, Vivek that he was expecting good results in the poetry contest as poetry experts expected his father to win laurels. His father's name was shortlisted for the award in the poetry contest. He read about his father's poetry in the reviews of all poems of the contest.
Vivek kept on writing poetry. He did not stop doing so though circumstances were different. In an incident, he learnt that poetry was losing its sheen, as the people in current society were keen on earning and enjoying all lavish luxuries and cozy comforts but not in reading books. He felt it the most unwelcome trend.
... ... .... ... …
There were the results of a poetry contest announced online. Vivek won first place in the poetry contest. The committee of the contest was ready to pay to-and-fro flight fares and give a cash prize of five thousand dollars, presenting him with a memento as a mark of respect for his poetry par excellence.
Vivek learnt this news and was very happy to receive the award in the US. He got online information about the tickets. The people at his region learnt about his victory in the poetry contest, the cash award, and the certificate of appreciation.
.
On a fine day, Vivek got VISA ready for him to travel along with his wife to the US. They were at the Shamshabad International Airport. As per the flight time, they entered the airport. It was time for them to be in the flight. They were in the flight and traveled to the USA.
They landed at the Chicago International Airport. Their son, Abhi came to receive them. The award receiving function was after two days.
Vivek and Vichitra with their son Abhi were at the place where Swami Vivekananda spoke on behalf of Hindu Sammelan. Vivek was very happy. Vichitra was happier than Vivek. She felt guilty of criticizing her husband often, ridiculing him and his poetry sometimes. She recalled what she had said to her husband, Vivek regarding his poetry, and felt sorry for that.
Abhi, their son joined them in sharing the joys of his father on the occasion.
Vivek was feeling on top of the world amidst the winners and audiences. There were great literary figures across the world present to receive awards for their literary contributions. They were receiving their lifetime achievement awards.
The authorities of the function were calling the names one after the other. It was Vivek's turn. They invited him onto the dais. They felicitated him duly on his poetic achievements for his poetic output to the literary firmament by presenting him a cash ward and a certificate of appreciation. He went on to the dais in dignity while all were giving a big round of applause. The function hall was echoing with the applause of the people and the award winners present.
Vivek received the cash award and the certificate of appreciation with all pride and honor, decency and decorum, while the claps were going on.
Vivek had an invitation to speak in response to his award. It was his great acclaim at the international level. He was moving to the dais in grace and pride, and all were clapping once again. His wife Vichitra and son Abhi were happy on the occasion.
Vivek was happy to express his response. He started to speak, expressing his views on poetry:
"American sisters and brothers, the fellow poets across the world to receive the rare honor...I bow my head to the august and enlightened gathering. I’m overwhelmed with joy on this occasion... I find you in my presence… the respectable people in America who have appealing to poetry. I’m happy for you adore poetry. I’m glad for your gracious presence to felicitate poets. Thank you very much for the honor you’ve bestowed on me in Chicago. I go to my nation in mind and bear all my sweet memories... My heart echoes the spirit of Swami Vivekananda's speech delivered here... The people here love poetry, the supreme genre of every literature. We are for the genre as it enlightens us to be in the path of virtues and values. I don’t respect the people who do not respect poetry. I’m a fan of poetry...Poetry is my breath...Poetry is my life. Poetry is my passion...Poetry is Goddess Vani, the Goddess of Muse...I’m Her worshipper. I’m Her adorer...I love poetry as it expresses the truth. The truth is beautiful. The beauty is delightful...Its truth and beauty are for my gaiety... I love you all for the distinctive honor you have conferred on poets, especially me. As all know, these are the times when poetry is losing its value. I’m glad that you accord due honor to poetry. I bow my head to the nation for it. I bow my head to my Indian nation for she brought up and shaped me into a poet to be acclaimed in the most advanced American nation... Thank you all ...,"
All the other award winners spoke on the occasion, thanking the authorities.
Finally, the authorities thanked all on behalf of the USA for having offered awards to the poets of distinction. The function ended with a happy note.
There was clapping by all for due reverence conferred on the poets.
… … … …
When Vivek landed at Shamshabad Airport, he was received very respectfully. When he came out of the airport, people garlanded him with due reverence. The attitude of the people turned different when he came after receiving the international honour.
