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A Publication by Ananda Mandir, New Jersey
An Annual Magazine Published by ANANDA
A Tax-Exempt, Non-Profit Organization 269 Cedar Grove Lane Somerset, NJ 08873
Tel: 732.873.9821
Website: www.anandamandir.org
Chairperson: Pronoy Chatterjee, pkc_usa@yahoo.com
Assistant Chairperson: Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com
Editor-in-Chief:
Pronoy Chatterjee, pkc_usa@yahoo.com
Editor, Anandalipi:: Amitabha Bagchi, amitabhanj@gmail.com
Editor, Ananda Sangbad: Guru Chakravarty, guruchakravarty@yahoo.com
Co-Editors: Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com Jayashree Chatterjee, chatterjay@gmail.com Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com Sushmita Dutta, sushmitadutt@novel-ebiz.com Kamal Raychaudhuri, kamal.raychaushuri@gmail.com
Members-at-large: Bhaswati Bhadra Santosh Mukherjee Ashok Rakhit
Cover Design by : Sushmita Dutta
Illustrations by : Sudipta Mondal, Rajib Pal, Sanjib Pal
Compose & Layout by : Arup Ghatak
Board of Trustees
President: Dipak Sarkar
Vice Presidents: Suprasad Baidyaroy, Jaiprakash Biswas
General Secretary: Suranjan Choudhury
Treasurer: Chanu Das
Other Members: Chhanda Aditya, Krishna Bhattacharya, Arun Bhowimik, Prabir Biswas, Sikha Chatterji, Pronoy Chatterjee, Krishna Dutta Roy, Anup Rakhit, Phalguni Ghosh, Saurav Ghosh, Sanchoy Das, Chandi Maitra, Pradip Majumdar, Uma Roychowdhury, Santosh Mukherjee, Ashok Rakhit, Sukanta Sengupta, Utpal Sengupta
Priest: Biswajyoti Nayak
Executive Committee (2012-2014)
Dipak Sarkar, Suranjan Choudhury, Suprasad Baidyaroy, Jaiprakash Biswas, Chanu Das, Chandi Maitra, Santosh Mukherjee, Arun Bhowmik, Ashok Rakhit, Krishna Dutta Roy
Other Committees and Subcommittees (2012-2014)
Award & Recognition
Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)
Debajyoti Chatterji
Surya Dutta
Guru Chakravarty
Amitabha Bagchi
Ashok Rakhit
Dilip Guha
Dipak Sarkar
Jerry GaMarsh (Adjunct)
Building Maintenance
Prabir Biswas (Chair)
Pradip Majumdar (Asst Chair)
Suranjan Choudhury
Phalguni Ghosh
Chanu Das
Communication
Saurav Ghosh (Chair)
Pradip Majumdar (Co-Chair)
Constitution Modification
Sukanta Sengupta (Chair)
Dipak Sarkar
Kamalesh Sirkar
Amitabha Bagchi
Construction
Ashok Rakhit (Chair)
Prabir Biswas (Asst Chair)
Arun Bhowmik
Santosh Mukherjee
Jaiprakash Biswas
Dipak Sarkar
Cultural
Arun Bhowmik (Chair)
Suranjan Choudhury (Asst Chair)
Utpal Sengupta
Mahua Bose
Event and Rental Coordination
Surya Dutta (Chair)
Pradip Majumdar
Biswajyoti Nayak
Utpal Sengupta
Festivals (major)
Coordinator
Surya Dutta
Food Arrangement
Uma Roychowdhury (Chair)
Anupom Saha (Asst chair)
Suprasad Baidyaroy
Santosh Mukherjee
Pradip Majumdar
Jayprakash Biswas
Phalguni Ghosh
Suranjan Chowdhury
Soma Rakhit
Fund-raising
Krishna Bhattacharya (Chair)
Ashok Rakhit (Co-Chair)
Santosh Mukherjee
Suprasad Baidyaroy
Sukanta Sengupta
Debajyoti Chatterji
Kamalesh Sirkar
Prativa Hore
Uma Roychowdhury
Humanitarian
Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair)
Internship
Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)
Dipak Sarkar
Pradip Majumdar
Ashok Rakhit
Kamalesh Sirkar
Tania Sen
Manning the Collection Table
Bandana Rakhit (Chair)
Santosh Mukherjee (Co-Chair)
Krishna Dutta Roy
Rita Bhowmik
Rik Sen
Sikha Chatterji
Sukanta Sengupta
Uma Roy Choudhury
Lopa Das
Anup Rakhit
Soma Rakhit
Membership Drive
Saurav Ghosh
Krishna Bhattacharya
Member Update
Amitabha Bagchi (Chair)
Surya Dutta
Debajyoti Chatterji
Literary Discussion
Amitabha Bagchi (Chair)
Subrata Bhaumik
Pronoy Chatterjee
Puja and Festivals
Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair)
Dipak Sarkar (Asst-chair)
Rita Bhowmik
Rik Sen
Bandana Rakhit
Sumita Biswas
Chitra Mondal
Ambalika Mukherjee
Rina Ganguli
Lopa Das
Uma Roy Choudhury
Publication
Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)
Amitabha Bagchi
Debajyoti Chatterji
Bhaswati Bhadra
Subrata Bhaumik
Guru Chakravarty
Jayashree Chatterjee
Sushmita Dutta
Kamal Raychaudhury
Santosh Mukherjee
Ashok Rakhit
Publicity
Santosh Mukherjee (Chair)
Youth Activity Organization
Dipak Sarkar (Chair)
Krishna Dutta Roy
Auditing
Dilip Chatterjee
Jayanta Ghose
Eva Chatterjee
Advisory Council
Prativa Hore
Debajyoti Chaterji
Shyamal Sarkar
Kamales Sirkar
Weare very pleased to bring to you the 2013 edition of Anandalipi. The magazine is a testament both to the literary interest of the Bengali community – mainly the Bengali diaspora in North America – and the commitment of Anand Mandir in supporting and fostering the community’s literary and other cultural pursuits. This confluence of creative passion and dedicated organizational support has resulted in the annual publication of Anandalipi for several years.
The goal of Anandalipi is two-fold: to bring the works of known and established talents in our midst to a wider audience, and to seek and showcase the output of new and fledgling authors. We believe that we have achieved the objective with the right balance in this issue. The readers, of course, will be the ultimate judges, but we trust that they will be pleased with the outcome.
Three groups of people have made possible the publication of this magazine; they need to be recognized and their work appreciated. The first are the contributors who provided the allimportant contents. The second is the group of volunteers who agreed to donate their time and effort by being on the Editorial Board. There would be no magazine without them. The third is the Board of Trustees of Ananda Mandir who gave unstinting support to the cause.
Finally, we note with a heavy heart the untimely passing away in September of Biman Bhatta, the previous Editor of Anandalipi. May his soul rest in peace. Our thoughts and prayers go to his bereaved family.
Amitabha Bagchi Editor, Anandalipi
The Ananda Mandir community expresses its appreciation to Suprasad and Reeta Baidyaroy for financially supporting the publication of Anandalipi by bearing the cost of shipment of the magazine from India as donation to the temple.
Iampleased to give you an update of the current activities at Ananda Mandir. First of all I want to thank all the members and wellwishers to help Ananda Mandir raising fund to start Ananda Mandir’s new construction. If you have recently visited Ananda Mandir, you must have seen the metal fence around the construction area of both new community center building and expansion of current temple. We have completed foundation for community center and have started the foundation work for temple expansion. After months of cold winter, many rainy days of spring and glitches with underground soil conditions, we are slowly progressing to put the steel frames and the building work. It is an exciting moment for our community after long periods of planning for last 2 to 3 years. We anticipate completing our construction project by the fall of 2015.
I also want to report to you various initiatives that our current teams have been working on diligently. Our Puja Committee Chair Krishna Dutta Roy and her team are working with our priest Biswa Bhai to provide the best religious service for the increasing number of devotees to our temple, where number has been progressively growing in recent years. With the help of our donation collection co-chairs Bandana Rakhit and Santosh Mukherjee and their team, we are raising funds from the devotees that is helping us to maintain the current temple activities. This year we also had a good annual fund raising event. Our members generously contributed to raise about two hundred thousand dollars to help our current ongoing construction project. Our Treasurer Chanu Das with the help of Surya Dutta and Dilip Chatterjee are balancing our finance well. Our website team headed by Pradip Mazumder and Suranjan Choudhury is maintaining a very rapid and regular dissemination of information to our members. Our communication committee, headed by Saurov Ghosh, is also working towards formulating a faster distribution of information to our members via Internet media. Our Award & Recognition Committee, under the leadership of Pronoy Chatterjee, has been working hard to establish grants and award for Community from Ananda Mandir. We have provided our first Ananda Mandir’s community service grant of $2000 to Manavi to refurbish Manavi’s safe home, Ashiana. I request that, if
you have not done so, please come to Ananda Mandir and enjoy all the local musical talents for our monthly Ananda Sandhya events organized by our cultural team headed by Arun Bhowmik. Our editorial team, headed by Pronoy Chatterjee, Amitabha Bagchi and Guru Chakravarty, is working diligently to continue to provide our members Anandalipi and Ananda Sangbad, free of cost. Our literary discussion committee, under the leadership of Amitabha Bagchi along with Subrata Bhaumik, is organizing monthly Sahitya O Alochona. We also have started, under the leadership of Debajyoti Chatterji, Seniors Forum to address in a systematic and coordinated way the many issues faced by Ananda Mandir members who are nearing retirement or have already retired. We are also forming a Women’s Forum to deal with many issues. Additionally, we have initiated summer internship program. We have given opportunity to three youths to work in research laboratories and at Ananda Mandir facilities this year. Another seven youth members joined to do many other voluntary activities at Ananda Mandir. The youth group also recently started a monthly wall magazine, Kishaloy, which posts their creative arts on the wall of our current Community Building. Youth group volunteers receive official certificates from Ananda Mandir for their services. Our food committee, headed by Suprasad Baidyaroy and Uma Roy Chowdhury and their team, had ongoing cooking of delicious meal and provided Prasad during most of our activities.
As you know Ananda Mandir runs by financial and volunteering helps from our community. We are in dire need of more volunteers. I request that if you have some time to spare, please come to Ananda Mandir and give us an extra hand to keep our organization run smoothly, keeping it healthy. We are also in desperate need of more revenue for our continuing growth. Please consider becoming a life member by paying $1000 or a patron member by paying $5,000. Please join me to make Ananda Mandir strong so that this organization continues to provide religious and cultural services to hundreds of Bengalis and their friends in the tri-states area.
Dipak K. Sarkar President, Ananda Mandir
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Colors
Indrani Mondal / 85
Betrayal
Basabi Basu / 90
Sister’s Doll
Debu Majumdar / 94
The Imposter
Debashis Roy Chowdhury / 97 Full Circle
Sanghamitra Roy Chowdhury / 102
The Swimmer
Manisha Roy / 116
The Earthen Moon
Tathagata Ghosh / 136
Kothao Aamaar Haariye
Jaowar Nei Mana Mone
Mone
(“I can go anywhere in my mind”)
Mandira Chattopadhyay / 106
One Small Cup of Coffee
Benoy R. Samanta / 123
Faiz Ahmed Faiz - Urdu
Poet Laureate
Samar Saha / 110
The Wright Lyers
Kumar Som / 119
Mirackes and Science
Asish K. Raha / 127
Visiting Falkland
Islands : Birth of Penguins
Bakul Banerjee / 131
Modern Civilization and Its Drawbacks
Dr. Himansu Mukerjee / 142
It’s a Picture of a Sun, or a Moon
Sudip Bhattacharya / 145
Lots of Loud Noises in the Background
Sudip Bhattacharya / 146
The Answer I Search
Fariza Hasan / 148
Nebula
Ira Ganguly / 148
The Chiming Bells
Chanakya Ganguly / 149
Solo Flight
Fariza Hasan / 149
The Human Mind
Ira Ganguly / 149
KEY WEST
Shristi Nandy / 152
The Crack of Dawn
Birsa Chatterjee / 154
Blue Box the Recycle
Bin
Shivan Mukherjee (4th Grade) / 155
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Yes, it was happening too often now to be a coincidence or even work load. In her busy morning schedule, Jhuma had never failed to free up some time toward the middle of the day to grab a bite with me at the Corner Café down the road. Both she and I worked in opposite office complexes on the same street downtown. We had met again on Facebook couple of years back through our college alumni association. We had started out as
neighborhood kids of a South Kolkata suburb, then had grown up to be schoolmates and college mates, members of the same debate team and Rabindra Sangeet choir representing our school and college at several intercollegiate programs. Given today’s easy and free interactive environment, we would probably have become sweethearts, even lovers, but that idea had never crossed our minds and we had remained very good friends and I’d have liked to believe mutual
admirers, till I got a scholarship to study engineering at MIT just as Jhuma’s parents married her off to an eligible IT professional from Silicon Valley in California. So when we encountered each other on Facebook as we registered to attend the 50th anniversary of our school, we wasted no time in picking up where we had left off. We were thrilled to learn that both of us lived and worked in the same city here and since our offices were facing each other on the same street we found ourselves once again just as we had started out, neighborhood pals, only this time in middle age.
Since then it had become an unwritten rule for us to get together every day and go over the week’s events over coffee and
sandwich. We both had difficult college-going children whom we never ceased to compare with ourselves. Less rarely we talked about our spouses. I was also rather surprised though not unpleasantly about one thing: I had always thought that men and women react differently to the same situation, but I had the decided impression that for both Jhuma and I middle age had brought in a lot of questions, some amount of nostalgia, and a pinch of regret. Whatever it was, I looked forward to our hour break as a nice tension reliever and inevitable pick me up.
But a couple of months back, Jhuma had started emailing or texting me, sorry Ron, will have to skip lunch today. I hadn’t paid much attention to this for, just at that time, I had been tied up in launching a high profile design project and had been travelling a lot to meet my clients to help with layout and setup. When things had settled down a bit, I had tried emailing Jhuma but had almost always got the automated response that she was out of office. I was also trying to lose some weight; thanks to my health conscious wife’s constant reminders of my elevated cholesterol and visible middle age love handles. So I had got into the habit of bringing a salad and teabags from home that I had in my office as I worked through my lunch hour.
Earlier today, my colleague Joanna had burst into my office rather flushed and breathless. “Did you hear Ron,” she had exclaimed, “There has been a huge takeover in the office across, new management, layoffs, and
you know, the works. Makes me anxious about our future too, you can’t be sure about anything these days! By the way, didn’t you use to go out for lunch with one of the gals from there? Better find out what’s going on”, with that she had stormed out.
I was immediately filled with guilt. I felt upset at myself for not trying to delve deeper into Jhuma’s recent lack of communication. Hadn’t we often shared our midlife challenges, criticized our lousy inaction in the face of evident injustice just to maintain a comfortable status quo? And then I felt awkward at being upset. Although Jhuma and I were contemporaries in age and had held senior positions at our respective offices for almost 12 years, when we met again, she was very unlike my smart, all knowing, always perfectly made up wife. Jhuma hadn’t put on too much weight nor did she use too much make up. She had never been a girly girl but had always had pretty hair. Now it was cut in long layers that flew around her face without a hint of synthetic salon products. This along with a strange unsureness and hesitancy in her approach made her look years younger than my spouse. I suddenly realized that I had missed the way Jhuma’s eyes used to light up when she spotted me in the café or the way her head turned and her shoulder tensed when she heard my voice from behind. Maybe they were remnants of what I had found attractive about her in my youth. Although we didn’t talk too much about our marital lives, she had let slip once with some bitterness that on moving to her husband’s
home in California, she had found out by fluke that he had been married before and that his American ex-wife had left him before Jhuma arrived and had taken their son with her. But he was still not over with her, Jhuma thought. Jhuma’s stepson was now in the same town and often came to meet them. On the way home that day, I had marveled at how my dreamy eyed and Rabindra Sangeet loving friend of yester years had also learnt to cope with the hard realities of modern living without losing the loves we had held so dear in our youth. Compared to her, my own life with a dutiful wife and one grown child seemed dull and uneventful, giving me an inexplicable sense of futility and frustration.
Instead of emailing Jhuma I had my secretary connect me to the office across and was told that Jhuma couldn’t be reached because she had stepped out for lunch. So without further ado, I closed my notebook and headed out to the Corner Café.
It was a balmy spring day but I walked rapidly without noticing the smells of fresh bread and grilled meat wafting in the air. Just as I reached the Café, the door opened letting out a satiated lunch crowd. I stood aside rather impatiently waiting to go in and look for Jhuma. Just then from the colorful human stream Jhuma suddenly materialized laughing at what her companion had said. She had on shapely dress jeans, a turquoise shirt and a pale yellowish green scarf that cast a glow on her face. I couldn’t see her eyes for she was wearing dark glasses.
I don’t know what I had expected to see but as I stared at her my first reaction was of annoyance at myself. Why had I felt so guilty about not keeping in touch with her? So what if she had grown up in the same heritage as I, and like me loved and thrived on Rabindra Sangeet, enthused and criticized modern Bangla Band songs, enjoyed and quoted Jibanananda Das, Sunil Gangopadhyay, Jay Goswami at every American turn even now? So what if we had gone together to Afterwork Masterworks at the Symphony Orchestra whenever possible on weekday evenings and had not missed a single exhibition at the Art Museum last summer? She and I were grown, quite grown as a matter of fact, and hence we were both equally free to do as we pleased. We had just stumbled on each other after many years. There was nothing more between us and I was definitely not her keeper. With these thoughts racing through my mind I was just turning away when Jhuma caught sight of me, and after a miniscule hesitancy (which I read as utmost unease), she made her way quite resolutely towards me. Her companion followed.
“Ron! Ron!” she cried happily, “I’m so sorry I haven’t talked to you lately! But I was hoping something like this would happen, we would run into each other and I could introduce you to him,” she ended breathlessly glancing up at her tall companion standing quietly watching her. I looked closely at the young man by her side. He was a Caucasian American of medium build, with honey blonde hair framing an
amused face and quizzical grey eyes. I remembered Jhuma’s husband had a son from his previous marriage. “Oh!” I answered breezily, not to be outdone. “This must be your college-going stepson!”
It seemed as if there was a power outage on Jhuma’s face, and before I could gather myself I felt my hand being gripped in a firm shake by Jhuma’s young companion. “I’m Juma’s new team lead, Ian Morrison. I’ve heard such interesting stories about you, Ron, from Juma of course.” He laughed easily. “Fancy meeting your ‘childhood’ sweetheart after so many years! Pretty special, I’d say!”
I squirmed wondering if he had intentionally dragged the word ‘childhood’ or was it just his American accent. And ‘sweetheart?’ Obviously too young and ignorant to recognize the colors of friendship! I sniggered aside dismissively as I said, “Hi Ian!” Briefly eyeing me, Ian turned his full attention on Jhuma. “I’ll let you two catch up. I’ve got to take care of a few things before the afternoon meeting. See you later at the office, Juma.” None of this bothered me as much as the look on Jhuma’s face as she watched Ian run across the street with easy strides. She had taken off her dark glasses and I could see an e-motion picture of admiration, wonder and sheer joy playing in her lustrous eyes.
“Hey Jhuma!’ I yelled above the crowd. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing much!” replied Jhuma with a start avoiding my eyes. “You must have heard how our company was bought out, and
then went through revamping a few months back. There were layoffs. Over 50 long time employees were handed pink slips. Ian has me in charge of a new section that I’ve always wanted to lead. He is my new boss”, she ended in a rush. Then, glancing at her cell phone she added, “I too have to get back to work Ron. Sorry I can’t stay. Maybe I’ll catch you again some other time?” With that she walked briskly away leaving me unsure of what to think or feel.
