Anandalipi
A Magazine Published Annually by
ANANDA MANDIR
A Tax-Exempt, Non-Profit Organization 269 Cedar Grove Lane; Somerset, NJ 08873
Tel: 732.873.9821
Website: www.anandamandir.org
PUBLICATIONS COMMITTEE
Chairperson: Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com
Assistant Chairperson: Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com
Editor-in-Chief: Amitabha Bagchi, amitabhanj@gmail.com
Executive Editor, Anandalipi: Subhodev Das, subhodev.das@gmail.com
Executive Editor, Ananda Sangbad: Guru Chakravarty, guruchakravarty@yahoo.com
Editors:
Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com
Sushmita Dutta, sushmitadutt2@gmail.com
Amrita Kangle, amritakangle@hotmail.com Nupur Lahiri, nupurlahiri@aol.com
Associate Editors: Ruby Banerjea, r_banerjea@yahoo.com
Advisors:
Pronoy Chatterjee, pkc_usa@yahoo.comAshok Rakhit, ashokrakhit@gmail.com
About the cover:
A photograph of rural Bengal from private collection.
Cover Design: Sushmita Dutta
Technical Assistant: Nirmalya Prachanda
Compose and Layout: Mousumi Dey
Ananda Mandir’s Board of Trustees and Committees (2021-2022 )
Officers
(Members of the Executive Committee are identified with asterisks against their names)
President: Jai Prakash Biswas (*)
Vice Presidents: Debajyoti Chatterji (*), Anjan Lahiri (*) and Ashok Rakhit (*)
General Secretary: Arun Bhowmik (*)
Treasurer: Chanu Das (*)
Assistant Treasurer: Pradip Majumdar
Other BOT Members:
Chhanda Aditya, Jayadratha Bhowmick (*), Prabir Biswas, Meena Dam, Sanchoy Das, Sumit Ganguli, Nimai Ghose, Sajal Mukherjee (*), Biswajyoti Nayak, Nilotpal Paul, Mitra Purkayastha, Anup Rakhit, Uma Roychowdhury, Dipak Sarkar, Shyamal Sarkar, Rik Sen, Utpal Sengupta, Mita Sinha (*).
Priest: Biswajyoti Nayak
Tagore Hall Manager: Kirit Dalal
Other Committees and Subcommittees
Award & Recognition
Ashok Rakhit (Co-Chair
Debajyoti Chatterji (Co-Chair)
Subrata Bhaumik
Susmita Biswas
Guru Chakravarty
Amitabha Bagchi
Dipak Sarkar
Jerry GaMarsh (Adjunct)
Maintenance
Arun Bhowmik (Chair)
Prabir Biswas
Chanu Das
Pradip Majumdar
Communication
Jayadratha Bhowmick (Co-Chair)
Nilotpal Paul (Co-Chair)
Community Relations
Utpal Sengupta (Co-Chair)
Meena Dam (Co-Chair)
Prabir Biswas
Constitution, Policies & Procedures
Dipak Sarkar (Chair)
Kamalesh Sirkar
Debajyoti Chatterji
Pronoy Chatterjee
Ashok Rakhit
Construction
Ashok Rakhit (Chair)
Prabir Biswas (Asst Chair)
Surya Dutta
Arun Bhowmik
Pradip Majumdar
Cultural Activities
Sajal Mukherjee (Chair)
Satyajit Bhattacharya
Arun Bhowmik
Suranjan Bhanja Choudhury
Alo Nandy
Mitra Purkayastha
Utpal Sengupta
Event and Rental Coordination
Surya Dutta (Co-Chair)
Utpal Sengupta (Co-Chair)
Sharbani Mukherjee
Biswajyoti Nayak
Major Events Coordination
Anjan Lahiri (Co-Chair)
Chanu Das (Co-Chair)
Surya Dutta
Joy Bhowmick
Nilotpal Paul
Financial Analysis & Reporting
Chanu Das (Co-Chair)
Anjan Lahiri (Co-Chair)
Nilotpal Paul
Pradip Majumdar
Mita Siha
Arun Sakar, CPA
Food Arrangement
Ruby Sarkar (Co-Chair)
Uma Roychowdhuri (Co-Chair)
Suprasad Baidyaroy
Suman Banerjee
Tapati Bandopadhyay
Suparna Biswas
Shom Chatterjee
Sanchoy Das
Shiv Kar
Nemai Ghosh
Pradip Majumdar
Surajit Mitra
Debasish Mukherjee
Prabal Mukherjee
Santosh Mukherjee
Anupom Saha
Ujjal Sanyal
Fund-Raising
Debajyoti Chatterji (Co-Chair)
Dipak Sarkar (Co-Chair)
Jai Prakash Biswas
Krishna Bhattacharya
Surya Dutta
Krishna Dutta Roy
Biswajyoti Nayak
Ashok Rakhit
Uma Roychowdhury
Humanitarian Activities
Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair)
Meena Dam
Utpal Sengupta
Literary Discussion
Subrata Bhaumik (Chair)
Amitabha Bagchi
Membership Information
Jayadratha Bhowmick (Co-Chair)
Nilotpal Paul (Co-Chair)
Donation Collection
Bandana Rakhit (Chair)
Suparna Biswas (Asst Chair)
Kalyan Basu
Bimal Biswas
Sikha Chatterjee
Indrani Dhar
Purba Lahiri
Mitra Purkayastha
Anup Rakhit
Dipak Sen
Supriyo Sen
Puja & Religious Services
Biswajyoti Nayak (Co-Chair)
Mita Sinha (Co-Chair)
Rik Sen (Asst-Chair)
Chhanda Aditya
Rita Bhowmik
Susmita Biswas
Lopa Das
Soma Dutta
Rina Ganguli
Ambalika Mukherjee
Sharbani Mukherjee
Soma Rakhit
Ranjana Sanyal
Publication
Debajyoti Chatterji (Chair)
Subrata Bhaumik (Asst Chair)
Amitabha Bagchi
Guru Chakravarty
Subhodev Das
Sushmita Dutta
Amrita Kangle
Nupur Lahiri
Ruby Banerjea
Strategic Planning
Ashok Rakhit (Chair)
Joy Bhowmick
Jai Prakash Biswas
Debajyoti Chatterji
Meena Dam
Surya Dutta
Sumit Ganguli
Anjan Lahiri
Sajal Mukherjee
Nilotpal Paul
Dipak Sarkar
Kamalesh Sirkar
Youth Activity
Dipak Sarkar (Chair)
Youth Activities – New Programs
Sudipta Bhanja Choudhury (Chair)
Evergreen Club
Debajyoti Chatterji (Chair)
Sikha Chatterji (Asst Chair)
Writers Club
Debajyoti Chatterji (Chair)
Amitabha Bagchi (Asst Chair)
Kitchen Maintenance & Food Safety
Tapati Bandopadhyay (Chair)
Suprasad Baidyaroy (Asst Chair)
Sipra Bhol
Kirit Dalal
Uma Roychodhury
Ujjal Sanyal
Office Adminstration
Sanchoy Das (Co-Chair)
Anup Rakhit (Co-Chair)
Kirit Dalal
Editorial
Dear Readers of Anandalipi
On behalf of the editorial board, I extend our heartiest Sharodiya greetings to you.
As our familiar world continues to be held hostage to a public health crisis, we yearn for the time when we all could be free spirited, again. There is one thing the crisis has not succeeded in stemming – the flow of human creativity. One such creative outcome is this year’s edition of Anandalipi, the flagship literary magazine of Ananda Mandir. With its unveiling, we are able to continue our long tradition of its annual publication.
In this issue, we have assembled an eclectic and attractive mix of life experiences, essays, short stories, and poems – in both Bengali and English –penned by authors in USA and abroad. Several of these articles reflect prevailing sentiments of the present time.The magazine also hasa separate Youth Section with contributions from the second generation of our community. Our earnest hope is that you will enjoy reading the magazine as much as we have enjoyed compiling it.
Ananda Mandir remains a beacon of aspirations for the immigrant Bengali community in North America through its patronage of religious and cultural activities.Throughout the year, Ananda Mandir’s temple is used for community religious observances and private religious rites (annaprashan, marriage, etc.), while the Tagore Hall hosts cultural programs (music, drama, dance) and other events. In addition to these, Ananda Mandir promotes original and creative literary endeavors through its several publications, monthly discussion group meetings (Sahitya O Alochana), and the support of the annual Gayatri GaMarsh Memorial Award for Literary Excellence.It is unfortunately true that the novel coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic continues to exert a reduced utilization of our premises this year. Like you, we are hopeful that Ananda Mandir will resume its regular activities once we are past this global scourge.
Wish you a safe and happy year ahead.
Subhodev Das Executive Editor
President’s Message
Dear Members of Ananda Mandir
The years 2020 and 2021 will remain firmly etched in our minds for the world-wide COVID-19 pandemic and its catastrophic effects on virtually all aspects of our daily life. On top of the death and destruction caused by this tiny virus, many parts of the world have suffered heavily from natural calamities like hurricanes, floods and wildfires. As 2021 draws to a close, we sincerely hope and pray for a quick return to the pre-pandemic days when life was generally more predictable and less traumatic. As we wait out this stressful period, we are glad that vaccines for COVID-19 have become available, and large segments of population in many countries are now fully or partially vaccinated. Wearing masks in public gatherings has also become a fairly common practice in most places to prevent person-to-person infections.
Ananda Mandir, like most other non-profit organizations, had to face significant financial hardship during this two-year period. Fortunately, our members and friends have given generously during this challenging time, and Ananda Mandir has also exercised cost control to the maximum extent possible. While many of our planned activities had to be curtailed, we found ways to maintain all essential services and activities. We even managed to expand our religious and cultural offerings to the community through innovative and frequent use of videoconferencing and live-streaming technologies. It was interesting and inspiring to see that many out-of-state members and friends could join these video sessions – an unexpected but delightful side benefit brought to our lives by modern communication technology!
I end this message by paying my respects to the members whom we lost this year through COVID-19 or other health or age-related issues. Our sincere condolences to the families who lost their loved ones during the year.
May 2022 bring health, happiness and prosperity to all of us.
Jai Prakash Biswas President, Ananda Mandir
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Nonfiction
Sir William Jones p Biswamay Ray C 100
Poem C 105 - 108
Three Mulberry Trees p Bakul Banerjee
The Virtual Playtime p Bakul Banerjee
This Pandemic p Vinita Agrawal Trees Speak to Me p Vinita Agrawal Travelmates p Vishnupriya Amma p Anita Sharif-Hyder Little Rhymes and No Reasons p Basab Dasgupta
Fiction
Alice’s Adventures in Pharaonic Egypt p Mandira Chattopadhyay C 109
Gonasika p Tilottama Bose C 113
The Melting Buddha p Sophia Mitra C 115
A lesson in History p Ratna Karmakar C 119
Homeless Heartless p Basab Dasgupta C 121
Retrieving p Vishnupriya Dutta C 127
The Bench p Sanghamitra Roy Chowdhury C 129
Marriage p Guru Chakravarty C 133
The Murder p Rahul Roy C 137
Green Bangles p Ranjana Sanyal C 141
Home Sweet Home p Debashis Roy Chowdhury C 146
Art
Terracotta p Rajarshi Chattopadhyay C 151
Madhukanya p Debaditya Roy Chowdhury C 152
Youth Corner
Fiction
Darcy Botts and Missing Birthday Gifts p Anshini Biswas C 154
Tell Me Another One p Ayushmaan Mukherjee C 157
Poem
Write p Sayan Shubhro Chakraborty C 159
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1. Notes on the Early Hospitals of CalcuttaD. G. Crawford, M. B.
2. Unseen Enemy: The English, Disease, and Medicine in Colonial Bengal, 161 –1847 By Sudip Bhattacharya
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ÈÙÙÙÈ May I come in Maam.
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ˆÓyˆÏòÓ˚ Ÿª÷Ó˚ Ö%Ó
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Twin Tower Massacre, Amphan Storm, COVID-19 Pandemic
¢%!fl˛øì˛y î_ñ !òv˛z ãy!¢≈
!òv˛z£zÎ˚Ñ≈˛ñ 2001
£ˆÏÎ˚!äÈúyõ ¶˛Î˚y¶˛#ì˛
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Ñ˛úÑ˛yì˛yñ 2021
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v˛zö˛ñ ÓU˛ Ñ˛‹Tñ ÓˆÏv˛¸y Îs˛fíy
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English Section
A Man Who Reminded The World Of India’s Splendid Heritage
Sir William Jones
Biswamay Ray, Illinois
Plassey, 1757
The cannons had fallen silent. The scattered fire was still burning, the dark smokes covered the sky, and the cries of the wounded filled the suffocating air, the dead bodies were strewn all over the battlefield. The young Nawab, Siraj-udDaula had fled, soon to be captured and bludgeoned to death by Mirjafar’s minions. June 23, 1757. The battle of Plassey was over before it hardly began. One of the shortest, but one of the most decisive battles in history. And a day, one of the most ignominious in India’s history, more so for Bengal.
History that repeats itself, a stark reminder of the collaboration in the past between many Hindu Kings (and the elites), and the Muslim invaders and subsequent Islamic domination of India for almost a thousand years. This time only the players have changed, both Muslim and Hindu elites were the traitors, handing over “Sonar Bangla” (the Golden Bengal) with far reaching and ominous consequences for entire India, to a man of British origin. A man who led a small army, his main weapon not really the cannons but treachery, his main strategy, the more dangerous— “divide and rule.” He is one of the very few foreigners who almost single handedly would change the fate of India. Robert Clive. A man with a checkered past stood victorious, that day he became the master of Bengal. Since that day Bengal’s fate would be under his total control. He had nothing but contempt for the Bengalis whom he considered timid and servile, an impression that would be rooted deeply in the British psyche and would guide their ruthless genocidal actions in the future without any fear or retribution.
The spoils of victory— there was no mass slaughter, no rape, no burning, no large scale destruction of properties, but financial enrichment the likes of which the world has seldom seen. And the very beginning of the British Empire, an empire that would be so large where, the “sun never sets.”
India was prosperous in those days. In 1700, India’s share of the world GDP was 24% rivaling Europe’s share at 25%. And Bengal was the richest province in India. Soon that lofty status was about to change. After Plassey, Mirjafar, “Nawab” in name only would be a sycophant to Clive, the real “Nawab” who ruled Bengal as he wished. The state treasury was at his disposal to loot at his will. He wasted no time.
Before the battle, the British East India Company had sole trading rights for the province of Bengal. After the victory, Clive and his men would plunder the treasury of Bengal. But that was not enough. They were giddy with greed. Their demands for more revenue kept on growing. For them the end justified the means and ‘profit’ by any means was the only end.
In pursuit of that goal, they imposed draconian rules. Beside having sole ‘trading rights’, they imposed newly gained ‘taxation rights.’ They increased taxes not only on trade tariffs, but also land taxes from 10% to a backbreaking 50% (of the value of the agricultural products). The Britishers’ greed did not end there. They forced the farmers to grow cash crops (indigo, opium) for export, in the fertile lands meant for growing such staple as rice. And they prohibited people from hoarding rice— which might have helped, however small, during time of need such as famine.
Some critics have called them “Blood Suckers”, that was too mild, as the history would tell they sucked out the life from Bengal. Their policies were mostly responsible for the ‘Great Bengal Famine’ of 1770. The drought of 1769 played a minor role; Bengal has faced drought before and survived. The loss of life in that famine was stupendous-- 10 million people died
of starvation and hunger— one-third of Bengal’s population at that time.
The Britishers, utterly indifferent to the plight of Bengalis, took no action either to prevent or help the people during the famine. They did just the opposite, the East India Company again increased the land taxes, this time to an unbearable 60% in Bengal. Moreover, they collected taxes by brutal and harsh measures, from the people who were starving, disease ridden and dying. So inhumane that one would shudder— they would force the wives (of men with unpaid taxes), naked, their nipples pierced with large wooden needles to parade in the streets of the villages or the towns.
The loss of 10 million lives may have been one of the first genocides in the annals of history. The Britishers perpetrated it, most of the world did not know about it, if they did they ignored it or looked the other way and did nothing to help. Rest of India just stood by. The subjugation has begun under a most vicious and cruel regime. A demoralized India almost forgot its heritage, its incomparable glorious past. Amnesia took over the deeply injured Indian psyche. The plunder of Bengal and subsequent economic exploitation, one should not forget, funded the ‘Industrial Revolution’ in England. That was the price of Imperial colonialism. Bengalis paid first, India would pay soon after, for almost two hundred years.
A genius and a polymath (1746-1784).
In 1757, (the year of the battle of Plassey), across the ocean there was a ‘boy genius’ growing up in London under the tutelage of his mother. Born on September 28, 1746, in London, he lost his father when he was only three year old. Even at an early age he was proficient in many languages. A prolific writer, he became famous in the Western World after translating the Persian manuscript on Nadir Shah into French language at the request of the Danish King. Soon this polymath earned the reputation as a Persian linguist and an
Orientalist. Following graduation from the law school, he was knighted and shortly thereafter was appointed by the King to serve as a Judge in the Supreme Court of Bengal. The journey to his world fame just began.