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
T. V. Sreekumar
Summer, followed by other seasons during this long period called life, memorable for its own colourful reasons and otherwise, but I write this for posterity. It was agony in different phases with shades of ecstasy. Innocent childhood, carefree school days and then higher education, not caring to understand the struggles of parents to sail through the financially loaded system and finally a job at hand and life had to be faced in a totally different perspective. Responsibilities had to be shouldered and balancing their weight was a different task. The realization that life was a struggle dawned and all those joyful days of the past remained a memory in the inner corridors of mind. Occasionally meeting old friends and all of them in the same voice recollecting the past and struggling to fit into the present.
Marriage a blessed union with companionship, love and care and for me it was bliss which matched in many ways. It was mutual love and respect for each other which kept life moving at a vibrant pace and at times there were difference of opinion and i am proud to say they got sorted out in no time.
My life revolved around my wife and children with occasional visits to my parents. With the parents’ death the nuclear family became more cohesive. With my work related transfers family had to be anchored as I became mobile or else children’s education would have got disrupted. Shifting family along with me was risky in terms of getting admission in schools and the uncertain duration of posting in the other location. Life went on with frequent calls to family and occasional visits.
Children grew up at a pace unimaginable but they remained kids to us always and later the elder one got employed when the others were still into academics. Happy days and on one such day in December 2010 while in another city of work I got a call saying my wife Suchitra was hospitalised. I had been home a few days earlier and she was in the best of health and wondered what took her to hospital. I was told not to worry but I was to be there immediately. That day remains my life’s game changer. While on my way I was told that she was no longer with us. I froze when I heard it and for a long time remained lifeless. My body was stiff and still and I could not utter a word and mind was blank. Couldn’t adapt to a situation where an imbalance was glaring straight at me. I was like a robot for days together and at times could not even identify people well known to the family. Picking up the threads and starting a life without limbs was traumatic.
Trying to find out the reason for her hospitalisation, I was told she just collapsed and that was it. A few days before it happened, seeing the pathetic condition of corporation workers collecting waste from home working bare handed, she had gifted them gloves and informed me over phone about that with immense joy. A day before the tragedy, during a visit to town for purchase when Christmas was round the corner this bell image caught her attention and it came home. Sad that it could not be displayed as she left all of us before the festival.
The bell image remains at home as an extension of her life. Me, after going through tough trials in life and later the retired period now, keeps indulged in thoughts of all that went through in the uncertain game called life.
Whenever loneliness creeps in and I crave for companionship, I look at that bell and believe it or not I can feel it ringing in decibels for my ear alone.
Yes, for me alone.
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..
Sreechandra Banerjee
“…Dha, Na Tin Tin Ta, Tete Dhin Dhin Dha, Dha…” the reverberating beats of the tabla well mellowed with the tune of the Sarengi and the song. The famous Kathak exponent Pandit Nataraj Maharaj was dancing to the tune of a tarana set in teentala. François was busy trying to locate Suvadra Pattanaik, the French interpreter. He had come all the way from Versailles to attend this famous Konark Dance Festival held in the open-air auditorium beside the 700-year-old architectural marvel, the Konark Sun Temple, now considered to be a world heritage monument. In a week’s time he will have to return to Paris to perform in a ballet. This weekend, however, he will attend another classical dance festival at Bangalore, the garden city of India.
Every now and then, François could not help gazing at the temple, like a lover ogling at his beloved. The ambiance with the majestic floodlit temple as backdrop was mesmerizing indeed. The mild gurgling sound of the distant Bay of Bengal had further engulfed the ambiance into a mystic charm.
-“Suvadra, you are here! This temple, c’est magnifique”, François finally located her at a nearby stall.
-“Yes, Orissa, like many other states of India is famous for its different schools of art. In the past it was called ‘Utkal’, which means “one who has the highest form of art”. In ancient times, it also had the name of ‘Kalinga’, which means ‘for whom art is an integral part’. The famous Kalinga port, known to the geographer Ptolemy in the 2nd century A.D, was located near-by.
-“This is called the Black Pagoda, Suvadra?”
-“Yes. A gneiss type soft weathered Khondalite rock was used in its construction. Chlorite was used in making the doorframes and some sculptures, laterite was used in foundation.”
François had come here late this afternoon, after the early December sun had set and had been put up at a hotel. Now, he could wait no longer to study the intricate stone carvings of musicians and dancers in various poses depicting the original temple dances in this regally splendid monument.
On their way back to the auditorium, Suvadra was explaining:
-“Dance, you know, has always been an integral part of worship in Orissa. Many temples here have a dance hall. The discovery of an ancient treatise on dance, the ‘Abhinaya Chandrika’ and the study of ancient sculptures on temple walls have helped the revitalization of Odissi, the traditional classical dance of Orissa. As per Hindu mythology, dance has descended from the cosmic dance of the dancing God, the “Nataraj”, which means the King of Dance.”