Jhuma clearly had developed an attraction for her new boss. I had had the impression from many of our past conversations that although they were together, Jhuma was troubled by her husband’s lack of honesty about his relationship with his ex-wife. But that could be no excuse for her having an affair with her boss! As if that were not bad enough, this guy was young enough to be her son! The very thought made me shudder in disgust and revulsion. These days, girls of Indian origin too were losing all sense of value and balance in the deluge of Western ideas of freedom and equality. I cluck clucked mentally and told myself how lucky I was to have a wife who may talk and look smart and flaunt Western attire with effortless ease, but was replete with traditional Indian wifely virtues.
Much as I would like to dismiss Jhuma from my thoughts, I found myself repeatedly going back mentally to that afternoon’s events when I’d seen her with Ian. Finally on a late afternoon about a week later, I couldn’t stop myself from walking toward Colors
Corner Café for coffee and sandwich but actually to see if Jhuma and Ian were there again. I was determined to get to the bottom of what was going on, for clearly there was something afoot, it couldn’t all have been my imagination. I propped myself on a high stool at the edge of the bar and can’t explain why I ordered a whiskey in the middle of the day. From my raised vantage point, it was easy to keep an eye on the lunch room. Almost immediately I spotted the two at the far right hand corner near a window overlooking the lake. Their tense silhouettes against the bright blue of the open window, the slant of their heads as they talked and laughed and broke bread together - shoulders touching - gave me acutely uneasy revelations.
Jhuma was either using Ian to keep her job at her age or Ian was using Jhuma to get a better feel of his new work environ or both, I mused uncharitably. I sipped my drink. It was like a messed up cocktail of cradle snatching and mother complex gone crazy. By the time I was done with my drink, it dawned on me that I had a decided soft corner for Jhuma myself that I had ignored or hadn’t fully comprehended. I was sure it was not just because she and I had grown up together. We had often sat by the Bean in Millennium Park after work and talked about our midlife crises, the weight of what-ifs that steadily got heavier, making us sore and sick. I, for example, had no time for singing or the performing arts…pursuits that had been so dear to me… because I was always busy with work and travel and my wife didn’t care for them as much
as shopping and socializing. Jhuma would sing “Ami kebali swapan o korechi bapan batase ..” in her still sonorous voice of an ace Rabindrasangeet singer. I would hear again the thunderous applause of many an intercollegiate music night where Jhuma had been the adored Diva. I have to admit I couldn’t stop myself from wondering whether, instead of coming to study at MIT, I should have stayed back and asked Jhuma to embark on life’s journey with me. But I had never brought myself to enunciate these words to Jhuma nor do I think she expected to hear them from me. So the moments would pass, and Jhuma’s song ‘Aar ki kokhono kabe amon sandhya hobe janamer mato hai hoye gelo hara …’ would remain just that, a song.
With all these thoughts running through my head I hadn’t noticed that Ian had left and Jhuma was working on her laptop. Before I could stop I found myself weaving through the lunch tables till I was standing by Ian’s vacated chair. I came straight to the point.
“So Jhuma Devi, are you having an affair?”
Without taking her eyes off her laptop she replied smoothly, “I have some work to finish.” Then she looked up briefly and sparring me with her eyes continued, “I saw you up at the bar some time back. Was wondering if you had the guts to come up and talk.” I was taken unawares by the bite in her voice and was so flabbergasted that I collapsed into Ian’s vacated chair.
“This is ridiculous!” I blurted out. “A decent middle aged
Bengali Bhadromahila, lady from my home town, making out with a young American guy…”
Jhuma cut me short sharply. “What bothers you most Ron… middle aged, Bengali or lady ….? Tell me honestly, haven’t you seen and heard tons of older men being attracted to women half their age… so why is it so outrageous when the gender is flipped? Age always admires youth, the new, the fresh, the blooming. It is a concept, Ron, a concept of revival, of new beginnings, of hope …which you cannot but love …” she said matter-of-factly.
“Are you kidding yourself, Jhuma? This is not a game or a philosophical state of mind. This is happening in real time and you’re playing with real people. You have to be aware of the consequences …” I countered agitated.
“Real people?” she countered. “Yeah! I most certainly feel like one now …do you remember how I used to tell you no one in my family ever believed in me… my parents, because I was a girl; my husband, because he married me just to please his parents…and even in that role he never really knew me… …In all the struggle and strife, the years rushed by leaving scars of memory on the soft skin of time … bringing wrinkles of age …..Well, Ian made me manager of a whole department after so many years, Ron!” Jhuma exclaimed with incredulous pride. “When I asked him, ‘Are you sure I am young enough for the job…?’ he laughed and said ‘All you have to be is good enough and I think you are’. He inspires me Ron; xyl¨!¡!þ›
he makes me believe I still can do it. His energy, his lack of cynicism, his sense of fun and easy sensitivity just blows me away ….” there was a catch in her voice as it trailed off.
I sat flabbergasted. She was clearly out of her mind. “But every relationship has two sides. What does he get from it?” I asked rudely pointing at her wrinkles and lightly tracing the laughter lines on the side of her mouth.
“I don’t know and I don’t care” she said vehemently snatching my hand away. “My age has at least given me the intuition to sense that he enjoys my company, admires my skills, and respects the struggles that have etched themselves on my face...”
“Has that … that …boy ...touched you?” I whispered, unable to keep the incredulous disgust from my voice.
“I won’t answer that question, Ron” she replied acidly, holding me in a steady gaze. Even I couldn’t but recoil from the cutting honesty and dignity in her voice.
“But you know this relationship will have to end …there is no…” I pursued
undeterred.
Jhuma put out her hand and caught mine quite decisively. “You middle aged bhadrolok …. well maybe bhadromahila too.. will not get it …will you? I’m not looking for any results here… just the feeling, the connection… the vibe itself is more than complete”. She had the look of someone who had come very close to a treasure, precious and fragile and couldn’t get over how lucky she was. “I’ve never known anyone who enjoys my company so much “… she laughed softly letting go of my hand. “Maybe I’m a novelty for him, maybe I open the doors to something exotic… my accent amuses him, he listens bemused when I sing Rabindra Sangeet in Bengali, he admires my golden tan…Golden? Can you imagine?” Her eyes were alight with amusement. “He loves me in a sari without bothering about any of the cultural implications… maybe this …. this fascination will soon pass…I don’t care, he just likes what I am here and now without a hint of judgment in his feelings for me…and that is all I care about.” She paused. “Does that make sense to you, Ron?” Jhuma touched my cheek
just as I had hers a minute ago. I flinched and she looked away. “I’ve never known a relationship so self justified, if there is such a word...” she stopped abruptly.
And just as I was trying to figure out if I had flinched from shame, admiration or envy, sitting at the Corner Café table looking out at the green lake by the window, Jhuma sang, ‘Apanare ami dite ashi jei, jeno jeno sei subhonimeshei jirno kichui nei kichhu nei, phele dei puratane..
mor dane nei dinatar lesh, jato nebe tumi na pabe sesh, amar diner sakal nimesh bhara aseshar reshe … purano jania cheyo na amare adhek o akhir o kone ..’
“Ian doesn’t understand Rabindrasangeet but he sure knows the meaning of that song better than I” she sighed. And then Jhuma turned towards me and winked playfully.
She would indeed have been a rage on the silver screen. Her face had mirrored a million words to me in the last few minutes. But all I could do was to sit there tongue-tied, feeling oddly bereft of more than just words.
Tinaopened her eyes and picked up her cell phone from the night table. She turned it on and there it was - her morning e-mail from Ronnie, her husband. With a smile on her face and love in her heart Tina began to read it. She sat up and read it again. She closed the application, and reopened it to confirm she had not just dreamed that message up. It was still there and it read, “I cannot keep this from you any longer. I owe it to you. We have been together too long for me to let this go on without your knowledge. I wish I could be there in person to break this to you, but unfortunately that is not possible. Please don’t blame yourself or anyone else - I take full responsibility for this. Sonia and I have fallen in love. We are both torn by the situation, but love is a strange thing and it happens without one knowing it. Forgive me for doing this to you. I will await your answer and will understand if you do not respond right away. Once again I am truly sorry. Ronnie.”
What a rude awakening. No matter how often she read it, each time the words seemed to tear at her heart. This was not possible. Sonia was her best friend forever. They had shared the most intimate secrets and knew each other like the backs of their hands. She trusted
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Basabi Basu Pennsylvania
Sonia more than anyone elseincluding Ronnie. She reopened the message, hit reply and waited for the words to flow out of her fingers. She was a prolific writer, and words never escaped her once she poised herself to write. Today her thoughts betrayed her completely. There was nothing she could think of that would express how she felt. She discarded the draft and sat there leaning back against the headboard of their nuptial bed. Ronnie’s pillow was still beside her. She picked it up and flung it across the room then she buckled over and wept.
She went through her morning in a daze and got to the University for her first class. Her students would be waiting for her. They were to begin their analysis of The Shadow Lines. The students of her class loved this aspect of her class because of the interactive, lively nature in which she conducted it. Today it was going to be difficult for her to participate wholeheartedly, but nothing was going to let her deprive the students. She turned her back to the class and wrote the title of the book in big capital letters and underlined it with a flourish.
“Today I will be a spectator and let you all do the talking.”
She asked one of the students to open the session and took a seat with the rest of the class. Every now and again she would catch her mind wandering away from the present to the message and would hurriedly and consciously bring it back to the classroom again. It was a difficult hour, and when the bell went off she was startled out of her reverie. She went up
to the podium, congratulated the students for doing a great job, and promised to continue next week same time. Then she left the classroom and walked back to the apartment. She needed time to gather her thoughts and determine how she was going to deal with the dilemma. She was unsure if Sonia had sent a similar message to her husband, PK, who taught Accountancy in the same Institution. Sonia and Ronnie had also been Professors here, before leaving the country for their post graduate studies. When Ronnie had left the country four years ago PK and Sonia had assured him that there would always be an empty chair symbolizing his presence next to Tina at the lunch table in the staff room. Tina remembered the conversation that had ensued when a year later Sonia got accepted for her Post Doc in the same University as Ronnie. Without any hesitation Tina had said, “What fun, now Ronnie and you can share an apartment and hold PK’s and my chairs during dinner while we hold yours for lunch.”
It had never crossed her mind that putting Sonia and Ronnie in an apartment together would jeopardize her relationship with her husband, but in retrospect she recognized that it had been a blunder. Not that there was any reason to believe that an intimate relationship could develop between Ronnie and Sonia or between PK and herself. She shuddered just thinking about it. Friends often asked if there was a familial relationship within the four. “Were Sonia and Ronnie siblings or were PK and Tina siblings?” new friends would
ask and the four of them enjoyed confusing people in jest. They would finally clear any doubts and conversations led to their enviable friendship.
She would eventually have to see PK, but she was not ready to do so today. She needed time to absorb the horrible truth first. PK had to think about himself and his five year old daughter, the sweet Azalea, too. She wondered if Sonia and Ronnie had timed it so Tina and PK would know about this betrayal at the same time. PK was a gentle, calm person. Of the four of them he was the quietest and, no matter what the challenge, could be depended on for sound advice. This was different, it would shake PK too. Her cell phone rang just as Tina was getting in through her front door. She looked at the screen. “PK Cell” it said. She tapped the red “Ignore” on the screen. She was not ready to do this yet. The ‘ping’ announced that there was a voicemail but she hesitated to listen to PK. For a split second she thought what if he needed help with Azalea? But even her love for little Azalea could not draw Tina out right now.
She walked into the shower, turned it on and stood fully clothed under the cool spray. The maid was mopping the bedroom floor so Tina sobbed silently even though she wanted to scream. The pain she felt was burning through her, and she missed having Sonia to talk to about it. Sonia, who had been by her side each time Tina had broken up with a guy in the past. Sonia, who had consoled her when Tina’s mother had passed away or been
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there to support her when she had an argument with Ronnie. There was no one to take Sonia’s place in her life. She turned the shower off and, shivering, stood there wondering whether she was mourning Ronnie or Sonia. She had lost two of her closest friends in a single sweep.
The maid had left. Tina locked the front door and went over to the desk. She must respond to Ronnie, let him know exactly how angry she was. She switched on the computer and opened her email. There was a message from Sonia. Tentatively Tina clicked on it. “My darling Tina, I know just how devastated you are and I blame myself entirely for betraying you this way. Neither Ronnie nor I ever intended for this to happen. It took us months to eventually acknowledge the truth. At first I thought it would pass - we both missed PK and you in our own special ways and spent hours talking about all the fun times we had together. When those conversations turned into expressions of love for one another neither one of us can pinpoint, but they did. Believe me, when I say that, we tried to distance ourselves from each other, but our feelings did not change. I know Ronnie as well as you do - you have told me so much about him. I feel terrible that after years of our wonderful friendship I am the cause of this pain you feel. PK has known about this for a few months now. I told him when I first realized what was happening. He advised me to leave this country and come back home in the hope that it would stop the relationship from developing any further. I am too
far into my research to give it all up. Ronnie and I did not indulge in a physical relationship till very recently. You and Azalea were my first concerns, and believe me when I say I feel ‘dirty’ knowing that I have done this to you. I will not ask you to forgive my actions as they are unforgivablebut for your own sake, don’t let this destroy you. You, my friend, are a wonderful person with the potential to make someone very happy........ I love you dearly. Sonia.”
It was hard to imagine Ronnie and Sonia being intimate and it was harder to imagine that she, Tina, would ever be with another guy again. She had had many men friends but had never been intimate with anyone but Ronnie. To think that the exclusive relationship she shared with her husband had been sullied by her best friend was beyond belief.
The reality of the situation she was in was harsh. She was a soonto-be divorcee. She had much to do to adjust. This apartment, their bank accounts, the car she drove and the land they had invested in were all in joint names with Ronnie. The loans were theirs too. His family and hers were close. Friends, students, colleagueseveryone would know about her situation now, and she would have to face it alone. Ronnie was at a comfortable distance, away from it all. She was angry, sad and totally confused. This was the city where she was born, raised, studied, worked, and married in - but now it felt like a strange land. She was all alone. She felt betrayed by PK too. He had kept Sonia’s secret. Sonia and PK had Azalea and now Ronnie was part
of that unit. Tina was the only one left with no one.
Life had taught Tina many lessons, but nothing had prepared her for this. She had confidently waved goodbye to Ronnie when he had left the country, secure in the belief that he was worthy of her trust. When Sonia had flown she was happy that Ronnie would be waiting to receive her in a foreign land - she had never imagined that would mean that she, Tina, would be left out in the cold. She screamed Ronnie’s name out loud. She needed to get him out of her system if she wanted to continue with life. She pounded on the table till her hands bled and she screamed till her voice was sore. The doorbell rang. A neighbor stared at her and asked, “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Tina.
“It must be so hard without your husband. Why don’t you join me for lunch?” said the neighbor completely unaware of what the real problem was.
Tina shook her head and said, “Just leave me alone, please.” She wanted to bang the door shut; instead she gently closed the door and let the tears flow silently. She had no idea how she was going to continue living. There seemed no reason, no purpose left in life. All her sacrifices, her hard work, the support she provided to Ronnie were worth nothing. He had simply brushed her aside and moved on.
“Ronnie, I am disgusted with both of you. I hope you both suffer together. You two are the scum of this earth and do not deserve my time and energy. I am hurting right now and I hope you feel my pain a hundred-fold for
the rest of your lives. I hope guilt and shame never ever leave you two. I will not give you a divorce. If you want one, meet me in court. Live as sinners till then. I leave this message unsigned as I cannot bear to have my name read, said or written by filth like you two.”
That felt good. She did not know that venom was in her but spouting it out felt wonderful. What she felt came out clearly in those few sentences. There was a lot more where that came from, but she did not want the cheaters to think they were occupying her mind. Love had turned to hate, and she would nurture it till it turned to indifference - but until then she would allow herself to vent and be both sad and mad. Sad she would not share, but mad would be out there for all to see. She was ready for the world to see a new, tough Tina.
Over the next few weeks, Tina realized that the betrayal brought out feelings that were foreign to her and she had no one to help her process them. This breach of trust by those she cherished the most meant that she would need to muster all her inner strength, learn new coping skills and survive. She made some physical changes like moving apartments, changing phone numbers, blocking email addresses, moving money to a different bank, and finally looking for a job in another district. She was determined to start afresh without having to carry any physical or emotional baggage of the people who had betrayed her. If she was not worth much to them, they were
worth even less to her. The flurry of activity helped her deal with her emotional state too. She was still angry and hurt but she was determined not to come out of this experience a loser. In a way, she was glad she had no one to lean on - it gave her the opportunity to deal with her feelings her way with no judgment or interference from others. She remembered conversations Sonia and she had had about men betraying their partners. Sonia had always been very unforgiving towards the men who betrayed women.
Tina wondered how Sonia was justifying Ronnie’s betrayal. It had to be hard for Sonia to live as the ‘other woman.’ Tina kept herself going with the thought that one day she would find out the final outcome of this betrayal. She did not know how, but she hoped that this universe would balance itself out; and someday, somewhere, somehow she would be a witness to the demise of the relationship of friends who had betrayed her.
Shankar and DeeDee were lounging in the living room on a Sunday afternoon. The air was moist and thick, and they could smell the approach of rain. She stood near the fireplace, facing her grandfather.
“In my time,” he told her, “boys played with marbles, rubber balls, sticks or whatever they could make with materials they found.”
“And girls?”
“They did a lot of skipping and hop-scotching, and they played with dolls.” He paused for xyl¨!¡!þ› 94
a moment, looking at her.
“Barbie dolls?” DeeDee’s brown eyes flashed.
“No. They had homemade dolls,” he said, looking at her face. What two beautiful thick eyebrows she had. He adored DeeDee very much and loved her curiosity; she always wanted to know about life in India. “I played house with my sisters when I was very young,” he told her. “They played cooking and serving dinner. They used little, round, silky leaves as rooti (bread) and various wild fruits as vegetables,
fish, and meat. They cut and cooked them in a make-believe oven with three broken bricks; then they served dinner using big leaves as plates. My part was to sit on the ground or on a brick and pretend to eat. Sometimes they sent me to the field, which we used as a market, and I brought new leaves and fruits to cook.”
“Grandpa, how did they make dolls at home?” DeeDee interrupted. She wasn’t interested in how they played with leaves and fruits.
“They weren’t the kind of dolls you have,” Grandpa said. “My mother and aunts made them out of worn-out white clothes. They hand-stitched beautiful eyes, noses, and mouths using colorful threads pulled from borders of old saris. But the dolls’ hands and legs were stiff.”
“I’d like to have one of those dolls,” she murmured. “Can we get one, Grandpa?” Her eyes brightened at the thought of having an old Indian doll that none of her friends had. “Can we, please, Grandpa?”
“They aren’t very nice.” He shook his head. “In my time girls adored the pink, plastic dolls because they were new and different. My three-years-older sister got such a doll once for her eleventh birthday. It had hands and legs that you could move. The doll’s eyes were blue and it
had eyelashes.”
Shankar stopped and gazed at the family portrait on the wall, taken many years later when his sister was grown up. But her young face came to him. He remembered she used to have two long braids hanging by her ears. How soft and affectionate her black eyes were.
“I bet your sister still has that doll, hidden somewhere in a trunk,” DeeDee said.
“I hope she has forgotten all about it,” he muttered and looked outside at the dark clouds. He remembered that birthday party very well.
The party was to be held in the evening. But right in the morning, Choto-kaka, his youngest uncle, told his sister, “I’ve a special present for your birthday. I hope you’ll play with it even after you grow up and get married.” He then gave her a box.
