Literary Vibes - Edition CLIII (30-May-2025) - SHORT STORIES
Title : Kelingking Beach from Cliff Top (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
THE RICH BOY: THE POOR KID!
02) Sreekumar K
LANDSLIDES
03) Ishwar Pati
THE MATHS TEACHER
04) Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
LORD JAGANNATH`S JUGGERNAUT
05) Snehaprava Das
SEARCH A SKY FOR CLIPPED WINGS
06) Deepika Sahu
MUSINGS OF AN ODIA AMDAVADI
07) Triloki Nath Pandey
THE STORY OF MY LIFE IN EAST AND WEST
08) Usha Surya
BUT WHY?
09) Satish Pashine
THE LAST TICKET TO AQUAX PRIME
THE ONLY WAY OUT IS IN
10) Hema Ravi
THE TOWN THAT NEVER CEASES TO CHARM…
11) Annapurna Pandey
A SARI AMONG THE REDWOODS: MY MOTHER’S JOURNEY IN A FOREIGN LAND
12) Anita Panda
BLISSFUL BOCA
13) Lopamudra Mishra
MY MOTHER...THE LADY OF INSPIRATION.
14) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
A JOURNEY DOWN THE LANE
15) Ashok Kumar Mishra
COCONUT TREE
16) Fatema Zohra Haque
A PILGRIM’S JOURNEY THROUGH TAGORE`S SONGS
17) Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE CLASS TEACHER
18) Sreechandra Banerjee
NOW, ABOUT THE MASTER STROKES OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE
19) Bankim Chandra Tola
STORY UNTOLD - 2
20) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
BEAUTY, JOY FOREVER
21) T. V. Sreekumar
FIVE MINUTES TO LIVE
22) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: THE FASCINATING STORY OF A BRIDGE!
23) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A STRANGER IN TOWN
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Varun, studying in standard four, got down from his car around hundred meters from his school gate and said ‘bye’ to his driver uncle. But Narayan Singh, his driver, a retired state champion of martial arts, the third-degree black belt holder in Kung Fu, was also Varun’s bodyguard without the child’s knowledge.
Varun’s driver pretended to take a U-turn, drove ahead a small distance, took a U-turn again, and returned to the school gate at a slow pace behind his Varun baba, that’s how he addressed Varun, keeping an eagle’s eye on the child, until Varun with his friend Raghu, his closest, and other friends entered the school premises and then the school building. He did that extra bit of vigilance for his personal love for the lovable child, besides his brief from Varun’s parents towards their child’s safety. The reason being a few recent threat calls from certain underworld elements to his rich father.
The martial art expert driver then parked the car about fifty paces from the school gate and read a news daily all along keeping a watch on the school gate and the building entrance. Without public knowledge he wore a holster with a loaded little, lethal, rapid-fire gun over his bulletproof vest. At an emergency, he could draw the gun in a flash, and go into action. He was a sniper as well as sharpshooter.
He would wait there in the car, in a way, guarding the entire school as Varun baba, his charge, was a part of it and inside it. He had been specially trained to smell danger, sense it by his intuitive extra-cultivated seventh sense, an extra sense above a generally believed sixth sense. He would stay alert until the last school bell rang, he collected his Varun baba from approximately a hundred paces away from the school gate, and dropped him home safe and sound.
Varun was the son of the well-known business man Vichitra Chaudhuri. He was Vichitra and his wife Lekha’s only child, and studied in class four of the local Mission School, run by the missionaries. The school was reputed for its teaching, teachers, and results in secondary and higher secondary board examinations. Generally, the school produced cent percent result, with all its students passing out with flying colours and many of them ranking among the first ten of the highest scorers of the board.
It was a school with many other laurels and ideals. It allowed children from all social class and creed, on ‘first come, first served’ basis. A basic interview of a newcomer with parents was a liberal formality, rather a mask for knowing the guardians by face than testing their social suitability. So, at the time of admission people came for their wards long before the appointed time and stayed in long queues under the shaded play ground in an appointed area waiting peacefully for their turns.
Not that no donation was accepted by the school authorities. But the donations or the donors had no say on admission of the students into the school, or treatment of the school towards the wards of such donors. Like God’s rain, earth, and air, the education was equal to all in the school, irrespective of their backgrounds. The school authorities encouraged students to be tolerant, generous, and devoid of feeling of disparity. The school was co-ed up to class seven and from eight to twelve, the girls and boys moved to two separate buildings for their separate classes.
Varun’s mother Lekha never wanted her child in a common man’s school. She rather had aimed for an ultra-modern school run by the Ambanis, where only super rich family could afford the fees for their children. But Varun’s father had risen from scratch unlike his wife who had been born with a silver spoon in mouth. He put his foot down, and Varun was put into the school run by the missionaries with many excellences. To avoid a family-feud, the ultramodern Lekha Chaudhuri sobered down temporarily and decided to wait for an opportune time.
Some parents put their children into that school for its reputation, yet they resented its democratic approach. Some parents resented to leave their cars or vehicles at a distance of at least fifty paces from the school gate, and beyond that the rest of the distance and inside the big school compound being a ‘No’ vehicle-zone. All students had to foot it down, and they did it with pleasure. During those leisurely ten minutes of walk an equality seeped into them through sharing talks, funs and some food articles like berries, chocolates, candies etc.
Varun’s mother resented all those nitty-gritty discipline, and more, like her super rich ward mixing with dirty poor children and learning middle class nonsense called morals, and developing middle class tastes towards raw sour berries, tamarind pods, dried mango pieces and other mouthwatering items, but in her dictionary unhygienic food. But Varun’s father loved everything about the school. Being a stern disciplinarian for the just and right things, he was unmoved by his wife’s grumbles and rumbles.
Varun loved walking the hundred paces to the gate from his car after his driver uncle dropped him there, and again about the hundred paces back to ride his car after his classes were over. During both the walks, he would keep company with Raghu, his best friend, and other close friends.
Many of his friends came by school-bus and told him all the fun they had during the bus ride. Varun would feel jealous of them for their good luck. His closest friend Raghu lived in their servant quarters as Raghu’s mother worked as a housekeeper in his house. His father worked in a factory in the town, and on his way, he dropped his son Raghu outside the school gate on his bicycle where Varun was also dropped by his driver uncle.
Once Varun asked his parents on the breakfast table, “I go to school in a roomy car. Can’t Raghu ride with me?” His father replied, “Why not?” But his mother loudly grumbled, “And then, next Raghu would share your room, bed, toys, washroom, and also eat from your plate. There is a difference between them and us. And there is a limit to what can be shared and what cannot be.” After this, Varun’s father kept quiet to avoid a quarrel.
Varun’s mother had not uttered a ‘No’, so Varun was encouraged to give a few of his heart’s wishes a practical try and see. But he was worried about Raghu’s mother in the kitchen, supervising the cooking of their breakfast and the breakfast service. She might have heard his mother’s rude words.
Next morning, While, coming out of his bungalow’s gate, he found Raghu on his father’s cycle, riding on the bicycle’s front-rod, ahead of them. When they just overtook Raghu and his father, he asked his driver uncle to stop. He came out of his car, and stopped the father-son pair. He asked Raghu to come into the car.
Raghu looked at his father who politely declined his offer, “Varun baba, your mother would not like it.” Then he pedalled ahead with Raghu on his bicycle’s front-rod. Varun knew with regret that his mother’s harsh words had not remained a secret and had already wounded Raghu and his family.
Narayan Singh, his driver uncle, explained, “Varun baba, you are only a child. You don’t know, if I bring Raghu inside your car to join you, he may not feel easy to sit with you in your car, because the fact that his mother working as a servant of your mother, would haunt him with an inferiority complex. He would not feel equal. Again, he would not be comfortable to be seen getting down from your car by his peers, who may tease him, and pull his leg.”
Varun was jealous of Raghu for his ride on the front-rod of his father’s bicycle, besides many other things like eating a big heap of hot rice with a little mouth-burning curry. But presently Raghu sitting so close to his father on the front-rod of his bicycle made Varun hanker after that sort of closeness with his own father.
One day his father relaxed a minute in their house gym between heavy workouts. He was profusely sweating like Raghu’s father while pedalling his bicycle with Raghu on his front-rod. The picture of Raghu’s father’s chest rubbing Raghu’s head at each of the heaving of his body by him when he pushed the pedals, came vividly into Varun’s mind.
So, Varun ran and sat almost hugging his father wet with sweat. He got wet himself as well, inhaled deep into his father’s sweating body. His father smelled out of the world to his childlike nostrils. He could not find a comparison. The smell and feel were reassuring, intoxicating, and fresh. In other words his father smelled unique and fabulous.
His mother saw him in the act, and burnt a fuse, “You had your shower before breakfast and now you are to go to school, but how can you go to school in your present dirty state? You are to take a shower again. Just go and have it.”
Reluctantly Varun obeyed his mother and wrenched himself away from his father to go to the washroom. He looked back at his father, and between them a conspiratorial wink and a smile with wrinkled noses was exchanged, a secret signal of understanding, “Don’t worry. We will try it again at a more opportune time.”
In spite of restrictions, the proverb ‘where there is a will there is a way’ got many live demonstrations in Varun’s boyhood. His mother sometimes would go out for hours, sometimes the entire forenoon, afternoon, or evening to attend some meetings in her club or kitty parties. If it was a Sunday, Varun would take his father’s permission and go behind the house to play Kancha, small glass balls, on the dusty ground with Raghu. But his father would ask him not to play for more than two hours and return home to do homework for his class.
Varun was a happy child in a general sense as none of his material needs were left unfulfilled. He had things like his favourite dishes to eat, favourite toys, games, chocolates, pastries, pizzas, etc. that children of his age group would hanker after. He had excellent transport, a car with a loving driver at his beck and call, and the attention of his teachers. Also, he had a doting mother and an affectionate father. To ordinary eyes he had a wholesome happy life.
But a careful observer would notice, a pall of distant gloom in Varun’s eyes. As if the child lacked the ordinary joys of living. A deeper observation would reveal that he acutely missed mixing with children of his age group, even in his own bungalow compound, where lived the children of his family’s retainers in servant quarters. Even he missed playing with Raghu to his heart’s content. If he played with them, his mother scowled at them.
Raghu, of his age, was studying in Varun’s class in his school. Raghu was in fact Varun’s closest friend known to his parents. But he was not allowed to play with him in his bungalow compound, call him to his room, or visit Raghu’s house in his bungalow’s servant quarters. If he did any of those activities, fond to his heart, he was conscious of his mother’s frown and stern eyes even in absentia that spoiled the fun.
He could not walk out of his bungalow premises to visit the nearby chawl where two of his other good friends lived, or walk to the next-door bazar, rather anywhere out of the bungalow gate without his shadow, the driver uncle. At times fearing his irritation, his oversized muscular driver uncle would lurk discreetly behind him.
Once, he caught his driver uncle in his game, and frowned upon him, but Narayan Singh explained, “Varun baba, you must understand that I was not spying. To your parents and me, you are like the world’s most prized gem, the Koh-I-Noor, and we cannot see any harm come to you. You know Koh-I-Noor is guarded round the clock by the chosen British guards and secret agents.”
Varun was curious, “What is a secret agent, driver uncle.” “Oh, someone who guards clandestinely as I was doing while guarding you. The ones guarding Koh-I-Noor are far superior to me, and catch the evil-eyes without coming out in the open or being caught themselves as I was by you. They would never be obvious as I was to you, and you caught me in my game.” He laughed ingratiatingly.
But Varun was not deterred and asked, “What is an evil-eye? And what is this Koh-I-Noor?” “Oh, an evil eye is an individual or many individuals with evil intentions like stealing, kidnapping, killing, or harming a precious thing, or precious person for its value or for its importance in others’ lives.”
Narayan Singh on further prodding said, “Yes, Koh-I-Noor represents that precious thing or precious person. In fact, Koh-I-Noor is a priceless diamond, famed for its purity, brilliance and antiquity; and it has been kept in the British Museum, London, guarded day and night by the royal guards and secret agents. In comparison, Varun baba, you are our Koh-I-Noor.”
The long exchange between the child and the driver uncle made the child forget his main focus, why he was being shadowed and not allowed a free walk in the market. He now walked ahead asking Narayan Singh to return to the bungalow. Narayan Singh pretended to return to the bungalow, but as his ward got diverted and busy exploring ahead in the market, he started his shadowing business discreetly but remaining quite close to the child, keeping a watch on the people about and around Varun.
The threat calls to Varun’s parents might be hoax calls but could not be taken lightly. Now, if again caught by Varun spying on him, he kept an alibi ready that he had forgotten to deliver a message, so had returned. He knew he could always give a cock and bull message to the child.
Varun was thinking, “I am so ordinary a boy, how could I be precious like the Koh-I-Noor? I have never harmed any one, so, why should anyone want to harm me?” He was unhappy about being watched because none of his friends had similar restrictions. They could walk on streets, roam in markets free.
Then he forgot all those things and got busy buying Kanchas, rounded, berry-sized, colourful glass beads children play with. He very much wanted to play the Kancha, if he got a chance, with his friends during the breaks in the school’s playground. He also bought a small scissor and crayons to practice Origami.
Often looking at other kids of his age group sucking on sour tamarind pods, bringing down green mangoes from roadside trees by throwing stones at them and putting their teeth with a sound of crunching into the green skin and making the ecstatic facial expression when the sour juice hit their palates, Varun would miss those heavenly moments in his life. Now he searched out a lady selling sour berries at a market corner, mixing them with salt and red-chilly-powder, and handing them over to the buyer. Varun had some and they tasted heavenly.
He thought, now it was time to hurry home and finish his homework. He wanted the cake and eat it too. He would like his outings among the friend and in bazar to make himself happy, and finish the homework and be at home when his mother returned, to make her happy.
A boy from a slum area, Santan, stood first in the semester examination in class four. The class teacher while going ga-ga over Santan’s performance, gushed out some unpalatable truth about the poor kid’s life in the slum. Santan’s parents could not afford light for his studies during the night hours, so Santan would sit down under a street lamp and practice his lessons. The teacher said, “That makes Santan the brave fighter in studies, helping him learn faster and score higher.”
The story of Santan from the slum and the teacher’s theory sounded full of romance relating to bravery and achievements. That night Varun retired to bed early after dinner. Though he had pretended headache yet from the look on his father’s face Varun became alert, and careful not to be caught in his plans.
Once in his room, he bolted the door though it was against his parents’ advice. He switched off his room’s lights, drowning it in darkness and then opened the window on the north wall of his room against which stood a lamp post by the side of a path in the garden. It was almost a street lamp. Varun tried to prepare his lessons with that faint light of the lamp streaming through the open window, and he had to struggle hard but without success. By eleven he admitted defeat and switch on the light to finish his lessons.
But he felt very romantic. He at least had tried to accomplish a brave task and it gave him the fulfilment of an achiever. But he knew, he was not equal to it, and it needed years of practice for which he could not wait in one class, his standard four.
A week later, his mother took him to an eye specialist to show swollen, reddened and watery eyes. Doctor found no apparent reason, infection, or a foreign material gone into the eyes like smoke, dust or some sort of irritant. Some soothing eye drops made Varun’s eyes alright. But the doctor warned, “Take extreme care Varun, such unrelated swellings and redness lead to blindness at times.” That made Varun to give up the adventure with street lamp, but his giving up was with a heavy heart, done very unhappily.
One day, while eating his lunch on a Sunday with his father when his mother was out, Varun recalled Raghu’s style of eating. He rolled a dry rice ball, put it in mouth, touched a little curry to his tongue and mouth in the style Raghu had done, and tried to swallow it. The dry rice ball stuck in his gullet, suffocating him. His father took immediate action by making him drink a glass of water and thump his back with force. The rice ball slipped down into the gullet and went to stomach, making Varun breathe normally.
His father with clever persuasion knew the truth from him, and said, “My son, Raghu is doing that from his infant days, starting with little rice balls. He did it not out of pleasure but of his necessity. Don’t do it my son, you could really harm yourself if I or any well-wisher does not come to your rescue.” Again, another romantic dream of Varun had misfired by making him very unhappy. But he decided against trying Raghu’s feat again.
One day Varun vanished, and his driver uncle-cum-body guard as well. A kidnapper’s call came asking his father a ransom of ten crores. Varun’s father secretly visited the police station and giving the joint commissioner both his and Narayan Singh’s number for surveillance. That way without being much visible with the police, he negotiated with the kidnappers pretending to keep the matter settled out of the police interference, but the police would be in the know of all the kidnappers’ devices for collecting the ransom.
Varun’s mother suspected the hands of Narayan Singh in the kidnapping. So, police started an all-out man-hunt for him. But no news came and Varun’s father started collecting the big amount of ransom demanded in cash which was not easy. Finally, the day of payment arrived. Police by eavesdropping on telephone conversations had spread its net without the knowledge of kidnappers.
But an out of imagination thing took place. Narayan Singh reached the bungalow with Varun in an open jeep and followed by another jeep in which rode his martial school days’ disciples along with the foursome kidnappers’ team bound with ropes. The kidnappers were handed over to the police and Varun to his parents.
During the lavish lunch that was thrown by Varun’s parents for Narayan Singh and his disciples, and the police officers, to express their gratitude, the hefty body guard-cum-driver uncle of Varun opened his mystery box of denouement.
A telephone call had come on the landline in the dining room of Varun’s family and a threat to kidnap the child was received, to which Narayan Singh replied, “I am the child’s body guard. If I help you in your scheme what would be my cut?”
The man on the line said, “We are four and if you join our team, we would be five. We demand ten crores, and divide it two each. You come with the child on your way to school today.” Thus, the clock work moved. Narayan Singh took Varun to the hideout of the kidnappers, and pretended to be neck deep with the kidnapping, whereas assuring Varun privately not to panic. He secretly contacted his martial art disciples from different paths of their engagements, and one day along with his martial art disciples, he pounced on the devils, rounded them up, by tying their hands and feet securely and bringing them to book.
The police joint commissioner, who led the police team, heralded and praised Varun while feeling sorry for him, because he had to eat poor diet like Vada-pav, Usal-pav, and sleeping on a reed mat like a poor kid. He had only one dry piece of roti, and water on some occasions.
But to his surprize, Varun said, “Police uncle, those three days filled me with joy. I had heard how my friends eating and enjoying those food-items, and sleeping on rough mats. I never could manage to have a bite of those fun-food items, or sleep in their type of beds. I missed those experiences badly. I enjoyed those novel experiences with the kidnapper uncles. I had a gala time.”
The surprised police officer had no words except a helpless exclamation, “Ah, my rich boy! Ah, my poor Kid!” (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
Alex Mathew sat sweating in the room next to the hall where the board meeting was about to begin, despite the AC blasting at full strength. The institution he’d built from scratch was on the verge of slipping from his control.
There was a time when he had nothing—then two things entered his life: Alice, who loved him unconditionally and chose to walk his path, and the idea of starting a company. Alice stood by him in all things, heart and soul, yet gave him absolute freedom in business.
"I don’t know a thing about this. I won’t interfere," she’d said from the start.
Still, she took fierce joy in the company’s growth. Her mind was always on the children’s studies and upbringing. Early on, her mangalsutra often ended up in the pawnshop. But when India’s financial tides shifted, the company soared—from private to public. Many warned him to retain 51% of the shares; he’d ignored them. Now, those same voices were poised to seize control and cast him out.
His children were settled. They’d care for their mother. But if ousted, he’d already decided: he wouldn’t live another moment. The shame would be unbearable.
He’d prepared for everything. His fingers brushed the vial in his pocket.
The board meeting began. Like a man thrown into the ocean’s depths, he thrashed through his arguments. In this new corporate world, he had to prove himself indispensable. Boasting wasn’t his strength, but this was life or death. Here, he had nothing to lose.
But now, those thoughts vanished. He sharpened his words, fortified his defense. Speakers attacked; some supported. He couldn’t tell who was friend or foe. Then came the vote.
Fumbling for the vial, he stepped into the adjoining room—his last night on earth.
Every office moment now felt eternal. His mind trembled like an innocent man on the gallows. Yet pride flickered: his arguments had been strong. Only the conscience-free could dismiss them. Some board members plainly despised him.
This was his final battle—a heroic epic. Lines from his speech might go viral in a world without him.
Soon, the board members flooded in like a tide.
They didn’t need to say it. He knew—his time hadn’t come. He sobbed. Relief? Joy? He couldn’t tell.
He considered calling Alice. No—he’d tell her in person.
After celebrations and dinner, midnight had passed when he returned. Alice was still awake.
He watched her. A phrasr echoed in his mind, relentless:
*To each according to their due.*
The hour-long drive home had seared them into his skull. He’d never used that phrase. Never even heard it. Why wouldn’t it leave him?
Alice stirred awake, her face shadowed with worry. She’d guessed most of it. He shared the news in three words: "Darling, we won."
"I prayed for it," she replied—just four words.
Her answer needled him. It dulled his joy, just slightly.
Long before he met Alice, he’d been a rationalist. She was a devout believer. They’d never fought over it. Still, he’d often smirked at her "naivety."
What is prayer? Just words—"air forced from lungs, vibrating to sound." His speech today was the same. But his words were weapons. Logic’s edge, sharp enough to disarm foes.
Prayer!
Pitiful—man’s begging before the fairy tale called God. Soundwaves vanishing into wind. When Alice mentioned prayer, irritation prickled him. Why credit human sweat to myth? Victory belonged to man, not cosmic ghosts.
Yet those words clung:
*To each according to their due...*
Where had he heard that? He was certain he hadn’t.
“Hey…..”
"Go on."
"There’s a special prayer. One I rarely say. Copied from a newspaper in seventh grade."
He stifled boredom, smiling as she continued.
"Only for desperate needs. Its cost is a year of life."
"Meaning?"
"If granted, a year’s taken from you. Who’d want that? Everyone craves more time. So I’ve never said it. Not even when Mother was dying. I began then—999 recitations—but she died at 927. The prayer failed. My life wasn’t shortened."
"My fate," he laughed.
"Oh, stop—"
"Show me this prayer."
"The diary on the top shelf. December 25—Christmas. See?"
He found the page and read:
"O merciful God, take a year from my life and grant this small wish. Yet, in the end, You give each their due. You, whom we call God, whose name is mercy—teach us what..."
He couldn’t finish. His mind collapsed like a landslide. Without warning, he crushed Alice in his arms.
Then he wept—so loud the neighbors might have woken.
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.
Ishwar Pati
“That’s how we arrive at the result,” the maths teacher concluded the exercise on the blackboard. He was sharp and swiftly worked out the formulae in the twinkle of an eye. A wizard with sums and figures, his dexterity and manoeuvrability left the whole class in awe.
His physical appearance was as gigantic as his numeric knowledge. He made his presence felt as soon as he walked into a classroom. He would open his introduction with a booming clearance of his throat that sent the students scurrying into their desks. He rolled out our names from the roll call register and we responded with ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘No, Sir’. There were some rogue elements who got a kick from playing mischief. They would camouflage their absent friends’ voice and shout, ‘Yes, Sir’! Woe betides the fate of the boy if he was caught impersonating!
Though a maths teacher, he was poor in keeping track of his students’ presence. His philosophy was, a sincere pupil never needed any goading; while no amount of goading could move a truant. After the job of the attendance register was over, the professor would plunge headlong into the text. Soon the blackboard was swarming with numbers and figures. In keeping pace with his lesson, he swayed from left to right on the board and then in a circular motion that left him with vertigo! At the end of the class, he would look like a holy sadhu swathed in chalk dust from head to toe!
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.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
The English word, juggernaut, has multiple meanings - literal and metaphorical. Its lat-est use refers to a fictional character which first appeared in 1965 in American comic books published by Marvel Comics. Juggernaut, in this fictional role, is described as the closest thing on Earth to an irresistible force possessing superhuman strength, capable of seemingly impos-sible feats. Juggernauts can also generate a mystical force field that grants them additional in-vulnerability. Its literal use to denote a large articulated lorry can be traced to the gigantic char-iot of the deity, Lord Jagannath of Odisha, on the East coast of India. His shrine is in Puri, one of the four pilgrimage sites (Char Dham), considered the most sacred spiritual centres for Hin-dus.
Odisha, as the state is named now, has a rich seafaring history and artistic legacy. It had historic trading links with far-flung countries in the Far East, like Java, Bali, and Sumatra. Its artistic heritage includes temple architecture of rare beauty and classical dance of exquisite aesthetics. Previously known by various names - Kalinga, Kosala, Utkala, and Odradesha, the identity of the state and its people has been on a tumultuous journey over the centuries.
Notwithstanding its past glory with achievements in arts, architecture, and commerce, Odisha ceased to exist as an independent Hindu kingdom in the mid-sixteenth century. It en-dured 'foreign' rule for the next three and a half centuries. Until the early nineteenth century, Odisha was ruled first by the Afghans, then the Mughals, followed by the Marathas. It came under British rule in 1803 and remained a subsidiary of its neighbouring states. Initially, it was incorporated into Bengal and Madras presidency. Later, it became a part of Central provinces and Bihar & Orissa province until 1936, when it regained its identity as a separate state, then known as Orissa.
