Literary Vibes - Edition CLII (25-April-2025) - SHORT STORIES
Title : Magnolia (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
HIRAMAN: THE EVER ALERT WATCH(FUL)MAN
02) Sreekumar K
APRIL 1
03) Ishwar Pati
THE EXQUISITE BLISS OF DUNKED BISCUITS
04) Sushree Gayatri Nayak
SCARLET DIARY
05) Deepika Sahu
A LOVE NOTE TO INDIA’S NAMELESS TEA SHOPS
06) Annapurna Pandey
THE MAHA KUMBH MELA 2025: A PERSONAL REFLECTION
07) T. V. Sreekumar
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU
08) Snehaprava Das
KEEP YOUR KITE FLYING, BROTHER!
09) Anita Panda
TRAVEL DIARIES- OBERAMMERGAU
10) Shri Satish Pashine
“LIFE AND THE END: BEAUTY AND UNCERTAINTY”
11) Ashok Kumar Mishra
AN UNENDING WAIT
12) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
A SHADOW AFFAIR
13) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
LOVE, THE REMEDY OF LIFE
14) Bankim Chandra Tola
STORY UNTOLD
15) Sreechandra Banerjee
ON EASTER
16) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: A WOMAN WARRIOR ON THE ENVIRONMENTAL FRONT
17) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
RAINBOW WEDDING
HIRAMAN: THE EVER ALERT WATCH(FUL)MAN
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
If the residents of the Shangri-La colony saw Hiraman at their colony-gate loitering with a lighted bidi jauntily held between his lips even at a lonely midnight hour, they went to bed feeling safe.
Once a man from the colony was returning late in the night after his second shift duty, and found a snake climbing unsuccessfully and repetitively up the wall to reach the window of Jagat Sharma living in a ground floor-flat. The wise man walked away without lifting a finger, and the next morning told Sharma, “Sir, I was so tired, and it was so late in the night and you might be deeply asleep, so I walked away without raising an alarm. Besides the snake’s failed half-hearted efforts assured me of it having no serious intents to harm you. Also, I saw Hiraman watching it intently and that reassured me.”
Sharma had a word with Hiraman about the snake. The watchman offered him a bidi that the latter declined with mild rebuke, “Don’t smoke that poison, Hiraman, it is killing you. Tell me about the snake that tried to enter my window last night.”
Very thin, all of around fifty Kg. in weight, the watchman uniform hanging loose on him, Hiraman rose from his tool to his full height and spoke as if he was the custodian of Fort Knox Vault, the gold reserve of America.
“Sahib, I know the snake. A petty one and one among many of her tribe. A big fat baby female Dhaman, a harmless snake. It was after a mouse. The mouse had entered your house by the window to escape the predator. While giving a chase to the prey, it tried to enter your room by the window. But it knew Hiraman was watching. It looked at me and I looked at it. Our eyes locked. It fell down from the wall, and slithered away. Sir, the baby Dhaman was too young to read the rule books of snakes and I request you to forgive the kid.”
Sharma, the young government officer, was amazed, amused, and assured like all, hearing and believing Hiraman’s credentials from his own mouth, as it was sort of ‘straight from the horse’s mouth’. He recalled what Hiraman had told him, when new to Mombay, he had arrived in that colony about a month ago, “Sir ji, you are in the safe hands of Hiraman. If Hiraman is in charge, no thieves, goons, dogs, cats, snakes or rats would dare harming you. In my watch they would stay clear of you giving you a wide berth with averted eyes.” Sharma could not believe his ears and his good luck, if it was true, there stood almost a Superman.
He had moved into his rented One-BHK flat on the ground floor in the colony of the low-income-group residents, as his government House Rent Allowance was abysmally paltry, and he could not afford the rent of a decent accommodation. He had arrived with a bed-roll and two boxes of belongings only for which he felt humbled and a bit crestfallen in the rich man’s city, Mumbai. His first reassurance had come from Hiraman, “Sir ji, your eyes say it all. Don’t feel belittled because of the small flat or your meagre possessions. All come to Bombay like you, almost destitute, but leave it as a Tata and a Birla, very wealthy.”
Sharma returned smiling after the detailed pictorial description of the look exchanges and eye-contacts of the watchful frail looking but alert Hiraman and the fat, hungry, and harmless baby Dhamanan with no access so far to rule books of snakes, as pontificated by Hiraman, the watchful watchman.
He had chewed on the information that had percolated to him about Hiraman from the horse’s mouth, that was Hiraman himself, along with that from other mouths. Hiraman was as ancient as the Big Bang. As poor residents were arriving at the poor man’s colony with the superlative name Sangri-La, a huge joke on their poor fate, and were leaving when their lot improved; none lived or visited there long enough to have seen the beginning of the time, meaning, Hiraman’s appointment.
Everyone, however, had infallible faith in Hiraman sitting at the gate. Sharma compared him with the Rock of Gibraltar, the eternal divine guard. He appeared middle-aged, but might be much younger than his looks, bidi and poverty having taken their tolls. He had a large direct family, a well-endowed wife and around seven to eight children varying from eighteen of age to a baby at his wife’s breast.
Once Sharma attended the meeting of the annual general body of the housing society of Sangri-La’s residents, a mix of flat-owners and tenants like him. He raised a question for Hiraman who was on duty twenty-four hours a day. It had ruined his health. He should be assisted at least by two other watchmen, the three of them doing eight-hour shifts turn by turn. The extra expenses should be pooled among all. Also, Hiraman’s paltry salary badly needed a raise.
But almost all disagreed, “Hiraman would not like assistants or sift-duty. It will hurt his self-respect. He may feel we have no trust on him. The colony has never suffered from a theft in his long tenure. So, sir, let it be as it is. But his salary can be revised upward if all agree.” After the meeting when Sharma walked to Hiraman, the ever-welcome smile was replaced by a mixture of a long face and a suppressed smile, a difficult act of mixing resentment and pleasure on his thin face, that Shama thought, only that johnny was capable.
Sharma cajoled, “Hiraman, it appears nothing escapes your watch that goes around this colony. I assume you are resenting what I said in the society annual general body meeting about the extra appointments to assist you. I wanted some rest for you, and as a family man, you must meet your family members some times.”
Sharma had been amazed in the meeting by the hold the frail bidi-smoking watchman had on the psyche of the residents of the colony. Now his amazement had no bounds to hear What Hiraman had to say.
“Sir, don’t you find me at my appointed place of duty, day and night, whenever you have sought me for any work? Have you not been the direct beneficiary of my control over the miscreants, might they be humans or animals? Say, that night’s incident of rat and the snake at your window? And I remind you sir, children don’t come by ‘writing letters’. I had spend time with my wife to produce eight children. By the way, I am grateful for the raise you asked for me.”
Sharma was a writer of sorts in Hindi literature who used sarcasm as a tool to drive home his points. But he repented the use of that tool on Hiraman in his last sentence a minute ago - about ‘giving time to family’. He found, though Hiraman was not known for literary abilities, yet he had a gift of gab in use of sarcasm. His reference to ‘writing letters’ was a reply in sarcasm to Sharma’s sarcasm. It had references to one of their earlier discussions.
A hilarious reference, rather. When Sharma learnt of Hiraman’s large family of eight children, he took on him the unpalatable cudgel like a patronising big brother to help Hiraman. Trying to be circumspect, he advised, “My dear Hiraman, even chain-smokers keep their cigarettes out of their mouth some times.” Hiraman did not take his distant circumspection, and replied, “I am trying to give up smoking sir, even my wife hates the smell.”
Sharma wanted to be more direct to drive home his point, “In fact, as I did not want to offend you, I meant that between you and your wife, the non-stop ploughing has produced a harvest of eight children. That is too many. You must try stopping this project as well as the bidi-smoking.”
Hiraman looked at his Sharma sir with a smiling side glance, a penchant that few could muster like Hiraman, and replied, “I love my wife much.” Sharma in spite of himself could not hold his sarcastic tongue-in-cheek, “Didn’t I tell you, even chain-smokers who love their cigarettes much, sometimes keep the cigarette out of the mouths.”
It appeared Sharma had finally driven his nail into Hiraman’s thick skull. Hiraman, however, wriggled out of the trap in a coy contortion that thin and agile Hiraman could only muster, gave another laughing side glance, but this time soaked in a shy syrupy question, “Aren’t you married sir?” “Yes Hiraman, since last five years.” “How many kids do you have sir?” “None so far, Hiraman.” “Your wife does not stay with you. How do you both exhibit your love to each other?” “Hiraman, as situations are not conducive to keep her with me, we keep our love alive by writing letters.”
Hiraman had turned naughty, “Sir, writing letters don’t produce kids. You are to spend real time with your wife, and enjoy chain-smoking.” For the first time, it appeared he accepted Sharma’s friendship, because he winked at him mischievously as an equal.
Sharma’s eyes welled up by winning a new friend in Hiraman. The Berlin Wall of class difference between them, a watchman and a resident, had dissolved at last. Sharma now realsed - Hiraman had used that ‘letter writing’ as his sarcasm on him, though he might not have studied prosody of the grammar.
Hiraman lived in a large hut behind the colony’s houses on a vacant lot inside the compound wall. Hiraman invited Sharma for tea to his house. Sharma met his wife and the younger five of his brood. It was a single big hut bordered with walls of mud and roofed with corrugated tin sheets. Thick foliage of a grand Gulmohar tree spread its bounty of shade over his hut, keeping it cool. He had a little fridge, a pedestal fan, a small-screen TV. An extension of electric line was given to him from the housing colony’s office and Hiraman’s electric consumption was taken care of graciously. His wife cooked on two electric stoves.
Sharma was told the oldest three, all of them boys, were working as service boys in trolleys selling Chinese street food, in three different trolleys catering in different nearby areas. Chinese dishes had been the recent street-craze with the poor locals. The fourth girl-child, all of eleven, worked as a cleaning maid in a house in a neighbouring colony.
They all, slept in that hut together in nights. Mrs Hiraman looked pregnant to Sharma’s eyes, her nineth child. He was amazed how the couple managed their intimate privacy in that over-crowded room. He praised in his thought, “Bravo Hiraman! Your ways are amazing!” He smiled to himself, “Great lovers in history had their great tricks of love. Didn’t Casanova have his? Then, why not Hiraman?”
After two years, Sharma was allotted a bigger than his rented accommodation, a government quarters with two bedrooms and twenty-four hours running water. His government colony’s gate was about five-minute walk from where Hiraman kept his watch, the gate of Sangri-La.
His insecurity and the pang of sadness for going away even to a distance of less than a kilo meter, after staying safe under the affectionate and able watch of Hiraman for more than two years, disappeared when he heard Hiraman, “Sahib, go happily to your bigger house. Bring madam ji and give her a lot of love and let her give you back a bigger brood than mine. I will keep a watch on your safety from here and see no harm comes your way.”
Sharma, however, missed Hiraman outside his window and once-in-a-while ingratiating smile. If he smiled ingratiatingly, Sharma would slip a few hundred-rupee notes into Hiraman’s pocket. Sharma knew proud Hiraman would never touch him even for a tenner how completely broke he might be. He could read his helplessness in his sad ingratiating smile. It was different from his confident laugh. So, Sharma would do his part as a helpful friend most unobtrusively.
They would then walk to the tea stall located on the road and almost equidistant from both the colonies’ gates, share a cup of tea in Mumbai’s cutting-chai style, sipping their brew of half-cups with immense satisfaction of friendship. That used to be the ritual over their knowing each other for more than two years at Sangri-La, and continued even after he shifted to his government accommodation.
Sharma after making the few minimum arrangements to go ahead with a family life, Mrs Sharma arrived with her father-in-law, Sharma’s father. When for formality-sake, Sharma remonstrated, “Baba, what was the need of bringing Kamla here. How can Ma and you manage without her in the village?”
The old man gave a knowing smile, “My son, Kamla was impatient to cook for you. You were impatient to eat her cooking. Your mother can cook for me and I would always be there to praise your mother’s cooking. So, no hassles, my son.” It was the most wholesome solution his understanding parents could give their son, Sharma thought.
Finally, love letters stopped between Sharma and his wife. They spent time together and inevitability gifted them a baby girl after a year, followed by a boy the next year. Hiraman chuckled with a smile when invited to dinner with wife and his brood of nine children, “So sir, chain-smoking?” Sharma demurred shyly, but their wives did not notice as they knew not the reference to ‘chain-smoking’. But both Mrs Hiraman and Mrs Sharma were intrigued to see their husbands sitting apart and whispering sweet nothings like two lovebirds on a date.
Hiraman was whispering, “So sir, chain-smoking?” Sharma joked, “Elementary, my Dr Watson! How did you guess?” Sharma continued, “My dear friend, now there is a way out of the impasse. You can have your cake, eat it too.” “How is it possible, sir?” Sharma gave a nervous giggle, “Easy, tomorrow we go to the doctor.” Hiraman demurred, “Na baba, I can’t stop chain-smoking. Basundi won’t like it.” Sharma assured, “Chain-smoking continues but without smoke.”
The next Friday day, Sharma took leave from his office and took Hiraman to a surgeon and as pre-appointed. Little surgeries were performed on each of them. They were given painkillers and antibiotics for three days by the surgeon with advice to stay away from wives until their little wounds healed.
Hiraman was full of doubts. He repeatedly asked Sharma, “Would it be ok for Basundi? Would she miss anything? We being poor, it is our only source of pleasure.” “No, Hiraman, no, your beloved Basundi would not detect the difference, because there would be none. Go in peace, resume your husbandly duties in a more carefree way after the break as there would never come a tenth baby.”
After a week, Sharma met his friend at his post at the gate of Sangri-La. Hiraman’s smile was not as broad, something had made him brooding. After much cajoling, he spoke, “Basundi made out the difference immediately, ‘Hira, you are different. What’s the matter, baby?’ And sir, in last three days, Basundi is more and more restless. What do I do, sir?”
Sharma had a pang of guilt. What could he say except, “All will be well, Hiraman, my friend. Your confidence has just taken toll. And the women have great sensors to detect the slightest changes, even in confidence sector. Ask Basundi to have patience. See, I did not face any problem.” His little speech did not cut ice, it seemed.
Sharma visited his native village with wife for a month. When he returned, he found Hiraman totally deranged, broken down, and devastated. The eldest of his brood shyly explained, “Uncle, for a month our parents started their morning with quarrels. Something had gone terribly wrong. Mother was accusing father of something we did not understand.”
He continued, “Then another uncle, a friend of my father, started visiting our hut during my father’s absence, and at times mother went out with him. One day, my mother who went out with that uncle and did not return home. We heard both of them had bolted. We found later, the ornaments of my mother, and the cash kept with mother were gone, possibly taken away by mother.
Hiraman had resigned his job. Hiraman’s eldest son had left his job at his Chinese trolley and joined as watchman in his father’s place temporarily. Sharma took Hiraman home. A new equation started. Sharma and his wife attended to broken man, Hiraman, kept uttering, “I will kill that pair”. They tried to console his broken spirit. But love was a peculiar disease, worse than cancer or consumption. A month passed in a limbo, then two.
One day, Hiraman’s eldest son came with a message to Sharma, “Sir, mother has returned. She is in our hut. That uncle looted her, cheated her, ditched her, discarded like used toilet paper. She wishes to meet you, sir.”
Sharma met Basudi, who cried in his arms like a little kid, “You are like a younger brother of my husband. I repent for what I did. I realise whatever deficit I found in Hiraman was my own prejudices. He was perfectly alright. That snake of a man was filling my ears against my beloved husband. Perhaps, a fickle girl in me wanted to see the other side of the world. I learnt the hard way, how terribly insecure is the other side. I realise finally I love Hiramn, and him only. I want to speak to him and tell him, ‘I love you, Hira. Let’s start everything afresh.”
Sharma explained about the changes in Hiraman. He explained how Hiraman could turn violent on her. But Basundi insisted, “I don’t care, Sharma sir, just one last chance, even if he thrashes me black and blue.”
He took Basundi home. He and his wife stood guard, ready to pounce if Hiraman turned violent. They kept the door wide open. Basundi walked into his room. What followed was unimaginable. The husband wife took to each other in a bearhug. Hiraman kicked the door shut. Minutes past. Sharma’s wife was apprehensive, “Is he strangulating her?”
Shama approached the door carefully, and opened it a crack. In the semi-dark what he saw was a heavenly. The couple were taking their monthslong love’s toll on the bare floor – their differences, quarrels, separation, and mutual yearnings - in a very roughshod manner, and with apparent impatience. Sharma pondered to himself, “whatever advancement the human civilization may claim, but the final settlements are done at the grass root level in the most primeval ways. He closed the door quietly. His big mysterious smile intrigued his wife Kamla.
To solve Kamla’s huge curiosity, Sharma’s only denouement was a big mischievous wink. The clever wife understood from that wink the whole of history, geography, and anthropology of events behind the closed door, and heaved in relief, “Thank God”. (END)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
Sreekumar K
When I was brought here as a bride, my man gave me many responsibilities. He told me to love Amma not just as a daughter-in-law but as her own daughter. He also handed over all the duties he had been managing alone for Amma until then.
To avoid forgetting, I wrote everything down in a diary. I knew nothing about rituals like *Kuva*, *Thiruvathira*, *Pathamudayam*, or *Ayyappan Vilakku*. But I made sure never to fail in reminding Amma to observe them all.
I entered this house as a bride in April. Amma stayed with us almost a year after that.
For years, my brother would remind Amma on March 31—the day before April 1—not to panic if she heard others play April fool jokes with her. He’d say, “It’s just April Fool’s Day tomorrow. Don’t believe everything people say.”
I had even noted this in my diary. But Amma passed away in March. There was no April 1 left to remind her about.
Today is March 31. Lying in bed, I thought about how, if Amma were alive, I’d have to give her that warning again. Eventually, I drifted into sleep.
I woke up to someone calling, “Amma!” Midnight. My husband had jolted awake from a nightmare. He wasn’t fully conscious yet, still trapped in the dream.
“What’s wrong, Chetta?” I asked.
Haltingly, he said, “My dear girl… I had a terrifying dream.”
“What was it?” I asked, forcing a laugh.
“I dreamed… Amma died.”
I realized he still hadn’t fully woken up. I needed to tell him it wasn’t a nightmare—that Amma *had* passed away weeks ago. But I couldn’t bring myself to.
“Go back to sleep, Chettan. If Amma hears this, she’ll get scared. She won’t sleep now if you don’t,” I lied.
Let him sleep. Let him spend one more night in the sweet delusion that Amma is alive in the next room. By morning, he’ll forget this anyway.
*Please, God, don’t let him remember*, I prayed.
“You did the right thing, child,” Amma’s voice whispered in the dark.
I’m certain it wasn’t a dream.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
THE EXQUISITE BLISS OF DUNKED BISCUITS
Ishwar Pati
‘Dunkin’ Donuts’ is a famous American chain of coffeehouses. It originated in Boston shipyards in 1950 serving coffee and doughnuts, a quick and cheap lunch option for the shipyard workers. Take a doughnut, ‘dunk’ (i.e. dip) it in hot coffee and munch on it. That’s how the name stuck. A rustic practice of dunking doughnuts in coffee made an enterprising young man realise his American dream! Unlike the boastful Americans, the British are stiff upper-lipped about their own custom of dunking, though Queen Victoria herself was said to enjoy dipping her biscuits in tea, a German custom inherited from her youth.
I love dunking my biscuits in tea to make them soft on my palate. But my wife frowns on what she calls a ‘dirty’ habit. “You are such an uncouth pig!” she hisses, turning up her nose when I drown a biscuit in my tea! It reminds her of a drowning man flailing in murky waters, she says. I adore the way she twists her face when she says that. I wish I could bequeath this ‘rich’ practice of dunking to my children, notwithstanding my wife’s distaste. But she would hear nothing of it. Isn’t it enough, she thunders, that she has to tolerate one pig in the house? Do I want to convert my home into a pig sty?
In course of time our children have grown up, got married and produced their own kids. I may not have been able to ‘brainwash’ my children. But nothing prevents me from grooming my granddaughter as an ‘uncouth dunker’! She looks bored with her mandatory cup of milk anyhow. I made my move as I was sipping my morning cup alone in the garden and she walked in. I asked her to touch the outer surface of my lukewarm cup. She hesitated before tentatively extending her hand. At the last moment she drew her arm back, giggling with the challenge. Again I asked her and again she extended her little fingers. When her skin made contact with the mug, she withdrew instantly with a cry. But soon her curious fingers returned to make more exploratory touches. I took a chocolate biscuit, dipped it in the tea and offered it to her. The attraction of chocolate was too great and overrode all other concerns. She snatched the biscuit from me and bit into it. Yummy! Sounds of satisfaction emanated from her throat. I had won!
But my triumph was transitory. Who should walk into the garden just then? My wife! Needless to say, she succeeded in depriving even the next generation of that uncivilised but heavenly bliss of dunking biscuits in tea.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
If you are a righteous and virtuous person, then I am not meant for you. My scarlet does not represent the red paper cover of mine. My suit is coloured with the darkness that surrounded her—Vanta black. And on my pages, I hold the unholy blood of her heart, blood that has now dried and browned. Yet, you people called her the “scarlet woman,” and she named me her Scarlet Diary.
I was her best friend, for no one else spoke to her. Her delicately fine figure seemed carved from the finest porcelain. Her exquisitely beautiful, long, narrow face shone like shimmering stardust. Her emerald eyes were deeper than a dense forest. The black kajal and mascara around them made them appear as a labyrinth of lust; once you entered, you couldn’t escape their spell. Her full lips, painted with red lipstick, rested above her sharp jawline, resembling a fresh-bloomed red lotus. Her long, tender neck seemed like a narrow road leading to her realm of wandering. Yes, everyone was crazy for her. But nobody loved her the way she longed to be loved. She never received the love she craved; instead, she was used by them. Then they cast her aside like a chewed-up piece of gum, after devouring her skin, and discarded her into the dustbin. They marked her as tarnished.
Her fragile body was not made to bear such pain and stains. Her pure soul couldn’t accept it, yet her innocent heart and misfortune kept her from questioning them. So, she wrote her pain and agony on me. She bled on me, and I held her memories. I could not embrace her, but I soaked up all her tears. I could not love her back, but she stored all the hatred she received within me. And that’s why I was her best friend.
I don’t remember the exact moment she came to me because she didn’t make me her confidante right away. But she told me later that someone close to her, someone she trusted deeply, had sold her for a little money. The little girl of sixteen, once as happy as a butterfly, had her wings clipped and was locked in a cage. At such a young age, they painted crimson red lipstick—redder than pomegranate seeds—onto her lips. They dressed her in a saree with narrow pleats that exposed the curves of her waist and the arcs of her breasts. They placed her on the road, and the highest bidder won her for the night. They devoured her like a mango. And when it was over, all that was left was a naked mango pit—or perhaps just a pile of bones. Bones that creaked after the Ajagars (pythons) had finished.
Some Ajagars coiled around her with unyielding grasp. But one day, it so happened that an Ajgar was ready to pay more than the usual rate for some friend of his, and she agreed.
That night, as usual, she had put a thick veil of makeups on her face to hide her true self. She masked her desperate eyes with playful kajal and coloured her parched lips into the illusion of a freshly bloomed rose with that same crimson-red lipstick. Dressed in a red saree, she looked like a tempting red hibiscus.
The room was scented with cheap tuberose perfume. A dim yellow light lit the room, making everything seem a little blurry, like a foggy winter morning. The silence of the night grew more intense with the chirping of the crickets, and the continuously ticking clock counted down to the battle. I was lying on the table, watching her pale face, hidden beneath her fresh rose skin, from afar.
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed on the door. She opened it, and a man, 6 feet tall, entered the room quickly. He had fair skin and a strong muscular body. His bulging veins looked green. But his face… his face was dangerous. His eyes were larger than normal and red, his nose inflamed, and his reddish lips were shivering. It seemed like he was in a rage. He wasn’t drunk, and no smell of cigarette came from him.
She headed to the bed and offered him a glass of lemonade, but he hurled the glass, and it shattered on the floor. He slapped her hard. Her fragile body fell to the ground, where the glass pieces lay scattered. She was in shock and didn’t even understand what was happening to her. The shards of glass pierced her skin, and her bloody skin mixed with her red saree. Tears of pain welled up in her eyes. She tried to get up, but a sudden blow from a belt struck her. She couldn’t even look at his face. She had many questions in her mind—why was this happening? Why her? What had she done? But he did not even give her time to ask anything. He kept striking her with the belt as she lay there, sobbing, crying, helpless. She could see the last of her hopes fading away (the rest had already faded when she was sold).
The belt's blows left her body swollen red, her back, and her waist curves which were famous in the whole market were in a horrible state, and with every blow those glass pieces penetrated deeper within her face, and that mad man just didn’t stop his attack, just continuously whipping her with the belt like he was a machine, I don’t know what made him so angry that he killed all his senses, with his brain having no trace of humanity, behaving this rudely with a girl who is not even half his age.
She writhed on the shattered glass. She tried her best and screamed loud and louder and tried her best to generate a painful voice that may come in notice of someone afar, and MAYBE they’d rush to help her, thus screaming on the top of her throat.
By the grace of God, six people rushed to the building. Maybe some humanity was left in them. At first, they hesitated to enter, thinking, ‘It might be normal for them to scream this loudly every day.’ But the pain in the voice just couldn’t be ignored, so they rushed inside, went in front of the room which was the supposed source of that pain, and all they could think was, ‘Bang the door’.