His sister’s face glowed when she opened the box and saw the doll. She picked it up and held it close. It was made of celluloid, and its hands, legs and head could move. Its eyes were blue and it had eyelashes. She uttered a happy cry and ran to show the doll to our mother.
Many people brought gifts for her later, but compared to the doll, they were ordinary. Shankar had not seen so grand a doll before. His sister fell in love with the doll immediately. Who wouldn’t? Shankar himself wanted to play with it, but she wouldn’t let him touch it. “You can play with it after all the gifts are opened,” she told him. Two long braids swung by her ears as she left him.
In the afternoon, Shankar
saw the doll on a table while her sister was busy with mother. He picked up the doll. Its body was soft, translucent. He wanted to look at it more carefully, so he took it over to a window. As he was examining it to satisfy his curiosity, her sister saw him from the veranda and shouted, “Don’t touch my doll.”
“I’m not touching it.” he told her, and quickly put it back on the table.
His sister was never selfish. She shared her toys with others but that doll was so special, she wanted to be the first one to play with it. Shankar knew that, but he was not pleased. Why couldn’t he just look at it for a few minutes? But he dared not, and left the room.
His father had brought a large rui fish (carp) from the market for the birthday celebration. The smell of frying fish permeated the entire house. His mother was cooking a spicy fish curry and he knew she would also cook muror ghaunto with the fish head that the family loved so much. The fish head was fried and cooked with small potatoes, lentils, and homemade, hard, puffed rice for the dish—a delicacy. The fragrances from the kitchen made him hungry.
Shankar prayed that their cousins would show up soon. He roamed in the house for a while. The rooms had already been tidied up and they looked nice. The flowers he had picked in the morning from several gardens were there in vases along with gardenias and tuberoses from the market. The fragrance of these flowers made the rooms elegant and announced the special occasion.
Finally the cousins started to arrive. Chinta came in late afternoon. She was always jolly, and Shankar followed her as she moved around the house. She was from the city; she wasn’t afraid of anything. She was a little bossy, but he liked playing with her. “Where are the presents?” she asked him, “I want to see what she got.”
He took her to the room where the presents were kept on a large table that his mother had covered with a beautiful, lacy tablecloth. His mother had also hung colored paper chains at the windows so the room looked festive.
Chinta went around the table and looked at the presents for a while, but she was not impressed until she discovered the doll at the center.
“Huh, that’s a fine doll,” she said.
“Choto-kaka bought it from New Market in Calcutta,” he proudly announced.
“Really?” she expressed a little surprise and picked it up. “Look,” she showed him, “the doll’s eyes close when I lay her down.” Indeed it was the finest doll Shankar had ever seen.
He told her to put the doll down and she did, but she kept on eyeing the doll until they left the room.
More relatives and cousins came in the evening. Candles were lit, and gifts piled up on the table. Bright lights and the fragrance of tuberoses transformed the room into a place worthy of a celebration. When new guests came, his sister escorted them to the room so they could place their
Sister’s Doll 95
gifts on the table. Other children also came along with her.
Baro-mama, Shankar’s mother’s eldest brother, came last. Then, as soon as Baro-mama and his sister left the room, Chinta said, “I’m bored.” When all other children left, she picked up the doll. “Let’s play a little in the other room,” she whispered to Shankar, “she’s too busy to notice.”
Chinta left the room with the doll before Shankar could say anything. He simply followed her to the next bedroom.
This room was not decorated; its only light came from one hurricane lamp that glowed dimly because its glass was sooty. She asked him to bring a candle. By the time he had searched the house and found a large candle, she had pulled a table close to the bed. He put the candle on the table, but it wasn’t steady, so she put some books around it. She laid the doll on the table and started to play. “She needs a pillow,” she said, talking to herself. “Hmm. What could be her chair?” She looked around and found the sewing basket. She took things out of the basket and arranged them on the table. “That’s better,” she said.
“You like how I made her bed?” she asked him. Then he heard his sister’s voice, “I don’t see the doll on the table.”
They heard footsteps around the house and soon several children and his sister came to the room. “There’s the doll!” his sister screamed from the doorway. Her voice startled Chinta. She was caught! She wanted to hide the doll and instinctively stretched
her hand over the table, but she bumped the book holding the candle and the candle fell down. She tried to lift up the candle but in her hurry she tipped the sewing basket over, and cotton balls rolled out. Before she could do anything, the cotton and papers surrounding the doll caught fire and smoke curled toward the ceiling; fire surrounded the doll.
“Fire, fire!” the children shouted.
Shankar didn’t remember exactly what happened next because it all happened so quickly. Someone threw a bucket of water on the table. His sister rushed over and recovered the doll. When it was all over and more lights were brought to the room, Chinta was not there. Shankar saw his sister standing near the table and looking at the doll. Dark soot covered the doll and one cheek was pressed halfway in; the beautiful pink glow of the doll was gone.
Tears welled up in his sister’s eyes and she started to sob. How hard she had cried, holding the doll in her hands! She wouldn’t let her mother take it from her. They had to carry her out of the room with her arms wrapped around the doll. And no one had any spirit left to sing “Happy Birthday” to her.
Choto-kaka promised to buy her a new doll, but it didn’t happen. He went away to college and forgot about it.
“Grandpa, can we get an old handmade doll from India?” DeeDee asked her grandfather again.
“They are not sold in the stores. When we go to India, if we ask, one of your grandaunts will stitch a doll for you.”
“Isn’t it time we go there for a visit?” She came close and gave her grandfather a hug.
“Yes, we’ll go there soon. You can then meet my sister.”
“I’ll ask her if she still has the doll,” DeeDee said.
“That doll was lost,” Shankar told her, but he remembered very well that he didn’t know for a long time what happened to his sister’s doll. Everyone avoided talking about the event. Time passed and, as with everything, people forgot the incident. Only years later, when his sister was getting married, and his mother was cleaning the house, his mother discovered the doll in an old drawer, wrapped in his sister’s frock. She was surprised, but Shankar had always a feeling that his sister had never discarded the doll. How could she? It was the most gorgeous present she had ever received. His mother held the doll in her hand for some time. Half of the doll’s face was smashed—no hair, no eyebrows and the eyes were burnt black. She covered it with cloth again and handed it to him, asking him to throw it away in as far a place as possible.
The rain that had held off for so long couldn’t hold off anymore and started to pour like monsoon rain in India. The sound soothed Grandpa, and he stood near the window gazing at the rain falling on the pine tree and dripping off onto the ground.
Champutai had one look at the grotesque figure in front of her and promptly fainted. She had a strong heart and, with age, a somewhat weak knee. However the spectacle was too much even for her strong, rational mind. She had unshakable faith in Lord Krishna, but she least expected this from the Blue God.
It all started with the bizarre storm a week back. Though, by all measures, the day of the storm had begun quite normally. She had got up early as was her habit. After her shower, she had gathered a few flowers from the garden, offered those to Lord Krishna and completed her morning prayer. The idol of Lord Krishna, with flute in his hands, appeared as benevolent as ever; but did he have a mischievous smile that morning?
Shortly thereafter the milkman came to deliver milk. As customary, Champutai inspected cautiously the white liquid being poured out of the container and scrutinized whether it looked too watery. The milkman completed the pouring ritual with practiced ease.
“Can I get a glass of water, Tai ?” he asked politely. He was perspiring as the clear summer morning was heating up.
Massachusetts
not drink the water; he simply added it to his large container of milk.
Champutai brought him a glass of water with visible reluctance. She knew what was coming next. The milkman did
“Baburam, how dare you do such a thing, in front of my very eyes!”, Champutai was indignant.
“Tai, forgive me. I give you the
best quality milk and only after that, I add a little water. Times are bad, Tai, and you know, I have a large family to support.”
“Best quality milk, my foot! I bet, you say this to every customer. Now get lost, you
The Imposter
wretch!”
It was a hot, summer morning. The dusty market at the center of the village was buzzing with vendors, customers and onlookers, joined by a horde of neighborhood dogs and flies. Champutai made her way through the crowd to buy her daily need of vegetables. She bought some potatoes, onions, green chilies and okra. The milkman was right, prices were sky-rocketing these days! Even though her need was rather meager, she was finding it hard to manage with every passing day.
In the front row of stalls at the center of the bazaar was the sweet shop. She hardly visited it except for special occasions. Today, she ordered a quarter kilogram of gulab jamun.
“A special occasion, Tai?”, the sweet-maker was curious.
“Very special, today is my Guru-ma’s birth anniversary.”
“Guru-ma? Your music teacher? But isn’t she long gone?”
Champutai touched her ears in reverence.
“You ignorant boor! She is always there, guiding my path every day!’
The sweet-maker smiled indulgently; Tai was not going to change.
Her Guru-ma’s birthday was a special occasion indeed. Champutai unwrapped the packet containing a white garland made from juhi that she had got from the flower stall. She put it around her Guru-ma’s picture hanging in the drawing room. There were several other pictures of great musical stalwarts from
the golden past. Otherwise, the room was rather bare. It hardly had any furniture, save a forlorn chair and a broken wooden table. On the ground was a carpet that had seen better days, covered by a cotton sheet of comparable antiquity. In its heyday, it was possibly spotless white. But time had stripped it of its past glory; like the rest of the room, it was content to survive each day at a time.
Who could imagine that there was a time when many celebrities of Hindustani classical music had graced this very carpet! Some of them have taken their place on the grey walls of the room. Amidst the stalwarts, in the center was her Guru-ma’s picture. She was none other than Surashree Kesharbai Kerkar, a doyen of the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana. Next to her picture was that of an old dignified man with a white turban and an impressive display of whisker and beard – Ustad Alladiya Khan, Kesharbai’s guru and a pioneer of the gharana.
In the far corner stood the very tanpura that Kesharbai had presented to Champutai. Champutai now lowered herself on the carpet facing her Guru-ma and started tuning her tanpura. She started her daily riyaz of the intricate patterns she had learnt from her Guru-ma since she was a mere girl of fourteen! The day was getting hotter and brighter, the sky was a clear pale blue and Champutai was lost in her riyaz. She stopped after an hour or so. It was time to fetch drinking water from the nearby tube-well. As she stepped out, she was puzzled. How did the day get so dark so quickly? It seemed like a
solar eclipse. There was no cloud, yet an eerie darkness prevailed. As if the sun had temporarily suspended its operation and taken shelter. A strong breeze was blowing. All of a sudden, without any notice, a cloud-less storm was brewing from nowhere.
As Champutai stood undecided on the steps of the verandah, bright flashes of light burst in the eastern sky. It was a series of lightning strikes like a grand, never-ending display of heavenly fireworks. The thunder shook the earth below her feet. Champutai felt a chill in her old bones. She hurried indoors, bolted the doors and the windows, and took refuge in the puja room to pray to Lord Krishna. Was it another epic deluge that would consume the earth, and the Blue Lord would be born again?
The storm cleared as suddenly as it had come. The market was ablaze with gossip. Some folks had seen a mushroom like cloud going up from the football field adjoining the school building. Some attested to seeing a gigantic shiny object in the sky. Others heard strange noises, as if coming from hell.
Ramu, the helping hand in the tea stall was the hero of the day. He proved to be the smartest of the lot. He had the presence of mind to take several pictures of the lightning in his second-hand Nokia cellphone. The whole market seemed to crowd in the tea shop to take a look. The owner for once was not grumpy. He registered a record sale of tea that day.
Champutai stayed away from all this excitement. She
detested those village folks and their gossips! Fate had forced her into this solitary village life in her advanced years. There was hardly anyone around in this God-forsaken place who could appreciate her precious performing art. She was like a rare flowering plant withering in the wilderness.
She knew she possessed something rare and precious. She had learnt Kesharbai’s vast store of music and internalized her inimitable style. During the prime of her life, it was the cosmopolitan environment in Bombay that had nurtured her. She used to adore Bombay and its well-bred people, its culture and love of music. She had attended to her Guru-ma till her last days. She never got time to think of marriage and a family life. Instead, she was wedded to her music and Lord Krishna. The day her Guru-ma passed away, she had suddenly woken up to the stark reality of loneliness in a world without any fame and money, and an approaching old age.
Champutai treasured her music, though success had eluded her throughout her life. She never auctioned her music away for cheap gimmicks and commercial success. It was the Blue God’s gift to her and she guarded it with utmost care. In Bombay, all she had was a handful of loyal disciples. One of them moved to America and prospered there. It was this disciple’s ancestral house in a village near Nasik where Champutai finally found a permanent shelter in her old age. She was fortunate to receive a small pension from a Music
Academy to cover her daily needs.
The storm seemed an isolated event. The next two days were uneventful. The gossip in the market had died down. However there was an uneasiness in the air. The ancient pipal tree next to the football ground was burnt to ashes; its charred skeleton stood like a bad omen. The village council organized a special puja in the Shiv temple to reassure the people. Champutai was returning home in the evening after the puja in the temple. It was nearly dark. She had her flashlight on. As she turned the corner from the main road into the side alley, the house was visible in the distance. It stood out like an ancient structure in the gathering darkness. Suddenly, she noticed flashes of light moving around in the drawing room. Times were bad, petty thieves and miscreants could break in to steal whatever they could get, even old utensils and household items of negligible value. Champutai lost no moment and hurried as best as she could.
As she opened the gate to the front yard, she distinctly heard someone tinkering with her tanpura. That was the only precious possession she had, and
she dashed as if her whole life depended on it. Her knees felt weak, her steps were clumsy but she did not think twice. While she rushed to open the front door, she was praying to Lord Krishna to seek His protection.
The fluorescent light of the drawing room came on after momentary hesitation. The room was empty, there was no one around. However, the tanpura was removed from the stand and lay on the carpet! Somebody was here a moment ago and was trying to steal it. It was a rare piece manufactured in Miraj more than half a century ago under Kesharbai’s strict instructions. It
The Imposter 99
was simply priceless.
Champutai was still panting. She looked in the other rooms and kitchen. All the doors were bolted. Did the thief come through a window? She slowly got back her composure. She kept the tanpura back on its stand. It was unharmed; fortunately she was back just in time.
Next day she observed a fast. She drank only water and spent the whole day in her puja room praying to Lord Krishna. She prayed to the Lord to end her miseries and finally give her some peace. For hours, she sat there in silent prayer with closed eyes. Gradually she felt an inner peace and tranquility.
That night she dreamt of Lord Krishna. She was roaming in a garden with fragrant flowers. A flute was playing somewhere nearby. The music filled the air with unimaginable sweetness. She followed the tune. As she passed by the flowering shrubs, she could see a figure at a distance. The light was dim as if it was just before dawn. She approached the figure; it glowed in the dimness with a strange blue aura. She could not yet see the face clearly. She knelt down before Him. The Godly figure lowered His face to her... in a start she opened her eyes.
A strange something was looking at her in the faint light filling the room in the approaching dawn. It was something beyond her imagination. Champutai fainted in her bed.
Champutai was in a state of confusion all of next day. Was
it a bad dream produced by her fasting and empty stomach? But she could still distinctly feel the presence of something beyond dream. Did Lord Krishna Himself appear before her to answer her prayers? Or did she see Death itself come to take her?
She did her daily riyaz to put her distraught mind at rest. Though it calmed her down somewhat, she could not put away the vision as a mere nightmare. It was so real! The figure had a bluish tinge but there was something quite wrong in that face, if one could call it a face! It seemed to be looking at her through several openings that were vertical! How could the Lord look like a monster?
She did not leave the house that day. Once she thought of confiding her situation with a neighbor, but then she decided against it. They would take it to be fanciful imagination of an old woman losing her mind. She only knew, her mind was as lucid and sharp as ever. She had not forgot even a single complex taan she had learnt over forty years ago.
She finished her evening prayer. She felt like singing to keep her mind busy. Music was always a source of great solace to her. She started singing a Bhairavi composition that was a favorite of Kesharbai. Champutai put her full energy and focus; her Bhairavi was as perfect that evening as taught by her Guruma. When she opened her eyes, she again saw Lord Krishna! He was standing near the door-way as if listening attentively to her music. He was blue alright. But everything else was misplaced. He did not look a bit like the handsome flute-playing Lord. It
was surely an imposter! The Lord could not be so ugly! How could Radha or any Gopini be attracted to such monstrosity?
Champutai tried her very best not to faint before this strange imposter. She mustered her courage and took a full view of it. It had three large toes in each foot like a big lizard. There were several vertical openings in what seemed its face. These were opening and closing in quick succession and various shades of colors flashed in those. It even seemed to have something resembling a tail. What was it really? But she was at the same time surprised that she was not a bit afraid. A calmness prevailed in her mind; not a natural one under the circumstance and as if it was induced from outside.
“Who are you?”, she mustered her courage to whisper finally. It did not utter any sound. But something in her mind said to her, “Do not be afraid, I mean no harm. I come in peace.”
“Who are you, are you Lord Krishna?”, she was more pressing this time.
There was no answer. The figure vanished in thin air. She was alone in the room. Kesarbai and other stalwarts were giving her company from the walls above.
She had an undisturbed sleep that night. It was as if she was induced to a deep slumber. When she opened her eyes, she felt thoroughly refreshed. It seemed a full night’s rest had rinsed her mind and everything was bright and sprightly again.
It was early dawn. The first
rays of the sun broke in through the shutters of the windows. Last evening’s strange vision seemed unreal, like a bad dream. However she knew very well, she did see something real. She completed her morning routine and got ready for prayer. The sun was still red from its battle with disappearing darkness.
She did not know how long she was praying before the Blue God. Then she heard Him playing the flute and opened her eyes. Behind the idol, stood the real Lord Krishna and the uncanny resemblance took her breath away.
“I am here”, she could hear in her mind.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, years of agony washed away by unimaginable peace and comfort.
“I am not who you think I am. I have come from far-away stars. I have taken the look of the idol you worship.”
Slowly Champutai realized. The creature from last night had reappeared, but this time it took the form of t he Blue God. However, it did not try to hide its true identity like a dishonest politician. Champutai made up
her mind; whatever it was, time had come to get to terms with it.
“Why are you here, what do you want from me?” she asked boldly.
“Your race had sent to space the recording of Kesarbai’s song you were singing yesterday. We accidentally got hold of it. We love music from diverse species. Your music is captivating, nothing like what we have experienced before. My people have sent me all the way to come and learn it, and take it back. Only you can teach me what I have come to learn. Will you please?”
She could feel the earnest pleading in her head. In her long lifetime, Champutai had seen and heard many strange things. But this was beyond all strangeness. This creature before her had come from somewhere in the distant stars to learn her Guru-ma’s music, when very few human beings on earth really cared about it today. And yet it could make itself look just like Lord Krishna. Was it really the Blue God teasing her?
“No, no - I am not your God .”
The response in her mind was instantaneous and full of
sincerity. That settled the matter once for all, her remaining doubts vanished. She kept silent for a while, trying to gather her wits.
“Do you know how to sing like us?”
“I’ll try my best.”
And it produced a shrill sound resembling a flute. Hmm, it had a long way to go, thought Champutai.
“Don’t worry, we are fast learners”, came an immediate response, though somewhat unconvincing this time.
It was evident the creature could read her thoughts and talk directly to her mind. That way, it was convenient that she would not have to write down the notation or words of a composition. Still it would hardly substitute for years of riyaz she had undergone. She had a daunting task before her.
However she knew, she had to try. After all, this strange being had taken all the trouble to find and reach her from the stars. After years of hibernation, she woke up to face a new challenge with a renewed vigor.
