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A Publication of Ananda Mandir

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: Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com (Acting)

Editors:

Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com Sushmita Dutta,sushmitadutt2@gmail.com Amrita Kangle, amritakangle@hotmail.com Nupur Lahiri,nupurlahiri@aol.com Sophia Mitra, sophiamit@yahoo.com Rahul Ray, bapi@bu.edu

Associate Editors: Ruby Banerjea, r_banerjea@yahoo.com

Advisor: Ashok Rakhit, ashokrakhit@gmail.com

About the cover: Shiuli, the nightflowering jasmine, or Parijat.

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, 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)

Prabir Biswas

Constitution, Policies & Procedures

Dipak Sarkar (Chair)

Kamalesh Sirkar

Debajyoti Chatterji

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

Nemai Ghosh

Pradip Majumdar

Debasish Mukherjee

Prabal Mukherjee

Santosh Mukherjee

Anupom Saha

Ujjal Sanyal

Subhrojit Dutta

Soumen Deb

Swati Deb

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)

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

Sophia Mitra

Rahul Ray

Strategic Planning

Ashok Rakhit (Chair)

Joy Bhowmick

Jai Prakash Biswas

Debajyoti Chatterji

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

Prabir Biswas (Chair)

Susmita Biswas (Asst Chair)

Debajyoti Chatterji

Sikha Chatterji

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)

Rama Haldar (Co-Chair)

Anup Rakhit

Kirit Dalal

Editorial

Dear Readers of Anandalipi

On behalf of the editorial board, I extend our heartiest Sharodiya greetings to you. We are pleased to bring Anandalipi, the flagship literary magazine of Ananda Mandir, to your desk. As our familiar world continues to recover from a near public health catastrophe and battles to overcome climate-induced and human-inflicted crises, the contributors of Anandalipi have demonstrated that their creativity can transport us to another world. Because of their efforts, we are able to continue our long tradition of the magazine’s 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 about the world affairs. The magazine also has a 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. We are gradually recovering from the restrictions imposed by the novel coronavirus (COVID19) pandemic on the use of our premises. In doing so, like you, we are hopeful that Ananda Mandir will be able to look past the events of the past couple of years with a renewed vigor.

Wish you a safe and happy year ahead.

Subhodev Das Executive Editor

President’s Message

Dear Members of Ananda Mandir

As the world gradually emerges from the shadows of COVID-19 pandemic and its catastrophic effects on virtually all aspects of everyday life, we are faced with new and unique challenges. The continuous stream of statistics about death and destruction wrought by the virus is being replaced with that of rising cost of living, war, and famine. Many parts of the world have been suffering heavily from natural calamities like drought, flood, hurricane, and wildfire. As 2022 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 COVID19 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, continues to feel the impact of the past two years on its financial books. Fortunately, our members and friends have contributed generously during this challenging time. 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. We hope that many out-of-state members and friends will continue to enjoy such modern communication technologies and remain involved in the organization. As of this writing, we are ready to welcome back all our members and friends to the biggest community event of the year – Sharodotsob or Durga Puja 2022.

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 are with their families.

May 2023 bring health, happiness, and prosperity to all of us.

Jai Prakash Biswas President, Ananda Mandir

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Blowing in the Wind p Sophia Mitra C 123

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Geeta’s Life p Basab Dasgupta C 132

Another world, another time p Satya Jeet C 136

The National Anthem p Debashis Roy Chowdhury C 140

Poem C 144 - 146

The Years that Were: 2020 and 2021

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You Froze

Vishnupriya C 145

Those Eyes

Vishnupriya C 145

Lunch episode

Bharati Chowdhury C 146

Art

East-West Duality p Basab Dasgupta C 118

Mahis p Rajarshi Chottopadhay C 147

Youth Corner

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Stewart ì˛§yÓ˚ History of BengalÈÙÈ~ ˆ¢£z ¢õˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ ü£ˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ˛ô!Ó˚!ﬂ˛i!ì˛Ó˚ Óí≈òy !îˆÏÎ˚ !úˆÏÖˆÏäÈòÈÙÙÙÈ ÚDuring the invasion of Mahrattas– crowds of the inhabitants of the country on the western side of the river crossed over to Calcutta– and implored the protection of the English— who– in consequence of the general alarm– obtained permission from Aly Verdy Khan to dig an entrenchment round their territory. Û òÓyˆÏÓÓ˚ xò%õ!ì˛ ˛ôyÁÎ˚y ˆÜú– Ñ˛yã

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üˆÏÎ˚ õyò%°Ï– Stewart !úˆÏÖˆÏäÈòÈÙÙÙÈ Ú This work– had it been completed– would have extended seven miles. In six months– three miles of it were finished— when the inhabitants– finding that the Mahrattas did not approach Calcutta– desisted from the work— but the remains of it are still to be seen– and are called Mahratta Ditch. The English at the same time obtained permission to build a brick wall round their factory at Cossimbazar– with bastions at the angels. Û äÈÎ˚ õy¢ x!ÓÓ˚yõ Ñ˛yã â˛úyÓ˚ ˛ôÓ˚ ÖÓÓ˚ ˛ôyÁÎ˚y ˆÜú ˆÎ òÓyÓ ¢õ¢ƒyÓ˚ !Ñ˛äÈ%

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9 ò¡∫Ó˚ ïyÓ˚yÎ˚ ˆúÖy xyˆÏäÈÏÏ Ú Within the ditch which surrounds the boarders of Calcutta are tracts of land belonging to several Zamindars— besides this– I will grant the English Company 600 yards without the ditch. All the land lying south of Calcutta as far as Culpee shall be under the Zamindary of the English Company– and all the officers of those parts shall be under their jurisdiction— the revenues to be paid by them in the same manner with other Zamindars. Û ~£z â%˛!_´Ó˚

have seen– a large part of the population of the districts on the West bank of the Hooghly into the area available around the town which was under the protection of the English fort. Thus began that rapid clearing of jungle which resulted in the extension of the name of town to the suburban area consisting of mauza Hogulkuria– Simlah– Tuntuneah– Arcooly–Mirzapur– Mullanga– Dingabhanga– Colinga–Tallotah– Berjee and Oltadanga besides Gobindapur and that part of Sootalooty and Dhee Calcutta which was not yet urban. Û

Ú Between 1742 and 1753 the development of the town consisted chiefly in the rapid increase of native Indian Houses– both cutcha and pucka ÈÙÙÙÈÛ Ó˝ ÓäÈÓ˚ ~Ñ˛£z xÓfl˛iyÎ˚ ˛ôˆÏv˛¸ Ó˚£zú xï≈¢õyÆ Öyî– ï#ˆÏÓ˚ ï#ˆÏÓ˚ Á£z ÖyˆÏî ˆö˛úy £ˆÏì˛ ÌyÑ˛ú ü£ˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ÎyÓì˛#Î˚ ãOyú–e´õü Á£z xM˛ú ˛ô!Ó˚íì˛ £ú ~Ñ˛ xfl˛∫yfl˛iƒÑ˛Ó˚ ˆòyÇÓ˚y ãyÎ˚ÜyÎ˚– 1799 ¢yˆÏú úv≈˛ ÁˆÏÎ˚ˆÏú¢!úÓ˚ !òˆÏî≈ˆÏü Á£z Öyî

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Ú The Maharatta scare of 1742 drove– as we

History of Bengal ÈÙÈ Charles Stewert

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xyFäÈyñ !òv˛z £zÎ˚ˆÏÑ≈˛ ˆì˛yÓ˚ ˆ¢£z ~Ñ˛ Óı%˛ ÌyˆÏÑ˛ òy⁄ ÷!â˛ òy Ñ˛# òyõ⁄ Á

ˆì˛y Ö%Ó ¶˛yú Óyày!ú Ó˚yß¨y=ˆÏúy

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚– ÁˆÏÑ˛ !ãˆÏK˛¢ Ñ˛Ó˚ òy–

ÁˆÏÑ˛ xyõyÓ˚

£y£z Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ !î¢‰– Óy£z ~Öò–ÙÙÙÈ£ƒyˆÏúy ÷!â˛–

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ÙÙÙÈˆì˛yÓ˚ ¢õÎ˚ xyˆÏäÈ⁄ ~Öò ˆì˛y

≤ÃyÎ˚ !ÓˆÏÑ˛ú ˆì˛yÓ˚–

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£ˆÏú Óú– xy!õ xyõyˆÏîÓ˚

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ÙÙÙÈÓúˆÏì˛ Ö%Ó ÖyÓ˚y˛ô úyÜˆÏäÈ !Ñ˛ls˛

ˆì˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ˛ôyúÇüyˆÏÑ˛Ó˚ ˆÓ˚!¢!˛ô xyˆÏäÈ⁄ ÓyÓyÓ˚ ¢ˆÏD ˆö˛yˆÏò ˆÓ˚!¢!˛ô

ÙÙÙÈ£y £yñ ì%˛£z ~£z ãòƒ ˆö˛yò

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈ¢⁄ ár›˛ Óyòy!Ó⁄ òy ˆÓ˚– Á¢Ó

ÓyòyˆÏì˛ £ˆÏú xy!õ £zr›˛yÓ˚ˆÏòˆÏ›˛ ˆÓ˚!¢!˛ô

ˆîˆÏÖ !ò£z ì˛ˆÏÓ ˆÑ˛yòÁ!îò ˛ôyúÇüyˆÏÑ˛Ó˚

ár›˛ ÓyòyˆÏì˛ Îy£z!ò– £y £y–

ÙÙÙÈxì˛ £y¢yÓ˚ !Ñ˛äÈ% ˆò£z–

ÙÙÙÈÓ˚yÜ Ñ˛Ó˚!äÈ¢ ˆÑ˛ò⁄ !Ñ˛äÈ% õˆÏò

Ñ˛!Ó˚¢ òy– ár›˛›˛y xyã Óyî ˆî–

xyõyÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ~Ñ˛›˛y !e´õv˛

!ﬂ˛ôòyâ˛ÈÙÈ~Ó˚ Ö%Ó ¶˛yˆÏúy ~ˆÏÑ˛ÓyˆÏÓ˚

!Ñ˛úyÓ˚ ˆÓ˚!¢!˛ô xyˆÏäÈ– ˆﬁ›˛Ñ˛ÏÏ£yv˛zˆÏ¢Ó˚

ˆÓ˚!¢!˛ô– Á›˛yˆÏì˛ òy›˛ˆÏõÜ !îˆÏú

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ÙÙÙÈxyFäÈy !‡˛Ñ˛ xyˆÏäÈ– Ó˚yÖ!äÈ ~Öò–

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xyõyÓ˚ Óı%˛

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ãμyúyì˛ò Ñ˛Ó˚úyõ ~ÓÇ ˆüˆÏ°Ï ~ÖyòÑ˛yÓ˚ ~Ñ˛›˛y !e´õv˛ !ﬂ˛ôòyâ˛ Óy!òˆÏÎ˚ ˆö˛úúyõ– xy!õ ˆÓ˚!¢!˛ô›˛y

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ÚÚˆÓ˚ˆÏÜ xy=òñ ˆì˛ˆÏú ˆÓ=òñ ˆì˛ˆÏv˛¸ ÓˆÏúò !ì˛!ò...–ÛÛ

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ÖyÓyÓ˚ xyÑ˛°Ï≈ˆÏíÓ˚ ãòƒ–

~£z ¶˛yÓˆÏÓò òy ˆÎ xyˆÏÓyú ì˛yˆÏÓyˆÏúÓ˚ ¢Ó

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£zîy!òÇÑ˛yˆÏú xy!õ

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~ˆÏ¢!äÈ– ~ÓÇ õˆÏò õˆÏò

~Ñ˛›˛y ÓƒyÖƒyÁ ˜ì˛!Ó˚ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈ

ˆÎ›˛y !ÓˆÏÓâ˛òyˆÏÌ≈ ˛ôy‡˛Ñ˛ˆÏîÓ˚

¢yõˆÏò ˆ˛ôü Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ â˛y£z–

Óúy£z Óy˝úƒ xyõyÓ˚

xyò%Üì˛ƒ Óyhﬂ˛Óïõ≈# Á

Î%!_´@˘Ãy£ƒ S real and rational V !ã!òˆÏ¢Ó˚ ≤Ã!ì˛– !Ñ˛ls˛

Óyhﬂ˛ˆÏÓÓ˚ !Ó˛ôÓ˚#ì˛ Ñ˛#⁄ xyõyÓ˚ õˆÏì˛ ˆ¢›˛y î%Ó˚Ñ˛ˆÏõÓ˚ÈÙÙÙÈ xÓyhﬂ˛Ó

(absurd) ~ÓÇ x!ì˛Óyhﬂ˛Ó (abstract reality) – x!ì˛Óyhﬂ˛Ó

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xò#£y–

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Ñ˛Ìy ~ÓÇ xyõyÓ˚ Á˛ôˆÏÓ˚ ì˛yÓ˚ ≤Ã¶˛yˆÏÓÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy

ˆ¶˛ˆÏÓ

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Üv˛¸yÜ!v˛¸ ˆÖˆÏÎ˚ £y¢y xyõyÓ˚ õò Ñ˛yˆÏv˛¸!ò– xÌâ˛ xy!õ £yõˆÏú ˛ôˆÏv˛¸ Ú˛ôyÜúy

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ÚÖy£z

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£ˆÏì˛ Ì˛ô Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˛ôyˆÏe ˆîò äÈy!v˛¸Û– î,üƒ›˛y x!ì˛Óyhﬂ˛Óñ !Ñ˛ls˛

xÓyhﬂ˛Ó òÎ˚–

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ˆäÈˆÏúˆÏÓúyÎ˚ xyˆÏÓyú ì˛yˆÏÓyˆÏúÓ˚ Ñ˛!Óì˛y ˛ôäÈ® Óy x˛ôäÈ® Ñ˛Ó˚yÓ˚

Óƒy˛ôyˆÏÓ˚

xy!õ ò#ˆÏâ˛Ó˚ ~£z !¢k˛yˆÏhs˛ ˆ˛ô§ÔˆÏäÈ!äÈ–xÓyhﬂ˛Ó £ú Ñ˛ƒyÓ˚ˆÏúÓ˚ !ÓÖƒyì˛ Ñ˛!Óì˛y The Walrus and the Carpenter ÈÈÙÙÙÈ ˆÎÖyˆÏò õ%Öƒ î%£z â˛!Ó˚e ¢õ%o ˜¢Ñ˛ˆÏì˛ Óy!úÓ˚ Á˛ôÓ˚ ˆ£§ˆÏ›˛ â˛ˆÏúˆÏäÈñ xyÓ˚ ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚ ˆ˛ôäÈò ˆ˛ôäÈò £§y›˛ˆÏäÈ !G˛ò%ˆÏÑ˛Ó˚y– ~Ñ˛›˛y Ó˝ ˛ô!Ó˚!â˛ì˛ äÈe ~ÖyˆÏò v˛zk,˛ì˛ Ñ˛Ó˚!äÈ–

The time has come, the Walrus said,

To talk of many things:

Of shoes – and ships – and sealing-wax –

Of cabbages – and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot –And whether pigs have wings.

~ÖyˆÏò Ñ˛!ÓÓ˚ xò%≤ÃyˆÏ¢Ó˚ äÈv˛¸yäÈ!v˛¸ñ

xy!õ Î!îÁ ~Öò The Walrus and the Carpenter

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Óúy ÎyÎ˚– ˆâ˛òy ÎÖò

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ãy!ò xyõyˆÏÑ˛ â˛úˆÏì˛ £ˆÏÓ– Á£z

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xˆÏòÑ˛›˛y ÁÓ˚Ñ˛õ– ~£z xyÓ˚ Ñ˛#Ê ~õò

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¢ˆÏD î%ÛˆÏ›˛y Ñ˛Ìy £ˆÏì˛£z

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ˆÑ˛yòÁ x¶˛yÓˆÏÓyï£z ˆò£z–

xyFäÈyñ xyõyˆÏÑ˛ !Ñ˛ Ö%Ó

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ˆÑ˛yÌyÎ˚ ˆÎˆÏì˛ £ˆÏÓ⁄ Á

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Ñ˛yˆÏ‡˛Ó˚ ì˛yˆÏÑ˛ Ñ˛yú#ñ î%Ü≈y xyÓ˚

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£ˆÏÓ–Û xy!õ ïõÑ˛ úyÜy£zñ ÚÎy Óúúyõ

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ÈÙÙÙÈÖòy– ÓyÉñ ˆÓü òyõ– xyFäÈyñ

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ÓyÓ%Ó˚yñ ˆÎ Óv˛zˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ üÓ˚#ú ˆ¶˛yÜ Ñ˛Ó˚⁄

ì˛yˆÏÑ˛ !Ñ˛ ì˛yÓ˚ üÓ˚#ú ˆÓâ˛y Óú⁄

ÙÙÙÈòyÉ– ì˛y Ñ˛# Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ £ˆÏÓÊ ì˛ˆÏÓ

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~Ñ˛ Ó˚yˆÏì˛£z î%Û!ì˛ò

£ú– Ñ˛Ìy Óúúyõ– ~ÓyÓ˚

xy!õ v˛z‡˛Ó– ˆüyòñ xy!õ ˆÎyÜy¢ò Ñ˛!Ó˚–

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ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚

ˆáß¨y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚–Ñ%˛!Í¢ì˛ ã#Óò Ñ˛y›˛yˆÏì˛

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ˆ¢¢Ó x¢%Ö

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¶˛o !î!îÓ˚y xyˆÏ¢ñ xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ Ñ˛ì˛ ¢%®Ó˚

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚

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¢õyˆÏãÓ˚ õ)ú ˆﬂ˛ÀyˆÏì˛Ó˚ ¢ˆÏD ÁˆÏîÓ˚ ˆÎyÜ

Ñ˛Ó˚yÓ˚ ÓˆÏ®yÓhﬂ˛ £ˆÏì˛ â˛ˆÏúˆÏäÈ– Ö%Ó ï#ˆÏÓ˚

£ˆÏúÁ ˆâ˛‹Ty›˛yÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ ~Ñ˛›˛y ˛ô!ã!›˛¶˛

ˆÎ xyˆÏäÈ ì˛y xﬂ˛∫#Ñ˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛Ó˚y ÎyˆÏÓ

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Ñ˛‹T ˛ôyÁ– ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ õˆÏò Á£z ˛ô÷›˛yÓ˚

!ÓÓ˚&ˆÏk˛ Ó˚yÜ ãˆÏõ òy⁄ ì%˛!õ â˛yÁ òy

v˛zˆÏŒ›˛ ÁˆÏÑ˛ xyáyì˛ Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛⁄

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ãˆÏòƒ òÎ˚– ~£z ˛ôÕ‘#

ãˆÏòƒ !‡˛Ñ˛– xyã ~£z

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ã!v˛¸ˆÏÎ˚ xyõyˆÏÑ˛ ≤Ãíyõ Ñ˛Ó˚ú– ÁÓ˚

xÓòì˛ !˛ô‡˛ ﬂ˛ôü≈ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ õˆÏò õˆÏò

Óúúyõñ ÁÓ˚ Ñ˛úƒyí ˆ£yÑ˛– Î!î

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Óúúñ ÚÚÓyÓyÓ˚ x¢%ˆÏÖÓ˚

ˆ¢›˛ xyòˆÏì˛

v˛zˆÏ‡˛ˆÏäÈñ !Ñ˛ls˛ ì˛y£z ÓˆÏú ~Öò...–

ˆüy¶˛òyÓ˚ ˆâ˛yˆÏÖ ˆúyú%˛ôì˛yÓ˚ äÈyÎ˚y

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˛ôy!‡˛ˆÏÎ˚ !îˆÏúò–

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ãyòy!FäÈˆÏúò ˆÎ Á£z

î%ˆÏ›˛y òyÜyî v˛y.