In September 1783, he arrived in Calcutta. The most illustrious and productive part of his career was about to begin. He was already master of many languages, mostly European and a few Middle-eastern and Eastern— Hebrew, Arabic, Persian, Chinese, to name a few.
He took his job very seriously. To practice as a righteous jurist without falling prey to the racial, religious or cultural prejudices, he decided to gain more knowledge in the age old Hindu laws as well as their language, education, social customs, history, culture and heritage. Most of all he wanted to learn the ancient language of India— Sanskrit— to be more familiar with the laws set down by Manu long ago.
Thus began the greatest saga of his life. The more he delved into Sanskrit language and literature the more he was captivated by the millennia old culture— the richness of India’s heritage and its contribution to the world thus far either ignored or not recognized by the Western World. India’s contribution in the fields of astronomy, mathematics, medicine, literature (starting from the Vedic scriptures, written in archaic Sanskrit, believed to be at least five thousand years old if not older), was astounding.
He fell in love with this ancient language and began to search for its origin, the search would lead him to open the doors of comparative linguistics. In the process he made a profound discovery— a “common origin” of many of the ancient languages. The history of the languages could never be written without paying tribute to— Sir William Jones.
So impressive was his discoveries, Mr. Jones wanted the rest of the world to know them, moreover he wanted a forum to disseminate the hard earned knowledge and to further explore the intellectual, cultural and artistic knowledge
of Asia but mostly of India. Thus was born the Asiatic Society of Bengal, founded by him in 1784 in Calcutta where he presented his findings at the “anniversary discourses” held every February.
February 2, 1786, was a day to remember in the annals of language, more specifically Sanskrit and India’s glorious past. The day Mr. Jones delivered his famous third ‘annual discourse’ at the annual meeting of the Asiatic Society. What he said would reverberate throughout the intellectual world.
I would like to quote part of his famous ‘philologer’ passage : “The Sanscrit language, whatever be its antiquity, is of a wonderful structure; more perfect than the Greek, more copious than the Latin, and more exquisitely refined than either; yet bearing to both of them a stronger affinity, both in the roots of the verbs and in the forms of grammar, than could possibly have been produced by accident; so strong indeed, that no philologer could examine them all three without believing them to have sprung from some common source, which, perhaps, no longer exists.”
With those words, Mr. Jones stepped into the realm of immortality.
In his speeches and publications Mr. Jones pointed out the similarities between Sanskrit and the Greek and Latin languages; the similarities between those three languages and other European and Asiatic languages such as German, French, English and Persian.
Considering those findings his conclusion was all those languages must have a common origin - the original language, their ancient ancestor now forgotten. Thus, he was the first to describe a ‘proto’ language-- the Indo-European family of languages (the term would be coined as such years later).
Those observations would be confirmed by other scholars. Similarities as one scholar said, “Whatever the field, animals, religions, languages, whatever— can be explained by just three mechanisms— convergence, borrowing
n 102
and common origin. No one has ever persuasively proposed a fourth or a fifth.” (Ruhlen).
Beside this monumental discovery, his contribution to Indian literature is no less important. It was Mr. Jones who first translated Kalidasa’s ‘Shakuntala’ in English, a very daunting task considering the many facets of Sanskrit—\ the metaphors, allusions, synonyms, to name a few; an injunctive word can be a line or two, and a sentence a page or two, making a satisfactory and accurate translation almost impossible. This translation of a great work by the greatest Sanskrit playwright and poet initiated the Western culture to a beautiful love story in Indian literature and the richness of Sanskrit - a language which flourished many millennia ago before Homer and his contemporaries. Later he translated the “Laws of Manu” (Manusmriti), and Jayadeva’s “Gita Govinda,” among many others.
The world did not know much about Indian philosophy and culture until his translations from Sanskrit were available. Many German philosophers took a special interest in Sanskrit and were influenced by the Vedic teachings. To name a few - Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749- 1832) and Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860). Schopenhauer delved deeply into Indian philosophy; in turn he has become one of the most commonly read philosophers in India. Again, credit goes to Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones’s contribution to India’s history is also worth mentioning. His research in Sanskrit unfolded ancient Indian history. Had it not been for him the identity of ‘Sandrokotos’ might have taken many more years to be discovered by other scholars.
Indians are not known to keep a detail and accurate record of their own history. The Hindu belief of reincarnation may have been partly responsible or the other philosophy - “ do your duties - do not be attached to the outcome.” After the Vedas and Upanishads where many historical events were mentioned, the Puranas also did the same, but how many were well
versed in Sanskrit? Not too many Indians were familiar or knowledgeable in their own history. It was Jones who identified Plutarch’s Sandrokotos (Sandrokottus in Latin) as the great Chandragupta Maurya, one of the generals in the Nanda Empire who would revolt and overthrow them in 321 B.C., and ruled the Magadha Empire until 293 B.C. Mr. Jones was able to identify Chandragupta through his painstaking research of Sanskrit literature. This discovery in late 18th century was a valuable one. For the first time it was possible to corroborate the stories and history mentioned in the ‘Puranas’ regarding the dates of Chandragupta’s accession to the throne and reign, as well as his successors— Bindusara and Asoka.
Chandragupta, a contemporary of Alexander the Great, (legend has it that he met Alexander) was a great campaigner who would eventually expand the Magadha Empire more than doubling its size. He would conquer the Indus Valley and campaign as far west as Herat and to the north close to Bactria. The mighty Seleucus in his encounter with Chandragupta, rather than engage in war (the battle between Alexander and King Puru still fresh in his mind), prudently yielded and acceded to return some of the territories under him to Chandragupta. Such was the legacy of Chandragupta Maurya. More expansion would take place during his son Bindusara and grandson Asoka’s rule, no native dynasty would again rule so much. We owe a debt to Mr. Jones for shedding light into our own ancient history.
Sadly Mr. Jones’s valiant effort to make the world more aware of India’s glorious past did not take a deep root in the British mind. Otherwise, how in 1835, the historian Thomas Macauley during a debate on what education course should be best for India stated, “Who would deny that a good shelf of a good European Library was worth the whole literature of India and Arabia.” What ignorance! Such a statement today would arouse laughter and derision. It was Mr. Macauley who was instrumental in introducing the English n 103
educational system in India, the pros and cons of which are still being debated. Mr. Jones, the Orientalist, was not alive then to debate Mr. Macauley, he would have won hands down.
Too short a life - but immortal. Life marches on. All these strenuous endeavors in different spheres of life kept him very busy, many a time exhausted. Apparently the extreme hot weather in Calcutta was disabling. Unable to cope with the weather Mrs. Jones had already gone back to London. The weather took its toll. He was considering a change but fell ill and passed away. The day was April 27, 1794. He is buried in South Park Street Cemetery in Calcutta. The end of an illustrious life at only 48 years of age.
One wonders how he accomplished so much in such a short time. A boy genius, a polyglot, a prolific writer, a respectable jurist. As if that was not enough, a scholar, and father of comparative linguistics, he fell in love with India and her ancient language— Sanskrit. He learnt the Vedic
language in a few months and identified Sanskrit as the Proto Indo-European language, firmly establishing India’s contribution to the world in language— his most important everlasting achievement.
Through his research and his writings, he opened the gilded window to India’s past not only for us to take another glimpse but also for the Western world to gain a better understanding of India’s literature, culture, philosophy and heritage.
In the aftermath of the Great Bengal Famine and loss of 10 million lives, the beginning of ruthless, oppressive rule, when India was overshadowed by the darkest of clouds, Mr. Jones was that glittering silver lining, who made us proud of our almost forgotten glorious past and to believe again in our own splendid heritage.
We are forever indebted to Sir William Jones, his contributions to India and the world are never to be forgotten. Let us all join to celebrate with heartfelt reverence his 275th Birth Anniversary.
Three Mulberry Trees
Bakul Banerjee, Illinois
When did you raise your heads? I never knew. From innocent tree mulch, seedlings grew.
I did let you grow not treating you as a weed? On your leaves, silkworms would love to feed.
I knew you may never grow up to be grand but would shelter birds and beasts in my yard.
Your leaves mock my sense of symmetry, some are serrated, others - a hint of trinity.
Horizontal burrs on your trunks are a record of your growth until you die and a storyboard of my ladder-climbing capabilities to maintain the tree canopy. Now, aging is the constraint.
My children no longer eat too many berries to have stomachaches causing me worries.
Through seasons, I simply take your pictures in my silk saris honoring far-away weavers.
The Virtual Playtime
Bakul Banerjee, Illinois
Tik Tok, Tik Tok, Tik Tok, ... Tik ... I pretend to be a metronome in our virtual room. You catch on quick. We sway together. Your divine joy flows through my magic tablet.
Next, you decide to play hide and seek, burying your head in my daughter’s lap. Suppressing the urge to squeeze your tiny body, I roll up like an acorn and plant my head in the sofa cushion. Locking my gaze on you, I remember the earthy scent of your curly hair. Shall we hide under moist leaves, brown twigs, bare branches of trees?
Funneling fingers, I make a telescope to scale the distance to peer into your face. My dilated eyeball speaks happiness through that pretend portal, as if, as if ... my eyes aresmiling at strangers behind the black facemask. You glow in delight.
It’s dinner time. Your tiny teeth tear apart an Edamame pod. Two beans spill out.
I catch the pearls of laughter. I am alert.
This Pandemic
Vinita Agrawal, Uttar Pradesh
The winds turned me inside out Made me an ashlar floor of fallen leaves curling against the base of tree barks.
The more self-contained I become the more intolerant I am of sunlight - giver of warmth, keeper of life enclosure of the burning heart.
Yesterday I closed-up completely howled in solitude as though the licence to be alone was a license to cause floods.
Zoom, Meet, Streamyard aren’t enough.
Do you think the liquid crystals of a screen afford touch?
I know well how many leaves inhabit the right angled branch of the Gulmohar outside my window.
I’ve counted them a zillion times. on days bitten blue with teeth marks.
I chase scattered dots that cannot be connected again. (like fallen leaves)
I turn awkward if I hug or kiss.
I’m a string without beads a sky without stars. I’m trying to preserve the look in your eyes. This pandemic.
Trees Speak to me
Vinita Agrawal, Uttar Pradesh
of the brilliant mica of loved ones, now soil of rivers palpitating underground of tired bones of animals of lost childhood; erasures and loss of unmet prayers and apocalyptic days of frail roots struggling to feed newborn leaves.
They speak of woodpeckers hammering block prints on crinkly barks of crows building nests in Y-branches parakeets roosting in its arms making the tree feel like Grandpa.
Trees speak to me of touch. Turning in a circular, ever widening gyre speaking of another year of rain locked in a ring. The sun’s all-seeing knuckles kneading life into phloem murmuring gentle folk songs of rearing children, the breeze restful in its arbor limbs within limbs.
Travelmates
Vishnupriya, New Jersey
These feisty sunflower seeds will grow to great heights and bathe you with their gorgeous sunshine
The flowers will be your travelmates
You’d tuck them in your jacket lapel
Or plant them in your straw summerhat your feet deep in the golden beachsands
Tasting the Shangrila under the umbrella
They might call you whacky kinky quirky whatnot But does that matter when you are in your own skin
Bucking the herd trend the wild dance
Sans that hideous camouflage
Amma
Anita Sharif-Hyder, Connecticut
Her face is serene
Eyes are freckled with hues of green.
Always the first to listen, to advice, to encourage Even when she doubts, she is not one to discourage.
A young bride, a new mother, a household to oversee
With seven sons, a husband, an extended family, their wellness she guarantees. Though widowed early, she always maintains her dignity and composure Protecting her family, with the purest of grace and the fiercest of ardor.
Over the years she welcomes many grandchildren
Affectionately hailed as their beloved Dadu by them who are smitten. Quiet, thoughtful and always leading by example
Her piety and belief in the Almighty undeniably ample.
The daily routines are simple in nature,
Though she fills them with purpose and never under pressure. A presence that is steady, an anchor for us all
We continue to appreciate her lessons in times of recall. She leaves us too suddenly, and while we are in despair
The void reminds us to celebrate her unabating care.
Irreplaceable, remarkable, wholeheartedly unique, Amma, you remain with us, and it is you we will always seek.
Dedicated in loving memory of Momtaz Hyder (1947 – 2021)
Little Rhymes And No Reasons
Basab Dasgupta, California
John, Paul, George, Ringo I do not know their lingo. My baby taken by dingo when I was playing bingo.
A gangster with bling bling; now imprisoned in Sing Sing. Feels like the panda Ling Ling; in ears gunshots are ringing.
Danced a little tango, ate a sliced mango. Got ticket on Fandango, for “Unchained Django”.
Now I will eat samosa, with a glass of mimosa; watching vista hermosa on a beach in Formosa.
Wanted to sing song, play a little ping pong. Doorbell rang ding dong; oh my God, it is King Kong.
Alice’s Adventures in Pharaonic Egypt
Mandira Chattopadhyay, Ohio
Alice enjoyed being in Wonderland immensely and meeting all its different creatures. Soon after journeying there, she wanted to go to another world. She started to think how she would manage her life. She was tired of her parents’ imposition. Sitting with her sister in their garden, she watched her sister reading a book. Alice was tired and began to sing to herself:
How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pours the waters of the Nile, On every Golden scale! How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in.
Alice always enjoyed river expeditions and this time it was the Nile river. She imagined
traveling to the Nile without any idea what would happen afterwards. In Wonderland the riverbank was mentioned many times. Instead of going through the looking glass or the rabbit hole, she soared straight to the Nile River in sleepy boredom. As she landed, she heard a voice down from the river,
“Who are you? You seem to be a lost child.”
“My name is Alice. I like adventures. I like to travel on my own. Would you please tell me which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends on a good deal where you get to.”
“So long as I get somewhere.”
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.”
Hold onto your breath, and just watch what happened to Alice.
Alice always loved surprises, so it was a pleasant surprise for her to meet the Cheshire Cat from Wonderland.
“How come you are here? After I met you in Wonderland, I was lonely and sad, because by then everybody had left, so I decided to move to Egypt since my forefathers all lived there. In Egypt, the cats had some sort of oracle power. As a matter of fact, I have been practicing and trying to inherit that power. Anyway, I have become a tour guide here.”
“That’s wonderful!”
Storytelling is one’s passion, And he does it in a sincere fashion
Oh, what beautiful Egyptian tales
Will spin around and hold you spellbound,
The myths of the tombs of pharaohs
Are meant to astound.
Yes, the gifted storyteller cat,
The creatively intelligent cat.
Introducing Luxor
Next Alice and the cat got into the ferry to get to the big ship that would take them to different places in Luxor. The ride to Luxor was wonderful, as they watched the ripples of the water of the Nile while standing on the deck.
Before they arrived, the cat pointed out, “Look Alice! See how the pyramid peaks of the tombs tower over the Western mountains.”
As they came near the tombs in Luxor, they saw how the stories and the deeds of the pharaohs were inscribed on the walls of the tombs. The Pharaonic Egyptians made sure that these pharaohs would never be forgotten. So, the burial of the pharaohs was the most elaborate and significant in Egyptian culture. They also made sure that the ruler would not be forgotten by the living and would continue to exist after death.
Alice kept on listening to the tales intensely. Then with her questioning mind enquired again,
“I want to know more about it.”
The cat continued, “The building of the tombs and the enduring worship of the pharaohs became the top priority. The work on the tomb began as soon as the designated heir to the pharaoh was born. Sometimes the pharaohs would die before the completion of their tombs.”
“That’s sad! But they do that while they have power, isn’t it?”
The cat explained that the structures would become not just the royal tomb, but the symbol of the ruler’s historical and state-building role.
The cat also claimed, “Egyptian gods were represented in different forms, sometimes as animals, and at other times as human torsos with animal heads.”
Alice was tickled to hear about the animals, as she encountered so many animals in Wonderland.
The cat continued, “The characteristics of the god Ra, for example, were expressed in the form of a hawk, which was sacred to him, because of its swift flight across the sky.”
The cat and Alice looked carefully at the entrance. On the left side, the first subject was the king, presenting an offering to Ra, which was represented as usual, crowned with the sun’s disk, around which a serpent is raising his
head to the front. The boat of a ram head knap was also represented here. God himself standing in the midst beneath the canopy, over which a serpent curls itself in manifold. The tomb consisted of the disk of the sun.
Deep behind the winding cliffs of Luxor, a lime stock rock with a pyramid-shaped peak towered the Western hills. It was within the livestock the vast warren of corridors and chambers were carved out for the deceased pharaohs. Every tomb was an entry to the Duat, the underworld. At the doorway, the hawk headed Horus, the god of the Western mountain awaited.
The cat continued, “See how Horus, the son of Osiris, is waiting with a boat to take them to the underworld. Osiris declares that you shall come again as animals. Now Alice, watch! In the tomb the doorkeepers with the head of animals, and body of a human are like the doorkeepers of the Duchess’ kitchen in Wonderland.”
