Literary Vibes - Edition CL (28-Feb-2025) - SHORT STORIES
Title : LILLIES (Painting 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
NIRMAL HRIDAY: THE PURE HEART
02) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
MANGO BLOSSOMS
HOW WAS THE CONCERT LAST NIGHT?
03) Snehaprava Das
VALENTINE VIBES
04) Pushpendra Rai
JANET - A THIEF?
05) Ishwar Pati
LOST IN PARADISE
06) Hema Ravi
QUINTESSENCE OF WOMAN POWER
07) Sreechandra Banerjee
AN OASIS
LOOKING BACK AT THE FIRST REPUBLIC DAY OF INDIA
08) Umasree Raghunath
WINGS OF TIME (A HAIBUN)
09) Sushree Gayatri Nayak
THE GOLDEN ABYSS
10) Deepika Sahu
CALL ME BY YOUR NAME
11) Ashok Kumar Mishra
MURPHY BAHADUR
12) T. V. Sreekumar
PILLOW PARTNER
13) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
THE BIKE
14) Dr. R. Unnikrishnan
MARRIAGE AND LADDU
15) Bankim Chandra Tola
VISIT TO BADRINATH-DHAM
16) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: THE ILLUSTRIOUS DUO—ARCHITECTS OF ECONOMIC CHANGE!
17) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
DIGAMBAR THE INCORRIGIBLE
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Jacob faced the closed main gate of the compound housing the Nirmal Hriday Ashram, that comprised of an ornamental church and a down-to-earth looking co-ed High School building. He rang the bell hanging in a bell-box, it rang aloud. As nothing happened, he ranged it again, harder, longer.
Father Joseph, the catholic pastor of the church poked his face from a side door of the church, came running, opened the gate and took Jacob in his arms, “Ah, my friend Jacob, archbishop Jacob Sir! A joy of my life. Ah, how many years, Jacob dear, but you look the same, handsome, dashing and sprightly!”
Archbishop Jacob had a mock rebuke for his friend, “You have not changed a bit, Joseph. The flatterer, Alec smart! In fact, we left behind two decades our handsome and dashing days in our seminary together, of course I still retain my spritely vigour, but my truthful mirror says, neither the dash nor my handsome features. You, I notice, are not less vigorous. I saw how fast you legged it to the gate.”
Then, Jacob pressed his left eye mischievously, “You naughty Joseph, you know, you could be a very good husband to a little wifey, flattering her to multi climaxes, even without touching her. But alas (!), your oath of celibacy.” He paused and again pressed his right eye naughtily, “Or, rather, why don’t you take a secret wife? You know, unless caught or reported it can be lived happily ever after, not at all a sin, but a virtue, oath or no oath!”
A ball of spit at the throat caught Joseph offguard. Was he caught in the act? He coughed hard, hiccupped a little and then announced, “Common Jacob. I was expecting you half-an-hour later. The breakfast is on its way, you know. I arranged it to reach here cooked and be served by a comely and devout lady, piping hot. I mean of episcopal quality.”
Jacob gave an odd look, “A ball of spit at throat speaks louder than words, dear Joseph. By the way, how lucky I am! My breakfast cooked by and to be served by a comely and devout lady, piping hot. When you used ‘piping hot’, I was a bit confused what was piping hot? The food or the lady?” He broke into a guffaw on his own clever quip, making his friend give a half cough and pointing at something. Jacob saw a really comely lady entering Joseph’s room with a large tiffin carrier containing several containers.
What Jacob liked was the comely and devout lady’s ways with Joseph, easy, affectionate, friendly, and with him, a stranger to her, affable, polite, respectful and warm. She fed them the hot breakfast and served the tea like a cajoling mother. It enhanced her comeliness as well as the episcopal quality of the food as had been humoured by Joseph minutes ago.
She rose to the level of Mary, the Holy Mother, in archbishop’s eyes. His eyes welled up, he secretly rubbed off the tears. He had an urge to be on his knees and kiss her hands, as he would do if the Holy Mother manifested herself before him. Further, the taste of food cooked by the Holy Mother before him had risen from episcopal to Cardinal and then to the Papal level in his mouth, the breakfast and tea tasted simply ambrosial.
For a second, Archbishop Jacob blissed out. He had an epiphany like experience similar to that the one Christ had for a split-second on the Cross as conceptualised by Nikos Kazantzakis in his epochal and controversial novel THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST. The archbishop envisioned Mother Mary was serving him, and Joseph, her husband, not his friend the Pastor Joseph, and benignly overlooking them eating the breakfast.
Jacob’s epiphany spell passed and he was himself, but he forgot his jokes, clever quips; and finished his breakfast soberly. Joseph did not miss Jacob’s momentary transformation, his tears, and suddenly turning sober without his witty quips. He whispered, “OK, Jacob, I understand. It might have been some happy reverie.” Jacob whispered to Joseph, “No, not any happy reverie. But an explosive epiphany.”
The lady was aghast, “O my God, I am sorry archbishop, Sir. Did I put too much hot chilli?” Jacob choked over his words, “I don’t know your name, madam, but the way you served and fed me, those gestures brought the memories of my mother. I had an epiphany moment. No excessive hot chilli at all. You cooked an ambrosial breakfast. Grateful.” He spoke neither the full truth nor a complete lie. The archbishop’s actions bemused his friend Pastor Joseph who saw a possible atonement in his friend’s actions.
Joseph made a mental note, in his next private moment together with Mary, his girlfriend, to flatter her with, “My dear May, your cooking had the epiphany power to move even an archbishop to tears.” He knew, Mary would giggle in appreciation. For quite some time his repertoire of flattery was overused and cliched repetition was not making Marry giggle-happy.
Jacob however had noticed an uncanny chemistry between his friend Joseph and his comely and devout girlfriend whose name he had not yet known to be ‘Mary’. Their chemistry appeared sacred, spiritual, as well as sensual, all three reflected in a complicated complicity in their eyes when they looked at each other. It was difficult to fathom for Jacob who never had experienced physical or passionate love. He in his private hours believed the concept of sin in making love as an outdated shibboleth.
Joseph and Jacob had been close friends in their seminary days. Joseph returned as a qualified Catholic priest to his sleepy Midnapore town and joined as a pastor in Nirmal Hriday Ashram, an extension of Mother Teresa’s idea of service through Church. She had founded the original and first Nirmal Hriday Ashram Church at Calcutta in 1952. She was canonized by the Pope later. Joseph’s church at Midnapore was in a quiet Parish, part of a quieter Diocese. He did not want position, rather peace, prayer and like icing on his cake, Mary, his girlfriend, who was presently Jacob’s epiphany.
Jacob continued with higher studies in religious affairs and rose in ranks from pastor to bishop to archbishop in Kerala. He was visiting Calcutta on Church related work and had come calling on Joseph, his old friend. His itinerary allowed him two leisurely days with his friend.
Both were under the oath of celibacy as mandated for catholic priests. But during their seminary days they had many discussions on the correctness and ethics of the oath against making love, a natural want of the body, and the sin associated with it. They also discussed the practice among the Protestants, another equally important Christan discipline governed by their own self-same Holy Bible’s supreme authority. The Protestant pastors and other office bearers were not mandated to be celibates. They married if they wanted.
It was a cool November afternoon and a cool breeze was blowing. Jacob leisurely loitered in the large church garden. In the garden he met a shabbily dressed gardener who was lovingly weeding a flowerbed. He started a conversation, “You look familiar. What is your name?” “It is Francis. You should be the visiting archbishop my friend Joseph was talking about. He said you were thick buddies in seminary days.”
That evening over tea Jacob reported, “Joseph, you have a very articulate gardener. His diction is so clear and resonant. He claims he is your friend. He even knew me from your mouth. I noticed a friendly and polite gentleman. Why don’t you give him a job that would use his ability as a speaker. Are you not wasting a talent weeding your garden?”
Joseph laughed amiably, “In fact he fooled you by his humble gardening dress and submissive talks. Gardening is his passion. He relaxes by tinkering around the garden during his off hours. He and his wife teach Math, Science and English in our classes ten, eleven and twelve. They live on the compound in a church-given house. A sweet and devout couple. Great conjugal love. Francis is out and out a family man.”
Suddenly it struck Jacob, why the man looked familiar. He ran back to the garden. The gardener was walking away after finishing whatever he had been doing. Jacob called from behind, “Mr Francis.” The gardener looked back a bit perplexed.
Jacob asked, “Aren’t you Father Francis, the former Bishop?” Francis stood unmoved for a second that seemed to both like a century. Francis had gone pale. But to Jacob, his pallor had a shine, the brilliance of living in truth. Jacob knew how painful it could be to live in a lie, reluctantly under the oath of celibacy, in which he hardly believed. To him, Francis shimmered because of living in truth, by resigning Church’s clergy-ship and getting married.
The gardener replied, “Perhaps yes. Perhaps no.” A pause followed, “Yes, because I was a bishop once, no, because it is a past I have left behind and forgotten. It is non-existent for me. That way I, Francis here, is not the Francis you knew, Father Jacob.”
Francis was not lying, Jacob knew, but hedging an unpleasant subject. So, he let the man go, and himself walked back to the small pastor’s abode where he was Joseph’s guest.
Francis reminisced those dark but decisive days in his Kerala Diocese where he was the Bishop and Sister Sabrina was coordinator between the Parishes in his Diocese and himself, the head of diocese. The pretty sister was a frequent visitor and, in many occasions, they were only two individuals in bishop’s opulent office. He was in his late thirties and she in her late twenties. Francis never knew why his heart jumped to his throat in most of such occasions when he was with her alone in a room. He also missed her badly when she was not near him.
In unexpected circumstances he had to leave Kerala. He come to know from Sabrina who spoke in confidence, “After I met you, after every occasion, I had disturbed nights. I had wet dreams. I knew it was sin to dream of a man, you, when I lived under the celibacy vow. I decided to confess. Once a weak I confessed and took absolution from the unseen and unknown priest in the confession box.”
She paused before shyly confiding with the bishop Francis, “One thing surprised me why the listening priest on the other side of my confession box would urge me to unfold the visceral details of my dream, even if some were lurid. The priest appeared to be sex maniac.”
She continued, “After a few sessions, I warned the unknown priest, on the other side of confession box, if he does not stop asking me further lurid details, I would report him to the Mother Superior. But his mischief continued. I stopped going to confessions. Now I am afraid, a maniac is stalking me, but I can’t catch him for sure. Would you help me sir?”
Sabrina broke down crying. Francis, who had a weakness and great affection for Sabrina was on the horns of dilemma. Would he from his position of a bishop rightfully help a lady who had sexual dreams about him. But he replied, “Don’t worry. I will fix it.”
But what followed, Francis recalled, had not been less than a story from an action novel. He came to know officially that Sister Sabrina was called by the PA to archbishop under whom Bishop Francis worked. She was directed to report to the head office of archdiocese. Then he got a call himself directly from the archbishop, his boss. When he reached there, he saw a broken and ruined Sabrina walking out of the archdiocese head office. She looked like having seen a ghost.
Later he would learn, they accused Sabrina to have committed the Cardinal Sin of being with a man in compromising state. All her denial was of no avail. They produced an eye-witness who swore on the Bible. She was suspended from sisterhood until further and final inquiry.
When Bishop Francis was ushered into his archbishop’s presence, the old man smiled contritely, “My boy, it happens to all of us. At some or other weak moments. But you did it before an eye-witness, who reported to the cardinal, my boss.” Francis blasted, “Sir, it is a lie.” The wise archbishop said, “I am issuing a suspension order but it will remain between us. You wait, I will move things and do something for saving your soul. If you go for an inquiry, even if you win, your reputation shall be ruined.”
Francis, instead of going to his diocese, went to Sabrina’s house that evening. He wanted to warn Sabrina badly a thing or two. She should never agree to an inquiry that might include a virginity test. If the test finds her hymen broken, then what? A hymen could break from many reasons including sports, running, cycling, horse riding and for nothing also. But absence of virginity would always spread a stink for a catholic sister. So let her resign from the bride of Jesus, meaning an indoctrinated sister, rather than falling into a riddle-like trap.
The Bishop Francis was received respectfully by her family. Sabrina’s parents and younger sister, an MBBS, were in great shock as Sabrina had returned earlier looking ruined and broken, drenched in tears. They now felt flustered to receive a bishop, the highest official of their diocese. But the bishop had come alone and without fanfare like any ordinary man. That gave them a semblance of consolation.
After the societal bonhomie over tea and crackers, the bishop stood up to go. The family could not make out why did the big official of their church give them the honour of a visit. At the main door of the house, the bishop stopped, hesitated and turned as if recollecting something and said, “I think sister Sabrina may mind if I go away without meeting her.” So, he was guided to Sabrina’s room. “The room is bolted from inside from the afternoon, bishop, sir.”, informed Sabrina’s father before leaving.
The bishop rapped on her door lightly whispering, “Sabrina, Your Jisu is here. Open the door of your heart.” That was a private joke used between them in their lighter moments in the diocese office when only two of them were there. It had started once, in her devout-mood, Sabrina almost stammered before the bishop on her knees, “You are my Jisu, the Lord of my heart, I keep it open for you always.”
From that day, whenever the bishop wanted a light moment after hours of hard work, he would joke over tea, “Sister Sabrina, your Jisu is tired for the day. Give him leave for the rest of the working hours and let him have his forty winks in your heart.”, to which Sabrina would humorously rejoin, “Be it as is wished, my Lord. Amen.”
Sabrina opened her door. Her eyes and face were teary, swollen, dark with red eyes from non-stop crying. The bishop entered and shut the door from inside. He went to Sabrina and whispered, “I know your pain Sabri. My pain is nothing before yours.” Sabrina looked up, “Your pain, Bishop?” “Yes, I have also resigned. Even from my primary priesthood. I know of your suspension. My advice, you also resign. Don’t go to further confession, or take part in the inquiry. You may win but your name will be ruined.”
He paused long before saying, “Once you decide to resign, you are free from your holy order of sisterhood, celibacy oath and all. Then you and me would be equals, a pair of ordinary man and woman, primal, unblemished and virgin. Like Eve and Adam in our heart’s Eden.” With this he spread his arms wide and Sabrina buried herself into his arms. A whispering session continued for an hour each detailing his or her stories to the other, the theories and plans, and their mutual passions.
Next morning saw the conspicuous absence of a bishop and a sister in the big diocese. The sister was not missed by anyone except her family, who had a letter left behind that informed them, “Leaving in a hurry on an urgent errand, would contact you soon, Papa. Your little Sabri.” But a bishop was a big fish. The priests of parishes of his diocese, who were beholden of him for his various help to them, got together and approached the archbishop for permission to lodge a ‘Missing person complaint’ with the police. They feared foul play.
But the old archbishop was all smiles, “No, my boys. I have sent him on a private and secret mission. And you, Jacob, you the seniormost and the most academically qualified in holy scriptures, will take charge as bishop of the vacancy created by Francis. Your official promotion order is on the way from the cardinal. Congratulations to you, the would-be bishop, Father Jacob.” The diocese became silent when the new younger bishop Jacob started presiding over it. He was not less liberal and warm a person than his predecessor. Slowly, Francis faded fro memories.
In due course of time, at Midnapore of Bengal, a husband-wife couple came to be guests of Father Joseph, the pastor of catholic church, Nirmal Hriday Ashram. Within two days, the gentleman and his wife were appointed as teachers in the church-attached co-ed high school extended up to standard twelve. The couple were accommodated in a teachers’ quarters in the Nirmal Hriday Ashram compound lying vacant after the previous teacher had left the school a few months ago. The teacher, Mr Francis, had a passion for gardening and he joined the gardener to hobnob with the plants by his side.
After two days stay with Joseph, the archbishop Jacob had to leave. Pastor Joseph asked Francis, the teacher-cum-gardener, “My driver has reported ill, dear Francis. As you know I don’t drive, will you drive the archbishop to Kharagpur’s railway station to catch the train to Calcutta from where he would fly to Thiruvananthapuram?” Francis replied, “My pleasure, sir.”
The vehicle stood ready. The archbishop came and sat in the seat by the driver after putting his bag in the boot. Francis remonstrated, “Sir, please sit behind. The back seat is more comfortable, safe and befitting your high office.”
The archbishop replied, “High office, my foot! Do I look like an ancient catholic specimen believing in Christian shibboleths? I feel more comfortable and safer, here, by your side. And I beg, don’t address me with that prefix ‘sir’, my dear Francis sir, from your lips it sounds like a satire. I don’t deserve it from your mouth, much senior to me.” The last part of Jacob’s statement sounded a high alert in the mind of Francis. Was he exposed. Was his guise and new identity at Midnapore compromised?
An hour of driving was spent in silence. Then the bishop wanted a cup of tea and Francis stopped at a wayside restaurant. Both had tea and now Jacob walked faster and took the driver’s steering. When Francis arrived after visiting the loo he found Jacob behind the wheel. He entreated, “Archbishop sir, kindly shift to the passenger’s seat and let me drive you. I insist. I cannot allow myself to be driven around by a man of your high rank. Please sir.”
Now, Jacob chuckled, “It is an order, Francis, Sir? To go and take the passenger seat by the side?” Francis shrugged and took the seat by Jacob at the steering. The vehicle lurched forward and started gliding along the highway at a moderate speed.
Jacob started talking, “Do you know, Sir, after you left your diocese when we the pastors under your charge went together to the archbishop for permission for reporting to police about your disappearance, as we suspected foul play, his holiness disallowed us from going to police, and put me in your position as bishop of your former diocese. Then in due course I was promoted to the post of archbishop. Had you not moved to Midnapore, to your friend Joseph, you, my senior, would now be cozily heading my archdiocese.”
Then as if delivering a diplomatic punch line, Jacob became very submissive in his voice and looked squarely at Francis, who sat woodenly without flinching or shaking a hair, and asked, “How is madam Sabrina? My bad luck, I could not pay my respect to the pious better half of yours, falling on my knees.”
His wall of tolerance had collapsed, and Francis broke his reserve.
There was fire in his eyes. He angrily retorted, “Jacob, keep Sabrina out of the mud. She is an innocent and pious woman. Keep your wise quips to yourself.”
The archbishop stopped the vehicle by the roadside. Took the right hand of Francis and kissed it as subordinates in church-hierarchy would do to a senior, “My apologies father Francis. I just wanted to raise the free spirit in you and live like a lion in the forest of foxes, the catholic foxes. I wanted you to accept me as a trusted and dependable friend. In fact, during a few visits to diocese office, I had met the exceptionally beautiful lady emitting holy shimmer, Sister Sabrina, working as your shorthand assistant. I had notice the chemistry between you, and had a feeling she was fit to be your bride.”
He continued, “I am no prude and like you and Joseph, I keep my mind open. I have often doubted the shibboleth of making love to be a sin. An outdated idea and in reality, it had led priests to commit real sins, doing it secretly, and living under the guilt of ‘living in a lie’. I think you were our inspiration, mine and Joseph’s.”
He hesitated, but added, “I guess, Joseph has found his mate and he may resign his priesthood sooner or later, marry and settle down. I have not been that lucky. The Cupid has given me a long berth so far. But I have kept my gates open. You may read in newspapers, one of these days, ‘Archbishop Jacob gave a press conference resigning his headship of archdiocese to marry his love in the line of the British King Edward VIII who had relinquished the throne of England for marrying his love, a commoner.”
Now, Francis’s expression sobered. He was smiling expansively. He embraced his former junior Jacob, and said, “There would be always another time, dear Jacob. Now that you have two friends in Midnapore, Joseph and Francis, please revisit us and be my family guest. Sabrina would be elated to serve food to you, an archbishop. We, Sabrina and me, never felt our liaison was a sin, Cardinal or Episcopal. We have savoured it all along as a Gift of God.”
They were by then at the railway station of Kharagpur and Jacob had a leg on the footboard of his compartment, and Francis, standing on the platform. They shook hands as the train started rolling. (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
He had spent years toiling on foreign soil, breaking his back under an alien sun. Sixteen, sometimes eighteen hours of labour, driven by the whisper of a promise: Tomorrow, tomorrow. He had built a future in his mind, one where he returned, not as a failure, but as a man who had conquered the distance between who he was and who he had hoped to be.
Now, shackled at the wrists and ankles, returning on a military plane, he felt no triumph. Only the weight of time wasted.
When he stepped onto the soil of his homeland, it felt foreign. The air smelled of things he had long forgotten—the earth after rain, the faint spice of woodsmoke. There was no homecoming. Only silence. His relatives were dead, his friends mere echoes of names he could not bear to call.
Only his father remained.
