Literary Vibes - Edition CLI (28-Mar-2025) - SHORT STORIES
Title : Mother of Compassion (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
PATRICK, THE PG
02) Dilip Mohapatra
CASTOR
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
A PAINTER OF SIGHS
04) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - ORIGIN OF SHIVA LINGAM WORSHIP
05) Shivanand Acharya
A JOURNEY TO KUMBH MELA: A LIFETIME EXPERIENCE
06) Priyanka Rath
SPIRITUALITY: BEYOND RELIGION
07) Snehaprava Das
A FAIRY TALE
08) Hema Ravi
GEESE LOVER’S TALE
09) Meena Mishra
THE NAIL PAINT
10) Shri Satish Pashine
THE QUIET BOND
11) T. V. Sreekumar
NUMBERED NUMBERS
12) Braja K Sorkar
A MULTIFACETED LEGACY IN INDIAN LITERATURE, ARTS AND MEDIA.
13) N. Ranjita Sarkar
RABINDRANATH’S CONTRIBUTION TO MANIPURI CLASSICAL DANCE
14) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A WOMAN LEADER OF UNCOMMON COURAGE AND GLOBAL INFLUENCE!
15) Ashok Kumar Mishra
FOLKLORES AS CULTURAL EXPRESSION OF A SOCIAL GROUP- FOLK TRADITION OF SAVARA (SAORA)TRIBE
16) Sreechandra Banerjee
WITH WATER AND ICE
17) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
HEARTS LIKE RIVERS
18) Kunal Roy
THERE IS NO RAIN OF POETRY IN ME!
19) Ritika S
THE SECRET RECIPE
20) Lopamudra Mishra
THAT WAS THE DAY!
21) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
FLESH
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The young and pretty Patricia opened the door of her house on the hillslope to a nattily dressed man of dark complexion, middle-age, and medium height who introduced himself as Peter Coelho from Kerala. He had pressed the calling bell. It was a mellow afternoon in March in the town of Dharamshala, an Indian hill station of Himachal Pradesh.
Peter appeared in his late forties but Patricia would know later, that he was in his early sixties. Peter fumbled a lot before saying, “Mam, sorry to trespass on your privacy. But I saw the little business card stuck under your letter box declaring your name as Patricia Braganza.”
Peter swallowed deep and long before continuing, “I saw a longhand loud scrawl on that business card saying ‘PG to let’. That encouraged me to press the bell on your door as I am looking for a quiet accommodation on rent to write my books. I voluntarily retired a year ago while serving as an associate professor of English in All Saints’ College of Trivandrum. I retired to pursue my passion, writing. The whole of the last year has passed, and I wrote nothing worthwhile. So, I am here to try my hand.”
“It is alright sir, but …”, asked Patricia, “… what did prevent you from following your hobby your whole life?” Professor Peter made a face and protested, “No mam, not my hobby, but my passion. I could not devote time and energy to my writing while attending to my job and my family, comprising of my beloved wife and son.” He paused, “Now that I have retired, my beloved wife has passed away, may her soul rest in peace (he crossed his heart and choked on a tear), and my son is married, settled, and has a little son of his own, I have all the time in the world. But I need a writer’s ambience.”
He added, “Madam, I was lonely in my Trichur home, a big bungalow, my wife had built for us. Memories haunted me there day and night making me distraught and I could not write a word. Besides arranging a healthy and palatable meal was beyond all the cooks I employed. I realised ‘none can cook without love’ as my wife did for me.”
His weird story disturbed the already disturbed mind of young Patricia, who was still in her best flowering period of life, and had recently lost her husband George to an avalanche. George earned good money serving as a guide-cum-Sherpa-cum-porter to the mountaineers. Except a bit of alcoholic inebriation, George had no other vices like other hill people, one of them being straying with women other tan the wife. He was devoted to Patricia. Retired professor Peter’s sad story rang a bell in Patricia’s heart chambers, making her choke on a tear as well.
As if getting up from a funereal sorrow, she said softly, “Yes, professor, will you mind repeating yourself? What brought you here?” Peter repeated, like the professor he was, explaining a difficult poem to a dullard pupil, “Mam, I saw your scrawl on your business card stuck under your letter box, saying, ‘PG to let’. I pressed the bell, didn’t I? Why, because, I wanted to check if the paying guest accommodation was available that would suit my purpose, a writing programme, writing without disturbance. Is that clear?”
Now planting her senses solidly on the terra firma, her present reality, Patricia demurred for her own behaviour, “Oops! Professor, sorry, don’t stand on an outside step, please, step in. Please. Would you like a sip of tea, or a stronger stuff, say a drop of brandy before I show you your room?” “No formalities, mam.”, politely declined Peter, “Just be kind to show me the facility, I mean, the PG accommodation and the paraphernalia that is thrown in like boarding, washing, or any other frills like laundry, sweeping, mopping, etc., if any.”
She walked upstairs. Peter followed her. He loved her smell tailing from her behind, the agreeable smell of a woman that pleased his nostrils other than of his own beloved wife, Rebeca. None ever smelled so nice after his wife’s death. A hint of unpleasant tang of stale sweat, or farty smell of an egg, or fishy smell of blood, or the shitty smell of rotting teeth would always spoil his mood whenever he encountered any woman.
But here was one Patricia, three thousand kilo meters apart from his land, carrying a pure woody pine cloud around her, not spoiled by any unpleasant miasma of fish, egg, sour sweat, or bad breath. His decision for hiring the PG was half won along the stairs itself.
He found the room roomy, a big bay window across a bay of fog-filled deep valley like a bay by an ocean, across and down the big window, a queen size well-quilted double bed with pillows and extra pillows, a spacious bathtub-cum-commode fitted washroom.
His appreciation glinted in his eyes, that the clever Patricia picked up, “So, professor, I can see it in your eyes that you like the room. That’s not all. Your stay here upstairs will be made more comfortable with morning tea on bed brought by your landlady, me; breakfast with the land lady down in the kitchen, your laundry, lunch, dinner, cleaning, sweeping and mopping, all taken care of for a reasonable rent of …. per week to be paid in advance. How long is your stay, sir?”
Peter seemed overwhelmed, “Oh, that’s fabulously cheap, madam. I have come to you as a writer, to live and write here, in your facility. Say to start with, we agree for a year. Please make papers ready. I will just put my little signature on the dotted line, and madam, I am at your disposal.”
Patricia smiled an open smile for the first time, looking at the frank face of the shy professor, “I like you Peter sahib, please call me Pat, as all my friends do, and I am throwing a complimentary bonus into our bargain only for your goodness-sake. You may come down or call me up for my company along with a sip of energising coffee with a drop of brandy at any hour of the day. Also, if you like, you may gossip with me and hear my risqué jokes. Ha, ha!
A new chapter in the life of the socially recluse Patricia, wife of the porter-cum-guide-cum-interpreter George, to mountaineers coming to Dharamshala from all over the world, started after a year of his death. Without being much conscious of haunting reveries with her sweet husband, Patricia had converted her love-nest with George into the PG room in which now Peter from Kerala slept and wrote. The rent money and a little extra given to her by Peter made her financially better afloat after her little savings from George era had been spent.
For Peter, unknowingly changes were creeping into his life style, a new love for hill people’s cuisine from Patricia’s pots and pans, her coffee often laced with a drop of brandy to give him uninhibited ideas to pen his lines. In the age of computer Peter preferred his steady, clear and fast-moving longhand to match his free-flowing thoughts to typing into a MS Word file. He was always a one-finger typist that did not match his fast flowing thoughts.
Time proved deceptive. Like a blink six years passed. Peter published four novels year after year, all acclaimed by reviewers as good work, each of them dedicated to a little-known Muse, an inspiration, Pat, the second woman in his life.
Patricia had promoted herself in many weekend-nights to the bed upstairs, then spent all her nights by Peter in his bed. In the beginning, it was her haunting hallucination, taking Peter for Geoge, then she knew the difference, took the truth into her visceral flesh and blood, slept in Peter’s arms consciously, lovingly it and getting addicted to it.
By the second year of his stay at Dharamshala, Peter did not remain his Pat’s paying guest or Patricia his landlady. They lived like man and wife, and their live-in relationships didn’t cause raised-eyebrows, being a ‘at the drop of the hat’ regular practice in hills.
They even, in spite of their reclusive social habits, took part in Christmas Masses and social Balls. People praised the couple, Patricia, a very fair hill-beauty and her partner a very dark Keralite but his complexion was overlooked for his crisp and erudite articulation in English, requested to speak a few words at every social occasion he had attended with Patricia.
After a year of their live-in relationship, they decided to have a church marriage. The local pastor was happy to wed them as man and wife. It was necessary to make Patricia, a devout catholic, feel free with Peter without any guilt. Also, Peter wanted to make arrangements so that in the case of his death, his family pension came to his sweetheart Patricia, for which she had to be his official wife.
On the eighth year after their nuptials, at his matured seventy, Peter caught a fatal pneumonia infection and in a local private hospital at Dharamshala, he breathed his last in the loving lap of his Muse and wife, Pat.
Patricia was devastated and went into depression after Peter’s funeral. In the second year of her depression, her shrink strictly advised her to make underground all photos and memorabilia of Peter as the first step to her cure from her mental malady. She put all memorabilia of Peter into a trunk and hid it in the basement.
Another two years passed. Patricia was finding it hard to tie her financial ends. Though Peter’s family pension was coming to her, but the share-croppers’ payment from Peter’s landed property that was received by Peters had stopped. Peter never had revealed his marriage at Dharamshala to his son, his son’s family, or his relatives in Kerala.
Patricia’s meagre savings from Peter era was running out. Again, passersby along the street by her house noticed a business card stuck under the letterbox with a loud longhand scrawl ‘PG to let’. This time Patricia had decided not to let her upstairs love-nest with her dear Peter as paying guest accommodation. She had decided, if push came to shove, she would let her single bedded room on the ground floor for PG; and she would move to the bedroom, upstairs.
Many prospectors came and walked away, rejected by the landlady politely. They were not up to her taste that had undergone a vast upgradation in company of Peter, a suave and erudite professor. At her early forties Patricia had grown very fastidious. Her old housemaid, who came to work part time in her house, would often fondly rebuke her, “Pat mam, the man who rang your bell today was quite decent but you rejected him for no reason. Another Peter would never walk in, I warn you.”
A few days later, answering a bell at the door, the maid brought in a prospective paying guest. When Patricia came down from her room upstairs, from the head of her staircase she had a shock from what she saw from the top. George was sitting ramrod straight on a chair in her living room.
Slowly her spell passed. She walked down briskly and shook hand with the man. Yes, he had similar features as her beloved George, if not as fair as him but fair enough to pass as a hill-man gone ruddy from too much exposure to the sun.
The new prospector introduced himself as Patrick, a Keralite again, who had returned from Dubai after losing his wife and fifteen-year-old son to a road rage in Alps at Lucerne, Switzerland, during a pleasure-trip. His wife’s body was recovered but not his son’s. Though it was concluded by the police that his son might be dead, but Patrick lived in hope. He winded up his business as a high profile manager of tours and travels, and being haunted by the tragic memories, on advice of a few friends, was at Dharamshala to look for peace and repose.
Patrick was rich but was terribly disturbed. His resemblance to George, he being a Keralite like Peter, and his tragedy matching her own loss of two husbands played magic and Patricia’s fastidious hesitation vanished, “Why not?”, she blurted out. “Let me show you the layout and tell you the other frills going along with the bargain. Also see sir, if my rent would be affordable to you.”
Patrick liked the room downstairs with food, tea and rare stimulants thrown in, besides other titbits taken care of. He liked the bargain and as he was rich, the rent quoted appeared very cheap to him. The papers were made and signed and Patrick moved in.
In days, Patrick, who moved in as a gloomy man, was found by neighbours taking brisk morning walks along the hill slopes’ invigorating air and spending an hour at a tea stall a few hundred feet down the road. People saw a rejuvenated young-looking middle-aged man, looking darker than a hill man, though not very dark like Patricia’s second boarder. The new boarder introducing himself as Patrick and ready to strike friendship and launch on discussions on philosophy, science, linguistics and management that seemingly swam over the heads of most locals at the tea stall.
By and by Patrick struck friendship with Professor Langma, teaching social science in a local college. Professor Langma became the local door and window to Patrick’s social life at Dharamshala. He came for a month of peace and repose, but continued to stay on and on and now signed an agreement for a year with Patricia. Company of Patricia proved Patrick’s panacea from ailments including depression. Attending to the material needs of Patrick, besides his emotional needs in few occasions, served as a catharsis to Patricia’s gloom.
Prof. Langma, a keen observer of social developments, noticed Patrick was not reclusive like Patricia’s previous boarder Peter. He would note in his diary, “Nowadays, during morning walks, I meet not the loner and reserved Patrick alone, but by the side walking his jolly and hill beauty companion, Patricia. The two apparently in their early foties, talking and laughing, like young couples, keep the serene hill slopes resounded with happy vibes. I feel good for Patricia who has lost two life-companions, George and Peters, but found Patric as her panacea.”
Patricia would wonder how time rushed away soundlessly if one did not pay attention to the tic-toc of the granny wall clock. Patrick had been living in her house for seven years already. Though, still an outsider from a distant land of Kerala like her earlier beloved Peter, yet more than an insider. Over the passage of time Patrick without bothering to ask her for permission, had taken her to his bed upstairs, and also into his able hands the reins of her finances.
He had built two extra floors, fitted a lift to the house, and had started running a guide-tourist-travel-cum-climbers’ agency named PATRICIA FACILTY. Over the years Patricia grew rich and famous in Dharamshala and had been its mayor for the running year. The law of the land did not allow a Keralite, the ex-management expert, Patrick, to take official possessions of local business or position, but people knew his love and respect for the local lady Patricia, and that he was the de facto mayoral force, and her business in charge.
Two Church services this time drew the crux of their life’s picture. The first one happened in which Patricia married Patrick and went on her around-the-world official honeymoon tour with her robust husband. As far as their bodies’ terrains were related, they had much visited each other’s, upstairs and downstairs, but knowing each other in new lands among new peoples were novelty for Patricia.
Often reveries from three of her eras, two earlier and one current, brought sardonic smiles to Patricia’s lips. George, her first man, muscular, rough, abrupt was a physical being to reckon with soft warmth to calm down his tough forces.
Peter was private, shy, reclusive and would burrow into her like a greedy bandicoot silently but pleasurably. He was a gentle man in and out. He made her feel like a queen, whom he served as her page. People would be amused to see a worshipful husband, unlike in hill culture, and the ladies would look at Peter, tongues, sort of, lolling out, wondering at Patricia’s luck for having the dotting husband.
And now her third husband, her guide, philosopher and friend, Patrick, was debonair and lavish, almost posh in his life style. During her church wedding with Patrick, even the reserved Pastor broke steps to be personal and Patricia would feel proud for his words such as “…. Our parish member Patricia is a lucky girl and I appreciate her finding love outside our hill community. Lord is compassionate to her. Mr. Patrick from Kerala is so noble and so deeply devoted to our Lord, I feel absolutely assured about the blooming future of our daughter from the hills, Patricia.”
From the world tour both returned rejuvenated and ruddy. Then Patricia’s mayoral period was over and now she sat at office and Patrick often toured with his tribe of tourists. Good news arrived from Lucerne in Switzerland, percolating via Dubai, via Kerala to Dharamshala that Paul, Patrick’s son, lost to Alps near Lucerne at fifteen, now twenty-seven, was returning to his father Patrick.
To cut the long story short, Paul picked from a frozen stream down the Alps, taken by the rescuing villagers to a village hospital and then moved to a bigger facility in the city of Lucerne, was lying in comma for five years caused by hypothermia. He was out of comma but his identity found only after his memory returned recently, a lucky case in a million. He could recall his past fully.
Exactly the third day following the disjointed news, when Patrick and Pat were preparing to visit Paul at Lucerne, and bring him home, their doorbell rang, and lo, a big young man looking like Patrick, Paul himself, stood there with an affable smile. The reunion was sweet. Patricia had remained a patch of baren soil in spite of three husbands’ efforts to irrigate her to fertility. Her fallowness was over at last in her early fifties. She was blessed with a son, Paul, all of twenty-seven.
The second church service that was talked of was held with grand arrangements in a welcome-mass. Again, the reserved Pastor of their Parish became loquacious and broke steps in his sermons to say, “Behold ye my Parishioners, the magic of our Lord, the most compassionate. He has gifted our daughter Patricia at her middle age a son, all of twenty-seven, almost an immaculate gift of an offspring. Grace be to our Lord!” He crossed his heart.
Son Paul and mother Patricia took to each other like fish to water. They were closer and bound by deeper son-and-mother bond than any known such bonds in Dharamshala. The time enjoyed the mystic of the hill town Dharamshala and its inhabitants like Patricia, Patrick, Paul, Langma, and the loquacious pastor.
Paul was taking over the travel-cum-guide agency’s work of his parents, taking tips from his father Patrick to run it, though he had no scope to study beyond his school as stalled by his fall during the tour on Alps. But he had a streak of a writer in him and his first venture was to pen down the saga of his fall and rise against a back drop of Dharamshala and his parents, Patricia and Patrick.
In his writing venture he dug deep into local old book stores, libraries, and his mother’s old trunks for any diary, or recorded material to build up his story. He had heard from her mother about her second husband Peter being a novelist and producing four novels in six years when he lived and wrote in that house. During his search he found the marriage album of his mother Patricia with her second husband Peter, the Novelist, and the copies of Peter’s four novels in a trunk hidden in the basement.
Like staring at a ghost, Paul had a shock of his life. He closed the album, tucked it under his jacket, walked into a secluded spot down the hill terrain, took many deep breaths. Now in peace he looked into the album. “Oh no! His mother Patricia was his grandfather Peter’s wife in her second marriage. After Peter’s death, unwittingly she had married Peter’s son Patrick, in fact, her half-son. Patrick unknowingly, in fact, had married his stepmother and was having a roaring married life. That way, Patricia was Paul’s grandma and mother, simultaneously.”
Paul sat unmoved for minutes, and thought, “All is well that ends well”, he tore the album to bits and pieces and let the torn pieces fly away in the wind down the hill slope. His only fear was the smallness of the world, simultaneously a crucible of pleasure, and a crucible of sin.
He hoped against hope, none would visit Dharamshala from their part of Kerala, and none of them at Dharamshala or their acquaintances from Dharamshala should meet his Kerala relatives and friends. That might open a Pandora’s Box. Out of the box might jump out an Oedipus Rex, the Second. (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.
Dilip Mohapatra
Castor by himself is seldom cited or spoken about. He is always paired with Pollux, his twin half-brother in Greek and Roman mythology. Both were born to Leda but from two different fathers. Castor was the son of Tyndareus, the king of Sparta, while Pollux was the divine son of Zeus, who seduced Leda in the guise of a swan. Castor being the son of a mortal was also mortal, but Pollux being the son of a God was immortal. Pollux asked Zeus to let him share his own immortality with his twin so that they may live till eternity together, and they were transformed into the constellation Gemini. The pair were regarded as the patrons of sailors. And that’s how my personal association started with both of them. While on high seas as I shot them with my sextant along with other navigational stars to fix our position I marvelled at their closeness and eternal togetherness.
This story however is not about any of them. It’s about my dog whom I had named after one of them, Castor. If I had his twin I would have surely named him Pollux. But I chose Castor for him since it was easier to pronounce and my kids liked it.
When I pick up my pen to write Castor’s story I am reminded of quite a few which both amazed me and amused me. Leading the roost is ‘A Dog’s Tale’ by Mark Twain.It’s about a cross-bred which declares, “My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing.”
The next one that comes to my mind is about a Skye Terrier called Bobby who is the main character of Greyfriars Bobby, a tale highlighting its faithfulness and emotional attachment to its owner Auld Jock written by Eleanor Atkinson.
When Jock dies, Bobby refuses to leave his master’s side, even when Jock is buried. Bobby ends up guarding Jock’s grave, by day and night, thus neatly symbolising the two main features associated with dogs: fidelity and vigilance.
Other famous authors whose pens ran eloquent about the nobleness of these heavenly creatures include O Henry ( Memoirs of a Yellow Dog), Rudyard Kipling ( Garm-a Hostage), Virginia Woolf (Flush, a Biography) and Franz Kafka ( Investigations of a Dog).
Another true story which would leave its indelible footprints in human hearts features Hachiko who was a real dog and who lived in Tokyo in the early 1900s. Ueno, a professor at the Tokyo Imperial University had brought him home to live in Shibuya as his pet. Hachik? would wait for Ueno at the railway station every day for him to return home from work. This continued for almost five years when Ueno died of a cerebral haemorrhage while at work. From then until his death ten years later, Hachik? would go to Shibuya Station every day without fail to await Ueno's return.
During his lifetime, the dog was held up in Japanese culture as an example of loyalty and fidelity. Since his death, he continues to be remembered worldwide in popular culture with statues, movies and books.
Closer home we have Rajiv Eipe’s story about Dugga, a three legged stray with his tongue out, complemented with a huge smile on his comical face ever optimistic about his bright future. And then there is this unique story about Duster created by Richa Jha, in which the eponymous dog behaves like a cat! Most of his canine instincts are overpowered by his feline behaviour. And to tell you the truth, you may call it a coincidence; my story about Castor has a feline connection. But let me start with his arrival in our household in Hyderabad, when he didn’t have a name.