When Alice heard the word, underworld, she got so excited that she began to think of the rabbit hole, that took her to all kinds of surprises.
So, the visit to Egypt was so amusing to her. In Wonderland such transformations would happen so many times. Alice was tickled by the transformation. She started to remember the poem in Wonderland:
The oyster said to the carpenter, “You had a pleasant run, Shall we go trolling home again?”
As they came near the Luxor temple, the cat showed Alice how the elaborate reception ceremony was being held, and musicians, dancers, and singers were welcoming the god, and his entourage with a long, and enthusiastic concert.
The cat continued, “The purpose of the festival, then, was to acknowledge and commemorate the renewal of royal authority, and to celebrate and reaffirm the divine nature of the pharaohs. So, Alice, just watch, the CYCLE
OF COMING AND GOING.”
Alice intently watched the long procession in front of the Luxor temple.
The cat said, “Thousands of villagers have descended upon Luxor for a big celebration. The city has become the carnival ground.”
There were huge piles of dried dates, fruits, and wheel carts that were selling cakes and juices. Alice wanted to enjoy some of the savories, but the cat warned Alice,
“Don’t upset your stomach!”
Some paper hats were on sale. The cat pointed out,
“Look at the high point of the festival – a parade through the town around and around the Luxor temple, then coming back to the temple, where the boat was situated. Again, watch them trace a circle!”
Then the cat took Alice to amazing Abu Simbel
It was well known during the reign of the pharaohs. Alice started to listen to all the stories as if she were listening to a fairytale. The wise cat informed Alice how Ramses was the most important figure in the history of the pharaohs. Under his leadership, he declared that human beings could reach the pinnacle of the gods. The sun broke the scattered clouds as they stepped into Abu Simbel. Abu Simbel embodied Ramses’ love for his special wife, Nefertiti, and his love for the deities. Further, it expressed his passion for presenting himself as god.
The wise cat said, “Alice, listen carefully as the monuments speak in Ramses’ voice, ‘I am the god.’”
The cat described that Ramses, the pharaoh, built Abu Simbel in as a symbol of his love for his wife Nefertiti. The pharaoh ordered it to build in such a high position, so that no one could overlook it. But they did not imagine that it would collapse someday. A massive earthquake struck in Nubia, and it did sink.
“Look, how the huge crane is lifting the figures of Nefertiti and the pharaoh and lifting n 111
it to the air. Two men with huge crosscut saws set the figures on a truck to be carried to the high ground, a few hundred meters away where they will be reassembled.”
The Cat said to Alice, “Alice, It’s a magic kingdom. Everything is possible here.”
The cat reminded Alice, “You have to go back home. You should go to the nearby valley of the kings and the queens.”
The Tomb of Nefertiti Alice and the cat came across the tomb of Nefertiti.
The roads were muddy, but the beautiful inscriptions on the walls, and the superb quality of artwork attracted Alice. A combination of high status as a principal royal wife, and a great authority within the royal Court, together with her beauty and charm earned her a reputation few Egyptian women have equaled.
Alice asked, “Was she mean like the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland?”
Alice was tired. The Cat told Alice, “Alice, let us go to the hot air balloon flight to see all the other tombs from the sky. Alice got such a kick out of it.
Hatshepsut’s Temple
Alice had never seen anything more powerful than the Theban Necropolis at sunrise from a thousand feet above the ground, floating in a balloon. It was a beautiful, perfect day with a cloudless sky, a bright early morning light across the land. People started running along below them, laughing in delight. As they descended, the Cat started to point out various details:
“Look, this is the temple of the Queen Hatshepsut. She was one of the pharaohs, who was well known for wearing a beard, to look more powerful than the other pharaohs. Unfortunately, it is in a dilapidated state.
The Pyramids of Giza, A Wonder of the World
The cat said, “Alice, let us go and see the pyr-
amids of Giza. ”
The cat spread a comfortable mat for Alice.
“Alice, come and sit with me. I heard that a long time back: the aliens started to come from outer space, moving the clouds in the sky, and landed on the sandy land with a loud boom. From a distance they appeared very tiny. But as they landed, they revealed themselves as hefty builders, armed with javelins and other weapons. They started to dig the sandy land with their equipment and sharpened the blocks with long nails of silver. Then they vanished into the sky.”
“I am not surprised. I’ve seen many fantastical things in Wonderland, like the pig that changed into a child and started to walk away.”
The cat continued to tell Alice how the builders made chambers underneath the ground. Alice and the cat went inside the pyramid. Alice always enjoyed going underground, just as she enjoyed going down the rabbit hole. There to her utter surprise, she found cattle painted on the walls. Suddenly, they came alive and greeted Alice “hello.”
The cat described how the individual Pharaoh’s deeds are displayed on the wall with all kinds of ceremonies after the Pharaoh’s death. After death, their bodies were laid in coffins and carried out of their residences, followed by wailing females. Then the coffins were loaded in boats, carried to the bank of the Nile, where rituals were performed for the deceased, and the priests read from the papyrus and the mummified bodies were brought to the pyramids.
As they were leaving the scene, Alice witnessed the Sphinx in front of the pyramid, a figure half lion, and half human, as if she was the gatekeeper of the pyramid.
The Sphinx said, “You have to follow the circling path and go back from whence you came.”
In a trice Alice found herself sitting peacefully next to her sister. r n 112
Gonasika
Tilottama Bose, New Jersey
It is cold. It is a matter-of-fact and uncomfortable cold. Quite ordinary, I thought, and unexpected. Steeped in folklore and myths, I was expecting a dramatic passage. At every corner we had turned, I held my breath, waiting for a revelation. All I got instead was a mundane collage— glimpses of people going about their way and doing everyday chores, as if on a repeat cycle. I sit resigned to my corner of the boat, trying to think of ways to make the remaining journey a bit more exciting. The boat itself is a newer one, operated by a broad shouldered man, quite unlike the other impoverished and skinny boatmen at the ghat. I am glad I found a boat and a boatman I could trust. I was surprised that I actually had a choice in the matter, given the sudden change in plans. But here I am, in a roomy and sturdy single
engine motorboat, comfortably seated and feeling safe on the choppy waters.
My co-passenger seems disoriented, and is looking around haplessly, as if not sure about the destination. I am trying to catch her eye, but she is not looking my way at all. Slightly annoyed, I move my eyes away from her to the man at the helm. I am expecting more from him than just a cursory presence. From the time we started, he has not said a word, taking me by surprise. Isn’t he supposed to give us a guided tour? I call out to him with an “Excuse me, Sir.”
“Yes,” he responds, without glancing back.
“How long till we reach?”
I think it is best to start with a question which will not force him into a longer conversation, and he can be done with a short and crisp response.
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“Depends,” he replies with disinterest. I am annoyed again, this time at the tone of his voice. I brush it off and shift directions.
“What is the name of the town we are passing by now? I ask, feigning excitement to inspire him into a dialogue.
Before he can respond, my co-passenger pipes in.
“How does it matter,” she sighs.
“Well, I am always curious about places and people, and the ones we are passing by have their own stories to tell,” I suggest with real interest.
Both my co-passenger and the man at the steering wheel do not respond. They do not even look my way.
But I am not discouraged. The cold is probably getting to them, and they’d rather be quiet. We all respond to our surroundings in different ways, I suppose.
I probe one more time.
“So, Sir, I have heard about a few of these towns and the names take me back to all the intriguing stories I’ve read. See that temple by the bank? It probably is one of the four Kesahari Shiva temples.”
I point at the ancient temple by the river.
My co-passenger turns to look at it. She suddenly sits up and folds her hands and mumbles. I cannot hear her clearly, but it seems she is mouthing the Maha Mrityunjay. I am taken aback at her choice of prayer. The man turns around too, surprised. Before we can react, she asks, “Can I donate a cow here?”
Now I am completely baffled. The man, on the other hand, seems surprisingly calm in the face of such a strange request.
“Perhaps. Do you want me to stop by,” he asks.
“Yes, please,” she responds, pleadingly.
I sit here, completely silenced by this strange exchange, wondering perhaps this temple accepts donations to take care of cows. I think it is a good gesture.
“I can donate for one, too,” I volunteer.
The co-passenger is now sitting up straight.
I cannot see her face, but her eagerness is evident from her posture. She is leaning forward with her hands clutching the sides of the boat.
I feel the man looking at me and as I turn my face toward him, he says, “You don’t have to, but you can, if you wish.”
“I’d like to,” I am now determined to do the deed.
“Very well then”, he replies calmly. Then he adds, “I cannot pull up to the stairs, so you have to jump in and wade. Don’t worry, it’s only knee deep.”
I am now a bit hesitant. The last time I had stepped into this flow, my feet had burned. The water was murky, red, and stinking. I had waded to another flight of stone stairs from the boat to give alms to a poor man waving to us from the bank. Passersby were not giving him a second glance and I had watched him begging from a distance. He reminded me of a person I had once known and had ignored.
The motor finally coughs to a halt, and the man uses a long pole to steady the boat. I fold up my pants one more time and step into the water. It feels different now. It is clean and crystal clear. I can even see the smooth stones glistening on the riverbed. I am relieved and start wading towards the temple. I turn back to look at my co-passenger and find that she is still on the boat, staring with horror at the water. I turn to go back to help her, but the boatman waves me away.
“She has to do this on her own,” he says firmly.
I stare helplessly at her and after a moment’s hesitation, I turn away. As I reach the first steps, I hear her scream. I continue climbing the stairs.
I understand that she is seeing the same water I had tread a few hours ago, feeling the same agony I had felt. It is best that we find two cows to donate for, at these temples, so her water becomes cleaner, and my journey ends sooner than I expect.
The Baitarani will go underground soon, and we still have sins to wash away. r n 114
The Melting Buddha
Sophia Mitra, New Jersey
mountaineering club I met a pair of like-minded individuals, who suffered from this bug of climbing. Together, we had planned this dream trip. So, here we were, in the Spiti Valley of Ladakh, amidst a rugged, yet breathtaking terrain in the laps of the majestic Himalayas. Our aim was to trek through the valley in the lap of the snow-capped mountains visiting an age-old monastery that had been converted into a United Nation’s Heritage building. Little would I know that the trip would change me, forever.
I remember that frigid morning like a crystal-clear snowflake. It was the third day of the trek and we had climbed almost 12,000 feet above sea-level. My travel mates, Alex,
the firefighter and Jennie, the pediatric nurse, were both down with nausea and slight fever–common symptoms of mountain sickness and needed some rest. Finding modest lodgings in the Spiti Valley was not a problem. Though farming was their usual occupation, sometimes with unpredictable rainfalls and late snowfall, it could get pretty bad. Many of the locals therefore took up hosting tourists and acting as tour guides to survive. We were eagerly accommodated in a heated mud hut nearby.
Alex and Jennie lounged around in their thermals slurping bowls of rice and peas and chatting with their host’s nine-year old son, Mingma. I decided to do some trekking on
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my own. In the neighboring Langza village, there was a towering Buddha statue that was a popular tourist spot. So, I set out with our guide, Jong, a mid-aged Spiti Bhot who limped slightly when he walked and wore a colorful, embroidered topi.
“No problem, sir. I’ll get Moti ready and call you.”
Apart from farming, Jong was also a shepherd who reared a herd of yaks, the bushy ox of the mountains. He brought out a handsome yak donning a colorful mirror-work saddle and threw my luggage across it. Mingma came running with a steel tiffin-box his mother had prepared and strapped it on Moti. His skin had a pale tinge in the sunlight. Both pockets of his hand-woven sweater were bulging with Hershey’s kisses.
“Don’t eat too many, “Jong warned. “You know how bad your tummy hurts at times.”
Mingma flashed a chocolaty smiled and flitted off.
We started our journey as well. It was indeed a fabled landscape. With towering, rugged mountains on one side and the Spiti-river running down the basin, on the other, I could see how the place was a trekkers’ delight. Unfortunately, the snows were late that year and the icy roads at places would have been tricky to navigate had not Jong been there to guide me.
It was around noon when we stopped for some food and Jong lit a campfire using dry twigs and leaves of willow. Moti was set free to graze and he tinkered away around the corner. We huddled around the fire as Jong served bowls of potato momos and vegetablenoodles from the tiffin carrier. I looked above at the snow-capped peaks engulfing us.
“You live in heaven, Jong.” I sighed enviously.
“That’s because you come as a tourist,” Jong replied slowly between bites. “It’s been very hard on us farmers with less and less rain as well as snowfall. We hardly had a
proper crop this season and it’s been tough meeting all our expenses including doctor’s bills.”
I looked questioningly at Jong’s red face. He took a long sip from a plastic bottle that he was carrying around in his waist and shook his head.
“My son, he has liver problems from drinking contaminated water. But we can’t afford distilled water here.”
A dry chilly wind blew past, and I shivered. Jong offered me his bottle. “Come on, have some. It will warm you up.”
From the sweet smell, I could tell it was Chhang, the local alcoholic beverage made from fermenting barley. I gulped a few ounces and put the bottle down in front of me. It was so refreshing, and I lay my head down on a boulder to rest.
Soon there was a tinkering of bells breaking the silence of the mountain dessert. Jong sprang up. “Moti might have landed in some trouble. I’ll go check.” He limped off and I closed my eyes slightly lulled by the pure Spiti wind. When I woke up it was pitch dark. I rubbed my eyes hard and then sat up with a jerk. The plastic bottle was still there in front of me, and I put it in my purse.
“Jong?” I yelled. I heard my voice echo in the stillness but no one answered. The campfire light had died. And I groped for my cellphone in my pocket. There was no signal, but I turned on the phone torch to find a way to get onto the main path we were on. In the pitch dark, the mountains seemed to loom angrily above me with a red hue and there was no human in sight.
Suddenly, the road got narrower and around the bend I encountered a dome-shaped structure with a conical spire. A light emanated from within. Willing to take any chance against snow leopards and the treacherous cold, I moved slowly towards it. It was a frozen ice stupa, I realized up close! There was an opening, and I peeked inside. It
was relatively warm, and I heard a dripping sound. I inched further in following the sound then suddenly spotted someone! At first it seemed like an ice statue, a figure sitting cross-legged in meditative pose holding a lighted ball, curvy balls ascending into a knot on his head, eyes half-closed.
Drip-drip-drip, the sound repeated in milliseconds became louder. The ice figure slowly melted away and the semblance of a warm human face took shape.
I came up close and for a moment almost froze in fear. The weather-beaten face exuding a mystic grace was unmistakable. The eyes opened wide and looked straight at me.
It was the Buddha, and he was alive!
I gasped but the figure remained unperturbed, almost as if expecting me.
Then he spoke and his warm breath cut through the icy stillness.
“A drink please. I am dying of thirst,” he begged as I noted beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.
Frantically, I searched in my purse. The only drink I was carrying was Jong’s Chhang and I offered it to him mechanically.
He finished it off in a few gulps and sat the bottle down. Then he burped loudly.
“Aahhh…Thank you. I really needed that.”
Not knowing what to say, I took the bottle back and grinned sheepishly.
“What is this place?” I asked after some more silence. “Who are you?”
The Buddha blinked hard as if trying to recollect. “Someone built this place many years ago to conserve water for the farmers. That’s when I got carved too. People used to come here a lot. This place was an engineering feat!”
He let out a warm sigh. “But then temperatures got too warm you know. One ice stupa wasn’t just enough to provide enough water for irrigation. Soon they forgot all about me. It’s the law of cause and effect.”
Drip, drip, drip…the sound of melting ice
continued in the background.
The Buddha’s solidifying face became grim. “Now look at the price people are paying. No water, no crops, no food. This whole place is slowly dying!”
It slowly made sense to me. The Buddha’s words were reflected earlier in Jong’s comments and the crisis they were going through.
“Isn’t there anything that can be done?” I asked aloud more to myself than to the figure.
“You must save the village,” the Buddha replied wiping his forehead. “Warn the people that their karma has caused the snows to retreat and now their own lives are in danger. Tell them to take care of their land before it’s too late.”
A sudden heat wave emanated, as I watched in disbelief the ice Buddha slowly melt away. The urgency in his voice asking for my help bought me back to my senses. Not knowing what to do, I turned and ran.
I don’t know how long I was running but suddenly I heard the faint noise of a tinkling from afar. Following the sound, I chanced upon a sea of torches and flashlights. It was Moti’s bells! He was hurrying my way along with Jong, Alex, Jennie and a group of locals. They had obviously started a search party for me.
“There he is!” Alex said excitedly. “Dear lord, where have you been?”
Jennie seemed ready to cry as she hugged me tightly. “I’m so glad that you’re safe.”
Jong looked so relieved. I could understand the guilt he was carrying for having left me alone. “Moti got stuck on a rock and I was having trouble getting him out.” Jong explained. “By the time I went back to the campfire site, you were gone.”
I quickly told them about the ice stupa I had chanced upon without giving details about whom I met there. The locals listened stunned. Jong finally spoke.