Suddenly Suvadra realized that François was not listening. How long was it that it had been a soliloquy? Little did she know that François was thinking about her!
-“Suvadra, tell me about yourself.”
-“Oh! I am an Odissi dancer too. But, nowadays, I hardly get time to practice. Originally we hail from a village in Orissa, but I was brought up in Calcutta, now called Kolkata.”
-“Are all Indian women as versatile as you are, Suvadra?”
She looked away pretending to listen to the rhythms of the Odissi dancer, now performing on stage. She had wanted to refuse this assignment, but being a classical dancer herself, she was best suited for the job. Besides, the pay packet was lucrative too! How much she had wished to continue her own pursuits! Her father had wanted her to take up something more useful. Taking up dance as a career had not been possible, now that she had to support her younger brother Balaram, to enable him to continue his studies. A spoiled brat, as he was already, what would he become after his school final exams, the next year? It would not have been possible for her retired father to pay for the various tuition classes that Balaram required, as the pension her father drew, was not enough to sustain today’s needs. Her elder brother Jagannath had moved out and settled at Dubai, after a lock out at the factory, in which he was working. Their mother had been relegated to being a housewife, after her implorations to her husband for permission to take a teaching job had been denied. Then was it that Suvadra had been able to change her father’s attitude or it was the need of the hour that her father now wanted her to work?
Suvadra tried hard to hide her tears.
That night François kept imagining Suvadra in different dance poses that he had seen that evening till extreme fatigue from the journey and the lingering effect of the music had lulled him to sleep.
François slept till late hours in the morning and did not notice the sun’s rays stealing in through the sides of the curtains. A phone-call from the reception desk woke him up. Suvadra was waiting for him!
Tomorrow he would have to get up early. He simply could not afford to miss the sunrise!
The morning light had rendered the temple a lonely yet tempting look against the backdrop of the azure, blue sky.
-“Suvadra, the temple is in the shape of a chariot?”
-“Yes, indeed, the chariot was pulled by seven stately horses, symbolizing the number of days in a week and the seven colours constituting sunlight. See, two of the horses are still there. Time is measured by the celestial journey of the Sun and so the temple symbolizes this passage of time. See, there are twelve wheels on each side which represent the months of a year and each wheel has sixteen spokes which work as a sundial, as the shadow falls at a particular angle each hour of the day.”
-“This is really wonderful, rightly said that it is a unique example of energy trapped in stone. I have read that sun worship is much in vogue in India as it is the focal point of the solar system and thus the starting point of life.”
-“Yes, There are many sun temples in India, It is believed that the cult of sun worship began here some 5000 years ago. The Sun God ‘Surya’ has been a popular deity in India since the Vedic period and prayers can be found in the Rig Veda, the earliest sacred religious text.”
-“So, this cult is of Aryan origin?”
-“Yes, the original Babylonian and Iranian source is evident in the boots that the idols of Sun God always wear. Indian deities do not wear such boots. Let us go to the entrance of the main sanctum where you will see three images of the Sun God, wearing boots and positioned to catch the rays of the sun at dawn, noon and sunset.”
-“Well, it’s almost time for sunset now! So, time seems to have been trampled on by the prancing horses of the chariot in the diurnal traversal of the Sun!”
-“Tomorrow we will continue with the different sculptures, as you can see the temple is adorned with intricate artistic designs of whatever the Sun God sees during his journey through heaven.”
On their way back, the driver started playing a cassette. ‘Kuch, kuch hota hae’ the lyrics went like a refrain, some popular Hindi film hit song. Perhaps it was true, something was probably happening.
That night François dreamt that he was riding a chariot and of course, Suvadra was standing beside him with the reigns in hand. Probably they landed on an island with a Sun temple. And then? Probably they lived happily ever after bestowed with the blessings of the Sun God in sublime unity with the cosmic rhythms.
How could Suvadra sleep that night? The tenderness in François’s eyes that evening had mellowed her heart. Yet, she realized how little she knew about him except for the fact that he was a reputed ballet dancer, of French origin and trained in Russia. He had told Suvadra that he lived alone in Versailles. Apparently François was different from Peter, who was an egoist down to the core of the heart.