Although as a child, being a veterinarian’s son I was brought up with varieties of dogs at different times, as an adult I never had an opportunity to adopt a pet. I knew about the responsibilities of a pet owner and perhaps was not prepared for it. My three little girls had been imploring me for quite sometime to get a puppy for them, but my wife and I were not ready for the commitment that it would demand. The dilemma one day ended abruptly when our neighbour Fernando came home carrying a little bundle and handed it over to our eldest daughter, Mina. It was a Christmas gift for us from a litter of pups his dam had delivered. Mina carefully held the pup close to her chest and it just snuggled its head against the crook of her arm. Then she opened the flannel wrap and left him on the floor for everyone to see him. With a look that could melt millions of hearts, it started crawling towards my daughter, wagging its tail. It looked like a cross between a bandicoot and a guinea pig but its dark and tan coat and pointy snout gave it a personalty of vivacity and aristocracy. Fernando was explaining its breed to be a miniature dachshund and spoke about its German descent. He was washing eloquent about the breed with all the characteristics of a hound: bold, brave to the point of rashness and a bit of stubborn. He went on to add that they were smart and vigilant, with a big-dog bark belying their size and emphasised that they made fine watchdogs.
While my daughters were excited to no end, my wife nudged me and whispered in my ears, “Are you sure you want to keep it?” Looking at the joy and glee in the eyes of my daughters, I had secretly made up my mind not to disappoint them. Also when my eyes met the pup’s dark and endearing eyes as if they were pleading me to accept him into the family, I had no heart to deny him a home. But just to tease my wife, as is my habit, I told her in an undertone, “ You are already used to a pet dog, yours truly. One more won’t make any difference!”
Connoisseur of all earnest eyes around, as it tried to tug at my daughter’s skirt, we all sat in a conference to choose a name for our latest family member. First we considered few Indian names to break away from the usual anglicised names like Tom, Goofy and Fido. One of my daughters suggested Kalu but soon it was dropped since it stank of apartheid. The next name discussed was Bhaloo but it lost out too since our boy had a smooth coat with practically no fur. Then my youngest daughter suggested to name him after a star from the galaxy. The first name came to my mind was Sirius the Dog Star but phonetically it was a mismatch since we didn’t want our bundle of joy to be associated with anything like ‘serious’. The other names like Canopus, Betelgeuse, Arcturus, etc were tongue twisters for a dog’s name. Finally we picked up Castor from the constellation Gemini which was my middle daughter Rina’s zodiac sign.
Then there was a flurry of events which followed: my wife served Castor some warm milk in a stainless steel flat dish which he lapped up in no time. A topless cardboard carton appeared from somewhere as if by magic. Inside the box few pieces of soft flannel cloth were spread and Castor was carefully placed inside. One of a pair of socks filled with rags was placed for a pillow and the other as a side pillow masquerading as one of his siblings from the litter. We had read about the breed to suffer from separation anxiety as a trait and had placed the stuffed socks to mimic his siblings close to him. The puppy fidgeted for a while and then surrendered to the cozy comforts of his new bed.
The next few days were hectic but enjoyable. Almost everyone in the household was busy in doing something or the other to make the adoption as smooth as possible. Along with the name and the bed Castor soon was the owner of all possible accessories which included feeding bowl, collar, leash, grooming brush, chewing toys, a hard rubber ball to play with and even a polka dotted bow. Soon he responded to his name and learnt the ‘fetch the ball’ game. It took some time for him to be house-broken. Though he had no objection to dry-grooming, he was always reluctant for a weekly bath. With constant care and abundant love, he grew up to his full size in about eight months. The little rodent like pup had grown into its adulthood, about a foot long and six inches tall.
As he grew up he developed a personality and a character of his own. Interestingly while he kept me and my wife on top of the pecking order and placed himself under my three daughters, he surely placed my mother at the lowest rung. Somehow their chemistry didn’t work. It was very evident in his behaviour towards her. While he was very obedient to all whom he placed above him he would deliberately ignore my mother. He loved to play the ‘fetch the ball’ game with everyone except her. Whenever she threw the ball, he would turn a deaf ear and show absolutely no reaction. Maybe he was too sensitive to the fact that my mother had prohibited him to enter the puja room. A very comical scene used to happen almost everyday which I must mention here to prove my point about his perception of the hierarchy at home. Whenever I returned from work, Castor will be there at the door wagging his tail to welcome me. Later while sitting on the sofa waiting for a cup of tea, Castor would jump over and climb into my lap with some sort of proprietary right and quietly survey the room. My mother would then appear and would bark a command mockingly for Castor to get off my lap. Then the little stubble on his spine would stand up and he would growl menacingly at her, with a threatening scowl, to the amusement of everyone at home. This never-ending drama used to continue day after day. He however treated my youngest daughter Lina more as an equal and a play mate and always listened to her in rapt attention. Lina taught him to obey the usual dog commands like no, sit, down, stay, heel, run, fetch, give the paw and the like.
He had his own likes and dislikes too. He liked to be petted and pampered by all of us above him in the pecking order. He would bark whenever someone knocked on the door or pressed the doorbell and once we admitted our guests, he would leave them alone. But he made an exception as regards to our house-help. Though he was quite familiar with her and won’t bark at her, when she swept the floors, he would quietly creep on her and try to nip at her heels. Initially she used to be scared of him but soon got used to his pranks. Then the nips became non-threatening sniffs and the game continued. Another of his favourite sport was to dig holes like a mole in the garden near the hedges. Speaking about his likes and dislikes, he never could stand Hindustani Classical singing. Whenever we played Pandit Bhimsen Joshi or Vidushi Gangubai Hangal on our music system he would sulk and run away to hide in the farthest room. But if it was Beethoven, Strauss or Bach, his floppy ears would perk up a bit and eyes would sparkle. He most certainly enjoyed my favourite organist and music arranger Klaus Wunderlich and whenever I played his tracks, he would scamper to me and climb onto my lap to soak in the lilting organ music. I didn’t blame him for his preference knowing from which country the breed had generated !
The first ever encounter Castor had with a cat happened on a Sunday morning. The military quarters in which we lived in the Cantonment had a sprawling backyard with a hedge all around with a small wooden gate opening out to a road separating another residence from ours. There were few mango and guava trees in a row close to the hedge. My wife had planted few flowering plants around a fairly well maintained lawn in the centre. The lawn was Castor’s playground. Our quarters had a covered verandah overlooking the backyard. In fact this was an extension of our living room, connected through a sliding door. I had placed a reclining cane chair in one corner which I mostly used for my leisurely reading. On the other corner of the verandah we had hung a cane swing for the children to play. After breakfast I picked up a book and plopped myself into the reclining chair, mostly a Sunday morning ritual for me. Nearby on a mat Lina and her friend Namita from the neighbourhood were busy playing Ludo, Castor sitting close by like a Sphinx. A cuckoo was cooing on the branches of the mango tree. It was so very idyllic and peaceful.
Suddenly there was a commotion. Castor abruptly dashed out to the lawn in pursuit of a fat black cat crossing the lawn. Should I say it was like an arrow shot from the bow or a missile fired from its launcher? It was more like a shooting torpedo considering Castor’s shape and its ground level flight. Traditionally dogs and cats are not the best of friends. The phrase "fight like cats and dogs" reflects a natural tendency for the relationship between the two species to be antagonistic. We had never seen Castor so aggressive. As I watched Castor on his collision course with the cat, I was secretly feeling proud of my brave boy. In fact I wished Castor a categorical victory that would catapult him to the hall of fame of the canine conquerors. But my dream evaporated into thin air when I saw the cat on top of Castor, with its back arched, hissing loudly. It had pinned him down with one of its forepaws and was literally taking swipes and slapping him with the other. Before the one-sided fight could escalate into a catastrophe, with cataclysmic consequences, Lina came to Castor’s rescue. She ran to the battle scene, shooed the cat away and picked up a clueless Castor. Fortunately his eyes were unhurt and intact, and he had escaped the predicament with only a few scratches on his face.
I didn’t expect a post-incident analysis like one sees on the media but this is what happened after the scuffle. Namita was needling me for Castor’s shameful defeat, “Uncle, why is your dog such a weakling? Cats are scared of dogs. But here is your dog which got a beating from the cat. Do you have anything to say?”
“ But who told you Castor is a dog ? Dogs are big and robust. Look at Castor’s size. Castor in fact is a cat. The fat black cat was his friend and they were not fighting. They were playing wrestle-wrestle.” I replied sheepishly, winking at Lina.
“ You’re kidding me. Castor is very much a dog,” she said disbelievingly.
Just then someone pressed the doorbell and as was his habit, Castor charged towards the door barking loudly.
“ See uncle, he is barking like a dog. How do you say that he’s a cat?”
“ Oh that! To tell you the truth, Castor who is really a cat thinks he is a dog. It’s not his fault though.”
“ Why does Castor, the cat think that he is a dog?”
“ Have you seen any cat being taken out by its master on a leash? You know, we leave him loose inside our home but when we take him out for a walk, we put him either on a harness or on a leash, for his safety. That’s why he started thinking that he is a dog. Initially when someone knocked the door or pressed the doorbell he used to mew. Then we made him realise that mewing is not befitting for a watchdog. So we got a trainer and trained him to speak the dog’s language. It took some time but with practice he now barks as good as any dog.”
Namita didn’t seem to be convinced fully but I succeeded in sowing the seed of doubt in her mind for sure.
Now to strike the iron hard when it is hot, I wanted to add another dimension to our conversation and told, “ You know Namita, Castor the cat not only learnt a new language, it can do arithmetic sums too.”
With her eyebrows raised she told, “ Uncle, it’s too much. You are surely pulling my legs.”
“ No my dear, let’s put him to test. You will see for yourself. Whenever you will ask him to solve a sum, if the answer is 1 he will bark once. If the answer is 2 he will bark twice and likewise. “ I said with a mischievous smile.
“ OK, let’s check it out.”
“ Alright, ask him what is 5 minus 5 and see if he can solve this.”
“ Castor, what is 5 minus 5?”, asked Namita looking straight into Castor’s eyes.
Castor just stared back, with no response whatsoever.
“ OK Namita, now you tell me the answer.”
“ It’s zero, uncle”.
“See, Castor also remained silent since it calculated the answer to be zero.”
Namita gave me a look of incredulity and threw another question at Castor “ Alright boy, now tell me what is 3 plus 2?”
I had to intervene now, “Look, Namita, Castor normally does one sum per day. Today’s quota is over. You will have to come tomorrow and ask him the question again.”
Namita gave me a sceptic look and left home, while I heaved a sigh of relief.
FAST FORWARD
Meanwhile three years have passed. I had received my transfer orders to Mumbai. We were in the process of winding up our establishment at Hyderabad. I was a little concerned about Castor’s comfort at Mumbai since we would have to live in flats. But as they say first things first: I called up some friend at Mumbai to help me secure school admission for my children in some good schools, who assured me of his help. After a while, when I was clearing my office drawers I received a call from Namita. Namita’s father who was a colleague of mine had moved much before to Delhi.
She told me that she was in town on a short vacation staying with her relatives and would like to visit us in the evening to meet Castor. I welcomed her and got again busy with some pending work. Then a few hours later, my phone rang once again. This time it was my wife who seemed to be in a panic. She conveyed in a broken voice while sobbing uncontrollably that Castor had been vomiting and is frothing in his mouth, while restlessly moving up and down the living room. I asked if Castor had gone out unattended. I had categorically warned everyone at home in the morning that the cantonment guys had placed poisoned meat around for stray dog elimination and one has to take extra precaution to keep the pets inside. She said that the maid had left the sliding door to the backyard open without anyone’s knowledge and Castor had slipped away. They had to go and look for him all around and soon he was found outside our fence near a bush. He was immediately picked up by the sweeper who was helping out to find him and who had brought him home. I rushed home, but it was too late. Castor had breathed his last in my wife’s lap. We didn’t know how to face our children when they returned from school. Someone was at the door pressing the doorbell. Castor’s bark was stifled for ever. I opened the door to find Namita standing there calling out to Castor. I would like to skip the unpleasant details of the aftermath.
Later in the evening while we all sat on a mat in the rear verandah looking at the freshly dug grave in the garden corner, covered with flowers, we saw Castor the star blinking at us from above, looking brighter than the other days, almost competing with the Dog Star nearby. Maybe my Star Dog’s soul had merged with its celestial clone.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and anthologies worldwide. He has seven poetry collections, one short story collection and two professional books to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He the recipient of multiple awards for his literary activities, which include the prestigious Honour Award for complete work under Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020. He holds the honorary title of ‘Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture’. He lives in Pune and his email id is dilipmohapatra@gmail.com
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
The school reunion was a cacophony of voices, clinking glasses, and warm embraces, the kind of night that seemed to blur the years between then and now. Familiar faces, softened by time and hardship, laughed and exchanged stories of success and struggle. Old rivalries were now nothing more than playful teases, and the air was thick with nostalgia.
Then, a small moment of discovery shifted the tone of the gathering.
"Look at this wallpaper! Isn’t it stunning?" someone exclaimed, holding up Anjana’s phone.
People gathered around, their curiosity piqued. The image on her screen was mesmerizing—children playing under the relentless summer sun, their forms drenched in light and movement. It had a raw, almost haunting beauty. A moment in time, immortalized by a hand that understood both joy and sorrow.
"Where did you get this?" someone asked.
Anjana smiled. "I took the picture at the central prison. I was there for an educational project, and this was painted on one of the walls."
There was a collective pause. "Prison?"
She nodded. "No one knows the artist’s name. There was no signature, and the officials didn’t seem to remember him. What I was told is that he was a convict who served five years for culpable homicide. He stabbed a man in a drunken fight. But look at this… there’s so much life in it. So much nostalgia."
A strange silence passed over them as they took in the painting again, and one by one, they began to save it to their phones. They were unaware that the moment they were admiring had once belonged to them. To their school, their childhood, their afternoons spent in the heat of games and chatter.
Across the room, Sudenven watched. He knew. Of course, he knew. He had painted it, the memory seared into his hands with each careful stroke of color. He had done it in prison, in a time when silence had been his only companion. The guards had given him a few cans of paint, thinking it would pass the time. They hadn't realized he was not painting to pass the time—he was painting to reclaim something time had stolen.
It had to be that image, that day, those children. It was the one thing that had survived inside him, untainted by the things he had done, the places he had been.
And now, here it was, stripped from him once again, celebrated by people who did not know its creator.
A cruel paradox: if he revealed himself, the painting would lose its magic. It would no longer be a work of mystery and beauty—it would be tainted by his past, turned into a relic of crime and regret. The same people who were setting it as their wallpapers would hesitate. They would flinch at the idea of it being the work of their old classmate, the one who had disappeared for five years and returned a husk of himself.
He could already hear the shift in their voices, see the faltering admiration in their eyes if they knew. The painting would become a tragedy. He would become a shadow in their reunion, his name whispered in low voices with glances over shoulders.
He could not let that happen.
A part of him wanted to stay, to soak in their appreciation from afar. But another part knew better.
He finished his drink and set the glass down gently, unnoticed in the sea of voices. The admiration would remain untouched, the painting’s meaning preserved in its anonymity. He would leave, as he always did, slipping through the cracks unnoticed. His past, his crime, his failure—they would not be attached to this. Not to the one thing that still belonged to him, even as it belonged to them.
He stepped out into the night, his breath curling in the cold air. The city stretched before him, indifferent, unknowing.
He had a house owner to meet. If the deal went through, he’d have food for the next month.
And that was all that mattered now.
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.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - ORIGIN OF SHIVA LINGAM WORSHIP
Ramesh Chandra Panda
[DWADAS JYOTHIRLINGAS]
Jyotirlinga is Lord Shiva - the all-pervading Brahmatmalinga or all-pervading light. In the Taittiriya Upanishad, the twelve Principles of Brahma, Maya, the jiva, the mind, intellect, subconscious mind, ego and the Panchamahabhutas (The concept of Panchamahabhuta is the ancient tool to analyze this Universe. On the basis of such analysis, Indian scientists claimed that, this Universe is made out of five causative factors. They are Akasha, Vayu, Agni, Jala and Prithvi, and termed as Panchamahabhuta. These have specific properties) and actions have been referred to as the twelve Jyotirlingas. In the Yadnyavedi (Pit where the ritual of sacrificial fires is performed), the shalunka represents the pit of the fire and the linga the flame of the fire. It represents twelve Adityas and twelve sections of the Shivalinga, the sites of eruption of fire from the dormant volcanoes. Since Yama, the master of southern direction is a subordinate of Shankar, south becomes the direction of Shankar. The Jyotirlingas are south-oriented, meaning, the opening of their shalunkas face southwards. Most temples do not face the southern direction. When the opening of the shalunka faces the south, its pinda possesses more spiritual energy; while the pinda with the opening of the shalunka facing north possesses lesser energy.
Idol worship in different religions
Most of the religious followers believe in idol and/ pictorial worship. The Eastern religions like Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Chinese Folk stories, Taoism, Confucianism, Shintoism believe in and follow idol worship. Though Buddhism does not follow idol worship but many Mahayana Buddhists perform “rituals” to the Buddha idols. Judaism does not believe in idol worship. Sikhism, an Indian religion, does not believe in Idols but worships pictures of Sikh Gurus. Those pictures are garlanded with flowers, silk cloth, etc. Similarly, most Christians worship idols with exception of Pure Biblical and Protestant Christianity. They emphasize on the worship of large marble and golden idols, statues of Jesus, Mary, Father, Cross, etc. Eastern Christianity emphasizes on the idol worship. Central Asian religions like Zoroastrianism worship pictures of Farvarah and Zoroaster, though not Ahura Mazda. Even it involves doing some rites before idols of Zoroastrian Gods like Mithra. Yazidism worships idols of peacock and a deity close to Karthikeya / Muruga. Islam does not worship Idols but at least resembles worshiping the big idol Kaaba. Muslims visit Mecca, bow before the Kaaba, chant gospels before the idol, go round it, consider it very sacred; the acts resemble Kaaba worship. In the East, they worship pictures of the Kaaba surrounded with a Moon, Star and Mohammad holding a sword with some Arabic words written over it. They are even garlanded and incenses are burnt near them. Such pictures are also available in Indian and Chinese Dargahs.
Idol worship in Hinduism
Idol worship is at the core of Hinduism. Idols have great religious and spiritual significance. All Hindu deities are themselves symbols of the abstract absolute and point to a particular aspect of the Brahman. The Trinity is represented by three Gods namely Brahma - the creator, Vishnu - the protector, and Shiva - the destroyer. Each Hindu God and Goddess has many characteristics, like the dress, vehicle, weapons, etc., that are themselves symbols of the deity's power. Brahma holds the Vedas in his hands, which signifies that he has the supreme command over creative and religious knowledge. Vishnu holds a conch which stands for the five elements and eternity; a discus, which is the symbol of the mind; a bow that symbolizes power and a lotus which is the symbol of the cosmos. Shiva's trident represents the three gunas. Similarly, Krishna's flute symbolizes divine music. Many deities can be recognized by the symbols associated with them. Krishna can be identified by the peacock feather he wears in his head. Shiva is often symbolized by the lingam or tripundra - the three horizontal lines on his forehead.
A logo is a powerful symbol of a brand. A well-known company’s logo automatically identifies it with the company’s brand, even if there are no words to inform what it stands for. Symbols are very powerful means in worship. They remind us of God concerned and His deeds and the symbols inspire us to worship.
Origin of Shiva Lingam worship
Shiva is usually worshiped in the form of Shivalinga which is the most popular manifestation of Lord Shiva. It is the most important symbol of Shiva. There are many legends but one account says that, once Shiva was fascinated by seeing a charming woman and started following her. That woman was Lord Vishnu in the form of Mohini. As Shiva ran, his semen fell at various places and formed the drops to produce Lingas. This indicates that Linga is the very essence of Shiva’s personality.
According to the Puranas (the Kurma Purana, the Vayu Purana and the Shiva Purana), the legend on origin behind the Shiva Lingam is related to the Maha Shivaratri, a most significant festival of Hindus. The Shivaratri, a Hindu spiritual day in India and South East Asia is celebrated as the wedding day of Shiva and Parvati. For every Hindu temple, this is the day of the biggest Shiva worship of the year. It would be appropriate to know the available story in Hindu scriptures and beliefs which are behind Shiva Lingam worship.
Legend 1
This legend is mentioned in different scriptures and with some variations. It is the story of unsuccessful search to discover the Aadi (means beginning) and the Antha (means end) of Lord Shiva. According to the Puranas once Brahma and Vishnu were arguing with each other to prove each one more powerful than other one. Then the Supreme God Shiva was asked to intervene by other Gods. He decided to make everything clear between them. He assumed to create a flaming Lingam in between Brahma and Vishnu. He challenged both Brahma and Vishnu to search the beginning and the end of that flaming Lingam. One of them went upper side and other one downside in searching for the end of flaming Lingam in order to establish each one’s supremacy over the other. Lord Brahma took a swan form and went upwards whereas Lord Vishnu took a Varaha form and went downwards. After searching for thousands of miles without any result both became fed up and returned. However, neither could find his appointed destination. Vishnu, satisfied, came up to Shiva and bowed down to him as a swarupa of Brahman. Brahm? did not give up so easily. As he was going up, he saw a ketaki flower, dear to Shiva, floating down. Ketaki told Shiva that she had been placed at the top of the Shiva flaming Lingam. Brahma’s ego forced him to ask the flower to bear false witness about Brahm?’s discovery of Shiva Lingam’s beginning. When Brahm? told his tale, Shiva, the all-knowing, became angry by the former’s ego. Shiva thus cursed him that in the three worlds none will worship him. The Ketaki flower, for appearing as a false witness, was cursed to be never used for the worship of Shiva. Vishnu admitted his failure to find the end of the flaming Lingam. Having heard both, Lord Shiva suddenly appeared in his full glory from the central part of the flaming pillar. He exposed the false statement of Brahma in front of Vishnu. Soon, both of them accepted the supremacy of Lord Shiva. He also cursed the Ketaki flower for her wrong testifying and was banned forever to be used as an offering in any worship.
