Literary Vibes - Edition LXXVI
( Wild I Am - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers
I have great pleasure in presenting to you today a splendid edition of LiteraryVibes. It is indeed a Collector's edition, with wonderful poems and brilliant stories. There is also a nice travelogue on Victoria Island in British Columbia, Canada as a bonus, and a couple of articles to stimulate the mind. In an accompanying PositiveVibes post there is a brilliant exposition by the inimitable Debi Padhi on World Environment at Crossroads. (http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/322)
In this edition we are blessed to have three new contributors. Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick from Mumbai is a highly accomplished poet and an internationally acclaimed writer. She is also the President of Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL), Mumbai Chapter. Her short story in today's edition speaks of her stupendous talent. Ms. Radhika Nair from Kochi, Kerala, gave up a career in Information Technology to "delve within". Her passion for poetry is matched ably by her penchant for singing. Dr. Satya Narayan Mohanty, a retired Civil Servant, former Secretary to Government of India in Higher Education Department and Ex Secretary General, National Human Rights Commission, discovered his literary talent after superannuation. In the span of last three years he has penned a novel, a dozen short stories, a play, and two volumes of poetry, one of which has already been published to much admiration and accolades. He is also a regular columnist in many leading newspapers in English and Odia.
We welcome the three new contributors and wish them lots of success in their literary pursuits. And we do hope to see their articles in plenty in our future editions. In today's edition we also have a story from the archives of a departed writer, submitted by his niece Priya Bharati. Late Shri Sashikanta Das was a prolific writer and Priya found some astounding stories in English after his death. She has sent us one and promised to send more. I look forward to sharing them with you.
Like many others, I often wonder what moves a poet's heart to write a few lines, gleaned from the depth of the heart. No doubt there are various emotions, but the tenderest of them is probably about love and the strongest is about death and separation. In today's LV there is a touching poem by the young poet Supriya Pattanayak about a girl getting washed away by a flash flood in Nigeria. The lines of the poem are drenched as much by rain water as by tears of sorrow. In an uncanny coincidence I recollected a heart-rending poem published in LiteraryVibes by Prof. Geetha Nair, an incredibly talented, award winning poet and a regular contributor to our eMagazine. The poem A Schoolboy Speaks had appeared in the XV edition of LiteraryVibes on June 10, 2019. It was inspired by the devastating floods that ravaged Kerala in August 2018. I quote both the poems here to show how the universal themes of sorrow and separation can stir the heart to its depth.
A SCHOOLBOY SPEAKS
Geetha Nair
(From LV XV)
That white thing out there,
sunk in our brand-new lake…
That’s Desert Star, the bus we go to school by;
Abu‘s father bought it when he returned for good
From the Gulf.
Abu is fine, thank God !
Abu, my best friend
Whose pockets bulged with strange sweets
When his father still slaved over there;
Abu is safe: his house didn’t break the way mine did.
Leena too, God be praised; her family moved
Just before the deluge - will I ever touch that Krishna ring
On her creamy finger or carry her Angela schoolbag?
Oh! Our books are pulp; dissolved in tears, my mother said.
How will Tiger Sir twist ears
When there are no books to mug from?
My football is safe.The outhouse was spared
When our house caved in.
I was outdoors, running after Bruno as he dashed out barking
At the strange roar above.
He escaped, though.
They haven’t found my body as yet.
................................
THE FLASHFLOODS
Supriya Pattanayak
(From LV LXXVI)
The news on TV had said,
heavy thundershower warnings,
so, everyone came home early,
to be safe and with family.
In the dark, on Papa’s lap,
head resting on his shoulder,
eyes and ears all closed, I sat,
blocking lightning and thunder.
The heavy rain beat drums,
on the roof and the ground,
filled drains and then roads,
relentless, till it overflowed.
It entered into the house,
under the door, trickling,
Papa said we need to leave,
our house won’t keep standing.
Mama said, she was afraid to,
with roads turning into river,
but they both wanted me safe,
so, we decided to seek shelter.
Into howling winds, opaque rain,
we all stepped out together,
fear gripped my little heart,
but I trusted them to steer.
Papa tightly gripped my hand,
he led the way forward,
while Mama steadied my back,
as we passed the rows of shack.
We waded across the main roads,
till we almost reached cover,
in the hurry my foot tripped,
found no land, I tumbled under.
My hand slipped out of Papa's,
even though he tried to hold,
felt my dress pulled by Mama,
but the road river was stronger.
They yelled and tried to grab,
I desperately cried out for help,
but the new muddy water,
started to pull me lower.
I tried to hold, to swim, to float,
as had been taught, but panicked,
trashed about, although I shouldn’t,
even drank some and shrieked.
The water was swift and deep,
there was just no air to breath,
I struggled some, then it all stilled,
a silent darkness complete.
......................................
I do hope you will enjoy the offerings in this 76th edition of LiteraryVibes. The link is http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/321 Please share the link with all your friends and contacts and remind them that all the previous 75 editions of LiteraryVibes including four anthologies of poems and short stories can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
We, the poets and writers will be happy to receive your feedback at the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
Please take care.
Stay safe and healthy.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
SCATTERED SOUNDS
AGENT CIVILIAN-000
02) Haraprasad Das
LOVE SONG (3) (Prema Kavita – 3)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE SURROGATE MOURNER
THE LAST COURTESAN
04) Dr. Pradip Swain
ON A CELEBRATION OF LIFE
05) Pravat Kumar Padhy
THE LOST MAN
06) Debi Padhi
BUDDHA PURNIMA: A LESSON TO YOUNG INDIA TO FIND A NEW MEANING
07) Ishwar Pati
THE BENCH AT THE END OF THE PLATFORM
08) Bichitra Kumar Behura
LOVE IS FRESH
09) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
THE BOTTLE OF HAPPINESS
10) Lathaprem Sakhya
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS CARD
11) Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra
WAY UPWARD
12) Madhumathi. H
CAMOUFLAGED...
PIECES AND PATTERNS...
13) Vidya Shankar
LOVE ANYWAY
14) Sheena Rath
A GAME OF LUDO
15) Sridevi Selvaraj
THE FIGHT
16) Gokul Chandra Mishra
DREAMLAND
17) Supriya Pattanayak
THE FLASH FLOODS
18) Ravi Ranganathan
GREATNESS OF PADUKA
19) Meera Raghavendra Rao
AS THE CROW FLIES ?
A WALKING TOUR OF VICTORIA ISLAND AND BUTCHART GARDENS
20) Umasree Raghunath
FINDING HER!
21) Neha Sarah
EQUALITY-REDEFINED
22) Jairam Seshadri
WHY INDIA?
23) Priya Bharati
KHAIRI THE TIGRESS, PRINCESS OF SIMLIPAL
24) Late Shashi Kanta Das
THE LOVE LETTERS
25) Sanjit Singh
LIFE LESSONS FROM PLAYING WITH BALLS (JUGGLING)
26) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
THE BLUE LIGHT
27) Radhika Nair
THE OTHER
28) Dr. Satya Narayan Mohanty
OPERATION ASWAMEDH
29) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE FINAL SUNSET
30) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
SHORT REVIEWS OF FICTIONAL STORIES IN THE 75TH ISSUE OF LITERARY VIBES
“…a heightened awareness of noises from the flats around her. She collected the sounds, sorted them, and created a picture of the lives being lived by her neighbours, the way she transformed measurements into her clothes.”
-- ROHINTON MISTRY, A Fine Balance (Novel)
Crockery and cutlery laugh cozily
in a merry morning jingle,
wafts around the aroma of tea.
Dings and dongs of pans and pots
have ushered in a jolly new day.
The girl in the flat to our right
sings, coughs, gargles, sings again.
Goaded by her mother,
an amateur singer,
conned by a maverick music quack,
she dreams of becoming
a singing sensation.
Scattered fights of the last night
of a couple from the flat above
had rained acid into our home
until doused by
the couple’s re-jigged passion
with a robust rocking and creaking.
On our left, the neighbor’s big dog
throws a tantrum to be taken down.
It will wash the car tyres , irrigate trees,
fertile the ground and chase
pariah dogs and cats.
He barks like mad at the Thakres
but loves their bitch, Sweetie.
The Sindhi family cooks meat,
the Jains rage a racket,
“Keep your doors windows shut,
stew your bums in your shit.”
The carnivores ridicule back,
“Pity, we are wasting divine flavor
on toady nostrils!”
‘Laughing Yoga’ resounds
in the garden below,
the members make faces,
crack jokes. The grumpy morning
laughs aloud in an effort
to throw out the trash
from heads, heavier by the day.
Returning home, their silence
will sound infectious; go pandemic
across walls, penetrating,
converting the morons into jokers,
spreading a stillness in souls.
Last month, the little girl
of our front neighbor burnt us
alive in her pyre. The sun dimmed,
the moon refused
to spread its pale wings,
the wind moaned by our windows.
By the next morning,
Laughing Yoga Club materialized.
Neighbours are trickling down
to force-laugh, life is to go on.
But the bereaved family
of the late little fairy
is yet to believe the unbelievable
and thaw their frozen innards.
AGENT CIVILIAN-000
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I just had my death from corona, and I had no earlier experience of it, I mean, of dying of an exotic cause. Only the rich and powerful had a right to such privileged diseases like corona. We, the middle class netizens along with the people from ordinary financial and cultural class, had a God’s gift, a strong immunity system. We had got it by living in sub-human conditions. The immunity had saved us as a community from corona. I was of course a case outside the rulebook. The rich and powerful had developed little or no immunity because of their clean sanitized life. So, they had the privilege of having corona like they had major claims to other privileged diseases, one being of heart. This of course would sound like an irony, heart disease for a people that generally never had hearts inside their ribcages.
Again, we the poor would die one death, not many like the rich men.The rich would die daily a little by doing white collar crimes. They would cheat banks, and run away with the loan-money, or would cheat people by selling shares to them that would prove not even worth wiping soiled bottoms, and many other innovative varieties of frauds. Then they would go underground, or run to foreign soil, and live every day in the shadow of fear, law chasing them like hounds. The hounded life of fear wouldn’t feel less cursed than death.
I was hardly befuddled by my death, but my loved ones seemed to be very confused. But their confusion was for distinctly another reason.They were unable to decide if they would mourn my death as a tragedy, or celebrate it with jubilation, because my death by corona brought them recognition, importance, celebrity status etc.; hence, their celebration.
Our building consisted of twenty lower middle class families including my family. It had been sealed as a containment zone four days ago when I was shifted to hospital, but after my death, it got the focus as a celebrity building. Hundreds of police personnel, reporters, and TV cameramen swarmed the outside area of our colony gate, filming whoever came out of the building on the other side of the gate. Whosoever came out became a VIP instantly. They were snapped by still and video cameras, and were shown in the breaking news.
Our neighbours felt that they were becoming important national assets, valuable and rare specimens like the Dodo, before it became extinct in its only habitat, Mauritius island. They didn’t mind if they were on the verge of extinction because of the highly infectious and untreatable corona. What mattered was corona had made them famous.They could not contain their joy when they were shown on TV. They loved their hour of limelight. Among those fame seekers, I found to my surprise, my own family in the vanguard. It was so hurting! They were hugging fame and not mourning my death!
Men in our housing society were discreetly setting their hair with pocket-combs before coming out, to look more presentable before the camera. The women were touching their cheeks and lips with a dab of rouge or lip-gloss. My wife and daughter were no exception.
They were receiving exhorting messages from friends on WhatsApp, “Ah, finally, … Congrats yaar, … sorry though for your loss, but who can stop inevitability? And why not make hey when the sun shines?” And the reply would go from this end, “Thanks yaar, it is, as you say, a great chance though tinted with death. We are famous at last.”
I was not surprised to find myself split in two, two of identical myself. One was sleeping in a casket as a dead body, kept on my small drawing room floor, wrapped in white hospital linen from head to foot, looking like a large bleached silk cocoon, smelling of sharp sanitizers sprayed at the Corona Specialty Centre, from where my corpse was brought for cremation. Opening the capsule was a strict no-no and it had to go straight into the incinerator. My other self was airy, the more interesting part,came from hospital along with my mortal remains. It had the tongue-in-cheek situation like the latest marketing gimmick ‘Buy one, get one free’.
Surprisingly, though declared dead, I could sense everything from the site of my airy body, that had the exact shape and size of me, and it did not feel dead at all, rather it felt more alive than in lifetime. I walked around among the mourners with an uncanny freedom, wearing my favourite pair of white kurta-pajama, that hung a bit loose, apparently, I had lost weight during the corona-infection.
But the surprise of surprises, my daughter and my wife, like ‘naked pieces of irony’, had lost their normal sense of duty and social custom. Instead of looking unhappy and teary, they were chirpy, and had applied careful makeup, as if ever-ready for flash bulbs. The dignified looking snow-white napkins in their hands were ready to go under nose and eyes as soon as they would see a camera. After that, I had nothing to mind when they instead of placing flowers on my body, hurled them at me from a so-called corona distance.
After many post-death rituals, called the last rites, in conformity with my Hindu religion, and Brahmin caste, my body in its white capsule was driven by a van to the nearby electric crematorium, followed by my family and friends by foot. My wife and daughter stayed behind as the ritual ordinarily did not demand the presence of women and they also did not press to follow my cortege. I sadly took my last eyeful of my most loved ones, my wife and daughter, before leaving for the crematorium. I was shocked to see them preparing for a bite and sip before going to bed for the usual forty winks.
At the electric crematorium, my solid body in the white linen cocoon was placed in an iron casket on rail of the electric furnace, and with the touch of a switch, it slid into the womb of the incinerator. In my transparent-self, I stood among the relatives and friends in the crematorium premises, walking through them, listening to their whispers, giggles, and inane comments. I was just like an invisible gaseous thing to them.
Suddenly, I felt the sensation of heat, I heard an attendant telling his colleague that the crematorium’s electric incinerator had been switched on and my mortal remains were going up in flames. “Oh, that’s why I feel so hot. The twain, my solid and ethereal selves, are surely connected by an invisible umbilical cord.”
Exactly at that time, a fearful looking, tall, hefty, and black individual, dressed in black, like Yama in dramas or fancy-dress competitions, separated himself from the white-clad gathering of mourners, and accosted me. He had the skin colour of a freshly painted blackboard. He cradled a heavy mace with studs all over it. He came to me pulling after him a big buffalo on a chain, and said, “Are you ready to leave, dear sinner?”
I was amused, how did I miss this big-built fancy-dress man smeared with black paint, and pulling around a buffalo amid the white-clad mourners! By the way, what is this fancy-dress joker doing here at a crematorium? I had no idea if his presence could be a part of post-death ritual like the Rudali tradition of Rajasthan. One or more Rudalis or professional lady criers used to be hired by rich households to rend the atmosphere with heart rending cries in style for the dead. The loud and lyrical crying accompanied by Rudali’s copious tear, lent a professional touch on behalf of the bereaved survivors of the dear-departed. It created the right climate of loss and mourning. Was this fancy-dressed Yama also a part of some such post-death ritual arranged by one of our family seniors?
The Yama impersonator spoke again, this time with a rude brusqueness, “Let’s leave man.” He used Sanskrit instead of Hindi or Marathi like people of the city. I thought he was talking to someone behind me. I looked behind, but the joker jabbed a finger into my chest and said, “Eh Mister, I am talking to you.” I asked, “Leave for where? Nobody bothers to tell me anything around here. Corona has made loonies of sensible chaps. What role are you playing in my death ritual?”
The fancy-dress Yama scowled, “Don’t be funny, man. Fear me. I play the main role around here, taking away souls to my abode. It is not a drama like Rudali’s. You are finished dear, dead. We are leaving this world for my abode, the Yamalay, the home for the dead; and please, it is not a drama. It is real and the ultimate truth of every life, my dear soul. Either you would come with me like a good boy, or I tie you with this leather strap, horse-whip you, and frog march you to my abode. God willing, the skewers would be hot and ready, and the cauldron of oil would be on the boil to give a fitting welcome to a sinner like you.”
I smiled to myself, “This big-built man may still be reading the old copies of his childhood’s Amar Chitrakaktha, or Tinkle and acting accordingly. The only thing that bothered me, how he came to know I had been thinking of Rudali? If five percent of this fellow’s threat with hot skewers and oil on the boil were true, I would expose this third-degree welcome in my next sensational news reporting. It would be a hit as a hot news in investigating journalism.” Within his earshot, I simply uttered ‘Ah!’ to indicate my utter disapproval, but soon I noticed, my ‘Ah’ that used to turn tables in meetings in our editor’s room had no effect on the fancy dress man. I sensed a fear, “Is he the real Yama? Are things out of my control, am I a dead journalist?”
Zap! And a flash of light, and I found the two of us standing before a ramshackle smallish old-worn gate. It didn’t have ordinary grilled doors, but a pair of big and sturdy looking wooden doors shut from inside. A deafening silence ruled the closed gate.
The Yama rapped on the gate with his knuckle’s strong and weak taps, that sounded like a code. The door labouriously opened with a low creaking. I recalled scenes from horror movies of Ramsay Brothers of Mumbai’s film world. A man dressed like an old-time accountant-cum-house manager came out and bowed to the black-painted man obsequiously. The lapel of his black jacket on a white dhoti bore a small name tag with ‘Chitragupta’ embossed on it.
The man reported to the fancy-dress Yama in Sanskrit, “Sir, the skewers are ready as well as the tongues to pull out nails. So is the boiling oil.” He indicated me with his eyes. My sarcasm overpowered me, and with a tongue-in-cheek sneer I asked, “Do you run an eatery here fitted with a barbeque? I love kebabs grilled with skewers.” The accountant harshly hissed at me, “Just shut up.” Then he turned to his boss, the black-painted man and whispered, “The fellow is coming out of his haze. Be careful sir.” I had no idea, what haze they were talking about?
With those last exchanges, all camaraderie appeared to have ended. The two men turned into goons, two more goons joined them, they gripped my two arms, one each, twisted them behind me, and frog marched me along a narrow path leading to a rectangular, large and squat single-storey building. They dragged me inside an inner dark, smelly room, and manacled my two hands to a peg on the wall by a chain. I could squat and lie down on the dirty bare floor, but couldn’t move more than three feet from the peg.
Both men hurried to a computer on a table in a corner of the room, checked things, scratched their heads a lot, looked flummoxed, snapped a few close-ups of my mug from different angles, and went out locking the door from outside. Before going out, the plump and short assistant masquerading as Chitragupta, turned to me, saw me alertly assessing him, and with the lightening movement of a sluggish looking Russell viper, struck the side of my neck with the edge of his left palm, a karate-chop. My head slumped to loll over my chest, and things went black before my eyes. They had left the room, when I came to my senses. I had just been shocked, not blacked out for long; thank God, my karate training in the past came handy, I withstood the karate chop in one piece.
I saw to my left, a woman of almost my age manacled to another peg little away from me. Her head was also lolling on her chest, a bosomy one, an advantage to most women. That could be used as a head rest to doze while on feet. But now, she lifted her head and our eyes locked. She smiled, and it was a sweet, frank smile I had from some one after quite a while. I smiled back. It seemed like two long lost friends meeting though we did not know each other.
That exchange of glances and locking of eyes did a magic. I felt like a player playing on the same side as she in a game of football, that sort of camaraderie with her. I started doubting my death, “If I am dead, why should I be manacled like a prisoner? How could I exchange glances with a manacled woman, exchange smiles, lock eyes, have a stirring in my inner being as if finding a soul-mate in the dreary land of death?” But as I have said earlier, it was my first encounter with death, and I thought, might be what was happening was a normal post-death procedure.