Champutai silently asked for permission from her Guru-ma and started tuning her tanpura.
l Author’s Note: This fiction is inspired by the following fact. Surashree Kesarbai Kerkar (1892-1977) has the distinction of having one of her recordings, “Jaat Kahan Ho”, duration 3:30 (an interpretation of raga Bhairavi) included on the Voyager Golden Record, a gold-plated copper disc containing music selections from around the world, which was sent into space aboard the Voyager 1 and 2 spacecrafts in 1977. The recording was recommended for inclusion on the Voyager disc by the ethnomusicologist Robert E. Brown, who believed it to be the finest recorded example of Indian classical music and is the only specimen of Indian classical music in space. The Imposter
Sanghamitra Roy Chowdhury Massachusetts
Srirup Chatterjee carefully carried Ishan, his six month old grandson, into the doctor’s office while his daughter settled the payment at the front desk.
Normally he was very wary of carrying Ishan without his wife hovering beside him. Ishan was a very active, inquisitive baby who turned his head and leaned precariously forward to investigate any sound or movement in his vicinity. Today Ishan was listless; he had been so for the last day and hence the
“sick” visit to the pediatrician. The sixty-five year old, ramrod straight young-looking grandfather remembered the first day he met Ishan. His daughter Mishtu, her husband Ronnie, and his wife Aparna, who had come a couple of months earlier to help with their daughter’s first baby, had come to receive him at the airport. On seeing Mishtu and especially Ishan, all his fatigue from the 16 hour-long flight from Delhi dissolved magically. He sat next to Ishan on the two hour drive home – a very alert baby who instinctively knew this man was very close to him and gave him a lopsided smile from time to time. Srirup, an avid traveler
who had eagerly waited for his first visit to USA, almost forgot to notice the shady, picturesque twolane highway and the distinctive cobbled bridges that crossed over it at regular intervals as he tried to catch that heavenly baby smile and smile back at Ishan. That had been three months ago. Since then Ishan had grown and learned to make a happy, gurgling sound as soon as he woke from a nap. This sound was his way of calling his grandfather who promptly appeared, smiled and talked to him.
Srirup had always savored his tea and enjoyed reading the newspaper “cover to cover”, as his daughter put it, deaf to all that went on around him and especially to his wife’s shopping list of grocery items which she threw out at him whenever she remembered. However impervious he was to any sounds, when Ishan’s happy gurgle came, Srirup forgot his tea and paper and was the first to arrive by his crib. Aparna, who was in charge of the kitchen and grocery list now, could not help commenting, “I will teach Ishan how to spout out the list of grocery items. Then your father will remember them.”
Today Srirup and Mishtu sat tensely in the doctor’s waiting room, waiting to be called inside. Srirup looked hopefully at Ishan, hoping that the whistle of the choo-choo train would arouse Ishan’s interest. He looked around at the doctor’s waiting room, one that was drastically different from the austere ones he had taken his daughter to. In the corner Big Bird, a bright blue Cookie monster, Arthur, and Dora sat on colorful beanbag chairs while
puzzles and books lay scattered on miniature, bentwood tables. By now he was well versed in the characters he came across in his night readings to Ishan. He also mentally rehearsed the questions that he should ask the doctor, if his daughter forgot. His wife had made him repeat the list. The nurse came out with a board, a frown of concentration on her forehead. “Ei-shan Bha-t-cha..”, she started calling out hesitantly. Mishtu was out of the chair even before she had completed the “Eishan”. After many years in the US, the complete look of bewilderment on the face of anyone attempting to pronounce her last name Bhattacharya was a clear enough signal for her. Srirup hesitated before standing up to follow his daughter inside. He had brought up his daughter to be self-reliant and independent and knew that she was not always comfortable with unwarranted help. On the other hand, he would have to face Aparna’s barrage of questions if he did not go in with her to the doctor’s office. The choice was clear to him. Mishtu correctly surmised his thoughts and motioned for him to follow. They waited for the doctor while Ishan rested uncharacteristically on his mother’s shoulder. Dr. Kalari, a young clean shaven, bright-eyed Indian with a reassuring manner walked in. He asked Ishan, whom Mishtu had put in the baby bed shaped like a fire engine, “So, have you been worrying your mother?” Mishtu gave him the details of how Ishan had been off his food for the last few days and had become alarmingly listless the last evening. Srirup
watched the doctor as he listened attentively. There was a calmness about the doctor that was uncharacteristic for his age. As he listened, he tapped his left ear in a very definite rhythm. Srirup realized there was something very familiar about that habit. All of a sudden he was transported back into the depths of long ago memories. ************
A newly-wed couple, Srirup and Aparna had gone for their honeymoon to a remote, picturesque town. The town, nestled among rolling hills, boasted a lake with shores filled with wildflowers. They also learned of a walk round the shores of the lake that led you to a secluded, romantic spot where a babbling brook flowed into the lake. They made plans to visit the lake with a picnic lunch after relaxing and taking it easy for the first couple of days. By the third day, Aparna complained of a headache and soon developed a fever. Their local adviser, the hotel manager Mr. Jain, called the doctor. The doctor came after a while. Srirup watched the doctor entering the hotel from their room. From the way people bowed their heads and smiled at him ingratiatingly, the doctor was obviously an important person in town and he knew it. He walked into the room with a hotel attendant in tow, who carried his small bag.
After listening to Aparna’s symptoms and examining her, he said with a very solemn expression, “This is no ordinary fever. I am glad you called me. I will need to give her an injection”. He promptly gave
Full Circle
Aparna an injection and wrote a long list of medicines. When Srirup asked him what the matter was, he was told Aparna had severe bronchial congestion and needed strong antibiotics. As soon as he had accepted the hefty fee of Rs. 150 without so much as an acknowledgement, he strode out and his lackey came to carry out his bag.
Aparna dutifully took the medicines. After four doses of the medicine, her fever and symptoms had not abated in the least. It seemed that the medicines were having no effect at all. They both were also puzzled because for someone who had severe bronchial congestion, she had no signs of any sniffles or a cough. By next afternoon, Srirup was really worried and asked Mr. Jain, “My wife has not responded to the medicines at all. I am not sure what I should do.”
An elderly hotel attendant, who had taken a liking to this young
couple interjected, “Kulkutta babu, there is an apothecary here, Bilas, who has jadu in his fingers. He has cured many people of fevers. Would Beti be willing to see him?” Mr. Jain concurred and Srirup agreed reluctantly.
Bilas was a tall man dressed in the usual village garb of dhoti and a faded blue shirt. He had an air of calm and quiet dignity about him. He came with a case of some bottles of oils and lotions. He listened attentively with great concentration. The only gesture that somehow added to the intense calmness of his pose was his tapping his left ear in a definite constant rhythm. He washed his hands and for a moment stood completely still, eyes closed almost as if in deep meditation. He then touched some bottles lightly, his fingers lingering for a perceptible moment, as if feeling some internal vibrations, till he selected one with light almond colored oil in it. He asked Aparna to close her eyes. Srirup watched his deliberate and unhurried actions as he poured a little oil on his hands.
Bilas offered the bottle to Srirup to smell to reassure him – the oil smelt soothing and refreshing.
Bilas put oil on some spots on the patient’s feet and rubbed it in. The gesture was akin to applying subtle pressure on nerve endings. He did the same on
her forehead and the roots of her hair. Srirup sitting on a bedside chair could feel the feeling of well-being and peace emanating. The whole process had taken no more than about five minutes and Aparna was fast asleep, her breathing deep and natural. He brought out his wallet to pay Bilas, who folded his hands and quietly, but firmly replied, “This is not my profession. Please let me know how she does.” He was about to leave when he turned back and added hesitantly, “Saab, when she gets better, please visit the Hanuman temple and make any donation you wish to.” Aparna awoke the next morning with all traces of her fever and headache gone. The rest of the vacation was a memorable one and yes, they did make the tryst with the brook that flowed through the forested hills into the lake.
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Srirup suddenly came to and realized he was staring at the young doctor’s tapping fingers. Dr. Kalari examined Ishan, who obviously recognized the doctor from previous visits and even attempted the flicker of a smile. Ishan was diagnosed to have an ear infection, an unusual one that had not caused him to indicate any discomfort in his ears. The doctor wrote the prescription and offered to have it faxed to the pharmacy. “There’s no need to worry, Ishan will be fine in no time.” Mishtu thanked him and as the doctor was about to leave, remembered to introduce her father. “Dr., this is my father, Srirup Chatterjee. Dr. Kalari has been seeing Ishan since he was born.” The doctor greeted
him traditionally with folded palms and said “Sribilas Kalari.” He quickly added, noting the bemused expression on the older man’s face, “I know it’s an old fashioned name, one that my father kept”.
As Mishtu started the car, Srirup remembered the list of questions he had completely forgotten about. Well, this was not the first time he had had to face the wrath of Aparna, he thought as he crooked a finger through Ishan’s fist. Ishan started to feel better as soon as his course of medicines started and a sense of relief washed over the whole family. This had been the first time Ishan had ever been sick.
Later on, after the family had settled down for the night, Srirup sat reading in preparation for bedtime. He enjoyed reading the local weekly newspaper that served the Indian community. Almost dozing off, he ruminated about Ishan’s doctor, trying to conjecture about the connection that he had made earlier. Aparna bustled in, finally done with all the chores of the day. She turned to him and asked, “What is Dr. Kalari like? Mishtu and Ronnie worship him. What did you think?” He praised the doctor’s quiet authority and mentioned the twinkle in his eye as he spoke to his baby patient.
Srirup described Dr. Kalari’s
quiet, authoritative manner, which belied his youth and how Ishan had perked up almost as soon as he felt the doctor’s calm presence. The doctor’s explanation and casual yet caring manner had impressed him and he was in complete agreement with his daughter and son-inlaw’s opinion of Dr. Kalari. It was after they had turned out the lights that he said, almost as an afterthought. “Do you know what I thought of today? The time that you fell sick on our first trip after we got married……” He continued to describe the young doctor’s gesture of tapping his left ear in a very definite rhythm and how this had taken him back to his honeymoon. Maybe the doctor’s first name being Sribilas was a coincidence – all this had reminded him of that memorable incident of long ago.
Aparna listened quietly before saying “Whenever I think of that trip, I always remember what we left undone.” She knew from her husband’s quick sigh that he knew what she was referring to. When Srirup had told Aparna of the apothecary’s request that they visit the local Hanuman temple, she had been the one who really wanted to keep the request. Srirup preferred to visit places of scenic beauty and finally there had been no time for that visit to the temple.
The next morning began with the usual happy babbling sound that Ishan used to announce that his day had begun. He was obviously feeling much better. It was Saturday and everyone at the table was happy and relaxed. Srirup casually asked, “Ronnie, how far is the temple you were talking about? Maybe we could go if it’s not too far.” Mishtu almost exclaimed out loud in astonishment at her father who never went to temples, until she caught her mother’s warning glance. That afternoon they visited the temple with its many deities. Ishan was so taken with the sound of the bell that he had to be lifted so that he could ring the bell. Mishtu’s father solemnly went round looking at the deities. He looked preoccupied with his own thoughts. He stood contemplatively in front of the Hanuman God and finally put a substantial donation in the offering box in front. He looked up and smiled, almost as if a conversation he had been engaging in had ended to his utmost satisfaction.
While getting in the car outside the temple, Mishtu caught the almost conspiratorial look and smile that her parents exchanged. A long ago promise had been fulfilled.
(“I can go anywhere in my mind”)
These days I remember back to how I would sit on Mama’s lap listening to the stories she would tell me, as she relaxed after a day’s hard work, finishing the chores of the household. Mama always invited me into the close conversation of fantasy as she told me her stories.
She would begin the tale of the moon lady. Pointing at the moon, Mama said it’s the lady who spins day and night. At other times Mama would place me on the branch of the Shimool tree that grew in our backyard. There I sat trying to touch the sky desperately seeking the moon lady. One day as I lay on my bed, I found that I was in the moon already. The moon lady sat next to me, I saw her wrinkled face, her heaps of spinning lying scattered around her. Her eyes were half closed and her face was covered with a white piece of cloth. She looked happy to see me. Day after day she would make all kinds of
dolls all for me from her rainbow cloth – red, yellow, green, and blue. The spinning wheel rustled in the wind, creating a musical rhythm –Thump! Thump!
Thump! I wanted to be with the moon lady all night long, but I missed my Mama. So I told the moon lady, “I do not want any more dolls, I want to go back
to Mama.” Soon I woke up in Mama’s arms, as she tucked me in and kissed me goodnight.
On a cloudy day my mother would point to the sky and let me imagine the clouds as warriors, as elephants and other familiar objects. Mama and I would sometimes make our own dolls and we painted the eyes and the nose, and named the dolls Jack and Jill.
The scene of these stories would often be in Mama’s kitchen. From the kitchen burst smells of fish cutlets, biryani, kabab and fish curry. The clack of white-clothed baburchis and bell boys working echoed incessantly, with my mother’s voice instructing them on what to cook and how to prepare it, drawing on the culinary skills she learned from the famous chefs that my father hired for her.
Every day as soon as I jumped out of the school bus, my gaze would fall on the marble statue of Edward VII on his prancing horse. That statue reminded me of the glory of the British Empire. As I wandered around idly, knowing not what to do, lost in my thoughts, the elevator man would holler, “Khuki, Khuki, stop daydreaming. Mama’s waiting for you.” The bulky hawk-eyed elevator man would hurry me to the elevator and drop me off at my front door. I would rush straight to the kitchen smelling cardamom and cumin, and hearing the clatter of pans and voices. On the table sat the mango juice along with the cookies on the plate covered with jams and jellies, which Mama had made with guava and mangoes straight from grandfather’s summer home
in Deoghar.
In the evening Mama served Hilsa fish curry spiced with mustard, turmeric, and hot pepper. Some days she would serve freshly butchered chicken cooked the Mughal way. Delicious pastries and sweets always followed the end of the meal, all improvised by her – never would she follow a recipe. Mama never forgot her days of duty preparing food, baking bread, stirring stew and feeding us all. Most of all, I long for those memorable Sunday brunches – Dhakai Paratha, the famous bread from Dhaka, swirly, crispy and rich. Sometimes we would have Luchi – bread made with dough she kneaded and rolled in circles, and fried deep in oil until it puffed up like a balloon – discarding, of course, the ones that did not puff and blow.
We made paper boats and sailed them in the Ganga river, imagining the boats to be magic ships. Mama would sing “Keya pathar nouko gore shajiye debo phule “ (“I’ll weave together a boat of keya leaves and decorate it with flowers “)
Some afternoons I crept stealthily down the steps to meet Jhumroo, the servant’s daughter. As my parents napped, Jhumroo and I would dance under the Krishnachura tree. We decorated ourselves with red flowers around our necks and would dance and dance. We chose that tree, though the honks of the cars and the siren’s dizzy blue across the street occasionally disturbed our dance. Jhumroo would dance by herself singing the same tune over and over, and I sang a song my mother taught me, “Phule
phule dhole dhole” (The dancing flowers) – as the Krishnachura would drop its flowers like red popcorn. I wore my shiny skirt and green shirt, Jhumroo her tattered clothes. We would trade our looks: I liked her pretty eyes, she my big brown ones. Occasionally we would take Jhumroo shopping, to carry our bags. She would almost never come inside the house, and when she did, she would be like a wild bird.
As a child I enjoyed gathering all my friends around our drawing room table and assigning dramatic roles to each. We would tiptoe our way to the terrace and rehearse our impromptu performances. I would borrow my mother’s embroidered table cloth and imagine a rose garden. In that make-believe rose garden, a prick from the rose would make the princess bleed. As the princess began to cry, none other than the prince charming would arrive and the romance would begin.
We entertained ourselves with such imaginative pastimes. In between, we waited for our favorite ice cream man with his push cart, tinkly jingles announcing his arrival. My excitement knew no bounds as I would see the candy man with his assortment of candies, lollipops of myriad sizes, colors and shapes, like balloons of red, yellow and blue floating before my wide eyes. The moment I would hear his high-pitched song, I would slip the change from the corner of Mama’s sari where she knotted it, and dash down the steps instantly to grip the candies from the candy man,
Kothao Aamaar Haariye Jaowar Nei Mana Mone Mone
the coins clutched tightly in my sweaty hands.
In the surrounding neighborhood, my favorite place in my young age was New Market. I loved the light and the noise, and the crowds peering into windows, moving past the peddlers and the street vendors. I would stare at the long glass case gleaming with gold bangles and think of the chaiwala that I loved the most who dispensed milky tea to Bengalis and foreigners alike. “How would the memsahib want her chai? With lots of honey and cardamom?” I would sit on a black velvet stool, drink my chai and watch Mama bargain for the gold bangles, or gold wrought with silver, or one set with gems, or emerald ones. She would slip them on her arms with price tags dangling. After her shopping, she would buy a vegetarian snack, and milk infused with sweet rose syrup. Mama always found the right tailors in the shops on the alleys of New Market. These bearded tailors had been there for generations; they used to make lovely gowns for the British ladies. The stooped tailors with their measuring tapes, and worn notebooks measured me for a candy-striped dress with a heart shaped button on the front.
During the summer recess my special day, my birthday, would arrive. Mama would come to my room, pull the curtain, kiss me on the forehead, reminding me how lucky she was to have me. We would go to the party shop where the cakes would be stacked high on the baker’s table, each cake with a different frosting, and different design. Flies buzzed loudly, sampling
the baker’s ware, and the baker’s helpers would shoo them away. We would return home with the cake hidden in a box. Coming home Mama would instruct the baburchis (the cooks) to prepare the ground lamb kababs and to decorate the tables with red, blue and yellow balloons. Soon my friends would start knocking at the window, crying through the door asking Mama when they could come: “Are we allowed to come now?” Mama would reply addressing Mickey, “Party at six, make sure to have your father bring the vanilla ice cream.”
The greatest pleasure on my birthday was to make mango boats with Mama. She would say, “Khuki, now is the time to make the mango boat.” Every year Mama made the boats of mango cut in half with a paper sail on a matchstick mast and decorated with miniature figures. She told me all the stories of the epic while decorating the boat. In one boat she put Sita and told the tale of Sita. She was the daughter of Janaka and lived happily with her husband Rama, but his stepmother sent him to exile for fourteen years with Sita accompanying him. In another mango boat she put Savitri and talk about how she had rescued her husband Satyavan from the jaws of the death god Yama. Soon my friends arrived and played birthday games while listening to my mother telling the tales of Sita and Savitri on the mango boats. The boys and girls would giggle and squirm and yell impatiently for the vanilla ice cream which Mickey’s father would bring.
At the same time fiercer memories competed with sweeter
ones. Memories of visiting the Kalighat temple where I saw the fierce Kali sticking out her tongue embarrassed for stepping on her husband. I used to wonder why people worship the goddess who stepped on her husband. Kalighat always teemed with beggars night and day, myriads of them huddling in its confines, waiting to rush at us all at once as we entered the temple compound. Pandas, the self-styled temple guides, besieged us, offering to conduct us into Mother Kali’s presence to make our offerings and prayers, clearing our way through the crush of beggars and pilgrims. I still think of the party and the revelry during the Kalipuja. A tent was pitched behind our house. Mama would wear a red-bordered sari and prepare the food and the sweets for the auspicious occasion. Our cousins, uncles, aunts, would all arrive the day before and rejoice the entire week. The house was decorated with lights just like Christmas. Mama said Kali arrives from heaven to destroy all evils. At night goats were sacrificed in front of the goddess at an auspicious moment. We children watched wrapped in blankets as the priest performed the ceremony.
How exciting it was when our chauffeur drove us to the Botanical Garden built by the British. It is two hundred years old and it has all different sized trees, existing together just like one big happy family; trees with thick parent trunks sprouting branches and dropping roots from them, as if with many children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren propagating
from them.