It was 14th day of dark fortnight of Phalgun month when Lord Shiva appeared himself in the form of a Lingam. (the day is an auspicious day for devotees), which is being celebrated as the Maha-Shivaratri (means the grand night of Lord Shiva). Shiva Lingam is worshipped by the devotees on this festival with full belief and devotion in order to be blessed with happiness and prosperity
Legend 2
In hymn 4.6 of Shiva Puran the reason behind Shiva Lingam worship has been narrated and the same is briefly described here. The sages curiously asked Sutaji about the purpose with which Parvati had decided to appear. Sutaji narrated the following story: Long ago, some sages used to do penance in a Shiva temple situated near Daruk forest. Sati, Shiva’s first wife, had died and in his sadness, he was roaming naked around restlessly, wandering alone in a forest. One day some sages went to collect woods needed for the Yangya. Lord Shiva wanted to test the devotion of sages’ wives, so he arrived before the sages’ wives in naked position holding his own phallus in his hand. The wives of the sages became frightened and attracted by Shiva’s appearance. When the sages returned after collecting woods, they became very furious to see a naked person luring their wives. They asked him to reveal his identity. When Shiva did not give any reply, they cursed him. The Phallus fell down from the hand of Lord Shiva and generated so much of heat that all the three worlds started to burn. The sages became very nervous and sought the help of Lord Brahma. Lord Brahma revealed to them that the person whom they cursed was none other than Lord Shiva. He instructed them to please Goddess Parvati as she only would save them from Shiva’s wrath by appearing in the form of Vagina and holding the Phallus. The sages followed the instruction of Lord Brahma. Goddess Parvati appeared in the form of Vagina and held Shiva’s phallus in herself. The sages then worshipped the Shiva Lingam. This Shiva Lingam became famous by the name of “Haatkeshwar.”
Legend 3
There is a variant to the above version, as per which the sages seeing a naked person luring their wives, became angry and threw stones at him. With the sharp edges of the stones phallus got cut off and fell down. No matter how exactly it happened, the phallus fell down to earth and where it fell, it stood erected as flaming Lingam and started burning like wildfire. It caused chaos. Bad things started happening in the world, as if the earth’s last day had arrived. Mountains burst, fire was spilling everywhere and people were in panic. Rishis went to Brahma, the creator of the world. Brahma came to know what had happened. Brahma and Rishis reached Shiva. Everyone started pleading with him and praying: ‘Please, take your phallus back, it is destroying the world!’ Shiva was appeased by all these prayers and agreed, but with one condition: ‘Only if you start worshipping phallus, will he take it back!’ And that is how Shiva Lingams were installed across the earth in temples everywhere.
There is yet another small variation. In this version of the story, Shiva was already married to his second wife Parvati. He was nevertheless running around in the forest naked – not out of grief, just because he felt like it – and encountered the Rishis’ wives. The wives could not withstand the power of his attraction and hugged him. Their husbands were shocked and cursed his phallus, which promptly fell down, causing chaos and apocalyptic conditions all over the world. Everyone got together in crisis to find a solution. Who could catch Shiva’s phallus and hold on to it? Where should it go once captured? The idea was found. It was clear that only Parvati would be able to hold Shiva’s phallus in her. They all prayed to Parvati who agreed to the idea. That’s how Shivalinga representing Shiva and Parvati came into existence. That is how worshipping of Shiva Lingam started.
What Shiva Lingam represents?
Lingam as interpreted in the Shaiva Siddhanta tradition (a school of Shaivism) comprises of two parts –(i) the upper part and (ii) the lower parts and are respectively named as Parashiva and Parashakti. In Wikipedia there is reference to Lingam (Sanskrit: ????? “sign, symbol or mark"), sometimes is referred to as an abstract or an iconic representation of Shiva in Shaivism. It is typically the primary murti or devotional image in temples dedicated to Shiva, also found as Swayambhu or self-manifested natural objects. "Lingam" is found in Sanskrit texts with the meaning of "evidence or proof" of God and God's existence. Lingam iconography found at archaeological sites of the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia which includes simple cylinders set inside a yoni; mukhalinga rounded pillars with carvings such as of one or more mukha (faces); and anatomically realistic representations of a phallus. In the Shaivite traditions, the Lingam is regarded as a form of spiritual iconography.
There is a great deal of misconception about the Lingam representing the phallus but the truth is that except in the Tantrik way of worship, the Lingam does not have anything remotely connected with the worship of genitals. The Sanskrit word ‘linga’ means a ‘mark’ or ‘symbol’ and is applied equally to both male and female forms. We remember that in any Indian language lessons at the school we learn that ‘Pu-linga’ or Purush Linga is the male gender and the corresponding term for the female gender is ‘Stree-Linga’. Here, Stree-linga is something that can be symbolized as female. It can be an actual female or a thing that can be considered as a female like a river etc. Similarly, Pul-linga is something that can be symbolized as male. Hence, it can be easily derived that Shiva Lingam is a symbolization of Shiva.
There is a mysterious or indescribable power (or Shakti) in the Lingam. It is believed to induce concentration of the mind and help focus one's attention. That is why the ancient sages and saints of India prescribed Lingam to be installed in the temples of Lord Shiva. For a sincere devotee, the Lingam is not merely a block of stone, it is all-radiant. It talks to him, raises him above body-consciousness, and helps him communicate with the Lord. Lord Rama worshiped the Shiva Lingam at Rameshwaram. Ravana, the learned scholar, worshiped the golden Linga for its mystical powers. Practitioners in healing crystals and rocks believe the Shiva Lingam to be among the most powerful. It is said to bring balance and harmony to those who carry it and have great healing energy for all seven chakras. The Lingam is a symbol of creation. The "Linga Purana" says that the foremost Lingam is devoid of smell, colour, taste, etc., and is spoken of as Prakriti, or nature itself. In the post-Vedic period, the Lingam became symbolical of the generative power of Lord Shiva. The Lingam is like an egg and represents the Brahmanda (the cosmic egg). Lingam signifies that the creation is affected by the union of Prakriti and Purusha, the male and the female powers of nature. It also signifies Satya, Jnana, and Ananta—Truth, Knowledge, and Infinity.
Clarification of myths
The common myth among people is that the Shiva Lingam indicates the male genital organ. This is misinterpretation. The misleading, irrelevant and baseless interpretation was done post Vedic period when India came under foreign rulers and the Indian Vedic and spiritual literature came into the hands of the foreign researchers Thus Shiva lingam is just a differentiating icon and certainly not a sex symbol. The Linga Purana states that:
“ ??????? ???????? ???????????????? ?
???-????-??????? ????-???????????????? ?“
[Meaning: The Lingam is devoid of colour, taste, hearing or touch and is considered as prakriti or nature].
Another belief among the people is that lord Shiva is destroyer only as part of Trinity in Hinduism. However the nature itself is a Lingam or symbol of the Lord. The Shiva Lingam is a clear mark of Shiva who is the creator, sustainor and the destructor – all three life qualities of nature. It is appropriate to refer to the Skanda Purana which depicts that the whole universe is created from the supreme Shiva and it finally gets submerged there.
“????? ????????????: ?????? ???? ???????
???: ???? ??????? ????????????????? ?“
(?????? ?????)
[Meaning: The endless sky is the Linga and the earth is the base. At the end of it all exists the entire universe and all the Gods finally merge into the Lingam from where it originated.]
Contrary to the general belief, it is not just Shiva who is worshipped in this form but many of the Shakti temples also have the deity as small, conical or oval-shaped stones. So how did the identification of Shiva with the stone lingam begin? The Atharvaveda mentions the ‘Skambha’ or pillar as a manifestation of the eternal Brahman. (Hymn 7 of Book 10 of Atharvaveda is dedicated to the cosmic pillar that forms the axis of the universe). He, who has the form of the Agni Lingam or Jwala - Lingm is termed as 'Skambha' in Atharva Veda because everything is created from him (his jwala-lingam), hence he is the Supreme master of everything as there is no other master above him.
Hymn VII book 10 of Atharva Veda - Skambha, the Pillar or Fulcrum of all existence
“Which of his members is the seat of Fervour: Which is the base
of Ceremonial Order? Where in him standeth Faith? Where Holy Duty? Where, in what part of him is truth implanted?
Out of which member glows the light of Agni? Form which proceeds the breath of M?tarisvan? From which doth Chandra measure out his journey, travelling
over Skambha's mighty body?
Which of his members is the earth's upholder? Which gives the
middle air a base to rest on?
Where, in which member is the sky established? Where hath
the space above the sky its dwelling?....”
The above verses show us the uncertainty that plagued the mind of the composer which gets further highlighted in the story from the Shiva Puran that co-relates this Skambha with Shiva. This scripture tells us the story of the time when Lord Brahma and Vishnu were debating about which of them was actually greater in position. While they were arguing, a massive pillar of fire (Agni Stambha) emerged between them going deep into the earth as well as rising high into the sky. The appearance of Shiva from the cosmic pillar of Fire is known as the Ling-odbhava form which means ‘emerging from the lingam’ and this Agni Stambha form of Lord Shiva took the form of a Shiva Linga. Even the Linga Purana describes this as a symbolic representation of God in the Nirguna or aniconic form. Shivalinga is nothing but a representation of that cosmic pillar on which we can concentrate (like on flame) and attribute our Shiva-emotions. That is why it is also called Jyotirlinga. Jyoti is the light that takes away the darkness inside us. The path of enlightenment leads to divine brilliance. This Jyoti is a representation of that Agni, by which that cosmic pillar was made up of.
What does a Shiva Lingam look like?
A Shiva Linga consists of three parts. The lowest of these is called the Brahma-Pitha; the middle one, the Vishnu-Pitha; the uppermost one, the Shiva-Pitha. These are associated with the Hindu pantheon of gods: Brahma (the Creator), Vishnu (the Preserver), and Shiva (the Destroyer). The typically circular base or peetham (Brahma-Pitha) holds an elongated bowl-like structure (Vishnu-Pitha) reminiscent of a flat teapot with a spout that has had the top cut off. Within the bowl rests a tall cylinder with a rounded head (Shiva-Pitha). It is in this portion of the Shiva Linga that many people see a phallus. The Shiva Linga is most often carved from stone. In Shiva Temples, they can be quite large, towering over devotees, though Lingam can also be small, close to knee-height. Many are adorned with traditional symbols or elaborate carvings, though some are somewhat industrial looking or relatively plain and simple.
Shiva Lingam is the holy, spiritual and divine symbol of lord Shiva and all Shiva temples have Shiva Lingam. Why Lingam is worshipped? It is believe that god does not have any definite form and being omnipresent he is the most powerful. Shiva Lingam is icon of Shiva. Shiva Lingam is rounded, elliptical iconic image set on a circular base or Peetham or the Parashakthi, the manifesting power of the God. The Lingams are usually made up of stone some of which are carved accordingly while the others are naturally existing called the Svayambhu and gets shaped by a swift flowing river. Some Lingams can also be made of metal, precious stones, gems, wood or transitory material like ice. Some literatures believe that the transitory Shiva Lingams can be made from 12 different materials like from sand, rice, cooked food, river clay, cow dung, butter, rudraksha seeds, ashes, sandalwood, darbha grass, a flower garland or molasses. The supreme lord does not have any form and in fact every form is his form. Just like how when we see smoke we know that there is fire, the very moment we see a Shiva Lingam we can visualise the presence of the ultimate and supreme lord Shiva. Architecture of Shiva Lingam, as per Temple Purohit web site is in the following figure:
The holiest Shiva Lingams of India
Of all the Shiva Lingas in India, a few stand out as holding the most importance. There are 12 Jyotir-lingas and five Pancha-bhuta Lingas in India.
• Jyotir-lingas: Found in Kedarnath, Kashi Vishwanath, Somnath, Baijnath, Rameswar, Ghrusneswar, Bhimshankar, Mahakal, Mallikarjun, Amaleshwar, Nageshwar, and Tryambakeshwar
• Pancha-bhuta Lingas: Found in Kalahastishwar, Jambukeshwar, Arunachaleshwar, Ekambareshwar of Kanjivaram, and Nataraja of Chidambaram.
The temple of Lord Mahalinga at Tiruvidaimarudur, known also as Madhyarjuna, is regarded as the great Shiva temple of South India.
The Quartz Shiva Linga- The Sphatika-linga is made of quartz. It is prescribed for the deepest kind of worship of Lord Shiva. It has no colour of its own but takes on the colour of the substance which it comes in contact with. It represents the Nirguna Brahman, the attribute-less Supreme Self or the formless Shiva.
What types of Shiva Lingam exist?
As per Karanagamam, one of the Agama Shastras, the Shiva lingams are classified into different types depending on how they came into existence. These have been described in Tamil in Agama Shastras as follows –
“ ???????? ??????? ??? ????? ??????? ???????
???????? ???????????? ???????? ????????????....”
1. Swayambhu: Swayambhu lingams are believed to have been self manisted.
2. Daiviga / Dhivya: Daiviga lingams are believed to have been installed and worshipped by Goddess Parvathy and other celestial Gods. They continue to exist in the present day on earth, but their origin is traditionally ascribed to the Gods.
3. Manusha : Manusha lingams have been installed by human patrons (rulers, chieftains, wealthy people etc.) in historical times.
4. Arshaga: Arshaga lingams are believed to have been installed and worshipped by sages (like Agasthiyar),
5. Rakshasa: Rakshasa lingams are believed to have been installed and worshipped by Asuras and Daityas (demons) for example, Lingam installed by Ravan .
6. Bana : Bana lingams are those lingams that are found on the banks of rivers. The term “Bana” has two meanings – it refers to water and to the demon (Asura) named Bana. It is believed that the demon Bana had worshipped millions of small lingams and had dropped them in several rivers like Ganges, Gandaki, Gomukhi, etc. These lingams can still be found on the banks of the rivers.
Other types of Shiva Lingams: There are further varieties of Lingams known by the material from which Lingams have been constituted. The following 32 varieties are noticed and worshiped.
1) Ashtaloha Lingam : Ashtaloha Lingam is made of eight metals and cures leprosy.
2) Vaidurya Lingam : Vaidurya Lingam is made of a precious stone called Vaiduryam – Lapis and protects one from the enemy’s arrogant attack.
3) Spatika Lingam : Spatika Lingam is made of Crystal and bestows fulfilment of all desires.
4) Padara Lingam : Padara Lingam is made of mercury and bestows inestimable fortune.
5) Trapu Lingam : Trapu Lingam is made of Tagara metal and makes one’s life free from enemies, if adored.
6) Ahasa Lingam : Ahasa Lingam is made of Vitriol of sulphate and relives one from the menace of enemies.
7) Seesa Lingam : Seesa Lingam is made of Lead and makes the adorer invulnerable to foes.
8) Ashtadhtu Lingam : Ashtadhtu Lingam is made of minerals and bestows sarvasiddhi – all super natural powers.
9) Navaneetha Lingam : Navaneetha Lingam is made of pure butter and confers fame and wealth.
10) Durvakadaja Lingam or Garika Lingam : Durvakadaja Lingam or Garika Lingam is made of a type of grass – Argostis linaries and saves the adorer from untimely or accidental death.
11) Karpura Lingam : Karpura Lingam is made of camphor and bestows emancipation.
12) Ayaskanta Lingam : Ayaskanta Lingam is made of magnet and confers Siddhi – super natural powers.
13) Mouktika Lingam : Mouktika Lingam is made of ashes obtained by burning pearls and confers auspiciousness and fortune.
14) Suvarna Lingam : Suvarna Lingam is made of gold and confers Mukti – deliverance of Soul from body.
15) Rajita Lingam: Rajita Lingam is made of silver and confers fortune.
16) Pittala Lingam or Kamsya Lingam: Pittala or Kamsya Lingam is made of brass and bell metal alloy and confers the release of soul from body.
17) Bhasma Lingam : Bhasma Lingam is made of ash and confers all desirable merits.
18) Guda Lingam or Sita Lingam: Guda Lingam or Sita Lingam is made of Jaggery or Sugar and confers blissful life when adored.
19) Vamsankura Lingam: Vamsankura Lingam is made of tender leaves of bamboo, and confers a long line of genealogy.
20) Pishta Lingam : Pishta Lingam is made of rice flour and blesses the adorer with education.
21) Dahdhidhughda Lingam : Dahdhidhughda Lingam is made of milk and curd on separating the entire quantity of water, and blesses the adorer with property and happiness.
22) Dhanya Lingam : Dhanya Lingam is made of grain and blesses bumper crops to the adorer.
23) Phala Lingam : Phala Lingam is made of fruits and blesses the owner of orchards with good crops of fruits.
24) Dhatri Lingam : Dhatri Lingam is made of a kind of acid fruit – phyllanthus Emblica and bestows liberation.
25) Gandha Lingam : Gandha Lingam is made of Chandanam (sandal wood paste), three parts of Kumkumam and two parts of musk. Size determines the quantity and cost to be put in but the ratio remains constant. If worship is made to this Lingam, one gets blessed with Shivasayujyamukti – merging Jeevatma with Paramatma when one is consciousness. The cycle of birth and death comes to an end.
26) Pushpa Lingam : Pushpa Lingam is made of various kinds of fresh, fragrant, multi-coloured pleasant flowers which blesses the adorer with kingship and acquisition of land.
27) Gosakru Lingam : Gosakru Lingam is made of dung of brown coloured cow. The adorer will be blessed with wealth, if he worships the Lingam.
28) Valuka Lingam : Valuka Lingam is made of fine sand and the worship confers the status of Vidhyakara, belonging to one of the denominations of worshipful angels, besides Shiva Sayujya Prapti.
29) Yavagodhumasali Lingam : Yavagodhumasali Lingam is made of rice, maize and wheat flour, and if adored, it confers Sntana Prapti (blessing of child) in addition to wealth.
30) Sitakhanda Lingam : Sitakhanda Lingam is made of Sugar candy and blesses the adorer with robust health and disease free easy life.
31) Lavana Lingam : Lavana Lingam is made of salt mixed with powder of Hartal and Trikatukala.
32) Tilapista Lingam : Tilapista Lingam is made with the paste of gingely (til) seeds, the desires are fulfilled, if worshipped this lingam.
Most of us worship one type of Shivalinga or the other, pray one shloka or the other seeking blessings and many of us visit Jyothirlingas to get Lord Shiva’s blessings but we should always remember that Lord Shiva is present everywhere and beyond everything. He is omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent. It is apt to quote Adi Shankaracharya. When he visited Kashi Viswanath Jyothirlinga he was spiritually so overwhelmed his divine message still reverberates - “Forgive me Oh Shiva! My three great sins! I came on a pilgrimage to Kashi forgetting that, you are omnipresent. In thinking about you, I forgot that you are beyond thought. In praying to you, I forgot that you are beyond words.”
Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda is a retired Civil Servant and former Judge in the Central Administrative Tribunal. He belongs to the 1972 batch of IAS in Tamil Nadu Cadre where he held many important assignments including long spells heading the departments of Education, Agriculture and Rural Development. He retired from the Government of India as Secretary, Ministry of Heavy Industries and Public Enterprises in 2008 and worked in CAT Principal Bench in Delhi for the next five years. He is the Founder MD of OMFED. He had earned an excellent reputation as an efficient and result oriented officer during his illustrious career in civil service.
Dr. Panda lives in Bhubaneswar. A Ph. D. in Economics, he spends his time in scholarly pursuits, particularly in the fields of Spiritualism and Indian Cultural Heritage. He is a regular contributor to the Odia magazine Saswata Bharat and the English paper Economic and Political Daily.
A JOURNEY TO KUMBH MELA: A LIFETIME EXPERIENCE
Shivanand Acharya
Satyajeet my son had been insistent. “Baba, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We should go to the Kumbh.” His voice carried both urgency and reverence, as if the pilgrimage was calling him personally.
I hesitated. My body, worn by age and ailments, sent me quiet warnings. The thought of navigating through the sea of devotees, the unpredictable weather, the long hours of walking—it all seemed daunting. But looking at Satyajeet, I saw not just eagerness but a deep yearning, perhaps even a search for something beyond the rituals.
With a very enthusiastic nod, I agreed. “Alright, beta. We will go.” His voice was calm, yet within me, a quiet storm brewed. I wasn’t sure if my body would endure the journey, but some journeys were meant to be taken, regardless of one’s condition.
And so, preparations began.
The Struggle to Get There
Satyajeet took care of everything—tickets, accommodation, and planning.
The journey began much before we even set foot in Prayagraj. Getting train tickets was a challenge—we booked them over a month in advance, yet they remained on the waitlist. Ultimately, through an agent and at double the price, we secured First AC tickets. Finding accommodation during this period was equally tough, adding to the stress.
Even up to two days before departure, our tickets remained on the waitlist, but we managed to get them confirmed just in time.
We started from Pune on 8/2/25 by 11AM bus to Lokmanya Tilak Terminus Mumbai for a train LTTE to Patna ( now Deen Dayal Upaddhyay Nagar). The bus started an hour late and so instead of LTT we got down at Kolabadi and took an auto to Kalyan junction. Auto took 90 minutes. We arrived at Kalyan at 2:30 PM. The train LTTE from Lok Manya Tilak Terminus arrived here after 15 minutes.
Arrival in Prayagraj: A Sea of Humanity
Our train reached Prayagraj’s Cheoki station two hours late. The platform was overflowing with people—there wasn’t even space to place a foot. Due to the massive crowd, the train had to wait at the outer signal for another two hours before entering the station.
From there, no vehicles were allowed within 5-10 kilometers of the Mela area depending on which side one was travelling from . We were fortunate to find a local scooter driver willing to take us, albeit at a higher fare of ?700. Squeezing onto a single scooter—Sanam( Satyajeet), myself, our luggage (two suitcases and two bags), and the driver—we embarked on a 13-kilometer ride that took over an hour to reach our hotel.Seven hundred rupees wasn’t a high fare after all I mused.