The woman had a pretty face in spite of unwashed grime of days sticking to her all over. She seemed to read my thoughts; women were like that, they read a man’s mind by instinct. She became chatty, and after monosyllabic conversations with two indifferent blokes like a fancy-dress Yama and his accountant touting himself as Chitragupta, I eagerly joined her for a heart to heart exchange. I learnt -
She was, in fact, a spy. I never had met a real spy before that. She identified herself as Agent-777, originally from RAW of India, but had joined CIA of USA a year ago with RAW’s hidden agenda of a cross-agent that nobody except herself, RAW chief, and her immediate boss from RAW were privy to. Now I had joined that inner privileged circle of hers, and knew her secret. Why was I the chosen one outside her secret coterie, she didn’t exactly reveal the reason, except telling me, “You have a lovely frank face and you would keep my secret, I know, even at the cost of your life. Won’t you?” I was going to say ‘No?’ but I surprised myself by saying ‘Why not?’ I didn’t know so far this altruistic nature hibernating in me and now I was ready like the Quixote of Cervantes to give my life for a woman I had come to know only minutes ago.
She further informed me, “This is a fourth-dree torture chamber to extract secrets from counter agents. Naked live wires to give shock, steel tongues for pulling out nails, red-hot iron skewers to brand body's select areas, and dipping fingers into boiling oil are used here to extract information.” My stomach turned in fear. She detonated the real bomb then, “You know mate, I am an undercover agent. My cover is a job in the office of the same news-daily where you are an investigative journalist. I work in the innocuous department of advertising. Your face had looked familiar from the start, then the pieces fell into slots when I overheard the fellas that hauled you here. They thought you were an undercover cross-agent like me.”
She continued, “In our office building, you may not spot me, a plain Jane type female worker in the copy-write section. I take special care in draping myself and making me up in a way to give the impression of a perfect behn ji type appearance”
I was at a loss for words, “You talk as if you are not dead, as if you are not a soul, but a live woman. Thanks for your kind words. I tell you, just yesterday I died of corona, was cremated in an electric furnace, my soul was brought here by a man speaking in Sanskrit, I had presumed to be a man in fancy-dress, but he later turned out to be Yama himself. See mate, I never died earlier, so I lacked the experience.”
She had a hearty laugh, “Dead, my foot! I think, the effect of the high dose of drug these Johnnies injected into you has not fully worn out of your system. Corona gripped the world in 2019-20, and we are living in 2025 today. Corona is history. By the way, I am Rebeka Sen, in short, you may call me ‘R’. You are not dead, pinch yourself, jab yourself, you will find it out that you are alive like me. These two fellas, your Yama and Chitragupta, are agents of another wing of the RAW than mine. They don’t know me, but I know them. This place is one of RAW’s office camouflaged as an innocent dwelling house in a countryside. They might have spiked your drink in some pub, and when you were disoriented, jabbed a syringe of drug into you to transport you here to extract information.”
She seemed gathering her wits before saying, “Under the drug influence, you hallucinated, I gather, about things you had experienced during the corona epidemic. Also you might have read or heard stories what happens after death that involved Yama, Chitragupta, hell, heaven etc. All that got mixed up into your hallucination and gave you the death like experience as we at times read in papers, people narrating near-death experiences when they are lucid after they are thought to be dead.”
She hesitated before adding, “A thing or two, for your information. Now I recall to have a dossier on you. My boss, assuming you to be an undercover counter agent had asked me to do so. I know quite a few things about you. Your daughter got married to her boyfriend against your wishes, and moved to America with him. You divorced your wife for her personal neglect towards you during your corona infection and hospitalization. Don’t be surprised, I am undercover Agent-777, and we maintain dossiers on persons involved in national matters. It was another thing that I had reported on you, “Checked and found clean.”
After an afterthought, she added, “I overheard them blaming each other for having jabbed an overdose of the drug into you, and over and above that, with an unnecessarily powerful karate chop. They think you are finished. So, pretend that you have been knocked out into a coma.They think the same about me and I pretend to be comatose for the last two days; they brought me here the same way two days ago as done to you. They may get tired of us and dump us somewhere shortly.”
At that time, we heard footsteps outside the room and key turning in the lock. Immediately, with an eye signal from my spy-partner, I arranged myself in a comatose position, my head loosely lolling over my chest. From the corner of my eyes, I found Yama and Chitragupta standing and assessing us with disgust. They both were suited and booted like senior government officials and were talking in English, not in Sanskrit as they had done earlier. I now knew, their Sanskrit was my own hallucination. They were talking of over doses of some sort of drug, and possible permanent damages to the pair of flamingoes. I could decipher, by ‘flamingo’ they meant us, the two prisoners. I was learning fast, the benefit of being manacled near a RAW-CIA cross-agent.
That night, we were thrown by them in a dark and deserted street in front of a Desi-bar, after the bar had been closed, I had heard their discussion, “The flamingos were wrong picks. No trained spy worth his overcoat would be knocked out or damaged permanently by a karate chop or a dose of drug.”
By the time the abductors left, it was around two in the night and we went to a crowded pub at a stone's throw from there. We visited the washrooms, cleaned and relieved ourselves, and like a magician, my lady mate produced crispy currency notes of two-thousand denomination when she returned from the loo. After champing on a few chicken legs, downing three pegs of whisky on rocks each, we took a taxi to her flat. We sent leave applications by mail to our bosses and vanished from public-eye for days.
Two months passed like a blink. One night, after a satisfying session in bed before the TV, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears and singing ‘happy days are here again’, I recalled - we had been married in the Registrar’s office only two days ago.
My wife of the last two days, an agent worth her spy-glass, I noticed with dismay, had kept whispering all along to keep eyes and ears open at all hours. She had informed me also that she had taken sabbatical from her spy agencies, both CIA and RAW, for five years, and given me her words that she would not return there full time unless our companionship failed to work. We had switched off bedroom TV and just dozed off, an explosion type sound broke our sleep. It sounded in my sleep as loud as the proverbial Big Bang. Rebeka whispered, “It sounds like a gunshot from the direction of our sitting room.” We tiptoed in that direction, R carrying her small gun, and I armed with an iron rod covering her from behind, as I had noticed in spy movies.
We crossed the corridor, and before we could peep into the dark drawing room, a husky voice lightly rasped, “Stop, and freeze, wherever you two jokers are. Don’t switch on the light. Drop down your weapons. Raise your arms. I have covered you both in my rapid-fire line.” We froze. Raised our hands in air. Wife whispered to me, “He sounds like my boss, but I am not sure, but how did he manage to enter our flat without a key? But don’t panic.”
The boss spoke, “I bring you happy tidings, guys, on behalf of the agency. Agency congratulates you guys and wish you a fulfilling married life devoted to nation’s service. Best of luck R-777 during your sabbatical, but you would be called upon to duty in extreme situations. Find on the teapoy your tickets and hotel bookings for a worldwide honeymoon tour spanning over eleven countries and sufficient cash in Euro and American dollars to cover your expenses, a small wedding gift from the grateful agency.” Then silence followed.
After a minute, wife R put her hands down, switched on the lights, and joked, “Rajat, why your hands are still pointing heavenward? He has vanished as all senior RAW agents do, like a puff.” I came to senses and put my hands down. There was none in the well-lit drawing room except us, and a thick packet on a side table. I informed Rebeca, “Ah, there lie our honeymoon details, my female Sherlock Holmes?” She put her tongue in cheek, “Genius, Dr. Watson!”
We finished visiting ten countries of our trans-country honeymoon leisurely, going over nine countries of Europe including UK, and after looking at pyramids in Egypt, we landed at Bangkok, Thailand, the last leg of our honeymoon. One of my two bags had got mixed up at the airport and could not be traced. As we panicked, we were assured by Singapore Airlines that it would be traced and restored to us at our hotel within hours. And lo, true to their word, a uniformed airline staff delivered it to our hotel in a matter of three hours of our checking in. How efficient, I wondered! I checked the contents of the big bag and found nothing tampered. Yet, wife R bore an air of suspicion in her eyes. I mused aloud, “Spies would be spies, any day, anywhere.”
Another night at our home, again Rebeca’s boss materialized out of dark in his bang-hush-puff-whoosh style, and asked for the lost-and-found bag by Singapore Airline at Bangkok, now lying empty under a four-poster. From the sound he made in the dark, we could guess he took something from it. He said, “Rajat, you did a splendid job for RAW. You transported a very valuable micro-chip with encrypted information in complete nonchalance like a cool-as-cucumber spy, when even a pickled Agent-777 couldn’t hide her telltale anxiety, that you know any counter agent could notice.”
Then he continued, “Let’s talk business, in fact, nothing is given free or no service is taken without a gesture of thanks by our noble agency. So, Rajat, you will find ten hundred-dollar bills in an envelope on the teapoy in exchange for your services. Further good news for you, Rajat. You have been recruited as an undercover agent in a new category to keep you inconspicuous. We didn’t take your consent, because your track record says you can do anything for the good of your country. And this new position of yours in RAW, gives you that opportunity in loads. Your designation would be ‘Agent Civilian–000’, in brief AC-000.” Puff, he was gone!
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
LOVE SONG (3) (Prema Kavita – 3)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
You, naïve in managing
hearth and home,
in the tact of navigating
in life’s turbulent zones,
I am to teach you
its essences,
train you to pen a prologue
to the wedded life saga;
now listen carefully
how to steer your boat
in a tempestuous sea
in the middle of nothing.
Even a ramshackle dwelling
can make a happy home -
if it has a corner to shelter
inmates during a storm,
has rags and rugs
to keep them warm
from the vagaries of weather;
where children are born
and nourished
with parental care,
even when the father grows
feeble with age;
the mother, a hag;
but both ensuring
a humble roof
over the family’s head.
Home is a happy dwelling,
not a grand abode,
a space redolent with love,
a nest, better safe, an eyrie,
lined with soft dry twigs,
feathers, exuding warmth,
secured and committed,
tagged ‘Happy Home’, often latent.
Let us revisit
our idyllic childhood,
before losing our way
in philosophizing?
Recall, the vague familiar shapes,
the silhouettes receding in fog,
the fun of blowing in winter
bubbles with Baaigabaa* sap,
walking through the morning mist
threading your way carefully,
pastures ahead not clear,
you feel your way
like a bat with its sonar,
presuming you are there
somewhere,
in a minute,
your sister’s house
to appear out of the haze
across the next
patch of field;
my brother would shout my name,
his disembodied voice
floating to us;
the school may appear
like a ghost,
my father teaching his pupils,
and the syrupy fragrance
of the ripening mangoes
of the Naakoi* mango tree
laden with succulent fruits
containing nectar,
pulling like magnet, our childhood;
and the road
with Gangaadharpur
police station across;
all materializing from the mist.
I can exchange all my wealth,
power, all, for an hour
of this beloved reckoning.
How we played the games
on a checkered board,
moving pieces
of pebble as tigers and goats,
our hide and seek games
in moonlit nights.
Memory is like
a dormant embryo
sleeping in a seed’s womb,
stirring to life
when lovingly stoked
with the moisture
of nostalgia.
Now take the rudder
from my hand
steer our boat yourself,
be in charge;
allow me
to pamper myself
with a king’s leisure,
relish the warmth,
curling up on your bosom,
with eyes shut,
gloating on
my unwitting losses in life
during
the unaccounted years
I submitted to you
and your primal joy.
(Baaigabaa* - A weed planted in rural Odisha along fences, its thick sap is used by children to blow bubbles like soap-bubbles. Naakoi* - A variety of mango with a prominently raised point towards its bottom like a nose.)
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)”
The master of the house has died
in his sleep last night
may be due to a cardiac arrest
and she is summoned to perform
while the pall bearers decorate
the shroud with yesterday's marigold
and a sprinkling of vermillion
and turmeric powder.
She comes in her black regalia
her un-oiled and matted hair open
to sell her tears in her much practised
cathartic act embellished with
agonised wailing and beating of
her pathetic breasts
her red and white bangles loosely
tinkling in her impoverished wrists
sticking out like half charred sticks
from an extinguished funeral pyre
and gets into a trance
swooning and writhing in faked anguish
tears streaming down from her very wet eyes
for some one she perhaps never met.
Her act over she is paid with few coins
that she exchanges for a pint of local hooch
for her wastrel of a husband
who would have thrashed her to a pulp
if she did not
but as she reaches her hut
she finds him gasping for breath on his charpoy
his heart getting feebler every passing moment
and she rushes to pour on his parched lips
few drops of holy water from river Ganga
that she carefully preserved in a dirty bottle
for such a contingency
and then time stands still
with his last breath slipping away
and his body going limp.
She sits quietly his head on her lap
and tries to force the tears out
but in vain
she pours glycerine into her dry eyes
hoping to induce the flow
as she did sometime ago for the audience
but in vain
she tries to wail and lament as loud as she could
but she finds her voice failing her.
All exhausted
and washed out
she bangs her bangles on the stone pestle
to break them to smithereens
and rubs off the vermillion mark
from between her brows.
Note: In the state of Rajasthan (India), such professional mourners are known as 'Rudaali', who generally are from the poor and lower strata of the society and are engaged to demonstrate grief on the death of 'high' class people for a fee.
'Balamuwa, tum kya jaano preet?- My beloved, what do you know of love?', the small room echoed the mellifluous question, as Zeenat Begum continued with her Riyaz. Her rheumy eyes fixed at infinity, her arthritis ridden knobby fingers effortlessly gliding on the reeds of her harmonium that she had bought decades ago, she wondered how much did she really know about love. Love by chance, or by choice? What choices did her life of a courtesan leave for her? In her eighties, she never could differentiate if she was awake or asleep. The bellowing of the harmonium damped slowly to a nought, the voice trailed gradually to a whimper and she slipped into her dreams, that she often did during these years.
It was her sixteenth birthday. And also the day she had dreaded all along. For the last nine years, she was being trained to follow the family tradition. Ustads were employed to train her in singing thumri, dadra, and ghazals. Dance teachers taught her kathak and its mujra variations. To treat the male patrons with elegance, grace and finesse, she was given lessons in etiquette, wit and humour, as well as in Urdu and Persian languages. To cater to some British guests, she had to learn few phrases of endearment in English too. After she underwent missi, the teeth blackening ceremony following her puberty, she knew this day was inevitable. Nath Utrai, or the ceremony of removal of the nose ring was knocking on the door. She knew that her mother had invited the prospective bidders and she distinctly remembered the lustful grin through a set of nicotine stained teeth that belonged to one wealthy merchant, a pot bellied middle aged person who had made the best offer. He had bought the rights to be the first to consort with her and her mother had made all the preparations. She didn't know how to deal with the situation. In helplessness, she locked herself in her room and sat near the window watching aimlessly the narrow winding street merging into the nearby Chowk.
Her mother Zoya Begum was one of the more prosperous courtesans of the Awadh royal court. During her heydays she was considered a rage for her beauty and grace. She was an accomplished kathak dancer and gave numerous performances in the court mehfils. Her admirers were not restricted to the royal family only, but she had a wider clientele amongst the other rich and powerful. She never took anyone as her husband. It's rumoured that Zeenat was her love child, most likely with blue blood.
'Hey Zeenat, where are you my child? Have you forgotten that today is a special day for you?, yelled Zoya.
Zeenat didn't reply. Zoya walked past her door and saw her sitting opposite the window.
' Why are you sitting with a long face? Aren't you happy that the day has finally come? For us tawaifs this is the beginning of our life. You should rejoice and celebrate. Come on, open the door. Let me comb your hair,' offered Zoya.
'Leave me alone. Just go away,' snapped Zeenat.
'Listen my dear, I have been investing all these years to make you ready for this day. You are adept in all that is needed to make the best courtesan. This is the last gateway to take you into the real world. Try and understand ,' reasoned Zoya.
' Investing in me? To make me what? Someone like you? A rudderless boat having no sense of direction?', scoffed Zeenat.
' Aren't you being rude to your mother? After all that I have done for you to bring you up?,' asked Zoya.
' What are you bringing me up as ? To sing and dance? And sell my body?,'retorted Zeenat.
' Try to understand, that's our family tradition,' defended Zoya.
' Family? What does family mean to you? Tell me who's my father? Where is he?,' shouted Zeenat.
' We are tawaifs, royal courtesans. That's our identity. We only know our mothers. Fathers don't really matter for us, ' muttered Zoya.
' No Ammi, that's not my idea of a family. I would like to see my children grow up like in any other decent family around us. I don't want to stay mum if they ask me who's their father,' said Zeenat firmly.
' We will discuss this later. But let's get ready for the day. Hope you know that your benefactor has already paid me good money. We have to honour that. He's a powerful person. He would take care of you life long and shower you with other favours,' reminded Zoya.
' Ammi, I am quite clear about what I am going to do. I hate the idea of warming someone's bed in exchange of money or favours. But I will surely give you a choice. I have my body and my voice. You have to choose one between them,' Zeenat stopped short and pulled out a bottle of toilet cleaning acid, and continued,' if you want to peddle my body, I am going to drink this acid right now and kill my voice for ever.No thumris, no dadra, no ghazals, no nothing.'
' Stop it my child, throw it. Your divine voice is far more precious to me. You were born to sing. I can't snatch that away from you. I concede. Please open the door,' pleaded Zoya, with tears rolling down her eyes.
Finally to her greatest relief Zeenat had her way. She honed her singing skills to greater heights. Soon her name and fame as a singer touched the sky and she was in high demand for all royal concerts. For special audiences she performed pure kathak dance too and earned a name as an astute performer. She met her life partner in her concert group, Zahid, who was a young sarangi player. They struck a chord with each other to resonate well, and after few years of courtship tied the knot. Meanwhile Zoya passed away and the performances in the royal court dried up. Post Independent India, the royalty had to live on a stringent government stipend termed as privy purse, after they lost their ruling rights, and along with the liberty to ostentatious living.
Zeenat and Zahid found it difficult to make both ends meet, as the sponsorship of their performance depleted. Also their family grew in size with two extra mouths to feed. They were blessed with two daughters in quick succession. Soon the silver and gold jewellery and the savings which she inherited from her mother gradually disappeared. Their ancestral house fell into a state of decay and decline. Zahid managed to gain entry into the All India Radio as an artiste and later Zeenat too got in as a classical singer. But the programs were not enough in number neither were the remuneration. But somehow they managed their household expenses. Zeenat was brought up amidst plenty but despite the meagre income during these difficult times, they learnt to live as a happy family and never felt deprived.
While they were struggling to keep their hearth burning she got an opportunity to record her songs by Gramophone Company of India, and she joined the galaxy of pioneers like Khurshid Jan, Shamim Jan, Babban Bai and Benazeer Bai, all from Lucknow gharana, and who had already carved a niche for themselves. 'Mallika-e-Ghazal', Begum Akhtar, who heard some of her radio renderings was so impressed that she made it a point to contact her and meet her. She took her under her tutelage and recommended her for the record company. This supplemented their income and things started improving.
'Ammi, wake up. There's a lady, a famous classical dancer who has come to see you,' shouted Jameela, Zeenat's younger daughter while shaking her up.
' Oh, I don't know when I dozed off! How long has she been waiting? Call her in,' said Zeenat apologetically.
A young lady entered, did 'adaab' to Zeenat and introduced herself, ' I am Manju Chaturvedi. I am making a film on Indian Classical Music and Dance. It would be a great honour for me if you may give one performance for my film. I will dance to your singing. I will surely compensate for it as best as I can.'