For years, he had sent money to an account he barely remembered, an offering to a man he never visited. A duty fulfilled from a distance, wrapped in the excuse of survival. The old-age home was just an address on a bank statement, nothing more. Now, standing at the bank counter, exhausted and unfamiliar even to himself, he tried to get some help to recall the name of the old age home. The staff hesitated, citing privacy policies, until his voice cracked in desperation.
They gave him a name. A place.
He searched online, found a number. A woman answered. He explained, his voice rough with exhaustion.
After a pause, she said, “Your father doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. His memory is gone.”
He gripped the phone tighter. “Not even his own son?”
“I doubt it. And let’s be honest—you forgot him long before he forgot you. You were not sick. But your father is pretty old and sick.”
Silence.
The words hung between them, undeniable.
He had returned empty-handed, pockets lined with nothing but regret. What could he offer now? He thought of the things his father had once loved—small indulgences that once made his face light up. But his money was sparse, his choices limited. A restaurant window caught his eye. A feast, neatly packed in a box.
He bought it.
The old-age home smelled of antiseptic and faded voices. When he was led to his father, the old man was speaking to the woman, his eyes seeing everything but him. He waited. The woman introduced him gently, trying to stitch together what time had unravelled. His father only frowned, his gaze vacant. He did not recognize the man before him.
Helpless, he placed the meal before his father. The woman unwrapped it and set it on the table. The old man ate with relish, savouring each bite. But he never once looked at the son who had carried it to him.
The three of them sat outside under a mango tree, the breeze warm against their skin. His father swallowed and then frowned. “Feels like those chapatis got stuck in my throat.”
The woman smiled gently. “It was rice, not chapati.”
The old man seemed to consider this and then waved his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter.”
The son watched, something inside him sinking. The woman tried again to remind the old man of his presence. His father squinted at him and then turned to her. “Is it her?”
She hesitated. “No, you have no daughters. You only have a son.”
He shook his head, stubborn.
She looked at both of them, unsure of what to say. He realized then—he no longer existed in his father’s world. He had been erased.
Memories are the root of sorrow. Perhaps forgetting is a gift.
He stood up. There was nothing left for him here. As he walked toward the gate, the woman followed. For a moment, just before stepping out, he glanced back. His mother used to stand at the gate just like this, watching him leave. Now, it was this woman—a stranger, yet not a stranger.
She watched him disappear into the evening.
When she turned back, the old man kissed her cheek. His lips were warm, filled with a love of a father.
“I’ve been waiting for this day,” he murmured. “He didn’t forget that I love feasts. Even I had forgotten. And I forgot him too. But I wanted to see him. Just see him. It’s done now. You followed everything I said to the letter. I have no son anymore. I have only a daughter. You.”
The woman wasn't listening. Her mind was elsewhere. She thought the old man looked quite young. She hugged him and kissed his cheeks.
She thought the man who had left a while ago was n't just the old man's son but her son too. She longed to see him again.
Outside, the mango blossoms swayed in the evening breeze—heavy with promises, but only a few would bear fruit.
HOW WAS THE CONCERT LAST NIGHT?
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
Raghu had a job that didn't let him sleep easy. Air Traffic Controller. The man who had to keep hundreds of lives balanced on his fingertips while his own life went haywire. Losing sleep wasn’t new to him. Two nights in a row? Standard. Three nights? Tough, but manageable. It was only when he finally got some sleep that the real trouble began.
That morning, when he did crash, his body rebelled. His brain stretched like an overused rubber band, snapped. The paramedics got to him fast and rushed him to the hospital. Machines hummed around him. The ventilator breathed for him. The doctors whispered in corridors. Family, friends, and colleagues sat outside, waiting, dreading, praying.
Days passed, and Raghu didn't wake up. The doctors, their faces worn out with explanations, finally raised their hands. “Nothing more we can do,” they said. “Maybe a familiar voice can bring him back. If not, it’s time to let go.”
So they tried. His wife, Sanuja, spoke to him. His brother, his mother, and old friends from college—one by one, they called out, their voices threading through the beeping machines, across the gulf of unconsciousness. But Raghu didn’t stir. He remained where he was—on the other side of an ocean of silence.
Then, someone murmured a name.
“Heera.”
Heads turned. Foreheads creased.
A silence thicker than grief filled the room.
Heera. A name everyone remembered but never spoke. A name with weight, with history.
Meera, Raghu’s wife, sat still. Then she did something unexpected—she nodded. “Call her.”
Murmurs spread, fingers flew over screens, numbers were dialled, and messages were shot across time zones. Where was Heera now? No one knew. But if anyone could reach him, it was her.
She arrived. Late.
Too late.
In that voice, he would’ve known anywhere, in a voice untouched by mortality, she whispered:
“Raghu dear”
“Ah, you’re here! How was the concert last night?”
She heard it clearly. Crisp.
From that twelve-year-old grave.
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.
Snehaprava Das
Sipra stood by a lone bench close to one of the gates of Shangri-La park, looking expectantly at the twisting pathway leading off the gate into the inside of the garden, locking and unlocking her fists in nervous anxiety. Random pairs of boys and girls were walking out of the depth of the garden, hand in hand, smiling clutching at each other possessively. Several pairs were entering the garden, more or less in similar postures and walked down the strip of graveled pathway that serpentined into dense growth of trees and bushy plants in the middle of the park and beyond and were gone soon out of sight. Her furtive glance that darted back and forth from the visible bend of the narrow, wavy path where it disappeared into the depth of the park, to the gate ahead of her, held a look of an overwhelming desperateness in them. ‘Why is Swati taking so much time to come out, she thought despairingly. She had promised that it would not take her more than half an hour. She would just hand over the gift to Kartik, her boyfriend and come back. Sipra had no interest to play gooseberry ..but it was not easy to decline.
‘I am scared to go alone Sipra, please give me company.’ She was so sincerely persuasive in her imploring that Sipra did not have the heart to say no to her. As such Swati was the closest to her among all her friends and it sort of seemed imperative to help her a little in her secret expedition to the park. The Valentine week permeated with a mood of romance. Boys and girls chose such secluded and less crowded places away from a bustling restaurants or café, for a clandestine rendezvous. Sipra flicked a passing glance at her small wristwatch. It was more than one hour Swati had gone into one of the hedged enclosures. Sipra was getting fidgety. What if someone who knew her or her family discovered her sitting alone in a bench in a park which was notorious for being the secret hang out for young lovers? She was now beginning to curse herself for consenting to accompany Swati. ‘How come you could not make a boyfriend despite this beautiful face of yours?’ Swati and others used to tease her often but Sipra would come out with her usual unperturbed reply … ‘I do not feel it is mandatory for all girls with a beautiful face to have a boyfriend. It is an ultra-fashioned notion that had gone deep into your snobbish minds.’ ‘Okay dear, it is up to you if you decide to remain a nun all through.’ They would laugh and Sipra would glare at them in mock anger.
There was still no sign of Swati.
Sipra’s legs were beginning to ache. She sat down on the bench and took out a small diary from her canvas sling bag. The diary was a new year gift someone brought for her father. Sipra leafed through the pages. Writing a poem was one of her choicest hobbies and she used to scribble a few lines here and there whenever the Muse prompted her. ‘You could write poems here,’ her father, who admired his elder daughter’s aesthetic bent of mind, had said. She had written only a couple of poems in the last one and half month. Heavily pressurized under the demand of studies she could not devote much time to this fond hobby of hers. She unzipped the bag again, took out a ball pen from it and opened the diary at an empty page. As such most of the pages lay empty. But she chose the page that carried the date, 10th February.
I sit here away from the crowd
Like a lone, abandoned moment in time
Heavy with the fragrance of Valentine,
How I wish before the moment grew to
Wrap me in passionate shroud
My Lochinvar will lift me to his steed
And will go riding into the clouds!
She bit the pen, musing over the next linking lines that would fit into the context. A noise outside the gate at the westside of the park broke her concentration. It was as if a large number of people were arguing heatedly. A rally of protest may be. And people sloganeering. She brought her focus back to her poem. But suddenly the noise grew louder and even closer as if the rally or whatever, was trying to make a forced entry to the park. Sipra pricked her ears to listen, forgetting her diary and the poem she was trying to write. She heard now the loud clangs as someone tried to hammer open the lock of the gate.
Her frightened eyes darted towards the gate she was sitting close by as she hoped fervently that the thought to crash in through that gate never struck anyone’s mind. She could guess who those people were.. the ones belonging to the political parties that flaunted themselves as the keepers of social sanctity. A deep-rooted prejudice prompted them to consider the friendship between a boy and girl a taboo. It was a drive launched to punish the people who violate the code of ethics the society is supposed to abide by. A surge of panic waved through Sipra as she imagined the intent of these politically motivated marauders and exactly at the same instant, proving her worst fears true a bunch of men, their faces hidden behind masks ran up to the gate by her side and shook it with a violence that made it clang and judder. Sipra could now see pairs of young boys and girls, frightened out of their wits hurrying out from inside of the park, making frantic efforts to rush out to the street beyond. But by now the exits were blocked by the protesters barring all routes of escape. Some of them were now jumping over the gate to enter the park. Sipra stood up abruptly, unaware that the diary she was writing in had slipped out of her hand. Her heart was pounding heavily and without waiting to see what happened to Swati or the boy she was with, she ran towards a leafy tree that stood against the compound wall and squeezed herself in between the wall and the trunk of the tree.
‘Hey you, come out,’ A voice rude and harsh that made blood drain out of her face, sounded just behind her. She squirmed in more, trying to plaster herself against the wall with a futile hope that the man would go away, and shut her eyes tightly. A hand pulled her out of the hiding place. ‘What is it sis?’ The young man in mask jeered, ‘Your valentine had deserted you?’ Sipra shook violently all over. ‘Please leave me alone. I had no one with me. I came with a friend of mine. She is somewhere inside.’ She stammered through choking sobs. ‘Really!’ the young man let out a hard, raucous laughter. ‘Well, do not mind. You will have his share of reward too.’ He produced a small can that contained some black gel like thing and dipping his hand inside scooped out a handful of that ugly looking paste. He held her head tightly in one hand and smeared the black paste all over her face while Sipra closed her eyes and began screaming.
‘Hey, Prakash, stop it.’ Sipra heard a voice close to her and then felt the grip on her head slacken. The hand on her face too stopped in its act of smearing the black paste. She opened one of her eyes to a slit and saw a blurry figure standing by her offender, another young man. He had caught hold of the former’s arm and was now gently pushing him away from her. ‘She does not seem to be one of them. She is alone and may be what she is telling about accompanying her friend here is true. Leave her alone for the time being. Mahesh bhai wants you over there. Go and see what he wants.’
Tears of humiliation streamed out of Sipra’s eyes and she tried to rub the foul-smelling paste off her face with her stole. She was still trembling from head to foot and her hand slipped again and again in the act.
‘You will always play the good Samaritan, won’t you? I wonder how so kindhearted a soul like you came to be included in our group! ’ The former one slapped fondly on the back of the second young man and moved away. Sipra opened her other eye slightly and looked at her saviour. He was a handsome young man, tall and gentlemanly, an odd man out in that band of hooligans.
‘You should not have been here on your own. Go back home before anyone else of the group finds you here. Wipe your face and leave as soon as possible.’
The urgency in his tone galvanized Sipra who had been standing frozen, into action. She wrapped her face with her stole quickly and hurried out of the gate which now stood wide open and unguarded. Her legs felt stiff and then shaky alternately. And it was a struggle not to lurch as she walked.
‘Wait!’ The handsome young man interposed as she was about to cross the road to reach its other side. She thought it would be safer if she walked to the other side and then lose herself amidst the other pedestrians.
She stopped abruptly. She did not know why, but it was as if she knew that he was someone who could be relied upon in an emergency. The young man waved at a passing autorickshaw. The rickshaw came to a stop where she stood. She hastily scrambled into the rickshaw to escape further interaction with him. ‘Stadium Square’ she blurted out and sank into the seat taking a deep breath. The driver sensing the urgency in her voice veered the vehicle away to the middle of the road. ‘Thank you,’ the words escaped involuntarily before she could check herself. She still had her face covered with the stole and she pulled it off and began smudging the remaining paste off her face vigorously. When the rickshaw had moved some fifty meters from the place curiosity prodded her to take a look back. The young man was standing by the roadside watching the autorickshaw. He waved at her and flashed a smile. She wondered if actually he smiled or, she imagined it.
**
He stood by the gate watching the autorickshaw till it turned the bend and disappeared out of sight. He wished he could have had a better view of the girl. He had just caught a passing glimpse of her while Prakash had pushed it a little up before smearing it with the black gel. She looked innocent and vulnerable and genuine, and he made a thoughtful adding, ‘beautiful’. She was not like the other girls who were engaged in all sort of obscenities with the boys in the park, those who rightly deserved the humiliation. He belonged to a students’ wing that pledged to protect the sanctity of a moral culture that denied such abominations. Despite that, he was not in favour of resorting to such offensive and vindictive violence. Had not it been for the persuasions of Prakash, his school friend, he would never have set out on this so called ‘save our culture’ expedition, which he now believed was a more a camouflaged intent to harass people than to protect and preserve the socio-cultural values.
‘Hey bro,’ Jagdish, another friend called out to him. ‘Don’t keep standing there by that gate. come back here.’ A deep sigh escaped him as he turned and moved towards the spot where Jagdish and a few others were standing, bragging about their adventure and gloating over the noble service they rendered to preserve the glory of their cultural legacy. As he crossed the bench the girl sat on his eyes fell on something lying there. Driven by curiosity he moved close to the bench and picked it up. it was a small diary. He turned the pages. Most of them were blank since it was not even two months after the new year. He looked for a name on the diary. There was none. Without thinking much about it he dropped it into his pocket walked over to his friends.
**
‘There you are,’ Prakash said, laughter oozing from his voice, ‘The rescuer of the damsel in distress’. Have you seen her off, bro?’
‘She was not one of them,’ he countered Prakash. ‘I saw it in her face. She was genuine.’
‘When did you see her face, dude? In your dream? I had blackened it all over by the time you reached there.’
‘I was there before you did start on her. She was different from all those spicy chicks who came with their stupid valentines.
Well, okay. Forget her,’ Rakesh said, dismissing the topic. ‘Let’s celebrate the success of our mission.’
They made a triumphant exit from the main gate of the park and drove away.
**
He was comfortably settled on a reclining couch, browsing his mail on the laptop enjoying the soft south breeze of mid-February wafting in through the open window. Yesterday’s incident at the Shangri-La Park was still vividly fresh in his mind, and the girl too. He had just had a flashing glimpse of her face but the picture seemed to have been deeply embedded in his memory. He tried to shake it off but it had settled stubborn there, defying all his conscious efforts to shove it out. He felt a bit odd, as if something was missing as he tapped on the key board and then his eyes fell on the wrist of his right hand. It looked bare. The bracelet was not there. He looked around to see if he had kept it somewhere on the table or the bed. Ordinarily he would not take the bracelet off. It was an expensive bracelet of silver and emerald which he wore on his right wrist. It was a piece of jewelry he considered special not because of its cost or design, but for the good influence it was used to cast on his life. Though not rigidly superstitious, he had come to believe on the positive impact of the bracelet. It was kind of a lucky charm for him. Had the screwing gone loose somehow and it had slipped off his wrist and fallen on the floor? He looked down expecting to find it somewhere by the bed or the couch. The bracelet was at neither of the places. He climbed off the recliner, and let it fold back to its position. He crouched down on the floor and peered under it using the torch of his mobile phone. No sign of the bracelet. He stood up and sifted through the files and books on the table. The thing was nowhere. His mother came in and looked at his dishevelled face in surprise. ‘What is the matter?’ She asked in concern. ‘Have you seen my bracelet, Ma?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Your bracelet? Have you dropped it somewhere?’
‘I must have Ma. It was my lucky bracelet and my initials were engraved on it’ He added, sounding disappointed.
‘When did you last see it?’
‘Last night.. No, not last night. It was yesterday afternoon may be.’ He said uncertainly. I can’t remember if it was there on my wrist last night.’
‘Let me search, and do not worry so much.’ His mother said soothingly and knelt down to look under the bed. After more than an hour’s hectic search it was concluded that the bracelet was not in the house. Even a combing search in the garden and the backyard did not yield any satisfactory result.
‘I must have dropped it somewhere outside.’ He called all the friends he was with last evening but none of them had seen the bracelet.
‘If I have dropped it on the road someone by now must have picked it. There was not even the thinnest chance now of recovering it.’ The loss of the bracelet filled him with a strange emptiness.
**
Sipra clambered out of the rickshaw as it cruised to the side of the street and shoving the fare into the driver’s hand ran in to the house. She flung the sling bag to the long sofa by the front door and scurried to the washroom before her mother could see her.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The vigorous rubbing from the stole had cleaned the black paste the young man had smeared on her face. There were only some hardly noticeable faint patches here and there. She soap-washed her face to take them off. All the marks were gone now. But the paste had turned to a black ball that had entered inside her and remained stuck in her chest making breathing difficult. She turned her gaze back to the mirror and was surprised at the way she looked, pale, dishevelled and awry, her face flushing crimson from all that rough scrubbing. She wanted to scream but somehow the screams turned into dry, hard sobs that racked her body. She pressed the towel hard over her mouth to kill the sound and waited for the trembling to stop. Then she tiptoed out of the washroom to avoid coming face to face with her mother.
Later when she sat by the dining table absently munching the aloo-paratha she recapitulated what had happened in the garden. Remembering the way that vicious young man had grabbed her by her hair and smeared the horrible black paste all over her face brought a bitter bile to her mouth and she coughed. ‘Go slow with the eating. I will get you some tea in a minute.’ Mother said from the kitchen. ‘Do not bother Ma, I do not need tea now.’ The delicious paratha tasted like sandpaper and she gave up the idea of eating. ‘I am filled Ma. Don’t make any more parathas for me. I have a lot of studying to do.’ Sipra went into the room she shared with her younger sister Suman and closed the door. Her sister was out at the coaching center. ‘What happened to Swati?’ Sipra wondered. She hoped Swati had somehow escaped the assaults and reached home safely. She was also angry with her friend. Had it not been for her Sipra would not have gone through this ordeal. But Swati was her close friend. Despite her resentments against Swati, she felt concerned. She wanted to call Swati and find out and picked up her phone. As she was about to dial her number her sister barged into the room like a gust of spring breeze, filling the room with her cheery smile. ‘How was the day, Apa?’ She said through her giggles. ‘Didn’t you people make any special Valentine week programme today?’
‘No,’ Sipra said not making any effort to reciprocate her sister’s enthusiasm. The curt, monosyllabic reply made her sister look closely at Sipra who had now dropped the idea of calling Swati knowing that she could not discuss the incident in the presence of her sister.
She lay in bed, tossing and turning, trying vainly to push the tormenting thoughts out of her mind. But the glare in the eyes of that villainous character came flashing back as soon as she closed her eyes. She tried to recollect the face of the other young man who had come to her rescue at the right moment and saw her off at the gate. She had not had a close view of him but she remembered he was a tall and goodlooking fellow, unlike that bearded rogue.
**
It was a strange place, like a plateau, sprawled out irregularly some hundred feet above the ground, enclosed by snowcapped mountain-tops on all sides. Nowhere in the sight was vegetation, or even a single tree. Layers and layers of snow covered the floor of the plateau where she stood, shivering in terrible cold. A little away from her, squeezed between a couple of boulders that glimmered white in the cool sunlight a man sat cross legged, his eyes closed. He must be an ascetic sitting in meditation, she guessed. She wondered how she had reached up to such a height and what was she doing here in this Iceland. The ascetic might help to find a way out of here, she thought and moved to the spot where he sat. ‘Hello, there’, she called gently, ‘Could you please tell me where is the way out of this place?’ The man did not respond, nor did he open his eyes. ‘Hello, sir. Please tell me where could I find the exit way.’ The eyes of the ascetic snapped open and she took a quick step back, her heart pounding heavily. They were the same eyes, glaring, red-rimmed and evil. She turned and fled. But the man scooped out something from a brass pot that stood by him and flung the stuff at her face. Swirls of thick black smoke engulfed her and she felt her skin burning. She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.
Her mother felt Sipra’s forehead. ‘She is burning with fever. Make a call to Doctor Bhatt.’