They mindlessly started banging on the entry, thus increasing the anger meter of that unidentified crazy person even more. He just intensified the whipping, and maybe, to convexify his anger all at once, he smashed the cheap flower vase kept nearby right into her head while yelling and screaming something. His scream was just like a dead monster brought back to life. He scared the hell out of those six men standing outside.
Then he rushed out of the room, slamming the door open and leaving as if he was a storm.
The men pitied her state. Her head was drenched in dark red, like a river flowing from the top of her head down to her breasts and the rest of her half-naked body. They hesitated, unsure of what to do.
One of them said, “What should we do now? This is a police case. The police will ask so many questions.”
Another said, “Let’s leave her alone. Even touching her is a sin. My family will abandon me if they find out I’m here.”
The third person, a more compassionate soul, said, “How can we leave her here to die? This isn’t humanity. We’ll deal with the consequences later. First, we need to save her.”
But the other three disagreed and turned to leave.
The remaining three lifted her bloodied body and took her away. And I, still lying on the table, waited for her, worried for her safety. I could do nothing but wait and hope she would be okay.
Days passed, but she didn’t return. Everything remained the same—the locked door, the dusty room, the shattered glass pieces still stained red, lying on the floor, waiting for someone to clean them. The room was engulfed in deep, dead silence.
The only audible thing in this party of silence was the ticking of the clock. They say time never stops, and it really didn’t, even though it feels like not even a single second has passed since that horror incident, the clock (proving me wrong) has completed 2 months, 25 days, 7 hours, 3 minutes and 4 seconds.
Maybe my time didn’t pass well, for I was always busy wondering how hers was passing, waiting for her to just come again, open the windows, and sit beside them to fill my next page, I am eagerly waiting for that moment to arrive, I know it will.
One day, after the door had been closed for days, it finally opened. Happiness glittered in the corners of my eyes. I thought she had returned. I wanted to be embraced by her and ask her how she was. I wanted to say, “Please come to me and write your story once again.”
But alas! What did I see? It was not her, but another woman of her age. I didn’t know her, had never seen her before. She walked carefully on the floor and looks disgusted by the bloody odour of this old ruined room. Wait, why is she coming to me? I kept asking her relentlessly, “Who are you? Why are you here? Where is she?” But the woman, not being her, could not understand my words. She dusted me off, took me in her hand. She opened a new page of mine, is she gonna make paper planes out of me? Oh wait, she is writing something.
“Dear reader, I am not the owner of this diary. I am not her friend either. I just met her a few days ago when she was in the hospital bed. Yes, I am the nurse who attended to her.
It was the 10th night of December, one of the coldest nights of the month. The earth was wrapped in smog under a dark, cloudy sky. The eerie silence sent shivers down my spine. The hospital corridor was completely empty, except for two people sleeping on chairs—they were perhaps relatives of the patients.
During this dead hour of the night, a sudden shout echoes through the halls, vibrating through every corner of the hospital. Startled, I ran out in shock to see what had happened! I saw a girl completely drenched in blood. She had been brought to Parvati Hospital and Trust by three men. She was groaning in pain. They put her on a stretcher and called for the doctor loudly. When I saw her for the first time, my heart leaped into my throat. How had she been injured like this? How much pain was she bearing? Tears welled up in my eyes. But I steeled myself and went to call Dr Mahesh Shinde, the general surgeon. He came with me to her. He was also shocked and asked them, “How did this happen?”
The people who brought her said, “Someone beat her very harshly. We arrived just in time and brought her here.”
“It’s a police case. Have you reported to the police? Have you filed an FIR?”
“Sir, we immediately brought her here because her life is more important than the FIR.”
“Do you think I’m mad? Do you want me to treat her and then be suspended from my job? No way. Sister, call the police first. I suspect these people. Let them investigate first.”
I said to him, “But Sir, she needs immediate treatment. Her bleeding is not stopping. She might lose consciousness, and it will be difficult to save her then.”
“Am I the doctor, or are you? Just do what I said.”
And he left. I was in shock. In my empathy and anger, my eyes turned red. I wanted to scold the whole system, but I couldn’t. As he said, I called the police.
The police arrived two hours later. Two policemen, one investigation officer, and one constable came and saw her. I called the doctor. The police questioned the men who brought her.
“Who is she?”
One of them said, “She is a scarlet woman.”
“And what are you doing with her?”
“We are not with her. An unknown man beat her nearly to death. We heard her voice and went there. When we banged on the door, he ran out, and we brought her here for treatment.”
“Nice story. Do you think I will trust your words? You did this yourselves.”
“No, Sir, please trust us. Three other men were with us, but they didn’t help her because she is a whore. We couldn’t ignore her condition and took her here.”
“Are you also one of her customers?”
One man got furious and asked, “Sir, she is bleeding and groaning in pain, and you’re asking us these ridiculous questions? Is there any humanity left in people?”
“Hmm, truth is always bitter to hear and accept. That’s why you’re angry. Now you’ll teach me law and humanity? Okay, leave it. Why did the man beat her?”
“Seriously!! How would we know, Sir?”
Dr Shinde said, “Sir, it’s simple. Maybe this woman asked him for more money after satisfying him, and the man had no money. Or perhaps this woman had taken money for extra services, but she couldn’t satisfy him.”
And then both of them laughed. The constable also laughed with them and said, “Sir, it’s a normal case. It happens usually. We don’t need to interfere in this.”
The officer sighed and said, “Yeah, the law is not for them. We have many other serious things to do. Okay, doctor, you handle this. We are leaving now.” And they left the place.
I was there, standing silently, witnessing everything. But my heart was crying, and I couldn’t do anything.
Then the doctor asked me to take her to the OT. I did as per his order. Then they performed surgery. They removed the glass shards and dressed her head. By God’s grace, she was saved.
She was moved to the ICU, and I was taking care of her. In these days, she had become a good friend of mine. She had told me her life story and how she came to the profession. She shared her experiences and memories.
Yes, she was a fighter. After all this, still, she was strong and hopeful for life. She was recovering well. But suddenly, yesterday afternoon, she developed a fever. The temperature didn’t decrease until night. I was very tense for her. She was crying in pain. I was hopeful. She, who had survived such a serious injury, this fever couldn’t do anything to her. But who knew, it was her last day in the world. The fighter couldn’t fight anymore. Her energy was drained, and she exhaled her last breath in my arms. For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. Had she really gone? Yes, she had gone. Her hands became colder, and her eyes closed. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of tears running down my cheeks and falling on her hands. The world stopped for me for a moment.
When she was on her deathbed, when her body was as hot as burning fire, she told me she wrote in her diary regularly. She hadn’t written since the day of that incident. Although no one would read her life, she wanted me to complete her life journey for her, to fill the last pages of her diary. And for that, I am here today. It’s an honour for me to be a part of her life. I am simultaneously happy that I could write the last pages of her life and sad that she couldn’t do it herself.”
She finished her writing. My heart felt like it was going to burst. Why couldn’t I be human? I should have stayed with her and protected her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even see her for the last time. After knowing all this, my pages seemed to flutter, and the ink stirred from the page with the vibration. Then she spoke to me:
“Dear diary, she missed you a lot while she was in the hospital. And I’m sorry for you that she couldn’t meet you before leaving this world. You were the only one who was with her since the beginning. You were the only kin she had. I’m sorry for you too. She couldn’t make it. But still, she’s a fighter.
You don’t deserve this place. A fighter’s life should be read by many, known by all, and inspire them. I will take you with me.”
Why did all of this have to happen to her? She was such a beautiful, young, and intelligent girl. She spoke about being a fighter. Maybe she was more than that. She did not deserve this all, and I can’t even cry on all that has happened!
It seems like this nurse is gonna take me along. She says that every person should know about her life, maybe they should, but do they deserve it ?
All those who ignored her cries do not deserve to know her,
But.. maybe telling everything to the world is the best thing I can do to keep her memory alive. Yes, that’s the only thing I can be happy about !
She brought me to a library. No one really comes to read me—of course, why would anyone read a scarlet diary? But there are some people who do; they read me, and a few even hug me—perhaps to pay homage to her feelings. She was never heard when she spoke, but here, in the hush of turning pages, may be she is finally understood.
This day, almost ten people have counted my pages since morning. It seems like things are gonna go well…
Oh wait, is what I am seeing really happening? The same man in a suit and boots! And the book-keeper just referred to him as the owner of this library. Everyone is greetings with him respect.
Wait, what does that mean??
That same freaking monster with the creepy eyes… he’s the one who caused all this mess, and now he’s the one who… But why, destiny? Why?
Sushree Gayatri Nayak is a budding muse and poet from Odisha, India. Currently pursuing her studies in English literature at Utkal University, she channels her passion for love, nature, and current social issues into heartfelt poetry. Her verses weave emotional depth with thought-provoking reflections, capturing both personal experiences and broader societal concerns.
A LOVE NOTE TO INDIA’S NAMELESS TEA SHOPS
Deepika Sahu
On a slightly cool February morning, my friend and I were walking on the quiet streets of Sekharipuram in Kerala. We were basically soaking in the beauty of the gramam and its deliciously beautiful houses. Suddenly, I had this intense desire to have chai and parippu vada. And to our good luck, we could find the nameless tea shop just a few yards away. The joy of finding that little nameless tea shop felt immense at that moment.
What’s India without its countless nameless tea shops? The tea shop is an intimate key to pause in a world dominated by busyness. It is all about a large-hearted inclusive universe that embraces all who can spare Rs 5/ 10 or probably a lil more for a cup of tea. The tea shop is the epicentre of both silence and conversations. You can come quietly and have your own cup of tea and then leave quietly too. No need to strike a conversation with your fellow tea-drinkers. You can have your own inner universe even when you are in an external universe. On the other hand, you can also have conversations with people around you. It is up to you — how you want to be present at this nameless tea shop.
Everyone is in a hurry now— in a postmodern, developed urban India. Everyone is in a hurry to acquire something or the other. Even the humble chai/ chaha/ cha has got a sleek makeover. In the midst of a pandemic, we had so many privileged souls gloating over their bubble tea. Everything has to have some kind of fancy tag these days. Same holds true for tea too. You can now have your share of sleeping beauty tea, anti-stress tea, rose tea, blueberry tea… the list is endless.
But nothing has really changed in the world of nameless tea shops. The tea kettle might look a little battered but it still functions. Some things in life should not change. They should just remain the way they are. They are almost like a mother putting her child to sleep by singing the same lullaby her mother had once sung for her.
You will find these tea shops in almost all the states of India more so when you are travelling in the countryside. These tiny tea shops are a lifeline for many people who just stop by to have their share of a hot cup of chai even as they navigate through their life and work. These shops add a quintessential charm to the landscape and are also in one way or other can be described as 'community meeting centres'.
Few months ago, during my travels in Odisha, I came across this nameless tea shop in a little village. I stopped by to have a cup of chai and generally to soak in the atmosphere. I was the only woman there but I felt safe. I have no idea whether the women from nearby villages come to the shop to have chai.
There is nothing fancy about the tea available at these shops. If you can't live without your Jasmine tea, Orange pekoe tea or Oolong tea, then this place is not for you. Here you get tea brewed with tea leaves, milk and sugar. But the tea tastes good. There’s a kind of robustness to the tea. It makes you feel alive. In Odisha, these tea shops will always have different kinds of biscuits in colourful plastic dabbas. As a child, I used to just love seeing these canisters filled with goodies and always fantasized about having tea with these biscuits. But adulthood is a different game altogether and I now stay away from biscuits.
The tea shop is a place for people to steal some moments for themselves without spending too much. The humble chai will always be a hot favourite for many across India.
The most telling image that I carry in my heart from my visit to tea shops is a man from Odisha walking away gracefully from the tea shop after having his tea. I will never forget the lines on his back as they speak of an entire life spent working long hours under the burning sun. I believe, there is no absolute love, no absolute death too. But there is absolute hard work. On his back, so many of us stand with our urban privileges and brood over our Monday blues in air-conditioned offices.
Time at a nameless tea shop feels like a semi-colon instead of full stop in a relationship. Maybe you are hurt or angry in a relationship but that’s not the full stop. There’s a way forward. Maybe the way forward will be clear to you after you finish your tea at the humble, gentle nameless tea stall. Not everything needs to have a name in life. The tea will still taste like nectar. Even in the absence of a tea shop’s name. Welcome to the world of pause and liquid happiness.
Deepika Sahu is an Ahmedabad-based senior journalist with a career spanning since 1995. During her career, she has worked with India's premier media organisations, including the Press Trust of India (PTI) in New Delhi, Deccan Herald in Bengaluru, and The Times of India in Ahmedabad. Currently, she is contributing India-centric features to Melbourne-based The Indian Sun, a cutting edge media platform. In addition to her journalism career, Deepika is involved in teaching English and Communication Skills to learners from different parts of India through Manzil, a Delhi-based NGO. Beyond her professional endeavors, Deepika is passionate about India's rich diversity, literature, blogging, quiet hours at a cafe and enjoying a cup of tea.
THE MAHA KUMBH MELA 2025: A PERSONAL REFLECTION
Annapurna Pandey
On the evening of January 27, Maha Kumbh Mela, I met a few sadhus cooking a meal on a makeshift wood stove on the sands of the Ganges, Prayag Raj. When I asked, they showed me their pot on the firepit, some cauliflower, peas, and potatoes, their only meal of the day. Six hundred of these yogis have traveled from Nepal barefoot to spend the 45 days of Kumbh Mela, starting January 13 and ending February 26, at Prayag Raj. They make Kalpabas - an intense spiritual retreat by abstaining from wearing shoes, leaving only two pairs of clothes, eating one meal daily, and practicing spiritual discipline, austerity, and meditation. One said they carry all their belongings on their head to move from one place to another. On February 26, they will complete the kalpabas, cleanse their body with a ritual bath, do offerings to the sacred Ganges, get rid of old clothes, and return to their worldly life.
This year, Prayag Raj became its city and witnessed the participation of about 650 million people at the Maha Kumbh Mela. The river ghat stretches to 12 km (7.5 mi), and the surrounding area has been divided into 25 sectors where different Akhadas (Hindu religious orders) are spread out. About 150,000 tents are provided for accommodation. Millions of people - Sadhus, CEOs, Bollywood celebrities, and commoners- do Kalpabas for a few days to 45 days. The rents of the tents range from a lakh ($1025) per day to a few hundred rupees ($10)—the wealthy travel with their assistants to maintain their royal lifestyle, even on Kalpabas. Still, Maha Kumbh provides an alternative to the Samsar (this world), where the devotees aspire to reach Moksha (the invisible world beyond).
Maha (the grand) Kumbha Mela 2025 (culminating 144th-year celebration of twelve Kumbhs, and each one commences every 12 years) at Prayag Raj remains a significant attraction known as Triveni Sangam --- the confluence of Ganga, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati rivers, where the gods won over the demons to find Amrit (nectar) in the Samudra Manthan hence the commencement of Kumbh Mela to remind the Hindus of the power of the gods, the sacredness of the water and the power of Hindu myth.
Following the lunar calendar, Kumbh Mela occurs in four pilgrimage centers: Prayag, Haridwar, Nasik, and Ujjain. According to legends, God Vishnu was carrying a Kumbh (pot) of Amrit (nectar) when a fight broke out, and four drops were spilled at the four centers of the Earth, hence the four centers.
My Journey
On January 27, my hour-long flight from Delhi to Varanasi was packed, with about 25% of the passengers being foreigners. The flight tickets had gone sky-high due to Maha Kumbh. I could not afford an hour's flight for $300- 500 from Delhi to Prayag Raj and opted to take a 3-hour taxi, about 130 km from Varanasi to Prayag Raj. Next to me, the Amrit Bazar patrika TV crew was traveling to report on the Mela. Many were doing a whole ritual, starting with the sacred city of Varanasi, Prayag Raj, and climaxing at the newly built Ram temple in Ayodhya. The BJP govt has spent millions building the Ram Temple after the Supreme Court verdict to demolish the Babri Masjid. It was a significant win for the majoritarian Hindu government to showcase the temple as Ram's birthplace in the new pilgrimage orbit. Pilgrims start at Varanasi Hindu temple, do Kumbha at Prayag Raj, and do the darshan of the Ram temple in Ayodhya to complete their birth.
In 2013, I was all set to go to Kumbh, but at the last minute, I developed cold feet with warnings, threats from family, and fear of falling sick. This January, I was in India, and by a twist of fate, I extended my return ticket home to California for about ten days and packed my bags to be in the thick of Maha Kumbh. I discovered that on January 29, Mauni Amavasya (silent New Moon) in Magh is one of the six special days during the Maha Kumbh when a dip in the Triveni ensures a place in heaven. I became a speck of dust - one of the 80 to 100 million pilgrims on the auspicious day.
The advertisement for Kumbh Mela from Varanasi to Prayag Raj felt like a social media extravaganza. The larger-than-life festival was advertised on giant billboards prominently featuring Prime Minister Modi and the Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Aditayanath right behind him. The miles of vibrant yellow mustard flowers, wheat, and sugarcane fields looked pale compared to the overpowering billboards.
The hour ride turned out to be five hours. The roads were busy; we had to cross three police barricades to reach Jhusi, a little neighborhood next to the Ganges in the city. I arrived at my local host's home and had a divine home-cooked meal—roti, paneer, aloo matter, and cauliflower vegetables with a sumptuous fresh vegetable salad.
Then, I took the backseat on a motorbike to the Mela. I could see two different streams of the pilgrimage. Expecting 80 to 100 million people, the local govt had closed down the bridges connecting the other side of the Ganga where all govt guest houses, ITDC lodge, digital center, Akshayavat, and Bade Hanuman Temple were situated. On the city side, we had to cross an open backwater reserve stinking of sewage with the wastewater flow from the city. Millions of people walking through the makeshift bridge on the drain to enter the Mela were oblivious to the smell. I wondered about the poor fate of the sacred Ganges, where all the city's wastewater flows in.
The significance of Akhadas
I went through the massive gates to enter the Kumbh Mela grounds, a city of its own. The Uttar Pradesh government has set up an expansive 40-kilometer city to accommodate the millions of pilgrims who attend the event.
The Sadhu Akhadas, 13 traditional sects, visibly distinguish one from the other in terms of the size of the makeshift Sadhu's abode, the number of people hanging around, and the expensive cars lined up outside their gates. In his book Divine Kumbh: Echoes of Eternity: Ganga, Shipra, Godavari, and Sangam, journalist and author Deepak Kumar Sen describes each akhada as a meticulously structured institution, organized into eight davas (divisions) and 52 marhis (centers), each overseen by a Mahant (head).
Kumbh Mela is known for the akhadas. These Sadhus come from all corners of the country to give darshan to their disciples only once in 12 years, so they are treated as rare appearances. Various sects of Sadhus set up their camps, conducting fire rituals, sermons, and prayers and offering spiritual teachings and darshan to devotees.
Hundreds of Naga (Naked) Sadhus of Juno akhada formed a whole neighborhood; each had a tent with their disciples. The place was smoky, a combination of firewood and ganja. They were smeared in ashes and entertained scores of devotees touching their feet. Some of the Naga Sadhus were modern, wearing Ray-ban sunglasses at 8 pm and smoking ganja with a cell phone.
I got my blessing from a Naga Sadhu and visited many of their camps. I was amazed to see a Naga Sadhu smeared in ashes and a sword through his genitalia. One devotee said these sadhus have mystical powers and can be invisible. They would do anything they wish. Mobs hovered around these Sadhus. I was told only during Kumbh do they come out of their abode and are seen in public.
There were women's exclusive Akhadas, where numerous saffron-robed women Sadhus performed yajnas (sacred fire). Women guards were watching over their Akhada, and they asked me not to take any photos.
The Akhadas are age-old; many monks trace their establishment to Adi Shankaracharya, an 8th-century philosopher and Hindu monk, who is believed to have united ascetics into these organized groups. However, some scholars argue that the Akhadas developed organically over time as ascetic communities began to form their structures.
The next day, I walked about 10 miles in the Mela with a local friend and encountered millions of people from the villages and cities who came by buses, trains, and rented vans. They had to walk 12- 14 kilometers from the parking but were still determined to be at the Mela. Families with older parents, grandparents, and young children came to take a dip; many carried plastic cloth bags, suitcases, and duffle bags full of their belongings and were heading to the Ganges.
Several wealthy industrialists, corporate masters, and Akhadas were serving the pilgrims annachatra (free food service). Some were restricted to Sadhus only. The Indian industrialist Adanis told me they fed about 100,000 people every day.
I could see that the rich and famous, including well-known sadhus, were treated differently. Even at the cost of the ordinary people, their cars and jeeps would be allowed, causing stampede on several occasions. I saw the police closing the road for the VIPs, pushing the public out of the way.
The highlight of my day was a visit to the Kinnar (transgender) Akhada in sector 16. It was very crowded; visitors stood in line to get the blessings of the Kinnar Sadhwins. At this place, the Kinnars were prioritized over the ordinary people, which was a pleasant experience.
Stampede on the Holiest day of Mauni Amabasya
On January 29, 2025, a stampede at the festival grounds left officially 30 people dead and 60 others injured. When I visited the Mela in the afternoon, I witnessed several thousand piles of clothing, broken mirrors, loads and loads of shoes, and shattered dreams.
Finally, on Mauni Amavasya, I sprinkled some sacred water on my head. I collected a bottle of holy muddy water with a few petals of flowers people left behind in the water. The procession of the Akhadas going for their spiritual dip felt like one soap opera competing to be better than the other. I gathered that the Kumbha Mela has become the most significant achievement of the BJP government in UP and India. Yogi Adityanath said that Maha Kumbh would elevate India's ancient cultural and religious traditions to global prominence.
For me, Maha Kumbha Mela was a lifetime experience. I had an epiphanic time with millions of pilgrims and collecting their stories. The rich and famous behave the same way wherever they go, so Kumbha Mela is no exception. Being with the people was a kalpabas, and I could identify with the yogis I met on the first night, who cooked their meal on the sacred sand and felt content.
What I learned:
I teach Magic, Science, and Religion courses at the University of California, Santa Cruz (UCSC). I have read about the pilgrimages of Indigenous people and those tied to mainstream religions. I have visited Bethlehem in Palestine, the famous crying wall in Jerusalem, a holy city in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. I was born in Puri Dham on the east and traveled to the other three tirths (pilgrimages) in India, e.g., Badrinath in the north, Rameswaram in the south, and Dwarika in the west, which every Hindu aspires to visit. The anonymity at the pilgrimage, the enormity of faith among the pilgrims, and the power play of religion in these places always intrigued me.
The Maha Kumbh Mela experience will always stay with me because of the sheer faith, determination, and enthusiasm of millions of people vying to be in the sacred water!
Annapurna Pandey is a cultural anthropologist at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Originally from Cuttack, Odisha, she moved to Santa Cruz, California in 1989. She is a travel enthusiast and loves to write travelogues highlighting her exotic experiences in different parts of the world.
T. V. Sreekumar
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU
Sreekumar T. V.
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The cake with birthday wishes written stylishly, the candle on top perfectly placed to be lit, the few balloons around and the paper decorations fluttering in the light breeze thrown by the fan. Me, the birthday boy was sitting in front of this setting all alone and wondering what to do next. Calling myself a boy itself was s a big lie at this late age but a cunning satisfaction for some well-founded reasons. Not having celebrated a single birthday all through, as it was never practised at home and followed later in life, I never regretted it. Wife was particular about children’s birthdays and I was a silent partner. Later having to join grandchildren’s birthday celebration which was in grand style a kind of thought or wish started creeping within me. A public display would be embarrassing and finally after much thought I decided on the mode of celebration and the result was in front of me with not a soul knowing about the plan for this private celebration.
The scene was perfect by all means and I took a final view of the spread and waited for the right mood and time for the party to begin. A car honking far away I take as the signal and the wine bottle is opened. Pouring it into the new sparkling wine glass specially bought for the occasion I poured it along the side and stoped once half full. Felt like a king without a crown, proudly took a sip with “cheers” sharing the flavour with the waiting lips. The wine was soothing and I enjoyed every drop of it going down my throat after a long dry period. The solitary atmosphere with Mehdi Hassan in the background adding to the celebration my wish was taking shape in the way I visualised.
The atmosphere of celebration was broken by a voice
“Why no crowd”?
I was not surprised as it was happening according to my wish and plans only and certainly questions were bound to arise. It came from the cake and it looked sad. The candle too nodded as if saying that it was also about to ask the same.
“Now don’t tell me to relate my life history. Some people are destined to be alone and what better way other than this to celebrate with the few of you.” I said in the most pleasing tone.
They understood my emotion and feelings and the reply made me the happiest birthday boy.
“We will sing for you”
“I must be the luckiest one with the cake, candle, balloons and decorations singing for me”
“But one condition,” the cake said, “Don’t cut me immediately after the chorus. Let us sing and dance and enjoy for a while as this kind of celebration is first time for all of us”
The balloons started jumping with joy and the decorations started fluttering heavily as if the celebration had already begun.
I dimmed the light and put off the fan and lit the candle.
What I was hearing was sweet and magical. It started with the cake picked up by the candle and chorus with the balloons and decorations joining. The surprise addition was the wine with a female input. It was bliss.