“There was an ice stupa nearby that was made many years ago. An engineer from Langza
village wanted to trap water for the farming season using it as an artificial glacier. But then due to the late snowfall the land was so dried up that one stupa was not sufficient. The government did not have enough budget for anymore as well, so the project was abandoned, and the stupa melted after some time.”
I nodded my head frantically. “But it’s still there. I saw it with my own eyes.” The team gave in to my desperate plea and followed me back to the place where I had seen the stupa with the melting Buddha. It was not there! The place seemed deserted except for the towering mountains. Had I been hallucinating! Can’t be. Moti’s bells once more brought me back to my senses.
“Should we leave,” someone asked. It was pretty dark already and everyone seemed tired. “We’ll come back tomorrow and look for it,” Jong decided. “We’ll go to Langza this way anyhow.”
Alex whispered in my ear as we trod back to our cozy lodgings. “It must have been the Chaang!” Jennie laughed out loud. They were just happy to get me back safe and sound.
The next day, we set out early and finally made it to Langza village. We saw him from afar looming high on the hills cross-legged and in meditative pose. The sun’s golden rays reflected off his skin. Hypnotized, I stared at the peaceful face with the deep serene eyes. It was the melting Buddha. I resisted the temptation to tell my partners, or Jong about my encounter fearing their laughter. Then I remembered the Buddha’s warning about the water-crisis. The people needed to be informed.
I never went to see the UN heritage building as originally planned. I decided to stay back with Jong and his family much to the dismay of Jennie and Alex. I promised to meet up with them once we were back in the States. In the meantime, with Jong’s help, we arranged a meeting involving local authorities and the villagers. It was encouraging to see even women and elderly people come forward and speak about the water problem. Together, we decided to start a fund for increasing water supply to this remote desert paradise. I promised that I would tell their story in my part of the world.
I left a few days afterwards feeling more attached to the place than when I had arrived. Whatever money I had saved for the trip, I donated to the fund. Rest, I forced Jong to accept on behalf of Mingma’s medical expenses. So many Spiti villagers came to see me off at the airport. Jong’s wife gifted me a colorful, woven vest. Mingma shyly handed me a painting of a mountain yak. As I hugged him goodbye, I knew deep within that I would be back one day. Not for myself this time. The mountains did not seem to allure me so magnetically any more. I was somehow at peace and free. r
A Lesson in History
Ratna Karmakar, New Jersey
Monique was cleaning Ron’s apartment in New York City for more than twelve years. She became almost a family member. Ron talked to her about many personal issues, and she counseled him as best she could. One day Monique asked for a raise, but Ron was less than generous in granting her wish. It was not that he did not want to pay her as much, but he had his own financial challenges. He lost his job during the financial crisis of 2008 and was depending on his savings to pull through the hardship that life has dealt him. Anyway, they compromised on an acceptable middle ground. It continued smoothly for a while. Then things started to change.
All of a sudden, Monique stopped showing up for work. Ron was reluctant to hire anyone else to do the cleaning job and kept calling Monique. One day, Monique answered his telephone call and told Ron that she would come on next Saturday. Ron would leave the apartment mostly when Monique came to work. Finally, Monique showed up on that Sunday. Ron asked her why she did not answer his call for so long. To his surprise, Monique said she had a back pain and could not walk from Brooklyn to Manhattan. That is the reason she did not come or answer his calls. Ron really felt bad that he did not give her the raise she wanted. The extra money might have helped her to buy subway tokens and alleviate
some of her financial constraints he thought.
When Monique came to work, Ron usually put her payments in an envelope and left the apartment. Monique finished her work, collected the envelope, ate something from the refrigerator if she liked and left. Ron gave her the freedom to eat or drink whatever she wanted from the refrigerator.
The same routine ensued that day. Ron was in a bar when his phone rang. “Ron, I am done. But you have made a mistake, the envelope has $6 extra dollars. I am leaving it on the countertop” It was Monique.
“No Monique, take it for your subway fare. From now on, I’ll give you an extra $6 so that you do not have to walk all the way from Brooklyn.” He hung up.
Late in the night, when Ron returned home, he found an envelope with his name written on it. Curious as he was, he opened the envelope with the following note.
“Ron, thank you for the kind gesture. But I do not walk because of lack of money. If you have time read my story which will lighten my chest from a pain I have been holding for fiftyeight years of my existence. Have you read the book “Caste” by Isabel Wilkerson! There she writes a story about a person’s encounter with a bus driver. It could be any black grandma’s story in the USA, but it definitely was my Grandma’s.
This was back in the 1960s. My
grandmother used to work in a building in Manhattan.
At that time, the black people had to enter the front door of a bus, pay their fare to the bus driver, then walk out and re-enter the bus from the back door. This was the way segregation was practiced even in New York City. One day on her way to work in the early morning, my grandmother entered the bus from the front door to pay the fare as was the rule. After paying her fare she left the bus and approached the back door to re-enter it. The bus driver knew she went to the back door, but he took off without waiting for her to get on the bus. Grandma was shocked. She knew the next bus would not come shortly. Having no other choice, she started walking to her job on a wintry day in December. When she arrived at her work, shivering from cold, she was greeted with reprimand from her supervisor. Not only that, but he also subtracted an hour’s pay from her weekly salary for being tardy. Granny felt so bad that she did not want to go back to work the next day, but she didn’t have a choice. So, she swallowed her pride and continued to work until she could not do it any longer.
When she was home full time, I always slept with her. The warmth of her hug was the greatest joy to me, and I never felt cold in the severe winter nights with little heat from the furnace. Every evening, she would tell me stories from ‘Aesop’s Fables’. Then as I grew older, she narrated the story of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ to me and told me to get the book from the library to read. Finally, one day she told me her own life story that happened on that day of December in the sixties. I told her why she did not complain about it to the authorities. She laughed and said, there was no authority to do justice to the colored people. That is the way of life sweetie, she reiterated. And no matter what you did, there would continue to be injustice from one group of people to
another. It would only change form from time to time. When one unjust system would be corrected, a new one would replace it. This has been the way of human history. It would continue as long as human race would continue. The inhumane behavior would continue to reign in one form or another.
Monique continued: I was old enough to understand what she said. I could not change anything because neither did I have the power, nor the willingness to fight against the injustice. But I have made a vow not to give a penny to the transportation company that has treated my beloved grandma the way it did.
You think it is stupid to blame the whole society for one person’s misdemeanor.
Trust me it is not one person who has the audacity of mistreating another human-being unless he/she has the approval from a vast majority of wrongdoers. Every human gets his/her cue from a system that supports and encourages such inhumane treatment of others. So, my dear, thank you for your kindness, but I am returning the money with no vengeance. Remain the good person you are!
Ron was dumbfounded after reading Monique’s long note. He never knew that Monique had such strong feelings about her history. Not only that, she had taught him a lesson in history which she did not read in a book, but she and her folks lived it.
Ron was not a social activist, did not pay much attention to the social unrest that was in the news every day. But the whole world changed for him that day. There was a rally in central park organized by the Black Lives Matter group in a few days. Ron joined that gathering for the first time in his life with a hand-written sign that said, “I am ashamed of my white race. I am with you all the way. This fight will not STOP.” r
The Homeless and the Heartless
Basab Dasgupta, California
Samir has been called: “self-centered”, “snob”, “egotist” and worst of them all, “heartless”. He is not really a bad person, just a part of the “me” generation. He came to this country entirely on the basis of his academic credentials using own financial savings and driven by desire to move up in the world. He received a PhD in Chemistry from the University of Pennsylvania and got a coveted high-paying job at a
chemical company in Evanston, a suburb of Chicago. His entire focus in life has been on expanding his professional career and accumulating wealth.
He is not married. He sees wife and family as an unnecessary burden. He does not even feel any sense of obligation towards his parents; in his view, the parents simply did their job in bringing him to this world and raising him just like any other traditional
Indian couple. Samir does not contribute to any charity and is against all entitlement programs. Paradoxically he believes in God; he believes that God wants each one of us to utilize our assets given by him in order to succeed in life, and not rely on handouts from others!
He had been living in a modest townhouse near Lake Michigan in the northern part of Chicago, but recently moved into a large house in n 121
Evanston, closer to his work. He also managed to buy an ocean-front condominium in Daytona Beach, Florida, when the market was down during the great recession of 2008-2009.
He spent all his holidays in his condo every year. The unit stayed empty the rest of the time. Samir loves the view of the blue Atlantic Ocean sitting on his balcony, not to mention the bikini-clad beauties who crowd the beach everyday throughout the year. Life has been good.
This past year, he decided to rent out his condo when he went down there in September. He found a property manager–an elderly lady named Bernice with a charming personality and a profound knowledge of the Daytona Beach real estate market. With Bernice’s help, he found a tenant in no time, who signed a one-year lease.
Samir never met his tenants but had complete faith in Bernice. She was thorough in her background check of the tenants: Roberto Lopez, a Cuban-American and her Caucasian lady-friend, Kathy, who also had an eight-year old daughter from a previous marriage. Roberto was in his fifties and apparently a successful businessman, judging by the Mercedes Benz he drove and documents such as credit report, bank statements, tax returns, etc. Kathy was in her forties and very pleasant, according to
Bernice. Both had clean records as far as lawsuits or police reports were concerned. The arrangement worked out perfectly for Samir for more than three months. The fateful telephone call from Bernice came in midDecember. Roberto had not paid the December rent in spite of repeated reminders from Bernice and now he had completely disappeared from the scene. Bernice was unable to reach him.
This disappearance act by itself would not have been that traumatic; Roberto had paid one month’s rent in advance as a security deposit and finding another tenant would not be difficult, especially in January. The shocking aspect was that Roberto left Kathy and her daughter behind and they also had no clue as to Roberto’s whereabouts! Roberto had stopped answering his cell phone. Kathy did not have any money nor any job and was barely scraping by with the food Roberto had already purchased. She had no clear plan on how to survive.
Samir’s first reaction was one of annoyance with Bernice. He felt like telling her “I am paying you to be my property manager. You get rid of these two characters”. Then his American persona kicked in: he had to sue Roberto, holding him responsible for the entire year’s rent. Bernice was astute enough to have already thought about this possibility.
“You have to know where Roberto is in order to file a lawsuit and serve him with the legal notice”, Bernice said “I have tried every contact information and every reference he provided and there is no sign of him”. “Also, Kathy’s name is not on the lease” Bernice continued “so you cannot technically sue her; besides, she has no money”. Samir was getting restless and said, “If her name is not on the lease, why can’t you just call the police and throw them out on the street?” Bernice said, “That is indeed our last resort, but I would rather wait until end of the year because they are covered till then because of the security deposit”.
Bernice suggested that Samir make a trip to Florida to personally meet with Kathy and her daughter. It seemed like she was lobbying on behalf of Kathy. She kept saying that perhaps Samir could work out some arrangement with Kathy by talking to her in person.
At first, Samir did not see any point because it was a black and white situation to him: you do not pay rent now, you move out now. However, he was already scheduled to visit a friend in Georgia over Christmas. He was flying down a week before Christmas and returning on the Christmas day in the late afternoon. Fares were much lower if he traveled on the Christmas day itself. Daytona Beach is about six n 122
hours drive from there; Samir decided he would just drive down for a couple of days.
Kathy was indeed a pleasant lady and reasonably attractive too. She seemed really helpless and pleaded with Samir to allow her and her daughter to stay a little longer in the new year. She had already applied for a cashier’s job at a local store and also put out some ads for baby-sitting. She promised to keep the place in a squeaky-clean condition and keep Samir informed about the progress in her situation. “I just made a terrible mistake. Roberto was such a smooth-talker and also very generous. I just got blind-sided. I will be eternally grateful to you” was Kathy’s final plea “I need a little time for sake of my daughter”.
Samir was not impressed. He has a low opinion about the middle-aged non-professional single Caucasian women in this country. In his view, they are all addicted to alcohol or prescription pills, most of them do not have college degrees and they are all gold diggers. They are looking for some “sugar daddy” to live off, without working. There is no love, no morality, no tenderness in their behavior pattern. Roberto clearly had his few months of fun with Kathy and now he is probably on to someone else.
Samir gave clear instructions to Bernice. Kathy could stay until the end of the
year but must leave first of the new year. He did not care where Kathy would live. She might decide to go back to wherever she came from or rent a room from someone; if all else failed, they could move to a homeless shelter or live in Kathy’s car. Bernice was to give her a written notice spelling out this eviction. If that did not motivate them to vacate the condo, Bernice was to call the local Police department and let the police take care of their removal from the premises. Bernice was sad but agreed.
He had a good Christmas day though with his friend and their kids. Opening the gifts under the Christmas tree, confirmation of Santa’s visit based on the empty milk glass and cookie plate, background music of Christmas carols – all made it a very festive and happy occasion that Samir did not get a chance to enjoy too often. He left for the airport in the afternoon. The flight back to Chicago was pleasant. There were not too many passengers. The flight attendant offered a complimentary glass of wine. Samir even caught a short nap. There was not a long wait for the luggage upon arrival.
As soon as he reached his car in the parking structure, something did not quite look right. First of all, the car was unlocked, something Samir would never do. He tried to brush aside his concern, thinking perhaps he forgot to
n 123
lock because he was in a hurry and somewhat stressed out by everything that was happening. When he opened the door, he noticed that the door to the glove compartment was hanging down. He certainly did not leave it like that. He knew that someone was inside the car, either by breaking in or taking advantage of an unlocked car when he realized that the garage door opener for his home, usually clipped to the visor, was missing! A sudden chill went through his spine. Samir realized why the glove compartment was opened; his car registration certificate was gone too.
Samir appreciated the strategy of the thief. He took car registration because it would have his address and the garage door opener would open his garage. Knowing that Samir was out of town, the thief could go to his home at any time at his convenience, park inside the garage, close the garage door and remove whatever he pleased from his house in complete privacy away from eyes of any neighbor.
His heart sank at the thought, and he immediately started to think of all the valuable items inside the house. Fortunately, there was no jewelry and most expensive items were very bulky. He would probably lose the laptop, maybe the printer and things like DVD player and some small items of
Samir’s mind ran fast, and he was already chalking out a plan of action. He did not want to waste time by calling the police at the O’Hare airport. He was anxious to rush back to his house and see what damage had already been done. Evanston is almost an hour’s drive through the usual Chicago traffic, but it took him about half the time on this late Christmas night. He did not need the garage door opener because he always had a spare key to the front door in the side pocket on the car door.
The house looked alright from the outside. He reached for his key in the side pocket. He got his second big shock of the night. That key was also missing along with some other keys like mailbox key and key to the clubhouse. Apart from security concerns, he had an immediate problem; he was locked out of his own home! He walked around the house to see if any window or door was open, no such luck.
It was almost eleven pm by then. Samir was tired from the long journey and somewhat sleepy. He desperately needed a place to spend the night. He could not just knock on some neighbor’s door so late in the evening and ask if he could spend the night. Besides, he did not know the neighbors very well, being relatively new
n 124 decoration. Fortunately, his expensive digital camera was with him.
in the area. He called two close friends who lived not too far. One did not answer on repeated tries; the other one was out of town. He needed to sit down somewhere and think of a plan with clear head. Fortunately, the local McDonald’s was open until midnight even on Christmas day. He ordered a cup of coffee there and started to think. Most of the local hotels had no vacancy and the others had very exuberant charges. Samir did not want to spend that kind of money just for a few hours of sleep and it was unlikely that he would even be able to sleep. He called the local Police station with the hope that the cops might be able to help him get into the house by opening the door with some special tool. The only offer from the police was that they could break open a window with Samir’s permission; they had no tools. Should he try to find some homeless shelter to spend the night? Samir smiled at the irony of the situation since he had designated a homeless shelter as one of the logical options for Kathy! Nope, he decided that he was going to spend the night in his car – the other option he had suggested for Kathy. Finding a parking area was a problem. He did not want any hassle from the cops. The only logical place for him was to park on his own driveway and that was where he headed.
He could have slept in the backseat of his car, but the December nights in Chicago are freezing cold and he shivered at the thought of sleeping in a car without the heater on. He could not risk sleeping in a running car either. So, he reclined his driver’s seat all the way so that he could lie almost flat. He decided to periodically turn the engine on so that the car would not reach a freezing condition. Luckily, he was fully bundled up with his warm jacket, woolen hat, and gloves. “What a night” he thought. He never experienced such a miserable situation in his entire life. He could not sleep and was simply counting minutes and hours by looking at his watch.
A new problem surfaced. He needed to answer nature’s call. He opened the car door; it was not only blistering cold it was windy too. He took his warm hat and gloves, walked to the very rear boundary of his backyard, and let it all out. Fortunately for him, it was two o’clock in the morning and completely dark. None of the neighbors saw him in his act. Relieving himself in the blowing wind with gloves on was awkward at best. Samir wondered where the homeless people on the streets went for their bathroom needs. He started to feel a certain degree of compassion for the homeless. Their lives are really
below the minimum level of human dignity.