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£yˆÏ›≈˛Ó˚ Óì≈˛õyò xÓﬂ˛iy

ˆîˆÏÖ v˛z˛ôÎ%_´ ÓƒÓﬂ˛iy ˆòˆÏÓò–

˛ôˆÏÓ˚ ˆäÈyˆÏ›˛yˆÏÓyˆÏòÓ˚ ¢ˆÏD

ˆö˛yˆÏò Ñ˛Ìy ˆü°Ï Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ¢!Óì˛y ˆÓÔ!î

¢ãúˆÏÑ˛ ÓúˆÏúòñ ÚÚÓ˚#ì˛yˆÏÑ˛ áÓ˚

ˆÌˆÏÑ˛£z ˆö˛yò Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ !îˆÏÎ˚!äÈúyõñ Á

!ÓˆÏÑ˛ˆÏúÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ ˆ˛ô§ÔˆÏäÈ ÎyˆÏÓ

ÓˆÏúˆÏäÈ–ÛÛ

ÚÚò#!ì˛òˆÏÑ˛Á ˆì˛y ÖÓÓ˚›˛y !îˆÏì˛

£ˆÏÓ ˆÓÔ!îñÛÛ ¢ãú Óúú– ò#!ì˛ò ~ˆÏú£z ˆì˛y ˆüy¶˛òyÓ˚ õƒy!eÁﬂ˛Òy

v˛ˆÏúÓ˚ ˆ¢›˛ !òˆÏÎ˚ xy¢yÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy›˛y

ˆì˛yúy ÎyÎ˚– ¢ãˆÏúÓ˚ ˆÑ˛yòÁ ˆäÈˆÏú

ˆ¢yî˛ô%ˆÏÓ˚–

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ˆÑ˛yòÁ ÖÓÓ˚ ˛ôy£z!òñ ì˛ˆÏÓ ˆâ˛Ôï%Ó˚#îyÓ˚

ˆÌˆÏÑ˛–ÛÛ

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˛ôˆÏv˛¸ñ £y¢˛ôyì˛yˆÏúÓ˚ v˛y_´yÓ˚ˆÏîÓ˚ ¢ˆÏD

Ñ˛ÌyÓyì≈˛y Á£z !‡˛Ñ˛¶˛yˆÏÓ ÓúˆÏì˛

˛ôyÓ˚ˆÏÓ– ì˛yäÈyv˛¸y â˛yÓ˚!îˆÏÑ˛ ˆäÈy›˛yä%È!›˛

Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ £ˆÏú ˛ô%Ó˚&°Ï õyò%ˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ Ö%Ó£z

îÓ˚Ñ˛yÓ˚– ¢!Óì˛y ˆÓÔ!îˆÏÑ˛ ~Ñ˛›%˛

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ÚÚ¢Ñ˛yˆÏú !Ñ˛ä%È ˆÖˆÏÎ˚äÈ⁄ÛÛ

ÚÚ£y¢˛ôyì˛yˆÏúÓ˚ Ñ˛ƒy!r›˛ˆÏò £zv˛!ú

ˆÖˆÏÎ˚!äÈñ î%˛ô%ˆÏÓ˚ ÁÖyˆÏò£z v˛yú¶˛yì˛

ˆÖˆÏÎ˚ ˆòÓ–ÛÛ

ÚÚ!‡˛Ñ˛ xyˆÏäÈñ ò#!ì˛ò xy¢ˆÏú

õƒy!eÁﬂ˛Òy v˛ˆÏúÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy›˛y ÓúˆÏì˛ ¶%˛ˆÏú

ˆÎÁ òyñÛÛ õˆÏò Ñ˛!Ó˚ˆÏÎ˚ !îú ˆüy¶˛òy–

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ˆÓ˚ãyŒ›˛ õyv˛z¢ ˆòˆÏv˛¸ˆÏâ˛ˆÏv˛¸ ˆî!ÖˆÏÎ˚

!îˆÏÎ˚ v˛y. xyÜÓ˚ÁÎ˚yú ãyòyˆÏúòñ

!mì˛#Î˚ xy›≈˛y!Ó˚ˆÏì˛ òÓπ£z üì˛yÇü

ÓœˆÏÑ˛ã ÌyÑ˛yÎ˚ £y›≈˛ xƒy›˛yÑ˛ £ˆÏÎ˚!äÈú

ˆâ˛Ôï%Ó˚#Ó˚– ≤ÃÌõ xy›≈˛y!Ó˚ˆÏì˛

!mì˛#Î˚

úyÜyˆÏòy ~›˛y v˛y. xyÜÓ˚ÁÎ˚yú !õˆÏ¢¢ ˆâ˛Ôï%Ó˚#Ó˚ v˛z˛ôÓ˚£z

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á^˘›˛yÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ ~Ñ˛›˛y !v˛!¢üò !òˆÏÎ˚

ÁòyˆÏÑ˛ ãyòyˆÏì˛ £ˆÏÓ–

!¢àyÓ˚y xyÓ˚ !ã!ú!˛ô ˆ›˛!ÓˆÏú

ˆüy¶˛òy !Ñ˛ls˛ ÁÓ˚

ˆö˛yò Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ¢ãú ãy!òˆÏÎ˚

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Óú!äÈˆÏúò

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ˆòˆÏõ ÎyˆÏÓ– xyÓ˚ ããÓyÜyˆÏòÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ

!îˆÏÎ˚ Ñ§˛yâ˛y òyúy Ñ˛y!›˛ˆÏÎ˚ ÎyÁÎ˚y

ÎyˆÏÓ–ÛÛ xyã ˆì˛y Ñ§˛yâ˛y òyúyÓ˚

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ì˛!ÓÎ˚ˆÏì˛ ˆÖˆÏú ˆÓv˛¸yˆÏFäÈ– Ñ˛# Üy !áò

!áò Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˆîÖˆÏú£z– xÜì˛ƒy

xyÜyõ#Ñ˛yˆÏúÓ˚ xyüyÎ˚ ÓˆÏ¢ ÌyÑ˛y äÈyv˛¸y

Ü!ì˛ ˆò£z–

˛ôˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ !îò G˛Ñ˛G˛ˆÏÑ˛ ˆÓ˚yj%Ó˚– î%˛ô%Ó˚

Ü!v˛¸ˆÏÎ˚ â˛úú– £zﬂ˛%Òú ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ !ö˛ˆÏÓ˚

ÓyîúîyÓ˚ xˆÏ˛ô«˛yÎ˚ õˆÏòÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ v˛z_yú

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ÎyˆÏÓ– ì˛y£z ~£z ÌˆÏú›˛y !òˆÏÎ˚ ÎyÁÎ˚y

ÓˆÏv˛¸y£z îÓ˚Ñ˛yÓ˚–

xÓˆÏüˆÏ°Ï Óyîúîy £y!¢ £y!¢ õ%Ö

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ îÓ˚ãyÎ˚ ~ˆÏ¢ î§yv˛¸yú– ˆÓü

¢%îü≈ò ˆâ˛£yÓ˚y– ¢ˆÏì˛ˆÏÓ˚yÈÙÈxy‡˛yˆÏÓ˚y

ÓäÈˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ !ò˛ôy›˛ ¶˛yˆÏúy ˆäÈˆÏú– ~Ñ˛›˛y

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¢ˆÏÓ ˆÜ§yˆÏö˛Ó˚ ˆÓ˚Öy v˛z!Ñ˛G%§˛!Ñ˛ !îˆÏì˛

÷Ó˚& Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ– â%˛ú›˛y ˆ›˛!Ó˚ ˆÑ˛ˆÏ›˛

≤ÃˆÏâ˛‹Ty òãÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏv˛¸–

¶˛yˆÏúyñ ã%!òÎ˚Ó˚ ˆ›˛!Óú

ˆﬁ›˛›˛ â˛ƒy!¡ôÎ˚ò– ˛ôyv˛¸yÓ˚

Ñ˛yîy¶˛!ì≈˛ Ñ§˛yâ˛y x!úÜ!ú

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Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyˆÏÑ˛ ï°Ï≈í Ñ˛Ó˚ú– xyÓ˚ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy !òÓ˚&˛ôyÎ˚

¢yì˛ !îò ˛ôˆÏÓ˚ ~òyõ%ú

Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyˆÏÑ˛ !òˆÏì˛ ~ú– ~òyõ%ú

Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyˆÏÑ˛ Óy!v˛¸ !òˆÏÎ˚ ÎyÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ˛ôˆÏÌ

ÓúúÈÙÙÙÈ ˆîÖ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyñ ˆì˛yõyˆÏÑ˛

xyˆÏÓ˚Ñ˛ Óı%˛Ó˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ !ì˛ò !îò ÌyÑ˛ˆÏì˛

£ˆÏÓñ ÁÓ˚ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ xy!õ £z!ì˛õˆÏïƒ£z

›˛yÑ˛y !òˆÏÎ˚ !òˆÏÎ˚!äÈ– ãyˆÏ¶˛î Îy

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈñ ˆ¢›˛y ¶%˛ˆÏú ÎyÁ– ~Ó˚ ¢yˆÏÌ

¢£ˆÏÎy!Üì˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚y– ÁˆÏÑ˛ Ö%!ü Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏú

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xyÓ˚ñ ì%˛!õ ˆÎ›˛y Ñ˛Ó˚äÈñ ˆ¢›˛y ˆì˛y xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ ãòƒ£zñ ~ ›˛yÑ˛y !îˆÏÎ˚ ì%˛!õ

xˆÏòÑ˛ !Ñ˛äÈ% Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ ˛ôyÓ˚ˆÏÓ– ì%˛!õ

x!ì˛ xÓüƒ£z xyõyÓ˚ Óı%˛ˆÏÑ˛ Ö%!ü

Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓñ xy!õ ˆÎò xyõyÓ˚ Óı%˛Ó˚ Ñ˛yäÈ

ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ !ÓÓ˚&ˆÏk˛ ˆÑ˛yòÁ

òy ˛ôy£z– ì˛y £ˆÏú ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ãòƒ ¶˛yˆÏúy £ˆÏÓ òyñ ~ Ñ˛Ìy›˛y õˆÏò

Ñ˛Ìy ÷ˆÏò Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy ˆÓ˚ˆÏÜ v˛z_Ó˚ !îúÈÙÙÙÈ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ !Ó!ÓˆÏÑ˛

ˆúyÑ˛ ¢yì˛ !îò ïˆÏÓ˚ ÓúyÍÑ˛yÓ˚

Ñ˛Ó˚úñ ˆÑ˛yÌyÎ˚ ì%˛!õ ˆ¢ ˆúyÑ˛›˛yˆÏÑ˛

üy!hﬂ˛ ˆîÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ˆâ˛‹Ty Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓñ ˆ¢›˛y òy

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ì%˛!õ xyõyˆÏÑ˛ xyˆÏÓ˚Ñ˛ãˆÏòÓ˚

Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ˆÓüƒyÓ,!_ Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ ˛ôy‡˛yFäÈñ ì%˛!õ

õyò%°Ï òy ãyˆÏòyÎ˚yÓ˚– ì%˛!õ ˆì˛y Ñ˛yã

Ñ˛Ó˚ñ ì˛y £ˆÏú xyÓ˚ ›˛yÑ˛yÓ˚ îÓ˚Ñ˛yÓ˚ !Ñ˛⁄

Îy ˆÓ˚yãÜyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ó˚ ˆ¢›˛y !îˆÏÎ˚£z xy!õ

ˆÑ˛yòÁ Ó˚Ñ˛ˆÏõ ¢Ç¢yÓ˚ â˛y!úˆÏÎ˚ ˆòÓñ

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ˆ¢yÎ˚yõ#ñ xyÓ˚ ˆ¢yÎ˚yõ#ˆÏîÓ˚

!òˆÏÎ˚ Îy Ö%!ü Ñ˛Ó˚yÓ˚

ÌyÑ˛ˆÏÓñ xyÓ˚ ¶%˛!ú¢ òy Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy

üyî# Ñ˛Ó˚y !Ó!Óñ ÁÓ˚ ¢yˆÏÌ

Ñ˛ÖòÁ ÖyÓ˚y˛ô ÓƒÓ£yÓ˚ Ñ˛!Ó˚¢ òy–

ì˛yúyÑ˛ !îˆÏÎ˚!äÈ¢ ÎÖò Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy ˆì˛yÓ˚

ÓyÓyˆÏÑ˛ !òÑ˛y£ Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓñ ì˛yÓ˚˛ôÓ˚ !òÑ˛y£

£yúyúy £ÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ˛ôÓ˚ ì%˛£z xyÓyÓ˚

Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyˆÏÑ˛ !ÓˆÏÎ˚ Ñ˛Ó˚!Ó– ì˛yÓ˚˛ôÓ˚ £züyÓ˚yÎ˚ ~òyõ%ú xyÓ˚ õÑ˛Ó%úˆÏÑ˛ ÁÓ˚ !òˆÏãÓ˚

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ÓúúÈÙÙÙÈ ö˛Ó˚ãyòyñ ~›˛y ì%˛!õ !Ñ˛

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Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ £ˆÏú üyÓ˚#!Ó˚Ñ˛ ¢¡∫ı˛ Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛

£ˆÏÓñ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyÓ˚ ¢yˆÏÌ ~ xòƒyÎ˚ Ñ˛yã

Ñ˛Ó˚y xyõyÓ˚ myÓ˚y Ñ˛ÖòÁ ¢Ω˛Ó £ˆÏÓ òy– ì%˛!õ xòƒ ˆÑ˛yòÁ

õÑ˛Ó%ˆÏúÓ˚ Ü¶˛#Ó˚ xyﬂ˛iy Ó˚ˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈñ ÓÓ˚&í

¢Ó≈îy ÁˆÏÑ˛ ¢Í ˛ôÓ˚yõü≈ ˆîÎ˚ñ ÁÓ˚

!ÓŸªy¢ ~ÓyÓ˚Á ì˛yÓ˚ xòƒÌy £ˆÏÓ òy–

òƒyÎ˚ xòƒyÎ˚ñ ïõ≈ xïõ≈ñ ¢ì˛ƒ xyÓ˚

x¢ˆÏì˛ƒÓ˚ úv˛¸y£z ˆÎò xˆÏòÑ˛›˛y Ñ˛FäÈ˛ô

Á ÖÓ˚ˆÏÜyˆÏüÓ˚ ˆîÔv˛¸ ≤Ã!ì˛ˆÏÎy!Üì˛yÓ˚

õˆÏì˛y– òƒyÎ˚ñ ïõ≈ xyÓ˚ ¢ì˛ƒ Îì˛£z

Ñ˛FäÈˆÏ˛ôÓ˚ õˆÏì˛y !˛ô!äÈˆÏÎ˚ ÌyÑ%˛Ñ˛ òy

ˆÑ˛ò xÓˆÏüˆÏ°Ï ¢ì˛ƒñ ïõ≈ xyÓ˚ òƒyˆÏÎ˚Ó˚

Ñ˛FäÈˆÏ˛ôÓ˚£z ãÎ˚ £Î˚– xyÕ‘y£Ó˚ ≤Ã!ì˛

Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyÓ˚ xÜyï !ÓŸªy¢ñ ˆ¢ãòƒ£z

¢Ó≈îy xyÕ‘y£Ó˚ ≤Ã!ì˛ xyﬂ˛iy ˆÓ˚ˆÏÖˆÏäÈñ

xyÓ˚ ˆ¶˛ˆÏÓˆÏäÈ Ö%îy !ò!ÿ˛ì˛ ÁÓ˚

ï°Ï≈Ñ˛ˆÏîÓ˚ ¢yãy ˆîˆÏÓ– Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy

ï!°Ï≈ì˛y Á úy!N˛ì˛y £ˆÏÎ˚Á !òÓ˚yü £Î˚!òñ ˆ¢ãòƒ£z Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy òƒyÎ˚

!Óâ˛yˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ xyüyÎ˚ ˛ôÓ˚!îò ˆ¶˛yÓ˚ ˆÓúyÎ˚