I was carried over to a world of fantasy and floating with the wishes happening right in front. Filled with emotion and tears started flowing as my lone birthday celebration was compensating for the years of uncelebrated ones.
I was not merely feeling like a king - I was the king.
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..
KEEP YOUR KITE FLYING, BROTHER!
Snehaprava Das
It was still time for the dawn break. A pale light lumbered shyly over the high-rise structures beyond the wide road that lazed under the shadow of the trees standing tall and thick on its edges. Night was gathering up the mantle of darkness it had sprawled over the city in reluctant, perfunctory movements before making its departure. Ashwin took out his phone from the pocket and checked the time before plugging the buds of the earphone into his ears. it was his usual time for the workout. The jogging track was mostly uncrowded and quiet at that time and he felt comfortable. It was not exactly a jogging track though, but a narrow strip of a road that circled the small park. People living nearby preferred it for the morning walk to the bigger parks because that would mean covering a distance of about two kilometers or so.
Ashwin was a self-contained young man who chose to keep away from the crowd and the noise that began building up along the jogging path as the morning advanced. The smell of freshness that hung in the early morning air lifted his spirit as he began to trot along the track. He knew Atanu would join him in a minute. It was Atanu’s choice too, to jog in the unpeopled path in the tranquil hour of night transitioning into morning.
Atanu lived in one of the big apartment houses in the next block as a paying guest with a Marwari family and did an integrated BBA-MBA course in the university. Usually shy and withdrawn in nature Ashwin did not quite blend in well either with his classmates at the National School of Business Management or the inmates of the hostel. Among the handful of friends he had made at the college was P. Venkatswamy who also was a hostel-boarder, a studious, spectacled boy from the south. When he was not in the college Ashwin spent most of the time in the company of Venkatswamy, or confined in his room. He did not care much to spend time with the other inmates and his contact with them was limited only to brief exchanges of formal pleasantries during the lunch and dinner or special gatherings. He did not feel quite comfortable or at home in the hostel and longed for the coziness of the home he had left far behind. He was not able to make a close friend in these two months with whom he could have shared his thoughts, and on the top of that his shyness evoked a sort of offbeat response especially from the seniors at the college. The notorious group of the sixth semester that went by the sobriquet of Force Five which targeted the new entrants took a special interest in Ashwin and never missed a single chance to boo him. Ashwin shrank away from the boys especially from Raj, the leader of the pentad, a tall and robust looking bully who bossed around the college. His companion and close associate Ravi, too was equally intimidating and would jeer at Ashwin whenever he chanced upon him. There were times when they gave a hard slap at his vulnerable back as he tried to step past the band cautiously without rousing their interest. The boys of Force Five would be hanging around at the canteen and the tea stall by the main entrance of the Boys’ Hostel targeting the girl students and simple and naïve boys who were yet to strike root in the college. Ashwin desperately wished to keep himself away from crossing their path though he knew the gang would always find an excuse to assail him both verbally as well as physically. ‘Things would have been different if Bhai were with me!’ He said to himself wistfully, drawing in a deep sigh of disappointment. The next instant the memory of his protective twin brother would flash before his eyes and guilt would gnaw at his heart as he remembered the way he had gone out of his life. There would be no one like Bhai, he thought and cursed himself for being responsible for the big vacuum in his life made by Bhai’s absence.
And then Atanu came to his life, dissipating to a certain degree the clouds of self-recrimination that lurked over his conscience.
He met Atanu for the first time in the jogging track about a month before and took an instant liking to him. Atanu’s face was not very distinct in the pale light of the dawn and under the felt cap that partially covered his face but it looked so familiar. Ashwin felt as if he knew him for a long, long time. He was of the same built as Ashwin, tall and springy. His face, partly hidden under the felt cap wore a benign look Ashwin found pleasantly engaging. But what was most amazing about him was his skin, which was like polished glass, like a girl’s and had a fluid luminescence about it. Etched against a backdrop that was an amorphous overlapping of darkness and light of the approaching dawn Atanu looked like a blurred mirror image of Ashwin. There was something about him that lured Ashwin out of his reclusive world to one of care, connectivity and friendship.
So, it had become a regular activity to jog with Atanu in early morning when the sun was yet to come out of the stupor and the night still lingered on the doorway before making a departure.
Atanu was a character of few words and most of the times made his reply either in monosyllables or in short, measured sentences. But the strong vibes of positivity he seemed to exude brought Ashwin closer to him every passing day. It did not need an exchange of many words to cement the bond of friendship and trust. Ashwin was not sure what was that thing about Atanu which fascinated him so much. Was it because he was in a way a look alike of Ashwin or because of his name? It was a name Ashwin lived with in his entire childhood and adolescence, first overwhelmed in its aura of love and kindness, then in the black agony of guilt and self-remorse.
Atanu was the name of his twin brother, older than him by a couple of minutes! And who lived with him like a second self-inseparable for exactly ten and half years before the tragedy struck!
**
The song he listened on the earphone blocked the chirp and hoots of the early birds and the distant horns of the few vehicles racing down the roads beyond the tall apartment buildings. Hardly ever a motor vehicle except for one or two occasional two wheelers passed along the road where they jogged at that hour of solitude. He turned to glance back to ensure if Atanu had arrived. Ashwin could see Atanu at about a hundred meters behind looking like a pale silhouette emerging out the shimmering darkness. He slowed his pace to let Atanu catch up with him. And then suddenly a vehicle swished past him in a breakneck speed. Ashwin stared at the red lights at the back of the noiseless black sedan that raced away like a bat out of hell missing him by inches. ‘Hey, you!’ He screamed after the car that disappeared out of sight in no time, not giving him a chance to have a clear view of its numberplate. The shock of the miraculous escape made him numb. It took him quite some time to gather up his wits and regain his composure. He looked back to see where Atanu was, wondering why he had not run up to him which would have been an obvious reaction in the given circumstances.
There was no sign of Atanu. Where was he? For a moment he wondered if the figure he had seen in the semi darkness of the departing night was actually Atanu or he assumed it to be him. Maybe, he was another boy and he had taken him for Atanu because it was a routine for them to meet at the jogging track every morning. He waited by a tree where he had seen Atanu or, he thought dubiously, someone else resembling him. And why had the car to be on that track at that hour while hardly any vehicle moved along that path? Did the car hit Atanu or the one whom he believed to be Atanu? But then he would have screamed and he was sure that the sound would have reached him despite the earphones. Ashwin had heard nothing. And now, there was no one where the figure should have been. Had Atanu gone back to his room, or he had not come to the jogging track at all? Ashwin stared at both directions, befuddled at the unusual happening. The sky was getting clear and other joggers were beginning to arrive. ‘I will call Atanu from my room,’ he decided and made for the hostel. He was about to move away when his eyes fell upon something that looked like a small and black, polished slab of wood by a bush. He took a few steps back and squinted at it. It was a mobile phone. Without thinking he picked it up and looked closely. He guessed it was Atanu’s phone. Perhaps Atanu was here and he had dropped the phone when the car sped past him or ……?, He tried to fight the speculation off but quite did not succeed. Then a thought struck him like a lightning flash … Atanu must have sustained an injury and had hurried back to his room or a hospital hiring a taxi or an autorickshaw. His phone had dropped accidentally on the path. There was no way he could reach Atanu. Ashwin had no idea in which building he lived except that the apartment belonged to a Marwari family. There seemed to be no alternative other than waiting for a news from Atanu himself and hoping that everything was well with him. He dropped the phone into his pocket and walked back to the hostel.
**
They stood by the tea stall sipping tea and smoking. The Force Five gang. Ashwin spotted them from a distance and felt a dragging sluggishness in his legs. He did not expect to see them there at that hour. They usually gathered at the tea shop after eight when the classes began. As such he was shaken by the mysterious disappearance of Atanu from the jogging track. Finding Atanu’s phone lying abandoned there which indicated at some untoward happening had further nettled him. He was not sure where to look for Atanu and that made the situation more complicated. He was new in the city and had much knowledge about its geography which could have helped him in finding him out. He could at best make a search for Atanu in the nearby hospitals. But he had not made up his mind. He decided to make a detour along the narrow path that went behind the hostel and enter through back gate. He was about to turn when he heard the loud, boisterous voice of Raj. ‘Hey, dude come along! Have tea with us.’ Ashwin stopped short and slowly looked back with an effort. Ravi beckoned him, ‘Come here.’ It was more a command than a beckoning. There was no escape from the gang now. His throat dry, his heart pounding heavily against his ribs, Ashwin walked down the path leading to the Boys’ Hostel hoping desperately that Raj and his group did not stop him.
‘Jogging eh?’ Raj sneered. ‘Good. A workout in the early hours of morning keeps one healthy and fit. We should also try jogging in the road, instead of squandering money at the gym, what do you say friends?’ And others broke into a raucous laughter. Ashwin stood in silence hanging his head, hoping the charade to get over soon.
Raj asked the boy in the tea stall to replenish their cups and get him a cigarette packet. He held out a tea-filled paper cup to Ashwin. ‘I don’t drink tea,’ Ashwin murmured hesitantly not accepting it. ‘You can’t say no to tea, take it.’ Ravi said. It was more a command than a request and Ashwin did not have the nerve to decline. He held the cup and took a reluctant sip. ‘
‘Have a drag. Tea always goes well with this,’ Ravi held out a cigarette. Ashwin took a couple of steps back. ‘I have never smoked, sir.’ He blurted out gathering courage. ‘Everything has a first time, dude,’ Ravi laughed. ‘You have to make a try today. Hey listen all of you, lets celebrate Ashwin’s christening.’ And all five of them corralled Ashwin and clapped and laughed. Subodh, a tall lanky young man with a pinched face like a squirrel lit the cigarette and pushed it between Ashwin’s lips. Ashwin pursed his lips but they won’t leave him alone. ‘Take a drag,’ Raj demanded. Ashwin, his eyes brimming with desperate tears dragged the smoke and broke into a fit of convulsive coughing the next moment. Water streamed out from his nose and eyes and he coiled up on the road clutching at his throat. The Force Five laughed enjoying Ashwin’s misery. After about two minutes one of them pulled him up. the coughing had subsided but Ashwin trembled under the impact. There was a burning sensation at his throat and his nostrils and his eyes were red. ‘Let him go.’ Raj said.
‘Go, chick,’ Ravi laughed. ‘You will take time to grow up and we will see that you grew up soon. You will have to try again tomorrow,’ he added smacking Ashwin’s back. Ashwin wanted to cry, to let the misery and the humiliation flow out of his system along with the tears. He felt so helpless, so vulnerable before the gang. He wanted them to be punished, to suffer as they had made him suffer. ‘Bhai would never have let these rogues get along with this,’ he thought wistfully, and cursing himself for being the reason why his protective twin brother was not there. Slowly, moving with an effort, he hobbled back to his room in the hostel and slammed the door shut in a frustrated rage.
**
Makar Sankranti was round the corner and the preparation for the kite flying competition was going on in full swing. There was a flurry of activity in the spacious backyard of our house.
Bhai and two of his friends were preparing Manja (a paste of glue made of flour and powdered glass) to coat the thread. Another two were tying the soaked thread reels to two poles, stretching it taut between them. Later the Manja mixture would have to be applied to the thread and then it would be left to dry.
Father always advised them against using the glass-dust coated threads for kite flying but Bhai wouldn’t pay heed. I would watch with keen interest the whole procedure while the boys worked under Bhai’s supervision, ready to carry out his instructions, eager to please him. I knew the boys; some of them were my classmates too. But I was more or less an introvert type and did not have the easy, jovial manners of Bhai which drew the boys to him naturally. But Bhai preferred the company of seniors and spent most of his time with them.
Bhai had a special knack for kite flying and mastery over the kite cutting tricks. He would let the abrasive line of his kite tangle around the other kite and then reel out the line through an expert handling of the spool. Then he would keep tugging at it till the other kite took a pathetic dive down. And his face would be lit up in a proud smile. I was in no way like Bhai. I was rather a timid and shy soul lacking both confidence and courage. It was Bhai who encouraged me to play football and cricket and taught me the tricks. We studied in the same class, twins as we were, but Bhai always stood out as the fearless leader of their group. It was Bhai who came to my rescue when the boys of senior classes bullied my friends. The boys would not dare to come close to me because of Bhai. I was serious about my studies. But Bhai was not studious like me and was more interested in sports and outdoor activities. He would rather while away time in playing football and other outdoor games, but kite flying was his most engaging activity in the winter months.
‘I will partake in the kite flying sports this year,’ I announced putting down the spool and a kite by my brother. Bhai looked up and flicked a smile up at me. His friends laughed. The laughter that was a blend of affection and pity at my incompetence felt like the rubbing of the glass-dust on my face. A flush of anger mounted up to my cheeks. ‘There is nothing to laugh, is there?’ Bhai looked sternly at his friends and they cowered.
‘Do not worry. I will teach you how to fly a kite properly.’ Bhai said encouragingly as we ate the midday meal. ‘What else could you teach him except that?’ Father, who was exasperated at answering the frequent complaints coming from the class teacher against bhai for his poor academic performance, snapped at him. Bhai, like always, kept munching his food holding his head down. ‘You will never listen to me. Would you?’ Father sounded more frustrated, but Bhai went on eating, his face expressionless. ’And why don’t you take that cap off while you eat?’
Without a word Bhai took the red and yellow cloth cap off his head and continued munching, his gaze fixed on the plate.
Bhai had an extraordinary fascination for colourful cloth caps. He will never go out without the cap on irrespective of what season of the year or what time of day was it. The cap seemed to be an indispensable part of his outfit, his signature attire.
‘How is your preparation for the half yearly test going on?’ Father asked refusing to give up.
‘Good,’
The monosyllabic reply did not help much to cool down father’s rising temper. ‘Well, we will see when they give you the progress card. All your sports and games will be brought to an end if you do not secure a minimum seventy percent. Get that into your thick skull.’ Father pronounced the ultimatum.
‘Yes,’ Bhai’s voice was calm and unperturbed.
I stole a glance at my mother who was placing an extra serving of rice on father’s plate. There was a faint semblance of an amused smile on her face which slipped away as our eyes met.
**
‘Stand with your back to the wind, that is the first step in kite flying.’
It was the morning of Makar Sankranti. Mother was at the temple and father was busy doing some pending office work. Bhai and I came out to the open field at the back of the house with the kite and the spool of thread. It was a lovely kite, part blue, part white and the long tail, a length of dark blue with stripes of silver scintillated in the light of the early sun. A soft, chilly breeze was blowing from the north. I shivered a little.
‘Release the kite and reel out some of the line,’ Bhai said again. ‘Then pull it gently.’ He added.
I rolled the handles of the spool in both hands and tried to let the kite catch the wind. The kite would lift for a minute or so and then drop. I would repeat the act. The kite would go up for a while and then take a dive.
‘You have to help me.’ I said to my brother.
‘Okay, okay,’ Bhai laughed as he held the kite and took a few steps back. He measured the distance, moved further back and propelled the kite up shouting ‘release the thread, roll the reel out…’ I tried it twice without success. On the third attempt the kite caught the wind and went soaring up. And I, breathing hard in excitement tugged at the line to maneuver the kite in the air.
My eyes were fixed on the kite that swayed above, its long tail fluttering, looking like a lovely snake in black and silver coiling and uncoiling itself as it crawled up into the sky. Suddenly I felt a sharp jerk in the line as the wind caught the kite on a wrong side, and as a reflex movement my fists tightened around the handles of the spool. Bhai, who had moved to the far edge of the field was now running back to where I stood struggling to keep the kite steady and in position. The kite gave another jerk and the impact made the spool slip out of my grip and fall on the ground. Two things happened simultaneously. I bent down to pick up the spool and the kite took a nose dive bringing along with it the long line, hurtling down in a great speed. The length of the Manja coated thread, got itself coiled around Bhai’s throat who was running towards me. Shocked out of my wits, I struggled desperately to uncoil the thread. I had no idea how it got so clumsily tangled around Bhai’s throat and with a superhuman effort I rolled the reel in reverse gripping the handles hard with a hope to loosen its loop. But the line instead of uncoiling itself tightened around his throat and the sharp, abrasive line ate deep into it. I saw Bhai flailing his hands in a frantic effort to free himself, while the deadly noose pulled him forward. The spool slipped out of my frozen grip as he dropped on the ground. Screaming like crazy I ran to the spot where Bhai fell. I stared at the shrunken figure sprawled on the ground, eyes bulging out in pain and shock, legs spread out in an awkward angle and blood spurting out from the cut around the throat making a small pool of red by his side. His blue- white cap, looking forlorn and orphaned, lay a little away from him. I let out a hysteric howl like a wounded animal and shook Bhai hard, but Bhai lay stiff, motionless. In the next minute I could hear the sound of footfalls as people ran towards us, shouting loudly and making a lot of noise. ‘What happened? Oh God! The kite string had cut the boy’s throat! Ripped his windpipe apart!! Somebody call his parents! Let us take him to the hospital!..’
So many people, so many voices, so much noise ….!!
Everyone seemed to be speaking at the same time and the sound kept rising and entered my head and became a crescendo. Something snapped inside my head and then there was total silence!!
**
The strident noise of the phone ringing shattered the silence of the room.
Ashwin groped under the pillow, picked up his phone and squinted sleepily at the screen. There was nothing on the display screen. He clicked it on to see the time. It was almost evening. He remembered flopping down in the bed after coming back from the college. He had not eaten his lunch and was feeling slightly hungry. He looked at the call list to see who had called, but there was no missed call. Wondering vaguely why the call did not show, he sat up on the bed and the clamour of the ring filled the room. He looked at his phone. The display screen was dark.
It was not his phone that rang. He let his gaze dart around the room. The sound came from the closet by the bed. He got down the bed lazily and wandered over to the closet. The incident at the tea shop followed by the strain of three consecutive classes had left him so jaded that the phone had gone completely out of his mind. He now remembered he had pushed Atanu’s phone under a pile of dresses before leaving for college. The ringing stopped abruptly as he held open the doors of the closet and looked inside. He took out the phone gingerly and clicked the on- button. The screen lit up and exactly at that same moment the phone began to ring again. A ten-digit number flashed on the display screen. ‘Must be someone calling Atanu,’ he thought wondering if it would be wise to answer it and reproaching himself for not switching off the phone before stowing it away into the closet. There was something demanding and urgent about the call that went on unstoppably. He touched the answer icon and said a nervous hello. ‘Why did it take you so long to pick up the phone?’ A voice demanded from the other end. Ashwin was instantly alert. The voice sounded familiar. ‘Hello, Atanu? Is that you?’ Ashwin asked guardedly wondering why Atanu, who was a calm, dispassionate character, sounded agitated like that. ‘Of course I am Atanu.’ There was a short, clipped laugh. ‘I called you to say that I will be going out of the town for a couple of months. I will collect the phone from you on my return. Keep it carefully.’
‘Are you alright? Could I come to your place to deliver it back to you? We could spend some time together before you leave,’ Ashwin asked, disturbed at the thought of missing his company in the jogging track.
‘No need. Let it be with you,’ Atanu said without trying to explain.
‘Won’t you be needing the phone while you were travelling?’
‘I have another phone. Keep it. You will need it.’
That surprised Ashwin. ‘I will need your phone? But, why?’ Again, there was a short laughter and the line went dead.
‘Hello, Atanu, Hello!’
He redialed the number. ‘The number you are trying to reach is out of service,’ a bored, mechanical voice told him from the other end.
It was odd. Atanu leaving the town at such a short notice, and asking him to keep one of his phones and the information that the number was out of service!
What struck him as most unusual was Atanu saying that Ashwin would be needing his phone. What did he mean by that? Why must Ashwin be in need of Atanu’s phone when he was having his own?’ It was all so weird. He switched the phone off, pushed it once again under a stack of dresses and shut back the door of the closet.
A gentle knock sounded on the door of his room. Ashwin glanced at the bedside clock. it was forty minutes past eight in the evening. He opened the door. P. Venkatswamy came in and closed the door behind him.
‘Were you sleeping?’ He asked casting a glance at the unmade bed.
‘I was feeling low after the classes, low and drained out.’ He briefly narrated about the incident of the morning, about Raj and Ravi forcing him to smoke.
‘Raj is a real bully. He teases me for wearing spectacles. I wish to God the six months of our first semester would pass quickly without any untoward incident. You wouldn’t know what might happen while they were around.’
Ashwin did not comment.
‘Will not you go to downstairs for dinner?’ Venkatswamy asked after a while.
‘Yes. I am hungry.’ Ashwin rose to his feet.
‘By the way there is something which I came to tell you, but it slipped out of my mind.’
Ashwin raised his eyes questioningly.
Sophie was looking for you. She said she wanted a book which you borrowed from the library. She asked if you were all right.’
‘Oh, yes. I am so sorry. Actually, there was a single copy of Josh Kaufman’s book in the library and we had both applied for it. I have brought it with a promise that I would return it to her in a couple of days. But all these mess had made me forget it completely.’
‘It was not just the book, Ashwin. Venkatswamy smiled shortly. ‘She seems to have an interest in you otherwise, too.’
‘What does that mean?’ Ashwin looked puzzled.
‘She was really keen to know if you were well. May be, she guessed somehow that Raj and Ravi were troubling you.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘No. But I could make it out. She looked really concerned.’
‘You are imagining things.’ Ashwin gave a light smack on Venkatswamy’s shoulder as they stepped down the stairs.
**
Ashwin lay in bed, in the solitude of his room that was partially lit up with the street light filtering in through the half open window, his eyes fixed at the whirring fan above that cast bizarre shadows on the ceiling, his mind full of Sophie. The untoward happenings in the morning had somehow pushed her out of his thoughts. But she came back to him now, resuscitated, bustling with life. Sophie Braganza had joined the business management school in the same week he did. She was from somewhere in Goa, a tall willowy girl with a complexion that was not fair nor dark but somewhere between, having a tanned gloss about it and a mass of thick hair that hung over her shoulders in luxuriant waves of sleek dark. She had big sparkling eyes that reflected her affable nature. Unlike Ashwin who loved to live in a self-imposed isolation Sophie had an inbuilt agreeableness that drew people naturally to her. He was angry with himself for keeping Sophie waiting for the book. ‘The first thing I will do tomorrow is to return the book to Sophie,’ he promised to himself and closed his eyes. Ashwin was still thinking of Sophie Braganza as sleep inveigled him to a world of peaceful quiescence.
It was like a soft buzzing of some insect at first. ‘Mosquitoes may be or some insects,’ Ashwin waved his hand groggily to shoo them away. The buzzing became increasingly loud and distinct trying to pierce the thinning layers of sleep. Cursing mildly, Ashwin opened his eyes and squinted into the fleecy darkness. The buzzing sound came from somewhere by the head of the bed and suddenly it struck him that the sound was coming from inside the closet. And it was neither mosquitoes nor insects… It was the ringing of a phone! He groped under the pillow and picked up his mobile phone. As such it was his habit to keep his phone on silent mode before going to bed. That was the reason why he had set the alarm for morning in the small clock that stood on the windowsill. It was obvious that the display screen of his phone would be dark.
It took him sometime to realize that another phone was ringing.
It was the phone in the closet that was ringing! Atanu’s phone!!
The startling discovery jerked him out of the trailing drowsiness and he sat upon the bed abruptly, his heart pounding. Who could be calling Atanu at this ungodly hour? And then he remembered with a sickening uneasiness that he had switched the phone off before stowing it into a corner of a shelf. His hands were moist with sweat and he felt his tongue had become dry and hard like a strip of leather. The ringing stopped abruptly. Ashwini sighed deeply and picked up the glass of water from the table by the side of the bed and as he did so the phone buzzed again. The glass of water slipped and landed on the floor with a crash. Summoning courage to calm his jittery nerves Ashwin got down the bed. He walked over to the wall by the door and snapped the light switch on. He moved gingerly to the closet carefully avoiding stepping on the shards of glass and pulled open its door. There it was, Atanu’s mobile, sitting on the stack of freshly ironed dresses. Ashwin looked warily at the instrument, remembering clearly that he had pushed it under a pile of innerwear. The ringing was getting on his nerves now. With a trembling hand he picked up the phone and touched the answer button.
‘Hello,’ he spoke into the screen.
‘Since when you have become such a weakling? Frightened of the vermin like Raj? Why couldn’t you fling the cigarette down and crush it under your track shoes?’
Ashwin was astounded at the angry note of reprimand in the voice that he was not sure actually belonged to Atanu. As far as he remembered Atanu never spoke to him so possessively. He was a reticent boy and did not talk openly with Ashwin even if he did not often miss the early-morning session of jogging with him. Besides he had neither met nor spoken to Atanu after that unfortunate encounter with Raj and the gang of the Force Five.
‘H…how do you know about all that?’ Ashwin asked gripped with a strange nervousness.
‘Never mind that. Listen to me carefully. Those cowards could do nothing to you. I promise you that and if they do, they will be adequately punished.’
Ashwin listened, grabbing at the phone, his head whirling. ‘Whoever it might be at the other end,’, he was sure now, ‘he could not be Atanu.’ He was sure that Atanu had left the jogging path in a hurry for some reason, forgetting his phone there.
‘And, do not forget to meet that girl Sophie tomorrow.’
‘Who are you?’ Ashwin’s voice was a strangled whisper.
‘Don’t you know? It is Atanu,’ Atanu or whoever it was over the phone laughed. It was a short laughter that sounded hollow. Suddenly there was a crackle in the line and the connection broke.
