Literary Vibes - Edition LXIII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the sixty third edition of LiteraryVibes. I do hope during the lonely times of the lockdown the sumptuous fare of delectable poems and delicious stories in LV is keeping you intellectually well nourished. We live through these difficult days with the hope that this too will pass and life will eventually return to normal.
We are lucky to have three new talented poets in our pages this time - Ms. Geetha Subramaian, a sixteen year young brilliant student, poet and Carnatic music practitioner, Mr. Ravi Ranganathan, an açclaimed and accomplished poet and Mr. Winston Davis, an enthusiastic Computer Engineer cum poet working at the Atomic Research Center, Kalpakkam. All the three are from Chennai, the fabled land of enchanting music and scintillating poetry. We welcome them to the LV family and wish them lots of success in their literary career. I am sure we will see more of their writings in the LV pages in future.
Worried by the dwindling readership of LiteraryVibes in recent times, I have often been assailed by self doubts wondering if LV is fulfilling the need of a good and decent eMagazine it is meant to be. A very reassuring WhatsApp message from Mr. Sanjeev Patnaik, a senior banker who has been attached to the Indian Fund Management and Research Industry for over twenty six years, rekindled my belief that we also serve who sit and write. I quote the message here:
"Dear Sir, thank you for publishing and sharing the eLit mag LV so meticulously and thoughtfully with love week after week. Though I have flipped through its pages earlier, I have read this only today for first time peacefully in detail. The quality of writings in both poems and stories sections clearly show that the editor is at work.
Ajay Upadhyay's story and Kamalakanta Panda's poem have got powerful narrative strategies and deep touch with the contemporary life. I couldn't start (reading) the last story which is yours, reserved it for some other time. Prabhanjan Mishra's English translation is more powerful, at times I wonder it must be better trans-creation of the original work. Is Bibhu Padhi writing on a long theme and the snow country is part of that series? It reminded me of late Prasanna Mishra's Manica.
Am in the business of reading journals, piles of research reports proprietary and public that are produced every day and every week fresh and those I have to cover to apply it in my work. So over the years, I became very choosy what I read, and speed reading has become the norm but by escaping few of the earlier edition of LV now I realised what I missed.
Best wishes & compliments. It must go on. Sanjeev"
Need I say more?
Please forward the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/294 to all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous sixty two editions including three anthologies of poems and stories are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Wish you a happy reading of LiteraryVibes. Take care, stay safe and stay healthy.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
- THUS SPAKE BAPU Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- TO ACT Haraprasad Das
- NOTHING NEW Sreekumar K.
- THE SHY BRIDE Krupa Sagar Sahoo
- AT THE FAIR Nikhil M. Kurien
- THE SOONER THE… B K Behura
- A LIFETIME - A DAY S. Sundar Rajan
- MY BREATH Sumita Dutta Shoam
- FUTURE Dr Rupali Mishra
- HATS OFF, DEAR… Sridevi Selvaraj
- ARE YOU HAPPY? Disha Prateechee
- LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT Hema Ravi
- GENERATION GAP Setaluri Padmavathi
- A NIGHTMARE! Anjali Mohapatra
- LIFE WORTH LIVING Dr. K. Srikala
- THE CRAFT OF HAIKU… Pravat Kumar Padhy
- MIST Gopika Hari
- VAGABOND UNBOUND Ravi Ranganathan
- SHE Geetha Subramaniam
- WOMEN – THE SOURCE.. Geetha Subramaniam
- A BITTER EXPERIENCE Dr. Baishnab Charan Das
- LOOKING INTO THE.. S. Joseph Winston
- THE STROLLER Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THUS SPAKE BAPU
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I feel lucky for my parents
who brought me up
without much ado,
rather carelessly;
it gave me wings to daydream,
take carpet rides to magic lands,
paint surreal dreams with insufficient ink,
open wombs of pyramids, mouth of sphinx.
Thank God, Baa came into my life,
she opened our marriage innings
with a kiss, exploding our night
and nights to follow with fireworks.
I thank the Whites for needling me
to leave captaining Baa’s ship mid-sea;
my heart broke to see hapless people
of my land, crushed and pulverized.
The sight of the withered flowers
in my garden sent me into a gloom,
I was shoved into the deluge to look for
the Noah’s Ark, but found a loincloth.
I hail the fistful of salt I lifted at Dandi,
its salinity salting the no-sunset empire,
packing and dispatching the whites to London,
exported as tins of sardines.
I bless those nice colleagues who taught me
by ditching, made me a man of the world,
besides being a dreamer, the owner
of a magic carpet, the people’s trust.
Am beholden to the good women
who went to bed for ‘my experiments
with truth’ through the thick and thin,
helping me not to fall like ninepins.
I worship my scriptures and teachers
who led me by hand when I groped
in blind alleys, tapping my stick
in dark; also, am grateful
to my assassin Nathu who completed
my mission of finding the holy grail; my sins
forgiven, a case of ‘to err is human,
to forgive divine’. Still looking for gods,
I meet CORONA on a street, who shouts,
“Don’t hate thy neighbor, he may look
different, but his love and trust save you;
that neither scriptures nor gods would do.”
(The title of this poem on Mahatma is designed on the title of Friedrich Nietzsche’s novel ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’. Nietzsche propounded Nihilism. The content is burrowed partly from Mahatma’s book ‘The Story of My Experiments with Truth’. Mahatma Gandhi played the most vital role in liberating India from the British colonization.)
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.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
TO ACT (KRIYAA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Petrifying in fear
in my solitary confinement,
knife-wielding assassins
barring all escape routes,
’am toughening;
my resolutions to granite,
my tame-self
turning into an angry volcano.
My eyes no more seek
an eyrie for romancing,
rather raise the brows
looking for a secure future.
Baula blossoms have wilted,
gone stale on our nuptial bed
without exciting us,
still I have not lost hope.
Rock-heavy problems
come floating
like silk cotton puffs;
I have not complained.
I am rather busy choosing
words patiently for you,
my special one, before this waiting
fossilizes me into stone.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
None of us was used to our new appearance and gear. Still, we managed to run to the assigned coach and got in.
And thanked God we didn't trip and fall.
There was already another man in the compartment. He was attired as us. Obvious, a health worker. Probably, a doctor returning home late from some hospital.
We were six, all doctors, moving from the city to a suburb. It was lock down and that metro train was meant only for health workers.
For weeks, we had been like aliens in our own land and were as scared as spies in bad disguise.
At any moment one of us, or all of us, could fall ill, and be dragged into the den of death by such small living things that no one had ever really seen.
The virus was like a secret weapon that each of us thought all the others carried with them and might use against us at an unguarded moment.
There was the faint smell of sanitizer in the air. We had begun to equate it with the smell of death or even what caused it, virus COVID 19.
The lonely doctor was sitting right in the middle of a row of seats and he didn't acknowledge us, let alone move to make space for us. We sat at a safe distance from him but close to each other. Our attire covered us completely, it was safe to be close to one another but not to strangers.
As soon as we sat down, the stranger looked at us as if he had just woken up and asked, "How many?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean how many have died today?"
Now, death was the last thing we wanted to discuss at this time of the night. We had been seeing death and nothing but death for weeks now. Our own people, strangers, women, children and all kinds of people just falling off like flies.
Paul checked our mobile app and replied, "874"
"No, I am sure it is well over a thousand.."
The man sounded like some cynic college kid steeped in conspiracy theories.
"The situation is much under control now. Death rate has been steadily decreasing," I tried to explain the situation to him.
But he was not willing to give up. He was not willing to give up picking on us, I mean.
"You seem to be so hopeful. No, no, what is the right word, yes, optimistic. There is no reason to be so, or the other way for that matter. But, to be hopeful is to be biased, I am sure."
We didn't want to dwell on that kind of negativity which he was spreading around. So, we looked at each other and kept mum for some time.
The stranger was encouraged. Still, he didn’t turn his gaze towards any of us in particular but somehow he seemed to be talking to each of us.
“And, indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperilled. He knew what these jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks and bookshelves; and perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it roused up its rats again and sent them forth to die in a happy city.”
He was not reading. He was quoting from memory that very popular quote from Camus' Plague. What an amazing memory!
"You people are like those people in those jubilant crowds. Hopeful, yes indeed. Why not! Wanting to see the bright side of life. I know that, I can see that. You don't want to see the dark side. Not even your own dark side."
What a pest! He knew that we were not listening much to him and it was obvious to anyone that all of us were tired and sleepy. Nobody was in a mood for any kind of discussion, especially a one sided discussion on death.
But, Alex could not keep calm. He turned to the lonely man and asked,"So, what is your point?"
The stranger was encouraged. Still, he didn’t turn his gaze at any of us in particular but somehow he seemed to be talking to each of us.
"There is no place to run, guys. And I don't mean running from Corona. That you will accomplish in a few days. I meant death."
"But death is so kind that we heard it waits till we are done."
I cracked an old joke and my friends laughed out, not because it was funny, but because they thought it might irritate the old man. Served him well, they would have thought,
He too joined in the laughter and then said, “But, how can anyone be sure that he is done? People seem to think at any given point in their life that they have not reached the end of their life. However, when people die others just assume that they had come to the end of their time here. Just a happy thought that they might also die only when they are done.”
“And we don’t know how the dead man thinks about it.” It was Paul, usually a quiet one.
“There is no need to know what he thinks since we become we only after we are born and we become less than we just before we die. We don’t carry ourselves into death. People say we are the atma or whatever and that it doesn’t die. That way we don’t die. Funny. Laughable.”
“Yes, I heard that it is the core of Indian philosophy,” said Anwar. All of us had become fully awake and wanted to be part of the discussion.
“See, since the discussion turned out to be about death you all shook yourself up. Even the dead will join in any such discussion. We go through life wanting to know what death is and what life is and we die without finding out what either of them is.”
“As doctors, we come across it every hour or so. From what we know, it is the end of this clock-work that runs our body,” said Mukundan.
“And does that knowledge work for you?” asked the stranger, still not looking at any of us.
“What do you mean? Work for me, as in?” Mukundan asked back.
“I mean knowledge of death should work for us in only one way. We know what it is and so we are not scared of it. We won't be scared of what we know. It is the unknown that scares us. Are you not scared of death?”
It set all of us thinking. As doctors, we know what it means to die and we have seen hundreds of deaths. But, suddenly, I began to think that it was still a miracle all of us were equally scared of death. We looked at each other and there was fear on everyone’s face.
I too thought of death. I tried my best to think of something else but the faint smell of sanitizer that lingered in the compartment and the look of the ghost towns we were passing through were not helping.
What if I die today, I thought, rather, I asked myself. I was sure that the others were also asking themselves the same question or similar questions. Anand might be wondering whether he would get to live in the house he was constructing near the city centre. Mukundan might want to know whether the deadly disease would spare him to finish his Ph.D. Anwar had been saving to go and settle abroad and he might be worrying about that. Paul's marriage was fixed. Alex had decided to quit his profession and join his family business. No doubt, each had his personal clock ticking.
Time. It was all a matter of time. One would die today or tomorrow or someday. The struggle was only to delay it as much as possible.
My worry was not so much about myself but about my family. Sunanda was pregnant and we would have a second child in two months. Two months. The length of a school vacation. It seemed too short during school days. Now, it was way too long.
No, this virus was not going to kill me in two months.
“What about after two moths?”
I looked up. The question didn’t seem to have come from the stranger. He was fast asleep. But all of us were looking up as if we all had heard some kind of a question.
As if on cue, the old man opened his eyes. Still the same blank stare.
“The point is that one should not be scared of death at any cost. It is not worth it and it is meaningless. Do whatever you can to lose your fear of death.”
I figured it out that he was answering Alex’s question which he had asked some time back
“So, what is the point?” Alex had asked him and that was how that conversation had begun.
Had Alex been able to hold his tongue, we wouldn’t have been this disturbed now.
It was like a science fiction movie in which we got into a small time loop or whatever they call it. It was like the whole conversation just didn't happen.
The man continued and this time he sounded like he was quoting from another book, a book none of us knew.
“Close to death, we lose our sense of self and then it is a time for the ultimate experience. With no self, we have no affinity to ourselves and we get to see life clearly and that vision lasts a long time. There is no time at that point. It could be ages or very short. But within that period we get to see our life in a series of experiences like slides on a slide projector. That could be heaven or hell for us.”
We were thoroughly attentive though we knew he was asleep and was probably dreaming. He went on.
“That time holds all the tortures we have only heard about and many more which have not appeared even in our nightmares. At the same time, it could also be more beautiful than what you can ever imagine, even more beautiful than your sweetest dreams. It all depends."
The old man suddenly went quiet and we knew he had stopped to alert us with his silence. We had reached our station. The train screeched to a halt. Funny, I had never noticed this sound in real.
We grabbed our bags and moved towards the door. We had to hurry since we were the only passengers. The train won't stop for long.
But then, Mukundan turned around and said, “He might be getting down here with us. I can call him.”
He went back and tried to wake up the stranger and looked back at us. He fished out his sanitizer bottle from his bag, removed his gloves and cleaned his hands in a hurry.
The smell of alcoholic sanitizer reached us. He was checking the man’s pulse now. And then he began to check his limbs.
There was no time to waste. The train was about to move. He rushed back to us and we all got off the train as it was about to move again.
As soon as the train left, Mukundan dropped his bags and sat down on a seat on the platform.
He held his head in both hands and yelled to himself.
“He’s dead, man!”
That was no news those days.
Being alive was news.
We were relieved, though sad.
Then he looked up and we found that his face had turned ghostly white.
“He died hours ago.”
The cold wind which blew towards us lingered around as if to see how we reacted to that.
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.
"Listen, are you asleep already?" Bidei asked his young bride as he entered the room and put the latch on the door.
Although his bride was tired after working the whole day and lying on the bed, she was wide awake and was gazing at the roof. Seeing Bidei, she got up with a start and sat still on the bed, her veil drawn low almost to her bosom. Bidei peered out of the door and seeing no one there, settled down on the cot. He was tongue-tied by now with excitement, and could not find the words to entice his wife. He put his hand around Lajkuri's waist.
Lajkuri tried to free herself from his passionate grip and whispered, "What are you doing?"
Bidei, in his enthusiastic fervor, cajoled her, "Why can't you keep still? Am I tickling you? My father is sleeping outside on the verandah”.