Zeenat sized her up silently for a while and said, ' OK. I will sing, but I have two conditions. If you are fine with that we can go ahead.'
' Sure, please tell me what are they,' said Manju eagerly.
'First, my husband will play for me on sarangi. Second, you have to arrange a special mehfil for my program, with genuine audience, and you must get me my costume in Banarasi silk for my performance,' Zeenat dictated.
Manju smiled and readily agreed. The date and venue for the programme was finalised.
The event was planned to be held in India Habitat Centre at New Delhi. Manju left no stones unturned to make it a success. The invitees who belonged to the creamy layer of the cultural community, were carefully chosen. The film crew was positioned. Zeenat and Zahid were flown down to Delhi from Lucknow and were accommodated in a five star hotel. Before the performance Zeenat was presented with a red zari brocaded lehnga dress of Banarasi silk. The stage was set and the grand old lady made her regal entry to a cheering audience. She then rendered her favourite thumris one after another flawlessly while Manju danced to her singing expertly in consonance. It was a mesmerising performance, a feast for the eyes of the connoisseurs. As the tempo picked up and the music reached its peak, Zeenat got up and slowly took position next to Manju. She then danced in sync with Manju without missing a beat, step for step. Manju saw her going into a trance, her footwork almost unbelievable, her body swinging in supple movements. She stopped dancing and took a step back to stand silently and watch her in sheer amazement. The crowd went wild with applause to see the old blood challenging the new. The music moved to quicker and quicker beats, Zeenat moving her feet in a frenzy and as it reached its crescendo, there was a sudden thud. Zeenat had collapsed in a heap on the stage.
There was pin drop silence. The doctor rushed on to the stage. Zeenat tried to sit up still with a smile of contentment on her face as the audience clapped, but couldn't move. Zahid picked her up in his arms and supported her to sit up. The doctor declared that she seemed to have had a paralytic attack.
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.
Early Easter Sunday morning, even before I had the chance to change into my scrubs, the emergency room radio crackled. “Medical Control, this is ambulance 12. We are en route with a 7-year-old boy hit by a car. Two-minute ETA.”
The quiet Easter morning was shattered. Quickly, we assembled the pediatric resuscitation equipment and swung into action. Lights flashed through the glass doors of the ambulance entryway as they arrived. The emergency room entrance burst open and two frightened paramedics ran through the door carrying a limp child. They slid the small boy onto the emergency room cart and backed away, apparently relieved to be done with their part. The rest of us slipped into the rhythm of resuscitation.
Intubation, IV lines, large volume of fluids and several rounds of drugs. Most of it is a blur to me now. As I waited for some response to the medications, the nurse suggested I feel the head. Her eyes looked on mine as I touched the soft skin of this boy’s head and felt the crushed skull. Then came the gush of brain matter through the fractured skull -- the sight of which often weakens the knees of even the most stoic.
Despite prolonged CPR, countless rounds of drugs, endless fluids and a temporary pacemaker, the young heart stayed silent. Holding back a rush of tears, I stopped the “Code.” The mother knew, too, but after a painful hesitation, asked anyway. I nodded my head and held her hand, hoping to be of some comfort.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no,” she sobbed. I whispered, “I am sorry.” I kissed her gently on the forehead, postponing for her, all too briefly, one of the real tragedies of life.
Three months later, the boy’s mother came to the emergency room. She explained that she had been trying to do so for three months but threw up every time she neared the place. She had brought family albums with pictures of her son. It was important to her that I, who knew her son only in death, know him in life as well. As she left my office, she left a picture of her son on my desk. Having a short-lived relationship with a patient with whom I had no relationship in life often offers little fulfillment. To this day, the little boy’s picture hangs on the wall in our bedroom.
During the next three years there were many more “Codes,” more deaths, more pictures, each one a vivid reminder of a shortened life. Although my ability to handle a crisis grew, I struggled with each death, with new pictures on the wall.
Three years later. Another Easter Sunday. Another accident. A young girl hit by a car. As the ambulance screeched into the bay with this limp and listless little girl, my heart began to race, as it had that Easter Sunday three years earlier.
Her right pupil was dilated; she was bleeding inside the skull. Minimally rousable. No pressure -- no time for a CAT scan. She will never make it to the operating room. “Hand me the drill. I have to make a few holes in her cranium to release the pressure.” The blond hair curls softly across the pillow and stays over her calm, pale face. It was a very tense few minutes. Blood under pressure inside her cranium gushed through the drill holes, spattered my starched white coat, sleeping deeper than my shirt, permeating my body, my soul, my memory. Her body went limp, her eyes went blank and started to roll back. Her lips folded up over her teeth. She was in full cardiac arrest. “Switch the power on the defibrillator and everyone stand back! Charge the paddles!” The sound of the high screeching power surge on the defibrillator paddles meant a dead heart was about to be shot with electricity.
The body flopped on the cart. On the monitor screen, I saw a bounce, a slight heartbeat. Breaths of oxygen were forced into her lungs -- her eyes fluttered. Then, as turning on a fluorescent light, the young heart being the main switch, she powered up enough to gasp in a breath on her own, and then another and another, and another -- the power of the heart started. This time our efforts were successful! Two weeks later, she was discharged from the hospital.
Six weeks after that, the same girl was back with a cut knee, no doubt sustained in another tomboy adventure. I put in a few stitches and before she left the emergency room the mother thanked me for everything. Then the little girl handed me a simple drawing she had made for me. At first it appeared to be just another 3-year-old's scribble that belonged on the refrigerator. But this one was special. In it are no simple lines, but the rebirth of a human life.
None of us knows what moment we might step into a child’s life and by a demonstration of love and support create a change. This priceless drawing of the little girl now hangs on another wall of our bedroom -- a wall dedicated to the celebration of life.
(Sunday, March 31, 1991)
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a medical graduate from SCB Medical College, Cuttack in 1965, moved to the U.S. In the seventies after a six years stint in the University of Glasgow, Scotland. He was Director and Chairman of Mercy Regional Health System, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA, from 1981-1998. An Emergency Care Specialist he also worked as a Professor, Instructor and Perceptor at the Saint Francis College, Pennsylvania (1980-1998). Among many distinguished positions held by him, his stint as a Director in the Board of Directors of American Heart Association (1980-1984) and Instructor, Basic Life Support, American Heart Association (1979-1998), Regional Medical Director, Southern Alleghenies Emergency Care (1980-1998) are noteworthy. Recipient of numerous awards for exemplary service in the field of medicine and emergency care, he was a familiar face in American television in the eighties and nineties of the last century, talking about Trauma, Lifeline, Advanced Cardiac Life Support, Toxicology, Heat Emergencies, Frostbite, Hypothermia etc. He has also published dozens of articles on these topics in newspapers and journals. After his retirement from active medical services he lives in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, along with his wife, Dr. Asha L. Swain, who is also a Physician with a distinguished service record. They can be reached at alswainmd@aol.com
Carrying a sword in one hand
And a dove
In other
He is standing on a slippery
Edge of time.
His one eye pines
For a new light
And
The other,
With a spiteful look,
Stares at the blood-stained field.
His heart
Leaps for entering into a new self
But the mind
Squabbles for making a beginning of death.
In the darkness of sleazy civilization,
The sword swallowed the hot blood
Of the innocent dove
At the end in vain
And the confused man is lost at last
On the slippery edge of time.
Publication Credit: East-West Voices: An International Anthology of Poetry in English, 1988 (Ed. V S Skanda Prasad)
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
New publications of Pravat Kumar Padhy
1. Cosmic Symphony - A Haiku Collection, 2019, Cyberwit.net, Allahabad
2. The Rhyming Rainbow- A Tanka Collection, 2019, Authorspress, New Delhi
3. The Speaking Stone - A Collection of Poems, 2020, Authorspress, New Delhi
BUDDHA PURNIMA: A LESSON TO YOUNG INDIA TO FIND A NEW MEANING
Debi Padhi
Buddha, the name which conjures a myriad images in my mind’s eye; floated in, unannounced today morning, with the arrival of the printed newspaper after a long time, that announced Buddha Purnima. The full Moon arose in its iridescent luminosity in my vision, symbolising this day when Siddhartha Gautama was born in 563BCE at Lumbini, Nepal; achieved Nirvana under the Bodhi Tree at Bodh Gaya, Bihar at age 35, emerging as Buddha, the ‘enlightened one’; entering the state of Mahaparinirvana(free from the cycles of rebirth) in 483 BCE at Kushinagar, North India, aged 80; only to resurrect as the ninth and most recent incarnation of Vishnu, in the pantheon of Hindu Avatars.
As Sadguru, Jaggi Vasudeva puts it so succinctly, “So there have been many, but this incredible human being, in many ways has changed the face of this planet and still continues to do so. 2500 years is not a small amount of time.”
However, in the present times of uncertainty and flux, it will only be pertinent to fathom if we could align the name of Buddha as a ‘Role Model’of sorts to a young India where more than 50% of its population are below the age of 25 and more than 65% are below the age of 35; and recall some lessons from Buddha’s road to ‘realisation’ and imbibe them into our lives.
Lessons from Buddha’s early Journeys
Buddha’s early life is akin to the Eliotesque quote, “In my end is my beginning”, that interpretably symbolised the circularity and the spiritual journey one can subject to in one’s life. Relate it to the first lesson that an inquisitive Siddhartha Gautam garnered from the Four Sights that beset him when he left the sheltered existence of luxury and pleasure in the precincts of his king-father’s palace for the first time at the age of 29:
Sequentially in his journey he first saw an old man, revealing the consequences of aging that affects all beings alike; followed by the sight of a sick person suffering from a disease signifying that all beings are subject to disease and pain. The third sight of a dead body implied to him that death is an inevitable fate that befalls everyone and that sufferings have to be endured in life. The three negative sights were followed by the fourth sight of an ascetic who had resolved to find the cause of human suffering; a sight that gave him the hope that he too might be released from the sufferings arising from being repeatedly reborn, and he resolved to follow the ascetic's example.
These experiences were revelations to him that he further ventured to exploit and took to a path of penance and suffering; until after 4 years of emaciating experience he realized that what he is seeking externally by identifying with those Four Sights is after all within himself. When he realized this, he endeavored to pull himself to sit down under the now famous Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya; with the determination, “Either death draws or I get up as an Enlightened Being”! The long, hard hours of meditation and contemplation, coupled with his determined ‘Sadhana’(spiritual practice) , after seven years of leaving his palace, he entered the state of Mahaparinirvana.
It is the concept of ‘Sadhana’, exemplified by Buddha, that should confront our young minds in our early quest for our own spiritual journeys; albeit, a journey of any sort that seeks to find a new meaning in our lives.
“On this day, Gautama the Buddha became fully enlightened. Let this be a reminder that if you have the necessary focus, enlightenment is a living Possibility.” - Sadguru Jaggi Vasudev
A painting depicting the four sights. Curtsey Wikipedia
A Summery of Buddha’s Teachings
Buddhism is a path of practice and spiritual development leading to an insight into the true nature of reality. The experience developed within the Buddhist tradition over thousands of years has created an incomparable resource for all those who wish to follow a path - a path which ultimately culminates in Enlightenment or Buddhahood. An enlightened being sees the nature of reality absolutely clearly, just as it is, and lives fully and naturally in accordance with that vision. This is the goal of the Buddhist spiritual life, representing the end of suffering for anyone who attains it.
The Four Noble Truths are perhaps the most basic formulation of the Buddha’s teaching. They are expressed as follows:
- All existence is dukkha. The word dukkha has been variously translated as ‘suffering’, ‘anguish’or ‘pain’. The Buddha’s insight was that our lives are a struggle, and we do not find ultimate happiness or satisfaction in anything we experience. This is the problem of existence.
- The cause of dukkha is craving. The natural human tendency is to blame our difficulties on things outside ourselves. But the Buddha says that their actual root is to be found in the mind itself. In particular, our tendency to grasp at things (or alternatively to push them away) places us fundamentally at odds with the way life really is.
- The cessation of dukkha comes with the cessation of craving. As we are the ultimate cause of our difficulties, we are also the solution. We cannot change the things that happen to us, but we can change our responses.
- There is a path that leads from dukkha. Although the Buddha throws responsibility back on to the individual he also taught methods, through which we can change ourselves, for example the Noble Eightfold Path.
Another formulation of the path is the Threefold Way of ethics, meditation, and wisdom. This is a progressive path, as ethics and a clear conscience provide an indispensable basis for meditation, and meditation is the ground on which wisdom can develop.
The Buddha’s ‘Noble Eightfold Path’ is a further ‘unpacking’ of the ‘Threefold Way’ and is perhaps the most widely known of the Buddha’s teachings. It is ancient, extending back to the Buddha’s first discourse at Sarnath and is highly valued as a treasury of wisdom and practical guidance on how to live our lives. Traditionally the teaching is seen as highlighting eight areas or ‘limbs’ of ‘right’ practice (Sangharakshita prefers ‘perfect’ to ‘right’), which sit in mutual relationship to one other and are each essential elements in an integrated approach to the Dharma:
- Right Understanding or Perfect Vision
- Right Resolve or Perfect Emotion
- Right Speech or Perfect Speech
- Right Action or Perfect Action
- Right Livelihood or Perfect Livelihood
- Right Effort or Perfect Effort
- Right Mindfulness or Perfect Awareness
- ?Right Meditation or Perfect Samadhi
The basic tenets of Buddhist teaching are straightforward and practical: nothing is fixed or permanent; actions have consequences; change is possible. Hence, Buddhism addresses itself to all people irrespective of race, nationality, caste, sexuality, or gender. It teaches practical methods which enable people to realise and use its teachings in order to transform their experience, to be fully responsible for their lives.
Buddha as a Role Model
A role model is a person we look up to, in our quest to learn, a role model is someone who inspires others to imitate and emulate. Role models are the fillips we return to when we are confronted and confounded with the Hamletian soliloquy of ‘To be or not to be’ situation.
Can Buddha take that place in our minds and in our beings! Perhaps, he is much larger than life to have been thought of as an ideal possibility, what with life having gone digital, more visual, impromptu and uncertain.
The possibilities that Buddha presents us are immense, multi-dimensional, soft and non-confrontational, balmy and empowering. To any discerning young person, with a vision for the future, it should become very apparent that Siddhartha to begin with, with his sense of sacrifice, small wants and an immense belief in one’s own abilities; is an exemplar of all that makes one a Role Model, albeit a Hero. As life progresses, the lessons of living and pursuance of the truth by Buddha should help any human being to put on wings to one’s thoughts, believes and passions.
The Buddha sharing what he learned
Buddha said:
“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
“No one saves us but ourselves.”
“Ardently do today what must be done. Who knows? Tomorrow, Death comes.”
“You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire Universe, deserve your love and affection.”
“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.”
“Purity or impurity depends on oneself.”
Some Recommended books for the Young Reader
There are innumerable books and well-known stories on the life of Buddha: from his renunciation of a princely life, through the various stages of his spiritual journey leading to the founding of Buddhism as a religion. Some of the recommended books for the young to easily grasp the enormity of Buddha’s life, in simple terms are:
- The Imitation of Buddha by Ernest M Bowden, Blue Jay Books, New Delhi
- Old Path White Clouds by Thich Nhat Hanh, Full Circle, New Delhi
- The Dhammapada, edited by S Radhakrishnan, OUP, New Delhi
- The Art of Happiness by The Dalai Lama, Harper Paperbacks, New Delhi
- Our Appointment with life: The Buddha's Teaching on Living in the Present by Thich Nhat Hanh, Full Circle, New Delhi
As we reminisce and contemplate the incredible life of this noble soul who walked upon this earth 2500 years ago, who discarded the normative beliefs and trappings of a well-endowed life; let us rise and resolve to a new vision, a new clarion call for a meaningful existence on this auspicious day of Buddha Purnima with Buddha in our Hearts.
Debi Padhi was born in the city of Cuttack, India. A retired naval aviator, with a Masters in English Literature and a Masters in Journalism and Mass Communications; has a passion for the creative arts and is a freelance writer on varied subjects that have been published widely. He, along with his wife are running an organization that counsels and empowers the youth to exploit their full potential.
THE BENCH AT THE END OF THE PLATFORM
There is a long bench at the end of the railway platform. It is made in typical Indian Railways design (parallel strips of wood welded together with steel angles and embedded in the earth). The bench serves as my post dinner retreat. I prefer the last bench as I can sit there in solitary contemplation, away from the crowd of passengers. How cosy to sit alone under the darkness, except for a faint light from the last lamppost! Beyond it the parallel rail lines cross the outer red signal and disappear into the night. A peepul tree stands guard over my bench, its leaves occasionally disturbed by the wavy breeze.
The night express steams in at about 9:00 and disgorges its alighting travellers, before sucking in new passengers to carry on the journey. The buzzing sound of the restless crowd carries to me, as if a swarm of bees were abroad. I can make out a few loud mouths calling for a coolie or accosting a friend who had come to receive them. A wheelbarrow rumbles its way down the platform, carting heavy boxes to the brake van for loading. The singsong of ‘chai, garam chai’ wafting in the air would blend musically with the medley of ‘samosa’, ‘boiled egg’, ‘paan, bidi, cigarette’ and so on.
Soon the guard whistles, prompting the engine to blow its long whistle and the wheels of the train start rolling. Some passengers, caught unawares, put their startled feet in motion to reach the nearest bogey. The bright headlight of the engine dazzles me as it passes my bench for a flimsy second. Then the train gathers speed to pass into the future. By now the swirling crowd on the platform melts away, leaving me in splendid isolation. A dog peers between the railway lines for scraps of food, while a fat coolie lets out a burp as he walks past me. The beggar winds down his rendering of Hindi film songs as he crosses the tracks towards his shack in the slums. The steady red lamp at the rear of a goods train turns unsteady as it leaves the siding. It’s time for me to move too and I make my way home, carrying with me the images and sounds of the evening.
Normally no one comes up to my bench. One evening, a stranger strolling by happened to sit by my side. I was glad to have some company for a change. He smiled and his white teeth sparkled in the darkness. “Are you waiting for the express?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Just sitting then, all alone?”
“Not exactly alone,” I clarified. “There’s a world of difference between loneliness and solitude. I have my own thoughts for company.”
“How nice! You are quite a philosophical animal, I see.”
“What about you? What brings you here?”
“I live in that locality,” he indicated to an area behind us. “My son has recently started working in a factory about 50 kilometres from here. He goes in the morning and returns by the evening express. He is commuting till he finds a place to stay near the factory. Every morning I put him on the train and in the evening I come to receive him. He is a young boy, you see, too young to fend for himself.”
We heard the whistle of the express before it powered into the station. My companion waited till it came to a complete halt. “Well, good night,” he said and walked away to collect his son.
Next evening too he was there. No sooner had he sat down than he started talking about his son. Obviously he was very fond of his son. He talked only of his son—how he had shone in his studies, how he was such an obedient boy, how he got a good job, how he was looking for a bride for him and so on.
“You know, my son never goes anywhere without telling me, not even to the cinema. I don’t like him to see too many movies; too much violence and sex these days. It’s not good for an impressionable mind.”
Though I had welcomed his presence initially, I found the constant harping on his son rather irritating. It was jarring on my solitude. But how could I drive him away? He had as much right to sit on the bench as I had. I dreaded his turning up, but I was helpless. On the third evening he launched into a discourse on accidents—how so many train accidents were taking place and people were dying, how accidents could be avoided if only railway staff were not so careless, how the authorities were too scared of unions to take action against erring staff for dereliction of duty, and so on. It was so unnerving!