It was three years ago when Suvadra had just completed her graduation and had gone to her Guru’s ashram in Bhubaneswar. Peter at that time was a resident student there. They had had a nice time performing Odissi together under the Guru’s tutelage. When it was Suvadra’s time to leave, Peter had proposed to her. Suvadra was not quite sure whether he was really in love with her or whether it was infatuation! Besides, Peter could not have accepted Suvadra’s independent career, had she pursued dance. Probably, neither could she have accepted Peter’s fame as a classical dancer too. Suvadra had realized that although their dancing steps were in phase, yet their values were totally out of phase.
How difficult it had been to forget Peter. After all, Suvadra had inspired Peter to excel in Indian classical dance. Often she could feel the rhythmic pangs of loneliness interspersing the daily chores crowding her life. That night, she somehow had the feeling that François would help her to overcome this loneliness arising out of a break-up. Yet, it would be a long journey before they could stride along in phase.
The next day, Suvadra took him round the temple explaining the different panels.
That evening, on their way back, François had asked her whether she would teach him Odissi dance.
-“It would take a long time and very soon you will return to your country, François.”
-“I think I will have to come back soon.
How would it be if we danced together, Suvadra? Our forms may be different but it would be a new generation of dance. Can we not work on it?”
Suvadra was at a loss for words. After all it is the harmony of the unique cosmic rhythm guiding the pace of the universe that mattered.
‘Kahona paeyar hae’, came out another Hindi film hit song from the car cassette player.
-“Suvadra, will you interpret the lyrics of this song?”
-“Why don’t you say that it is love?”
-“Isn’t it true, Suvadra?”
Oh! How much she wanted to hear these words from François. She could not believe her ears.
Suvadra’s mother Sabita had wanted her daughter to marry. Sabita, another name for the sun, was not the central point of the family. She, being completely dominated by her husband, never had a say in any household matter. She thought that marriage would liberate Suvadra off her father’s domineering clutches.
-“Oh! Ma, it would be the same thing if I marry someone like Baba” Suvadra had objected.
-“Chose someone yourself and see that he is not like Baba”
-“Ma, you know, most men behave differently before marriage” Suvadra had said.
Her father would not accept an intercontinental marriage and that too before her brother Balaram’s graduation, lest she stopped her financial support. Anyway, it would be too premature to take any decision right now. She ought to give time for this relationship to mature into a relationship where there could be opportunity of growth for both. That would take some more time.
The next day when it was time to leave for Bangalore, Suvadra reminded him to notice the many tiered pyramidal, intricately designed South Indian temple roofs called Gopurams, distinctly different from the North Indian conical ones with different designs, called the ‘Shikaras’.
-“Suvadra, I will return to India soon and will you teach me Odissi?”
-“Sure, I will”.
-“Oh, Suvadra, so nice of you. In Indian dances, you invoke different Gods and Goddesses. Can we start with an invocation of Surya?”
-“Yes, in Indian marriages too, the Sun God is invoked by chanting the matrimonial hymns.”
-“Will we also invoke Surya then, when we marry?”
Suvadra couldn’t believe her ears! Yet it was too early to take a decision.
-“May be, we will decide that later, François, you know that it is not that easy, our cultures are totally different.”
-“Yes, but the rhythms of our hearts are the same, Suvadra"
…………….Yes, probably true!
This story is from my Book – Tapestry of Stories, published in 2011/2012.
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee.
All rights reserved except for the right of the photo which is taken from the internet only and to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
No part of this story can be reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
MY FRIEND DIGAMBAR AND HIS DEAD SON
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
It was a little after six in the morning when I got the call on my phone. This was in the mid-nineties when phones used to sit smugly on cradles like gentlemen waiting for attention and not slither obscenely in pockets like beauties of ill repute eager to come out. Everyone knows I am a late riser and in my virtual clock six in the morning is like a little past midnight. Groggy, I opened my sleep-laden eyes and lifted the phone. Before I could say hello, Digambar, my close friend from college days, shrieked into the phone, "My son just died, Ashu, I just lost my son" and started wailing. I got up, jolted by the shock. I asked him how it happened, but he went on sobbing and put down the phone.
I immediately phoned Santosh, Biju and Ajit, three of our other friends from the college days and after a brief wash rushed to Digambar's house on my scooter. Those days Bajaj scooters ruled the streets and one thought he could ride to the rainbow on these reliable contraptions. I found Ajit already there, standing near Digaa trying to console him. Digaa, a man of huge proportions, was leaning against the door frame, with his thick legs stretching across it, blocking the entrance. With teary eyes and choking voice I asked him what had happened, how his son had died. Digaa burst into another round of wailing, pointed to within his house where his son's body was laid, and kept beating his deeply-lined forehead with his grief-stricken hand.