The burning sensation grew worse and she sank on to the snow-covered ground. She felt something pointed prick her arm and she moaned again. She felt her body going numb. Then she heard the rhythmic trot of horse hooves as if someone was approaching there on horseback. She opened her eyes into slits with effort. She could not see the snow-covered mountains or the evil looking ascetic. The spot where she lay stiff was now enwrapped by fleecy, white clouds and a young man, straddled on a horse, was coming out of it. She could not see his face clearly through the haze but there was a bracelet around his right wrist that sparkled brightly in the sun. The young man took out a silver pot that looked like a goblet and splashed some liquid, it was water she guessed, on her. The water streamed down in small rivulets down and the burning was gone. She no longer felt any pain, but she had no strength to move her limbs. She lay there motionless, feeling drained out, relishing the cool touch of water all over her body. As she closed her eyes, she heard the sound of the horse hooves receding. With a superhuman effort she opened them to take a look at the rider of the horse. But he had melted into the clouds. She took a deep breath and slept.
Sipra’s mother felt her forehead. It was cool. Sipra lay quietly, her body drenched in sweat. ‘The fever has abated.’ She said, relief in her voice.
‘Nothing to worry. Give her liquid food and let her take enough rest. She will be fine.’ Dr. Bhatta said.
Swati visited her the next day. ‘I am so sorry, dear. I heard about your fever. I should have waited for you at the park but they chased Kartik and me and we escaped through a narrow opening in the far-end wall by a sheer miracle. What did they do to you?’ She asked in concern.
‘Forget it,’ Sipra said indifferently and dismissed the topic. Swati could not bring herself to press her friend who looked visibly sick. There were black circles under her eyes and a pallor had settled on her face.
**
He turned his bike to an intersection and cruised down the narrow street that went to left from the Stadium Square. He had heard clearly the girl giving the address to the autorickshaw driver. He was sure she said Stadium Square. He had been looking for her house in all streets and by-lanes that connected to the Stadium Square, for the last few days. There was no other clue to locate her place. It had proved an unyielding exercise and a sigh of disappointment escaped him.
He touched the small diary inside his pocket. Her mother had found it there while she emptied the pant pockets before putting them in the washing machine. He had eagerly scanned its pages to discover a clue, if there was any, to her address. Most of the pages were empty. Only some lines of poems were scribbled on a few pages. So, she wrote poems! Interesting! He felt more impressed. The last poem, which he guessed, was written while she sat alone in that park, was proof enough that she did not go there with any boy, and what she said, or rather mumbled about accompanying one of her friends there was true. He decided he would make that diary an excuse for the search, if by any chance he ran into her. But will he? His lips twisted in a sour smile.
There was not much time left before he left India and he wanted desperately to meet the girl before that and seek her forgiveness. He was consumed with guilt for joining hands with Prakash in such an evil act, humiliating an innocent girl in public. But it did not seem possible now. He drove past the residential areas along the alleys and by-lanes hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl if she came out. But that looked like a faraway possibility. It occurred to him that he would not be successful without the bracelet that had always spelt good luck for him. He returned home after a thoroughly wasted effort, disappointed and sad.
**
A week after that fateful day at the Shangri- La park Sipra went to the college. The fever had gone, the weakness too. She had also got over the bitterness that used to fill her at the recollection of the experience in the park. Everything was getting back to normal. Her friends were happy to see her back in the class, and she no longer held anything against Swati. Poor girl! How would she have known that such an unwarranted incident was going to occur there? As such the Valentine vibes were fast fading from the air and the incident, like a nightmare disappearing out of the mind at the end of the night, was sneaking away from the memory.
**
She looked out the window of the room at the garden where the colourful chrysanthemums swung merrily in the gentle south breeze. The air had become pleasantly warm and a koyal cooed somewhere a little away from the house. It was spring in full bloom, cheerful and ecstatic.
The air is warm and merry and fraught with the scent of the spring
The chrysanthemums dance in a coloured lot and an invisible koyal sings,
Sipra wanted to scribble the lines in her small diary before they went out of her mind. Where was it? She remembered that she had not seen that diary since the day she had been to the park. She had also not opened her sling bag since then. It must be in the bag. She went looking for the bag and discovered it lying tucked between two rows of books in her bookrack. She pulled it out and rummaged inside. There was a long notebook of whitepapers which she used to make running notes in the class and a couple of textbooks. A ball pen and a couple of scrunchies, and some loose papers. The diary was not there. Had someone removed it and kept it on her study table? She searched through the rows of books and copies on the study table and then inspected under the bed. The diary was nowhere. She groped inside the bag once again. She felt something hard and metallic stuck at the bottom of the bag. Curious, she pulled at it gently, but it was somehow got entangled in the threading along the inside layer of the cloth-bag. She turned the bag inside out and looked. Stuck to one side of the bag was a silver bracelet. She stared at it in surprise. Where from did the thing come into her bag? It looked vaguely familiar. She knew she had seen it somewhere before. Where had she seen it? Then it came to her like a flash of lightning. In the park. On the wrist of the young man who had rescued from the assaults. It must have slid out of his hand while he pulled at his friend’s hand, stopping him from smearing the black paste on her face and dropped straight into her bag which was lying open on the bench. And a blurred, hazy image overlapped the memory…She had seen it on the hands of another man… may be in a dream…. a man who came riding a horse, tearing open the clouds and splashed cold water over her to cool down the burning in her body!!
She carried the bracelet to the window to have a better view of it in the light and turned it up and down on her palm. Some letters engraved on the inner side of the wristband caught her eye. She squinted at the letters and identified them as L and Y. What do the letters mean, she wondered. They must be the initials of the name of its wearer or of the jewelry shop that sold it. There was no clue to find out the name of its owner and return it to him. She stowed it away into the drawer and put a stack of papers on it to hide it from her perpetually curious sister who, she knew would grill her with her queries until she came out with the details.
She took the bracelet to the college next day and showed it to Swati when they sat alone in the empty classroom during the lunchbreak.
‘L.Y?’ I can’t think of a name with those initials,’ Swati cast a vague look at her friend.
‘I do not think they are the initial letters of a name, could be something else….’
‘Something else? What something?’ And as if an idea struck her all of a sudden Swati flicked a quick, knowing glance at Sipra and blurted out. ‘I know the ‘something’ it meant.
Love You!!’ She squeezed Sipra’s hand and let out a mischievous giggle.
‘Keep your mouth shut, you silly girl!’ Sipra snapped at her as she saw her classmates entering the classroom in ones and twos.
**
He stood leaning on the terrace wall, watching down. The garden below was full of the night, the rustle of the breeze and the smell of the night jasmine. He watched the amber moon that hung indifferently over the top of the tall banyan tree beyond the street. The April sky was cloudless and was tinged with a tremulous luminosity like a mysterious mood of nostalgia. He would be leaving for British Columbia, Canada tomorrow. His sister and brother-in -law had settled in British Columbia and he would join the summer semester of the University there in May. There will not be any more chance to find out the mystery girl, he thought. A sigh of frustration released itself out of him as he turned and climbed down the stairs.
**
Sipra waited till her sister fell asleep. She leaned lightly over her and looked closely at her face to affirm she was not awake. Relieved, Sipra got down the bed noiselessly and took out the bracelet from the string bag. She lay down on her side, her back to her sister and tried to see it closely in the dim light of the bed lamp. The two letters L. Y were a riddle. Were they the initials of the young man who had come to her rescue that day, or were they the shortened form of the name of the jewelry shop they were bought from? Her lips parted in a small smile as she remembered Swati’s mischievous remark. Love You! What a stupid thing to say! She pushed the bracelet under her pillow and closed her eyes.
A girl in a full-length gown of silk with a spun-silver frill stood by a river that sparkled like a strip of silver-blue in the moonlight. The sapphire-studded silver tiara on her head glittered in the moon. Patches of wooly white clouds with silver borders drifted across sky. Somewhere beyond the hill a night bird flapped its wings. A waft of cool breeze rustled in and her gown caught it and billowed like a wave with a silver crest. She shivered a little. Then she heard it… the sound of horse hooves. They were faint and muffled at first but soon became distinct and loud. She saw him then, the rider, astride on a white horse. He brought the animal to a stop close to her and dismounted. ‘You have my bracelet!’ The young man who was in a prince’s attire smiled naughtily. ‘I did not take it, it had fallen into my bag accidentally,’ the girl in the silvery gown muttered apologetically. ‘I have it with me. Take it.’ The young man did not say a thing and strolled towards the river. As if she was pulled by some magic force, she followed him there. ‘I have not come to take the bracelet.’ He said mysteriously. ‘I have come to take you with me!’ She stared at him, bewildered. The face looked faintly familiar. ‘Why?’ the word stumbled out of her. ‘Don’t you know? Because I love you!!’ He helped her to mount the horse and for a fractured moment her gaze went down to the river that shone like a mirror. A startled breath escaped Sipra and she moaned in her sleep. The girl in the garb of the princess was no one else but Sipra herself. But by that time the prince had mounted the horse. He pulled at the rein and spurred on. The big white horse soared up into the air. She could smell his breath as he leaned on her, one arm around her waist and another at the horse’s rein. They glided through the clouds and Sipra closed her eyes, wishing the journey would never end. …..
The plane began to taxi along the tarmac. He took out the small diary from the backpack and opened it at the page where the last poem was written. He had read it several times. He read it once again, the words looked a bit hazy. He wondered if it was because of the dimmed cabin light or the moistness in his eyes. She wrote about her fancy lover, prince Lochinvar carrying her on horseback to the clouds. His heart yearned for a brief glimpse of her. He wished she was with her now and together they would be sailing through the clouds.
‘We are ready to take off,’ the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. He cast one last, lingering glance outside, at his own native land and settled in his seat for the long flight. The diary was still on his lap, open at the same page as the big aircraft glided through the moonlit cottonwool clouds.
**
‘I don’t understand why don’t you give your consent to the proposal. It was a perfect alliance for you.’ Sipra’s mother said sadly standing by the dining table. Sipra put the half-eaten sandwich on her plate and glanced at her mother. ‘You know I am pursuing my research. I have no intention to get into the bondage of marriage now. It will be a great hindrance. Why don’t you understand, Ma?’
‘Why don’t you understand dear? Your father is not keeping well after the retirement. He wants to discharge his duties and spend the rest of the years in contentment. There is Suman, too. We have to make plans about her marriage after we are done with yours. Besides, the family of Mr. Yograj is liberal in outlook. The son has settled abroad and earns a lucrative amount. You could always pursue higher studies in a foreign University.’ The imploring in her mother’s voice moved Sipra. Was she being unjust to her parents and her only sister by becoming rigid in her nonacceptance? She felt a mild prick at her conscience. ‘Well, give me some time to think about it.’ She said gently trying to drop the matter at that.
‘Don’t take a lot of time, beta,’ her mother persisted, ‘There isn’t a dearth of matches for Mr. Yograj’s only son. Sooner is better.’ ‘Well, all right. If you look at it that way.’ Sipra said reservedly feeling bitter about the way society considered a girl to be fortunate to receive a proposal of a marriage alliance with a young man belonging to an influential family. ‘Damned patriarchy!’ She muttered under her breath. Her mother ran her hand fondly on Sipra’s head ., ‘That’s my girl, Your father will be so happy,’ she remarked sounding relieved and made her way to the door.
Sipra sat staring at the blank wall in front of her, her thoughts travelling about five years back to a noon of February in the Shangri-La Park at the outskirts of the town, to a young woman her face besmeared with black paste and tears of humiliation, and a young man wearing a silver bracelet on his wrist releasing her from the evil clutches of her offender.
It was February and the mist and the winter that settled on the earth were slowly thawing away. Sipra looked at her sister’s empty bed. Suman was in the second year of her B. Tech and was staying in the hostel. Sipra closed and locked the door from inside and took out the bracelet. Her longing gaze lingered on it for a minute or so. What was it Swati had said years ago about the initials? LOVE YOU!! and Sipra had laughed at her. Now she wished desperately the monogramed letters on the bracelet really meant it, Love You!! She wondered if she had fallen in love with the bracelet, or the one who had worn it. She wondered if she had fallen in love with him at that very moment he had shoved his friend away from her, and urged her to leave the place instantly. She was not sure. But she was sure of one thing, she would miss him secretly for the rest of her life, miss that wonderful moment when he waved at her as the autorickshaw carrying her drove away.
‘If I could have seen him just for once, to say a brief thank you,’ She thought wistfully. The son of Mr. Yograj was a perfect match for her, an ideal young man. That was what had been hammered into her mind by her mother. Sipra had yielded to her parents’ wish. She knew she would never find him again the person who had entered her life like an ecstatic waft of spring breeze and filled her with an exotic fragrance, but a feeble flame of wish to meet him still flickered somewhere inside her. She took a deep breath and lay down on the bed and buried her face in the pillow.
**
‘Mr. Yograj and his wife liked you and they want a quick solemnizing of the marriage. Their son had come to India just for a month.’ Mother announced cheerfully.
Mr. Yograj, his wife and a few relatives of theirs had visited Sipra’s house that morning. Mrs. Yograj had taken Sipra in her arms when she tried to touch her feet and slid a ring on around finger. ‘We have accepted her as our daughter-in-law,’ she remarked.
‘Wouldn’t your son want to meet her before we proceed further on this alliance?’ Sipra’s father sounded skeptical. After all the boy was educated abroad. Would he just blindly accept the choice of his parents?’
‘He has seen the picture of your daughter, and he has no objection. My son is a different stuff, not like the modern young men we often come across these days,’ Mrs. Yograj declared, pride in her voice. ‘He would not go against us. Besides there is no flaw in your daughter which could prompt him to meet her privately. Do not worry. We will just match the horoscope, just for our satisfaction and fix the date.’
**
Sipra picked up the photo of the prospective groom that lay face down on her table. A pair of kind, expressive eyes stared at her from the photo. A wide forehead under a thick mop of shining, dark hair, a nose that was not too sharp, and a pair of slightly thick lips under a boyish, well-trimmed moustache.’
‘Hmm! Not bad! Handsome in a way, too.’ Her gaze moved down to the lower edge of the photo. Lalit Kumar. The name was written in neat, cursive writing. Sipra put down the picture absently. There was no point in chasing a mirage, she thought gloomily. For one last time she brought out the bracelet from the corner of the drawer where she had stowed it away and cast a fond, longing look at it. ‘Goodbye Mr. ‘Love You’ she mumbled under her breath and touched the bracelet to her lips.
**
The boarding was complete. The big Toronto bound airbus was full with the passengers. Sipra settled comfortably ensconced in the business class seat and smiled at her husband as he tied the seatbelt around her waist protectively. He took his seat beside her and smiled back.
It was a fortnight after the wedding. All the formalities of the stamping of her visa and other ancillary procedures relating to the travel-abroad were done without much hassle. The airhostess scuttled over to them and inquired if they needed anything and Sipra shook her head n a polite ‘no’ before saying her thanks. The obvious announcements regarding the safety measures were in progress. Her husband looked thoughtfully out the window and then cast a glance back at her. ‘I feel a bit sad every time I set out on my journey abroad. Will you be missing India a lot?’ He asked. ‘Not a lot exactly. In fact I am excited about travelling abroad. Yes, I will miss my parents and Suman.’
Once again, he glanced outside through the window, a pensive look hovering on his handsome face. Sipra wondered what was the matter with him. ‘Does anything bother you?” She asked in mild concern. ‘No, no. It is a small matter and I am just wondering if I should say it or not to you.’ Sipra waited, not intending to ask him what it was, though mildly curious. ‘You must be thinking if I had built up any relationship with girls during my stay in British Columbia. Actually, there was no serious involvement with anyone. A few girls had come and gone, you know how it is.’ He said without looking at her. ‘I do not want to know about them. It is nothing unusual.’ Sipra said understandingly.
‘It is not they, actually.’ He said again, haltingly.
‘Was there someone else, someone who you seriously liked?’ Sipra asked, her interest growing, feeling a bit dismayed at the same time.
‘Actually, there was someone. Here in India, in my town. But I had seen her just once. Had only a brief glimpse of her?’ Sipra’s eyes reflected her surprise. ‘Seen just once? And you liked her seriously!!’
‘I know it sounds absurd. But that is the way it is. I had seen her in the Shangri-La Park about five years ago. It was one of the days in the Valentine week. I know nothing about her expect that she used to write wonderful poems and lived somewhere near the Stadium Square, where your house is located. I had taken many rides to the area trying to find out who she was and where exactly she lived but was never successful. I left India soon after that. I also even do not remember now how she looked. But I do not know why, she remained deeply etched in my memory. I thought I should reveal this small secret of mine to you. I believe in total honesty in a conjugal relationship.’ He said all this in one single breath as if he was desperate to let it out of his system before he was tempted by his better judgement to hold it back.
Sipra’s heart raced. Her throat was parched dry. It was getting difficult to breathe.
‘H..How did you know she wrote poems?’ She managed to stammer out.
‘She wrote a poem on her lover, what was his name, yes, Lochinvar lifting her up to horseback and riding up to the clouds. I was greatly impressed.’
‘Shangri-La Park? You met her in the Shangri-La Park?’ her teeth chattered and she shuddered slightly.
‘Are you cold?’ He unfolded the blanket that was tucked in the wire basket attached to the back of the seat in front of them and put it around her.
‘I don’t mean to offend you in any manner, dearie. But you could comfortably share your secret, if at all you have one, with me. I am very down to earth and would let it pass comfortably. Such things are normal in the youth and there is nothing to feel bad about them.’
Sipra remained silent for a long time. The plane was beginning to taxi. The voice of the captain came over the intercom asking the cabin crew to take their seats. Sipra looked at her husband’s face closely trying to ensure if he was the same boy that came to her rescue on that afternoon in the Shangri-La Park.
‘He must have recognized me if he was the same boy. Should I take the risk? Should I reveal the truth to him? That I had cherished a bracelet as a tangible moment of love till now? It might be that he is someone else who had found the diary I dropped in the park accidentally.’ She was torn between a domineering desire to tell him everything and a fear of losing his trust.
Her husband turned his eyes from the window and looked at her. ‘Why do you look so glum? Anything biting your conscience?’ He laughed. It was a guileless, charming laughter.
Slowly, hesitantly, Sipra rummaged through her big handbag and touched the small pocket that was almost untraceable. The bracelet was there, cozy and warm with memory. She brought it out with a hand that shook involuntarily and held it out to her husband who was watching her movement curiously.
His eyes opened wide and his mouth hung open at the sight of the bracelet.
‘Where did you get it?’ it was a hushed scream of delight and wonderment.
‘There, where you got the diary.’ Sipra ventured.
He almost snatched it from Sipra’s hand and squinted at the inside rim. ‘See. It has my monogram. L.Y.’
‘Your name? L.Y ?’ Sipra’s voice quivered in excitement. What does L.Y mean?’
‘You silly! Lalit Yograj, obviously.’
Sipra’s face broke into an enigmatic smile as she took the bracelet from her husband’s hand. Lalit Kumar? She teased. I thought it meant Love You.’
‘Of course it meant LOVE YOU, my love!’ He took her in his arms and kissed her not caring for the man on the aisle seat who smiled knowingly at them.
‘Ready to take off’ a voice crackled over the intercom.
‘By the way, who is this Lochinvar fellow?’ Lalit asked mischievously, his arms still around Sipra.
You wouldn’t know him. He is a knight-at-arms in one of Walter Scott’s romantic poems. An Irish hero. He came on horseback and took his beloved, the princess, away from the strictly guarded palace and together they rode away.’
‘Really! We are now soaring into the clouds. The princess and her Lochinvar.’ Laalit winked naughtily at his newly wed wife.
‘Yes, Mr. Lalit Yograj. My Lochinvar, my Prince Charming, My ‘Mr. Love You’!’
The giant flight glided smoothly through the clouds and Sipra buried her face in Lalit’s chest as he brought down his lips on her head.
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.
Pushpendra Rai
So I was having one of my usual chats with friend, Sharad Gupta today.
After we had covered the usual ground of analyzing national and international politics; current happenings; men and matters; life and letters; health and happiness, he mentioned that he was going to Farrukhabad after Holi.
When I asked him as to what was taking him to that town, he said he wanted to relive some of his childhood memories and also keen to visit his old school.
Farrukhabad is a small city in Uttar Pradesh, about 300 km from Delhi, which houses a military garrison. He went to school in the adjoining Fatehgarh area for four years.
Talking about the school, he said he was always reminded of one of his classmates, Janet, whenever he thought about the school. As I was ribbing him over his heart throb, he became emotional, saying that an incident had left a deep scar on his chest.
He then set out to narrate the incident, which I’ll try to reproduce, though of course, will not be able to capture the nuances and style of Sharad, the accomplished poet.
The town, he said, was a small dust bowl and the school comprised a set of shabby buildings, where students sat on floor mats. They went to school in a bus, which had window panes and a bonnet. If the driver wanted to turn left or right, he pulled a lever which triggered a wooden arm, indicating the direction he wanted to turn. When the bus moved on dusty kutcha roads, a thick cloud of dust followed it. If the bus stopped to let cows cross the road, the dust cloud overtook the bus and the dust blown into the bus, making the children feel the particles between their teeth.