“You know,” he said, “there was an accidental fire at my son’s factory because a worker carelessly threw a cigarette?”
“When, yesterday?” I asked. I didn’t remember reading about it in the papers.
“No, no, it was quite sometime ago. It happened one afternoon and I was worried to death when I heard of it. How anxiously I waited for the express that night to bring my son home!”
“I hope nothing happened to him,” I remarked.
“Of course not!” he became agitated. “Nothing can happen to him!” I was taken aback by his vehemence.
The express train pulled in and advanced along the skirting of the platform. Instead of stopping where it normally did, the engine overshot its mark and came to rest just short of our bench. Its powerful light fell directly on us and I had to shield my eyes. What I saw struck me speechless. The light was shining right through his body! I could make out only a murky outline of his body. Both the loud thumping of my heart and my scream were drowned in his shrill laugh. I felt as if thrown up by an exploding bomb.
When I opened my eyes again, I was suspended from the branches of the peepul tree! I looked down and saw myself slumped forward on the bench. My companion was no longer there. But the train had not moved an inch, as if time had come to a standstill. I felt my bodiless spirit floating up into the air, even without wings! There were spirits all around me, moving up towards a great light in the sky that was more powerful than the train’s headlamp. I spotted my companion from the bench by my side, tightly embracing a young man who must have been his son. His divine face was lit up by a smile that was beyond this world.
Was I dead—or going to die? No, I was not ready for death! I tried my best to jump down and rejoin my body, to no avail as my spirit continued its upward ascent. I panicked and started screaming, “No, no, I’m not dead! I don’t want to die!”
I felt someone shaking my shoulder. “Hello,” a voice spoke in my ear, “are you okay?” I opened my eyes to find a railway guard looking down at me. He looked solid. I scanned the platform. That too seemed solid, as was the bench.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I replied while getting up. “I must have been dreaming. Thanks for your concern.” We shook hands before I left the bench and the platform. The desolate bench must be more desolate than ever, for I no longer go to that end of the platform. I give it as wide a berth as possible, even though I have not come across any railway ghost story on my erstwhile companion and his son.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
When it rains
Through out the night,
I feel each and every drop
Saying me something.
Lying on the bed,
I listen to the music
Orchestrated by the trees.
Drenched completely
But singing joyfully
With the whistling wind.
I feel nostalgic
And go back
Down the memory lane
In the search of my love,
Who may be still waiting
For the downpour to stop.
So that I drop in
At the door step
To give her a surprise.
Alas! If I can relive
And retrace my journey,
I would embrace her
Coming from behind,
And whisper my love
Holding her tight.
Rains come and go,
But they always remind
Those defining moments.
When life takes turns.
Not by anyone's choice
But as per its wishes.
Whatever happens
Is for the best,
There should not
Be any regrets,
But as it rains
It’s difficult to forget
The beautiful face
Reappearing secretly
In one corner of my heart;
Just to remind
Love is still fresh.
"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 three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in 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 people who stood on the corridor of the hospital were talking among themselves. The old man in the group said disappointedly,
“I can’t believe that such a thing happened. I just cannot comprehend as to how such a thing could happen”
“It’s how the kids are. They like to try everything”, quipped his wife.
“But still!” the old man kept wondering.
“Such things happen when mothers don’t give much care” said the younger man of the group
It was around eight pm when Aravind reached back home from his work. He pressed on the calling bell and his daughter Priya of seven years ran happily to open the door for her father. As soon as the door opened, she embraced the legs of her father, but Aravind just gently pushed her out of the way and walked straight into his room. His wife Sunitha seeing him come in, asked if he wanted a cup of tea to which he just shook his head to indicate that he didn’t. He just walked into his room to get fresh after a long day at his business.
“Achen didn’t talk to me”, young Priya complained to her mother.
Sunitha was little frustrated hearing this but she pacified her daughter. “You sit and finish your homework. Achen has come tired after his work and you know that.”
Priya slowly went to the corner of the dining table where she sat to study. “But it was not like this before. He used to hug and kiss me and give me chocolates. But now a days he does not care for me at all.” At the end of the sentence she coughed a bit.
Hearing Priya cough, Sunitha asked as she walked towards the kitchen, “Did you drink the water from the refrigerator?”
“No“. Said Priya. “You won’t ever even let me open the fridge.”
“Don’t you ever open the fridge or drink the cold water without my permission”. Sunitha warned Priya which was almost a daily routine.
Aravind had got fresh and he walked into the dining room. He went to the refrigerator and opened it. Priya was observing the things that her father did these days as a routine. He took the green bottle from the rack of water bottles kept on the door of the refrigerator. In a minute he drank almost a quarter of that bottle and then as if he couldn’t tolerate the taste of what he drank, he gave a muffled sound of his throat. He then kept back the bottle were it was and closed the refrigerator. He looked around and Priya could see a pleasant smile appearing on his face which was grim till now. With that smile he walked to where his darling daughter was sitting. He sat beside her, kissed her and hugged her.
“I haven’t forgotten about your bicycle and we will buy it soon. I forgot to buy the chocolates since I was in a hurry. I am sorry about that. Don't worry, I will get you a double tomorrow”.
Priya sat quiet in the cuddling arms of her father. For Aravind his five minutes tryst with his daughter was over. His obligation to his daughter was finished for the day. He talked to her and he loved her. He now got up and then went to the kitchen where his wife was getting the dinner ready.
Priya took the doll which was kept on the chair beside her. She took a black marking pen and drew a gloomy smile over its mouth. Then taking the doll she started talking to it about her father. “Achen has changed a lot, He ignores me when he comes home and always looks frustrated. But once he drinks the cool water from the fridge he becomes happy and talkative to me. Then after that he will find some fault with Amma and fight with her to finish off the night”.
A fight was erupting from the kitchen over some dishes cooked for the dinner. It seemed like Aravind didn’t want the routine dishes made for dinner and expected something more tonight. Sunitha made it quite clear that she didn’t have time after returning from office to make anything big for the night. Thus a fight erupted for that evening. Priya looked gloomily at the doll.
“Why are you looking so gloomy Priya?” Priya was making a conversation with herself as she saw herself as the unlucky sad doll. “Shall I give you some water from the fridge which Achen drinks daily. It can make you happy immediately. Your face will glow with happiness and you will smile and talk to me then.”
Priya quietly got up from her seat and walked up to the fridge. She remembered her mother’s orders but she had to disobey it for getting some happiness. She opened the fridge and ran her little fingers over all the cold bottles and she was in a confusion as to which bottle to take. Then her fingers stopped over the green coloured bottle which she had seen her father drink from, which gave him an immediate mirth. She took it and placed it towards the mouth of the doll but it didn’t open its mouth though Priya requested it. Then she finally took the mouth of the bottle to her mouth saying,
“If you won’t have it then I will have it for you. Usually it’s me who drinks and eat your share of milk and chocolate too. So let this be too”.
Priya tilted the bottle a little too much and a mouth full of content from the green bottle ran down her throat. Her face frowned and she gave a cough. She got bit scared. She immediately kept the bottle where it was, closed the fridge and sat back at the table where she was supposed to be. A few moments rolled by and Priya saw the doll smiling at her and it made Priya giggle. Her mind became less heavy and the worrying homework before her didn’t seem to be a problem now as she saw her pencil, rubber and the pencil sharpener began to float ten inches above the table. The sounds from the kitchen got louder and it ended once a shattering sound was heard. But none of it bothered the child now.
Sunitha walked into the dining room with tears in her eyes. The fight with her husband had ended for the day when he threw a glass against the wall. As she came into the dining room she found her daughter sleeping with a smile on her face, with her head kept bowed on the table. Sunitha tried to wake her up and make her have the dinner but she realised that her daughter was in a good deep sleep. Sunitha carried Priya on her shoulder to the bedroom and tucked her under a blanket. Meanwhile Aravind walked in from the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out the green bottle and emptied it down his throat.
The next day also as usual it was Priya who opened the door for Aravind. She expected no kisses or hugs from her father and she didn’t get them. Aravind walked into the bedroom to get fresh and then he came back after some time to open the refrigerator to take out his bottle of happiness. Priya from the dining table on which she was studying was observing all this. She knew what her father would do next as he came, closing the fridge. He came and sat with her with a gleaming smile. He pampered her for five minutes and felt his job was done in bonding with his child. After that he moved to the front room and started making some calls on his phone. Very soon one casual phone call evolved into a fight and abusive words followed. Priya was overhearing all the bad words uttered from her father’s mouth and her learning of the books for the evening came to a standstill. From the kitchens Sunitha asked out to Priya if she was concentrating on her homework and Priya assured back to her mother that she was indeed studying. But in fact Priya was slowly sliding out of the chair and she was slowly moving towards the refrigerator. She looked towards the kitchen side and the front room. Both her parents were busy doing their own things. She quietly opened the fridge and saw the green bottle which could make her happy. She drank two mouthful and then slowly tip toed back to her seat. Within moments euphoria set in and she felt herself flying along with the things on her table. The doll was giggling at her.
Sunitha coming from the kitchen with the dinner in her hand saw Priya sound asleep in front of her books. She tried in vain to wake up Priya and she angrily shouted at her. But it was a yell that came back as reply from Aravind who asked her to shut up since he was on the phone discussing serious issues.
The events in the house repeated themselves every day in the same manner for over a month. One evening Aravind was packing his bag in the bedroom.
“So you will be happy for one week when you get away with your friends leaving me and Priya all alone”, Sunitha complained to which Aravind retorted.
“You should be thinking how peacefully you can live this week’.
“It’s about Priya I am concerned about.” Sunitha used the time of Aravind’s packing to get his attention. “You have only a five minute interaction and love for her every evening. It’s high time you took some concern in her matters. She has changed a lot these days. She is always drowsy. She does not finish her homework and instead scribbles all over the pages. In her test papers she has scored less than five marks in all the subjects. Her class teacher has complained that she is very inattentive nowadays and that she gets easily irritated and picks fights with her friends. She has even started abusing her friends in foul language and the principal has asked us to meet her. I am getting scared.”
“Every mother will have these type of concerns. But we fathers take it cool. All these things are a part of the process of growing up”. Aravind pushed away her concern and now was almost onto cursing her. “You just want to create a bad mood and disturb my mind since you know I am going to be happy with my friends”. Saying this he took the bag and walked out of the bed room with Sunitha trying her best to make him understand about the situation in hand. She pursued him till the gate but he just climbed into the car in which his friends waited for him. He didn’t even bother to wave a bye to his wife or daughter. Meanwhile inside the house, Priya had taken up the opportunity when she saw that both her parents were walking outside the house. She opened the fridge, smelt the opened bottle and drank whatever was left in the green bottle. She did not frown or cough now. Whatever she drank lately, she drank with pretty much ease and joy.
The incident happed on the third day after Aravind left out with his friends. From the hospital Sunitha was desperately trying to contact Aravind’s phone number since the moment it happened. His mobile phone was always busy or was out of the network coverage area as he had travelled out to some hill station. Finally she managed to connect to him after numerous frantic calls. The moment Sunitha was on line Aravind stared abusing her as he thought she was simply trying to disturb his peace and fun with his friends and it was clear from his language that he was drunk. So it took Sunitha sometime to make him understand with clarity that Priya was admitted in hospital and is under emergency care.
“What happened?” Aravind shouted through the phone
“I don’t know” Sunitha cried out. “She drank the spirit which I kept for cleaning”
Aravind didn’t let her complete the sentence and before that he was accusing her with abusive words .“It’s all your carelessness which led my daughter into this pathetic situation.”
Relatives of Aravind’s family were standing in that corridor of the ward. They were talking to themselves as to what led this small girl do such a foolish thing. Was it intentional or just a mistake by the child due to the carelessness of the mother? As Aravind walked up to them they stopped their conversation and he asked
“How is my child”
“Don’t worry”, Said his uncle. “She is recovering slowly. Thanks to God, she has overcome the danger situation. She has been shifted to the room from the ICU”.
His aunty was exasperated. “Still it’s a puzzle how careless Sunitha can be by keeping the spirit bottle in front of the little child.”
“It’s all because of that bitch, my wife”. Aravind was furious. “It’s all her carelessness”.
Aravind’s old uncle asked his wife to keep quiet and he patiently took time to pacify Aravind. He then guided Aravind into the room where Priya was recovering. The doctor and the nurse were there examining the medical chart. He saw his daughter lying famished with small groaning sounds. There was a drip set injected into her slender arm which Aravind found it difficult to tolerate. He saw his wife standing near the window.
“You are the sole reason for all this”, he shouted pointing his finger at his wife.
Sunitha was all in tears as she narrated the incident that had happened on the third day evening after Aravind left.
“What am I to do? She cut her finger with the blade as she sharpened the pencil. I immediately stopped the bleeding.Then I took the bottle of spirit to clean the wound and kept it on the table when I went to get the cotton. As I returned I saw was she was smelling the spirit bottle. Then even before I could realise she just poured it into her mouth. I still don’t understand why she did that. Please, don’t accuse me. I am sorry”. She pleaded to her husband. The nurse standing there immediately came to support her and made her sit on the chair. The relatives who were outside the door came into the room hearing the sounds.
Aravind slowly moved to the bed of his daughter. He called her by her name and Priya opened her eyes. Aravind looked proudly at all those around him as his daughter opened her eyes to his call. Her eyes were bit red and clearly she was agitated and disturbed. Aravind bent and kissed her forehead and as he kissed, she smelled him and her face got a bit brighter.
“Can you give me some water Acha?” Priya asked her father in a weak voice.
Aravind in emergency took a bottle of water from the table, poured it to a tumbler and took it to the lips of Priya.
“Not this water” Priya said. “I need the water in that green bottle”.
There was puzzlement in Aravind’s eyes and curiosity in all those who stood around the patient’s bed.
“If I drink the water in that green bottle, then immediately I will be cured and we can go home. Can you get it for me?” Priya pleaded.
Aravind was baffled. “About which water is my darling talking about?” Aravind asked with endearment.
“Don’t you drink some water every evening from the green bottle in the fridge? The water which makes you happy on drinking and which makes you fight with Amma every night. It’s that water which I need and I will be alright”, Priya said with much confidence.
All eyes in that room looked accusingly at Aravind. Loud sobs could be heard from Sunitha. The doctor gave the report of his patient to her father. She had become addicted to alcohol. Aravind rewinded in his mind as to how this could have happened. On waking up in the morning, the first thing he would do along with his teeth brushing was to mix the vodka with a lime flavored aerated drink. He would then keep it in the refrigerator so that when he returned he could immediately have it chilled and could drink whenever he wanted it. Sunitha wouldn’t allow him to drink at home and so this was a trick that he devised to outsmart her. Sunitha knew about it but she was helpless. If she didn’t turn a blind eye to what he did, then he would go out to drink and would return only by midnight. This was the reason why Sunitha strictly forbade Priya against opening the fridge or drink the cold water from the bottles. The colourless vodka was kept camouflaged in the refrigerator along with the other water bottles and it was kept in a green bottle for Aravind to identify the bottle of happiness.
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.
A card, yellowed and crisp
Yet cherished and protected
In a box layered with velvet, red
Made me gasp at it's vintage beauty.
Be-dimmed eyes reflecting shyness
Excitement like butterflies fluttered .
A teenager bubbling to reveal a secret
She whispered softly, drawing me closer
"I have not shown this to anyone,
But you are special, you understand."
Swallowing my surging tears
Wrought by the compliment unexpected,
I stood holding tightly my breath,
Lest I disturb her dreamy meanderings
Into bygone days of life and love.
I watched her age worn hands-
Tenderly extract the card.
To reveal an enchanting bower
Splendidly adorned with greenery
Flowering vines and a pair of love birds
Sitting close together in love, warm!
Flitting birds colourful and an artist handsome
Engrossed in painting a portrait
Of his sweetheart, adorable.
I also spied their in-
The romantic heart too!
Of the giver, the artist
In that first Christmas Card!
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
Wind against her face
She tried to made her way upward
The pain, the bruises, the blood
Oh! The fear!!!
The courage to swim
The deep salty sea
To rebuild the castle
From the fragments of shattered dreams.
Wind against her back
She found inspiration from the waves
She followed the frolicking fishes
They swam in shoals
And fought the shark,
Her body felt weak, tired
Wrestling the burgeoning waves.
Darkness tinted the sky
But she was afraid no more
She realized
If she survived the dark night
She may regain the light.
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.
A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
I belong to those emerald feathers
Sunshine petals, Azure blue of the canopying Sky, and
To a million hues of the universe
Its eternal patterns
My soul camouflaged by Nature...
If you can 'see' me in them
Am remembered once in a while
For the heartprints I leave
Then
My dear Sakha/Sakhi
Find me hiding in front of you, and all around you
Even after am long gone...
Thermometer for the soul
Prescription for the frayed heart
Surplus for every starvation
Like a password you are, to me
The key to the hidden room
The inner eye, revealing rarest dreams
A cup of tea to relish the delicious rain
Some salt and pepper upon savorless days
Gentle wind carrying a Koel's song
Cascade of honey in exchange of tears
Trail you are, of jasmine and roses
Leading to the deep woods of sandal-scented hopes...
Snow-covered silence, upon the tumultuous mind
Long walks and warm talks, when loneliness whine
Stern, kind, everything in between
A parent in disguise you are
My monsoon shower, warm sunshine
Adorable enemy, detestable sweetheart
An incredible elixir you are
Shepherd with a pen, Sculptor with a flute
You shovel the puzzle pieces of me...
In unheard words and, anonymous tunes
Pieces are breathing in, breathing out
Patterns of my soul are found in sequence
Through the kaleidoscope of your love. . .
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
The sage, an aura of erudite awareness about him,
Cast his mystic smile at the group around,
People anxiously awaiting with bated breath
A word of abatement, of consolation,
Any word that he spake, any word a panacea
For all the ills plaguing their mind and heart.
“Love.”
There was, in the audience, a man inexperienced of age
Come to seek solace for a heart languishing and hurting.
Sniggered he in a tone dripping with sarcasm,
“Love? Love heals!? Not at all.
Love I did, with heart and soul,
Trusted, cared, forgave, pleaded to be forgiven,
And helplessly I entreated with outstretched arms —
But all I received was a door slammed at my tearful face.
No, sire, no, love heals not; love only hurts.”
The seer, seeing all, smiled and spake,
“Why wait thou at the door so shut
Longing in vain for it to be reopened?
Turn instead, away from it, and walk on,
Explore the path ahead, a path illumined just for you
Upon which the ones of the slammed door
May not perchance even tread. But who knows?
So, forgive the hurt, trust the journey,
You who have loved truly, explore
The walkways strewn with compassionate hearts,
A step in your own time,
Welcoming with gratitude the love that comes
From newly opened doors to heal you.
So, love anyway.”
The man who despaired of love now saw hope.
He turned away to walk with gratitude,
And loved anyway!
Vidya Shankar is a poet, writer, motivational speaker, yoga enthusiast, English language teacher. An active member of poetry circles, her works have appeared in national and international literary platforms and anthologies. She is the recipient of literary awards and recognitions.
Vidya Shankar’s first book of poems, The Flautist of Brindaranyam is a collaborative effort with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan. Her second book of poems The Rise of Yogamaya is an effort to create awareness about mental health. She has also been on the editorial of three anthologies.
A “book” with the Human Library, Chennai Chapter, Vidya Shankar uses the power of her words, both written and spoken, to create awareness about environmental issues, mental health, and the need to break the shackles of an outdated society.