Part of any child’s memory involves school, of course. My preschool sat at the top of a tall building on Elgin Road. Oh, what a ball I had! A European lady was in charge, so warm and sweet. I was too young to join, but Mama insisted, so I made the roster. All the neighborhood children were there. Some parents told my mother that someday I would go to the land of the European lady. After my preschool I went to an English medium school on Gokhale Road that followed the British curriculum. It was an allgirls school, in keeping with the times. Some of my classmates were quite well off. I envied their expensive sneakers, styled haircuts and smart backpacks, not to mention the luxury of their chauffeured cars. I admired my teachers as they strolled about the classroom with their manicured nails and horn-rimmed glasses. I would trot around the school grounds in my gray pleated skirt, knee-length socks, green sweater, with school badge fluttering. I adored the made up faces of the girls, from Sinha House to Mitter House, from Das House to Mukherjee House, playing sports and competing against one another. Proudly I announced my ties with the Sinha House, with its red and white tunic and green tie. It made me happy as we girls sang our morning prayers with one senior playing the piano. In the Christmas play I performed as a fairy with silver trimmed wings. On the playground I loved the swings and the sit down lunches. I treasured the school chorus, and remember one of the seniors striking the ivory keys,
singing Aguner Poroshmoni.
What a joy it was to go to grandpa’s place and visit the beautiful Ballygunj Lake with its rose hedges and freshly planted trees, where lovers sit around the lake whispering to each other, and handsome young men stand in line to join the rowing crew. The Lily Pool children’s garden was just like Alice’s Wonderland. I recall when Mama and I would pass the Bhelpuri Man as he set the Bhelpuri beside the tamarind water and crushed the crackers in flakes over his tasty concoction. A crowd of children jostled around him, clamoring for the Bhelpuri and cheering the flurries of flakes as they fell.
Durga Puja stands out from all these numerous memories, an epic of celebration, hailing life. The day of Durga Puja the image of the goddess arrived in a truck. The plaintive sounds of conches and the haunting rolls of the dhaks (drums) filled the air. Ma Durga wore a pale blue trimmed embroidered sari that
went beautifully with her long hair and Lakshmi came in a pale pink crepe, trimmed with lace and rose satin. Saraswati followed in a blue checked sari, and Kartik and Elephant-headed Ganesh were all in white, silver-bordered dhoti with bare chests. Grandma said this was the best time of the year, not too hot, not too cold; everyone’s waiting to greet Ma Durga from heaven, who comes to earth with her four children, Lakshmi, Ganesh, Saraswati, and Kartik.
But mostly from those times, I feel my mother’s love bloom around me like bursting lilac flowers. I remember many times hiding behind the closet, testing to see how Mama felt if I was not there. Then I would roar with laughter and jump into the soft hems of my mother’s silk sari. Even to this day the sweet recollection of my mother still remains and I would sing to myself: “Kothao Aamaar Haariey Jaowar Nei Mana,”
One of the foremost Urdu poets of the Indian subcontinent of the second half of the last century, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, still continues to command influence on modern day Urdu literature, music, and the arts. A notable member of the Progressive Writers’ Movement, Faiz considered himself to be a Marxist. Short-listed four times for the Nobel Prize, he received the Order of British Empire from Britain in 1946, the Lenin Peace Prize from the Soviet Union in 1962, and Lotus Prize for African and Asian Literature in 1976.
Faiz’s life was full of ups and downs mostly due to his fierce independent thinking and leftist leanings for the proletariat. His miseries began controversially, when linked by the Pakistani government for hatching a conspiracy to overthrow Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan’s administration in February 1951. He spent time on death-row until his sentence was commuted and he was set free. However, his persecution continued, in one form or the other, since his writings were critical of the ruling elites and the feudal
lords. Official accolades came to him only after his death on November 20, 1984. The same ruling elites who sneered at his work, hounded him into jail continually, and drove him into exile. Posthumously they honored Faiz with commemorative postage stamps, sang paeans to his greatness, and bestowed on him the highest civilian medal, Nishan-e- Imtiaz.
Aficionados of Urdu Literature had a lot to celebrate in the past two years. Two of the famed Urdu literary figures of the last century had their centenaries celebrated on both sides of the Indian subcontinent-a sign of the coming down of the artificial barrier and rediscovery of common heritage and culture among Urdu lovers in both India and Pakistan. I had covered one of them, Sadat Hasan Manto — The Story Teller, in my first article. I would like to introduce another giant literary figure of the era in my second article for the non-Urdu speaking people. This article is about Faiz Ahmed Faiz - considered the Urdu Poet Laureate of the second half of the twentieth century. Although different in subject matter, temperament and writing styles, both show humanism and secularism at the core of their work. Another commonality is that both were fiercely independent thinkers —a trait for which they paid dearly while alive. Accolades came to both only after their demise — Samar Saha
Faiz Ahmed Faiz was born in Sialkot, in Montgomery District of Punjab in undivided India on February 13, 1911. It was the same Sialkot where another great Urdu poet of the first half of the last century, Sir Muhammad Iqbal, was born. (Iqbal lived and worked there.) Faiz had a privileged background. His father was a prominent lawyer and a member of an elite literary circle of Punjab which included Iqbal. Faiz studied Philosophy, English and Arabic literature at prestigious schools and colleges of Punjab. Faiz was married to Alys George for his entire life. Alys was a committed progressive, a member of the British Communist Party who had worked with the Free India movement in England serving briefly as the secretary of the Indian nationalist Krishna Menon. They had two daughters - Salima and Moneeza Hashmi. Later in life, poetry and politics preoccupied Faiz more than anything else. Despite being repeatedly accused of atheism by the ruling elites, Faiz’s poetry suggests his complicated relationship with religion in general and Islam in
particular. His work reflects a high influence of the South Asian Sufi traditions. For writing poetry that always antagonized the ruling and feudal classes, Faiz had to go to jail repeatedly in Pakistan. Inspired by the leftist socialist ideology, Faiz’s poetry exhibits a strong sense of commitment to the proletariat, yet it always maintains a unique beauty nourished by the historically rich tradition of Urdu literature. His whispering love poems touches one’s very soul and his political poems are like Angares (Sparks). Faiz is considered primarily responsible for shaping poetic diction in contemporary Urdu poetry. In this article we will explore Faiz’s poems of love, humanism, politics, deprivation, anguish and his attitude towards loneliness and death.
There was no dearth of accomplished and gifted Urdu poets in the second half of the last century who wrote Ghazals, Nazms, and Geets. But what made Faiz so unique? How did Faiz achieve immense popularity and prestige, and became a legend in his lifetime? The reasons, cited by literary critics, were both external and internal.
The external reasons included his upbringing, his association with the intellectuals of the world, sympathy for the proletariat, his political incarcerations, and worldwide popularity topped with his warm and charming personality and manner of social intercourse. Also the fact that many of his Ghazals, Nazms and Geets were rendered into memorable songs by several
gifted Pakistani and Indian artists added to his universal popularity. The internal -- or perhaps the real reasons for Faiz’s immense popularity and impact -- lie in the fine and admirable qualities of his poetry itself. They tell of his vision and range, his lyricism, musicality and fine imagery, his imaginative grasp of the complicated problems of life and ability to translate them into poetic forms, his ability to transform classical images and symbols and endow them with new meanings. Faiz’s humanism, warm and compassionate approach to life, along with his revolutionary fervor, the fine perception and subtle nuances of his poetry, and harmony of thought and feeling in his poems added to his charisma.
Faiz used all of the mediums of Ghazals, Nazms and Geets in his poetical work. Faiz’s early works reflect typical romanticism within the strictures of classical Urdu poetry. In his first collection of poems entitled Naqsh-e-Faryadi (Supplicant’s Prayer), Faiz’s ideas form beautiful Ghazals which have the rare ability to energize the senses. More significantly, the title of this anthology has been derived from the opening line of Mirza Ghalib’s Diwan-e-Ghalib. In this collection, we see Faiz drawing attention towards the complexities of love by adopting a classical style rich with fresh metaphors and an idiomatic touch. Faiz’s stylistic techniques stem from an innate fondness for Ghalib’s Ghazals which he carefully studied in his father’s library at Sialkot. This stage
of his poetic development is typified by passionate musings on love and beauty and reflects an almost self-centered approach that makes his verse starkly sentimental.
The very first poem in Naqshe-Faryadi (1943) which is described simply as “couplets” should be a good starting point. It is striking in its intensity, simplicity and freshness of imagery. The poet says that “last night the lost memory of his beloved quietly entered his heart, and it was like the spring coming silently in a wilderness, or the morning breeze passing through a desert. It was also like a sick person experiencing relief without knowing the reason.”
This short poem expresses the poet’s feelings with sincerity, economy and artistic force. It is particularly admirable as one of the earliest creations of a young poet. Another couplet, in a classic Ghazal tradition, reads almost like a whisper in silence - “This rapture of the eyes of dew is from your elegance / Rose the joy of deliciousness of the evening from your glory ….”
One of the finest poem of this period is “Tanhai” (Loneliness) which depicts the interior monologue of the poetic persona “who is lonely, hoping that someone would come. He/ she is startled by every noise but then realizes that it was only a passerby going to some other destination. It is late at night and the stars are gradually turning into bright dust, even the waiting road is sleeping silently, and the blowing wind has covered the footmarks of earlier passersby.” And now the poetic persona
Faiz Ahmed Faiz-Urdu Poet Laureate
says “he/she should extinguish the candles, remove the wine cups and the goblets and shut the sleepless doors, for no one would now come, absolutely no one.” In this early poetic style, Faiz does not express his feelings but embodies them in symbolic imagery.
Faiz’s romantic poems can be deemed an expression of his adolescence whilst progressive outlook governs the essence of his later poems and establishes Faiz as a mature poet. The second style of poems, some of which are in “Naqsh-e-Faryadi (Supplicant’s Prayer - 1943)” and the others in his second verse collection “Dast-e-Saba (The Breeze’s Hand -1952)” are written from a different angle and are considerably longer and more explicit. In these poems personal feelings are modified and seen in the perspective of his political ideology and humanistic concerns as it developed over time. These poems include “To the Rival”, “Two Loves”, “Don’t Ask Me for That Love Again” and “The Poetic Subject.” His most famous poem “Don’t Ask Me for That Love Again” has been read and sung in many forms by noted Ghazal singers of India and Pakistan.
The experience of isolation and confinement led Faiz to compose Dast-e-Saba (The Breeze’s Hand -1952), his second collection of poems. His very well-known poem, A Prison Evening, has many of the attributes of an exquisite love song, something like a Shakespearean sonnet in the richness of its imagery, and
yet it uses the beauty it describes - beauty which it itself embodies - as a powerful argument for political optimism. The setting is prison and then we visualize astonishing images - night personified (enchanting princess), descending down a staircase of stars (each star a rung). In spite of the almost magical, fairytale feel of this metaphor, Faiz pens down the second image “of passing breeze whispering words of love.” The second part speaks of pang of grief from “separation from my lover.” “Though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed / In rooms where lovers are destined to meet / They cannot snuff out the moon...” The power of human spirit shows in the last part when Faiz says that “No tyranny will succeed, no poison of torture make me bitter / If just one evening in prison can be so strangely sweet / Just for one moment anywhere on this earth.” The very fact that the poet is able to create such beauty from behind bars on death-row has become a victory -- something heroic, and thus giving encouragement to all in the struggle for freedom.
Faiz’s frustrations never died seeing what the partition of the subcontinent had done. In an evocative poem entitled Subhe-Azad (Freedom’s Dawn) Faiz alluded to the Indian Partition of 1947 as a “much-stained radiance”. His disappointments originated from the belief that despite the acquisition of political freedom from British tyranny, the ensuing devastation of humanity, lack of governance, and misuse
of economic freedom had made the entire partition a very bleak story: “These tarnished rays / This night-smudged light / This is not that Dawn for which / Ravished with freedom / We had set out in sheer longing ….. “
Faiz on 1965 India-Pakistan War - “Blackout”
Faiz’s frustrations with political events as they developed during army rule drove him to a point that he did not even that he did not even want to open his eyes to see anything. “Blackout” was written in September 1965 during the first India-Pakistan war. The poet is lost: he “He cannot make sense of this darkness, this surge of dark venom. He hopes that time will stop for a while and the “white hand of Moses” will restore ‘the lost diadems’ of his eyes. Only then will he sing the praises of beauty and paeans of love”. It begins with “My eyes are lost, God knows where …..” Continues with “A murderous river has been unleashed into my veins/ Hatred beats in it ……”. It ends with a ray of hope - “ Be patient; a flash of lightning will will come/ From another horizon / Like the white hand of Moses with my eyes / My lost diadems”
Faiz rose with anger at the tyrannies of the government rulers, of imperialism, and jingoistic hate-mongering in his poem “Hum Dekhenge- We shall Witness”. The poem became a legend of defiance against tyranny. The famous singer, Iqbal Bano, sang this song in
protest against the jailing of Faiz by Pakistan’s dictator General Zia-ul Haq. Wearing a black sari in defiance of Zia’s ban on the sari, her liquid voice reached the crescendo, declaring “Certainly we too shall witness the day ……” An Indian newspaper, in their tribute to Iqbal Bano, reported that “voices of tens of thousands packed in the Lahore Stadium kept on thundering to deafness in unison as she kept on repeating the first stanza at the end of her singing again and again to frenzy --”We shall Witness / It is certain that we too shall witness the day / That has been promised / Of which has been written on the slate of eternity…” The power of this song can be felt by anyone willing to listen to Bano on YouTube (“Yeh Lazim Hai Ki Hum Dekhenge …..”) Later the same song became the marching song of Narmada Bachao movement in India.
1952 Language Movement catalyzed the assertion of Bengali national identity in East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), and became a forerunner to Bengali nationalist movements. AntiUrdu sentiments grew within - but then again Bengalis love poets. Faiz was loved by erudite Bengali readers. Faiz had his own circle in Bangladesh and all were prominent personalities. Many Bengali poets and writers did not support his left leaning political ideology but they adored his poems.
Faiz’s selected poems and articles were reaching Bangladesh readers through translations.
These translated poems were occasionally published in Bengali literary magazines, and newspapers especially in Daily Sangbad and Daily Ittefaque. During the sixties, Faiz emerged in Bangladesh as a symbol of defiant voice against oppression, tyranny, exploitation and forces of imperialism. Like Tagore’s and Nazrul’s poems, Faiz’s many poems called for standing up to injustice and also many reflected the dreams and aspirations of the younger generation of this land. It is remarkable, considering it came from an Urdu poet to a land that fought against imposition of Urdu over the Bengali language.
In 1958, when military rule was imposed in Pakistan, Faiz entered for the first and last time in the cine world. His film was “Jago Hua Sawera” (Awake Dawn Has Arrived), filmed in Bangladesh with Tripti Mitra (from Kolkata) and Anees (from Dhaka) in the main roles. This film was based on Manik Bandopadhyaya’s “Padma Nadir Majhi - (Boatman of Padma River) describing the lives of poverty-ridden Bengali fishermen and their struggle to survive. The film was banned by the military leaders. In 2007, “Jago Hua Sawera” was shown in the French Film Festival and later shown at 2012 Kolkata Film Festival in presence of Moneeza Hashmi (Faiz’s daughter) during the Faiz Centenary Celebration.
In 1971, Faiz had warned the authorities through his weekly Lail-O-Nahar in Karachi that “if the scheduled session of the National assembly in Dhaka on 3rd March 1971 was postponed then the history of Pakistan would be changed.” But the
politicians and the army thought otherwise. The rest became history. The military rulers tried to suppress the movement of democracy by force and with brutal power. The fallout of this brutality was that not only a large number of innocent men, women and children were killed but also the dead included poets, writers, journalists, intellectuals, university teachers and students, some of whom were friends of Faiz. Consider the pain and anguish of the poet at this historic blunder in the following poem “Stay Away from Me- Bangladesh I” written in March 1971 starting with “Hazar Karo Merey Tan Sey” - “How can I embellish this carnival of slaughter? How (can I) decorate this massacre? ……. “
In a later poem of the same era, he wrote Bangladesh II starting with - “This is how my sorrow became visible / Its dust, piling up for years in my heart / Finally reached my eyes/ The bitterness now so clear that I had to listen / When my friends told me to wash my eyes with blood…..”
After independence of Bangladesh, Faiz came to Dhaka on a goodwill mission. Faiz heard about the killing of his friends on the eve of surrender of the Pakistani Army. Some of his friends, like the celebrated Bengali short story writer Showket Usman, refused to see him because Faiz had not protested to the Pakistan Government for the killings of Bengali intellectuals. But sometime one wonders what Faiz could have done - what his protest could have accomplished against such military frenzy. Being sad Faiz Ahmed
Faiz-Urdu Poet Laureate
at this turn of events Faiz became depressed and wrote two poems after his return from Dhaka. The first poem “Dhaka Se Wapsi” (On Return from Dhaka) starts with“Will we who remain strangers after all kindness are over / Become familiar after all the meetings are over? …….”. The second poem “Paon Sey Lahu Dho Dalo” (Wash the Blood from Your Feet) begins with - “Wash the blood from your feet / Where should we go and what should we do / When every road is scattered / With the thorns of our fallen loves ….” And it ends with some hope when he says - “When the night has passed / A hundred new roads will blossom / You must steady your heart /For it has to break many, many times.”
Faiz - A Marxist?
A Humanist? Or A Sufi?
Faiz was a poet of beauty and love. These elements are evident not only in his diction but also in the subject matter of his poetry. He is also remembered as a poet of revolution. Faiz claimed himself to be a Marxist. He was imprisoned and sentenced to death because of his involvement in a plot to overthrow the government through a left leaning military coup. He was given the Lenin Peace Prize by a country born in Marxism. Was Faiz then a real Marxist trying to change in the political system through force which is the credo of the Marxist?
When one looks deeply, it becomes clear that Faiz sang of love and revolution with equal ease and grace. In this regard, Faiz and his Nobel Laureate friend Pablo Neruda were similar. In both, the fire
of revolution turned into an allembracing passion of love. Faiz, may have been a Marxist but only by conviction. In his poetry he presented a unique blend of Sufism and modernity. The romantic undertones of his poetry were fascinating. So it is not very difficult to make an assessment of Faiz as a human rights activist, an intellectual, and a poet. Faiz was deep into Sufism. He had close relations with several prominent Sufi saints of his time. Once when asked how he could compare Sufis with socialist comrades, Faiz replied, “They [Sufis] are the real comrades.” He is also credited for coining the term Ana al-Haqq (“I Am the Truth” - uttered during a trance by a famous Sufi Al-Hallaj). Sufi masters have spoken of God as “Beloved - Love means to stand next to the Beloved, renouncing oneself entirely and transforming oneself in accordance to Him.” Ana al-Haqq of Mansur Hallaj also represented the sensitivities for the downtrodden. One sees this sensitivity all over Faiz’s poems. This was a new approach - combining Sufism and Marxism. The underlying pattern of Faiz’s poem is the age-old love triangle. The first person of the poem is against the “Ashiq (lover)” - to be read as nationalist, rebel, revolutionary; his “Mehboob (beloved)” - to be read as the country, society or people, and the third element of the triangle is “Raquib (rival)” - to be read as colonialism, imperialism or bourgeoisies.
Many of the Faiz’s poems reminds of the monologues of the
Ghazals and the mood of deep melancholy. The captivating musicality of his verses is yet unsurpassed in contemporary Urdu poetry. He is a lyrical poet par excellence. Faiz felt that poetry should serve ‘beauty’ and must not be subservient to anything other than artistic values. He lived by it - one can feel this musical beauty in most of his poems.