Soon after, Santosh and Biju, who usually move in tandem, arrived and we huddled into a mini conference contemplating our next course of action. Courtesy demanded that we should go inside the house and pay our respects to Digaa's dear son, but the way he was sitting on the door frame covering the entire space of the narrow door in the small government quarters, made it impossible. And we didn't have the heart to tell him to move.
I knew that his wife, Archana, would be arriving any time now from her two days' tour to a far-off district. I had dropped her off at the railway station two nights ago. She worked as a Deputy Director in the Women's Welfare department of the state government and the official quarters had been allotted to her. She goes on tour at least twice a month. Since an official ban had been put by Archana a few years back on Digaa's driving, he used to call one of us to drive her to the Bus Stand or Railway Station when she had to leave on tour in the night. While returning in the mornings she came by rickshaw preferring not to disturb us. Now also Ajit offered to go to the railway station to pick her up, but we decided against it. Her train was expected at seven and she might be already on the way.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
We knew Digaaa must be sorely missing his wife. Digaa depended on her for emotional support and she had never failed him on those occasions in the past when Digaaa's life had shattered to pieces. Our friend had mellowed a lot over the years, but during the college days he paraded himself as a firebrand communist. His talk was liberally peppered with explosive words like exploitation, oppression, proletariat, bourgeois and stateless society. He was an active member of the Democratic Students Organisation and used to lead processions on the streets of Cuttack with red flags and loud slogans. On many days of the month, Digaa would be in the maidan, organising meetings and giving fiery speeches, although there would be hardly two dozen attendees, including the speakers. But Digaa used to plod on, dreaming of a golden era replete with withering away of the state.
Digaa was quite a character in our hostel, universally adored and equally feared. A believer in socialistic distribution of resources , he would nonchalantly pinch food, tea, soaps, razors and pens from friends. And, as soon as he got up in the morning, he would go from room to room and if anyone had ordered snacks and left them on the table, Digaa would shamelessly polish off half of it, before moving to the next room in search of eatables. When cornered, he would give a long speech on need, greed and his socialistic creed,
"My friend, you have food but obviously little appetite, otherwise why would you go away for a bath leaving a food packet on the table? And I have a big appetite but no food. So what's wrong if I brought appetite and food together in the interest of socialistic justice? And you bloody rascal, why are you complaining? It's not as if I have eaten away all your food! Look, you bourgeoise dog, half the food is still left for you. Digaa may be a penniless communist, but you must learn to rejoice at his big heart, you shameless glutton!"
Needless to say, the chastised glutton, hurt to his inner core, would have no appetite left and would distribute the remaining food to his room mates. Digaa was not partial to food alone, he would happily drink half the tea if lying unattended. One of my most painful memorieso of those carefree hostel days was a severely burnt throat when, hearing Digaa's foot steps outside my room, I had gulped down half a cup of scalding hot tea in a hurry. Digaa would also take away soaps, pens, razor blades and the occasional shampoo, a rarity those days. Often when Digaa set out from his room, there would be a suppressed warning spreading from room to room like rapid fire and the inmates would hurry to hide their valuables like soaps, tooth paste and razor blades.
In fact our most unforgettable experience of the hostel days was on a summer morning when all of us were busy preparing for the final exams and like a whirlwind Digaa emerged from his room and started parading on the first floor corridors. The rooms got emptied in no time as if attacked by a swarm of bees. Every one came out to see Digaa in a glorious state of absolute nudity with not a stitch of cloth on his body. We all started laughing and a junior who was a sort of disciple to Digaa in his communistic discourse, ventured to ask,
"Digaabhai, why are you displaying your naked charms to this undeserving crowd? Can't you wear something?"
Digaa turned to him indulgently, like a seasoned Karl Marx looking at a juvenile Lenin with affection,
"Wear? What should I wear? And why should I wear? Just to please these worthless bourgeois dogs?"
"No, no, not for these bourgeois dogs," Lenin replied demurely, "We were wondering if a lungi would enhance your presentability and add to your intellectual personality".
Digaa was pleased at this unabashed buttering by a disciple, but shouted,
"Lungi! You said, a lungi? I wore one lungi for three long years till it was reduced to tatters. Now I don't have money to buy a lungi. And you know my name is Digambar, the name itself means the sky is my lungi. I am happy to roam like this, wrapped by the sky. If it offends the aesthetic sense of any bourgeois pig, he can buy a lungi for me."