Vibrant colours
Red, blue, green and yellow this summer
A game not so popular now
You reap what you sow
Gadgets keep us entertained
Oh so insane and mundane
Throw the dice!! Throw the dice
Once or twice
Is it a six?
Oh!! I'm in a fix
You need a six to start
I know you are smart
With number one, don't kill me please
I need one, to go home cheese
Oh!! don't you tease
I'm gonna freeze
Count the steps to be safe
Don't drop the dice, you better behave
I sure will win
Through thick and thin
A game so engrossing
I shall never be repenting
Immersed in happiness
Oh!! I'm speechless
Away from loneliness
Devoid of darkness
In this time of crisis
This too shall pass
As long as I have your company high class.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
The sun was scorching. Midday. The school play ground had no trees. The children were playing. The sun was bored. He sent some more rays. Some of the children began sweating. Some went in search of their water bottles. They drank water and came back to play.
The sun couldn’t bear this quiet play. He was feeling lonely at the top. He wanted a stress buster. He became hotter. Specifically, the rays fell on Nasik.
Now, Nasik, I must tell you, is 6 years old. He is a very authoritative kid. His friends called him a hero. Naturally, his enemies called him a devil.
You see, like is like that. You can’t escape this format. Some call you good for some reason. Some would call you bad. Humanity keeps shuffling between these two poles of thought. That, actually, makes life interesting. Anytime, you can be shifted from the good position to the bad position. We all know that. The great fluidity of life.
Oh, as usual, I forgot my story. Nasik.
Nasik became very thirsty. He went in search of his water bottle. What! It was not there! He shook the lunch bag. Only the empty tiffin box fell down. Where was his bottle?
Nasik being Nasik, he checked the next few bags one by one. He located his water bottle in the fourth bag. The bottle was empty! The bag belonged to his closest friend Arvind.
How? How dare Arvind drink his water?
The sun enjoyed his emotions. Sent some more specially drafted rays to his head. Nasik became more and more angry.
We all know that this kind of external heat can make people angrier. This is universal truth.
Nasik began heaving with anger. His body began thinking. His face contracted into a fist. His eyes became smaller and smaller. His breath came in spurts. His chest kept moving up and down…up and down. He ran like an athlete and dashed against Arjun, and knocked him down – all in one movement.
‘How dare you drink my water?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Arjun.
Both were now rolling on the ground. Their white shirts looked like the ones we see in soap powder advertisements. They made a lovely picture for an ad company, actually speaking.
The period was over. The bell screeched. The boys were so adept that in a fraction of a second they stood up. They dusted their shirts. Adjusted their hair. They ran back to their lunch bags, collected them, and ran back to their class rooms.
The school had no water supply. He saw his teacher drinking out of her bottle. His tongue struck to his palate. He didn’t dare ask her for water.
Who could have drunk his water? The sun knew. It was not Arjun. It was Nasik’s enemy band leader Murugan. He drank the water and put the bottle in Arjun’s bag – just to divide the friends. He succeeded. He had the water to drink and the friendship between Nasik and Arjun also was broken.
If a story ends like this, we lose interest in morality. So, we need to have a twist.
The teacher saw Nasik’s expression and gave him some water and asked him what happened to his water bottle.
When the story of the bottle was narrated by Nasik and Arjun, the teacher being an intelligent person realized the play of one more agency in this game of life.
She made an announcement in the class.
‘I know the child who drank Nasik’s water and hid the bottle in Arjun’s bag. If you do not accept your mistake now, I will have to inform your mother in the evening, and you will lose the chance to come for the one day picnic.’
That was more than enough.
Murugan came out and confessed everything with action.
And so, the story ends well, dear readers. Nasik and Arjun continued their friendship and lived happily ever after.
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.
Sarat was looking pensive, crouching upon a wooden framed cot when Ramesh called on him that evening. Sarat was about five years older than Ramesh, but they were classmates. For that matter any high school or degree college student of the village could be his class mate as he had been stuck in class VII and VIII for one year each and has been struggling to pass from class IX for last 3 years. The school authorities did not recommend his name to class X for fear of showing poor performance of the school in the Board exam.
As per the village standards , he hailed from a well to do family, being the only child of his parents who owned large landed property. His father used to come to the rescue of villagers in times of distress. He was not worried for the son whom he thought to be a bright student like other boys of the village. On the days when the annual class results were announced he squarely blamed the teachers , "these fellows are keeping grudge against my son who is otherwise brilliant" and cajoled Sarat not to feel embarrassed.
In fact, Sarat was good in all other works except studies. He had a passion for becoming an artist in drama and theatre. So when Ramesh informed him that day about the arrival of a theatre group in the village, he was in cloud nine hoping to create a new identity of his own. The theatre team arrived and fixed the pandals and tents. The publicity vehicle began to roam in all the nearby villages. The fixture was well circulated among the people with funny, outrageous names to attract more audience.
This was a golden opportunity for him and Sarat decided not to miss it. Along with Ramesh he met the manager of the Yatra team and requested for a role. But the manager babu did not show any immediate interest in obliging him. Later, Sarat requested him for the role of a volunteer to clear the pandals after a scene was enacted. This was an important task as artists do not lift the swords and ornaments after a war or combat scene. So, Manager babu agreed to accommodate Sarat in that role. Probably Sarat sensed that moment as the happiest one in his life, much better than getting promotion to a higher class.
As usual , Sarat took the job very seriously and forgot to come home during that period. The Manager was impressed with his conduct and promised him a small wage. One night, the play required a fight between two kings and their soldiers but there was a shortage of actors to work as soldiers. So the Manager decided to give a break to Sarat in that play for the role of a vanquished soldier. The moment arrived for that scene. Sword battle continued between the two kings and their soldiers. Sarat's King was to be defeated after his soldiers got killed. The scuffle continued for more than the delegated time but Sarat refused to be killed. The director was prompting him "Sarat drop the swords and die", but Sarat replied to the director "I am the only child of my parents, how can I die?" The pandal light was switched off and he was dragged out of the tent for good.
Dejected at the misbehaviour of the theatre party, Sarat returned home with a melancholic look that night. Next day he thought of adopting a different profession for himself to spread his image through out the area. He was proud of his academic achievement, having spent at least two years in each and every class. He was also more than happy he could cultivate the friendship with almost all the school and college going students of the area.
He bade farewell to academics and began searching for a new avatar for himself.
He asked Ramesh," you are my close friend. Please suggest a good profession for me as I have left studies". Ramesh had seen him since childhood and respected him for his simplicity and innocence. To his mind came the idea of priesthood as Sarat was a born Brahmin. He told ,"you are a Brahmin , why don't you take up your ancestral profession. This does not need any capital investment and you earn the respect of all." For Sarat, this idea seemed to be perfect. He started wearing a dhoti and applied chandan on his forehead daily.
This curious look of Sarat became a matter of discussion in the area, and earned appreciation, "how the son of a well to do family was keen to protect his family culture". He started getting requests to perform pujas in different villages. One day he was called for performing "annual Shradhha ceremony in a village. Sarat was acquainted with the act of preparing Mandal in wheat, but he never knew the Slokas associated with a Sraddh puja. After reaching his client's home, he arranged the puja Mandal, decorated through colours and placed banana leaves and jackfruit leaves in their respective places in absolute order.
Then he asked the head of the family to remember the face of the deceased member for whom Sradha was being performed.The client obeyed all the instructions of the new priest. Then suddenly Slokas started emanating from his mouth.." Narah ..Narau..Naraha.. " extracts from the Sanskrit grammar book. Then he blessed him by reciting his school daily prayer in a Sanskrit dialect," Akhilam Brahmandam pati....." The client was awfully satisfied about the powerfully punctuated Slokas and gave matching offer of cash and kind. Sarat's beginning in the trade was very smooth unlike the Yatra experience. "As whatever Brahma murmurs, even in his subconscious mind, is taken as Veda, so also whatever is uttered by a Brahmin in sanskrit dialect is Mantra " he used to say to his friends proudly. Friends also took it seriously as most of his earnings were shared with them.
The number of clients increased day by day. His friends were encouraging the new role of their "Purohit" friend. After few years of Brahmanical role he found life extremely monotonous. People started taking him less seriously and the prestige earned by him waned. He thought of doing something in addition.
Ramesh and Sarat decided to search for professions which could suit to Sarat's artistic talent. Ramesh was a bright student and was always getting first rank in all exams. He had an uncanny habit of describing fictions in such seriousness that others could hardly disbelieve him. He suggested to Sarat, "why don't you join a circus party. If no role is available, you can become a joker for which there might not be any vacancy problem ?"
Hearing this Sarat thought for a moment about the circus environment. He was completely absorbed in recapitulating the circus parties which had visited to his village in the past. He remembered how he visited a circus show in his childhood days and got his half pant wetted on hearing the roar of a tiger. " No I can not work in a circus.", he told firmly.
The general election was round the corner. The political parties started emerging from nowhere with new faces as candidates for MLA/MP. Their supporters were flying in the sky for a better harvesting. Some of the villagers were found promising support to all the parties. Fortunately for Sarat, he was the only eligible youth to vote. So the candidates used to say Namaste to him whenever they happened to canvass in his village. They wore dozens of garlands of marigold flowers and hardly they could see the earth near their feet. Their followers were praising them as demigods in public meetings as if Indradev himself had descended on earth to serve the people.
Ramesh, finding this opportunity, advised Sarat to take up the trade of Rajneeti. He also told Sarat that he may become a candidate in next election if he joins a political party instantly as he had the added advantage of having friends and classmates in all the villages of the area. The garlands in the necks of the candidates and the slogan of their Chamchas hunted Sarat in his dreams.
One fine morning he called Ramesh and thanked him for his valuable advice to join politics. He immediately called all his friends over for a small tea party where he grandly annnced his intention to join politics. The idea was warmly accepted by his friends. Sarat showed no hesitation on spending money on his friends who were also his future voters. The friends decided to take him to the Capital city and present him before the supreme leader "Chhamun" of the ruling party. Sarat rehearsed about the dialogue to be uttered before "Chhamun" and advised to prostrate before his Nandi who served there for years and controlled the entry of outsiders for a Darshan of "Chhamun". Nandi was supposed to be more powerful than the Lord himself, hence needed to be shown special courtesy.
Hiring vehicles from his village, Sarat, accompanied by over a dozen of his friends, started his first journey in pursuit of his next venture. On reaching the gate of the of the palace of Chhamun they shouted full throated slogan "Chhamun Zinabad, Nandi babu Zinabad..." Hearing the slogan, Nandi babu sent an emissary to the gate and invited Sarat inside. Sarat, as rehearsed earlier, prostrated before Nandi babu and informed him about his desire to meet Chhamun and join his party with five hundred followers. Appointment was fixed for two minutes. Sarat was told to bring his supporters with him at the appointed time.
Chhamun came out of his throne and gave an improvised smile on seeing the group. Sarat prostrated and prayed before him for a lift in life (in sync with Adnani Sami's famous song- "mujhe bhi lift karado"). Chhamu vanished within no time but gave instructions to Nandi for enrolling every one into his party.
Nandi completed all formalities and the slogan "Chhamun Zindabad,,Nandi babu Zindabad.." reverberated the air for few minutes and they returned to the village as if they had gone and conquered "Kanchi".
The news of Sarat's meeting with Chhamu and joining his party was circulated in the area and reached the ears of the party candidate. The Candidate babu immediately arrived at the village of Sarat and took him in a big procession. Sarat was pleased to find a garland in his neck also, a maiden experience of him. In return he assured the candidate of victory. The candidate also promised him all support. He described the extensive supremacy enjoyed by Chhamu in the organisation."Chhamu is all powerful, can appoint umpteen number of working presidents, two dozens of Senior Vice Presidents, five dozens of Vice Presidents, hundreds of General Secretaries and Secretaries, District level and block level office bearers, Advisors in depts, chairmen of undertakings etc etc. And after I win the election, one such position for you is guaranteed."
Sarat found himself in an elevated level and thanked Ramesh for his brilliant idea. Ramesh also guided him to change his dress code,to "Trouser and long kurta" during political activities,or when public assembled. He adapted himself to the role of Jaya Mukherjee in the Hindi film Sagird for shaping the personality of IS Johar.
Election was over and the candidate babu was elected as MLA. Sarat's happiness knew no bounds.The newly elected MLA was not seen in the village for months. He was supposed to be very busy.
One fine morning he arrived in Sarat's village accompanied by some babus and called for Sarat to meet him in the I.B. Sarat met him and requested for a position in the party and reminded about his assurance. MLA saheb murmured something in the ears of a Babu who assured to help Sarat.
The next day Sarat met the Babu who in fact was called as BadaBabu in his office. He asked him "to sign some papers and meet another babu." After that he was told that he had been empaneled as a contractor and he was eligible for jobs for constructing/ repairing roads, village ponds, etc. He was briefed by another Babu about the working model, who said , "You have to remember the unwritten SOP (standard operating procedure) wherein PC is the main term and condition, whose beneficiaries were from bottom to top, (inclusive of Babus, MLA saheb and going upto Nandi Saheb".).
Initially, Sarat could not understand the SOP and was confused at the calculation. PC or Percentage Cut, was akin to stamp duty / or user tax to be paid on each contract. It varies from work to work, place to place and even person to person. For Sarat it was just like a bizarre arithmetic, a very difficult subject in school, in which he could not secure a double digit score in life. Once Sarat was asked to meet Badababu in office. Badababu directed him to sign some papers and directed him to another babu. After a few minutes, he was given Rs10000/ in cash. Sarat was totally taken aback at this and enquired , "Sir what job should I do with the money". The other Babu laughed at him and explained. "you have repaired that road in the far off tribal village, so it is your money". Sarat was astonished, as he had not seen any such village nor repaired any such road. Innocently he confided, "Sir, you must be confusing, I did not repair any road in that far off village. Probably some body else might have executed the work".
The Babu became angry and told " You have signed the bills just now before Badababu, how do you say that you have not done the work? Listen Sarat, in this type of work 90 PC is applicable as per SOP and the rest amount was given to you." Being further confused Sarat returned home with the money. Marking his simplicity and innocence, he was awarded many such contracts by Babus where applicable PC was high.
It took considerable time for Sarat to understand the complex system of PC and he narrated everything to Ramesh, who was bright in studies and particularly in arithmetic. Ramesh explained to him the entire SOP and revealed the ugly side of politics. Sarat was totally broken because he held his MLA, Nandi babu and Chhamu in high esteem and suddenly their images were getting blurred in his mind.
It was a special day in Sarat's life as he felt himself getting matured in the hypocritical social perception. He called Ramesh and hatched a plan. His parents had left for pilgrimage and Sarat was the sole master of his house.
Ramesh, dutifully, spread the news that Sarat was no more. Massive crowd gathered in front of his house. MLA saheb was informed and he arrived with the Babus under his command. He expressed heartfelt condolence for the untimely demise of a young talent. Pressed by Ramesh and villagers, MLA contributed cash for constructing a statue of Sarat, proposed to name a lane in the name of Sarat, as "Sarat Babu Lane", donated huge amount cash instantly for his funeral and Suddhi Kriya .
Then he decided to give floral homage to Sarat and entered his bedroom where Sarat was lying motionless and breathless, fixing his eye balls in the corner of his eyes, protruding the tongue outside and emanating white surf like saliva from mouth. MLA saheb rendered the floral tribute and touched his feet out of reverence. Sarat sensed the atmosphere to be very grave and without keeping the suspense hidden further, he stood up before MLA Saheb who was nervous and about faint. He feebly informed Sarat that he had coughed up a few lakhs of donation which should be immediately returned back.
Sarat gave a wide smile and exclaimed, "Sir, this is Hundred Per Cent, no return is possible." MLA saheb became furious but had to rush to IB to save himself from cardiac problem. While leaving he murmured "I will see you"! Sarat roared in laughter and replied, "Yes sir, please see me in my dream lands hence forward".
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
Photo by Mika Baumeister from Unsplash
The news on TV had said,
heavy thundershower warnings,
so, everyone came home early,
to be safe and with family.
In the dark, on Papa’s lap,
head resting on his shoulder,
eyes and ears all closed, I sat,
blocking lightning and thunder.
The heavy rain beat drums,
on the roof and the ground,
filled drains and then roads,
relentless, till it overflowed.
It entered into the house,
under the door, trickling,
Papa said we need to leave,
our house won’t keep standing.
Mama said, she was afraid to,
with roads turning into river,
but they both wanted me safe,
so, we decided to seek shelter.
Into howling winds, opaque rain,
we all stepped out together,
fear gripped my little heart,
but I trusted them to steer.
Papa tightly gripped my hand,
he led the way forward,
while Mama steadied my back,
as we passed the rows of shack.
We waded across the main roads,
till we almost reached cover,
in the hurry my foot tripped,
found no land, I tumbled under.
My hand slipped out of Papa's,
even though he tried to hold,
felt my dress pulled by Mama,
but the road river was stronger.
They yelled and tried to grab,
I desperately cried out for help,
but the new muddy water,
started to pull me lower.
I tried to hold, to swim, to float,
as had been taught, but panicked,
trashed about, although I shouldn’t,
even drank some and shrieked.
The water was swift and deep,
there was just no air to breath,
I struggled some, then it all stilled,
a silent darkness complete.
I read a BBC news article about a distraught father in Nigeria’s commercial capital, Lagos, calling on the authorities to help search for his four-year-old daughter who was swept away in recent flash flooding. The little girl stumbled by the drainage, lost her footing and got swept away, as her family was trying to escape the sudden inundation at their home. The poem echoes her final journey but could have happened anywhere across the world.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
'Paduka' literally means 'Foot-Guard.' Paduka is India's oldest, most quintessential foot-Guard. Yet, It is much more than a sole with a post and knob, which is engaged between the big and second toe. ... "Paduka" can also refer to the footprints of deities and saints that are venerated. Hindu culture venerates Padukas.
Once in Vaikunta, it is said there was a dispute between Thirumudi ( Hair on the Head ) and paduka of Thirumal ( Perumal). Thirumudi was offended that Paduka was given a place in Palli arai ( Sleeping room) which it did not deserve because its place was below the feet whereas Thirumudi adorned Perumal’s head! Paduka pleaded that it was Lord’s footsteps that was bringing it here. In this dispute, the Shankh ( Conch) and Chakra sided with the Thirumudi.
Perumal settled the issue thus: For having insulted the Paduka, Thirumudi will find Paduka on the most honoured place on the King’s crown for 14 years during the age of Ramayana and both the Shankh and Chakra will be born Bharata and Shatruguna and worship the Paduka for 14 years!
Asking for the paduka’ means ‘placing the head on the feet’ or ‘complete surrender’. When Bharat asked for Rama’s paduka the latter gave them to him. The former carried them placing them on his head such that the big toes faced the front. Then he installed them on the throne and worshipped them. Since then the custom of worshipping paduka of the spiritually evolved began.
Vedanta Desika’s magnum Opus Sri Padukasahasra is an Epic poem in Sanskrit of one thousand and
eight verses sung by the poet-philosopher Vedanta Desika in glorification of Lord Ranganatha’s Padukas.
According to Vedanta Desika, great men bear on their heads, with a great relish, the Paduka of Sri Ranganatha (the Lord’s Sataari). For this reason, they shine gloriously, the dust from their feet being potent enough to grant protection (and salvation, too) for all the worlds.