The roads were chaotic, constantly changing due to crowd control. The sheer magnitude of the gathering was beyond imagination—a jan samudra (ocean of people).
The First Evening: A Holy Dip in Sangam
Sanam had planned for us to take a dip in the holy waters the next morning, expecting lesser crowds. However, I was determined to seize any opportunity that arose.
After settling in at the hotel near Sector 3, about five kilometers from the Sangam, we set out in the evening. The plan was simple—explore the temples first and, if possible, take a dip. Walking several kilometers, crossing blocked roads, and navigating the throngs of pilgrims, we finally arrived at the sacred site.
The Sangam area was divided into multiple sectors, with over 35 ghats for bathing, changing rooms for women, and massive lighting structures illuminating the riverbanks. We passed by the Adi Shankaracharya Temple, various akhadas, and even caught glimpses of Naga Sadhus.
Then, at last, we reached the exact confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati.
Sanam stayed back to hold our belongings, ready with the mobile camera. I had come prepared, already dressed in my bathing attire. Without hesitation, I stepped into the river, my heart pounding with excitement.
I chanted prayers, remembering Ma, Baba, Didi, and our ancestors, invoking Ma Ganga and the divine forces. I took four quick dubkis (holy dips) and then, overcome with spiritual ecstasy, continued dipping repeatedly. The river’s current was strong, making it difficult to stand still. The water was surprisingly warmer than expected, despite the winter season.
Although I had been suffering from fever and a cold before coming, the moment I entered the holy waters, I felt rejuvenated. Emerging from the river, I handed over the bags to Sanam and accompanied him for his turn.
By the time we finished, it was 9:15 PM to 10:15 PM on the night of 9th February 2025—the very day we had arrived. We changed into fresh clothes, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace and fulfillment.
Hungry and exhausted, we wandered through the streets, trying to explore other places. It was 1 AM by the time we finally had dinner and returned to the hotel, collapsing into bed past 2 AM.
The Next Day: Ashrams, Akhadas, and Devotion
On 10th February 2025, we set out to explore the spiritual heart of the Kumbh. The entire area was lined with ashrams and tents housing thousands of sanyasis who had arrived from across India—from the Himalayas, Kashi, Ganga Sagar, and Shankaracharya Maths, to akhadas from Punjab, Gujarat, Maharashtra, and the southern states.
Unfortunately, we had missed the grand Shahi Snan (royal bathing ceremony) on 3rd February (Basant Panchami), after which many of the most revered saints had departed. However, a few sanyasis remained, awaiting the Maghi Purnima Snan on 11th-12th February.
Sanam was particularly interested in visiting Juna Akhada, one of the oldest and most famous sects of Naga Sadhus. We met several sadhus, some covered entirely in ash, others deep in meditation. One sadhu, balancing on one foot while holding onto a jhula (swing), had a 108-bead Rudraksha mala weighing over 10 kg stacked atop his head.
Another sadhu, seated before a sacred fire, was giving a live interview to a TV channel. Many of these sadhus were highly educated, fluent in multiple languages, and deeply knowledgeable about scriptures.
In another tent, two foreign devotees sat among the Naga Sadhus, one smoking a chillum. Surprisingly, I was allowed to take a photograph. I also received prasad and was fortunate to receive a Rudraksha bead from a sadhu’s assistant.
Before leaving, we refreshed ourselves with sugarcane juice and Sanam purchased a conch and Rudraksha malas for Budlu and Rubina. I bought Hindi storybooks from Gita Press for Budlu.
The Vastness of Kumbh: An Unparalleled Gathering
Traveling across the Kumbh Mela grounds was an adventure in itself. The area stretched for miles, with makeshift bridges constructed over the Yamuna River. It took us over half an hour on a motorcycle to cross, maneuvering through enthusiastic devotees, blocked roads, and sandy pathways lined with steel barricades.
Despite the crores of people visiting, the entire area was kept meticulously clean. Continuous sanitation efforts, security forces, and volunteers ensured order amid the chaos—something even well-established cities fail to achieve.
Announcements over loudspeakers helped reunite lost pilgrims with their families. The sheer scale of planning, logistics, and infrastructure put into managing this divine event was astonishing.
A Sweet End to the Pilgrimage
By afternoon, Sanam was craving the famous Netram kachori, rabri, and amriti. The rush at the shop was overwhelming, but we waited patiently to savor the delicacies.
While there, I called my cousin sister, Baby, and arranged a visit to her home in Vasant Vihar, near Asha Hospital. She was overjoyed to see us, and so was Khokanda. It had been years since we met, and the emotions ran high.
Over sweets and samosas, we reminisced about old times—about Lily Mashi, my mother, and our past in Nagpur and Baroda.
Before leaving, I bought Lavang Latika and Bengali sweets for Baby. From there, we visited the Kali Bari temple, Maharshi Bharadwaj Mandir, and Vasuki Temple before returning to our hotel, hearts full and spirits enriched.
This was our journey to Kumbh Mela 2025—a pilgrimage of faith, devotion, and a deep connection to our roots. A once-in-a-lifetime experience that will forever be etched in memory.
Shivanand Acharya, born in Dongargarh, Chhattisgarh, pursued his education across multiple towns before joining bank service, later earning BA and MA degrees in Economics. Coming from a distinguished literary and artistic lineage, his father was a poet and dramatist, and his grandfather a renowned artist.
Priyanka Rath
In a world marked by rapid technological advancements, economic uncertainties, and a constant bombardment of information, the quest for inner peace and meaning has never been more significant. Many turn to spirituality as a guiding force, but often, it is confused with religion. While both serve as pathways to understanding the deeper aspects of existence, they differ fundamentally in approach and practice.
Understanding Spirituality and Religion
Religion is traditionally defined by organized beliefs, practices, and institutions that guide communities in their faith. Created initially for communal identity and inclusivity it has evolved into sectarian conflicts and extremism. What was created initially to be a moral compass is today leveraged to get away with atrocities. From “Animism” to” Dogmatism” is a journey of ages, man’s eternal need for supremacy means that from “wall paintings” to “social media “it’s not a choice but a compulsion to belong.
Spirituality, on the other hand, is an Individual’s journey. It transcends rituals and doctrines, emphasizing self-awareness, inner growth, and a connection to something greater—whether that be the universe, divine energy, or a higher self. Unlike religion, spirituality does not require adherence to a specific belief system; rather, it encourages exploration and personal experience. It is different for every being and no two people experience it in exactly the same way. While society and upbringing influence a lot of it what makes the difference is your life experiences, your sense of achievements, your trauma’s that shape the real you. There is no right or wrong, there is just the inner knowing. There is no moral compass that is stronger than your own and no misplaced sense of obligations can replace it.
Why Spirituality Matters Today
The modern world is witnessing a shift—many people identify as ‘spiritual but not religious’ (SBNR). This shift reflects a growing desire for inner peace and self-discovery without institutional constraints. Spirituality encourages mindfulness, compassion, and purpose—qualities that are crucial in an era of stress, anxiety, and disconnection.
For instance, meditation and mindfulness, often associated with spirituality, are now widely recognized for their benefits in reducing stress and enhancing well-being. A corporate executive who practices mindfulness finds clarity amidst workplace pressures. A single mother relying on daily affirmations discovers resilience in the face of challenges. These are examples of spirituality at work—helping individuals navigate life’s struggles with grace and inner strength.
Corporate executives now turn to meditation to enhance focus and decision-making. Athletes use visualization techniques rooted in spiritual teachings to improve performance. Even scientists, once dismissive of metaphysical ideas, are beginning to explore concepts like consciousness and energy fields that align with spiritual thought.
But is it only for an individual’s growth that spirituality matters? Positive emotions connect cultural practices with well-being through a process known as a positive spiral: a psychology concept detailing how the (emotional) consequences of an individual’s actions can affect their initial behaviours (Fredrickson, 2001). So an enlightened individual gives back to the society and isn’t that what we are all looking for. History has proved that all the collective teachings of the world do not stop us at that pivotal point in life from taking a step that kills humanity. So what does? We ourselves, our inner voice our conscience .
Religion and Spirituality: Can They Coexist?
While spirituality and religion are different, they are not mutually exclusive. Many religious individuals are deeply spiritual, using faith as a medium for personal transformation. A devout Christian may find spirituality in prayer, just as a Buddhist experiences it in meditation. The key distinction lies in perspective: religion often provides a communal experience of faith, whereas spirituality fosters an individual’s personal relationship with the divine or the universe.
Embracing spirituality does not require renouncing the material world. So, no you don’t need to be come a Sadhu to have spirituality in life. The secret to finding meaning in life may be not to look for it. Psychiatrist Victor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, famously wrote about how he held onto meaning and purpose as a counter to suffering. However, he advised against actively searching for meaning, instead suggesting that meaning should ensue as a side effect of pursuing other goals Instead, Spirituality is not about renouncing life , it is about living it with balance …finding moments of stillness amid chaos, practicing gratitude, and fostering genuine human connections.
As we navigate an increasingly unpredictable world, spirituality offers a beacon of light, reminding us that true fulfilment comes not from external achievements but from an awakened inner state. So what do we teach our next generation…..to learn, to believe, to explore, beyond of what is dictated. To know that religion is food for the soul and not a source of cognitive dissonance. Perhaps, in the end, the greatest revolution of our times will not be technological but spiritual—the rediscovery of our own divine essence in a world that often forgets to pause and reflect.
Priyanka is a strong advocate of “Thought Leadership”. With a keen eye for innovation and a dedication to excellence, she has built her career in talent acquisition, workforce planning, and resource optimization. She is a B.E and an MBA from ICFAI Business School and is currently associated with one of the largest consulting firms globally as a leader in her space.
Beyond work, Priyanka is an avid reader and traveller, finding joy in exploring the world and learning new things every day. She strongly believes that growing the next generation is all about investing in people—empowering them with knowledge, opportunities, and values to shape a better future
Snehaprava Das
A big full moon shone in the cloudless sky like a round plate of silver. Above it a few stars blinked sleepily at one another. Down below the river was a ribbon of sparkling blue. The ripples curled passionately when the cool breeze wafted over them.
The fairy looked at the earth below. She loved to roam about the moon washed forests. So she came floating down waving her fairy wings, her frilly white mantle billowing in the fragrant wind.
She landed by the river and sat down. The river sang sweetly to her and the gentle breeze caressed the flounces of her gown. She sat for a long time listening to the river-song
Then she dozed off.
A small sound that was somewhat a mix-up of a whimper and a moan brought her awake. She pricked her ears snd tried to listen while her curious gaze travelled around to detect the source of the sound.
It came from a near by thicket to her left. The fairy rose and wandered to the thicket. She looked closely at a tiny white bundle that lay on a partially shaded patch. The soft whimper was heard again, now more clear and more exact. It came from the tiny bundle. The fairy sat down beside it and tried to see inside. A newborn baby, swathed in white clothes moaned beating its tiny arms and legs as if complaining of the discomfort and hunger. The fairy picked up the baby fondly and held it in her arms. The baby stopped whimpering as if it could sense that it was in safe hands.
The fairy took off the white cloth the baby was tucked in. It was a baby girl, lovely and pink like a fresh bloom of rose. The fairy waved her magic wand. The trees bent down their branches and made a small leaf- cottage for her. The thick grass made a soft carpet of green. The fairy walked into the leaf hut carrying the baby girl in her arms. She waved her magic wand again and a silver bowl full of milk appeared instantly. She fed the baby girl milk with a silver spoon.
The baby smiled at her, the fairy smiled at the baby and the moon smiled at them.
The fairy made a baby bed with tender leaves and put the baby in it and sang a lullaby. The baby went to sleep and dreamt of the fairy. The fairy did not return to the fairyland above and stayed back.
She waved her magic wand and turned the modest leaf-hut to a big wooden house. She grew many flowering plants in the large patch of land in front of the house. There were roses of all colours, chrysanthemums, cannas, and jasmines. The fairy tended them with love and they grew lovely flowers. A big, bushy jasmine plant that grew large flowers was her most favourite. The jasmines looked bright and shone like silver sequins in the moonlight.
She named the baby Jasmine-Joy.
Seasons came and went. Days and nights rolled into months and months to years. Jasmine-Joy grew up under the care of her fairy mother to become a beautiful young woman. The fairy trained her in singing and dancing. The girl sang like a nightingale and danced like a sprite. She looked like a wingless fairy. The fairy never let Jasmine-Joy out of her sight fearing that some wild animal might bring harm to her.
Jasmine-Joy sang with the birds, danced by the river and slept tucked in the white mantle of her fairy mother.
She woke up to the bird songs,swam in the river, sprinted after the dears. She loved when sunlight filtered through the dense foliages of the trees and made patterns on the forest floor. She danced to the rain rhythm, sang under the magic shadow of the floating moonbeam. When the fairy watched her dancing and heard her singing she was overwhelmed with a strange rapture. She decked the girl with floral tiara, floral armlets, floral hair bands.
'Mother what is there beyond our forest?'
Jasmine-Joy asked as they sat together on the moonlit river bank.
'There are big cities and villages out there. There are big concrete buildings and motor- run vehicles. The automobiles rush along wide asphalt roads making a loud noise. '
'Who live in those buildings? Who travel in the automobiles?'
Humans like you live in the huge buildings. There are small houses too. Some humans live in those houses because they are poor.'
'What is poor, mother?'
'Because they do not have enough money to buy good food or good clothes.'
'We are living in this wooden house. We eat only what we get in this forest. We do not have that thing called 'money ' with which humans get good food and good clothes and good houses. Are we poor, mother?'
'We are happy, even if we do not have money. We are not poor because Nature has provided us all we need to live. Are you not happy?'
'Very!' Jasmine-Joy said. 'But I want to see the city. I want to see how humans live in the big concrete buildings and ride motor run vehicles. Mother, can I go to the city ? I will come back as soon as possible, ' Jasmine-Joy asked.
'No.' The fairy said firmly. ' Cities are dangerous places, and the humans are dangerous too. I can't put you at risk. '
'I will not be gone for long. I will hide myself somewhere safe and see the humans, the buildings, the streets and the automobiles. Please mother... just for a little while.'
Jasmine-Joy implored. There was such a deep yearning in her big eloquent eyes that the fairy could not refuse.
'But make sure to come back before it gets dark. ' The fairy said , a strange premonition gnawing at her heart.
'I will mother. Don't you worry' .Jasmine-Joy hugged her fairy mother, kissed her and sprinted away towards the edge of the forest..The fairy stood watching at the departing figure. She stood there in the garden a long time after Jasmine-Joy disappeared. She touched the big satin blooms of jasmine fondly. She came out of the garden but did not go inside the big wooden house. She sat on a wooden bench on the porch of the house and waited for Jasmine-Joy.
The afternoon sun dragged itself slowly to the west. The loud chirpings of birds filled the sky as they flew back to their nests. The fairy was a bit worried. There was no sign of Jasmine-Joy. The sun took.a plunge down. The fading crimson in the west melted into the gray black of the approaching evening. Soon it would be dark.
The fairy went in and lit the candle in the tall silver candle stand.
Where was Jasmine-Joy?
The fairy came out. She paced about the garden restlessly.
A strong wind began to blow. Would there be a storm?.The fairy's heart beat hard. She was sick with fear.
What had happened to the girl?
Had she lost her way?
Had she been harmed?
The wind whistled through the trees. Crooked lightning flashed continuously ripping apart the darkness of the evening. The thunder crashed with a vengeful violence.
A gusy of wind blew past the jasmine bush and the plant drooped helplessly I the slashing rain. The wind tore at the flowers and shoved them down to the ground. The fairy stared fearfully at the big white flowers. In the flitting light of the lightning something caught her eye.
A thin red line .....
......flowing slowly from under the bush. She moved closer and squinted at it. Her startling hand pressed her mouth tightly to kill the scream that was about to escape.
It was not a flowing red line!
It was blood!!
The jasmines were scratched all over and smeared in red. Her heart at her mouth the fairy peered into the darkness. The rain had slowed down. The thunder was a distant rumble. The lightning too had lost its force.
Suddenly she saw a white figure in a distance. It was moving towards the house. The fairy ran out of the garden.
Yes, it was Jasmine-Joy!!
She lurched towards the house. The fairy feared that she might fall any moment and ran towards her stretching out her arms. But Jasmine-Joy wailed loudly and pushing the fairy aside ran into the house. In the faint after-storm-light the fairy saw that the girl's wind blown hair was smeared with dirt and dust. There were unmistakable blood stains on the flouncy white gown. A thin scream escaped the fairy.
Jasmine-Joy entered the house and shut the heavy wooden door behind her with a bang. The fairy rapped frantically at the door.
Open up darling! She cried.
'Let me in. I will set everything right. Don't you worry at all my child!!'
But Jasmine-Joy did not open the door nor did she give any answer.
The fairy slumped on the wooden bench on the porch. She shut her eyes and prayed and waited for Jasmine-Joy's agitated mind to calm down a bit.
She smelt the smoke before she could see it. Thick clouds of black smoke were swirling out through the windows and from under the door. Then almost at the same moment she saw the ugly curls of fire and felt the heat.
Her heart gave a somersault and she screamed out loudly beating at the door with all her strength. She perhaps could have got the fire put out with her fairy power but her magic wand was inside the house. In a frenzy of terror she ran around the house to find out some way to save Jasmine-Joy. She could hear her muffled screams amidst the loud hiss and crackle. Her mantle caught fire and soon she was engulfed in the flames. She flapped her fairy wings and climbed up into the air. Below her the big house was an enormous blaze of red and orange and yellow.
The fairy tried to move faster, but her wings too had caught fire. The burning crumples of her white mantle and gown drifted in the air. She tried hard to soar but her broken and half burnt wings made it almost impossible. The fairy swayed in the air like a flaming silver bird for sometime and then disappeared in the vast emptiness between the earth and the sky.
Next morning a rain-washed sun shone on the huge debris of the house. Nothing was left of it. The garden with all its roses and jasmines and chrysanthemums had become a huge heap of black ash.
Below the debris something glittered in the early sunlight.
It was the half melted silver magic wand of the fairy.
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.
Hema Ravi
Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk
A final brood call and then, they soared upward in a V formation after paying their respects to their loving friend. Incredible! All that I had seen in frames, I witnessed live.
And now, she’d be gazing at them from the heavens above.
Did you notice the tears in their eyes, Robert? He nodded. I wonder how they knew about her passing away. Extrasensory perception? My rational mind was unable to comprehend the bonding Glory shared with these winged beauties.
How often had I teased: Hey, Glory, what if they all turned into noblemen?
‘The Bird Lover’ aka ‘The Prince as Bird,’ is a folklore where a woman acquires a bird lover – a nobleman in the shape of a bird, wounded by means of a trap set up by the woman’s husband. The woman follows the bird’s trail, cures him, and eventually marries him.
Glory would just let out that characteristic enchanting smile. She spoke little, and she was engrossed in that world of hers – feeding, cleaning, caressing, talking… and watching the flock fly away year after year. An ornithophile, she seemed to understand their language, their calls, hiss, honks, cackle… and all that to a dogmatic mind as mine made little sense or impact.
All until this avian display!
Glory was the unsung heroine of the Greyport neighborhood. Having been raised in its green environs, she was a nature lover in every way. Her interest grew further when she took up Science as a major in school and in college, and later qualified to become a librarian in the government library. This further triggered her passion; she was immersed in her world of books for a major part of her life, until she took premature retirement from work.
Among the people who inspired her was Rosalie Edge, who dived deep into the avian world after reading about the slaughter of 70000 bald eagles in Alaska. As Rosalie, Glory had that ‘yearning toward nature, a deep-seated need to preserve its beauty,’ had the ‘wakeful intellect and indomitable passion’ for all life forms, particularly the feathered beings.
Unlike Rosalie’s, Glory’s work was unknown to the world at large as she made herself invisible and less vocal, except when she was with her feathered companions. Glory lost her mother, her only family, while she was in college. Glory’s mother supported her education by selling cookies and cakes. Lucia’s cookies were unique, and she had a regular clientele by virtue of which she could sustain herself and educate Glory.
Glory’s world collapsed at the untimely demise of her beloved mother; however, she regained her composure soon. She had nerves of steel! She completed her education and took up employment.
Well! How did she come to befriend this flock of Canada geese in the sleepy neighborhood that was vibrant only during Christmas and the New Year? Before I get to that, I’d like to talk a little about our salubrious neighborhood.
Despite its proximity to the largest freshwater lake, adjacent to the bustling city, Greyport was home to middle-income groups, semi-retired and retired people who could not afford the rising inflation. The affluent class, the tech-savvy gen preferred the din and bustle of the neighboring town, which was the ‘happening’ place.
Glory was the chief librarian of the only library that was frequented by the senior citizens and their grandchildren. Even though she spoke little, her cheerful demeanor attracted all. Her knowledge of all subjects was deeply appreciated by the younger generation. As teachers of the only public school in the neighborhood, Robert and I invited her often to address the high schoolers on various social issues, which she delivered to maximum satisfaction; more often surpassing our expectations. She was the go-to person for teenagers and adults; I have no qualms in admitting she was a mentor of sorts.
If anything, we countryside people dread, it is a gaggle of geese flying overhead, it is no ‘friendly’ sight for us. While migrating, these noisy birds would not hesitate to trespass into our backyards and degrade them beyond recognition.
It is a mammoth task for homeowners to clean up the ‘mountain’ of poop, without stepping over them. And if they get an opportunity to enter once, they will come back year after year.
To prevent these large birds from stepping into our backyards, we made plenty of noises. Our canines shooed them away. Even then, we had to ensure our pets did not kill them. Who knows what pathogens and bacteria these wild birds carried?
