LiteraryVibes - 2nd Edition - 8-Feb-2019
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
REQUIEM AT TUAM
(Dedicated to the 26th August 2018)
(Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
The death and rot
crush my little body,
press me from all sides -
thousands of glass-fix eyes,
stony little tongues, and stifled beats
of tiny rocky hearts
melted into a loam
of powdery brittle bones.
Calcify memories,
fear braiding our camaraderie;
we lie rock-dry, cheek by jowl,
devoured by worms,
sucked by meandering roots.
The only water that ever seeps
to reach our parched lips,
the tear of our unwed mothers,
the bereft angels of love.
“Blessed be your love, its fruits!”
whispered the Pope
in his Papal Prayer;
our tangled bones had little space
to turn in our grave
to make room for his holy words
that pardoned even the sacred shame.
Would the Papal tears wash the blot -
ours or our unwed mothers’ -
paining more than burning at the stake,
for the sacrament
they committed,
for the cross they bore,
leaving no ash, no soot?
Well, we can hope ….. !
(Pope Francis held a requiem mass at Tuam, Ireland, on 26.08.18 for the nameless lost souls of more than 800 babies whose mortal remains lie buried in a mass grave there (disposed between 1914-1961, revealed in 2014), the fruits of unwed mothers.)
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.
The Saga of Parvatiamma Family
Anil K Upadhyay IAS (BH:1975) retired
Parvatiamma and her family we inherited as a part of 5, President’s Estate, when it was allotted to me in the early 1990 as Director in the President’s Secretariat. The sprawling bungalow at the corner of Willingdon Crescent (now Mother Teresa Crescent) near RML Hospital roundabout had an equally sprawling outhouse comprising six living units, four of which were occupied by Parvatiamma and her family. On the first day they dutifully lined up before my wife and, as per the standard protocol of Delhi government quarters, asked her politely whether we could let them stay or would have them leave. Since we had no domestic help of our own and my predecessor Neelkanthan had given strong recommendation, we had no particular reason to ask them to vacate. And then started a long association with a most amazing family embodying the best of human spirit, perseverance and generosity.
Parvatiamma was clearly the Queen Bee of her family. She had four children, five in fact – but the eldest, Rani was already married. The four that came to us were the sons Shanmugam and Murthy, and daughters Mani and Vijji. Mani and Vijji, 12 and 10 were about my daughters’ age and became their playmates. The boys, who were older, were in class nine-ten. They did not seem to have it in them to go beyond school. But they, especially Murthy, had something else which was much more valuable in life as I later discovered. Parvatiamma also had a sort of husband, Venkatesh, who was not up to much good – beyond fathering the five children there was not much evidence of his role in bringing up the family.
My coming to Delhi from Patna was a routine matter of central deputation. Parvatiamma’s journey on the other hand from a remote tribal hamlet in Tamil Nadu to Delhi a few years back, her struggling here and there and then landing at 5, President’s Estate was a story of struggles and drama of epic proportions.
Successive droughts in her village had brought the family to the brink of starvation. She decided one day to pack her family and her meagre possessions and boarded GT Express to Delhi – she had heard of some distant cousin from a nearby village who had migrated to Delhi and was getting on with life as a domestic help. On landing at New Delhi railway station, how could Parvatiamma, not knowing a word other than Tamil, with five children from age 3 to 13 years in tow, manage to reach her cousin is one of the enduring mysteries about the family. The cousin fixed her up with an Under Secretary’s household in Minto Road multi-storeyed apartments, the low end of babu housing. By dint of her hard work she progressed to a Deputy Secretary house and then met Neelkanthan on South Indian network and landed at 5, President’s Estate. By the side she had also got a part-time job with a Canara Bank branch, courtesy a kind-hearted South Indian manager, to serve tea and water to the manager and the bank’s customers. Subsequently, she had her husband also engaged in the same branch on part-time basis.
On our first Diwali in the house, Parvatiamma stood at the door smiling with a box of sweets and a gift hamper in her hand which she wanted to give us. We were taken aback. She assured us she had not paid for it, it was a gift from the bank. But surely she had a family of her own, and a big one at that. She said she had got two sets from the bank, one for herself and another for her aadmi – what would she do with two of these. Her insistence and sincereity was stronger than our protest. Thereafter, every Diwali or New Year or any festival, Parvatiamma would be there with goodies and sweets, because she had got two sets from the bank and she could do with one and, therefore, the other she had to give to us. Very rarely one comes across giving away with such large heartedness.