The dim light of the lantern was not enough to show Lajkuri's beauty, even a small bit of it. Hiding her face behind the veil, she appeared like a bundle of clothes to him. When Bidei pulled her to him passionately his father coughed outside, breaking the reverie. Bidei's grip automatically loosened.
They had only one small room where there was an antique bedstead close to the wall. After Bidei's marriage, his father had to vacate the room for the couple and his mother slept in the room where the dhenki was kept, and she said she liked it there, for it was warm and comfortable. They had an earthen hearth there to parboil the paddy to prepare rice.
The small thatch-roofed room had an attic made with thick planks of strong sal and was plastered with mud. That was used for storing things. There were sheaves of corn braided neatly looking like a chandelier and two shikas hanging from the ceiling. Only Bidei's mother knew whether dried mango slices were there, or dried fish.
Below the cot lay two baskets woven with paddy stalks filled with seeds to be sown in the next season and also some arums. Between the cot and the wall was a big trunk tilled with Lajkuri's dowry, some ornaments and a few utensils. In front of the cot was a rack where some of Lajkuri's sarees were kept neatly folded along with Bidei's dhoti, towel and umbrella. Bidei stared at the rack and glanced at the corn sheaves and the shikas.
After dinner, he had gone to the kirtan ghar. He had expected his parents to be asleep when he returned in the night. Baga was singing in his loud, screeching voice.... O the forgetful one! Play the swans... if the swans fly away... if the swans fly away... your boat will sink, O mad one! He had sat there for some time accompanying the chorus group with cymbals. But after some time, he had put it down for his mind was not there. Baga asked him to sing a song, too. But he was in no mood to sing.
Baga had said, "Actually, his heart is not here. His young bride is waiting for him at home." Everybody laughed. The singing came to a halt.
Danei told him, "Go my friend; you have already wasted four days." Baga added, "Go, and hurry up! Otherwise, your swan will fly away."
Bidei smiled when his friends laughed. He loosened the knot of his lungi and retied it tightly when he stood up and picked up his stick.
It seemed to him as if seven months had passed by waiting for these seven days. He had not even gone close to his wife, Lajkuri.
On their ritual fourth night after marriage when they were supposed to meet as husband and wife he had come home quite early. He had been humming a stanza of Achyutanand's songs and then a couplet from Bhima Bhoi's songs. He sang few lines of a popular folk song, 'Sanginire... Rasa Ranginire...' as he was about to enter his house.
Para, his sister-in-law, stopped him at the threshold, chiding him. "'Where are you heading, brother-in-law, with such romantic songs on your lips?"
"Why, can't I come singing into my own home?"
"No, you can't. Don't you know that your Lajkuri is having 'that'?"
"What happened to her?"
"Hai! Can't you understand or are you pretending? She is not to be touched for the next four days now. So go back down the same path you had taken."
Bidei had stood still for some time. Para said, teasing him, "Poor man! Where will you sleep tonight? Will you go back to the kirtan ghar again?"
Bidei, who was a little upset by then, retorted, "Why, I'll sleep with you."
Bidei had already turned to go back, taking long strides on the main road of the village, when his sister-in-law shouted from behind, "You talk too much. Wait, I will tell your Lajkuri. You will know who I am when she pokes a hole in your head with her pointed bangles."
Next day Bidei remained very absent-minded. Although he went to the field to plough the land and sow the seeds of green gram, the furrows were not in straight lines. He lashed at his pair of black and brown bullocks till their backs got bruised. He did not smoothen the earthen mounds in the field after ploughing the field. And when his father chided him for his negligence, he almost hit him in anger. He was unmindful; he even fell off the board with which he was trying to level the field.
He wasn't allowed to enter the house for the next four days; and he could only go into the inner courtyard, where his mother served him food. After having a pot full of watered rice, he would go to the kirtan ghar. He was not in a mood to rejoice, that is why he played the cymbals only, and did not sing. There was little rhythm in his cymbal playing. After the concert, he sometimes tried a whiff of ganja and slept at the kirtan ghar every night.
After four days, Lajkuri bathed and washed her hair; and the priest completed the remaining ritual. That night, Bidei had entered his room with eagerness. But on that night too, his shy bride. Lajkuri was elusive like a lily stalk in the middle of a pond.
His breathing had become heavy and his heart was beating faster with excitement. He could no longer rein in his passionate longing. While he was drawing, his wife close to his chest, the cot made a creaking noise. Now the shy bride curled up like a bow. The lantern was snuffed out. In the dark night, Lajkuri had slipped into her shell of shyness.
After a while, Bidei turned to sleep on the edge of the bed, numb and exhausted.
In the dark, Lajkuri was gazing at the ceiling without blinking her eyes. Her father-in-law's dry cough was heard at regular intervals. There was a firefly flitting about the cloth rack and to the shika hung above. She became a little bold and touched Bidei's legs in the dark. But Bidei was asleep and kicked back hard. She turned to sleep too, her face to the wall. She was asleep by the time the jackals' howling reached their village and was awake before the crows cawed at dawn to begin her daily chores. She got up, bathed and entered the kitchen to light up the hearth.
Lajkuri's real name was Lata. She belonged to Mahulapala village across the river. Her father's name was Padia Biswal and her mother's Kotari. She was shy to the bone. From head to toe and from the anklets to the nose stud, her shyness flowed. That is why even at school, though her name was Lata, everyone called her Lajkuri, the touch-me-not.
Lajkuri was very slim and fair-complexioned. When she blushed, it appeared as if red oleander flowers bloomed on her cheeks. Lajkuri was poor in studies. By the time she reached class five, she had turned out to be a grown-up young woman. There would be so many men on the road, at the village pandal, at the Bhagabata shrine, and they would stare at her when she was returning from school. How long could the coy girl save herself from their lecherous glances? That is why she always bent like a frail pomegranate shrub when she walked, and could not continue her schooling after class five.
Although she did not do well at her studies, she excelled in other things, and she was adept in all household chores. She knew how to bake delicious pithas and how to prepare rice from paddy. She would attend to her kitchen garden in the backyard by pouring water from the pitcher every day.
By the time she turned fifteen, there were many suitors seeking her hand in marriage. Her parents were not willing to marry her to persons residing far away from their village. They had only one daughter and there was no one in the family to keep track of her welfare. Bidei lived just across the river. And that is why Padia Biswal had agreed to marry his daughter to Bidei.
Bidei's father was Sadei and mother, Gurei. There were just three of them and his only sister had been married off long ago. Lajkuri's parents thought their daughter would not face hardship after her marriage. When she left for her husband's house, her mother had whispered in her ears, "You must try to win the hearts of your parents-in laws. And don't let anyone say a nasty word about you and never disgrace your parents."
The next day....
When he prepared to come to his room, Bidei had consulted his friend, who had got married a year ago. "Don't show too much desperation. You will put out the lantern, and keep a torch with you. Talk to your bride first for a while and then try to win her over” His friend had given him these suggestions with one year's experience.
Lajkuri was waiting for him after completing her day's chores. When he entered the room, she stood up, drawing her veil low. Bidei held her hand and asked tenderly, "Are you angry?"
Lajkuri shook her head. And her veil fluttered like a flag. Bidei made her sit on the bed and then put out the lantern. When both climbed into the middle of the bed, the bed creaked again. Lajkuri whispered, "Father is awake."
"This stupid cot," said Bidei in disgust and went down to spread a mattress on the floor adjacent to the cot. He asked his wife to join him.
Lajkuri giggled. And since she was feeling extremely shy, she pulled her veil and sat numb even on the floor.
Bidei teased her, "Why does your shyness ooze out like the juice from the date palm trunk?"
Now the old man's cough became persistent. Bidei was irritated and murmured, "He can't go off to sleep without his dose of opium."
"You should not talk like that" Lajkuri chided him.
"I will get some opium from the weekly haat this Friday and you can mix it in his curry his mother was saying"
The old man stopped coughing after a while. Bidei went out to check. He did not find his father there but a noise came out from the threshing-room where his mother slept. He could overhear their conversation."This old man won't let me sleep in peace."
Bidei came back and announced, "They are fighting throughout the day and now in the middle of the night they have started a fight too."
Lajkuri burst out giggling. "Just like you are troubling me now. They are also....."
Now both laughed. By the time the ripples of their laughter spread and leaked out of their room, the old man's coughing was heard again.
Lajkuri thought the old woman must have turned him out after giving him a sound scolding.
They lay quietly like that in the dark for some time. Bidei now put his hands on Lajkuri's bosom. Lajkuri protested shyly, "It tickles me, you are very naughty."
"You feel shy during the day. And you also feel shy in the dark? Okay, now get up, we well go outside. Nothing can be done here."
"In the middle of the night?" asked Lajkuri.
"You are not only very coy, you are very timid too. What is there to fear when I am with you?"
He made a plan. "You go first with a water jug and I will follow you."
Lajkuri could not hold back her peals of laughter now.
In the backyard of their house was a small kitchen garden with rows of brinjal, chilly, onion and garlic plants. In the middle, there lay a narrow pathway that lay straight like the parting in a married woman's hair.
They closed the fence door made of split bamboo. A wild dog was barking in the middle of the village. Beyond the kitchen garden was the threshing ground where bunches of straw were heaped in a mound and bundle of flax sticks was kept leaning against it.
Bidei asked, "Shall we go to the hay mound?"
Lajkuri immediately rejected this saying, "In the haystack? That is the abode of Goddess Laxmi."
Beyond the threshing ground lay a green field. They were walking on the ridges dividing the paddy field. Suddenly something pricked Lajkuri's feet and she screamed in pain. There she stood, head inclined and one leg lifted in tribhanga pose.
"Wait, it might be a koiliakha thorn."
"No, it might be piece of bone dumped here by a jackal."
"Don't move and I will carry you on my shoulder to the lily pond."
"No, no, don't do that. I will go back."
"You feel shy before strangers in the day time, and now you feel shy with me too?"
"Let us go. I feel all right now.”
After limping for a while, Lajkuri was all right and walked straight. To their right was the abode of Goddess Bautika, and Lajkuri paused to pay her obeisance there. It was a shapeless stone image smeared heavily with vermilion paste. There were some earthen horses lying as gifts from the devotees.
The lily pond lay at a short distance. Bidei stopped when he was about to climb the embankment. There were two blue flames in the dark staring at him. The jackal fled behind the peepul tree seeing them there. And an owl flew away hooting in the dark.
Lajkuri was scared. She was walking behind Bidei now.
The lily pond...
There the villagers come to bathe and wash their clothes. They bright their cattle too to wash and drink. The pond sprawled across ten acres of land and there were many kinds of weeds, shola, and lilies in the water. The water stood chest-high. The villagers harvested fish from the pond too.
The pond had separate ghats for men and women. The banyan-tree marked the ghat for the menfolk and the kaintha tree marked the ghat for the women. The corner for women was filled with green grass. There were arka bushes, too. These bushes dotting the bed of grass stood as if they were offering palmfuls of lilac and white flowers to God. Along the embankment grew some amari bushes.
Both now headed for the women’s ghat. A crescent moon hung in the grey sky accompanied by a lone sparkling star. Together, they looked like a princess and her maid strolling in the garden of clouds.
Under the kaintha tree they sat snuggling against each other. There was a nip in the soft wind. Bidei was no longer feeling desperate like a man-eating tiger. His prey was in his lap now.
“Don’t you feel anything, Lajkuri?”
“What?”
Bidei now embraced her tightly and asked, “Has no one at home ever told you anything? You will keep scampering like a mouse throughout the day. You do so much for others from sipping the feet-washed water of my parents to watering the tulsi chowra and then all the household chores, but you will not serve me ever?”
“Chhi! Don’t say such shameless things.”
Bidei changed the topic. “Okay, you are swallowed up by your shyness. Tell me now. You are fair-skinned and I am so dark. Don’t you dislike me?”
“No. Does it matter, when one is such a good man?”
“You are so beautiful and you are virtuous. There must have been a long queue of men seeking your hand.”
“Dhet! How do I know?”
“No one has ever touched you before?” Bidei asked her now a little hesitatingly.
Lajkuri stared at him apprehensively.
She thought of the time when she was becoming aware of her own shyness. One evening, one of her uncles had tried to drag her to the mound of straw in their courtyard. How like an eel had she struggled to free herself from his clutches!
But now she retorted angrily, “If you talk like that I will jump into the pond.”
The night was wearing on and its mystery deepened. In the sky, the moon was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. The wind was cold and biting. It made the newly married couple feel drowsy.
This winter night too, the water in the pond was chest deep. During the day, the fishes played in the middle of the pond and in the night, they swam close to the edges tempted by the fallen petals of the amari, arka and the fruits of the banyan tree.
The cunning fish-thieves of the village waited for this opportunity to catch them easily with their small fishing nets. They would wait through the night quietly.
There was a stamping noise nearby which woke the couple with a jerk. Two dahuka birds fluttered away from the branches of the amari bushes in fright. There were voices of men on the embankment. Lajkuri was startled and woke up Bidei. She rushed to grab her saree hanging from a branch of the kaintha tree. But the light of three-celled torches was focused on her bare and moonlight-lit body. She tried to cover her eyes first and then her breasts. By the time, she could wrap herself with her saree, the light was put off. It had fallen from the hands of its bearer. The fish thieves were very unprepared for such a sight. And they coughed to show their presence.
Lajkuri was dying in shame. In that dark night, she was shy to the bone hiding behind the kaintha tree. Despite the cover of her saree, she was sweating out of shame.
While wrapping herself with her saree, she suddenly jumped into the pond. And Bidei followed her too. The thieves were dumbfounded at the strange turn of events and stood like statues. Bidei was wading through the slush, the marshes of shola and lilies groping for his bride. The roots of the lilies were submerged in the bed of clay enmeshing everything around.
The thieves now regained their senses and screamed for help that ripped apart the silent dark night.
“Come everyone, rush! Come with your fishing nets too.”
“O Fagua Bhai!”
“O Jagua Bhai!”
“O Sadei Uncle!”
Soon there was a commotion. It echoed everywhere. The watchmen from the sugarcane fields who were there to ward off bears rushed too. They came with torch lights and sticks and beating drums as if bears had to be chased away.
The fishermen were already inside the pond trying to rescue the couple from drowning. They cast their small nets in circular motion one after another. There were youths from the village who had come with fire flames and torches.
“What happened?”
“Bidei’s wife had come to the pond.”
“She was frightened seeing us and had jumped into the pond,” someone added.
“Search, search, don’t tarry.”
Now there were bigger nets being flung into the pond and more men were searching for the unfortunate couple.