The only place they were welcomed was Glory’s home. Glory’s cottage was small, her backyard was large and open. Large birds could swoop down and feast over the grains strewn, and swim in the shallow pool at the edge of the garden. Even while she worked, Glory found time to keep the backyard clean and never flinched when she had to clean the tons of excrement. Never was it unkempt or ugly! She wore a mask and donned her overalls; after the cleanup, had a shower before she headed to the library in her neatly pressed ankle-length frock and jacket.
After her retirement, Glory worked non-stop in the backyard to keep it clean, and let the birds enjoy their brief stay during migration. Passersby were amused to see her conversing with the birds in their language. They were not as aggressive towards her, there was an unexplained bond between them.
I’ve no fondness for these winged creatures, and I’ve always managed to stay out of their way.
One afternoon, as I was walking my dog in the park, I saw a student racing towards me. He was yelling and shrieking as he came towards me. Watch Out! That guy o’er there has scratched me so hard that I’m bleeding. Had your dog not barked, he would’ve chased me further and broken a few bones too!
Apparently, he went too close to a family to admire the goslings. Mother Goose, in an instinct to protect her young, is menacing; in self-defense, she is known to bite and scratch to chase away intruders.
I took the student home and passed on some first aid.
Many residents have complained about the Branta canadensis – the cacophony as they fly past us in the stillness of the night. When I asked Glory about this, she shared several insights.
The ‘V formations’ are extraordinary. The ‘lead goose’ is the ‘lowest’ of the bunch, each one behind is slightly higher, and the last goose is flying the ‘highest’. And this is because of the ‘aerodynamics’ of their wings. The lead goose- ‘point man’ is the one flapping its wings, this causes turbulence, and the next one benefits from this swirling air. This way, they can fly farther with minimal effort. And when the point man gets tired, he drops back to rest, and another takes the position. Under favorable weather conditions, they can fly up to 1500 miles in a day! Isn’t that remarkable?
When I asked her again about the reason for the night flight, Glory replied:
Nights are cooler, taking advantage of this, they soar higher and faster. Again, they’ve no fear of diurnal predators such as hawks and eagles. You may have heard of bird deaths at the hands of aircrafts in mid-air. Rather than culling birds, it is fine to use sophisticated radars and other equipment to monitor bird movement, particularly at nighttime.
Flight is their natural mode of locomotion. They need to feed, breed, migrate and avoid natural and unnatural predators. Like humans, they have a right to live, live free and soar through the skies, not be killed or be kept captive.
For Glory’s funeral, the whole town got together. Along with the local heads, Robert and I spent hours choosing the headstone that would befit Glory; after all, she deserved to be remembered by future generations as well! Although wing headstones are chosen for couples, we opted for this, as we could place the statue of a Canada goose atop it when it got ready.
As Robert and I stood quietly after all left, we were pleasantly surprised to hear the Honk! Not wanting any shower of blessing from the winged geese, we moved aside and stood watching. The flock descended, walked around the wing headstone, and with the customary ‘honk’ took off. No droppings, the place was clean!
A year has passed. Robert and I are at Glory’s grave to offer flowers. To my astonishment and disbelief, the flock of geese has preceded us…
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
Meena Mishra
TIL sat by the window, staring out into the soft morning light as it filtered through the trees. Her mind wandered back to a memory long buried, one that had often appeared in fleeting moments, but today, it felt more vivid than ever. It was a memory from her childhood—a time when life was simpler, but also full of the little pains and joys that shaped who she was to become.
She remembered Hazaribagh, the small town where her family had lived before moving to a larger city. Their house was humble, with narrow lanes and a view of green fields that stretched endlessly in the distance. It had been a warm home—seven members living under one roof: TIL’s parents, her two younger siblings, her paternal uncle (kaka), her grandmother, and herself. TIL’s memories from those days were a bit blurry, but there were flashes of love, tension, and family unity woven throughout.
TIL’s Maa had always been the heart of their home. She juggled everything—taking care of the children, preparing breakfast, making sure the tea was brewed just right for Papa and packing lunch for Papa and his brother, TIL’s Kaka, who was still in school. Despite her best efforts, the burden weighed heavily on Maa, and it often showed in the tiredness that lingered in her eyes.
Maa’s kitchen was always a hive of activity. The smoke from the chulha—the coal stove that had to be painstakingly lit each morning—clung to the air, the smell of boiling water mixing with the warmth of the cooking pots. It was a slow process, the chulha needing time to heat up properly. And so, every morning, the whole family waited eagerly for the kettle of tea that Maa prepared with such care.
On this particular morning, however, a small, persistent voice interrupted the quiet rhythm of the kitchen.
“Maa, please apply nail paint for me,” TIL’s voice rang out, high-pitched and full of impatience.
Maa looked up from the kettle, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m busy right now, dear. I need to finish making tea, then prepare breakfast, and pack tiffin for Papa and Kaka. We’ll do it later.”
TIL’s tiny face scrunched up in defiance. “No, Maa, please! I want it now!”
Maa, weary from the demands of the morning, added the last bit of tea to the kettle, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Go play, TIL. I’ll do it once I’m done here.”
But TIL wasn’t ready to let it go. Her small hands gripped the bottle of nail paint tightly, her eyes pleading.
“Please, Maa, just a little! You promised yesterday!”
The kitchen was thick with the smell of boiling water and simmering spices. Papa, who had been sitting in the living room after drinking his glass of water, overheard the exchange. His temper, already on edge, flared at TIL’s persistent whining. His mood was unpredictable—at times kind and loving, at other times sharp and angry.
Before anyone could react, Papa stood up suddenly and, without warning, hit TIL on the head with the steel glass he had been holding. The sound of the impact echoed in the room, a sharp, painful sound that startled everyone.
TIL staggered back, holding her head, tears welling up in her eyes. The shock of it left her silent for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. Maa froze, her face pale, as she turned to look at her husband.
Her grandmother, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, observing the whole situation, rose to her feet in a flash.
“How dare you hit her?” her voice was calm but firm, carrying the weight of years of wisdom.
“She is just a little girl. How could you do that?”
Papa’s face flushed with a mix of shame and anger.
“She was being a nuisance. I’ve had enough of her nagging!” he said in a soft tone.
“You think that justifies hitting her?” Granny’s voice was stern.
“I had eight children. Do you ever remember me hitting you for doing something like this?”
Papa lowered his gaze, guilt slowly creeping into his expression. He was trying to justify himself, but the words didn’t come.
“I’m sorry, Maa. I’ll be more patient.”
But Granny wasn’t done yet.
“Avoid hitting children. They are not pawns to be controlled with anger.”
TIL, still crying softly, was comforted by her grandmother, who gathered her into her lap. The older woman wrapped her saree (aanchal) around TIL’s small frame, trying to soothe her as she continued to wail.
“I’m sorry, TIL,” Papa said softly, his voice shaking.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll never do it again. Please, forgive me.”
TIL, through her tears, sniffled and looked up at her father. She didn’t fully understand what had happened, but the pain was real. Her small hand reached up, touching the spot on her head where the glass had struck.
Before anyone could say anything more, something caught Papa’s eye.
He gasped and pointed. “Maa! TIL is bleeding!”
TIL’s grandmother quickly lifted her aanchal to inspect the wound, and to their horror, she saw a small cut on TIL’s forehead where the glass had hit her. The blood was slowly trickling down, staining the white fabric of her saree red.
“Oh God!” Papa muttered, rushing to her side.
“Let me clean it. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
Granny’s eyes were filled with disappointment.
“What have you done?” she whispered, but her tone was not accusatory—just full of sorrow. “You’ve hurt your own daughter.”
TIL, still sobbing, felt the sting of the injury, but she also felt the overwhelming love from her grandmother, who was wiping away her tears with gentle hands.
Maa, her heart breaking, sat down next to TIL, pulling her into her arms.
“My baby,” she whispered, rocking her gently.
“I’m so sorry.”
In that moment, the family’s collective guilt filled the room, heavier than the smoke from the chulha.
Papa stood there, ashamed, unable to find the right words. Maa wept quietly, holding her daughter, her heart torn with the realisation that her little girl had suffered because of her inability to balance everything.
TIL’s siblings, who had been playing in the other room, rushed to her side. Seeing their older sister in pain, they too began to cry, not fully understanding what had happened, but feeling the weight of the sorrow in the air.
Granny, ever the matriarch, stood tall and told Papa,
“You must send Vijay (TIL’s Kaka) to the doctor. Now!”
Papa nodded, feeling like a man who had failed his family. He had never felt so small in his life.
“I will,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
The doctor arrived not long after. He was a calm, middle-aged man who had treated the family for years. He took one look at TIL’s forehead and smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, baby. It’s not as bad as it seems.”
He dressed the wound carefully, cleaning it and applying antiseptic, all the while trying to make TIL feel at ease. As he finished, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small chocolate, offering it to her with a smile.
“Here, for being brave,” he said, placing the chocolate in her small hands.
TIL’s eyes lit up, and for a moment, the pain faded. She looked up at the doctor and smiled shyly. “Thank you, Doctor Uncle.”
Then, after a pause, she added, “Doctor Uncle, can you give some chocolates to my siblings too?”
The doctor chuckled at her innocent request and handed a few chocolates to her siblings, who had gathered around, looking anxiously at their older sister.
“Of course,” he said. “They deserve it too.”
As he finished up, he wrote out a prescription and handed it to Maa, who had not stopped holding TIL in her lap.
“Just a few days of rest, and she’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly.
“Keep her calm.”
Maa, still tearful but grateful, nodded.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
After the doctor left, Maa returned to her task of taking care of the household, but not before she reached for the bottle of nail polish that TIL had begged for earlier.
“Okay, baby,” Maa said, her voice soft, as she sat beside her daughter. “Let me do your nails for you.”
TIL looked up at her mother, and for the first time that day, her heart felt light. “No, Maa,” she said, her voice full of understanding. “You finish your other chores first. When you’re free, then you can do this for me.”
Maa smiled through her tears, and with a soft, gentle kiss on TIL’s forehead, she stood up and moved to the next room.
In that small, humble home, amidst the sorrow and the apologies, the family found their way back to each other. Love, even in the darkest moments, still held them together.
And in the days that followed, TIL learned something that would stay with her forever: that even the most imperfect moments could be softened with love, and the wounds of the heart could heal, slowly, but surely, with time.
But today, TIL’s mother had discovered her own truth. Motherhood taught her that nothing mattered more than her child. Everything else could pause for a while. She returned from the other room with the nail paint bottle in her hand.
“Come, my love,” she whispered, “let me paint your nails first. The world can wait for just a few minutes.” She wrapped her little one in a warm embrace, savouring the quiet moment before the rush of the day resumed.
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets.
She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles are published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 100 books in 3 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- book various editions for students and teachers .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. Recently published books ‘Cascades- Treasure Trove of Short Stories had 104 educators across the country getting published .She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has been the recipient of Wordsmith Award- 2019 for her short story , “Pindaruch,” from the Asian Literary Society. She has received many awards in 2020 for her contribution to the field of education and literature. She has received ‘ Most Outstanding Teacher of the Year Award,’ during World Education Summit in Feb-2021. Her poems have been translated and published in Spanish magazine. Her latest book – The Impish Lass- Part 2 ( TIL Stories and More) has received raving reviews from the readers including the greatest Indian Nuclear Scientist Dr. R. Chidambaram. It has received 5 stars rating on Amazon .
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
Shri Satish Pashine
1. The Visitor
Mira had always liked silence. Not the uncomfortable, strained kind, but the gentle, calming presence of stillness. It wasn’t that she disliked people—she just found their constant need for chatter exhausting. Small talk, nostalgia-filled conversations, exaggerated tales of the past—none of it interested her.
Her husband, Anirudh, was the complete opposite. His school friends were an inseparable part of his life, their gatherings endless loops of laughter, old mischiefs, and the same stories repeated over and over. Mira had long mastered the art of sitting quietly among them, nodding at the right places, but never truly engaging. If anyone noticed, they assumed she was simply indifferent, and she let them believe that. It was easier that way.
Then came the week that disrupted her carefully maintained balance.
Anirudh’s old school friend, Gautam, was visiting the city. He had planned to stay in a hotel, but a last-minute change of plans led to Anirudh insisting that he and his wife, Anupama, stay at their home.
Mira had resigned herself to tolerating their presence. She had done it before.
But then, an unexpected work emergency took Anirudh out of town for four days—leaving her alone with Gautam and Anupama.
2. The Adjustments
Gautam, like Anirudh, was full of stories. But unlike her husband, he had a certain gentleness about him—he didn’t dominate conversations but instead wove everyone into them. He spoke to Mira as if she had been a part of their school days, despite her having no connection to them.
She listened politely but remained distant. The forced camaraderie was tiring.
One afternoon, as they sat in the living room, Gautam chuckled at his own story about a school cricket match. Mira sipped her tea, waiting for a pause in the conversation.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he finally asked, noticing her quiet presence.
Mira hesitated, then said simply, “Not really.”
Gautam smiled. “Neither do I, actually. At least not in the way Anirudh and the others do. I just try to fill up the silent spaces, but I suppose that sounds like noise to people who prefer quiet.”
Mira looked up, surprised by his honesty. “Then why stay in touch with them? If you don’t enjoy it?”
Gautam shrugged. “Habit, mostly. And a little bit of nostalgia. But honestly? I don’t belong in their endless loops of the past.”
Something in his tone made Mira pause. There was no desperate attempt to pull her into his stories, no expectation for her to contribute. Just an understanding.
She softened, ever so slightly.
3. The Household Shifts
Anupama, on the other hand, was different. She wasn’t much of a talker, but she was a doer. She took over the kitchen, gave instructions to the cook, rearranged the spice jars, and disrupted the quiet order Mira had carefully maintained.
The first time Mira found her moving things around, she took a deep breath before speaking.
“We keep the salt here,” she said, her tone measured. “It’s easier to reach while cooking.”
Anupama smiled. “Oh! I thought it would be better near the dining table. You know, for when we need extra.”
“We don’t usually need extra,” Mira replied, keeping her voice even.
These small interferences continued. Mira found herself constantly pushing back, politely but firmly. Over time, Anupama got the hint and withdrew, though a quiet tension lingered between them.
To avoid disrupting the household, Gautam and Anupama washed their laundry while bathing. They didn’t use the washer, as it was only run when full, but needed daily washing since they were living out of their suitcases. Despite the large courtyard, drying space was limited because Anirudh’s family preferred a covered area to prevent neighbors from peeking in.
One afternoon, as Mira walked past the courtyard, she noticed a sari fluttering on the clothesline. It was Anupama’s.
She sighed and walked back inside. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was another small adjustment she hadn’t chosen.
4. The Shift
By the second evening, something unexpected happened.
Mira had braced herself for more chatter, but to her surprise, Gautam had settled into a quiet rhythm. He read books, worked on his laptop, and didn’t seem to mind the silence.
Over dinner, he glanced at her and said, “I think silence is underrated.”
Mira nodded. “Most people fear it.”
“But not us.”
“No,” she agreed, a small smile forming. “Not us.”
For the next few days, their interactions became effortless. They had meals together, exchanged brief thoughts about books or the news, but there was no pressure to entertain or engage unnecessarily. It was a kind of companionship Mira had rarely experienced.
5. The Unexpected Ally
On Friday evening, Gautam’s daughter, Rhea, arrived. She was in her late twenties, working in a media firm, and full of energy. Mira expected the usual pleasantries, but Rhea surprised her.
Within minutes of settling in, she looked around and sighed dramatically.
“Please tell me, Mira, that my dad hasn’t been boring you with his nostalgic school stories.”
Mira blinked. “Actually, no. He’s been unusually quiet.”
Rhea raised an eyebrow at her father. “That’s a first. He usually goes on about school until people beg him to stop.”
Gautam shook his head. “That’s Anirudh, not me.”
Rhea smirked. “Oh no, you’re just a quieter version. Less dramatic, but still a school-story veteran.”
For the first time in days, Mira laughed.
Over dinner, as Gautam started recounting a mildly amusing anecdote, Rhea interrupted.
“You know what I don’t get?” she said, glancing at Mira. “Why do school friendships demand such aggressive loyalty? It’s like their entire identity is frozen in time.”
Mira chuckled. “Exactly! And the worst part? They act as if nothing interesting ever happened after school.”
Gautam sighed. “Fine. Maybe we do get stuck in the past a little.”
Rhea grinned. “A little? You people are like time capsules.”
That weekend, Mira and Rhea bonded over their shared impatience with nostalgia. They mockingly created a “Banned Topics List” for the next school gathering, which included:
1. Any story that starts with “Remember that time in school when…”
2. Any mention of a teacher’s nickname.
3. Any retelling of the same prank for the tenth time.
6. The Homecoming
When Anirudh returned on Monday, he was thrilled to see Mira and Rhea getting along—until he walked into an ambush.
“Oh no,” Rhea groaned the moment he started a sentence with “You know, in school—”
“BANNED,” Mira and Rhea said in unison, pointing at the list stuck to the fridge.
Anirudh turned to Gautam. “What have you done?”
Gautam sighed dramatically. “I lost the nostalgia war.”
That evening, as the old friends still managed to sneak in a few school stories, Mira and Rhea exchanged amused glances and shook their heads.
For the first time, Mira didn’t feel like an outsider in her husband’s world. She had found an ally—one who understood the beauty of silence and the absurdity of living in the past.
And, for the first time in a long time, she felt at home in her own house.
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction inspired by true events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
T. V. Sreekumar
The name, the identity of an individual, has been squeezed into a number. Each one has a number pasted on him / her in various ways in different digits. Right from birth the person is tagged with a number and later at school comes the roll number. When grown up, the bank account followed by credit card, PAN and Aadhar. All in numbers where the history or geography of the individual is firmly concealed. Come to sports or related activities there also one is tagged with a number on the chest. In criminal activities and in jail too the number identifies the person.
Along the path of life, the number tagged is related to all activities and movements of the person. The number assigned controls each movement. Token number, if in a line for any assistance, has to be followed with diligence. Go for a show and the seat number is given. Whereas all these types of numbers are stand-alone, there comes the number with which all are mutually connected and that is the telephone number.
The telephone or mobile number has its own identity and is different from the other numbers in various ways. Mainly to communicate and also with abundant technology inputs for activities - personal and commercial, this number on phone is the person in real and it connects or bonds in a different way. The person wanted is there live and talking and the option of even seeing is also there. The miracle of this assigned number is indeed special.
The other day, when the number game was in my mind, I decided to call my friend with whom I had not spoken for a long time. The ring goes and ......
“Hello”
It was a female voice.
“Indrabalan” my request goes.
Silence for a long time.
“Hello” I repeated. “Can I speak to Indrabalan please. This is his friend…...”
Did I hear a sob from the other end?
“Hello” again from me.
After a long pause I hear the feeble reply,
“He is no more. Passed away last Tuesday”
Shocked beyond words I could just say “Sorry” and disconnected after a moment knowing that I couldn’t talk further.
Not knowing what to do I called one of my other friends and he apologised for not informing me about the tragic incident and said that Indrabalan just collapsed on that particular evening a week back and died even before reaching the hospital. It was a big shock to all of his friends as he was one of the most popular guys during our school days and always made it a point to keep in touch with friends and was helpful to everyone, friend or foe whatever would be the case. To him a friend stood first always.
Could not overcome this shock for days and later I called his wife and shared my shock and sorrow. Indrabalan’s number was erased from my system.
His thoughts kept haunting me and I shared this shocking incident with my intimate friends. Having had to hear the death of a close friend in this manner is itself a painful punishment. No escape but to live with it.
What makes me write this piece is because of an incident that happened a few weeks back.
Indrabalan had left years back and the thought of him often flashes. Another call I received recently and my phone displayed the name “Prasannan”.
He was the security head in an industry I worked earlier and a good friend. We used to communicate regularly and it was always a pleasure talking to him.
Picking up the call I addressed him “Hello Prasanna”?
The female voice, after a pause from the other end, said
“Uncle, this is his daughter”.
There was a silence for a moment and with a grieving tone she said, “He passed away this morning”
Death always comes as an unpleasant shock. Prasannan was a cancer patient but still the end was not expected this soon. I wanted him to live longer and my friends list diminishing this way was shocking and hurting.
All of us are chained with numbers.
One day it just gets erased without notice.
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..
A MULTIFACETED LEGACY IN INDIAN LITERATURE, ARTS AND MEDIA.
Braja K Sorkar
Pritish Nandi is an amazing and outstanding person in the world of literature, art, journalism, media & communication, cinema and many other creative fields.
Different people know Pritish Nandy differently! A poet, journalist, media personality, filmmaker, painter, translator and what not! He was one hundred alone! Pritish Nandi, a multi-talented person, was the most acclaimed poet of Indian English poetry, a very important name in the media world in India. He was the first media journalist in India. In the eighties, he started a very popular TV show, called 'Pritish Nandi Show' that created history and made television chat shows so popular. In fact he was the pioneer in TV Show in India. This TV program is a media revolution in a sense. Before that, there was no such program in India. He wrote poems in English at a very young age. He wrote his first volume of poetry,’ Of Gods and Olives’(1967), at the age of 17. It was published by Purushottama Lal’s Writers’ Workshop, an important haven and incubator for budding Indian poets writing in English.
He won the EM Forster Award at an age most people begin their literary career. After that, his success in various fields has taken him to the ultimate heights.
Pritish Nandi was conferred the Padmi Shri at the unbelievable age of 27.
For the next decades, Nandy would busy himself with translations and publish over 40 volumes of poetry, exploring themes of love, urban isolation and desire. He made 24 non-conventional films and won many prestigious awards.
One of Prithish Nandy’s contemporaries was Kamala Das, the most controversial and celebrated Indian Poets in English , whose confessional style and thematic preoccupations he seemed to share.