During our stay in the house Parvatiamma was able to find a very worthy match for Mani. The boy was a junior engineer in the Railways. Sometime after the marriage Parvatiamma came up to me for a small help - whether I could put in a word to someone in the Railways for allotting him a quarter on priority. Not too long ago I had a rather unflattering experience with the Railway Board. On a relatively relaxed day I had gone over to the Railway Board planning to take a stroll down the corridors to see if I could find some old SCRA friends. To my surprise they did not allow any other ID than the Railway Board’s. The Haryanvi security did not care that I was coming from the office of the supreme authority in the country, the President of India, on whose pleasure he held his job. He wanted me to get an entry pass made at the reception, which was impossible as I was on an exploratory trip and secondly, there was complete bedlam and chaos at the reception from hundreds of people seeking entry – all were train reservation seekers in the HQ quota, with some connection to some Railway Board staff. With this experience fresh in my mind I told Parvatiamma I would get back to her within a week after I had done some research to locate some contact.
Within a few days I called her to take down the details when she told me her work was already done, she had already met the Minister of State for Railways who was from Tamil Nadu. But I was still incredulous, how could she get past the security. Well, the security was indeed nasty to her, she gave back in full measure, how dare they stop her from meeting her MP. She went upstairs. There too the security tried to act difficult and the same drama followed. Hearing the commotion the MoS sent for her. He asked his staff to prepare her application on which he wrote something on the margin, and now the allotment order was issued. I told her, henceforth I would seek her help for any work in the Railways, such as reservations etc.
After schooling Shanmugam did some odd jobs, Murthy learned driving and was employed to drive a private car on a pittance which is the norm in the unorganised sector.
I reverted to Patna in 1995. Parvatiamma family kept in touch with us. One day Murthy gave us the good news that he had bought the rickety ambassador he was driving from the owner and, therefore, the next time when I visited Delhi I could call him for local travels. On one of my Delhi visits Murthy asked me if it was an official visit. On my saying yes, he fished out a printed receipt on behalf of Karuna Transport Company. Karuna was the name of his wife, and he had set up this partnership firm in her name. On occasions when my wife accompanied me to Delhi, Parvatiamma would come along in Murthy’s car with idlis, vadas in a hotcase – South Indian snacks she cooked were easily the best we had anywhere. There was no question of their accepting any payment for that.
On every subsequent visit I found Murthy’s business had grown some more. He would have bought a new Indica or a new Esteem if a corporate client required this car on long-term lease. He himself drove the old ambassador, but he employed a number of drivers. He had unrestricted entry to any VIP parking lot, as his car bore an MP parking label. This MP Sahib who had engaged him would be mostly out of Delhi, he would be in Delhi only during the sessions. Murthy’s business seemed to grow horizontally too. When he drove, his mobile phone never ceased to ring. It would not only be about car rental – the conversation could be on tissue culture, partnership deed, flat, meetings, appointments, income tax return etc. He was into what he called liaison business – fixing appointments for industrialists and businessmen, Indian or foreign, visiting Delhi, with MPs and others. His other businesses were ‘direct selling’ such as Amway and, real estate, travel agencies etc. He had reached a level where every month a good amount of money would come to him automatically.
I came back to Delhi in 2004, and our contact was renewed. When I was in the Ministry of Defence, Murthy asked me if I could recommend to him the name of a good DRDO scientist. I knew there was nothing in the world he could not do, but even from Murthy this was a bit thick and I could not see a connection why he needed this information. He explained he was associated with a Kolkata-based NGO which every year honoured a distinguished person as a ‘Jewel of India’. The award comprised a citation and Rs 5 lakhs in cash. The previous year they had awarded Dr Kasturirangan and the President was the Chief Guest. They would again like to reward a scientist.
MoD being a huge ocean I did not know anyone in DRDO as it was way off my domain of work. But some middle level DRDO scientists were regulars at the same tennis courts I went to in RK Puram, Sector-13. I asked Dr Reddy for info, who was obviously incredulous at the story, but mentioned that as a scientist Dr Pillai, who was in-charge of BrahMos project, was highly regarded even though he was not the top man in DRDO. I dutifully passed on the info to Murthy. He made a formal request to Dr Pillai who obtained the required permission to receive the award. In parallel, Murthy also approached the President’s Secretariat for his consent to do the honour of handing over the award. President Kalam with his DRDO background very graciously accepted the invitation.