Samir suddenly remembered that Wal-Mart near his home would open at five in the morning to start the “after Christmas” sale. The rest of the night for Samir came down to just counting down to five o’clock, while playing Solitaire and listening to some music on his smartphone.
Although he did not sleep a wink, he felt a degree of normalcy when he walked into Wal-Mart. There were many people already to take advantage of the sale. There was a Subway counter inside the store. He used the restrooms to brush his teeth and clean up his face with warm water. He started calling locksmiths in the area. One outfit
promised to send someone within an hour. He did not feel the desperation of the previous night and did not mind the wait.
The locksmith actually arrived within the promised time, and it did not take him too long to open a side door to the garage. Samir ran into the house and made a quick round through all the rooms. Much to his relief, nothing was gone, and it did not seem that anyone had even entered the house in his absence.
Samir made a cup of tea and sat down in the warmth of his kitchen to reflect back on the whole experience. The immediate question in his mind was why the thieves had not invaded his home already since they had the garage door opener. After some thought he
realized that the address on the car registration was his old address. The thief did not know his address in Evanston after all. He had a big sigh of relief. He started to think of the misery he went through and hoped that he would not have to go through this kind of experience again.
He needed a good nap. Before going to bed, he made one call, to Bernice. He told her to let Kathy and her daughter stay as long as they needed in his condo until they could make some alternate living arrangement and tell them not to worry about the rent. He did not want them to go to a homeless shelter nor live in a car! Kathy found a home and Samir discovered that he had a heart after all. r
The coffee nearly spilled, the cup dangerously off kilter while you tried to retrieve the lipstick from your purse. The shade was NYX Dramatic to save the day at least after a dead night of loveless chatter and dreamless epiphany that it was over between you both. It was a rough cold morning with the roads icing up so fast that you decided not to wear the stilettos until you reached the office. You dreaded the interview but had to give yourself a chance now more than ever.
Moving out and moving on had to be met head on. You had to look impressive and in
control while you were losing all of it at once at home. As you struggled to have a better hair day with the mean winds slicing your face, blinding your eyes, roughing up your blow dried crop, you trudged to present a semblance of order to yourself. And so, you did not see it coming.
Menacing Manhattan winter morning streets were trying to appear normal in the face of a dismal snow-icy mix accumulated on the sidewalks. You could barely manage to walk straight when abruptly you were nearly knocked down by a screeching sedan braking on the slick surface right next to
Retrieving
Vishnupriya, New Jersey
you. You looked up contemplating to spit out the worst curse word but that remained suspended in the icy air.
Tommy was holding out his hand through the window as if to give you a hand and drag you into the comfort of the warm insides of the vehicle.
How could you resist your twin flame from your forever present who was smiling so ravishingly like always? You entered the passenger seat and with his warm lips on yours, you actually forgave him and decided to reschedule the interview. After all the weather had been so treacherous this morning. They would surely get it. r
Ben leaped out of the car at the station. By the time the Thursday of every week came, he invariably ignored his alarm, snoozed an extra fifteen minutes and had to run to catch the 8:15 to the city. This Thursday was no different. He blew a kiss to his two-year-old boss, his daughter and his wife and took the stairs, two at a time, of the overbridge to get to the other platform. And the train was late again!
He caught his breath and found his usual spot towards
The Bench
Sanghamitra Roy Chowdhury, California
the back of the platform. There seemed to be more of a crowd than usual waiting for the train. Snippets of conversation reached his ears– people holding their lives together with their cell phones.
“Please tell Kim I am running late. Yes, I sent the agenda by email.”
“What do you mean, you’ll start without me? Just postpone the meeting, just DO it.”
Whispered conversations, “Yes, don’t worry. I said it was a late meeting at work...”
Some were pacing and complaining vociferously. A mass of seething humanity in the microcosm of the small station of Bowling Green. Ben was used to waiting.
The station at Bowling Green barely lived up to the epithet of a “station” – a narrow strip of a platform with a wooden shed. The weathered sign on the shed said “Bowling Green 1892” in once-upon-a-time bright green letters. The train was a boon to those commuting to the city. The station had gone from being a single line station with one platform to one that now boasted three platforms. Each platform had a couple of cold weather shelters. On the “wicked cold” days that even the most die-hard New Englanders baulked at, commuters huddled in there. The old wooden shed still stood proud; the sign looked old. That weathered look was carefully preserved. Automatically, Ben gravitated towards the grassy patch, where the old bench stood.
Today, there were people gathered round the bench. The bench had seen better days, the wooden seat had splintered into a jagged V, two of its legs had cracked. Ben saw Mr. Farley, a council member, in the center of that group.
“Good morning, Mr. Farley. What’s up?”
“Ben, off to the city, eh? This bench is on its last legs”, he chuckled at his own pun. “So, I guess it’s time to retire it. This was quite THE place for kids to gather and play hooky during school.”
He looked up at Ben, “Before your time, young man. Also, the place where older teens had their first..., just four trains a day, it was then ”, he hurriedly changed the subject, as he caught the steely eye of the retired schoolteacher, also a council member, present in this group.
Ben looked at the bench and beyond it into his memories... ****
Sandra had rarely seen the railway platform of Bowling Green so crowded. Behind the platform was an incongruously large grassy patch with tiny purple wildflowers and the ubiquitous yellow dandelions. This patch sloped down to a marsh where water glistened as the sunlight filtered through the
canopy of leaves. Someone had put a red iron bench, by now sun bleached, under a young maple tree at the further edge of this patch. The bench had a metal plaque that had “Mary Burnett” in Gothic intertwined letters. The commuters however always avoided the grassy patch, they all faced the railway track as if their collective will power would make the train appear before its scheduled time.
***
Sandra was a volunteer at the local day care shelter for homeless children. These children enjoyed the stability of a calm, unhurried atmosphere at least during the day, before heading out to battle the world. At the end of the day, these children were dropped off at the overnight homeless shelter to join their parents. There were planned excursions to the city attractions or local museums where a few children would be taken by volunteers. Today Sandra was taking five-year-old Benny and Sara to the Children’s Museum a few towns away. As Sandra walked towards the end of the platform, she heard snippets of conversation that explained the unusual crowd.
***
“The last train was cancelled. Do you know why?”
“Even the train before that
had some mechanical problems and is running 50 minutes late!”
“Again! Three train delays in a row, this happened just two days ago!” People were fuming at their helplessness and complete dependence on the erratic train service.
Benny and Sara looked at the crowd of people. Sara piped up, “They aren’t standing in a line.” Benny did a Gallic shrug, “Sara, this is a station. You don’t need to stand in line like for the Rawlins O’er night.” He added proudly, “My Uncle Cam lives in a real house, his own house. He takes the train to the city.” Sandra took the kids and stood at the back of the platform almost on the grass. Benny and Sara stood looking at the train tracks for just a moment before they turned around to face the grass and the patches of water. Benny called over his shoulder, “I’ll take care of Sara and we are right here, Sandra.” He enjoyed being the responsible one. Also, this was Sara’s first train trip, while he had been on field trip before, hence a veteran!
“Benniee, look at that bench”, yelled Sara as she ran and clambered on to it. Benny, the protector, followed and they sat on the bench, legs swinging happily. They looked down at the purple flowers over which light lemon-colored small
butterflies flitted. The gentle breeze filtered through the maple tree fanning them. As far as they were concerned at this moment “all’s right with the world”. Close by, the frogs were engaged in animated ribbiting in various tones. The children scanned the water to see if they could catch sight of the frogs. A mallard appeared on the waterm, and they gave a shriek of delight, “Oh look!” It paused, preened, and turned its iridescent neck to catch the sunlight and disappeared into the weeds. “It’s gone”, cried Sara, almost falling off the bench. The whistling above their heads made them look upwards. The blue jay appeared to be waiting for their attention. It flitted down and stood on the sandy patch at the base of the maple tree with an expectant air. In the sand, two young squirrels were chasing each other in circles. They were running around madly and looking at them made the kids dizzy. Suddenly one would stop and run in the opposite direction at the other. Their game of tag continued in the reverse direction. The darker squirrel also seemed to be showing off his acrobatic skills and sometimes seemed to be standing on its tail his whole body quivering like a feather. It was a remarkable sight. The blue jay cocked his head
at them, then almost meaningfully looked up at Sara and Benny. The bird was cheering them on with its whistles and chirps.
Suddenly, the squirrels stopped, twirled about on their tails, and then exhausted and sank back on their haunches as if taking a bow. At that the blue jay appeared to nod at the kids, signaling them to applaud. By now the children were in loud peals of laughter and the passengers looked up with a start. Sandra stopped herself as she was about to ask the children to be quieter. Their unbarred laughter was a rare sound indeed. The unshed tears in Benny’s and Sara’s voices were sometimes very easy to hear.
***
That seemed like an eternity ago. Ben could not remember his dad. When he was a child, too young to know better, every “Uncle” who came to take his mother out was a prospective Dad. His happiest childhood memories were the days he spent at the Minuteman Daycare Center. He loved to learn, got a decent meal without standing in line as was customary to get into the homeless shelters, his toes and fingers numb with cold. On few occasions, he slept in a house where he would get cuffed on the ears and go to bed hungry.
The Minuteman Center was the bright spot in their lives. It was a small, nondescript building with a couple of classrooms. The front yard was graveled with a swing and a slide set. To a casual passer-by, it was shabby – to the children it was a castle of comfort and peace. Sara was his best friend there. He and Sara loved the lessons. She had a laugh that would set them all off and a vivid imagination. She announced to the class that she wanted to be a writer as she sometimes launched into the most wonderful stories. At the homeless shelter, sometimes he would spot Sara, with her scowling Dad. The two children would talk, their highpitched chatter, bringing a smile to the worn faces of the men and women there.
The years passed. Ben and Sara remained the best of friends, sharing their joys and occasionally, their daily struggles. Ben managed to hang on to his studies, his one escape from his home life. He blossomed into a bright student. Sara was not so lucky, she drifted off - she gradually changed from a happy child to a brooding girl. Even her lessons left her listless. She would talk a little to Ben and otherwise was silent. The teachers at the day care noticed and tried to draw her out. Her gentle manners, the vibrant laughter
disappeared into defiance. Her cynical comments and smirks were all that remained.
Bensought Sara out at recess - she sat behind the forsythia bushes, silent, in a lonely, friendless world. When she spotted Ben coming over, she got up and walked away. One day stood out in Ben’s memory. That day, Sara had not walked away as he approached her. She had looked up with hopelessness mirrored in her dark eyes. It was almost a mute call for help. He walked over and sat close to her, silently. As if on an impulse, she showed him the dark purple bruise on her arm where it could not be normally seen. At his startled expression, she moved closer and laid her head on his
shoulders. After a while, the old Sara smiled up at him, her eyes shiny with tears.
Was that the last time he had seen her? One day, she stopped coming to the daycare center. For a long time, Ben had asked himself if he could have changed something in her life. Should he have reached out to the staff to help her out? From conversations of the teachers that he overheard, he pieced together that she was gone forever. He strained to hear Sara’s carefree peals of laughter for many years.
Years passed; Ben had gone on to college. Even in college, carefree, infectious laughter would make him turn around and looking for Sara’s profile in the crowd of
students. Life had been kind to Ben, and he now had his own family and house in Bowling Green.
“Ben, you okay? What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Farley, as his touch brought Ben back to the present.
“Oh, yes. Sorry, the sun got in my eyes”, Ben said as he blinked. “Mr. Farley, do you think I could pay to get that bench restored? Looks like it has stories to tell.”
Ben welcomed the distraction caused by the announcement that the train had left the previous station. He joined the throng of passengers, all too wrapped up to notice him discreetly wiping his eyes. r
Marriage
Guru Chakravarty, New Jersey
Reelee was very selective when it came to choosing a husband. When her parents put out an ad in the matrimonial column of major internet services with her picture and a few bio details, the response was overwhelming. And why not? Reelee was as fair as they came in Bengali circles, was of medium height, and had a lovely face, to go with a master’s degree in Fine Arts from Rabindra Bharati University. It was not a lucrative degree for securing a high-paying job, however, it could fill a home with a sense of art and culture and would spruce up living with finer attributes of life.
Reelee’s was an average middle class family — her father Abhijit was a supervisor in a suburban pharmaceutical plant, while her mother Shukla stayed home taking care of their only child. They chose the name of Reelee after the two overlooked letters of the Bangla alphabet (Ree, Lee).
This emphasized the thought and importance they put in selecting the name. They did their best to nurture her into a loving compassionate and intelligent person; she filled their hearts with joy and pride. There were admirers in her college, but nothing went beyond friendship. It was not that Reelee’s parents would disapprove of a relationship with a friend, but that just did not happen. Reelee did not get an opportunity to meet someone at work, because her professional life just did not get a start. Reelee tried a few places for a writer’s job, but it
was not easy to be employed in the world of fine arts, specializing in writing. Reelee wanted to work as a dramatic writer, based on real life stories. It was not that Abhijit and Shukla were worried about getting their daughter married. Matrimonial agents would bring them news about successful bright boys, and they would mull over them leisurely. At one point, they decided to test the matrimonial world on internet, and that’s when it became serious. There were a few opportunities that they did not want to pass up. The time finally came when
the three heads got together and came up with a final choice. After the initial contact was made, the prospective groom was invited to a “date” with Reelee. Samiresh came from Bangalore to meet Reelee and spent a day with her alone. Reelee did like Samiresh, a young handsome IT professional working with TCS in Bangalore. Samiresh belonged to a well-to-do family of Howrah, owning large real estate property. They were considering selling that property to a developer to build a high-rise apartment complex, overlooking the Ganges River. They stood to gain handsome profits, with flat for each of the family members.
The marriage was held with usual pomp and grandeur in a posh lake house in Central Kolkata. The invitees included Abhijit’s younger brother and two of his uncles from the USA, with all their families. The groom’s side insisted on having the “Kushondika” the next day as per the family tradition. There was plenty of crying by the mother and the daughter during the ceremonial departure from her own home to her husband’s. A reception by the groom’s side followed at their home site that was pretty luxurious.
Samiresh went back to Bangalore, saving his vacation time for honeymoon. Abhijit
and Shukla took their dear daughter to Bangalore to set up their flat with new furnishings. Samiresh brought them home from the airport in his new Hyundai. A month passed by in a whisk in the warmth of a new life and new anticipations. Abhijit and Shukla happily returned home knowing that they found a happy life for Reelee forever.
But that did not happen. The first sign of it came when they got a phone call from Reelee in one morning. Reelee did not sound enthused while talking, rather she seemed very subdued.
“Are you well, Reelee,” Shukla inquired.
“I am fine, Ma.”
“You don’t sound well. Do you have any fever or something?”
“Oh no, but I am a little worried.”
“What about?”
“It is about Samiresh’s drinking?”
“What do you mean? Drinking by young men and women in parties is well accepted, particularly among the well placed professionals.”
“I know that, Ma. It is beyond that,” Reelee said impatiently.
“Did he do anything to hurt you,” Shukla inquired.
“No, not really,” Reelee said hesitatingly.
“Give me the details; what happened?”
“Later, I will give you de-
tails later.” She hung up.
Reelee did not call until a week later.
“Hello Ma.”
“How are you Reelee? Is Samiresh trying to control his drinking problem?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Oh no; are you in any trouble?”
“No, not that; but he does become quite rough if I talk to him to stop.”
“Does he lay his hand on you?”
“No, but...” she started sobbing.
“We are getting heartbroken; do you want us to come there?”
“Maybe, I will let you know.”
“May I ask you an intimate question? Is he?”
Reelee avoided the bait. “I don’t want to talk about it now. Bye.”
Abhijit and Shukla were worried to death, yet they did not know what to do. It was shameful to talk to the relatives about such a situation. It was time for talking only good things about their only child’s married life. How was Samiresh able to hide this problem from everyone? How was he managing his work? The only thing they could think of is planning a trip to Bangalore to save their daughter. The next call from Reelee came soon, asking them to pick her up at the airport. Reelee explained that
it has become unbearable for her to continue further with the situation. There was no marital life. There were no pleasant discussions in the house. Reelee wanted to bring up the subject of drinking, but Samiresh had no interest in that. What was worse, he was spending all his income on drinks. There was not much left to even buy enough food. Samiresh himself did not care for much food. But Reelee did, and without sufficient food she was literally starving.
One night she faced Samiresh:
“Unless you stop excessive drinking, I cannot live with you,” she said. “I want to go back to Kolkata.”
“It is OK, you can go. How long will you be there?”
“I don’t know. I will return only if you stop drinking completely.”
“I cannot stop drinking. I enjoy it. I am not causing any problem for anyone because of my drinking.”
“Well, I am a part of your life, and you need to recognize that. I want you to see a doctor about how to cure it.”
“Why? I don’t see any need for that. I am in good health. As long as I have a good job, there is no need to change anything.”
“OK then, I will leave tomorrow.”
“Have a safe trip.”