‘Hello, hello, Atanu! Are you there?’ Ashwin called desperately, but the phone was now inert in his grip. He looked at it closely. The screen had gone dark.
He felt terribly thirsty and picking up the bottle of water he drank directly from it in large swallows. He placed the phone on the bedside table and sank into the bed, drained out. The series of unusual happenings had rattled him thoroughly and he was not in a state of mind to judge them through a logical reasoning.
**
Sophie was there in the college canteen when Ashwin came in looking for her. She flashed a welcoming smile at him as he moved closer to the table she sat by. He was feeling relieved that he did not have to encounter Raj and his gang of Force Five on his way back to hostel from the jogging track that morning. But last night’s phone call remained stuck in his mind like a nagging hangover and dampened his spirit.
‘I am so sorry. It had gone completely out of my mind.’ He apologized as he handed the book to her.
‘You need not be. The book was not as important. I was more anxious to know if you were all right.’
Ashwin waited. He was not sure what he must say to that.
‘Vinod told me yesterday about Raj and Ravi bragging in the corridor how they had made you smoke a cigarette. Lousy fellows!’
‘Yes.’ Ashwin nodded shortly. ‘You know how they are.’
‘Why don’t you complain to the Dean?’
‘They hail from influential families having either strong political connections or with a bureaucratic background. Even the college authorities do not want to touch them. Why must they jeopardize their own position and status by meddling with such characters?’
‘Yes. That is there, too. There is no point in getting embroiled in all these. Better we focus on our studies.’ She paused for a while, rummaged through her sling bag and took out something.
‘I have brought this for you.’ She held out a small packet to him. It was a small but snazzy packet with artistically looped silk ribbons at its top. ‘It is a figurine of the Laughing Buddha,’ she smiled. ‘It will bring you luck.’
‘Oh,’ Ashwin smiled back. ‘So, you know I am in need of luck to survive here.’ He added and wondered how could he speak so light heartedly and that to a girl who was a stranger to him a month ago. Perhaps Sophie had that gemütlichkeit in her character, that draw people naturally to her, he thought. He felt easy and relaxed at her frank manners and easy smile.
‘We are getting late for the class.’ Sophie said getting to her feet.
‘Can we meet tomorrow?’ Ashwin asked hopefully as he followed her out of the door of the canteen.
‘Sure. Same time.’ Sophie laughed her easy laughter.
Raj and Subodh stood just outside the door. Ashwin stopped abruptly feeling a shiver run through his legs. Raj glanced at the back of Sophie as she walked down the path leading to the main building, a frank leer in his eyes. Then he turned to look back at Ashwin. There was a hard glint in his eyes. He smiled at Ashwin, a quirky, ugly smile that held a silent threat.
Ashwin averted his eyes and walked away feeling the steady glare of Raj boring into his back.
**
The meeting with Sophie did a lot to lift his spirit. It helped to lessen the apprehension of chancing upon the boys of Force Five and ease the pangs of self-reproach that assailed him in his solitary moments. He had even enjoyed the company of the other inmates in the dining hall. ‘You look quite cheerful today,’ P. Venkatswamy remarked, his studious eyes twinkling in a knowing smile. ‘You must not imagine things,’ Ashwin patted his back as they climbed up the flight of steps to the first floor.
**
Sophie chased a swarm of butterflies fluttering across the lush campus of Ashwin’s school in a small, sweeping rainbow. Ashwin followed Sophie enjoying her excitement. He drew close to her and caught her hand and made her sit down by a flowering bush. Out of nowhere a big, black bee flew in and began circling Sophie’s face. Sophie tried to ward it off with her delicate hands, but the bee would not give up. It kept fluttering about her face droning relentlessly. The droning grew louder as Ashwin moved his hand it in a futile effort to swat it. The black bee stung at Ashwin’s as he was about to reach it and Ashwin, clutching at his right hand with the left let out a soft ‘ouch’.
He came out of a deep sleep and looked at his right hand to examine the wound the bee had given. It was not the bee after all. The point of the ball pen that he had left uncapped on the bed pressed hard unto his hand making him wince. But the droning had not stopped. He let his sleepy eyes wander about the room trying to place the source of the sound. What was the sound? Had a bee actually found its way to the room? He got down the bed and dragged his feet to the switchboard. It came to him in a flash as he was about to press the light switch on.
It was Atanu’s phone ringing! Inside the closet!!
He was instantly alert. He remembered he had put back the phone on the bedside table last night. Though his mind was filled with the exciting experience of meeting Sophie, he clearly remembered that he had not returned it to its assigned space under the stack of clothes in the closet. He was also sure that the phone had run out of charge when he had put it down on the table. How did the phone go to the closet and how did it ring? He knew he had not charged it.
Spider’s Webs crawled along his legs as he reached for the door of the closet. His heart thumping, he pulled at the door holding open the closet and there it was! Sitting on the stack of cleaned and neatly pressed dresses when it should have been either on the table or under the pile of innerwear.
The phone was ringing constantly, interminably and the noise filled him with an uncanny apprehension. Abruptly he snatched the phone up and touched the answer icon.
‘Why did you take so long to pick up the phone?’ Atanu’s voice (Ashwin wondered inwardly if it was Atanu after all) crackled through the line.
‘Why do you call me like this, and who are you?’ Ashwin demanded, caught in the grip of fear and anger in turns and was greeted by a short, brittle laughter at the other end.
‘That Raj is eyeing for the girl. Keep him away from her. Do not get scared of him. He can bring no harm to you.’
‘How do you know all these and how are you so sure that he couldn’t harm me. He is a rogue out and out. He could cause trouble for us. I do not want to meddle with him.’ The lack of confidence in his mind reflected itself in his voice. The nocturnal calls of Atanu, instead of allaying his fear of Raj and his gang had enhanced it.
‘I know all about you boy! I know you will ask me how do I do that, won’t you? It is because I know you and your nature very well.’
‘ But we met only a month or so back. How do you know me so well in such a short time?’
‘You are wrong buddy. We know each other since years. Since we were born!!’ An amused chuckle followed.
‘Who are you?’ Ashwin demanded nervously, his breath coming in hard gasps.
‘Atanu, of course!’
‘No. You are not the Atanu who jogged with me. Who are you?’ Ashwin croaked. There was no answer.
‘Hello, answer me. Who are you?’ He screamed into the phone. But the person who claimed himself to be Atanu had clicked it off.
He lay mulling over the phone call, wide awake. Who was this mysterious caller who said his name was Atanu?
He lay awake till the east was smeared faintly with the crimson of dawn. He got up and readied himself for the routine jogging.
**
They sat across from each other in the canteen. Ashwin stole short glances at Sophie, admiring her big, tremulous eyes and the wavy fringe of black, silky hair that framed her innocuous face. Sophie, who guessed it well but averted her eyes pretending ignorance, flicked a coy smile at him when their eyes met.
‘I will order coffee’ Ashwin said trying to sound casual and waved at the canteen boy. At that same moment the glass door of the canteen was pushed open from outside and Raj walked in. ‘Let us go,’ Sophie stood up abruptly. Ashwin too rose to his feet.
‘Hey, what happened?’ Raj drawled showing his teeth in an obscene grin, his small, reddish eyes glowing with an ugly sneer. ‘Why are you two in such a hurry to leave? Come back.’ He took two quick strides and stood in their front, blocking the way. ‘I have a class,’ Sophie said curtly and stepping past Raj went quickly out of the door.
Raj glared at Ashwin. ‘Sit down. I want to talk.’
‘I have a class, too.’ Ashwin said, without making an effort to sit.
‘Sit down,’ Raj said, pressing the back of Ashwin’s neck with a half-moon grip of his thumb and middle finger.
‘Bhai’, the word jerked out involuntarily of him along with a groan, as Raj pressed his head on the table with a great force. Ashwin’s breath was coming out in wild gasps. The students who were having coffee and snacks in the canteen cast a frightened look at Raj and made for the door in a small exodus while the canteen boy watched helpless and tight-mouthed from the door of the kitchen.
‘Bhai,’ it slipped out of him once again even when he did not intend to utter it.
He is no better than some vermin. Do not fear him. He can do no harm to you!
The mysterious voice in the phone crept back to him, prodding him to hit back.
‘Would you like to have another session of smoking?’ Raj demanded in a voice that was hoarse with frustration. ‘Keep off that girl, or else…’ he let the threat hang in the air.
Ashwin felt his temper boiling. ‘Why must I?’ he retorted, ignoring the grip at his neck that hurt. ‘Because, I say so.’ Raj hissed bringing his face lower to the level of the table to meet Ashwin’s eyes. The stink of tobacco in his breath was repulsive.
‘I am not under any oath to obey you,’ he blurted out breathlessly but no longer intimidated.
‘He is no better than vermin. Dirty and despicable. He can do no harm either to you or the girl Sophie.’
Raj jabbed him hard on the face and blood spurted out of Ashwin’s nose. Raj was about to bring down his fist once again to punch his face when Ashwin suddenly felt the grip over his neck slacken. Raj let out a soft moan and slid into a chair. Ashwin jerked his head up, slightly surprised at the sudden and unexpected reaction. Raj clutched at his ankle where there was an ugly bruise that looked blue. There were two distinct dots of red in the center. His face was ashen. Ravi came in pushing open the door and stopped abruptly. ‘Hey, buddy! What happened?’ He cried, moving towards Raj. ‘No idea, some insect or something.’ Raj stammered, his teeth clenched, his forehead bathed in perspiration. ‘It stung my foot. I think I need the help of a doctor. it is burning like hell.’
‘It looks like snakebite. Hey, friends come fast. We have to take Raj to the hospital.’ Ravi yelled. A small crowd of senior students, surprise writ large on their faces gathered around Raj who was now groaning in pain. The canteen boy and the cooks stood rooted behind the counter, their eyes opened wide.
‘Snake? In the canteen? Impossible.’ One of the cooks said.
Somebody called an auto rickshaw and Raj was taken to the hospital. Ravi slid into the autorickshaw and sat by Raj, examining the mark of the bite. Their friends followed the vehicle to the hospital.
Ashwin moved towards the door when the commotion subsided. Something that looked like a length of a narrow strip caught his eyes. It lay in the corner of the canteen where the stacks of broken and unused furniture were kept.
The canteen boy also saw it at the same time. ‘There it is, the snake.’ He screamed pointing at it. All eyes turned towards the object. The cook brought in a long staff from inside the kitchen and moved cautiously towards it, a scared canteen boy and few students behind him. Ashwin, curious to see how the cook handled the snake waited by the open door. Slowly students began to throng outside the door, and Sophie came in. ‘What is the matter, Ashwin? What is all this noise about?’ And her eyes travelled to the cook and the canteen boy who advanced towards the narrow shiny length lying under a broken chair.
‘Snake? Here?’ Sophie’s face paled and she clutched Ashwin’s hand. ‘Do not be scared.’ Ashwin said comfortingly, ‘Even if they couldn’t kill it, the Snake Help institute would recover it and leave it in the jungles.’
. The object lay inert, without the faintest sign of life in it. There was absolutely no reaction as the cook closed in on.
Everyone waited in bated breath, fingers crossed.
‘Hey it is not a snake,’ cried the cook, sounding relieved and easy. ‘It is a length of painted paper, looks like the tail of some kite that slithered in here blown by the wind.’
Sophie heaved out a deep sigh. The canteen boy picked up the strip and examined it. It was indeed a tail of some kite. No one had any idea how it got in there. It was not the kite-flying season of the year. The crowd outside the canteen dispersed slowly. Ashwin and Sophie too came out of the canteen.
Ashwin waited on the sidewalk while Sophie got into the autorickshaw. He waved at her and walked back to the hostel his mind cluttered with questions and doubts.
If it was an innocent long strip of paper that resembled a snake what was the animal or the insect which stung Raj? Was there a real snake that had escaped taking advantage of the commotion? And wherefrom did that torn tail of a kite come inside the canteen? It looked so interesting, dark blue striped with silver! It looked familiar too. Where had he seen it? He wracked his brain to remember but it eluded his memory.
**
A girl squealed. I turned to look. She looked like a younger version of Sophie Braganza. She ran towards me, wearing a crimson frock that caught the light of the setting sun and reflected on her cheeks. ‘Roll the reel and release the line..’ Bhai hollered from the other edge of the field. The girl clapped and looked up at the kite that flew above them, its long black and silver tail swinging luxuriously in the afternoon breeze. Suddenly another kite appeared close to theirs and got itself entwined with the line of their kite. And a boy, tall and sturdily built came into view. He was rolling the reel with great force, pulling at the line of his kite, a hard glitter in his eyes. ‘Come here Sophie. Don’t keep company of that loser.’ He shouted.
‘Tug at the line Ashwin,’ The girl screamed, ‘Don’t let that rogue cut our kite.’ The kite took a sharp downward dive and came swooping down, but Bhai snatched the spool out of my hand, tugged at the line with astonishing expertise and lifted it up. He struggled for a while but finally steadied the kite in the air. But it was still entangled around the other boy’s kite.
‘Sophie, come to me. Ashwin can never beat me.’ The brawny boy yelled.
‘He will. His brother will make him.’ Sophie retorted and made a face.
‘Really? Just wait and watch!’ He jeered.
And at that moment Bhai gave a hard pull at the line and the thread of the boy’s kite snapped. Ashwin did not know how it happened but the long black and silver striped tail of his kite was torn off and came down along with the boy’s kite and coiled around his eyes. The boy lost his balance and fell down, the black and silver striped tail curled around his face.
Bhai ran to me, his face flushing in pride and excitement. He handed me back the spool. ‘He will not trouble you anymore. You and Sophie enjoy the kite flying. I must leave you two now.’ He waved at us and walked triumphantly away.
Somewhere a bell began to ring stridently.
Ashwin sat up on bed with a startled gasp. ‘Must be the mysterious caller on Atanu’s phone,’ he thought, his heart beat quickening. Still in the hold of sleep, Ashwin got down the bed and flung open the closet doors. The phone, looking innocent sat on a pile of dresses in silence. He picked the phone up but there was no sign of life in it. The sound of the ringing did not come from the phone. He let his gaze dart around the room trying to locate the source of the ringing until his eyes fell on the small alarm clock on the narrow windowsill. He remembered that he had set the alarm at four forty -five, the time he woke up routinely to go for jogging. The routine was disturbed because of Atanu’s mysterious disappearance and the nasty encounter with Raj and the Force Five. He got ready quickly and made his way to the jogging path around the park.
As usual the track was deserted but Ashwin felt light and relaxed. As if the worries and fear that weighed heavy on his heart was lifted off by some magic. He wondered if it was because Atanu’s phone did not ring last night, or because Raj, who lurked constantly like a menacing shadow over his thoughts was now in the hospital. Or, because Sophie had taken his hand for the first time in her hold. He remembered the warmth of the grip and it filled him with a strange ecstasy. He hummed the tune of a popular song of a Hindi film and jogged on.
**
P. Venkatswamy and a few others were having their breakfast when Ashwin entered the dining hall. The ambience in the dining hall had something unusual about it. Everyone seemed to be talking in a whisper as if they were afraid to speak loudly. The air around throbbed with the sound of a collective murmur.
Ashwin sat by the table across from Venkatswamy. And looked questioningly at him. ‘What happened?’
‘Venkatswamy reached over the table to get closer to Ashwin. ‘I will tell you later. It is about Raj.’
Ashwin became alert. ‘Has Raj been out of the hospital and is looking for him, to avenge the pain he went through yesterday?’
He gulped down the sandwich and got up quickly. He signaled Venkatswamy to come with him and climbed up the stairs.
P. Venkatswamy followed Ashwin into his room and closed the door behind him.
‘What about Raj?’ Ashwin asked anxiously, the animating spirit of morning seeping out of him. ‘Has he been discharged from the hospital?’
‘No. He is serious. It seems his nervous system has been badly impacted. Doctors guess that the insect or the reptile that has bit him is a rare species and is extremely poisonous. They wonder wherefrom such a venomous animal had found its way to the college. The poison has damaged his nerves and he suffered a paralytic stroke. The doctors here suggested his family to move him to a multi-specialty hospital with advanced facilities of treatment.’
Ashwin knew it was not fair to wish someone’s ill even if he was a dangerous character like Raj. In spite of that the news filled him with a strange relief. Later that afternoon he met Sophie in the canteen. They sat at a corner table, their hands touching, their eyes locked, not speaking a word. One knew well the words the other swallowed before they found expression, but afraid to hear them, sitting there engulfed in a silence that palpitated with the invisible presence of Raj. Several minutes passed. Sophie freed her hand from Ashwin’s hold and stood up.
‘We will meet tomorrow.’ She said moving towards the door.
Ashwin nodded and rose to his feet. ‘Not here. Some other place.’
‘The Green Glen cafeteria down the street?’
‘Sounds fine. After the class.’
Sophie flicked a small smile at Ashwin and moved away. Ashwin walked back to the hostel, not feeling quite relaxed, his mind filled with Sophie and of course, Raj.
**
A week passed. It was the most peaceful week for Ashwin since he joined the institute. The nocturnal phone calls had stopped Ashwin had no idea why so abruptly. But he was relieved. The atmosphere in the college that was heavy with apprehension and misgivings was slowly getting back to normal. The Force Five was almost inoperative without Raj. Ravi did not show up in the college most of the days and Subodh and others had stopped troubling the first semester students. Ashwin and Sophie met most of the days in the canteen, in the library, the cafés and their friendship had travelled up to a new level of intimacy.
Everything seemed to be going well for Ashwin. And then, one rainy night, Atanu’s phone rang.
The rain that poured incessantly all through the morning and noon had slowed down to a light drizzle by the evening. The weather was cool and most of the borders in the hostel were relaxing in their rooms after dinner except a few who were still in the common room watching television. Ashwin called his home and had a brief chat with his parents. He picked up a book he had borrowed from a friend and began making some notes on his laptop. But the cool weather coupled with a good dinner made him drowsy. When it proved to be a futile effort to keep open the eyes that were heavy with sleep, Ashwin shut down the laptop and flopped on the bed.
A steady but muffled ringing of the mobile phone brought him awake from a deep slumber. He groped under the pillow and picked up his phone. It was not his phone that rang. The realization was like a hard blow at his solar plexus.
It was the mysterious phone in the closet! Atanu’s phone!!
He sat on the bed for a long time, rubbing the sleep off his eyes, not being able to decide if he would take the call or not. The phone had not rung in all these days. It lay dead as he never cared to charge it. But he knew from experience that the calls could come even when the phone was not charged. It brought him back the uncanny fear and he stared at the closet, his mind numbed.
The phone stopped ringing and almost immediately started again. Ashwin glanced at the alarm clock on the windowsill. It showed a quarter past midnight. He dragged his feet to the coset and looked inside, his heart thumping. There it was, sitting on the stack of ironed clothes, its display screen dark yet ringing relentlessly. He remembered he had consigned the phone to a corner in the shelf, under a pile of unused innerwear. God only knew how it managed to reach the top of the clothes every time it came to life.
‘Hello.’ He said unsteadily.
A short laughter greeted him at the other end. It sounded spooky in the wet darkness of the night.
Your problems are sorted out, aren’t they?’ the words were steeped with a kind of triumphant glee.
‘Who are you?’ Ashwin asked, anxious and impatient. He thought he knew the answer, even if he did not believe it.
‘Atanu. And you know me since the time you were born. Didn’t I tell you that?’
‘I do not know very well the Atanu who owns this phone,’ Ashwin replied uncertainly.
‘Please keep back the phone where you found it, under that bush by the jogging path. You will no longer need it.’
‘But…, ’ Ashwin said and stopped short. ‘You mean you are back? You said you will remain out of town for more than a month. Why couldn’t you collect the phone in person? Or, should I come to your place to hand it over to you?’
‘Please do not ask too many questions and do what I ask you to do. Put back the phone where you had found it.’ And the line went dead.
Ashwin gaped dumbly at the phone in his hand. He tried to switch it on but nothing happened. It was dead as a stone.
‘I will have to speak seriously to Atanu and make him explain what game he was playing with me,’ Ashwin made up his mind and lay down in the bed, bracing himself to negotiate the long sleepless hours that lay ahead.
**
The time was about twenty minutes after five in the morning when Ashwin reached the track. There was no rain. But the sky was overcast and the faint streaks of light that reflected on the clouds cast a pale, mysterious glow around. The path was slightly sludgy from last evening’s rain and Ashwin jogged in a relatively slow pace. He stopped by a clump of bushy plants by the edge of the path and took Atanu’s mobile phone out of his pocket. He looked around. Atanu was nowhere in sight. The regular joggers and parkgoers were probably not inclined to come for the workout so early leaving the warm, comforting bed. The deserted path looked like a strip of beige ribbon in the reflected light. He stepped down and stood by the bushes holding the phone. ‘Will Atanu come to collect the phone? What if someone else found the phone before Atanu did? Then he remembered the stern instruction he had given him.
He cast a last, lingering glance at its dark display screen before putting it down. Suddenly he sensed a mild vibration in the phone and almost dropped it before his reflexes prompted him to tighten his grip over the phone. Breathing hard he squinted at the screen. And as he did so it lit up and the picture of a young boy with a blue felt cap on, flashed on the screen. The picture was cropped in a small, circular shape. And a there was a name in bold letters above the photo.
Atanu Arvind.
Atanu Arvind?
Goosebumps tingled down his spine. Arvind was his father’s name and the names of him and his twin brother were suffixed with their father’s first name. The young boy looked an exact image of Ashwin himself, just like he looked in his school days except for the cap.
The truth hit him with the force of a lightning. The picture on the screen was not of Ashwin Arvind but his twin brother Atanu Arvind. He stared at it, stupefied, his legs going stiff. The lips of the young boy in the picture parted in a secret smile and the phone slipped out of Ashwin’s hand. It lay face up and the boy looked steadily at Ashwin, the smile glued to his innocent face.
Ashwin thought he knew now who the mysterious caller was! That was the only Atanu he knew. There was no other Atanu other than him in Ashwin’s life… not even the elusive young man wearing a felt cap poised translucently against the thin darkness of early dawn who said he lived as a PG with a family and who followed him on the jogging track like a benignant shadow!! They were one and the same!!
Even as Ashwin gazed fixedly at the photo, he saw a red line slowly circling around the boy’s neck. Ashwin knew what it was. It was the fatal cut the Manza coated line of the kite had made around Bhai’s neck! And Ashwin had been responsible!
He took a few quick steps back, turned back and ran. The path was well lit up by that time some other joggers had arrived. He mingled with them and moved ahead. After he covered a few meters, he stole a glance back. A shadowy figure with a felt cap on stood at the spot where he had put back the phone. Ashwin blinked and looked again. No one was there.
He wondered if he imagined seeing the shadow of a person wearing a felt cap.
He moved on with his fellow joggers, feeling an emptiness inside. it was as if Bhai had gone out of his life for the second time and this time for good. But he had given him a new energy, and taught him the way to keep his kite flying.
He circled the small park and came back to the place where he had kept the phone under a bushy plant. He flicked a furtive glance at the spot under the plant. There was nothing there.
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.
Anita Panda
Nestled in the stunning Alps, is a municipality in the district of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, in Bavaria, Germany. Welcome to Oberammergau- Unspoilt and virginal, this stunning, beautiful and charming little town tucked away in Southern Germany is like a breath of pure, fresh Alpine air.
Quaint and picturesque, this attractive village of around 5,000 inhabitants is along the banks of the Ammer river and famed for its intricate woodcarvings, painted houses with frescoes and its NATO school worldwide. This enchanting fairy-tale village boasts of a 380-year-old tradition of mounting passion plays. The passion plays here are a massive production held every ten years by the citizens and continues well into October.
Each house here is an exquisite artwork embellished with Bible stories and anyone can participate in the great passion play party with local residents. The exquisite wooden figurines and clocks adorn the town dotted with cute little shops. It is an absolute visual treat to see exclusive paintings on the chalets and a stroll around the village is like visiting an art gallery.
With its painted facades- ‘Luftlmalere’ and its tradition of passion plays, this charming little Bavarian village-town is a major attraction for families and holiday makers.
Tours to the famous ‘Neuschwanstein’ and ‘Linderhof’ castles from Munich take a small detour through Oberammergau. The inviting parish church- St. Peter & Paul adds to its tourist attractions.
Traditional wood-carving products, the passion play theatre, the Obermmergau, Eisenhower museums and the hotels are all constructed in the traditional Bavarian style architecture. Here modern life meets the traditional. As a result, one is likely to spot some residents attired in vibrant and colourful folk costumes.
Oberammergau offers a delectable, lip-smacking taste of traditional German cuisine and flavours with dishes like- Schnitzel, a thin, breaded, fried cutlet of veal/pork, Allgau cheese and potato patties, a regional speciality and roast pork enjoyed with local beer.
The scenic valley town is surrounded by lush forested mountains and a breathtaking natural paradise where time stands still. Like a deep dive into the soul with serene meditation rediscovering oneself.
To reach Oberammergau, one can fly to Munich, the closest major airport and then take a train or a combination of trains and buses to reach there. An absolute MUST-VISIT for all passionate history, nature lovers and travel freaks.
“Guten Resei!’ as they say in German, which translates to “Happy travels.”