In the end, Bidei was caught in the net, gasping for breath. He was made to belch out the water he had swallowed and was carried to the embankment. He was collapsing.
But where was Lajkuri? Where did she vanish? Did she conceal herself under the water? Or was she entangled in the roots of the lilies and slime? But why did she jump into the pond? Had she done something disgraceful, coming out in the night?
Such enquiries and doubts made the rounds among the villagers gathered there.
But who could answer them?
In the sky, there was a hungry lapwing flying in circles above the pond as if it was searching for Lajkuri too.
When the darkness began to disperse, the crowd swelled at the pond. There were men and women, children and the aged. There was a rumbling sound among them. There was sad mourning in the trees, in the leaves and the wind too. It seemed the grieving would last until eternity.
Everybody was depressed and was expressing their anguish and they were talking about Lajkuri’s numerous virtues.
“O Karuna’s mother, she was such a jewel of the Raut household!”
“Yes, sister! How affectionate she was to everyone! I had gone to visit her once and she would not let me go without taking at least a sweetened pan.”
“I had also gone to their house once, Jashoda! She told me, “Let me press your aching legs, grandma!” said Dhedauni.
“She never uttered a harsh word to anyone,” added the daughter-in-law of the Biswal household.
“Yes, how ill-fated her mother-in-law is indeed! She did not get to see Lajkuri’s household work even for seven days.”
Champei, the old woman who was the authoritative among them all. remarked, “But why did she come to the pond in the night after all?”
The women around her hushed her into silence by rebuking, “Is this the time to raise such an issue? Can’t she come to the pond just because she is a new bride, aunty?”
The fish thieves were mute spectators as if someone had severed their tongues. They were standing still as if before a village panchayat holding themselves solely responsible for the tragic death of Lajkuri, the shy bride.
In the end, the villagers concluded that it was goddess Bautika herself who had hypnotized Lajkuri and brought her to the pond; not even Bidei could stop her and save his wife although he had tried.
The morning sun shone and sparkled. Most of the villagers began going back to their homes. There were some at the men’s bathing ghat having a dip in the water nervously and there were some at the embankment gazing at the lily pond. Then someone shouted pointing to the middle of the pond. Something was floating there.
Once again, the bathers climbed onto the bank. When everyone was watching, and shouting, Sadei Raut wrapped his loincloth around his waist and dived into the. pond swimming towards where the corpse of Lajkuri floated. God knows where he found that immeasurable strength, but when he finally brought the body to the shore and covered her bare body with his towel, he slumped to the ground unconscious.
Lajkuri, whose waif-like body resembled a pomegranate branch, now had swollen like a drum. She wasn’t afraid of the bright sunlight anymore and was staring blankly at everyone around, as if she had no shame any more. It was the turn of the people now to look away; some stared at the arka bushes nearby, some at the lily stalks standing innocently in the pond water and others were trying to divert their eyes from Lajkuri’s naked body. Neither children nor the old could look at her out of shame.
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
One
The police woman stood watchfully from one of the vantage points in the fair ground. From there she could watch the entrance point and most of the ground where the fair was happening. The incessant rains were over and a lot of people were expected to come out of their houses that day. They came as families, friends, neighbours and some even alone. The fair offered an opportunity for the people to have some fun, buy few things and eat a variety of ethnic foods. Mariba’sjob was to have a watchful eye on each and every person who walked on the fair ground and there was a team of police personnel which was deployed for the sake of security of the citizens. The Chief of district police stood at the entrance to the fair ground inspecting with his own eyes every person who walked into the ground. In between he was instructing his team over a wireless radio and he was also getting information about the situation in each part of this large fair ground.The self styled revolutionaries have been increasingly creating a havoc in the recent times using the element of surprise in crowded areas. Just one month back a major tragedy was averted in the bazar area by defusing a bomb which they had placed among the vegetables.
It was around five in the evening that a family of four entered into the fair after getting their tickets. Two full rate tickets for the adults and two half rate tickets for the ten year old boy and the seven year old girl were handed over to them by the ticket seller. The evening was very cold and a bit misty after the rainy days. The man was dressed in a black jacket with its hood pulled over his head and his wife too had a scarf around her head. Both the children too were well protected with mufflers around the neck and ears. They passed by the police inspector who stood near the entrance with the father holding the hand of the elder boy and the younger girl holding the left hand of her brother and the girl’s hand being held by the mother. They walked as though in a vertical line one after the other and not together as a family should. They must have gone about ten metres from where the police officer was standing when the mother who was walking at the back braked the train to a halt by pulling the hand of the girl child. The father who stood as the front engine tried to keep moving by pulling his family but now the mother was shouting something to which he didn’t seem to want to listen. He wanted to go forward but she wanted to go back for something. The police woman’s eyes were on some of the youngsters who were creating a small ruckus in their joyful mood and she felt it was nothing for her to get involved in for the moment. Rather than the youngsters it was this family’s incoherent manner which made her note them. Finally the mother had her way and she took her two children back towards the entrance. The father stood there and he was muttering something angrily. Mariba could see the mother taking the children almost up to the chief of the police and then the mother was pointing to the two children a large balloon which had the image of a clown. It was put up there to welcome the people coming into the fair as an advertisement by an ice cream company. The police officer stood there without knowing about any of the activities that were happening behind him and he was strictly focusing on the people who were entering the fair ground. It now appeared to Mariba that the mother was comparing the senior police officer to a clown that was floating up in the air and the two kids were giggling. Mariba from her vantage point immediately felt a deep hatred for the female who dared to tease the people who were actually providing a safety cover for them. There, at that point Mariba become uneasy. If that woman was teasing the society guradians then it could be done only by an antisocial person. The woman with the two children were returning to their husband and Mariba's eyes too followed them out of concern.
The husband and wife never looked into each other's eyes and they walked again into the fair and into the crowd. Mariba too moved from her position and kept moving without letting that family go out of her sight. The family bought two cone ice creams for the kids and their parents took some roasted peanuts. From there they walked to the next stall and bargained on some cloth material for the kids. They didn’t buy anything form there. And then they went to watch a way side magician performing few tricks with his rope and with the cards. The rope trick was entertaining to the kids but when it came to the cards the kids got bored and so the parents walked towards the next stall. The kitchen utensils shop could be seen to the right and the housewife seemed to be in need of getting some household things while her husband seemed to be least interested in shopping. Mariba could understand that the wife wanted the husband to stay with her and help her in her shopping but he was pointing towards the game area where the shooting stall was. He adamantaly walked towards the stall which offered rifle shooting at some targets while the wife walked vehemently towards the utensil shop. Mariba saw the two going in two directions angrily, maybe around fifty meters apart, to two different stalls. The wife looked to be handling some cutlery and some knives while the husband was already onto a rifle and he was aiming at some tiny balloons which were stuck on a board in the inside of the stall. The shooter was to blow up the balloon and he had five chances for 50 rupees which was written clearly on a board outside the stall. If the shooter could shoot out a balloon then he would get an additional shot for free. The man seemed to be using the rifle well. Though he didn’t burst any balloon in his first five attempts he was able to burst two of them in his next round after paying fifty more rupees. After ascertaining that there was nothing dubious about the family, Mariba’s eyes went onto scan other things which were happening in the ground in plenty.
Almost ten minutes must have elapsed and Mariba had completely left the things which pertained to that odd family when she suddenly heard some loud noises. The same lady was making a bustle in front of that utensils shop now. Maybe it was over some unsuccessful bargaining, thought Mariba. The lady was now moving angrily with a sharp knife in her hand towards her husband who was reveling in the shooting games. Her son was following her helplessly. Mariba had a gut feeling in her that she was onto stab that poor man’s gut. Mariba advanced slowly, trying to make sure if the situation was as she thought it was. She didn’t want the police department to be involved in a family affair.
The wife came up to the husband and now she was shouting at him. At first the husband was retaliating to her, but after sometime he became quiet. Then it seemed for the first time that the husband and wife were discussing something and they both seemed to come to a point of understanding. The next thing Mariba saw was the man running with the rifle and the woman running along with him brandishing the sharp butcher knife in her hand. The small boy was trying to keep pace with them and he was evidently frightened. The two adults were running towards the entrance. Mariba too was increasing her pace wondering what was happening. By now Mariba could get a vivid picture. The two were onto attack her superior officer who was standing at the entrance. Mariba ran behind the two and even as she ran she took out her revolver. She was trying to get a good aim at any of the two running people but the crowd got in between and once when she had the chance of a clear shot the small boy got in the line of the target.
The chief of police turned his head around to see what the commotion was as people were trying to move out of the way of the two who ran in with fatal weapons. The policeman was taken by surprise seeing a man closing in on him with a rifle and a woman just two meters away from him with a long stout knife. Mariba jostled and shouted the way before her to be clear but still she was some distance away from where she could do something to save her superior officer. She had no choice. She gave a shot.
The woman who was now just beside the officer, when the shot was fired from Mariba’s gun, fell on to her knees right at the officer’s legs. So did the man who was just behind her with the rifle falling from his hand. The chief of the police stood pale and stunned.
Two
Risnu was eagerly waiting to go out with the family after being caught up inside the house itself for many days because of the incessant rains. She badly wanted to get some fresh air for herself and her kids. The fair which began after the monsoon period provided a way for the families to meet in the open ground, do some shopping and have some merry making after being huddled in their respective houses during the monsoons.
Risnu was ready with her two children. Her elder boy Jik was 10 years old and the younger girl Sasa was just on to her seventh year. Risnu was a bit frustrated that Ray still hadn’t got back home despite the fact that they had already planned on going to the fair after he got back from work. He was already late by thirty minutes. They had a quarrel in the morning and she was quite sure that he was delaying himself purposely since she had asked him to return home as early as possible to go to the fair. When Ray came she didn’t say anything but the displeasure was apparent on her face. Ray too kept up his ante. He didn’t feel like going out of the house after seeing her indifferent nature but he had promised the children to take them out to the fair.
They left home as soon as Ray finished his tea which was badly prepared in a hurry by Risnu in a bad mood. Though the monsoon was just over Ray expected a drizzle and he wore a jacket with a hood. He asked Risnu to take an umbrella and raincoats for the children but Risnu ignored it as she didn’t want to carry the long umbrella in her hands and walk with that extra load of two raincoats. This made Ray all the more frustrated and he knew it was no use reasoning with his wife of an expecting drizzle when newspaper had announced that the monsoon was over. But Risnu had already made the kids wear sweaters and mufflers and she herself put a scarf around her head.
The fair was a big one and it was well attended by the people of the town. It was a place for the public to spend a lot of time wandering around in leisure, to buy some things cheap after lots of bargaining, to play some games, watch some acts and try some delicacies. The police force was there in good number strategically placed all along the ground. It was in such places of gathering that many thefts and missing kids were reported. Places like this were also soft targets for terrorists who wanted to have their revenge on the government.
As Risnu's family got there they saw the busy activites inside the fair and it was much more than what they had expected. A lot of unfamiliar faces were there and it was hard to spot a known face in that big crowd . It seemed as if it was not just them but the full town was waiting anxiously for the rains to be over to come outside and have some merry time. They went inside into the fair through the entrance after procuring their tickets. They walked a little forward into the fair and as if after a second thought Risnu took her family back though her husand wanted her to move forward. The kids too wanted to go forward and get into the things. The father tried to pull the kids forward against the wish of his wife but the lady was admant. It was this strange movement that had caught the attention of the lady police officer who was on duty at the fair. Her job was to keep an eye on everything and everyone. Finally Risnu prevailed over her husband and she took her children back to the entrance. There she pointed to a clown which was made up from a balloon and it was floating a bit high up in the air with the help of nitrogen filled in it. Risnu then pointed her finger to a police officer who was standing a little away from the balloon. To the female police officer who was watching them it seemed as if Risnu was comparing the balloon clown to the chief of police who was keeping an eye on the people who came in through the entrance. The children giggled seeing the clown and Risnu herself laughed a bit seeing the innocent laughter of her kids. The female officer felt as if the full police department were being compared to buffoons and she felt hurt .
The family then went forward and they were to their usual things as any one would do in a fair. The police officer's eyes kept following them from a distance. Ray bought some ice creams and roasted nuts for the family. The family was enjoying the fair but the tension between Ray and Risnu still prevailed. After seeing a rope trick the family went forward and then Ray stopped at the section of stalls where the different games were held. One of the stalls offered shooting games with darts and rifles. Ray had a passion for shooting but to take it as a hobby was impossible with the income he had. So it was on occasions like this that he could try out his shooting skills. Risnu had no liking for such activities which she considered as money wasting games similar to gambling. Murmuring, she left that place as she found her husband was very much ready to waste money on his own enjoyment and that he was not going to help her in shopping. She pulled one of the kids in anger expecting the next one to follow the tow. Risnu then went to a cutlery shop to get some sharp knives, because the ones at home were almost blunt. It is only in such fairs that they would get some real village manufactured knives at affordable prices. The police lady after finding that there was nothing to be cautious about left her eyes from that famiy and began to focus on the whole crowd. Risnu was busy checking the different knives for their grip, sharpness and size while Ray who was a few stalls away was deeply immersed in his shooting prowess. Ray caught up with his shooting skills very soon after the first round of misses and he was hitting more balloons now repeatedly .
It was around then that Risnu noticed that only the elder boy was with her. She looked around in panic all over that area and then yelled at her son for not telling her that the small girl was not with them all this time. She was checking the sharpness of a big knife at that moment and unknowingly she held it as she she walked briskly to her husband who was at the prime of his shooting. A shout from Risnu made him miss a balloon by an inch after he had hit two ballons consecutively. He just missed a hatrick. Very soon another fight took place in front of the shooting stall after Risnu found that the girl was not there with her father. Risnu yelled at her husband and then Ray Shouted back at her for being so careless with their own children. Last year alone five children were reported missing from their district. The family stood grief stricken. Then a moment of silence came in between their fight and their eyes met for the first time in that day. Their eyes spoke and Risnu reminded Ray of something what she had done when she got into the fair ground. They knew immediately what had to be done. They both ran with tears welling in their eyes towards the entrance. Ray in his hurry forgot to return the rifle to the stall keeper and Risnu too had a weapon in her hand which she carried unknowingly. They both rushed to find their lost child.