úyN˛òyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ãyòyú~ÓÇ òƒyÎ˚

!Óâ˛yˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ≤ÃyÌ≈òy ãyòyú– ~›˛y

ãyòyˆÏì˛Á ¶%˛ú Ñ˛Ó˚ú òy ˆÎ ÁÓ˚ ÓÎ˚¢ ~Öò ¢ˆÏì˛Ó˚ ÓäÈÓ˚ £ˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ !Ñ˛äÈ%!îò

xyˆÏÜ–

Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ÷ˆÏò ÌyòyÓ˚

îyˆÏÓ˚yÜy !ãˆÏK˛¢ Ñ˛Ó˚úÈÙÙÙÈ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyñ

ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ÓyÓyÓ˚ òyõ xyÓ˚ Óy!v˛¸Ó˚

!‡˛Ñ˛yòy Óúñ xyõÓ˚y ˆì˛yõyˆÏÑ˛ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚

ÓyÓyÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ˛ôy‡˛yˆÏòyÓ˚ ÓƒÓﬂ˛iy Ñ˛Ó˚Ó–

îyˆÏÓ˚yÜyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ÷ˆÏò Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy

~Ñ˛›%˛ !â˛!hs˛ì˛ £ˆÏÎ˚ ÓúúÈÙÙÙÈ ¢ƒyÓ˚ñ

xy!õ Óy!v˛¸ ˆÎˆÏì˛ â˛y£z òyñ Óy!v˛¸ ˆÜˆÏú ÓyÓy xyõyˆÏÑ˛

~òyõ%ú ~Ñ˛›˛y

ˆõˆÏÎ˚ Óy!òˆÏÎ˚ !îˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈñ xyÓ˚ ÁÓ˚ ˆÓ˚yãÜyˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ›˛yÑ˛yÎ˚ ~òyõ%ú !òˆÏãÓ˚ xyd¢%ˆÏÖÓ˚ ÓƒÓﬂ˛iy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈú–

îy!Î˚c ˆÑ˛yòÁ ~ò!ãÁÈÙÈÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ˆîÁÎ˚y ˆ£yÑ˛ñ ~ÓÇ xyõyÓ˚ !ﬂ˛iÓ˚ !ÓŸªy¢ÈÙÙÙÈ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy ~Ñ˛!îò ~Ñ˛ãò

î«˛ ˛ô%!úü x!ö˛¢yÓ˚ !£ˆÏ¢ˆÏÓ ¢%òyõ

xã≈ò Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ~Ñ˛!›˛ v˛zîy£Ó˚í ﬂ˛iy˛ôò

Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓ ~ÓÇ ¢õyˆÏã õ%¢!úõ ¢£ xòƒyòƒ ïõ≈yÓú¡∫#

!Ñ˛ˆÏüyÓ˚ÈÙÈ!Ñ˛ˆÏüyÓ˚#ˆÏîÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ã#ÓˆÏò

ﬂ˛∫õ!£õyÎ˚ v˛zIμú Á xò%¢Ó˚íˆÏÎyÜƒ ~Ñ˛ xyîü≈ òyÓ˚# £ˆÏÎ˚ v˛z‡˛ˆÏÓ– ~Ñ˛›%˛

ˆÌˆÏõ ì˛yÓ˚˛ôÓ˚ ãyòyˆÏúòÈÙÙÙÈ ˆÑ˛y›≈˛ ~ õyõúy xyã ~ÖyˆÏò£z ˆü°Ï Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏäÈ

ˆúÖy ÌyÑ˛ˆÏÓñ xy˛ô!ò xyõyÓ˚ xyÕ‘y£

£ˆÏÎ˚ !â˛Ó˚Ñ˛yú xyõyÓ˚ £*îˆÏÎ˚ xy¢#ò

ÌyÑ˛ˆÏÓò– xy!õ xyõyÓ˚ ã#ÓˆÏò

≤Ã!ì˛!¤˛ì˛ £ÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ãòƒ Ñ˛!‡˛ò ˛ô!Ó˚◊õ

myÓ˚y xyõyÓ˚ ﬂ˛∫≤¿ ˛ô)Ó˚í Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ xy˛ôòyÓ˚

Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ xyü#Ó≈yî !òˆÏì˛ xy¢Ó ¢Ó≈≤ÃÌõ–

˝ã%Ó˚ñ xy˛ôòyÓ˚ xyü#Ó≈yî ˛ôyˆÏÌÎ˚ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚

~Ñ˛!îò xy!õ xyõyÓ˚ úˆÏ«˛ƒ ˆ˛ô§ÔˆÏäÈ

ÎyˆÏÓyñ ~ !ÓŸªyˆÏ¢Ó˚ Ó#ã xy˛ô!ò

xyõyÓ˚ £*îˆÏÎ˚ xyã Ó˛ôò Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚

!îˆÏúòñ xyõyÓ˚ ú«˛ƒˆÏ¶˛î òy £ÁÎ˚y

˛ôÎ≈hs˛ xy!õ x!ÓÓ˚yõ ˛ô!Ó˚◊õ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚

ÎyˆÏÓyñ ÓˆÏú î%£yì˛ ˆãyv˛¸ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ !Óâ˛yÓ˚ˆÏÑ˛Ó˚ v˛zˆÏjˆÏüƒ ≤Ãíyõ ãyòyú–

¢Ñ˛ˆÏú Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy

ÁÓ˚ ˛ô!Ó˚íì˛ õyò!¢Ñ˛ xÓﬂ˛iyÓ˚ ì˛y!Ó˚ö˛ Ñ˛Ó˚ú– xyÓ˚ !Óâ˛yÓ˚Ñ˛ xì˛ƒhs˛

õy Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyñ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ú«˛ƒ ˛ô)Ó˚í Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚

ì%˛!õ xyõyÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ~ˆÏ¢

î§yv˛¸yˆÏÓ ˆ¢!îò›˛y £ˆÏÓ xyõyÓ˚

Ñ˛õ≈ã#ÓˆÏòÓ˚ ~Ñ˛!›˛ xòƒì˛õ !ÓˆÏü°Ï

¢yö˛ˆÏúƒÓ˚ !îòñ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyñ xyã ˆÌˆÏÑ˛

ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ Ñ˛yäÈ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ˆ¢ !îò!›˛ v˛z˛ô£yÓ˚

˛ôyÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ≤Ãì˛#«˛yÎ˚ Ó˚£zúyõ– xy!õ

˛ôÓ˚ˆÏõŸªˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ¢Ó≈yD#í

¢yö˛úƒ Ñ˛yõòy Ñ˛!Ó˚ñ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ õDú

ˆ£yÑ˛– ¶˛yˆÏúy ˆÌˆÏÑ˛y õy Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy–

ÓˆÏú !Óâ˛yÓ˚Ñ˛ ¢Ñ˛ˆÏúÓ˚ ≤Ã!ì˛

Ñ˛v˛¸ˆÏãyˆÏv˛¸ òõﬂ˛ÒyÓ˚ ãy!òˆÏÎ˚ !ÓîyˆÏÎ˚Ó˚

£zFäÈy ≤ÃÑ˛yü Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏúò ~ÓÇ ÓúˆÏúòÈÙÙÙÈ

~ÓyÓ˚ ÷Ó˚& £ˆÏÎ˚ ÎyˆÏÓ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyÓ˚ xì˛ƒyâ˛yÓ˚#ˆÏîÓ˚ ¢yãy–xyõì˛úyÓ˚

xy!õ xì˛ƒhs˛ Ö%!ü £úyõ ~ÓÇ xy˛ôòyˆÏÑ˛ ãyòy!FäÈ xyã ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy xy˛ôòyÓ˚ ˛ô!Ó˚ÓyˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ¢yˆÏÌ£z

ÌyÑ˛ˆÏÓ–

ì˛yÓ˚˛ôÓ˚ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyÓ˚ !îˆÏÑ˛ ú«˛

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ÓúˆÏúòÈÙÙÙÈ õy Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyñ ~Öò ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ì%˛!õ xyõì˛úyÓ˚ õ%Ö%ˆÏI

˛ô!Ó˚ÓyˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ¢hs˛yò £ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÜˆÏú– ì%˛!õ

úˆÏ«˛ƒ !ﬂ˛iÓ˚ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛y xyõì˛úy @˘Ãyõ

¢Ñ˛úˆÏÑ˛ òõﬂ˛ÒyÓ˚ ãy!òˆÏÎ˚ !ì˛!ò ì˛§yÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ˆü°Ï Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏúò–!Óâ˛yÓ˚ˆÏÑ˛Ó˚ Ñ˛Ìy ˆü°Ï £ˆÏú

õ%Ö%ˆÏIõüy£z Ó˚&:yòyÓ˚ £yì˛ ïˆÏÓ˚

ÓúˆÏúòÈÙÙÙÈ â˛ú õy Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyñ ~ÓyÓ˚

xyõÓ˚yÁ xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ Óy!v˛¸ Îy£z ÓˆÏú

!ì˛!ò ì˛§yÓ˚ v»˛y£z¶˛yÓ˚ˆÏÑ˛ ÓúˆÏúòÈÙÙÙÈ

ãyõyòñ Üy!v˛¸›˛y !òˆÏÎ˚ ~¢ñ ~Öò

xyõÓ˚y Óy!v˛¸ ÎyˆÏÓy– Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòy õy ÓˆÏv˛¸y

Ñœ˛yhs˛ xyãñ ì˛yv˛¸yì˛y!v˛¸ Óy!v˛¸ â˛úñ ÁÓ˚

!Ó◊yˆÏõÓ˚ ~Ñ˛yhs˛ ≤ÃˆÏÎ˚yãò ~Öò–

ì˛yÓ˚˛ôÓ˚ Ó˚&Ñ˛¢yòyˆÏÑ˛ ÓúˆÏúòÈÙÙÙÈ ì%˛£z

ˆÑ˛yòÁ î%!ÿ˛hs˛y Ñ˛!Ó˚¢y òy õyñ xyÕ‘y£Ó˚ ˆîyÎ˚yÎ˚

â˛ƒyˆÏúO

‘‘Hi Smita– how are things going with you–’’ ˆò£yÍ£z

‘‘Going great.’’

‘‘That’s good. How is everyone in the family?’’

are doing really well.’’

‘‘Well– I have good news for you. We are offering you the position of the team leader of our investment strategies research division of all the branches of our company. It was a unanimous decision. You have proved yourself with your strong work ethics,– collaboration skills and problem solving abilities. I will email you the paperwork by the end of this

week. Congratulations!’’

‘‘Thank you Erin I am excited. I have been ready for a more challenging role.’’

~!Ó˚ˆÏòÓ˚ x!ö˛¢ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ≤ÃyÎ˚

˛ôyúˆÏÑ˛Ó˚ õˆÏì˛y £yÁÎ˚yÎ˚ ¶˛y¢ˆÏì˛

¶˛y¢ˆÏì˛ ˆÓ!Ó˚ˆÏÎ˚ ~ú !ﬂ˛øì˛y– Ö%!ü

£ÁÎ˚y›˛y£z ﬂ˛∫y¶˛y!ÓÑ˛– ˆÎ ˛ô!Ó˚!ﬂ˛i!ì˛ˆÏì˛ ˆ¢ â˛yÑ˛!Ó˚ ÷Ó˚& Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ ì˛y Ö%Ó

xò%Ñ)˛ú !äÈú òy– xyÓ˚ ÷ï% ÷Ó˚&£z Óy

ˆÑ˛òñ ì˛yÓ˚ ˛ôˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ !îò=ˆÏúyˆÏì˛Á ˆì˛y

òyòy!Óï â˛ƒyˆÏúˆÏOÓ˚ ¢yõòy¢yõ!ò

˛ôv˛¸ˆÏì˛ £ˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ ì˛yˆÏÑ˛– ˆ¢¢Ó ˛ôyÓ˚

£ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÎ ˆ¢ ì˛yÓ˚ ˆÎyÜƒì˛y ≤Ãõyí Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ ˆ˛ôˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ ˆ¢›˛y ì˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ

ò#ˆÏúÓ˚ Á˛ôÓ˚ Ñ˛yú x«˛Ó˚=!ú

ÓˆÏv˛¸y ˆÓ!ü ﬂ˛ô‹T £‡˛yÍ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚– !Ñ˛

õyˆÏò ~£z Óyì˛≈yÓ˚⁄ !‡˛Ñ˛ Ó%ˆÏG˛ v˛z‡˛ˆÏì˛

˛ôyˆÏÓ˚ òy !ﬂ˛øì˛y– ˆâ˛yÖ G˛y˛ô¢y £ˆÏÎ˚

xyˆÏ¢– ˛ôyˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ ì˛úyÎ˚ î%úˆÏì˛ ÌyˆÏÑ˛

õy!›˛– !îˆÏòÓ˚ Ñ˛yã ≤ÃyÎ˚ ˆü°Ï£z £ˆÏÎ˚

~ˆÏ¢!äÈú– áˆÏÓ˚ ˆö˛Ó˚yÓ˚ ≤Ãlﬂ˛!ì˛˛ôˆÏÓ≈Ó˚

!‡˛Ñ˛ xyˆÏÜ ~!Ó˚ˆÏòÓ˚ £zÏÏÈÙÈˆõ£zú xyˆÏ¢–

ì˛yÓ˚˛ôˆÏÓ˚£z ˆ¢ ì˛yÓ˚ ¢ˆÏD Ñ˛Ìy ÓúˆÏì˛

!ÜˆÏÎ˚!äÈú– ~Ñ˛ ú£õyÎ˚ ˆ¢¢Ó Ó˝Î%Ü xyˆÏÜÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ÓˆÏú õˆÏò £ˆÏì˛ ÌyˆÏÑ˛

can you please take me to the park now? Zoe and Swara are already there. I have been waiting for you to take me. ¢yì˛

!ü÷Ñ˛òƒyÓ˚ xò%òÎ˚ Ñœ˛yhs˛ Á ¢îƒ áˆÏÓ˚ ˆö˛Ó˚y !ﬂ˛øì˛yˆÏÑ˛ ˆÓü

!Óâ˛!úì˛ Ñ˛Ó˚ú– ÖyÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ˆ›˛!ÓˆÏú ÓˆÏ¢ !üv˛z!úÓ˚ !Ñ˛ˆÏüyÓ˚# ˆÓ!Ó!¢›˛yÓ˚ õ%ˆÏ‡˛yˆÏö˛yˆÏò õ@¿– ˆâ˛yÖ ì%˛ˆÏú â˛yÁÎ˚yÓ˚

xÓÑ˛yü ˆò£z ì˛yÓ˚– ÜƒyˆÏÓ˚ˆÏã Üy!v˛¸!›˛ äÈyv˛¸y ˆõˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ ÓyÓy ˆÎ Óy!v˛¸ˆÏì˛

!ﬂ˛øì˛y !ãK˛y¢y Ñ˛Ó˚úñ Hello ‘’Monica– how was your day?”

‘‘Good.’’

‘‘What did Shiuli and you do all day? Anything fun?’’

‘‘We went to the library for story time. Picked up some books. Came home. Ate lunch. Played some board games.Watched a movie.”

‘‘Wonderful! Hey– I have a request for you. Will it be possible not to be on the phone for a long period when you are watching Shiuli? I thought I already told you.’’

‘‘Yeah– you did. But it is past 6.30 now and I am supposed to watch her till 6. Will you please write me the check now. I have to go. My friend is waiting outside.’’

!üv˛z!úÓ˚ ÜÓ˚ˆÏõÓ˚ äÈ%!›˛ ~Öò–

Ñ˛y›˛yˆÏFäÈ õãy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚– ˆÑ˛yòÁ ¢yõyÓ˚

Ñ˛ƒyˆÏ¡ô ˆÎˆÏì˛ £ˆÏFäÈ òy ì˛yˆÏÑ˛–

!ò!ÿ˛hs˛ !Ñ˛ !ﬂ˛øì˛y ¢!ì˛ƒ¢!ì˛ƒ⁄

!üv˛z!úÓ˚ ãˆÏß√Ó˚ ˛ôÓ˚ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ì˛yÓ˚ â˛yÓ˚

ÓäÈÓ˚ ÓˆÏÎ˚¢ ˛ôÎ≈hs˛ ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚ õyÈÙÈˆõˆÏÎ˚Ó˚

~Ñ˛›˛y ~Ñ˛yhs˛ !òãﬂ˛∫ ãÜÍ !äÈú– õyˆÏG˛

õyˆÏG˛ xÑ≈˛ˆÏÑ˛Á ˆÎÖyˆÏò

xò%≤ÃˆÏÓüÑ˛yÓ˚# õˆÏò £ì˛– !üv˛z!ú

G˛úõú Ñ˛Ó˚ì˛ xy‚yˆÏî xyÓ˚ Ö%!üˆÏì˛–

ˆõˆÏÎ˚ˆÏÑ˛ !áˆÏÓ˚ ÌyÑ˛ˆÏì˛ ˛ôyÓ˚ˆÏäÈñ ì˛yˆÏÑ˛ õˆÏòÓ˚ õˆÏì˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ÓˆÏv˛¸y Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏäÈ ~£z xyòˆÏ® õˆÏã !äÈú ˆ¢ !òˆÏãÁ–

v˛zÍ¢yˆÏ£Ó˚ ¢ˆÏD ˛ôyÕ‘y !îˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚ òy– xyúˆÏì˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˆõˆÏÎ˚ˆÏÑ˛

ö%˛!›˛ˆÏÎ˚ ÓˆÏú ‘‘Let me change first. Then I will take you to the park Baby.’’