Lord’s feet are invariably referred to as Lotus feet. Great are the Blessings of the divine Lotus feet. Greater than the divine Lotus feet is the Paduka that adorn them. It is considered that Padukas are not only so divine but more powerful than the Divine itself.
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.
The above expression is often used to explain the distance in a straight line between two places without having to take any twists and turns . I had watched these creatures going in circles too and wondered how the expression came about when they always did not fly in a straight line. However I have never seen them flying across or back and forth ,with the only exception being the times when they sight food .
I always dreaded the sight of crows and duck whenever they fly inches above my head during my morning walk. Then they zoom higher and higher into the sky and perch themselves on the branches of trees nearby, sometimes shaking the whole branch letting out scary sounds.
The other day I had the fright of my life when a huge crow which appeared from nowhere had come swooping down with such great speed and hit me with such force leaving me totally shaken and screaming my head off. Even before I could regain my composure , it came flying back even faster as if with vengeance and hit me harder on the same spot of my head. I felt as though an iron rod was landing on my head ,though briefly . Taken unawares once again I had no time to duck except to let out an ear piercing shriek in pain I suffered due to the impact .Only then for the first time I realized how heavy the creature weighs!
The way I screamed both the times sounded scary to my own ears and were loud enough to attract the attention of our neighbours ,I thought but was glad none felt disturbed from whatever they were busy with. Even their pet ignored my screams! I consulted my doctor whether I need to take an Anti tetanus injection and he advised me to do so.
Why is the crow so fond of you? The doctor asked laughing.
Then he took a torch light ,focused on the spot where I was hit and said in Tamil laughing ‘unga moola ungakite irke’(your brain is in place) and immediately said in English ‘ it is not for me to say how much moole you have’ and laughed once again.
His words came as the greatest assurance that my brains were in place !
A WALKING TOUR OF VICTORIA ISLAND AND BUTCHART GARDENS
During our visit to Vancouver ,we went to Butchart Gardens by taking an early bus which drove us onto the ferry for a cruise to the Victoria Island , a distance of 40 miles covered in one and a half hours. We were directed to take our seats on the fifth deck as the first four decks were reserved for vehicles (a total of 360). Those who were lucky could get the much coveted window seats which allowed one to have an unencumbered view of nature’s bounty. I noticed one lone seat left unoccupied and rushed to grab it but quickly retraced my steps when I found the lady sitting opposite had a fierce looking Labrador for company ! I took a seat in the aisle. So much for an uninterrupted view of the scenery!
The best way to go sight seeing in Victoria, the largest island of North America’s West Coast and the capital of British Columbia, we found, was to take a walking tour along the inner harbor area where many of the island’s attractions are clustered. Not far away we could have a spectacular view of The Empress Hotel in all its regality. Its period architecture had an old world charm , ( our jaw dropped when we learnt how much a cup of coffee costs here.)
The statue of Queen Victoria( a slimmer version compared to the one we saw in front of the Windsor Palace in London ) , the stately Parliament buildings in the background and the imposing building housing the Royal British Columbia Museum were other attractions. This museum featured high impact experiential exhibits on the pre-historical, history and natural history of British Columbia and regional First Nations people. rpeople. The Water Front where the Visitor’s Information Centre is located bristled with parallel activities that were simply fascinating—people going around in horse carriages and cycle rickshaws(a sophisticated version compared to rickshaws in our country ) ,some cruising along the harbor and men playing various musical instruments with their paraphernalia spread around and thanking visitors for their generosity. All this reminded my husband and me of our own Mylapore festival in Chennai. We were back after lunch for our return cruise and drive to reach the famous Butchart Gardens.
Butchart Gardens---55 acres of spectacular beauty
Armed with a map and two large packets of popcorn to keep us going ,we set out on a leisurely tour of 55 acres of spectacular beauty .We were greeted with warm smiles of tourists as we commenced our walk from the Information Centre and along the upper path past the Snail Pond. On the opposite side we found rambling roses which festoon the pillars marking the sloping border of a brick –tiled Piazza in front of the Butchart’s former residence. On the left was a bower laden with hanging baskets. A path on the left lead us to the Sunken Garden (once a limestone quarry) and the lookout revealed a stunning view – two fine specimens of arbor-vitae stood on each side of the path and the steep sides of the garden were hung with ivy and Virginia creeper. Further beyond the garden stood the tall kiln stack which was all that remained of the original cement plant. We spotted a fountain as we went along, with the water spurt rising to a height of 70 ft. Further on the left were two totem poles (these are a common feature in all the tourist spots in Vancouver), carved in 2oo4 to commemorate the Garden’s 100th anniversary.
Wishful thinking
As we proceeded further, the Rose Garden came into full view (it reminded us of the Rose Garden we saw in Geneva but unfortunately it wasn’t in full bloom) with Rose arches leading to a Frog Fountain and to the right a “Wishing Well” of Italian wrought iron. We were reminded of the Trevi Fountain in Rome where one dropped a coin and hoped that their wish would come true. We walked past the Sturgeon Fountain to reach the Japanese Garden. We had a glimpse of the ocean through the trees. This vista revealed the dock for visiting sea planes and boats at Butchart Cove, and by craning our necks we could have a view of the Saanich inlet beyond. From the Japanese Garden a small rise lead to the Star Pond and to the Italian Garden. Between the two arched entrances stood a bronze statue of Mercury. The pond shaped like a cross is fed by a fountain depicting a girl holding a fish. We passed by the Butchart’s former residence and the path opened onto the Piazza featuring the Florentine bronze statue of Tacca the Boar. Quite exhausted by the end of two hours , on the verge of calling off the tour, we somehow mustered enough energy to visit to the Mediterranean Garden which mercifully was quite close to the car park. This Garden featured mainly drought resistant plants from various corners of the Globe with similar growing conditions as those existed in Vancouver. I eagerly scanned this cornucopia of color, texture and exotic plants to look for any plants from India but realized that it was only wishful thinking on my part.
Hobby turned into horticultural marvel
The Butchart Gardens borders the Tod inlet located close to Brenwood Bay, 21 km from Victoria Island. The Gardens owe their origin to Jennie Butchart who thought of beautifying a worked-out limestone quarry which had originally supplied limestone for her husband’s Portland cement manufacturing plant. Through the skilful mixture of rare and exotic shrubs, trees and flowers, mostly collected by the Butcharts themselves during their extensive world travels, the now famous Sunken Garden was created. The Gardens which were originally started as a hobby constantly expanded and grew to incorporate more and more expanses of land taking the shape of Japanese, Rose and Italian Gardens. By the 1920s these gardens attracted more than 50 thousand people each year. As a benevolent gesture for visitors, the ever hospitable Butcharts christened their estate “Benvenuto”, the Italian equivalent for “Welcome”. Today this horticultural marvel created by the Butcharts attracts a footfall of over a million visitors each year. The Butchart Gardens have been in bloom for 100 years, and were designated, a National Historic Site of Canada in 2004.
N.Meera Raghavendra rao, a post graduate in English Literature, with a diploma in Journalism is freelance journalist, author and blogger published around 2000 articles ( including book reviews) of different genre which appeared in The Hindu,Indian Express and The Deccan Herald . Author of 10 books : Madras Mosaic, Slice of Life, Chennai Collage, Journalism-think out of the Box are to mention a few. Her book ‘ Feature writing’ published by Prentice Hall, India and Madhwas of Madras published by Palaniappa Bros. had two editions. She interviewed several I.A.S. officials, industrialists and Social workers on AIR and TV, was interviewed by the media subsequent to her book launches and profiled in TigerTales ,an in house magazine of Tiger Airlines. At the invitation from Ahmedabad Management Association she conducted a two-day workshop on Feature Writing. Her Husband, Dr.N.Raghavendrra Rao, a Ph.D in FINANCE is an editor and contributor to IGIGLOBAL U.S.A.
I thought I would never find her…
As I rumbled through the darkest times of my life,
Rock bottom of all rock bottoms…with nothing left to lose
Lost myself trying to please all around
Gaining love and connections from others all abound
Love and connections, I never really got,
No matter how hard I chased it in lot,
Because no external thing could ever fill
The endless void felt within
So, I went on the road trip to ‘reset’
In the quest to find myself at my best
The trip was to find the lost me
The intention to find the source of the deepest pain
Also remove the agonizing blockages preventing me
From finding my true love and happiness
I went behind every possible lessons of the Masters
Chakras, Auras, Timelines, all the way down to Spirits
And everything on its way and in between
I went deep inside my own self, as wide as I could
Stopped on the way to release all the guilt and share
That burdened my journey further down the lane
I sat on the fields and made the list of everyone
Who’s ever hurt me or everyone I’ve ever hurt
I looked upon the bright sun and gave it all to him
Asking him to release them all and let them burn
With LOVE and gratitude, I found someone
So special that I never thought would be ever found
ME
And deeper in the journey in the thickest woods
I found the calling, a true sojourn towards healing
I realized it was me, I needed love from the most
Because it was me who WITHHELD the most love from myself
So, the day, the decision was made
Loud and clear, to love MYSELF for sure!
And I did!
I started being kinder to myself.
Every time, I felt burdened, I thought of three things
Positive and things that made me proud
I made a list of every activity that made me fill up
With joy, laughter, love, peace and empowering emotions
And I made time to do them not once but daily.
Whenever, I’d feel heavy or stressed,
I stopped sitting on that feeling for long
Its ok to look up the sky, let your heart cry
But get up, fresh up and smile to enjoy
First time
I started to say NO to things I didn’t want to do
YES, to things that I felt pulled to do
I started doing things again that set my soul on fire
I kept writing down exactly what I wanted in all areas of life
Health, Finance, Purpose, Work, Love, Life
When I say I wrote everything down,
I mean, I wrote my detailed ‘Dream Scenarios’ down
And I even wrote a long and detailed list of things
That cluttered my mind and soul,
that I wanted to leave behind as I travel back
I dream of someone who would grow and evolve with me
Who would love me for ALL of me- even the parts
That I know are ‘unlovable’ at times
In my mind, I started living with that someone
Who ignites the flame of passion by mere existence
In my soul, I found a purpose with that someone
Who would dedicate our lives together to fulfilling that purpose
In my body, who would pull me back when I get out of alignment
Lovingly hold me accountable to all my potential
Yes, I found that someone who would change the world with me
And impacting lives around and globally
And the list went on and on ….and on
That someone who presented me the beautiful life
Because I sure as heck deserved it true
The days of me settling with what’s available was over
After writing all that down, I released it all to God and the Universe
And sent it off with love and gratitude
That’s when I found ME
Who came with everything on my dream list and more
Unraveling the amazing things about her
Falling deeper and deeper in love
Changing lives, thoughts and love coming true
The day I released every fear, doubt and dependence
It created the space for me to find myself
And love MYSELF!
And in that vibration, everything I could ever want and more,
found its way to me.
When you find yourself and love yourself,
you magnetically attract everything magical
that’s meant for you in this lifetime... and more ?
Umasree Raghunath is a Senior IT Professional with IBM / Author/ Blogger/ Poet/ Lawyer/ Diversity & Inclusion Social Activist/ Motivational Speaker, Past President - Inner Wheel Club of Madras South, Vice-President-eWIT (Empowering Women in IT), Chennai, India. . Umasree has close to 400 poems across various themes, 800+ blog posts, several short 2 stories, 2 published books – ‘Simply Being Sidds’ and ‘After the Floods’ and several articles on various subjects, situations and emotions and been writing since she was 13 years old. She is also having a live blog in her own name.
This poem is extremely close to my heart as I wrote it for my husband. He was born with a condition called Spina Bifida as a result of which he is wheelchair bound for life. This poem reflects his appeal for acceptance from society. He doesn't want either sympathy or empathy. All he asks for is to be ONE of us.
Since the time I was a kid
I have always been side-lined
Not because I’m black
Not because I’m underprivileged
But because I was born with a disability
That doesn’t conform
To the society’s definition of normal.
I have questioned God multiple times
Have asked him what I did so wrong?
Why, even though I’m just as human
And also made of blood and bones
Yet I’m labelled ‘differently abled’
Just because I can’t walk or run.
No one tries to talk to me
No one understands
They al just stare and gawk
As if somehow, I’m less of a man.
And then one fine day it dawned on me
God has nothing to do with this
It’s the human race
That has the definition of equality all wrong!
And I’ve come to accept
That just because I can’t run free
And am, for the rest of my life
Wheelchair bound
People won’t accept me for ME.
So, forgive me Lord for questioning you
I’ve finally understood
That ‘Equality’ is just a fancy word
Used to cloak and protect
The hypocrites of this world!
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
In the streets of Western cities
One hardly sees people milling around
You don’t hear the peal of children's laughter.
Nor the chime of anklets as maids stroll by in rainbow saris.
No call of the vegetable-man on his tricycle with wheels crying for oil
No cawing of murderous crows!
Let alone beating of beaks on kitchen windows demanding to be fed.
No stray dogs that you name and befriend
And none scurrying away or howling in the night.
No dead tree that needs to be sawed off
No trees abutting electric lines
No electric wires coiled up and left hanging above
As if the worker had suddenly been informed of the birth of his son
No random bonfires of dry leaves
Sending a plume of blue smoke smothering the sun
No old man sleeping under a tree
Opening his eyes as you pass by
And requesting a cup of tea from your home.
And some biscuits too!
No rhapsodic shrine created by abandoned pictures
Of gods and goddesses on the roadside
No stone under a tree smeared with vermillion and turmeric
Transforming it magically into an ethereal deity!
Of power!
The tree too, hallowed
With gods taking their abode above!
No arguments on the roadside
No loud harangues.
No two-wheelers quietly slinking their way
In a one-way street - going the wrong way!
No coffee being sold from the back of a cycle.
No getting your clothes ironed on the roadside
No cows that wait at your gate for peelings and banana skins
Some bananas even!
And certainly no grateful eyes from cows
That get fed in such fashion!
Nothing.
In Western cities
Life is in evidence by the order of things
Invisible.
One track
Automatons
And the emotion?
That would drive me crazy!
Especially after a stint in India and returning to the treadmill in the West
It would have me pining
To see a line of silent ants even
Crawling on the kitchen top
The rustle of the chameleon
Through dry leaves still waiting to be swept
Or never swept!
A fly, a mosquito!
The sun burning my skin!
Life in Western cities
Is like having one’s soul laminated
And preserved in a sanitised
Box, tightly shut
And that is why India!
Jairam Seshadri returned from North America where he worked for several decades as a chartered accountant in senior positions in well established organisations. He now lives in Chennai with the sweltering heat and suffocating humidity with a smile on his mien induced by his three dogs. His legacy, he believes, will be his WOOF SONGS AND THE ETERNAL SELF SABOTEUR, a collection of poems dedicated to the memory of his three four-legged companions.
KHAIRI THE TIGRESS, PRINCESS OF SIMLIPAL
I met Khairi on our picnic trip from school at the age of 11. We were permitted to go to Khairi's home which was a guest house/ quarter of Mr. Saroj Raj Choudhuri a Forest Officer who had reared Khairi as his daughter. We entered the bedroom where Khairi slept with her parents. Two cots were placed near opposite walls and the open space in between was where Khairi slept. When we reached her place, Khairi was lying on her cot in the courtyard. She was a full-grown majestic tigress in her youth, lying gracefully on her belly. Her eyes became wide seeing a group of children but there was no anger. All our previous apprehension gradually dissipated seeing her playful mood. Her friend a dog named Bagha was playing around her. Khairi got up and sat on the floor. Mr. Choudhuri permitted to click a photo with Khairi. Just after the photo was taken, Khairi became active. Probably someone had touched her tail. Mr. Chaudhury immediately separated us from her lest some untoward incident happen.
The whole experience left me to spellbound. This reminded me of an interesting article " Tigress Of Odisha " by A.N Tiwari. It is written that the present-day direct air link between Bhubaneswar and New Delhi owes it to tigress Khairi. The then Minister for Tourism Odisha brought it to the attention of Union Minister for Tourism Mr. Raj Bahadur that Odisha required direct connectivity and also roused his curiosity and invited him to come to Odisha to meet the unique tigress Khairi.
Khairi was brought from Jashipur for this special occasion and was kept in the adjoining room. The Union Minister had come with his full team and was sitting waiting to see her in the adjoining room. The connecting door was opened and entered her Highness with grace and arrogance. There was pin-drop silence. Everyone froze seeing a live tigress in a closed room. Khairi moved around and then with utter disdain urinated on the wall opposite to where the Union Minister was sitting. Minister was simply mesmerized. Khairi also gave a pose for a photoshoot with the Minister and his team.
On return, The Minister announced a direct flight from Delhi to Bhubaneswar. Khairi's appearance certainly expedited this decision which otherwise would have taken some time. Thanks to the princess of Simlipal. This route owes it to her.
Let me now relate to you how Khairi a cub came to Mr. Choudhury to be reared up like a human child. Being in so proximity with a tigress he could study her behavior and bring it to the public domain. The pugmark enumeration methodology of the tiger is one such finding to count the tiger population. There was no other method and nobody till then could comprehend how tigers census could be done in wild.
This little cub was stolen from her mother by a group of Kharia tribesmen from Jenabil village of Simlipal on third October 1974. That day they were out in the upper reaches of river Khairi to collect honey, tubers, raisins, etc. being food gatherers. There they came in close quarters with a tigress with three cubs. The men started shouting out of fear. The tigress must have felt uncomfortable seeing this large congregation of humans and the loud noise. She left the place leaving behind her cubs. Her cubs started following her. One of them caught a cub and wrapped her in a cloth. The cub was too stunned to react or make noise. Had she whimpered, the mother would have certainly charged and all interesting episodes with Khairi would never have happened. The Kharias brought the little cub wrapped in cloth in a basket to their village. The next day they traveled to Jashipur and handed her to the Range Officer.
The little cub was brought to Shri Saroj Raj Chaudhury the then Conservator of Forest chained in thick rope. The moment the basket was opened, the cub snarled at the onlookers in self-defense. Mr. Choudhury who was an expert on wild cats imitated the vocal sound of greeting of a tiger something which sounded like clearing of one's throat softly. The cub was immediately pacified hearing a sound that resembled something that of her mother. She reciprocated with a soft sound something like unh - unh - unh. Mr. Choudhury again recreated the similar greeting sound, removed all chains on her body, and brought her to his lap and lifted her on his shoulder with his face close to his. That moment was a turning point in the life of the cub whom they named Khari as she was brought by the Kharia tribesmen from near river Khairi. She got a new family and a father for a lifetime. The lady of the house put her on her lap and caressed her lovingly. The cub closed her eyes and went into a deep slumber for almost two hours. When she got up she purred and rolled with her belly up in a gesture of acceptance displayed by a full-grown female to a male tiger.
The cub had been without food for almost two days. They tried to feed her with spoon and bottle but she was not used to that. Then they opened her mouth and poured some. After a while, the lady folded her saree and kept it below her cot. The cub came and slept on it. Later that night, the cub scratched the bed. Mr. Choudhury put the light on. The cub was standing near the mosquito net of her mother. She was let in and within no time they slept hugging each other. This little cub grew from a bare 6.2 kg and 88 cm in length to nearly 200 kg weight and 273 cm length. I have heard that she loved to eat her meat dipped in Amul milk powder. Of course, I could not verify this fact.