‘Tonight this savage rites’ a collection of love poems of Pritish Nandy and Kamala Das is an exceptional and highly acclaimed poetry collection ever produced in India. What is equally striking about this collection is the authenticity of language and experience that lends these poems both vitality and style. Kamala Das is frank and original, Pritish Nandy achieved a visual grandeur unparalleled in contemporary Indian poetry in English. This is an unusual book, possibly the first of its kind ,in which two major poets interact on a common theme-Love, a theme which is basic to the poetry of both Pritish Nandy and Kamala Das.
Some of his most important books of poetry in English are
Madness is the Second Stroke(1972)
The Poetry of Pritish Nandy: Collected Poems(1973)
Riding the midnight river( selected poems)-1975
Nowhere Man(1976)
Tonight this savage Rite/With Kamala Das(1977)
Anywhere is Another Place(1979)
The Rainbow Last Night( 1981)
Again(2010)
Stuck on 1/Forty(2012/2020)
Apart from original writing , he made a significant contribution to Indian poetry though translation.
Some books of his books of translation are:
The complete poems of Samar Sen(1970)
Subash Mukhopadhyay: Poet of the people(1970)
Poems from Bangladesh(1971)
The Prose poems of Lokenath Bhattacharya(1971)
Shes Lekha: The last poems of Rabindranath Tagore(1973)
The songs of Mirabai(1975)
Selected poems of Amrita Pritam(1975)
Another significant work of Pritish Nady is the translation of Kabir’s song, titled- Love: The First Syllable : The Mystic Songs of Kabir
As an anthologist ,Pritish Nandy edited a few remarkable anthologies such as
Indian Poetry in English Today (Indian Poetry Series) (1947-1972) 1973
Indian Poetry in English Today(1973)
Modern Indian Poetry(1974)
Modern Indian Love Poetry(1974)
He also wrote Verse play,titled Rites of a Plebeian Statue (1970)
Only one short story collection- Some Friends(1979)
Poetry of Pritish Nandy was recorded into Album : ‘Lonesong Street’ with Ananda Shankar by EMI(1977)
Typically, Pritish Nandy plays with forms, visual, typography to create a world of of his own, unique and resonant with image from his past and present. The man who once redefined Indian Poetry in English, he suddenly stopped writing poetry one day. None of his books of poems , some of them runaway best sellers, were permitted to be reissued as he walked away from his literary pursuits and began his spectacular career in journalism and public life!
Towards the end of ‘70s or the early 80’s ,he was in exile for 26 years. Born in Calcutta, ,where he spent his young years as a poet, Pritish Nandy shifted to Mumbai in 1982 to join The Times of India as Publishing Director and Group Managing Editor.
Most of his books were published by Arnold Heinemann Publishers(India) simultaneously from New Delhi and Londan. His last book of poems, titled-‘Stuck on 1/Forty’ was published in 2012 and reprinted in 2020,published by Amaryllis, New Delhi. In it’s introduction,’ Why Poetry’, Pritish Nandi wrote which is worth mentioning :-
‘I fell in love with words when I was young, very young. In fact, long before I even fell in love with a girl.I felt that words could not only convey what I wanted to say, what I felt, what I sought, what I wondered at, but they could also heal ,touch, reason with me, reach out to others, stumble,fall,rise again. Words were my best friends, my adversaries, my lovers who occasionally betrayed me. I would fence with them like D’Artagnon. I would grapple with them in the dark like Jacob grappled with the Angel of Death. I would seek their companionship in my loneliest moments’.
And thus was born my poetry…..”
His poetry inspired a generation of young people. His poetry is as insightful observation, BUT ALSO AS CONFESSION, AS SCREED as curse, his words-equally shap and soulful, leap from the page with new vitality. After 26 years in exile, Nandy came back in poetry with a magical collection of poetry book-Again(2010) . In the introduction to this wonderful book, Shashi Tharoor wrote:
‘ These poems are as sparkling, idiosyncratic and adventurous as the poet himself. There can never be another Pritish Nandy since the quality that most marks him out is the originality of his voice’.
One of the poems included in this book may be presented here-
“Silence walks with me
Wherever I go;
It is all I own, all I know.
Show me your hand.
Let me tell you where destiny
Will take you,
A decade or two from now.
Show me your hand.
Let us share our fears and lies”
------------------from ‘Again’
Some of his from earlier books of poetry:
“Come,
Let us lower our heads
We who can not pray to God
Or any Idol,
Let us lower our heads
Before the flame of love
Before the dove
Takes to the sky!
--------------The Rainbow Last Night
Another poem of Nandy :
In the circus of my world I have often been the
clown: I have rebelled twice as hard, and
changed my name every time the seasons changed.
The crowd has grown: there are thousands more
who watch my act. But 1 have locked myself in and
lost the key. Everyone has heard my name, but me.
------------------Tonight This Savage Rite
A poem from his last collection of poems, titled’ Stuck on 1/Forty’ for readers as:
“ Love is not as easy
As it sounds.
Sex is bewildering.
What remains is
But a fistful of memories
Chucked in the rain…”
In true sense, Pritish Nandy was a wonder of the wonders . Mulk Raj Anand rightly said- ‘Unquestionably, India’s finest poet in English’. Gulzar, Shashi Tharoor, Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam, Chetan Bhagat and other prominent personalities highly appreciated his poetry.
Dom Moraes, an eminent poets in English wrote: ‘ He is the only person I know in this country who is, without having to pretend or make an effort, A true and absolute enigma..’
In the 1980s, Nandy made significant strides in Indian journalism. He served as the Publishing Director of The Times of India Group and was the Editor of The Illustrated Weekly of India, The Independent, and Film Fare. His fearless and unique approach to journalism earned him widespread acclaim.
Pritish Nandy, the esteemed poet, journalist, filmmaker,Artist,and former Rajya Sabha member, passed away on January 8, 2025, at the age of 73. He died of a cardiac arrest at his residence in South Mumbai, with his last rites conducted the same evening.
Bollywood is shocked by his death. His longtime friend Anupam Kher expressed his condolences. He also posted two pictures on the X handle. He wrote, "One of my dearest and closest friends is Pritish Nandi. I am deeply saddened and shocked by his death. A wonderful poet, writer, filmmaker and a brave and unique editor/journalist. He was by my side in the early days of my career in Mumbai. He was my source of strength. We had a lot in common. He was one of the most fearless people I have met. I am learning a lot from him."
Movies like 'Sur', 'Kante', 'Jhongkar Beats', 'Chameli', 'Hazaro Khowaishe AC', 'Pyaar Ke Side Effects' were released under his production company, now acclaimed as cult movies... Recently, the web series 'Four More Shots Please' was also released under his production company. Pritish Nandy Communications, founded by him, made 25 films. He also dabbled in parliamentary politics. Among his other achievements, he won the UNESCO Award for restoration work in Mumbai.
Nandy’s transition to the glamorous world of English journalism was spurred by happenstance. A chance encounter on a flight landed him a publishing director’s post in Times of India Group. He also edited The Illustrated Weekly of India, a long-running news magazine, and is credited for reinvigorating its reportage in the 1980s.
Cinema, however, was always on the horizon. Nandy, through his editorship of Filmfare, had forged strong bonds with stalwarts of the Hindi film industry. He was close to Yash Chopra, Amitabh Bachchan, Mahesh Bhatt and, as Anupam Kher tweeted on Wednesday, put the actor on a cover of Filmfare during his struggling days. He also advocated for the parallel cinema movement and would inveigh against censorship in his editorials and columns. When the release of Deepa Mehta’s Fire (1996), centred on a lesbian relationship in a conservative Hindu family, drew violent protests, Nandy is said to have defended the film. The Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) and its moral prudishness was one of Nandy’s favourite targets, and he decried their role as of a ‘nanny’ to Indian society.
He was also an animal rights advocate, founding ‘People for Animals’, India’s first animal rights NGO, founded by him. Pritish Nandy was an exceptional collector of antic things.
He was also a remarkable Painter. His art work was exhibited jointly with Robin Mondal, an outstanding painter based in Kolkata.
As a human being he was very honest, liberal, open minded and charming. I had an opportunity to talk to him many times. In fact, his poetry inspired me greatly to write poetry in English. Since long, I have been reading poetry of Pritish Nandy. Now most of his books are out of print. Fortunately, I bought many poetry books authored by Pritish Nandy during 80’s and later period.
Once, I requested him to give permission for inclusion of his poems in an international anthology of English poetry, titled ‘Voices Now: World Poetry Today’ ,edited by me. I was preparing to publish the revised and extended edition of the said anthology. I am happy and grateful to him. He permitted me to include his poems, which I selected from his books. It is expecting very soon. But I am equally unfortunate as well as he is no more today. I must send a copy to his beloved family very soon.
Earlier, I worked on Pritish Nandy’s poetry but never meet or talk to him. . Despite being such a celebrated personality, he kept my request, spoke very intimately and wanted to know news of Calcutta. He took exile from Calcutta but could not forget it. His highly acclaimed poem ‘Calcutta, If You Must Exile me’ is an outstanding work .In this poem, he expresses his love and affection for the city of Calcutta .Even after leaving Calcutta, he could not forget anything relating to Calcutta.’’ Calcutta if you must exile me destroy my sanity before I go ..’ he wrote.
I was really impressed by his sincere behavior as well as I am highly impressed by his poetry since long .His poetry and exceptional personality made me the great admirer of him.
I am deeply saddened by the sudden demise of my beloved poet, my inspiration Pritish Nandy.
I pay my sincere respect and bows to him. This short piece of writing is dedicated to my sincere tribute to Pritish Nandy. I pray for the eternal peace of his blessed soul.
Braja K Sorkar is a bilingual author, poet, Essayist, and Translator. 10 Titles have beenpublished in his credit and a highly acclaimed poetry collection in English, titled ‘ Syllables of Broken Silence(2021) for which he received ‘The Indology Award’(2021). He has edited a prestigious literary magazine in Bengali ‘Tristoop’ since 2001 and an International English literary journal’ Durgapur Review’ since 2023. He edited an International Anthology of World English Poetry, titled’ Voices Now: World Poetry Today’ (2021). His poems have been translated into many languages. He lives in Durgapur, West Bengal. Contact: email: brajaksorkar369@gmail.com. And brajakumar.sarkar@gmail.com Whats App: 9064231839
RABINDRANATH’S CONTRIBUTION TO MANIPURI CLASSICAL DANCE
N. Ranjita Sarkar
Translated from Bengali into English by Braja K Sorkar
The school of dance created by Rabindranath (1861-1941) is known as ‘Tagore School of Lyrical Dance’. Rabindra’s is a divine life. Like what the Sparsha Stolle or the Philosopher’s Stone did, whatever he touched, nothing else occurred except that it turned into gold. There was hardly any sphere which he did not touch. Never was his a simple touch or just a plain laying hands on; the way he laid his hands on something always made it the first ever of the kind, which always resulted to an entirely novel craftsmanship. An example is the Rabindra Sangeet. Thus, his creation in the world of dance too, is a novel one. In the history of Indian modern dance, Rabindranath’s contribution is unique and invaluable.
Shantiniketan
Leaving behind the din and noise of Kolkata City, Rabindranath first established a small school at Shantiniketan about 100 miles away from Kolkata in December 1901 After twenty years, this school grew into a University, and after the poet passed away in1941 the Government of India took it over, following which they gave it a new name, Vishwabharati. Gurudeva who won the Nobel Prize in 1913 is the first Asian who did so. It was 1919 that he introduced a Dance Section in this school, which he raised at Shantiniketan. Within a few years only after this, he, employing Manipuri Dance teachers, tended so that Manipuri Dance is included in the section and they begin to teach.
The Influence of Dance in Rabindranath and his Impression
Rabindranath belonged to a family, which loved dance and music, as well as, art and culture; a family well known in Kolkata and respected by entire Bengal. Thus, beginning since his childhood days, Rabindranath grew up in close familiarity with dance and music; and moreover, he was a man who delved to the core in the studies of Indian art, dance and music. When he attained youth, he watched an opera performance in England. Next, he toured around Java, Balai, Thailand, China, Japan etc. and saw the dances of these countries. Especially, he loved the soft, mellow and lyrical form of Java dance. He felt impressed with the stylised body movements at the ‘No play’ shows of Japan. In addition to these, he observed various dances of Cochin, Malabar and Manipur. He could see the power of dramatic expressions revealed by Kerala’s Kathakali. In this way, since the very early days of his life, for a pretty long time, Rabindranath had begun to develop a keen intent, concealed in his mind, to bring out a neo-creative dance. All these, he began to take up as a project when he set up his school at Shantiniketan in 1901. Not only teaching dance, but also teaching music, acting and painting too, he opened at this Shantiniketan School. It was the pioneer institution in India to start such a form of education. Rabindranath himself taught dance and music, sang songs and acted in the dramas himself. He made the members of his own family dance and sing. Children of the families of the riches and higher ups, he taught them how to dance and he let them dance. Getting rid of the degrading outlook towards dance in the society those days, he tried too, to open up a new evolutionary pathway towards the general regards for it.
Rabindranath and Manipuri Dance
It was through the kingdom of Tripura (Takhel in Manipuri) that an acquaintance and kind of a touch for each other between Rabindranath and Manipuri dance occurred. Those first teachers of Manipuri Dance at Gurudeva’s school at Shantiniketan were Manipuris who inhabited in Tripura. There is a long story on the association and friendship relation between Rabindranath and the kings of Tripura.
Rajkumar Budhimanta Singh and Thakur Nabakumar Singh of Tripura were the first two who became the teachers for Manipuri dance at Rabindranath’s Shantiniketan. Rabindranath and the King of Tripura were very friendly. Rabindranath visited Tripura seven times; the first visit occurred during the time of Maharaja Radhakishore in 1899. During the poet’s visit, they showed him Basanta Utsav and Manipuri dance at Kunjaban of Agartala. During another visit-trip of his, when he watched the Manipuri Raasa in the palace with Maharajkumar Brajendrakishore, the Prince, the poet remarked, ‘Having seen this dance, my visit in Purbabanga (the then East Bengal) has become fruitful, rather fulfilled.’
Following that experience of being an audience to Raasa Dance, something amazing, which he could not say what it was about, intrigue him. He wrote a letter to Maharajkumar Brajendrakishore, the son prince of Tripura King Birendrakishore, requesting to send a Manipuri teacher to teach Manipuri dance at Shantiniketan. Prince Maharajkumar, after consulting with his father, sent Rajkumar Budhimanta to Shantiniketan for the purpose. In addition to this, further request came again to send Budhimanta’s wife for teaching the skill of weaving, related craft-skill and other handiwork skills. But due to some social restraints Budhimanta’s wife did not go to the Shantiniketan. It was since the year 1919 that Rajkumar Budhimanta began to teach Manipuri dance at Shantiniketan. 100 years ahead of today, this Manipuri dance had begun to be taught outside Manipur, spreading beyond. That time it was only 20 years that western education entered in Manipur, no school for learning systematic dance and music then. In those days Manipur, surrounded by nine rings of hill and mountain ranges, yet remained a peaceful land without much of a touch with the movements, agitations and climate of its outside regions. In such a time, Gurudeva Rabindranath, having recognized its elegance and aesthetic worth, opened the Manipuri dance section at Shantiniketan, outside Manipur. Since that time till today, along all these 100 years, the administrators of Shantiniketan have been appointing teachers of Manipuri dance and the latter have been teaching it. In this long span of time, the institution has produced so many teachers and students of Manipuri dance. The person who identified and spread Manipuri dance for the first in the world is none other than Gurudeva Rabindranath Thakur. His contribution to Manipuri dance is highly valuable. It would not be a hyperbole to say that like he did, not a single Manipuri son had taken an appreciable role in this direction.
Next to Rajkumar Budhimanta came Thakur Nabakumar Singh. It was Thakur Nabakumar Singh who, as a Guru of Manipuri dance, shone at Shantiniketan as a star did. He was a creative dance composer, proficient enough, and was the dance teacher for the royal family of the king and the royal palace as well. As Rajkumar Budhimanta, after some time as a teacher at Shantiniketan, returned home at Agartala, Thakur Nabakumar became the second teacher of Manipuri dance at Shantiniketan.
One day a famous industrialist of Ahmadabad saw Nabakumar’s dance and he sought permission from Rabindranath for Nabakumar to teach Manipuri dance in Gujarat. Thakur Nabakumar taught Manipuri dance for a certain period in Gujarat too. Next, Nabakumar went to Bombay and established a school of Manipuri Dance. Thus, Manipuri dance extended up to Bombay from Gujarat through the favour of Guru Rabindranath.
Grodually ,Manipuri Dance spreaded over to many other countries of the world. Tagore visited Sri Lanka along with his dance troop and Dance drama in the form of Manipuri dance and it was performed in Sri Lanka. Now Manipuri Dance is considered as one of the finest classical dances of India. All credit goes to Rabindranath and torch bearers of his legacies
N. Ranjita Sarkar is a Manipuri poet and translator. Her two uncles were famous Manipuri Dance and Nat Sankirtan Gurus. Her only Aunt, ‘Sushila Devi Manipuri’(She was known as Sushila Devi Manipuri in records of the Gramophone Companies of Calcutta in ‘40) was a famous Singer and closely related to Tagore family. Rabindranath also appreciated Sushila Devi.
Bio of the Translator Braja K Sorkar: A bilingualPoet, Edtor, Critic and Translator based in Durgapur, West Bengal
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A WOMAN LEADER OF UNCOMMON COURAGE AND GLOBAL INFLUENCE!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
Personalities whose journeys are shaped by personal tragedies, yet rise to become pioneering forces for their nation and global politics exemplify resilience, courage, and unwavering commitment. Such icons serve as inspiration for others to follow. One such remarkable figure is Michelle Bachelet. From advancing social justice in Chile to championing human rights globally as the UN High Commissioner, her career is a testament to her dedication to values of equality, social justice, democracy, and development, and it is worth celebrating as an example of profound leadership and humanity.
Michelle Bachelet made history as the first female president of Chile. Her father, a general in the Chilean military, was arrested in 1973 for opposing the military coup led by Augusto Pinochet. He was subsequently tortured to death in 1974 while in custody. At the time, Bachelet was a medical student at the University of Chile. She was arrested alongside her mother, an archaeologist, and was detained in a secret prison. In 1975, she was released and went into exile, initially residing in Australia before relocating to East Germany. There, she became actively involved in socialist politics and pursued studies at the Humboldt University of Berlin. Bachelet returned to Chile in 1979, where she completed her medical degree but due to her family’s background, Bachelet faced significant challenges finding employment under Pinochet’s regime. She eventually joined a medical clinic that provided care to victims of torture. Following Pinochet’s departure from power in 1990, Bachelet became actively involved in politics, with a particular focus on health and military affairs. In 1994, she was appointed as an adviser to the Minister of Health and later pursued studies in military affairs at both Chile’s National Academy of Strategy and Policy, and the Inter-American Defence College in Washington, D.C. She was also elected to the central committee of the Socialist Party.
In 2000, Bachelet was appointed Chile’s Minister of Health. During her time in office, she worked to address the long waiting lists in the public hospital system. While she reduced the waiting lists by 90%, she was unable to eliminate them entirely and, in response, offered her resignation, which was rejected by the president. Bachelet also authorized the free distribution of the morning-after pill to victims of sexual assault, a decision that sparked considerable controversy. In 2002, Bachelet made history as Chile’s first female Minister of Defence, becoming the first woman to hold such a position in a Latin American country and one of the few globally. As Minister of Defence, she played a key role in fostering reconciliation between the military and victims of the dictatorship. This effort led to a historic statement in 2003 by General Juan Emilio Cheyre, head of the Chilean army, in which he declared that the military would never again undermine democracy in Chile.
In 2005, Bachelet was selected as the presidential candidate for the Chilean Socialist Party (CPD). Her campaign focused on addressing the needs of the country’s poor, reforming the pension system, advancing women rights, and securing constitutional recognition of the rights of the indigenous Mapuche people. She also emphasized continuity in foreign relations, particularly in maintaining close ties with the United States and other Latin American nations. In a country where Roman Catholicism plays a significant role, Bachelet campaign had to navigate the challenges of her professed agnosticism. She led the first round of voting in December 2005 but did not secure an outright majority.
In the runoff election on January 15, 2006, Michelle Bachelet defeated conservative candidate Sebastián Piñera with 53.5% of the vote and was sworn in as President of Chile on March 11, 2006. Bachelet earned widespread praise for resisting pressure from her coalition to use Chile's significant copper revenues to address income inequality. Instead, in 2007, she established the Economic and Social Stabilization Fund, a sovereign wealth fund designed to save fiscal surpluses exceeding 1% of GDP. This strategic move allowed her to introduce new social policies and provide economic stimulus during the 2008 financial crisis.
In March 2009, Bachelet launched the ‘I Choose my PC’ program, providing free computers to academically successful seventh-grade students from low-income families attending government-subsidized schools. Between 2009 and 2010, she also delivered maternity packages to all babies born in public hospitals, which accounted for approximately 80% of the total births in the country. In January 2010, Bachelet enacted a law permitting the distribution of emergency contraception in both public and private health centres, including to individuals under the age of 14, without requiring parental consent. The law also mandated that high schools incorporate sexual education into their curricula.
In January 2010, Bachelet inaugurated the Museum of Memory and Human Rights in Santiago, dedicated to preserving the history of human rights violations during Pinochet's 17-year dictatorship. Later that year, she introduced a law, submitted during the previous administration, to establish the National Institute for Human Rights, aimed at protecting and promoting human rights in the country.
Bachelet was sworn in for her second term as President of Chile on March 11, 2014, at the National Congress in Valparaíso. Her primary campaign promise for the 2013 election was the introduction of free university education in Chile, alongside the elimination of profit-driven educational institutions. The plan proposed using revenue generated from an increase in corporate taxes by 2017 to fund free education. However, the proposals faced significant opposition, particularly from students who felt the changes did not go far enough in eliminating profit-driven motives in education. Critics from opposition parties, lower-middle-class voters, and certain members of Bachelet’s Nueva Mayoría coalition argued that the law, which would prevent individuals from profiting from public resources, did not address necessary improvements in the quality of education.