When Abhijit and Shukla saw her, they were startled to
see a thin and weak woman, barely
able to carry her bag on her shoulder. She must have lost over 20 pounds in a matter of a few months. Shukla and Reelee hugged each other and started to cry uncontrollably as passers-by looked on with curiosity. Abhijit got the luggage from the conveyor belt and hired a taxi to get home.
Reelee was convinced that the marriage would not work, and there was no love left in her heart for Samiresh. Divorce was now the only answer. Abhijit and Shukla was afraid of that, but they realized that it might be the only viable option left. The marriage was still young, and it was the only possible way to nip the problem in the bud. Later on, with children in the family, it would become more difficult to separate their lives. So, they too unwillingly agreed. They hired an attorney to file for divorce. They were afraid to talk it over with the neighbors and friends, but they had no choice but to let everyone know.
Samiresh was genuinely surprised to see the divorce papers and did not like it one bit. He did not expect Reelee to take such a drastic step. He called Reelee but she would not accept his call. He called his father at Howrah to see if they could talk to the parents of Reelee to avoid the divorce.
The parents met at a restaurant to avoid loud arguments, and instead talk it over in a calm manner. They all were unanimous in one thing- this was an unfortunate thing to happen. However, the apologies of the Howrah family was not able to change the mind of Reelee’s family. So, the divorce papers were drawn based on marriage incompatibility, and it passed through the court rather quickly. ***
The next phase of Reelee’s life began with what next. She knew well that for a divorced woman to get married in Bengali culture is extremely difficult, if not impossible. So, Reelee’s attention was concentrated on how to stand up on her own feet. She was quite good in writing in her Fine Arts class. She could write dramas quite articulately, however, it would not be easy to make a living on that profession. Instead, she started thinking of furthering her education. Foreign education was available to her because of her uncle living in New Jersey. Indrajit, Abhijit’s younger brother, who was settled in New Jersey with his wife Aisha for over fifteen years, had invited the whole family of Abhijit to visit America a few times. This was the time to avail of that invitation. So, she prepared for applying to universities in New Jersey for
a Master’s in drama and literature. Her uncle and his family were too eager to help out the young woman with a failed marriage. Withthe sponsorship of financial support from her uncle, and a strong recommendation letter from her department head in Rabindra Bharati, Reelee got the admission at the Rutgers University. She knew that she would have to work her heart out to succeed because there was nothing else to look forwardto in life. ***
Five years later. Reelee is attending the annual Emmy Award ceremony along with
her group as a nominee in the category of “Writing for a Drama Series” in television. Reelee is now an established writer in the television media. She works for a company who produces dramatic series for television. Upon graduation from Rutgers with distinction she was able to obtain a job at the campus interview. It was an assignment for writing for the Public Broadcasting Station at the recommendation of her department head. That was the opening she needed to enter the field of television writing. From there on she moved on quickly to better jobs. Now she is the lead writer in the company she
works for. The weekly drama series they write for is always at the top of Nielsen’s ratings and has already been syndicated for re-runs.
At the ceremony, it was time to announce the winner of the best writer for a drama series in television - it was the group led by Reelee Chakravarty. In the acceptance speech, she first thanked her uncle and aunt of New Jersey for helping her to a second chance with life. Then she shocked her parents, who were watching in Kolkata, with the announcement of her impending marriage to Abhishek Patel, a co-producer of the show, bringing them to tears.r
The Murder
Rahul Roy, Massachusetts
Ours is a typical suburban small town in New England. An abundance of greenery, from deep forests to emerald meadows dot the landscape. A solitary river runs through the town. Every year, in early spring, its banks overflow with melted snow making nearby roads nearly impassable to vehicular traffic for days. There are also several lakes, large and small. On clear days, these lakes reflect the blue of the sky above like mirrors. Houses, large and small, sparsely populate this idyllic landscape. When we first came to live in this town years ago, there was one bank, one post office, one drug-store and a few mom-andpop stores, covering the bare necessities of
among neighbors is occasional sightings of a coyote or a bobcat, and how we should not let our pets out after dark. Jimmy described how he once let his cat out at night by mistake. Next morning, he found its torn up body in a nearby bush. Apart from such horrific incidents there was some excitement a couple of years ago when we learned that John, our neighbor fell in love with a single woman, possibly half his age who lived a few doors down the street. He eloped with her leaving his wife and three young children behind. We never learned how the mess was settled.
However, little did we anticipate that a shock
evening news that there was a gruesome murder in our town. Murder? Our town? Nah, impossible, that only happens in cities, not in our little and forever peaceful town. Our friend insisted – it was so repugnant that it made the local Boston news.
We were never much for watching TV and mostly got the local, national, and world news from the daily paper. It was pre-internet days, and we waited till the next morning to get our copy of the Boston Globe, the venerable Boston newspaper. The incident made the front page.
It appeared to be a typical crime of passion. The single column on the front page of the paper was the gateway to a full-page spread inside where the reporter described the incident in detail with pictures of the victim, the alleged murderer, and the scene of the crime.
Adam, the high-school senior was going steady with his class-mate, Julie. They were ideal lovers— always seen in a pair, visited friends together, and were partners at the senior prom. However, somehow things went sour. According to the police report obtained by the reporter, on the evening before the incident, Adam invited a few of his friends including Julie to his parents’ house for a weekend party. That night when she did not return home, her worried parents called the police. Pretty soon police arrived at Adam’s door. It did not take much effort to break him down.
Lately the apparent solid bond between Julie and Adam had started showing cracks. During the past few months Julie was working as a salesgirl at a craft-store in a neighboring town on weekends. There she met Derek, a local college freshman, and soon they started dating. Julie immediately felt liberated because lately her relationship with Adam was becoming very claustrophobic due to his megalomaniac behavior. At times Julie felt that he was treating her like his possession. For instance, one day he made a big fuss over Julie speaking to another young man in their class. There were other examples too.
Soon Adam discovered that Julie was dating
Derek. In no time, he confronted Julie angrily.
“How can you date another guy while you are going steady with me for so long,” Adam exploded.
“Wait. You are talking like you own me, like my master from medieval ages,” Julie kept her calm.
“Well, no, but what about our relationship?”
“You are my friend and will remain so, but that must not prevent me from seeing others, if I wish to,” Julie said firmly.
Adam was visibly agitated and walked away angrily without an answer.
After this confrontation, they quarreled often without resolution and in the end both sides dug in their heels. To cool things down, Julie suggested that they stop seeing each other, and they did.
Under pressure from investigators, Adam confessed that during this time he was having thoughts of killing her. He set up a trap in the disguise of a party at his place, and she innocently fell into that after nearly three-months of mutually-agreed separation.
Julie was genuinely happy to see Adam. They hugged and kissed like old days. After the party, when Adam requested Julie to go for a spin in his car, she happily agreed.
At nearly two in the morning, not a soul was awake in this backwoods town, except occasional chirping of crickets that broke the stillness of the warm night. Adam stopped his car at a desolate and marshy area adjacent to the river. He turned off the engine and came out of the driver’s seat. Julie also came out of the car questioning what they were doing in this godforsaken place. Without a reply, Adam picked up a dagger that was hidden in the backseat of the car and lurched towards her. He pinned her against a bush, covered her mouth with his palm, and repeatedly stabbed her. Julie could barely let out a sigh and limped down to the ground lifeless.
He looked around for any sign of movement. Perhaps a night-duty police car was patrolling the area for whatever reason. There was none.
n 138
Adam came prepared. He shoved Julie’s bloody and lifeless body into a large bag, picked it up in his arms, waded into the shallow edge of the river and gently lowered it into the pitch-dark water. The bag sank quickly with a swoosh. A vortex in the water dissipated quickly and, everything was quiet again. Adam looked up. No, nobody heard the sound. It was this easy! He held a chuckle under his breath.
However, that day Adam’s resolve quickly evaporated under police interrogation. He took them to the scene of the crime and showed them where he had hidden the dagger that was used to kill Julie, as well as to his blood-soaked clothes hidden in a crawlspace in the basement of his parents’ home.
As the case was brought to the court for trial we, the townsfolk, were glued to the television to soak up every little detail of the case. The Town Crier filled its pages with tales and pictures. Adam, a handsome, and stout Asian kid sat impassively through the proceeding. His parents appeared grave and concerned about their son’s future. They never spoke to anybody and quietly left the court after each hearing. In contrast, Julie’s parents often spoke to reporters outside the courthouse. To everyone’s surprise, her father openly spoke about forgiving Adam for his crime, stating that one life was already lost and what was the point in ruining another. Instead, he promised to start a fund to help counseling young adults.
Soonthe case was over. The defense attorney pleaded for leniency considering the age of the accused. However, the judge weighed heavily on the premeditated nature of the crime and lack of any remorse on Adam’s part. He sentenced Adam to life imprisonment with a parole option in ten years or earlier with good behavior, as determined by the warden of the penitentiary.
As a fallout of the enormous publicity surrounding the case Adam and Julie’s parents became easily recognizable in a small town like ours. To avoid further embarrassment Adam’s parents left the state within a few months, while
Julie’s parents kept their promise and established a counseling center for young adults in difficult relationships and family situations at the townhall.
The murder case soon evaporated from our memory, and we went back to conversing about coyote and bobcat sightings. Spring and summer came with lush green foliage and an abundance of flowers, fall came with turning color of the leaves of maple, aspen, ash, and other trees, soon to be followed by fallen leaves everywhere. Then came deep and harsh winter with heaping snow and ice and slippery roads.
Six years had passed by. One day, the townsfolk woke up to the news of yet another murder. The lifeless body of a young woman was discovered by a jogger early in the morning almost in the same marshy area by the side of the river where Julie’s body was dumped six years ago. The victim was stabbed multiple times. Soon the investigators discovered that the slain woman was a runaway from California, and recently moved to the Boston area.
The town became abuzz with excitement again. This time the internet chatter went on and on and overwhelmed the TV and newspaper coverages. We discussed among neighbors about the increasing number of runaways among kids —a very worrisome trend. We also spoke about striking similarity of the recent murder with that of Julie’s. However much improbable, Adam’s name appeared in some of our minds, knowing fully well that Adam was serving a life sentence in a prison in Oregon.
Then strange things started to happen. Someone discovered a report that was published in the Town Crier six years ago. At that time, this information went unnoticed as irrelevant. The report stated that Julie was a runaway girl before her adoption by her current parents. An apparent pattern was emerging, but how could that be possible? Adam was behind bars.
Soon that veil of uncertainty was lifted when it was brought to light that Adam was released from jail about a year ago due to his exemplary behavior in the prison. r
n 139
Green Bangles
Ranjana Sanyal, New Jersey
The tinkling of the bangles on the wrist of the elderly lady on the adjacent seat woke me up. In that strange twilight zone between sleep and alertness, for a moment I thought I was back in our home in Salt Lake, Kolkata. Surely that was the sound of Ma getting up from her afternoon nap to make tea for us. Her beautiful gold bangles and shankha-pola –the white and red bangles that married Bengali women wore – created music as she adjusted the folds of her sari. That was her ringtone, I would often tell her teasingly. They invariably announced her arrival before she entered the room – our signal, when we were kids, to hide the story books under the school textbooks.
The plane hit a cloud and I was lurched into complete wakefulness. I turned my head and saw a thin, age- spotted wrist covered with green bangles. That is inconvenient, I thought to myself irritably. I am a light sleeper and have trouble falling asleep on planes. These bangles will provide a constant soundtrack on the flight, and I will not sleep a wink, I grumbled silently to myself.
I closed my eyes and tried going back to sleep. Random, jumbled snapshots of the past week made special appearances in no particular order, making my heart heavy and my eyes teary. Even after twenty years, leaving my mother and my motherland brought on the peculiar, and by now familiar, combination of heartache, guilt, and yearning. This would not do! I rummaged in my handbag and pulled out
my staple, time tested antidote to homesickness on my flights back from India- a Chitra Divakaruni novel. I had bought a copy of Before We Visit the Goddess at Park Street’s Crossword Book Store and tucked it away in my handbag. I opened the book and switched on the overhead reading light.
The bangles tinkled right into my ear followed by a tap on my shoulder. “Aap Hindi bolte ho,” (Do you speak Hindi?) asked the green-bangled lady. I turned around and saw a beautiful, smiling face with deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. She is a happy person, I thought to myself. Those wrinkles were surely earned from a lifetime of smiles. “Haan,” I answered. “Yes, I do speak Hindi fluently,” I told her. With an audible sigh of happiness, she said she was relieved to hear this. “It would be hard to tell you my story in English,” she said in Hindi.
Here we go again! It was uncanny how absolute strangers would latch on to me on long flights and feel like I was an interested audience for their life stories. I made a silent apology to Chitra. “Your book will have to wait.” I knew I would not have the heart to refuse to listen to what this lady had to say.
“Have you seen my bangles,” she asked, breaking into my reverie. Well, I most certainly had heard them! “Oh yes, I have,” I told her with a smile. “They are beautiful, and you are wearing a lot of them. Do not you find it uncomfortable to travel wearing glass bangles,” I asked. n 141
“Oh no! I don’t,” she exclaimed. Besides, these are special. “Have you not noticed the color of the bangles,” she asked with a smile, holding up her wrists. I was flummoxed. The color of the bangles made them comfortable or special? Before I could ask her any questions, she started to speak.
“It all began three years ago,” said the green-bangled lady. “My husband of fifty-two years had passed away a few months ago after a prolonged illness. I had retired as a High School Math teacher, and he had retired as a professor from Bombay IIT. My two children were well settled in America. My daughter, a lawyer, lived in Connecticut, with her husband and daughter. My son, an IT professional, lived in Long Island, New York, with his wife and two sons.
They all came to India for the funeral, of course. My son and daughter with their families. After they went back, I found that I had way too much time on my hands. I struggled to keep myself occupied and contented. I wondered if I should start tuition classes again. After all, Math teachers were always in demand. But would anyone come to learn Math from a seventy plus old lady? I discussed this with my neighbor over tea. “Well, Mohini,” said my friend Radha, “The answer is simple. What you need is Satsang.”
“Your name is Mohini?” I interrupted. “Yes,” she said with a smile, “And you can call me Mohini Tai. Now fetch me a glass of water. My story is long with many twists and turns and I don’t want my throat to dry up in the middle!”
“I hope you know what Satsang means,” asked the green-bangled lady aka Mohini Tai, taking a sip of water from the glass I brought back for her. I knew that Satsangs were gatherings of like-minded people, especially those on a spiritual path. “I have never been to one,” I told her, “But I know what it is. You sing bhajans and pray, right?” She nodded and then with a twinkle in her eye added, “But for me it was so much more than that! Now, do not
interrupt while I tell you my story.” I nodded, and she continued.
I had never been too much into pooja and bhajans, so I was skeptical about joining the Satsang group that met once a week in my building. But Radha was insistent that Satsang was what I needed. So, on the following Sunday, I put on a bright blue sari and rang the doorbell of my friend Smita who lived on the second floor, exactly at 4PM. Smita was the host of the group’s meetings that month.
An old man opened the door. “Namaste! I am Mohan,” he said. “You must be Mohini.”
“And that,” said Mohini Tai looking at me, with a wide smile, her bright eyes sparkling like shiny jewels into those deep grooves around them, “Was the beginning of our love story.”
“Love story,” I asked interrupting her even though I had been forbidden from doing so.“Yes, yes,” she nodded, her bangles tinkling as she patted my hand. “I know what you are thinking. You think I am making up this story to pass the time! But it is true, I tell you. Could an old woman like me fall in love? And, moreover, who would fall in love with a shriveled up wrinkled old soul like me? Listen, and I will tell you how it happened.” She continued.
Smita told me in the kitchen that evening that Mohanwas her late cousin Lata’s husband. He had no children of his own and had been a widower for a long time. He was close to eighty years of age and like me, was a retired schoolteacher.
Believe me— even before I learned that he was a widower, even before we spoke, even before we got to know each other—I knew that Mohan would be mine. We sat next to each other and talked during the next few Satsang gatherings. After a month, I asked Mohan to come up to my flat and have some bhajiya (fritters) and tea with me. That is how it all began! We started meeting regularly. I told Mohan how I felt about him right from the start. Mohan was shy but sincere in returning my feelings. He told me that he too felt as if he
had been searching for me all his life!
I have no shame in admitting all this. Shame was for others! Shame was for some of my neighbors, all of my relatives and for both of my children to experience! For, within a few months of meeting Mohan, I invited him to come and live with me and he agreed. By then, we knew we were meant for each other, that our love was meant to be. News of our relationship spread like wildfire. Many of my neighbors in the building and most of my relatives stopped talking to me. My son called me from America. “Yeh aadmi karta kya hai?” (What does he do for a living?). “How can you invite a stranger to come and live with you? Don’t you realize that he is after your money?” My daughter called me to say, “You have disgraced us!... So soon after Baapu’s passing!… And how can you and that man live together?... At your age! Disgraceful!... What will I tell my friends Aayi!” On and on it went. But I was determined not to budge. Mohan and I continued to live in my house, ignoring all the objections.