To our amusement Digaa broke into an impromptu speech,
"Comrades, even in this small space of the hostel the disparity between the haves and have nots is suffocating. A day will come when revolution will start from the non-possession of a lungi by the deprived, the have nots. Lungi will become the symbol of a tectonic change, when ground will slip from under the feet of the bourgeois oppressors ......." Digaa would have continued to spew more fire but three of our hostel mates had silently hurried to their rooms and produced a new lungi apiece. Digaa chose one of them, and being a principled communist, returned the other two and marched back to his room clad in a newly acquired lungi.
But despite all these eccentricities, Digaa was a much-loved friend; if any one had to be taken to the hospital at midnight with colic pain, if the Superintendent of the hostel was to be heckled for the watery daal or if the principal was to be gheraoed for liberalisation of the attendance policy, Digaa would always take the lead, organise his group of communist fans and achieve the desired result. I remember once our friend Jogesh wrote an impassioned love letter to Jahnabi and she complained to her brother who came to the hostel with his friends to beat up Jogesh. The poor chap ran to Digaa's room. Digaa stood like a wall between him and the hooligans. He took a couple of blows on his massive body and then lifted one of the attackers by his collar and banged him against the door. Outwitted, the gang ran away. But next day the principled Digaa took Jogesh to Jahnabi and made him apologise to her.
Digaa was moderately good in studies and we were wondering where he would finally land up. We knew he came from a very poor family and his father was a landless agricultural labourer from a village, who struggled to educate his eldest son so that the latter would take care of his two younger brothers and a sister. One day we saw Digaa's father at the hostel pleading with his son to take up a job at the earliest. It seemed things were really bad in the village and his family was facing occasional starvation. So immediately after we wrote our final B.A. exams, Digga joined as a clerk in the Collectorate at Cuttack. Some discipline was brought to his life, he had less time now for his communist activities, but on Sundays he used to attend meetings and deliver his speeches on equality, workers' unity and stateless society.
Some of us later shifted to Bhubaneswar for our post-graduate studies. Digaa would visit us once in a while and stay overnight at our hostel to regale us with stories about his promiscuous boss and the corrupt head of the office. To our utter surprise, within a year the revolutionary Digaa fell hopelessly in love with Archana, the Women's Welfare Officer and relentlessly pursued her with the same zeal he had shown while pinching shirts and socks from fellow hostel-mates. Archana, a delightfully docile girl, found in Digaa a knight in shining armour and responded to him like an innocent fish to a wily worm and before we could say Bless You, they were married. Archana was a wonderfully balanced person, a perfect antidote to Digaa's wild, communistic nature and soon Digaa mellowed down like a domesticated pet. One of the cherished memories of our student days in Bhubaneswar was the occasional trips to Cuttack on lazy Sundays to shamelessly stuff ourselves with Archana's out-of-the-world dishes. Being a girl of exceptionally sweet nature, she also took care of Digaa's family.
In a couple of years Digaa got a son but lost his job. This remarkable loss in Digaa's life happened in the most unexpected manner. When Digaa was a student in his village high school he had a teacher, Maaguni Sir, who was a mentor to the young boy bubbling with idealistic fervour. He often used to tell us about his Sir, who had been a freedom fighter and a Gandhian to the core. When Digaa was working in the Collectorate at Cuttack, one day Maaguni Sir came to him and narrated his tale of woe. He had retired two years earlier, but the clerk at the DPI office was refusing to clear his pension papers. Maaguni Sir had visited the office many times, but every time the clerk would find a new reason to send him back, asking for some missing document, a more recent photograph, or the original marriage certificate.
Maaguni Sir was desperate. He knew the clerk took a ten percent cut from every pensioner's Provident Fund and Gratuity amount as bribe, but being a Gandhian and a freedom fighter, Sir was adamant. Giving a bribe was akin to chopping off a part of Bharat Mata for whose liberation he had spent a few months in jail. The clerk, being an anti-Gandhian, was equally adamant, "How could someone get his pension without an appropriate offering to the deities in the government office? What for did we get our independence from the British if we didn't have the freedom to sweeten our hands with bribe? Everyday new rules are being made, wise people are breaking their heads to make new laws, only to straighten the stubborn, impractical people like this old school master. If he got away without paying a bribe, what kind of lesson would it be for others?"