On March 9, 2018, Bachelet issued her final presidential decree, creating nine marine reserves to protect biodiversity. This measure increased the area of the sea under state protection from 4.2% to 42.4%, a move expected to benefit marine life in approximately 1.4 million square kilometers.
Michelle Bachelet was appointed as the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights on September 1, 2018. Her appointment followed a nomination by UN Secretary-General António Guterres, which was approved by the UN General Assembly on August 10, 2018. On that day the outgoing UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, Zeid Ra’ad Al Hussein, warmly welcomed Michelle Bachelet’s appointment as his successor by the UN General Assembly, saying in her praise ,“She has all the attributes – courage, perseverance, passion, and a deep commitment to human rights.” It may be stated that the process of this appointment involved the Secretary-General proposing her candidacy, highlighting her extensive experience as a two-time President of Chile and her leadership roles in international organizations, including as the first Executive Director of UN Women. The General Assembly then approved her appointment without a vote, reflecting broad support for her nomination.
As UN High Commissioner, Bachelet advocated for human rights globally. She urged China to allow international observers into Xinjiang and expressed concern over the situation there. She also criticized the Saudi-led intervention in Yemen for its humanitarian impact. On October 5, 2019, during the Hong Kong protests, Bachelet expressed her concerns about the high levels of violence associated with some demonstrations. She emphasized that any measures to address the unrest must be grounded in the rule of law, and reiterated that freedom of peaceful assembly should be enjoyed without restriction to the greatest extent possible while also cautioning against individuals using masks to provoke violence.
In response to the 2019 Iranian protests, Bachelet supported an independent investigation into alleged atrocities committed by Iranian security forces during the unrest, following a request from imprisoned Iranian lawyer Nasrin Sotoudeh. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Bachelet called on the United States to suspend its sanctions regimes, in an effort to alleviate the pandemic’s impact on people in sanctioned countries.
Bachelet has consistently been recognized for her global influence. She was ranked 17th among the most powerful women in the world by Forbes in 2006. Michelle Bachelet was awarded the Indira Gandhi Prize for Peace, Disarmament, and Development in 2024. The announcement made by the Indira Gandhi Memorial Trust, spoke of her exceptional
contributions to human rights, gender equality, and global peace. "For me, a better democracy is a democracy where women do not only have the right to vote and to elect but to be elected.", Michelle had once said. She is a potential candidate for UN’s top job -post of Secretary General. In its 80-year history, the U.N. has never had a female secretary-general. It is prompting growing calls from advocacy groups and member states for a woman to take the helm and as this time the SG would be from Latin America , she stands as a strong candidate.
Michelle Bachelet’s legacy as a leader and advocate for human rights continues to inspire globally. Her unwavering commitment to justice, equality, and reconciliation has left an indelible mark on both Chile and the world, solidifying her as a powerful symbol of resilience and progress in the fight for human dignity.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
FOLKLORES AS CULTURAL EXPRESSION OF A SOCIAL GROUP- FOLK TRADITION OF SAVARA (SAORA)TRIBE
Ashok Kumar Mishra
Folklore is a naturally occurring and necessary component of a social group and “encompasses transmission of traditional cultural expression from one generation to another, informally through verbal instructions or demonstrations“ (JS Schlinkert). The word folklore was coined by Englishman William Thomas in 1846 to mean a compound of two words- Folk (popular literature) and Lore(instructions). It referred to knowledge and tradition of a particular social group frequently passed by word of mouth. Presently the concept folk connotes a wider use as it refers to a broader social group that includes people with common traits who express their shared identity through distinctive tradition. Alan Dundes in his book “The study of Folklore” defines the term as a body of expressive culture, shared by a particular group of people, culture or subculture. This includes oral traditions such as tales, myths, legends, poems, proverbs etc. This cultural diversity is a natural strength and resource worthy of preservation. It is a unifying feature and not something that separates citizens of a country.
Individual folklore artefacts are mainly of three types-
I. Verbal (sayings, expressions, customs, stories and songs),
II. Material (physical objects like utensils, implements, toys, jewellery, embroidery, clay handicrafts , clothing etc.)
III. Customary (beliefs and ways of doing things like birthday songs, celebrations, festivals etc.)
Folklore studies is a part of discipline of Ethnology and Anthropology. Change and adaptation within tradition are no longer regarded as corruptive.
It is strange to imagine how the folk traditions even prior to invention of alphabets and written scripts were passed from generation to generation, preserved and influenced organized community living of members of any social group. Their uniqueness, mostly influenced by the ecosystem in which they lived formed the backbone of the distinct culture of that social group. Aryan, Dravidian and tribal lifestyle and rich tradition of community life has enriched India’s culture and literature immensely. With invention of alphabets and written scripts literature flourished to great heights subsequently, yet folk culture has survived in various forms among common mass and flows down from generation to generation through word of mouth as well through written and digital expressions.
Savaras* or Saoras are an important ancient indigenous social group and even find a mention in Balmiki’s Ramayana. Most of us are familiar how an elderly Savari women, ardent devotee of Lord Rama used to collect wild berries and fruits from the forest and feed Lord Rama after tasting for their sweetness or otherwise. Since ages Savars or Saoras inhabit Dandakaranya dense forest area spreading over three states of present day Odisha, Chhattisgarh and Andhra Pradesh. Along with Gonds they were the dominant tribal group of Central India. Like every other tribe Saoras has its own distinct costumes, language, religious belief, social organization, music, dance, craft, art and worldview. There are several subgroups among Saoras, most prominent being Lanjia Saoras. In spite of variations there are cultural similarities among the tribal groups which create an ethnic bondage.
Music, folk tales, dance, arts and songs are major components of express traditions to express one’s creative urges. The springs of Saora folklore are numerous and associated with agriculture, family rites and rituals, fairs, festivals and community live. One significant element in this entire performance context is that such performances are always communal and participatory. The entire imaginative culture of the Saora community is manifested in day to day activities, cutting across economic and religious domain, linking past with future, linking material life with expressive art. A wholistic vision was the essence of Saora life and culture. The land and the forest, the mountain and the river, the bagad or the hill slope (Dangar) and the village that shape the Saora culture provides a picturesque and fascinating vision. The role of the folk singers and story tellers as repositories of tradition and culture is experienced during public occasions such as religious ceremonies, fairs and festivals.
Oral traditions of Saoras
Folk tales/Stories:
The realm of Saora oral narratives is multifaceted and encompasses the earth and beyond. The religious beliefs and customs, birth, death and marriage related customs, the worldview of Saora people and world of the dead are shaped by the myths and local legends although the narratives are not in variation from other tribal myths of Odisha and adjoining Central India. The Sun and Moon are imagined as two sisters, one is aggressive and the other is cool and the stars as their sons. Transformation of human being into Gods and Goddesses is another aspect of Saora belief which is reflected in the story of Lobosum, the water Goddess. Similarly propitiation of Gods and Goddesses through sacrifice is another aspect of Saora legend. Creation of Earth, water, human beings, animals, stars, moon, Sun and mountain have found place in the myths, many of them recorded and included in “Tribal myths of Odisha“ by Dr Verrier Elwin.
The Story of ‘The Frog and Lizard’ reveals that marriages between two different species create difficulties for both the entities. The Story ‘Clever Birds’ reveals the significance of the adage that the small is beautiful. The folk tales like ‘The heron and the crow’, ‘Why dogs catch rabbits’ reflect their keen observation of animals. Saoras believe in life after death, sorcery, magic and witchcraft. Transformation from one life to another is evident from their tales and beliefs. The tale of ‘Two Peacocks’ is one of these tales.
Detail about a few folk tales of Lanjia Saoras and their social message is worth a mention. The story of how an orphan’s life was saved from a snake by the buffalos with the flute they presented to the orphan, how all the birds got coloured feathers whereas the heron due to greed for food and laziness could not get any gives message of care and love for orphan child and ill effect of laziness and greed.
Similarly the story of clever jackal and foolish bear where the later lost the race for selection to the post of minister to the former in carrying salt and cotton to a distance through a stream speaks volumes about mental alertness.
Story about usefulness of neem tree and how elephants lost their wings too carry important social message. They have several folktales regarding natural phenomena like earthquake, lightning and thunder and comets. Several folktales around their Chief Deity (Kitung) and how he created the universe highlights their religious beliefs.
Folk art:
The wall mural paintings of Saora tribes depicts volumes about their culture. These paintings are typically done in red, black and white and they depict scenes from nature to mythology to their day to day life. The paintings are used to communicate with Gods and ancestors and are used to celebrate important events in their life.
Folk Songs:
The Saora religious beliefs and worldview are reflected in their prayers, chants and hymns. They consider themselves as the sons and daughters of Kitung, the supreme God. The song ‘To God Kitung’ speaks about the supreme God. Saora worldview attaches great significance to the universe that provides the material context for the Saora life. A few lines from their folk song “The mountain looks beautiful” is worth a mention here which is as below:-
“The mountain looks beautiful if there are trees
The trees look beautiful if there are soft leaves”
….
“A man looks beautiful if he has a wife
The wife looks beautiful if she has a child”
….
“The tribe looks beautiful if she has a language
The language looks beautiful if there is a script”
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)
Sreechandra Banerjee
“Ice, ice,” she said as she stepped out from the police jeep.
“Quick, bring some ice” she repeated. Seeing police, the frenzy of the mob had vanished, but they still stood there, maybe out of curiosity or with a genuine intention of reporting the distress that the locality was facing.
“There is no water, how can there be ice? Women are always like this, be it a police officer or a queen like Marie Antoinette,” someone chirped in.
“Yes, yes it was Marie Antoinette who said, ‘If they have no bread, let them eat cake’ and now there is no water, yet she asks for ice,” another one in the crowd quickly added.
Someone knowledgeable said from a near-by balcony, “there is controversy over this. Some people say that this was said by Marie Therese, hundred years before Marie Antoinette.”
‘Must be some rascal’ thought Pritam, how could they behave like this with a lady, that too with a policewoman.
Although his wound on his forehead hurt, yet he felt bad for the policewoman who was now trying to disperse the mob that had gheraoed him.
The water mains had cracked and there was no water in this area since yesterday afternoon. The office of the municipality has outsourced this repair job to Pritam’s company.
The mob had even pelted stones at Pritam who was the engineer overseeing the plumbers.
Someone from a nearby house brought a big slab of ice,
“Its winter now, so don’t need ice, but some water was already there in the ice tray which has now formed ice,” said the ice-bringer, a young man, who seemed like he was in his early twenties. He was the one who commented that it might not have been Marie Antoinette.
The ice was one full slab and not in cubes. As it was winter, they probably had not put in the cube separator.
So, the ice had to be broken! Broken into pieces, to apply to the bleeding wound on Pritam’s forehead. But who would break it?
“See, the ice bar is leaking!” someone with a sense of humour commented even at this challenging time.
“Yes, because a policewoman has come,” said another man, apparently a gentleman.
“Stop this” Pritam shouted despite his pain. ‘All are rascals,’ he thought.
“Am Sorry,” he said to the policewoman.
“Why are you sorry? These people are like that only. And there is no water supply! Well, it serves them right! So much water misuse! Would teach them a lesson not to waste water. Summits and conferences are held these days, which never reach out to these people!” the policewoman went on saying.
“Yes, Mam, it’s a trans-boundary global problem. They say that there would be severe water crisis if we don’t learn to conserve the precious gift of nature. The problem we are facing now is just the beginning of the iceberg,” Pritam couldn’t help saying.
“Not only are there leaks in water supply lines, but often water is discharged without taps, there is so much wastage, and the Municipality hardly does anything about it. What would you say to this?” asked the ice-bringer, the slab still in his hands.”
It was very daring indeed to say this to the police!
“Hey, you!” she yelled “what are you doing? Can’t you apply ice on his wound! Don’t you see that it’s bleeding?” So, she had no answer to the question!
“Yes, I’ll apply it, it’s a big slab, can’t break it.”
“Come, give it to me. You men are always worthless!”
Now, who would dare protest this statement and that too to a policewoman?
So, she took it and by simply applying force with her hands, broke it into small pieces that could be applied to the wound!
“So, when it comes to household chores, its women again. And women can break ice too in all ways although men claim that it’s their monopoly!” she said while the man was applying ice.
“Thank you, Madam” Pritam said as he felt a bit better, mentally too.
“Welcome, but see to it that water supply is restored as soon as possible,” a police-order it was!
“Oh, sure, Madam” was Pritam trying to oblige her or the people of the locality?
“My name is Prema. I am the OC of this local Thaana. Contact me if you face any further problems,” she said.
“And you” she turned to the young man “you were correct. Maybe it was Marie Therese. But that may not be true also. When Rousseau wrote this, he meant some fancy breads and not cakes, which at that time were sold in France at the same price as that of breads.”
“Why was it so?” Pritam asked.
“Simple, so that bakers didn’t make small amounts of cheap bread and then profit out of the costly ones,” voiced the young man.
“Well, how did you know about this?” Prema asked the man who seemed to know a lot.
“Yes, Ma’m, I am doing my MA in History, and this was of interest to me.”
“That’s good” she said and went back to the jeep, waiving goodbye to Pritam.
Vow! Prema! What a name for a police officer! thought Pritam. Yes, in a way she was enveloping the world with her ‘Prem’ or love even when on her duty.
So now, what to do? The ice had been broken.
But, but if she was already married? Maybe….. No, may not be…….
No, no it’s the second possibility that’s more likely! Too early is it………...?
Pritam would go to her office to thank her after his job was done.
Yes, to begin a new job………., otherwise life was becoming too boring just with water and ice!
Going to her office….
Would that do?
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.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
The sun had risen to shoot its newborn rays through barred clouds. There was beauty in the resplendent bright rays of the morning. A rag picker was on her way to pick up the papers and materials thrown in the street. She firmly believed in duty and its inherent beauty.
The rag picker was moving in the street like a moving marble statue, shining in milk-white color even in the old emerald-green costume. A rich woman gave that costume to her when she in turn hinted the rich woman beauty-tips.
The rich woman was waiting for the rag picker in her old emerald-green costume. She in fact enriched charm to the old costume.
All the onlookers gazed at her in surprise, as she looked like an angel beyond their surmise in the wake of sunrise. It all appeared all young sunrays loved to fall on her for pleasure, ignoring others.
The rag picker was pacing in grace in the street towards the rich woman who was waiting for her at the gate. The rich woman passed all nice comments on her,
"You look like an angel. The way you’ve worn the costume is superb. I don't know how to put on the costume in the way you wore. Beauty lies not in rich costumes and gold ornaments but in natural charms and graceful looks," said the rich woman.
"Thank you for your compliment," said the rag picker.
"Your bodyline, physical charms and facial expressions in addition to your structure enrich your stature. You deserve the title of ‘the beauty queen of the universe’," said the rich woman.
"My face and grace are by the benedictions of God," said the rag picker.
"What is your name? Your name surely suits you," said the rich woman.
"My name is Chitra," said the rag picker.
"You can work as a servant-maid in my house."
"No, I can't ...," said Chitra openly.
"You mayn't have safety and security in society. The male lusty looks don't leave you...The news of incidents of harassment by males in the daily newspaper holds mirror to the tears of victims to them," said the rich woman.
"No evil can touch me...I can face all evils... I have my own goal. I will surely reach my goal. I've my own ways to come up and my principles to shine in life," said Chitra confidently.
"I appreciate you for your principles," said the rich woman.
"Thank you," said Chitra.
"I feel sorry when a beautiful woman is a rag picker," said the rich woman.
"I can't be a rag-picker forever... My conscience says so," said Chitra.
"People should learn lessons from you, the rag picker," said the rich woman.
"They should have hearts and fill them with will, the power of love. The hearts flow like rivers to merge their communion at a place at some point of time in their flow. See me at that point... I'll see you then," said Chitra.
The rich woman was very much astonished to hear Chitra speaking so confidently that she would come up in life. She felt inspired by her self-confidence and willpower essential in life. She had exquisite features and facial expressions, needed for a woman to act as a heroine attracting the attention of filmgoers.
In the same way, there was a man called Vishwajith. He had a big mansion. He was at the same time very heroic and chivalrous. He went to the rescue of the people in trouble and difficulties. Whenever they called him on the phone, he was there in action to solve their problems.
All revered him for his adventures. The people called him the Lord Krishna of the Twenty-First Century. He rescued all, especially females from becoming victims to rapes. He was against ragging and kidnapping, harassments and humiliations meted out to females.
Vishwajith was the worshipper of beauty. He loved beauty in all things as well as in all great actions. He was in search of his life partner. He wished her to be his equal in all respects.
People revered Vishwajith for his heroic and chivalrous actions in coming to the rescue of others. They all wished him to search for a life partner. He was in his wide search for her. All were anxious to see his would-be life partner. All of them wished him,
"You are a hero...You should get a heroine. She should be like an angel to marry you, Vishwajith."
... ... ... ... ...
A band of youths, evil doers were trying to gang rape an innocent woman. She tried her best to do whatever she was able to do to escape from them. Meanwhile Chitra approached there, hearing her crying for help. She took a cycle-chain and rushed to them. The youths took to their heels when she started to beat them black and blue.
Vishwajith came to the spot. He saw her fighting courageously. He appreciated her courage despite being a woman. He had a very good impression of her. He fell in love with her at first sight for her heroic qualities.
"Hearty congratulations to you on your bravery...," said Vishwajith.
"Thank you...we should teach a bitter lesson to such rogues," said Chitra.
"Yes, I'm for the people in risks. I rescue them in the way you have come to rescue of the woman now," said Vishwajith, pleasing her.
"We should extend what is possible to us in times of their perils and troubles,' said Chitra in a bold way.
"What're you?" said Viswajith.
"I'm a rag picker...," Chitra.
"You're unlike many women on earth in all respects. In you, beauty is plentiful, valor is galore, grace is praiseworthy, and treasures are in full measure. You are Spring seen in human form," said Vishwajith.
"I think in the same way as I heard a lot about you," said Chitra.
"I bow my head to you for I find all in you what I wish to find… Chitra, you are my dream girl," said Vishwajith while his dimples were glowing on his smile.
Chitra consoled the woman, "You should be brave to defend yourself. I will lead you to your house."
"Chitra, you're pacing in the street like an ordinary woman...," Vishwajith.
"Yes, I'm an ordinary woman... I'm a rag-picker. I should rise to the heights of respect as per my aims in life," said Chitra.
"What you're is clear by your angelic and majestic features and heroic adventures. You at the same time possess magnanimous nature," said Vishwajith.
"I love to be so," said Chitra.
.
"I welcome you to my magnificent mansion. I step down to receive you and take you to settle in it and live with you in bliss," said Vishwajith.
"I will come to you when you welcome me to your mansion one day. Till then I wait for the moment, the most memorable in our life," said Chitra and left, waving to him.
Chitra grew to be self-sufficient in all respects. She was in a quest for women's welfare. She enlightened all women how they should be and make their lives a success.
Once, the director of a film industry was in search of new people to act in his film. He happened to see Chitra and selected her to be the heroine as he found all worthy qualities and abilities in her.
The director was none but a world-famous director who selected her to be the heroine of his film. She promised to act and did so. It became a blockbuster movie. She received many awards as per her wish. At this stage, she thought of marrying a man of her choice.
Many big magnates, film directors, heroes and so on came forward to marry Chitra. She felt pride and dignity for rising from the rag picker stage to the heroine and the star to win awards. Still, she aimed at scaling greater heights in the welfare of womankind.
The rich woman who gave her an old emerald-green costume watched her movies. She was happy that Chitra had risen to great heights. She was happy that Chitra became Cine-queen. She recalled what she had told her one day when she knocked her door like an ordinary woman. The rich woman sighted her as a wonder. She appeared to the rich woman, saying,
"I'm Chitra...Once you appreciated me referring to me 'a moving marble statue' chiseled well like Ragini and decked on the Ramappa temple."
"I know...I remember you...At your sight, I recalled all when I saw you coming to me... I’m happy to see you again in this position," said the rich woman, embracing her warmly.
"Perseverance leads one to prominence, the success for one's prominence," said Chitra, smiling heartily.
"You made it true. You're a role model for women. That day, you became an example for all women especially me. I thought of you that day only. My guess didn't miss," said the rich woman.
"Thank you very much for your good wishes...," said Chitra.
"As per your will and wish, you have risen to the greater heights by turning odds into challenges and then into victories as a star in the film field...Great ...you are really great," said the rich woman.
"By God's grace...my perseverance," said Chitra with all smiles.
"I would like to ask you one main thing...Who is that lucky man to marry you?" said the rich woman.
"I remember three people to refer to ... one is you, the second is Vishwajith and the third is my cinema director... You received me cordially though I was a rag-picker," said the rag- picker Chitra with smiles.
"You were gold...You are gold...You will be gold... A gem is a gem to shine at all hours...Tell me who called you a rag-picker. Even in old costumes, you were an angel. You are an angel not by costumes and ornaments... I heartily congratulate you, my dear. You are not an orphan. You're my sister. You didn't tell me who was going to marry you," said the rich woman.
'"The second whom I adore is Vishwajith. He welcomed me to his rich mansion in the days when I was a rag-picker. I love him from my heart...," said Chitra.
"Oh, he is a lucky man...I wish you early married life. This is Lakshmi, your sister, you are welcome to my house always...I feel pride to receive you," said rich woman, Lakshmi.
The hearts in love, that know no halt in the reaching of their goal, are the rivers to flow ahead for their confluence to merge the ocean of love," said Chitra.
... ... ... ... ...
The following day Chitra gave information to Vishwajith,
"I'm coming to you, my hero."