Murthy met me after some time. Out of curiosity I asked him how the award function went. He was somewhat downcast, some technical hitch had occurred. West Bengal government had sent a vague report that they were not aware of the antecedents of that NGO. Murthy asked me whether I could talk to someone in West Bengal Government. I could not off-hand think of anyone high enough in West Bengal I could talk to. But frankly this being a sensitive matter I did not want to get into it. I gave him a gratuitous advice that the President’s programme would always have some uncertainty; why did he not try a lesser dignitary instead, such as the Governor. Seeing my reluctance, Murthy did not press further, but his body language conveyed, “Don’t you worry, now I would do something about it myself”.
One day at the tennis court, when I had forgotten about this episode, my DRDO friend excitedly told me that indeed Dr Pillai had received the award at the hands of President Kalam in Kolkata. We could not help being amazed at this incredible chain of events in which a casual conversation between two persons at the tennis courts, quite unknown to Dr Pillai, led to a substantial cash award to him. Dr Pillai obviously till today is not aware how this happy incident in his life came about. Murthy told me he was finally able to resolve the issue with the West Bengal government who sent a clear NOC for the President’s visit.
With Parvatiamma family you never cease to get surprises. In my later assignment as Secretary, Department of Youth Affairs, Govt of India, I along with my wife went on my first visit to Rajiv Gandhi National Institute of Youth Development at Sriperumbudur near Chennai in December 2009. RGNIYD, an autonomous organisation under the Department, which is now a deemed university, was set up in the memory of the late PM Rajiv Gandhi at the site of his martyrdom. A young sari-clad lady chirpily came to us, Uncleji, Auntieji, aapne pehchana? We recognised her instantly; the fact that we were seeing her after 17 years had not dimmed our memory – she was Parvatiamma’s youngest daughter, Vijji. Of all the places in the world what was she doing there? She explained she was working as a steno in the RGNIYD. Now she was happily married with two children. She knew about our programme, but she wanted to give us a surprise; therefore, she had not called us. Her employment was on contract basis. Therefore, there was always some element of uncertainty. But in true Parvatiamma family tradition, she had already made herself indispensable. Leveraging her schooling in Delhi, she was doubling up as Hindi translator. I generally had a sceptical view of Rajbhasha Vibhag, but for the first time I thanked them for doing something useful.
Murthy’s turn-over is now about to cross a crore rupees, which does not put him in big league. His direct business may be lean, but his main strength lies in his delivering a single-window, turn-key solution to your any requirement in a networking mode. For example, if you are organising an international conference, you can safely bank upon him to provide you all the services from transportation, signage, backdrops, printing etc. His elder brother Shanmugam helps him in his business.
Parvatiamma and Venkatesh’s bank jobs have since been regularised. They retired with handsome benefits in 2011. They have constructed a house on the outskirts of Rohini. Venkatesh’s drinking and getting physically violent has greatly reduced, aware as he is that now the children are grown up to come to the support of their mother.
If I had told you in the beginning that this was a story which had a remote tribal village in Tamil Nadu, drought, starvation, GT Express, maid servant, her school dropout son, President’s Estate, IAS officer, DRDO scientist, tennis court, Project Director, supersonic cruise missile BrahMos, Karuna Transport Company, NGO, West Bengal government and the President of India, you would have rightly thought this was some crazy fiction. As a matter of fact, no fiction can be stranger than the true story of Parvatiamma and her family.
Anil K Upadhyay, IAS 1975 batch, Bihar cadre. Retired as Secretary, Ministry of Road Transport & Highways, Government of India in January 2013. Thereafter, retired as Member, Central Administrative Tribunal in April 2018.
Life
Prasanna Kumar Dash
Life is eternity in a moment and a moment in eternity.
Hold it tightly or else it slips eternally.
The eyes are evasive as the real is not really real and the surreal bewitches.
Shades wrap up the life as smoke engulfs fire.
Ego of being and becoming gushes into everything.
You appear to flap your wings delicately, soaring up a while.
Reality pitches, tossing you up and down. That is what life is.
You roll like a pebble on the sand of time. The stream of eternity gurgles.
Thus creating a pristine music.
A moment is not ages.
A shadow is not a shed.
One looks for the verdant land of peace which eternally evades but its lure pervades
As time rolls, the fragile ego melts leaving trail in success and failure.