Anita Panda is a Mumbai-based bilingual writer-poet, the self-published author of ‘GENESIS’, (2021), dedicated to her valiant Late brother Colonel Suryakant Panda & the author of her debut book of 47 English poems- ‘SONGS OF MY SOUL’ (2023).
“LIFE AND THE END: BEAUTY AND UNCERTAINTY”
Shri Satish Pashine
From childhood’s innocent gaze to the reflective calm of maturity, our understanding of life and death changes in ways we can’t predict. I still remember how I used to think about it, back when my world was no bigger than my neighborhood, and my worries ended with homework and bedtime stories. Back then, death felt like something that happened to “old people”—the ones with shaky hands, slow footsteps, and eyes that looked like they’d seen too many sunrises. I’d watch them from a distance, half curious, half afraid, as if they belonged to another world. I didn’t think they were sad; they just seemed… finished. They had lived, told their stories, and were quietly fading out like the last notes of a lullaby.
In my little head, there was a simple formula: white hair meant the end was near. I had no reason to question it—everyone around me seemed to believe the same. At family gatherings, when someone passed away, the grown-ups would say things like “He had a good, long life,” or “She went peacefully.” And I’d nod, even if I didn’t fully understand. What stayed with me was the idea that death came only after a long, full journey. So I believed, quite naturally, that as long as I was young, laughing, running, and falling down only to bounce right back up, I was safe. Life was mine, and it stretched endlessly in front of me.
I never imagined that life could be short, or fragile. It didn’t occur to me that someone young could disappear. After all, we were the ones who played in the sun, made silly jokes, and believed that scraped knees were the worst thing that could happen. We weren’t supposed to break—not really. Childhood felt like armor. It wrapped me in color and light and noise. There were birthday cakes and schoolbags, summer holidays and secrets whispered under blankets. In that world, death had no place. It belonged to hospitals, to quiet living rooms with drawn curtains, to people who had already told the world everything they needed to.
But growing up changes that. Not all at once—but slowly, in waves. You hear about someone young who doesn’t come back. You see tears where you expected smiles. And suddenly, the world feels less certain, less invincible. You realise that youth is not a shield. Life doesn’t promise to be long—it only promises to be here, now.
And that’s when you begin to look at everything differently. Not with fear, but with tenderness.
In those early years, everything I found beautiful seemed like it would last forever. The soft bloom of hibiscus in our garden, catching sunlight like tiny red lanterns. The carefree laughter of children echoing through the lanes as evening fell. My mother’s voice floating from the kitchen, half-humming, half-singing as she stirred something warm on the stove. My father’s strong, sure hands steadying the back of my bicycle as I wobbled forward on a dusty path, his breath calm, his presence like a shield behind me. These weren’t just moments—they were entire worlds to me. They felt anchored, eternal, as if stitched into the fabric of life itself.
I didn’t know then that memory and time are secret collaborators. I thought what was beautiful would always be there, because why wouldn’t it be? In the way the sky remained blue, or the moon kept visiting each night, I believed everything I loved was immune to change. To my young eyes, time seemed to pause for the good things. It walked around them quietly, careful not to disturb.
But time, as I would later learn, is not careless—just deeply patient. It doesn’t rush in like a thief; it seeps in like water through stone, subtle and relentless. And it always leaves its mark.
The first crack in this illusion came not with a bang, but with a silence. I remember it clearly—it was a humid summer evening, the kind where the trees hung still and the scent of ripe mangoes was thick in the air. Ankit, the boy who lived next door, was there one moment—shouting, laughing, a slingshot dangling from his fingers, always chasing trouble with that lopsided grin—and gone the next. No warning. No goodbye. Just a terrible stillness that settled over the street like dust after a storm.
The grown-ups began to speak in hushed voices. Some wept. Some shook their heads in disbelief. And I? I didn’t understand. I couldn’t. I waited for him, day after day, sitting on the low boundary wall that separated our houses. I expected him to come back, slingshot in hand, a mango in his pocket, eyes full of mischief. I imagined his laugh echoing down the lane, his bare feet kicking up dust. I was sure it was all a mistake, that someone would soon explain.
But no one came. No one explained. And Ankit never returned.
That was the first time I truly felt the weight of absence—not just someone being away, but someone being unreachable. It didn’t feel fair. It didn’t feel real. But it was. That was the first lesson—the moment childhood’s soft veil lifted just enough to show the edge of something vast and unknowable. The first truth I couldn’t unlearn, no matter how tightly I closed my eyes.
As the years unfolded, life continued to offer its quiet, often cruel revelations. One by one, they came—small waves that, at first, I tried to ignore. But each carried something away from me. I remember a young singer who once filled our home with her vibrant voice—clear, soulful, brimming with life. We played her songs at every festival, every long car ride. Then one day, we heard she was gone—an illness, swift and merciless. Her voice lived on, yes, preserved in recordings, but it now came with a strange ache. It felt ghostly, suspended in time. Beautiful, but unreachable.
Not long after, there was the poet—a distant acquaintance, yet unforgettable. His words had danced with both fire and fragility. He seemed to carry storms within him, and one day, the silence that followed his last verse was not poetic but final. He had chosen to leave the stage early, without applause. His absence taught me something his poetry hadn’t: that brilliance could sometimes burn too hot for this world.
Then came the most personal blow—a cousin I had grown up with. We had shared secrets, fights, and laughter under the same roof. One night, he went to bed with a mild fever. By morning, he was no longer breathing. No last words. No dramatic farewell. Just a deep, unbearable stillness. I remember standing at his funeral, looking at his shoes near the doorstep, as if they were still waiting for him to step into them. That sight broke something inside me.
Each story, each loss, carved away a little more of the protective shell of childhood. They chipped at the illusion I had once believed in so fiercely—that beauty, talent, and youth were shields against the inevitable. I began to understand that the universe played no favourites. That even the brightest, the kindest, the most promising among us were just as vulnerable. If anything, they sometimes seemed more fragile—like blossoms that bloom too beautifully, too briefly.
The idea of invincibility, which once wrapped my understanding like a soft, comforting blanket, began to fall away thread by thread. In its place, something else took root. Not fear, exactly. Not despair. But a quiet awareness. A deeper knowing. I began to look at the world with more softness, more reverence—because I now knew how quickly things could vanish.
With every passing year, the shift became more visible. The people who had raised me—who once seemed etched in permanence—began to change in subtle, then unmistakable ways. My father, who had once carried me on his shoulders and fixed every broken thing with calm precision, now moved slower, his steps careful, his hand resting more often on his cane. His silences grew longer, his voice softer. I began to notice how he looked at old photographs a little too long.
My mother, whose laughter had once filled entire courtyards, now paused between sentences, as though her memories needed time to gather themselves. The sparkle in her eyes hadn’t dimmed, but it flickered now and then—like a lamp gently swaying in the wind. Her hands, once constantly in motion, sometimes rested quietly in her lap. And when she sang—less often now—it felt like the song came from another time.
Then, inevitably, came the funerals. Those heavy, quiet days when the world felt washed in grey. Friends carrying their parents to cremation grounds. Parents burying their children. Empty chairs at family dinners. Silent teacups on untouched saucers. Photographs framed on mantels, replacing voices at the door. Grief stopped being something I heard about. It became something I sat with—sometimes in company, often alone.
It was in those moments of absence that the deepest truths began to settle—not as sharp realizations, but as slow, solemn understandings. Nothing—no matter how dear—is guaranteed to stay. And so, what remains must be held tenderly, with gratitude and grace.
At some point in my adult life, without even meaning to, I began reading obituaries the way one might read love letters. Not for gossip or curiosity, but for something far more intimate—a quiet connection to the fragility of existence. Each small column carried the weight of a life: a woman who once taught music, a man who loved to garden, a grandmother whose smile was her family’s anchor, a teenager who played the violin and dreamed of the sea. Some names I knew, most I didn’t—but that didn’t seem to matter. In those few printed lines, I could sense the echo of lives once filled with laughter, worry, dreams, regrets, routines, and wild hopes.
Each obituary whispered something simple yet powerful: We were here. And each reminded me, gently but persistently, that life is a tender, flickering thing. That no matter how much we plan or strive or resist, death remains the one certainty in a world brimming with questions. It does not care for our calendars or ambitions, our fitness routines or retirement plans. It comes when it comes.
But this understanding didn’t crash into me with drama or fear. It arrived gradually, like snowfall on an empty street—soft, silent, reshaping the contours of how I saw the world. At first, I resisted it. The thought of endings used to frighten me. The idea that all things, all people, even those I couldn’t imagine living without, would someday disappear—it felt cruel, unjust. I found myself clinging harder to moments, wanting to stretch time like dough, wishing for more of everything: more laughter, more mornings, more years.
But slowly—perhaps as a survival instinct, perhaps as wisdom—I began to lean into the truth rather than run from it. And oddly, I began to feel… comforted. There was something strangely beautiful about knowing that we’re all just passing through. That nothing is truly owned, only experienced. That every connection, every day, is a gift—not a guarantee.
There was also a kind of rough justice in it. A fairness that even the most intricate systems of the world fail to provide. Death does not play favourites. It does not check your bank account or scroll through your accolades. It does not pause to admire beauty or yield to power. It comes for kings and farmers, poets and soldiers, saints and wanderers. It visits penthouses and shanties alike. In this, there is no hierarchy—only a quiet leveling.
In that equality, I found a strange kind of peace. In a world where injustice often shouts louder than love, and where people are divided by birth, belief, or accident of geography, death unites us. It reminds us, in the end, of who we really are beneath our titles and stories. It strips away the noise. It brings us back to the truth: that we are all made of the same impermanent dust and dreams.
No matter how high we soar or how deep we hide, we all return to the same silence. And perhaps, just perhaps, that silence is not an end, but a kind of homecoming. A space where we are finally free of struggle, of pretense, of fear. A place beyond language and form, where only love—if anything—remains.
When I accepted the transience of life—not just as a thought, but as a felt truth—my gaze shifted. Something softened in me. The world didn’t change, but my way of seeing did. I began to notice things I had overlooked for years. The way the afternoon light poured through old curtains, leaving golden fingerprints on the floor. The faint rustle of leaves whispering secrets in the breeze. The warm weight of a sleeping child’s hand in mine, so trusting, so fleeting. Even the distant sound of a familiar tune drifting in from another room felt like a visitation.
These were no longer background details. They became sacred ceremonies of everyday life. Moments that didn’t ask to be seized or shared—they only asked to be seen.
I began to slow down—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I found myself eating more slowly, tasting the story behind each bite. I began listening to people—not just to their words, but to the quiet spaces between them. I started holding hugs a heartbeat longer, not wanting to rush the warmth. I stopped walking as if I was always late for something and started noticing the ground beneath my feet, the sky above, and the breath within. And somewhere in this slowing, life expanded.
I returned to writing poems. Not for applause. Not for platforms. But because they were knocking gently inside me, asking to be let out. I picked up the phone and called friends I hadn’t spoken to in years. I apologized where I once held pride. I forgave those who never said sorry—not because they changed, but because I did. I even began to find comfort in silence—the kind that sits with you like an old friend.
Would we still do these things if we believed we had forever? Would we still pause to admire the steam rising from a morning cup of tea, if we thought there were infinite mornings ahead? Would we still scribble handwritten letters to loved ones, press flowers between pages, or say “I love you” like it mattered—if we never feared goodbye?
It is impermanence that gives life its urgency. Its sharpness. Its sweetness. Without it, everything would blur into endless monotony. But because everything ends, everything shines.The fact that we cannot hold onto anything forever—that people grow old, that moments slip through our fingers like water, that nothing stays the same—is what makes it all so unbelievably precious.
Mortality, I came to realize, is not a curse we must bear. It is the very thing that teaches us how to live. And aging? It’s not a decline. It’s a deepening. It’s not punishment—it’s privilege. Every wrinkle on my face feels less like a flaw and more like a line in a poem. Each grey hair speaks of seasons endured, lessons learned, loves lost and found. These lines around my eyes carry the echo of my daughter’s first laugh. The creases on my palms have held grief and given blessings. The curve of my shoulders tells a story of burdens I chose to carry—and some I learned to put down.
We are not just growing old. We are gathering. Gathering light and shadow. Gathering grace. We are not just aging. We are becoming With age, love deepens. With time, love evolves. It softens at the edges, deepens at the core. It becomes quieter, yes—but also more powerful. It no longer rushes to impress or insist on being noticed. It no longer demands to be named. It simply is. We begin to love without the hunger to possess, without the urgency to define. We learn that not everything we love is meant to be kept. Some things are meant to be held gently—and then let go.
We start seeing beauty in places we once overlooked. Not in grand gestures, but in small, silent acts. In a helping hand extended without expectation. In an apology unspoken, yet deeply understood. In someone just showing up—despite their pain, their past, their imperfections. We see beauty not in what shines, but in what stays. Real beauty, we realize, isn’t the soft glow of youth or the symmetry that magazines praise. It’s something more enduring. More human. It is the quiet grace with which a woman enters a room after a sleepless night spent beside a sick child. It is the courage to smile through tears when you’ve just lost something you can’t replace. It is the strength to rise every morning carrying invisible grief and still finding a way to cook, to care, to listen.
It is a mother who stirs soup while her own hands tremble from chemo. It is a father who folds his pride into an apology—unprompted, sincere.
This beauty doesn’t fade. It doesn’t age. It grows deeper with each scar, more radiant with each sorrow. This is the kind of beauty that stays. And yet, we cling. We hold tightly to things that no longer serve us—people, identities, old versions of ourselves. We cling to broken dreams, to grudges that weigh us down, to roles we outgrew long ago. As if letting go would make us vanish. As if releasing would mean we never existed.
But life is not a museum. It is not a place where we preserve ourselves in glass cases, frozen in time. Life is a river. It flows, shifts, carries, and cleanses. And it asks us not to resist—but to move. Letting go is not the same as forgetting. It is not a betrayal of memory or love. It is an act of courage. It is a decision to choose peace over permanence. To understand that clinging too tightly can sometimes break what we wanted so desperately to protect. It is to say—I love you enough to let you go. I trust life enough to make room for what comes next.
In surrender, we don’t lose. We return. To stillness. To wholeness. To ourselves. Even love—the most profound of human experiences—is not immune to endings. People leave. Stories conclude. Hands slip away. But love does not die. It transforms. It lingers. In the way we fold laundry. In the recipe we cook the same way she did. In the lullaby we sing without realizing.
In the gesture we inherited without meaning to.
Love becomes wind, breath, a rhythm that echoes long after the source is gone. It lives on in stories told at family tables. In pictures framed and slightly askew. In the quiet moments between words.
The ones we love may leave this world. But the love they gave—their kindness, their touch, their essence—remains. It becomes part of the silence we carry. The kind of silence that holds everything.
Sometimes, I sit by the window and watch the clouds drift—slow, effortless, timeless. And in that quiet drift, memories rise like mist. I think of those I’ve lost—not with the sharp ache of absence, but with the soft warmth of remembrance. I do not mourn them the way I once did. I remember them. I let their presence echo through me. I feel them in the wind that brushes past my face. In a familiar scent that appears suddenly, unreasonably, as if called. In the curve of a line from an old poem. In the uninhibited laughter of a grandchild—so full of life, yet carrying a trace of those who came before.
They have become part of my breath—part of the rhythm of my days. And somewhere along the way, I stopped fearing death. Not because I have figured it out.
Not because I know where it leads.
But because I have come to understand life—a little more, a little deeper.
We are not here to last. We are here to live. Not to preserve, but to participate. Not to perfect, but to feel—fully, unashamedly, and without delay. We are here to love, even though we know we will lose.
We are here to build, even if what we build may crumble. We are here to begin, even with no guarantee of completion. And that, I believe, is courage. Not the absence of fear, but the choice to show up anyway. To begin anyway. To love anyway.
So let us live—With our eyes open.
With our hearts soft. With our spirits wide awake.Let us gather moments, not possessions.
Let us tell stories, not just save photos. Let us be kind—to ourselves, to strangers, to the day itself. Let us write. Let us dance in the kitchen. Let us cook meals with too much spice and too much heart. Let us cry in movies and smile at the moon. Let us walk barefoot on wet grass, say thank you even when we’re tired, and say goodbye without regret.
Let us say, in quiet and loud ways: I was here. Because when the end comes—and it always will—what will matter most is not what we held onto, but what we released with grace. Not how long we lived, but how deeply we allowed ourselves to feel. Not what we built on paper, but what we became in spirit.
In every breath we take, there is the shadow of an ending.
But also, the quiet promise of a beginning. Life is short—yes. That is the truth. But it is also wide.
And deep. And full of color, contradiction, chaos, and quiet miracles. And somewhere within that brevity… lies eternity. So live. Fully. Freely. Finally.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Ashok Kumar Mishra
Rangapura was a little known obscure passenger halt connecting the coal mines at Yabankheda to the gigantic thermal power station at Valnad. Soon after the station was opened for trains two decades ago, it faded into insignificance and neglect. About a mile ahead of Rangapura, stood a rickety bridge across a seasonal stream built during the colonial era and subsequently declared ‘weak’ by Indian railways with a speed limit of only 40 km/h. With stone packing on both sides, the bridge had ten spans, each approximately thirty feet long and supported with brick and mortar piers. During rainy seasons water would gush through these piers, but during the rest of the year, there were patches of waist-deep standing water with shrubs and stubborn grasses adding greenery to the surroundings. As the bridge had only one track, the station had one sliding to facilitate non-stop movement of goods train.
Not many trains stopped at this pass-through station. Two express trains and one mail train used to move on this track, but they never stopped at Rangapura. The only Up and Down slow-passenger train running between the coalmines at Yabankheda and Valnad town would stop at this station every noon and in the evening on its way back, with a schedule stop of five minutes each time. The only other regular trains were the slow moving goods trains that passed the station at regular intervals.
Nearby was the tiny little village of Rangapura, which had only about a hundred households, mostly milkmen carrying milk to the thermal town or commuters for daily wage. When the Fast Mail would pass through Rangapura with two long honks at dawn, bats knew it was time to fly back, crows knew it was time to caw, roosters began to crow and the villagers would start to do their daily chores. When the slow passenger arrived at noon, the village women started preparing their mid-day meal. Similarly, the arrival of slow passenger return train signaled dusk and finally the long blast of the returning Fast mail would declare it was time to retire to bed.
A few hawkers from nowhere would appear with the arrival of the slow passenger train and fast disappear with its departure every morning and evening. There were three Peepal trees and two flower-laden Ashoka trees on the platform that were planted by the previous station master beside the long bench built for the use of the waiting passengers.
The station was one among the three brick structures in the village besides the police outpost and the temple. The rest were huts with burnt clay red round tile roofs. The station master stayed with her daughter in the two-room quarter next to the station since the death of his wife three years back. He would sell tickets through a pigeon hole of the small wooden window of his house for the slow passenger train. After completing the sale of tickets, he would appear on the platform with his hat on and green and red flags in his hand to welcome the train. He used to collect tickets from passengers alighting from the train and would signal for the train to leave the station. Rest of the time his job was to walk across to the platform and show green flags to passing fast trains and goods trains. The occasional whistling and puffing of engine, banging of buffers and clanking of iron couplings used to give company to the father and daughter duo.
Day after day, the station master used to find a blind person on the station bench eagerly waiting for the slow passenger train to return from Valnad town on its way to Yabankheda. He would arrive around half an hour before the arrival of the train and sit through the entire stoppage time of the train patiently and listened to the gossips and footsteps of the passengers getting down from the train. Finally, after the departure of the train he would wait for some more time till it became quiet, except for the occasional chirping and fluttering of birds returning to their nests above the peepal tree that stood on the platform behind the long bench. He would slowly stand, collect all his belongings meticulously, including the tambour*, and hold the walking stick firmly before slowly moving on. He never missed his visit to the station a single day, be it hot summer, rains or winter.
The station master never bothered to enquire about the person as he was too busy and dismissed the man for a blind beggar like the ones generally noticed on railway platforms and bus stands looking for a few coins from generous passengers. Yet he never found him begging and the blind beggar was not found at the station during any other time of the day, not even when the slow passenger moved towards the power town, Valnad. This however did not escape the notice of her fourteen year old daughter who had observed the beggar coming and sitting on the bench as if he was waiting for somebody everyday without fail. The curiosity of the child forced the station master to enquire and know about the mysterious regular visit of the blind man.
One day, to start the conversation, the station master went near him after the slow passenger train left, when there was no one nearby, and asked him, “Baba, how is it that you hold such a nice musical instrument, but you never play this to attract the passengers?” At first the blind man got a little unsettled to listen to a human voice and that too because he realized that someone had noticed him for quite some time. Then he replied to the station master, “I do not know you, will you please reveal your identity?” The station master said he had been working as the station mater, but it did not matter. He was just curious to know.
The blind man said “I know how to play the tambour, but I no longer play it.”
The station master wanted to enquire the reason for doing so. But he did not.
He said “I heard tambour and dafli instruments are played as accompaniment to dance”. To which the blind man agreed.
“So you play them at dance performances?”
“Yes and No. No, as I do not play in performances, but yes I used to play when my daughter used to dance.”
“Is she not performing nowadays or has she stopped dancing?” asked the station master.
“No, she is a renowned dancer. Everyone would stop for a while to watch her dance.”
“Where is she nowadays? I have never seen her accompanying you?” asked the station master.
“You may not know her. When she was young, she used to accompany me to the station. She used to dance and I used to play the tambour. Passengers used to stand and watch, throwing money on her. She has grown up and has gone to Valnad town to earn a lot of money. She told me to wait here on this long bench in the platform. She said that she would perform and earn a lot of money and come back to me. She will come back and I will play tambour again” the blind man said to the station master. His eyes looked away into the distance and reflected a sense of longing.
“Can I do anything for you? Do not hesitate to take my help in case of need. If you have address of your daughter I can write to her”. The blind man replied “Her name is Urmi, she is an excellent dancer, performing in Valnad town. I know only that much. She will definitely come back. I will wait for her.”
He then stood up and slowly left after paying respect to the station master.
The inquisitiveness of the station master and his daughter grew and the daughter asked her father to find out some more information about the blind man and her daughter Urmi. Next morning, the station master thought it worthwhile to enquire about them from the local postman. But he nodded his head in negative saying “I know the blind man staying at one end of the village and I hand over handicapped allowance money to him every month, but never remember to have delivered any letter to him”. He denied of any knowledge of his daughter, Urmi.
Next day station master’s daughter insisted and the station master obliged to enquire more about Urmi in the market. He thought, may be the talkative local barber Benu, who had information in his fingertips about everyone in the village, may have some information about Urmi. He too said “Since many years I have opened this saloon, but nobody ever mentioned anything about Urmi. May be the local Police station would be of any help.”
The station master met the Sub-Inspector in charge of the police outpost. He said “I am posted here since last two years. I have neither heard of Urmi, nor do we have any missing complaint during my time. May be, if I see earlier FIRs, it may provide some information. I have problem of staff shortage. See the piles of papers yet to be filed. Give me some time. If I find anything I will inform you.”
On receiving a message two weeks after this meeting, the station master called on the police sub-Inspector. The SI informed that he checked the piles of old FIR register and could find out a five year old missing compliant of the blind man stating that his daughter Urmi was found missing since evening. Next day police rescued his daughter Urmi and took two young boys, son of local liquor seller and his friend into custody on charge of wrongful confinement and sexual abuse of the minor girl. But after obtaining a written statement from the father to the police that Urmi had visited these boys out of her own will in return for some money, police withdrew the case. He handed over a copy of the old photograph of Urmi to the station master which was in police custody.
Things became quite clear to the station master. The local liquor seller was an influential person and a moneyed man. Under pressure from the police, the blind man might have been forced to give a statement as desired by the police to save the criminals. Quite possibly, to avoid embarrassment, the girl might have moved to Valnad town to earn some money. But five years was a long time and why has Urmi still not returned? Now that he had a photograph of Urmi he thought of sending a word to Valnad station master for help.
A few days later the station master met the blind man again at the same long bench on the platform. He enquired how he meets his ends. The blind man mentioned besides the ration he gets from the ration shop, he also gets handicapped allowance with which he somehow manages. Whenever her daughter would return from Valnad with a lot of money, they would have enough money to repair the hut and live happily.
The station master mentioned “I could somehow manage to get a copy of a photo of Urmi and sent it to station master of Valnad who was kind enough to trace her. She has become very rich and widely known as a great dance performer. She is busy moving from place to place. But she promised to talk to you over the phone if you come to the station at 7 PM tomorrow. The blind man’s joy knew no bounds. He kept on repeating, “Sir, I was telling you, my daughter Urmi would definitely come. She had promised me. I will come to you tomorrow and talk to my Urmi. Thank You Sir.”
Next day, the blind man found his way to the station master’s office well before time. Exactly at 7 pm came a ring on the office phone. The station master picked up and handed over the receiver to the blind man. A voice of the girl came from the other side. “Pranam papa, I am Urmi calling. I am fine and hope you to be so. As you know, through my dance performance I have been able to earn a good fortune. I am working for an orchestra company which performs daily and constantly moves from place to place. So I would not be able to get leave and go to meet you. I have decided to send one thousand rupee every month through the station master. You collect them every month and live happily.” Before the blind man could tell anything the line was cut off from the other side. But he was very happy to listen to his daughter and profusely thanked the station master. After the station master handed over the money to the blind man, he looked up towards the open void and slowly moved out of station master’s office.