Digaa accompanied Maaguni Sir to the DPI office, pleaded with everyone, met the deputy DPI, but everyone directed them to the clerk. Unless he put up the file, pension could not be cleared. The Deputy DPI lamented that he had paid two lakh rupees to the Minister for a posting in Cuttack. He blamed people like Maaguni Sir who had ruined this country by fighting for its freedom. Under the British rule there was no Minister and one didn't pay a bribe to get a posting!
That evening Maaguni Sir was inconsolable, he simply didn't know how to conduct his daughter's marriage in a couple of months without the GPF and Gratuity amount. Digaa promised him that he would pursue the matter with the DPI's office and put him on the bus to his village. Two days later he got the news that Maaguni Sir had committed suicide by hanging himself from a tree.
Digaa sat for a few minutes, eyes blurred with tears; the fire slowly simmering within him from his student days was waiting to leap into a flame and burn everything in its sight to ashes. When the DPI office opened at ten, Digaa was one of the first to enter it, with a hockey stick in hand. The bribe-seeking clerk got the first blow from the stick on his shoulder, and got up from his seat shrieking. Digaa kept hitting him all over the body; the clerk ran out, with Digaa in hot pursuit and continuing the beating. The clerk ran to his house, Digaa followed him, bludgeoning him with strokes from the hockey stick, till he collapsed on the floor. Digaa wanted to continue, but came to his senses when the clerk's wife fell at his feet and their three year-old son clung to Digaa's feet, tears flowing down his tender cheeks and crying, "Please don't beat my Papa, please don't hit my Papa".
Digaa threw the hockey stick on the floor and quietly left the place. The clerk had been so severely beaten that his bones had broken in eleven places; he needed twenty stitches and his eyes had to be operated upon. After spending a full year in the hospital he resumed duty, but never in his life could he lift the pages of a file, nor could he read any papers to look for missing documents and marriage certificates. He lived like a vegetable for the rest of his life.
Digaa was arrested from his office in the afternoon. He gave a fiery speech to the people assembled there, including two press photographers and a few journalists, who had been brought there by Digaa's communist friends. The next morning the whole of Odisha saw Digaa's photograph along with the picture of his heavily bandaged victim in all leading newspapers. Digaa's communist friends held a massive meeting at the maidan with a surprisingly large attendance. Cuttack town was warming up to a hero who had taught a lesson to a corrupt clerk.
The police filed a case and we found out the Judge's son, Anirudh, was a classmate of ours. Through Anirudh we met the judge and gave a full picture of Digaa's life and philosophy. He listened to us and simply said, "Ask him to express his regrets in the Court room". The message was discreetly conveyed to Digaa through Archana. Digaa gave a short, inspiring speech in the Court and conveyed his regret to the clerk's wife and the small son. But he never admitted he had done anything wrong by beating up the clerk. He hoped that in the stateless society of the future, people would be the judges of crime and justice would be instantaneous.
The Judge smiled at the speech of this impassioned young man and sentenced him to six month's imprisonment, including the period he had already spent in jail. Digaa was released after one and half months. During this entire episode we had met Archana at least a dozen times and not even once did she utter a word against her husband. She told us she knew she had married a ball of fire and was prepared to be singed by that; in Digaa's position she would have also done the same thing. Digaa was of course thrown out of the government job post his incarceration; he could never secure a job again, thanks to the wide publicity he had got. No one was prepared to risk a firebrand communist in his office.
Archana asked for a transfer out of Cuttack and spent the next few years in remote districts. Digaa got surprisingly accustomed to the job of a "house husband", taking care of the domestic chores, getting their son Munu ready for the school, dropping him and picking him up from school, buying vegetables and cooking for the family. Throughout this ordeal, Archana never belittled him nor chastised him. She was happy to have him as he was, a simple, devoted and doting husband, who stayed at home and looked after it.
Digaa's transformation from a wild, firebrand communist to a domesticated, docile husband was complete. And in the process his heart melted and moulded itself into a soft, sympathetic mass of subtle human emotions. It was during their stay in Dhenkanal that Digaa's scooter had once skidded on a slippery road. Munu who was on the back seat fell off and had suffered serious abrasions in his legs. Archana had made Digaa promise that he would never drive a scooter again. She told him that he was too big a man, heavy and round, to drive a puny scooter. Digaa had accepted the judgment.
Two years back Archana got posted in Bhubaneswar as Deputy Director of Women's Welfare and the family moved to this capital town. Our group of a few friends from the college days were happy to welcome them and it became a standard routine for us to meet quite often for lunches and dinners.