What is it which we call success,
where failure is the rule and deception is the secret.
What hallucinates is gossip of unreal, where reality evades.
Yearning for real might surprise after a tempestuous night.
Modesty prevails after crowning the past
and you spring up from a slumber.
A sapling in the vicinity as a sweet silence moans the turbulence
Moments bounce
as modest fragments of eternity on the canopy of life.
I look around and hold them in both palms to join the cracks.
Prasanna Kumar Dash is Member CBDT, Ministry of Finance Government of India. He writes poems and does paintings.
*Wander'lost'*
Ananya Priyadarshini
'Kabir.
The Kabir.
I want to live a life like Kabir does.
I want to travel as far as Kabir has.
I want to be like him because he's the best.
He's GOD, man!'
Mehul was thinking to himself. A web designer by profession and a part time photographer Mehul was on his fourth trip. Sitting on the window facing seat in an economy class flight, Mehul was counting how many trips away he stood to have traveled thirty countries before turning 30. He was 23 and had already traveled three countries. He worked day and night to make money for the same, some sixteen hours a day. Never took an off- not even when he's sick, not even when his dad had met with an accident.
Because he earned to travel and took an off from work to travel. That's what Kabir used to say in his bio and Mehul, a travel freak, followed it blindly. That's how he has traveled fifty countries by an age as young as 40, Mehul idolised!
His flight reached Nepal, Kabir's country at around midnight. Kabir, his idol claimed every country that he's traveled so far as his own but Nepal was the country where he was born.
'You must be flying somewhere, living your next dream. But see, I'm standing on your soil today', murmured Mehul to Kabir, like a devotee does to his deity. He reached his lodging and eventually, the dormitory where he'd to spend a week. He received a call from his mom. He picked up, not very happy.
"Hi, maa"
"Beta, it's Durga Puja. Don't you have an off from your work?"
"I do, maa. I'm here in Nepal for a vacation."
"When will you return from Nepal?",his Mom said, half disappointed that she'd no prior clue of her son's travel plans and half cold towards this careless behavior of her son that she and her husband were accustomed to. Mehul hadn't paid his parents a visit since two and half years.
"A week."
"Then?", She asked even though she knew what her son had to say.
"Back to work. I can't take more leaves, you see."
"Hmm, how can you seek leave now? Have you forgotten, you were at work even when your father was battling three fractures in the hospital?", She satired with hopelessness. She'd stopped being angry since long.
"But Dad was admitted to the best Hospital and recovered with the best available health Care just because I was at work, mom! You're not old enough to forget this one damn thing, are you?", screamed Mehul for this same argument used to begin over almost every phone call from his mom.
"Is that all, son? Do you never feel like visiting these oldies?", Mom knew Mehul had destinations set for thirty of his upcoming vacations and home wasn't one of them. She, still was sobbing briskly.
"Mom, my guide is here. I've to go. I've traveled this far to explore Nepal and not talk shit with you. So we better hang up!", Mehul disconnected the call. Mom was saying something, or may be she wasn't.
"Namashkar Shahabji. Every tourist who visits Nepal loves going to Pashupatinath Temple for the first..."
"We're going to Chitwan National Park", Mehul bluntly told his guide with annoyance from the argument with his mom still lingering in his voice.
"Okay, shahabji", the guide said with a smile little narrower and voice less enthusiastic.
They set out at dawn for Chitwan and were there in few hours.
Greenery. Tigers. Rhinoceros. Elephants. Waters, a lot of them. Crocodiles. Mehul lived each of it. He surfed through the breeze and he paced down those long, pitch black roads. 'Kabir, your home is awesome dude!', Mehul thought to himself as he settled down for some food at an eatery.
But, wait! Who's that man sitting at the next table? Brown curly hair, tall frame, grey-black stubbles on a tanned complexioned face. It's Kabir! Mehul cross checked the fact by comparing the man with the pic on Kabir's social media accounts. Yes, it's him.
Mehul rushed to him and narrowly escaped a head on collision with one of the waiters. In a few minutes, he was standing right before Kabir.
"Hello, young man!", Kabir acknowledged Mehul standing for quite some time and staring at him.
"Hi Kabir Sir. I'm Mehul. Mehul from India. I'm huge fan of yours, sir. Sir I have been dreaming of meeting you someday but never thought I'd meet you in your own country."