But all this living in sin was too good to last! Late one night, a few months after Mohan moved into my house, I got a call from my son. He was moving to Pune for a year. He said it was for his job, but I knew the real reason. He wanted to keep an eye on his mother.
“I am reaching on the first week of July and want to spend a week in Mumbai with you Aayi,” he said. “I am bringing my family for the summer. Make sure it’s only you who is living in the house.” I was angry and upset but Mohan was calm. “It is nice to see that your kids care about you. They don’t want their mother to be loafing around with an awaara, lafangaa (good for nothing fellow),” he said smiling.“I will move back to my flat for a while. Let your son come home and spend a few days and then we can all meet.”
With my son at home, I did not even mention Mohan’s name, let alone meet him. I would sneak to Radha’s flat sometimes to talk to Mohan on the phone. I loved my
grandchildren and daughter-in-law and of course my son, but nothing felt the same without Mohan. I let two weeks pass by before I brought up Mohan’s name to my son. “Well Beta, as you know, I have been living with Mohan.” My son interrupted me before I could finish the sentence. “Yes, we all know Aayi. I am here specifically to find out all about this man who is out to destroy our family.”
Oh, how funny it was. I was the errant child, and my kids were the responsible elders. My honor, the family’s honor, were all at stake! My son confirmed through his “sources” that Mohan had been a lowly primary school teacher with limited means and lived in a rented flat. “I knew it,” he exclaimed. “He is after the flat and your money. I know his type.” My daughter called from the USA to suggest that I should move to Pune and live with him for a year. “You are lonely Aayi,” she said. “That is what this is all about. Go and live with Bhai and his family for a year and then come and spend six months with me. The Andheri flat can be locked up.”
Mohini Tai sighed and picked up the glass to take a long sip of water. Then she continued.
“Lock up,” she said forcefully. What they wanted to lock up was actually not the flat but their mother! I was at my wit’s end. My children were adamant about moving me to Pune and nothing I said could make them change their minds. Believe me, I was not out to create a scandal and cause an upheaval. All I wanted was to be with the man I loved. Next day, I went to Radha’s flat and called Mohan. I told him what my children were suggesting. “Will you marry me, Mohini,” was what he said after I finished talking. I burst out laughing. “No Mohan,” I said. “You are too old to get on a ghodi (horse) and take your bride away.” “Think about it,” said Mohan.
I came back home and began preparing dinner for my grandchildren. As I cooked, I thought about Mohan’s proposal. A wedding? At my age? I was seventy-five and Mohan seventy-eight. Was this even possible? Was I
right in feeling giddy like a schoolgirl in the first throes of love? And then it hit me. These were the first throes of love. After a lifetime of waiting, love had found me after all. Yes, I would marry Mohan, I decided.
As with everything else in life, once you reach a decision, every other part of the puzzle falls into place. That night, after everyone else had fallen asleep, my daughter-in-law asked me to sit with her in the tiny balcony of our flat. Ever since they had arrived in Mumbai, she had been a silent spectator during my arguments with my son, never saying a word. I was surprised that she wanted to speak to me alone. “Aayi, I want to help you,” she said after we sat down in balcony. “Arrey, you are starting the same discussion! I am not out of my mind; I am telling you…” I started admonishing her irritably. “No Aayi… shhhh… I want to help you and Mohan.” “Really,” I asked her astonished. “I thought you were on their side.” She laughed. “I am on the side of love,” she said, adding, “now let us plan on how you can elope with Mohan.”
Mohini Tai paused for a moment to look at the puzzled expression on my face, smiled and resumed her story.
“Elope! Yes, that is what we ended up doing,” said Mohini Tai glancing down to look at the green bangles on her wrist, moving her wrist to watch the play of light on them in the dimly lit aircraft cabin. “I did not agree right away, of course. I tried to talk to my children again and again. I explained to them that I did not want to move to Pune, or America or anywhere else. I wanted to live in my own home. How did it matter if Mohan lived with me? After all, many relatives had lived with us from time to time. They would not listen. “Well, this is different Aayi. This man is your boyfriend!” My children decided that I was to move to Pune with my son and that was that.
Two days before I was to move to Pune, well before sunrise, my daughter-in-law and I crept out of the house. Mohan was waiting in a car at the gate of our housing complex. His
neighbor had arranged for a car and a driver. My daughter in law and I got in and the car sped to our destination.
“You must be thinking we went to a temple,” said Mohini Tai looking at me with a twinkle in her eye. “No, I did not want to get married in a temple. We decided that we wanted the ceremony to be on the beach.“
It was still pre- dawn when the car parked at Versova beach. The sun was about to come up. We walked as fast as our old legs would allow us and stopped right at the edge of the water. And there, with the rising sun as our witness and my daughter-in- law as our priestess, Mohan and I exchanged vows. My daughter-in-law had us repeat a Vedic mantra used in Arya Samaj weddings. “I take your hand in mine in pursuit of righteousness for the benefit of both our families. I will stand by you. May we be provided with prosperity, and may I keep you splendidly radiant as the rays of the sun,” said Mohan to me and I said the same to him. Then he took out a dozen green glass bangles wrapped in newspaper out of his jhola (bag) and slid them on my wrist.
“And that my dear, is how I came upon these green glass bangles,” said Mohini Tai, holding both her wrists. “Oh, a few of the bangles break from time to time of course, but Mohan always brings me more.” Fifty-five years ago, as a young woman getting ready for her wedding day, I was given green bangles in odd numbers to wear. During the ceremony, I was given patlya (gold bangles) to wear with these by the groom’s family. The odd number of green bangles were to give me creativity, new life, and fertility. I never gave the bangles a second thought. I wore them because all married women do and also because I always did as I was told. This time, when Mohan slipped the green bangles on my wrist – not odd, but an even number of bangles, six on each wrist, I felt new life and love seeping into me. This time I felt no need for rituals or finery, shehnai or wedding guests. Just one dozen bangles was all I needed. As a Math teacher, I had always
preferred even over odd numbers anyway!
“Well, you got even with your detractors, didn’t you Mohini Tai,” I exclaimed. “Even is good. Good for you.” “I did,” replied Mohini Tai, smiling as she held up her wrists. I could not help myself from tearing up as I leaned over and enveloped her in a hug. We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then I realized that I still had some questions to ask her. “Why are you going to America now Mohini Tai? Have your children reconciled with you? Where is Mohan?” She stopped my flow of questions. “Oh, you young people. No patience, I tell you.” “Ha, Ha,” I retorted. “You are the impatient one who eloped because you could not wait to marry your lover.” We both laughed.
“Well,” she said, “My children were upset at first. My poor daughter-in-law had to face the brunt of my son’s displeasure. He cut short his stay and went back to the USA with his family. My daughter did not speak to me for almost a year. Then, as time passed, they realized
that Mohan was not after my money or property. What use does an old man have for all that. Still, it took them a long time to tell their friends in the USA that their seventy plus old mother had remarried.
“This year my daughter suggested that Mohan and I pay them a visit. They arranged for Mohan’s passport and visa. And here we are on this plane!”
“That, my dear, is my story,” said Mohini Tai, “and now let me introduce you to Mohan.” She extended her tinkling, green-bangled wrist to reach across the aisle and lightly touched the shoulder of a tall, slender, elderly man who appeared to be fast asleep.
At her touch, he opened his eyes, took her extended hand in his and looked at her with such adoration, that I felt my heart skip a beat.
I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, willing my mind to remember this forever. Oh, those green bangles, I sighed, as I turned to answer Mohan’s welcoming smile.r
Home Sweet Home
Debashis Roy Chowdhury, California
It was highly unusual. Greg was a regular. He knew the Rancho San Antonio Preserve like the back of his hand. As he turned into the road winding down to the park entrance, the parking lot was in plain sight. And it was empty, an impossibility on a Saturday morning! Only the white SUV with bright green borders, stood motionless like a lizard lazing in the sun. It was a ranger’s vehicle, smugly blocking the road leading to the parking lot.
Greg had little choice but press the brake. His old, faithful Mustang screeched to a halt like a reluctant dog restrained on a leash. Greg could see the door of the SUV opening and the ranger stepping out. He checked himself in the rearview mirror. The gaunt face had its fair share of lines like straggly, invading vines. The stubble was only a couple of days old, more gray by now, still somewhat respectable. By-and-large, he was reassured by what he saw.
The ranger maintained his distance as Greg rolled down the glass of the window. He wore a huge, white mask, as if ready to assist in an ongoing surgery. He was a young fellow, hardly in his late twenties. Why was he sporting a surgical mask? Had the air quality worsened so much? All these rangers seemed like health freaks, in their eco-friendly arrogance! Greg could not help but sneer. That made the ranger harden his unfriendly gaze even more.
“Sir, the park is closed. Have you not seen the sign on the road?”
Greg stepped out of his car. The ranger seemed alarmed and took several steps back, as if Greg was about to pull a gun.
“Whoa there … sir, please get back to your car and leave immediately!”
“Take it easy, man … what’s going on?”
“Don’t you know? There is a state-wise red alert. The pandemic is spreading fast. All California parks are closed from today till further notice. You are required to wear a mask in public places.”
“Oh, the flu? That thing going on in China? Come on, this is the Bay area, not Beijing!”
“Please, sir. I am requesting you to obey the order”.
The ranger seemed rather annoyed.
“Ok, ok, no problem. Well, need to go to restroom once.”
Greg eyed the far end of the parking lot. The toilets were housed in a modest structure, shaded by an ancient California bay tree. That was where he needed to be now. Everything else could wait.
“The toilets are locked. You must leave now, sir.”
The ranger repeated his recurrent theme, like a parrot knowing no better.
Greg felt a sudden urge to show his combat moves from the Vietnam days. But he checked himself. He had better things to do than messing with a park ranger who had hardly reached adulthood! He needed to relieve himself and not get into a fight. Greg got back to his car with a pressing need.
Hardly had the red Mustang struggled up the sloping path, Greg had to slam the brakes. There was an unexpected blockade. A rafter of wild turkeys was grazing the roadway! It was a
large flock occupying the entire surroundings. With little human intrusion, they were moving with unhurried nonchalance savoring the morning worm. Greg’s patience was running thin with every passing moment. He felt like shooting those bloody birds! Almost as an involuntary reaction, he checked the rearview mirror. The ranger was nowhere in sight.
The turkeys seemed in no particular hurry. They blissfully ignored the red monster as a harmless creature. Greg had to take matters in his hand now. He started honking as vehemently as he could. The Mustang all of a sudden came to limelight like a soprano showing off. Finally, the turkeys had to take notice. The red creature was making distress calls, too blatant to ignore. The leader of the flock thought it was wise to run for the nearby bush. Others followed suit and scattered to both sides of the road. The road in front was all clear as if the protesters had yielded. There was not a moment to lose. Greg pressed the accelerator with utmost urgency.
The solitary hawk circling above, took in the whole scene, waiting patiently for its chance to strike, much like a watchful trader of the Wall Street.
The McDonald’s stood at the crossing of San Antonio Road and El Camino Real. Camila thought, it was a study in contrast this morning. The dining hall was entirely empty. The chairs were neatly stacked on the top of the tables with their legs straight up, forming a regular pattern. From outside, through the glass door, the room looked like a lifeless sculpture searching for a meaning. Indoor dining was banned from today across the state. In sharp contrast, the kitchen was as busy as a bee-hive. It was buzzing with orders from the drive-thru. While the parking lot was empty, scores of vehicles continued to line up the drive-thru lane. The breakfast hour would end soon; shortly, the specials with eggs and sausages would go off the menu. It was everyone’s last chance to grab a happy break-
fast meal. And the impatient customers could hardly wait their turns from the seclusion of their vehicles.
Camila was trying her best to juggle the demands of the rush hour. As usual, they were short staffed. Tuyen had called-in sick, his second time in a row this week. Bento was his usual sloppy self, holding things up and waiting for instructions. Thank God, Wang was there, cool and efficient; otherwise, Camila would have had a traumatic start of the day. She often wondered whether it was worth the trouble of being an assistant manager and shoulder the responsibilities that came with it, just for a few dollars more per hour. Each time though, she had to admit against her wish, that every little bit mattered. Being a single mom had its prices.
The breakfast hour ended. The vehicles in the drive-thru lane were thinning down. There were only two vehicles in sight – a care-free truck and a trendy Tesla. Camila shouted to Bento to handle the orders while Wang would prepare the food. She would take out the trash. That would give her an opportunity to step out and enjoy a much-needed drag.
Camila leaned against the wall, next to the glass-door entrance, to relish the first break of the morning. It felt good to take the damn mask off. As she lighted her Eve Sapphire, from the corner of her eyes she spotted the red Mustang coming to a halt in the empty parking lot. The car seemed to be stuffed with household items, like a moving truck.
The elderly guy stepping out of the car was tall and stooping. He turned around to check the lighted ‘Open’ sign and seemed somewhat relieved. He started taking hurried strides toward the doorway where she was standing. His hair was disheveled, his stubble was rough. Was he one of those homeless guys? Yet his manners seemed vaguely familiar, like a common sight - a tree or an alleyway cat, frequently noticed but forgotten.
The man seemed harmless at first.
However, as he approached the main entrance to the dining room, Camila felt agitated. Why could not people follow a simple mandate of wearing a mask? She promptly put her own mask on and signaled the man to stop. The man obeyed, though he did not look pleased.
“Please put your mask on.”
“Do you work here?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But I don’t have a mask.”
“Then go back to your car. Indoor dining is closed, please use the drive-thru.”
“The sign says, it’s ‘open’…”
“Open only for pick-up in the drive-thru.”
“Alright. See, I need to hit the restroom, then I will use the drive-thru.”
“Restrooms are closed to public. No one is allowed inside except staff.”
“Please, ma’am, just once. I don’t know where else to go…”
The man was literally begging for help. Camila could see the agony in his eyes. She felt really sorry for the man; sorry to refuse him this simple act of kindness. But what could she do? The franchise had issued a clear directive. Indoor dining was closed, no customer to be allowed inside and restrooms to be kept locked except for staff’s use.
“Sorry, I have my orders.”
The man looked crestfallen. As if he was denied the last ray of hope and decency.
Before he could say anything, Camila quickly tossed her unfinished Eve, opened the door and slid in. She bolted the door from inside before turning around. She had work to do. The early afternoon crowd was building up. The workers would soon arrive to order their quarter-pounders and mega-sized cokes.
Greg was not himself anymore. There was a singular urge that overpowered his entire being. The desperation was growing to a point where he could do anything, simply anything. However, he still had the decency and a sense of honor not to debase himself openly. He got into his car like a zombie and swerved it
around. The old Mustang could, as if, sense its master’s despondency. It seemed to take charge like a self-driving car to avert an impending crisis.
The car headed for a familiar site. Greg had worked there as a construction worker a few years back before he was let go. He was employed in the project till the basement offices and under-ground structures were completed. The underground levels were etched in his memory like flight routes remembered by trans migratory birds. He knew each column and corridor, shimmering in the artificial light underground. Most importantly, he remembered the location of each and every restroom. The red Mustang raced liked a Ferrari, as if it was its last chance to win a race.
The Apple Park in Cupertino looked unreal this afternoon. There was hardly any soul to be seen. As it gloated in its imposing glory, it seemed to have lost its purpose. It stood there forlorn and frozen in time, as if trying to decide whether it was descendant of a Roman Colosseum or ancestor of a futuristic flying saucer. Today, however, no Gladiator or Alien showed up to solve its dilemma. The Park seemed to be waiting for darkness to hide its embarrassment.
The corporate games were now played from home. Though life had turned into a virtual reality for the employees working from home, for the security staff the daily routine had not changed much. Rather, staffing level had to be increased to guard the deserted, dream-like structure round-the-clock. The contracting security company had recently hired a number of new trainees and temp workers.
Tuyen was one of those fortunate ones. It was his second day at work as a security guard. The job offered good pay, much above minimum wage and a decent health plan. There was a short trial period before his employment would be made permanent. Tuyen felt bad this morning when he lied to his
supervisor at McDonald’s that he was sick. What could he do? He needed a fallback option if something went wrong during the trial period in this new job.
Though seriously, what could go wrong? His duty was to man the side entrance leading to the underground offices and parking lots. And once every four hours, he would have a break. Usually, he would take a brisk walk around the circular building and talk to the other guards. The walk was about a mile or so. It would give him some much-needed exercise. It was a boring job. There was no employee, no visitor, no human to be seen. The virus had banished all to the confined spaces of their homes. No doubt, this was a better paying job; but during those uneventful hours, he still missed the commotion, the smell of food and coffee in McDonald’s busy kitchen.
Tuyen checked the essentials: his badge, bag of supplies, walkie-talkie and the content in the concealed pocket of his trouser. He left the security office underground and turned the curve to approach the side entrance. He could see a rusty, red Mustang parked next to it. The man was fumbling near the entrance. Was he trying to enter? Was he an employee? He was trying something at the scanner. His stooped back under a flannel check shirt blocked Tuyen’s view.
“Hey, stop!”, Tuyen started running towards him.
