LiteraryVibes, a Supplement of PositiveVibes.Today.
Welcome to LiteraryVibes,
Please send your poems, short stories, anecdotes, short travelogues or philosophical musings to mrutyunjays@gmail.com for the next issue of LiteraryVibes every Friday.
Regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
BANARAS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Ganga twirls
under my feet; the country boat
dances in spiritual ardour.
Eyeballs simmer
in the cauldron of evening orange
over the cow-dust in old hags’ wraps.
She peddles heaven
exuding the aroma of moksha,
musty to modern nostrils.
Rising smoke from riverbank pyres
searches the sky
for release, open-mouthed.
The peach and pink of the sky wither
against the smouldering cow dung cakes
smoking beneath decrepit cooking pots
along the city’s poor corridors.
They seem impatient to join the pyres,
desperate for a release of another kind.
The holy reek
fails to hold back the city
from jumping into her paramour’s arms,
her patron god Vishvanath’s;
the Lingam livid in the evening,
drunk with beloved’s reeking pheromones.
Its guards lowered, the Lingam
promises eternal joy
of its legendary divine amour;
combs with the sun’s last
rays
its mistress’s truculent hair
until the sin-city’s coyness flounders.
She pushes away her lord-paramour
at the cry of the first holy conch
sounding ominously divine;
drums and cymbals joining the milieu
followed by Bismillah’s
weeping Shehnai.
Shehenai’s soulful ragas,
roam the streets with unrequited longing;
the lord takes his beloved Banaras out
in her Banarasi Sari
for feasting in her naked lanes
over hot kachoris dipping them in nimona.
Mouth-melting Banarasi Pan,
‘soma’ to her mouth,
has to hold patience
until she catches a few pariah patrons
at her junk food stalls
on tender hooks of fear and moksha.
KUMBH
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The dip is dichotomy,
filth and purity compete
in divine depths;
turbid water, torrid mind,
divine ardour,
a name, purer
than the priest’s.
Who would wash whom,
wash what, filth of soul
or the defiled water?
Looking across –
see you peel, and dip;
golden brown fruits
sticking out beneath wet linen,
bent with coyness,
hiding a pretence;
you unfurl a raven cloud,
fling it back, soaked to strands,
dip again; the strands float up
challenging black Cyclops-eyes.
I don’t really know
why we fight
the river and you
and me at the vertex,
the eternal triangle;
why I beseech the river
to wash my sinless soul
I offer on a platter,
“Don’t make it filthy
with your muck.”
My goddess, here I come,
show me sin and serenity churn
not in dichotomy
but in harmony
like Mohammed and mountain.
With your fire
burn the eyes,
the Cyclops,
that skim and swim
in the churned water.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.
BOUQUET
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Assorted colours
and painted
patterns
to match.
Each prettier
than the next.
All vying
for our eyes.
No matter,
Who claims
the credit
for their creation,
the joy they impart
belongs
to all.
January 2019
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England, a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Hey there, Life!
Ananya Priyadarshini
Oh the life I've been living
For days and months and years
It's today that in your eyes I'm seeing
Tell me a story
Tell me your story
Tell me where you failed
Tell me when you sobbed
Show me those scars, those wounds
The emptiness that makes those eerie sounds
Whisper to me the guilts
You're carrying in your heart
Or those responsibilities on your fragile shoulders
That tear your dreams apart
Tell me what breaks you
Tell me what hurts you
Tell me what you fear
Tell me what you crave for
Your courage, your glories
Your strength, your triumphs
Let them be sung over cheers of wine
Here I'm to pat your struggles
To hug your vulnerabilities like they're mine
I live you and love you, dear life
Tell me a story
You'd always wanted to tell me.
Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).
Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017.
"Dreams"**
Afnan Abdullah
"The white Swift dzire halted at the rugged charcoal road blistering at the mercy of Jharkhand's 40 degrees weather. A discomforting odour of coal and burnt diesel created a nauseating mixture which didn't help my motion sickness one bit. After an exhausting 4 hour drive, we still were about 3 hours away from the destination.
"Khaa lo kuchh warna vomiting jaisa lagega..."
(Have something to eat, or you'll be feeling nauseous throughout the journey).
Ammi's eternal quest to make me a plump child brought me back from the rosy world I was busy building at the back of my mind.
Ah. How much have I waited for this moment. How surreal this instant is! How much my life is going to change from this very instant.
The roadside dhaaba had a huge rusty frame and walls with crevices and cracks spreading throughout as if it can fall any instant. With much reluctance I entered and we sat at the chairs laid out in front of the window frame.
The first time I laid my eyes on hum I didn't think much of him. He was just another kid with worn-out clothes, working in a restaurant. Waiting tables, cleaning utensils and patiently listening to all the abuses from "saheb". It didn't disturb me. So desensitized we have become, so habituated to see these situations that they don't disturb us anymore.
Moments passed and we were lost in conversation. Bhai ordered a couple of gulab jamuns and samosas. A few minutes later, the boy came with the food arranged neatly on a steel plate but then stopped midway, in response to a harsh slur from one of the staff and turned back to get the tea plate he had forgotten. In the meanwhile, abbu was chatting with the owner and we were all busy on our phones.