"Oh even I've been dreaming the same."
"Sorry, sir. I didn't get you there?"
"Nothing, brother! So, a tourist here?"
"Errr.. yes, sir", Mehul cut his mom's incoming call meanwhile. Kabir noticed.
"Take the call, man!"
"No, sir. Nothing important. Sir, why aren't you writing your blog these days? I'm missing them. They give me goals!"
"Well, my goals have changed. So..."
"Mom could you please stop bothering me?.... Yes, had dinner... No, I'm not sick... Now please let me breathe!", Mehul screeched at his mom again in an angry whisper that was loud enough for Kabir to hear.
"Sorry, sir. My mom just keeps calling and..."
"You should be sorry, Mehul. To your mom for how you just behaved." Kabir meant it.
"No matter where in the world you're, young man no matter what placed you've been. Your destination remains the same- 'Home'. It took me a dead wife waiting for me in an ice box for four days and a 8 YO daughter who didn't recognize me as her father, to realise how important it was for me to be with my family. If you call yourself my fan, note my advice. Travel. Travel a lot. Travel 'far' from home but never 'away' from home. You've time, realise this." A 10-11 YO rushed to Kabir and he suddenly wore a smile. As he left with his daughter, he patted Mehul's back.
Mehul had a questionnaire ready to fire at Kabir but without asking any, he found all the answers. He called his mom back.
"Mom, I'll be home in a day or two." He cut the call. Mom was saying something, or may be she wasn't.
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.
Nature's Touch
Disha Prateechee
Walking in the sidewalk,
With my arms crossed
And thousand of thoughts flooding my mind
Soft breeze brushing my hair off my face
As I went on
Walking to my favourite garden.
Sleeping in the lap of the nature with a mild scent of orchids and tulips
I realised the very essence of life.
Listening to the poetry of nature
Sung by the birds
Hummed by the leaves.
Living for others is the rule of nature
Like the sun never shines for itself
And the flower’s aroma is not for it to take a sniff.
But change is the purpose of life.
A caterpillar transforms into a beautiful butterfly
And cub grows up to become a magnificent lion with a mane
Denoting it’s superiority.
Change is not served on a plate of gold
Change is difficult,
Change is nerve-racking,
Change takes your peace away
Once you get hold of yourself in hard times,
You may not get what you ask for
But you will definitely get what you deserve by your action.
Time is passing
The sun is slowly getting swallowed
By a chilly, overcast night.
I lost my path under the dim twinkling stars.
Darkness is everywhere
My only saviour is the growing Moon.
As they say, there is always a ray of hope
In no matter how much darkness.
While walking back home,
At last I can discern that
All these years I had been walking
On path of glass
Never doing anything right.
Now that those broken glasses cut me deeply.
The pain made me realise the mistakes made.
A day with nature
Helped myself to nurture
And now Finally I am home.
©Prateechee
Disha Prateechee
A 3rd year student from KIIT University, Odisha. She completed schooling from DAV Public School, Burla, Sambalpur, Odisha. She has a keen interest in poetries apart from which she likes painting and playing musical instruments like synthesizer and ukulele.
Love
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Fearless
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Kabyatara Kar
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her family
Vision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
KARNA'S DESTINY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
There is a Karna in every corner
Waiting to be touched, to be told
Come, we will judge by what you are
Not by who were born to.
The tormented soul seeking an identity,
The lurking fear of rejection haunts him.
What if he is waved away with an imperious hand,
"Go back to your humble abode,
You have no place among the royals
You may be the best but you are not good enough
To seal a presence in our shadows
None here will offer you a palmful water when you are thirsty
You are aspiring to be a conqueror
But your arrows will not hit us
Nor they will pierce the aura we float in.
Go away, you Forsaken one, we have no space for you!"
So walks Karna a lonely path
Offering his life for a mere word of compassion
Yet day after day Karna is shunned by the wise ones
Sending him back to his search of an identity.
So can you really blame him
For his act of surrender to Adharma
When sin and evil touch him
With a promise of fame and valour?
In the cacophony of life's bazaar today
You can see Karna in long queues
Waiting with an admission form
Or an application for a job
Fear in his heart
Uncertain in his looks
Tottering on a tentative dream
Tantalisingly close to the coveted goal.
Too meek to protest,
too dulled to draw upon his quiver,
The Forsaken One awaits his destiny
Till someone somewhere lures him away
With a promise to give him an identity.
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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