The name, Jagannath, is composed of two Sanskrit words: Jagat, meaning the uni-verse and Nath, which means master or the Lord. So, its literal English translation is Lord of the Universe. In Hindu mythology, Jagannath is a version of Lord Krishna, an incarnation of Vishnu, a member of the Hindu trinity of supreme Gods: Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshwar. However, Jagannath culture goes far beyond the Hindu tradition; the worship of Jagannath can be traced to Jain and Buddhist influences as well as to primitive tribal connections. Even the Shaivite tradition of Hinduism recognises Jagannath as a representation of the Bhairav version of Lord Shiva. This syncretic nature of Jagannath culture, which incorporates diverse religious influences, justifies the title, The Lord of the Universe.
Lord Jagannath, a unique figure in the Indian pantheon of Gods, is a member of a triad of deities, traditionally worshipped with his brother, Balabhadra, and sister, Subhadra. Unlike most other Hindu gods, their idols are made of wood. While most Hindu deities are anthropo-morphic with human features, the icons of Jagannath and the others of the triad are relatively plain, lacking familiar human attributes. The Jagannath idol is a log of wood painted in bright colours with a flat square head merging into the upper torso, lacking a neck and limbs. The head is dominated by two oversized symmetrical circular eyes, without eyelids or ears. The prominence of the round eyes of Jagannath, in contrast with the oval-shaped eyes of his sib-lings, has earned the Lord, the epithet: Chaka Dola (round eyes).
One of the most unique rituals of the chariot festival is the ceremonial sweeping of the Bada Danda (Grand Avenue), known locally as Cherapahanra. As per tradition, this three-kilometre-long road has to be swept clean to make it fit for the Lord's chariots. Given the rev-erence reserved for the Lord, the person performing this ritual cleaning can be none other than the highest mortal of the kingdom, the Maharaja (king) himself.
This unusual practice of cherapaharan has a special place in the folklore of Odisha. Purushottam Deva, the Maharaja of Odisha, known as Gajapati, was set to marry the princess of the neighbouring kingdom, Kanchi. On a visit to the Puri chariot festival, the king of Kanchi was appalled to see the king of Puri performing the ritual sweeping of the street for the chari-ots. Upon his return, the king of Kanchi changed his mind about giving his daughter in mar-riage to the King of Puri, who was a 'menial' performing the job of a sweeper! Infuriated by this announcement by the King of Kanchi, which the King of Odisha took not only as a personal af-front but, more importantly, an insult to Lord Jagannath, the supreme deity of Odisha. He vowed to attack Kanchi with a view to seizing the princess of Kanchi. In his mind, giving her in marriage to a sweeper would be the most fitting way to vindicate the honour of Jagannath. Sad-ly, the king of Odisha was beaten in the battle. When he turned to Jagannath for divine assis-tance in his endeavour to restore the Lord's honour, the deity directed him in a dream to renew his assault on Kanchi.
Bolstered by the Lord’s blessings, Gajapati waged a war again against Kanchi. The role of Lord Jagannath in this battle is a part of Odisha's rich mythology. Jagannath and Balabhadra preceded the Maharaja's army in the guise of two ordinary soldiers on two distinctive white and black horses. While on their march, they stopped for nourishment from a station run by a milkmaid. But as they had no money to pay for the milkmaid's service, Lord Jagannath gave her his own ring in pledge for payment tone collected from the Maharaja, who was following them. The Maharaja, who led his army against the king of Kanchi, also stopped at the same service station. When the milkmaid asked for money in exchange for the ring, the Maharaja instantly recognised the distinctive ring of the Lord. He was overjoyed to realise that the two warriors who had preceded them were none other than Lord Jagannath and Balabhadra. This sent his spirits soaring, and on this occasion, he succeeded in defeating the king of Kanchi.
He took the princess captive as per plan and directed his minister to marry her off to a sweeper, who would be a suitable groom for her. The wise minister waited until the next char-iot festival and presented the princess before Maharaja while he was performing the ritual che-rapahanra on the grand avenue. The Maharaja was taken by surprise when the minister ex-pected the king to accept the princess as his bride. The minister explained that he was merely carrying out the order of his master, who wanted the princess to be married off to a sweeper. He added that he could not find a better sweeper for the princess than the Maharaja of Puri! In front of the supreme deity, Jagannath, the Maharaja could not turn down the offer of the prin-cess of Kanchi as his bride and accepted her as his wife. The minister's clever trick left all the mortals happy and, above all, restored the honour of Lord Jagannath.
Of the sixty-two festivals held in honour of Lord Jagannath, the Ratha Yatra (or Jatra, as known in Odisha), or the Chariot Festival (in English translation), is the best known. Alt-hough it is celebrated all over Odisha and beyond, the most elaborate and the grandest of the processions are observed in Puri, the home of Lord Jagannath. Three chariots are built every year for the three deities. The chariot of Lord Jagannath is the largest; standing at over 44 feet tall, it has 16 wheels, each with a diameter of 7 feet. The chariots of Balabhadra, his brother, and Subhadra, their sister, are slightly smaller. Apart from the difference in size, their chariots have distinctive colours: deep yellow and red for Jagannath, red and blue for Balabhadra and crimson for Subhadra.
The Rath Yatra is an elaborate ceremony lasting eight days, starting on the second lunar day (Dwitiya) in the bright fortnight (Shukla paksha) of the Hindu month of Asadha. This usu-ally falls between the end of June to the middle of July in the English calendar. On this auspi-cious day, the three deities come out of their Garbhagruha (sanctum sanctorum) and undertake a journey of about three kilometres on the Bada Danda on three decorated wooden chariots in bright-coloured canopies. The chariots are pulled by vast masses of devotees to the Gundicha Temple (Garden House) at the other end of the grand avenue. The deities rest for seven days in this temple, which remains vacant for the rest of the year.
They ride the chariots back to their original abode, retracing their path on the Grand Avenue on the last day of the festival. This provides their devotees another opportunity to pull the chariots carrying their favourite deities. The path of their journey is packed with devotees, exuding a blend of celebratory spirit and religious fervour bordering on devotional frenzy. The overall mood of the crowd is one of jubilation. The atmosphere becomes electrifying with the chanting of the devotees and the beating of the drums. The colossal chariots in motion ooze power and grandeur; they are a sight to behold, justifying the abstract meaning of the word jug-gernaut, an unstoppable force.
The chariot festival is an annual celebration of Odisha's glorious past and its rich herit-age. Whilst most Indian Gods reside in temples, either as a single deity or with their consorts, Lord Jagannath is worshipped in the company of his elder brother and their sister. Perhaps this tradition is a symbolic act to celebrate the filial bond in society that transcends our diversity and binds us as one humanity. The ritual practice of sweeping the path of the chariots by the Maharaja, the state's titular head, is multi-layered in its meaning. It is, first and foremost, a mark of veneration of the Lord. At a deeper level, it can be viewed as an affirmation of the so-cial principles underlying dignity of labour.
A distinctive aspect of the Chariot Festival is the practice of the deities travelling out of their shrines and spending the day with the devotees on the street. During these two days of travel, the traditional hierarchy of the Divine and the devotee is reversed. The worshipped here comes to meet the worshipper, which may have symbolic significance. A simple explana-tion of this ritual is that it provides an opportunity for the countless devotees, who otherwise have no chance to see the Lord, to have a glimpse of the divine. Or does this represent an egali-tarian worldview whereby the Gods break the hierarchical barrier with their subjects by min-gling with their devotees outside the hallowed inner sanctum of the temples?
At the very least, the stories of Jagannath and the tradition of his festivals remind Odisha's people of the chivalry of their kings and the bravery of their army. The influence of Jagannath culture on Odisha, however, extends much further. The age-old rituals of Ratha Yatra symbolise progressive social values and an egalitarian worldview, which continue to serve as ideals worth striving for well into the twenty-first century.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
SEARCH A SKY FOR CLIPPED WINGS
Snehaprava Das
A small sound, a soft tweet.
She looks up. A bird in the ventilator.
A couple of glass-slides have broken in the venilator. They are like that for years. Her mother never cared to get them replaced. The bird perches calmly in between them. She wonders how it has escaped the razor sharp edges of the glass.
It cocks its tiny head and stares at the vegetables sizzling in the frying pan.
A woman, her mother probably, laughs somewhere outside. Or inside her?
She leans to look at the bucket under the kitchen platform. She dips a small bowl in it. Her face in the water swirls wildly, grotesquely..
It is like looking into a trick mirror. A strange flowy face painted in sweat and smoke stares at her.
It looks like the face of her mother. She laughs aloud and bites her tongue. It is not funny. Her mother has died just a month before.
She feels suddenly light headed. She looks up again at the bird in the ventilator. Is it trapped between the broken glass slides?
But it looks so unperturbed. Not like a creature trapped.
She wonders if it is the same bird that used to sneak into her mother's kitchen or one of its progeny.
They look so alike. Like the sloppy faces of her mother in the stirring water and her own!
It is all so mussed up and clumsy.
A man hollers from the phone screen.
'Are you going to stay there forever? I am tired of running this household. Come back soon.'
The girl stuffs books and copies into her school bag hurriedly.
'Why is the neck of this frock cut so low? Why don't you wear your hair in a pair of braids?'
Another man. Another voice. Same disaporoval. Same distaste.
Voices could be so volatile! They filter through the interstices of the dense, deceptive time to create a simultaneity of experience!
The bird cranes its curious head and peeps in.
It looks at a young woman standing before a blotchy mirror, mopping the sweat off her tired face. A movie actress winks at her from the mirror.
Her face swirls in the water in the bucket then blurs and disappears.
The young woman returns her gaze to the mirror, rubs a powder puff to her face, and hums a tune of a romantic song.
'You are heroine -stuff' A female voice. Young, happy... lost.
'Why haven't you washed my socks? What have you been doing all day? Just lolling on the settee watching the darned soaps?'
'Where is my compass box? And my maths book? Why haven't you readied my school bag?'
Voices could sound so alike.. so loud... playing a game of hide.and seek through the interlapping layers of time!
The bird flaps its tiny wings, gently at first, then hard. It turns around its tiny neck and inspects the kitchen.
'Try to bring the taste of your mother's cooking into whatever you are making.' Another voice, a little wheezy.
The phone.shrieks back to life.
'Are you or aren't you comkng back?'
A woman's finger swipes the red icon up and disconnects the phone.
She turns off the gas. The swirling water in the bucket settles. The smoke from the frying pan evaporates leaving her face clean. She looks in the water and smiles at the movie actress's face in it. The face is not floating this time but steady and firm. It was not like looking into a trick mirror.
'
The phone rings again. 'How could you cut my call off?
When are you coming back?' Voices travelling through time.
'Can't say. I had given an audition a few days back and I got selected for a role in a tv serial. The shooting starts from tomorrow. It will take time. Take care of the boy.'
She waits.
There was silence at the other end. No voice, none at all. She sighs and breaks the connection.
'Ask him what he would like for lunch and make it tasty'
The old house maid nods her obedient head.
She turns and walks out. Her eyes go up to the broken ventilator. The bird's gaze is fixed on her. What is there in those tiny round eyes?
Smile? Trust?
The bird flaps its wings again and flies out of the ventilator.
It should have flown away years ago, and never returned.
Should have deserted the ventilator.
The trap of the broken glass.
Her mother had never tried to look beyond the broken glass.
She walks into the sunlit garden.
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.
Deepika Sahu
Where are you from? This is the question I have faced constantly since I left my home in Odisha (then Orissa) in 1989. I have lived in Delhi, Bengaluru and now in Ahmedabad. I still face the same question but now I smile and say “You can call me an Odia Amdavadi.”
A part of me still wants to run away from the concrete jungle and open a café in the mountains. A part of me wants to live in a little village in Kerala and start my day with chai and parippu vada. A part of me wants to own a home facing the seductive Bay of Bengal. Yet at the end of the day, when I open the door of my apartment in Ahmedabad, I feel a sense of home. I feel happy to be in a city that lets me take an auto/cab late in the evening without batting an eyelid. The streets of Ahmedabad do not feel like a violent stranger wanting to grab a part of my body. I feel at home on the neon-lit streets, I feel at home within the four walls of my home. I feel at home in this fast changing dusty city called Ahmedabad.
My love affair with Ahmedabad took more than a decade to settle down. It has not been an easy journey though. I shifted to Ahmedabad after the killer earthquake of 2001. Friends and colleagues in Bengaluru thought I was crazy to move to a city that was still recovering from the ravages of death and destruction. But then sometimes you let life choose for you. And the next year, I lived through the horrors of the 2002 riots. But like a quintessential Amdavadi, I have learnt to navigate my way through ‘Kem cho’ and ‘Maja Ma’. Even when the going has gone tough, the city has taught me not to lose hope and instead pick up the threads of life.
Coming from a state obsessed with ‘government jobs’, it has been refreshing to see the way Ahmedabad celebrates entrepreneurship. From ordinary women starting their humble ‘naasta’ business to the corporate bigwigs, this city has made me aware of pushing your boundaries and doing something on your own. Any idea can be turned around and given a ‘biz’ tag and if you are willing to work hard and think out of the box, you can taste success.
It’s Ahmedabad that has taught me both austerity and generosity. It has also taught me the importance of trusteeship. Ahmedabad celebrates money. There’s a saying in Odisha that Lakshmi and Saraswati can’t stay in one home. I come from a house that celebrates Goddess Saraswati. On the other hand, Lakshmi really rules in this dusty city. Ahmedabad worships money. It earns money and understands money. It's only after coming to Ahmedabad, I realised there's something called savings also. Thank you, Ahmedabad.
Money speaks everywhere in this city. So ask your plumber "Will you come tomorrow to repair the leaking tap?" If he says, "Sau taka (definitely)," be sure that he will come. Probably, it’s that love and respect for money that makes the service sector work here efficiently. This city also shows that money can be used to bring about meaningful changes.
It’s strange how a city becomes a part of you even without you realizing it fully. Interestingly, Ahmedabad sometimes decides on its own to change my surname from Sahu to Shah and thereby adding an authentic Gujarati touch to me. And like any other Amdavadi, I now pick up a call and say comfortably, “Yes, Deepikaben speaking.” I sometimes wonder and think to myself, “How far have I actually come?” There was a time when I simply refused to be addressed as Deepikaben. I protested vehemently every time somebody addressed me as ‘Deepikaben.’ Like the city, I too have changed. Embracing bits and slices of the city within myself. Sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously. And there are always reasons to celebrate. The serene Sabarmati Ashram offering peace when the soul aches, the lanes and bylanes of the Walled City always springing up surprises, the fabulous bird-feeders showing a compassionate way of living, days and nights of uninterrupted power supply (any person who grew up in Odisha in the 80s will understand what I am talking about), metres and metres of colourful gamthi cotton dress material neatly arranged in shops, young and old swaying to the beats of dandiya during Navratri and of course a plate of delicately rolled khandvi and a cup of masala chai.
For me, looking at Ahmedabad also means looking at all the yesteryears curled up within myself. Where is home actually? How far do we have to travel to find home once again? Rice, fish curry, mashed potato with a dash of mustard oil and chopped onions, pouring rains, beautiful landscapes, ancient trees, a river called Salandi and carefree days spent with my parents — that's memories of home and growing up in Odisha. Sitting for hours near a window and soaking in the beauty of rains lashing against the lamp post still warms my heart. Now in the never-ending months of dry and soul-destroying heat in Ahmedabad, I long for that intoxicating smell of wet earth of a beautiful land I left years back. Every gruelling summer, I take refuge in the memory of Odisha’s kala-baisakhi.
And when the rains arrive in Ahmedabad, I celebrate the falling raindrops with hot dal vadas, green chillies and thickly sliced onions. Then suddenly I feel I am home.
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 STORY OF MY LIFE IN EAST AND WEST
Triloki Nath Pandey
Four score and five years ago, I was born in a village two miles from the border between Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. The river, Sarju, locally called Ghaghra, on the eastern side and the Ganga on the western side, meet some five miles from my village, forming boundaries between the two states. I do not know the date of my birth; I was only told that it was Ramnavami, the day Ram was born. It is celebrated as a very important festival by the Hindus worldwide.
I was born in a Brahman family of four brothers and no sisters. My father was the third son with two older brothers and a younger one. He and his elder brother got married to two sisters from a neighboring village. He was barely nine years old, and since his mother had died two years earlier, his father had settled their marriage. I learned from my father that he saw his wife just once at their wedding. Soon after that, he left for Banaras, now Varanasi, for his education. It was there that he learned about his wife’s sudden demise.
My father was the only educated person among his brothers. His eldest brother, Ram Prasana Pandey, did nothing to earn a living. He just stayed home. Once a year, he will go to Bihar to collect rent on some land the family owned. And his other elder brother, Banka Bihari, took care of farming. The family had about ten acres of land scattered in different directions around the village. The land was fertile and every year it produced almost two hundred tons of corn, lentils, and other grains such as barley, wheat, etc. His younger brother, Shivaji, served as his assistant. All three brothers were afflicted by polio, a common disease in early twentieth-century British India.
My father worked as a cook in the Maharaja of Banaras’s kitchen to finance his studies. He woke up at four o’clock every morning and went to the Ganga for his morning bath. On his return, he will go to the Maharaja’s family temple to offer Gangajal (In Sanskrit, Ganga’s water). Once he ran into the great merchant, Raja Baldeo Das Birla, who was waiting to see the Maharaja. My father asked Birla the purpose of his visit and learned that he was involved in a court case and was there to consult with the Maharaja. Even without knowing the case details, my father told Birla that he would win. The next day, Birla won his case and was back with sweets, a garland, and a proposal to support my father’s education. Hearing this, the Maharaja lost his temper and told Birla that it would insult him and hurt his honor.
This made my father upset and worried. As usual, he went to his Guru for his daily lessons after finishing his work. His demeanor and body language told the Guru that there was something wrong. My father broke down and told his Guru that he got caught up in a battle between the Maharaja and the great merchant. After hearing the details, his guru turned to him and said, “Look Bachan, all you need is a place to rest and study. Just move in here with me. That will solve your problem.” My father welcomed his Guru’s offer and moved out only after he started his job as a Sanskrit teacher.
He told me a revealing incident from his time in the holy city. He had noticed that when he went to the Ganga in the morning, he was followed by three to four persons. One day, they approached him with a proposal. They said, “Panditji, we know that you visit many rich merchants’ homes in the city. You must know the kind of wealth–jewelry, clothes–they have. If you give us the details, we will go to steal them. After selling our stealth, we will give you twenty five percent of whatever money we make.” My father was alarmed to hear them. He told them, “I go to rich peoples’ homes to do puja-patth. I do not move around to count their possessions. Moreover, what you are asking me to do will get me into deep trouble and ruin my life.”
His great uncle, his father’s elder brother, was a well-respected and renowned Sanskrit scholar, well known in the city. He had many good contacts. Even though he had just renounced everything and gone to the Himalayas a long time ago, he was still remembered by many in the city. My father benefited from some of those contacts. One of them was the legendary scholar, Mahamahopadhyaya Gopinath Kabiraj, the celebrated tantric and the head of Government Sanskrit College in Banaras. He liked my father’s affable personality, and with his recommendation, he got many business contacts to perform Puja and officiate at the performance of various yagya, locally and in different cities in West Bengal and Assam.
With his rising reputation, he started to receive marriage proposals. One of them was from a village not that far from his village. Two elderly Brahman men from Dube Chhop had travelled eighty miles to Banaras to meet my father. My mother, Shyam Sundari Devi, was the only child of her parents. She had an older brother who died of a snakebite when he was a teenager. Her father lost his mind and disappeared, abandoning his wife and daughter. My maternal grandmother, whom I called Nani, single-handedly raised her daughter. She told me that she had heard about my father from family friends and neighbors. When she learned they were arranging her daughter’s marriage to an “old man,” she travelled eighty miles to meet my father in Banaras. That was something extraordinary for a woman to do almost a century ago in British India. I will have more to say about it later.
After his marriage, my father decided to leave Banaras, and he returned to his village. He was the only earning member in his extended family. As I mentioned earlier, his brothers were uneducated and were dependent on his income. His elder brother had a son, Balram, from his first wife, and after her death, he got remarried to her sister. They produced three more children—two sons, Baleshwar and Chhiteshwar—and a daughter, Saraswati. My father’s other elder brother, my favorite Chacha, uncle Banka Pandey, and his younger brother, Shivaji, decided not to get married.
With a growing family and little income, my father left the village and moved to the city.
He accepted a position as Pujari, (Chaplain) in the Hanuman temple in Ballia, the district headquarters. He spent the rest of his life there. As a priest, he developed a vast clientele. His honesty, simplicity, and trustworthiness attracted both men and women to him. He continued to get up early in the morning and walk to the Ganga, two miles away from his Hanuman temple.
He visited his village a couple of times a year, but remained connected to the people there. After marriage, my mother moved to join his extended family. She hardly went to Ballia to see my father. I was born a decade after their marriage. My mother told me that his brothers thought that she was going to be a barren woman, and they were encouraging my father to remarry, but he resisted. Five and a half years after I was born, my sister, Surya Kumari, was born, and two years later, my second sister, Chandrawati, came. My cousin, Balram, whom I called Bhaiyaji, got married when I was a year old. His wife, my Bhabhi, often reminded me that she raised me along with my mother.
My father was mostly away while I was growing up. But his brothers, my three cousins, not much older than me, and my two sisters were in the house, and we all grew up together. Three years after his marriage, Balramji had a daughter, Shail Kumari, and she became a good friend of my sister. I was a very precocious boy, and we all played together and got along well with one another. We all lived together in our spacious ancestral home with separate rooms for the four brothers. Since only two had their wives and children, we were mostly in our mother’s spacious room. My father added two more rooms and a veranda, which men and boys used. Women lived in their rooms and got together for cooking and cleaning. When my cousin, Baleshwar married, his wife, whom I called Kania Bhabhi, joined the family. The senior women asked her to do house cleaning and wash the utensils.
Much later, when I began studying Anthropology, I could appreciate this family dynamics. In patriarchal families, men get a better deal in every domain of life, leaving women with chores such as cooking, cleaning, and taking care of children. Senior women members retire from mundane jobs and focus on higher pursuits such as religion and the welfare of the family. In rural India, adult male members often leave home and move wherever jobs take them, leaving older men, women, and children behind. This psychologically impacts them, and I will say more about that later. In my case, even though my father and two older cousin brothers had moved to the city, my uncles and another cousin, Chhiteshwar, were home and always available for any help I required.
(To be continued....)
Triloki Nath Pandey is a well known anthropologist, educated at University of Lucknow (B.A., M.A.), University of Cambridge (M.A.) and the University of Chicago (Ph.D.). He has taught anthropology at various Western Universities—Chicago, Pittsburgh, N.Y.U., Columbia, and Cambridge, and since 1973, at the University of California, Santa Cruz. He often visits India for lectures, and on teaching and research assignments. He is a well respected scholar of indigeneity.
Triloki Nath Pandey
Professor Emeritus of Anthropology
University of California, Santa Cruz
California, 95064, USA
Usha Surya
It had become very windy all of a sudden. The trees were swaying and the balcony floor was almost covered with the deep yellow petals of the Golden Shower flowers and leaves that were floating around.
Anamika stood for a moment admiring the beauty of the petals and when the leaves started getting blown into the sitting room, she closed the door. The clouds were taking a black hue and it looked as if the heavens would open out any moment.
She could see the watchman rushing into his kiosk near the gate as she closed the door.
Dhal Bahadur- that was his name – would not stir out for a while now, she thought. All the cars had come in and the gate had been closed.
She rushed to the bedroom to close the window. One latch was pretty loose and if it came off, the window might bang and the glass might break and shatter.
“I must call for the carpenter,” she told herself.
The bedroom was on the left side of the apartments and the compound there was narrow.
The neem and mango trees were swaying and she hoped that the tiny mangoes which had started sprouting on the tree would not fall off! The mangoes when ripe tasted great and the raw ones were good for making pickles. The branches almost brushed the window of the bed room and now the aroma of the flowers yet to translate into tiny mangoes was strong. She closed the window with great difficulty and was about to retreat to the bed when she saw him.
No one came to this side of the building after twilight since one of the servants had spotted a snake crawling here sometime back.
There was a small wooden door on the compound wall and it had opened wide for the wind.
Anamika had been raising the topic of doing away with that door which no one ever used, as it opened to a side lane and which was very narrow. The Association made grand promises of removing the door and sealing the wall but nothing really happened. There was no padlock on the small door and anyone could walk in. And the pity was that the watchman never patrolled this side.
It was only when the mangoes became ripe that some activity would be visible. The mangoes would be plucked and distributed to all the houses. There were two sets of apartments and all in all twelve houses, six in a building.
There were garages to park the cars and scooters on the left side of the apartments. That side was always busy with human presence and activities. In front was a lovely garden and hedges and the whole pace presented a lovely ambience.
As Anamika was about to get back from the window, she saw him.
What a fool the fellow must be, she thought, to brave this wind and come in!!
But who was he?
She could not see him properly. It was dark. He came in trough the wooden door in the wall and was walking with great trepidation looking on all sides. Anamika was a bit scared!
Suppose he was a burglar?
Dhal Bahadur would be inside the kiosk as all the cars had come in and he had locked the front gate.
He had also closed the door of the kiosk fearing the imminent rain.
Before she could make up her mind whether to make a call to Dhal Bahadur, she saw another man coming towards the intruder.
Everything was blurred but there was a flash of lightning and she saw the face of the newcomer. He had pulled out a small gun and shot the man who came in through the small door and she saw the man falling.
Anamika stood there petrified.