The Christian Missionary School, established in 1856, was very poor and basically for girls but boys were accepted till Class Four. In Class Three he had a classmate called Janet, slightly built with short hair. A quiet girl who stayed on the campus, in what went for a boarding house. Very humble origins, which reflected in her appearance and general demeanor.
One morning, when he didn’t find Janet in class, he wondered why she had not come as she lived right there in the school compound. A few periods later, the girl landed up in the classroom, standing outside the door. Escorted by a teacher, her face was heavily powdered, and they could barely make out the eyes. She had probably sobbed earlier as streaks of tears had drawn lines through the powder, which had caked on her cheeks.
The teacher asked her to stop right there, and then asked the students whether they knew what she had done. When all of them said no, she asked Janet to turn around and face the verandah. As she turned, they saw a cardboard pinned to her back on which were the letters: I am a thief.
As the kids screamed and shouted, cruel as they can be at that age, Sharad went into a shell. He agonized over how this girl could be a thief as he always imagined thieves as people who broke into houses and carried away loads of cash and jewelry.
Continuing, the teacher asked the students as to whether they knew what Janet had stolen, and encouraged by the loud NO, she said, last night Janet was caught red-handed stealing two rotis from under the pillow of Shanti, another student!
Sharad was absolutely stunned wondering why there would be a need for any girl to steal rotis. He was reminded of his mother who would keep coaxing him to have another roti even after he had finished with his lunch or dinner.
The incident, he said, troubled him for months.
Much later on one of his trips to Farrukhabad, he made enquiries about Janet from various quarters but nobody had any idea about her whereabouts or existence.
As we speculated about what could have happened, Sharad said, irrespective of what happened to her, the incident had stayed with him throughout his life, haunting him about the humility heaped on Janet that day; and the insensitivity displayed by the teacher. We wondered about the number of days it would have taken her to get over the indignity and how she would have spent sleepless nights, finally crying herself to sleep, with perhaps no parents to console her. Even after escaping from the students in class, she would be going to the boarding house in the evening, and being subjected to further insults from the inmates, who obviously would be better informed.
All Janet had done was pick rotis to quell pangs of hunger.
Small stories, which stay with us for life.
Dr. Pushpendra Rai, a former national and international civil servant, is an International Intellectual Property (IP) Consultant, advising countries and institutions on different aspects of IP. He was a Director with the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO), Geneva, till 2015, handling a diverse set of assignments.
As a member of the Indian Administrative Service for about 22 years, he worked as District Magistrate in three different tribal districts of Manipur state and then served in the Manipur Secretariat as Secretary and Commissioner.
His assignments in the Government of India were in the Ministry of Petroleum and subsequently in the Ministry of Industry. Subsequently, Dr. Rai worked as a United Nations Diplomat for more than 16 years at the World Intellectual Property Organization, Geneva, a specialized agency of the UN, handling issues related to technical cooperation and economic development.
Dr. Rai has a Ph.D. from IIT, Delhi; postgraduate degrees in economics and public administration from Harvard University and the University of Lucknow; and has lectured extensively in more than 40 countries, in various parts of the world
He currently advises the UN in several countries, including Indonesia and the ASEAN Secretariat. Apart from his international assignments, he speaks regularly at the CII, National Judicial Academy, Foreign Service Institute, World IP Forum, DRDO, ICAR, TIFAC etc.
His interests include Writing (blogs at www.pushpendrarai.com) Traveling, Environment, Community Development and hiking in the Himalayas and the European Alps.
Ishwar Pati
Kashmir—everyone's dream destination. We were excited when a chance came our way to visit paradise. We landed in Srinagar on a fine summer’s day and immediately I felt the nip in the air suffusing my whole body. Snow-clad mountains stood like sentinels all around us, far from the hustle and bustle of an urban mayhem. For reasons of security at the time, we were herded into a bus and taken to the tourist office in the city centre. There, ravenous hoteliers and travel agents swarmed all around, cajoling us to patronise their hotel. I too joined in the haggling and managed to land a good deal.
After collecting our luggage, we were about to leave for the hotel when a shabbily-dressed local accosted me, "Saab, you like houseboat?" It’s true I have a fascination for houseboats. When I hesitated, he pressed me, “Please try my boat. It will be a unique experience to lie down and let the waters of Dal Lake lap your feet." His sales pitch was persuasive. But I had already booked a hotel room. Seeing my predicament, he took me aside and pleaded, "why don’t you come with me, Saab, and take a look at my houseboat. You can then choose where you want to stay."
“Where is your houseboat?” I asked him.
“It’s only a stone’s throw,” he said. “We can go and come back in no time, Sir,” he assured me. So, leaving the children at the tourist office in the care of my wife, I went to inspect his houseboat. After walking for about two km in the biting cold, I had my first panoramic view of Dal Lake dotted with shikaras gliding over the water. What a breathtaking sight! I also had a look around the interior of the shikara. It was not five-star comfort, but it afforded a beautiful natural environment. My host was full of warmth and charm. After the tour, he insisted that I have a cup of tea in his traditional crockery, while he regaled me with stories of Kashmir.
It was late by the time I hurried back to the bus depot and my brood. But my dear family was nowhere to be seen! They had disappeared in a strange place, that too a troubled place like Kashmir, with no one to care for them. I ran around frantically. The counters were being closed one by one as flights are prohibited after nightfall. After repeated enquiries at the bus depot, I met someone who took me to an inner room. They were there—my wife and children—safe and sound!
The good Samaritan had not only provided shelter to the children, but also seen to it that they were well fed. When I expressed my gratitude, he berated me for my negligence. “Do you know how dangerous it is to move around here? Even locals don’t dare to come out after dark,” he chided me. I swallowed his well-deserved harangue quietly. But for him my paradise could have been lost even before I had put one foot in it.
In the event, I had to bear heavy shelling from my wife for months on end.
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.
Hema Ravi
INTRODUCTION
Indian women aka Bharatiya Naari have been exemplified as archetypes of emancipation. Queen Vishpala finds mention in the Rig Veda as an educated, well-informed woman with ‘warrior’s voice.’ Maitreyi and Gargi, as women scholars find mention in Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. Princesses Sita, Draupadi, Damayanti as embodiments of chastity chose their husbands in ‘svayamvar.’ It is said that “one of the best ways to understand the spirit of a civilization and to appreciate its excellences and realise its limitations is to study the history of the position and status of women in it.” Ancient history of Bharat boasts of women of courage who rubbed shoulders with men, the shiva-shakti predominant in both genders. Each of these women had distinct characteristics with one or more aspects that defines womanhood.
Several Indian women have been featured in history books of the medieval period as ‘symbols of resistance’ against the British, foremost among them being Rani Lakshmibai, Rani Jhalkari Bai, Rani Avanti Bai, Begum Hazrat Mahal, Kittur Rani Chennamma , Rudramma Devi, Belawadi Mallamma, . Among these prominent names in historical records is yet another lesser-known female protagonist – Velu Nachiyar (1730-1796), the first queen to have put up stiff resistance against the colonial power much before the first War of Independence began; the only woman in Bharat to defeat the British autocracy and remain undefeated.
Recognizing her role, on December 31, 2008, a stamp was released to commemorate her contribution to India’s freedom struggle. It was also announced by the State government that January 3 would be celebrated as the birth anniversary of the fearless woman who shattered gender prejudices in the 18th century – the iconic queen of Sivaganga District, Tamil Nadu, who waged a war against the British to capture her kingdom.
BRIEF LIFE HISTORY
The political scenario in medieval India brought into the spotlight the indomitable spirit of hordes of women against British imperialism, which began in India when the East India Company, originally set up by a charter for trade began to colonize nations. They were met with much resistance, and many women rulers who ruled their respective kingdoms faced much oppression and posed stiff resistance to the Colonialists.
Foremost among Indian women rulers to fight and emerge victorious against the British as early as in 1780 CE, Velu Nachiyar popularly known as veeramangai (courageous woman) also goes down in history as the foremost strategist of ‘suicide bombing,’ that was successfully executed by her personal attendant Kuyili.
This, however, has not gained the importance it needs in history
Velu Nachiyar, born in 1730, was the only child Rani Sakandimuthal and Raja Chellamuthu Vijayaragunatha Sethupathy of the Ramnad kingdom. The royal couple raised her as a male heir, encouraging her in horse-riding, archery, and martial arts such as valari and silambam. Not just this, she was versatile in several languages that included English, French and Urdu.
Although she was raised as a male heir, Velu Nachiyar was an embodiment of shakti – feminine grace, benevolence and dynamism. Married at the age of sixteen to Muthuvaduganathur Udaiyathevar, the prince of Sivanganga in Tamil Nadu, Velu Nachiyar gave birth to a daughter whom they named Vellachi. She performed her duties as a devoted mother and able queen beside her valiant husband when he became the king of Sivaganga in 1750. It remained an independent kingdom until his death in 1772 when the British troops in connivance with the Nawab of Arcot, invaded his kingdom.
The conquest of India through the East India Company had just begun and the British were primarily interested in driving away the French colonialists and Hyder Ali, the Sultan of Mysore. The Kalaiyar Koil battle saw gory killings by Col. Smith and his armed forces who were ruthless even towards women and children. Some trustworthy doyens of the Sivaganga empire managed to flee into hiding.
Following her husband’s assassination, Velu Nachiyar, who was at Kollangudi fled to Virupachi, near Dindugal and sought refuge under Palayakaarar Kopaala Naayakkar. She gradually built a power army to fight the British, garnered support from Gopala Nayaker and Hyder Ali, the Sultan and the de facto ruler of Mysore in Southern India.
Conversing in Urdu, Queen Velu Nachiyar more than impressed the Sultan, who promised to support her in her crusade to retrieve her kingdom. Treating her with great respect, the Sultan permitted her to stay at the Dindugal Fort, and also sent her financial support. Woman power is at its audacious best when evil forces threaten to destroy peace and wellbeing!
Valiant Velu Nachiyar proved this to be true in every way. With the 5000 infantry and cavalry received from the Sultan to confront the British, she frequently changed her base and confused the Englishmen. Sultan Hyder Ali had also ensured that she was equipped with adequate weapons to face the mighty British soldiers.
1780 CE proved to be historic in several ways. Veeramangai Velu Nachiyar became the first Indian queen to fight against the British. Gaining information about the ammunition store of the British, she plotted a suicide attack. Her loyal confidante Kuyili went down in history as the first suicide bomber, when, dousing herself in ghee set herself on fire and jumped into the armoury, blowing it into smithereens. Kuyili’s martyrdom brought victory to Queen Velu Nachiyar.
It would benefit readers to appreciate with reverence and recall the patriotic fervour exhibited by the young Kuyili. The mission though meticulous was risky and no mistakes could be made. By a stroke of luck, the festival of Vijayadashmi was being celebrated at that time and women from far and near visited the temple of Rajarajeswari on that day. “Using this as their leverage point, Kuyili and few women were not only able to get inside the fort under disguise, with weapons hidden inside flower and fruit baskets, they were able to catch the British unawares, who were swarming the fort and launch an attack upon them. As chaos began to ensue, Kuyili got to what she had originally planned to accomplish—sacrifice her life for the motherland that would go on to help Velu defeat the troops and reclaim her fort and sovereignty.” And she succeeded!
Udaiyaal, the other adopted daughter gave up her life detonating a British arsenal. Subsequently, a woman’s army was built, which was name Udaiyaal to honour the courageous young woman for the sacrifice.
Having gained possession of the Sivaganga estate, Nachiyar ruled the kingdom for about a decade, and pronounced Vellachi the heir to the throne. In 1780, she bestowed powers to the Marudi brothers as well.
To express her gratitude to Sultan Hyder Ali, Nachiyar constructed a mosque and church at Saragani. Prior to that, the Sultan had built a temple inside his palace. Hyder Ali’s son Tipu Sultan aka the Tiger of Mysore also had a cordial relationship with the queen. She even sent a golden tiger to Tipu as a gift.
Vellachi became the second queen of Sivaganga estate in 1790. The gallant Nachiyar breathed her last on December 25, 1796 CE. According to sources, she suffered from heart ailments, and underwent treatment in France.
Queen Velu Nachiar is held in great esteem in Tamil Nadu. Even before the first war of Indian Independence in 1857 that involved the legendary warrior queens Laxmi Bai and Jhalkari Bai of Jhansi against the British Raj took place, two courageous women from a remote kingdom in South India had given a fitting reply to the colonial rulers.
As part of his album ‘Tamilmatic’, Tamil-American hip-hop artist Professor A.L.I. dedicated to Velu Nachiyar a song titled ‘Our Queen, ‘which is a fitting tribute to a heroic daughter of Bharat.
May the stories of such women unfold, and may they continue to be a source of inspiration to women of today…
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
Sreechandra Banerjee
Ballari was tired after the journey. The heat of this arid land had taken its toll. It had taken almost five hours to travel from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer and it was quite hot even in mid February. Nevertheless she had enjoyed traveling with Aranyo after a long time.
The last time that they had been on vacation together, was their honeymoon. It was almost a decade now. Aranyo enjoyed photographing wild life and had thus chosen to visit Bandhavgarh National Park in Madhya Pradesh, a natural habitat for many indigenous wildlife species, typical of a moist deciduous forest. Ballari was captivated by the natural beauty of the dense forest with encircling eroded cliffs and picturesque wooded mountains rising from reed-covered wetlands where kingfishers and egrets hovered around.
The most remarkable part of the tour was when they had seen a white tiger languishing near a Sal Forest on a sloping valley. They had to go out on elephant back early in the dawn to track the tiger. It was not quite easy waking up that early on a honeymoon tour, but as photographing wild life was Aranyo’s passion, he could not afford to miss it. What an experience it was! Ballari was scared by the occasional sly looks of the tiger. She had never seen a tiger so close in a natural habitat like that before. It seemed that the energy of the whole ecosystem had been concentrated on the vitality of this savage animal amidst the pristine beauty. Intimidating it was, when the four eyes of the probable prey and the predator had met for a fraction of a second. She was frightened and had clung on to Aranyo. He had forgotten to take a snap and had blamed her afterwards for it. Probably that was their first tiff after marriage. Ballari was thankful to her stars that he had not told this to her mother-in-law. Photographing was the only thing that her mother-in-law had allowed Aranyo to do without her consent. Well, her mother-in-law was pleased when he had shown her the photo of the Indian Bison that he was able to capture with his telephoto lens.
The fecundity of that forest was such a contrast to the barrenness of this desert land. It was like the contrast in her own conditions then and now. Yet this land had a charm of its own with the golden fort perched high on a hill- top. Aranyo had coaxed this trip for her out of his mother. It was now almost a year after Aranyo was posted in Jaipur that she could make this trip. Probably Aranyo was feeling lonely and wanted her to be there.
- “If you go to Jaipur, who will look after Manoj?” her mother-in-law used to say.
Her mother-in-law had always been skeptical about Ballari’s caring for her mentally retarded brother-in-law Manoj. An ayah had served them for twenty years before Ballari was married and came to her in-laws to take charge of the household, especially her brother-in-law. Before marriage she had no idea of the consequences that she would have to face for Manoj and had accepted the bondage when she was told about her domestic duties.
Yesterday they had stopped by a Rajasthani village where some marriage celebrations were going on. The bride, “bahu” as they called her, had just come to her in-laws. Draped in brightly colored ghagra, choli and a duppatta studded with sequins, her face could hardly be seen. Yet Ballari could understand how shy she felt, from her uncertain steps. Everything was so ornate, the dresses of all those who were present there, the gifts with which the in-laws welcomed her. Yet, there was this air of simplicity looming the sun-blazed village, then blazing with warmth and colors. Most of the women wore tie and dye lehengas, some had embroidered mirror works. The men folk had brightly colored tie and dye turbans. Some girls were singing marriage folk songs, typical of this western part of Rajasthan. Ballari liked the tune. It had an innate appeal.
She had also sung some folk songs when her in-laws had asked her whether she could sing. Hers being an arranged marriage, she had no idea what they would have preferred. Later on, many of her folk songs had been used to calm Manoj during the frequent tantrums that he threw. Somehow only Ballari could manage him well with her collection of different folk songs, some of them lullaby in nature. There was a Punjabi folk song pertaining to the summery harvest, ``Baishakhi`` as they say, which tranquilized Manoj most with its rapturous rhythms. Although Manoj could only babble, he tried to sing with Ballari and thus was averted from his destructive activities.
After lunch at the hotel, they set out for the Sam Sand-dunes to witness the sunset on a camel safari. The view seemed to be straight out from a fairy tale. This was the time of the desert festival, and they had stayed there for a long time after sunset, notwithstanding the fact that Ballari was exhausted.
They had enjoyed listening to the Rajasthani folk music. Most of them were eulogies called ‘Maand’ in praise of the Rajput rulers and warriors. Some pertained to the class of ballad singing, sung by folk musicians and bards comprising tales of love and intrigue, battles, and folk heroes.
She had also wanted to listen to the ‘Panihari’ folk music, sung by women. The theme of these songs mainly focused on several aspects of desert life like the water scarcity, daily chores of women folk, the joy evoked from a chance encounter with one’s lover. Many of these songs are, however, based on the relations between mother-in-law and daughter-in-laws. Ballari wondered how these tales would be. She was sure that none of the tales would describe the unique relation like that of hers.
Her mother-in-law Maya had always apprehended that Ballari would neglect Manoj if she had a child of her own and thus forced her into undergoing abortions every time that she had conceived. Ballari could never accept this, yet she had no option but to give in to her mother-in-law’s wishes. She had tried to convince her mother-in-law that she would look after Manoj had she had a child, but her efforts were in vain. Not that Maya would go into arguments, but she would never let anyone in the household go against her wishes. The situation was similar even with her father-in-law. How many times had he tried to persuade Maya not to interfere with their son’s married life?
-“Manoj is our son. We should make arrangements for him and not ruin Aranyo’s life.”
-“No, you don’t know how she would behave if they have a child”, Maya had protested.
Her case was so different from that of her friend and next-door neighbor Prakriti, who had three daughters and yet her mother-in-law wanted them to keep on trying for a son. Prakriti could not bear this, as she had wanted to enjoy life with the ‘double income no kids’ concept.
Ballari had heard that Maya had been tortured a lot by her in-laws, especially by her mother-in-law, whose life centered round domestic affairs and had no other outlet, which was a common thing with other stay-at-home parents. Her frustration had aggravated when it was found that Manoj was mentally retarded. Instead of being sympathetic, her in-laws had passed sarcastic comments and Maya had said nothing till Ballari had appeared in the scene.
Ballari feared that she too was becoming a psychiatric patient now that she was deprived of the simple joys of life. She only hoped that this tour would somehow help her revive some of them.
The next day, they had set out on a sightseeing tour of Jaisalmer with its sandstone monuments standing undaunted, notwithstanding the buffeting winds that they have withstood through the ages. It was late afternoon, when they finally left the fort and had taken the cobbled roads to view the mansions called ‘havelis’ built by rich merchants. Ballari was amazed at the intricate designs of the interiors, the balconies, and the gossamer quality of window screens.
Wood fossil-park was on their agenda the next day, as the place was under sea once upon a time and thus now important for a geologist like Aranyo. Ballari had wanted to go shopping at the Bazaar at Maneck Chowk and after another tiff, they had settled the issue by visiting National Park.
On their way back, Aranyo had wanted to take a snap of a village girl on her way to fetch water with a pyramidal stack of pitchers on her head, a typical Rajasthani picture. Ballari had approached her and had engaged her in conversation so that he could take the picture. Her colorful ghagra was such a contrast to the aridity of the surroundings. When the woman realized their ‘bad’ intention, she had quickly veiled her face with her duppatta and had told Ballari that if the matter gets reported to her mother-in-law, she would make her life a living hell. Anyhow, Aranyo had somehow managed to take a snap of the veiled woman.
That evening they had gone to the Sam Sand-dunes again, irresistible as it was. This time the festival was over, and they could enjoy the loneliness of the desert amidst the throng. But now there was a man who was singing, probably to beat the heat away. A small girl was dancing to the tune. Occasionally she stopped and said a few words. Aranyo could not understand a word, but only that she addressed the man as ‘Babuji`. To Aranyo, her simple call seemed to be sweeter than the music and the dance. He too could have been addressed as something like that, a simple ‘Bapi’ or ‘Baba’ maybe!
Gradually as night rolled in, they had to leave for their hotel.
A Rajasthani folk song blared in the dining hall while they dined. Aranyo was thankful that the music was loud as he was not in a mood to chatter, reticent that he was by nature.
That night all the bitterness of the years passed-by seemed to vanish. “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” was it?