To experience this witnessing of music blended in poetry, one has to hear Iqbal Bano’s cold and defiant Hum Dekhenge rendition, mentioned earlier. Vidya Shah, a famed Tamilnadu born Ghazal singer living in New Delhi, became familiar with Faiz’s poetry through Mehndi Hasan’s renditions. Having been groomed in a household of Tamil musicians, she was closer to Raga than to poetry. But when she heard Mehndi Hasan singing Faiz poems she realized for the first time the fusion of poetry and music into each other without any divide. Vidya commented in an article that “- the cascading he (Mehndi Hasan) created with “Baame Meena Se Mahtaab Utre” in poem Aaye Kuchh Abr in Gaud Malhar is a superb example of this fusion.”
As one becomes more drawn to the poetry of Faiz, one also sees a distinct musical style in which several of the Pakistani and Indian singers approach his work. Their renditions follow a classical Raga, but the Raga never takes over or dominates the lyric. This is quite contrary to Khayal Gayeki which is about Ragdaari, where the Raga is central and almost always the lyric is incidental.
Iqbal Bano, Noorjehan, Farida Khanum, Nayyara Noor and even Tina Sani (singing a Nazm in unusual Raga Durga for Bahaar Aaee), while they sing Faiz Ghazal or Nazm based on a Raga, they assure that the structure of the verse or the couplet do not get overshadowed. Many believe that this was perhaps one of the reasons why the Indian Diva of Ghazal, Begum Akhtar, did not sing too many of Faiz’s work, considering that Begum brought the Ragdari into Ghazal singing like never before.
The Times of India wrote an obituary on Faiz’s death in their November 22, 1984 issue and concluded that “Faiz died an unhappy man, hounded by religious fanatics and jingoist politicians who were as peeved by his left wing views as his stress on Indian roots of the
Urdu literary traditions. Within any cultural perspective that seeks to integrate that tradition, Faiz must be seen as a part of OUR heritage”. The Indian subcontinent has produced many giants in the fields of literature, music and humanity. Faiz Ahmed Faiz certainly is one of those giants. Faiz’s poetry does not belong to any one nation - it belongs to the world. His poetry has protest - but no slogans. His poetry has international appeal - not confined to within only a few. He is a true patriot - not a jingoist. Without bitterness Faiz showed to the world that even those in the left movements could write about complexities of love through metaphors. He reflected resentment and resistance against an unjust social order, besides rejecting everything anti-human on rational grounds but with no bitterness.
Lenin Prize winner Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Nobel Prize winner Pablo Neruda were great
friends, contemporaries, and both actively involved in freedom movements. Their poetry -musical, lyrical and inspiring -- stem from the same theme of making their homelands and the world at large a better place for the downtrodden - “the wretched of the earth.” The remarkable thing about the pair was that in spite of the revolutionary ideas; they never allowed ideological epiphany to burden their poems with shoddy rhetorics. Both were masters of their craft - a quality lacked by many revolutionary poets. The courage that Faiz and Neruda showed in their work is a source of inspiration for all leading poets and writers of the world. Today, Ismail Kadare - the winner of 2009 Spanish Literary Prize work shows the FaizNeruda influence. Kadare shows the same traits, similar masterly control of language and style, and similar temperament in his writing for his people in Albania - an incessant battleground.
Massachusetts
Raising his head out of the water momentarily Sunil Perera sees the white woman swimming vigorously from the other side. As she approaches he dives underwater to make room for her. He has a glimpse of her wet blond hair that resembles the color of polished teak wood, the best available in his country. He covers the length of the pool quickly with powerful strokes and stops to see if his friends have come. At the other end, the young woman gets out of the pool and walks to the diving board preparing to jump, her firm breasts held in the bikini-top, slim legs poised to take off. From where he stands she looks like a crane about to fly. She dives smoothly and swims gracefully underwater like a shark and turns around.
Before independence this club belonged exclusively to the white population of Colombo. Now anyone can be a member. Knowing about Sunil’s passion
for swimming, the manager of the hotel, where Sunil supplies octopus, arranged a membership for him to this upscale club. Sunil, however, prefers to swim in the ocean. He comes to the pool only when heavy rains or storms prevent him from getting into the ocean.
Watching the girl, Sunil tries to imagine how this half-naked, long-legged white creature would look in the lapis-blue water of the Indian Ocean. He closes his eyes and sees his coal black body swimming side by side hers while swarms of red, blue and yellow fishes sliding around them. The daydream appears and disappears in a few seconds. He opens his eyes and sees the girl going out of the pool. She looks back momentarily and throws a brief smile at him.
A wave of electric pleasure runs through Sunil’s veins. He climbs slowly out of the pool and limps toward the diving board. He wants to jump, no matter how hard
it is for him. Right now anything is possible. A beautiful woman’s smile is enough to rejuvenate the atrophied muscles of his back. The woman looks back and as she sees his deformed body her smile vanishes and a frown appears between her brows. Sunil has seen this look in women’s faces many times before. It’s a mixture of disgust, hate and repugnance as if they wish him to disappear from the face of this earth. His pleasure of a minute ago is rapidly replaced by a dark rage. He manages to jump from the board and swims vigorously across. Out of respectful fear the other swimmers quickly move aside. After a few minutes of swimming Sunil calms down and raises himself from the pool and walks toward the shower room.
After the shower Sunil looks at his naked body in the long mirror of the locker room. At five feet tall, his head with a mop of curly black hair is disproportionately big. The dark complexion of his face is almost gray from the pock marks, which makes shaving difficult leaving the face covered with uneven stubble. A large forehead ends in two widely separated small eyes. He can’t help noticing his snub nose and thick lips, which hang over a truncated chin. However, he quickly moves his eyes to his broad shoulders, muscular chest and two strong arms. This makes the torso look more disproportionate because of his shrunken hip and legs. The left leg is a couple of inches shorter than the right.
Sunil looks at himself and almost feels sorry for the white girl. He knows that all his life
this ugly deformity has kept women away from him. His own mother died immediately after his birth, perhaps because she could not tolerate looking at him. Sunil never found out who his father was. His nearly blind grandmother brought him up. Sometimes he wonders if she could see him clearly, would she have loved him?
The only person who was not aware of his ugliness was his school-mate Rani, who became his friend when they were in the fourth grade. They sat side by side, laughed and did mischief together. Sunil never saw the reflection of his ugliness in her eyes. To Rani he was as normal as the next boy or girl. When he was with her he forgot all about his disfigured body. Their friendship deepened over the next two years. Then one day Rani stopped coming to school. A week later, the Headmaster came to the class and announced that Rani had died from a virulent type of malaria. That day Sunil went to the ocean, sat there and cried for a long time. He wanted to die and follow his friend to that unknown place where no one would notice his deformity. But he could not leave his old grandmother alone. That was the day he swam in the ocean for the first time.
Sunil dresses and limps out of the club in a hurry. He heads toward the small coffee house where he and his friends gather regularly. He wonders why his male friends have never left him because of his ugly looks. In fact they seem eager to be near him, feeling elated if Sunil pays attention to them. They have nothing but admiration for
his abilities in the water and his skill in spearing octopus. Yet, Sunil cannot think of a single male friend to whom he can tell his deepest thoughts and bare his soul. How he would love to tell someone about his anger, shame and sadness.
The only time he is free of such heavy feelings is when he swims in the ocean. The salt water is his closest friend, whose embrace makes him forget how ugly and deformed he looks. The ocean takes his body in her arms like his lost mother. The water creatures consider him as one of them. The fishes play with him. Sunil is restless only when he spots an octopus. All his anger and aggressive feelings gather in the muscles of his arms and he does not rest until he spears one. Even as a boy Sunil knew how to hunt octopus and with age he has perfected his skill and supplies his catch to the local hotels. Apparently this ugly tangled creature is a delicacy to some foreign tourists. A boat, a net, a couple of spears and an icebox are his tools for a successful business. He spends a big part of whatever money he makes on his friends. He always picks up the tab for their coffee and beer.
At dawn before the first ray of sun is visible Sunil rows his little boat out in the ocean. He anchors, and spears a dozen octopuses before putting them safely in an icebox. Then he rests by floating on the water and swimming for awhile. In the evening he swims out again in the ocean where the waves catch the blood red reflection of the setting sun. He loves the red water, which reminds him of his
anger. He feels light and free and swims as far as he can go. There in the distance, the ocean is emerald green and underneath are colonies of coral, which are gray with orange and blue dots. Tiny flat fishes of rainbow colors swim around the rugged coral ridges. Watching the underwater beauty makes Sunil feel part of this exquisite world.
In the depth of the Indian Ocean around the island of Sri Lanka, the rare gray corals with blue and orange dots are highly prized treasures. Many investors have tried to tempt Sunil to help them hunt these ridges of coral. He could be a rich man overnight, they promised him. Sunil paid no heed. He knew that these entrepreneurs would not stop. They would bring in tools and equipment from Australia and realize their fortune by ravishing these beautiful creatures of the deep ocean. Until that happens this is his own personal world –no other human being has been here. This is Sunil’s haven, his sanctuary. If he cannot go there one day due to storm or any other reason, he aches all over.
It has rained since morning the next day. A gale force wind from the Southwest has hit the city. The coconut groves along the coast keep swaying slapping over one another like drunken dancers. But they do not snap; their balanced resilience defies all odds. Waves as high as two storybuildings crash on the shoreline. The fishermen have tied their boats to the iron poles and have left for the safety of their homes. Sunil waits two whole days for the storm to stop. When by the third day there is no sign of
The Swimmer 117
respite, he begins to pace like a wild animal in a cage. On the fourth day when the storm seems to have subsided a bit, he puts on his old raincoat and walks briskly toward the swimming club. At least he can swim in the pool. He will go stark crazy if he cannot swim for still one more day.
The club is empty. The bartender on the other side of the counter is leafing through an old magazine. The pool is nearly empty except for a few teenagers splashing water at one another. For some reason Sunil suddenly loses his desire to go into the pool. He sits at the bar and orders a beer. The bartender makes a few comments about the relentless weather. Without any response Sunil looks around. A couple has just entered and sits at a corner table. Sunil immediately recognizes the girl with blond hair. Her companion is a Sri Lankan man whom Sunil has never seen before. The young man appears to be quite tall, his complexion is a smooth mixture of gold and copper and his dark sleek hair is brushed back from a shapely forehead. He is wearing a short-sleeve cotton shirt, the top buttons of which are open. A pair of new sneakers is visible under the legs of his well-fitted jeans.
Sunil takes his second bottle of beer and moves to a small table from where he can easily see them. He pulls the chair hard making extra noise to attract attention. The young woman looks up. Sunil is sure that she recognizes him. The frown of the first day appears again between her brows. Her companion, in the meantime, has gone to the counter to buy some drinks. Sunil smiles as he raises his beer bottle to greet
her. The girl immediately moves her chair and turns her head away from Sunil’s direction. It feels as if a knife enters his chest.
The young man carries two cups of coffee and returns by passing Sunil’s table leaving a whiff of expensive after-shave in the air. Sunil’s anger now rises rapidly. From the corner of his eye he watches the girl whispering something to him. Sunil gets up and goes to the bar and buys another bottle of beer. He kicks a chair that’s in his way. The girl has moved her chair and now sits next to the young man resting her head on his shoulder. Sunil is furious at their total disregard of decency in a public place. Has the man from his country lost his senses just because he is with a white girl? Sunil clutches the glass of beer hard to control his desire to punch his face into a pulp. The glass cracks into pieces and falls on the floor.
The girl lets out a scream when she sees Sunil’s bloody hand. The young man helps her rise from her chair and guides her toward the door. Sunil cannot help noticing a look of deep fear in the girl’s eyes before they leave. The bartender comes up with a small broom and begins to gather up the pieces of glass. Without looking up he asks if Sunil needs anything for his hand. Sunil is quiet now. His rage of a minute ago has been replaced by shame and remorse. He walks out of the bar without a word. Outside, the rains have stopped. As Sunil limps fast, all he can think of is the look of fear in the girl’s eyes. All his life he has been used to seeing dislike, disgust and even hate, but never, fear. Does his deformity make him as dangerous as a wild
beast? He pays no attention to his bleeding hand. He puts it inside the pocket of his raincoat and walks as fast as he can toward the ocean.
Even if the storm has stopped the sky is still dark as if some one has spilled a bottle of black ink all over. The ocean water reflects the same deep darkness. Sunil knows that this respite is temporary, the rains will resume again. He stands on the shore and looks around, then peels his clothes off and jumps into his beloved ocean. The salt water burns his cut hand for a second, but he ignores it and swims forward with his eyes closed. Days of rainfall have cooled the water more than usual. To warm up he swims vigorously. The next time he opens his eyes he knows he has reached his favorite spot, where the beautiful corals lie underneath.
Sunil continues to swim. He sees nothing but the wide spread of dark water in front of him that promises peace. At some point he knows that he has come too far and he is too tired to swim back. His arms and legs are tired and numb. Sunil turns around on his back and looks at the shore where the lights of the city are miniscule stars. He is far away from the civilization that has kept him at arm’s length all his life and now disgust and fear can no longer touch him. The ocean encircles him and holds him like the mother he has never known. That night the storm returns again. Next morning the sun shows up after six long days of constant rain and wind. Two fishermen of Colombo find Sunil’s body not too far from the shore.
Itwas around the dawn of the twentieth century. Two brothers put in motion, both literally and figuratively, an invention that would change the course of human endeavor.
The Chinese were the first to reach for the sky. Men-carrying kites were in use for military observation in 1000 BC. As early as AD 1000, there were reports of men jumping from towers with false makeshift wings. Most jumps were fatal while some jumpers survived. The invention of hot air balloons started the real history of modern flight. In the nineteenth century, balloons were big attractions in fairs and carnivals for people to ride them. The last part of the nineteenth century was filled with aeronautical experiments when men wanted to emulate the birds by trying to soar in flying machines designed and built by men. It was at this juncture that Wilbur and Orville Wright started reading everything they could find about human flight endeavors. They studied the works of Leonardo Da Vinci, Sir George Caley, Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, Otto Lilienthal, Samuel Langley, Octave Chanute and others. “But we found that the experiments of others had failed,” Orville said. The Wright Brothers were most interested in the technical information published by Langley, Lilienthal and Chanute -- the last one a French-born engineer who was collecting information on aeronautics while testing his biplane glider. By the last ten years of the nineteenth century, some people were getting the idea of powered flights and not just the
gliders alone. Wilbur wrote to Octave Chanute, “The problem is far too great for one man alone and unaided to solve the secret”. Thus started the journey of the Wright Brothers to unearth the “Secrets of Flight”. Three years later the problem was solved by them with the “Wright Flyers”. It was a long and arduous journey that the Wright Brothers undertook, starting from the
technical knowhow they gathered in their “Bicycle Shop” in Dayton Ohio, when their father brought a small model airplane and threw it inside their home and it flew like a glider. That aroused their inquisitive minds about flying a craft. It all started at a time when Wilbur, then thirty-three, was the co-proprietor of a bicycle shop in the small town of Dayton, Ohio. The brothers were not so
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well-known but lived at No 7 Hawthorne Street in Dayton with their seventy-two year old father Milton Wright, who was the bishop of a church. Wilbur and Orville had got lots of flying fever. They said once, “We got plenty of flying fever by watching the birds. But we learned nothing of their secret of balance.” And thus started their long and arduous journey to learn “The secrets of balance,” first by flying their hand-built gliders, then adding an engine on to the glider to make possible the first ever “powered flight” that his predecessors had failed miserably to achieve because of improper calculations and ignorance. They were adept at making kites and flying them. They built and sold kites to their neighbors and friends. But as they grew older they had to give up this sport and do more serious things.
In 1899, however, they built their first glider. It was a bi-plane version incorporating Orville’s new insight into flight. They took a group of boys and they tested the bi-plane design so that people did not laugh at it. The kite confirmed their ideas and they decided they were ready to try a glider. Building the first glider was the greatest fun they ever had. The Wright brothers were getting impatient in the Midwest for strong breeze to arrive for their gliders to fly. They were looking for a place where winds would be strong and regular. In November 1899, Wilbur wrote a letter to the Weather Bureau in Washington, DC where Octave Chanute lived. The bureau promptly replied by giving him information about wind velocities
of all weather stations around the country. At Chanute’s suggestion, Wilbur wrote to the Kitty Hawk, North Carolina weather station asking about their weather. William Tate, the Postmaster of Kitty Hawk, sent an inspiring letter.”This in my opinion will be a fine place; our winds are always steady, generally from 10 to 20 miles velocity per hour.” Being encouraged by Tate’s welcome tone and because Orville liked the remoteness of the place, they decided Kitty Hawk to be their experiment’s location. Their sister Katharine and brother Lorin decided to take care of their bicycle shop in their absence. Their journey to find out about the hidden secrets of “flight” began when Wilbur took the train east for Kitty Hawk on September 6, 1900. He wrote to his father, “I am intending to start in a few days for a trip to the coast of North Carolina … for the purpose of making some experiments with a flying machine.” He also wrote, “I am certain I can reach a point much in advance of any workers in this field.” The stage was thus set at Kitty Hawk -- an isolated fishing village. Wilbur showed up, being welcomed at Postmaster William Tate’s house, and he borrowed Mrs. Tate’s sewing machine and started stitching the cloth for the wings of the glider. Orville arrived later and they both set up their camp as they finished assembling their glider. The glider at Kitty Hawk did not have a motor to fly and was not expected to fly in the real sense of flying. Wilbur wrote, “My idea is merely to experiment to practice with a view to solving
the problem of equilibrium.”
This was a true glider, three times larger than the ones built before. It was a bi-plane with seventeen-foot wings covered in stitched cotton and made with wood, wire and cloth, costing fifteen dollars to build. The previous gliders built by Chanute, Lilienthal and others were hang gliders, with operators hanging below the glider and controlling it by swinging the body. The Wright glider was so designed that a man could be lying prone; it was operated by a forward elevator with a hand bar and the operator could warp the wings to twist it for turning maneuvers. Launching needed two people to hold the wings, but once in the air the operator could be part of the flying machine. When wind conditions were right at Kitty Hawk, the glider would be carried to the top of Kill Devil Hill, a one hundred feet high dune about four miles south of their camp. They ran down the hill pointing the glider into the wind to catch the wind. Wilbur would then drop his body in a horizontal position and glide. The first time he got into the air he rose to fifteen feet, Wilbur worried and shouted, “Get me down!” On the ground he explained to Orville that he had promised his father that he would not crash and be able to take care of himself. Wilbur soon gained confidence, and by the time they headed home to Dayton the same year on October 23, Wilbur had made 300-400 flights, each lasting fifteen to twenty seconds. In all he was only in the air for a total of fifteen minutes. The most gliding at one time was only a couple of minutes.
The next year, in 1901, the Wright Brothers hired a new employee to run their bicycle business and went back to Kitty Hawk in July with a bigger glider. The new glider had a twenty-foot wingspan. The wings measured seven feet from front to back and curved in conformity with Lilienthal’s table of the center of pressures. This was essential to build sufficient lift to be stable in flight. It seemed to be the biggest glider ever flown. Chanute arrived at the camp to inspire the Wrights. The glider unfortunately did not perform well. It stalled or nose dived; there was something wrong in its design. During one flight though, the glider rose up to thirty feet. Wilbur made a glide of 300 feet to make the spectators happy. He was aware the glider was not always in control. On one flight the glider rose to thirty feet and lost forward speed, similar to the condition that Lilienthal faced on his last and fatal flight, but the Wright glider made a gentle level descent, unlike the gliders in earlier crashes. The Wright design was the safest ever produced. But the brothers still felt that their machine lacked control and needed improvement.