The man who came in through that side door had not moved since then. It was almost a full moon and moonlight filtered through the clouds for a few minutes.
It looked as if the man was dead.
The fellow wielding the gun must have had a silencer fitted to his gun, as there was absolutely no sound of shots.
But where did the gun-man go?
Anamika’s throat went dry and she was too scared to switch on the lights. She found her way to the fridge using the phone light and gulped some cold water.
Gosh!! She had watched a murder taking place right in front of her eyes.
She remembered the gun-man’s face before he vanished.
She had this skill of sketching any face, being an art student.
What a time for her husband Shyam to go on tour. He would not be back for the next three days.
And that BODY was right across her window.
The flash of lightning had accurately marked the gun man’s face. She told herself, “I must make a sketch of the fellow first thing in the morning.”
She remembered that on the fourth floor, one apartment belonged to a Police Inspector.
Shyam had spoken about him.
“He doesn’t talk much but comes every morning at sharp six for a walk. We walk together... a man of few words. But Anami, it is always good to have a Police officer in the building. I can go on my tours in peace,” he had said.
How true!
Anamika decided that she would draw the gun-man’s portrait and take it to the Police Inspector. He lived with his wife on the fourth floor she had heard. She and Shyam had moved in here just seven months back and she was yet to make friends with everyone in the building. Before getting into the bed, she had one more glance through the window. The gun-man was staring at the body down. Another flash of lightning and his face was clearly visible. Anamika studied the face as quickly as she could. The lighting was followed be peals of thunder and she saw the gun-man walking towards the front of the building. He had vanished.
After turning and tossing for a while, she finally went to sleep.
The rain had stopped and the sun peeped though the curtains and touched her face.
She got up. It was well past six and she walked towards the window wishing it had all been a bad sad dream.
But it was not so.
There was a crowd of people there near the body.
There were policemen in uniforms and the victim’s body was being loaded into the police vehicle. Questions were being thrown around but Anamika could not hear what they were saying.
She quickly mixed herself a cup of steaming hot coffee after brushing her teeth.
She had no time to sit and relish the coffee today.
She downed the brew quickly and took a drawing sheet and pencil from a drawer in the dining hall. Within minutes, she had drawn a sketch of the gun-man and she held the paper and looked at it with satisfaction.
She decided to meet the Police Inspector and hand over the sketch she had made and talk to him in detail about witnessing that gruesome scene.
She felt goose bumps all over.
She had a quick bath and draped a saree around.
She had a buttered toast and a glass of orange juice.
Kuppamma the maid would be coming at nine thirty a m sharp and she hoped to be back after meeting the Police Inspector much before that. It was only eight a m and the Inspector must be at home. She wanted to catch him before he left for the Station.
She folded the sketch neatly and put it in her handbag.
It was eight a m as she could hear the vegetable vendor’s call.
The fellow will be lingering longer today as he would be interested in gathering all the details about the murder.
She smiled. The vendor’s day was made! He had something to pass on to every house that he supplied vegetables.
But she felt sad for that unknown young man whose life was snuffed out. She had not seen him clearly. But she presumed he must be young. God knows, whose kid he was! She felt sad for those unseen unheard-of parents. Have the Police been able to decipher who the unfortunate man was? She wondered.
She imagined the expressions on the face of the Inspector as she climbed the stairs. She would tell him proudly that he could depend upon the sketch. She, as a student had achieved distinction in her Portrait Drawing Exam. She had even been sought by the Mother Superior in the College to do a Portrait in Oil of the then Pope. The Institution was a Catholic one and she remembered how delighted the nuns were with the Portrait when she had painted it.
She climbed the flight of steps to the fourth floor. Yes, she took the steps as there were just 16 or eighteen steps.
What a humongous help she was going to be for the police department!! She had been able to draw the sketch of the murderer.
She was meeting the Inspector for the first time. But she was very sure that he was going to be very happy! He may take prints of this sketch and send to all Police Stations. They might catch the murderer very soon... sooner than they had ever expected to. The mere thought sent a wave of satisfaction through her.
She pressed the calling bell and waited.
May be he had accompanied the Police. What if he could not believe that she could draw a sketch just be having glances of the gun-man in the quick lightning moments?
The door opened and it was a maid who asked her in and requested her to take a seat.
Anamika glanced around. There were Silver cups and Certificates. The Inspector must be quite popular in the Force, she thought.
“Welcome Ma’am. Sorry I have kept you waiting. I was getting ready to go to the Station. Of course, you must be aware what an unfortunate incident has happened here.”
The Inspector asked her to sit down and took a seat.
She was staring at him.
The same forehead, the same nose, the same crop of hair, the same massive moustache...gosh...she was looking at the gun-man.
“What brings you here? I heard that you have come from the third floor.”
Anamika gathered herself and tried to smile.
Be calm and composed, she told herself.
“I am sorry I shall not take too much of your time. I am Mrs Shyam, your “walking-friend” Shyam’s wife. I discovered the unfortunate happening only in the morning. I am scared!! This need not have happened! But just imagine if he had been a criminal trying to break into any apartment!! I have been asking ever since we moved in here, to lock that door or remove it and put a wall there. But nobody seems to be listening. That place looks spooky in the night. My apartment is on that side. Of course the second and first floor are more vulnerable. I hope you will take some action Inspector. I just wanted to tell you about that door, as I heard that the criminal entered through that wooden door. Of course there was wind and rain last night and the watchman would have been closeted inside his kiosk.“
“Yes Ma’am. I agree with you that the door had to be removed and the space closed up. I will see to it,” the Inspector said.
Anamika got up. She was trembling inside .The Sketch was safe in her handbag.
But why did he do it?
She was happy that she was able to mange herself at the Inspector’s place.
Phew!! What a close shave it had been.
She came home and closed the door and the first thing she did was to destroy the sketch. She tore it into tiny pieces and put the pieces in the dustbin where they got mixed with the vegetable and fruit peals and seeds.
But why did he do it?
Usha Surya.- Have been writing for fifty years. Was a regular blogger at Sulekha.com and a few stories in Storymirror.com. Have published fifteen books in Amazon / Kindle ... a few short story collections, a book on a few Temples and Detective Novels and a Recipe book. A member of the International Photo Blogging site- Aminus3.com for the past thirteen years...being a photographer.
THE LAST TICKET TO AQUAX PRIME
Shri Satish Pashine
Conceived by Samaira Bansal - Adaptation by Satish Pashine
Disclaimer
The Last Ticket to Aquax Prime is a work of fiction.
This story, originally conceived by Samaira Bansal, my granddaughter, and expanded by yours faithfully, is intended for creative and entertainment purposes. It incorporates speculative science, imagined technologies, and extraterrestrial elements that are not based on current scientific consensus. No part of this story should be interpreted as a prediction of real-world events or future scientific developments. The views expressed by characters are fictional and do not represent the personal beliefs of the authors.
Part I: The Last Ticket- BaySpire Vertical City, Earth — Year: 2525
At 92, Mahesh Rao still rose before the sun
A soft beep from the apartment’s timegrid pulsed like an old friend nudging him gently awake. The smart glass walls of his sky-box slowly cleared, revealing the familiar smog-haloed skyline. A muted sun filtered in—thin, tired light crawling across the high towers of BaySpire, formerly Mumbai. The sea glinted in the distance, reflecting the ruins of drowned skyscrapers now claimed by rising tides and coral scaffolds.
Mahesh took a deep breath and sat up. His body answered with the usual chorus—stiff knees, aching hips—but the pain was predictable, like the rhythm of an old clock. The neural lace behind his right ear tingled slightly as the wall diagnostics came online. Across the display, data fluttered: blood oxygen 96%, neural response 88%, bone density 78%—a record for someone his age.
“Still ticking,” he muttered, with a dry chuckle.
He shuffled to the kitchenette and started his morning ritual. While others had surrendered entirely to nutrient packs and automated dispensers, Mahesh clung to tradition. He brewed his chai slow and stubborn—grated ginger, crushed cardamom, a touch of jaggery, and a pinch of Assam leaves, grown in reclaimed soil domes and bartered at ten times their worth.
As the tea simmered, the silent newsfeed glided across the window panels. Water riots erupt in Jakarta Dome. Glacier 7 collapses near Old Canada. SkyNet’s synthetic cloud systems offline in Eastern Europe. Mars terra-conduits breached. Global chaos, dressed in smooth, clean fonts.
Mahesh didn’t comment. He’d seen enough collapses—climate, economy, civility—to know when the center no longer held.
He carried his tea to the balcony, wrapped in a thin shawl. Below, the layers of BaySpire pulsed with automated life—delivery drones zipped by like insects, digital banners shimmered mid-air, and mono-trams glided soundlessly between sky-piers.
But it was the sea that held his gaze—glassy, alien, ever-rising. Somewhere out there, submerged beneath a hundred meters of water, were the neighbourhoods he grew up in. Colaba. Bandra. The banyan tree outside his childhood school. Memories folded into silt.
A life’s worth of inventions, algorithms, and unsung fixes had led him here—an old man in a high-rise, holding civilization together with borrowed time and frayed resolve.
Twenty Minutes Later
A soft hum disrupted the stillness. Mahesh turned instinctively.
A drone. Sleek. Silver. Seamless. Its polished surface mirrored the morning haze. It hovered precisely above the balcony’s edge and bore the insignia of the Global Deep Mission Directorate—a sign not seen in decades, at least not by civilians.
That alone pulled him to his feet.
With surgical grace, the drone descended. A beam scanned him head to toe, then unlocked a compartment with a hiss. Inside, nestled in transparent foam, was a matte-gold ticket. No barcode, no chip. Just clean, embossed letters:
Passenger ID #X10 – Hon. Expert Scientist, Interstellar Crew
One-way Passage: Nereus Voyager
Destination: Aquax Prime
Launch: T–20 Days
His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the card. The metal was cool, unnervingly weightless.
“Aquax Prime?” he whispered, more to the wind than to himself.
Once a scientific fantasy, then a political football, Aquax Prime had faded into myth. A planet teeming with oceans, rich in carbon-based biology, orbiting a blue dwarf star light-years away. Habitable. Pristine. Untouched. The last great hope for the species.
He stared at the ticket. The implications sank in like cold water.
Inside, a picture on the wall caught his eye. A photo—he and Renu, twenty years younger, laughing by a rain-flooded window during one of Mumbai’s last real monsoons. She had loved the rain. Now, she lay sedated in a neuro-hospice, her body slowly breaking down from a rare terminal degenerative disorder.
“We talked about this,” Mahesh said aloud. “Didn’t we?”
You must go, she had told him once, years ago, when rumours of Aquax resurfaced. I will live here and die when it’s time. But you—you were born to carry something forward.
The drone chimed again.
“Please confirm acceptance.”
Mahesh glanced around his apartment—the tools on his desk, stacks of journals, obsolete tablets, handwritten equations, old models of AI seed-code he once pioneered. It all felt both intimate and distant, like relics in a museum curated by time.
He pressed his palm to the capsule.
“I accept.”
Three Days Later – Archives Wing, BaySpire Institute
The Archives Wing smelled faintly of ozone and cedar. One of the last parts of the institute that still retained wooden panelling—salvaged from old structures before the floods. A place where real books were still read.
Mira Kapoor walked quietly down the corridor. Thirty-four, brilliant, and restlessly curious, she had once been Mahesh’s star student, before corporate labs lured her into data logistics. Today, she wore the same slightly-too-big overcoat she’d had as a grad fellow. Familiarity, maybe.
She found him surrounded by three students, debating the ethical constraints of AI re-wilding. Mahesh looked up, his smile soft but knowing.
“Is it true?” Mira asked, barely above a whisper. “You’re… going?”
Mahesh nodded slowly. “They say I am. Nereus Voyager. Aquax Prime.”
She touched his hand. “But… a thousand years? You’ll be frozen, asleep.”
“Not asleep,” he replied, eyes crinkling. “Dreaming. Of things we never got right.”
Launch Day – Global OrbiPort 9
The Nereus Voyager stood in silent splendor beneath the orbital scaffolds. A thousand meters long, triple-ringed, shielded against time and interstellar debris. It shimmered under the harsh orbital lights like a sleeping leviathan.
The OrbiPort buzzed with quiet reverence. Families wept, politicians posed, children pointed. Cameras floated everywhere.
Inside the launch chamber, 20 chosen passengers—scientists, engineers, artists, philosophers—were being gently inserted into cryo-pods. Their vitals monitored, minds encoded, bodies prepared for a voyage beyond time.
Mahesh stood apart. Clad in formal biosuit layers over a soft grey kurta, he had chosen Earth one last time, in defiance of clinical uniformity.
Renu had come to see him. Brought on a hoverbed, eyes half-closed but awake. He knelt beside her, brushed a lock of silvered hair from her temple.
“You’ll outlive us all,” he said softly.
“You’re lying,” she smiled weakly. “You never were good at goodbyes.”
They sat like that, in silence, for several minutes. Finally, she looked up.
“Make it mean something, Mahesh.”
He nodded. “I’ll try.”
Boarding Ramp – Moments Before Entry
As he approached the ramp, a child broke through the crowd—a small girl, clutching a wrinkled drawing.
“Mister!” she called, tugging his sleeve. “My papa says you’re going to make a new world.”
Mahesh knelt. She held up the picture: Earth on one side, a soaring rocket, and a mysterious blue planet on the other.
“I’ll hang it above my bed,” he said, smiling. “If they let me have one.”
“Promise?” she asked, fiercely.
“I never break promises.”
Cryo Deck – Final Countdown
The cryo chamber was dim and sacred, a cathedral of quiet intention. Rows of pods glowed faintly, pulsing like hearts in slumber. The air buzzed with containment fields and low-energy harmonics.
Mahesh stepped into Pod #10.
He placed Renu’s pendant—a worn silver lotus—into the keepsake tray.
The AI voice was gentle.
“Cryo-sequence in 30 seconds. Any final message?”
Mahesh closed his eyes.
“Renu,” he whispered, “we made it.”
The lid closed with a hiss. His breath fogged once. Then—stillness.
Mahesh Rao, Earth-born dreamer and reluctant prophet, slipped into a silence meant to outlast empires.
Part II: Arrival on Aquax Prime
— 1000 Years Later —
Cryo Chamber – Nereus Voyager, Year 3525 (Ship Time)
A hiss, then a tremble.
Pod #10 released a coiled breath of vapor, followed by the slow elevation of its transparent lid. Inside, Mahesh Rao stirred for the first time in a thousand years. His eyelashes fluttered. His muscles, though preserved, ached with phantom stiffness from a sleep that spanned ten centuries.
“Vitals stable,” came a calm voice. “Neural latency: minimal. Welcome, Passenger ID X10, Mahesh Rao.”
He gasped and coughed—a primal reflex. The air smelled faintly metallic and sterile. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
The chamber was bathed in twilight-blue light. Hundreds of cryo-pods stretched out like a frozen forest, each flickering softly as the AI system began phased awakenings. For now, he was the only one awake.
He pushed himself upright, groaning slightly at the strangeness of his own limbs. The nanotech-enhanced suspension had preserved him youthfully—he was still physically in his early fifties—but time lingered behind the eyes.
Instinctively, he reached for the keepsake tray beside his pod.
There it was.
Renu’s pendant.
He clutched it tightly, fingers closing around it as if it were still warm from her hands. His vision blurred—not from cryo fog, but from something far more human.
“Still ticking,” he whispered, hoarsely.
Observation Deck – Nereus Voyager
Mahesh moved slowly, adjusting to the gravity field stabilization. His footsteps echoed in the corridor as automated systems hummed to life around him. The ship had awakened with him, recognizing him not just as a passenger—but as an Original.
He arrived at the Observation Deck.
And there it was.
Aquax Prime.
A breathtaking canvas of swirling oceans and cloud arcs. From orbit, it resembled a liquid sapphire encased in mist. There were no vast continents—only floating archipelagos, translucent reefs, and glittering bioluminescent currents that pulsed in slow rhythm like a heartbeat.
Two moons—one silver, one bluish-violet—drifted lazily across the planet’s upper atmosphere, casting overlapping shadows that rippled like lace over the waves.
Mahesh stood still, awestruck.
“So this is it,” he whispered. “A blank page.”
A soft chime.
“Estimated descent window opens in 12 hours,” the AI reported. “Landing will be on Platform Delta-Five, Aquatic Colony One. Your presence is anticipated.”
He nodded, his eyes still locked on the view.
He held the pendant to his chest.
“Renu, we made it.”
Descent – Platform Delta-Five, Aquatic Colony One
Twelve hours later, the descent shuttle disengaged from the main ship. It didn’t roar like Earth’s chemical rockets; instead, it floated down in a ballet of guided plasma sails and quantum thrusters, slipping effortlessly through Aquax Prime’s upper atmosphere.
Mahesh sat by a window, watching the colours change. The clouds were not white but tinted with traces of lavender and pale green. Flocks of iridescent creatures soared in spiralling formations beside them. Lightning danced sideways in the storm-bands, more beautiful than threatening.
Touchdown was imperceptible.
The doors opened with a whisper. Humid, mineral-rich air flowed in. It was unlike anything Mahesh had ever breathed—thicker, tinged with trace elements unique to this world.
He stepped out onto the platform.
It floated atop a vast ocean, ringed by coral towers that glowed softly in the dusk. Structures shaped like petals and shells pulsed with bioluminescent light. Aquatic drones hovered above pools, tending to living gardens. Birds with crystal-feathered wings sang in chords of three, their notes suspended in the salty breeze.
Artificial gravity adjusted smoothly to his gait.
Then they came.
A procession of humanoids—descendants of Earth’s diaspora—approached. Their features were diverse, blended from generations of multicultural ancestry and adaptation. Some had subtle aquatic traits: webbed fingers, gill-like slits, shimmering irises.
One stepped forward. A tall woman, poised and radiant, with aquamarine eyes and a mantle of seaweed-fiber robes.
“You are Mahesh Rao,” she said, voice melodic. “One of the Originals.”
He smiled gently. “Is that what they call us now?”
She bowed her head. “You are our seed. Our link to Earth’s memory. Welcome to Aquax Prime.”
The Garden of Thought
Weeks passed. Mahesh adjusted—not just to the planet, but to the society it had nurtured.
Aquatic Colony One was not built on hierarchy, but on balance—between science and spirit, between technology and nature. He marvelled at their hydro-temples, at schools where children learned in interactive oceans, and at living fabrics woven from kelp-threads encoded with stories.
Mahesh taught young scientists about old Earth knowledge: analogue computing, ethical tech, soil-based farming. He redesigned bio-membrane filters to improve salinity balancing in their floating biomes. In turn, they taught him things that Earth had never imagined.
He learned how to:
-Interpret music composed in gravitational frequencies.
-Meditate with cephalopod translators using shifting ink patterns.
-Read poetry inscribed with light refracted through vibrating crystals.
-Speak simple phrases in the language of uplifted dolphins.
One evening, he wandered into a space called the Garden of Thought—a sanctuary where neural energy was visualized into color clouds. Thoughts, when focused, became shimmering hues in the air.
He closed his eyes.
Around him, swirls of green and gold took shape, pulsing softly.
“Joy,” the AI whispered. “The dominant emotion is joy.”
He opened his eyes.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is.”
Final Log: Message to Earth
In a high tower overlooking the sea, Mahesh sat at a console crafted from bio glass and deep-sea alloy. He activated a quantum relay. It crackled to life, preparing to transmit a message that might never reach anyone.
Still, he spoke.
“This is Dr. Mahesh Rao,” he began. “Citizen of Earth. Now resident of Aquax Prime. If anyone receives this…”
He paused, emotions welling behind his eyes.
“We didn’t come here to escape. We came to remember what we forgot. That planets are not colonies to conquer, but companions to live with. Aquax Prime taught us that.”
He glanced at the pendant, now suspended in a small globe of light beside him.
“I don’t know if Earth still turns under the same sun. But if it does—there is still time. Still hope.”
He smiled, gently.
“There’s always time… if we learn.”
The transmission shimmered outward, vanishing into the quantum night.
Outside the Dome
The stars watched in silence, distant and patient.
Below them, Mahesh Rao sat alone in thought—an Earth-born dreamer reborn into a world of promise.
His story had ended.
Or perhaps—
It had just begun.
Satish Pashine
Present Time
Maya stood in her bedroom, staring at the open suitcase on her bed. It wasn’t just luggage—it was a symbol, a quiet declaration of intent. Each folded sweater, each item tucked inside, carried layers of thought, conflict, and longing. A worn leather-bound journal lay atop the clothes, its pages half-filled with words she hadn’t dared to say aloud. Nestled beside it, a pair of hiking boots with tags still dangling—a recent purchase made in a haze of courage and quiet fear. They weren’t just boots; they were metaphors for a path she hadn’t yet walked, for a journey she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. But one she could no longer ignore.
The house was silent, holding its breath. The walls seemed to echo with memories—of laughter now faded, of arguments whispered late into the night. The silence was not new; it had crept in slowly over the years, like dust settling on forgotten shelves. Neel, her husband, had been slipping away by inches. Once the man who brewed her tea just the way she liked it, who stayed up late reading her half-written poems—now he barely met her gaze. His absences, first circumstantial, had become habitual. Work, deadlines, meetings—excuses stacked like bricks between them. When he was home, he brought with him a silence thicker than absence, one that filled the room and crowded her thoughts.
He hadn’t asked about her suitcase. Hadn’t noticed the boots. Hadn’t asked where she was going or why. In a way, that hurt more than a fight ever could. His indifference was like fog—soft, shapeless, and impossible to push through. Maybe he knew she was leaving. Maybe he didn’t care. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as lost as she was.
Maya’s hand hovered over the zipper. Her breath came in shallow waves, her heart pounding with the weight of unspoken decisions. She closed her eyes, whispered a silent goodbye—not to Neel, but to the version of herself she had buried in the routines of this life. Then, slowly, with a quiet finality, she zipped the suitcase shut. The sound was crisp and startling in the stillness. She slipped on her coat, grabbed her bag, and walked toward the door.
At the threshold, she paused. Not to reconsider, but to feel the moment. She wasn’t running away—she was walking toward something. Perhaps not something concrete, but something honest. The unknown lay before her like a blank page, terrifying and full of promise. And as she stepped out, for the first time in years, a flicker of hope stirred inside her. Small, but undeniable.
The mountain retreat was tucked into a valley where phone signals died and clocks seemed to forget their duties. The crisp air smelled of pine and promise. The retreat center was sparse—no frills, no distractions. Just wooden cabins, a dining hall that smelled of ginger and lentils, and a circle of weather-worn benches arranged around a fire pit.
Her cabin was simple—a narrow bed, a wooden desk, and a single window that framed the forest like a painting. The trees stood tall, dignified, their silence more comforting than any conversation she’d had in months. Their stillness mirrored her storm. She unpacked slowly, folding away not just clothes, but the emotional debris of her former life. Each drawer she filled felt like reclaiming a part of herself.
Her first encounter with Sage Aarav, the retreat’s enigmatic guide, was unexpectedly jarring. She’d imagined someone older, perhaps in flowing robes, dispensing ancient wisdom with a gentle smile. Instead, Aarav was barely older than her—early forties at most, with intense eyes that didn’t blink often. His presence was grounded, unflinching, and strangely magnetic.
He didn’t offer greetings or pleasantries. He simply looked at her, as though he could already see beneath the layers she had carefully constructed. “Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quiet but direct.
The question caught her off guard. She felt exposed, stripped of her rehearsed explanations. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater.
“I’m… lost,” she said finally, the words catching like a splinter in her throat. “I need to find my way back.”
Aarav didn’t smile. He nodded, slowly, as though confirming a suspicion. “Lost is just fear wearing a mask,” he replied. “What are you afraid of?”
The question hit her with startling precision. She’d spent so long being strong—efficient, dependable, emotionally self-sufficient. But now, in front of this stranger in a place she couldn’t quite define, the cracks began to show.
“I’m afraid of disappearing,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Of living a life that feels like someone else’s. Of waking up one day and realizing I’ve quietly erased myself.”
Aarav’s eyes softened. “That’s not weakness. That’s awareness,” he said. “Naming your fear is the first act of courage. Now let’s see what it’s been hiding.”
The days slipped by, rhythmically and without rush. Mornings began with stillness. Meditation at dawn, barefoot in the grass, her breath fogging in the chilly air. At first, the silence felt unbearable—a spotlight on the noise inside her head. She wrestled with it. But slowly, the resistance began to fade. She started noticing the rhythm of her breath, the sounds of leaves rustling, the warmth of the sun inching across her face.
Afternoons were filled with group sessions—sitting in circles, sharing stories, and peering into the cracks of their own lives. Aarav led with a mix of clarity and compassion. He didn’t fix anyone. He simply held up a mirror and waited.
One afternoon, he gave them a task: Write about a moment you wish you could revisit. Not to rewrite it. But to understand it.
Maya stared at the blank page for a long time. Then, slowly, she wrote: The day I walked away from my dream job.
She was 27, on the cusp of a major promotion in telecom. She’d climbed fast, fueled by ambition and grit. Then, during the final interview for a leadership role, she was asked a simple question: Where do you see yourself in ten years?
The question paralyzed her. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t imagine. In a panic, she had thanked them and left—without explanation, without closure. That moment had haunted her ever since, a fork in the road she had never revisited until now.
Sharing it with the group cracked something open.