The next day they were on their way to Gadi Sagar Lake, when Aranyo suddenly noticed that a baby was lying beside a bush. Most probably the baby was abandoned. He asked the driver to stop the car.
- “Look, this is a baby girl, how can her parents be so cruel to neglect a cute baby like this?” Ballari could not help tears rolling down her cheeks.
- “May be that they have many daughters to burden themselves with!
Bulu, why don’t we take this child and adopt her?”
How could Aranyo think of adopting an unknown child, that too a girl child when he had never been able to stand against his mother?
For a while she thought of refusing his proposal. Why was it that she would always have to give in to someone else’s wishes? At one time she was desperate and had pleaded with Aranyo to do something about it.
- “Why don’t you request Ma to listen to you?” a simple reply of a spineless man, it used to be.
Now that Ballari could no longer bear a child due to the repeated abortions as doctors had told her, she decided to accept it.
- “We will call her Sarashi,” Ballari could hardly utter.
- “But how can I return alone to Calcutta with this child, now that you stay at Jaipur.”
- “Henceforth you will stay with me and this child, Bulu.”
- “What would Ma say? I will then bring Manoj here too! And then, adoption would require a lot of formalities.”
- “Let Ma do whatever she likes, let her shout her heart away if she likes. Let this ayah look after Manoj and only bring him when there would be no one to look after him. We’ll both take care of the formalities, don’t worry, Bulu.”
It was a real oasis in Ballari`s tear dried arid life. Who knew that this tour would cast such a magic spell on their lives long devoid of vivid colors?
Image is taken from the internet only to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right of the image of oasis above.
No part of this short story can be reproduced by anyone.
LOOKING BACK AT THE FIRST REPUBLIC DAY OF INDIA
Sreechandra Banerjee
As we celebrated the 76th Republic Day this year (2025) on 26th January with pomp and splendour, let us look back at the first Republic Day.
Although India was freed from British Rule and became a free nation on 15th August 1947, the first Republic Day was only celebrated on 26th January in the year 1950.
After gaining Independence, India had no governing law of its own and thus continued being a British dominion. She was then governed by the British-era Government of India Act of 1935, owing official allegiance to British Sovereignty.
It was on 26th November 1949, that the fundamental governing rules as written down in the ‘Constitution of India’ was adopted and signed by 284 members. This day is now celebrated as National Law Day or Constitution Day.
Some of the salient features of the Constitution of India include a federal system of governance between the Union and the States, free and fair elections, equality before the law, etc.
This Constitution came into effect on 26th January 1950 and India’s sovereignty was established. This particular day was chosen by Indian National Congress, because it was on this day in 1930 that “Purna Swaraj” was celebrated.
This celebration was following the demand of “Purna Swaraj” or “complete self-rule” of India (instead of dominion status) on 31st December 1929, at the Lahore Session of Indian National Congress.
The first Republic Day was celebrated at the 1933-built multipurpose stadium known as the Irwin Amphitheatre (now National Stadium). A ceremonial parade in the streets of Delhi marked the event. India’s first President Dr Rajendra Prasad was installed in office. The President of Indonesia, President Sukarno was the chief guest.
It is said that between 1950 and 1954, Republic Day parades were held at Irwin Stadium, Kingsway, Red Fort and Ramlila Maidan.
It may be mentioned here that on Independence Day, flag is hoisted from bottom while on Republic Day it is unfurled at the top to symbolize the transfer of Colonial Rule to form a Democratic Republic Nation.
This Indian flag had a grand journey to the present-day flag. The first National Flag was designed by Sister Nivedita in 1904. Irish-born Sister Nivedita was a disciple of Swami Vivekananda.
As the Indian flag was unfurled at the top on Republic Day, may we all renew our commitments to the principles laid down in the Indian Constitution and its subsequent amendments thereof.
Information – from the Internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except as noted.
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.
Umasree Raghunath
She followed me everywhere—her tiny feet pattering behind mine, her arms wrapped around my legs, her cries piercing through my heart whenever I left. Her world revolved around me, and mine around her. From the morning rush to bedtime stories, from school lunches to teenage dreams—I was always there, always needed. But time is a river, never pausing, always flowing.
Then, one day, she no longer turned back to look for me. My words, once her comfort, became a burden. My presence, once her anchor, became a chain. I watched as she broke free, soaring into a sky I once painted for her. My hands, which held her steady, now trembled with emptiness. The nest is silent, yet my heart still echoes with her laughter.
Letting go is love, too. So, I turn inward, embracing the solitude, the new beginning. The wind whispers—this is not an end, just another flight.
fallen autumn leaves—
branches stretch to touch the sky
without looking back
As I sit to eat, she used to give that shrill cry...making me jerk and just be with her. She never wanted me to leave her sight, walking behind me like a puppy to the bathroom as I shower. She used to hold tight to my legs as I got ready to work and cry out of her lungs, when I pack my travel bags to onsite. From being a young mom in early twenties, to now being a sick woman in mid-forties, my journey of life revolved around her. My thoughts, dreams and aspirations were built around her progress and existence. Slowly, the world changed. Her life too. She no longer wants my presence. My words echoed like a noise. My advices chocked her to core. My very being becoming a burden to her free fly. The mother bird has to let her young one go. That is only nature. She has to now look after her purpose, her aspirations around her own life...no longer intertwined with mine. The vacuum of empty nest syndrome is real. It can be redefining the way you lived. It has to repurpose your life. Is this not the time to actually be Selfish, like she now tells you are one! Selfish being focusing on your health, wealth and happiness. No strings attached. But the threads of life are finely interlinked that you have to be careful...not to burn bridges or bend to break beyond .... this is not a mother's cry. This is the nature's way of life. As weave into the tapestry of life. After all, life is a vicious circle! In fact, a nice roller-coaster circle of ride. Tighten your seat belts and enjoy the ride!
The Empty Nest
She once clung tight a little hand in mine,
A shadow trailing with her laughter divine.
Her cries would echo as I walked away,
Begging me, pleading, "Mom, please stay!"
Through sleepless nights and endless days,
Her world was mine in countless ways.
Dreams I wove with love so deep,
A bond unbroken and a promise to keep.
But time, the thief, so silent and sly,
Stole those moments as years flew by.
Her wings grew strong and her voice so bold,
She sought the world let go her hold.
My words, once wisdom, now just noise,
My presence faded in her joys.
No longer needed, left behind,
A silent ache, a restless mind.
Yet nature whispers, soft but true,
A mother’s love must bid adieu.
Not chains, but wind beneath her flight,
Let her soar to chase the light.
Now is my time to stand, to be,
To find the self I used to see.
Not lost, not broken, just reborn,
A life my own, no more forlorn.
The nest is empty, but skies are wide,
A journey waits, with time as guide.
So tighten your belt, embrace the tide,
Life’s a circle, a wondrous ride!
Umasree Raghunath is a senior IT professional with passion for blogging, poetry and travel. She is the published author of Simply Being Sidds and translations of Thiruppavai and Thiruvempavvai. She also has several anthologies published with National and International repute. She is a Diversity and Inclusion activist and also trustee of Child Home in Chennai. Currently she is living in Dubai following her career pursuits.
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
“Uncle, give me two Dairy Milk chocolates, two packets of popcorn, a pack of peanut laddoos, and… and that box of cookies,” Abha said to the shopkeeper of Jaggu Bhai Beetle Shop, as written on a big banner above the store. The song “Aao Huzoor Tumko Sitaron Mein Le Chalun” was playing on the shop’s radio.
Standing outside the shop, Abha thought about Maya’s house. How much longer would it take her? When would she finally reach there and have a great date with Abha today?
The shopkeeper packed the items in a bag and handed them to Abha, breaking her meditative mood. Abha grabbed the bag.
“Rupees three hundred received on PhonePe,” she confirmed after making the payment and continued on her way.
It was a soft afternoon following a bright winter day. The sun was shining, and the breeze was blowing gently. Her body shivered slightly in the cold wind. Abha, a 25-year-old girl, was walking on the road on a Sunday afternoon. She was 5 feet 3 inches tall, with fair skin, dark brown eyes, soft rosy cheeks, a smooth round jawline, and mid-length burgundy-coloured, silky-smooth hair. She was charming and cute, innocent like a child.
Abha had recently moved to Mumbai. She worked a 9-to-5 job here. She came from a rural village in Maharashtra, where she had lived with her parents as their only child. In Mumbai, she lived alone in her 1 BHK apartment. In this big city, she was close only to Maya.
Maya, a girl of her age, was someone Abha had met two weeks ago on her first day at the office. Maya had brown skin, long wavy hair, a slender body, and was 5 feet 7 inches tall. Her face looked like a goddess’s. Her big eyes with long eyelashes and kohl in them attracted all the men. Her sharp jawline and delicate neck added to her perfection. Oh! She was a flawless beauty.
On Abha’s first day at the office, when she was very nervous, Maya came to her and made her feel comfortable. Abha could never forget Maya’s radiant smile. Maya treated her like a little sister. She helped Abha with her assignments, corrected her mistakes, and always saved her from the boss’s scolding. In just 15 days, they had become very close to each other.
Today, Maya had invited Abha to her home since it was Sunday. Abha couldn’t wait to reach Maya’s house. She felt like there were springs in her steps, as if she weren’t walking but jumping down the road.
The road to Maya’s house was darkened by the shadows of the twisted branches of trees, as if they were embracing each other and welcoming Abha. The sharp rays of the sun couldn’t reach her. She felt like a celebrity herself, walking on the gray carpet of concrete as a model, with the trees as her audience.
She walked with grace and happiness, lost in her world of imagination. She thought she would gift Maya the bag of snacks and then they would have a lot of fun. She would meet Maya’s parents and befriend them. She would play with Pixie, Maya’s German Shepherd, whom Maya often talked about. Perhaps, they would watch a movie or chit-chat about their funny office gossip. Maya had always mentioned the large palm grove and the beautiful pond amidst the garden at her house. Finally, Abha would have the chance to explore it today.
While she was lost in her thoughts, she saw the beautiful, charming smile of Maya, waving at her and calling her name. “Abha, I am here, dear.” Maya was standing in front of a big golden palace, wearing a black shirt with a long black skirt. A pearl necklace lay on her chest, and a golden bracelet was on her left wrist. Her beautiful, shiny black Pixie, with its open mouth and wagging tail, stood beside her.
Abha ran towards her and hugged her. “Oh my, my! You slay in black. You pretty girl, looking like a devil queen. Hah hah.” Abha laughed, and Maya laughed with her. “Oh dear, here it is for you,” Abha said, handing the bag to Maya. Then Abha greeted Pixie. Pixie jumped over her and showed affection, as if she knew her before.
“Aww! She is so cute. Maybe more than you,” Abha said, laughing. “I have treats for you too, Cutie.”
“Maybe she is cuter than me, but less than you, dear. But why did you bring these things? You want to make me fat, huh?” Maya said jokingly.
Abha replied, “After all, it’s my first visit to your house. How can I come empty-handed?”
“Okay, okay. Now come inside, baby. Or do you want to go back from here?” Maya laughed.
Abha followed Maya.
They enter the big golden-coloured lion gate of the palace. Abha says, “It’s not a home. It’s a palace. It’s a kingdom in there. And you are the queen.” Maya smiles and says, “And I will give you a royal treat today.” Their laughter echoes in the air.
Abha is captivated by the artistry of the gate. It stands as a masterpiece of intricate craftsmanship. It is adorned with ornate carvings of floral motifs, and on a golden plate, the name of the palace is written In large letters: “The Golden Heaven.” But due to the dust and the creepers on the gate, it looks old and abandoned. The walkway to the house is also dusty and filled with tall grass, as if no one has walked on it for years. Before Abha can remark on anything, Maya says, “Arey, arey! Don’t get frightened. I live here alone, so I don’t have time to take care of my small world. And my small paradise is now a wasteland.” She laughs, and Abha laughs along with her.
As they enter through the main entrance, they step into the majestic hall of the palace. The hall has a huge chandelier hanging in the middle. A large maroon carpet with golden needlework lies on the floor. There are two sofa sets on either side of the hall. Although the house is a royal palace, adorned with classic furniture, the colour of the house is a pale golden after many years of abandonment. Still, Abha is surprised by the intricate designs on the walls. The centre of attraction for Abha is the big stone pillars and the large black soldier statues holding swords in their hands. They are bigger than actual humans and seem like living soldiers, as if they are guarding the palace. She can’t shake the feeling of being watched by the statues. If Maya weren’t here, she might think it was a mysterious palace for sure.
“Make yourself at home, baby,” Maya says to her. She comes out of her thoughts and sees Maya handing her a glass of fruit juice. She drinks it. Then she sees Pixie’s dark black eyes looking innocently with a glow in them, waiting for some treat. Abha looks toward Maya with Pixie. Maya understands what they want to say and says, “Abha, don’t fall for her innocent eyes. She’s a devil in disguise.” Abha makes a cute face and says with Pixie, “Please,” as she speaks on behalf of Pixie. Maya says, “Okay, okay. Fine. Here’s your snack, Beasty. Enjoy. And go to sleep. Don’t disturb us.”
“Arey, why are you forcing her to sleep? I’m here to play with her,” Abha says. Maya sighs and looks at Pixie. “Okay, fine. You can stay with us. I’ll only allow it for Abha. Understood? Behave yourself.”
“Okay, leave it. Let me give you a house tour. Then we’ll plan something fun. Okay?”
“As you wish, my Highness,” Abha answers in a playful tone.
“There’s the dining room, and that’s my messy kitchen. The washroom is on that side, and there’s a small storeroom. That’s all on this ground floor. Let’s go upstairs.”
Abha nods her head and follows Maya upstairs. Pixie also goes with them. There are many rooms with the same entrance design. In front of every room, at the entrance, there are maroon drapes hanging from both sides in a royal manner. There are two vases on both sides of every entrance. It looks like a labyrinth to Abha. The main surprise comes when Abha enters the rooms. Not only the entrance but every room’s interior design is also similar. What a surprise! If Maya weren’t here, she might believe it’s not a palace but a maze, where she is trapped and can’t get out. As they move through the house, Abha’s mind races with thoughts. Her little innocent mind starts to create imaginative worlds and stories related to the palace and its labyrinthine system.
After the house tour, Maya says, “So that’s all. Your tour for today is finished now. Have a good time here, Ma’am. Please give a five-star rating on my profile.” Maya laughs, breaking Abha’s imagination. Abha laughs with her.
“Oh my Lord! I haven’t even asked you if you’d like tea or coffee yet. I’m seriously a bad host. My bad, Baby.”
“It’s okay. I just had some juice downstairs.”
“Still, let’s go to the kitchen and make some coffee. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, dear.”
They both go downstairs and enter the kitchen. Abha sits on a chair, and Maya brings the ingredients to make coffee. While making coffee, they chit-chat about their office gossip.
“Hey, have you heard the latest news in our office?”
“About what?”
“Arey, about that Kitty.”
“Oh! That fashion queen. Yes, yes, I’ve heard. She’s seeing our boss.”
“Hmm. You know, her father donated money to get her this job.”
“Oh, seriously?”
“Her father is quite rich. Not everyone has a rich father like hers.”
“You, at least, have a loving father, and that’s great. I don’t have my parents with me.” Maya sighed.
“I’m sorry. But how did they pass away? You can share if you’re comfortable.”
“It was an accident. First, my father died. Then my mother couldn’t bear the grief of losing him and passed away.”
The house echoes with silence for a minute. Then Abha hugs Maya and consoles her.
“I’m here. I’m here. Your sister is here,” she says, patting Maya’s back. Maya smiles and replies, “Come on! I’m not a baby.” Abha laughs.
“Here’s your coffee, dear,” says Maya, handing Abha her cup. “Oh! I just remembered something. Wait for me here; I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she says and heads upstairs.
Abha sips her coffee while observing the kitchen. The kitchen is the best part of the house. Abha is fascinated by its royal look. But soon, she experiences something strange. She feels like the black soldier statue is moving its eyes, watching her. She raises her face to look at the statue. And oh my God, it’s really watching her, scanning her from head to toe. A chill runs down her spine. She gets frightened. But the next moment, after blinking her eyes, the statue’s eyes appear normal—black and still. She convinces herself it was just her Imagination.
Now, sitting in the hall, Abha scans the house: the exquisite craftsmanship of the walls and pillars, and the portraits of Maya’s forefathers on the wall. The portraits are golden-framed and dusty. There are both male and female portraits. The men are strong and tall, appearing like strict rulers with big moustaches and large tikas on their foreheads. Even the women, though beautiful, wear minimal jewellery and have strong facial expressions. Their faces reflect the grace of empresses. Interestingly, they are all dressed in red and black. All of them, like Maya, are brown-skinned. Maya has truly inherited their qualities.
There is a large portrait of a goddess with the head of a boar and the body of a woman. Her big red eyes and tongue hanging out make her look fierce. She is wearing a red and black saree, a large golden crown on her head, and heavy jewellery. She sits on a crocodile, which itself looks terrifying with its wide-open mouth, ready to devour someone. Abha feels frightened after seeing the picture. Sweat runs down her body from fear.
At that moment, she feels a hand on her shoulder. Her heart races as she hears a deep and dark voice say, “Hello, human! How can I help you?” She turns around and is shocked at what she sees. It is the black soldier statue, standing behind her. Its hand is on her shoulder, and its eyes are burning red as it stares at her, waiting for an answer. She is terrified. She screams and starts running upstairs, calling out, “Maya… Maya… where are you, Maya?” But Maya doesn’t answer.
She goes from one room to another, searching for her, but she can’t find her anywhere. When she enters Maya’s room, the furniture disappears, revealing a path that seems to lead to a garden. Her body shivers, and her feet stagger.
“Where am I? Where is Maya? What’s going on?” she screams in fear.
She hears the sound of footsteps. When she turns, she sees the black soldier coming toward her. Panic surges through her, and she runs breathlessly toward the garden. It’s a palm grove—tall palm trees stand everywhere. Above, the sky is covered with dark clouds, making it feel like a gloomy evening.
“But how can this be possible? It was daytime when I entered the palace. Where did this garden come from? And why is it so dark this early?”
The thoughts haunt her as she keeps running among the trees, never looking back. Suddenly, a black soldier dangles from a tree branch, suspended upside down like a corpse.
“Aaaaaa!” Abha screams loudly and runs again. But she finds more black soldiers in the grove, standing in different places. They have bright silver swords in their hands, ready to attack her. She doesn’t know what to do and keeps running, unsure of the direction. It feels as if their presence is guiding her toward a specific spot, where they want her to go.
Finally, she stops. She stops because there is nowhere left to run. In front of her is a large pond. The water is so clear that she can see black crocodiles lying beneath the surface, just below the edge where she now stands. When she sees the crocodiles in such large numbers, she panics and shouts. All the crocodiles hear her voice and rise to the surface, watching her. Their eyes are red, like burning charcoal. They are ready to devour her.
She wants to go back, so she turns around. But the army of black soldiers, with their bright swords, is approaching her. And then she is shocked by what she sees. Maya is also dressed in black battle attire, with silver armour and holding the gleaming sword of them all. But the most shocking thing is Pixie. Pixie has transformed into a giant, furious dog. Her four teeth are long and crossed, curving upside down. She looks like a monster, and Maya is riding on her.
Abha can’t believe her eyes. She says to Maya, “Maya, what’s going on here? What happened to you? And Pixie? How did Pixie become so large? Who are these black soldiers? Where did they come from?”
“They are here to kill you,” Maya calmly says.
“Kill me? But why do you want to kill me? We are friends. How can you kill me? Please, Maya, save me. Please let me go,” Abha pleads.
Maya laughs and says, “Friend? Who is your friend? I am the queen of this dark empire, the captain of my black army. And this Pixie, she is my royal steed. I have been given this responsibility by the goddess of evil. I inherited this from my ancestors. Nurturing my people is my duty. You know, to feed them, I killed my own mother and father. My black soldiers brutally killed them with their bright swords, cutting them into pieces. Their silver swords turned bloody red. These crocos have their body parts in their stomachs. Yes, it is them. And now, you, my sweet close friend… how can I let you go? We had a good time together, darling. But now, I have to feed my crocos. They’ve been hungry for a month. See? They are waiting eagerly for you.
“How would you like to die? By my black army’s swords or by my crocodiles? Choose your death, dear.”
Abha wants to run. But where can she run? The black army is in front of her. Oh, wait. She spots one side free of the army and runs in that direction. But Maya’s sword transforms into a long iron chain and pulls her back to the edge of the pond.
“You can’t escape from my trap, baby. This is not heaven. This is my Golden Abyss, buried deep within the earth. You can’t escape. You have to die for your friend, for my crocos.”