On the way back to Dayton, Wibur told Orville that human flight would never be achieved. “... Not in our lifetime … not within a thousand years ,” he commented. Though the level of frustration was at its peak they continued their adventure regardless. Octave Chanute, upon reading Wilbur’s letter, perceived his mood but encouraged him by saying “I think you have performed quite an achievement in sailing with surfaces wider
than any which I dared to use …”
To rebuild Wilbur’s confidence, Chanute invited him to speak at the Western Society Of Civil Engineers meet in Chicago. Dressed appropriately in front of ladies with the help of Katherine, Wilbur -- while speaking in front of professional scientists and engineers -- realized with renewed confidence that all the published aeronautical data of Otto Lilienthal, Octave Chanute, Samuel Langley and others were wrong.
Now Wilbur and Orville had to work as scientists and engineers, creating their own aeronautical data by testing the reaction of glider surfaces to the wind. Day in and day out in the last few months of the year, they built a wind tunnel and used simple machinery and implements like bicycle wheel spokes and hacksaw blades to construct devices to measure wind resistance, lift and drag on model aerofoils. “We had taken up aeronautics merely as a sport.” they said. More than 200 wing sections were tested in two months with various biplane, monoplane and tri-plane configurations. Then Orville observed, “We reluctantly entered upon the scientific side of it. But we soon found the work so fascinating that we were drawn deeper and deeper.” “When we were carrying on wind-tunnel work, we had no thought of ever trying to build a power airplane.” said the Wrights, Orville further said, “We did that work just for fun; we got out learning new truths. But after we had demonstrated in a glider that our tables were correct, we saw that
with new data not possessed by earlier experiments, it would not be hard to design a man-carrying aeroplane. If all goes well, the next step will be to apply a motor.”
This was a major breakthrough in aviation history. They had got all the answers to the question of air resistance, of lift and drag faced by an airplane. They knew how to shape the surface of wings that was never done before by any of the stalwarts like Lilienthal, Chanute, Langley and others. They knew how to fly.
The next eight months or so were spent building a new glider scientifically, in conformity with the numbers and tables discovered by the wind tunnel experiments, to make it fly with better aerodynamic control. It was done in their bicycle shop. They built the replica of the machine at their shop, but they sewed the cover fabric at home.
The year was 1902 and the glider was the biggest flying machine ever built thus far. It was ten feet wider than the 1901 model with a wingspan of thirtytwo feet. It had two vertical fins for better stability. Back to the Kill Devil Hills in September 1902, the brothers rebuilt their camp and started flying the glider as a kite. With improved aerodynamic construction, the glider worked so very well that they were up in the air making glides of 200 feet. They made about fifty glides. But the new vertical tail fins caused problems, which could create loss of control in a particular flight. One flight caused a crash from 30 feet to luckily a sand dune, resulting in a heap of cloth, sticks and debris.
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One of the tail fins was removed and the glider was rebuilt. Wilbur consistently made glides of 500 feet, but the control of the glider still was not satisfactory. It would still sideslip in turns and could not be controlled by the operator. Orville lay awake at night thinking of a solution, He struck upon a plan of making the tail fin a movable rudder that could be operated in conjunction with the wing. It worked, and the world’s first controllable glider was thus designed by the Wrights.
The Wright brothers flew over a thousand flights in 1902. This included the longest ever glide by Wilbur, of 622.5 feet for twentysix seconds. Orville was not far behind and clocked a glide of 615 feet for twenty-one seconds. Orville wrote, “We now hold all the records! The largest machine … longest time in the air, the smallest angle of descent, and the highest wind!” All that was needed now was to build a new machine, this one with motor and propellers.
In 1903, on arrival at Dayton from Kitty Hawk nine months prior to the magic moment, they started preparing seriously. This machine would have forty-foot wing span and had to be sturdy enough to carry a gasoline engine. They did in the past make a twocylinder stationary engine that ran the tools of the shop. A 170 lb four cylinder engine producing twelve horsepower was built. A propeller they thought was
an aerofoil like a wing. Orville elucidated, “The thrust depends on the speed and angle at which the blade strikes the air, and the speed the machine is travelling forward, the speed the air is slipping backward, the slip of the air depends on the thrust exerted by the propeller, and the amount of air acted upon.” The Wright boys surely knew their “Physics”. Hand shaping of the eight foot long wooden propellers was difficult but fitting them on the engine with bicycle chains was easier. In October the Wrights had lots of gliding opportunities. They experimented with something new. Instead of trying to see how far they could go, they practiced how long they could soar, hovering almost motionless in the air. Luck was against them; prior to testing, the engine shafts went loose and had to be sent back for repairs on November 20, 1903. On December 14th they moved the flyer to Kill Devil Hill. Wilbur won the toss, the engines were started, the flyer moved along the track. It climbed a few feet, stalled and the machine started moving slowly to a skid.
At 10 AM on December 17th, 1903 five men walked across the sand of the beach. Wilbur and Orville in business suits, ready for the historic photograph, looked out of place. The photograph was important to prove to the world, without any doubt, of the first powered flight. The propeller spun, the motor roared to life.
At 10:35 AM, Orville lay prone, stopwatches were synchronized and Orville released the cable. The machine moved slowly, with Wilbur running by his side. At the end of the track, the machine lifted to the air, flew close to ground before coming to rest 120 feet away with a cracked skid. The flight lasted only 12 seconds. The next flight, flown by Wilbur, was less than a second longer before it hit a sudden gust; the machine twisted sideways but flew over 200 feet for 15 seconds. Just at noon Wilbur flew for the fourth and last flight. It was an interesting flight, it went out about 800 feet, started pitching up and down, and struck the ground staying aloft for fiftynine seconds. Thus the Wright Brothers succeeded in making the first powered flight in history. Later, they perfected the powered flight by practicing over a field close to their business, as was permitted by a Dayton banker who owned the land, before finally producing aircrafts for the Army and others under license.
In conclusion, the Wright Brothers created history by inventing the first powered flight. They displayed exemplary courage, conviction and a scientific mindset. Starting from scratch and learning from the experience of others, they perfected the “Art of Powered Flying” by designing their own powered machine without outside help.
Iencounter a peculiar problem whenever I go to any department store. After a short while, my legs start hurting and inevitably, I look for a chair or a bench somewhere to sit down. Usually, there are none. I started
having this problem a long time ago, when my legs were a lot younger and in almost perfect condition. I have never discussed this problem with anyone except my wife. The reason being, as soon as I leave the store my
legs get instantly cured. The pain disappears. I figured it was the sheer boredom inside the store that always made me feel that way. So, department stores or the shopping malls aren’t a favorite place for me, unless of course, I have anything to buy for either myself or others. As soon as I am finished shopping, I want to leave. But my wife is different. Once she is in the store, she wants to take her own time to look around things. It’s not that she buys a whole lot, but she doesn’t like to be rushed there. And I fully understand that. My wife is also very much aware and considerate of my leg problem. So, she doesn’t mind at all if I leave her in the store to find an empty bench somewhere outside in the mall area, while she does her own shopping. This arrangement suits both of us well, even to this date.
A few years ago, we were in a shopping mall in Bethesda, Maryland in the outskirts of Washington DC. We were on our annual vacation from my assignment in Saudi Arabia. My wife had a lot to shop, as she used to postpone most of her shopping needs for this time. So, the moment after we entered the store, I told her that I would be on a bench outside, and she readily agreed.
One Small Cup of Coffee
During the daytime on a weekday, there wasn’t much of a crowd that would normally be seen on evenings and weekends. Still there were plenty of people in the mall; mothers with babies in strollers, older people, who perhaps didn’t have to worry about going to work anymore, and younger women dressed in 123
office attire, walking hurriedly with large shopping bags in their hands, as if destined to return to their places of work. I had always wondered why people had to shop all the time. My old friend John Murphy, whom I used to carpool with many years ago in Washington DC, used to tell me that in the old days, people used to postpone most of their shopping needs for the Christmas time and other special occasions. Now people buy just about everything instantly whenever there is a need. Times have indeed changed. Anyway, I had no problem in finding a comfortable place to sit down. I wished I had a newspaper or a magazine with me to read. I knew it would take a long time for my wife to come out of the store.
Sitting idly on the bench, my mind started wandering aimlessly. More than 37 years ago, I came to Washington DC as a graduate student. I had always liked this city. It is a unique place in the country with all its history, memorials and monuments. I was intimately familiar with this city, though the suburbs had changed significantly. We had so many good friends around here. Though some had left for different parts of the country, quite a few were still there. On the night before, we were invited to one of our friends’ house where we got to see many of our old friends. It was just a delightful experience. We saw some of our friends after many years. Though everyone was in excellent health, there was a noticeable change in almost everyone. Age had slowly taken a toll on everybody. I realized that the process of aging must
be an infinitesimally slow one. When we see a person regularly, we hardly notice any change, but if we see that same person after a prolonged absence, then the changes become all noticeable. Seeing my old friends, I thought of my own age and wondered how I looked to them. I saw myself in the mirror at least once a day, but I never noticed anything much different. I looked just about the same as before, I thought. I could do just about everything I did in the past with the same vigor and enthusiasm and I also felt great. And so, I consoled myself with the thought that though my friends were all changing, I was probably doing just fine.
It is not entirely true that I was totally oblivious of my own aging. There were, of course, a few warnings. Not too long ago, I was traveling alone on an Air India flight from New York to New Delhi, and for obvious reasons, most of the passengers on that flight were Indians. I had an aisle seat on the right side of the plane. Soon after I took my seat and started paging through a magazine that I had just purchased from a newsstand outside, I heard a female voice from my left yelling, uncle, uncle, uncle……
She was unrelenting. I slightly tilted my head up to sense who would respond, as there were two other gentlemen sitting next to me, who, in my opinion, could both qualify as uncles. But both men sat motionless with their heads unmoved. I pretended not to have heard anything and started slowly putting my head down on my magazine.
But the yelling continued,
“Uncle, uncle, you, uncle.” I had no choice but to turn my head towards her.
“Me?” I gestured.
“Yes, uncle,” she replied with a smile, “can you please get me an extra blanket form the overhead bin?”
She somehow figured that additional blankets were stored on the bin above my seat. I didn’t mind at all getting up and giving her an extra blanket. But what bothered me a great deal was her calling me ‘uncle’ in a crowded plane. I was aware of the fact that it is customary in the Indian subcontinent to address total strangers as uncles, aunts, grandpas, etc., and it is considered more polite and personable that way. How one would be addressed usually depends on how one’s age or the appearance is perceived by the addresser. It would have been perfectly all right if she was a younger person, but she was definitely not, and I wasn’t definitely that old, I thought, to be called uncle by her. In fact, she was a fully-grown woman and she looked more or less like anyone of my wife’s two and half dozen friends. And not any one of them has ever called me uncle. I also noticed her getting on board with her husband and three boys. They created quite a commotion with too many carryon baggages. They also had a strange sitting arrangement. The husband and two older boys were seated at the back of the plane while she sat with the younger one upfront. Fortunately, she didn’t bother me for the rest of my flight, but I dismissed her behavior (of calling me uncle)
as ridiculous and just an isolated incident.
While in India, I went to Santiniketan to pay a visit to a couple of my old teachers who taught me while I was a student there during my junior high school years. I took a pre-dawn train from Calcutta and reached there in mid-morning. Soon after I had checked into a hotel, I decided to take a stroll through the campus. As I was leaving the hotel compound, a young fellow came running after me.
“Sir, what will you eat for lunch? Chicken? Fish? Mutton?” the young fellow asked.
I was impressed with this fellow and that he addressed me as ‘Sir’ and not ‘Uncle.’ He probably didn’t have any formal education, but had enough sense to properly address a total stranger. There is one advantage of staying in small hotels in India. They would always ask the guests what they would like to eat and they would prepare the meal accordingly. I am usually careful of what I eat outside my home when I am traveling in India.
So I said, “Rice and a couple of vegetable dishes would be just fine for me.”
I didn’t know what exactly he understood, because later,
when I sat down for the meal in the dining room, the food both tasted and looked extremely bland. Though everything was freshly cooked, there was hardly any spice or salt in the preparations. It was kind of unusual for hotel food. As I was about to start eating, the same young man whom I had encountered a little while ago came out through a swinging door leading to the kitchen.
“Is everything OK?” he asked with a grin on his face.
Everything was not OK, but I didn’t want to offend him.
“It’s OK.” I replied.
“Aapnar to boyesh hoyechhe, tai sob ektu halka kore dilam [You are an aged man and so I made everything light for you],”the man said.
I thought of getting up and giving him a punch in the nose. Then I realized that wouldn’t have been a good idea. I had to have at least two more meals over there.
I simply said, “boyesh
hoyechhe thik, tabey aami asustho lok noi. Amar janya alada kichhu korar dorkar nei [It’s true I am an aged man, but I am not a sick person. You don’t need to cook anything different for me].” He understood. The next two meals were just fine.
There are no shortages of idiots in this world, I concluded.
One more thing. Of late, I didn’t like my own pictures taken by others. I looked kind of different in the photographs, different from what I saw myself in the mirror. It was like a mystery that I simply couldn’t figure out. So, I attributed this problem either to the photographers or to their inexpensive digital cameras that almost everyone had started using these days. I thought that, like in the old days, if people used proper cameras, like Nikon, Canon, Minolta, etc. with good lenses, my picture would come out just fine, as in the old days. I confided my displeasure with my own pictures to my wife on a few occasions.
“Why is it that my picture would always come out like this?” I asked.
“That’s exactly how you look,” she would readily answer, “you just need to accept the fact that you are getting old.”
I never took those remarks very seriously. First, I thought she couldn’t have meant this literally. Secondly, most women, I had noticed, though they do not quite mean it, get some sort of sardonic pleasure by teasing their husbands on matters related to these.
However, with all these warnings and more, I realized one thing: That when we start getting
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older, we really do not feel that we are indeed getting older. We feel just the same as before. It is the surroundings, the society, and the people around us, who directly or indirectly start reminding us that we are becoming something of a different entity. This reminder, not so infrequent, becomes so overpowering that after a while we (the men, mostly) start believing that we are no longer the same. But I was determined not to succumb to this onslaught.
I looked at my watch and realized that quite a bit of time had passed, but still not time for lunch yet. There was no possibility of my wife coming out of the store either. I felt like having a cup of coffee that would also kill some time. Every mall has a food court and I had no difficulty in finding one with a short walk. From the distance, I saw a McDonald’s and decided to buy a cup of coffee there. I always liked McDonald’s coffee.
There was no other customer and I saw a young black girl attending the cash register. As I approached her, she asked,
“Can I help you?”
“I want a cup of coffee,” I replied.
“That would be 27 cents,” the girl said with a heavy accent. She must be a first generation immigrant like me, from an African country, I thought.
The fast food restaurants are probably the only places where they take the money first before they deliver their food or services. In any case, 27 cents for a cup of coffee didn’t sound right to me and I thought the girl behind the cash register perhaps didn’t understand what I said. So
I repeated, “No, no, I just want a cup of coffee.”
The young girl gave me a blank look. She probably thought I had some kind of a problem, perhaps understanding the English language, and she didn’t want to waste her time communicating with me. She turned around, took a few steps backward, picked up a coffee pot from the machine in one hand, held it up high in the air, and then pointing her index finger of the other hand towards the coffee pot, she asked,
“You want this stuff?”
“Yes, yes that’s it,” I said.
She put that pot down where it belonged. Then, alternatively narrowing and enlarging the gap between her thumb and the index finger, she asked,
“Small? Large?”
The way she showed “small”, I thought the cup would be only three-quarter inch tall. So I asked,
“How small is the small?”
The girl picked up a cup from a tall stack of cups and it looked like it would be about 5-inch tall.
“Small would be fine,” I said. There was no other customer and it appeared she had all the time to clown around with me. She picked up a coffee creamer from the bucket, held it up in the air and asked,
“You want this?”
“Yes, two of those, please” I replied.
“The sugar will be outside,” she said.
She poured coffee into a cup and with couple of creamers in her hand; came back to the counter and said again, “27 cents.”
I was not amused anymore.
I was away from the country for many years and there was something happening that I didn’t quite understand. I knew that coffee was 25 cents when I came into this country in 1969, but not anymore. Moreover, by this time I had looked up into the price board and checked that a small cup of coffee costs 99 cents. Something was wrong somewhere. But I didn’t want to argue with her anymore and decided to give her a dollar from my wallet. She took it and then rang the cash register. Sure enough, lots of changes discharged through a metallic slot into small cup attached to the cash register. I picked up the changes and counted. Surprisingly, I got 73 cents back. The girl handed me the cup of coffee and a receipt, with a smile on her face.
Before I could sit down at a table nearby, I was curious to look at the receipt.
It read: one small coffee senior… 25 cents and taxes… 2 cents, for a total of 27 cents.
She had indeed given me a senior citizen discount. I was amused, but that feeling lasted only momentarily. A strange indefinable feeling of unease started creeping in. I couldn’t sit down to drink that coffee. There was a restroom nearby and with coffee in my hand; I went straight inside to have a close look at myself one more time in the mirror. The desire for drinking that coffee quickly evaporated and I emptied the cup into the sink.
I went out to look for my wife inside the store she was in.
Miracles, by plain dictionary definition, connote an extra-ordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural and scientific laws and can be attributed to a divine agency. ‘Science’ on the other hand encompasses a systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world through observation and experiment. Now the question is: are these two antithetical? The answer would be in the affirmative if we assume that natural laws operate in the outer cosmos only and not in spiritual planes or the inner realm of consciousness. Our conclusion would be otherwise if we find that natural laws operate in the inner cosmos of consciousness as well, and can be deciphered through the science of Yoga. To a knower of this science there is no miracle, as nothing that happens is inexplicable.
While there is ample anecdotal evidence of this Yogic or so-called miraculous power being exercised by the Messiahs, prophets and spiritual masters in all religions, notably Sri Krishna, Gautam Buddha, Jesus Christ etc., rarely has the science of Yoga been explained and expounded to the uninitiated. The reason why this science remains largely hidden at the urging of the spiritual masters is that it is capable of being misused to the detriment of mankind. Practised for the wrong reasons, according to these masters, the Yogic or miraculous power would lose the touch of divinity and is likely to degrade into satanic or Asuric power, often described as black magic (witchcraft).
The only difference between miracles, going by its popular and well accepted meaning, and satanic/Asuric power known popularly as witchcraft/black magic is that the former is welcome and sourced invariably to divinity as it is intended to benefit individuals and communities by and large, whereas the latter is dreaded, being intended to cause harm to targeted individuals or communities. The focus in our study here is on miracles and whether there is any scientific explanation for the same.
In our study we will pick
The miracle of Jesus walking on the Sea of Galilee is recorded in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and John. According to their narration, Jesus sent his disciples to the other side of the Sea by a ship while he himself chose to spend the night in prayer. Midstream, the ship was caught in a storm in the night, and the chance of survival was remote. Suddenly the disciples saw someone walking on the Sea. Initially they were frightened, thinking that it was a spirit, but Jesus assured them that it was him only. He entered the ship and
selectively some miracles from the lives of Jesus, Buddha and Krishna and will try to find if there is any scientific explanation for those miracles. In the course of our discussion we will deal with the science of Yoga, more precisely Kriya Yoga, and its connection/nexus with those miracles.
Of the numerous miracles performed by Jesus Christ, we pick up the following three for our study: 1) walking on the Sea of Galilee, 2) his transfiguration, and 3) the raising of Lazurus.
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calmed the storm. According to Matthew’s Gospel, upon seeing Jesus walking toward the ship, Peter stepped out of the ship and walked on the water toward Jesus, but he became afraid and started sinking. Jesus rescued him.
The Transfiguration of Jesus finds mention in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke. According to their accounts, Jesus with three apostles went to a mountain where he began to shine with bright rays of light. Prophets Moses and Elijah who had preceded him by Miracles and Science
several centuries were seen to have appeared next to him and conversed with him, when Jesus was called ‘Son’ by a voice in the sky, supposedly that of God.