“I didn’t answer because I didn’t know,” she confessed, voice trembling. “And even now, I don’t.”
Aarav’s response was quiet but steady. “The answer doesn’t come from the world,” he said, tapping his chest. “It comes from within. Sometimes not knowing is the beginning of knowing.”
That night, Maya lay awake in her cabin, her thoughts rustling louder than the wind outside. She got up, wrapped herself in a shawl, and stepped onto the porch. The forest loomed, dark and alive. The sky was crowded with stars, distant and uncaring.
She walked to the edge of the woods, breathing in the cold air. The earth beneath her feet felt real, grounding. She didn’t feel brave. She didn’t feel transformed. But she felt awake.
What if she had answered that question back then? Would she have climbed higher, earned more, lived louder? Or would she have lost herself even sooner?
The darkness didn’t offer answers. But it held space for her questions. And that was enough.
For the first time in years, Maya felt something shift. Not a breakthrough. Not a revelation. But a small, steady fire kindling inside—a sense that maybe, just maybe, the way forward wasn’t about fixing or escaping, but about returning. To herself.
Back home:
The silence between Maya and Neel had grown so thick it seemed to live in the walls. She had returned from the retreat feeling different—more awake, more herself—but their home remained unchanged, untouched by her transformation. It felt like stepping into an old coat that no longer fit. The rooms she once moved through with ease now pressed in on her. Conversations that once carried flickers of connection were now reduced to transactional exchanges: groceries, bills, who would pick up Ananya from school.
She had come back with a journal full of reflections, insights scribbled in the margins, and a heart cracked open with new clarity. But there was no one to share it with. Neel, once the man who’d laughed with her in bed and held her hand through hard times, now moved like a ghost through their shared life. He was more consumed than ever—by work, by his ambitions, by the treadmill of achievement that never seemed to slow. His late nights had become the norm, his phone an extension of his hand, his gym sessions sacred and untouchable. When he was physically present, his mind was elsewhere trapped in boardrooms, email threads, and Instagram stories that meant nothing and yet somehow meant more than her.
At first, Maya tried. She brought him tea in the evening, hoping he’d look up from his phone. She mentioned the retreat casually, gauging if he had any interest in who she’d become. He didn’t. He nodded politely, offered distracted “that’s nice” responses, then returned to his screens. So, she stopped trying. She spoke less. Smiled less. The emotional distance between them grew with each unspoken word.
Then one night, it happened.
Neel came home late—again. His shirt was rumpled, tie loose around his neck, fatigue evident in his posture. He walked past her without a greeting, dropped his keys on the console, and poured himself a drink. Maya sat curled on the living room sofa, a book open in her lap that she hadn’t read a word of. Something in the air shifted. She could feel it before he even spoke.
“We need to talk,” Neel said flatly, not meeting her eyes.
Her heart skipped. Dread coiled in her stomach. She closed the book, slowly. “About what?”
He sat across from her, the silence stretching. His face was tense, jaw clenched. “Us,” he said finally. “Things aren’t working, Maya. I feel like you’re… slipping away. And honestly, people are talking. At work. They’re asking questions.”
Maya blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “People?” she echoed. “You mean… your colleagues?”
He nodded. “They’ve noticed. I think you’ve been… talking. About us.”
Her chest tightened. “You think I’m gossiping? That I’m the reason people are ‘asking questions’?”
His voice grew sharp. “I know you’ve confided in a few friends. And maybe they’ve talked. Whatever it is—it’s affecting my image. People assume we’re in trouble. And it’s embarrassing.”
She stared at him, stunned. “You’re worried about your reputation?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yes. It matters.”
Maya stood, anger rising like a tide. “Do you even hear yourself, Neel? I’ve been here alone for years—with you, but without you. I gave up everything for your dreams. My job. My independence. My self. I’ve been screaming inside, and all you care about is what your coworkers think?”
Neel stood too, agitated now. “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under. I can’t afford distractions. Emotional drama—”
She cut him off. “Emotional drama? That’s what this is to you?”
His eyes darkened. “This isn’t working, Maya.”
The words struck with force. She went still. “What are you saying?”
“I think we need to separate,” he said, quieter now, as if saying it softly might make it hurt less.
“Separate?” Her voice was thin, barely there.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I want. But I can’t keep living like this—walking on eggshells, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”
Her breath caught. So this was it. All the years of building a life—reduced to a conversation over whiskey and resentment. She thought of Ananya, asleep in her room, and the life she’d tried to hold together for her. She thought of the retreat, of Aarav’s words: Naming your fear is the first act of courage.
“You’re saying it’s over?” she asked, calmer now, but cold.
Neel hesitated, then nodded. “Maybe we both need space. Time. Clarity.”
She looked at him—really looked. The man she had once adored now stood before her, afraid of vulnerability, clinging to control. And she realized something: she didn’t want to fight to stay where she no longer belonged.
Her voice steadied. “Maybe you’re right.”
He blinked, surprised.
“Maybe we do need to find ourselves,” she said, and though her heart cracked open, a strange lightness crept in.
For the first time, she wasn’t clinging. She was choosing.
One Years Ago
Neel’s career had taken off—soaring beyond what either of them had imagined. A big promotion, a prestigious role, and suddenly, their lives were stitched with new textures: sharper suits, fancier dinners, and a calendar that was never free. His days were packed with strategy meetings, client calls, and international travel. Evenings blurred into work dinners and networking events that demanded charm, patience, and presence. At first, Maya was proud. She stood by him, applauding from the wings as he stepped into the spotlight.
But as the months passed, pride began to give way to something quieter, more unsettling.
Neel was rarely home—at least not in the way that counted. He would return late, exhausted, still tethered to his phone. Conversations became functional. Dinners became silent. The shared rituals that once grounded them—morning tea, long walks on weekends, lazy Sunday brunches—slipped away. And in their place came an invisible fog. Maya began to feel it creeping in—a subtle fading of her presence, her voice, her place in his world.
One evening, after a particularly long day, Neel said, “Why don’t you quit your job?”
He wasn’t unkind. In fact, he was gentle, persuasive. “You’ve been stretched thin. Focus on Ananya, the house. It’ll give you breathing room. I’ve got the finances covered. We’ll be fine.”
Her job in telecom had been more than just work—it was her lifeline. It gave her identity, purpose, independence. It made her feel seen, valued, respected. But she also saw the logic in his words. Ananya, their teenage daughter, was entering a critical phase of school. The household did need more attention. And truth be told, Maya was tired too—tired of juggling, of being alone in the evenings, of carrying unspoken expectations.
So, she agreed. She told herself it was temporary. That this was what families did—they adapted. She believed, in some quiet part of her, that this decision would bring them closer. That Neel would notice her more. That they would find time to reconnect.
But what followed was not what she’d expected. Without the structure of work, Maya’s days began to stretch in unfamiliar ways. Mornings came slower, but they lacked purpose. She tidied the house, oversaw Ananya’s schoolwork, and cooked elaborate meals—hoping, in some way, to recreate the intimacy that used to live in their home. But she felt strangely invisible.
Neel kept his word about the finances—at least initially. He handed over enough to run the house and even save something. But something subtle shifted. He stopped discussing money with her. He grew secretive about his accounts, his investments, his bonuses. The transparency they once shared dissolved into polite deflection. Maya found herself asking questions she never used to ask—and receiving answers that felt rehearsed.
And then came the gym. Neel, once indifferent to fitness, became obsessed. He’d wake early to train, then return in the evening for another session. He changed his wardrobe, his diet, even his posture. His weekends, once reserved for family, were now claimed by marathons, charity runs, and fitness meetups. Maya watched him transform—physically, socially—but not necessarily emotionally. He spent more time with colleagues, stayed longer at corporate events, and frequently mentioned “networking” dinners she wasn’t invited to.
At first, Maya believed him. She tried to be supportive. But eventually, she saw the truth behind the word. It wasn’t networking. It was escape.
It was a world she no longer belonged to—a world Neel didn’t think to include her in. She wasn’t jealous. She was lonely. And worse—she felt replaced. Not by another woman, necessarily, but by a version of life that didn’t seem to need her anymore.
She had become a spectator in her own home. In her own life. The vibrant, confident woman who once juggled board meetings and PTA sessions was slipping away. In her place stood someone unfamiliar—someone whose days revolved around school drop-offs, meal plans, and empty afternoons. Her phone rang less. Her voice grew quieter. Her dreams, once bold and unapologetic, now visited her only at night, like distant echoes of a self she wasn’t sure how to reclaim.
Present Time
Ananya her daughter, caught up in the whirlwind of adolescence, perhaps noticed little. Teenagers often live in their own orbit, and Maya didn’t blame her. Still, the lack of connection stung. The shared movie nights, the bedtime stories, the silly kitchen dances—all had given way to locked doors and one-word replies.
Maya felt herself drifting. She loved her family, yes. But she missed herself.
And the hardest part wasn’t Neel’s absence or Ananya’s indifference—it was the quiet realization that she had traded her career, her rhythm, her selfhood… for a version of togetherness that never arrived.
She wondered if Neel noticed the woman she had become. She wondered if he remembered the woman she used to be. She wondered, in her quietest hours, if she remembered too.
And as she stood in front of the mirror some mornings, brushing her hair in silence, she would ask herself—not with anger, but with honest confusion—Was this the life we were building? Or the one we lost sight of?
In the months that followed, Maya’s life had quietly unraveled. The job she had given up, believing it would bring their family closer, now felt like a piece of herself she had amputated. The independence she once wore like a second skin had vanished, replaced by doubt and dependency. Neel had drifted further—not just physically, but emotionally, financially, spiritually. His presence in her life became reduced to polite transactions and vague updates. The man who once held her hand in crowds now held his silence like a shield.
And Maya? She floated—half in the life they once shared, half in a future she couldn’t yet see. Nothing felt solid.
Ananya, now sixteen, wasn’t immune to the tension. Teenagers often pretend not to notice, but Maya had caught the glances—quick, searching, concerned. The way Ananya lingered at the door after school. The quiet way she asked, “Are you okay?” The way her hugs had become longer, less casual, more conscious. Maya’s heart ached with her every glance.
Maya sat alone in the balcony of her flat, lost in her thoughts. The evening silence pressed in gently, broken only by the distant sound of traffic. Her phone vibrated on the table beside her. The screen lit up.
Ananya Calling.
Maya picked up, her heart fluttering a little.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, trying to sound steady- where are you.
There was a pause, then Ananya’s voice, soft but clear- I am in the campus garden. Mom… Are you okay?”
Maya hesitated. She glanced out, searching the horizon for words. Then she decided to be honest. “I’m… trying to figure things out,” she said.
Ananya was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, “Is it Dad? Are you… are you two separating?” If it is that, it’s ok- there are single parents in our school too!
The question and the reassurance landed like a breath held too long.
Maya closed her eyes, pressing the phone tighter to her ear, as if to bridge the distance between them.
“I don’t know yet,” she replied, her voice almost a whisper. “But whatever happens—whatever I choose—you are my priority. Always.”
On the other end, silence again. Then, the sound of a breath.
“I know, Mom,” Ananya said. “I just… I want you to be okay too.”
A small smile formed on Maya’s lips, touched with sorrow and something like hope.
“Thanks, baby,” she whispered. “That means everything.”
That night, sleep didn’t come easily. But clarity began to surface. She needed to be decisive this time.
She needed to rebuild. Not just a life, but a sense of self. She needed to reclaim the woman who used to laugh at her own jokes, who found joy in her work, who danced while cooking, who made plans without asking for permission.
And she would do it. For herself. For Ananya. But also because the alternative—living in limbo—was no longer viable.
The next morning, she called Aarav at the retreat who was now like a mentor friend. There was kindness in his voice, in the way he waited for her to speak.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “But I think I need to start over. On my own terms. I can’t keep pretending. I don’t want to.”
Aarav was silent for a moment, then offered a slow, reassuring nod. “You already have,” he said. “The only way out… is in. And you’ve already begun.”
For the first time in a long while, Maya felt the air around her shift—not heavy with doubt, but light with possibility. She wasn’t sure where the path led. But she knew one thing.
She was walking it. And this time, the path was her own.
Resolution
A quiet strength had begun to root itself in her chest—a resolve that was not loud or dramatic, but steady. She knew that her life couldn’t go on as it had been. Something had to give. And this time, it wouldn’t be her.
She waited a few days, settled back into her new found rhythm, let Ananya know her mind. Then, one evening, she sat across from Neel at the same dining table where so many silences had accumulated. She didn’t raise her voice or search for blame. She simply laid her plan on the table.
“I’d like a trial separation if you don’t accept my terms,” she said calmly.
She explained her terms—clear, respectful, not accusatory. Shared custody of Ananya, with her consent . Financial support for Ananya till her marriage including educational and marriage expenses, Financial support for herself till she got a stable job to give her time to get back on her feet. Separate living arrangements- a two BHK flat for her and daughter in her name fully paid so they both could breathe and reflect. Half of all assets owned by Neel.
She expected resistance. Perhaps even anger. But Neel surprised her. He leaned back in his chair, nodded slowly, and then—almost imperceptibly—let out a sigh. A sigh of what? Relief? Resignation? Acceptance? “Okay,” he said- let us get an MOU signed and registered.
It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cruel. In his voice, Maya heard something unfamiliar: a release. Maybe he had been waiting too. Maybe, in his own quiet way, he had been breaking too.
Maya found a small apartment not far from Ananya’s school. It was nothing like the home she had left behind but in which she had 50% stake—no manicured garden, no walk-in closets, no grand dining space. But it was hers. The walls were plain, the kitchen modest, but the freedom it offered felt extravagant. She bought secondhand furniture, hung up photos of her and Ananya, and for the first time in months, breathed freely in her own space.
She enrolled in an online telecom certification course. The curriculum was intense, but familiar—a thread to her past self. Late at night, she studied with a cup of tea in hand, her laptop humming softly in the corner of her modest bedroom. The language of her career returned like an old friend.
Soon after, she landed a part-time job at a small local startup and then a full time job remote working. The pay wasn’t much, but the work was invigorating. She was rusty, yes. But she was also alive again—troubleshooting systems, managing small teams, laughing with young interns who reminded her of herself two decades ago.
She began therapy, too. At first, the sessions felt awkward—structured, uncomfortable. But week by week, her shell began to crack. She mourned the loss of her marriage—not just Neel, but the life they had promised to each other, the woman she was when she said “yes” to forever. The tears were unexpected, often triggered by the smallest memory—a song, a scent, the quiet clink of a spoon on porcelain.
And on weekends, she hiked.
In her old boots, worn at the heels, she climbed nearby trails. She carried water, trail mix, and a notebook. Sometimes she wrote. Sometimes she didn’t. The forest offered no answers, but it asked nothing of her either. It just stood there—vast, quiet, breathing. Like her, learning to exist without permission.
Ananya adapted better than Maya had dared hope. She spent time with both parents, floated between homes with the easy rhythm of a child who is loved. Maya didn’t burden her with details, but she didn’t hide the truth either. One evening, as they folded laundry together in the apartment, Ananya asked, “Are you happy, Mom?”
Maya paused. “I’m learning to be,” she said. “I’m finding myself again.”
Ananya nodded. And then—without hesitation—she smiled. Not the polite smile of a teenager, but one of pride. That smile stayed with Maya for days. It was the kind of reassurance no therapist, no journal, no forest could have given her.
Across town, Neel had started therapy of his own. They still met to coordinate logistics for Ananya—school meetings, doctor appointments—but the conversations had softened. He had begun opening up in small ways. He hinted at regret. He hinted at trying again. But Maya was not ready to decide.
She no longer needed Neel to fix what had been broken. She didn’t even need a clear answer to the question of reconciliation. What she needed—what she finally had—was space. The space to rebuild. To choose. To breathe in her own rhythm.
She remembered the words Aarav had offered her at the retreat.
“The only way out… is in.”
Those words lingered like a quiet bell inside her.
No, she didn’t have it all figured out. But she was no longer lost. She was walking her own path now—carefully, courageously—one step at a time.
And for the first time in years, that was enough.
She was enough.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
THE TOWN THAT NEVER CEASES TO CHARM…
Hema Ravi
“Whan the sunne shinth make hay!”
When the weather is just right for a weekend sojourn, Cape May, at the Southern tip of New Jersey. offers adventure and excitement to people of all classes and ages. Practically, every nook and corner of the place is a visual treasure with funky little shops and impressive displays of Victorian-era homes.
The long, pristine beaches along the shores of the Atlantic with clear-blue skies and golden sunsets are scenes straight out of a picture postcard. On the large sandy stretch sits a massive concrete bunker, aka magazine that would attract the curious onlooker – a military structure built during World War II with thick wooden pilings was said to hold ammunition.
“This bunker or gun emplacement was built in 1942. The round turrets on either side held six-inch guns. The horseshoe-shaped structures that can be seen out in front at low tide are Panama Mounts. These were built in July 1941, before the construction of the more permanent bunker, and held four 155mm coast artillery guns.”
Bunker on Cape May beach
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi (October 2023)
When it was built in 1942, the bunker was more than 900 feet or so from the ocean, on high ground. It was covered in sod to blend in with the surroundings, with the sides exposed. The tide has since changed, and it’s impossible to walk under the structure as people could do earlier; the water is always washing up underneath the bunker and appears to be moving out to sea.
A walk along the promenade offers an immersive experience, and one is sure to ask for more.
For the entire family, Cape May offers relaxation and enjoyment. Unlike most zoos, the Cape May County Park and Zoo is free for visitors. Over 550 animals representing 250 species are housed in the salubrious 85-acre environs.
Cape May County Zoo
Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi
The snow leopard, eagle owl, Golden Tamarin, Spectacled bear, and Capybara (the largest rodent) are species that I had never seen earlier. Animals of the Savannahs, Animals of the Prairies - animals from almost all continents, except Antarctica, perhaps, have a home here.
“One of the biggest benefits of going to the zoo is to educate yourself about these animals, to connect, and to understand that saving and conserving them is important.”
Toucans at Cape May County Zoo
Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi
Lemurs, reticulated giraffes, zebras, red panda, lions, cheetahs, Amur leopard, black bears, American bison, a Dromedary camel, and a Bactrian camel (two-humped), kangaroos, ostriches, emus, wallabies, peacocks, river otters, Galapagos tortoises, Aldabra tortoises, a vast range of reptiles and turtles, among others. That’s not all – the leucistic white-tailed deer, with blue eyes dwells in this gorgeous zoo.
Bactrian Camel in Cape May Zoo
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi
One of the signboards explained the difference between Leucism and Albinism. “Leucism and albinism are often difficult to tell apart in animals since the conditions share some of the same characteristics. While albinism refers to the complete lack of melanin—the natural pigment that gives skin, feathers, hair, and eyes their color—leucism involves a partial loss of pigmentation.
Animals with albinism are white or pale in color over their entire bodies but also have eyes that are pale, pink, or red in color, while animals with leucism often have partially white or patchy features with darker eyes.”
White-tailed deer at Capy May Zoo
Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi
Other places that offer an immersive experience are the Emlen Physick Estate, which showcases symbolic aspects of Victorian culture and lifestyle. Fall is also the best season for avid bird watchers and lensmen and the Nature Centre, a natural preserve, is worthy of a trip. Several other spots have been earmarked for watching migratory birds from land and from boat rides in the cool blue waters.
Boat-ride at Cape May
Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi
All along the leisurely drive on the town’s orderly roads are immaculate lawns and colorful flowers that adorn the front of the large, quaint cottages – a connoisseur’s delight! This seaside town at the southernmost tip of the Jersey shore is among the best places for short or long getaways, leaving one ask for more…
As people in America do, enjoy the sun-kissed meadows, tepid waters, and verdant hills whilst the season beckons. When the winds become blustery and cold, curl up with a book in the warm hearth or resort to indoor activities such as swimming or rock climbing.
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently
A SARI AMONG THE REDWOODS: MY MOTHER’S JOURNEY IN A FOREIGN LAND
Annapurna Pandey
A Quiet Surprise
Surprises come in many shapes and forms. Some are loud and celebratory. Others arrive quietly—like a smile from a stranger, a tear from a fellow traveler, or a hug from someone you barely know. These small moments, simple as they may seem, expand our hearts unexpectedly.
In the summer of 2001, one such surprise came to me in the form of my mother, arriving in Santa Cruz.
My Mother’s Visit to Foreign Soil
My mother stepped off the plane that summer, frail and exhausted from her travels. Her body was worn down by diabetes and years of blood pressure medication. She was also emotionally fragile—grieving the loss of her husband, my father, in 1993, and still mourning the passing of her youngest son, my brother, in 1999. Her eyes carried the weight of those losses.
I wanted her to come not just to recover, but to be near her grandchildren and experience a change of scenery. It wasn’t her first time in America. Back in 1985, she had visited my older brother in Los Angeles along with my father. They spent three months traveling through California. But when she returned home to Cuttack, the memory of America felt like a blur. She missed her familiar surroundings, fell ill with chest congestion, and never spoke much of that trip.
Now, in 2001, she had come alone to her daughter’s home for the first time. I was teaching full-time, and my husband was also busy with work. Our teenage sons, Alok and Akash, were caught up in school and sports. I worried: how would she manage in a quiet, empty house in a world so different from her own?
But to my relief, she quickly bonded with our dogs, Dil and Sophie. She adored animals and became fast friends with them.
The Silent Observer
In those early days, she spent long hours by the living room window, watching cars pass through our quiet cul-de-sac. After a few days, half amused, she remarked, “Where are the people here? They are always in their cars.”
She quickly settled into what she wouldn’t do. Cooking, which she had stopped years ago, remained off the table. House cleaning was unfamiliar. English lessons from my octogenarian friend Debbie didn’t engage her. Fiercely independent, she held tightly to her freedom.
She remained committed to her traditions. She wore her Odia-style sari every day—even in the cool winter months of Santa Cruz. She chewed her beloved paan daily, supplied by Indian stores about 40 miles away in San Jose and Santa Clara. Tobacco was banned in the U.S. then, so I often had to buy it under the table, sometimes sourcing it all the way from New Jersey. Her meals remained constant: rice, dal, and vegetables. I rarely made pakhala (fermented rice water), but I know she missed it dearly.
A Walk in the Redwoods
What did change was her relationship with the world outside. After her morning tea, she would lace up a pair of sneakers beneath her sari and head out for a walk to the neighborhood park. Each day, she walked nearly two miles through trails shaded by eucalyptus, oaks, and redwoods.
She greeted strangers, smiled at children, nodded at dogs. She must have been quite a sight—her sari swaying, sneakers patting the earth, her mouth stained red from betel juice.
One holiday season, she returned from a walk with a Christmas card in hand. Inside was a crisp $25 bill and a simple message: “Merry Christmas.”
Without Words
She spoke no English, yet she formed friendships—quiet, enduring ones that didn’t need translation.
Her warmth and simplicity transcended language, race, religion, and age. She connected with people through presence, genuine interest, and quiet kindness.
After she returned to India, a young woman in her 30s approached me on the trail. Her voice was soft: “I miss your mother. She made this place feel more human.”
The Legacy of a Walk
My mother left more than footprints on the trail. She left a quiet legacy—a lesson in presence, in finding joy amid unfamiliar surroundings, and in being utterly comfortable in one’s own skin.
Long after she left Santa Cruz, I still see her there. Her sari fluttering in the breeze, walking gracefully through a forest of strangers who had, without words, become her friends.
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.
Anita Panda
The Spanish called it ‘Boca de Ratones’, meaning “mouth of the rats”, etymologically derived from the Spanish origin of its name. Boca raton is a city on Florida’s South-Eastern coast, located on the majestic Atlantic sea between the West Palm Beach to the north and Fort Lauderdale to its south and known for its sunny skies and gorgeous beaches.
The second largest city, located between Miami, Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach, in Florida, USA, Boca is a blissful, charming, laid back city in Palm Beach county, known for its luxe resorts, beautiful beaches, parks, lush golf courses and affluent lifestyle. The large ocean front Red Reef Park is home to the Gumbo Limbo Nature centre with a butterfly garden and a sea turtle sanctuary.
Nicknamed a ‘City within a Park’, Boca is known for its abundant green spaces, tree lined streets, parks & nature preserves.
A quaint mix of stunning natural beauty, cultural richness and leisurely luxury, it is known for its Mediterranean Revival architecture, influenced by the architect Addison Mizner. It later grew into a vibrant city of rich art and culture.
Founded in 1925 with a fascinating history, including a World War II Army & Air Force base, it operated the only training for the then new and secret technology of radar during the war.
Some of the top tourist attractions that are a MUST-VISIT here are:- 1) MIZNER PARK- Boca’s downtown shopping, dining and entertainment destination. Take a stroll through the plaza, tour a fine art exhibit or enjoy a concert at the Mizner Park amphitheatre. It offers a high level of luxury choices with renowned jewellers, boutiques & finest restaurants.
Try I-pic theatres for an upscale cinema and delicious in-theatre dining.
2) BOCA RATON MUSEUM OF ART- As a leading cultural institution in South Florida, this museum attracts over 200,000 visitors to its annual galleries.
The 44,000 sq foot facility has achieved global fame for its dynamic exhibitions & collections. Its many public programs include artistic presentations, family activities & art classes for kids under 15 & 18.
3) GUMBO LIMBO NATURE CENTRE- This joint project hosts environmental programs for all ages with sea turtle themed activities & events, camps, hatching release observations & outdoor marine feedings to name a few. Admission is free.