If you have seen the film on Dr. DoLittle, Mr. Choudhury's house too resembled his abode. An animal lover, besides Khairi, his home had Bagha the puppy and Kalia its mother, Chhabi the python, Jumbo the sloth bear, Baina the blind Hyena, Mainka the antelope, Pukul the jungle cat, Jhuna the mongoose, Beda the wild boar, Ti the Indian civet and Chumki the leopard. The friendship between the prey and the hunter was really puzzling. Here Khairi learned to live, play, learned life skills, and was punished sometimes if she did not obey. Mr. Choudhury maintained a daily logbook on Khairi's movement, he conducted research on the behavior pattern of tigers especially on the topic of pheromones which helped in later date research. His studies have been documented by way of several papers published in journals. He wrote the book " Khairi The Beloved Tigress " penning down many characteristics of tigers hitherto unknown to wildlife. He was awarded the highest civilian award the Padma Shri in 1983 for his contributions.
Another interesting encounter that foresters love to pass on was how Khairi who roamed the forest adjoining the guest house came in front of the Forest Minister's vehicle and to everyone's horror walked towards the vehicle and jumped in and sat in the front seat. One can imagine how many of them sitting inside must have pissed out of fear. Somehow Mr. Choudhury was called and seeing him, Khairi jumped out and embraced him.
All good things come to an end. Once a stray dog entered the campus to eat the meat given to Khairi. Khairi seeing it pounced and killed it. Unfortunately, she licked the blood and licked the scratches on her body. She developed symptoms of rabies and could not be cured. She was euthanized and breathed her last on March 28th, 1981, six, and half years after she was brought here.
After marriage, I had the privilege to go to the same place with my husband and kids. There I saw a photograph of little Khairi with her human father. So happy and contended they both were in each other's company. A small red cemented structure has been constructed where her name with her date 5th October 1974 to 28th March 1981 has been engraved. All the furniture on which Khairi lived and played have been kept as they were. Standing there I recapitulated my first meeting with her live with nostalgia and became emotional.
Tiger lovers can type " Documentary on Khairi the tigress " on Google and see how humane she had become living with humans. Not only this, one can also see how she played and cared for the animals living with her.
N.B - Images have been taken from Google and the copyright is with the owner.
Priyadarshana Bharati has a passion for writing articles, short stories and translation work but reading is her first love. Two of her translated books which have received wide acclaim are “Rail Romance, A Journey By Coromandel Express and Other Stories” and “Shades Of Love”. Next in line are “Kunti’s Will” and “ A Handful Of Dreams “. She works as a Consultant in the areas of Content Development, CSR Activities and Training & Development. She had a long career in the corporate sector and as a teacher. As a translator, she is known to retain the indigenous flavor of the original writing. She regularly publishes articles in her website - www.priyabharati.in - For any queries my contact: priya.bharati65@gmail.com Facebook - @authorpriyabharati.in
(Story submitted by his niece Ms. Priya Bharati)
The sudden demise of Bhubanananda Babu at the age of forty-six due to heart failure shocked his near and dear ones and friends. The person most affected by his sudden demise was his wife Chhaya Devi. They had had a satisfying and happy conjugal life, and she was not prepared for such an abrupt end to it. For the past twenty years, their relationship had been secured on a strong foundation of intense love, mutual understanding, and complete devotion to each other. It was not just that people close to them who had this impression about them; but they too felt that as man and wife they complemented each other and made each other’s life satisfying and complete. They had faced everything together, - happiness- sorrow, scarcity, affluence, sunny days, trials, and tribulations. The thought of being separated from each other had never occurred to them. But who can predict destiny? Misfortune separated them in one stroke.
Chhaya Devi cried a lot. The pain of this loss completely shattered her. Every moment of his absence became intolerable for her to bear. Life seemed meaningless without him. She cried and cried for days and months together. Her inner self-willed with pent-up emotions even when her eyes had become dry.
After a few years of emotional breakdown, she managed to calm herself.
She preserved everything that belonged to her husband. She felt a sense of comfort just by touching, seeing, and arranging his worldly belongings.
Her husband had kept all his personal belongings in a big cupboard. It also had many papers, some useful and some unnecessary - old magazines, his favorite books of various vernacular languages, old and new albums, a flower vase, a statue of Buddha made of white marble, a nude statue of a woman and many other not so important things. Bhubanananda had used this cupboard and nobody else had felt the need to open it or use it.
Many years after his death, Chhaya Devi opened this cupboard. She felt good seeing, touching, and arranging his belongings.
She removed every item from the cupboard, dusted and arranged them in their place. The lowest shelf had two drawers. One of them was locked. She searched for the key and opened it. It was full of old letters. She knew that her husband had never thrown away any letter that he had received. Though some of the letters had become redundant, yet she did not throw them but arranged them and kept them where they belonged. Underneath these, was an envelope containing some letters. Chhaya Devi opened one and started reading it. Suddenly she felt as if she were struck by an electric shock.
The letter was written by Anupama.
Chhaya Devi was sure that she did not know her, but after reading the letter she realized that this woman had been her husband’s lover.
Though she felt a deep sense of pain, she could not resist reading it from the beginning to the end. The contents of the letter were:
“My Beloved,
I am writing this just after you left me. How can I express the pain that I am experiencing? You were here, near me a few moments ago, but now you have left me and gone away so far. I do not want to leave you. I feel like giving up everything. Thwarting a sense of shame and inhibition that is restricting me, I just wish to go away with you. Right now I wish I could run to the station where you are waiting for the train, tell you to take me along with you as I cannot live without you. Why you did not take me along with you?
“My love, how can I express the pain that I am experiencing? You and only you can save me from the turmoil that is going through my mind. I wish to mingle and become one with you. You are everything for me, my heaven, and my God. My beloved, do you love me? Please don’t get angry that I am asking you this question again and again. You have told me innumerable times that you love me but I am not satisfied. I want you to tell it to me again and again throughout my life. I too want to say again and again that I love you.
“I know that you are much superior to me. Probably I do not deserve you. There will be many eligible girls for you. Yet, I want to be yours. My world revolves around you. I want to fall at your feet and take shelter there.
“Are you angry with me? I have surrendered everything to you. In your presence, I feel as though I am in heaven. I have no existence without you. My mind, body, and soul all belong to you. I have offered everything at your feet. I do not have anything else to give you. My physical self, I consider, is the smallest amongst them all. Did you misunderstand me because I did not let you touch my body? My body belongs to you only. You have every right to it but I request you to allow me to offer myself to you on our nuptial night. I have kept it virgin and beautiful as a flower. I want to offer myself to you on that day and mingle with you completely.
“My love, please come at the earliest. You have a lot of holidays in college, please come at least for a day. I will not force you to stay back. I do not want to disturb your studies. I want you to be successful in life. I will be frustrated if you do not come. Please come. Will you be coming on Sunday? I will be waiting for you.”
Lots of love,
Yours and only yours,
Anupama.”
Chhaya Devi was stunned after reading the letter. The letter fell from her hand. Who is this Anupama? It seemed as if all her thoughts were centered on this enigma. She felt an untold sense of pain. She rebuked and cursed her husband. Bewildered by the sudden discovery that the person whom she had worshiped like God to date had a very ugly side which she could visualize now, her face became crimson with anger.
However, her curiosity led her to read all the eighteen letters one by one.
She could not fathom how she would have reacted if her husband had been near her right then. She had been duped by this characterless, deceiver. She had been taken for a ride all these years. The moments in their conjugal life which had seemed to be the happiest moments up till now seemed to be stinging her from all sides like black cobras. She felt she would faint due to deep anguish.
Chhaya Devi had all along believed that she had been the only woman in her husband’s life. After discovering Anupama in her husband’s love life, she felt that he had had extramarital affairs with many other women. Keeping her in the dark, he must have spent many nights with his beloveds. All these years, she had been duped. He had successfully staged an act of being pious and devoted. Suddenly the last twenty years of having lived happily married collapsed like a house of cards. She felt like destroying everything she possessed. She wanted to shout at him saying, “I hate you. You are worse than an animal. You are a demon.”
Tears of immense anger and pain started trickling down her face. She felt a terrible sense of loss, of being duped just like a stingy person who suddenly discovers that all along what she had preserved and considered was pure gold had turned out to be just a lump of bronze.
The pride and joy which she had felt up till that moment for all that she had, the huge bungalow, large bank balance which her husband had left for her, successful son and daughter, suddenly became trivial and valueless. She started despising this woman, Anupama. She could not remember if her husband had ever mentioned anything about her.
After sitting for a while and shedding tears, her curiosity got the better of her. She started going through all the letters to find out whether there had been any other women in her husband’s life.
She discovered one more envelope with letters. She tore the envelope to read the letters. The moment she opened the letters, she was seized with fright and she shouted ‘Oh my God!” She felt intense pain as if someone had struck her head.
She sat completely numb for some time. Her heart seemed to tremble with an untold fear.
After sitting for about half an hour she somehow composed herself and opened a letter addressed to her husband.
“Dear Sir,
You may be surprised to receive a letter from an unknown person, but I am writing to you since I feel that it is extremely urgent. I have enclosed some letters along with this letter which will tell you why I am writing this letter.
Regards,”
The name of the sender was not written below it.
From the date written on the letter, she realized that her husband had received them a few days before their marriage.
Chhaya Devi did not feel the necessity to read those letters which were enclosed. She was well versed with its language, the thoughts they conveyed as they had all been written by her.
Chhaya Devi searched for a particular letter she had written. It was there along with all the other letters. She opened it and glanced at the contents. She realized that she still remembered every word she had written clearly.
She started reading a portion of it. “Take me, accept me. Let my body mingle with yours. Let me be completely immersed in you, satisfy my hunger, calm me down.” She closed her eyes. She could read no more. She sat there for a long time. Then she rose slowly, took out all the letters, and threw a lighted matchstick on them.
Within no time small bits of charred paper floated around the room.
Chhaya Devi started crying with her head bowed down in front of her husband’s portrait.
Sashikanta Das started writing since childhood, and all his life remained deeply involved in creative writing. Writing poetry was his passion. Two of his collections of poems, ManaraAkasha Mora and Barapurba, and the only collection of Short Stories Punasha Manoramaselected from among a handful of his stories were published when he was alive. ChandramaO’ Ciggarrette Case, which was planned to be published earlier, could see the light of the day after his death. Born to be a writer, Sashikanta Das made the best of whatever situation he found himself in.
Although he published his collection of stories containing perhaps the best eleven, as a writer of short stories he has remained unnoticed. The attempt of Priyadarshana Bharati to translate them to English and get it published is extraordinary as it would bring his plotted but poetic stories to readers’ attention, the kind of stories that have become rare amidst today’s trend of making experimentations with this short narrative prose fiction.
LIFE LESSONS FROM PLAYING WITH BALLS (JUGGLING)
Greetings readers. This is a personal article that I decided to write. As many of you know, I took up juggling as a hobby almost three years ago. Learning how to juggle was a very fun and fulfilling experience which taught me a lot of life lessons, which I wish to share with you. So sit back, relax and enjoy as I present the life lessons that juggling has taught me.
1) Start Small
When I first started juggling, I had to learn the correct technique on how to juggle with 1 ball, then gradually moved on to 2,3,4..etc. This taught me that it is alright to start with baby steps. What really matters is that you actually start pursuing your goal. You need not worry about how you will accomplish it. Once you make the decision to actually start, you will automatically find the means to achieve what you want to achieve. There is a famous quote which says, “The Amateur waits for inspiration, the Professional knows that inspiration will come once he/she starts.”
2) It is OK to fail.
Failure is a part of life. A lot of us have a misconception that making mistakes and failing is a disgrace. On the contrary, failure is actually an opportunity to start again with a different plan. Juggling taught me that sometimes, you have to make mistakes and fail in order to really improve yourself. Failure can teach you a lot about emotional management and perseverance. As long as you learn from your mistakes, it is not really a “failure”. When Thomas Edison was asked how he had the motivation to invent the light bulb in spite of so many failures, he gave a wonderful response saying, “I discovered 10,000+ ways on how the light bulb should not be invented“. If you are able to adopt this mindset of persevering in spite of failures and setbacks, there is nothing that can stop you from achieving your goals.
3) Enjoy the process.
A lot of times in life, we are very attached to results, that we fail to enjoy the process of working towards our goals. When you are focused only on the result, you will feel dejected if it doesn’t work in your favour.
However, if you change your perception and focus on the process, you will be able to clearly see how well you have progressed and will realize that the result is only a by-product of hard work. It also helps you see how you can improve yourself if the result doesn’t work in the way you want it to work.
4) Keep updating yourself.
In today’s fast moving world of Automation and AI, it is very important to constantly upgrade and improve yourself as it will help you grow as a person. If you become complacent and stagnant, it will limit you from achieving more and realizing your full potential. You don’t have to over exert yourself to achieve your goals. Rather, you should focus on developing and improving yourself little by little each new day. In the long run, these little improvements that you make will have a significant impact on your life and will enable you to become the best version of yourself.
Conclusion
These are some of the lessons that juggling has taught me. What has your favourite hobby/skill taught you? Would love to hear about it sometime :)
Sanjit Singh is pursuing B.Com (final year) in Loyola College, Chennai. His hobbies include juggling, origami, shuttle badminton, public speaking and writing. He has a blog on wordpress.com named "Sanjit Singh - Unconventional Wisdom." The aim of my blog is to present simple solutions to complicated problems that his generation faces.
-Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
Paroma has just been married then. She married her fiancé. They were both from Kolkata, India.
They decided to go for a honeymoon to Odisha, a place call Gopalpur- on- sea. A young, dynamic lawyer he had booked a beautiful bungalow for themselves. Paroma had hardly got any leave from her research, so they decided they will just go for a short four days holiday.
Their train started in the morning. Paroma was in the trappings of a newly- wed Bengali bride with red Pola bangles on both her hands and sindhur on her forehead. She had carried some essential clothes for herself in a tiny suitcase and was carrying a tiny black backpack. She hung the backpack in front of her as she was carrying cash and other important documents there.
It was a two- tier first class AC compartment. The couple gradually became comfortable. There were two other men in their cabin. One among them started a conversation with Paroma’s husband. Paroma did not like the look of the man at all. A huge hulk with a red tikka on his forehead chewing paan (betel nut). She told her husband not to be too friendly with the man and to be a little cautious. Her husband for decency’s sake went on being civil with him but stopped the intense conversation. Gradually night fell and they both called for a meal and had it. All four in the compartment were getting ready to sleep. Suddenly the hulky man took out a golden liquid in a phial and requested Paroma to keep it in her backpack. She immediately sensed danger and vehemently said “NO”. The man pleaded, “Mam this is my medicine, it might get broken if it is in my shirt pocket, so please keep it in your bag”. Paroma gave a stern look and went up to the upper berth to sleep.
She was scared and worried for her husband who would be sleeping in the lower berth at the same level as that fishy man. Paroma kept her black backpack beside her carefully at the side of the wall and then lay upside-down so that with one eye she could look down from the berth. After half an hour at about 8.45, 9pm the lights of the cabin went off and a blue light was on. The blue glow intensified the mystery of the cabin. Paroma was all the more awake although pretending to be asleep. She checked on her husband and saw that he was fast asleep. The other man on the upper berth opposite her was also asleep wrapped up in his blanket. There was pin drop silence around. The soft blue light in the cabin made the atmosphere so eerie. Paroma was sensing that something strange was going to happen soon. Sleep was just touching her eyes when a very faint sound made her alert. Her first response was looking down to see that her husband was alright. She did not move a muscle. Then in the faint light she could make out that the man with the red tikka has got up from his seat and was standing. He looked around and looked at each one of them to check that they were sleeping. Paroma was scared stiff, what if he realised, she was not asleep? She squeezed her eyes shut and hid her face. Then the man bent down…Paroma again started watching. He pulled out a huge light blue suitcase from beneath the berth her husband was sleeping. He again looked around to see nobody was watching. Then he opened the suitcase…lo and behold! The suitcase was full of such golden liquids in the same kind of phials that he was trying to keep with Paroma. The phials were the size of a small Homeopathic medicine bottle but shaped differently. The box was lined with elastic bands holding the phials. Paroma was petrified…what if he looked up and saw her eyes popping out of her head. She lay stiff and silent. The man checked all the phials and then shut the suitcase again. Then he went off to sleep.
The next morning Paroma got up and quickly looked down…she could see the huge blue suitcase. Her husband was still asleep but the man with the red tikka…where was he? He was nowhere to be seen. Paroma didn’t know what to do. She got down and sat beside her husband who was awake by then. The train was moving quite fast. The other man in the blanket greeted them and Paroma wished him ‘Good morning’ with a pale smile. The blue light in the cabin was still on. The early morning light was just touching the sky.
The train came to a halt in the next station. A well- dressed man got into the cabin…in lightning speed he picked up the huge blue suitcase with the phials, smiled at the others and got down. The train started again…
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist by education, educationist by profession and an author and poet by passion. She has published five books and has received several awards for her poetry including the Golden Rose from Argentina for promoting literature and culture. Some of her poems have been translated into 31 languages and her poems have been published in more than 250 national and international journals. Paramita has started and is the President of Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) Mumbai Chapter. She also writes travelogues which are published regularly in e-magazines. She lives in Mumbai, India with her husband and daughter.
Picture Credits: Karthika Nair
The paths -
One, paved and lined by shrubs pruned
The shear having snipped away
The wild edges into silly shapes
The Other, untrodden that beckons
The lush growth soaring high
Kissing the sky
I turn reluctantly
My essence forced into a cast
The cobblestones cold under my feet
A deep sigh jerking to life the puppet in me
Yet again
Radhika Nair, a computer science engineer, left her corporate career for delving within. She lives in Kochi and when she is not writing, she sings.
Brig. Upadhay had a free afternoon. After all the Chinese have backed out and gone back. It was quite a standoff for two months, with multiple border meetings. Thank God, there was the agreement of Wuhan summit, no weapons were to be used. So, it was essentially a fisticuff fights and pelting of stones. But some men used to get injured and they were to be looked after apart from taking care of the morale of the men. All the four battalion commanding officers were very good. They were diligent and well prepared and didn’t concede any space until there was a Lt. Genl. level talk and the talk concluded and the Chinese decided to back out and go back by 12 kilometres.
He stood up and went to the strategic brigade map which always stayed covered with a green curtain except for strategy meets. Sometimes, when he used to think out a strategic move, he used to study the map. There were Watalik, Bun-chunk and Lse-pa points where Chinese incursion took place before the patrol spotted them with their encampment, their mules and small vehicles.
Now he threw open the curtain and looked at all the seven places i.e Xaidula, , Rudok, Khunak, Galawan valley, Bun- chunk, Lse -Pa and Watalik. . “Bloody hell, something happened 500 years back the Chinese go back to that far in history and argue on the basis of their history for the present day LAC”. He thought to himself.
- “We only know McDonald – Mcdermot line and that is the LAC(Line of Actual Control. May be Johnson –Ardagh line before that.”” He mused.
Akshai- Chin is a contested area between India and China. It is Ladakh’s adjoining area in Chinese Autonomous area of Xinxiang, virtually uninhabited, these high altitude wastelands were included in Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s map followed by the map of Jammu & Kashmir kingdom... After independence it came to India. But in 1962 war China annexed it and a line of actual control ( LAC ) was established. But the Johnson –Adagh line or the Mcdonald- Mcdermmot line which was later followed did not have any agreement signed by China as they were busy handling their internal problems then. From Karakoram peak to Karakash and Yarkund rivers defined the contested area.
The Chinese did not accept Johnson-Ardaah or Mcdonald- Macdormot lines and created these fracases from time to time. The General of Sikh ARMY was the person who conquered Ladakh for Ranjit Singh’s kingdom, but if was partly Tibet and partly XIxiang then. But in 1962, PLA came into conquer back Akshai-Chin. Now they came with some map which was Pre-Zorawar Singh’s time.