ˆò£z– ˆ¢ v˛zÍ¢ˆÏÓ ì˛yÓ˚

£ú ﬂ˛%ÒˆÏúÓ˚ ˆÓü Ñ˛ˆÏÎ˚Ñ˛ãò

Óı%˛ˆÏîÓ˚ ¢ˆÏD– ˛ôy!˛ôÎ˚y

~Ñ˛!›˛ Ó˝ãy!ì˛Ñ˛ ¢Çﬂ˛iyÓ˚ v˛zFâ˛˛ôˆÏî

xy¢#òñ G%˛õy ﬂ˛iyò#Î˚ Ñ˛ˆÏúˆÏã

xïƒy!˛ôÑ˛yñ !òˆÏÓ!îì˛y v˛y_´yÓ˚

£ˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ– xyÓ˚ G%˛úˆÏòÓ˚ ˆì˛y Óƒy˛ôyÓ˚£z

xyúyîy– ì˛yÓ˚ üy!v˛¸ xyÓ˚ ÜÎ˚òyÓ˚

Ó%!›˛Ñ˛ Ú◊#ÛÓ˚ ~Öò ãÎ˚ãÎ˚Ñ˛yÓ˚– ì˛yˆÏÑ˛

ˆ˛ôˆÏÎ˚ ¢Óy£z v˛zˆÏ_!ãì˛– ÚÚ~£z !ﬂ˛øì˛yñ

ì%˛£z !Ñ˛ Ñ˛Ó˚!äÈ¢ Óú ˆì˛y ~Öò⁄

¢Ñ˛úˆÏÑ˛ !˛ôäÈˆÏò ˆö˛ˆÏú â˛yÑ˛!Ó˚ˆÏì˛

xyÓyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ÌyÑ˛y òy ÌyÑ˛yÓ˚ !Ñ˛ xyˆÏäÈ⁄ xyõyÓ˚ ˆî!Ó˚ £ˆÏFäÈ–ˆõˆÏÎ˚›˛y xy£z˛ôƒyv˛ !òˆÏÎ˚ ÓˆÏ¢ xyˆÏäÈ–ÛÛ ÚÚˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ˆî!Ó˚ ˆì˛y òì%˛ò Ñ˛Ìy

òÎ˚– xyõyÓ˚Á Ñ˛yã ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ !ö˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˆÑ˛yòÁ ˆÑ˛yòÁ!îò relax Ñ˛Ó˚yÓ˚ ≤ÃˆÏÎ˚yãò £ˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚–ÛÛ Ñ˛Ìy òy Óy!v˛¸ˆÏÎ˚ Ñ˛y˛ôv˛¸ãyõy ÓîˆÏú

ö%˛Ó˚ö%˛ˆÏÓ˚ ~Ñ˛›˛y £yÁÎ˚y !îˆÏFäÈ– òÓ˚õ

£ˆÏÎ˚ xy¢ˆÏäÈ !îˆÏòÓ˚ xyˆÏúy– ˆÓü !G˛õ

ïˆÏÓ˚ xy¢!äÈú ì˛yÓ˚– xyˆÏÓü ˆÑ˛ˆÏ›˛ ˆÜú ~Ñ˛›˛y Ñ§˛!Ñ˛ˆÏÎ˚ Á‡˛y ˆãyÓ˚ Ñ˛yß¨yÓ˚ xyÁÎ˚yˆÏã– !üv˛z!ú òy⁄ ˆîÔˆÏv˛¸

ã›˛úyÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ !ÜˆÏÎ˚

ˆîÖú õy!›˛ˆÏì˛ ˆÑ˛õò ~Ñ˛›˛y !Ó!â˛e

¶˛!DˆÏì˛ ÓˆÏ¢ xyì˛≈ﬂ˛∫ˆÏÓ˚ Ñ˛§yîˆÏäÈ

!üv˛z!ú– Ñ˛#¶˛yˆÏÓ ˆÎò monkey bar

ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ £yì˛ !˛ôäÈˆÏú ˛ôˆÏv˛¸ ˆÜˆÏäÈ ˆ¢–ˆÑ˛ ˆÎò Óúú !˛ôäÈò ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ì˛yˆÏÑ˛ ïyE˛y !îˆÏÎ˚ˆÏä ÈxyÓ˚ ~Ñ˛!›˛ ÓyFâ˛Èy–

xõˆÏòyˆÏÎyÜ– xyÓ˚ ì˛yˆÏì˛£z

Óy!v˛¸ !ö˛ˆÏÓ˚ xÑ≈˛ xyÓ˚ !ﬂ˛øì˛y

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˆõˆÏÎ˚ˆÏÑ˛ Üy!v˛¸ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ òy!õˆÏÎ˚ ˆ¢yö˛yˆÏì˛ Ó¢yÎ˚– xÑ≈˛ˆÏÑ˛ xyˆÏÜ£z message Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ !îˆÏÎ˚!äÈú

!ﬂ˛øì˛y– ‘‘How did you fall Shilu?” ÓyÓyÓ˚ ≤ÃˆÏŸ¿Ó˚ v˛z_ˆÏÓ˚ !ÓˆÏü°Ï

ÓúˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚ òy !üv˛z!ú– ì˛yÓ˚

Ñ˛yß¨yÓ˚ îõÑ˛ Ñ˛õˆÏúÁ ˆ¢ ˆÎ ˆÓü Ñ˛‹T

˛ôyˆÏFäÈ ÓƒÌyÎ˚ ì˛y ì˛yÓ˚ õ%Ö ˆîˆÏÖ£z

ˆÓyG˛y ÎyˆÏFäÈ– !ﬂ˛øì˛yˆÏÑ˛ ¢Ó˚y¢!Ó˚

ˆÑ˛yòÁ ≤ÃŸ¿ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ òy xÑ≈˛– ì˛ˆÏÓ ≤ÃŸ¿

ˆÎ ÷ï% õ%ˆÏÖ£z Ñ˛Ó˚y ÎyÎ˚ ~õò òÎ˚–

ì˛yÓ˚ ˆâ˛yˆÏÖñ üÓ˚#Ó˚ ¶˛y°ÏyÎ˚ ö%˛ˆÏ›˛ Á‡˛y

≤ÃˆÏŸ¿Ó˚ ãÓyˆÏÓ Óy !òˆÏãÓ˚ ¢ˆÏD

ˆÓyG˛y˛ôv˛¸y Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ !ﬂ˛øì˛y ÓˆÏú ÁˆÏ‡˛ñ

ÚÚˆÓü ˆÖú!äÈú ¢Ñ˛ˆÏú xyò® Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚Ê £‡˛yÍ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˆÎ !Ñ˛ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˛ôˆÏv˛¸ ˆÜúñ

ãyˆÏò– ÛÛ ¢yïyÓ˚íì˛ Á monkey bar ÈÙÈ~ v˛z‡˛ˆÏú

¶˛yÓ˚ õ!òÑ˛yÓ˚ òÎ˚–Û ÚÚ¶˛yÓ˚ òyÁ òy ì%˛!õ– ˆÑ˛v˛z

Ó%!G˛ˆÏÎ˚ ˆîÎ˚ !ﬂ˛øì˛y ˆÓˆÏÓ˚yˆÏòyÓ˚ xyˆÏÜ–

ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚ î%ãˆÏòÓ˚£z cell number xyˆÏäÈ õ!òÑ˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ– ì˛yÁ xyÓ˚ ~Ñ˛ÓyÓ˚

~Ñ˛õ%Ö# Ü!ì˛ˆÏì˛ äÈ%›˛ˆÏäÈ

~ úv˛¸y£z›˛y õyG˛˛ôˆÏÌ ˆäÈˆÏv˛¸ !îˆÏú xyÓ˚ ˆÎ ¢%ˆÏÎyÜ xy¢ˆÏÓ òy ~ Óƒy˛ôyˆÏÓ˚

!òÉ¢ˆÏ®£–

x!ö˛ˆÏ¢ ¢%¢ÇÓyî!›˛ x≤Ãì˛ƒy!üì˛

!äÈú òy ì˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ– ˛ôÓ˚Óì˛≈#Ï

˛ôîˆÏ«˛ˆÏ˛ôÓ˚ â˛ƒyˆÏúˆÏOÓ˚ ãòƒ õˆÏò õˆÏò

≤Ãlﬂ˛!ì˛Á !ò!FäÈú ˆ¢– !ﬁ›˛Î˚y!Ó˚ÇÈÙÈ~Ó˚

ˆ˛ôäÈˆÏò ~Ñ˛ ~Ñ˛ ˛ôú ˆÎò ~Ñ˛ ~Ñ˛Î%Ü

õˆÏò £ˆÏFäÈ ~Öò– Óy!Ñ˛ ˛ôÌ›%˛Ñ%˛ v˛zˆÏv˛¸

ÎyÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ˆÑ˛yòÁ v˛z˛ôyÎ˚ ì˛yÓ˚ ãyòy

ˆò£z– õò !ò¶≈˛yÓ˚ òy £ˆÏú v˛zv˛¸ˆÏÓ£z Óy

!Ñ˛ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚– õ£y¶˛yÓ˚ˆÏì˛ ãÎ˚oÌ xyÓ˚ ì,˛ì˛#Î˚

Mercy Children’s Hospi-

ì˛yÓ˚ Óy

¶˛yÓˆÏì˛

òy ˆ¢– x!ì˛Ñ˛yÎ˚ Ñ˛yúÜ£¥Ó˚!›˛ Ö%Ó Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ â˛ˆÏú ~ˆÏ¢ˆÏäÈ– ã#ÓˆÏòÓ˚ xˆÏòÑ˛ Î%ˆÏk˛ !ã ˆÏì˛Á ˆü°Ï ˛ôÎ≈hs˛

ã#ÓòÎ%ˆÏk˛ !Ñ˛ !ãì˛ˆÏì˛ ˆ˛ôˆÏÓ˚!äÈˆÏúò

˛ôÓ˚õÓ#Ó˚ ˛ôyÌ≈⁄ ã#ÓˆÏò ¢ÓÓ˚Ñ˛õ

â˛ƒyˆÏúˆÏOÓ˚ ¢yõòy¢yõ!ò î§yv˛¸yˆÏòyÓ˚

õˆÏì˛y ≤Ãlﬂ˛!ì˛ ˆòÁÎ˚y !Ñ˛ ¢Ω˛Ó

Ñ˛ÖˆÏòy⁄ £y¢˛ôyì˛yˆÏúÓ˚ restroomÈÙÈ~ xyÎ˚òyÎ˚ !òˆÏãÓ˚ ≤Ã!ì˛ö˛úò ˆîˆÏÖ !ﬂ˛øì˛y– ˆäÈy›˛ˆÏÓúyÎ˚ ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚ Óy!v˛¸Ó˚

xÓ˚*˛ô ˆ¢ò=Æñ

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úyú v˛z!î≈ ÜyˆÏÎ˚ ~Ñ˛ ˛ôE˛ˆÏÑ˛ü ˆî£y!ì˛ Ó,k˛ Ñ%˛!ú

ì˛yÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ Á £yˆÏì˛Ó˚ ¢yõyò Üy!v˛¸Ó˚ !v˛!Ñ˛ˆÏì˛ ì%˛ˆÏú

ˆ¢yãy ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ õyÓ˚&!ì˛ ¶˛ƒyˆÏòÓ˚ !¶˛ì˛Ó˚ !ÜˆÏÎ˚ Ó¢ˆÏÓ–

ÓúˆÏÓÈÙÙÙÈ ÓyÓ%ñ õã%!Ó˚ úyÜˆÏÓ òy

xyã xy˛ôòyÓ˚ Óy!v˛¸ ÎyÓ

Ü!îÁÎ˚yúy ˆì˛y°ÏˆÏÑ˛ á%õyˆÏÓy ˆÓ˚yã ˆÓ˚yã £z!ﬁ›˛üyˆÏòÓ˚ ˆúy£yÓ˚ ˆÓ!M˛ÈˆÏì˛ Ó˚yì˛ Ñ˛y›˛yˆÏì˛ xyÓ˚ ¶˛yÕ‘yˆÏÜ òy–

!ãK˛y¢y Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓÈÙÙÙÈ xyFäÈyñ Á!îˆÏÑ˛Ó˚ ÁÓ˚yÁ ˆì˛y ˆÓÔ ÓyFâ˛y ˆäÈˆÏv˛¸ ¢#õyˆÏhs˛ ¢ãyÜ

ÁÓ˚y ˆì˛y xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ Ñ˛ÖòÁ Üyúõ® Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!ò

Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚⁄

Óy£zˆÏÓ˚ ˆõáñ =§!v˛¸ =§!v˛¸ Ó,!‹T

xÌâ˛ xyã ¢ˆÏîƒyãyì˛ â˛yÓ˚y=ˆÏúyˆÏÑ˛

Óy£zˆÏÓ˚ Ó˚yÖyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy !äÈú

v˛zjyúÑ˛ ¶˛Ó˚myãñ ˆ›˛:y¢

ˆü°Ï ì˛yÓ˚y xyˆÏúy ãμyˆÏúñ ˆü°Ï xyˆÏúy äÈyÎ˚y ˆõˆÏú ˆîÎ˚

äÈyÎ˚yÓ˚ !òˆÏâ˛ ~Ñ˛e Ñœ˛yhs˛ÏÏ≤Ãyí õyò%°Ï

ˆÎˆÏì˛ £ˆÏÓÊ ÷ï% ~£z Ó˚Óñ

xÑ˛!Ìì˛ Ó˚yhﬂ˛yÎ˚

â˛úyñ ì˛Ó% ˆïˆÏÎ˚ ÎyÁÎ˚y... Ühs˛Óƒñ üe&ñ !òüyòy

=!úñ !õ¢y£zˆÏúÓ˚ ˛ôyüy˛ôy!ü

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Ñ˛Ìyñ Üyòñ !Ñ˛äÈ%›˛y !ﬂ˛iÓ˚ì˛y...

ˆ¢yõÓyÓ˚ ¢Ñ˛yú

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~ˆÏÑ˛Ñ˛!îò Ñ˛!Óì˛y ˆò£z

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xı˛Ñ˛yˆÏÓ˚ £§y›˛ˆÏì˛ ÎyÎ˚ ~Ñ˛y

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˛ôyÌ≈¢yÓ˚!Ì ˆ¢ò=Æñ ˛ô!ÿ˛õÓD

˛ôÌ›˛y£z xyã Ñœ˛yhs˛ £ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÜˆÏäÈ

ˆÑ˛õò ˆÎò ˆüˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ Ó˚yhﬂ˛y ïˆÏÓ˚

Ó§yÑ˛ !òˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈñ v˛yÑ˛ ÷ˆÏòˆÏäÈ ˆÎõò

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xyõÓ˚y ÷ï% ¢yîy â˛yîÓ˚ ÜyˆÏÎ˚

Ñ˛!Óì˛yˆÏì˛£z á%!Ó˚

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ˆ¢£z Ó,!‹TÓ˚ ü∑›˛y xyÓ˚ ˛ôy£z òyñ

ˆÎ›˛y ¢ÓyÓ˚ xúˆÏ«˛ƒ ˆòˆÏõ!äÈú

ˆÑ˛yòÁ £züyÓ˚y£z !äÈú òy ˆ¢!îò ì˛Ó%Á

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English Section

Tall Weeds

Vishnupriya, New Jersey

Damn!

It’s only when the weeds in the backyard had grown shoulder high that he started feeling guilty about neglecting them. He should have uprooted them much earlier. It would be a hell of a job now. Masked, gloved armed with a hand trowel, weeder, and shovel if necessary with large trash bags by his side. An aggressive attack to dislodge their roots. He wanted to put it off like always. No patio barbecue with friends this time during the pandemic social distancing, so it was ignored thus far. But the question is : Why him always? Why not her?

These tall weeds in the backyard were such an eyesore! As if trying to match her height and say, ‘We’re as strong as you.’

It would be so hard to pull them out now. There was already so much extra cleaning and disinfecting now during these pandemic days and to add to the existing woes, there were these weeds to clear. No dearth of work. Always something to break your back. But the question is: Why her always? Why not him?

She looked up to see who was rattling the white fence.

Ali was smiling his toothless smile she knew through his mask and was looking at her. She waved and he joined her. He started pulling the weeds.

He was a toddler when they had moved in next door a few years back. Now, he is a grown seventh grader, but was such a child at heart, would always be the toddler to her. Any kid with a special need always carried that little child inside.

Ali kept smiling, tugging, and humming. In all these years, they spoke very little, as if Ali knew she understood him without words. Like now, she came with a bag of Sun chips and orange soda. How did she guess that was exactly what he was craving right then? His mom did not. But she always knew. He beamed when she came closer and decided to hug her when the job was done. He would clean the patio for her so she could enjoy a drink with her husband.

Perhaps Mr. Bandy would call him too to have a game of chess once the backyard was clean enough to have a barbecue. He loved the way Mr. Bandy grilled burgers. Reminded him of his dad. Sad that Mom would not mention him ever in the house.

Ali just did not get it. He never got it. Why was his mom yelling again? Was it because of what she pushed into her thin thighs every now and then? Or was it because she thought Mrs. Bandy was a witch trying to snatch him away from her? This happened every time he went over to hear Mrs. Bandy read Harry Potter to him. If his mom read to him instead of throwing things all over the house in one of her moods, he would have liked her reading. Like now she gave him one hard look and crashed onto the centerpiece, shattering the glass into a million pieces, cutting her left arm. He went to fetch the dustpan and brush to tidy up. He always liked things tidy like inside Mrs. Bandy’s house, not strewn around. It frightened him.

She felt it was a treat looking at the patio. So clean thanks to Ali. Meticulous to a fault. Already for a barbecue. Maybe tomorrow...

He was looking at the patio with such joy that she knew he was planning a barbecue too. Ali would be their guest of honor. Masked and six feet away, they did not need anyone else to make it happen. He was so special.

Blowing in the Wind

Sophia Mitra, New Jersey

“How many roads must a man walk down Before you call him a man?”

Every Friday for the last two years members of the Muse, our college’s art and literary magazine, would get together in the commons area around 4 pm to chill and jam. Young boys and girls would be crowding around the pit, the center stage area, thumping, tapping, and clicking away to the sound of Bob Dylan blaring from a boom box. That was our moment of creative inspiration according to Stefan, the Muse’s President and one of my best students in my Introduction to Literature class. He was the one who invited me to join as advisor in the first place.

“It’s so cool, Mrs. Mitra. We get a space to express ourselves. Somewhere to find our voice.”