4) TOWN CENTRE AT BOCA RATON- One of South Florida’s top luxury shopping destinations, it features an outstanding mix of upscale speciality shops, mall stores and an array of fine restaurants. Shoppers from across the world come to explore more than 200 stores and an impressive lineup of department stores from Sak’s Fifth Avemue, Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, Macy’s, Bloomingdales, Apple, Cartier, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Lacoste, Montblanc, Rolex and more.
5) RED REEF PARK- A secluded, heavily foliaged area for a variety of small birds, this attraction offers larger and more spectacular birds on the ocean side of the park, snorkelling & surf fishing as popular leisure activities.
Showering stations, walking paths and a picnic area equipped with grills, tables, restrooms & other amenities.
6) SUGAR SAND PARK- From exploring anything that inspires one, ignites creativity and mentally stimulating one to a range of fun things it has it all. One can even walk in the wilderness along its two nature trails- Sand Pine & Slash Pine.
7) THE SCHMIDT BOCA RATON HISTORICAL SOCIETY- The entire history of Boca Raton unfolds here located in the historic 1927 Town Hall, originally designed by Addison Mizner and listed on the National Register of Historic places.
A private, non-profit organisation, the historical society is dedicated to preserving & presenting Boca Raton’s evolving story with educational tours and promoting historic preservation.
8) FAU STADIUM- Located on the campus of Florida Atlantic University, this is a multi-purpose open air stadium with 30,000 seats, 32 boxes & 24 luxury suites.
Home to the Roof Claim Boca Raton Bowl, FAU has hosted other major sporting events too, including the NCAA Soccer Women’s Soccer College Cup & a U.S. Men’s Soccer team friendly. The only stadium in the country that offers a view of the stunning Atlantic Ocean.
9) MORIKAMI MUSEUM & JAPANESE GARDENS- This centre for Japanese arts & culture, located west of Delray Beach in Palm Beach County, Florida, offers two museum buildings, ‘Garden of the Drops of Dew’, a bonsai garden, library, gift shop & a Japanese restaurant, the Cornell Cafe. Rotating exhibits are displayed in both buildings and demonstrations include tea ceremonies with classes held in the main building. Traditional Japanese festivals are celebrated several times a year.
10) THE WICK THEATRE & COSTUME MUSEUM- This is an astounding exhibit of the finest costumes ever brought to the Broadway stage by the most honoured and respected designers in the history of American Musical Theatre.
It houses a collection of original costumes from over 50 Broadway productions & revivals with an estimated value of more than 20$ million.
Tours, theatre shows & cabaret are available with sumptuous dining at the elegant Tavern room beneath the amber and crystal chandelier that once graced the foyer of the iconic ‘Tavern-on-the-Green restaurant.
Boca Raton is turning 100 on May 25th 2025 ! A remarkable landmark. The city’s centennial celebration is a year long tribute to its rich history, vibrant community & a bright future.
From exciting events and festivities to public art projects & community engagement, the event will honour Boca’s legacy and celebrating the people and progress that make it unique on this historic milestone and embarking on the next century in Boca Raton.
HOW TO GET TO BOCA- To reach there from major cities worldwide, one can fly to Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport (FLL) , the closest major airport to Boca Raton. Flights can then be connected to it via taxis, shuttle services/ car rentals.
Additionally, it is accessible by Amtrak & Trirail.
Here one can savour tranquility on earth. Don’t miss your chance! Savour a slice of blissful Boca…
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).
MY MOTHER...THE LADY OF INSPIRATION.
Lopamudra Mishra
My tribute to you Mummy.
The lady who has a towering impact on me is my Mummy: Mrs Sushila Mohapatra. Being a daughter I was very much inclined towards my Dad. Always had a perception that mummy can’t be the best adviser. I used to share my details with my dad. He was my idol ,unlike every daughter. But one thing I realised in later stages of my life is that the backbone of my strength is SHE ..MY MOTHER. Being brought up in a orthodox family she learned to struggle.She revolted against all the dictum of autocracy . She studied till matriculation but her audacious approach made her distinct .When ladies were categorically denied to ride a bi -cycle,she rode. She was the mastermind to bunk classes to watch movies. She is acquainted with the techniques to climb heights.She used to climb trees to pluck berries and mangoes. She was the lady don. From her early days she made her voice audible. She knew to revolt.she knew how to make her persona specific. To surmise my thoughts she knew the art of enjoying moments. In the 1970s ,early marriage was very much prominent. Being brought up from Bastar district of Chattisgarh to her marital destination Puri was quite an upliftment . She entered a house without knowing the language at the age of 16. She had mastered her husband's mother language. Frankly I learned the skill of adaptability from her. Her struggle of existential identity began . She had been put to set a mark on a large family with all the responsibility of the elder daughter in law. Leaving no option behind she accepted it. As a dedicated and devoted lady she went on giving her best. Though her efforts were never notable she went on . She tried to prove her excellence in whatever field availed to her such as cooking ,housekeeping ,gardening ,pet rendering ,stitching ,crafting . People say lady of the house is just the decorum because she doesn't earn,less they realise she is the medium because of which others are comfortable . She used to ask and cater the interest of her offspring and dad. But we never bothered for her interest and priority .She made herself scarifying and we developed a habit to take her as a person to be granted. All her vices were submerged ,all her actions went unnoticed and unappreciated .Only some days before Dad’s death he realised her power. With all the negligence she tried to exhibit her worth. To me her book was never flipped till I became a mother. She stood as a rock. Her presence was like a heavenly bliss during my hours of pain.With her exuberant patience and endurance she taught me the lesson of motherhood.She advised me to shed down fear, pain and dependency . She told me to overlook my discomfort rather than create a comfort zone for my dependents. Once I heard Dad screaming at her,why is she advising me? Then I realised Dad disliked the concept of a sacrificial altar . She imbibed in us the fire ,the passionate urge ,the unending realm of a fighter. I noticed in her the relentless motif of a warrior. She fought for us, forgetting to fight for her.She crafted designs for our development forgetting her development.Without any one’s notice she very brilliantly created her platform of appreciation .She had her followers, her adorers ,her fan club. They were her grandchildren, neighbours, vegetable vendors, maids, and some near ones. I am poor in calculation,though I used to take maths tuition for a brief time but for her calculations used to be a mind game.She was never in need of pen and paper,neither she calculated on fingertips.She may not have medals for her intelligence yet she calculates the tough subject in her brain.Her brain power is used primarily to groom us . Life of Dad ended abruptly . With a blink of a second her 40 years of paradise shattered to pieces. His heart stroke crumbled her inner bones. From all those tears she gathered the momentum to rise. Though her fragmented pieces adjusted to the contemporary scene her inner pieces long for dad. His essence she missed,his presence she needed ,her words she wanted to share made her weaker day by day. Small issues used to pinch her. Trivial arguments and actions mattered to her. She just wanted to be in her world of thoughts . Every passing day became a purposeless day for her.She drowned to depression.. Her adorers loved her story telling capability. Grandchildren also knew the technique of happiness for her. Her feasible nature accepted the changed scenario.After Dad’s death the world changed for her.Her confidence came down when her strength of bones became weak .She succumbed to bed. Her shelter to bed was a massive blow to her. Her physiotherapy session and naturopathy session along with allopathy drugs couldn’t revive her previous structure and strength . Like a fighter she fought with the odds to survive but Covid took her spirit. Mummy ! stay happily wherever you are.
Lopamudra Mishra, a contemporary poet, author, translator, editor, social activist, motivational speaker, orator and personality development coach, hails from Bhubaneswar, Odisha.
Her writings are intended to touch the inner chord softly by emphasizing on "Sense and
Sensibility" of attachment and bonding. She has six books till date on her name- “Rhyme of Rain”,
“First Rain”,” Tingling Parables”, “Rivulet of Emotions”, “Red Tulips” and “Hurricane Heart under the Honeyed Sky”. Her poems have been published in various magazines and anthologies. She has been Editor of Radical Rhythm-4 & Co-editor of Radical Rhythm Series and Durga.
She is a proud alumnus of Sailabala Women’s college and Ravenshaw University.
Dinesh Chandra Nayak
They hadn't stopped talking. Not by a long way. But, for the septuagenarian couple monosyllables often sufficed for whatever and whenever they wanted to communicate. What was there to talk, anyway, after fifty years of conjugal life – or, almost? They could sense whatever was meant to be conveyed without any use of words. Approaching footsteps, the pace thereof, and even the breeze often conveyed the significance of the event. Frowns conveyed the tasks one had forgotten and the smiles were there when a lost key had suddenly been relocated. Smiles were fewer anyway. The busy street near their home was noisy at almost all the waking hours. And solitude was at a premium. Whatever time and energy were left in their hands were not even adequate to rearrange the linens- his more than hers- or, clear the ever increasing cobwebs from the corners of their house.
They had stopped bickering also, as both their children, now adults in their own rights, often joked. They must have keenly observed the peace prevailing of late, whenever they visited the house, which, admittedly were infrequent. The silence had become pervasive, had almost turned meditative. They had got used to silence and got disoriented for a while whenever their usual routine was disturbed. Like, for example, when their children planned their annual get-togethers with grand children in tow. It’s as if, a détente had been reached after intermittent phases of hot and cold weathers and both of them loved the plateau reached. Finally. The sort of plateau worth cherishing after years of domesticity spent in raising children in course of which their hair had turned grey.
Thunders are for Summer, but the Autumns are for celebration, as the husband didn't fail to declare to the chagrin of the wife. Smiles that he believed faintly surfaced in the wife’s face, at times like these, were often carefully hidden.
It was thus a plain surprise when the wife suddenly announced her plan of visiting her friend in another part of the city. That very day, in the evening. Her friend had long been suffering from some chronic ailments and had expressed a desire to meet her. Both were childhood friends having attended a common school and college in another town. Were very close. The news had apparently disturbed her. It had stirred memories. The husband could sense that. She had come to him with her eyes denoting a plea.
"Can you drive me to the place in the evening, today?" The wife asked. She appeared to be alluding to his weakened faculties that made driving under city lights a difficult task. Possibly, she had also recollected he was used to have fluctuating blood pressure these days. Which can arrive in unpredictable ways. And can make simple chores hazardous.
"Well, do you have any doubts about my ability? Have you forgotten the occasions when we had roamed everywhere, crisscrossed between our respective hometowns multiple times on my Lambretta scooter? Have you forgotten the times when we had traveled to Puri and returned, too, all in the course of a day. It was I, wasn’t it, who had taken you there ?” He was happy reminiscing.
This brought a smile to the wife after eons, it seemed to him.
“Yes! But, you just forgot to mention that the scooter had developed a puncture even before we were halfway through. And I had to help push it for two almost two kilometers because your spare tyre was not having air.”
“Now, you are positively exaggerating! Two kilometers? It was for a maximum 500 metres you had pushed, that too only after you had felt, wrongly, of course, that I was tired. You did it on a pleasant sunny morning. And at the time you had appeared to enjoy everything, including the sudden puncture”.
“You say, ‘enjoy’, pushing your ramshackle scooter on a highway? Besides, you failed to mention that your Lambretta, or Lamby-150, as you prefer to call it, had snapped its gear cable on its return journey.”
“ I agree. Lambrettas are prone to break their cables. But tyres are the same. For all kinds of vehicles they behave the same way. They can develop punctures at most unexpected places. They were designed to get couples stranded on lonely stretches of roads and allow them romantic escapades. Have you not seen “Roman Holiday”?
“Yes, you made me see the movie. You saw it multiple times, unlike me, and yet you are getting confused while recollecting the scooter it featured. I am positive it featured Vespa, not Lambretta. Maybe, you are now deliberately obfuscating out a false sense of grandeur for your old scooter.”
**
The husband chuckled. His mind turned to immediate chores at hand.
The old car needs a dusting. He had stopped checking tyre pressures at regular intervals as in earlier days since his children no longer allowed him to drive. Nobody in the family seemed to trust his reflexes to maneuver the vehicle amidst the city traffic. But his eye sight was fine, his mind was fresh and he felt supremely confident.
In fact, this reminded him of a recurrent plan that had, of late, been brewing in his mind. The plan was to surprise his wife by taking her on a long drive- just the two of them- visiting all the major towns they had resided in course of his service career. Did the quarters that had housed them exist in the same condition in which they had left them? They had to meet all the friends, all the neighbors they had left behind.
The last time he had visited Cuttack, he had seen his erstwhile quarter covered in anthills and creepers. Nobody seemed to be occupying the said quarter for years now. It was clearly dilapidated. He had gathered that the same was going to be pulled down to make way for some new construction.
He distinctly remembered the small garden in front of his erstwhile residence. There was still that mango tree in resplendent foliage. Did it continue to bear fruits, like before? He was dead curious to know.
In any case his heart had got a jolt that time to find no trace of the basil (Tulsi) plant near the entrance gate that had been bestowed with so much of loving care by his wife. The gate was locked with a chain and he failed to look far inside. He remembered that his wife had kept the plant alive. Particularly, all through the long summer days by watering it regularly. There was nobody nearby whom he could ask. The place felt empty. He had to return without a glimpse of his wife’s basil(Tulsi) plant and the cement pedestal on which the same was allowed to grow.
The husband got up, raring to go, and sat on the bed. A few seconds was all that it took him to gain full consciousness. During the hour he had fallen asleep, his wife had completed her household chores and had readied herself. But, no! Not for the planned visit of the evening.
His wife told him of a message received from his daughter-in-law while he was sleeping. Seems his son was coming to the city on an urgent official tour. So, she too had decided to accompany him along with the children. He had to get ready to receive them. Their planned visit to see her friend had to wait for another day.
Afternoon siestas can be bad for one's health. It can bring in memories and revive desires that are difficult. Yet, he now had the opportunity to take his grandchildren on an outing next day to the sprawling park that had come up in the vicinity. During their last visit he had failed to take them there despite an advance plan. The plan had failed to materialize by a whisker. Come what may, this time, he would sure take them to the park, he promised himself.
Dinesh Chandra Nayak (b 1952) is a Post Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University, Vani Vihar. He entered the State Civil Service in Odisha and held many important positions before retiring in 2010. His present pastimes include reading, titles like "Joy Of Laziness" among others. Although he did not earlier feel any spring of creativity strongly, LiteraryVibes has inspired him to "try to burst forth in geysers". He hopes the transformation of the dying ember into a new life will lead to a creative splendour. LV wishes him the very best in this new journey.
Ashok Kumar Mishra
On a Sunday morning, no sooner did Jagathy Unnikrishnan step into his house than his wife Nayantara started complaining, “why do you always forget to take your mobile to your Laughing club cum yoga class? It’s ringing continously and disturbing my peace of mind so early in the morning. It has already spoiled my day. I could not talk to my friend Sukumari while sipping a cup of hot coffee. Your childhood friend Mahesh Kumaresan made thirteen missed calls so far and enquired about you. He said he has very urgent work at Palakkad and wanted you to call back immediately, as soon as you reach home. He wanted you to visit him without any delay. When I enquired the reason for urgency he just disconnected.”
Unnikrishnan was sipping hot Wayanad Robusta coffee and said, “Kumaresan is always in a rush. May be his students may be performing Kalaripayattu. Post retirement he has been teaching this martial dance form in his neighborhood. Let me enjoy my coffee, I will give him a call immediately after that.”
Unnikrishnan started guessing Kumaresan's urgency. All his friends have started aging and someone might have fallen ill. Jayram, Menon and Antony Varghese were not keeping well. They suffered a great deal during Covid epidemic and then due to post Covid complications.
Soon he got a call from another friend Cherian and picked up his mobile to find out about others. But before he could speak Cherian enquired whether he got any call from Kumaresan.
“Yes, not one call but several calls. Why, what’s the matter?” said Unni.
Cherian said “Kumaresan has gone mad. He has developed a strong feeling that elected politicians have started neglecting development work in their area and have failed to keep the promises made to the voters of Kerala during polls. He has made up his mind to jump into poll fray himself to take up all-round development work in his own Palakkad region, once he gets elected. He has formed Palakkadd Vikasanam Forum and would like to contest from Palakkad constituency, in the upcoming polls to Kerala Legislative Assembly. Whatever post retirement money he received by way of Gratuity and Provident Fund after serving police department as Sub-Inspector would only go down the drain. Some touts are after him to swindle all his money. I, along with Jayram and Varghese, advised him, but he was too adamant to listen to our advice. Yesterday he already filed his nomination for MLA from Palakkad. May be he would listen to you and refrain from entering election arena. He must understand politics is definitely not our cup of coffee.” Cherian mentioned non-stop to Jagathy Unnikrishnan.
“As a senior citizen Kumaresan should know his shortcomings. He was moving from one corner of Kerala to another throughout his service career and was absent from Palakkad for so many years. Who would vote for him now, as he is a stranger in his own town? He neither has money power nor man power behind him. Even if he would get elected what more he could do? Let him call me. I would try to advise him.” said Unnikrishnan.
The moment Unnikrishnan kept his mobile down on the table there was a call from Kumaresan. He said it’s a crucial time. He wanted presence of Jagathy Unnikrishnan by his side during this testing time and Unni must rush to Palakkad immediately. Kumaresan told him he had the mass behind him and the poll wind was in his favour. People of Palakkad wanted change as they lost faith on the present-day elected leaders and wanted him to be their voice. He is confident he would be the perfect choice for them. What he wants now is only a proper election symbol that would transform mass support to votes.
Palakkad District Sub-collector had invited Kumaresan to meet him day after. As Jagathy Unnikrishnan is a respected person he would be the right person to talk to the Sub- collector on his behalf about election symbol. So Jagathy had to reach Palakkad by next day.
Unnikrishnan said, “I am completely unaware of election rules and regulations. Better you take an advocate along with you to the meeting. How can I help you in such legal matters?”
But Kumaresan was in no mood to listen to Unni. Finally, Unni had to travel to Palakkad next day. Kumaresan welcomed him and heaved a visible sigh of relief. Kumaresan explained to Unni that he was getting massive public support and many of them have assured to campaign for him day and night and visit door to door in support. What was needed was a good symbol that would attract voters. Kerala is land of coconut trees. If he could convince the Sub-collector and get coconut tree as his election symbol it would sway the poll in his favour and ensure victory for him. So it would be the job of Unni to convince the Sub-collector about it.
Unnikrishnan could not control his laughter. Coconut tree is very special to all Malayalies, but how a symbol could ensure victory for Kumaresan, when commitment of party workers and money is so important to win elections? In USA symbol of Democratic Party is donkey. In our country parties have been contesting election with broom as their symbol and were winning. He told Kumaresan if he insists let him talk to the Sub-Collector and give it a try.
Next Morning the Sub-Collector asked Kumaresan whether his organization Palakkad Viksanam Forum has got recognition as a registered state party or not and if so to submit the required documents. When Kumaresan nodded his head and said “no”, the Sub-Collector said as his organization had not received recognition of Election Commmission as a registered state party, no free election symbol could be allotted to his organization and like all independent candidates he would have to choose from among three symbols given to him and among these free symbols coconut tree was not there. The Sub-Collector said Kumaresan had to choose one from jack fruit, ladder and ink-pot as his symbol. Not getting his choice coconut tree as his election symbol just made him visibly unhappy and it only added to the anxiety of Kumaresan. How could he choose one among the three as his symbol which were not his choice?
The Sub-Collector tried to make Kumaresan realize that symbol is only a necessity. Where do people get convinced to vote only on the basis of a good symbol? They look at the manifesto, the capability and qualification of the candidate to vote for him. Unnikrishnan added time has changed Sir. Nowadays voters even do not look at the qualification and character of the candidate. Had it been so how was it possible to find so many criminals and history-sheeters as MLAs and MPS? Even jail inmates are contesting elections from jail and are winning. Huge amount of money and huge quantities of liquor is used to buy votes. So many free promises are dangled in front of the voters. Now who looks for clean image of the candidate?
“Yes, democracy is arithmetic of numbers”, said the Sub-Collector.
“We have been trying hard to bring home this point to Kumaresan, yet he is too obstinate and fails to see reason”, Unnikrishnan replied.
Kumaresan was indecisive and requested the Sub-Collector to give him one day's time to decide about the symbol, after discussing with his followers and voters of his constituency, to which the latter agreed. On the way back Unni tried to bring home the point that as the time for withdrawal was over it would be better to select a symbol and inform the Sub-collector as soon as possible. Finally it was decided that next day they would inform their choice to the Sub-Collector.
Kumaresan remained silent throughout the journey. He felt crestfallen and all his enthusiasm evaporated into thin air. Not getting his choice symbol made him heartbroken and his visible lack of interest prompted his so called supporters to leave him fast. Many candidates suggested Kumaresan to informally withdraw from the contest and campaign for them. The crowd around Kumaresan’s house just suddenly vanished .
Jagathy Unnikrishnan observed since last two days coconut had vanished from Kumaresan’s plate. How can Malayali food be savored without coconut added to any dish? Unni enquired jokingly “why, what is the matter? You did not get coconut tree as your symbol, but what is the crime of coconut? You should be happy, your loss now is restricted to rupees ten thousand only, which was your deposit with the election commission. Otherwise the loss would have been substantial. Kumaresan continued to remain disheartened and looked the other way.
Next day Jagathy Unnikrishnan retuned home.
(The End)
9491213015(m)
Completed 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 and popularized Amrapally mango plantation in the state. 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”. He served as Director of a bank for over six Years.
An acclaimed Short story writer in Odia and English. His stories are rooted in the soil and have sublime human touch. Many of his short stories in Odia have been published in reputed magazines. His short story collection “Michha jharanara pani” was released recently.
(9491213015)(m)
A PILGRIM’S JOURNEY THROUGH TAGORE`S SONGS
Fatema Zohra Haque
In our fleeting existence, as since the dawn of consciousness, the soul endlessly seeks
fragments of hope but remains starved for such ecstasy. Thus, moments that stir even a
whisper of joy and hope are as precious as life itself. Music stands as one such rare alchemist,
its inspirational power immense. Some songs, infused with divine essence in their words and
melodies, transform any state of mind into sculptures of heavenly delight. Rabindranath
Tagore's songs wield this profound ability, painting the heart with myriad shades of joy and
optimism.
Tagore's philosophy of a pleasing life echoes through his simple yet profound words in all his
creations. His diction captures the fluent essence of delight, filling hearts with a profound
appreciation for life. His words persuade me that the world is beautiful, where truth, honesty,
and simplicity are nourishing clouds over a barren desert of despair. I can hear his words
whispering through the rustling leaves, the murmuring streams, and the gentle caress of the
wind. His music is the soundtrack of my existence, playing from the break of dawn until the
whispers of nightfall.
Tagore's melodies have woven themselves into the fabric of my existence. My first pilgrimage
to his serene sanctuary, Santiniketan, came with the weight of years, yet the emotions it
stirred defy words. As I walked through his hallowed spaces, excitement coursed through me,
and I hummed his timeless tunes.
Each corner of Santiniketan echoed his lyrical soul, conjuring memories from childhood to
maturity. Tagore’s music, a rich tapestry of love, sorrow, joy, and devotion, has been my
steadfast companion through life’s ebb and flow.
His songs, Rabindra Sangeet, are a symphony of human emotions and profound reflections.
Tracks like "Amaro Porano Jaha Chay" and "Tomar Holo Shuru" offer solace in turmoil, while
"Ekla Cholo Re" and "Jodi Tor Dak Shune Keu Na Ase" inspire resilience and introspection.
The therapeutic embrace of Rabindra Sangeet soothes my weary soul. The profound lyrics
and soothing rhythms of "Purano Sei Diner Kotha" find a place in music therapy, evoking
positive emotions and nurturing well-being.
A Pilgrim’s Journey Through Tagore's Songs
In the vast sea of my very personal turmoil and tormenting life, Tagore’s songs are guiding
stars, offering me emotional solace, spiritual enlightenment, and a sense of belonging. For me
his melodies are beacons of hope, illuminating my paths through the complexities of my very
existence.
“Aamar sakol dukher prodip jwele dibos gele korbo nibedon - Aamar byathar puja hoy ni
samapan.”
There is the cosmic about his poetry. There is the spiritual about his puja songs. There is the
quiet heartbeat in his love melodies.
Rabindranath Tagore is my intellectual universe, my soulful solitary presence in time and
space. He is at the core of my being. As I recite his poetry or sing his songs, I remain aware of
certain inalienable truths. And they are pretty simple ones as well. The bard speaks to me
through the turnings in the seasons. In my turn, I speak to him, absorb his sentiments as it
were. The result is a harmonious whole.
And harmony is what Rabindranath has consistently focused on. Think of “shimar majhe ashim
tumi bajao apon shur.” It is a song that takes me closer to Creation, indeed imbues me with
thoughts of the ties that bind me to my Creator. In his puja songs, there emerges all the
brilliance of the universe as it goes through a dawning somewhere deep within time and space.
And so I hear the gentle tones of “tumi daak diyechho kon shokale keu ta jaane na.”In
Rabindranath, it is the gentle and the tranquil which flow through the leaves of the trees. The
poetry is the breeze.
“Aamar nishithoraater baadolodhaara, eso hey gopane
Aamar swaponloke dishahaara.
Ogo andhokarer antarodhan, daao dheke mor paran mon -
Aami chaai ne tapon, chaai ne taara.”