Abha is crying. “Please let me go. I don’t want to die,” she pleads. She looks once at the black army, then at the crocodiles. The army moves closer to her. She steps back, inching toward the edge of the pond. Her foot slips, and she staggers. She screams one final time, and then—silence.
Eternal silence in the dark palm grove.
The only sounds left are the rustling of leaves in the wind and the cries of eagles soaring in the sky.
And then Maya, the queen of the dark empire, laughs. She laughs loudly, her voice echoing from heaven to hell. She has succeeded in feeding her crocodiles for another month. Another sacrifice has been made...
Sushree Gayatri Nayak is a budding muse and poet from Odisha, India. Currently pursuing her studies in English literature at Utkal University, she channels her passion for love, nature, and current social issues into heartfelt poetry. Her verses weave emotional depth with thought-provoking reflections, capturing both personal experiences and broader societal concerns.
Deepika Sahu
Where would we be without our names? How will the world call us or even remember us? In today’s world, names have the potential to spring up a thousand emotions. It can open doors for you and it can close doors on your face too. In this personal narrative, I am sharing my two contrasting experiences with names. In their own ways, they remain special to me.
NO NAMES ASKED
It was a cold 2019 January evening in Jaipur. I was enjoying a solo happy dinner of dim sums and soup in a restaurant near Hathroi Fort. Then a young girl in a jacket and denim walked in. She asked me, “How are the dim sums?” I replied, “Nice.” She asked, “Do you think they will give me vegetarian dim sums here.” I said, “ Ya, I think they will.” They did.
She joined me on the table. We started talking to each other. I was in Jaipur to attend the Jaipur Literature Festival. She was from New York and was visiting India for the first time. She fell in love with the colours, sounds and textures of India at the first sight and felt that she truly belonged to this country.
We talked about love, literature, food and travel. In between our conversations, she told me, “Please visit Istanbul. I feel that's your city.” I laughed and said, “Ya, I too feel the same without ever visiting Istanbul.” I then told her how I had to cancel my tickets to Istanbul as there was a terrorist attack in the airport just days before my trip. She said she had a Turkish boyfriend and had visited Turkey a couple of times. She loved being in Istanbul and we talked about our mutual love for celebrated novelists Elif Shafak and Orhan Pamuk. We discussed Shafak’s novel Forty Rules of Love like two giddy teenagers.
As we were enjoying our warm meals on a cold night, we talked of our plans. I was leaving Jaipur the next evening and coming back to my life and work in Ahmedabad. She was travelling to Varanasi and Lucknow. Both of us decided to have coffee after our dinner. As she was sipping her cappuccino, she said, “Actually, I have lost my job today. I got an email from my NY office last evening. I will be going back to New York from India in two weeks. From New York, I will be going to Mexico to be at home for a while. I will see how life unfolds. Surprisingly, I am at peace with myself here in India. Let me just flow with life. I am enjoying the moment here.”
We finished our coffee and it was time to say goodbye. We shook hands, hugged each other and wished a good life to each other. And I walked out of the restaurant. We did not ask each other’s name. That chance encounter was very fulfilling and complete in itself. Both of us somehow did not feel the need to ask each other’s name. Neither she nor I. Sometimes, even names feel irrelevant. The moment, the warmth of connections matter more than one’s name. Even as I am writing this, I just hope life has turned out well for her.
*********************
The Simple Act of Remembering A Name
In 2023 March, I went to visit the National Tribal Crafts Exhibition in Bhubaneswar. I fell in love with the Sabai Grass products at a stall and picked up two beautiful baskets. As I was making the payment, I asked the young artisan woman, who was also managing the cute little stall, "What's your name?" She told me that her name is Niyati. I paid the money, thanked her and left.
I again went to the exhibition after three days as I wanted to buy some more craft items for my friends. After visiting some stalls, I went to Niyati's stall. As soon as I entered her stall, I warmly greeted her with her name. She literally jumped out of her chair and could not just believe that I had remembered her name. She is from a little village in Mayurbhanj district of Odisha and loves making beautiful products out of Sabai grass.
She was just so happy that I had remembered her name. She told me to pay whatever I would like to pay because now I am her friend. She even said it was ok if I didn't pay because this connection is more important. We clicked a pic at her stall . We exchanged our mobile numbers and promised to stay in touch. She told me to come back to her stall in the years ahead. She told me that she would keep the best products for me. I could feel her love and warmth. At that moment, everything between us just melted and we chatted like old friends. We laughed and talked about her craft, her village. At that moment, our conversation felt like water. Sometimes, just remembering a name works wonders.
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.
Ashok Kumar Mishra
FLASH FLOOD WASHED AWAY OUR HOME
Brother Kishan
read the telegram. Father who had been an avid radio listener had no idea that the weather forecast and advisory of torrential rain and flash flood he used to listen over radio since last one week would hit his riverside village so hard and our family house constructed by grand-father of seasoned Burmese teak and choicest Sal wood frame from Simlipal forest and red clay tiles with utmost care would cave in so easily to render us homeless. The old fashioned house had hand-chiseled mahogany wooden doors, windows and decorated pillars and each room with wooden beam and planks ceiling, that withstood several threats of cyclone and flood in the past would be completely ruined beyond recognition was beyond everyone’s imagination. Built on a raised platform the family house when built was meant to house all fifteen members of the joint family with rooms and space for the grandfather, grand mother and their three son and wives and seven children.
On afternoons grandfather when alive was found lounging on the charpoy with a hand fan and a hookah on the veranda, sons mostly away from home for work and daughters-in-law were busy in family kitchen and puja room under strict vigil of grandmother and children meandering around the house. When papa used to come home the whole village would know as his vintage Phillips Capella radio would be on full volume from dawn to dusk entertaining the entire village, as loudspeakers were very rare those days. This was one of papa’s prized possessions which he got as a marriage gift along with the Made in England Humber cycle from his father-in law.
Father rushed home and reached from his posting in far off Rourkela by train and by cycle rickshaw and soon met all of us housed in nearby school. My uncle was explaining how the river changed course this time to wash away the entire village and devastated our ancestral family house. All the elderly members were searching for valuables and important land documents under the rubbles, when my father was anxiously looking under the pile of wooden planks and broken clay tiles for his Philips Capella radio. His Humber cycle with broken axle and bent wheels and spokes could be traced out as lump of steel under mounds of mud, but there was no trace of his humble Philips Capella radio. He was crest fallen at the loss of his prized possession. The cycle could be repaired with replacement of broken parts but his radio.
Observing his anxiety over loss of his dearest radio Papa’s younger brother promised to take the help of his friend police Inspector Ranjit in local police station and look for the lost radio again with powerful search light and local club youths volunteering for a thorough search again in the evening. Yet they could find traces of the huge battery which used to power his radio (as there were no electricity connection in the village then) which was thoroughly destroyed under flood water. Similarly, a lump of copper wire net which used to be fixed atop two bamboo poles as an antenna above our house for his radio could be found inside the compound of the house below the mango tree but not his radio. That night papa did not touch food and did not have proper sleep as if he lost one of his close relatives. That day I promised to give papa a radio from my first salary. That is how Murphy Bahadur entered our family.
It was not to be that papa could live without radio so long to wait for me to grow up and gift him Murphy bahadur, the handy transistor to him. During family get together papa left no occasion to reminisce for his royal Philips Capella663 vintage radio and would proudly mention that it was a pure breed Made in Holland 4Band radio which had flawless sound system. He would mention further about the skilled craftmanship of Old Philips company and how it was a pleasure to listen to the far off programmers be it Radio Ceylon’s Binaca Gitmala or news broadcast by Voice of America or British Broadcasting Corporation or our own All India Radio’s local news broadcast.
Papa’s younger brother bought a huge Japanese National Panasonic Tap deck music player from dark market in Madras Burma bazar to play electromagnetic tap with recording as well as 3band radio facility. It was too huge with double micro phones diaphragm on both sides, only other additional advantage being mobile not stationary like his vintage Philips radio. Soon it became a fashion among rural youth to carry the huge machine on their shoulder or bicycle basket. But for a puritan radio lover like my father, it was no match to his fondly vintage radio. He felt nostalgic and missed the charm of the radio as he compared the tap deck music player with a multifunctional sound machine. Not impressed with its multifunctionality, father purchased a homemade transistor which he used to keep beside his pillow even while in deep sleep. The National Panasonic tap deck only occupied space and gathered dust as another show piece furniture. On the other hand, the transistor was very handy and easy to operate, although the India made Philips brand transistor was a poor match to its imported pedigree. Father had to adjust its direction from this side of the bed to the other to capture better transmission. One news after another starting from Odia news to Voice of America English news and BBC news as well as news from Moscow goes on. Many nights it would remain on and would be producing raucous sound when father would sleep forgetting to switch off the transistor.
Finally came Murphy Bahadur and soon it became the darling of my father. It was a rough tough radio compared to his transistor. Several times if the transmission or sound effect was not up to his satisfaction,
he would blame the weather or the broadcasting company but not his Murphy Bahadur. Sometimes a gentle slap to the radio like the parents to their erring child used to do wonders in providing better tuning. He would never part it with anyone, not even to his grand children when she became her partner since he woke up in the morning till he would go to bed, after he retired from service.
A day after his heart surgery when I met him on the bed of the ICU, he urged to the doctor that he is alright now and may be shifted to a cabin at the earliest, the doctor jokingly said do not worry for money as the expenditure is well within insurance coverage and better enjoy the comfort of ICU for a few more days he called me and whispered “It is not for the sake of money I am suggesting to move to a cabin soon, it is for the Murphy Bahadur I am doing so. I am not being able to get sleep without my bed partner.”
**The End**
(9491213015)
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)
Shri Ashok Mishra's book of short stories in Odia was launched on 25th January, 2025 at Bhubaneswar by Dr. Gourahari Das and Shri Dash Benhur, both literary giants in Odisha and Sahitya Akademi Awardees. Many literary luminaries attended the function.
T. V. Sreekumar
“You have been a difficult child since birth”
That was an unexpected and rude remark from amma when I grew up and started understanding and responding.
“Why so amma. I had never been a nuisance to anyone”?
“No, not difficult in that way but your craving for pillows is embarrassing and hitting everyone’s nerves. Even as a newborn you wanted extra pillows while in bed”
“If that is a mistake it is a mistake of my harmless weakness which I will have to live with. I just cannot sleep without extra pillows as it is my comfort pad without troubling anyone. More in number more the comfort”.
Amma knew that advising me was futile and laughed at my response.
Many days I could hear amma giving an ear to complaints from my sister.
“He took my pillow yesterday also, amma”
“I just don’t know what to do with him”, would be amma’s response.
With this habit or weakness for pillows, staying away from home was very difficult. Relatives knowing my need were always considerate providing me the extra luxury. Hotels always yielded to my request with a smile providing the extra comfort I needed badly.
While in hostel for my professional course it was the toughest period. I was teased and humiliated for my comfort reasons which earned me the nickname “chic”. It hurt me a lot initially and later I started enjoying it along with those friends, which diluted the attack and with time my weakness was accepted and I became one among them.
Later I got into a high-profile job which my academic achievements helped me to achieve and there I stood a tall figure within the family and society.
“You are a big man now my son”, came from amma
“What makes you say that all of a sudden”?
“You still cling on to umpteen pillows even now, which is childish”
I laughed at her worry saying, “I will always remain a child to you”.
“Let it be but what happens when you get married”?
That was a tricky question, which made me think, but to escape I hugged her tightly laughing loudly without an answer.
Amma had put into me a worrying thought. How will the girl I marry take my pillow habit cultivated since birth? How do I explain it to her? These thoughts kept on haunting and before getting to a solution the bomb fell.
“We are going to see a girl tomorrow”, comes from amma
That shook me and I had no escape but to follow her command.
Nervous to no extent I went through the process and to make a long story short got married to this sweet little girl as I liked her at first sight itself.
Happily married and first night. The room was well decorated and the smell of fresh jasmines made it more romantic. The lovely colourful bedspread and there I noticed the extra pillows placed. Amma didn’t let me down. My comforts should not be sacrificed at any cost was her thought. My mind was in conflict as to when to talk about my habit and finally I decided and told myself,
“It is now or never”
A sudden energy and courage just flowed into me and I spoke.
“Sunita, don’t take me wrong but I have to confess something”.
A shocking look from her hearing this unexpected sataement, the clock appeared to stand still and the jasmines stopped spreading their aroma. Her eyes were glued on me and there all my boldness drained and I started mumbling something irrelevant.
She held my hand and said,
“We are to be together for life and I will stand by you whatever.”
That was revitalisation and the drained energy returned.
I spoke a bit loudly with confidence and with no guilt,
“I have a weakness for pillows”
The expressions from my dear wife were varied and confusing, forehead up and then a half-closed eye look which changed to wide eyes. A pause and she started laughing loudly and when she got her breath back, she said
“Same here.”
Now I was the one staring at her and we exchanged stories. Her parents like mine were worried about her habit and all that had happened in both the houses were similar. We had a hearty laugh over our weakness and the happenings.
The stories stole long hours of our first night and we slept very late.
For the first time the sleep was without extra pillows.
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..
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
In the wake of the announcement of EAMCET results, the counseling for admissions to B. Tech. in all engineering colleges came to an end. All the qualified students sought admission in colleges as per their choice. Akash, who got a better rank sought admission to Electronics Communications Engineering in Kakatiya Engineering College, Gandhi Nagar. His happiness knew no bounds as he sought admission in the college of his choice.
Akash joined the B. Tech. degree in the cherished branch of electronics. He saw all students owning and coming by PULSER bikes. Day by day, the number of students coming by bikes was increasing. He too felt like coming by bike. He made up his mind to ask his father Gopala Krishna. He was dreaming of owning a PULSER bike for him one day. He also felt like others for whom the degree, 'B.Tech.' meant 'bike' and 'techie' in short 'tech' to exhibit his techie that is the style by riding a bike as per the film-hero of his choice. He cultivated patience for a month. He wanted to have it by hook or crook and pose like others. He went home one evening and expressed his wish to his parents. First, he met Mother Satya and made his wish clear to her. Gopala Krishna came back home in the usual manner from his office.
Gopala Krishna had dinner along with the members of the family including Akash. He found Satya and Akash think of something in a serious manner and so they were not speaking in the usual manner at dinner. They completed dinner and went to bed. He and his wife Satya were in the bedroom and were about to sleep. Then Satya opened a conversation in a cool way.
'Dear Gopi... We're happy that our son has sought admission opting for Electronics. It's a happy gesture. We've to congratulate ourselves on this happy occasion.'
'Very happy gesture for us...the most welcome stature for us... as our son has come to the third step after the two steps of matriculation and Intermediate studies,' said Gopala Krishna happily.
'Right...My son, Akash has taken the third step successfully,' said Satya.
'You've got to concentrate more on his education...on his movements... This is technical education, he is pursuing... Mind it... Your care must attain more responsibility...Your and my attention towards him as a budding technocrat and his welfare is to be multiplied,' said Gopala Krishna.
'Yes, I'm more particular about his study...You're much more interested in your son's studies than I'm ... It's natural since you, as father, feel the utmost responsibility...,' said Satya agreeably.
'Satya..., you know everything... I needn't tell you anything...my dear Satya...Tonight at dinner time, Akash and you were moody and were not talking to me anything...,' said Gopala Krishna inquiringly.
'I was lost in deep thoughts about Akash...I recalled his going to school and junior college by bicycle...Now he's in the undergraduate study of electronics at a famous college...His classmates are coming by bike...,' said Satya.
'Our Akash goes in his college bus everyday. The college bus is more comfortable than any other conveyance he seeks for...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'Akash aspires to have a bike...,' said Satya.
'Understand me...You don't know many things...Now-a-days the students are going by bike in a fast manner and meeting with accidents...Many students were hospitalized for medical treatment...As a result, they missed classes during their medical treatment...We don't need any bike for him at this juncture... After completing his graduation, he can enjoy owning a car. There is the college bus for him. He goes to college and comes back home safely. He can sit in the bus comfortably and discuss his subjects with his friends...In all respects, the bus journey is more comfortable and safer than bike journey...I paid for the bus conveyance...,' said Gopala Krishna with a tinge of anger in his smiling face of dimpled cheeks.
... ... ... ...
The next morning, Akash got ready for college and was having meals while Satya was serving food to him. He was expecting all positive from her as he had confidence that she would be able to convince his father, Gopala Krishna. He expected her to speak, and she started to speak as per his expectations,
'Akash...We discussed the need to purchase a bike for you in detail... Right now, it is not necessary...,' said Satya.
'Why...,' said Akash.
'For you, studying is more important than anything else now...Your attention must be paid to studies in all respects...You can aim at the highest rank in the university...You can have a better career,' said Satya in a convincing way.
'Can't I study when I go by bike...,' said Akash?
'You spend more time going here and there to your friends. As a result, you waste your valuable time...Not to waste your valuable time you can travel by bus...Even in the bus you can resort to a discussion on the subjects with your friends in the bus as your father says. I too feel so...My opinion also falls on the same lines,' said Satya.
'What you've opined is completely wrong...,'said Akash.
'You can wait for some more time...First, you can concentrate on your studies as per the wishes of your father... You can come back home from college on time when you come in your college bus,' said Satya.
'I feel insulted before my classmates. I can't bear that humiliation...Nether of you can understand it...If you do not buy the PULSER bike for me, I do not go to college,' said Akash emphatically.
Akash did not go to college for a week. When Gopala Krishna came for his lunch one day, Akash was lying in bed. He immediately wanted to enquire with Satya about the reason for his absence in college:
'What happened to Akash? Why is he here...? Was there any boycott in college...?'
'You can ask him directly...,' said Satya.
'What happened to you, Akash...?'
There was no answer from Akash... When he did not hear any answer, he went close to him to enquire about the question: 'Why didn't you go to college today?'
Akash didn't answer. He kept quiet.
'He has not been going to college for a week...,' said Satya intolerably.
'Why didn't you inform me before...,' asked Gopala Krishna?
'What should I do when I'm not able to convince him...You've your own tactics ... He's clever enough to have his own tactics. I'm sandwiched between you and him...Who should I tell, ' said Satya?
'I've already told you. You would have told him lovingly and convincingly...,’ said Gopala Krishna.
'I tried my best to convince him but failed...' said Satya depressingly.
'You didn't tell him in a suitable way...You would have made an effective effort in a convincing manner since he is your loving son..., ' said Gopala Krishna.
'He's your dear son... If he were my loving son, I would be able to convince him,' said Satya helplessly.
'What happened to you, my dear son, Akash. When your mother had told you all the things, you would have been convinced,' said Gopala Krishna.
'I want neither of you to convince me...If I've the PULSER bike for me, I go to college,' said Akash from the bed.
'You've got a seat in a college of repute... If you study well, you'll be in the selection list for your placement in the interviews held on the campus... First, career development is necessary... Currently, studies are primary... Bikes are ancillary. You don't need a bike for you since the college bus is for you. You can come on time and come on time by bus. You can have subject discussions in the bus. I don't think that a bike is necessary for a student who is really interested in studies... Moreover, I paid for the bus conveyance for the total year. The college bus will be very convenient for you...It's true...Your professors are my friends. All of them expressed the same views...They cited many things against the bike-ride by the students of their college...Try to understand and concentrate more on studies...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'If I've a vehicle, I can concentrate more...,' said Akash.
'Your brothers studied well though they went to their engineering colleges by bus. They got higher ranks and settled in better careers...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'Those days were different...They mightn't have wanted but I want a PULSER bike for me to go to college...,' said Akash
'You've got to think of my financial position...Right now, I don't have money...You can understand my financial crunch...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'You can go for a loan...I can clear the loan after my studies...,’ said Akash.
'After your studies the amount you have to pay for the loan will be doubled and doubled later and then we will be troubled by it, my son...Understand the situation...Now studying is more important than having a vehicle...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'My friend's father is your colleague and he is drawing salary as much as you... He bought a PULSER bike for his son...He is riding it and enjoying his drive. He feels pride for his ride...,’ said Akash.
'I've recently constructed a house...I've got to clear some loans...You should not expect me to buy a vehicle for you now...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'I clear my loan...' said Akash stressing on the word, 'loan.'
'You needn't take any loan and buy a vehicle for you to go to college by it...' said Gopala Krishna.
'I want the PULSER...the PULSER vehicle...,' said Akash
'You're too young to ride the fastmoving vehicle...You're seeing incidents as stated in newspapers...You're aware of them... If you really need a vehicle, I will give you my scooter...,' said Gopala Krishna.
'I don't want your scooter... I don't touch the scooter...I want a PULSER bike nothing else...,' said Akash.