At first, I was a little skeptical of the enthusiasm exuded by this 5’9’’ athletic young man with icy blue eyes that seemed more fit for decoding trigonometric equations than creating romances with figurative language. Turned out Stefan was indeed a computer science major. However, he surprised me with his creative ability and his first story, a personal narrative based on his grandparents’ lives, was truly touching.

Native of Belarus near Ukraine, his grandn 123

father, a firefighter, had perished in the infamous Chernobyl nuclear power plant disaster, leaving his young wife to fend for herself and their three young children aged 9-5. Stefan’s grandmother faced immense difficulty making ends meet, which only worsened with the fall of Soviet Union in 1991. Suffering from extreme poverty and instability, like many other Belarusians, she decided to migrate with her family to the US and ended up settling in Bergen, New Jersey, for the last thirty years. Stefan’s story was one of arrival and acceptance as much as it was one of alienation and exile. We featured it as the highlight story in our magazine.

Soft-spoken, motivated, and goal-oriented, Stefan’s choice of music, from Bob Dylan to Tupac, was as varied as his interest in foreign cultures and cuisines.

“ You need to try some jerk chicken, Mrs. Mitra. It’s epic!”

“Did you see the Discovery channel’s feature of the glacial ice melt in the Alps! Can’t believe there won’t be ice there soon!”

We bonded over these, as much as we did over my limited knowledge but interest in Russian circus and Tolstoy. No doubt, Stefan’s ability to jump from one topic to the other amazed me as much as his zest for social activism in whatever form, from censorship on campus to issues of globalization. In fact, it was his idea for our club members to join a peaceful protest for George Floyd down in Newark when Covid wrecked our world not too long ago.

Stefan graduated last winter, 2021, and I cheered and clapped for him walking down the stadium aisle in his silver robes and flashy cap, a goofy smile beaming on his face. As expected, he had done very well and was transferring to a four-year to finish off his undergraduate degree before plunging into the workforce.

Occasionally, we emailed each other to share news. I needed his advice in recruiting new Muse members and he wrote back about

the classes he was taking or sometimes a paper he needed me to review. However, the semester got busy with exams and grading, so I stopped hearing from him for a while.

“Hey, Mrs. Mitra, can I come in?”

Two weeks ago, a familiar voice outside my office door one Friday afternoon surprised me. Looking away from my monitor’s screen, I spotted a ghastly, pale figure from not too long ago, dark veins prominent under river-blue eyes.

“Stefan, it’s so nice to see you. But what’s the matter, son? You look a wreck!” I could not help blurting out.

Stefan sat down slowly, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. He needed my help and had come for a recommendation. He was applying for an emergency visa to visit his country where war broke out recently caused by Russian infiltration. His grandmother had gone back against his family’s will, only a few years ago, to settle down in her ancestral land and hoped to be buried near her husband’s grave. Then news came recently of their town being bombed and the list of casualties…his grandmother’s name being on it.

“I have to go…to bury her,” Stephan gasped. “My parents cannot risk it. If they get stuck for some reason, there’s no one to look after the rest of the family here.”

I remembered Stefan mentioned he had twin siblings in middle school and a baby sister starting first grade.

For a moment that seemed to last forever, we just sat there, holding hands, and silently weeping. Student and teacher, mother, and son. Two immigrants in a foreign land, bridged by a sorrow for an unforgettable past, a shaky present, and an uncertain future.

“Promise me you’ll be safe,” was all that I could urge him that day.

“The answer my friend is blowing in the wind

The answer is blowing in the wind…”

n 124

Curious memories in a new courtry

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

Iwas twenty-five years old when I immigrated to the U.S. and was fascinated by everything in the new country, from the excessively creamy taste of milk to the wideopen highways. I was surprised that my new home accumulated little dust. Unlike most Bengalis in India who lived with large families, I grew up in a nuclear family that moved often because of my father’s government job. Also, before coming to the U.S., I had spent

several years in graduate school dorms by myself while studying mathematics. I was accustomed to being

However, when I arrived in Baltimore, Maryland, in the late seventies, new experiences of being around others were waiting for me. My husband Pranab’s sister, Lekha, her husband, Deep, and their little boy were visiting Baltimore on their way back to India. Deep, a professor at Kolkata University, had come to the U.S. as a visiting professor. He took me under his wing explaining simple things and teaching me the basics, like door-locks and appliance mechanisms. He also told me that Pranab had invited his colleagues, neighbors, and friends from the small local Bengali community to a reception party to celebrate our wedding that took place about a month ago in Kolkata. Pranab was an important personality in the n 125

community.

On the second day after my arrival, probably a Thursday, I woke up late in the secondfloor bedroom to a commotion downstairs. Lekha and Pranab were arguing, and the toddler nephew was screaming his head off. I looked at two piles of things on the floor that I had taken out from two suitcases the night before. The smaller pile was for my things. Five sarees, two cotton and three silk ones, two long petticoats, five blouses, few underwear, and a handful of toiletries. During the flight from India, I wore the rest of my possessions, the pink silk wedding saree, heavy with gold thread brocade weave, a sweater, a shawl, my father’s socks, and flat ballet shoes with thin soles. I borrowed my father’s socks since I did not wear socks in India. My possessions occupied only one-third of one of the two giant hard-shell suitcases that I brought with me. The larger pile consisted of an oversized sweater that somebody knitted for her brother, about eight silk sarees, two shawls, a large bath towel – who knows why, as people in India cherished soft American towels — and several clothing items for Pranab. Lekha collected her share of clothes, traditional wedding gifts to her family from my mother. Even today, I cannot figure out what was the rationale for making me bring Lekha’s gifts only to be carried back to Kolkata as they were scheduled to return in a week. There were packages of sweets and blocks of date palm jaggery, delicacies from Kolkata. I had planned to bring more of my stuff, but my mother-in-law made it clear to me that my passage to the U.S. might not be possible if I had tried to leave a single piece of item that Pranab left for me to bring over for his friends and acquaintances in Baltimore. I remembered my mother’s sad face at the airport when I returned to her the rest of my new bridal outfits and a few books that I intended

to bring with me.

Around mid-morning, Pranab left with his sister’s family to run errands. I was alone.

“I have started to prepare the lentil soup on stove-top. Please keep an eye on it,” Lekha told me. It was a simple task, but my history of monitoring lentil soup was miserable at best. If needed, I could cook a decent Indian meal. However, at my mother’s place, I burned lentil soups three times straight. “Déjà vu,” I worried. I consoled myself thinking that I was distracted by books before. Since I had not seen any books anywhere in the house yet, I should be fine. I was vigilant about watching the simmering lentil soup on the stove for the first fifteen minutes. Then, I discovered department store sale papers on the dining table.

I could have tried reading the Bengali book written by Pranab’s spiritual teacher that was sitting on a side table. On its cover, there was a picture of the silhouette of a man sitting in the yogic lotus pose. On the wedding night of my arranged marriage in Kolkata, Pranab had shoved another copy of the same book at me.

“From now on, this book must guide your spirituality. Throw away your beliefs in all Hindu gods and goddesses. You must read it every morning and evening,” he said. I was astounded and became mute at the audacity of his attempt at controlling me. That was the first-ever conversation I had with my new husband. Didn’t my parents choose a decent Hindu Brahmin for my husband? Usually, in arranged marriages, the boy and the girl meet privately before setting the final marriage date. However, Pranab made no attempts to contact me. It had made me uncomfortable, but it did not bother my old-school parents. I had never heard about this teacher before, not much later either, except for what Pranab

told me about him. The book, steeped in dream stories, did not make any sense to me, although my curiosity compelled me to read it twice.

Pranab left for Baltimore soon after the wedding, while I stayed with my in-laws for about a month waiting for the visa to come through. The paperwork accelerated since I already had the passport as I was planning to go to Kyoto on a Japanese government scholarship. After getting married, coming to the U.S. became a better option. I did not have to deal with the Japanese language.

It became clear to me that everybody in my in-laws’ family held a dim view of the longdeceased teacher and his cult followers. Pranab had tried to bully them into reading the BOOK. The family insisted that I should try my best to get him out of the clutches of the cult. I decided that I would not interfere with Pranab’s beliefs. Why should I? Would I like if somebody had interfered with my religious beliefs? He had been giving thousands of dollars of his earnings to that group. At least I did not have to read the book in Pranab’s absence. I decided to go with the flow.

Back in the empty kitchen, department store sale papers were far more interesting. Suddenly, I smelled burning lentils. Oh, no, not again. I turned off the burner and moved the pot to a cooler spot.

Within a minute or two, the front door opened. Before I could do something else, Deep came in holding paper bags of food.

“We got special treats for you,” he declared with a smile. His eyes twinkled mischievously behind his professorial thick glasses.

“But something is burning,” he sprang into action by throwing the burning mess into the trash, soaking the pot in the sink, and turning

on the fans. In response to my profuse apologies, he simply answered, “Don’t worry.”

He took out the sandwich from the paper wrap for me and set a large paper cup of soda next to it. There were fried potatoes too.

“Now, do not wait. These sandwiches are no good when cold.” In the meantime, Pranab came and joined us at the table. Clueless about the ingredients, I devoured the tasty sandwich. All the while Deep kept smiling.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. It is delicious. So are the potato fries.”

“These are French Fries. You just ate something called hamburger from Arthur Treacher’s,” Pranab said. Oh, no! I knew what a hamburger was. It had beef.

I recalled my mother-in-law’s instructions before leaving Kolkata.

“You are a good Brahmin girl. As written in scriptures, do not eat beef. It is a sin. I know my son does not think so.” I was in a dilemma. Since I ate beef unknowingly, at the behest of my husband and older brother-inlaw, and the food tasted good and clean, did I sin? I did not feel any disgust. At the table, I kept quiet.

An hour or two later, Lekha returned with a woman known to all as Mrs. Leela Das, or Leeladi as I addressed her respectfully. She hugged me and only smiled at my mishap with the lentil soup.

“So, you made her eat beef already,” Lekha asked. They took one look at the paper bags strewn on the table and figured out the conspiracy of making me eat beef unknowingly. Like other good Hindus, I had never eaten beef before that day. Since I am not a fan of eating meat, I did not know what I would do in the future.

Soon, the kitchen was filled with gallon jugs of milk and bags of chicken. The two n 127

women and I became busy roasting chickens and curdling milk to make fresh cheese. I could not believe that the reception party for about one hundred and fifty guests would be catered by Bengali women around Baltimore. This kitchen, supposed to be mine now, would be one of the main hubs of cooking for the party. Under Leeladi’s supervision, my first job was to separate the meat from umpteen roasted chickens, mash them with spices and herbs, and form chicken patties. Once breaded and fried, patties would become wonderful appetizers. I made a lot of cheese that day too.

The dinner party was set for Saturday at a community center. An army of men and women cooked and transported the food. Following the usual tradition for the new bride, I entered the wonderfully decorated hall dressed in my pink and gold brocade silk saree and most of my gold jewelry amid the sound of blowing conch shells and loud cheering. There were many young and middle-aged women with whom I bonded during the brief period I stayed in Baltimore. I took in everything that was happening around me. The affection lavished on me washed away part of the gloom that was deepening inside.

The community gave me a beautiful porcelain dinner set, crystal and silver bowls, and appliances that I used for years and still use the gold-rimmed dinner set. On that winter evening, I promised myself that I would help others during celebrations and festivals.

I could not predict what kind of life was waiting for me, but I could feel my father’s socks inside my thin, flat ballet shoes. My thought returned to the stack of my credential certificates from the best schools in India still tucked away inside the pocket of the gray American Tourister suitcase.

After the party, I managed to arrange an in-

terview with a professor at Johns Hopkins University. I wanted to do research in Computational Geophysics and had submitted the graduate school application from Kolkata along with my credentials from various schools in India. Pranab had agreed to take me to the campus about ten miles away. Admission interviews were nothing new to me. I braced myself thinking about my earliest academic interview. When I was eleven years old, my mother escorted me to the office of the formidable school principal and left the room. I had to convince her that I would be able to pick up Sanskrit, the ancient language for scriptures, a required subject for that grade. I had never learned Sanskrit before, and I would be joining the class after midyear. I was successful that day.

At the university interview, Pranab stayed in the room and hovered over my shoulder. I could not understand why. He graduated from a foreign university. I thought he would know the protocol of leaving me alone. After politely nudging him a couple of times, I looked straight at him and asked him in Bengali to wait outside. The professor was visibly relieved after Pranab left. Even now, when adults talk in any foreign language to hide a conversation from children, I think of that incident.

Next weekend, we had a string of visitors who came to pick up the stuff from the large pile on the bedroom floor. A stylish woman, with short, bobbed hair, came with her husband to get the large sweater.

“You have a cute home, and the location is nice,” she observed, “When did you buy it?”

“Three years ago — from the builder,” Pranab answered.

She went upstairs with me because she wanted to see my new wedding clothes.

“That’s all you could bring for yourself,”

she said when I pointed out my tiny pile on the floor. Then, she noticed the large pile.

“You brought all that stuff for others, did you? What did you do with your stuff?”

“At the airport, I left a suitcase full of clothes and few books with my mother. My mother-in-law made me bring Pranab’s stuff,” I stammered.

Downstairs, she insisted that her husband should try on the sweater while at our home. He came out of the washroom wearing it, lovingly hand-knitted by his sister. The sleeves were six inches longer than his arms. I could not help but imagine that on a cold night the wife could join him to snuggle inside that sweater. I had a tough time resisting laughing out loud.

“Who in her right mind would make such a hideous thing? It must have taken up a large space in your suitcase. I am so sorry. As a new bride, you could have packed your new pre-

cious things in that space,” she said. By then, I knew that no apologies would ever come from Pranab.

“You better buy her some new clothes tomorrow,” she told Pranab.

The next day, Pranab took me to a flea market for used or damaged clothes. He picked up a pair of jeans and a top and held them against my back.

“They seem to be about the right size for you.” We came home with two pairs of jeans and two tops. I did notice that he picked the clothes from the cheapest piles. I could have brought my old pants and tops that I wore at the university. Later, I realized that the clothes were a little too big for me, but I did not care.

By the end of the month, I received a phone call from the university that my admission, along with the tuition waiver, was confirmed. The Research Assistantship was forthcoming. I would be working on a NASA project.

WThe Performer

Shobhik Chakraborty, Massachusetts

They beckon, each wanting to be touched, felt, enjoyed. I press one and hear its wholesome texture. Its depth of tone and presence. I notice the vigor in which I press these fingers is proportionate to the volume of sound. A rough stab induces a similarly violent yet musical induced response. I close my eyes. As I sit, vulnerable, exposed, dabbing senselessly at these white, dusty fingers all becomes clear and vivid. Colors flutter in and out of sight, filling the dark spaces in my mind. Spaces that had long been void of music.

Enticing freedom captures my mind and transfers into my reckless hands. Sparks of notes and sounds fill the noiseless room. Silence whipped into nonsensical music. Light, fluffy notes are created by simple pecking. Large, dynamic notes blazoned by impulsive fingers. Fingers, white and black alike, working in unison. Cloth spread across the ancient

seat. Dirty legs embracing the form fitting plush of its host down below. Out of place, I think. This piano is more ancient than I- more conservative. It does not approve of my apparel, or my impulsive fingers. It will judge and ridicule and tattle to a player more senior and experienced. It is now a being, a voice to be heard amongst million others in this world. Each note, each combination of intonation changing mood and tone, now reverberating through the theater hall.

I am Bach, mind and soul soaked with passion and excitement poured heavily onto each piano key. No, I am Mozart, graceful yet poised, dancing and frolicking through stanzas and stanzas of syncopated rhythm and tone. White and black fingers fuse and become one. The voice is now mine, its power now placed upon my lar-

ynx. Strength and absolute authority I have painstakingly acquired. Limitation is unheard of. Obstacles do not exist. My mind is music.

An eerie silence marks the blatant vacancy in the hall. Each seat will represent a single person and each person will settle around what is treasured in this very hall—music. One by one they’ll stagger in, lured by the programbill’s hastydescription. Each person has an opinion, and each as distinct as their appearance. Old, rusty men with stomachs full of doubt and indigestion. Women squawking on about their philistine counterparts. Absorbent, young musicians hoping to leech off experience and finesse. Children that have not yet realized this is what they will live for. What I live for.

The stage is expansive, yet the piano covers a fraction of the space. This is wrong. The piano covers everything, every corner, every crevice of this vast hall. This evening it will penetrate and seep into every mind of the audience. It will dictate every thought and emotion and feeling. The powerful waves will

shatter all doubt and ignorance.

A shower of clapping is especially satiating. One clap is choppy and immature. A multitude of clapping soothes the sensitive ears of the musician, while cleansing all apprehension of quality. Smiles and grins are a cheerful reminder of success. Tears, however, invoke a bigger emotion, one greater than happiness. Fulfillment. As if serving a greater purpose.

7:30, the clock reads. Showtime. A pudgy man with a red face marches indignantly down the velvet aisles of the hall, eyes fixed on me. I stare at his round, bulging eyes until I can make out the violent veins that branch out towards the end of his pupils. He reaches the side of the stage and cuts the air with his arm, pointed deliberately to the door. I got the message clearly without hearing a word, but I did not want to. My fingers slowly reach for those white fingers, as if they were to be taken away from me. As I touch them I feel the pudgy hand of the man, and everything is lost. I race out the door, with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other.

Geeta’s Life

Basab Dasgupta, California

Geeta’s father worked in a coal field in Dhanbad as the chief engineer in the coke firing plant. It was far from their relatives, but money was good and company provided car and living quarters. Besides, Dhanbad is a sizable city in Jharkhand with a hilly climate and all the conveniences of shopping, medical facilities, schools, and entertainment. Many places of tourist interest are nearbya.

Geeta attended an English-medium high school with students from various parts of India. Everyone was bilingual in Hindi and English. However, she could never become close to any of her friends in school or neighborhood mainly because of cultural differences.