And the poetry caresses, all the way through the verses given over to a celebration of love. I
imagine the beauty and the poise of the one I adore, I worship. I imagine his being as I hum-
“ Aaha, tomar sange praaner khela, priyo aamar, ogo priyo -
Baro utala aaj paraan aamar, khelate haar maanbe ki o.
A Pilgrim’s Journey Through Tagore's Songs
Kebol tumii ki go emni bhaabe raangiye more paaliye jaabe.
Tumi saadh kore, naath, dhara diye aamaro rang bokkhe niyo”-
Again - “Aami bohu baasonay praanpane chaai, bonchito kore bnaachale more. E kripa katthor
sonchito mor jibano bhore.”
The soul is all in Rabindranath, be it in the links between man and woman or between us and
the gods. Praan, the soul, takes on a sadder dimension when the loved one moves away,
which is when I lose myself in the pale light of the moon and sing-
“O chnaad, chokher jaler laaglo jowar dukher paarabare, Holo kaanay kaanay kaanakaani ei
paare oi paare”.
No pain can be more intense than that which the beloved does not see. Close your eyes and
hear the pain of the one who sings:
“amar praaner pore chole gelo ke boshonter bataash tukur moto.”
My favorite season is monsoon and I believe without Tagore’s songs, a monsoon loses its soul.
“Aaji borishanomukhorito shraabonoraati,
Smritibedonar maala akela gnathi.
Aaji kon bhule bhuli aandhar gharete raakhi duwar khuli,
Mone hoy bujhi aasichhe se mor dukhorajonir saathi.”
And yet there is sometimes pleasure in Rabindranath’s evocation of pain. I call it the agony of
reaching for the heights and at the same time know that I cannot quite scale the peaks of
desire. The soul wriggles through a delicate dilemma in the song- “Tumi kon pathe je ele
pothik, aami dekhi naai tomare. Hathat swapono-samo dekha dile boneri kinare.” The pain
begins at the beginning and then rises clear of me, of the earth my feet are firmly planted on.
There is ecstasy in that song, as there is in the sadder, quieter-
“jokhon eshe chhile ondhokare chand utheni, shindhu pare chand utheni.”
A Pilgrim’s Journey Through Tagore's Songs
There is forever the primordial in Rabindranath. It is life he celebrates and death he glorifies.
The universe is a pattern of ever widening ripples and experience is the insistent falling of the
rain on monsoon nights. When the melody of “tomaye gaan shonabo / tai to amay jagiye rakho”
seeps into me and goes into an intensification of my sensibilities, I realise that this canvas of
aesthetic beauty will pass into a wider cosmos one day, in the way the river finds itself anew in
the bosom of the sea. Somewhere deep in the night, the wind brings to me the strains of “ogo
nodi apon bege pagol para.” The beating in my heart is a sign of the expansiveness of melody.
I know then that the earth is now poised to meet the sky, that the river prepares to
consummate its romance with the heavens. The climactic comes through the whispered
“megh bolechhe jaabo jaabo raat bolechhe jai shagor bole kul milechhe ami to ar nai..”- I am at
peace. I lie back, until the pounding at the gateway of the heart tells me that newer songs have
arrived.
“Tomay notun kore paabo bole haarai khane khan O mor bhaalobasar dhan.”
Images of the one lost to time flash before me. The sense of loss reveals the vacuum that the
passing of a soulmate has left behind, crater-like. My loneliness comes encompassed in-
“noyono shommukhe tumi nai noyoner majh khane niyechho je thain.” And then, swiftly and
surely, I am pulled back to thoughts of my own mortality . . . “amar din phuralo byakul badolo
shanjhe.”
My melancholic soul seeks refuge to Tagore’s songs-
“Kaal raater bela gaan elo mor mone, Takhon tumi chhile na mor sone. Je kathati bolbo tomay
bole Kaatlo jiban nirab chokher jole.”
“Dnaariye aachho tumi aamar gaaner o paare - Aamar surguli paay charon, aami paai ne
tomare”
“Tomarei koriyachhi jibaner dhrubatara, E samudre aar kobhu habo nako pathohaara. Jetha
aami jaai naako tumi prokashito thaako..”
The universe is what God has made of it. But we are the universe too, for the Creator
redefines Himself within us, humbling us with His munificence. And so I cheerfully sing-
A Pilgrim’s Journey Through Tagore's Songs
“Aamare tumi ashesh korechho, emoni lila tabo - Phuraye phele aabar bhorechho, jibano nabo
nabo.”
“Sokatore oi knaadichhe sakole, shono shono pita. Kaho kaane kaane, shunao praane praane
mongalobaarota.”
I am thus part of the miracle. God’s beauty comes conjoined with my song. At the edge of
twilight is a new beginning . . . “amar bela je jaaye shanjh bela te tomar shure shure shur mela
te.”
Nature waits for the rose to bloom- “bol golap more bol o tui phutibi shokhi kobe.”
It is the story of Creation once again.
“Tomar khola haawa lagiye paale tukro kore kaachhi Aami dubte raaji aachhi aami dubte raaji
aachhi.”- humming this songs I got immersed in the limitless realms of Tagore’s deep music
and spirituality.
Tagore songs hold a special place in my heart, transcending mere music to become a deeply
immersive experience. The melodies, rich with emotion and philosophical depth, speak to my
soul in ways few other art forms can. Each song is a journey, a tapestry of lyrical beauty
woven with the threads of Tagore's profound understanding of the human condition-
“Aaro aaro, probhu, aaro aaro. Emni kore aamay maaro. · Lukiye thaaki, aami paaliye berai -
Dhara pore gechhi, aar ki eraai !”
Listening to Rabindra Sangeet is like being enveloped in a warm embrace. The lyrics, often
introspective and contemplative, resonate with my innermost thoughts and feelings. I can
express love, sorrow, joy, and the myriad nuances of life with a grace.
The immersive experience of Tagore's music is not just in the listening but in the way it invites
me to participate in its world. Singing alone, I feel a connection to Tagore; my Gurudeb himself.
A Pilgrim’s Journey Through Tagore's Songs
Right at this moment these songs came to my mind-
“Aakash aamay bhorlo aaloy, Aakash aami bhorbo gaane. Surer aabir haanbo haaway,
Naacher aabir haaway haane.”
(The sky's instilled light to me,
I'll satisfy it why my music.
I shall blow melodic ABIR hard into air,
Dancing colours the air hurls.)
“Bhara Thak Smriti Shudhay bidayer patrakhani · milaner utsobe ta phirai dio aani.”
(Let the farewell goblet remain -
Filled with nectar of memoir.
Please restitute it once again
On the occasion of celebration.)
“Keno tomra aamay daako, aamar mon na maane. Paai ne samay gaane gaane.”
“Ei monihar Amay nahi saje
Ere porte gele lage ere chirte gele baje."
Fatema Zohra Haque, an esteemed international educator and Fulbright Scholar, has authored 25 poetry books. Her columns on education, literature, social issues, and translations appear worldwide in Bengali and English media. Her poetry, including "Selected Love Poems," "Weeping Sky Solitary River,” “Blinded Eyes Looted Dreams” and “Pain in The Epitaph of Art,” are cataloged by the Library of Congress and top 15 US universities. She is also a column editor for the New York-based News magazine The Bay Wave.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra
The school morning prayer was just over and all the students, hitherto standing in the queue, were dispersing to get into their class rooms. We, the sixth standard students, also rushed to our respective benches to occupy our seats before the commencement of the day's syllabi.
Being, a middle English school having classes from Class 1 till 7th, ours was the only government school in the radious of about 20 kM. There was a hostel for outside students who hailed from the vast hinterland and hilly parts of the area. It was established during the transitional years when the Government removed Gadajat kings and assumed all administrative and magisterial powers.
Usually, the class teacher used to take the first class, carrying an attendance register with him. Although our class teacher used to come bit late everyday, his method of teaching was different from others, as if it was a combination of classical / Gurukul culture with modern English teachings.
His attire bore resemblance to his philosophy, merging the medieval Kurta and Dhoti with a modern watch on his left hand. The Rudraksha Mala, (a garland of rudraksha beeds) hanging at his neck, touched his tall body upto his waist and the forehead bore three horizontal lines, made of sandal wood paste, having a small vermilion touch in the centre. A "Hercules" bicycle always carried him faithfully, like a 'vahaan'. Of course, he never forgot to wear the English shoes, whenever he commuted to the school or attended any village meet.
That day, we were eagerly waiting for his arrival after the prayer session but suddenly, we heard some commotions and loud exchange of verbal missiles, both in Hindi and English language.
Loud utterances like, "Get out, Please get out'" and in return, earth-to-air indigenous missile, saying in Hindi , "Hum nehin jaenge," were reverberating in our ears, making us tense and inquisitive.
This unusual eerie atmosphere beckoned us to get the first hand information from the combat front, but we were prevented by other teachers and had to stay indoors bending the earial antena towards the main gate.
But Guru, the most hilarious, cunning and versatile boy, could not resist his temptations to gather a live information from the gate. He sneaked out of the class room surreptitiously hiding himself in the bushy fence, like a mordern spy in a war field and tried to focus and record the happenings at the battle field.
The sound of verbal missiles pervaded to the nearby areas and some village 'Bhadraloks' (gentlemen) rushed to the scene to defuse the situation. We, sitting curiouly in the class room, were feeling restless to get the live telecast from Guru.
Guru returned from the battle field and started mimmicking the incident, much to attract the attention of all the classmates, especially, the girl students.
The incident involved two characters, i.e., our school Head Master and our Class teacher, holding his bicycle as witness.The Head Master was upset at the habit of late coming of our class teacher and wanted to block his entry into the school premises at the main gate.Our Class teacher, although older than the Head Master in age, was a local teacher, a freedom fighter and self styled incarnation of a classic Saint, serving in the school from time immemorial. He always took pride in saying that he was the first MA in the area and even, the King (Gadajat supremo) used to be afraid of him because of his fighting spirit and oration skills.
Alas, the battle being over, the ceasefire paved the way for our class teacher to come to our classroom and start the day.
His first class was English and, therefore, he started teaching Grammar. He, then started asking questions on Past, Present, and Future tense. First he pointed his finger to Guru and asked him to make a sentence using the verb 'see'. When he could not understand what was being asked for, our class teacher asked him to stand up on the bench and started explaining himself, holding a cane waving towards Guru.
He asked him "What you saw, what you see now and what you will see???". "Your future will be to stand up in the bench till the end of my class period."
Probably, when Guru sneaked out of our class to cover the battle, he had not escaped from the hawkish eyes of our class teacher.
Guru was elder to almost all our classmates repeating his 2nd term in class 6th. He was courageous and hard working having the knowledge of everything. During Shree Ganesh or Saraswati Pujas there used to be a heavy demand for him in the school. Starting from making earthen idols to decoration of deities to distribution of prasad etc etc, his participation was inevitable. In games and sports, he excelled and became sports champion of the school. But he was not able to score minimum pass mark in exams for which he used to repeat the classes. Eventually, he left studies, after failing in his numerous attempts to pass beyond 9th class and dropped out from school.
Being born in an orthox brahmin caste, our class teacher imbibed the spirit of carrying forward the age tested traditions with minor moderation. Outwardly, he was a staunch vegetarian, but he never forgot to taste the non-veg items when there was any feast in school or outside our locality. He made clandestine arrangement for the service of these non-veg items stealthily, while nobody was near him, keeping a separate container for this. After tasting the non-veg items he invariably took a small sip of water mixed with a tiny quantity of cow dung to purify his body. Next day morning he never forgot to change the sacred thread and put a new one on his body.
Though a revolutionary in thought, he was not a crushader against caste system. It was quite apparent many times in our class room also. When he wanted to punish a classmate of backward caste with cane, he avoided touching his body. Insteaf, he threw the cane to hit the target and then ordered the hapless boy to return the stick and place it at a distance so that he could again hit him by throwing the stick.
There was a police outpost in our village, which was upgraded as a police station in later years. The disputes hardly came to the notice of the police. The affected persons used to meet at the house of our class teacher for solutions or even agreed for arbitration, if needed. All the parties had boundless faith in our class teacher, his ability on reasonings and legal knowledge. As this service was made available to people without any cost, they respected him as a saint.
The educational facilty was very poor in our area. Ours was the only Government school upto 7th class. A new private high school had just been opened, thanks to the over whelming support of the people. Our class teacher took up crusades against the government for starting women's education in the area and organised meetings and dharanas to press for opening an exclusive girls' school. Later, Government opened a girls' Upper Primary school in our village and our class teacher never hesitated to claim credit for the same.
Nobody in our area knew about the exact age of our class teacher. Although he looked much older, his employment record showed he was in mid 40's , at least 10 years less than what he was looking biologically. People said, he had put all his school/ college certificates to flames to oppose the British Raj and his date of birth was recorded on the basis of an old horoscope available at his home, probably belonging to one of his younger siblings.
Being encircled by rivers, flood was a regular visitor to our area. It used to damage houses and crops every year and the locals were accustomed to such yearly rituals and guarded themselves accordingly. It was a habit with our class teacher to visit the banks of the rivers and collect palm fruits and bamboo shoots from river bank.
One day, he had left his house at the wee hours of the day and did not return even by 10 AM. The rivers were full to their brims and overflew owing to the previous night's incessant rain. The village was virtually cut off from all sides. The family members of our teacher raised alarm and a news circulated in the area stating that the class teacher was washed away by the strong current of the rivers. Of course the illagers knew that our teacher was a veteran swimmer and no strength of river current could drive him away.
Frezied attempts were made by villagers to locate our teacher. But there was no trace of him. The nearby river side villagers were allerted about the mishap and appealed to search for him in their locality. No good news arrived till evening and complete darkness encircled the village.
The mood in the house of our teacher was somber and mournful. The members of the house refrained from taking any food and prayed for his safe return. Suddenly, there was a knock on the back door. Nobody ventured to respond to the knocking and open the door. Afterwards, the wife of our teacher opened the door .
But alas!, she screamed aloud, "What am I seeing? Bhut, bhut!!"
"No Lalita, ( name of our class teacher's wife), I am Hari ( our class teacher's name)
I was waiting till darkness to avoid others seeing me".
But, his wife was shocked to see a person, stark naked and frail, announcing his presence . She had a second look towards him and gave him clothes to cover his body. He asked for some food and after few hours, returned to his normal self.
The news of his homecoming had spread in the village and some curious villagers thronged to his home to gather the news of his ordeal.
He stated that no sooner he had collected some fruits like ripe palms, bael fruit ( wood apple) and dates and tied those fruits in his Uttaran( bath sheet), than the river swelled with unexpected speed and drowned the bank with heavy current. In order to swim safe, he had freed the fruit-carrying sack from his back and they were washed away. In order to save himself from being carried away by the river current, he managed to swim alongwith the stream, navigating slowly towards the bank. In the process of fighting with the current, his dhoti (white cloth usually worn by men) got loosened and washed away. Even he could not protect his sacred threads which left him stark naked .
Finally, he could swim to the banks but had no cloth arround his body. He climbed up a tree and hid himself from anybody's notice till darkness came. He dared not use the main road, but steathily came from backyards to knock the back door of his house unnoticed by others.
The narration given on the ordeals faced by our school teacher became a breaking news in the prime time at bathing places and tea stall gossips the next few days. The class teacher could not come out of his house till the weekend.
Time passed very fast . Most of our classmates left our school after completing their education and entered the college studies. But whenever we were in a group, we used to collect the information about our teacher, who also used to drop in our homes, the moment he heard about our homecoming.
It was a bombshell when the news reached us about the sad demise of the wife of our class teacher. It was heard that she was his constant companion for decades and the two were never separated. Even she was not allowed to visit her parents' house without him. We were all shocked at this news thinking about the precarious life of our teacher after her death.
We heard that our teacher stopped going to the school after the death of his wife, although he neither resigned nor retired.
One fine morning our villagers witnessed a procession of monks encircling our teacher who walked in the centre with a vacant stare. He had tonsured his head. Wearing deep saffron clothes and kurta, he walked bare footed, laced with half a dozen garlands, looking cheerful but missing something in mind which no one could guess. It was revealed by the village head that our teacher had his last wish to renounce world and proceed for Char Dham Yatra. Hence the befitting procession. Thus he left the village and proceeded on an unending yatra. Nobody had any knowledge about him in later years. Thus, we missed our class teacher forever.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
NOW, ABOUT THE MASTER STROKES OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE
Sreechandra Banerjee
This year (2025), Rabindra-Jayanti, the birthday of Nobel Laureate Tagore was celebrated on 9th May. As I tribute I wrote a poem (please vide poetry section) and also thought of throwing some light on the master strokes of Tagore.
The songs, poems, stories that the great maestro-created, no doubt reflect his master strokes in music and literature, but what about his master strokes in drawing and painting?
Well. Well, that is another arena, another rich canvas of the great master’s life.
To celebrate this year’s Rabindra-Jayanti, I thought of posting here about Tagore’s master strokes, on the esteemed canvas of Literary Vibes.
Tagore had always wanted to paint and so he kept on trying to master this art-form too. In 1900, he wrote to the famous scientist Jagadish Chandra Bose, “You will be surprised to hear that I am sitting with a sketchbook drawing. Needless to say , the pictures are not intended for any salon in Paris, they cause me not the least suspicion that the national gallery of any country will suddenly decide to raise taxes to acquire them. But, just as a mother lavishes most affection on her ugliest son, so I feel secretly drawn to the very skill that comes to me least easily.”
At this time, he was approaching forty. Though disappointed with the results, he continued sketching aimlessly while he pondered on other things- may be yet another masterpiece of writing!
These aimless sketches were often ornamental motifs sketched out of words. Gradually these sketches took shape and during his tours in 1924 they became more expensive.
It was during one of these tours that the Argentine intellectual writer Victoria Ocampo was impressed. She wrote - “he played with erasers, following them from verse to verse with his pen, making lines that suddenly jumped into life out of this play: prehistoric monsters, birds, faces appeared”.
Realizing that his efforts have started taking shape, the master wrote: -“The only training that I had from my young days was the training in rhythm in thought, the rhythm in sound. I had come to know that rhythm gives reality to that which is desultory, which is insignificant in itself. And therefore, when the scratches in my manuscript cried, like sinners, for salvation, and assailed my eyes with the ugliness of their irrelevance, I often took more time in rescuing them into a merciful finality of rhythm than in carrying on what was my obvious task.”
Describing this as his “unconscious training in drawing”, he went on to elaborate his sketches:- “..when the vagaries of the ostracized mistakes had their conversion into rhythmic inter-relationship, giving birth to unique forms and characters. Some assumed the temperate exaggeration of a probable animal that had unaccountably missed its chance of existence…some lines showed anger, some placid benevolence, through some lines ran an essential laughter…These lines often expressed passions that were abstract, evolved characters that hung upon subtle suggestions.”
In 1928,Tagore started to do independent paintings. In 1930, Victoria Ocampo helped him to organize the first exhibition of Tagore’s paintings in Paris. Exhibitions across Europe, in Russia, in England and America followed.
Rabindranath Tagore was the first Indian artist to be exhibited widely in the West.
Seasoned artists and connoisseurs in the West were appreciative of his artworks. However, there were controversies too as they found his work as an extension of Western Art and not in relation to the totality of his work or in relation to India.
Tagore’s paintings bear reflections of his familiarity with the “primitive” and modern traditions of art. Says Wikipedia:- “But it is only in the context of post-forties Indian Art that Rabindranath’s paintings find their true place in the history of modernism and it is in this context they need to be looked at.”
From 1928, Tagore painted more than 2000 paintings over the last thirteen years of his life. His nephew, Abanindranath Tagore, the reputed artist and creator of “Indian Society of Oriental Art” called this a “volcanic eruption”.
Now, the question arises whether there is any central unifying theme.
Well, there is no simple answer to this, as modern-day artists say. Reputed art historian R Siva Kumar explains: - “A sense of drama is central to Rabindranath ‘s paintings. The darkness in many of his paintings is not the darkness of the night. His self-portraits reflect a deeper psychological need that of a creative person always in search of self. But it is his landscapes, more soothing than his grotesques or human or animal figures that remain his best admired works. Limited in space but unlimited in diversity this is Rabindranath Tagore’s painting.”
In “My Pictures”, Tagore himself has written about his paintings: - “But one thing which is common to all arts is the principle of rhythm which transforms inert materials into living creations. My instinct for it and my training in its use led me to know that lines and colours in art are no carriers of information; they seek their rhythmic incarnation in pictures. Their ultimate purpose is not to illustrate or to copy some other outer fact or inner vision, but to evolve a harmonious wholeness which finds its passage through our eyesight into imagination. It neither questions our mind for meaning nor burdens it with unmeaningness, for it is, above all, is meaning” (1930 statement).
In a book named “Ronger Rabindranath”, the authors Ketaki Kushari Dyson and Sushobhan Adhikary, in scientific collaboration with Adrian Hill and Robert Dyson, have studied the use of colour by Rabindranath Tagore in his works, i.e., in his writings and in his art.
In an article written about this book, Ketaki Kushari Dyson has presented some pictures, some of which are presented here:
This is a woodcut (1919) image of ‘David Mueller’.
by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner.
This is waterproof ink-on-paper from
Rabindra Bhavna Collection, no.1915 (Has no date).
Comparing this with a German Expressionist woodcut like in figure above , it seems that Tagore tried to reproduce the texture of woodcut in
an ink-on-paper medium.
Salmon-Trout head Motif of Haida Art
from North-west coast of North America.
Rabindranath’s initials “Ra-Tha” in a seal designed by himself. Later his son Rathindranath made the wooden seal as per Rabindranath’s design. The similarity of this with the above Haida Art is apparent.
Rabindra Bhavana collection no. 1911.
This is waterproof ink and pen ink on paper.
Has no date when this was painted, was exhibited in Europe in 1930.
The style of a coloured woodcraft is
imparted
by a simple division into coloured planes.
This is a Malanggan Artefact, mask, boar’s head from
the north of New Ireland, north-west coast.
Pastel on paper. From the Rabindra Bhavna Collection , no 2155.
Has no date.
Again, the above two are comparable.
On the occasion of Tagore’s 150th birth anniversary , an exhibition titled “The Last Harvest”, commissioned by the Ministry of Culture, India , and organized with the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) exhibited 208 paintings of Tagore, taken from the collection of Viswa Bharati and NGMA. Famous Art historian R. Siva Kumar was the curator.
Museum of Asian Art, Berlin; Asiatic Society , New York; National Museum of Korea, Seoul; Victoria and Albert Museum, London; The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago; Petit Palais, Paris; Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, Rome; National Visual Arts Gallery, Malaysia- Kuala Lumpur; McMichael Canadian Art Collection, Ontario; National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi; National Gallery of Modern Art, Mumbai; all splashed with master’s strokes of Tagore when these 208 paintings were exhibited at these museums.
Later, Asia Art Archive classified the exhibition as a “world event”.
Source: Books and the internet.
All pictures are from the internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
All information and photos are from books and the internet to which I have no right. (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except for the right to information and photos which are from books and the internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer). No part of this article can be reproduced by anyone without the express approval of the author.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
Bankim Chandra Tola
Unlike on other working days, Arun seemed distracted in the office that Monday. One by one he kept opening the files heaped on his table but couldn’t focus on any of them. As Regional Manager of a Nationalized Bank he was supposed to take decisions on various matters detailed in each file. However he was not in a mood to dispose of any of them. His mind was preoccupied with disturbing thoughts of the impending result of an interview for promotion that he attended day before yesterday. He had however, a ray of hope of success bolstered by his performance. Nevertheless, his presumption of elimination overcast his mental horizon.
Looking back, his record reflects that he had excelled in all the three interviews for promotion faced until then, but never did he feel so unsettled as he was on that day simply for being grappled with palpable uncertainties. Firstly, he was the junior-most of all the participants who were no less competent and knowledgeable; second, the outlandish way of treatment shown to him in the interview. Thinking of all these absurdities he was getting crushed between the two probabilities, success and failure.
Time was passing by slowly yet steadily. It was 4.30 P.M. Then, suddenly his mobile rang. The caller was none other than his controlling General Manager. As he responded, a heavy tone roared from the other side, “Congratulations Arun. You are promoted to Grade Sacle-V along with six others. Interestingly, among all the 43 candidates who participated in the interview, you have superseded 36 contestants senior to you. Enjoy and wait for the next posting.”
Suppressing his boundless joy, Arun responded, “Thank you sir, for the first hand information.”
At that moment it occurred to him that it might not be wise to break this news in the office before receiving an official confirmation. Why not go home first to inform his wife, Surama, whom he considered as his powerhouse energizing every daring project he had taken up so far.
Swiftly he wrapped up all files awaiting his review and stepped out of the office asking his deputy to handle things in his absence. He rode straight to a popular sweet stall in the market and collected some favourite sweets of his wife and made his way home. Overwhelmed with joy, he felt certain that Surama would be just thrilled when he would break this news to her.
On seeing his car enter the gate, Surama came out of her room and saw Arun had returned from office. Obviously she was scared to see him at 5 P.M. which was unusual and unconventional - diametrically opposite to his normal practice of returning from office after 7 P.M. daily. Many disturbing thoughts, like ‘Was he unwell or anything untoward happened in the office?' agitated her mind. But contrary to all these absurd thoughts, she saw Arun entering the house with a big smile holding a small packet in hand.