The lady officer jostled forward through the crowd with great difficulty. She saw the man running with a rifle with the barrel pointing forward and the lady running waving a sharp butchering knife. Risnu was crying and running and they were advancing towards the senior police officer who was standing at the entrance point. He was a well decorated officer who had led many ambushes against terrorists and had suppressed many of their movements . He was a targeted officer for many such wayward groups and there he was standing as an easy target. Even as she ran the female officer took out the revolver from her waist and took it onto her hands. She tried to take a good aim at the two dangerously armed couple but the crowd always got in the way. She was unable to take a shot and she ran with all her might to protect her officer.
The couple were barely few meters away from the senior police officer. The police chief was shocked at two people running towards him, one with a rifle and other with a knife. He was not prepared to defend himself as he was totally taken by surprise. He knew he was going to be assassinated. The police woman knew that she couldn’t reach her superior officer in time so she just fired her pistol up in the air to scare the terrorists. Risnu was at an arms distance from the officer and just behind her was Ray with rifle. It was then that all of a sudden the police chief heard the gun shot and thought he had been shot by Ray. But at that same moment Risnu fell around his leg and she embraced her small girl child. Ray too fell on his knees and huddled his wife and the lost child together.
The vigilant police officer hadn’t seen this child who was standing close to his leg and she was only as tall as his knee. The girl had just followed the instructions of her mother just before she got inside the fair. If by any way she was lost in the crowd and couldn’t find her parents, she was instructed to look up into the sky and find that balloon with the image of a buffoon. She was to walk up in that direction and then stand near that man wearing khaki. She would be safe there till her father and mother would come looking for her. The girl had done just that.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
I am tired
Trying to be good
And in the process,
I work against my mood.
I don’t know
What to prove
And whom to please
For whatever reason.
I am not sure
If I really enjoy
The things I do
But, I just follow the herd
Like all of them
In the group.
It is time
I come out of the rut,
Instead, I follow my heart.
It is not for any return,
Or any kind of expectation
But,for the newly found freedom
Without any pressure.
Nothing really matters,
In the journey of life,
Except the self-realization.
Being gypsies in the desert
It is wise to avoid,
The illusion
And stop running after the mirage,
The Sooner the better.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
The babes in the cradle
The mothers pamper and fondle
The early dawn resembles,
That enlivens the spirit of all.
Then the stripling, enthusiasm bubbling,
Wearing an innocent air, sans worry or care,
Likened to the early morn,
That enlivens the spirit of all.
The sun shines from the zenith, gay,
Making it the brightest part of day;
So is the middle age,
On which there could be many a page.
Ever slowly creeps in the dusk,
When shorn of all strength and no more brisk,
Of old age bent, with a stick as pal
And his fading memories, he tries to recall.
When dusk gives way to dark,
He prepares to embark,
On that journey long and lone,
To that "Undiscovered Home".
Mr. S. Sundar Rajan, a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy, is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled "Beyond the Realms" and collection of short stories in English titled " Eternal Art" which has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam and Telugu. Another collection of short stories in English titled "Spice of Life" has also been translated in Tamil. His stories in Tamil is being broadcast every weekend on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station under the title "Sundara Kadhaigal". His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate to easily.
Sundar is a member of the Chennai Poets' Circle and India Poetry Circle. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He was adjudged as "Highly Recommended Writer" in the Bharat Award - International Short Story Contest held by XpressPublications.com.
In an effort to get the next generation interested in poetry Sundar organises poetry contest for school students. He is also the editor of "Madras Hews Myriad Views", an anthology of poems and prose that members of the India Poetry Circle brought out to commommorate the 380th year of formation of Madras.
Sundar is a catalyst for social activities. He organises medical camps covering general health, eye camps and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and a nature lover, he is currently organising a tree planting initiative in his neighbourhood. Sundar lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon
My Breath
That which slows down
Self-consciously when I
Close my eyes and notice it:
Deepens, calms, and expands
My abdomen and chest.
Mind swells too
Until sparkling Universe
Is inside my head.
Continuous silver singing,
Crickets in musical delirium,
Merge their notes with
Oum of the Sun.
When I conscious be
The Universe is me
And I am the Universe
Aham – I am.
But while riding Life
Unpaused Speeding
Yelling Bargaining
Persuading Performing,
Honest or facile,
My Breath forgotten,
Shallow, barely there,
Starving my lungs,
Shrinking my body.
I’m not Aware
Aham Breath.
I am Breath.
Sumita Dutta Shoam is the founder of Adisakrit, a publishing house that takes pride in publishing books in a variety of genres. She enjoys most creative mediums of expressions. She has a degree in Fine Arts and loves photography. She is multilingual and fluent in English, Hindi, spoken Bengali, and has learnt rudimentary French. She loves to explore places and cultures and has been lucky enough to travel to twenty-two countries across the globe. She has grabbed opportunities to work in different fields apart from publishing, designing, and editing, including teaching O and AS level English in an IGCSE school, and jobs in marketing and PR. All her experiences are fodder for her writing, which has been a passion from her teens, growing out of her obsession with reading all sorts of books. She believes that there are three necessities that enrich this world and her writing is liberally tossed with these ingredients—compassion, beauty, and humour. Her work can be found on several websites and some of her poems have been published in print anthologies. The Heart of Donna Rai is her debut novel. Blog: https//zippythoughts.wordpress.com, Email: sumid18@gmail.com
Popping my head up and down
Floating above the sea
Sands allure me
Will I be able to reach
Eagerly waiting to lay eggs
Rare as i am, an Olive Ridley sea turtle
Wanting to see my children
Hatch and grow
Migrate thousands of miles
Hoping for a ray of sunshine.
Dr S.Rupali Mishra is a 2nd year Post Graduate of SCB Medical College and Hospital, Cuttack, Odisha; sketches and reads poetry, stories and articles, besides being engaged in medicine research and application ; presently working, in a workforce of doctors fighting against Corona. She can be reachable at docrupalimishra@gmail.com.
The world bows down
To all the men and women
Taking care of people,
Roads, cities and villages.
With sleepless minds
They plan every moment
Thinking of the ‘other.’
Humanity now bows
To our valued saviours.
Doctors, nurses, police,
Workers and researchers.
We are every minute
Humbled by their sacrifices.
Like firefighters
They march ahead in search
Of challenges and issues.
We bless our dear brothers
And our dear sisters
Every soul prays for them
Every heart sings for them
We pray for their families.
Mother Earth will be kind
Will forgive our sins
Will clear our clouds
Bless our men and women.
Let this earth be free of worry
Let the day come
For them to come home
Let the day come
For them to sleep well.
We will welcome them with
Lamps and garlands
Our warriors, dears they are
Our minds are thinking
About them every day.
Prof. S. Sridevi has been teaching English in a research department in a college affiliated to the University of Madras for 30 years. She has published two collections of poems in English: Heralds of Change and Reservations. Her prose works are: Critical Essays, Saivism: Books 1-8 (Co-authors-C.T.Indra & Meenakshi Hariharan), Think English Talk English, Communication Skills, and Communicative English for Engineers (Co-Author-Srividya). She has translated Thirukural, Part I into Tamil. Her Tamil poetry collections are: Aduppadi Kavithaigal, Pennin Paarvaiyil, Naan Sivam and Penn Enum Perunthee.
I once heard happiness was like watching a sunrise.
That when it’s rays hits your eyes, you know there is hope,
Hope that every darkness comes to an end one day
And everything becomes alright.
That’s what I thought how happiness blossoms.
Someone told me that happiness takes time.
It is what we feel when we live in the present and leave our worries behind
They said, ‘It’s not like one day you wake up and everything is fine. Remember it’s not a movie you know’.
And I kept living in the present to find happiness for a while.
I’ve been told that happiness is a habit.
‘You know like fake it till you make it.’
You just have to say kind words to yourself while looking at yourself in the mirror.
‘It works.’ I was assured.
I did try it for a year. I was a good start but then I never felt the happiness that I had read about in the novels.
Some said ‘Happiness is all about letting go and accepting things as they are.’
That realizing and accepting what you can change is the first stepping stone
That happiness comes from within.
But what if, just what if I don’t have happiness within me?
All the sleepless nights to see the sunrise, to feel the ray of hope
And living in the present, not caring about the world,
And waking up everyday to tell myself ,”You’re smart”, “You are beautiful”, “Everything will be alright” while looking at the mirror
And accepting myself and things around me
What if that’s not how my happiness will happen?
Finding happiness was quite difficult unlike what people said
I found my mind going light and a smile crawling on my lips
When it rained,
When I could make the people around me smile,
When I bought a new book and the smell wrapped around me,
When I could help someone.
I realized None can tell you how to make your happiness happen,
It’s what you feel in little things that you do.
So, stop looking for happiness where someone else found it
When it will happen, it will happen.
Disha Prateechee is a final year BTech student from KIIT University, Odisha. She has have completed her schooling from D.A.V Public School, Burla, Sambalpur, Odisha and likes writing poetries in her leisure along with playing music instruments like Synthesizer and ukulele.
Lead, kindly light,
amid the encircled gloom
The night is dark
I am safe at home
socially distanced
standing still with
The lamps of Solidarity, Peace,
Goodwill, Resilience, Tenacity.....
As we light our lamps
Our hearts beat sonorously
in silent rhythm
Lead kindly light
Lead us to live
Let all Mankind
and Let all life forms
live in
PEACE...
LEAD KINDLY LIGHT!
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
“The youngsters, no doubt, make mistakes; but the old, when they try to think for them, make even greater mistakes.” The generation gap reveals different opinions, interests, hobbies, and lifestyles amongst people.
The elderly always strongly feel that their children and grandchildren gradually move apart and make them lonesome. Some of the parents assume their children are designed by them and ought to follow their rules, customs, and traditions. Besides, they expect respect, love, and discipline from them. In fact, they long for togetherness, warmth, comforts, and affection. The old are generally physically weak and mentally experienced or well educated. They’ve seen the world and are ready to share their experiences.
The youngsters today are quite different from their parents and grandparents. Most of the time, they try to adjust to the present generation and their parents. But, they wish to be independent and good decision makers. They also expect their parents not to interfere in their matters and to let them be free. Moreover, they do not agree with their opinions, if they are dissatisfied. Though a father and son breathe under the same roof, they often live like strangers. A house where both parents work compulsorily will not be a peaceful place for youth today as they may not be able to spend their valuable time with them.
"Be the change you wish to see". Education, media, habits, technology, and customs in society influence us to bring changes in our lifestyle. Change is quite common in every place and person’s mind. As time passes, we change our food habits, dressing, and culture. There is no particular rule that a son has to like his father’s style of living and there is no guarantee that a father can compel his son to follow his path. Today’s energetic youngsters are immensely influenced by various places and nationalities.
Thus the generation gap is the cause of all these changes. Our forefathers might have felt the same with our grandparents or parents. So, presently, our parents do feel the same and often feel difficult to adjust with the present generation. The only way to live peacefully and happily is to love and understand each other. Every parent longs for togetherness, love, and affection from his son or daughter. Parents ever welcome their sons and daughters to reside with them, with a belief, ‘sharing is caring.'
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
And then I woke up with a jerk, and found myself still on my bed. The dim red light of the night lamp was scattered on the wall with a dull haze, giving a scary look all around. Fear gripped me. Heart throbbing heavily, my head was reeling, making me nauseous. I tried to steady myself on the deluxe bed. But when the water droplets dripped on my hand, I realised that I was sweating badly. The beeping of my phone drew my attention. I picked it up to check the time and if any messages came from my well wishers. It was 3 a.m. A couple of hours were left till daybreak. I felt exhausted, I didn't know why. Slowly, my finger pressed the message button.
Although my eyes felt drowsy, yet they moved quickly over the messages. ‘You can do it, baby! Best of luck!’…‘Hi Smita! It’s the dream you’ve always dreamt! Go ahead. You can snatch the trophy!’… ‘Hi honey! My baby doll, best of luck’…blah.. blah.’ A smile clicked on my lips, but I was tensed up, I had no crave to go for further message. So many thoughts seized my mind but the haunting face of Adya dispelled every thought into a corner and captured the forefront. ‘Oh, no! Not again..’ I murmured unconsciously. I don't know how long I sat there on my bed like a statue!
I couldn't sleep any more. I switched on the light, strolled around the room, then stood before the life size mirror on the wall. I looked at my own reflection. My face slowly became unrecognisable to me. Lifeless eyes and grey hair looked back at me from the mirror and I sprang back. My thoughts and my fear ran wild while I saw the same cynical smiling face of Adya just behind me in the mirror. My eyes popped out like two big golf balls, I screamed aloud and rushed to my bed, put my head under the pillow, yelled again, ‘Why ? Why Adya? Why are you not leaving my shadow? Go..go away..just leave me alone.’ There was no response! The silent room only echoed my own voice……………………………….
Fifteen minutes passed, I lifted my face from the pillow and I stretched myself on the bed, glared at the fast moving ceiling fan, putting questions to myself, ‘Why am I losing my self confidence? Is "jealousy thy name is woman" true?’ I shook my head with disagreement then went on piling up my dreadful dream which I saw few hours before………………..
I was getting ready with the other participants for the live fashion show. That was the long awaited final day! All the members were on their toes to make the show exclusively entertaining. Too busy! Out of all the participants, Adya, the youngest diva and I were in the hot list. Both Adya and I were in the green room. We exchanged friendly look, which was nothing but pretending for sure. I knew, it was a scornful look! She is only nineteen and I am three years elder to her. I knew it was a privilege for her. Then, again I pacified myself ‘I was the winner last year, my position, demand, everything is much higher than her. Why should I be afraid of a new comer? Definitely, I will surpass her!’ Yet, I knew this show business, people are crazy after new butterflies. They always promote the young, youthful freshers. Next moment, I felt jealous of her figure. I am no doubt beautiful and attractive. But, her thin slender physique, with silken dark black waist length hair, was a little threat, challenging my position. I think, she has the same feeling for me too. In a frequent time gap, she was smiling at me, adjusting her dark purple, heavily embroidered dress. The low cutting neck design, exposing much. She was twisting her body into various poses in front of the mirror. I was busy with another huge mirror, keeping myself at the best of my outfit. I preferred the dark chocolate colour to match my fair complexion. We were drastically waiting for the make up team. With the slight knocking sound, both of us rushed to the door to open it. ‘Err..it is not locked..’ together we said, then laughed. The makeup team took every excuse for being late and immediately started their work. But what I noticed, they were more interested with Adya rather than me, as if I was being rebuffed like an old stuff! When the eye liner of the makeup man touched the hazel eyes of Adya, she looked more vibrant. I looked at the mirror. It was more friendly to watch her through the mirror rather than casting a direct offensive look, I guessed. Before the final call, we both glanced at each other with a smiling face. I adored her beauty in my heart because she was dressed up with consummate elegance! She rushed towards me, held my hand and softly said, ‘You are looking stunning, beautiful!!! Perhaps, you don't know how much I love you! I am an ardent fan of yours. Now, both of us are in the same platform. I am really nervous to compete with you. But if I fail, I will be in trouble!' Her bewitching eyes welled up with tears. With a deep breath, she wished me good luck! She hugged me and swiftly kissed on my cheek.