'It's not the PULSER vehicle to study your electronics. You’ve got to study electronics... First, study well and then get ready for a vehicle... your PULSER vehicle. I've to go to office. I've urgent work...Dear son, go to college regularly... Be attentive to the lectures to understand your subjects...Study well and get good marks. We think of buying it when it's very essential...,' said Gopala Krishna.
Akash went to college for some days. He saw most of the students coming by bike. The number of vehicles was exceedingly considerably to put a question to him. Day by day, he repeatedly thought of fulfilling the ways post possible for buying a PULSER bike in a successful manner and posing before his friends. He adopted his own means. It was the time when Gopala Krishna went on an official tour to Delhi for a week.
The following day Gopala Krishna was on his way to Delhi by train. While going he advised his son Akash to be regular to college. Study first and vehicle next. He said that he would return in a week and left for Delhi. It was time for breakfast. Satya called Akash for that. He said that he would not have breakfast. Like that, he went on fast. Though Satya appealed to him to have food, he did not do so. He continued to go on fast, demanding her to purchase a PULSER vehicle for him. She was feeling sorry for his going on fast. She appealed to her son,
'My dear son...This isn't the way to demand the vehicle. To achieve your goal, you are going on fast...Let your father come...,' said Satya.
'You've to promise to buy a PULSER bike,' said Akash.
'I'm not the person to buy...It's your father who has to buy it...,' said Satya.
'He'll not buy...You can mortgage your gold ornaments and get a loan...We can repay the loan...You can go for the purchase of the vehicle...,’said Akash.
'Now you can have food and stop your hunger strike....' said Satya.
'When you promise, I'll take food...,' Akash.
'I promise to convince your father...It's certain...,' said Satya.
'Then it's okay...,' said Akash.
... ... ... .. ...
Then Akash had food and called off his hunger strike. Next morning, he went to college after a week's absence. As a result, he missed many classes. He did not feel sorry for missing classes. He felt extremely sorry for not having fulfilled the desire to buy a PULSER bike for him...He found many more of his classmates owning PULSER bikes with a sense of pride in their ride than before. When his classmates spotted him in college after a weeklong absence, they understood the reason. They still provoked him to buy the vehicle,
'See... How we ride...! We ride like pilots to drive in the sky...You...Akash... See me drive by sitting behind me...Come on...Anyhow you have not your own...'
Akash always thought of the words uttered by his friends. It was almost mockery rather than provocation. All the words were ringing in his ears all the time. He was in his strong determination to buy a vehicle like most of the students. He made up his mind to achieve the goal of owning the PULSER vehicle. He firmly decided to go on strike again in the days to come until he achieved his goal. As part of his strike, he hid the key of his father's scooter to disturb his father's going to office with it.
His father Gopala Krishna came back from his tour. The next morning, he was to go to the office by scooter as usual. He did not find the keys of his scooter in the usual place. He asked Satya about the keys. She also searched for the keys. He did not find it in the usual place. Satya asked Akash about the key,
'Have you taken the key to your father's scooter...? If you've taken the key, give it...Father is going to office...,' said Satya.
'I don't give him the key to the scooter...He can go to office by bus...Many buses are there for him to go to office,' said Akash.
Gopala Krishna heard the words of his son. He also came to know what his son Akash had done during his absence. He was prepared to do anything to reach his goal.
His father Gopala Krishna was very angry with Akash but he did not express his anger. He kept quiet and thought of some incidents of committing suicides by the boys on their failures in fulfilling the desires. He had no way to convince him in any way...He called him,
'Akash, I promise to buy you a vehicle...I've to plan...I express my readiness to buy you a vehicle...,' said Gopala Krishna.
Gopala Krishna became ready to buy a vehicle to fulfill his son, Akash's long cherished desire. He planned the ways to buy it soon.
Satya was not ready for a PULSER bike as she heard about its speed...bullet speed from all the fellow mothers in her morning walk. She wanted to express her views on the type of two-wheeler to Gopala Krishna,
'The PULSER bike runs much faster than all other two-wheelers. It goes like the birds...like airplanes in flight...bullets from guns. It's not advisable... You can buy some other vehicle for your son...'
'Akash wants only PULSER,' said Gopal Krishna.
Gopala Krishna knew why Satya did not want the PULSUR bike. It goes faster than mind and it is its specialty.
'Keeping in view the speed of the vehicle, buy some other vehicle...Rember it before you purchase a vehicle...,' said Satya convincingly.
Gopala Krishna called his son and declared his readiness to buy a vehicle for him. He started to smile, and his face glowed brightly.
'Who'll get more time to study or the student going to college by bus or the one going by bike?' said Gopala Krishna.
'The student going to college by bike will have more time to study... He can concentrate more...,' said Akash.
'Will you prove it by studying more for a better performance in the examinations?' said Gopala Krishna.
'Sure' said Akash confidently.
'Akash! as per your wish I buy you a two-wheeler as a gift to you...,' said Gopala Krishna happily.
'Thank you...'
'You should promise me to study well to secure a distinction. It is well and good if you stand first in college...You have got to shine as a student first and then enjoy as a youth next,' said Goala Krishna.
'I secure the first division with a distinction... It's my promise,' said Akash.
'Then it's okay...absolutely okay...' said Gopa Krishna.
Not only Satya but also Gopala Krishna decided to buy a vehicle, but they were not ready to buy the PULSER vehicle for their son. Although it was very difficult for them to convince him, they bought PASSION PLUS for him. Somehow, he was very happy though he did not buy a PULSER bike for him. His much dissatisfaction was not evident in his face. Of course, there was slight discontent in his smiling face with dimples. They congratulated him on the prestigious owning of a bike for him and advised him to drive the vehicle in a safe manner.
... ... ... ...
The next morning Gopala Krishna applied leave to see happiness in his son Akash's face while riding his new vehicle with pride. He went to the main road where all the students were seen going to college. Meanwhile he watched all the students coming by riding their bikes. He noticed his son Akash coming with full glory in his face. It was glowing with dignity. He too was going with a full smile in his face.
Gopala Krishna was also in the same spirit. His happiness knew no bounds. He recalled his son's repeated requests to buy a vehicle for him. He regretted not buying a vehicle for his son when he had wanted it for the first time. He realized that he had deprived his son of the pleasure of riding a bike for some time... riding with pride. He happily came back and narrated his happiness at the sight of his son's driving with all dignity to look superior but not inferior to other students.
As time passed, Gopala Krishna found Akash spending more time in his vehicle. He went on picnics to different places. Driving the bike became primary and his studies secondary. His attention towards studies became less significantly. He got less marks in the Mid-Examinations. Gopala Krishna felt sorry for that. He advised his son Akash to concentrate more on studies.
One day Akash was going very fast manner, his vehicle hit some other vehicle and fell off. Luckily, he escaped with some injuries. He found his helmet damaged most. When he told all this after a suspense for one week, his parents got full tension first and relief next as he escaped the accident safely. They said to him affectionately,
'Dear Son, be slow...You must be slow in driving. Safety is first and speed is next. Studies are first...Trips are next... Development is first, enjoyment is next...You ought to mind this principle very scrupulously while driving...'
'Okay...' said Akash convincingly.
Akash was not able to fulfill his father, Gopala Krishna's cherished wishes to get a higher rank and settle in a better career. He promised with all solemnity to fulfill his father's wish at the time of buying the vehicle. He failed to fulfill his father's wish in the selection in the interviews held on the campus. Of course, his father never asked him the reason for that failure.
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
Dr. R. Unnikrishnan
Marriages conducted in a traditional manner are becoming scarce these days, and some of the rituals associated with this function all the more scarcer. Obviously, times have left their inexorable impact on this institution as well.
Traditional and arranged marriages in the past, began with the sweetmeat laddu and reached its consummation too with the quintessential “Shaadi ka Laddu. “. The relationship between marriage and laddu thus was close and almost inextricable in connection.
By the way, laddu, the Indian food, is a sweet that is also traditionally associated with the new beginning of any activity.
“Aree, aapne ye naya start kiya… Mubarak ho…Waise laddu kahan hai…” so goes the saying in Hindi.
Time indeed has replaced laddu in this saying with many other things.
Marriage, for that matter, is the most important activity in the life of any individual. A significant beginning indeed.
But of all the sweets, in this sweet-loving nation, why or how did Laddu come to occupy this numero uno position?
Perhaps the answer to this lies in the Indian spiritual propensity to please gods and gain their support and blessings.
Regardless of the geography, Lord Ganesha is associated with any and every new beginning in our nation. The remover of obstacles and the lord of knowledge and wisdom, he is seldom seen without a “laddu “in his hand.
The making of this soft yet sweet laddu, for that matter, goes through 3-4 difficult phases during its preparation before getting finished into a near-perfect “round “ball. The process in itself is physically challenging and exhausting for a novice.
Perhaps corroborating the fact that final pleasure accrues only after going through initial pressure, be it in marriage or, by extension, in life.
Time again has had its influence here as well. Making many of the processes in life relatively easy and less grinding.
Coming back to South Indian weddings, especially that in Kerala, Laddu may not occupy the prime place amongst the sweets before and during the wedding. But it has a significant place in the post-wedding ritual, when the girls’ parents/relatives, while visiting their daughter for the first time after marriage, inevitably carry this laddu as part of the assortment of sweets to her husband's house.
Like its lingering taste, reams can be written about this sweet laddu.
To finally cap it up, the saying in Hindi, “Shaadi ka Laddu, jo kaya woh bhi pachthaya, aur jo nahi kaya woh bhi pachtaya,” essentially sums up the institution of marriage.
Dr. R. Unnikrishnan, a Veterinary Surgeon from Ernakulam, Kerala, was associated with Sulekha for around 20 years and has published around 1000 blogs.
Educated in Karnataka, Hyderabad (then AP ) he was with the Animal Husbandry department, Govt of Kerala for around 25 years. Was also a consultant to a few NGO's (RRA Network) and also to MANAGE (National Institute of Extension Management, Hyderabad)
Bankim Chandra Tola
(Badrinath Temple)
Pilgrimage in one’s life, according to Hindu philosophy, is believed to be complete when CHAR DHAM or four holy shrines of God situated in four corners of India, such as Badrinath in the north, Rameswaram in the South, Puri in the East and Dwarka in the west are visited; nevertheless some people believe Char Dham refers to Yamunetri, Gangotri, Badrinath and Kedarnath, all of which are located in North India only. The belief in Char-dhamYatra is said to be rooted in the metaphysical concept of cleansing one’s sins in pursuance of attaining Moksya or salvation. It is not known for certain, how far this is fructuous; also it is not corroborated by any scientific reason or experiment but it is a belief, may be fanatical, handed down to generations and accepted without discernment or controversy
Like the proverb, ‘as you sow, so you reap’, every action either manual or verbal or mental done by a person, be it good or bad, beneficial or harmful shall accrue equivalent result for the doer only. Results of one’s good and bad actions are never equated. So obvious question arises, how come the effects of one’s bad actions which are otherwise counted as sins be washed away by visiting Char Dham or any other holy shrine of deities or by performing worship and oblations? Our ancient scriptures loudly says, “Karma Phalam agre dhabati dhabati” that means effects of one’s actions run in front of one’s soul or self as long as they are not experienced by the doer. Anyway since our belief in Char-Dham Yatra for absolving sins is a tradition, we meekly accept it with a candid conviction that whether by visiting Char-Dham our sins are absolved or not, cleansing of mind is done and for certain, this has a novel bearing on purification of our soul enabling us to forge ahead with positive thought in the path of spirituality to attain self amelioration.
It is also believed that Puri, Dwarka and Badrinath are the holy abodes of Lord Visnu; so idols of Lord Jagannath, Lord Shree Krishna and Lord Visnu are consecrated and worshiped in these holy shrines respectively. Similarly Lord Shiva is consecrated and worshipped in the temple of Rameswaram. Further it is said that these holy sites represent one of the four Yugas each such as, Badrinath for Satya Juga, Rameswaram for Tretaya Yuga, Dwarka for Dwapar Yuga and Puri for Kaly Yuga. (source - the concept of Char Dham representing a Yuga each, is heard from my elders in childhood but never until this day, I tried to search for its veracity)
Some say passing the days in retired life is boring but I feel retirement has given me a big respite from uncalled for worries, anxieties and alertness in every moment to face challenges and problems unexpected. Having released from the thraldom of irresistible pressures, responsibilities and enormous work load, I feel happy to pass time in travelling, gardening and doing some social work to pass days in retired life. One day afternoon my wife and I were just recollecting our life’s coarse yet adventurous journey while relaxing on armchairs leisurely. Diverting the course of discussion my wife said, “We have visited three out of Char Dham except Badrinath. Why not plan for a visit there this summer so that our Char-Dham Yatra will be complete. People say, by visiting four holy shrines of India, sins in life are absolved.”
I said, “Great idea. I was also thinking of travelling to some sightseeing places of our country; in that case a trip to Badrinath shall serve both the purposes, sightseeing as well as completing Char-Dham Yatra. But I think our journey will be more enjoyable if some of our neighbours join.”
She nodded, “Yes, the other day Mrs. Mallik suggested, why not we visit some places of hill stations for a change in our old age. Should I ask her if she would like to accomapny us?”
I said, “Amazing coincidence. You may talk to them now as I have to make advance booking of Rly. tickets for the travel.”
Much delighted, she did not spare a moment to think but contacted Mrs. Mallik instantly. Both Mr. and Mrs Mallik agreed to join us but they had a small request that if we could do Rly. reservation for them too. Mr Mallik retired in the rank of Chief Engineer and older than me by three years. Contrary to the charismatic position of a chief engineer which is mostly misutilized by others in that post for making fortune, Mr Mallik is honest and straightforward to the core in his long career and now lives a simple life. He being a bird of same feather, I like him and he is my best friend. I was delighted to have his company in our long adventurous journey on the terrains of the Himalayas.
Reservation in AC 2 tier coach of Neelachal Express from Bhubaneswar to Haridwar being the nearest station to Badrinath scheduled for 2nd April was booked by me on the same day. However I made a small oversight before finalizing ticket booking, I missed to ascertain the date of reopening of Badrinath temple after its winter closure. The temple remains closed for six months in winter season from October to March due to heavy snow fall as I knew it when I was posted in Lucknow and traversed through the length and breadth of the undivided U.P. as the controller of all Branches of a nationalised Bank spread across the state. Enthusiastically I booked the tickets without taking this vital point into consideration and thus I had no other go except leaving everything unto the mercy of Lord Shiva, my revered deity for our safe journey. I did not however open this insensible gaffe to Mr Mallik to avoid unnecessary panic and got mentally prepared for the consequences to follow.
Waiting for someone, something or for an event is always tedious and irascible; particularly, when an event or task or a journey is scheduled for a future date. The anticipation and waiting for the same trigger anxiety making patience wane. That’s exactly what we felt. We were very much excited to travel through the high mountains of the majestic Himalayas on the way to Badrinath and for that matter we had been counting down the days frantically eversince our tickets were booked. At last the big day arrived. We packed our minimal luggage swiftly and stepped out of our house to catch a taxi to the Railway station. To our utter surprise, we found a large bull sleeping just in front of our gate. It was nothing short of a miracle as we hadn’t seen a bull in our neighbourhood during past four years since we moved to Bhubaneswar to settle down in my own house after retirement from Bank service in Kolkata. It seemed as if it was a divine sign for our safe journey. We could not but think that perhaps Lord Shiva had sent His blessings through His messenger, Nandi to welcome us to Badrinath. All my worries for plausible hurdles on the way to Badrinath and uncertainty of reopening of the temple were dispelled at that moment. We saluted the bull with regard and headed for Rly. station.
We reached Haridwar the next day at 7 A.M. Haridwar platform was calm and normal with a handful of passengers disembarking from the train. We moved out at ease to take a taxi for going to a hotel nearby for refreshment. Sometimes things fall into place without any effort. The tall, lean yet sturdy Punjabi taxi driver asked us casually,, “Saheb, perhaps you are here on pilgrimage; may I help you?”
I said, “Yes, we have a plan for visiting Badrinath and for that we would like to contact a travel agent here for our onward journey after getting refreshed in a hotel. So could you take us to a hotel nearby?”
The taxi driver responded with a rhapsodic tone, “Why worry about that, sir? I can take you to Badrinath myself, this is my profession.”
As if an apple fell in my bag; quickly I inquired about all details of journey and finalised the deal for a round trip and asked him to come at 10 A.M. by which time we would be ready. The taxi driver gladly took us to a hotel and left.
Sharp at 10 ‘o’ clock we set off for our destination. After about 30 minutes of our cab running fast through a zig zag road on hills entered Rishikesh, a holy site situated on the bank of river Ganga, renowned for abode of sages who have established several Ashrams for practice of Yoga and penance for attainment of perfection. Rishikesh is also famous for Laksman Jhula, a suspension bridge across the river Ganga to go to the other side of the river for visiting Tera Manzil temple of Lord Shiva or Trayembakeswar temple and Ashrams of sages lined up along the bank of Ganga. But we did not stop there for going round as I had visited the site earlier. So we moved on.
(An image of Rishikesh to Badrinath Highway)
Rishikesh, often called the gateway to the majestic Himalayas, is indeed a sight to see and enjoy. Back then, the Rishikesh-Badrinath high way was under construction to make it a wide National Highway. The road was not as good as it is now; it was narrow, winding and at times treacherous but the breathtaking view of the surrounding hills with scenic beauty and the river Ganga flowing just beside the road about 500 feet or more below was amazing.
(Deva Prayag)
The taxi driver told us, “Saheb! We have reached Deva Prayag. Here you can have a soulful glance at the confluence of rivers, Alaknanda and Bhagirathi that join to form Ganga. With your permission let us have a tea break here during which you may take a full view of the confluence and the picturesque surrounding.”
Alighting from the cab we proceeded to a prominent point to take a full view of the confluence and the landscape. O my God! It is so scintillating, so captivating scene to behold. The sight of the two rivers merging is awe-inspiring and marks the beginning of the spiritual ascent.
After taking tea we continued our journey quickly. The road winding through the hills with lush green forests and quaint villages scattered across the landscape. The atmosphere was calm and air was filled with fresh scent of pine and deodar trees. Small temples and shrines lined up on the way provide a glimpse of the region's deep spiritual roots. After passing though Shrinagar which I mistook as Shrinagar in Kashmir, we entered the district, Rudraprayag, another significant religious destination. Rudraprayag is a place where river Mandakini joins the river Alaknanda. Here the road branches off; one leading to Kedarnath temple about 76 K.M.s away. and the other to Badrinath about 156 K.M.s. from Rudraparag As we had no plan to visit Kedarnath, we followed the main Highway leading to Badrinath. It was about 1 P.M. then. We decided to have our lunch before proceeding further. After a quick lunch we resumed our journey so as to cover a distance of about 110 K.M.s as fast as possible to reach Joshimath, the entry point to the Himalayas before 5 P.M..
(Check gate at Joshimath)
At about 5 P.M. we arrived at Joshimath, a town located at an altitude of 1,890 meters (6,200 feet). Joshimath serves as a resting point for pilgrims before they continue their onward journey to Badrinath if they arrive there late in the afternoon. Though we were late, we did not feel it wise to make a night halt there; so we proceeded towards the check gate to continue our journey to reach Badrinath before evening. But the Police on duty did not open the gate and asked our driver to return and halt somewhere for the night and come tomorrow in the morning. Then I requested the Police to allow us to proceed so that we may reach Badrinath before sunset. But the police did not agree and said, “Please go back; as per Govt. order the gate should be closed at 5 P.M. and no vehicle should be allowed to pass until the next morning as snow fall will start right from the evening to block the free passage.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mallik were extremely worried about the uncertainty of our journey. Both of them pleaded with the police officer for entry, but their request was turned down firmly. Their nervousness was palpable. Then I hit upon a plan to play a different card to motivate the police. I thought I could create a fabricated story about having an urgent strategic meeting scheduled at 10 A.M. the next morning at Badrinath, and see if that works. I ventured this drama with courage to face the consequence gathered from my experience in working in Lucknow for two years during which I had connections with different ministries of the state.
Getting down from the cab I told the Inspector of police, "As responsible officer of a Bank in U.P. I understand your compulsion but I should inform you that I have an important meeting at Badrinath tomorrow at 10 A.M. for which I need to make certain preparations overnight. Reaching Badrinath before evening is urgent for me. Sorry, I had the plan to reach here before 3 P.M. but hung up on the way for some uncalled for reasons Please understand the urgency of my presence at Badrinath and allow us to proceed."