“How does one handle these cartographic aggressions from an adversary who is so strong. You can talk, talk, talk. But it is like infinity in mathematics you can neither prove nor refute it. It still remains”, thought Brig. Upadhay.
Something now struck him like a light bulb moment. “If they are manufacturing maps, why not we do too? Wuhan accord provides some opportunity for this. Most important element being deniability. No weapons can be used. So it can be put in the deep freezer to be pulled out from time to time”, He continued thinking.
“The Chinese think they have a sense of their destiny. They are destined to be the leaders. So they can afford to put things in the deep freezer for fifty years before they pull it out. Most like a Master Chef planning his cuisine in advance.”.
-“Can’t we do something about it? We build up our cartographic aggression. When the time comes our map surfaces too. A good bargaining counter. Something to hinder their relentless aggressiveness.””
“”Damn it, their expectation is too much. They think they are already there and it is the job of the world to accept their obnoxious arguments conceding to their leadership””.
Brig. Upadhyay got thinking. Suppose, in the style of Ashwamedh, the mountain mules were sent out and whatever distance they covered got connected as dots, the resultant territory of India would be larger. At least in terms of claim.
What the good Brigadier was trying not to acknowledge was his deep seated desire to be noticed. Thirty five years of commissioned service, he would retire in a year. May be he would never become a General. Had he become one, he would have got two more years. 35 years and he got a Vishist Seva Medal. Not that he wanted to a Christmas tree with those semi-meaningful medals. But to be decorated is to be decorated. At least he could have picked up 3 or 4 more medals. What was he going to do if he leaves Fauj so quickly? May be he would have to join as the security chief of some outfit, or may be some university where he would have to look after housekeeping. If he picked up his rank, two more years in Fauj, may be a command position as GOC (General Officer Commanding). A better experience and more flunkies to serve. A life time of appellation of General.
That apart he had not planned his retirement very well. The boys were studying and they cannot afford to go back to their hometown in Varanasi... How his wife would fit into joint family after 33 years in Fauj was a question too. So far as he was concerned, he did not have any problem but his wife coming from not so holy backwaters of Ghazipur had .
There is something pleasing about being addressed as General. Unwittingly one gets associated with Montgomery, Patton & Rommel. A pale shadow may be, but a shadow nevertheless. He got back to desk and started working on his plan. His brigade was abutting Akshai Chin, a LAC of 390 kilometres. The nearest Chinese posts were somewhere between 12 to15 kms away.
Aswamedha was the traditional way of annexing territories. He had always found the idea very attractively romantic. The horse won territory for you . A very Hindu concept . Not only was it an indegeneous idea , it was going to prove an ingenious strategy too. Horses were not capable working at this attitudes. So the mules would have to become the work horses if not war horses. He had the code name for the operation “Operation Aswamedha”.
Now the question was how to organize the expedition. It was safer to send 50 mules from different launching pads. They would move once you tie some jaggery around their mouth, that is what he was advised by Col( Veternary). What if someone obstructed them? If 50 mules were launched surely most of them will go on and on. Some may get caught, well that would be considered as donkey fodder. 4 men and two officers, all from fifth para would follow them with a distance of 1/2 kms, always keeping an eye on the mules. They would stop the mule at 10 km distance and plant a national flag and take a photo with the flag and come back with co-ordinates. Back office work was to connect the co-ordinates and expand the map. The launching pad will be opposite Rudok, Xaidulla, Khurnot , watalik, Biunshuk and Lse- pa. Galawan valley was to be avoided as there was a strong presence of Chinese there.
But it was only a strategic plan. He required clearance from the Core-Commander and may be Army commander or perhaps DGMO (Director General of Military Operation). He started despatching Leh juice to all senior officers in the next 3 days. As good luck would have it both DGMO and Core-Commander was to visit the border at Watalik in a week’’s time. Brigadier Upadhay got the opportunity of personally explaining the possibility of launching a counter aggressive measure for cartographic aggression on China.
All agreed that it was a brilliant idea. Since it was no aggression, the Ministry was not needed to be kept in the loop. But the points raised by the DGMO was why not “Operation Naksha”. The Core-Commander explained that it was too much of giveaway and the surest way to diminish the stature of the operation. The Chinese would get access to cipher coded messages after sometime and that readily provide handy arguments.
Whiskey’s influence was swirling in his mind, when DGMO asked what would be an acceptable Sanskrit translation for mule. Brig.. Upadhay had some grounding in Sanskrit but it didn’t help. In the olden days there was no mule. Mule came much later as a cross-breed between horse and donkey but he remembered the Sanskrit translation for donkey. ‘Gardhava’ he said.
‘’’Gardhava’! Does not it sound like a donkey? Well stick to your “Operation Aswamedha”. It sounds better. More Puranic and easy to get political buy in” said the DGMO.
“What if there was no ‘Medh’? If none of them are killed, it would look like too easy an operation”. He asked.
“We would send fairly old units, who can be decommissioned in a year. If all of them come back, we would put some of them to sleep to have the account straight”. The Brigadier volunteered..
The Core-Commander said in his full throated voice. “We can send some donkeys among men..Poor chaps would get some rewards too”
“We can but it would be better to send some para troopers. They are better trained and if hindrance comes on the way, their ability to excel in hand to hand combat will ne useful”. , the brigadier added.
“” Then it is cleared.”” But that was exactly the time when the butler poured the large peg of Glenfiddich and very enticing tray of Fish Amritsari entered the winter tent with lovely smell permeating the entire tent.
Prakash Paranjape, the Core-Commander just nodded in appreciation. He was from the same regiment as Brig. Upadhay.
DGMO was quick to clinch it “It is all clear, Upadhay All the best but keep Prakash posted who in turn will inform me from time to time”.
“Yes, Sir”, Brig. Upadhay said. He felt happy that his idea has gone through so quickly and smoothly. He felt younger by ten years. Age is just a number when your ideas gets accepted all around.
Thereafter, for a day long operation, everything got lined up. The most important advisor was Col. (Vetinary). His job was unusual, to select the worst mules who would be nationalistic and sacrificial enough. The operation was a day long operation it was an all-round success. 13 mules fell dead after travelling 6 to 7 kms. They were trying to walk faster and the dry desert of Akshai Chin didn’t help them. The posse of Para men planted the flag there and came back for lunch well in time. Others managed to go inside by 10kms and came back with the same ritual. But their return was around tea time. At no place they had to face the Chinese contingent, who were in all probability doing their rest and recuperation.
After 3 days DGMO opened his confidential paper and saw a map from the Core-Commander of Leh. The map showed the incursed area and it was 3750 sq. kms. The outer line was not straight. But a little zig-zag. Economists would have called it several ‘v’ deeps. These are the places the mules died before reaching their destination.
An area of 3750kms is not a small area against an aggresive and strong adversary as China, Almost the size of ½ of a district of the mainland. A great achievement. He rang up to congratulate Lt. Genl. Prakash and Brig. Upadhyay.
A proposal was sent for decoration of heros of this mission on Jan. 26th parade. Newspapers had already flashed that in a very secret operation, Indian Force had occupied 3750 Sq. kms in Ladhak . Some warts had asked “is it the map or the territory”. In the high spirit that the country was in, such questions were seditious..
On the 26th Jan. the President gave a Param Visitha Seva Medal to the DGMO and the core-commander. Since they had already got it, once earlier it was known an PVSM bar.. The Col. (Veternary) got an Ati Vishist Seva medal.
When the President gave the Param Visistha Seva Medal to Col. Upadhyay his citation read. “He showed exemplary leadership qualities and thwarted the enemy’s design with rare bravery, application and intelligence of mind beyond the call of duty while taking care of his men and material.”The mules who made it got Chief’s commendation for bravery. Their citation read “exhibited most conspicuous gallantry in entering and engaging with the enemy.”” Thirteen dead mules got Chief’ s mention “” for laying down their life in discharging their duty particularly in preserving and protecting the territorial integrity of the nation.””
Brig. Upadhyay became Major General within a month. Who would have denied him his rank? When he picked up his rank, he was so grateful to all the mules in the operation.
But it was Mrs. Upadhay who had such unflinching faith in her husband that she always believed that her husband to be in the gallery of generals in time or for that matter she belonged to Mrs. Generals club.
“ This is a fictional work. Any resemblance with character, location and events is coincidental.”
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
THE FINAL SUNSET
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The sun had set last evening,
After a hard day's toil
Like an overstretched debt collector
Knocking from door to door,
To get some overdue payments.
But tired, the sun set forever,
That's how it seemed, to all those
Who had revelled through the night
It never rose in the morning
At its appointed hour.
The town went into a turmoil,
People came out in hordes
Shaken and scared,
They spoke to each other
Their voice sunk to a fearful whisper.
They wondered why the sun
Didn't take a proper farewell,
Nor left a leave application,
My dear Sirs, sorry,
I won't be at my job tomorrow morning.
I quit my job, you won't see me
At my usual place,
Over the horizon,
A dot in the sky
Rising slowly to my blazing splendour.
I know the wind would whine in sorrow,
The clouds would be confused in the morrow
Where to move, which land to fall,
The trees would sway, hungry for my light
Wondering if there will be an end to the night.
Sorry my dears, I have done my best,
Now I want to take rest.
I am tired of emitting my rays,
Giving off light and heat
To you who don't value my gift.
For too long you have taken me for granted
You have tortured my little daughter,
You call her your Mother Earth,
But treat her like a whore,
Drilling holes and digging pits in her.
You have poured into her
Hot concrete and molten tar,
You have built millions of buildings
Your never ending greed and desire
Have brought her untold sufferings.
I can't even see the Little Earth
Crying for a soothing touch, my daughter,
Looking at me in anguish,
Through the haze of noxious gases
You have created between me and her.
And look at the green cover I had given you,
The billions of trees that grew and grew,
But you chose to cut them away,
Nothing is sacred to you, nothing beyond your greed,
The water, the greenery or the air above your head.
I would rather take rest,
Tired of all your ways of wastefulness,
Sorry I couldn't take leave from you.
But I hope you I'll learn your lessons
From my gift of eternal darkness.
......AND THE AFTERMATH
When the news of the sulking sun
And the never ending night
Reached the leaders across the globe
They just laughed, these tough men,
They don't easily take fright.
The mighty one in the West,
Roared in anger,
I will teach a lesson to the blighter,
Through a Presidential order,
I will cancel his Visa for ever.
He will come and whine before me
To allow him a peep
Into the bikini clad girls
Swimming at Miami beach,
I will just show him the door.
The one at 10 Downing Street
Flashed a rueful smile,
The sun had set on the British Empire long back
What happened today is only a guile,
To mock at a nation bent and servile.
The kings and rulers in Africa,
Went into a rapturous delight
Ah, an endless night,
Let's have more wives, more concubines,
Let the wine flow before the orgy begins.
The cunning neighbour to our North,
Just laughed it away,
Fellow earthlings, just listen,
You don't know the limits of our power,
We can make a Ying into a Yang
And a Yang into a Ying
From Wuhan to Chiang
From Beijing to Shanghai
We will use the nuclear bombs
And light up the sky
With a thousand blazing Suns.
Nearer home our leaders
Went into a huddle,
Ah, our theory has been proved right,
Everything that happens now
Is a leaf from our past.
It was in Mahabharat days
That the sun was immobilised in the war
And the earth had plunged into darkness
To kill a wily opponent.
If the sun could be hidden, it can also be revealed.
We will spend a billion dollars and create a modern warrior
Who will bring the sun out.
My countrymen, everything will be fine
Just wait, keep us in power.
The sun will again shine.
.
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.
SHORT REVIEWS OF FICTIONAL STORIES IN THE 75TH ISSUE OF LITERARY VIBES:
Short stories are difficult challenges, at least for me, as I have little experience of writing reviews on them. What little I know of short stories is from reading KATHA stories by Indians, and by reading other writers of fame like O Henry (pen name), Roald Dahl, Somerset Maugham, and the prize winning and short-listed ones in O Henry story competitions over years. I take this back ground as base and take the stories in my foreground to give some comments about them, and I would try my best not to ruffle feathers (writers are from a sensitive stock, even writers are privy to this weakness of theirs.)
THE GYPSY GIRL of Krupa Sagar Sahoo has thrill, drama, milk of human kindness, suspicion and sneaky human nature; and it ends in a suspense (what would happen after all?) - the elements on which a good story leans to take shape and, in my opinion, it has taken a brilliant shape. In addition, the writer has hinted at corruption in Indian Railways (dry posting v/s wet), dirty human mind (educated colleagues and wife attributing only one meaning to the kindness of the railway officer towards a hapless girl child in her eary teens), and how fragile is the mutual trust between an Indian married couple. The climax is a cliff-hanging. The irate wife has left for station to move to her parents before the anxious husband arrives at home with the presumably orphan, homeless girl, to explain and cool the wife's temper, and dispel her baseless doubts.
No one would guess what the future holds for the kind officer. So, Krupaji seems to ask us, shouldn't one extend help to an unknown person, especially, if it is about helping the opposite sex? I liked the latent way of sending a social message.
Senior poet Dilip Mohapatra has turned into a story teller lately ('lately' is my guess as a colleague). But his foray into the vista of fiction has come with a bang. What few of his creative pieces I have come across, they stand out. His story THE INDOMITABLE is a contemporary issue that stirs hornet's nests raising questions if we have turned into a banana republic after being a sovereign country for 70 years. The story is almost a "Writing on the wall".
The cartoonist in his story, Amit Lahiri, who brilliantly lampoons one and all wrong doers is a David who fights indomitably with the Leviathan, the system, the Goliath. Even he stays unwavering in his principled stand to expose the corrupt and powerful, to expose the exploitation of the poor, to expose looters in the name of Naxal friends of the deprived labourers, and shows his courage of character and daring when death is staring at his face.
The story brings to light the real meaning of patriotism and how the politicians, in nexus with police and criminals, brand their opponents as antinational, unpatriotic.
A macho story. Amit Lahiri's bete noire, a police stooge masquerading as a messiah of the poor (Naxal leader), cuts his right thumb, like guru Dronacharya of Eklabya fame had done, to deprive him of his capacity to draw lampooning cartoons. There comes the thumping climax - Amit was a left-handed man.
Setaluri Padmavathi has written a soft moving story titled "A Hut in the Woods". The story has moving elements like a lonely little kid in a hut in a deep forest with cuddly puppies for company, scorpions in the weeds outdoors to sting and scare her, and parents getting late to return from their work; and then untimately rain creating an eerie atmosphere. The child is crying aloud out of fear and loneliness. An unknown passing by woman, also living in the same jungle, tired and needing a little rest in that hut comes along, enters the hut, consoles the bawling child, letting her play with puppies outside the hut, and saving her from a scorpion bite. She is acting almost like a fairy mother in fairy tales.
All is well at the end, rain stopping, clouds clearing, and parents of the child returning from work, and the child is happy again. A story, smooth without a shock, or surprises, except a child's axiety.
"When the Green Flag was Held Back" by N Meera Raghavendra Rao is a saga of an eighty plus grandma, frail in health but robust in spirit. The title suggests even the unstoppable (the train controlled by green and red flags) stops, when a majestic personality, the grandma here, rises to her full height. Her energetic management at the wedding venue as a family dowager has shown if the spirit is willing a flagging flesh cannot hold the person back from advancing ahead.
The last part is moving, when grandma meets her childhood friend. Instead of enquiring after each other's health bulletin at length, what usually occurs when two old people meet, they recall the joy of their childhood together, its pleasure and pain. This is the unusual climax of the serene story.
The last para that sounds like a preaching should have been avoided to keep the story more arresting. The writer may consider.
"Confession" by Aniamma joseph creates an utopian world of good souls, a tearjerker story. Roshan, his wife Jaya, and his ex-girlfriend Sarayu, all are with golden hearts and understand one another so well - one another's hardship, good intention, and helplessness. It generally doesn't happen, but why should one be the Cassandra? The impossible does happen, may be very rarely, and this was that rarest of the rare situation. The only tragedy is perhaps Rosan is fatally ill and may not live to enjoy the fruit of the "all is well" tree and have the joy of her wronged girlfriend forgiving him at last.
The writing style however left me in a lurch. Sudden shifting of the story's narrating voice going back and forth between the first person and third person, was a bit difficult to comprehend. So repeated reading was needed.
"HERS, HIS and THE ONE IN BETWEEN" by Jairam Sheshadri is a love story. The love of grandpa for grandma appears to be fixated in grandma's long silken hairs all through their married life, jasmine from grandpa for her lovely tresses serving as a messenger or Cupid of love. Grandpa not saying 'I love you' to grandma ever, thogh his eyes used to say it all, is another aspect of the love story. Grandma hankering after the three magic words to hear from his lips, 'I love you', add to the long list of the senior couple's little games of endearing love that keeps it afresh till their late age.
I really enjoyed the love games of the elderly couple as brought out in the first two parts of the story under titles 'Hers' and 'His'. Such love is rare. The cupid playing hide and seek in vistas of hairs, jasmines, eyes, longing, naughty holding back of a direct admission of love et all.
But the third part where the grand daughter is psycho-analysing their love games, like deconstruction in poetry, is not my cup of tea. If the grand daughter 'the in between person' understood their game, she should have felt it deeply without subjecting it to scalpel. Her deep feeling would have been expressed with serenity. Mr. Seshadri may like to restructure the third part, but if he feels I have not got his drift, then this part of my comments may be forgiven and ignored.
"The Dark Lane" by Mrutyunjay Sarangi is really an adventure into a dark alley of human psyche. Shefali, a young girl, is crossing a dark lonely lane with an old primary school teacher, both scared to their skin of the lurking dangers.
A gang of misguided youth with their leader Raja accost them in the dark narrow street. They could have misbehaved and looted them.
But suddenly, Raja turns into a saint and not only prevents his gang from misbehaving with the duo, but makes arrangements to see the pair, Shefali and the old teacher, reach their respective homes safely. Mystery! Why the change of heart?
But haven't we read the story of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde ? Two confronting characters in the same person, a split personality.
Raja, today's dreaded goonda, was delivered from his mother's womb after a life-and-death prolonged struggle of labour pain. After delivery the mother and son's delicate health and possibility of living were saved from a perilous edge by the skin of teeth. All was possible for a dedicated doctor, who happened to be Shefali's mother.
Raja knew this, recognised Shefali instantly, and by bailing out Shefali, he was returning a little of his debt to his fairy mother, the doctor, only.
Dr Sarangi shows, even a Devil has a heart beating within his ribcage. It cries for its own kin thogh it becomes an iron pump for others. Shefali was more than a sister to Raja. So his overindulgence, otherwise....
The story recalls to my mind the last sequel of God Father movies made in three parts. The Mafia chief Michael Corleon, the dreaded God Father, who could kill or order killing with the flick of a finger, cries and howls like a hapless animal, when his only daughter, apple of his eye, is shot dead before his unbelieving eyes, on her wedding day when she was walking in her marriage regalia. It was beyond the belief of his gang that Michael Corleon had a heart too and he could cry tears of anguish. Then why not Raja?
Then follows the mute question from the telltale story, if people like Raja have melting hearts, why don't they wear them on their sleeves, and let all benefit out of them? Alas, so is the mystery of human mind!
An absorbing story.
I have not included the articles on real time travel or observations in nature, or historical anecdotes. I have reviewed only fictions in the form of stories. Thanks to the editor for soliciting the review.
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