From the adjacent room came the daughter of the station master. She spoke exactly as it was planned by the father and daughter duo. After ensuring that the blind man had left, they started reading the reply again from Valnad Station master which read:
“Five year back an abandoned body was found on the railway tracks at Valnad. It was a case of suicide as a suicide note signed by Urmi was found on the body. The photo that you had sent matched with the photo of the body found.”
(The End)
*Tambour (locally called Khanjani) is a handy small musical instrument like Dafli. However, it is made of a circular wooden frame and from the skin of a water monitor unlike Dafli, which is a little bigger and made of mostly metal and other materials.
Maitri Vihar, Bhubaneswar-23
9491213015(m)
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)
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
It was a lovely inspiring morning. It was not as if the birds were chirping or the air was fresh. It was just another ordinary morning. When a person feels a surge of power in his soul emanating from the freshness of brain, it gives a spring like effect to jump out of the bed. An ordinary morning turns into an inspiring morning. It is a day when one feels that he can accomplish few things and go a step beyond his limitations when he goes out to face the day.
It was the morning rush time when everyone scrambled and raced to reach their work space in time. The metros were fully packed with commuters and so were the buses and the streets. It was another usual day for the entire city except for Veer. Veer moved through and across the streets of commotion and finally entered the Achievers Street. He walked with an air of confidence and self-belief. He had earned a fine job in a prestigious company which anyone would envy. He looked at his watch. There was enough time on his hand to grab a tuna sandwich on the way and bite on it along the way. He had never tried tuna sandwich before because he felt the cost was inappropriate to the size they served, but today the size or the cost didn’t matter. Today he felt that he deserved only the best and he better get used to such finer things in life. He certainly had the feeling that the day belonged to him and so will be the days from now on. He was going to make this tuna sandwich a habit and as a style statement.
The people in the pavement seemed to make way for the guy who found success as he moved on carefree but in all politeness. He made sure that he touched no one or stamped on any damp mud or puddle. He had to keep his attire of a wheat coloured shirt with a black tie having two sliver stripes and the black trouser unsoiled. His newly bought suede leather shoe had remained clean till now.
The junction came where he had to move from one block to the other crossing the road. He waited for the signal to turn red for the stream of vehicles to pause for twenty seconds. The red signal came on. Veer went forward with the other pedestrians along the zebra crossing and it seemed to him as if he was climbing the ladder of success. His new office was just around the corner and he looked proudly at the vehicles on one side of him as his shadow passed over each of them. The upcoming sun had made a beautiful fenestration in between the row of buildings to cast a shadow enough to be acknowledged. The vehicles on both side of Veer had to stop before him as like the Red sea which parted to let a powerful man walk through.
It was during this twenty second pause of the main road that he saw her. She walked against him with a shadow which fell over his shadow as her bouncy short hair nearly rubbed his face in the rush. Veer looked up to see this magnanimous pretty female who seemed to breath the same air of confidence which he too breathed. The twenty seconds of crossing over perished and the red light came on. Veer reached the opposite pavement and she had reached the point from where Veer had started.
Veer just needed to take a few steps and turn to the right to enter into his new office but he paused. He felt like walking back and cross over again to the other side of the road. He wanted to see her once more. It was a world where one would get lost and not be found again. He knew he would never see her again if he let go of this moment. He turned around and waited there till the green signal came for pedestrians.
The signal turned green for Veer and red for the vehicles. The vehicles stopped to let this man in a hurry cross over to the other side, who was now walking with a romantic whiff of air. Just as he started his ramp walk, he saw to his surprise that the female he long wished to see was walking back along the same ramp. It looked as if she had forgotten something. There was a bit of concern on her face but even that made her face more pretty. Veer kept his eyes on her throughout the width of the road as their shadows crossed each other once more. The lady looked lovelier than he had seen her a bit while ago. The morning sun showed forth the brown tan of her hair which bounced along as she walked on her stilettos. Her hair style suited her chubby face with dimples. Her knee length black skirt and dawn grey satin shirt was tailored for her. For a moment he thought that the sun had made a halo around her head for a few seconds.
The period of crossing the black and white lines were over. Veer had to start all over again in return to reach his destination. He waited for the next red signal period and at the same time he was wishing if there could be any chance a fairy would appear and make her walk back again across this road. Veer was a man of calculations and he calculated in his mind that since she had a sort of concern on her face, she should get it corrected and come this same way to go wherever she was intending to go. Veer waited patiently and ignored three or four of the green signals for the pedestrian crossing. He was just waiting to see if she would return which he was sure she would. He knew she had a job to be done in this direction. Veer’s time of entering the office was almost up and this was his first day in office. Everyone in the office would be ready to welcome the new administrative officer. Veer finally took a decision to cross the road and get to his office. He wanted himself to be an example of punctuality to his staff and this was his first day with them.
The road crossing happened again. He could not believe his eyes or his luck when the girl of his interest was coming back again to cross the road. This was the third time they were going to cross each other.
This time there was an evident problem in her gait and she was looking perplexed. Her eyes were straying and her brain was not focused on the road. Her pace was too slow for a person who had to take hurried steps while crossing a road. Veer too slowed down his steps to suit her pace.
Fifteen of the twenty seconds of crossing was already over. Almost all the people had crossed the road or will in the next few seconds except for this damsel who was walking absent mindedly. The red light came up for the pedestrians and yet she was just at the middle of the road. Her slow pace had put Veer too on the middle of the road. The green light turned for the impatient vehicles which were quiet ready and in full throttle.
Veer realised she was not going to make it to the end before the onslaught of the vehicles began. He had just passed by the female. He knew he could make it to the pavement in two quick long strides but the female he was concerned about would be caught in the centre of the road. Veer in a swift reflexive action turned back and pulled the female away from the violent surging vehicles which saw nothing but an empty road lying ahead to race on. Veer was fast as a lightning in pulling the lady. He would have just scrambled to the pavement with her where the bystanders stood aghast. But an incoming truck which made one of its wheel climb on the pavement to overtake a car slammed onto the couple on the street. Veer and the female who was coupled into his hand was smashed to the ground.
The neurosurgical intensive care unit was silent except for the occasional beeps of the multi parameter machines. The nurses on duty was at ease for there were only few patients to look after and two of them were on ventilator support for nearly three days now. The trauma history sheet showed it was a road traffic accident and they both were pedestrians crossing the zebra line when they were hit upon by a reckless truck.
It was one past midnight and the nursing station was quiet. The two nurses on duty were just going through a mild doze. A shadow was just creeping out from beneath a body from a bed. The dim soothing light in the ICU was enough to produce a faint shadow and it took the opportunity to slide itself out from the burden of the body above. The shadow stretched itself long and looked out through the window pane on the fifth floor. It was dark outside except for the few streetlights and the head lamps of an occasional passing by vehicle. The shadow turned around and looked at the body of Veer whose survival was now on the ventilator. A person who crossed the same road thrice to meet his love and fate. The shadow stood there for some time comprehending that there might not be much time left for itself and Veer. One of the nurses woke up from her snooze. Sitting in the chair itself she checked on the few beeps from the machines around. The shadow swiftly slithered behind one of the drawn out curtain which separated the beds in the ICU. The quick inspection by the nurse was over. All the parameters were within normal limits for all the patients. The nurse could relax her watch for some more time.
The shadow which was lurking behind the curtain was aghast to see yet another shadow sticking to the wall. It was another one of its own kind. Veer’s shadow slowly stepped towards the second shadow. It recognised the female shadow. This was the same shadow which it had crisscrossed on the road few days back. The two personas now crossed each other once more.
“Aren’t you the one I met on the road”, Veer’s shadow asked the female’s.
“Yes”, it replied.
There was a long silence as both shadows stood reminiscing of what had happened days back on the road.
The nurse got up from her chair creating a rustle and she put on a brighter light. It was time to give few medications to the patients. The two shadows slided back into their beds under the body of themselves.
Next night, Veer’s shadow eagerly creeped out from beneath the body of Veer as the ICU became quiet. The female shadow was near the window checking the depth of sleep of the nurses.
Shadows never talk it seems but they both communicated a lot. They exchanged their stories and how they eventually would have met each other in the same office. They together dreamed of the possibilities of how the future would have shaped up eventually if the accident had not took place. The shadows met each for few nights. Every night when the dim lights came on, both the shadows eased themselves out of the position they were in, sandwiched between their bodies and the mattress. They met, talked in fervour till one of the nurse woke up from the snooze and rose up to give the injections. Few times the nurses had mistook these shadows to be their own.
Then the night came when the shadows wouldn’t meet each other again. Veer’s shadow was longing to rise up from Veer’s comatosed body but all the lights were still on and there was bustling activity inside the ICU. The male shadow had to know what was happening. It peeped out a little from it was, under the body of Veer. There were doctors, nurses and they were trying to revive the sinking young female patient. Veer’s shadow had to take a risk and slowly went to merge with the little shadow that was available.
“The patient has expired” the senior doctor gave the verdict. One of the nurses went to disconnect the machines while another went to inform the patient’s relatives. The people who had flocked around the dying patient began to disburse once the life was over. The male shadow looked around and in an instant sneaked behind the curtain close to the dead body.
Two hefty guys came in to transfer the body to the morgue. Shadows are attachments of the body and they had to return with the body. Maybe they are an extension of the spirit or the soul in a body.
Both the shadows had a quick look at each other and they knew they would never see again. A shadow was destined to go along with its owner. In the process of shifting the female body, its shadow fell on the floor. Veer’s shadow took up the opportunity and blended in swiftly with the shadow of the female. The body was put on the stretcher and moved to the morgue.
Two days later, the ventilator which made Veer breathe mechanically was disconnected. He was never going to survive and his family gave the nod. The hefty men came to shift the body to the morgue. During the transit, the man who was holding the head of Veer’s body noted that there was no shadow under the body. To check if it is true they held the body directly under the light and then again in all the angles, but there was no evidence of a shadow. Even the hefty men had the fear growing in them. Were they carrying a ghost? One of them said to the comfort of the other in a scared tone. “His soul had gone long back and it was just his body here for the past few days. Come hurry up. Don’t look around. Let us finish our job as quickly as possible”.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
While Vineeth was travelling in a compartment by train, he smelt some perfume entering the compartment suddenly to divert his attention to it. He found a girl sitting in the seat opposite him beside the window.
The man, sitting opposite him earlier, had got off the train at the previous station, leaving the seat vacant for her to occupy it,
At the sight of hers, innumerable feelings started to bloom in his mind like music that comes out at the gentle touch of the strings of the sitar:
"A treasure of heavens has descended to the earth to shine in my presence."
"She's a rich treasure of all charms and glitz as she's at once beautiful and delightful in all respects."
. "She looks a plant full of bloomed flowers spread all over in full symmetry."
"It seems Ravi Varma has failed to portray her beauty in his snapshot details."
"She's sitting opposite me for my choice...I'm sitting opposite her for her choice... I hope that we're destined to meet each other here like this..."
"She looks an angel to attract me by her winsome features."
She was watching all the scenes pacing outside from the train. Rivers, hills, forests, streams, bridges, reservoirs, and all were passing by in grace. Her dark eyes were enjoying the natural rapture. Sometimes she was smiling as a sign of her gaiety, glimpsing the beauty of sights in nature.
She appeared a lover of nature, worshipper of beauty, connoisseur of art, adorer of wonders and above all, she was many in one. She said referring to herself.
"What a rare piece of stature with many a nice feature to glitter in my eyes!"
Vineeth wanted to distract her attention, enabling her to listen to his sweet compliments to her in his obedience.
The ideas of Vineeth were on their free flight faster than the express train.
Slowly she turned her face when the TC came to check tickets.
It all seemed that her face glowed like the full moon on earth to capture his looks by her glittering charms: There were a series of opinions appreciating her. She appeared the source of lessons of aesthetics:
"Beauty has such a power that it never fails to attract all."
"Now she's the cynosure of all eyes in the compartment.”
Vineeth and she showed their tickets to the TC. He put his smallest initial on the tickets and proceeded.
Vineeth felt like speaking to her.
She appeared to be speaking to him and so he stared to speak to her in a friendly tone,
"The train is running late by thirty minutes," said Vineeth with all smiles, expecting some response from her.
"Yes" said she.
"It's accelerating its speed to cover the delay, " said Vineeth.
"True," said she.
"The Indian Railways is nowadays trying to maintain punctuality," said Vineeth.
"A welcome gesture in India", said she.
"In the age of advance, India is also a developing country,” said Vineeth.
"When India is like many other countries, how is it "Saare Jahaase Achha?" said she, appreciating the nation.
"You've rightly said since you're a good observer of society and nature," said Vineeth.
"Yes" said she, with a glittering smile.
"Where are you travelling to?" said Vineeth.
"I'm travelling to Hyderabad," said she.
"I too," said Vineeth.
"What are you?" said she.
"I'm a researcher...,” said Vineeth.
“I've completed my research in English literature," said she.
"Congratulations...." said Vineeth.
"Thank you...This is Veekshana, I'm glad to see… I am glad to speak to you," said she, smiling.
"Your keen observation revealed your name, Veekshana... This is Vineeth...Very glad to see you, Veekshana," said Vineeth smiling.
"I see...I'm worthy of the name, Veekshana as I observe all with keen attention," said Veekshana in the feel of joy.
"Yes," said Vineeth.
They were happy to travel together, until they reached Secunderabad station. They felt that they had reached early as they wished to travel many more miles together. Time passed in a fast manner.
At first, they talked of delays of Indian Railways when they wanted to reach their respective destinations as early as possible.
When there was love bloomed in their hearts, their hearts loved to travel longer and longer forever together.
Both felt, “Life goes on in a smooth and joyous manner when hearts swim together in the sea of joys,”
Throughout the journey, Vineeth and Veekshana talked of their personal matters and ambitions, whims and fancies, likes and dislikes. They liked each other as they were the birds of a same feather flock together. They therefore fell in love with each other.
They completed their journey and reached their destination, but their love dawned in the journey continued till they were ready to meet each other in their marriage.
Veekshana and Vineeth met on an auspicious day to become one for their happy married life. They felt that they were born for each other.
They were on their honeymoon trip. They opened their hearts for their future life,
"You should keep smiling to me throughout your life...Your smile is the symbol of my happy life for lifelong miles," said Veekshana from his cozy lap in the full blooms of her smiles.
"When you're with me, my life flows in the glows of smiles in my face," said Vineeth planting a lovely kiss on her cheek.
Both were happy. Time passed without their notice. Every tree, every leaf, every flower, and every blade of grass knew that they were a model couple.
... ... ... ... ...
All times cannot be the harbingers of good fortune as life teaches bitter realities too. Veekshana unfortunately fell seriously ill. She was in a famous hospital for treatment.
Vineeth received a call informing him about her unexpected sickness. He rushed to the hospital. When he looked at his wife, he could not prevent his tears but controlled himself.
Veekshana reminded him of wedding promises to smile to each other for a happy life. Vineeth controlled the tears.
"You'll be all right soon," said Vineeth with all smiles.
"Your smiles will definitely cure my disease," said Veekshana smiling
Her mother was with her in the hospital as the attendant. She was her lovely daughter and so watched her, caring a lot.
Everyday Vineeth visited Veekshana as a companion to fetch fruits and edible things for her. He was by her side, offering medicines and all, and inquiring about her health on his visits to her.
Vineeth never forgot to smile to his wife, Veekshana, as per the wedding promise on visiting and leaving her. All the other patients wished them to be very close and cordial to each other in their long life.
Veekshanna was slowly recovering from her serious illness. She ascribed her slow recovery to her husband's love and fragrant smile for her. She always dreamed,
"The glow of smile should be in his face forever. The glow of his smile shouldn't fade away at any cost. I shouldn't see it."
That was Veekshana's love for her husband. She strongly believed that her husband's sweet smile was mainly responsible for her complete recovery from illness one fine day. She expressed her views to Vineeth,
"Under any cost, you shouldn't forget to smile. Your smile is the remedy of my life. Your smile is more than medicines prescribed by doctors."
Veekshana had sometime unwanted feelings in her mind:
"My husband might hate me as I'm a bedridden patient for long."
"He may marry somebody else when misguided by others."
"I'm not able to give him the pleasures of life... I think so as I'm a woman as his wife should give pleasures to him. When we are a model couple, I should think that my presence itself is the happiest thing for him."
Such thoughts entered Veekshana's mind very often and kept her disturbed in one way and consoled in the other. Her feelings vanished at the arrival of her husband, Vineeth.
Vineeth came to Veekshana smiling heartily and saying very openly, "Be happy...We'll go to beautiful Kashmir, the beautiful lap of the Himalayas, together in our joyous tour. Don't let any evil thoughts come into your mind," said Vineeth, sitting close by her side everyday.
"Thinking that I've ill feelings, you shouldn't forget to smile," said Veekshana while smile was lingering on her lips.
"Never... I keep smiling... My visit to you makes me smile," said Vineeth.
"Your smile is the remedy, the tonic of my life. If I miss your smile...you miss me," said Veekshana.
"Don't say such words," said Vineeth, covering her lips by his palm.
"Never... I know that you are my breath, and your smile is my life...," said Veekshana.
"That's what I want from you," said Vineeth and went on his duty smiling. ... ... ... ...
Some of his relatives met Vineeth and had an intimate conversation with him in a place of seclusion.
"How is your wife?" said relatives.
"She's recovering. There is progress. She'll recover...," said Vineeth.
"You don't know that she's suffering from a chronic disease...You don't know it. Try to know it," said the relatives.
"It's a curable disease...There is a considerable cure...," said Vineeth.
"Though she survives, she won't be fit enough to be your wife," said the relatives.
"As your well-wisher, I came to advise you...You can marry a girl of your choice to lead a happy life instead of living with Veekshana, a chronic patient," said all in one voice to convince Vineeth.
"Don't talk nonsense... Veekshana is my wife...my life partner...You needn't think of my life... my future... Please, don't bring senseless proposals," said Vineeth in a whip of full anger.
“We are made to think of you and your welfare in times of your wife’s serious illness…,” said the relatives.
“Veekshana is for my welfare…I’m not there without her…I don’t want to see you here and hear what all you say further…Get lost,” said Vineeth to them.
The relatives who had come to advise him in that way to go for the second marriage, went away soon not to appear again.
. ... ... ... ...
Days passed for Veekshana to witness happy days. The doctor came to her and informed her that he would discharge her in a week. Her mother thanked the doctor.
"I'm very grateful to you, doctor," said Veekshana.
Vineeth came to the hospital as usual. Veekshana welcomed him. He rushed to her in happiness with all smiles, congratulating her heartily on her recovery.
"Hearty Congratulations to you again and again...," said Vineeth, kissing her on her forehead.
"Doctor said that he would discharge me the next week," said Veekshana
"Very glad... Very glad...This is the day memorable and enjoyable in my life. I welcome the day," said Vineeth.
"Your smile is my medicine, my breath, my antidote, my medicine for my successful convalesce...Thanks to you for your sweet smiles and the dimples to glitter in your cheeks. I thank you for offering your smiles to me in love and affection for my recovery," said Veekshana.
"My smiles are always for you...They bloom to spread the fragrance of happiness for you. For me, your presence is like the lily to bloom in joy at sunrise," said Vineeth, knowing no bounds of happiness.
Vineeth met the doctor personally and thanked him profusely for his treatment to his wife, Veekshana. One week passed happily for the discharge of Veekshana. Vineeth took her to his house. They celebrated the occasion of his wife's coming home.
Vineeth and Veekshana went on their tour to beautiful Kashmir and enjoyed their trip. It was their cherished wish to visit Kashmir, and it came true
Within a short span, she leant that she was conceiving. It was the happiest occasion for Vineeth and Veekshana. They celebrated it in the presence of their near and dear at his new house in a befitting manner.
… … … … …
As per the date for her delivery given by the doctor, Veekshana delivered two female babies for the joy of the whole family. There was another grand celebration in the family on the twenty-first day of their birth.
They named the babies Satya and Nyaya with all love and affection.
Love of Vineeth and Veekshana that was beautiful as well as delightful, dwelling ever in their hearts. Their unfaded love made them live together happily but not the bond of their marriage. Veekshana's love for Vineeth was so deep that it served as a remedy for life.
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
Bankim Chandra Tola
Exhausted, Arun sank into an easy chair soon after returning from office. In his fatigue he forgot to take off his shoes and to go for a warm shower. Laden with heavy weights of worries, Arun felt as if he was physically drained but his mind raced through a maze of endless probabilities gnawing at him about how the tomorrow would unfold before him.
His mind was crowded with unrelenting streams of thought - how some people cloaked in the elegance of aristocracy and polished manners could so easily betray those who once stood by them in their bad days? Are these the same beings who had emerged from that Absolute source of divine energy along with the beings so virtuous, so pious to populate the Earth? What a baffling creation of God - it was beyond comprehension, beyond perception. Why would the creator choose to endow humans with both virtue and vice and release them simultaneously to inhabit the Earth? Was it to preserve some cosmic balance or to warn humans not to venture defying the Providence as the ancient demons once dared? He found himself immersed in these confounding reflections, chasing answers that seemed just out of reach.
Arun went on spinning his thoughts, when he was honest and sincere in his work and always worked for others’ wellbeing for all his life and did not even do anything that would have told upon others’ interest or their way of living, why then he was crushed under the roller of unwanted problems and undue anxieties?
Surama however, had not seen her husband in such a state ever since he took over as Zonal Manager of a Nationalised Bank for controlling all Branches of the Bank in a state. As she had observed, it was his usual habit to call her by name for at least two to three times just after returning from office every day. But to the contrary, he was silent on that day. She couldn’t but asked him gently, “Are you okay, Arun? What is the matter that haunts you today?”
Arun responded with a deep sigh, “Nothing that serious but something unexpected has come up which has left me feeling a bit unsettled.”
Surama was unwavering in the faith in her husband’s remarkable competence and problem-solving skills reflected in his ability to tackle challenges during his twenty years in Bank service. However, she had never seen him so distressed before. Without probing further she said to him calmly, “Go freshen up in the wash room; I’ll prepare some snacks and tea for you.”
Taken aback by her words, Arun said, “Surama, it is already past 7 P.M. No need for snacks, rather make my dinner ready by 8 P.M. I need to go to bed early for I have to leave for a distant city tomorrow by 7 A.M. positively.”
“Why? Is there anything serious?", asked Surama in a lighter vein.
Without making a reply Arun entered the washroom. Surama did not insist further and returned to her kitchen.
Sharp at 8 P.M. Surama called Arun to come to the dinning table.
Arun occupied a dining chair and said, “Very light dinner please.”
"I think roti and sabzi will do for now.”, said Surama.
Arun thought, let him clear the suspense with which she might be struggling and asked her to come and sit beside him. Then he began, “Do you know, tomorrow for the first time in my life I am going to confront with a dangerous mafia don who happened to be a terror in this state. I didn’t even think that a Zonal Manager of a bank shall be required to transact with such a ruffian goonda.”
How far she was satisfied with his brief reply was not clear, but she kept quiet contemplating the seriousness of the matter. She then said, “There’s nothing so grave that you can’t handle. I am aware of your expertise in dealing with militant Union leaders in the past. Besides, the challenges you’ve faced during critical period of terrorism in North East. You could even manage to inspire many misguided youths caught in the web of fear, to integrate into a normal social life. Considering that handling a mafia don will not pose a problem for you. So, don’t worry, go ahead with full confidence that you can do it. God is always with us, nothing untoward will happen.”
Surama’s soothing words gave him courage and strength to face the problem head on however fierce be it. But, for her clarification he said, “Yes I believe nothing serious to happen but you know, this Mafia had once threatened my predecessor to take away his life and by force taken a loan for a huge amount with the support of politicians occupying high offices in the state. My friend, perhaps could not resist the pressure and yielded for which now I am to bear the brunt.“
Interrupting Arun, his wife said, “It is impossible to obtain irregular and undesired credit facility from a Bank simply by political pressure or coercion without complicity of some personnel from the Bank or the weakness of sanctioning authority as you told me earlier. There must be something fishy and some weakness in your predecessor for which he might have easily surrendered. In that case why do you bother? Let the case take its own course.”
“That is right. My predecessor is now under investigation for the irregular advance, but the central office has entrusted this task to me with confidence to recover the doubtful asset. That is what I am worried about and nothing else.” Arun quickly finished his dinner and went to sleep with a book in hand.
Next day morning by the time Arun got up it was 6.30 A.M. Surama was busy in the kitchen; Arun hurried to washroom. By 7.30 A.M. Arun got ready and Surama served his breakfast. While bidding him goodbye, she said, “Arun, I would tell you to keep cool whatever be the circumstance and do not take hasty decisions. I have heard that the political goons here are not like normal human beings. They talk very sweet and behave like intimate friends but never hesitate to stab from behind when anything goes against their wishes. Rest you know better. Wish you all success.”
Arun nodded with a smile as a mark of appreciation for her caring words and said, “Perhaps my return might be late; so you should not wait for my dinner. If I am to make a night halt I shall let you know before 7 P.M.” Then he boarded his office car which was an Ambassador car, very convenient and comfortable for long journey, widely used by Govt. as well as Bank officers at that time. The driver was a Pahadi boy of 23 years, very competent and obedient. Arun relied on him always for his safe driving even on serpentine ghats on mountainous terrains. It was 8 A.M. then and the driver knew about his Saheb’s crucial meeting to reach the destination before 11 A.M., so he whisked the car off in his own style to cover a distance of 120 K.M.s. before time.