My concocted performance was so convincing, so neat that the officer was swayed and allowed us to move forward, but with a caution. He instructed the driver to drive quickly to reach Badrinath before evening, lest the snowstorm might block the road and poor visibility after sunset would make travel dangerous. Expressing my gratitude, I thanked him profusely and asked the driver to proceed swiftly, but carefully, according to the advice of the police Inspector.
The Punjabi driver was very skilled and assured us of our safe journey. He said that this 45 K.M.s road shall be covered in one hour and we will be at Badrinath by 6 P.M.
But the ground realities were different from what we presumed. It was not that easy to cover that small distance on narrow serpentine rough road, with small rubbles may be for construction work, lying scattered on the surface of the road. The road was also flanked by towering peaks of mountains on either side posing serious threat of landslide at any moment. The air too was becoming thin and crisp.
About 10 to 11 K.M.s after Joshimath we reached Visnu Prayag named after the confluence of rivers Alaknanda and Dhauliganga. Then we passed Govindghat, a base for the trek to the valley of flowers and Hemkund Sahib as per the running commentary of the driver. Then came a steep rise when the driver asked us to tighten seat belt and look sidewise. It was vertical rise and we felt as if our taxi will be overturned at any moment but the adept driver led us safe to reach the famous Hanuman Chatti.
(Hanuman Chatti)
The sacred Hanuman temple is believed to be the savior of pilgrims on their march to reach Badrinath. We paid our soulful homage to Bajrang Bali and proceeded. By then the sun had dipped already behind the towering peaks and darkness, by degrees, had engulfed the visibility making our journey tough and risky. The driver said that snow was falling at a faster rate but nothing to worry, he assured us of safe and smooth journey.
Although I had traveled earlier to several hill stations and abroad including the famous mount Titlis in Switzerland, experience of a taxi ride on a snow laden road was something different and exceptional. I asked the driver to stop the cab for a moment for we wanted to have a feel of snow lying like spongy cushion. We got down and came near heaps of snow and enjoyed. Then I asked the driver to proceed fast to reach the destination. After a few minutes’ drive we reached Badrinath town and we checked into a hotel for night halt. Exhausted as we were, after taking a light dinner we retired to bed.
Next day we got up early in the morning and came out to take a holy dip in Tapt Kund, a natural hot water spring close to Badrinath temple before entering the temple of Lord Visnu. As if God has favoured the devotees to take a comfortable bath in natural hot water against the shivering chill outside.
About the origin of Tapt Kund beside the river Alaknanda and close to the temple, Hindu mythology is explicit in narrating its divine connection. As per legend, once, the deity Agni pleased Lord Visnu by dint of his deep penance and Lord Visnu granted a boon to Agni Dev to reside in this Kund near Badrinath temple so that the devotees can have a clean bath before entering the temple. But the scientific reason behind Tapt Kund speaks something different and logical. Hot water in Tapt Kund is due to a chemical reaction of sulpher with water that generates heat. By taking bath in this hot sulpher water several skin diseases are cured.
It was the third day after reopening of the temple and we were there to enter the shrine at 6 A.M. after taking bath in Tapta Kund. We entered the grand Visnu temple with a lot of enthusiasm and spiritual incline to have a holy Darshan. We offered puja with utmost devotion and had a soulful vision of the Lord Visnu, the creator of the Universe. We were as if mesmerized to stand there petrified looking at the idol of lord and could not feel anything like leaving the site. But the security guards pushed us gently to make way for other visitors thronging in. We came out and made a parikrama of the temple.
Then we came to take dip in the holy waters of the river Alaknanda just beside the temple. Water of the river was gushing out from the peak of mountain and flowing down in a torrential current dashing against the uneven rocks lying on the bed as seen in the image above. The feel of water was so soothing and pleasing that it gave a divine touch to our mortal physique that arouse a sense of spirituality within. We did not have a feel of cold at all despite chill weather and snow deposited on rocks around giving a look of glowing white mosaic. As I remember, before migrating to a city, in childhood I used to take bath and swim in the river near my village but I did not feel such divine coolness ever as I experienced while dipping in the current of Alaknanda. Finally, we came back to the hotel for our return journey.
Thus our cherished visit to Badrinath came to an end and we were happy to have completed the darshan of God, the creator of Trilok, Trikal and Trigun.
Om shanti.
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker likes to pass time in travelling, gardening and writing small articles like the one posted here. He is not a writer or poet yet he hangs on with his pursuit of writing small miscellaneous articles for disseminating positive thoughts for better living and love for humanity. Best of luck.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: THE ILLUSTRIOUS DUO—ARCHITECTS OF ECONOMIC CHANGE!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
We are talking here of the illustrious Swedish couple, Gunnar, and Alva. First, about the developmental economist, Gunnar Myrdal (b.1898), the well-known author of Asian Drama! An economist by training and profession, Gunnar was one of the architects of the Swedish welfare state, contributing to the drafting of numerous social and economic programs which has impacted not only Sweden but the world at large. Many Swedish economists believe that Gunnar Myrdal's 1932 book Monetary Economics introduced ideas about stabilizing the economy before John Maynard Keynes did during great depression. Myrdal suggested that the government should spend more money during economic downturns and increase taxes during good times. This approach is meant to keep the economy steady and prevent it from getting too hot or too cold.
In 1929, Myrdal was awarded the Rockefeller Traveling Fellowship and spent a year as a professor in the United States. He made a significant impact with his 1944 book An American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and Modern Democracy. This study played an influential role in the 1954 U.S. Supreme Court decision Brown v. Board of Education, which ended legal racial segregation in schools. Gunnar Myrdal, who always supported reducing inequality and redistributing wealth, showed that some of President Franklin D. Roosevelt's policies, like the minimum wage law and cotton production restrictions, unintentionally harmed African Americans.
There is a possibly apocryphal story about an exchange between Myrdal and Gustav Cassel, a well-known economist, where Cassel allegedly said, “Gunnar, you should be more respectful to your elders, because it is we who will determine your promotion.” Witty Myrdal is said to have replied, “Yes, but it is we who will write your obituaries.”
Myrdal’s economic work included contributions to price theory and applied research in international development. His progressive political and social views strongly influenced his research and writing in both economics and sociology. In 1974, alongside Friedrich Hayek, Myrdal won the Nobel Prize for their pioneering work in the theory of money and economic fluctuations, as well as their insightful analysis of the interdependence of economic, social, and institutional phenomena. His book on race relations was specifically cited by the Nobel Committee as a significant factor in awarding him the Prize.
During World War II, Myrdal was a staunch and vocal anti-Nazi. Along with his wife, Alva, he wrote Contact with America in 1941, praising the United States’s democratic institutions. In addition to serving in Parliament, Myrdal was a member of the Board of the Bank of Sweden and chaired the Swedish Post-War Planning Commission. From 1945 to 1947, he served as Sweden’s Minister of Commerce and was later appointed Executive Secretary of the United Nations Economic Commission for Europe.
In his later years, Myrdal became increasingly focused on third-world poverty, particularly in South Asia, where he advocated for land reform as a necessary condition for poverty eradication. He authored a multi-volume study on inequality and poverty in South Asia, followed by a volume on policy recommendations for income redistribution and land reform. Myrdal, as pointed out above, was also a vocal opponent of the U.S. war in Vietnam, leading an international commission to investigate alleged American war crimes.
His wife, Alva Myrdal, was also no less an influential figure! This extremely talented lady won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1962 for her efforts to promote world disarmament, particularly her work on nuclear arms control. Together, they became the fourth married couple in history to have both won Nobel Prizes. However, they were the first couple to do so independently of each other, with each earning the prestigious honour for separate contributions—Gunnar Myrdal for his groundbreaking work in economics and social reforms, and Alva Myrdal for her dedication to peace and disarmament. Their accomplishments were a testament to their shared commitment to improving society, albeit in different spheres. Gunnar’s focus on social and economic justice, combined with Alva’s advocacy for global peace, set an example of how two individuals, united by their principles but working in distinct areas, could collectively shape the course of history.
But , should we not mention or remember her Indian connections ? Alva Myrdal had a significant connection to India through her diplomatic role. She served as the Swedish Minister (later Ambassador) to India from 1955 to 1961. Myrdal's work in India involved strengthening diplomatic relations between Sweden and India, and she was actively engaged in various cultural and educational initiatives.
The Myrdals stand as one of the most remarkable couples in Nobel Prize’s history, not only for their individual achievements but for the broader impact they had on global issues—economics, social policy, and world peace. Their legacy continues to inspire future generations of scholars and activists working towards a more just and peaceful world.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
(A Sequel to "My Friend Digambar and His Dead Son" which had appeared in LV149 last month.)
On a late October afternoon about five years back, I was getting ready to leave for my usual walk in the nearby park when my mobile phone rang. It was Archana, my friend Digambar's wife on the line. Before I could say Hello, she blurted out.
"Bhai, can you please come over to our place urgently? It's about your friend and a bit serious."
All my friends and I knew that with Digambar nothing less than serious ever happens. But it must be mega serious for Archana to sound so frantic. I asked her, "What happened? Is Digaa alright? Is he sick?"
Archana sounded quite helpless,
"It's difficult to explain things on the phone. Please come over as soon as you can. Your friend has dropped a bomb and the house is on fire. I had called two days back and came to know that you had gone abroad and would be back this afternoon. That's why I am making this call."
I promptly dropped the idea of going for a walk and rushed to Digambar's house, more out of sympathy for Archana than a concern for Digaa. Her life had been one big roller-coaster ride from the moment she decided to hitch her wagon to this mad star.
Of course anyone who had married Digaa was bound to have gallons of excitement pouring in dollops almost everyday of life. Digaa was born to give heart attacks to others. In our college days he used to pinch everything pinchable from our rooms. One summer morning on the eve of final exams he moved in the corridors of the hostel stark naked like a shameless baboon demanding a lungi from any son of a bourgeois who cared to feel offended by his nudity. He lost his government job after spending six months in jail for beating a corrupt official to pulp, invalidating the poor chap for the rest of his life.
And he created a big faux pas when he announced to the world that his son had died whereas the one who had died was his pet dog, whom he treated like a son. Digaa was a sort of living legend among his friends and admirers. For his otherwise cool wife he was a hurricane who could uproot anything that even remotely bears a semblance to normalcy. Yet Archana, the sweet wife of this maverick, was devoted to her husband and doted on him like a lady python on her slithering cub.
Archana opened the door with the mobile phone glued to her ear, talking animatedly. She sounded apologetic, yet stoutly defensive. I could hear only her side of the conversation and kept wondering why it sounded so strange, "No, no, he certainly did not mean it....... Arrey, forget it Bhaisahab, you know him for so many years..........He doesn't bear malice towards any one. OK, I am ending the call, one of his friends is here.......Yes, yes, he came just now......Stick? no, no, he is not carrying any stick. Why should he carry a stick?...... No, of course not.....he has not come to beat up his friend! Calm down Bhaisahab, I told you Naa, he didn't mean it! OK Bhaisahab, bye."
Hardly had she disconnected when the phone rang again, "Hello, how are you? So nice to hear your voice......No, he is unwell, sleeping now.......No, of course not, he didn't mean it,....Hah! How can he say that to a gem like you! Just forget it, Forget Naa! We will all have a big dinner at our home after he gets well.... Yes, yes, promise. Bye"
I was about to ask her what the matter was, when the phone rang again. The voice on the other side was so loud that Archana kept the phone a few inches away from her ear and I could clearly hear what was being said, "Hello, where is that rascal? Where is he hiding? And why are you taking this call?"
"This is my phone. Has he given this number to you? See, how absent-minded he is! Who are you Bhai sahab? I am not able to place you"
"Oh, you don't? Good that you don't, otherwise I would have made you also a party to the defamation suit. My wife has threatened to divorce me, thanks to your useless husband. Where is he? Give the phone to him. Tell him advocate Sarat Mahanty is on the line."
"Namaskar Bhai sahab, he is unwell and sleeping now. I will tell him".
"Sleeping, you said? He is sleeping? How can he sleep after setting my house on fire?"
"No, no, he meant no harm to you, he is an innocent soul. You know him, don't you, can't even harm a mouse, let alone a big lawyer like you. Why are you talking of a defamation suit and all? Let him recover, I will ask him to go and apologise to you for something he did without knowing the consequences........"
The man, being a smart, stubborn lawyer, was still shouting when I went to the nearby room to check on Digaa, I presumed that is the room where he must be sleeping. The airconditioner was on, cool air was blowing noiselessly in the room, a dim blue light was creating a dream like ambience. I went near the bed to greet Digaa, but he was sound asleep. A look at his face gave me the shock of my life, I was about to shriek, but controlled myself. Digaa's face had swollen like a small football as if some one had given him a couple of solid blows and knocked out a few teeth.
Horrified, I ran back to the living room to find Archana on yet another call, cooing like a mother hen over a docile chick, "You call me Bhabhi, but you are not prepared to believe me!......Yes, he is really asleep........yes, he is really unwell,........ no no, he is not hiding from anyone.....Yes, yes, you can meet him after a week, he will tell you everything.....what has happened to him? Nothing serious, he will be alright in a few days. Let me go, I have to make tea for his friend who is here... what? Ginger tea? Yes, I am making ginger tea......yes, yes I will make for you also, when you come next week. Now let me go...I will tell him you had called. OK?" Before the mobile phone rang again, Archana put it on silent mode and got up, "Let me go and make some tea for you, don't take any call, just ignore if the phone rings. Meanwhile take this mobile, which is your friend's and see the messages that came to him. This had been switched off for the last two days after more than fifty calls were received in a span of two hours. I switched it on for you to read the messages. Tell me, how come you have not received any message from your friend?"
I explained to her that I was abroad for the last one week and had taken out the SIM card there and put a local SIM. Hence no messages came till I returned to India four hours back. Archana left for the kitchen and I opened Digaa's message box. I was shocked to see the number of messages received and their tone and tenor. All of them were explosive in nature. Digaa must have set off a bomb under the pants of many, the way the messages read: "Hey, Digaa, have you really gone crazy? Go and get your head examined by a good doctor", "Digaa, you bastard, who are you to give lecture to me? Go and see yourself in the mirror". Our friend Ajit had lamented, "Digaa, after all that I did for you, is this how you pay me back? You should have thought about my family when you sent the message to me!" Another friend had threatened Digaa using some colourful languages and giving a good description of what he would do to Digaa's various anatomical parts, dwelling extensively on the sensitive parts of the body. Many other messages contained unprintable abuses doubting Digaa's lineage and wondering if he was born out of wedlock.
My head was reeling with shock when Archana entered the room with tea and some cookies. I had no interest in tea anymore, I was bursting with curiosity to know what caused this avalanche of abuses. Archana started by asking, "Do you remember Lokanath Babu, your friend from college?"
I replied, "Who? Lokaa? Yes, of course I remember him. Last heard, he has become a good for nothing fellow, although at one time he was a very successful contractor. He has fallen into bad times after he got addicted to alcohol and acquired other bad habits, wasting a lot of money on women of questionable repute. But tell me, what has Lokaa got to do with Digaa? Are they still friends?"
Archana winced at my question, "Yes, it looks like my husband is the only friend he is left with."
I was surprised, "Why is Digaa still keeping contact with him? Everyone has dropped Lokaa like a hot potato!"
"You know your friend. Loyal to his friends to the core. It seems during college days Loknath Babu had given some financial help to my husband. That has earned him a life time loyalty. Once in a month or so he calls and they talk for a long time, my husband mostly pleading with him to give up his bad habits and return to a normal life. Loknath babu promises he would change, but apparently nothing has gone well with him recently. My husband tells me Loknath babu has lost almost all his money, beats up his wife, the kids and visits the red light area every evening. Spends money on prostitutes, that's what my husband says. It's really a pathetic situation."
I was getting impatient, "OK, OK, I understand, now tell me what did Digaa do to get all these nasty messages."
Archana continued, "Day before yesterday Loknath Babu called around ten o clock in the night. Your friend listened to him for some time and since he was not able to speak, sent him a message. But you know your friend, he doesn't know anything about mobile phones. The room was semi dark, because I had gone off to sleep. It seems he typed out the message and pressed some buttons. At some point there must have been a prompt, "Send to all?". Without knowing what he was doing he must have pressed 'enter'. And the message went to every number listed on the contacts. Within a few minutes all hell broke loose."
I interrupted Archana, "Why, what was the message?"
Archana winced, hit by a hard memory. She opened the message box and showed it to me. The moment I read it, my head started reeling. Of all the bomb shells Digaa had liberally dropped over the years on his unsuspecting friends, this was the mother of them all. It read "Better reform yourself. How long will you keep tasting the forbidden fruits of other people? Don't you have a small bit of conscience? At least think of your family, do you want them to drown because of your black deeds? Reform when there is still time, you sinner, otherwise you will go to hell when you die".
In utter shock I blurted out, "O God! this is what Digaa sent to all his contacts?"
Archana nodded, "Within a few minutes the calls started pouring. The first call was from your friend Santosh Babu. Since my husband could not take the call he woke me up and handed over the phone to me. There was a big blast from the other side, 'Abey Digaa, you rascal, why do you want to break my home? Don't you have anything better to do? And why me, you idiot?..' I interrupted him, when he knew it was me on the phone he calmed down, but wanted an explanation. I told him my husband was unwell and was sleeping, he was not convinced, 'How can he sleep in peace after setting my home on fire? Wake him up, I want to tear him to pieces.' So I asked him what was the matter. He screamed, 'See what message he has sent to me, the half wit rascal' and kept down the phone. I went to the 'sent message' box and when I saw what it contained, I almost fainted. I asked your friend what he meant by sending such a message to Santosh Babu? He was surprised, shook his head and went back to sleep. Within a few seconds the phone buzzed again. It was the priest from the Lingaraj temple. Before I could say hello, he started heaping the filthiest abuses using utterly unprintable words. I cut him short immediately, he stopped the abuse but asked me to convey to my husband that next time he comes anywhere near the temple, all the priests will gang up and break his legs. This sordid saga continued late into the night, till I switched off the phone. It had remained switched off till I gave it to you now to read the messages. But most of his friends knew my number and kept calling me.. Thank God, he is not able to speak and could not take the calls, otherwise he would have gone crazy by now".
I wanted to ask Archana when was Digamabar anything other than crazy, but my mind was nagged by another question. Why was Digaa unable to speak and why his face had swollen like a mini football? I asked her. She smiled an utterly pathetic smile, it looked beautifully sad on her serene face.
"Your friend's life is an endless adventure, it's very difficult to say, where one episode ends and another starts. The day prior to the explosive message episode, he had an urge to have a glass of lime soda at midnight. So he got up and went to the kitchen, mixed sugar with soda and sliced the lemon with a knife. A few drops of lemon juice clung to the knife. Your diligent friend did not want it to go waste. So he licked the drops from the knife. The knife was awfully sharp and there was a big cut on the tongue. Blood started pouring out of the cut, he panicked and started screaming. I woke up and rushed to the kitchen. His lower face had got coated with blood and the flow was frightening. I applied some ice to it, but didn't know what to do to stop the flow of blood. It must be hurting like hell, your friend started whimpering. After a few minutes of applying ice the flow of blood stopped. I gave him a Crocin and we waited for morning. At seven we got into a rickshaw and went to Dr. Behera's home".
I asked her, "Guna Behera? Our class mate?"
She nodded, "Yes, we usually go to him for minor ailments and for advice. My husband's face had swollen, particularly on the right side. Dr. Behera for some reason was in a vey jovial mood, far from the depression we were going through because of a sleepless night. The moment he saw us he started laughing, "Abey Digaa, why is your face swollen like a big monkey's posterior? Has Archana given a big bite on your cheek? So romantic at this ripe age, haan?" I blushed, but your friend gave a big grunt and through his swollen tongue, gave a tongue lashing to Dr. Behera, who of course understood nothing of it. He stopped laughing, took out some antibiotics and pain killers and told me to administer the drugs to my husband, "Sorry can't prescribe any ointment for the tongue, these antibiotics will take effect in three days. Keep giving him the painkillers. Digaa's face will swell even more, but don't panic, it will become big, like the posterior of a langoor. But once the antibiotics start working his face will shrink and get back to its original shape of a monkey's behind'. With that Dr. Behera bent again with a rollicking laugh. My husband couldn't stand it any more, he uttered some utterly ghastly words which no one except me understood and dragged me out by my hands. And here we are, he sound asleep and me answering phone calls and giving explanations to people. I have taken leave from office till your friend becomes normal."
At the mention of the word 'normal', I started laughing. Normal? Will Digaa ever be normal? I had half a mind to go and see Digaa in his room, but the thought of his swollen, langoor's-posterior face sent a shiver down my spine. I left for home, letting Archana wait for the day when her dear husband will get back his monkey's behind of a face.
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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