I never expected this type of warmth from her. For a few seconds, I was confused whether I had been pranked or she had a flair for languages! However, my instinct worked out at once and I gave her a warm hug, kissed her too. Appreciating her gracefulness, I let her go first to face the audience for the final show of fashion world. The clapping sound with the beacons of flash light dazzled my eyes, numbed my eardrums. An unseen fear chilled my body!
Obviously, the sound and the flash light was targeted at the stunning beauty, Adya, a naive teenager. She walked elegantly, perfectly well on the red carpeted dais. Next turn was mine. I felt as if my blood was streaming out from my body, nerves were weakened to show any dignified pose. However, I entered into the dais. But instead of displaying my best performance, I did some mistake. The last words of Adya ‘If I fail…’ hit my mind again and again. My reflex action was blurred. I couldn't sense anything. Maybe, I was totally revoked at that very moment! For a second, I was deeply immersed in my imagination…. the cocktail party after the fashion show… Adya was in the centre, shaking her hand with the eminent guests…the photographers rushed to focus their camera on her only, ignoring my presence as if they didn't know me. The whole experience left me with frayed nerves. A year before I had reached the pinnacle of my career, and now it seems as if I am at no man’s land…unrecognisable…rejected. I couldn't accomplish my best shot! I was totally lost! Suddenly, I realised that I was on the stage, I was supposed to give the most stylish posture but it was too late. With a heavy heart I came back to the green room. I wondered at my acts, my own foolishness! I questioned myself, ‘Did I do it deliberately to help Adya? Or she really deserves what she got?’
I cursed myself a thousand times but next moment consoled my mind, ‘Yes! This world is changing and so do we! The same people who are running after Adya now, were glued to me once. They have become so casual, now behaving like strangers to me! Maybe, she will face the same situation like me in future! Anyway, knowingly or unknowingly, I passed the glory to the little angel. Let her be happy! Who knows what comes next?’ My thinking got a sudden break when Adya entered the room and stared at me with total contempt, then quickly disappeared.
She held me spellbound, it was simply incredible! It became a nightmare for me! I screamed aloud, ‘No Adya, I am contented helping you to win the race, I never knew I was cheated! No…no.’ With my own screaming noise, I couldn't even hear the continuous buzzing of the door bell. I jerked forward and then I woke up.
Ms. Anjali Mahapatra is a retired teacher from Mumbai who taught Mathematics and Science to students in Ahmedabad, Bhubaneswar, Lucknow and Mumbai for more than thirty years. She took to writing after her retirement and has penned close to a hundred stories so far. Her stories have appeared in Sunnyskyz and other magazines. Two of her collection of short stories, 'An Amazing Letter to Me and Other Stories' and 'Granny Tales' have been published in Kindle Unlimited.
No matter what
Sometimes in strange game of life
Complex relationships
Loneliness , sadness , insecurities are inevitable
Be aware
But let us never dwell on them
Let us plunge into the heart of abundant goodness
Derive strength and clarity from deep core of the soul
All precious insights and understanding hidden
With in our own Self
To get back balance, self assurance, peace
Is our choice and responsibility
Keep going in action
To enjoy what we do
Trusting in our capacities
With no pressure to show or prove to the world
Rather feel accomplished everytime we manage to tame our emotions
Creating our lives meaningfully
Adding value to our lives
And keep learning lessons of life.
Dr. K. Srikala Ganapathy lives in Chennai with her beautiful family. She has passion for academics, thirst for knowledge and loves subjects Science and English. She has completed PhD in Botany, interdisciplinary Microbiology. She is a University State Rank Holder in her undergraduate study. She has published several Scientific Research Papers in National and International Journals. She has presented her research papers in various conferences and seminars and won several prizes and awards. She has worked in schools and taught Biology, English and handwriting to children. She happily involves herself in Volunteers for Teaching (VFT) a wonderful initiative to reach out and teach Greater Chennai Corporation School children for the cause of education. VFT has helped her to connect with beautiful and talented people.
She loves words and loves to write more. Writing gives her happiness and clarity. She has authored few articles & children’s stories for The Hindu “On a freedom Trip”, “Pitching it right”, “Discovering life”, “Look within”, “Write to refresh”, “Time to celebrate” and “Friendship Bracelet”. “Me and my inner voice” was published in Infinithoughts, a wonderful holistic magazine. Few of her short stories for children are also available online worldwide web.storyweaver and quotes on Yourquote.in... Her poetry is featured in reputed anthologies like Metverse Muse, Efflorescence, Are we mere spectators, Scintillating Scions, Rise to Higher essence and more. Her verses are also on online literary platforms such as Muse India- Your space, spill words and boloji. She has to her credit a poetry book, Flight of words from the Self published by Zorba books and review of her book is available on Amazon.
THE CRAFT OF HAIKU WRITING: MY EXPERIENCE
Haiku is considered as the shortest non-rhyming Japanese poetry form written in three lines, in 5-7-5 format, with 17 syllables in total. Generally, the strict syllable style is not followed in English and it is written in the form of short/long/short lines, all in lower case. It comprises two images in the form of fragment (Line 1) and phrases (Lines 2 and 3) so that the two images juxtapose each other either as association or contrast. The poem reflects the present happening in nature with a seasonal reference. The art of haiku dwells in capturing the image in an aesthetic and simple way without any poetic ornamentation and allowing the readers to interpret in their own style.
Japanese literature is largely inspired by Chinese literature during the Tang Dynasty (618-907) in China. Kojiki (712) and Nihonshoki (720) are the books of the earliest Japanese mythology, history, and poems. The word haiku is a combination of two different words haikai and hokku. Haikai is a linked-verse (collaborative) in haikai no renga poetry style developed during the Edo period (1602–1869). Haikai, a type of renga poetry, consists of at least 100 verses in 5-7-5-7-7 pattern. Hokku is the name given to the opening verse (5-7-5, go schichi go) and the last two-line is known as wakiku. Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) is the pioneer of writing Hokku. Haiku poetry came into existence from hokku of haikai and Masaoka Shiki named hokku as haiku (ha-i-ku, 3-sound in Japanese) in 1892. The etymology of the word Haiku from Japanese is ‘hai amusement + ku verse. Haiku consists of 17 ‘on’ or ‘morae’ (sound), written in a vertical single line (top to bottom). A Japanese haiku comprises three sections namely kami go (the top five-section), naka shichi (the middle seven-section), and shimo go (the lower five-section).
Matsua Basho (1644-1694) ,Yosa Busan (1716-1783), Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) and Mosaoka Shiki (1867-1902) are the Masters of the Haiku literature, including Chiyo-ni (1703-1775), a great women haikuist. In 1877, W G Aston, first translated haiku in English. Writing of 3-line haiku may date back to the 1600s in the western language in Dutch. The first successful haiku written in English was "In a Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound in 1913. Initially, haiku is written with 5-7-5 format (with 17 ‘on’ or ‘morae’). In Japanese literature, there is no such syllabic concept as in English. These formats are indeed the phonic or sound expression. Hence it is not possible to translate the Japanese haiku into English in the same format. For example ‘akai’ in Japanese has three sounds (a/ka/i). The word ‘akai’ means red and it is one syllable
in English. Later on, in the English language, the schemata are widely kept as s/l/s form in haiku writings.
Basho’s famous ‘frog’ haiku remains as an iconic example in the haiku literature:
furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
*
old pond
a frog jumps into
the sound of water
(Translated by Jane Reichhold)
The haiku contains two images, the “fragment” and the “phrase” while writing in English with a causer or pause in between (Kireji). Haiku is an objective-based expression. It is not a sentence, hence there is no capital letter or punctuation or full stop in haiku writing, and there is no title of the haiku. Additionally, the two images should not reflect the simple cause and effect. In Japanese, the Kireji (ya, kana, keri, nari) is expressed by syllables, but in English, it is denoted by punctuation. The “Kireji”, in its sublime form, sparks the juxtaposition or disjunction of the two images (syntactic pivot) facilitating a “leap”. If the poet thinks that the expression is explicit for the reader to understand the images without difficulty, the natural pause itself takes care of the cutting word. The fragment is written in the first line and the phrase is expressed in the remaining two lines. The fragment could also be expressed in the third line. One can put “dash” or “dots” (ellipsis) to separate the distinct images. Minimum use of adjectives, articles, gerund, refraining from the use of simile, metaphor (with exception of implied poetic predicament), adverbs, verbs, and conditional clauses are some of the essential characteristics of writing haiku. In general, the haiku should not be personified and it is non-rhymic. The poem is written about the keen observations of happenings around nature or human aspects related to nature based on the experience through five senses. Touchingness of things (mono na aware) and touchningness of life (yo no aware) are the essences of haiku. It is better to refrain from incorporating ordinary cause and effect, abstractions while writing haiku. The poet should not be judgmental. On the contrary, he can explain the cause of feeling rather than his self-feeling and put it in the present tense to create the haiku spirit with poetic musicality. At no point, it should be a sentence broken into three lines. There are different linked forms or genres of haiku such as Monoku (one- line haiku), haibun (prose interspersed with haiku), haiga (image, drawing or photo with haiku). Senryu, written in haiku style, is more of witty, satire nature with human attributes and without seasonal or nature reference.
Art of haiku writing is a way of imaging around nature (kocho-fuei), behavioural sense of man, animal and non-being entities and exploring the human feeling and relationship. Haiku is unique in its form and simplistic expression with reference to season or nature as a whole. The tiniest object of nature has its genuine worth in this world. I feel it is the realisation of this truth and zen-feeling that has given rise to the genesis of the Haiku poem. The haiku discovers the meaning of each entity through the aesthetic (wabi-sabi) way. This makes it a distinct style from other poetry forms. It reflects simplicity and honesty in expression without any artificiality, complexity or pretention. It enunciates a contemplation of spiritualism and the realization of self- being a part of nature. The basic elements (teikei) of haiku are the seasonal reference (kigo), the surrealistic silence in the form of pause (kireji), depth and mystery (yugen), contained space (ma), becomingness (kokora), lightness (karumi) and creativeness (zoko) and elegance (fuga). It is an art of capturing the happening at the present moment and leaving the interpretation to the readers without telling it (show but do not tell) with brevity (less is more). Unexpetedness (atarashimi) and drifting mood (nioi) in expression render beauty to haiku.
The art of juxtaposition (renso) is an exploration of reasoning and a poetical logic that resides in one’s imagism sensibility processes. However, subtle metaphoric expression with logical credence continues to explore the enlightened (satori) nature. Indeed it is an expression of poetic elegance (miyabi) in simplicity (iki) style.
Westerners describe haiku (pronounced as hi-koo) as epigrams and snapshots. Dutchman Hendrik Doeff (1764–1837) was known to be the earliest westerner to have written haiku. The first haiku-influenced poems written in English was arguably by Ezra Pound, In a Station of the Metro, published in 1913. Harold G. Henderson (1889-1974) describes haiku as “Primarily it is a poem; and being a poem it is intended to express and evoke emotion... haiku is a very short poem... more concerned with human emotions than with human acts, and natural phenomena are used to reflect human emotion.” The pioneer translators of the Japanese haiku into English are Arthur Waley (1865-1966), R B Blyth (1898-1964) and others. At present haiku become a global ‘small poetry’, commonly written in s/l/s format.
The classical haiku is about realization and reverence of nature. Our ancient Vedic culture is a culture of nature and divinity. In the Rig Veda, verses (suktas) in Sanskrit are written in praise of nature and its significance. The Indian Nobel Laureate, Rabindranath Tagore during his first visit to Japan in 1916, cited reference of haiku poems in his travelogue “Japan-Jatri” and translated Basho’s two haiku. His collection of haiku-like short and epigrammatic poems 'Fireflies' was published in English and Bengali in 1926. His one-line poems (monoku like), “The Stray Birds” are more of proverbial expression with poetic lucidity. In 1916, the great poet Subramania Bharati wrote a classical article on “Japaniyat Kavitai (Japanese poetry)”. Prof. Satyabhushan Verma is the pioneer of Indian Haiku who first translated Japanese haiku into Hindi 'Japani Kavitaian' (published in 1977). A poem, “Hokku’ by Roshen Alkazi is a two-line verse: The solitary bird/ sings (Seventeen More Poems, Writers Workshop, 1970) is among one of the earliest examples of haiku writings by Indian poets. Urmila Kaul, I H Rizvi, D H Kabadi, Angelee Deodhar, A. Thiagarajan, R. K Singh, K. Ramesh, Kala Ramesh and scores of other contemporary Indian poets have written beautiful haiku in English. Haiku has also been composed by many regional languages.
My Experience:
Humbly, I wish to share a few words about my small steps in the long poetic journey. I use to enjoy the poetic feeling and metaphoric expression and started writing at an early age of around thirteen. I composed proverbial-short poems (one to two lines, similar to monku) while writing essay on some topics. In early school career, I sublimely endowed with natural beauty and used to write articles pertaining to scenic landscapes of resplendent nature.
Earlier I wrote both longer and shorter versions of poems with internal rhymes. Gradually, I feel more comfortable in writing the shorter version. It clusters poetic energy to unveil the touch of beauty through brevity. Interestingly some of my earlier writings were of haiku-like verses though I was not aware of the genre at that time.
A few of my Odia poems, composed during the early seventies, resemble like Haiku:
darkness all around
I search
light within
Eka Akaar (The Shape: A sequence poem, 1972-73)
In 1978 a few of my haiku-like stanzas written in “Odia” appeared in the Deepti magazine, edited by Shasidhar Pattnaik, under the short-verse sequences “Satyameba” (Truth Alone). The translation of one of the poems, Jibanata (Life) is as follows:
half-moon in the sky
her body veiled in mixed
colours of clouds
Deepti, Vol.8, Issue III, Oct-Dec 1978
The Living Anthology
One of my short poems, titled ‘Seed’, “It is tiny/ Because it nests/ With care/ The mightiest in it”, Kavita India, Vol. III, Nos. 2&3, 1990 was published in “The World Haiku Review”, Vol. 7, Issue 2, 2009 with minor edits by the editor, Susumu Takiguchi.
creation is mystical
vast value of life
compressed in a seed
I was thrilled when I got an e-mail from the editor and renowned haiku poet, Werner Reichhold, on 23rd Sept 2009 about acceptance of the poem which was later republished in Lynx-Aha Poetry, XXV:1 Feb 2010.