One evening when Archana returned from office she saw a small puppy limping around in the living room. She looked at her husband who explained how the poor pup had got in. It seemed the street urchins had picked upon him to inflict some sharp blows with stones and pebbles. Hearing the noise Digaa had opened the door, found him in a piteous state, bleeding from a couple of wounds and whimpering in pain. Digaa took him in, washed his wounds with Dettol and applied some ointment, and gave him some food. Archana looked at the poor brown thing and told Digaa to drop him next day at some other point in the town out of the reach of the street urchins. Digaa smiled and nodded. Next evening when she returned, the puppy was still there, running around and playing with Munu. Digaa was sitting on a chair looking indulgently and smiling at them. It was repeated the third day and she asked Digaa when he was going to drop the puppy at some other part of the town. Digaa smiled and replied,
"Let him be here for some more time, see how weak he is. After you and Munu leave in the morning I get bored. At least this young boy gives me company and entertains me!" Archana smiled and said, "If you want to keep a dog, at least get a good breed. This is just a street dog, the sooner we discard him the better." Digga didn't reply, but the puppy who was sitting close to his leg, barked his protest at the insult.
And that's how the pup stayed, grew into a reasonably presentable dog and became quite attached to Digaa and Munu. Digaa named him Kunu and made a grand announcement to whoever cared to listen, that the pet was like a second son to him. Both were awfully attached to each other, much to the amusement of Archana. Kunu would make it a point to sit on the lap of Digamabar all the time, and would ignore her call to disembark. He wouldn't eat unless the food was offered by Digaa and would make it a point to compete with Archana for her husband's attention. Whenever we visited, Archana would joke that she would have thought of Kunu as a rival in love if the pet was not a he, but a she! Munu was also quite fond of the pet and after he left for Chennai the previous year for pursuing an Aeronautical Engineering course, he would often call and 'speak' to the pet.
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Breaking our reverie, Ajit pointed at the rickshaw which was approaching Digaa's house. Archana got down from it and panicked the moment she saw a gathering of the friends. The four of us went near her. She started howling, "What happened? Why all of you are here? Has something terrible happened?" With tears in his eyes Santosh murmured, "Digaa says your son passed away this morning." Archana collapsed on the ground for a moment, got up and ran towards Digaa, shrieking, "What happened to our son? I had spoken to him on the night I left on tour! What went wrong with him in the last two days?" Digaa was speechless. Like he had done in the morning in response to my question, he just patted his hand on the forehead, gestured towards the inside of the house and burst out crying.
Archana frantically jumped over his massive log-like legs and rushed inside. In a few seconds there was a big shouting from inside, which almost sounded like the asbestos roof of the courtyard had collapsed. Curious, we jumped over Digaa's massive legs and went inside. We got the shock of our life when we saw their pet lying lifeless on the floor of the verandah, a colourful shawl wrapped over his body. Remnants of dhoop sticks were scattered on the floor and a low fragrance was hanging in the air.
Archana went near the door and shrieked at Digaa, "What kind of farce is this? You should have thought twice before announcing to the world that our son has died! Don't you know the difference between a dog and a human being? I know you treated him like a son, but shouldn't you have told everyone that your dog has died?" She turned to us and for the first time since we knew her, she shouted at us angrily, "You have been a friend of this crazy man for more than twenty five years! Are you not supposed to know what kind of idiosyncrasy he can suffer from? Shouldn't you have gone inside and checked whose death he was mourning, beating his chest and crying his heart out? You almost gave me a heart attack when I got down from the rickshaw!"
She then folded her hands and told us, "Please leave now. Let me call my office people and arrange a proper burial for the dog; otherwise my husband won't get sleep tonight or the next few nights". With that she went inside her room.
Ajit, Biju and Santosh looked at Digaa pityingly, undecided whether they should laugh or shout at him. They left without a word to Digaa. I stayed back for a while. Digaa was sitting downcast, his head hanging listlessly, tear-filled eyes focussed on the floor. I patted his shoulder. He looked up at me, "Dog! She said he was a mere dog! And look at these wretched bourgeois pigs, leaving without a second glance at my son! Do they know how his heart was beating violently in the dying moments, when he was heaving himself on my lap trying to cling closer to me, silently asking me to cuddle him and shower all my love on him? Can you or anyone ever understand the heart of a dog?"
Digaa started sobbing again as I left him, slowly walking towards my scooter, my heart weighed down by a deep sadness.
(The story is true in parts, although my communist friend and the one mourning the death of his pet are two different persons in real life.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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