I noticed the boy leaving the kitchen and gradually coming to a stop near our table and getting lost in a swarm of thoughts. He stood still with both the plates in his hands and eyes lost in an emotionless stare. At that instant of time, he looked like character from a munshi premchand story. The desperate look, the worn-out clothes, the oppressive master and a stressful life that no kid ever deserves.
Abbu jokingly asked him, "Aap kuchh bhool rahe Hain?"
To which he came to life and gave an embarrassed smile, while abbu patted his head.
That small meaningless moment made me thoughtful. What was he thinking? Where was he living? Was he an orphan? Or worse, does he have ailing, old parents? The more I thought about him, the more uneasy I was feeling about it.
I realised how random and unpredictable destiny is, how anyone of us could've been him. What if I was in his place? Why doesn't he has someone from the 7 billion people out there by his side? "Because they all came and *felt* bad about it, they all were *disturbed* about it but they never actually did anything about it, they never tried their best to actually help such people." My subconscious replied to my face, leaving me with moist eyes. I realised I had come out of the restaurant and we entered the vehicle.
The car engine roared and leaving a cloud of dust in the wind, raced towards the national highway.
.
The boy silently came to the table, took the plates and glasses and stuffed that one piece of gulab jamun, someone had left for him into his mouth and casually walked towards the kitchen. "
Afnan Abdullah is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. He completed his schooling from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. A person of varied interests Afnan likes football, medicine and Urdu poetry and literature in general.
Between
Anwesha Mishra
Not a noise I made,
Treading the endless road
And walked on.
The way got denser.
A sweat bead streamed down my face.
Swallowing the consequence of the physical expression of terror, I
Heaved; blinding stills from long back
The tender touch, a sweet kiss,
That was when i was born.
And time has paced so far,
Irreparably,
Like the waves returning to the Huge
After washing the sands.
Hark! The cicada cried.
I stood, motionless, amidst the woods,
And turned,
Only to see the road,
Dark and dense and deep,
Just as the path that lay ahead of me.
But there was that familiar voice,
In the rustling of old foliage this side.
And the wish to be back into those loving arms
Took the shape of a drop of saline water;
Warm, may be from the intense humidity.
Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy.
The Last Journey
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
When you go home Buddy,
From this war field of Afghanistan, this pool of blood and torn flesh
Tell my folks I am on my last journey,
Not knowing why I started it in the first place,
Whose war I was fighting, for whom I am dying.
Tell my Mom
I am carrying the sweet smell of her pancakes with me,
And the memory of my schoolbag,
The shoestrings she lovingly used to tie before putting me in the school bus.
My Dad,
His endless trips to the mall with me,
The ice cream, pizzas and the movies.
My Sister, the elder one,
I am carrying the broken mirrors of a thousand pranks,
Tell her I always knew where she hid my crayons
I just wanted to make her happy pretending not to know,
To the Younger one,
What can I give her except renewing a promise
That I will be there smiling in the crowd on her prom night,
Clapping my heart out in my formless shadow.
And to my Sweetheart,
Yes, to my sweetheart,
Tell her I am carrying with me
All her whispers, the soft sighs
And the selfless surrender of her heart, her being and her consciousness.
As life sips out of me drip by drip.
I wish she knew how heavy I feel in my short foot steps
Carrying the sweet loads of her memory
On this journey,
My last journey.
The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Girls in Mumbai are delightfully bold. Nothing unnerves them! They are fearless, going out for Coffee at one o' clock in the night in the neighbouring Baristas or for Kulfi at Chowpatty. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can beat their chutzpah.
The girl in this true story was a wispy, sprightly Mumbaikar of fifteen or so, selling strings of Jasmine flower flitting from car to car near the traffic signal at Haji Ali. My friend's wife was driving her car along with three of her colleagues from the office and stopped at Hazi Ali to have a bite of Icecream. The jasmine girl came running to them offering the flowers accompanied by a sweetly mischievous, out of the world, smile:
- Phool logey Auntyji? Lo naa, aapkey gorey gorey cheherepey khub jamegaa! Ekdum jhakaas!
- Kya bhav hai?
- Sirf tees rupaye! Aap ke liye pachees! Ley lo naa! De Doon char?
- Chal hatt, nehin chahiye! Pachees rupaye mey itna thodaa saa Phool?
The girl was about to run away when one of the ladies hollered after her,
- Aey, Icecream khaaegi kya?
And the ladies started laughing. Before disappearing behind a car the girl shouted back
- Icecream laa rahey ho to merey liye Cassata lana....mujhe achhi lagti hey...
My friend's wife got down to buy the ice cream. Her friends were rolling in laughter, "Look at the rajkumari, she likes nothing but Cassata!"
In five minutes they were eating their ice cream in the car and looking for the jasmine girl. She suddenly appeared from nowhere, the strings of flower hanging from her shoulder. They gave her the Icecream. And my friend's wife turned the ignition to start the car. Suddenly the girl took out four strings of flower and gave them to her through the open window.
The friends were taken aback. One of them took out a hundred rupees note and offered to her. She waved her away. The sweetly mischievous smile was back, "Ye Phool meri tarafsey! Aap ney mujhe Icecream diya, mera Phool qubul kijiyey!"
And she ran away in an incredibly sweet way only a Mumbai girl with loads of chutzpah can do!
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. The ninth collection of his short stories in Odiya will come out soon.
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