However, there was a Punjabi boy, Parvin, who had an eye for her. He was a goodlooking kid with fair complexion, sharp features, and pleasant personality. He was completely enamored by Geeta. He preferred the softer and gentler demeanor of a Bengali girl compared to the Punjabi girls who seemed a little rough around the edges. During their final year at high school the mutual infatuation blossomed into a full-blown romance. The pair could not spend a minute without seeing each other.

Geeta’s parents, Prasanta and Swapna, had plans to send her to a college in Kolkata. They had preliminary talks with Swapna’s sister in Jadavpur who was gladly willing to accommodate

Geeta. Jadavpur University and many other colleges were within easy commute by bus or train. They expected Geeta to be excited at this prospect.

It was a real shock for them when Geeta declared that she would prefer to continue living at home and attend the local Guru Nanak College. Geeta mentioned that it would be difficult for her to live away from her parents and comfort of her own home; besides her aunt’s place in Jadavpur was small not to mention coping with the hustle and bustle of the big city. Her parents could not argue much as they also secretly wished that Geeta could continue living with them.

Parvin applied at the Indian School of Mines. It was not just a school for mining engineering but had several curricula suitable for almost any industry around the Dhanbad area. Geeta and Parvin had made a secret pact that they would both study in Dhanbad and would continue to see each other. Their plan worked; both of them got admitted to their respective schools of choice. Everyone was happy including Geeta’s parents.

A year later, Prasanta and Swapna got the wind of their daughter’s romantic relation with Parvin. Geeta and Parvin were spotted in restaurants or movie theaters by their Bengali friends who immediately informed them. It was a difficult task for them to confront Geeta on this issue. Geeta had been a good daughter throughout her teenage years. She maintained good grades, was well-behaved in social interactions and helped with household chores. Although her parents were not against her having a Punjabi husband, they definitely had the vision of a Bengali son-in-law from Kolkata. They thought that Geeta was too young to get involved with a guy in such a public manner and worried that Geeta’s own education would suffer.

Swapna first tried gentle persuasion to discourage Geeta from letting the romance go too far. She emphasized the differences between Bengali and Punjabi cultures regarding food, language, literature, social customs, interactions with in-laws and overall values. Since Geeta was somewhat lonely it was natural for her to think that she was in love, Swapna explained. It was nothing more than youthful infatuation. Also, Parvin’s future was uncertain. Swapna told her that there were dozens of guys from good families with established careers in Kolkata ready for the opportunity of marrying a sweet, attractive, and educated girl like Geeta. Also, their own plan after Prasanta’s retirement was to go back to Kolkata. They did not want their only daughter living in a faraway place like Dhanbad or perhaps even Punjab.

Geeta was adamant in her conviction; “Parvin loves me, ma and I love him,” she said. “You won’t understand it because yours was an arranged marriage!” She had no doubt that Parvin would excel in his academic pursuit, secure a good job and that she would be well accepted by his family. She just knew that they would live happily ever after.

Initial friendly parental advice soon turned into heated exchanges. Nothing that parents said made any impact on Geeta. Her view was that she knew what she was doing; even if things went wrong, she would gladly face the consequences and not be a burden on her parents. She even gave some veiled threats that she could find some place where she could live by herself away from all the restrictions and control of her parents. Her parents backed off and just pleaded with her to use discretion.

Swapna’s comment about availability of many well-qualified men for Geeta was not wishful thinking. She had already selected some potential candidates after investigations together with her sister through various matrimonial ads. She knew that these teenage romances could end abruptly for many reasons and could not let Geeta be devastated.

Swapna never explicitly asked Geeta how far her romance with Parvin had progressed as far as physical intimacy was concerned. She was concerned that Parvin might entice Geeta into something she did not want to do. She had a false sense of security though because there were not too many places around town to provide them with an opportunity.

Swapna did not have to ask. Geeta came to her one day in tears and confessed that she had missed her period. This time Geeta was not defending the situation; she was seeking emotional support from her mother. It was clear to Swapna that her daughter was in severe anxiety, embarrassment, and fear. Geeta was not ready for this outcome no matter whatever she might have had thought about her love for Parvin.

Swapna was an astute person. She saw this as a blessing in disguise. She immediately figured out that if Geeta was indeed pregnant this was the opportunity to take Geeta to Kolkata and arrange a quick wedding. Abortion was out of the question as both Prasanta and Swapna were religious persons. A marriage with Parvin also seemed to be an unwise scenario. Parvin’s family might not be thrilled by the turn of events and blame Geeta. Most importantly, Geeta’s few brief tearful comments told Swapna that Parvin was not really in favor of keeping the baby, much to Geeta’s disappointment.

Swapna was glad that she already had a headstart in seeking an appropriate groom. She almost immediately left for Kolkata with Geeta. Geeta did not object nor expressed a strong desire to stay with Parvin. It was a rude awakening for an eighteen-year-old girl from her fairly-tale dream of a romantic life with Parvin.

Events came together to fit Swapna’s plan. The final candidate turned out to be Gautam who had a high-tech job in Bangalore with a promising future ahead of him. His widowed mother lived mostly by herself in their family home in Bhawanipur. His younger brother worked near Kolkata and visited their mother regularly.

Gautam’s mother had been bugging and begging him for the past several years to bring a woman to the house to take care of the household as she had several health problems. Gautam was very busy with his work and had to travel often throughout the country and sometimes to places like Singapore and China. From his point of view, an ideal scenario would be to have a wife who would stay with his mother to take care of her and periodically visit him in Bangalore.

This was perfect for Geeta, Swapna thought. Geeta could take care of her mother-in-law and tend to her pregnancy away from probing eyes of her husband. Swapna herself could temporarily move to Kolkata to supervise Geeta’s health

and arrange a physician of her selection who could support Swapna’s suggested timeline regarding Geeta’s conception and expectation of the baby’s birth.

It was perfect for presenting the charade that the baby was Gautam’s. The fact that Gautam was preoccupied with work and his mother was anxious for his wedding allowed arrangement of a hasty marriage. Geeta’s loneliness and boredom in Dhanbad and desire to go to college in Kolkata were given as justifications behind planning such a speedy wedding.

The wedding ceremony went without a hitch. Gautam took Geeta with him to Bangalore for a few weeks following the wedding and then she returned to her mother-in-law in Calcutta. The news of Geeta’s immediate pregnancy did not surprise anyone; Gautam’s mother was thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild and pitter-patter of a baby around the house. In fact, the news brought Geeta very close to her mother-in-law.

When the due date arrived Swapna’s handpicked doctor declared, following her plan, that the baby was born prematurely by about six weeks so that there was no inconsistency between date of birth of the baby and date of consummation of the marriage by the baby’s parents. It was a boy. Geeta named him Partha – with initial “P” as in Parvin.

Geeta decided to discontinue her studies. Her married life was comfortable. Apart from Gautam’s well-paying job, his late father left a sizable inheritance. Partha became the apple of Geeta’s eye and center of her universe. Her life revolved around catering to every little need of her child.

Even though Geeta spent about a week or so per month with her husband, she enjoyed spending time in Kolkata with her son more. She could also see her relatives as often as she wished. Gautam was delighted that Geeta became so devoted to his mother.

Partha grew up to be a handsome intelligent young man. Geeta did everything with Partha –

going to movies, visiting relatives, shopping. She made sure he had the right clothes, ate the right food, and did not have to do physically strenuous activities. He had a private tutor during high school years. Partha returned the favor; he did very well in his academics and got admission at the Presidency College.

A major life changing moment came when Partha went to USA for his graduate studies. Geeta was not ready to let go of him, but eventually agreed considering the future career of her son. However, the strong bond of mother-son relation remained intact. While studying at University of Maryland, Partha called his mother every day and gave her all the daily details of what happened. As soon as he settled down, Geeta came to visit him for one month; Gautam was too busy to join her. Partha took her mother to visit Washington DC, New York City, Niagara Falls and other nearby attractions.

After his mother returned to India Partha started to feel for the first time in his life the need of another woman. He knew that he was now ready for marriage and craved for a woman who could fulfill all his needs. In his usual habit of sharing thoughts with his mother he let Geeta know about this wish. There was no shortage of well-qualified beautiful potential brides for a guy like Partha.

He selected Sumitra from the list Geeta provided based on her looks, education and his personal interactions through e-mail, telephone calls and WhatsApp. Sumitra seemed to have the right mixture of feminine appeal and knowledge of the world affairs to intrigue Partha.

He took a couple of months off during summer and to get married in India. Gautam spent lavishly to arrange the wedding of his only “son”. The ceremony and reception took place in style. The newly married couple enjoyed a few days of “honeymoon” in a luxury hotel on a beach in Kerala.

Partha finally started to break the bond with his mother. He realized that it was a lot more

fun to be able to share everything, including physical intimacy, building a nest, and planning a future life with a woman of his own. Coincidentally, Gautam’s mother passed away not too long after Partha’s wedding and it was logical for Geeta to permanently move to Bangalore to be with her husband.

Geeta never felt comfortable in her intimate encounters with Gautam and did not quite enjoy the love life the way a wife should. However, just like most Bengali couples, she never had to express any real delight in the act, and he was happy once his needs were met. They also practiced various birth control techniques.

One night, Gautam seemed to be very passionate and perhaps a little strange. At one point he held Geeta against his chest, looked straight into her eyes and asked “What do you think about the idea of having a child of our own?”

Geeta was stunned!

Apparently, Gautam knew all along that Partha was not his son. Right after their wedding he had instructed Geeta to take daily vitamin pills which were really birth control pills. Gautam took this sneaky approach because he felt awkward in telling her that he really did not want a child right away. The fact that Partha did not seem like a prematurely born baby added to Gautam’s conviction. However, he was happy with Geeta and the arrangement they had, especially because his mother was so pleased and freedom Gautam had in his professional career.

Geeta was simply awed by Gautam’s sense of understanding of the whole situation and his acceptance of Partha like his own son. What a remarkable difference with Parvin, Geeta thought, who did not even want to see his child born. She was suddenly overcome with a deep feeling of respect and love for Gautam on that night which she had never felt until then. She was now ready to do anything to please Gautam. It seemed that it was not just one, but two happy married lives started at about the same time!

Another world, another time

Satya Jeet, New Jersey

home in India. They were surprised by my simple answers. I imagine, they saw me as a person from another world. We have emigrated from India to the US in sufficient numbers and

have become an integral part of the American mainstream. We are not strangers; I fit seamlessly into American life. There are very few questions about my background now. Patterns in living and lifestyle have changed in India at breakneck speed in the last decade. While visiting my once familiar India, people ask me polite questions about my home in the US. My simple answers would often astound them; I imagine they perceived me as a person from another time.

For persons of my maturity, it is amusing to think back on the historic cycle we were born into and have lived through. Later this year, I will be traveling to Kolkata, India, to celebrate my father’s birth centenary. My mother was not much younger than my father.

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I was born quite late in my parent’s life. Their way of life reflected steadfast and traditional values, implications with which I am still grappling.

It may surprise you to know, my mother was quite un-schooled. Shortly after the turn of the century, (twentieth that is) her father, Shri Hemanta Basu, joined His Majesty’s Service in the Post and Telegraph Department. He traveled through the districts of the Raj as a postal inspector. He began his family life in Dhubri, a picturesque ‘tea estate’ town nestled among the beautiful rolling hills of eastern Assam. There were no schools in Dhubri, so my mother received home instructions. As a child, she was fond of her garden and spent most of her time there. It was said, flowers blossomed in her care if she merely called out their names. Her formal name, Usha, faded away and she became known as Aikon, ‘little wondrous girl’ in an Assamese tribal dialect. A doe came to live in the garden and stayed on as her companion. The free roaming doe waited every morning to be hand fed by Aikon with the fruits she picked.

Coming to Calcutta in the early thirties, was a rude shock to my mother. My grandfather was appointed as the postmaster of Amherst Street Post Office. The modern wonders of the imperial city impressed Hemanta Babu; he was convinced that this urban lifestyle was the call of the future. One morning, quite co-incidentally, he read in the paper that a young man from the Chemistry Department had secured record marks in the MSc examinations of Calcutta University. Hemanta Babu took note; his daughter, Usha was coming of age. There was no time to waste.

Hemanta Babu easily managed the matrimonial negotiations. The promise of a handsome dowry for the groom was the catalyst. What held back his plans temporarily were the observed proprieties. He had to ask the permis-

sion of his elder brothers from Barisal in East Bengal (now Bangladesh) before he could make a commitment to the proposed marriage of his daughter. There laid the roadblock. According to the horoscope prepared by Pandit Upendra Shastri in Madaripur, East Bengal, Usha would be an early widow. Pandit Shastri’s words carried weight in wide circles and such predictions could not dismissed, at least not knowingly.

Hemanta Babu’s forward thinking, in conjunction with my paternal grandmother, Kusum Kumari’s modern outlook, won the day. On an auspicious day in the month of Ashaar (monsoon), in the garden of her ancestral home in Barisal, my mother was married to a Bael (Marmelos) tree with full religious rites and customary feasting. In the following gloomy morning, the tree was chopped down and consecrated. The new bride performed the somber rites of a funereal. My mother wore the customary widow’s white for the day.

Late in the afternoon, the heavens let loose. The groom’s party from Calcutta was held back on the other side of the river. With minutes to spare for the lagna (auspicious hour) to expire, the wedding party arrived and my mother, bejeweled and dressed in her wedding finery wed my father.

My parent’s union was purpose driven, each staying in their own separate worlds. My father toiled humbly and diligently at the responsibilities passed on to him by his renowned teacher, Prof. Meghnath Saha. At home, my academically brilliant, college educated aunts tried to introduce my mother to the ways of the city, but she kept her distance. My mother bore my father five children, also laying out a feast every afternoon with various dishes of fish curries and vegetables from her garden. The scent of exotic flowers of her garden wafted through our house every evening.

I must confess that my father’s professional

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success had its advantages. Renowned academicians and Nobel Laureates passing through India would come to our house for dinner. My mother’s dishes more than matched the visitors’ own achievements. What irked my mother quite often was that these great men would get into involved discussions at the table, letting the food on their plates to grow cold. Their absentminded behavior was unacceptable to my mother’s sensibilities, but she bore such insults in her silence. She was equally annoyed when occasionally my father would teach his Ph. D. students at our table, ‘those poor boys from the districts who could otherwise not afford a decent meal.’

If my mother’s academic limitations bothered my father, he did not let it be known. In an attempt to learn spoken English, one of our tenants (who were an up and coming family) asked her to join the Ladies Club at the IndoAmerican Society on Park Street. Encouraged by my father, my mother did join. In short order, she could not bear to crack the books at home and soon lost interest. To amuse my brothers, sister, and I at home, she did hilarious impersonations of how upstart Punjabi, Bihari and South Indians ladies spoke English at their club meetings. The saving grace was the beautifully arranged bouquet of flowers that my mother would present to the American ladies before she said her goodbyes.

My father’s professional success had its disadvantages too. Professor Palit’s Elementary Physical Chemistry, a college textbook, was a roaring success throughout India, bringing in more money than he had anticipated or expected. He felt that the money had to be put to good use somewhere and that became a problem. My father did not have any business acumen or financial interest. Without any further consultation, in a flash of sudden wisdom, he tore down our garden and built a second fourstorey building. Now we had eight flats to our

name. He proclaimed, “The city of Calcutta will become so crowded in a few decades, there will not be any land left for people to build houses for themselves. I will give each of my four sons a flat and their wives a flat too.

We did not need the rooster to crow in our garden to wake us in the morning anymore. My father had brought back a radio alarm clock from Japan. Vividth Bharati filled the airwaves. The chirping sparrows found new homes elsewhere. The splash of colors of the parrots that came to feed on our plot of maize became a memory in black and white. All his children went abroad and my father’s cherished flats remained empty.

Following his retirement from the academics in Calcutta, my father accepted a visiting professorship at the University of Science and Technology at Kumasi, in Ghana, West Africa. The climate and terrain suited both my parents. They received a sprawling colonial bungalow situated on several acres of land. A rural, multigenerational, extended family from Cote d’Ivoire was appointed as the caretaker of the bungalow in a package deal. My mother was in her elements again. Here, in equatorial West Africa, she found the Eden of her childhood.

My father spent his days in quiet study at the university. His position at the university was mostly honorary and there was no academic pressure. The caretaker family and my mother had an instant appreciation of each other’s needs. After all these years, Aikon had re-connected with the peasants she had known in her paternal and ancestral lands. The garden blossomed. My father ate well. The caretakers too felt well placed.

The Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology was the educational and cultural bastion of West Africa. Here too, the government of Ghana brought in foreign scholars of note. The intrusion into my mother’s life was minimal and by this time she had become

more tolerant. At a faculty party on campus one evening, my father saw from across the hall, my mother regaling a group of European women with an animated story. Shocked at seeing this sudden change in my mother’s personality, my father came in for a closer look, one slow step at a time. Much to his astonishment, my mother was chatting away with the ladies in fluent French.

My father could not get over the surprise at his discovery of my mother’s ability to speak French. On the way back home in the car, he broached the subject as tactfully as he could. He asked her, “Would you like to invite your friends (faculty spouses) to our bungalow? They will love your African recipes. It will be something new to them.”

My mother threw him an equally surprised look. “Why will it be something new to them? They too have been in Africa for a long time,” she responded.

“How do you know? Did they tell you,” my father asked.

“Didn’t you hear them? They speak the native language here.”

My father told me later, that was the very moment that he began to ponder the limitations of the academic method. He began to recognize that there were people who had unusual ways of learning. Books were not the know-it and learn-it-all as he had accepted all his life. My mother had learned and spoke Creole French, only because no one had intimated her into a formal education. My mother had learnt to speak French from her caretaker family just as a child learns to communicate while growing up.