The man turned around. Tuyen had to stop short. The man was not wearing a mask. He was elderly and seemed a bit lost; like one of those nerds lost in trying to solve a math problem. Must be a senior scientist, he thought. Work-from-home policy had just started from last week, the man might have come to collect some personal stuff. During his training, he was alerted of such possibility and the protocol to handle it.
“Do you work here? Please wear a mask, it’s company policy.”
The man seemed apologetic.
“Yes, yes. Do you have a spare mask?”
“I do, for the employees. Please show your badge.”
“Sorry, that’s what I was looking for in my pockets. I may have left it in the car. Let me get it.”
“By-the-way, all employees must work from home. I can allow you inside for 15 minutes only.”
Tuyen sounded adequately official, thanks to the professional training he had received. He put down his bag of supplies to pull out a mask with a neat little Apple logo on it.
The cold, hard object pressed against his back took Tuyen by complete surprise.
“Do not move and do what I say.”
The man’s tone had changed. It was quieter and sinister. To his utter shock, Tuyen realized, he was at gun-point.
“Sir, please..., he still tried to reason.
“Shut the fuck up and open the door!”
The nozzle of the pistol was pressing harder causing a sharp pain. Tuyen was least prepared for it. However, he knew better not to panic. He moved slowly and opened the entrance with his own badge.
“Get in.”
The man entered behind him. The pressure on his back was relentless.
“Turn to the left, take the stairs down towards the men’s room”.
The man obviously knew his way around. Was he a disgruntled employee? But why the restroom? Tuyen had a bad feeling. Why did he leave the safety of a steady job at the McDonald’s?
As he lay on the shiny floor of the restroom, face down and hands spread to the side, Tuyen tried to gauge the situation. The man had disappeared in the nearest toilet stall. Before that, he had warned him to stay still and make no noise. He seemed to be keeping a close watch through the slit of the stall’s door.
The smell was overpowering. Tuyen felt like vomiting. To Tuyen’s amazement, the man started whistling, as if he was enjoying the whole ordeal. Tuyen took his chances while n 149
the man was preoccupied. Like a cobra moving soundlessly towards its prey, his fingers slithered to his concealed pocket.
Behind the shiny panel of the toilet stall, Greg was his carefree, gentle self again. His composure had returned. He was feeling good about himself. A piece of copper pipe had done the trick. In his Mustang, he carried his life’s belongings, his collection of tools and discards. Among these, he had found this precious piece. He had no choice but be creative. As one would say, desperate times called for desperate measures. Luckily, he was proven right. The amateurish, make-shift guard hardly knew the difference between a pistol nozzle and a plumber’s pipe!
Greg was satisfied. His combat training to tie hands and feet of a captive, still served him well. The clueless guard, sprawling on the toilet floor, now looked more like a trapped and captured lizard. Greg would soon get out of the building and disappear. He had no further business here.
The exit door was shut tight. Greg tried the handle again with full force. The heavy-set steel door did not budge. Something was wrong. Greg ran along the corridor in search of other exits. He could see the ‘Exit’ sign ahead. Even this door could not be opened. In a split second, it dawned on him. He was trapped inside. The security protocol for a breach had been activated. All external doors to the building were locked down. No one could enter or leave the building. Did the security cameras give him away? Or did the guard manage to send a SOS message? It did not matter now.
Greg took the elevator to the first floor. Through the large windowpanes facing the visitor parking lot, he could see the flashing blue and red lights of emergency and police vehicles. It was an impressive display, as if a carnival was organized in his honor. Why were there so many vehicles? It seemed like a full battalion, deployed to capture a lone, defenseless veteran. Greg had obviously under-estimated the full extent of a response,
once a sacred bastion of corporate America was breached.
Greg had nowhere to go and nothing to do. He entered the vast, empty lobby and grabbed a can of ginger-ale from the shiny fridge that was flushed in the wall in the far corner. He seated himself comfortably below a glowing Apple sign and opened the can. He was thirsty. Since the morning he had not eaten or drank anything. He waited for the first responders to show up any moment.
The main visitor door opened a fraction of an inch, as if it lacked the courage to move any further. Through the crack, the negotiator’s urgent voice floated in to interrupt Greg’s remaining moments of peace and solitude. Greg was asked to raise his both hands so that they could be visible. He clumsily obeyed, like a kindergartener following orders in a classroom. The can of Ginger ale fell to a side, still half-full and liquid oozing out. What a waste, Greg thought!
Through the glass door that was built to welcome the rich and the powerful, Greg could see the motley crowd in their riot gear: their shiny helmets, iron shields and assault rifles. The German shepherds were sufficiently ferocious to lend an authentic touch. A little behind them, the array of vehicles provided the necessary backdrop with their dazzling, blinking red-and-blue lights. The responders in their riot gears reminded Greg of gladiators about to enter an arena before a deadly game would begin.
As they handcuffed him and walked him towards the police car, Greg stole a last glance at his Mustang in the far corner. It was peacefully resting, like Rociante napping after a day’s adventure with its master. It was faithfully guarding the master’s life-long possessions inside its small interior. Greg sighed. It was his home, sweet home. Yet, hungry and tired, he felt a sense of relief. He was looking forward to the night in the comfort of a bed under a roof after a long, long time. r
n 150
Youth Corner
Darcy Botts and the Missing Birthday Gift
Anshini Biswas (Age 10), New Jersey
It was an exciting day for the fifth graders in Lakeback Middle School. It was Amelia’s birthday party, and everyone was invited. At around 5 pm, everyone started coming in with beautifully wrapped presents. That was Amelia’s favorite part about her birthday, getting exciting gifts from everyone.
It was late December, and there was a thin layer of snow
outside covering the grass. Everyone was coming in wrapped up and hanging up their coats in the closet when they came in.
“Happy birthday!” Jade said to Amelia as she came in.
“Thank you,” Amelia said with a smile.
Then Aiden came in. “Happy birthday” “are we going to play any fun games?” he asked.
“We’ll see” Amelia said.
Amelia’s mom walked into the room, “We’re cutting the cake soon!” she said.
Just then Addylin walked in. Addylin and Amelia didn’t get along well. It was just the other day when they fought over the best seat in the recreation room. But since it was her birthday, Amelia wanted to be nice to everyone and decided to include her as well.
“Hi Addylin”, Amelia said when she saw her coming in, keeping her smile up.
“Happy birthday Amelia”, Addylin said, “where do I put this gift?” she asked pointing to the red shiny gift bag that she was holding in her hand.
“Thank you“, Amelia smiled at her and pointed to the table in the corner where everyone was putting their gifts.
Amelia’s parents hired a
party entertainer named Rebecca. She came up and said,
“Ok everyone, come here, and gather around me. Let’s play some fun games. Who wants to play hide and seek?”
“Me!”, “me”, “me”, everyone shouted and gathered around Rebecca.
“Ok, who wants to seek first?” she asked again.
“I will!” Jade said promptly.
“Ok”, Rebecca said “1… 2…3…go!”
Jade started counting to 10 as everyone started running around, trying to find the best place to hide. Then it was Jade’s turn to find everyone. He found Nikki first, and then gradually everyone else.
They played a few more rounds like this, and then Amelia’s mom came in “Ok, are you all ready to cut the cake and open the presents?”
“Yes!” everyone said excitedly. Amelia’s mom brought out the three layered chocolate cake that they got for Amelia. Everyone gathered around her and couldn’t wait to get a piece of the cake. They all sang happy birthday, and Amelia blew out the candles. Rebecca helped Amelia cut the cake and distribute them evenly among all the kids and the parents.
And then it was the best part of the party for Amelia, opening her presents. She opened all her gifts one by one, and found all the exiting
stuff, like books, clothes, legos, puzzles, that everyone got her. She finally got to the last gift, the bright red gift bag that Addylin came in with. She opened the bag and looked confused. She found nothing inside the bag!
“There’s nothing in here”, Amelia said confused.
“What are you talking about?” Addylin asked. “Let me see.”
She walked up to Amelia, “of course I brought a gift for you and I was hoping you would like it.” She looked inside the gift bag, and found nothing inside it.
“Let’s look around the table”, Amelia’s dad suggested, “It could have fallen off.
Everyone looked around, yet they couldn’t find it anywhere. Everyone was now confused.
“Do you think this could have something to do with their fight the other day?” Nikki whispered to Tanya.
“I hope not, do you really think she wouldn’t get her a gift just because of the fight they had?” Tanya looked confused.
Even though they were speaking in a very low voice, Addylin heard them. She looked pale, and scared, thinking that everyone must be thinking that she didn’t really get a gift inside the gift bag.
Just then Darcy walked up.
“Let me see if I can help you find it,” Darcy said. Darcy was very famous in her class for her ability to find things.
“Ok, please help Darcy” Amelia said.
“Addylin, are you sure you had the gift inside the bag when you walked into Amelia’s house? Maybe you forgot it at home? You know we often forget things”, Darcy asked Addylin.
“I’m positive that I brought it”, Addylin replied.
“Ok, what does the gift look like?” Darcy asked
“It is a small box, and it has red wrapping paper. I put that inside the gift bag that I brought in”, Addylin said
“Ok,” Darcy said, “since it’s small, there’s a possibility that it might have fallen somewhere!”
“That’s possible! Let’s look around again”, Amelia said. Darcy and Amelia both looked around, the living room, the dining room, the main entrance, and other places. But they simply couldn’t find it.
“Let me think what might’ve happened”, Darcy said. She kept her gaze at the corner table for a few minutes and then exclaimed, “Wait, I think I know where it might be”. Darcy looked at Luke who was standing nearby, “Luke, can you come with us?”
“Why me,” Luke asked, little puzzled.
“Just testing out a theory”,
Darcy replied.
She brought Luke and Amelia to the table where everyone put their gifts when they came in. Everyone followed them to the table.
“Why are we here?” Amelia asked.
“Just wait”, Darcy replied.
Darcy went over to the trash can that was tucked behind the table, and stuck her hand in it!
“Eww, what are you doing?” Luke asked. Everyone also looked puzzled that Darcy is looking for it in the trash can.
Two seconds later Darcy took out her hand and lifted something up. It was Addylins present!
“Wait. How’d it get there?” Amelia asked surprised.
“Well, I noticed earlier today that Luke was poking and touching the presents on the table. Then I also remembered seeing that some of the gift bags fell on the floor. I think when Luke was poking the presents, they all fell over like dominos. He must have panicked and quickly picked everything up. But he didn’t notice that when he picked up Addylin’s gift bag, the gift box from it actually fell in the trash can.”
“Oops”, Luke said “I had no idea I accidentally threw it in the trash. I am so sorry”. He looked embarrassed.
”That’s okay,” Addylin
smiled, “you didn’t do it on purpose”.
Addylin heard a voice behind her and she turned around.
“Sorry for doubting you Addylin”, Nikki said.
“It’s okay,” Addylin replied. She handed the gift to Amelia, “please open it”.
Amelia opened the gift and raised her eyebrows, “You got me a snow globe! It’s so pretty! Thank you so much!”
Amelia said with excitement, “I really like it Adelyn.”
They both hugged each other. And they silently promised, not to fight with each other anymore. r
Tell Me Another One
Ayushmaan Mukherjee (Age 13), New Jersey
“Tell me another one.” chirped little Molly Smith, who had just heard about a story from her grandaunt, Adeline Smith.
She was telling a lot of stories about her years as a young woman since it was Molly’s birthday. She turned 8. “It’s well past your bedtime, Molly.” replied Adeline.
“I know!” acknowledged Molly as she bounced around on her unicorn-themed bedsheets “But please just tell me another one! You couldn’t want me to feel sad on my birthday, would you?”
“Oh, all right all right.” gave in Grandma, and then chuckled.
“It will be a tale of adventure, fear, and family. Are you sure you won’t be scared?” asked Grandma.
“I won’t!” yelled Molly playfully “I’m not scared of anything!”
“Okay then. I’m going to start. So when I was your age World War II happened…”
“But, what’s World War II?” asked Molly.
“You’ll learn all about it soon enough, but for now all you need to know is that World War II was a war that happened 80 years ago. It happened when one country called Germany was taken over by an evil person who made the army attack other countries.” explained Adeline.
“I used to live in a country called France that was taken over by Germany.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Molly.
“Oh no it is, for the people who defied the leader were arrested, and the people of France
were treated poorly, but first Germany had to take over France, and this is the story of when Germany was taking over France. I used to live in a town called Sedan. It was a beautiful place, with stone-lined streets and amazing shops. I used to play with my friends in the town square and the river all the time, then. I loved it there and wouldn’t leave it for anything.”
“Anything?” asked Molly with wide eyes.
“Anything. Little did I know that in a few weeks, the Germans would come. It started when the Germans started bombing Sedan. I was only 15 years then. It was dreadful.” Adeline grieved.
“But that’s older than I am.” said Molly in surprise.
“True, I was young, but I wasn’t an adult then. Anyway, my friend Heloise’s house was destroyed so they had to move. I never saw them again. Oh, what I would give to revisit all the times I played with my friends.” Lamented Adeline as she wiped a tear from her eye. “Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember. So, Heloise had to relocate and I never saw her again. A lot of shops were also destroyed, so the French soldiers who were in town had to supply us with food. Bridges and roads were destroyed by French airplanes, but more French soldiers couldn’t come to help defend us. Then, it happened. The Germans attacked us, somehow. I don’t remember that much since this was 60 years ago – now that it is 2000 – but I’ll try to remember from the moment the Germans
invaded. Okay, so, one day my mom woke me up screaming in my ear about how there were Germans coming. I was too sleepy to understand, so I stayed asleep. Then she poured some water on me.” Molly started to giggle. “… and I got mad, but then she dragged me outside and it hit me. There were about a hundred German soldiers and tanks, which are big metal vehicles that shoot bullets, shooting at the any French soldiers who were in town. They tried to shoot back but they were unprepared and had to retreat, leaving the townspeople to fend for themselves. All except one actually. My dad, who would be your great-grandfather came running to our house.”
“What does fend mean?” asked Molly sweetly.
“Fend means that they had to protect themselves against the German soldiers.” explained Adeline.
“Ohhh, I get it.” said Molly.
“Anyway, I grabbed my Mom and Dad’s hand and sprinted for cover behind a house as bombs blew up and destroyed houses. I made a plan to get out of the town but there was no way to do that as the Germans had surrounded the town, so I grabbed my mom and dad again and ran back to my house and to the cellar and prayed that the Germans soldiers would leave soon since the French soldiers already left.”
“Did they?”
“No, they didn’t. In fact, I actually took a peek upstairs and what I saw horrified me. I don’t know if I should tell you or not.”
“Tell me! You didn’t tell me something else!”
“You’re not supposed to know about the first thing but I’ll tell you about this anyway. The Germans were shooting simple French townspeople.”
Molly slightly gasped.
“And that’s not all. After they killed my fellow townspeople, they went into their homes to steal things. I was absolutely shocked, and immediately realized that we would have to
hide, so I went downstairs into the cellar where my mom was and told her the situation. She told me to get some food and follow her, so I did, and she led me to a corner where a crate was, and opened it. It looked perfectly normal to me, but then she slipped her hand into what was a crack and pulled it, and the bottom of the crate came up. Underneath it was a small space about as large as a closet with a floor and walls of dirt, almost like someone dug a hole in our cellar. I was astounded, and looked at my dad for an answer, and he explained that he put a fake crate and dug a hole in it in case of an emergency.”
“That’s funny.” giggled Molly.
“It was smart too, because it saved our lives. We went into the hole with the food I had and closed both layers of the crate behind us. A few minutes later we heard the German soldiers coming into our basement.”
“Did they find you.” asked Molly, who looked nervous.
“No, but my heart was pounding like a hammer, since the Germans could discover us at any time, and in fact, they could lift up the crate’s lid at one point, but, thank god, they didn’t. We still didn’t get out of the crate for another hour because we didn’t know if the Germans had left. After a few hours cooped up in the hole, we finally went outside because we heard tanks moving, presumably out of town. I peeked out the door, and luckily all the Germans had moved on. It was nice to stretch after hours, but it was horrifying to see the ruins of the town that had once been my home. I started crying in my mom’s arms. Several minutes later we trudged out of town. We kept moving from town to town since my dad was part of the army, and I even joined the French resistance, since they fought against the Germans, and after the war I moved to America. I might tell you some of those stories later-oh!” she exclaimed as Molly had fell asleep.
She smiled to herself as she walked out of the room and to her own bedroom.r
Write
Sayan Shubhro Chakraborty (Age 13), New Jersey
Write?
I’d rather not
The thoughts are blocked The words, locked Write?
How do I write? With no desire
It’s only required That’s not enough For writing to flow Not enough For the word count to grow Write? It isnt easy
There’s not much i can do If I don’t even have a clue Write?
I’d rather not
It’s way too hard
All the feelings are barred Write? I’d rather not
Why would I waste my time? To do something so not sublime Write?
You know what?
Maybe I’ll give it a try Write? Maybe it isn’t as bad as I thought it was?
Write?
You know what? I’ll try it tonight.