Getting in, Arun asked Surama to open her mouth. Mechanically she did and Arun pushed a piece of sweet into her mouth and said, this is for my unexpected success in the interview. Before Surama could ask something after taking in the sweet Arun said, "the good news is, I have been promoted, superseding 36 out of 42 competent contestants senior to me in the race.”
Surama listlessly said, “What is new in it? You have earned it by dint of your spectacular performance and impressive achievements. There is nothing special in it to revel with.”
Arun excitedly tried to explain, “No dear, it was not simply the case of promotion, but the way of according promotion to me was something special, incredible and unheard of in the history of my bank. In a fierce competition where all contestants were beating their brows, it was just unthinkable, the way I got promoted. I wonder if such easy promotion had ever been awarded to any officer in senior management level in the Banking industry as it has been done in my case.”
Raising her eye brows Surama asked, “What’s that?”
Arun led her to drawing room, seated her on sofa and said, “Speciality in my promotion will only be clear to you when you know the unpredictable chain of events that came to pass during the course of interview. Now listen.”
Arun continued, “This time Bank had seven vacancies for promotion from Officers Grade Scale- IV to Scale-V and eligible candidates including me were 43. On reporting I saw all the candidates have assembled in the Bank’s common room. I checked te list prepared according to seniority and found that I was at the bottom at serial 43. Although all the candidates were in my parallel position, I was not familiar with many as most of them were scattered in different parts of India barring a few in Head office. While greeting them as a matter of courtesy, I could see a glow of positive expectation in everyone’s eyes. Then I waited for the interview to begin.
“The first candidate in serial number one was called at 10.00 A.M. I thought let me wait for some time to see the time taken for a candidate and the pattern of questions asked. After 45 minutes the first candidate came out of the interview board room with a sullen face sweating heavily despite the central AC working in full swing. All others eagerly enquired from him the details of the interview. What he stated was something unexpected and out of the way. He said, the board consisted of nine members with Chairman and Managing Director (CMD) of the Bank being the chairman of the Board. It appeared to him as if the Board was looking for something abstruse. He was convinced he was nowhere in the ambit of selection.”
“Then after 40 minutes the second candidate came out. He seemed a bit exasperated and said 'how could the Board ask him irrelevant questions like correlating his hobbies with the constitution of India? Is it not absurd? If they wanted to reject, they could have done it easily but not by asking bogus questions. Anyway, friends, good bye; I am leaving for home.'
“Then I thought perhaps average time for each candidate would be 30 minutes or so and that way even the whole day may not be enough to complete the interview. So without wasting time I went out to get my pending works done with different departments in the Head office.
“At about 4 P.M., I came back to check the position and found that the candidate bearing serial 37 was coming out of the chamber looking disgruntled. Out of curiosity I just asked, how long was his interview? He said it was about half an hour or more. Then I thought it is of no use waiting there and left for completing the remaining work pending with other departments in the Head Office.
“Exactly at 6 P.M. I came back to the common room and found only one candidate was waiting and others had left. After 10 minutes the 41st candidate who was known to me came out of the chamber and told me of his own, “Brother! The interviewers including our CMD are harping on Bank’s role in price control and market stability. They also asked me several questions on Indian economy as if to confuse me. Okay friend, my chance of selection is remote I am leaving for home. Good bye.' Saying this he left.
“Now I was left alone in the hall waiting for my turn to come. Having heard all the details of the interview from others I made up my mind that I would simply be brushed aside like dust; so why should I worry at all? I became care free and waited. After about 20 minutes the 42nd candidate came out and the attending officer signalled me to enter.
“As I wished the Board on entering, the CMD of the Bank asked me to sit down. I saw other eight members were gossiping among themselves and the Chairman asked me 'Arun have you taken lunch and afternoon snacks?'
I said, “Yes sir.”
“But it seemed he was not satisfied and said you must be feeling hungry. If not snacks take a glass of juice at least. Saying so, he asked the bearer to serve juice for me. Then he asked me to take it. As I was hesitating he said, 'All of us have taken already, now you may take it.'
“With a lot of inhibition I started sipping the juice. Then The Chairman asked me 'When is your return ticket?'
I said, 'At 8 P.M. Sir.' When I finished the glass of juice he said 'Arun, it is 7 P.M. already, hurry up to the station. You should be on time to catch the train.'
“Truly speaking, I was not getting at what was happening then. Why I was not asked even a single question before asking me to return? I was in a fix to conjure up sequence of events and I thought I have been rejected with a glass of juice. Thanking all the members of board I made an humble exit and hurried to the Station.
“This was the whole story of interview in which I have been declared selected. Now tell me is it not a miracle? Should I not be delighted?” said Arun with full excitement to his wife.
Further he said, “I am sure with this promotion I will definitely be given my desired posting as Chief Regional Manager in my home state for which I have approached the Competent Authority earlier.”
So long Surama was listening to the story and she was watching carefully the immaculate glow of delight in her husband’s face. Without throwing cold water upon his burning desire she said, “What a simpleton you are! You say, all the candidates were brutally grilled for minimum half an hour, each member tormenting them with several stiff questions but in your case the table was turned abruptly? Without asking a single question they selected you offering a glass of juice and you call it a miracle? You say it is not digestible easily?”
“Arey, nothing like that; the entire Board was fully conversant with my performance and so they gave me a walk over“ said Arun.
“O my God! Still you are wandering in the fairy land. A successful doctor, a competent lawyer and an adept Banker, each of them is a good psychologist first, even if he might not have studied psychology. You are a successful Banker equipped with adequate knowledge of banking and personnel and Human resources management. In that respect you must have the general wit to read others’ mind; I wonder how you couldn’t gauze the sentiment of your Chairman who selected you without formal interview? I am sure, the interview board must not have selected other six candidates without asking any question or offering juice as done in your case.”
But Arun was so charged with the wave of affectionate and cordial dealing of CMD of the Bank that these sarcastic remarks of Surama did not hit him anyway and said emphatically, “No dear! I could not see any sign of pretense in the eyes of the CMD; what I noticed was a reflection of immaculate closeness with affection. May be that he might have some projects in mind to get them done by me but I am sure, that may not be at the cost of my future.”
Surama, though not happy, did not argue further and said “Okay, pray for your faith and trust it comes true. Now let us not toil much on the subject.”
That night even if Arun was content with the sequence of events, he was getting un-nerved, thinking of something unexpected coming to pass as hinted by his wife. He knew her estimation seldom turned fakse in the past.
Next day as usual Arun left for office with a positive attitude to welcome his next posting which was due to come that day. He reached office and got engrossed in routine work as if nothing had happened.
At about 1 P.M. his Dy. Regional Manager (DRM) in charge of Administration came in with a bunch of letters received from Head Office, as none other than the Regional Manager was allowed to open parcels, registered letters received from Head office when he is present in the office.
Enthusiastically Arun opened the speed post addressed in his name and he was surprised to see that he had been promoted with posting as Chief Regional Manager of the most difficult and largest Region of the Bank contrary to his glowing hope of getting a prize posting in his home state after the promotion. Suppressing his unhappiness, he conveyed the result to his DRM. The DRM informed all others in the office and all rushed in to Arun’s Chamber to congratulate him. At that joyous moment the DRM in charge of Administration said, “Double congratulations sir.”
Arun asked, “What do you mean by that?”
The DRM said, “Sir, my first congrats to you is for the promotion to Scale V being the junior most among all competitors and the second congratulation is for your posting in a very large Region where the post of Chief Regional Manager is manned hitherto by a DGM in Scale VI only.”
Arun thanked him with a wry smile.
Then Arun thought what should he tell his wife, Surama who could foresee his impending misery? With a little hesitance he dialed to update her.
Contrary to his apprehension of a big jerk from Surama, Arun felt much relaxed when she did not react at all but as a mild dose of placebo she told him to contact his controlling authorities to get at the intent behind shunting him to the danger zone.
Arun thanked God for his wife’s coolness despite what she predicted came true and instantly followed her suggestions to contact his controlling G.M. in Head Office. With a broken heart he asked, “Sir! Is it the reward given to me for working with so much sincerity, honesty and integrity for the organization? I have conveyed my desire many times for transfer to my home state and you also promised me to push it forward for acceptance by Top Managing Committee(TMC) but how everything has gone topsy turvy?”
The G.M. from the other side replied in a soothing tone, “Arun, please do not misunderstand me, I was helpless before the decision of the CMD as he opened his mind before the TMC that Arun perhaps can turn the table in that Region which has gone out of the way. All other members nodded favourably.” But he did not disclose the dimension of the problems with which the Region was infested.
Then Arun thought there is one person in Head Office who is independent and impartial being not connected with anyone; perhaps he can clarify the position better. So he contacted the Chief Vigilance Officer (CVO) of the Bank who is posted in the Bank by the Ministry Finance, Govt. of India to oversee vigilance department of the Bank. The CVO was a rough and tough gentleman who hardly interacted with officer of any rank in the Bank, but knew practically everything going on in the bank. When Arun contacted him on his mobile, the CVO seemed highly pleased and replied, “Congratulation Arun for your brilliant performance in the Bank. Can I help you in anyway?”
Arun asked him politely “Sir! Could you tell me the mystery behind my posting to a Region far away from my home state and the post being one step higher than that of my grade-scale?”
The CVO was pleased to convey the management's decision to Arun about his posting in a difficult Region. He said, “Arun, indeed that Region is very large with significant volume of business and until now the Bank had consistently posted officers in the rank of Dy. General Manager(DGM) to manage it effectively. However contrary to expectations, all the DGMs posted hitherto struggled to cope with the intense internal pressures. One even resigned from service due to aggressive stance of militant association leaders. His successor too found it equally difficult to manage the ongoing turmoil and opted for extended leave. The situation caused serious concern for the Bank to restore stability in that Region to focus on business development. The CMD of the Bank, in a TMC meeting suggested your name for leading the Region to take on the challenge as the last chance for its revival before abolishing that Regional office and merging the total business of all branches under that Region with another region of the Bank. So, please try to understand how far the Bank management trust in your ability to handle complex situations that you have proven in the past. I believe you can rise to the occasion to turn the table. Rest assured that for your smooth functioning, the Bank will render required support and allow you full autonomy in decision making. I shall always be there at your service whenever you deem it necessary. Best of luck.”
Having heard all this Arun felt as if the sky was collapsing around him. He thanked the CVO and disconnected the phone. That evening after coming home Arun felt as if uneasiness was weighing heavy on him. He couldn’t even look straight at his wife, Surama. Silently, he entered his room and lied down on the cot, hoping for some respite. Observing Arun’s mental state, Surama could easily grasp what would have transpired in between. Without questioning him she told him to change and go for a warm shower.
Arun was overwhelmed with emotion as he pondered how to share everything that happened until then with his wife. After composing himself he told Surama to sit beside him. Shedding his reservations he began to recount everything bracing himself for a volley of questions. However, to his surprise, nothing happened; instead she heard him patiently and said calmly, “A lot of water has flown under the bridge, what’s done is done. Now be bold enough to face the challenge just as you have solved many complex cases in the past reposing deep confidence in God who will guide you through. But one important thing I must remind you; – E jo tumhara naya kuchh kar dikhane ka junoon hai na, isse thoda lagam do agar shanti se jeena chahte ho to. (If you want to live peacefully, just rein your passion for exhibiting that you can do something new.) Rest you know better. Now get ready to accept the challenge with unwavering dedication. Best of luck.”
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.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
The famous poet John Keats said, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever”. All accept that a thing beautiful is delightful forever. It is the truth for the expression of beauty for gaiety. When a beautiful thing is spoilt, how does the thing look beautiful to be a joy forever? Yes, a thing of beauty though spoilt is also a joy forever. The secret is wonderful when known.
Lalithya was fond of having all kinds of friends, near and dear according to her amiable nature. They were Shruthi, Sneha, Shalini, Ragini, Mohini, Rajani, Rani, Sita and so on in love and affection for her. She loved to play with them, to speak to them for pleasure. She created a new world of her own with a variety of characters.
Lalithya not only loved but also adored nature. She spoke to every leaf, every flower, every tree, every blade of grass, every thicket, every bush. She played with every young deer, every young soft animal. She sang with every cuckoo, danced with every peacock and liked to fly with every butterfly, and so on. She derived pleasure in speaking to and playing, dancing and flying with them. She was like Shakuntala in Abhijnana Sakuntalam to love nature and adore it as her goddess. She found in nature as much pleasure as she found in attending school and studies. She derived real pleasure in nature, a treasure a variety. Nature was indeed her school, her college, her university and her all. She said that she had learnt all lessons of life from nature.
The large family was like the garden or the grove for Lalithya. It was the venue for all kinds of relations to meet for a fest. She loved all kinds of relations: sisters and brothers, parents, grandparents and great grandparents, uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, daughters and sons, daughters-in-law and sons-in-law, mothers-in-law and fathers-in-law and friends. She thought that it was the summum bonum of life. She loved the family concept in the heart of her heart. As a child at school, she enjoyed the occasion of Grandparents Day celebrations. She felt it memorable and enjoyable forever.
Lalithya’s father had a garden sprawling in acres. Lalithya loved it very much for its trees and plants in variety. It was like a sanctuary. Shruthi liked all kinds of birds like parrots, peacocks and cuckoos, animals like young deer and cows and insects like butterflies and bees. She came to the garden for her jolly trip. The garden was heaven on earth for her. She loved to celebrate her birthday and all festivals in the company of flora and fauna in the wide-spread garden.
One fine morning, she started to celebrate her birthday. First, she called her friends Shruthi and Sneha one after the other as per her list on invitees, already invited to the function,
“Hello! Shruthi, I had expected you before the sun rose. You’re late,” said Lalithya to Shruthi.
“Yes, I’m coming there, my dear. I’ll be with you in minutes,” said Shruthi.
“Hello! Sneha, Lalithya speaking… Are you already on the way to the garden the venue for the birthday party? Come soon without making a minute late,” said Lalithya.
“Yes, as you said I’m on the way to reach you within a few minutes,” said Sneha
“After your arrival, Sneha, we can start the preparations of food items…,” said Lalithya.
Both Shruthi and Sneha arrived at the venue of the birthday function in the garden as a pleasure on their part.
“Hello! Thank you, Shruthi and Sneha, my friends for coming early. Let’s prepare special sweets for my birthday party. Today is a holiday from school. Let us be attentive in the preparation of sweets,” said Lalithya.
“Okay we are ready for the preparation of sweets,” said Shruthi and Sneha.
“I know you are good at preparing sweets and all guests like them,” said Lalithya.
Both Shruthi and Sneha were busy preparing the sweets. Lalithya was happy with her friends. She helped them for a while. Then Lalithya wanted to call other guests on the phone.
“Hello! Mohini, you are late. Shruthi and Sneha have already come, and they are preparing sweets. I hope you remember your respective assigned duties,” said Lalithya.
“Yes, I remember…I’m coming soon, I prepare date juice. It’ll be special. All guests surely enjoy it… Right, I’m coming,” said Mohini.
“Thank you…you are expected soon,” said Lalithya.
Lalithya called Ragini on the phone. She was to prepare Biryani as a special for the birthday party. She was a specialist in preparing biryani.
“Hello Ragini…You are coming here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m coming soon. See me coming… I’ve come here to prepare biryani,” said Ragini.
“Ingredients and rice and all are ready for you…Meanwhile others will come and help you, my dear,” said Lalithya.
Meanwhile all her friends: Shalini, Saba, Razia, Maithili, Mary, Lucy, Rajani, Rani, Swara, and so on arrived at the garden, the birthday venue. Lalithya was happy. They were busy preparing the food items whose preparation was assigned to them. All were busy. Shalini undertook the preparation of a special curry. Maithili looked after the stage arrangements for cultural activities. Saba and Rajani started preparing all kinds of food items. Meanwhile parents: Vinod and Vinuthna: sisters and brothers: Gopika and Harsha, grandparents: Raghu and Sita, and great grandparents: Ramachandra and Sita Devi, uncles and aunts: Venu and Radha, nieces and nephews: Pallavi and Vishal and the Principal Mrs. Yashaswini, Teachers: Smt. Janaki, Smt. Malathi, Smt. Latha and Mr. Praveen, Mr. Kiran, Mr. Shravan, Mr. Nithin came to be the guests of the party. Lalithya welcomed them heartily.
Meanwhile all preparations were ready. All were happy to dine relishing all. All appreciated all food items. Somebody said, “Biryani is very fine”. Somebody said, ‘Curries are very fine’. Somebody said, soups are very special,” Somebody said, ‘Sweets are very fine’. Somebody said, “Chutneys are delicious”. At last, all said “It excels…What is it? It is date-juice that excels all. Lalithya thanked her friends for preparing them well.
After having meals, all relaxed for a while sitting on sofas chitchatting. Light music that had started just before lunch was still entertaining them. They presented gifts wishing Lalithya “A happy Birthday”, extending their blessings and saying that “The birthday would be memorable in her life.” She thanked them profusely for attending her birthday party and making it a grand success.
Nature seemed to enjoy her birthday party. Leaves were dancing while rustling, flowers were smiling, trees were chatting among themselves. All fluttering butterflies and buzzing bees were on their delightful flight to flowers. All birds and animals enjoyed the birthday feast by seeing Lalithya with her guests. It was with the participation of all, it was all worth enjoying. The garden, full of flowers, the venue for the birth party, was heaven descending to the earth. All guests, including Lalithya’s parents and grandparents, the principal and teachers, except friends, felt like leaving the venue. They all got ready and left the venue wishing her “A Happy Birthday” once again. Nature seemed to thank them for visiting it with all love and affection for it. Guests too seemed to thank nature for their sights and sounds, beauty in variety.
Now the stage is ready for the cultural programs. All were ready to participate in singing and dancing, joking and mimicking, playing and sporting, teaching and preaching and all.
Ragini was on the stage. She was like the statue of Ragini on the shrine of sculptures on Ramappa temple. She danced a classical dance. It was very impressive. All sitting and watching her dance felt like dancing like her. A peacock witnessed her dance from a distance. There was a big round of applause to encourage her super performance.
Later Mohini was there dancing a classical dance. It was also very interesting… She looked like the sculpture on the Ramappa shrine in her dancing posture.
Next Lalithya was on the stage. She danced very excellently in the postures of sculptures of Ragini and Mohini on the Ramappa temple. Her dance was worth seeing… They all clapped a long while heartily wishing her ‘A Happy Birthday’. The peacock still watched her dance happily.
There was Sneha on the stage. She danced to a famous film song. It was superb… All clapped for her super dance. She excelled the dance of the actress in the film.
Shalini was ready to dance and danced so excellently for the first time with the encouragement of her friends. She also danced well.
There was Mary like St. Mary on the stage. She danced to the Christian song. It was very excellent. It was also worth seeing.
There was Rajani on the stage singing a song. It was a classical song. All clapped in appreciation of her song. A cuckoo on the tree near listened to it with all attention.
Saba was there on the stage. She was dancing appealing to the visitors.
There was Maithili singing a Hindi song like Lata Mangeshkar. It was very melodious. The cuckoo appears to appreciate her song.
There was Swara who imitated a dialogue of a famous film. It was very fine excelling.
There was Lucy on the stage for a mimicry presentation. She imitated the voice of her teacher in the class and that of the principal. Her imitation was realistic and laughter-provoking.
Like that program with variety items was going on, suddenly a flock of cows came that way of the garden. The flock was treading the stage and around. The cows trod all the friends leaving none on the stage. They fell under their hoofs. Lalithya tried to scare the cows away by shouting, but they somehow trod them, misshaping them unexpectedly.
Lalithya observed her friends’ feelings after they were torn by the flock of cows. She consoled them by saying to them,
“Though you are misshaped, you don’t look ugly. You look beautiful. The impression I already had of you is not lost. Your beauty remains.”
Shruthi started crying in fear. Lalithya rushed to her and checked her with all feelings. Her ears slightly cut off. Her ears appeared to have been eaten by rats… She said to her, “Dear friend, your beauty has not been lost… You look beautiful though your ears slightly cut off. I love you, my dear friend.”
Shalini cried in fear. Lalithya observed her, saying, “O my friend, your nose was very beautiful. Now it is misshaped. Even then it will be okay after cure… I love your nose… You look beautiful to me even with the misshaped nose now.”
Lalithya hugged Saba and observed her, saying to her, “Your cheeks were injured. The glow of your cheeks is diminished. Even then you look beautiful. I love you as my friend. Your beauty still clings in my mind. It is intact”
Ragini was running here and there suffering from pain. When Lalithya asked her what happened to her. Ragini said, “There is much pain… I have wounds in the face… I am not able to bear…”
“Don’t worry…Nothing happened to you. Your beauty is never diminished. I love you forever.” said Lalithya.
Lalithya rushed to Razia… She got some injuries on hands…Lalithya said to her, “Dear friend, even in injuries, you look beautiful. There is no doubt. Your beauty is not lost.”
Maithili called Lalithya saying that she was trodden under a cow’s hoof. She said, “My long nose has become short. People may hate me for my short nose. They may call me Shurpanaka.”
Lalithya consoled her, saying, “No, your nose is injured…no doubt. Your injuries are healed. You don’t lose beauty. I love you for the beauty despite the slight scars of injuries.”
Razia, Mary, Lucy, Rajani, Rani, Swara, and so on were also trodden by cows. Lalithya found some wounds here and there on bodies. She consoled them too,
Lalithya assured them, saying, “Your wounds will be cured… No deformity is possible… Even then there is deformity, you look beautiful…Beauty clings so that I love you all. Though the sculpture is made into pieces in an earthquake, every piece looks beautiful. It is certain. Beauty remains. Even in deformity you look beautiful.”
There a woman came for Lalithya saying, “O! You’re heard speaking. I see you speaking… See, none is there to answer you…to respond to you, who are you speaking to?”
“I am speaking to my friends… My friends are with me to respond to me with love and affection. I usually speak to my friends. We speak to each other and one another.”
“Where are your friends?” said the woman
“Here are my friends, my dear friends. They speak to me happily… I speak to them. They dance and sing if I ask them to do so…They make jokes make me laugh… I make jokes on them they laugh. It is our hobby. We enjoy our plays, sports and so on,” said Lalithya.
“What a wonder! Who are you talking about?” asked the woman.
“I’m talking about my friends…my dear friends…Aren’t you listening to our talk? (Turning towards the woman) They respond to me when I call them fondly… I call them all by their lovely names: Shruthi, Shalini, Saba, Razia, Maithili, Ragini, Mohini and so on. They positively respond to my calls. They’re obedient to me. I share their strains and pains when trodden by the flock of cows. I consoled them and they were consoled. They stopped crying for their deformity. They’re beautiful to me forever. For me a thing of beauty is joy forever. If a beautiful sculpture is broken into pieces, every piece looks beautiful. So is the case with my friends. I love them in the way I loved them in the past,’ said Lalithya as a baby who joined the kindergarten class after playschool.
“My friends, what do you say…? Say ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” said Lalithya.
“Yes…”
“My friends say ‘yes’ with all smiles,” said Lalithya.
“Lalithya, you are good at heart…You feel sorry when all your friends were trodden…You share their tears and they’re in smiles when you consoled them…Yes, your beauty once is beauty forever. Their deformity later cannot diminish their beauty,” said the woman happily.
The woman smiled heartily for the play enacted by Lalithya with her friends. All the guests, relations, and friends attended her birthday party. They prepared food items for the birthday party. They shared the joys of her birthday. All wished her ‘A Happy Birthday’. It is a child’s play, enacted with her friends. They spoke to her, and she spoke to them. Her friends are none but her dolls infinitude. She is accustomed to speaking and listening to them pleasantly.
How wonderful her play with her friends is!... Through dolls as her friends, she tells a great truth: a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta, M.A., M. Phil., Ph. D., Professor of English by profession and poet, short story writer, novelist, writer, critic and translator by predilection, has to his credit 64 books of all genres and 344 poems, short stories, articles and translations published in journals and anthologies of high repute. He has so far written 3456 poems collected in 18 anthologies, 200 short stories in 9 anthologies, nine novels 18 skits. Creative Craft of Dr. Rajamouly Katta: Sensibilities and Realities is a collection of articles on his works. As a poet, he has won THIRD Place FIVE times in Poetry Contest in India conducted by Metverse Muse rajamoulykatta@gmail.com
T. V. Sreekumar
Geetha Miss was our high school English teacher. Other than being a good teacher she was liked by one and all for her attitude. Always with a smile she took special care of the weak students and was always successful in making them come to the forefront. She was also a counsellor of sorts guiding students with their personal issues and the saying in school was
“For Any problem- Geetha Miss”.
Her classes were always very interesting and she invariably came up with thought-provoking stories and connected them with her subject which made us glued to her talks. She handled the literary and debate class and students came forward with their hidden talents and very often boys vs girls debates were crowd-pullers. Once the subject “Universal language” was given and it was always a five minute talk for each one. I spoke of love and compassion and Aparna came up with a different thought which impressed me a lot. She said it was Religion which was the universal language where all spoke silently in one language to the divine in different dialects. I congratulated her for the different thought and she smiled. The smile was the sweetest I had ever seen in a girl and it kept on haunting me and sleepless nights followed.
A few months later Geetha Miss came with an idea that took all of us by surprise. She distributed papers to all and told us to write our names on it. Then she said.
“I will give you five minutes to think and five minutes to write about a subject”.
All of us were excited and in chorus said
“Yes Miss”.