I rarely saw my parents after their stay in Africa. My parents came for a brief visit to the US and met my (then) wife Helen. We enjoyed

two wonderful weeks together in New Haven, Connecticut. Within a fortnight of his return to Calcutta, my father suffered a cardiac arrest and passed away. I got caught up with my professional life at CBS television in New York and stayed away from the rambling house my father had envisioned as the home for his laughing grandchildren. My mother’s health started to fail, and she did the best she could, raising hibiscus on a flowerbed in the balcony.

I needed to say my goodbyes to the past and at one point returned to the ancestral home. One evening, my mother played an adaptation of an exquisite Nocturne by Chopin on the piano. As she played, to my great surprise, she also hummed along in Bangla, “I found refuge in your shade; I found in freedom your open arms.”

I was touched. My mother had been my music teacher in my youth, but I did not know she could write songs too. Many questions about my own life were beginning to fall into place as I discovered who she was. Intrigued by her literary abilities, I asked her, “Did you sing to Baba (my father)?”

Ma was taken aback. She nodded her head, saying, “No.…he was too busy” and her eyes became moist.

I was sorry that I had asked her about such a pointed and sad inequity in her life. She had customarily remained in the shadow of an illustrious man, her husband, my father. I wished I could take back my unkind words, but it was too late. She turned away from me and picked up where she had left off on the Nocturne. “It was not his fault,” she said softly, “after all, it was I who was in love with the tree.”

(Onar dosh ki bol; ami tho sai gachta monay doray chhilam.)

Theirs was another world, another time, and another love.

The National Anthem

Debashis Roy Chowdhury, California

The subway station was nearly empty.

Takashi Nakamura adjusted his double mask and stole a glance around. Yareyare ! Thank goodness! he felt relieved that no one was really looking at him. As such there was only a handful of commuters and they were rivetted to their phone screens. And even if someone took notice of him, so what? He was not a public figure of any kind or a movie star or a famous sports personality. They would see a middle-aged, ordinary man in a non-descript suit. A closer scrutiny might reveal a drooping shoulder, a look of dejection. But who had time for a second look? He was fortunate that no one knew him outside his small circle of family and friends. Chikusho! Damn it! Takashi tried hard to focus his thoughts. How would he face his family now? What would he tell Ichika? What

would he tell his karaoke tomodachi (friends) or his golf buddies? Takashi Nakamura was finished. He had no where to hide. And sadly, he had no one to blame, but himself.

The day had started well, it had a good omen. Only forty-eight hours remained before the closing ceremony of the 32nd Olympiad

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games in Tokyo. Takashi was counting the hours. He felt like a marathon runner who had another forty-eight hours to reach the finish line. He was excited and exhausted at the same time. Faito (fight and overcome), the end was in sight, a victory for Japan, a personal victory for Takashi Nakamura.

Kami ni yotte! By God, he had worked very hard for the past one year. He could not believe his luck the day he was selected to join the official team managing the Tokyo Olympics. No doubt, he was a clerk in good standing at Monbu-kagaku-shō (The Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology). He had a good reputation. His keen interest in karaoke was appreciated by his boss, Kudo-san (Mr. Kudo). That was why Takashi was recommended for the task force managing the medal ceremony. It was a large task force supporting forty-two different venues. The task force itself was part of one of the eight sub-committees, overseen by an apex committee chaired by the IOC. In this prestigious organization, he, Nakamura- san , had a crucial role to play. In the medal ceremony, during the afternoon sessions, at the main Olympic Stadium in Tokyo, he would be responsible to play the national anthems for the gold winning countries.

Waku waku! What an excitement it was to break the news to his daughter, on the day Takashi was chosen for this key role. Ichika, in spite of her teenage apathy, was wide-eyed with excitement.

“ Suge’e, Touchan! Awesome! Is it really true? At the main stadium?”

“Hai, during the afternoon and the evening events.”

“And how many national anthems do you have to play?”

“Technically, 206 countries, though not all

of them would get a gold medal!”

“Ara ara … Oh, feel sorry for those countries.”

“In fact, 72 countries have never got any medal. We keep these in lower priority, though who knows what could happen in a game.”

“Waku waku suru, what a thrill it will be to play the Kimigayo (Japanese National Anthem).”

“ Mochiron , though Japan has only got a handful of gold medals in Athletics so far.”

“This time, Japan will surely do better. And in skateboarding no girl can beat a Japanese on’nanoko (girl)!”

But even before the preparations could start in earnest, they were hit by the worst calamity in Olympic history. Who knew that a new wave of Covid would strike Japan and rest of the world again? The second wave hit Tokyo hard with its deadly variants. The Olympics was almost getting canceled. Takashi nearly lost hope. Thank God, the Japanese Olympic committee and the AOC prevailed. They did not let public opinion derail the games. There would be no spectators in the stadia, but the games would still happen. They did not budge before that kuso (damn) virus! Takashi felt re-energized now that he was a crucial cog in the wheel of such where-there-is-a-will machine.

Since then, Takashi had worked tirelessly with other members of the sub-committees and the numerous task forces to work out the finer details of the medal ceremony at forty-two venues over sixteen event-packed days, especially its musical accompaniment. His interest in music and karaoke was as asset for the task. He enjoyed listening, categorizing, noting intricate details of timings of the national anthems from all the countries that were contenders for the gold medals in Athletics. These were produced

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using high-end computers with state-of-the-art programs to coordinate each and every second during the ceremony. Out of interest, he learnt by heart the national anthems of USA, Britain, Germany, France, China, Jamaica, Kenya; and of course, he already knew the best of them all, the Kimigayo

Takashi had a nakama, a junior assistant for the job, Akira Yamamoto. No doubt, Akira was a kashikoi hito (smart fellow) but a little too smart and too helpful for his taste. Whenever their boss, Kudo-san would be present, Akira would try to show off his expertise and helpfulness. Takashi ignored him; after all Takashi was the senior-most member of his task force and he could beat Akira in karaoke any day!

The preparation went on in full steam. Every morning, he and Akira would minutely review the national anthems of all the countries that would take part in Athletics in the main stadium. Their assignment was for the events scheduled in the afternoons and the evenings. Granted, it was somewhat tiresome to listen to the national anthems of countries that had not got even a single medal in the last hundred years. But the mandate was clear. If any country would take part in an event, their anthems must be prepared, reviewed, and kept ready for the ceremony, no exceptions.

Despite all the preparations, the first glitch happened after the finals of the air pistol shooting. Vitalina Batsarashkinafrom Russia won gold. Takashi was about to play the music linked in the computer. It was the State Anthem of the Russian Federation. Akira was looking over his shoulder and pulled him back. In another split second, disaster would have struck. Akira had the presence of mind to switch the anthem to the pounding strains of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Number 1. Russia as a country was banned to participate in the Tokyo Olympics. The Russian athletes had

joined under a new banner ‘ROC’ (Russsian Olympic Committee). ROC had chosen Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s master-piece as its new anthem. Takashi knew for sure that this change was made in the computer, but something obviously went wrong at the last moment.

There was a but a momentary delay in playing the anthem as Vitalina took the stand, though barely noticeable. Ahhh, tasukatta! Thank heaven! No one really could tell; except for their boss, Kudo-san, who did not look pleased. Takashi later saw Akira whispering something into the boss’s ears; he stopped abruptly when Takashi passed them by. Nakama, my foot – that wretched Akira! Did Akira play any dirty trick to discredit him? Fortunately, no other untoward incident happened after that. But an unspoken unease settled between the two of them.

Did Takashi become too complacent and let his guard down? Else why did he take such a foolish chance just two days before the game would end? The day had started with an auspicious omen. The breaking news flashed all over the world. The thirteen-year-old, Momiji Nishiya had won gold in women’s street skateboarding. She dazzled at the event; she became the youngest ever gold medalist from Japan. Ishika and her friends went gaga over her performance! It was a proud moment for Japan.

Takashi had missed watching the skateboarding finals, given his task force assignments. He could not simply wait to watch the recording. As he reviewed the national anthems for the day, he took a calculated risk and skipped reviewing a few. Notably, he did not double-check anthems of those countries that had never won a gold medal in Athletics. The anthems were all there in the computer, he simply skipped the final review. With time in hand now, he sneaked out to the cafeteria and watched the unsurpassed wizardry of Momiji.

What a performance!

The afternoon events had started. Takashi and Akira were in full control, under the watchful eye of Kudo-san. The musical accompaniment to the medal ceremonies went on like clock-work. They were watching the finals of every event on the big screen at the back office. They were informed of the outcome of an event instantly. They knew which country’s national anthem to play. It was their daily drill by now.

The finals of the Javelin throw was in progress. It was the turn for a young athlete from India. His first throw crossed 87 meters! There was huge uproar from the Indian contingent in the stadium. Normally Takashi would not have paid close attention to an unknown athlete from India. But there was something about this young man that triggered his interest. He adjusted his mask to pay close attention to the big screen.

The thrower was preparing for the second throw. He appeared casual, as if trying not to show his intensity. His blue outfit challenged the blueness of the sky. Now he became calm, his whole body taut, like the stillness of a cheetah before the sprint. Then, javelin in hand, he bolted. As he reached the end of the course, he lurched upward in an awkward jump and fell to the ground. A split second before that the javelin left his hand to pierce the air, trying to defy gravity. This time, it reached 87.58 meters! Takashi knew, they were witnessing history in the make. The thrower was getting ready for his last and final throw.

Before Takashi had time to double check the national anthem of India, the result was announced. India won her maiden gold medal in Athletics with Neeraj Chopra’s unbelievable performance in javelin throw. Neeraj would take the stand in a matter of minutes. Takashi looked at the computer and the link to the Indian national anthem was missing! He started a search in the backup database, but time was

running out!

Akira pushed forward. He gently nudged Takashi aside and took charge. Did he knowingly plant the glitch? Otherwise, how could he promptly locate the Indian national anthem? Why did he smile at Takashi?

“I know it. It is composed by the Indian Nobel laureate, Tegora-san …”, he seemed to be addressing the boss while ignoring Takashi.

India’s national anthem, composed by Asia’s first Nobel-laureate, Rabindranath Tagore, filled the Tokyo Olympic stadium for the first time. The composition was catchy, noted Takashi, even in the midst of his acute embarrassment.

The boss, Kudo-san called Takashi to the side after the ceremony ended.

“I am deeply disappointed, Nakamura-san. This is the second time it has happened. If Akira would not have intervened, what would have happened? Japan could have lost its face to the world.”

“Gomen ne! I am really sorry, Kudo-san. I promise, it will not happen again.”

“For sure. I will not let it happen again. Please go home and take rest. You are too stressed, I think. On Monday, we will discuss the matter and come to an agreement.”

Owarimashita ! It was over! Takashi knew what an agreement meant in this situation. It could mean only one thing, a negotiated settlement to resign voluntarily, a Japanese way of getting fired from a job. He would be forced to quit his personal marathon before reaching the finish line. August 7, 2021 would be a perpetual black-mark in his life.

As Takashi waited for the train to arrive, the parting comment from Akira still rang in his ears, like an insult to injury.

“What a coincidence, Kudo-san! Today is Tegora-san’s death anniversary!

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W Wee ssa allu utte e

A Anna annd daa M Maan nddi irr

TTr ruus stte eees s & & V Vool luun ntte eeer rss

F Foor r a annootthheer r y yeeaar r o of f d deeddiiccaatteed d w woorrkk! !

J J a aii P Prra a k k a a s s h h B Biis s w w a a s s

S S u u p p a arrn n a a B Biis s w w a a s s

The Years that Were: 2020 and 2021

(When nature’s virus challenged human existence and man’s politics challenged human values)

Asok Baral, New Jersey

It was the worst of times; it was the best of times.

It was the time of unprecedented human tragedy; it was the time of unprecedented medical achievements.

It was the time when rich and poor were equal against a virus; it was the time when rich and poor were equally armed against the virus.

It was the time of forced social distancing; it was the time of voluntary social connecting.

It was the time when racism reached its nadir; it was the time when fraternity reached its zenith.

It was the time when hatred and lies spewed from the top; it was the time when love and care flourished from the bottom.

It was the time when millions faced hunger; it was the time when millions fed the hungry.

It was the time when families without money feared for survival; it was the time when nations with money ushered in revival.

It was the time when one despot almost ruined the country, it was the time when record numbers voted to save the country.

It was the time when evils against the law were up in arms, it was the time when sworn enemies joined arms to uphold the law.

It was the time when the pillars of democracy teetered, it was the time when wisdom saved the pillars.

It was the time like no other in recent memory, and the time that will be remembered over generations.

You Froze

Vishnupriya, New Jersey

You froze last night when the snow came down heavy and the bones started to melt

The white meant to rub you the rough way and you gave in never mind how you felt

All the homeschooling children are gathered now on your icy banks to whistle you to action

Their parkas cover them fully and they aren’t scared of the cold

Or catching the spreading sickness gone viral in this wintry hold

So why are you being a spoilsport and killing their gaiety

Just by being stuck and unhelpful and hard and old

Will you live again tomorrow when it’s time for their little paper boats to float?

Those Eyes

Vishnupriya, New Jersey

Those eyes are the calm Pacific

Ships get caught in the eye of the hurricane, the storm smacks them and the tempest tosses them, and they are airborne, dangling, almost drowning soon after

They anchor in those eyes

The fire rages, lava spews out and the burnt condor chick falls to the ground

That’s when its singed feathers are bathed by those eyes, and it’s embalmed

Their feet get sucked in by the quicksand very slowly

It is almost waist deep now when those eyes pull them out and they land

The head explodes with a convulsive fever breaking into little bits and pieces

Suddenly blue dreams float in those deep Pacific eyes and the body is fever free, healed

Prashanti…. Pacific

Lunch episode

Bharati Chowdhury, England

The story dates back to five years in London I popped in a restaurant for lunch

The photos reflect two European ladies Who are they can you make a hunch?

They are the secretaries of my University I was very amicable and friendly with them

Both were eager to enjoy palatable Indian food

They quoted some items with proper name. One day I decided to treat them both Guests were Moira King and Louise Copeland I arranged a lunch time for all of us

In a nearby restaurant with very good brand. Savoury foods were piled up in dishes

The waiters were very alert and active Moira and Louise were relishing the menu

But I was very much taste sensitive. Yes, those were Indian food indeed But the preparation lacked a special taste

I am very much fond of Bengali food

In food ranking Bengali cuisine comes up the best. Suddenly a waiter came to me and explained Chefs for that restaurant were not from Bengal They were from other parts of India

I have come to a wrong place after all.

Moira and Louise did not complain

They were happy with fried food with oil

Where they could get such savoury food

So different from boiled food in English soil!

On my next invitation to those Europeans

I treated them to a Bengali restaurant in my University area

Selection of food was mouth watering

Mixed with a nice odour I was gripped with nostalgia. Then my friends realised the striking difference Bengal culinary was very much special I was very much glad to introduce them to Bengali food Bengal is my birth province in India after all. The taste of the pudding lies in the eating

This proverb was lurking in my mind

I long for the camaraderie with my colleagues

Those golden years I have left behind.

Youth Corner

It’s Time We Talked

Aryana Ranjanala (Age 15), New Jersey

In spite of all the progress society has made, the social stigmas around menstruation hold girls and women back in many respects. UNESCO reports that 1 in 10 girls in Africa miss school during menstruation. In many parts of India and Bangladesh, women don’t go into the kitchen or cook during these days. A majority of women and girls in the world still do not have access to safe and hygienic supplies to manage their periods.

This story was written for Ayati, a non-profit organization in NJ that supports menstrual education in India and helps procure and distribute supplies.

Isla wakes up with a wide stretch, letting her long, shimmering black hair fall down her back as she sits up in bed, yawning. She uses a hand and pushes her hair back behind her ear, taking her other hand and rubbing her eyes blearily. Without actually opening her eyes, as if she’s sleepwalking, she

stands and walks over to her closet, pulling out what she believes to be a bright cyan dress. She loves that one, the way it fits elegantly over her form, curving around her slim figure. And of course today is the day to wear it! Ayaan is visiting! He comes every month to see her and the town, but it feels like eternities pass between his visits. Ayaan is Isla’s best friend. They met years ago, before he moved. Thankfully, though, he still visits her. Isla doesn’t know what she would do without him.

Still only half awake, Isla staggers over to the bathroom in the hallway, waving sleepily to her mother on her way in, and prepares herself for the day, combing her hair, taking a shower and getting dressed. It is not until she steps out of the bathroom, leaving the bathroom mirror covered in condensation, that she is finally awake. And now that she is awake, she finally has enough energy to be excited.

Ayaan is coming!

Briefly, she stops and checks her appearance in the mirror perched upon her dresser in her room. Her hair, however straight and manageable it seems at first glance, is totally and absolutely untamable. Despite

the fact, she manages to braid it neatly and lets it hang over her right shoulder. The cyan dress is slightly tighter than it should be, but it isn’t uncomfortable, and it doesn’t look tight on her. The sleeves go down to just below her elbows and the dress itself flows down to her knees. She smiles contentedly, the soft features of her face lighting up with delight. Cyan is Ayaan’s favorite color.

“Ma!” Isla calls, flinging herself down the hall and into the kitchen where her mother is standing by the stove. She looks to be cooking lunch.

“Good morning, Isla,” her mother says sweetly. “It’s about time you’re up. It’s getting late already.”

“Ma, it’s only seven o’clock!” she exclaims. “So when is Ayaan getting here?”

“Like you said,” she chuckles softly, “it’s only seven o’clock. Give him some time. He’ll be here soon. In the meantime, why don’t you help me with lunch?”

Isla sighs, rolling her eyes. “No thanks, Ma. I think I should wait for him by the entrance.

Maybe he doesn’t remember where our house is after all this time.”

“He visits every month,” her mother says. “I really don’t think that he—” She turns around to look at her daughter after hearing a soft click behind her, but sees only an open door, a gentle zephyr blowing into the curtains on the other side of the room.