Arun felt as if his body was seated in the car but mind was roving in an unknown land busy in searching an easy way to convince the opposite party fall in line with his scheme of things. In a labyrinth of uncertainties Arun’s brain was so congested that he could not visualize how three and odd hours of journey came to an end and he was in front of the Branch of his Bank. Shaken by a mild jerk of the car coming to a halt, he saw through the window glass that Anubhav, the Branch Manager of that city main Branch was approaching towards his car.
The driver parked the car and opened the door for Arun to alight. The Branch Manager who was in the rank of AGM greeted him and led him to the Branch. As usual all staff on seeing Zonal Manager with their Branch Manager became alert and saluted him. After a brief chat with the staff, Arun said, “Anubhav, quickly apprise me of the account which has turned NPA and the steps taken so far for its regularisation. At the same time show me all the documents and correspondences relating to the account.”
Anubhav placed all records before Arun and started briefing him systematically. He went on: “Sir! This is a partnership firm titled ‘Moon Light Bar’ with two partners who availed themselves of a cash credit limit of Rs. four crores from the Bank against current assets for running that bar. The facility was sanctioned by the then Zonal Manager. But it is not clear from the processing note of the Branch why the collateral clause is silent. As per records, the account has gone irregular after one year of operation. Now the unit is shut down and the account has gone sick and outstanding balance has crossed rupees five crores.”
Anubhav continued, “One out of two partners is a criminal against whom a non-bailable arrest warrant is pending on the charge of murder and he is absconding for last one year. The other one is a mafia don in this city, being the henchman of the state home minister. Now it is heard that he may be made the chairman of city Municipal Corporation. This partner was not at all responding to Bank’s notices and phone calls. After chasing him for weeks today's meeting could be arranged”.
Arun said, “Okay then, let us proceed to meet him at the rendezvous as fixed by him, at the scheduled time. You just inform him of our coming.”
Instantly Anubhav talked to the partner of the firm and said, “Sir, he is ready to talk to us in his premises at 12,30 P.M.. We may start now to reach the venue on time.”
Both Arun and the Branch Manager left for the meeting place fixed by the borrower. After about 15 minutes of drive, suddenly one armed guard advanced to stop the car on the way. Car was stopped. The armed guard holding a sten gun in hand came near the door and said to the manager, “Manager Saheb! My Sir has instructed me to take you to the venue in his car after leaving your car here. So please come.”
Anubhav asked him “Who are you? Why should we leave our car here?”
The guard instantly put a call to his boss and talked. He then handed over the phone to the manager, Anubhav to talk.
After talking to the borrower Anubhav said to his Zonal manager, “Sir, the fellow requested us for the sake of safety we should leave the car here and go by his bullet proof car. Rest he will clarify in our presence.”
Arun thought for a while and said, “Let us do that.” Mechanically both of them boarded a Tata Safari waiting beside the road after asking the driver to stay back until their return. The side window glasses of the car were covered with deep coloured screens so that they could not see outside except the front. The car glided fast through a zig zag road for about 15 minutes before it came to a dead halt. As Arun got down wiyh the manager from the car they saw the area looked solitary with sporadic kachha houses and an old three-storey building. The place seemed a little away from the city.
They saw another armed guard waiting there, who came forward to lead them to that solitary three-story building standing nearby. A large iron gate, enough to make free passage for heavy vehicles, was opened by an armed guard. The building looked very old from outside as if lying abandoned for years. On entering the premises they were led to use the stair case to climb up to the second floor. In second floor, a gentleman about 35 years of age with white kurta and pajama came forward to greet Arun and Anubhav. Very politely he welcomed them to a well decorated room and offered them to seat on a very thick cushion bed spread on the floor. No chair, table or cot were there in that room except a dressing table, a refrigerator and a round table decorated with flower bouquet. The walls were covered with beautiful paintings. Two armed guards with sten guns in hand were standing on both sides of the bed; one standing near the door facing outside and the other stood on the opposite side of the cushion bed to keep watch on everyone present in the room.
Out of curiosity Arun asked, “Why so many armed guards here?” The gentleman who was the partner of the firm and the borrower, answered, “Only for security reason, sir. After I was nominated for contesting the post of Chairman of city municipal Corporation, some local goons are engaged by opposition to eliminate me before filing my nomination. My secret agents informed me that they have got a smell of your coming to meet me here. So, as a measure of exercising extraordinary caution I thought it proper to deploy armed guards to guard against any unexpected attack. The purpose of leaving your car on the way was also for safety reason only.”
Before Arun could say something, the gentleman started speaking without any break for about half an hour eulogizing himself for his political activities in the state and his influence on the state Ministry even not being an elected member of the state Assembly. He went on, “Sir, do you know in last election for state Assembly, the President of the present ruling party depended on me solely to organise rallies and also for smooth conduct of election meetings. For every party decision, I am consulted. People say that I am the king maker for the state.”
Arun interrupted, “Why then you avoided Bank’s calls all along and stopped operation in your advance account abruptly?”
“Sorry Sir, I was awfully busy with Assembly elections and thereafter with the formation of ministry. Now that it is over I am ready to comply with all Bank formalities in my own interest. After my partner was implicated in a false case he had to go underground until truth is exposed. So the business was badly affected and finally closed. But we are not intentional defaulters and I will clear the Bank dues of my own as I feel a clearance certificate from Bank shall help me defying opposition who are out to create any hindrance before poll. By the bye in last election even if the party President was ready to give a ticket I refused only for the Bank default. Now they have decided that I should file nomination to contest for the post of Chairman of the city Municipal Corporation, in that case I have to be ready with clean chit from the Bank to guard against any eventuality. So I have arranged this meeting to have a settlement on compromise. By the bye, if you have any problem in this state, please give me a simple hint, I can solve it in no time. Do you know sir, your predecessor had a serious problem regarding admission of his daughter in one of the medical colleges in the state where only the top ranking candidates in the entrance test are admitted. As her rank was far below the cut off mark, she could not get an entry. When her father, the Ex. Zonal Manager requested me for help, I just put a telephone call to the principal of one of the premier medical colleges in the state and she was admitted without even asking for donation.”
Instantly it struck Arun why the then Zonal Manager waived collateral security clause while according sanction for such a big limit. He also remembered what his wife Surama said before coming here that there might be some weakness of the sanctioning authority or some internal complicity.
So long Arun was hearing the fellow beating his own drum, just to portray how attentive he was to listen to his political prowess only to make him feel that a Zonal Manager of a Nationalized Bank also pays due regard to him even if he was getting disgusted with such nonsense talks. Arun was just waiting for a moment to enter into the discussion patiently. The moment came soon when showing off his hubris out of emotion he offered Arun to extend any help to settle his problems in this state if any.
Instantly Arun grabbed the opportunity and said, “Thank you for giving me your kind offer to help me solve my problem. Truly speaking, now we are hounded by one small problem only and we think you are the right person to solve it.”
Perhaps the gentleman who was the borrower and a big defaulter of the Bank could not get at the tricky card played by Arun and jumped in ecstatically to ask, “Please tell me the problem that troubles you.”
Then Arun said, “Thank you, the problem is very minor before a state leader like you. At present we are hounded by one problem only and that is default in your advance account in the name of Moon light Bar. Please settle the outstanding dues of the Bank and we would be happy”
“Yes, Moon Light Bar is not your problem alone but a headache to me too. Bank default has throttled my political career. I could not contest last Assembly election only for this, even if the Party President was ready to issue a ticket to me. Now I have decided to square up the outstanding dues and obtain a clean chit from the Bank so that I can contest elections in future. Please suggest me ways and means to liquidate the outstanding dues to the Bank” the borrower gentleman said pretending to be emotional.
Arun knew this kind of techniques being adopted by hardcore defaulters; so he was not at all surprised by unexpected move of the borrower in that meeting. Holding his emotion from making irrelevant remarks he said, “I am happy that you also think in our line. We are also interested in seeing your NPA account is either regularised or closed. Please tell us in what way we may come to your help?”
The gentleman with his diplomatic style said, “Very well sir, your small help will make me obliged to liquidate the account in one stroke. I heard that the Banks are now allowing OTS (One Time Settlement) for NPA accounts. If the same scheme is allowed to me I shall be obliged. I seek your kind help to waive the interest portion only and I shall deposit the full amount at a time and obtain a clearance for my future career. Please do consider.”
Arun through his hawk’s eyes could observe that the body language of the borrower did not match with his spoken words. For a moment his memory flashed back the phrase “Mistrust the obvious” cited by Arthur Hailey in his novel, “The Money Changers” and he thought how impeccably the defaulter borrower has acted before him to place his point of view to escape Arun’s presence as quickly as possible. Leaving his impression about the borrower under cover, Arun said with a normal smile, “Very good suggestion, but for that you have to submit a proposal with a token amount of deposit in your account. Please do it today we shall work upon it as quickly as possible.”
Turning to the Branch Manager Arun said, “Anubhav, collect his proposal today and forward it with your recommendation so that it can be sanctioned promptly to his convenience.”
As Anubhav was about to ask the borrower for the proposal, the gentleman promptly intervened, “Arrey Sir, nothing to worry? I have already engaged a chartered Accountant to make the papers ready. I think by tomorrow the proposal will be submitted before you in the Branch and then you get it sanctioned soon.”
The borrower said, “Sir, for my case please do not get mentally stressed. I have promised means, I shall never be a problem for a respectable dignitary and above all, a good human being like you. It is my great pleasure that you have so kindly obliged me coming to my place leaving aside your official responsibilities. Befiqr hoke jayiye Saab; kal apka sare tension dur ho jayegi, jab kal e bandaa proposal leke apke branch me hazir honge.”
Then he asked another person who was standing outside the room, “Kya sare intezam ho gaya?"
The man waiting outside promptly replied, “Yes sir.”
The borrower got up from his seat and said, “Sorry sir, for my problem your lunch time is delayed. It is already 2 P.M. please join for a lunch with me in a five star hotel in the city as I could not make arrangement upto your standard here in my farm house. Please do come.”
Arun could catch his move that the fellow wants to bid good bye to them and he said, “Thank you for your offer for lunch, but we did not come here for a picnic away from the city leading us to a secret site escorted by several armed guards. We shall be happy when your proposal for final settlement is received. Please excuse us for we cannot join the lunch now since we have many other issues to grapple with in the office.”
The gentleman borrower advanced to say with folded hands, “Sir, I would have been happy to talk to you for more time but a crucial meeting with Chief Minister is fixed at 3 P.M. today for which I have to get ready. Anyway, please help me settle the dues. I shall remain obliged.” Then he asked his person to take the ZM and BM to the Branch safe.
With thanks both bade good bye. Arun and Anubhav returned empty handed. Disappointed, Arun asked the Branch Manager, “Anubhav, follow up the case closely and if he does not comply even within a week it is certain that he has defrauded us by all standards and initiate legal action without loss of time.”
An unsuccessful endeavour of Arun came to an end leaving him in deep remorse simply not for being able to recover bank dues, but for his failure to save his predecessor, however helpless he might have been in time of sanctioning this bad loan.
Bankim Chandra Tola, a retired Banker likes to pass time in travelling, gardening and writing small articles like the one posted here. He is not a writer or poet yet he hangs on with his pursuit of writing small miscellaneous articles for disseminating positive thoughts for better living and love for humanity. Best of luck.
Sreechandra Banerjee
I start by writing the significance of Easter-eggs and bunny – from a different perspective. For Christians, the egg symbolizes Jesus’s emergence from His tomb and being resurrected.
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But there is another significance of this egg.
Well, since ancient times, egg represented new life. In earlier days, the Pagans used to celebrate arrival of spring with eggs as symbol of new life. Eggs were indeed traditional symbols of rebirth and fertility.
The term Pagan was first used for people of the Roman Empire who believed in many deities and these deities were assembled and worshipped together as per their own rituals. Later, the term “Pagan” was used to refer to ancient people of other places and empires too.
The term ‘Pagan’ was first used by early Christians of Fourth Century. Later this term has been well used in literature, etc to sometimes denote backward people who might have wrong ideas, yet who are closely associated with nature.
Remember, William Wordsworth wrote:-
“Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn”.
Wordsworth was very worried that modern people are spending too much money and thus have lost connection with nature.
-“The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; —
Little we see in Nature that is ours.
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!”
So, he regretted having lost connection with nature and said that it was better to be a Pagan – then at least one would be connected to nature.
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?ostre or Ostara is the Goddess of this month of Spring in Germanic Paganism – from which Festival of “Easter” probably got its name.
The spring month was called “Eosturmonath” after the name of this Spring Goddess. When translated – this Eosturmonath means “Paschal Month”.
Colouring of eggs also became a practice of the early Mesopotamian-Christians who dyed eggs with red to depict the blood that Christ shed during His crucifixion. It was the Church who took up this practice. (Donahoe’s Magazine, Volume 5).
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And now, about the significance of Easter Bunny.
Well, Easter Bunny made its appearance probably in the 19th century. Rabbits usually give birth to many kittens. Thus, Bunny was made an Easter Symbol – a symbol of NEW LIFE! (The paper Origami rabbits (top photo) I made some years back.
So, Easter is basically celebration of Spring Season when Mother Earth gets rejuvenated by the resplendence of new life that ushers in rejoicing.
Hope this Easter, we were all bestowed with blessings of Bliss of Spring Season when Mother Earth dressed Herself in bountiful beauty.
The paper rabbits on top - I made some years back.
The egg shown above is basically a box in the shape of an egg. I was presented this egg-box full of chocolates during Easter.
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All information and quotes are from books and internet only – to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right of information and quotes to which I have no right (Disclaimer). No part of this article including the photos can be used or reproduced by anyone.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: A WOMAN WARRIOR ON THE ENVIRONMENTAL FRONT
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
The effects of climate change are being felt across the globe, endangering ecosystems and disrupting the overall health of our planet. Its impact is particularly severe on vulnerable communities, threatening livelihoods and biodiversity. In response, both individuals and communities play a crucial role in environmental protection by embracing sustainable economic practices and eco-friendly lifestyles. Notably, women environmentalists from different regions of the world have made remarkable contributions, leading conservation efforts, advocating for climate action, and pioneering initiatives for a greener future.
One such Green Crusader is a woman from rural Africa, named Wangari Mathai, whose undaunted resolve and devotion to environmental protection led her to win the Noble Peace Prize in 2004. She was the first woman in Africa to win this prestigious prize, and the first woman in East and Central Africa to earn a Ph.D. and later became the first female associate professor at the University of Nairobi, where she chaired the Department of Veterinary Anatomy.
Between 1976 and 1987, Wangari Maathai played a key role in the National Council of Women of Kenya, where she championed environmental conservation as a fundamental pillar of community development. In 1976, she introduced the idea of tree planting, engaging women in reforestation efforts to combat deforestation and restore ecological balance. This initiative gradually evolved into the Green Belt Movement, a widespread grassroots organization dedicated to environmental sustainability, tree conservation, and improving the quality of life for communities. Through this movement, Maathai empowered women by linking environmental restoration to economic and social upliftment, fostering a legacy of activism that continues to inspire global ecological efforts.
Through the Green Belt Movement, she has assisted women in planting more than 20 million trees on their farms and on schools and church compounds. What began with the planting of a single tree soon evolved into a widespread environmental movement. During her visits to some of Kenya’s poorest regions, Maathai witnessed firsthand how environmental degradation was devastating rural women’s lives. Unchecked deforestation, driven by commercial activities, led to severe droughts, loss of biodiversity, and escalating poverty. Recognizing the deep connection between environmental sustainability and human well-being, she advocated for reforestation as a means of preserving livelihoods. Her activism underscored how deforestation directly threatened agricultural communities, reinforcing the need for conservation-driven development."
The so-called Green Belt Movement started to spread to other African Countries and encouraged communities to plant over thirty million trees. The Nobel Committee commended Mathai’s role of mobilizing African Women to be not limited in its vision to work for sustainable development, but her tree plantation had a broader perspective which included democracy, women rights and international solidarity. The committee applauded her saying “She thinks globally and acts locally”.
The Green Belt movement began with women working together to grow seedlings and plant trees. Mathai’s approach was practical, holistic and deeply ecological. The trees bound the soil and halted its soil erosion, retained the ground water following rains which in turn replenished streams. The trees planted also provided food, fodder, and fuel that benefited and maintained the livelihood of communities. In her Nobel prize acceptance speech, Mathai said that purpose of the programme was to help people to make the connection between their own personal actions and the problem they witnessed in their environment and society. She wanted the people to wake up and move beyond fear and inertia to action.
One of the distinctive features of the Green Belt Movement was its focus on empowering women. She was an eco-feminist who believed that women had a crucial role to play in the environmental conservation and community development. The movement empowered women economically and socially with the skills they learnt in the process of conservation and the resources they generated. The movement also laid strong emphasis on environmental education and helped to raise environmental consciousness among people through workshops, training programs and community outreach programmes. It taught people to understand the interconnectedness of environmental issues with broader societal challenges.
Mathai besides being an environmentalist, was also an advocate of Human Rights and Democracy. She used the Green Belt Movement as a platform to speak out against oppressive government policies, advocating for inclusivity, social justice, and rights of the marginalized communities. When Kenyan Authorities started selling off portions of the forests to private construction projects, Mathai and her followers sprang into action and opposed the government despite police brutalities. For Instance, in 1991, Mathai fought against the decisions of the ruling party that time to construct a high-rise building in Nairobi’s Uhuru Park. For their dissent, Mathai, and the other Green Belt members were subjected to abuse and harassment and to the extent of death threats. She was often humiliated and ridiculed by the government and the then President Daniel Arap Moi called her a ‘mad’ and a ‘divorcee’. But nothing could deter the spirit of Mathai who believed that one cannot protect the environment unless there is free democratic governance and democratic space. Mathai’s activism had an instrumental role in the political development of Kenya as in 1992, Kenya legalized Opposition Political Parties.
Although the undemocratic regime remained in power, it began showing signs of weakening. In 1999, after sustained resistance from Wangari Maathai and Green Belt Movement activists, the government abandoned its controversial development plans for Karura Forest, which had sparked widespread protests. In March 2001, then-President Daniel arap Moi, while addressing a Women’s Seminar, made a dismissive remark about women’s intellect, suggesting that their 'little minds' were responsible for their slow progress. Ironically, on International Women’s Day in 2001, Maathai was imprisoned for her activism, a testament to her unwavering fight for environmental and social justice. However, change came in 2002 as Wangari Maathai was elected to Kenya’s National Assembly with an overwhelming 98% of the vote, reflecting widespread support for her vision of environmental and social justice. The following year, in 2003, she was appointed Assistant Minister for Environment, Natural Resources, and Wildlife, where she continued her tireless advocacy for sustainable development and ecological preservation.
Her first book, The Green Belt Movement: Sharing the Approach and the Experience (1988, revised in 2003), provided insights into the formation and impact of the organization she founded. In 2007, she published her autobiography, Unbowed, recounting her personal journey and activism. Her 2009 book, The Challenge for Africa, offered a critical perspective on Africa’s leadership, calling for self- reliance and urging Africans to address their challenges without dependence on Western aid.
In summary, the Green Belt Movement, under the leadership of Wangari Maathai, represents a pioneering effort in combining environmental conservation, women’s empowerment, and advocacy for human rights. The movement’s impact has transcended borders, leaving a legacy that underscores the transformative power of grassroots initiatives in addressing complex global challenges.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik hails from Cuttack,Odisha and is a young IT professional working as a Team Lead with Accenture at Bangalore.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
"When I grow up I will marry the rainbow. I will walk across the sea, hold him tightly and ask him to marry me."
That was four years old Ruchi, standing in the balcony of our 14th floor apartment at Malabar Hill in Mumbai and looking at a beautiful rainbow against a clear sky just above the Arabian Sea.
Our son Chintu, six years older to his sister, would laugh at her from the dining chair,
"Ei, stupid, no one can walk across the sea, you will drown."
Ruchi was not prepared to give up,
"Bhai, you know nothing. Only the first ten feet of the ocean is rough, full of waves. If you swim across those ten feet, sea is very calm after that, just like a blue carpet. You can walk across it. Mummy I am right naa?"
Malabika, my wife, did not want to take sides between her children, nor did she want to break the heart of her cute little daughter. She winked at Chintu, gesturing to him to keep quiet,
"Yes, the sea looks like a carpet from here, a young girl like you can walk across to grab the rainbow if you want to. But tell me why do you want to marry a freak like a rainbow, bent like a bow? We will find a straight, handsome man for you to marry."
Ruchi was horrified,
"No, no, Mummy, I want to marry the rainbow only. He is so beautiful, but he is also very naughty. He only knows where he hides and doesn't come out for days. Then one day he appears again, so beautiful, so full of colour. I want to marry him so that he always lives with me, like Papa lives with us. So, no more argument Mummy, I will marry the rainbow when I grow up. Papa will host a grand party for my wedding. You will naa, Papa?"
I would nod, her cute face would fill up with joy. With a twinkling smile she would run to me and hug me,
"Promise?"
I would nod again,
"Promise."
That was twenty two years back. I was a middle level scientist at Bhabha Atomic Research Centre (BARC). We used to live in a fourteenth floor apartment at the fifteen storied building in Malabar Hill. Life was on a roll, the view of the Arabian Sea from our balcony was exquisite. Chintu showed early promise of brilliance, Ruchi was to follow her brother's footsteps few years later. Both were star students in their class. Chintu's best friend's father was a civil servant with Maharashtra Governmnet, Chintu wanted to be one like him. He was calm, quiet, composed, very balanced from the school days, winning dozens of trophies in Debate competitions, Elocution contests and Essay writing. He cracked the civil service exam in the first attempt and was allotted Odisha, as his home cadre. He was happy to go back to his relatives, the parents and brothers and sisters of mine and Malabika's. At the Academy of training he fell in love with a batchmate, Jayshree, a girl from Maharashtra, and the wedding was solemnised in Mumbai.
Ruchi, on the other hand, was focussed on a research career right from her school days. She wanted to be an Aerospace Engineer. She was a versatile talent, excelling in debate, dance, karaoke singing and painting. Yes, she was still obsessed with rainbows, not as a possible marriage partner, but as an object of intense adoration. Most of her paintings would have a rainbow hidden somewhere and songs on rains and rainbows were her favourite. Chintu was indifferent to food but she loved to eat Odiya dishes, prepared by her Mom, christened by her children as "the best cook in the world." And when they visited their grand parents in Odisha it was an endless procession of exotic vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes, followed by varieties of fruits and desserts. Ruchi used to learn Odissi dance and give performances in Baripada, the small town where my parents lived. She was a live wire among her cousins, hugely popular and sought after.
The day Ruchi was selected for admission in IIT, Chennai, she was ecstatic but Malabika went into a panic. The thought of the seventeen year old daughter leaving for the hostel shattered her,
"How will you survive on upma, idly-sambahr and rice-rasam? Who will give you mutton biriyani and prawn curry? Stay back in Mumbai, try for a change to IIT here, you will stay at home and commute. Pawai is connected by bus, you willl have no problem. Without good food you won't get sleep in the night."
Ruchi, no less sad to leave the comfort of home, tried to console her,
"Don't worry mummy, IIT hostels are not like ordinary hostels. You get all kinds of food there. Chennai IIT is one of the best in the country. I will be coming during vacations to filll myself with mutton biriyani, prawn curry and fish fry. You can come over to Chennai when Papa goes on official tours to Kalpakkam. Let me go mummy, I am keen on Aerospace Engineering."
Malabika had packed Ruchi's suitcase with at least twenty kilos of food when we went to drop her at Chennai. Ruchi was excited to be at the hallowed campus, we shared her joy. Malabika's tears flowed unabated on the way back to Mumbai. She accompanied me to Chennai during Ruchi's first two semesters, but soon realised that her presence was a distraction for her daughter. Gradually she got used to the children's absence. Chintu and his wife were busy with their work in far off Odisha and we stared at an empty nest, rather early in our life.
Ruchi had plannned her career quite well. She wanted to go to an American university for her Masters and Ph.D, and started applying for admission in her fourth year at IIT. She had done exceptionally welll in her studies and her GRE score was among the top. By first week of February she got an offer of admisssion with full tuition waiver and Research Assisatntship for a Ph.D. Programme from Cornell University, Ithaca, New York. It's an IVY League university and only the best among the applicants are selected for admission and assistantship there. It was a dream fulfilled for Ruchi. She called me in the evening with the good news. It was clear she was euphoric,
"Papa, you know how I feel? It's as if I have got the moon in my hands. I have come to the Marina beach with a couple of friends to celebrate. I feeel like running madly on the sand and shout at the top of my voice, 'Ithaca, wait for me, here I come.' I want to go to the old lady selling sundal and buy the whole basket of the peanuts from her and give a packet to everyone in the beach. I want to buy all the balloons from the vendors and blow them and let them fly, the way my heart is soaring to the sky. I want to gather alll the children on the beach and buy a stick of ice cream for them. You won't imagine Papa how happy I am. I can see myself at NASA in another six to seven years, sending rockets to the sky. I can do it naa Papa? You know I can, don't you?"
I shared her happiness. I knew how keen she was on her dream and I knew she was perfectly capable of achieving it. I blessed her and gave the phone to Malabika. She burst into tears. I sometimes fail to understand this tearful chemistry between a mother and a daughter. If they are happy they would cry, if they are sad they would burst into tears! The noise at Marina beach made conversation difficult.