“'Five minutes to live' is the subject and let your creativity soar to greater heights” she said and our thought process started.
“Your time to commence writing starts now” she announced.
It was a challenge and I wondered what idea others might have. I was focussed and never had a doubt in my five minutes. After five minutes the papers were collected and some classmates, I could hear were pleading with Miss “Please, please.”
She wouldn’t have anything of it and said
“Five minutes is five minutes”
Back at her place Miss started reading our wish one by one.
Many came with prayers and Sudhir the humorous one wrote
"I will eat my three-minute noodles and with my stomach full. wait happily for the next two minutes for it to happen with a smile”.
Miss was laughing. She read through the next paper in her hand with a glance at me and a slight smile. She did not read it aloud.
School days came to an end and we parted ways. I was sad bidding farewell to Aparna and even though it will be called crushes, to me the feeling was of a different kind. I liked and respected her from what I had seen and experienced being in the same class for a long time. I did not leave her behind. She was always in my thoughts and deep rooted in my heart.
I came to know that she was pursuing her medical course which was her ambition and I was into Economics and aiming for CA. We were in places far off and through common friends the contact was alive. I told some of my friends about my feelings and certain the cupid's arrow must have reached its destination.
If I remember right, it was during my final year I got this call from an unknown number. It was Aparna and I was so excited that words wouldn’t come. She was into the initial formalities and I was into monosyllables and then the bomb was dropped.
“Geetha Miss gave me your writing on Five minutes to live”
I could hear my heart thumping and did she call me to voice her dislike for writing it.
“Shall I read it”?
Not even waiting for my reply she stated reading it with me listening to each word tensed beyond words. She was reading out what I had written in class all those years ago.
“Five minutes to live and only one thought which I may not be able to express later. This feeling, this craving for one person and unfortunate the other will not be there to hear this as it is five minutes for her too.
I pray to Goddess Parvathy.”
That was my writing and it indirectly implied to whom it was aimed. A liking for her made me look into the meaning of her name earlier and it turned out to be another name of the Goddess which made me adore her more and Geetha Miss rightly guessed it.
There was a pause after reading and maybe she was waiting for a response. I was dumbfounded not knowing what to say and with my emotions remaining the same or stronger for her I kept silent.
“Now that we have outlived the five minutes and come a long way do you still want to pray to Goddess Parvathy?”
I almost shouted
“YES”
A few years later we became man and wife with Geetha Miss gracing the occasion. A registered marriage and the money kept aside for the occasion was donated to the palliative care which needed it the most with the five minutes looming.
Both of us hugged and thanked Geetha Miss profusely as her “five minutes to live” turned to be eternal for us.
T. V. Sreekumar is a retired Engineer stationed at Pondicherry with a passion for writing. He was a blogger with Sulekha for over fifteen years and a regular contributor writing under the name SuchisreeSreekumar.
Some of his stories were published in Women's Era. “THE HINDU” had also published some of his writings on its Open Page..
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: THE FASCINATING STORY OF A BRIDGE!
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
Life is a journey of effort and perseverance, yet the final outcome often remains beyond our control. No matter how meticulously we plan or how much dedication we pour into our work, external forces can shift the path we set for ourselves. In this article, I recount the fascinating story of a Bridge, an engineering marvel that was otherwise a masterclass in construction.
The Bridge we are talking of belongs to Honduras, a captivating country in Central America.With a current population of about 11 million people , Honduras is bordered by Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, the Caribbean Sea (Atlantic; to the north), and the Pacific Ocean (Gulf of Fonseca; to the south).
The country has a diverse and rugged landscape, dominated by mountains, valleys, rivers, and coastal plains. It is one of the most mountainous countries in Central America, with about 80% of its terrain covered in highlands. It has several major rivers that play a crucial role in its ecosystem and economy.
The Choluteca Bridge, which we are referring to here, spanned the Choluteca River, a major river of Honduras and also that of the province of Choluteca. The latter is situated in the southern region of Honduras. It looks obvious that the province (Department) of Choluteca is named after the river Choluteca.
The original Choluteca Bridge, a suspension bridge, was constructed between 1935 and 1937 by the United States Army Corps of Engineers. It was built over the Choluteca River to facilitate transportation and connect different parts of Choluteca city. As mentioned, Choluteca is the capital of Choluteca Department (province).
Honduras is frequented by severe hurricanes from time to time, particularly during the Atlantic hurricane season, which runs from June to November. Its location in Central America, near the Caribbean Sea, makes it vulnerable to tropical storms and hurricanes that form in the region. Hurricanes cause large scale devastation of lives and property and bring untold suffering to people.
The original Choluteca Bridge, a suspension bridge , suffered frequent damages due to hurricanes and cyclones that would render it unserviceable. Although repairs were made, these were temporary and the bridge remained vulnerable to future storms. Recognizing the need for a more resilient structure, the Honduran government commissioned the Japanese company Hazama Ando Corporation to construct a new, long-lasting bridge. The New Choluteca Bridge was built between 1996 and 1998 by this Japanese company which was an arching silver bridge, an engineering feat. It was also known as the Bridge of the Rising Sun.
The new Choluteca bridge - a modern-day marvel of design and engineering was thrown open to the public in 1998. People drove from one side of the Choluteca River to the other, they simply admired the new bridge. It was Choluteca’s pride and joy.
Unfortunately, the same year the bridge was completed, Hurricane Mitch, a Category 5 storm, struck Honduras in October 1998, causing catastrophic flooding and devastation. The storm dumped over 1,900 mm (75 inches) of rain in just four days, an amount equivalent to six months' worth of rainfall. The Choluteca River swelled beyond its banks, submerging the entire region. Tragically, around 7,000 people lost their lives in Honduras alone. Nearly every bridge in the country was destroyed, except for the New Choluteca Bridge, which remained structurally intact despite the overwhelming force of the storm.
The bridge itself stood firm, its engineering unmatched. But nature had other plans—the roads leading to and from the bridge were swept away, erasing any trace of their existence. The real twist came when the Choluteca River, swollen by the storm, carved a new path. Instead of flowing beneath the bridge as intended, it shifted beside it, leaving the once-proud structure standing over nothing. The bridge had not failed, yet it had lost its purpose—earning it the ironic title, "The Bridge to Nowhere." So from the “Bridge of the Rising Sun” it became a “ Bridge to No Where”.
After the disaster, engineers faced a dilemma—should they redirect the river, abandon the bridge, or build a new connection? Eventually, in 2003, the bridge was reconnected to the highway, though its original purpose as a river-crossing structure was lost. Despite its unusual fate, the bridge has become a symbol of resilience and adaptability, frequently referenced in discussions about engineering, change, and flexibility. While it was successfully integrated into the road network, it never regained its function as a bridge spanning the Choluteca River.
This serves as a profound lesson—while we deeply admire the brilliance of human (Japanese ) engineering and technological advancements, nature often reminds us that its forces are beyond human control. As John Lubbock wisely observed, “Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountain and the sea, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more than we can ever learn from books.” Indeed, nature’s power humbles us, shaping both landscapes and our understanding of resilience.
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
Suresh came out of the railway station a little after nine in the morning. Even at that early hour it was unbearably hot outside. Suresh was sweating horribly.
The two bearers who had carried his father in the ramshackle stretcher put him down on the dirty floor, removed the stretcher and said,
"You got the body, should we not get something?"
Suresh winced, as if someone had stabbed him with a sharp knife. He looked down at his father, lying helplessly, oblivious to the noise of the crowd, the filth, the stench of the railway station and the twof irreverent flies hovering over his face, waiting to settle down on him. A wave of uncontrolled grief swept over him. Tears blinded his eyes.
A crowd was forming around them. The two bearers had started waving their dirty, thin piece of towel, to show their annoyance at the delay. He took out a hundred rupee note and gave it to them. They lingered, hoping to extract some more, but with tears streaming down his face Suresh just shook his head gently. The two bearers went away, cursing him silently. If anyone was offering prayers for his dead father, Suresh knew, these two heartless bearers would not be among them.
Suresh made a silent calculation in his mind. How much would be left in his pocket? A thousand? Or maybe about twelve hundred rupees. Last night when he boarded the train at Varanasi at eleven, he had a little more than two thousand rupees left with him. That would have sufficed to reach his village along with his father. But who knew Baba would have a massive heart attack early in the morning, and collapse in the train? The TTE had put his hand near his father's nose, and advised Suresh to get down at the nearest station and rush him to the hospital. His father was still breathing feebly when they alighted at this small station somewhere in Bihar, but within five minutes he became still. Suresh touched him in panic, it seemed there was no life left in him.
The train had already left. Suresh started howling in anguish. A few passengers waiting for their trains carried his father to the office of the Railway Protection Force. Two constables sleeping in the small mosquito-infested room got up from their deep sleep and started shouting at everyone - "What tamasha is, who brought the body here, how can you disturb the policemen on duty......." Suresh folded his hands and prayed to them to help him take his father to the hospital, maybe he was still alive. The smarter of the two constables got up from his bed, touched Suresh's father and said,
"Nah, don't waste your time and money. He is dead, as dead as a slab of stone. You just wait here. we will send for the railway doctor. He will give you the death certificate. After that you remove the body. This is summer. The body will start rotting in a few hours."
Suresh's heart sank. Body? His father, a body? In a matter of just one hour a living man became a body? And how cruel of this policeman to say his 'body' would rot? What does he mean, rot? How can his father rot? It was only yesterday around this time he was bathing in Dasaswamedh ghat in Varanasi, getting ready to have one more round of Darshan at the Kashi Viswanath temple. This dignified man, a teacher to thousands of students at the village Primary School, how could he rot? Does this policeman know, how, till a few years back the students would fall at his feet and touch them in great reverence!
The policeman suddenly realised the body was kept on a long bench in the room, he started yelling at the crowd like crazy, "Hey, who kept the body on the bench? Are you all idiots? You want to spoil my bench. Take the body down, take it down, now, immediately!" Suresh's voice choked, he wanted to tell the insensitive man not to keep calling his father a body, and please to allow his father to rest on the bench. But before he could say anything the constable cast a stern, burning glance at him and shut him up. The man had measured Suresh up with his expert, hawk like eyes, this grieving, grovelling man must be a nobody from some village from somewhere, sounds like a Bengali or Odiya. The policeman could unleash the full power of the state without any possibility of a protest! Couple of men who had gathered in the room brought the body down to the floor and left. Suresh sat down at the feet of his father.
Suresh slipped into a reverie. His father's face which was so radiant yesterday, having accomplished the mission of darshan at the famed temple, had faded into an melancholic frown. Lines on the forehead were looking prominent. Yet, his father was so normal last night when they boarded the train. He had relished the poori and sabji outside the station, taking an extra filling. Did he know it would be his last meal? Do people have a premonition of death?
His father had talked so many times in the past about his death. He was very particular that Suresh should not waste too much money on his funeral ceremonies. No need for a big feast for friends and relatives, "What friends, what relatives? Has anyone come in the last ten years after I retired, to see me, to enquire about my health? All ungrateful people! My students whom I moulded in the beginning of their early education forgot me. When I sought their help to get a decent job for you in the nearby town, no one helped. You had to settle for the job of a Panchayat clerk in the village! You have been a good son, your wife a kind daughter-in-law. Just listen to me, don't waste money on my death ceremonies. Save it for your children's education."
Suresh remembered his father's words as if he was speaking to his son in person.
"These days women are getting a Deputy's job, they are becoming magistrates, you will see our Kanak will become a Deputy. And your son? Arjun? Such a gifted child! I have taught him everything I knew about mathematics. He will always top the class, you will see he will become a Collector or a Commissioner one day. Give the children a good education. Use my savings for them. Don't waste any money on feasts and feeding the Brahmins. These Brahmin pundits are all fraud, I can chant better mantras than them. But I cannot chant mantras in my own funeral, can I? Don't worry, nothing will happen to my soul, it's a pure soul, I never cheated anyone in life, did no harm to anybody. Whether you give a feast or not, I will reach heaven, where your Maa is waiting for me. Ah, only if I could have taken her to Kashi with me! The poor thing didn't give me a chance to do that, here today, gone tomorrow! Pneumonia! Pneumonia took her away from me! Tomorrow I will withdraw ten thousand rupees from my Post Office Savings Bank for the Kashi trip. Go and buy the train tickets as soon as you can. We will take a bath in the Ganges, have a Darshan of Baba Viswanth and return the next day. We have to come back before Dussehra so that I can do the annual puja at the temple like I have been doing for the last forty years."
Remembering his father, streams of tear continued to flow from Suresh's eyes. His worries were piling up. He knew he was far away from his village and it may not be possible to carry his father back to his home in this hot summer. How would he do a cremation here, in this strange town, where he knew nobody? Who would guide him, he had no idea about the rituals. And how would he do it with just a little more than two thousand rupees? And where was the doctor? It was past eight thirty now. Already three hours have passed after his Baba's death.
Suddenly Suresh was rudely brought back from his reverie. The two policemen had appeared from somewhere, with a doctor in tow. They demanded one thousand rupees, even before the doctor touched the body. Suresh pleaded with them, he had very little money with him. Everything was spent at Varanasi. But the policemen were unmoved. The doctor had to take his fees. And if Suresh doesn't pay, they have to hand over the body to Bihar Police to check if there is any foul play in the death of the old man. Then the matter will become very complicated. Suresh paid the thousand rupees and asked them if there was a train to Odisha from that station. They shook their head. "Only two trains stop here, one to Ranchi, the other to Assansol. Both come after midnight, if they are on time. But they are never on time." The policemen sent for two bearers and asked them to take the 'body' outside after the doctor handed over the death certificate.
After Suresh got rid of the two bearers by giving them a hundred rupees, he felt like sitting down near his Baba and cry to his heart's content. But time was running out. He had to do something, arrange for Baba's cremation.
Suresh felt a presence near him, somebody was tapping him on the shoulder. He looked at the man. Clad in a dhoti and a kurta he was looking like a minor political leader or some kind of broker. A smile appeared on the man's face.
"Myself by name Giridhari Lal, social worker. I help people in distress. Tell me, have you thought of cremation, do you know where is the cremation ground?"
Suresh shook his head in despair,
"No, I don't know anything, I am a stranger in the town"
Giridhari Lal suddenly tugged at Suresh's shirt,
"Do you see those two police men coming towards us? They will ask for some money. Just give them two hundred rupees each and we will move the body away."
Four hundred rupees? Suresh felt helpless,
"But I just paid one thousand rupees to the RPF police! Why should I pay again?"
Giridhari smiled, convinced that this simpleton needed a lot of explaining.
"That was for RPF, this will be for the Bihar Police, they are as different as Congress and Jan Sangh, don't you know? Wait here, let me see if I can ward them off, the blood suckers!" Giridhari approached the two policemen and talked to them animatedly. They nodded, smiled and for some strange reason shook hands with him, as if they were giving their blessings to him. Giridhari returned to Suresh,
"I told them everything, they won't bother us. So now we have to do something about this body here. Don't worry, as a social worker I have seen this before. I will arrange a good auto-rickshaw driver, they all know me here. We will go to the cremation ground by the river Ganges. I will arrange everything, you don't have to do anything. Just hand over ten thousand rupees. That will cover everything, the wood, the Pundits' fees and the transport to and from this station. You will be safely deposited back here by the evening, buy your ticket and go home, carrying your father's ashes."
Suresh was desperately trying to interrupt him but Giridhari believed in doing a thorough job, so he couldn't stop before giving the full picture to this simple-looking man. Suresh had raised his hand to stop him from his non-stop blabbering, he brought it down, folded both his hands and said,
"I don't have so much money. At Varanasi the priests were relentless, putting the fear of several births in my father's head. We had to pay them four thousand rupees for all kinds of puja. The hotel manager charged two thousand rupees for room, but another one thousand for food. All the money I had brought with me is gone. I can't pay you ten thousand rupees." Giridhari cast a malevolent look at the dead body and flashed an evil grin at Suresh,
"Looks like the old bugger screwed you right royally before departing!" (Lagtaahey Buddheney jaate jaate tumko achha chuna laga diya).
Suresh flew into a rage and shouted at Giridhari,
"Hey, don't say such things about my father! You uncouth scoundrel, how can you talk like this? Who are you? Did I call you? Just leave me alone. I don't want your services, go away."
In a moment the experienced Giridhari transformed himself into his obsequious self. Turning on a measured, oily smile, just good enough to entice the victim, he said,
"Aha, don't take offence. The priests in Varanasi are real devils. And the hotel wallahs are heartless leeches. We are not like that here, we will charge you only the cost of materials. Our services will be free. All of us are doing social service only. Come, let us leave this place first, you hold the head, I will take the legs. Let us leave the station premises. Some other police men may come running if they see a dead body. Once you get into their clutches, they are like Otopus, they will not let you out."
Suresh and Giridhari lifted the body and took it outside to the pavement. The rays of the sun were like burners emitting heat. Giridhari came down to business without further delay. Like an experienced snake, he was sure of the prey, he just wanted to numb Suresh with shock so that he could not run away,
"So, how much money do you have with you? Let me see if I can reduce a few hundred rupees here and there."
Suresh shook his head,
"It won't work, a little more than a thousand rupees is all that I have."
Giridhari Lal's face collapsed, like a punctured balloon,
"What? A thousand rupees? You can't even cremate an one-legged cat with that much money!"
Suresh again shook his head. Giridhari's experienced gaze roamed on Suresh's body and broke into a sly grin, "Don't worry, when will the ring on your finger come to use? And the watch? Just give them to me, keep two hundred rupees for your train ticket and hand over rest of the money. I will try to manage the cremation with whatever little amount we can arrange from your ring and the watch. Suresh looked at Giridhari helplessly. The scoundrel was gazing at the ring with lust, his eyes had narrowed like a serpent's sly eyes and pure venom was oozing out of them. He shuddered. In the flash of a moment, Suresh guessed what Giridhari was - a slimy trickster who might run away with his ring and the watch. He had an emotional attachment to both of them. The ring was a gift from his mother-in-law at the time of marriage, with strict instructions not to remove it at any time. It was a special ring, sanctified by a pooja and Chandipaath, meant to protect him from all evil. And the watch? The watch was given by his father after Suresh's graduation from college. He had been wearing it every day of his working life and could never think of parting with it. If he had to sell them for his father's cremation he would do it, but he would not hand them over to this sly trickster, at any cost. He made up his mind, looked at Giridahari and said, "No Bhaiya, I can't part with these two things, I have some emotional attachment for them. If you can manage with thousand rupees I can give it to you."
Giridhari started dancing like he was on a hot bed of coal, "You cheap idiot! You want to do cremation of your father with a thousand rupees? A thousand rupees! This is the respect you have for your father? Take out the ring! Now,! Do it now, if you don't want to rot in hell after your death! What an idiot one has to encounter so early in the morning!"
Without waiting for Suresh to take out the ring he started lifting the hand, wanting to remove it. Suresh was horrified. He snatched his hand back and started shouting at Suresh, "Leave me alone, don't you people have a heart? I just lost my father, and all you fellows can think of is money, how to make money out of me? You are behaving like wild dogs running after a hapless rabbit! Shame on you!"
Giridhari recoiled at the loud shout. Just then a cycle-rickshaw drew up near the pavement. The rickshaw puller, a tall dark man with a towel wrapped on his head got down and came near Suresh.
"Babuj, come on, lift the body of your Baba and put it on the rickshaw. I have heard everything. This fellow Giridhari who is scampering away like a wounded dog, is no less than a criminal. He specialises in victimising innocent stragers. Get in Babuji. We have to get out of here. Look at those two municipality staff coming towards us. Mark the way they are looking at the body. They want their pound of flesh. I will take you away in the opposite direction just to get away from them. Don't delay Babuji, they have started quickening their pace. Trust me Babuji, I am not like that scoundrel Giridhari Lal. And this is not the first time I have rescued a stranger from his clutches."
Going by his experience in this strange town this morning Suresh was far from reassured, but he had no choice. The two men from Municipality were getting dangerously close. He and the rickshaw-puller lifted his Baba's body into the rickshaw and started moving. He asked the rickshaw-wallah what was his name. "Moti, Babuji, but don't get deceived by my name. I hardly have any pearl. My pocket is as empty as yours at the moment, although I guess you are not poor like me. I come from a village in Mungher district. I stay here in a small hut in the slum. My family is in my village. Babuji, do you want a cremation with a big puja by the pundits? Those pundits at the cremation grounds are vultures, they will loot you mercilessly. And Giridhari Lal is one of their agents. They are heartless butchers. But if you still want to do the cremation through them, I can take you there. We can first go to a jewellery shop and sell your ring which Giridhari Lal was trying to snatch from you. Then we will go to the cremation ground."
Suresh remembered what his Baba had said about not wasting money on Brahmins and priests. He asked, "What is the alternative? My Baba was not very particular about rituals."
Moti replied,
"Alternately, we can do what I have done a few times earlier. We can go to the cremation ground near the Ganges after nightfall. These Pundits would have left by then. We will do a little puja by one of the Brahmins who lives in our basti. We will buy the wood from my neighbour who works in a wood godown. For two hundred rupees he will give as much wood as we need. Babuji, can you count your money and tell me how much you have? You have to keep something for your ticket also. If you need a couple of hundred rupees or more, I can arrange it for you. My friends in the Basti may be poor, but their heart is much bigger than dogs like Giridhari Lal."
Suresh counted all the money he had. It came to twelve hundred ninety two rupees. Moti thought for a moment,
"I think it should be enough. Two hundred rupees for wood, two hundred rupees for the Brahmin to do the puja, about two hundred rupees for the things you need for the puja including some ghee. Don't worry Babuji, you have enough money, we don't have to borrow, nor you need to sell your ring. I have done this before, this simple cremation for those whose relatives die in the hospital and they have no money even to return to their village. Now I will take you to my little hut, where you and your Baba can wait till evening. Do you want to eat anything during the day?"
Suresh shook his head, "Only two-three cups of tea, if it is available nearby."
Moti smiled,
"Everything is available here. The tea shop is just twenty meters away. I will ask Gajanan, the tea-wallah to send you cups of tea at regular intervals. Don't bother to pay him Babuji, I have a monthly account with him. Save your money for the return journey. He will also send some strong dhoop sticks. We will have to buy some ice to prevent the body from decomposing. Summer is really cruel this year. I will go and arrange the ice. Give me two hundred rupees for ice and another two hundred rupees for the wood. Don't worry Babuji, my own cousin works in the ice factory. He also lives here with me in this hut. He will send the ice four five times so that we have a steady supply of ice throughout the day."
They had reached Moti's hut. It was quite cool inside because of the thatched roof. Moti sprinkled lots of water on the roof to maintain some coolness inside and then left in search of new customers. There was no bed in the room, but otherwise it was reasonably clean. Suresh dozed off. Gajanan sent tea four times during the day. Moti returned at seven in the evening with five of his friends, two of them with rickshaws. All of them left for the cremation ground. Suresh sat in the rickshaw with Baba's head on his lap. It was Baba's final journey, in a cycle rickshaw, to a strange cremation ground in an unknown town. A far cry from the village where his Maa's final rites were performed on a rainy evening, made wetter by copious tears from relatives.
The Brahmin from the basti accompanied the group. He performed the puja with minimum fuss and the body was laid on the pile of woods for lighting of the pyre. That's when all hell broke loose. Four people emerged from the darkness, armed with lathis and started beating up everyone in sight. Moti's group was caught by surprise, but they also had hockey sticks hidden under the seat of the cycle rickshaws. Moti dragged Suresh to some bushes and asked him to lie low,
"Just sit quietly Babuji, it looks like Giridhari Lal had informed the priests and all of them are in this mayhem together. Don't worry, we will have the cremation. We are six, they are four. We will beat them up and drive them away. Just wait here. I will come back."
Suresh started shivering. Out of fear, anger and frustration. What kind of lawless town is this? Are the policemen prompt only in collecting money from unsuspecting victims, or do they protect the innocent also?
After what seemed an eternity, Moti appeared, blood flowing out of a gash on his forehead. Suresh gave a cry, looking at him. Moti put his hand on Suresh's mouth. "Babuji, we had underestimated their number. More goondas have joined them. Looks like it will be a prolonged battle. Come with me. Your Baba is destined to ride the holy Ganges to heaven. These fellows will not allow us to light the pyre. They have been waiting ever since we had the first cremation about two years back, today they are bent upon stopping us. Come with me, quick, Babuji. The battle has shifted to the nearby gate. Let us finish the job at the river bank before they come back."
"But Moti, your wound? The flow of blood needs to stop!"
"Don't worry Babuji, we Biharis are very strong. Nothing will happen. It will stop on its own."
Suresh and Moti carried the body to the steps of the Ganges. Suresh had a final look at his father. He lit a lamp and put it on a big leaf-bowl. They lowered the body unto the water along with the lamp. Slow, steady laps of water touched his father's feet and serenely pulled him onto the lap of Mother Ganges. Tears were flowing like an unstoppable stream from his eyes. Suresh felt a hand on his shoulder, he grabbed it and broke into sobs. He knew, he had come as a stranger into this unknown town, but found a friend who had transcended all barriers and helped him to bid a tearful good bye to his dear father. The earthen lamp was flickering and moving away on the water. Suresh thought he could read a message in that flicker. It was his Baba telling him, "Don't be sad, my son, you have done your best, what more could you do? A stranger in this weird little town? Return to your family, my son! Let me go now. Your Maa must be waiting for me."
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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