Isla grins impishly to herself as she walks up the path to the entrance of the town, smiling at the other residents as she passes by, but the smile is strained. She doesn’t really want to smile at them. She wants to smile at Ayaan, but he isn’t here yet.

She looks up as someone approaches her, smiling brightly. It’s her friend, Ina. “Isla!” she calls happily, grabbing Isla’s hand. “Come on, come play with us! Please?”

Isla hesitates in answering. “Sorry, Ina, but I don’t think I can play right now. I’m waiting for Ayaan. Maybe we can play a little later, alright?”

Ina frowns. She looks so cute, Isla thinks for a moment, being only seven years old with a pair of short black pigtails bouncing on her back as she plays with her other friends. “Fine,” she huffs. “But please come!”

Isla watches as Ina runs off. She doesn’t like saying no to her, but if she is to be completely honest, none of them really matter to her right now. She wants Ayaan, and he is taking a long time. Or maybe she’s just really impatient. After all, it’s still pretty early, and he doesn’t usually get there until later in the day…but at the same time, he looks forward to his visits as much as Isla does, and—

“Ah!” Isla cries as a pair of arms wraps around her neck, someone jumping on her back.

She spins around in an attempt to throw her attacker off, though her efforts are in vain. At last, the arms let go and she whips around and slaps her assailant, then gasps.

“Ayaan!” she shouts, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, you’re finally here! What took you so long?”

Ayaan winces, rubbing his cheek. “Ouch,” he mutters. “That really hurt. I thought I’d get a warmer welcome.”

Isla pushes him back, frowning disapprovingly. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have jumped on me like that! You scared me half to death!”

He smiles sheepishly, shrugging innocently, push-

ing the pair of of glasses he wears higher up on his thin nose. She hates those glasses. It always makes it harder to see the shine in his warm, gentle brown eyes. “Isla, it’s so good to see you again. I wish I could come more often.”

She nods enthusiastically. “Me too, but…you only leave for a month at a time. You don’t have to act like it’s been years since you’ve seen me! Now come on, let’s go tell Ma that you’re here! And then you can tell me all about what you’ve been doing without me and we can play some more! Come on, come on! You only have a few days here, so let’s make the most of it!” Ayaan laughs as she drags him back to her house. He loves visiting her, however childish she is at times. Time always seems to fly during those few days. This is like a break for both of them, relief from the routine and pattern that haunts their everyday lives. This will be as fun as any other month, he thinks to himself.

And the visits continue, each one consisting of a mixture of memories and pure bliss, flying past them like lightning, leaving the gaps in between to drag by in the muddy boredom they leave behind after

their brief showers of dizzy ecstasy. A year passes, leaving both Ayaan and Isla at fifteen years of age.

Again, on a weekend morning like any other, in anticipation of Ayaan’s arrival, Isla wakes up with a stretch and a yawn, making her way to the bathroom with a pastel yellow skirt and a cyan top—cyan is still his favorite color, right?—but when she comes out, she turns white as a sheet.

Her mother looks at her as she walks out, frowning. “Isla,” she asks slowly, “is something wrong?”

“It’s those days again,” Isla whispers quickly to her mother. “Aayan is coming. I...I can’t be home.” And with those few ambiguous words—though they were clear as day to her mother— she slips out the door, walking swiftly down the empty streets. Why are they empty? Is the world

purposely avoiding her now? She chuckles to herself. As if. Clouds cover the sky, as if mourning for her. Today of all days, it had to happen!

She goes into a quiet alley in a quiet part of neighborhood and sits down. She sighs. She won’t be able to see Ayaan until it’s over. That is one of the evil parts of growing up. Resignedly,

she puts her head in her hands and sits there. She looks up as a raindrop falls on her arm. Isn’t that just perfect?

She really hates it when this happens to her. She isn’t allowed to be around people. She isn’t allowed to visit the temple. She isn’t allowed to run or jump or play or really anything she likes to do. And worst of all, she isn’t allowed to talk about it.

Outside the alley, she can hear Ayaan’s voice, very faintly. He sounds like he’s looking for her. “Isla!” he calls out, but she knows she shouldn’t reply. She can hear his footsteps approaching, getting closer and closer, and then…farther away. He walks past her. She hears him talking to someone else, probably the only other one outside on a cold, damp morning like this. “Hey,” he says. “Have you seen Isla anywhere? I thought she’d be walking to the entrance to meet me, but I can’t find…” The rest of his sentence is drowned out by the rain. Isla moves closer to the opening of the alley, trying to hear what he is saying.

“I haven’t been able to find her either,” a voice replies. It’s Ina. “I even asked her mother, but she wouldn’t tell me. I’ll just ask her about it when she stops

hiding.”

Isla can practically hear the frown in Ayaan’s voice. “Alright, but why do you think she’s hiding?”

“It’s anyone’s guess,” she says. “But she’s older than me, so I don’t really question a lot about what she does. I know this, though; she hides like this every month.”

There’s a pause.

“Thanks,” Ayaan says. “I’ll go look for her.”

And then, once again, his footsteps race past the alley, but this time, they stop and turn around, skidding to a halt in front of it.

“Isla!” Ayaan shouts. “Isla, are you down there? Come on, it’s raining! We should go inside!”

She gasps and shuffles back in the alley, trying to act like she isn’t there, but Ayaan’s figure appears as a shadow in the alley’s entrance, running towards her.

“I’m not supposed to be around anyone!” she calls to him. He stops a few feet away from her, frowning.

“Why not?” he asks, confusion creasing his brow. “Isla, what’s going on? I can’t help unless you tell me.”

Realizing that he won’t go away until she explains herself, Isla stands briefly, cringing as she does so, and

whispers in his ear. His frown deepens.

“What?”

She whispers something else in his ear.

“Isla, why are you whispering? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I!” she cries, frustration growing in her voice. “I don’t understand any of it! All I know is that when it happens, I have to stay away from people and there’s a plethora of things I can’t do because that’s what Ma told me before and that’s what all the other girls in the town do.”

Ayaan puts a hand on her shoulder and looks into her dark, steady eyes. “Why?” he inquires.

“Because Ma said so, and she’s been saying so for the past couple years.”

“But why does she say that?” he insists. Isla frowns, struggling to figure out what he’s trying to say. “Isla, have you ever really thought about it? This is just a part of you, something that happens to every woman, right? It’s just a part of growing up. You shouldn’t be afraid of any of it. This happens where I live, too, but we never do anything like this, sending the girls away, and no one ever gets hurt or anything. Well, sometimes it makes the women feel really

sick, but then, we shouldn’t be shunning them, we should be supporting them! Why should it be any different here? You don’t know anything about this. How will you understand what’s going on if you can’t ask about it, if you can’t learn?”

Isla doesn’t move for a second, trying to absorb what he’s just said, trying desperately to grab the words, to believe them. It… It makes sense. Why should she be afraid of this?

Suddenly the rituals all

seem ridiculous, baseless superstitions that stayed with them through the ages. Why should she stay away from people? Why shouldn’t she do all these things? Why do people speak of it like they are planning to commit a crime, in whispers and mumbles? It’s a part of them.

It’s a part of me.

“Ayaan,” she breathes softly. “Oh Ayaan, I’ve been so silly! Well then, since you helped me, I…I want to tell everyone else.” She nods to

herself, finalizing the thought. She doesn’t have to be afraid of it. She doesn’t want anyone else to be. “I want to fix the way the town feels about all of this. I want to learn. You’ll help me, right?”

Ayaan nods, smiling brightly. “Of course I will. Alright, why don’t we start with your mother? She’ll definitely listen to us, and then more and more people can understand. The first thing we’ll tell everyone: you don’t have to be afraid of it.”

Until opportunity

Subhronil Mukherjee, (Age

13), New Jersey

Winter Is Coming

Ben wasn’t an ordinary wildcat.

He did not have many abilities - in fact, he was lacking in all. His hunting and tracking were poor, he had the stealth of an enraged elephant, and he did not have sharpened sight when the sun set and the day grew dark.

In addition, the pack where Ben lived in was running low on food. Winter was near, and all the rabbits and shrews and sparrows were being seen less and less often. Only the greatest hunters could go out in the wild and consistently bring back food.

Due to this, the pack elders drew a meeting at the dawn of a cold day, whether to keep him or cast him out. They were unaware, however, that Ben was outside the cosy cave, listening.

“It must be done!” demanded Red, a feisty old ginger tom. “He cannot provide anything for

the pack! There is no use for him staying!”

Grant, a more respected grey coloured tom, eyed Red. “He’s still a child, he may possess many traits that we do not know of yet.”

“We have assessed him before,” drawled Alice cooly, a multicoloured tortoiseshell. “He cannot hunt, track, hide, or run, at all. I do not think there are any other traits that we need. Furthermore, we are running low on food.

The whole clan could be punished because of him.”

Eyes went on Grant, who did not speak to argue this point.

“He has a nice personality,” Maurice finally said timidly. He was the youngest of the elders, a shy character.

Red laughed. “What good can personality do to us? Besides, it’s not exactly uncommon for other packs to throw out their weakest pack

n 156

member, especially in winter. Blaze’s clan did it a few weeks ago.”

Outside the den, Ben slowly drooped his head, aware that there was very little chance he would stay in this pack. Red had a good point. It was survival of the fittest.

Felicity, the oldest one of the elders, opened her mouth. All the cats looked at her, for she spoke wisdom through her words. “I agree with Red and Alice. Ben may have some traits, but the pack does not need him. I say we cast him away.”

“Where will he go? How will he surv--”

“That’s his own matter,” Red said, cutting across the words of Maurice.

“We needn’t worry about that.”

“We need all cats to agree on this,” Felicity said. “Maurice and Grant are both for Ben, right?”

Maurice looked at Felicity, nodding his head. “Yes, I believe that he can still provide us something.”

Grant hesitated, then he took a sigh. “No. I think that you are right. It pains me to say it, but we must throw Ben out. For the good of all cats.”

Maurice opened his mouth, looking at Grant, then closed it. He shook his head. “Fine. Ben is no longer part of the pack.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “It will be made an announcement tomorrow midday. But for today, he will stay.”

As the cats started to walk out of the cave, Ben silently slipped out, filled with fear.

One of a Kind

Hugh wandered over to Ben, one of his closest friends in the pack. He seemed to be observing something.

“Hiya, Ben!” Hugh grinned. “What’cha doing?

Ben barely looked up from the plant he was investigating. “Hey Hugh,” he muttered.

Hugh stopped walking and stood right next

to Ben. He looked at the plant.

He looked at it really hard. Nothing happened.

“What is that?” Hugh asked Ben.

“I don’t know,” Ben admitted. “But I think it helps reduce pain.”

Hugh stared at Ben. “How can you know that from just looking at it?”

“I didn’t,” Ben smiled. “But I took a squirrel from the food pile and injured it, then fed it some of this. Almost immediately it stopped squealing in pain the way squirrels do.”

Hugh grinned. “Jeez, why did you even think to do that?”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t like hunting all that much, so I spend a lot of time with plants.”

Hugh gave Ben a friendly nudge. “You are one of a kind.”

He left, shaking his head in disbelief.

Ben sighed. Being one of a kind was going to get him thrown out of the pack.

“Help!”

Grant walked over to his den, a warm piece of moss in his mouth. He placed it onto his bed, then patted the area, creating a soft cushion. He lied down. His body felt weak, which he dismissed as old age creeping into his bones.

However, as the minutes passed, the weaker he felt.

“I’ll feel better if I take a run,” Grant murmured to himself. But as he pushed up, he found that he could not get up.

What’s happening to me? Grant thought. His legs collapsed under him, and his vision began to fade.

“Help!” he cried out, coughing. Then he lost consciousness.

What Good Can a Cat Like You Do?

Landon raced into the den of Felicity, eyes wide with fear. “It’s Grant! I found him in his den and tried to wake him, but he didn’t move! I think

something’s happened!”

Felicity sprang up and looked into Landon’s eyes. “Fetch the other elders. I’ll tend to Grant.”

Landon nodded and sprinted out. Felicity ran over to the den of Grant. It was in the corner of the denplace, for Grant liked it quiet. It was possible that Grant had been out for a long time since he lived in an isolated area.

Felicity skidded to a stop in front of Grant, fearing for the worst. She touched the forehead of the grey cat. It was burning hot. Felicity knew that no cat really knew how to cure illnesses, and most died when infected. As of now, Grant’s heart still beat, faintly.

Alice and Red came in, followed by Maurice. “What happened?” asked Alice.

Landon finally arrived, panting. He took a moment to catch his breath, then explained. “I don’t know much, but I was walking to the forest to hunt, and saw Grant on the floor. He was in the same position he’s in now.”

“What do we do?” Maurice asked Felicity. She paused, then sighed. “I don’t know. The best we can do is keep him warm, but Grant might not make it.”

In came Ben. From the way he took heavy breaths, it was clear that he had run to the den.

“Ben!” Maurice exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Ben glanced at Maurice. “Can I… Can I take a look at Grant?”

“What do you want to look at?” Red spat. “There’s nothing we can do, kid.”

Ben ignored Red and padded over to Grant. For a few seconds, everyone was shocked by his sudden appearance, then Alice stepped in front of Ben.

“You’re not allowed in here. Something serious has happened, get out.”

Ben licked his lips nervously. “I think I can… help him.”

“What good can a cat like you do?” Red hissed. The question did not directly say Ben was useless, but there was a hostile tone in the message.

Ben paused, then looked at Felicity. “Please let me try to do something.”

Felicity hesitated. Then she bowed her head. “Then save him.”

Ben opened his mouth again, timid. “Well… I need you all to follow my commands.”

“The little cat wants us to obey him, like slaves!” Red spat.

Ben felt the hair on his back rise. Within a wave of sudden anger, he asked, “Do you want to save Grant?”

Red only glared at Ben.

Ben turned to Felicity. “Do you?”

Felicity smiled slightly. “Yes.”

Ben walked over to Maurice. “What about you, Maurice?”

Maurice seemed a bit taken aback. “Well… Yeah, I guess…”

Ben spun to Alice. “Are you willing to do what it takes to save Grant?”

Alice studied Ben for a long time. “I am,” she finally declared.

Ben turned back to Red. “Now, are you going to save Grant or not?”

Red felt the eyes of everyone on him. “I… am.”

Ben nodded slowly. Then he gestured to Maurice. “There’s a plant with three sharp, pointy leaves to the left of Jason’s den. Bring me that.”

Maurice nodded and raced over to Jason’s den. Ben looked at Felicity.

“Do you know what fireweed is?”

Felicity grunted a yes.

“Do you know where to find some?”

“There’s some right outside our territory.”

“Good, get a good amount of it.”

After Felicity sprinted away, Ben eyed both Red and Alice. “Alice, there are some very bright red berries near Felicity’s den. Take two or three and come back.”

Red growled. “What do I have to do now?”

“Get some moss and soak it well in the river,” Ben replied calmly. “Come back here fast to make sure it stays cold.”

Red obviously disliked the idea of fetching

things for the young cat, but he obeyed Ben and ran off.

Meanwhile, Maurice came back to the cave, placing the plant onto the ground.

“Can you crush it up?” Ben asked. “You’re stronger than I am. I’ll open Grant’s mouth as you make sure the juices fall in.”

Maurice hesitated. “How do you know that this will heal him? It could very well just make his condition worse.”

Ben threw a glance over his shoulder. “Well, he’s going to die either way, then, isn’t he? Now, squeeze the juices into his mouth.”

Ben opened up the elderly cat’s mouth, seeing the green juice fall in. This will help fight off most of the sickness. Ben thought to himself. Now… we need the fireweed to get Grant’s blood running the plant around his system.

Felicity and Red came back at the same time. Ben grabbed the fireweed from Felicity, then gestured to Red. “Place the moss on Grant’s forehead. It’ll reduce the fever he’s going through.”

Red complied, keeping his paws on the cat’s forehead.

Ben suddenly realized that the elders weren’t the only one watching this.

Alice had to push her way through a small crowd of wildcats that had gathered.

Ben’s heart began to speed up. What if he failed? But his knowledge of the plants would pull him through - it had to.

Ben looked at Maurice. “You need to crush it up again. It would be best if Grant would actually eat the plant itself, but the juices should be good enough since he’s not conscious right now.”

Ben opened the mouth of Grant again, seeing the hand of Red on the forehead of the grey cat, seeing Maurice crush the juices, seeing Felicity, with a worried look on her face, as she wondered if Ben’s treatment would pull Grant through…

The last of the juices fell into Grant’s mouth, and Ben quickly took the berries from Alice.

They were small, so Ben slightly crushed them and put them in the elder’s mouth.

“These berries have lots of sugar in them…” Ben muttered, almost to himself. “They should act as a jumpstart for Grant’s heart…”

For a devastating minute, Grant did not move. A few cats turned away.

Then, the old grey cat coughed, and opened his eyelids.

As cats rushed towards the wise wildcat, Ben barked at them. “Get back! He needs space to breathe.”

Ben was surprised that everyone listened to him, even Red, who stepped quite a few spaces back.

Ben slowly placed a hand on Grant’s chest, feeling a growing heartbeat.

He was weak. But he would survive.

Ben’s Fate

The sun had well past set, but Ben was still awake, for he had been called into the cave of the elders. Everyone there was present, except for Grant, who was still resting.

Felicity was the one that stepped forward. “Ben… You have done Grant a great service. We did not quite… expect that from you.”

Alice nodded. Even Red gave a small smile at Ben.

“Listen,” Maurice stepped in. “We kinda decided to throw you out earlier. You know we have a food shortage. Well… Now, we’re thinking that you can provide for the pack. Just not in the normal way.”

“We were wrong to think you were useless,” Red said. “No cat really is, useless. You just couldn’t show us, until opportunity…”

Felicity finished it, with her soft but powerful voice. “This world is not just in need of fighters… but healers. And you are the one to bring that into play.

You do want to stay, correct?”

Ben smiled at them, a soft purr growing from his chest. “Of course I do.”