Ruchi called again in the night to have a long talk with her mother. Malabika started crying,
"My daughter, how can I let you go away so far! I cried so much when you left for Chennai, I couldn't bear to live without you. Now you are going thousands of miles away. Why can't you find a job in India, get married and settle down somewhere we can visit every month? Please don't go to America, it's a weird country."
Ruchi chuckled on the other side,
"Mummy, who told you America is a weird country? What is weird about it? Who has given you wrong ideas?"
"My friend Sujata, O, of course you know Sujata Aunty who lives in Goregaon. Her daughter Anushka got married last year to a Gujarati boy in America. She had weird experience when she went there. It seems her husband used to have relation with many girls before marriage. Anushka says sometimes she gets weird calls in her husband Tarun's number. Once around 1.30 in the night some American girl called and said, "Hi, buddy, long time no see, have you forgotten me! Fallen for some other girl? Hey, are you alone, should I come over? We will have a wild night." Anushka was horrified and disconnected the phone. Another time a tall, beautiful Punjabi girl knocked at the door in the evening. When she saw Anushka, she was shocked, "O My, Tarun has again changed his girlfriend! You look like a real desi, fresh admission in university?" When Anushka said she was Tarun's wife, the girl started laughing, "That's what Tarun should say, to fool his ex-girlfriends, why are you saying that?" When Anushka asked her husband, he laughed it away, "Oh, don't worry about that. Here it's very common, cold nights, hot hormones, you know, sleeping together is bound to happen. Now that you have come I will remain like a domesticated cat" and he started doing meow, meow to convince her. Isn't that weird?"
Ruchi was laughing all the time and trying to interrupt her mother,
"Mummy, what's your problem? You think I will become someone's girl friend? Or marry some one who will do meow, meow? Don't you remember my rainbow is here, above the Arabian Sea? I won't marry anyone without you and Papa agreeing. Papa has to throw a big party, remember? He has promised. Mummy, don't worry, my entire focus will be on studies. When my final semester is over here in IIT, I will spend a couple of months with you before leaving for the U.S.. You teach me how to cook all good dishes. I will eat well and study, nothing else, ok?"
Malabika's worries were not over,
"But what will you eat there? I am told Americans eat only beef, nothing else?"
Ruchi was amused,
"Mummy, I have searched in the internet. You get everything in US. in the departmental stores, alll kinds of vegetables, readymade chapatis, fish, prawn, chicken, everything. Even drumsticks and bhindi, baingan, lauki are available there. You know Mummy, we call bhindi lady's finger, they call it okra, baingan is brinjal here, eggplant there. So don't worry, when I come during vacation from the U.S. you might find me fat. Now go to sleep in peace. Let me try to find some ex students from Chennai IIT who are studying in Cornell. They can guide me on what to expect when I go there"
Ruchi's final semester at IIT was over in May and she left for New York in mid-August after spending three monthss with us. Our heart was heavy, knowing, this was the last time she would live with us for so long. Once she got a job in U.S. it will be difficult for her to get leave. Malabika made Ruchi sleep with her, never letting her go out of her sight, she kept wishing Ruchi would change her mind and look for a job in India. We all went to Sambalpur and spent a week where Chintu was working as Collector. We visited our daughter in law Jayashri who was Collector at Sundargarh, the neighbouring district. The grand parents were happy that Ruchi was finally coming close to achieving her dream, they pampered her with lots of delicious food and gifts to carry to U.S.. Ruchi was always everyone's darling and she returned their love with equal fervour.
Finally the day came for Ruchi's departure to New York on the way to Ithaca. Malabika was inconsolable a few days before the scheduled departure. Ruchi tried her best to cheer her up, promising again and again that she would come to visit next summer. At the airport I looked with wonder at my small, frail girl carrying a huge backpack and walking towards her destiny. My eyes filled with tears, when she looked back and waved at us before entering the departure gate.
It was a non-stop flight and Ruchi reached New York in sixteen hours. Two of her seniors from IIT Chennai picked her up from JFK airport and took her to Ithaca. She called us from her friend's phone on arriving at New York and again from Ithaca. Soon it became a daily routine with her to talk to Malabika at ten o clock her time, when it would be around noon in Mumbai. I would be mostly in office. Ruchi would speak to me on Sundays. The talk between mother and daughter would be endless, often Ruchi would doze off to sleep, holding the phone in hand and Malabika would disconnect the call.
The way Ruchi described her days in Ithaca we often felt we were actually living there, we became a part of her American life. The first time she went to a departmental store her eyes popped out in wonder. There were so many things, neatly stacked, so many varieties of fish, shrimp, meat, vegetables, bread products. She shared an apartment with two other Indian girls. They cooked in turn, each girl cooking for two days. They went out to eat on Saturday which was the only day to relax, wash clothes, watch movies and have fun. On Sundays they would go to their lab and spend the whole day there.
By the beginning of October the weather changed, Fall season was at its peak and the leaves on trees would change colour. There would be a riot of colours everywhere. There would be a heavenly beauty everywhere. Soon the trees would shed their leaves and winter would set in. The day Ruchi experienced her first snowfall she went crazy with joy. It was evening, the weather had got very cold. Temperature had gone below zero and suddenly in the evening it started snowing. Ruchi and some of her Indian friends who were new to U.S. came running out and stood under the snow. Soon there was a steady drizzle of snow and by morning it was white everywhere. The roof tops, trees, roads, cars - everything was covered with three inches of snow. It was time to take out the snow boots and walk gingerly on the pavements, which were slippery. Ruchi told us every newcomer tumbles and falls on her butt at least once - a grim warning to be careful in future!
A fortnight later Ruchi seemed super excited. The previous night it had snowed an unprecedented thirty six inches. In the morning she and her room mates could not open the door of their apartment. The town had come to a standstill. But in no time the roads were cleared and vehicles started plying. Ruchi thought the University would declare a holiday, like we do in India when there is heavy rain or storm. Anyway, she didn't have a class during the day, so she went under the quilt and slept till afternoon. She had a class at six in the evening for three hours. There the professors could combine three classes and engage the students for three hours continuously. Mild snowfall continued throughout the day. In the evening Ruchi strolled into the campus. She had not expected the class to be held, particularly because the Associate Professor was physically challenged, he had lost his two legs below the knees in a car accident. So he used to come in a wheel chair to the campus. When she reached the class she was stunned to find almost everyone in the class. The teacher came to the class in time in his wheel chair. His wife who had driven the car to the campus, waited in a the nearby coffee hub, the class continued for full three hours and she took him home after that. Malabika and I were quite impressed to hear this.
But that was nothing compared to what happened in the next semester. Ruchi had enrolled in an Advanced Statistical Modelling class which was taught by a very eminent professor, Ross, who, at the age of forty one had become the President of the American Statistical Association. In the first introductory class the students found an old, grey haired man sitting in the front row. While introducing the subject and explaining the planning of the classes for the semester Ross would look at the old man and ask, "John, is that ok, or should I make some changes?" John would nod and say, "it's fine. Go ahead..." After the class was over John and Ross went out together. Ruchi and her class mates were curious to know who was John whom even an eminnet Pofessor like Ross was consulting. They asked the Teaching Assistant, Parfait, who was a senior student in the Statistics department. He smiled, "Don't you know who John is? He is a distinguished Professor of Statistics and at seventy two years is the most active academician in the world of Statistics. He is so good that there are four Statistical Theorems in his name. He was Prsident of the American Statistical Association for seven years continuously, till he begged to be relieved of the post." So the students asked Parfait why John was in the class. Parfait burst into a loud laugh, "O, he has enrolled in the class as a student after paying the tuition fees for three credits. He wants to learn the latest Advanced Statistical Modelling. He feels his knowledge is getting outdated!" Ruchi told us at the end of the semester that John attended all the classes, wrote all the assignments and took the exam at the end of the semester, like every other student. We were truly stunned to hear this. I told Malabika, "Look at the appetite for knowledge. No wonder American Universites produce more than half the Nobel Laureates every year!"
Ruchi's first brush with American party life came a month after she reached Ithaca. One of her classmates from the same lab as hers, Anne Calves, a French girl, invited her to a Cheese and Wine party on a Friday evening. It was to start at eight, Ruchi was expecting to have some dinner there. A senior, Saurav, offered to take her there. When they reached, only a few were present. There were dozens of wine bottles, some fruit juice and a big crate of beer in a corner. Ruchi found to her dismay there was no dinner, only some salad and lots of varieties of cheese cubes along with bread sticks and crackers. Saurav came to her and asked her whether she had dinner before coming. That's when she came to know Cheese and Wine parties in U.S. were post-dinner affairs. Ruchi ate as much cheese and bread as she could. Gradually more people arrived, the apartment got filled up. By eleven more than fifty people had started singing and dancing to wild music. Endless quantities of wine and beer flowed. Everyone had brought some beer or wine to add to the liquor already available at the apartment. The music got louder and the party wilder. Ruchi was sitting in one corner, smiling at everyone, but unable to join the dance. After midnight some neighbour must have complained, the police came knocking at the door. The cops gave a warning to the students to break up the party in ten minutes and leave the place. One of the students, drunk to the gills, shouted, 'what if we don't break up the party'? The cop looked at him with an evil grin and said 'The first violation 1000 dollars, the second violation all of you go to jail.' The crowd answered with a big shout and booing. The moment the police left, Anne climbed onto a table and said, "Hey guys, you want to break up or pay a thousand freaking dollars as fine?" Everyone shouted "Pay fine, pay fine, shut the cop's freaking mouth." Anne said, "Ok guys, those who want to continue the party take out twenty freaking dollars from your pocket and put on the table here......" She was still continuing her speech from the table top when Ruchi left the apartment and started walking the two miles to her home.
Malabika screamed at her,
"What are you saying? Ruchi, my baby, you walked two miles alone to your apartment? What time was that?"
Ruchi had known she was going to get some shouting from her mother,
"Around 12.30, but Mummy, nothing to worry. In U.S., as in any other civilised country, the first thing you notice is the absence of fear among women and the sense of safety they enjoy. Here people have fear for law and no matter who you are, if you commit a crime, you will be caught and punished. No one can say I am the MLA's son or Minister's nephew and the law doesn't apply to me."
"Why didn't you ask that Saurav to drop you at your apartment?"
"O, Saurav? He was fully drunk and was one of the first to take out twenty dollars from his pocket and put it on the table."
Ruchi gradually settled down to a sedate social life, making friends with few other Indian girls. Her talk with Malabika continued without a break. One night she was late in calling. Malabika panicked. The call came around 11.30 Ruchi's time. She was excited,
"Mummy, I had a strange experience this evening. My roommates invited me to a party. I was late in returning from lab, they had left after writing down the address of the place where they were going. The apartment was just one street behind ours. When I went there I was amazed. There were more than twenty five people, all Indian students cramped into the small living room and two bedrooms. The apartment was in semi darkness, Hindi songs were blazing from some music system, some were dancing, many were sitting on sofas, a few were lying on the flooor. When my eyes got used to the darkness I was shocked to see what was going on there. Boys and girls were on the floor, their bodies glued to each other. One of the girls, a Bengali girl, was sitting on the lap of a bearded fellow who looked like he had not taken a bath for more than a year. Almost every one was drunk, including my two roommates. There was a strange smell in the air. The apartment was full of smoke. From the smell I knew it was charas they were smoking. I asked someone if there was some Coca-Cola or sprite available and some food. He laughed loudly, and shouted, 'Hey guys this dame is asking for Coca-Cola. And food. Does anyone have Coca-Cola here? And some roti-sabji? Give her, if you have'. They all went wild with laughter. Two girls dragged me to the centre of the hall and tried to force some beer into my mouth. I almost puked and ran out of there. I came home, heated up some leftover food from the fridge and ate it. O my God, what a weird party was that! No food, no soft drink!"
Malabika was aghast,
"Why did you go there? See, this is what I had told you. America is a weird place, very very weird, people have no character there. Indians also become characterless when they go there. Promise me, you won't go to such a party again."
Ruchi started laughing,
"Ok, ok, I promise I won't drink alcohol or smoke charas, but how can I not go to parties? Don't worry Mummy, I won't lose my character, at least not without taking your permission. Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha."
Malabika suspected that some beer had gone into her dear daughter's system and she had got drunk,
"Ruchi, my baby, are you drunk? Why are you laughing like that?"
"Just teasing you Mummy, relax."
They talked for some more time. Malabika continued to be worried.
Ruchi couldn't come during the summer break. It seemed her lab duty increased, as did her assistantship amount. In summer the students get double the money stipend, because they could work longer in the Lab for their research. Malabika had got used to her daily calls and wished she studied hard and finished early. She still hoped that Ruchi would finish her Ph.D., return to India and like her Baba will find a good job in ISRO or somewhere and settle down to a happy married life here. In the third year of Ruchi's Ph.D. Program one evening she startled her mother by announcing an Indian boy was chasing her. Malabika was shocked,
"Chasing? What do you mean chasing?"
"Gagan, he is Saurav's room mate. He is from Computer Science department. God knows what Saurav has told him, he comes to visit me in the lab, stays there till I finish and wants to drop me home. I have told him many times, I don't need a ride in his car, but he just smiles and behaves like a pet dog waiting for a piece of bone. Couple of times I tried to avoid him by coming home early, but then I thought why should I spoil my routine just because he is an idiot? On Saturdays he comes over and takes me for grocery shopping and carries the grocery bags upstairs to our apartment. He stays back and asks me to make some tea for him. Sometimes he lingers as if waiting for me to ask him to stay for dinner, but I have never done it. Somehow I don't like that boy, more so, because he is Saurav's friend. And he is so obviously a moron, trying to touch my hand while taking the grocery bags from me, or brushing against me while standing in the line at the grocery store. My room mates have started thinking he is my boyfriend! Boyfriend, my foot! I am just waiting for an opportunity to throw him out of the apartment."
That opportunity came a month later. It seemed there was a long weekend with four continuous holidays. On Friday evening Gagan helped Ruchi with the groceries, offered to take her out to dinner, which she refused. Gagan lingered for some time, praised her to the sky for giving him "the best tea in the world" and then suggested that since there were four holidays they could go on a long drive, may be to Niagra Falls, spend a couple of nights there and return on Monday. Ruchi was shocked at the suggestion, and the brazenness with which it was made. She asked, how about the stay at Niagra? Gagan replied sheepishly, "O, I have already blocked a room at Buffalo in anticipation, since no rooms were available at Niagra. The moment you say yes I will pay for the room for two nights."
God knows from where Ruchi, our frail little girl, got the strength, she pushed him out of the apartment, shut the door on his face and asked him to never contact her again.
A few months later Malabika got the shock of her life when Ruchi said she had fainted in the lab,
"You know what happened this evening Mummy, I fainted in the lab."
Malabika herself almost fainted. She screamed,
"Why, how did it happen?"
"I was working in the lab, suddenly my head reeled and boom, I fell onto the floor. The lab was almost empty, it has been snowing since afternoon. There was only one boy Shanon, one year senior to me in the department. He came running, lifted me from the floor and made me sit on the chair. 'Ruchi, what happened to you? Why did you fall?' I was in a daze, feeling very weak. 'Famished, haven't eaten anything since lunch.' 'O my God, let me check. I think I have a sandwich in my lunchbox in the fridge'. He ran and got a sandwich and offered to me. I shook my head, 'Can't eat that, I don't eat beef.' He smiled, 'Not to worry, I also don't eat beef, no one in my family does. This is a chicken sandwich, eat it. Please.' I finished the sandwich in a minute, and smiled at him, 'Thanks, can I have one more? Please?' He was very apologetic, 'Sorry, that was the last one in my lunchbox. Tell you what, lets go to the Wendy's and grab a few more sandwiches, and some hot coffee also. Let me get the car, you wait here and come down to the exit in exactly three minutes. I will be there. You must be tired. Don't walk in the snow.' We went to Wendy's, had a few more sandwiches, French fries and hot coffee. I felt really good after that."
Malabika was worried,
"Why do you remain without food for so many hours. What if that boy, what's his name, was not there?"
"Who? Shanon? How can he not be there? You think all the Puja you do everyday is for nothing? If God can't send an angel or two to rescue your daughter, what for he takes all that delicious Prasad from you everyday? But you know Mummy, this Shanon is a wonderful chap. He talked so much about India, I felt he knows more about my country than me. Do you know there is an Isha ashram in Coimbatore where you have the tallest statue of Shiva? He talked about Patanjali Ashram, Yoga, ghats of Benares and the Buddhist temples at Gaya. He asked me if I know Ravishankar and if I can play sitar. I told him I don't know how to play sitar, but I am a good Odissi dancer. He was curious to know what is Odissi and I explained to him it is a dance form which originated in Odisha. 'Are you from Odisha?' I nodded. He laughed 'That's why you are Odishi?' No one had told me that before. We kept on munching sandwiches, French fries and talked for two hours. He didn't let me pay, 'You must be feeling weak, so I won't let you pay', that's what he said Mummy!"
Malabika had never heard Ruchi talk of someone so effusively. The alarm bells started ringing in her head. She went to the Puja room and prayed to the Gods to save her daughter from the clutches of a weird American. The next Friday Ruchi told her mother how Shanon took her to the Grocery store in his car, how they spent the evening at Pizza Hut, eating Pizza and ice cream and talked for three hours. It was Shanon this, Shanon that, it seemed Ruchi couldn't stop talking about the young boy. Malabika got panicked, "Ruchi, have you gone crazy? He is an American, what is his character?"
Ruchi laughed,
"What kind of question is that Mummy? How do I know what is his character? I went out with him for the first time. But I can tell you one thing. When that idiot Gagan used to take me out for grocery shopping I had a creepy feeling, as if he had some dirty thought going on in his mind. The way he used to look at me, my body, trying to touch me as if unknowingly, I used to feel very nervous and uneasy. With Shanon I never had that feeling even once. He behaved in a correct manner. He is a thorough gentleman Mummy, I can feel it in my bones."
Six months later Ruchi surprised her mother on a Friday night by announcing that she just returned from Shanon's home that evening. It was summer vacation and they simply informed their Professor and left in Shanon's car on a Wednesday. His parents lived in a small town called Eerie in Pennsylvania with Caroline, Shanon's younger sister. It's a beautiful town, on the bank of Eerie lake separating U.S. from Canada. The houses in the town are built in such a way that you can have a view of the lake from every home. Ruchi's heart leapt with joy when she saw the town and the lake shining brightly under the afternoon sun.
Shanon's parents were professors at the Eerie campus of Penn State and were enjoying their summer. They were waiting to have lunch with Shanon and Ruchi and were shocked when Ruchi bent to touch Brad's feet. When he gave her a hug she blushed and Caroline clapped. Linda lifted Ruchi when she bent, gathered her in her arms and gave her a peck on the cheek as a mark of affection. Caroline came running to her Mom and asked for a kiss also. She hugged Ruchi and refused to let her go till Shanon smacked his sister on the head. They sat down to eat and when Ruchi called Linda "Aunty". she burst out laughing, "No, no, please call me Linda, Brad still treats me as his babe, he will faint if you call me Aunty. Talking of fainting, are you still in the habit of fainting in the lab and waiting for Shan to pick you up"? Ruchi blushed yet again, it seemed it was a day of blisses and blushes for her.
Malabika was eager to interrupt Ruchi and asked her the question that had been troubling her ever since her daughter announced that she had visited Shanon's home along with him,
"But where did you sleep, during the two nights you were at Shanon's home?"
Ruchi laughed like she had a seizure,
"I knew you will ask that question, but don't you remember I had told you I will not lose my character without taking my dear Mummy's permission? Actually I shared Caroline's bed for the two nights I was there and I could hardly sleep. God knows from where the sixteen year old girl gets her energy. She doesn't stop talking and doesn't know how to stop laughing. Till early morning she kept on talking and every two minute she will break into a heeennn, heeeeenn, heeeeennn...and then she would say shh...don't laugh loudly, Shan will get up, although I doubt if he would be actually asleep or tossing on the bed thinking about you.....heeennn, heeeennnn, heeennnnn.... The second day we went out to lunch at a beautiful lake side restaurant. In the evening I made delicious chicken curry and fish cutlet. You know Mummy, we get something called catfish here which is completely without bones and ideal for making cutlets. Brad and Linda said that was the best chicken curry and fish cutlet they ever had. Caroline carried the leftover to her room to eat in the night. Shanon just kept smiling. Caroline and I again spent a virtually sleepless night, she told me of her friends, particular couple of cute boys who were showing interest in her. But for her no one in the world is as good as her darling brother. We left for Ithaca, after an early lunch. Shanon was very happy, smiling all the time, 'My parents liked you a lot, and Caroline has loads of love for you. She thinks you are the best person she has ever met'. Soon I fell off to sleep and got up after four hours when we reached the Grocery store in our town for the weekend shopping. I kept sleeping in the car, Shanon went and bought all the stuff I usually buy and dropped me at home. Such a wonderful boy Mummy, I had never seen someone like him in my life."
Malabika was gradually coming to the realisation that no matter how many trips she made to the Puja room Ruchi was probably on a trip which would end with one inevitable destination. When young souls are in love, even Gods close their eyes and go into silent meditation. Her fear came true when Ruchi announced a month later that she was coming to India to spend the remainder of her vacation. Malabika went into raptures hearing that, but it was short-lived,
"But Mummy, I have a surprise for you and Papa. Yesterday Shanon proposed to me in the restaurant with a bouquet of roses and a ring. I felt so happy Mummy, I know he is the best person for me. I kept the roses, but returned the ring to him. I told him that I would accept him only if my parents approved, otherwise we will continue to be friends, but there would be no wedding bells. He also agreed to that. So he will be coming with me, you meet him and if you think he is good enough to be your son in law, give us your blessings. Otherwise I will withdraw from him and wait for someone who would meet your approval."
A week later we were waiting at the Mumbai airport at dawn to meet our daughter and her friend. Ruchi was coming home almost after four years. We were nervous about the young man accompanying him. The way Malabika was folding her hands, remembering her favourite gods and praying to them, showed a mind with severe trepidation. We could spot Ruchi from far. She had not changed a bit - our dear daughter was the same thin, sprightly girl that had waved us good bye four years back. The young man accompanying her was thinner than her, but taller by a few inches, almost touching six feet in height. Our hearts swelled up with joy when he bent to touch our feet and asked Malabika in chaste Odiya, "Mummy, apana kemiti achhanti?" (Mummy, how are you?) Malabika was pleasantly surprised and involuntarily blurted out, Ayushman Bhabah! Ruchi was looking on with a smile on her face. Malabika asked her, "Did you teach him Odiya?" She shook her head, "No Mummy, I swear, he has learnt it from the internet. You wait, when he goes home he will give you tutorials on Haji Ali, Hanging Gardens and Gateway of India!"
Shanon collected all the luggage, it was nice to see Ruchi leaving everything to him, as if she felt she was in safe hands. We had breakfast, Ruchi helped her mother, Shanon kept talking to me. He had so many questions, it was a pleasure talking to him. We thought they would be tired and would take a nap, but the difference in time zone made them sleepless. Malabika was making shrimp curry and chicken fry for lunch. Ruchi told her, "Mummy, let Shanon help you, I have taught him how to peel shrimp and cut chicken into small pieces. Rest he has learnt from internet. He is now an acknowledged expert on Indian dishes among our friends." Shannon smiled and went to the kitchen to talk to Malabika. His American accent and the occasional outburst in Odiya amused her. Ruchi and I could hear her peals of laughter and we felt happy for her.
All of us slept for a couple of hours after lunch. The evening tea in the balcony of our apartment was a simple affair. We were planning to take them out to dinner at Copper Chimney, a favourite joint of Ruchi and Chintu when they were in Mumbai. Chintu was to join us for a week from Sunday with his wife and two years old daughter. The sunset in Arabian Sea is always a piece of wonder. When it got dark, Malabika knew it was the evening Aarti time. She went to the Puja room, lit the lamp and dhoopsticks. Ruchi and I got up and to my amazement I found Shanon following us. Soon it was prayer time and we started singing "Aahe Dayamaya Biswa Bihari, Ghena Dayabahi Mora Guhari........" This is the evening prayer we have been chanting for years, even before Chintu and Ruchi were born. Imagine our shock when Shanon also joined us in the prayer and closing his eyes, started singing it in chaste Odiya.
Malabika stopped for a second, smiled and continued. I was rendered speechless. I moved back a little and looked at Ruchi. Her eyes were closed, her face was glowing with a rare love one reserved for the very special person in one's life. That special person of hers was standing with eyes closed, hands folded, lost in devotion, quiet in dignity and serene in beauty. I knew our dear, darling daughter had crossed the seven seas to pluck a rainbow of many colours from the American sky. I felt as if she would soon open her eyes and look at me,
"Papa, do you like the rainbow I got for myself?"
I would smile and nod,
"So, will you throw a big party for my wedding?"
"Yes, I will."
She would walk to me, clutch my fingers with her soft hand, like she used to do when she was a child,
"Promise?"
My heart swelling with joy and eyes brimming with tears, I would say,
"Promise."
(Author's Note: The events described in the story, except the rainbow love, are real, picked from my days as a Ph.D. Student at PennState, USA, during 1993-98. My wife and I were already married for 14 years and had two kids when we went there.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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