Dog is misspelled
the child discovered
the Great
Lynx-Aha Poetry, XXV:1 Feb 2010
(Original poem, “God” first published in “World Poetry Anthology”, 1992, Ed. Krishna Srinivas)
I could recall, Urmila Kaul, a bilingual poet, published five of her 3-line haiku poems in the journal ‘Skylark’-47/48-1982, edited by Baldev Mirza. Interestingly, my longer version of poem, ‘A Part of Civilization’ was published in the next opposite page of the journal.
I chanced upon to see the published review article on “Indian English Haiku and R K Singh” by Razni Singh in e-zine “Got Poetry”, December 2007. I went back to search my manuscripts of the eighties, and some of the published ones closely resemble (though not in the strict sense) to haiku and tanka. In Sept 2009, I posted four lines of poem “Pretending” (They speak of volume/ In reality it fills/ Thin hopes/ Of vacuum) in PoetBay and received an appreciation from the poet, Tai, UK about the image of thin hopes of vacuum. I received inspired-comment from the poet, Shells, UK suggesting to condense the poem into a three-line in the form of haiku instead of four lines. Then I started searching about haiku poem and the related genres. I could come across the age-old exquisite poetic work of iconic literary Japanese Masters. Since then it has been a thrilling experience and a joyful journey of writing Japanese short poems.
Werner Reichhold encouraged me to go through some of the haiku poems written by western haikuist and literature with Asian roots. He appreciated and encouraged me to turn the observations/images with the poetic touch. Paul, Alice Framton, Hidenori Hiruta, Fay Aoyagi, Robert D. Wilson , Gabi Greve Lorin Ford, an’ya, Sasa Vazic, Susumu Takiguchi, Patricia Prime, Isamu Hashimoto, David McMurray, Anna, Isabelle, Karina Klesko, John Daleiden, Beatrice Van de Vis, Gisele LeBlanc, Michele Pizarro Harman and others inspired me a lot during my formative stage of haiku writing.
Some of my selected work:
rainy day
mud escapes
between toes
Ambrosia, Summer 2010
*****
early moonrise
cranes shift whiteness
to an old banyan tree
Honourable Mention, Haiku Reality / Haiku Stvarnost, Vol.8, No.15, Winter 2011
*****
the tree--
spreads its branches
without noise
Simply Haiku, Vol.8, No.3, 2011
*****
deep dark space
many cosmic townships
with their own light
The Mainichi Daily News, 23.3. 2012
Haiku in English: Best of 2012, Mainichi Daily News
*****
green vegetables
my mother smiles with
morning freshness
Editor’s Best Choice, Sketchbook, Vol. 7, No. 3, Issue 43, 2012
*****
cherry blossoms—
the scent bridging
the long river
Honourable Mention, Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Invitation, 2013
*****
temple bell--
the lone bird adds
its cry
Frogpond, 36-2 Spring/Summer Issue, 2013
Published in Anthology, “A Vast Sky” 2015
*****
tree to tree--
I walk along carrying
shadows
Issa’s Untidy Hut, Haiku #149, 2013
*****
first rain
the paper boat carries
my childhood
Asahi Shimbun, May 31, 2013
Butter Fly Dream Anthology, 2014
*****
flowing river--
the bereaved girl holds
a palm-full of water
Editor’s Choice (Sample Poems), Acorn, Issue #33, Fall 2014
*****
Neil Armstrong--
baby’s maiden walk
on bright moon day
Commendation Award, The Kloštar Ivani? International Haiku Competition, 2014
*****
early morning--
the sweeper gathers
autumn wind
Presence, Issue 49, 2014
*****
wild flower--
I breathe my
loneliness
The Heron’s Nest, Vol. XVI, No.4 December 2014
*****
fallen kites--
the slum boy gathers
the colours
Second Prize, Spring Haiku Contest, Diogen, 2014
*****
desert journey—
camels follow shadow
after shadow
Creatrix 26, April 2014
Highly Commendation Award, Creatrix Haiku Prize 2015, WA Poets Inc, Australia
*****
thick clouds--
a gap takes me
to the ocean
Modern Haiku, Issue 46:2, 2015
*****
liquid garden--
sprinkles of sunlight
on coral blossoms
Shamrock 32, October 2015
*****
relationship--
the cold breeze remains
tightly folded
AKISAME (European Haiku Society) Issue 19:1, 2015
*****
paddy fields--
the sun for a while
pretends in green
Honorable Mentions, Haiku Reality, Vol. 13, No 21, Spring 2016
*****
tiny pebbles
the softness
of her talk
Runners Up, Iafor Vladimir Devide Haiku Award, 2017
*****
prison window
the softness of the wings
of a butterfly
Haiku Foundation Workplace Haiku, 27.9.2017
*****
moonrise the sky from the oncology wing
Presence # 61, 2018
a hole in the light: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku 2018
*****
end of summer
an antique table fan
pauses for a while
Anthology - All the Way Home: Aging in Haiku, 2019
*****
evening market
cats join their voices
with the vendors
Poetry Pea, January 2020
*****
tealights--
monks gather
enlightenment
Lucas Lily Pad, 3.2.2020
*****
coronavirus ...
even the shadows
drift away
Butterfly Dream, 21.3.2020
*****
on the back of a refugee a pregnant dog thrashing the shore current
is/let, 21.3.2020
*****
spring evening
moonrise brightens
your homecoming
The Cicada’s Cry, Spring 2020
*****
lockdown--
aroma of jasmine flower
crosses the fence
My Haiku Pond Academy, April 2020
The haiku discovers the meaning of each entity through an aesthetic way. Haiku imparts life to every object of realization and its vivid image. Essentially the genre of expression acts as a diligent medium to have a wide spectrum of exploration within ourselves associating with the rest. Writing haiku unveils the poetic parlance and lively moments conjoined with all the entities within the ambit of nature and human behaviour. This leads you to start realising the value of the tiniest dust particle to diamond, raindrops to ranges of the mountain, the distance of the sun to closeness to your shadow, tender grass to the giant trees, and rhythms of sound to the voice of silence.
Discussion on syllable counts, whether to express in one, two, or three lines or occasionally four lines may remain as debatable point, especially in the neo-literary revolution. The image-moment around us, phrasing and its poetic association with human behaviour, love, emotion, humour, season, climate, observances, plants, animals, geography and elements of senses are to be poetically embedded to enliven the soulful feelings of haiku writings. The basic ingredients need to be respected with a fair degree of modernity. Sincerity, the honesty of experience and imagination, originality and simplicity, choice and order of words, musicality are some of the key aspects of good haiku writings. In the end, it should reflect the wisdom of poetic credence in line with the aesthetic spirits and contemporary values. The original haiku in the Japanese language is a class of its own. One can perceive the spark-moment and express it with refreshing images. The time and topography have been changed over the years. Rightly Basho said, “Learn of the pine from the pine; learn of the bamboo from the bamboo”.
One can try to evolve a contemporary sketch of neo-haiku irrespective of whether he lives in the village, urban area or elsewhere. That is the beauty of Japanese masters’ craftsmanship. Let us revere them and their classical contributions even we dream to shift to Moon or Mars! It has always been to have trans-creation of tender expression of nature through the art of words for the readers to derive emotion, goodness, quietude and divine pleasure of the haiku moment. The poem needs to carry the essence of zoko (creativeness), fuga (Elegance), yugen (depth and mystery), Koko (becomingness), wabi-sabi (austere simplicity, naturalism, and solitude: Japanese aesthetic virtues) and ma (opening, space). W Hackett says,‘Lifefulness, not beauty, is the real quality of haiku’.
Solemnly I still continue to march ahead with my tiny steps! An incredible journey so far!
Note: The article is an abridged version of assimilation of my earlier essay “Haiku: The Art of Words and My Maiden Journey”, Living Haiku Anthology, and part of ‘Preface’ from my recently published haiku collection, “Cosmic Symphony”.
References for further reading:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku
https://poetrysocietynz.files.wordpress.com/2016/07/learning-to-write-haiku-a-teachers-guide-k-raine.pdf
http://britishhaikusociety.org.uk/teaching-haiku/the-heart-of-a-haiku/
https://www.ahapoetry.com/Bare%20Bones/bbtoc%20intro.html
https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/the-haiku-foundation-education-wall/
http://www.haikuworld.org/begin/lgurga.jun2003.html
http://www.graceguts.com/home
https://poetrysociety.org.nz/affiliates/haiku-nz/haiku-poems-articles/archived-articles/haiku-silence/
http://www.simplyhaiku.com/SHv2n5/haikuclinic/haikuclinic.html
https://livinghaikuanthology.com/poets-on-haiku/poets-on-haiku/3895-padhy,-pravat-kumar.html
https://www.academia.edu/32916446/The_Science_of_Haiku_Poetry_My_Experience
https://www.underthebasho.com/utb-2018/essays/2451-monoku-an-experiment-with-minimalism-in-haiku-literature.html
https://worldkigodatabase.blogspot.com/
http://www.2hweb.net/haikai/renku/500ESWd.html
https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/omeka/files/original/4b81b14e2078d5cb3ba3572d8a2ae010.pdf
https://haikucommentary.wordpress.com/haiku-glossary/
Pravat Kumar Padhy, a scientist and a poet from Odisha, India, has obtained his Masters of Science and Technology and Ph.D from Indian Institute of Technology, ISM Dhanbad. He has published many technical papers in national and international journals. He is amongst the earliest pioneers in evolving the concept of Oil Shale exploration and scope for “Ancient Oil Exploration” (from Geological very old strata) in India.
His literary work is cited in Interviews with Indian Writing in English, Spectrum History of Indian Literature in English, Alienation in Contemporary Indian English Poetry, Cultural and Philosophical Reflections in Indian Poetry in English, History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry, etc. His Japanese short form of poetry appeared in various international journals and anthologies. He guest-edited “Per Diem, The Haiku Foundation, November Issue, 2019,” (Monoku about ‘Celestial Bodies’). His poems received many awards, honours and commendations including Editors’ Choice Award at Writers Guild of India, Asian American Poetry, Poetbay, Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival International Haiku, UNESCO International Year Award of Water Co-operation, The Kloštar Ivani? International Haiku Award, IAFOR Vladimir Devide Haiku Award, 7th Setouchi Matsuyama International Photo Haiku Award, and others. His work is showcased in the exhibition “Haiku Wall”, Historic Liberty Theatre Gallery, Oregon, USA. His tanka,‘I mingle’ is featured in the “Kudo Resource Guide”, University of California, Berkeley. The poem, “How Beautiful” is included in the Undergraduate English Curriculum at the university level in India.
He is credited with seven literary publications of verse, Silence of the Seas (Skylark Publication), The Tiny Pebbles (Cyberwit.net). Songs of Love - A Celebration (Writers Workshop), Ripples of Resonance (Authors Press Cosmic Symphony (Haiku collection), Cyberwit.Net, The Rhyming Rainbow (Tanka collection), Authors Press), and The Speaking Stone (Authors Press). His poems are translated into different languages like Japanese, Chinese, Serbian, German, Romanian, Italian, Irish, Bosnian, Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Punjabi, Telugu, and Odia.
He feels, “The essence of poetry nestles in the diligent fragrance of flower, simplicity of flow of river, gentle spread of leaves, calmness of deep ocean and embellishment of soothing shadow. Let poetry celebrate a pristine social renaissance and beautiful tomorrow of the universal truism, here and beyond
Mist.
Arrived by the morning post.
Just one layer of it, beneath the faded envelope.
On opening,it rose up,
In dangling spirals,
With spokes on all sides.
Spokes like cedars
On the valley
Where we grew up
And you disappeared into.
And the mist-
The one you brought me,cupped in your reddening hands,
On a reddening dawn,
And set,with great care,
Upon the reddening petals
Of the white rose
In the garden,on the eve of your birthday feast-
That mist still follows me.
From the day it sat on my dimples,
brushing away shadowed memoirs from them,
on the night they buried you;
On my way back to the smoking city, perched on my car's window pane,running down,from time to time,hand in hand as we were once wont to do;
On tips of plantain leaves,
Dancing in frenzy, whenever a breeze passes by-
much like your unruly hair,while whooshing past our barn on horse.
To my postbox, whichever town I move to,in envelopes,empty of papers inside,
resting on the upper surface, waiting for my nails to touch,to rise up,in spirals and spokes.
They say it’s spooky.I say it’s you,
Through and through.
Gopika Hari, third year BA English literature student at University college TVM. Poetry is her passion and has published her first anthology under the title "The Golden Feathers". She started writing poems from the age of ten, love poetry and poetic prose. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - gopikameeratvm@gmail.com
For a lonely middle aged man like him
Darkness was neither a blessing
nor a curse
Yet he kept peeping into darkness,
Seeking light in shades
And shades in light.
He had to, to keep fit
To fight another day...
As I was going inside a temple
Saw him on the foot path
in crumpled dress stretching languorously
Resting his head lightly
On a bundle of clothes
Stacked inside a dirty cloth bag!
Perhaps his only possession!
His eyes were wistful
His visage 'couldn't care less'!
When I returned from inside temple
Was shocked beyond words
To see this lone zealot
Reading 'The Economic Times'!
Only 'laissez faire' will suit us
He muttered under his casual breath!
Shocking an unbelieving me to the core
For I completely mistook his appearance:
Thought he was an illiterate!
How life has ravaged him thus!
Or did it?
For, he did cast a passing glance
At poor me,
Smiled that disdainful, lunatic smile\
And then resumed seeking
Light in shades
Shades in light...
He had to, to keep fighting fit
To live another day!...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
She walks magnificent, like the knight
Her sprightly eyes sharp and keen as kite
The enticing look so powerful as dark
And her black delicate lashes spark
Her mind so breezy and peaceful
While her heart, innocent yet powerful!
She wears a cherubic smile so real
And her glint sparkling eyes so ethereal
Her voice so sweet, so soft yet eloquent
And her flawless features so elegant!
Her mind so breezy and peaceful
While her heart, innocent yet powerful!