Viswajith laid carpets to accord a red-carpet welcome to her. He stepped down from his mansion to Chitra, welcoming her cordially,
"Hearty welcome to my life partner... my life... my breath... my all... Swagatham... Suswagatham...Welcome... Hearty welcome to you, my heart..."
His followers and her followers were accompanying Vishwajith and Chitra, pacing in grace to the mansion.
"Take the right step with your right foot in my mansion," said Vishwajith to his beloved, stepping in by taking the right step with his right foot."
It was their marriage venue scintillating very brightly. Their marriage was a fest of all near and dear, celebrated in a grand manner. All rich and low with no difference enjoyed the marriage celebrations. The rich woman, Lakshmi, was very much present to enjoy the occasion. In the venue, they pledged to train their first child as a soldier and second child as a farmer as their slogan, Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan.
It was the most memorable day not only for Chitra and Vishwajith but also for the people present on the auspicious occasion.
When Chitra was wedded to Vishwajith, her friends Vichitra and others wanted to leave her to her husband for their home state, promising her to visit them next year. All of them including Chitra had come here together once for their livelihood. Vichitra and others left but Chitra remained as wife to Vishwajith... as a leader...a woman for fellow women.
… … … …
Vishwajith and Chitra became leaders to lead the people for their welfare. They were prepared to do selfless service to the people as born leaders. They were not the leaders elected nowadays, by offering not notes for votes and drinks to the people to drink to the brink on and before the poll and vote in intoxication. They were people’s leaders in the true sense of democracy. That was their true leadership for everybody's real inspiration for appreciation.
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
THERE IS NO RAIN OF POETRY IN ME!
Kunal Roy
Summer. A perfect successor to Spring. A perfect predecessor to Monsoon. They inspire innumerable poets and authors to boost up their creative faculty. Works are published. Recognition floats in the air. Claps echo in the hall packed with curious audience. The heart inflates with pride. However, the stuff remains the same. The light mornings, the molten sun of afternoon, the drizzle on the street, the blooming blossoms in the garden, the humming bees, the chirping aves and the tender soul speaking of love in a voice sunk below the whisper. But there is no touch of plagiarism. Strange, but a truth!
The expressions Spring and Summer spawn a delight in me. At times bring grin too. A kind of "sheepish and toothy grin". Yet hiccups cannot afford to score over me. I believe it is a natural mingling and ought to be embraced with care, keeping the daily irritations at bay!
Imagine there is a curvy road. It is not being taken by any soul ( according to Frost). All of a sudden you note a lady taking an evening stroll. There is no ceremonial cord around her arms. Yet she could be an inspiring theme to the budding poets! Don't be confounded. This is how I look at life. Attempt to extract the deeply embedded intricacies. But they never shape into words. I sit by the casement, making a vain attempt to transfigure the ideas into a verse. I laugh at myself. Realise that it is not an easy proposition! All are not poets, few are...
Human life. A blend of shades. Hates everything that doesn't suit to its palate. The most significant one is the daily routine. Hectic and boring. But the urge to taste the sweetness of success never suffers a retreat. I think the nature around us is often tired to strictly follow the same pattern. One season after the another. Since time immemorial nature has been following the course in a quite disciplined manner. Interestingly 'the age cannot wither nor any custom can stale her infinite variety'.
I am not a poet. There is not even a drop of poetic aura in me. I never breathe under the sky in a rhymed pattern. I am faraway from being such a creative genius. But I am romantic. I can make you love and romance at the same hour! I can bring you to my balcony in a Spring morning to see the beautiful flowers to soothe your tired eyes, fill your heart with happiness and wear a smile of contentment before leaving for the day!
I know the importance that keeps on flowing through the nooks and crannies of a relationship. I believe in silence. In fact it is the best answer to those who don't value your words! Bond keeps on changing with the cycle of seasons. The Spring romance is different from the Summer promises. And the latter is much different from the cold December thoughts! These may sound poetic. But I am not essentially a poet. The facts function and not the mere grains of fantasy!
I manage to believe that one day my subjects will be considered for poetry. Rhymes will be framed. Ornamentation will follow. Lives will enmesh and entwine.
I need a break now. I can hear the sound of my wall clock. I need to get prepared for the day's talk. Hope we will meet again to lose ourselves in the mist of time!!
Kunal Roy has always been an ardent lover of literature. He has received various awards for his literary contributions. He is a poet and a critic of poetry. His works have been published both here and abroad. Currently working as an Assistant Professor of English Language and Communication in George Group of Colleges, Kolkata.
Ritika S
Naina stormed into her room and threw the book in her hand, venting all her irritation. The book landed top down at the corner of her study table, as if pleading Naina to see the world in a different angle. That book, titled ‘The Secret’ was a gift from her friend for her birthday. “The philosophy of this book doesn’t work in reality! If you want something ardently in your life, the whole universe conspires for you to get it? If only!” thought an irked Naina. It wasn’t an overreaction. She had given wings to her dream and fallen terribly. Maybe all dreams were not destined to come true.
The doorbell rang. “Uhhh! Why can't people just stay in their own house. Saying namaste with a smile to some random person is the last thing I want to do now!”
“Naina… Beta come here” Her mom called her. Naina dragged herself to the hall.
“Beta meet Samantha aunty. She is a good friend of mine. You both talk while I get some snacks.” Her mom left her alone with this stranger. “Why does she try me like this? She knows very well that I don’t like strangers and still she hopes this will makes me an extrovert! Huh!” Naina thought to herself.
“Hi there, Naina. How are you?”
“I am fine. Thanks!” Naina don’t care attitude was well masked by her good manners.
“So what do you like to do? Your hobbies?” Samantha asked a customary question.
Naina had always loved cooking. All her childhood memories revolved around food. She used to spend all her time watching cookery channels, noting down all the recipes. Often, the spelling mistakes in her recipe would be left uncorrected, because her mom would get busy and never open them. Although she was an assistant chef right from her kindergarten, she got the whole kitchen to herself by the young age of 8!
“I like writing.” Naina retorted to Samantha's question on hobby, hiding her innermost passion. Cooking was the last thing she wanted to discuss.
“Oh interesting. I like reading too. You know I found this book! Very interesting! It’s a recipe book, amazing recipes. Mind looking?”
Samantha was holding an old notebook in her hands. It was Naina’s recipe book. She grunted, “Not again mom, what all do you try to get me back to cooking. But making some stranger praise my own notebook? Far too cliché!” she thought.
“Nice” Naina replied robotically.
“You know, when I read this book I thought it must be written by a matured chef. But it's amazing you could write such a brilliant thing at such a small age. This should be shared with the world. Why don’t you try sharing it on social media, maybe make a youtube channel?”
YouTube…. This word transported Naina back into her past.
2 years back she started her own cookery channel with all zeal! Overcoming her shy nature, she took the pain to personally message everyone to publicize it. Yet, most of her videos couldn’t cross 300 views! And majority of those came from her parents who were trying to boost her confidence. The reason? Mostly because of the way social media worked. You need to have a lot of likes, then your channel automatically reaches a lot of people. But if you have less likes, its reach is limited, hence the likes don’t increase. It’s a vicious circle. Also, her cuisine was ingenious and beyond the likings of her conventional audience. Naina tasted failure too early in her life and she didn’t take it well. She felt a strong aversion to what she loved the most. She was so deeply hurt, that she hadn’t cooked a single dish in the last two years.
"Naina, you are ok? I was saying why not start a cookery channel?" Samantha brought Naina back from her reverie.
This was like tasting an over salted dish! This lady had some guts, pricking her wounds. She put on a poker face. “Thanks, but I am not interested!”
“Oh why! You should give it a shot! I am a youtube celebrity you know. It’s normal to get a million like for me.”
Naina gave a meek smile.
“Do you care to check my videos?” Even before Naina could deny, Samantha had opened her phone and a phone screen was directed right in front of her face.
Even without glancing at it Naina commented “great” and turned away. She halted mid ways. She turned back in slow motion, the video had something familiar! Wait, it was her recipe! Her gaze went down, Samantha’s video had 5 million likes!
Naina was perplexed. Before the question mark started dripping down her face, Samantha explained.
“You know Naina, I just moved to a new apartment a month back. I found a recipe book stashed at the end of a closet. I recreated the recipes and they were a hit. Sadly, there was no name on the book, I assumed the last resident, who died just before I moved must have written it. I opened a cookery channel dedicated to that late aunty. Overnight, the channel was a hit. One day, when I searched for my recipe and simply scrolled down, I found a video which had a dish which looked exactly like mine. As if someone copied my video. It had 303 views and was posted 2 years back. Intrigued, I found all the recipes in the book listed in that channel. I realized my assumption about the author of the book was completely wrong.”
Naina was just staring at Samantha, not knowing how to react.
“I am not your mom’s friend Naina. I searched my way to your house because your recipes drew me towards you. You know I strongly feel that if we really want something in our life, the universe conspires for that.”
Naina’s eyes turned towards her study table. At the dusty corner, as if the book, The Secret, was smilingly crookedly at her. Her vision started blurring, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Naina, you are a YouTube celebrity, there are millions of followers who are dying to get a new recipe in my channel! So little chef, would you like to make your fans happy?”
Naina’s beaming smile was an answer to it all. She hugged Samantha tightly. This was the best birthday gift ever.
Ritika likes to find an unusual angle in the usual things. Her work is mostly written in hindi and english, but she likes experimenting in other languages as well. Her articles are often published in the newspaper ‘The Hitavada’. Her poems can be found under the pen name ‘Rituational’ in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rituational and in her blog: http://songssoflife.blogspot.com/ & Her Contact: ritika.sriram1@gmail.com
Lopamudra Mishra
That was the day ,when I decided to move out from the parameters and seek for the perspectives which was quite a path breaker . I felt nervous. Actually the paramount of confusion was stealing my peace of mind. Someway or somehow I could feel the solace in me that Yeah! I am enjoying the grub now .At least I could come out with the feelings which I used to toil with . In my dreams ,in the paper canvas I had many designs ,many delicate patterns .But they wander aimlessly where to set their mark .I often feel like giving them a proper shape and perfect balance to match with my eccentric thoughts. Little I could realise then ,that I am fighting with the fear of failure. If I look back
That was the day…
That was the day, I setup my mind to move
Move was to look at the Sun
Goal was to create an impression on the sky
Made me bold
My hunt started for inspiration and assurance
In the process of learning
I found the roaring waves engulfing me with boundless energy
In the course of climbing the ladder
I found out ,at some point of time my novice hand trembles
I decided to embrace the inconsequence and ambiguity
This made me strong
Time to time I seek strength from the outer layer of orbit
,With a thought that the lacuna in me search for perfection
This made me weak
Mentally ,because I was in a thought that i can never be a defiant warrior in my warzone
yet the words prick me ,crave me with this thought
I am an identity ,I need attention
I am a bud and I have to bloom
I can’t stick my feather to my battleground
I should come out and move on..
Lopamudra Mishra, a contemporary poet, author, translator, editor, social activist, motivational speaker, orator and personality development coach, hails from Bhubaneswar, Odisha.
Her writings are intended to touch the inner chord softly by emphasizing on "Sense and
Sensibility" of attachment and bonding. She has six books till date on her name- “Rhyme of Rain”,
“First Rain”,” Tingling Parables”, “Rivulet of Emotions”, “Red Tulips” and “Hurricane Heart under the Honeyed Sky”. Her poems have been published in various magazines and anthologies. She has been Editor of Radical Rhythm-4 & Co-editor of Radical Rhythm Series and Durga.
She is a proud alumnus of Sailabala Women’s college and Ravenshaw University.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
"Why did you call me to this place? Anything special?"
Asit looked at the cheap, ordinary restaurant and flinched within. Not a place worth a glance of a billionaire like him. But when the doctor had telephoned him, he had said it was important. Under the dim light of the small restaurant the two individuals looked different, a contrast to each other. Asit was a young man in his early thirties, looking a little pale, but unmistakably handsome. Doctor Samar Ballav - old, haggard, ravaged by the many storms of life - his rugged body seemed to have been consumed by a raging fire for quite some time. He was smoking the fourth cigarette of the evening, smoke going up from his parched lips in a tragic curl. Unkempt dress, unruly hair and a shaking hand spoke of a disturbed personality.
"I called you here, because I went through your reports again. I want to ask you a few questions. From your past"
Asit became alert. Questions? What questions? Why is the doctor sounding so ominous? What could be his problem? What kind of problem could visit a young man like him, rich, powerful and influential - owner of the two best cinema halls, four big hotels and a dozen petrol pumps in the sprawling town. Add to that the dealership of Maruti cars - his wealth was a stuff of dreams. Seven years back when he returned from the U.S. after doing an MBA, his father handed over the reins of all that business to him. "Son, I have built this vast empire with a lot of sweat. Now it's for you to manage them and enjoy the dividends. You are an MBA, I am sure you will do justice to the business." Asit had promised to his dad he would take good care of the business and would not let his father down.
"What past? I am only thirty two years! Not ancient like you."
The doctor hastened to correct him, "No. No. Not the distant past, not your childhood or your adolescence, I guess you would have had a fabulous life. I just want to know how you have been spending your time after you returned from the U.S. You have so much wealth, you virtually float in money, you can buy anything you want, no one to stop you from doing whatever you want. So what is left for you to enjoy? What do you want from life, what are your cravings?"
"You are right doctor, with money I have acquired a lot. I have purchased many powerful people. With just a phone call I can summon half a dozen MLAs who will rush to my hotel with their body guards. All of them are on my payroll. I can walk into a Minister's room and get anything done with just a snap of my fingers. Two rooms in my best hotel are kept ready for these humble servants of the people and many more worthies in town - officials, lawyers, businessmen, industrialists - for whatever use they want to make of them, no questions asked. Their flunkeys bring girls and eunuchs for them. The best imported whisky is kept ready for them all the time. If there are cries from the victims from perverted brutalities of these worthies, they remain within the four walls. Often the girls are dragged out after the bosses have had their enjoyment and the flunkeys pounce upon them like hungry dogs. In the morning their almost lifeless bodies are packed in vans and sent home. No questions asked. Such is life doctor, all full of colour and music, one has to know how to enjoy life."
The doctor probably knew all that, he wanted to probe Asit's life, "Yes, all that is true, but tell me how do you enjoy life? What is it that you crave?"
Asit smiled, a cruel yet dream like smile, "Flesh!"
The doctor sat up, "Excuse me? What is that?"
The smile widened, "Yes, flesh of young, innocent girls. I buy it, no question asked on the amount. Sometimes I ensnare them, beautiful, young girls, draped in exquisite sarees, or tight dresses, their eyes shining with love, for a billionaire and his fathomless wealth. I promise them the moon and in the hope of becoming Mrs. Asit Mahanty they give themselves to me, a total surrender. I just use them for a couple of weeks and then discard them. My PRO procures a new girl for me in no time. It is amazing what money can buy - body, heart and soul, everything Doctor, you can't even imagine that. You, with your limited income and middle class mentality."
After a long speech Asit felt tired. Little beads of sweat appeared on his face. He wiped it with his kerchief, took a sip of water and sat back.
The doctor was impressed, "So, how many girls you have used like that and thrown away?"
Asit exploded, "What? You think Asit Mahanty is so cheap? To keep count of the girls he sleeps with? It is for my PRO to keep a count of that and settle their accounts. Some of them get desperate, they had already built massive dreams, as the future Mrs. Asit Mahanty. They scream, whine before the PRO, but he is a real gem. Nothing moves him. If some one tries to be difficult he blackmails her with a couple of photographs. She runs away without looking back."
"Why do you do that? You can get married to a billionaire's daughter and enjoy your flesh anytime you want."
Asit laughed, a derisive laughter throwing the doctor off guard.
"You know, my dad had asked me, a couple of years after I took over the business, what kind of girl I would like as a wife. I laughed at the idea, told him I don't want to be tied down to a cow, a bloody cow, like my Mom who never even answered back my dad and worshipped the ground he trod upon. Asit Mahanty is different, so bloody different. Doctor, do you eat meat?"
"I used to, but gave up two years back."
"Tell me, which meat is the best, the tastiest?"
"To me all meat used to taste the same, what is the difference?"
"There is a difference doctor, in the pleasure you get from eating meat. It's all psychological, you know, all pleasure is in the mind. See, you can get meat in three different ways - you can buy it, you can go to the jungle, shoot a deer and eat its meat. But you know which is the best meat you can have? When you rear a goat or a deer at home, give him all the attention you can, make him feel so happy and secure. Then one day you drag him to the slaughter point and kill him with your own hands. The look of disbelief, sadness and betrayal in his eyes is something so rare and so deep, it will make you feel powerful, immensely powerful. You had the power to give him life and then you decided to take it away. For him, in his last moments, you played God. That's what I like doctor. With my girls also. I bring them home, give them lots of hope, they just soak in it. Gradually they start getting aggressive, throw their weight around with the servants and one day I just throw them away like soiled napkins. My PRO secretly records the video of their pleading with him to give one more chance to meet me, to grant just a few minutes with me. They sob, whine and almost fall at his feet. The video really turns me on. Ah, the power of playing with people's fate! Only two persons can do it. God and Asit Mahanty! Doctor, you cannot understand it, the power of playing God, making and breaking people's lives!"
Asit again took a few sips of water, wondering what was happening to him, why he was feeling so tired frequently. The doctor watched him closely, puffing away at his cigarette. Something was bothering him and he wanted to ask Asit about that.
"Wasn't there anyone who you liked, may be a little more than others? Someone special?"
Asit paused for a moment, a wistful smile playing on his lips, "Yes, there was one. A really innocent, cute girl. She was not procured by my PRO. My car had accidentally brushed her from the side when she was walking back from the college. One look at her, and I was floored. She was beautiful, like a freshly bloomed flower and I was mad to get her. After six weeks of wooing I won her and one winter afternoon ravished her in my penthouse. I can never forget the way she cried, as if I had taken away the virginity of her whole clan! It was a big victory for me. I love it when the girls resist and I ultimately conquer them."
The doctor lit another cigarette,
"Did you throw her away also?"
"Yes, I got tired of her telling me all the time, she loved me, only me as Asit Mahanty and didn't care for my riches, that even if I had nothing she would have loved me with her heart and soul. To my horror, I saw in her another cow like my mother and in a couple of days after she professed her eternal love to me, I asked the PRO to take care of her. But Shefali was different, not like others who got intimidated by threats of blackmail, her nude photographs and pictures of the intimate moments she shared with me. A couple of months later she stormed into my office, created a big scene. Told me she was pregnant with my child. Foolish girl, she thought she could nail me down with that! I used the only weapon that I knew would shatter her. I simply told her that she was of loose character, if she could sleep with me, God knows how many men she would have slept with. I can never forget the way her face became ashen, she trembled and collapsed on the floor. She reminded me of a pet doe I had killed a year earlier, the way she had looked at me, tears in her eyes when I went near her with a sharp knife. I asked the watchman to throw her out. I never saw her again."
"What happened to her?"
"How do I know? I don't care what happens to the girls I discard. They mean nothing to me."
The doctor looked at Asit, a feeling of revulsion sweeping over him, the young man was again sweating and wiping his face with his kerchief. In a trembling voice, the doctor said, "I know what happened to her. She was the only child of her parents, their sweet darling, the throb of their heart. When she told them of her plight they were shattered. Her father quit his job and they all left for Delhi. He took up a job as a research scientist at the National Institute of Immunology. Shefali remained in deep depression and one afternoon when her mother was away to buy some vegetables, she hanged herself from the ceiling fan. Her mother was devastated by this tragedy and lived for just six months after that. After her death, the father also wanted to end his life, but then he thought how will he face his wife and daughter in heaven if he leaves without taking revenge on the devil who destroyed a happy innocent family. So I came back here..."
Before he could finish, Asit cut him short, "You? You are Shefali's father?"
"Yes, I am her father and I returned to this sad place to rid you of your habit of enjoying flesh. Asit Mahanty, your days of enjoying flesh are over. In a few months you will look like an old dog, your skin peeled off, your hair gone, you will be sitting in your lawn and panting like a decrepit dog that you are."
Asit turned pale, his face distorted by a grimace, "Why? What has happened to me?"
"AIDS. Remember you had come to me six months back for some viral infection? I had injected you with the AIDS virus. While leaving the National Institute of Immunology I had stolen a vial of the AIDS virus and brought it with me. I found out you go to GetWell Multi Speciality Hospital for all your ailments. So I took a job there and waited for your next visit. I had told the reception counter that you are an old patient of mine and when you come they should refer you to me. The first time I saw you I almost lost my mind. I thought of jumping on you and tearing you to pieces. But months of grieving over my family had taught me patience. So I waited for my chance to inflict the cruelest death on you. Now go home and wait for your death. This evening's newspaper will carry the news of your suffering from AIDS and no girl will look at you after this. You are such a celebrity, you know, the newspapers are so eager to publish a sensational news about you. So from now on you will only crave for flesh, but no flesh will be available to you. You will die a sad, frustrating death in a few months. Here is your medical report confirming the onset of AIDS. I have given a copy of this to the newspapers also. Don't even try to get a treatment. I had got the most virulent form of virus for you. Nothing but the best for you, you know. Asit Mahanty doesn't believe in anything but the best!!!"
Asit jumped up from his seat and clenched his fist to give a blow to the doctor, "You dirty bastard! You have ruined my life!"
The doctor got up and started walking away, "Not me, you are the rich, arrogant bastard! Sit down Asit, dying men don't throw punches at others, they just cover their faces and wait for the cold hands of Death to come and pick them up, silently, stealthily. I wish I could be present when your rotten body is consigned to flames. Ah, the sweet unbelievable taste of revenge! It is much better than the tastiest flesh you ever enjoyed Asit. Good bye to you. Don't come back to me, I am done with you, for me you are history, a sad, unfortunate chapter of my life."
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
Viewers Comments