"Wherever women are adored, the GODS reside there.”
Women are one half of the society which gives birth to the other half so it is as if they are the entire society. Women are the greatest pillars of stability of the society.
Women are the very source of power - power to resilience and the power to development or transformation of the nation. The very existence of buoyant women provides more than inspiration to posterity to raise their voice for empowering the other women who are deprived of their rights.
The concept of gender equality and empowerment of women in many countries is still in its infancy, due to the deeply rooted nature of patriarchy that has poisoned our culture.
We are in the midst of an important revolution and we are raising our powerful voices for equal rights. Gender norms, including perceptions of what it is to be a real man are strongly linked to all kinds of violence against women and girls, including within the school setting. Everywhere in the world social norms still condone violence against women. As Hilary Clinton said, “Human rights are Women rights and Women rights are Human rights once and for all.”
Girls of many countries are denied educational rights and are held back from achieving their aspirations. It is not only due to poverty but also the girls are not encouraged to go out on reaching puberty or adolescence. Whenever and wherever a girl is denied her educational rights, it is an act against against all other girls for their right to learn, live without freedom which is unacceptable. Educating a woman is the biggest transformative factor for the individual, the nation and the society. Women’s exclusion from education and participation intersect with other problems, such as discriminatory patterns in ownership and exploitation of land, inheritance and maternal mortality and morbidity and the feminization of poverty.
There is a profound African adage that if we educate a boy, we train a man while if we educate a girl, we train a village. This found an echo in Mohammed Ali Jinnah who said “No nation can rise to the height of glory unless your women are side by side with you.”
Sometimes, it happens that the men feel threatened if women acquire power. But in reality their strength and credence comes from knowing a woman is by their side and not behind them. So instead of feeling threatened they themselves should feel empowered about it.
People should be mindful of the advantages that education has given them and must unite to address the women`s unequal status in the society.
Let us all remember that it is not about men versus women, it is about changing and challenging the centuries old institutionalized patriarchy which gives men a false entitlement and privilege that affect both men and women.
“More united the women are, together they raise up the nation.”
S. Geetha, a 16 year old author and a young poet from India. She started her journey in writing at the age of 7. She is a bibliophile and loves reading non-fiction. She has also worked as the student editor of her school magazine for the year 2019-20. She is a mellifluous Carnatic singer. She has won laurels for her sparkling brilliancy in music as well as in writing. She calls herself as the Pink Author Hope. She does her best writing on Women empowerment. She is a blogger and owns 2 websites. https://geethabose.wordpress.com/ & https://thepinkauthor.wordpress.com/
One goes through many experiences in life - some sweet, some bitter. Often things take strange shapes without our having any control over them. By the time we realize their impact in our life it becomes too late. Sometimes one is in a position to take corrective steps, but at considerable cost of time and patience. In my long career of being a college professor I have had my share of good and bad experiences. In my last episode I had described the magnanimity of the principal of the college where I had got my first posting. Today I will narrate a bitter experience in which a colleague and a principal played a part
On promotion, i joined Bhadrak College on 09-08-1976 and continued till 25-05-1980. There I worked with two principals- Prof.Trilochan Mishra and Prof.G Parida. My relationship with Prof.Parida faired well till it turned bitter one day because of a small misunderstanding between both of us in the context of utilisation of annual furniture grant of Rs.500. Least did I realize then that such a small misunderstanding will lead to an adverse entry in my annual C.C.R, particularly when my promotion papers were pending in the O.P.S.C office for confirmation.
AFTER SIX OR EIGHT MONTHS
One day the postman came to me with a Registered Letter, marked Confidential, issued by the G.A. DEPTT (Confidential cell), presumably containing the communication of adverse C.C.R. To my surprise I found the registered letter was addressed to Shri Bishnu Charan Das, Reader in Political science in place of Shri Baishnab Charan Das. I was in a fix whether or not to receive the registered letter. Some of my friends suggested that I should not receive the letter, but a few of them advised me to get it confirmed from the Principal if he had made any adverse remarks in my C.C.R. So I requested the postman to bring the letter the next day. At 5 PM that day I met the Principal and enquired if he had made any adverse remarks in my C.C.R. He admitted that he had done so because, according to him, I had hurt his sentiment. I humbly replied that "sentiment has no place in administration". Thereafter I left his office and collected the registered letter from the postman on the next day. As I opened the letter, to my utmost shock I found that the letter of communication of adverse entry was also addressed to Shri Bishnu Charan Das, Reader in Political Science and not to me. Then I realized that I did a blunder by receiving the letter.
The communication letter contained four charges against me and those were-
- Insubordination and defiance of authority.
- Lack of responsibility.
- Indecisiveness.
- And lack of control over the departmental colleagues.
Hence I decided to make a representation to this Special Secretary, G.A deptt for expunction of the aforesaid four baseless adverse remarks. In my representation I made clear my pleas for defense.
Firstly I mentioned that the Principal (reporting officer) did not know the correct name of the officer reported against (me). Secondly, I insisted on the fact that personal sentiment does not find place in administration in general and making adverse remarks in my C.C.R in particular.Thirdly the charges made against me by the principal were not based on facts and no letter of warning was issued to me prior to making any adverse remark in my C.C.R.
Lastly I requested the Special Secretary to take an early action in this matter as my promotion papers where pending in O.P.S.C office.
NEARLY A YEAR AFTER
A year passed by and no reply from the Special Secretary was forthcoming. I became restless and one day I met the him at his residence at Bhubaneswar and explained to him my grievances. He gave me a patient hearing and advised me to see him at his office during lunch-break.
As I met him in his office he asked me to wait for 15 minutes and then sent for "The Red Box". After 15 minutes he informed me that the adverse remarks of the Principal against me had been expunged and my personal copy of the letter had returned back without being delivered.
I thanked God for his blessings and thanked the Special Secretary for his kind cooperation. I left his office after expressing my sincerest gratitude.
From this unfortunate experience I have come to believe that -
- Not all reporting officers are capable of making proper assessment of the reported upon officers.
- Most of the reporting officers are guided by sentiment, personal likes and dislikes and bias.
- The reporting officers carefully or carelessly ignore the basic elements of administration such as Administrative Ethics, Work Culture and wit and wisdom, capability of the reported officer to face challenges and solve problems and their presence of mind,
I wish our CCR system could be more objective and meaningful.
Dr. Baishnab Charan Das is an eminent educationist of Odisha. After teaching in various colleges for more than thirty six years, he retired as Reader and Head of the Department of Political Science from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack in 2002. He had also served as Principal in two colleges at Athgarh and Badsmba. A Life Member of Odisha Political Science Association and Indian Institute of Public Administration he has published three text books and numerous articles in reputed journals as well as newspapers. A teacher par excellence, he is remembered by his students for his erudite scholarliness and eloquent lectures.
LOOKING INTO THE BEAUTIFUL EYES OF A BUTTERFLY
Enticed by your eyes
I am on the ties
slide to you as a sledge on the ice
express more on your sighs
oh Beauty! your eyes never lie...
I gaze at your beautiful eyes
That makes many suns rise
streak of light shines
Through my heart so nice
Oh Beauty! your eyes never lie...
Snow white you are, like the snow flakes
and as sweet as a liquorice
your eyes speak no lies
but the love and the likes
Oh Beauty! your eyes never lie...
You are a mystery in my life
Flutter your wings, worries all flies
Did you come down from the skies?
I know not even in my wisdoms wise
Oh Beauty! your eyes never lie....
Nectar of love drips from your eyes
Which melts me all over.
Feel your lovely presence
Like the fragrance of the spies
Oh Beauty! your eyes never lie....
(The Butterfly is photographed while sitting on the garden compound wall
S. Joseph Winston is pursuing his PhD at the Mechanical Engineering Department of IIT Madras. His research is in the area of computer vision for remote robot calibration. He has completed his MTech in the year 1991 in Machine Design with the university first rank and working as Senior Scientific Officer, heading Remote Handling & Irradiation Experiments Division and also heading a section Steam Generator Inspection Devices Section at Indira Gandhi Center for Atomic Research, Kalpakkam. His area of interest is developments of robotic systems for remote inspection of power plant systems. His hobbies are photography, Traveling and creating computer program snippets. He has interest in human psychology and love to interact with different people.
THE STROLLER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I met Bhagwan Sahani for the first time at Ram Manohar Lohia (RML) hospital in Delhi. After finishing my MBBS at the Medical College in Cuttack I had joined RML as an intern. Bhagwan’s mother had been admitted there with a heart problem.
On the morning I met Bhagwan, all the interns were in a group, accompanying our Professor and guide, Dr. Singh, in his daily round of wards and private cabins. Bhagwan’s mother was in one of the cabins. He had a hundred questions for Dr. Singh. His mother is a strict vegetarian, a frugal eater, has no bad habits like paan, tobacco or alcohol. How is it, she has got a heart problem? He had heard that ladies usually do not have a heart problem. His mother is a highly religious person, meditates for two hours every day in the prayer room. How come she got a heart problem? Is it advisable to have a heart surgery at her old age? There were many such questions from Bhagwan.
I could see Dr. Singh getting irritated by so many questions. He was looking at his watch and trying to answer Bhagwan’s queries with a lot of patience. Somehow he managed to mumble something and we all left. I could see Bhagwan was not satisfied with the answers.
After finishing the rounds I came back to Bhagwan’s cabin and tried to explain to him about his mother’s heart condition. I told him it’s not true that women do not get a heart problem at all. Usually men are more prone to heart diseases because they are indisciplined in their eating habits, many of them smoke and consume alcohol. But with advancing age women also get calcification in the arteries and some of them develop blockages in the heart.
With a twinkle in my eyes I asked him, “Tell me how is it women don’t get prostate problem and men are not likely to have uteral cancer?” Although the answer was simple, Bhagwan was so engrossed with listening to me in rapt attention that he couldn’t give a reply. I laughed out loud and told him, “Arrey Bhai, the simple answer is, men don’t have a uterus and women don’t have a prostate in their body.”
Bhagwan got a big kick out of this and rolled in laughter. It was apparent we had struck a chord with each other. He said, “Doctor Sahab, you are a very interesting person! Thanks for clarifying the doubts about mother. I am really worried for her.”
I replied, “Don’t worry. Hum hain naa!”
For the next three days I visited Bhagwan and his mother regularly and spent the better part of the evening with them. I somehow developed a liking for him and his soft-spoken, pious mother. In no time she had started treating me like a son, and showering me with a lot of affection.
On the fourth day Bhagwan’s mom underwent an angioplasty, stents were put in her heart to open up the blockage and keep the arteries clear. I was holding her hand when she was given anesthesia, I could feel her tension the way she gripped my hand and looked at me and said, “Son, God bless you”. When she regained consciousness, I was sitting by her side, along with Bhagwan. She opened her eyes and looked at me. A slow smile spread across her face, she held my hand again and reassured, went to sleep.
They were in the hospital for five more days. Every time I entered the cabin, Auntyji’s face would light up and she would talk to me animatedly. Bhagwan used to go home for dinner, leaving me with her. He would get the best possible food for me from home. Since both of us shared a weakness for non-vegetarian food, he would ask his cook to prepare mutton biriyani and delicious chicken fry. We would keep chatting, like old friends, while eating. Auntyji would lie there and listen to us, enjoying our banters.
Although Bhagwan is at least fifteen years older to me, we slipped into a nice, easy friendship, exchanging gossip about political leaders, film stars and persons remotely known to us. Bhagwan has a wonderful ability to make friends, with his endless repertoire of stories and jokes. Blessed with an impressive personality, he is tall, well-built, and his thick hair is always dyed and conditioned. With impeccable dress sense and expensive tastes, Bhagwan could slip into any group with ease and confidence.
The day Auntyji was to be discharged from hospital, Bhagwan told me,
“Doctor Sahab, won’t you come with us, to my Noida home, to make sure mummy gets the right kind of comfort, for her recuperation. You can guide the cook also about the type of food she should have. I will drop you back in the night.”
I readily agreed, “Bhagwan, I will come, but on two conditions.”
Bhagwan got worried. He thought despite our new-found friendship, I might ask for a fat fee.
“Conditions? What conditions?”
“First, you will stop calling me Doctor Sahab, my name is Ramesh and you must call me by that name.”
“OK, and the second condition?”
“You, Bhabhi and your children should be my guest tomorrow evening. We will go to Rajinder ka Dhabba and have Tandoori Chicken, Roomali Roti and Sheekh Kabab.”
Bhagwan smiled, “Agreed, all of them are my favourite dishes. But where do I get a Bhabhi for you tomorrow?”
I was surprised.
“Why, aren’t you married?”
Bhagwan let out a sigh.
“I am married, but my wife and children live separately. I will tell you my story some other day.”
I didn’t press for the story. We went to Bhagwan’s house at Noida with Auntyji. I
was stunned to see his palatial house. He had not told me what he did for a living, but there was no doubt he had tons of money.
I checked up Auntyji, made sure she had a comfortable reclining bed and gave instructions to the cook on the type of simple food she should eat, without much oil or spice. Two cute kids – a boy and a girl - came and did Namaskar to me and ran away. I wondered who they were, since Bhagwan had said his wife and children lived away from him. I returned home with a number of questions in my mind, to which Bhagwan had not volunteered an answer.
The next evening Bhagwan and I had a sumptuous dinner over glasses of chilled beer. It was an exceptionally enjoyable evening. I thought Bhagwan would tell me about his wife and children, but he didn’t raise the subject. We talked of lots of things, about his business of hospitality industry, his two guest houses in Noida, the fleet of cars and the holiday resort he was building in Mussourie. I was impressed. The man was an entrepreneur and a very smart person. And he had an excellent conversational skill. I asked him about the two kids at his home. He simply said, they were his sister’s children and didn’t elaborate. I chose not to probe.
The next evening I went to check Auntyji’s health. Her face brightened when she saw me. She wanted to chat a lot but I didn’t encourage her. She needed rest.
Two days later Auntyji developed an infection and fever. Bhagwan got frightened. I went to his house and after examining her, assured him that there was nothing to worry. It was just a mild infection and I gave her the required medicine. Bhagwan insisted that I should have dinner with him. Over dinner he made an offer to me,
“Ramesh, how much rent are you paying for your room at the lodge in Yousuf Sarai?”
“Five thousand rupees. Why?”
“Let me make you an offer. You know, I keep busy in the construction of my
resort at Mussourie. Because of mummy’s health condition I am not able to go there frequently these days. Why don’t you come and live here with us? The room above the garage will be yours. As you know, this house is centrally air-conditioned. You will have a comfortable life; you will live like a family member. You don’t have to worry about food or anything. Just take care of my mummy’s health. And during your spare time, keep an eye on the two kids, my nephew and niece. They have become very fond of you, they would like to spend time with you after their tuition teacher leaves. Consider this offer and let me know. Please don’t embarrass me by offering rent.”
Next day I called Bhagwan and accepted the offer. He was overwhelmed with joy. It was 15th of the month. I paid rent for the whole month and vacated my room in the lodge at Yousuf Sarai. Bhagwan came to pick me up and we reached his house in the night. Auntyji was waiting for me although it was much past her bed-time. She was very happy to see me.
In a few days I got used to the new routine. My travel time to the hospital increased a bit, but there was a direct bus from Sector 16, Noida, to RML Hospital. The children, Pintu and Ruby, liked me a lot and started calling me ‘Chhotu Mama’. Auntyji was very comfortable sitting near me at dinner time and watching me eat with relish. Bhagwan used to be away from home for days together, spending time at Mussourie and supervising the construction of his resort. With me at home, he was able to stay away, without worrying about Auntyji and the children.
Bhagwan had never spoken about his wife and children to me again. One evening after he returned from Mussoorie, he was in a relaxed mood. We sat down with a beer in hand and started talking. He asked me if I knew how much his business was worth. I told him I had no idea. He smiled and told me the story of his life.
Bhagwan was born into a lower middle class family. His father was a typist in a government office and earned just enough to run his family of wife, two daughters and a son. He tried to give them a good education, but unfortunately he died young. Bhagwan’s mother got a small job with the government and struggled a lot to bring up the children. Bhagwan was a brilliant student and after completing his Bachelor of Engineering from Indraprastha University he got a job and took the responsibility of the whole family. In due course he got his two sisters married and took care of his mother. Today his business is worth two hundred million rupees, and the guest house, fleet of cars, the lovely resort – all of them are the result of his hard work and smart moves.
But, Bhagwan confided, all the success and riches he earned from his business were not worth the agony of the absence of Pooja Bhabhi and his two daughters. He told me how he and his family had drifted apart in the last two years. One foggy winter evening his elder sister’s family was travelling to Agra when their car met with a serious accident. His sister and brother-in-law died on the spot. Fortunately the two children, Pintu and Ruby, escaped unhurt. It was a big shock for everyone. Bhagwan’s mother who used to stay with his sister’s family was shattered with sorrow. Bhagwan brought her and the two children to live with him.
Right from the beginning Pooja Bhabhi was against this arrangement. She accused Bhagwan of showing more affection to his sister’s children, at the cost of his own kids. Gradually the daily life became unbearable with constant bickering. Bhagwan refused to let his mother and sister’s children live elsewhere. Finally Pooja Bhabhi decided to leave. Bhagwan took a large house on rent at Safdarjung Enclave and that’s where Pooja Bhabhi and their children live now. Whenever Bhagwan is in Delhi, he goes there every morning, takes lunch with Bhabhi and the children after they return from school. It was clear Bhagwan was not happy with his family living separately. There was little I could do except expressing my sympathy.
One evening Bhagwan called me and offered to give me a ride home if I had finished my work at RML. I readily agreed. We were half way home when Bhagwan remembered that Pooja Bhabhi had asked for some money. He turned the car and we proceeded to Safdarjung Enclave after he withdrew some money from the ATM.
I was a little nervous. After staying at Bhagwan’s place for more than four months, this was the first time I was going to meet Pooja Bhabhi. Somehow Bhagwan had never offered to take me there earlier and I didn’t feel like broaching the subject myself. We reached the apartment and Bhagwan pressed the bell. When she opened the door, I stood there transfixed. She was exceptionally beautiful, her face and figure looked as if they were chiseled finely by an artist who knew his job. Bhagwan nudged me and I came to my sense. I greeted her with a Namaskar. Pooja Bhabhi said nothing, just folded her hands and went inside.
Bhagwan beckoned me inside. I went and sat on the sofa, Bhagwan on my side. Bhabhi came back with water for both of us. I tried to start a conversation. I said, “Bhabhi, this is a nice house. You have maintained it quite well.”
She gave me a stony look and kept quiet. I tried to humour her.
“Bhabhi, you are really lucky.”
She looked at me questioningly and asked, “Why?”
“See Bhabhi, in Hindi movies when the villain attempts to rape the heroine or hero’s sister, she folds her hand and says, ‘Please leave me for God’s sake, Bhagwan ke liye mujhe chhod do.’ This is the Bhagwan, your handsome husband, for whom every beautiful girl in Hindi movies wants to save herself.”
Hearing this, Bhagwan laughed loudly and kept laughing. Surprisingly, Pooja Bhabhi didn’t even smile. The joke fell flat on her! This was the first time in my life when one of my jokes failed to evoke even a smile. It was then I realized that for the last fifteen minutes, ever since I saw Pooja Bhabhi, something was troubling me. And after my joke fell flat on her, I knew what it was! During those fifteen minutes, I didn’t see her smiling even once. It was, as if, she was a beautiful marble statue, not meant to register any expression! We finished the tea and snacks she served to us and left.
I didn’t have the opportunity to meet Bhagwan’s two daughters. They didn’t come out to meet us. I considered it strange, but then assumed that Pooja Bhabhi must have given them instructions not to leave their study table. Bhagwan, who was familiar with my jovial nature, seemed to sense my disappointment and tried to divert my mind with some interesting gossip about the local politicians as we drove to Noida.
That night, after dinner when we were watching TV, Bhagwan enquired how long I intended to continue as an intern. I told him, it would be for two more years. Although we had not consumed any alcohol, he suddenly became expansive. He began to pontificate on life’s philosophy, how money means nothing to him, how relationships are important and how he finds it difficult being torn between his obligation towards his sister’s children and the love for his own children. Then, out of the blue, he offered me a partnership in his business. He said he found me to be a man of character and commitment and will be keen to take me as a partner in business.
Bhagwan advised me that one needs lots of money in life to prove oneself, and I should grab the offer. What I could earn in a year as a doctor, business will give it to me in a month’s time. I laughed to myself. Thanking him for the offer, I reminded him of his own words that money is not everything in life. I have my satisfaction from being a doctor. There is a pleasure in giving a new lease of life to a critically ill patient, to prolong somebody’s life, or to give him hope and courage. No amount of money can be a substitute for that. Bhagwan nodded and said he understood.
All my medical knowledge and commitment to the profession, however, could not save Auntyji a couple of weeks later. One evening at nine we sat down for dinner and waited for Auntyji to join us. She didn’t come down from her pooja and meditation room. Bhagwan called her at the top of his voice, but there was no response. I went up and found her lying on the floor in the pooja room. I examined her. She must have been dead for about an hour. She died in peace, just as she had lived in peace during the last few days of her life.
Pooja Bhabhi and the family of Bhagwan’s second sister came to be with him. Everyone was full of praise for me, for having made Auntyji’s final days of life pleasant and peaceful.
In the meanwhile, my maternal uncle, who is a senior officer in the government, got a posting in Delhi as Joint Secretary in the Ministry of Petroleum. He was a man of unimpeachable integrity. All of us had immense respect for him, but we were also quite scared of his quick temper. Bhagwan was very happy to know that my uncle had joined as a Joint Secretary in the Ministry of Petroleum, because he sensed a business opportunity here. He wanted to apply for a license to operate a petrol bunk and thought my uncle would be the right person to approach.
Bhagwan kept requesting me to fix an appointment with my uncle. He also suggested that I should invite him for lunch at a five star hotel with Bhagwan. I was not sure about the lunch because I knew that my uncle didn’t like going out for lunch with strangers and invariably prefers his simple lunch from home. I kept putting off the appointment, till one morning Bhagwan hijacked me from the bus-stop on my way to RML, handed over his mobile to me and said “Here, speak to your uncle now and fix an appointment for us for today. I can’t wait any longer!”
So I called my uncle and took time from him at one o’ clock. I had to take leave from the hospital and accompany Bhagwan to my uncle’s office at Shastri Bhavan. On the way Bhagwan asked me a lot of questions about my uncle’s habits and reputation.
“He must be a man of principle?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Must be giving lectures on honesty, integrity among public servants?”
“Yes, he does that.”
“Must be leading a frugal life? Air-conditioning in office, but only air-coolers at home?”
“Yes, you are right.”
“His children must be in Central School, but he must be asking them to speak in English all the time?”
“My God, you are talking like Satya Sai Baba! How are you so accurate?”
Bhagwan gave a mysterious smile.
“You think it is easy to run two hundred million worth of business without knowing the psychology and habit of typical government officers?”
When we reached uncle’s office, Bhagwan transformed into a vat of oil, pouring himself liberally on uncle. He kept on praising him and all the honest officers “who are keeping the country going, otherwise we would have gone to dogs by now.” My uncle is a simple, unassuming man. Visibly embarrassed by these unexpected words of praise, he began to squirm and put a couple of innocuous questions to Bhagwan and to me. Bhagwan got bolder and flattered him even more. He was obviously preparing the ground for making a request about his petrol bunk. At one point he said, “Das Sahab, you are working too hard. Let us go to Mussourie one weekend. I will book a room in the best hotel there. We will enjoy lots of good food and drink Blue Label whisky.”
Uncle wanted to evade the issue. He said, “Sahani Sahab, where do I get time for a week-end trip? There is work, work and more work here.”
Bhagwan flashed an oily smile and said condescendingly, “Arrey Das Sahab, you should also learn how to enjoy life. What’s the point in wasting a life time working for this wretched country?”
My uncle froze in his seat. His gaze turned steely and hard. My heart sank. From my childhood days I have been familiar with this gaze, which meant there will be an explosion shortly and like a cloud burst, a torrent of abuses will rain on the victim. Sweat formed on my forehead and my hands felt clammy.
My uncle’s peon saved the day. He came in and announced, “Sir, Secretary Saab
is calling you urgently.”
My uncle got up, shook hands with Bhagwan and said “OK, Sahani Sahab, we will meet some other time.”
With that he left the room, a file in his hand, to meet his boss.
Bhagwan’s face fell, like a balloon punctured. He had not expected that all his buttering will fall flat on my uncle. On the way back he kept on telling me what a useless fellow my uncle is, how he has no idea of what is good living. “You think life is only seeing files and attending meetings? One should know how to enjoy life.” He finally passed a judgment on my uncle, “He is just a glorified clerk.”
I kept mum. I wanted to tell him that I had known all along his trick will not work on uncle and that’s why I was not keen on arranging a meeting with him. But Bhagwan was in a ferocious mood and I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.
Four days later, I was standing at the bus-stop around eight-thirty in the morning to catch a bus to RML. Suddenly Satya, a friend of mine, stopped his motorbike near me and offered me a ride. I happily jumped on to the pillion seat. We started chatting. On the way he asked me if I can spare ten minutes, because he had to deposit a cheque at the office of the Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD). I had plenty of time and I agreed.
Satya parked the bike near the gate of the MCD zonal office and went in. I kept standing near the bike. Suddenly, on the opposite side, I saw a big beautiful Honda City car coming out of the MCD zonal office. When it drew near, I peeped in and saw Ajay Talwar, Bhagwan’s friend, driving the car. Imagine my surprise, when I saw Bhagwan sitting on the passenger’s seat. I had seen Ajay Talwar a few times with him earlier. I waved at him and Ajay stopped the car.
“Hi, Ramesh, how are you?”
“I am fine Ajay, how are you? What is Bhagwan doing here? Didn’t he go to his Safdarjung Enclave apartment today?”
Ajay looked at Bhagwan and then at me.
“What do you mean?”
I was curious. “What work do you have in MCD that you are here so early in the morning?”
“What do you mean, what work we have here?”
“You must have come here for getting some documents out or get a plan approved or something? Bhagwan has never told me that he has a building plan pending here.”
“A building plan pending here? I don’t understand.”
Bhagawan smiled at me and said, “There is nothing pending here. What are you doing here? Waiting for some one?”
“I am waiting for my friend who has gone in to deposit a cheque. But why are you here?”
Ajay Talwar was getting irritated by this repeated questioning.
“Ramesh, why are you asking that question again and again? Hasn’t Bhagwan told you, he works as a Junior Engineer here?”
“Bhagwan? A Junior Engineer? You mean J.E.? I didn’t know he works here as J.E.! I have never seen him going to office! I thought he goes to Safdarjung Enclave to meet Bhabhiji every morning!”
“That he does! But what a simpleton you are Ramesh! Why should he come to office everyday? Both I and Bhagwan are J.E.s here. But we come to office only once a month to sign the Attendance Register and collect our monthly pay packet. Why should we come to office, when we have gifted a Mercedes to the Superintending Engineer and a BMW to the Chief Engineer? That’s a good deal, isn’t it? Give a gift to the boss and do private practice at home!”
My mouth fell open. Bhagwan, a J.E. in MCD! I was not able to comprehend it.
Bhagwan was squirming in his seat when Ajay Talwar was letting out his secret. He looked annoyingly at Ajay and said, “Let’s go, you idiot! When will you learn to keep your mouth shut?”
Ajay let out a loud laugh and their car sped away leaving me with my mouth open, eyes rolling and head reeling! Bhagwan, a J.E.?
I went to the hospital. Throughout the day I remained disturbed, a throbbing pain bothering my sub-conscious mind, as if, I had a bad dream in the early hours of the morning and its memory is refusing to go away! Somehow, deep in the recesses of my heart I felt a sense of betrayal.
In the evening I came home early, called Pintu and Ruby, and gave them half a dozen Cadbury chocolates. I explained to them, just as they have their Bhagwan uncle, I also had an uncle who has come to live in Delhi with his family. I told them that I have to go and stay with my uncle for a few months. I promised to return soon to play with themand give them company. Pintu and Ruby started crying, they had grown very fond of me. I consoled them with a promise to return early and sent them off to the tuition teacher who was waiting for them. I went to my room and started packing.
Bhagwan returned home at 7 p.m. and sat down in the living room to watch TV. I came down from my room, wished him and mentioned about my uncle insisting that I should go and stay with him for some time. Bhagwan kept watching the TV. He didn’t even look at me. With a throbbing pain in my heart, I slowly walked out of the house, the stroller in my hand, to look out for an auto-rickshaw. I felt that an unforgettable chapter of my life remained locked in that stroller for ever.
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.
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