The story of the raising/ resurrection of Lazurus after he was dead and buried for four days is found in the Gospel of John. According to John’s account, when Lazurus was sick, his sisters were seeking help of Jesus but he told his followers that he would wait till Lazurus died and then he would raise him from his grave so that people’s faith in him as God’s son was established. Truly as he told his followers, Jesus standing near the grave of Lazurus called in a loud voice: “Lazurus, come out”, and the dead man rose and came out of his grave after lying buried for four days.
The Buddha, who preceded Jesus by 5 centuries, possessed and also exercised, though discreetly, miraculous Yogic powers that included Iddhi, Siddhi, Abhijna and Vibhuti, as per Mahasihanada and other Suttas in Pali. Iddhi enabled him to replicate and project his image, become invisible, pass through solid objects, sink into solid grounds, walk on water, fly, control spirits, etc. Siddhi enabled him to reduce and expand his body without limit (Anima & Mahima), become infinitely heavy and weightless (Garima & Laghima), have unrestricted access to all places (Prapti), realize whatever he desired (Prakamya), possess absolute control (Istva) and the power to subjugate (Vastva). Abhijna enabled him to know the past, present and future, tolerate
heat & cold, know the minds of others, check the influence of fire, water, sun and poison, and remain unconquered by any external force. Vibhuti implied in the present context super-human or divine power, not sacred ash.
However, the Buddha was opposed to the exhibition of miraculous power. When requested by a man called Kevatta to depute a monkto Nalanda to exhibit super-natural power, the Buddha replied that there were the following three levels for channeling super-natural power:
1. The physical level, i.e. to appear as many persons, to pass through walls, to fly through the air, walk on water, etc.
2. The mental level, i.e. to read other people’s minds.
3. The teacher’s level, i.e. to guide people according to their mental development, for their own good, using suitable methods.
A monk, who operated at the first two levels for their own sake in order to impress people, was no better than a shaman or a magician, according to the Buddha. A monk who practised such worldly miracles was, in his view, a source of shame, humiliation and disgust; as such miracles might impress and win converts and followers, but would not put an end to their suffering. The Buddha called the third level “the miracle of instruction” which alone would help people to get rid of suffering. This, according to him, was the only super-natural power that was fit to be practised.
Sri Krishna, who, according to the Hindu calendar, preceded the Buddha by two and a half
millenniums, is considered by tradition (refer to Srimad Bhagavad Mahapuran) to be the only Avatar (incarnation of Lord Vishnu) who was born with the supreme wisdom and power that included Iddhi, Siddhi, Abhijna and Vibhuti. Krishna’s life was replete with miracles from the time of his birth till the very end of his mortal existence. To mention a few of those, we may refer to his cosmic form assumed before Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, to induce him into action mode (Karma Yoga), his multiple forms to fulfill longcherished desires of the Gopis (cowherd women-devotees), resurrection of 6 children of his mother Devaki long after they were dead, and also of Parikshit, the still-born son of Uttara (refer to the Mahabharata), and the lifting of the mountain Govardhan.
The skeptics have questioned those miracles on the ground that these were either misrepresentation of facts or misinterpretation of events. As for Jesus’s walk on the Sea of Galilee, it is contended by them that he actually walked along a stretch of ice, not visible in the night. His transfiguration is taken for a possible reflection of light on the mountain, and his meeting with Moses and Elijah (?) as a non-event or mistaken identity at best, and the sky-voice as hallucination. It is also doubted whether Lazurus was dead at all when buried. Similarly, numerous miracles of the Buddha and Krishna were dismissed by the skeptics as figments of the imagination of the ancient gullible masses, as none of
those would pass the scrutiny of science.
The weakness of this approach of the skeptics is that they either dismiss or distort the facts recorded or recounted while examining every miracle on the touchstone of a common man’s standard/understanding. Secondly, they are apparently reluctant to look into the Yogic explanations for those miracles simply because those explanations are not verifiable by non-initiates and do not conform to their standard of scrutiny. In the process they dismiss all those events which cannot be explained by a commoner’s standard of scrutiny.
Cases in point, thus dismissed, include the instance of a Hathayogi sealed in a casket, buried underground for a number of days under medical watch and yet reviving after being clinically dead, miracles associated with revered masters like Ramakrishna Paramhansa, Kabir, Shirdi Sai Baba, Guru Nanak, Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti, Babaji etc. where a look, a touch and a word from these enlightened souls were enough to heal or transform individuals, as also alternate healing procedure like REIKI, Sanjeevani, Shambhavi etc. sourcing the Universal Life Force Energy and channelizing it to the ailing organs and tissues. To illustrate our point further, we will narrate two well-documented 19th century events concerning Swami Vivekananda and Shyamacharan Lahiri (known popularly as Lahiri Mahashay).
Vivekananda, while still a student and known as Narendra Nath, was an arrogant agnostic
and argumentative. On one occasion, at Dakshineshwar, Calcutta, he -- in mockery of Sri Ramakrishna’s pronouncement that God was all-pervasive -declared to his friend Hazra that the tea, the cup, the rasagolla (juicy sweet cheese ball), him and Hazra were all Brahman (God), and was laughing loudly when Sri Ramakrishna entered the room and just touched Narendra momentarily. That single momentary touch changed the vision of young Narendra, enabling him to see and feel that all the substances -- including his own body, the tea, the cup, the consumables and even the iron railings of a park in his neigbourhood -- were made of the same elements. The said vision lasted with him for several days enabling him to realize the Truth the hard way.
The encounter of Shyamacharan Lahiri, one of the greatest exponents of Kriya Yoga in modern times, with his Master Babaji who initiated him in the said Yoga, was no less of a miracle. In 1861, when Lahiri was 31 and posted as an accountant at Danapur, his office received a telegram stating that he had been transferred to Ranikhet, a mountain station in the Himalayas. One afternoon, while climbing on Dronagiri Mountain, he heard a distant voice calling out his name. The caller was Babaji, looking younger than Lahiri, though older by several centuries going by his real age. He took him to a nearby cave and pointed to a folded blanket and a water pot (Kamandalu) as the stuff used by Lahiri in his previous incarnation. Babaji told
him in English that it was him who silently suggested to the mind of his superior officer that he be transferred to Ranikhet, and that when his initiation was complete he would be transferred back to Danapur. By the grace of his Master, his past life flashed in Lahiri’s vision. Babaji materialized a magnificent palace of unparalleled grandeur beyond human imagination to quench the earthly thirst of his disciple lingering since previous birth, and then de-materialized the same after the purpose was achieved. He explained to Lahiri that there was nothing miraculous about this materialization and de-materialization. In fact, the whole cosmos was a projected thought of the Creator who made all things out of His mind. Babaji just commanded the elemental atoms to combine and manifest themselves in the desired form holding them together as long as he wished. That very night Babaji initiated Lahiri in Kriya Yoga. For seven days Lahiri remained in the Nirvikalpa Samadhi state (in the state of union with Pure Consciousness). After Lahiri returned to his office, a letter was received from the Head Office that his transfer to Ranikhet was an error and that he should return to the Danapur office, exactly as Babaji had foretold him. On his way to Danapur, Lahiri spent a few days in Moradabad with a known Bengali family. When he narrated to them his experience at Ranikhet, his friends dismissed the event as hallucination. To prove his point Lahiri summoned his Master, remembering his assurance to be with him whenever called. Babaji
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instantly materialized to be seen by the doubting friends of Lahiri and stayed a while with them till all their doubt was dispelled. According to many thinkers like Sri Aurobindo, a miracle is an event when a force from another level of consciousness impacts the physical world. Since the laws of the vital or mental or various levels of the spiritual world are different from that of the physical world, unusual or miraculous events take place. We get examples of such miracles in the stories connected with séance, ghosts (spirits), telepathy, clairvoyance (prakamya or vyapti) which have been discussed by Swami Vivekananda in his book ‘Power of Mind’. ‘Surya Vigyan’ (Solar Science) and ‘Gyan Ganj’ (Abode of Wisdom) authored by Gopinath Kabiraj and Autobiography of a Yogi authored by Swami Yogananda dwell upon the science of miracles to a large extent.
It is Yogananda, the 20th century Kriya Yogi, who was the first Yogi to explain miracles in scientific terms in his Autobiography of a Yogi. He explains the science of miracle in the following way. One of the fundamental principles of science is that no material body, whose mass increases with its velocity, can ever attain the velocity of light, viz. 1,86,300 miles per second. Only a material body with infinite mass could equal if not exceed the velocity of light. This principle, according to Yogananda (refer to Autobiography of a Yogi - Chapter 30: The Law of
Miracles) is the cornerstone of miracles. In his words: “Masters who are able to materialize and dematerialize their bodies and other objects, and to move with the velocity of light, and to use the creative light rays in bringing into instant visibility any physical manifestation, have fulfilled the lawful condition; their mass is infinite.” The law of gravitation obviously has no effect on such a Master who is able to transform his body into weightless infinite mass with a sense of identity with the Supramental or Pure Consciousness - ‘I am He’ (Sohaham). Free from matterconsciousness of the three space dimensions and the fourth dimension of time, the Yogi transfers his body of light with equal ease over or through the light rays of earth, water, fire and air. It is thus that a Yogi can walk on water or through fire, or fly.
“The law of miracles is operable by any man,” says Yogananda, “who has realized that the essence of creation is light….. The actual form of the projection (whatever it be: a tree, a medicine, a human body) is determined by the Yogi’s wish and by his power of will and of visualization” (ibid).
The Yoga, by practising which the Yogi is able to transform his gross body into the subtle body of light, or can separate his subtle body from his gross body, is known as the Kriya Yoga. Sri Krishna spoke of this Yoga to Arjuna, several millenniums ago (refer to Chapter IV, verse 29, and Chapter V, verses 27-28 of Bhagavad Gita). Patanjali in his
Yoga Sutras mentioned Kriya Yoga twice. It is said that one thousand Kriyas practiced in 8.5 hours gives the Yogi in one day the equivalent of one thousand years of natural evolution, and 3,65,000 years of evolution in one year. “The body of the average man is like a fifty-watt lamp,” writes Yogananda (ibid), “which cannot accommodate the billion watts of power roused by an excessive practice of Kriya.” Through regular practice and gradual increase, by reversing the flow of life energy from the outward world to the inner cosmos, the Yogi’s body and brain cells get re-vitalized by a spiritual elixir. He finally becomes master of his body and mind, fit to express the infinite potentials of cosmic energy, and achieves victory over the last enemy - Death (implying that the soul continues in body as long as the Yogi wills). It is not correct to assume that the science of Kriya Yoga was confined to a few Indian Yogis and Masters. As a matter of fact, Babaji is cited in the Autobiography of a Yogi (refer the chapter: The Science of Kriya Yoga) to confirm that the said science was known to Jesus Christ as also his disciples St. John and St. Paul. It was no wonder that Jesus’s weightless body of light could walk on the Sea of Galilee, and his transfiguration on the mountain was a Yogic feat. The resurrection of the dead by the command of a Yogi to the departed soul, whose link to his body through a connecting cord is not yet snapped, is no longer inexplicable by scientific laws of the Yoga.
“What is your best travel experience?” People often ask me this when they hear about my wandering life. That is hard to pin down, as some of the best experiences may come out of challenging ones. As the wise man and the ship’s naturalist, Dirk Yonkerman - yes, that was indeed his name - advised, we must never brand anything as “best” or “favorite” while traveling. However, visiting penguins giving birth at Falkland Islands during my 2007 visit to South America will remain one of the most uplifting experiences.
traveling to this point became a dream about ten years ago, and only a few hours ago it became a reality. I woke up very early and planted myself on a deck chair on the open deck by 5:30 a.m. There were only two other people. The whirling wind, fog and snow were coming at us horizontally. As the ship circled the Cape veiled by the mist, occasionally parted by shafts of brilliant
Antarctica and plans for penguin viewing was not an option. I managed to reach the theater hall on time and plopped myself next to my travel companion and trusted friend Ratna.
“I am the albatross who awaits you at the end of the world.
I am the soul of all mariners who have disappeared over the centuries in these turbulent waters. They have not perished but have been caressed and cradled for eternity in the wind and the waves.” - Sara Vial, Chilean Poet.
On December 9, our cruise ship rounded Cape Horn early in the morning. When I was nine years old, my father gave me an abbreviated version of Jules Verne’s “The Lighthouse at the End of the World.” Since then I imagined about this remote end of the world, or perhaps the beginning from a southern point of view. The thought of
sunbeams, I knew that this place would remain dream-like forever.
I savored every moment of watching the jagged Chilean hill crowned by its national flag. Thoroughly exhausted by eight in the morning, mostly by the excitement, I went back to bed for a short nap after setting a wake-up call for 9:50 a.m. Missing the 10 a.m. seminar on
Dirk gave a slideshow on birds, mammals, and other animals thriving around the Antarctic Circle. He explained different species of whales, sea lions and birds populating the cold waters surrounding Patagonia. The highlight was the penguins. He quizzed us for the name of a penguin in northern hemisphere. Everybody laughed when somebody claimed there were some beyond the Arctic Circle. I am sure he uses this trick question during every trip. I learned about the difficulty of distinguishing between a cormorant hopping on the ground and a flightless penguin waddling next to it. It explained the big puzzle I experienced the day before. When we were
Visiting Falkland Islands : Birth of Penguins
cruising on the Beagle Channel, we came across a collection of black and white birds I thought to be penguins. However, after commiserating with the whiskered sea lions sunning on the rocks, a bunch of birds spread their graceful wings and flew away. Suddenly, there were only a few birds left hovering over holes in the ground. According to the naturalist, the birds were Imperial Shag cormorants and the ones who remained were Magellanic penguins keeping watch on their eggs hidden in burrows.
It was spring in southern hemisphere and birthing season in the animal kingdom. We could not have come to this pilgrimage at a better time. Since penguin watching was one of my main goals, I was a little disappointed about the small number of penguins we saw so far in Patagonia, particularly at the Beagle Channel. Apart from South Georgia and Antarctica, Falkland Islands had several important penguin habitats. Volunteer Point was the closest major one near Port Stanley, the capital of Falkland Islands and the ship’s next port-of-call. Although we were heading toward it, I was not sure if we would be able to venture out to that site, located about 50 miles away from the capital. It was supposed to be an approximately five-and-a-half hour roundtrip adventure with a decent amount of visiting time with the penguins. The cruise ship had to work under several constraints. The unpredictable weather of the region was the most important one. The bad weather, though
lovely for the penguins, was certainly not good for the ship. However, the good news came before evening. Penguins had arrived, ready for incubating and hatching at Volunteer Point. The ship’s schedule looked favorable. I managed to buy two rather expensive tickets for myself and my husband. After leaving Tierra Del Fuego behind that night, as the cruise ship traversed the 250 miles of South Atlantic Ocean toward Port Stanley, I dreamt of penguins.
Next morning, the ship anchored offshore from Port Stanley. The tour group heading out to Volunteer Point got out first and climbed into the tender boat around 7 a.m. Bundled up in our warm clothes and orange life jackets, we took the half hour ride to the town through a choppy ocean. During stormy weather, ships are safer away from the harbor. As soon as we landed, four of us were herded inside a Land Rover. I managed to sit on the front passenger seat. While Phillip, the lead guide and the driver of our van went away to figure out the status of other members of the group, I watched the sheep-shearing spectacle going on in the shed next to the parking lot. A young man, definitely a tourist, was trying to shear the dirty white wool of a lamb without much success.
I was impressed by the amount of wiggling put up by the sheep in the form of protestation. The young man was afraid that he might hurt the sheep. The person overseeing the process, kept saying, “No, you cannot hurt the sheep.” I amused myself with the all-around goofiness of the
sight. My friends Ratna and her husband chose to explore Port Stanley.
In the meantime, Phil returned in a huff and complained that one of the drivers did not show up, perhaps because of the good time the guy was having the night before at the local bar, according to the tattle-tellers. Eventually, he recruited an alternate driver. The number of tourists and drivers were tallied, and sandwiches and drinks were loaded. I could understand Phil’s agony because of the tight schedule the ship gave him. Finally, the convoy of ten Land Rovers began the journey. It was a journey for me, but it was a living for Phil.
Within a few minutes, signs of human habitation, except for an occasional sheep or two grazing on fenced-in green pastures, vanished. The road was paved part of the way with very few trees on the roadside, planted by European settlers. Exposed outcrops and piles of eroded rocks, mostly gray quartzite, were dominant features of the landscape. A low flying Royal Air Force fighter plane maneuvered overhead at a great speed and with thunderous noise. As we continued on the gravel road, the knobby Tussock grass became the main ground feature.
Phil told us stories about the life and the war in the Falklands, particularly in Port Stanley. During the past decade, there had been a boom in the tourism industry with more cruise ships making regular stops. Most ships anchor offshore, transporting day-tripping tourists to land by tender boats. The number of permanent residents was about
3000. During the tourist season, the daily population might increase to as much as 6000. In spite of the modern sophisticated weather predictions, occasional gales might strike unexpectedly and strand the day-trippers from the cruise ship on the island. Then, the locals must accommodate tourists in their homes and provide food by emptying out their refrigerators. This had occurred a few years ago. Phil smiled kindly when I asked about the kind of wrath the locals had to face when the tourists got the bad news about there being no food or shelter. I remembered the slanting snow coming down on the tender boat, and the modest swell of the ocean, when we approached the port.
After driving for an hour, we arrived at the picturesque Johnson’s Harbor Farm for a rest stop. The red-roofed and whitewashed cluster of buildings set on the green pasture dotted with grazing lambs was a pictureperfect spot. The convoy left the farm after a half hour stop. The regular road ended there and the exciting part of the journey began. The rest of the way, Phil drove through grass heath, peat bogs, and fens. Streams, swollen by the spring melt, meandered through the treeless landscape.
On the dashboard, I noticed a sign that read “ARB Air Locker - Read Operating Instructions before Engaging.” I was curious, because I did not think that tough men ever read instructions. When I asked Phil about it, he explained his brand new and expensive ARB Air Locker with great pride. It was a pneumatically operated locking system inside the
differential so that when engaged while driving through rough terrain it helped control the four independently moving wheels of the all-wheel drive vehicle. Of course, he bought it from eBay, where else? Soon, we witnessed how this mechanism could help. Within half an hour, three other vehicles, not equipped with air lockers, got stuck in the bog. As is the custom in remote countries, Phil stopped, turned around, and helped pull each of them out with his winch. Whenever possible, I tried to get out of the vehicle. Some of the other passengers were not very happy about Phil’s ritual of helping each driver in trouble as it was eating into our
time with the penguins. Finally, our vehicle got stuck as well. We got out and stepped aside while two others drivers returned and pulled Phil’s van out. As far as I could tell, the only guidance to driving through that impossible marsh land was to avoid any track marks left by previous vehicles.
Volunteer Point is a peninsula privately owned by Johnson’s Harbor Farm. As we approached the area, a penguin or two started appearing. My problem was my handy camera. I started clicking away as soon as I spotted the first penguin, fearing that we might not see any more of them. However, Phil kept assuring us that one of the biggest surprises
of our lives was waiting ahead.
Soon, a magnificent vista opened up in front of us. On my left, an open sea, actually the mouth of a broad lagoon, quivered under a cloudy sky. Silhouetted against the faded baby blue horizon, a long line of penguins dressed in their graceful tuxedos were walking toward it for the midday swim and meal. Another line was returning toward their nests at a distance. It reminded me of the lines of first graders going to the cafeteria. Soon, I could see countless penguins roaming the fresh short grass and moss.
Phil parked the Land Rover next to a trailer and handed us our sandwich boxes with strict instructions to open the packet only inside the break room. I realized how hungry I was after the excitement of the journey and the anticipation of the adventure. As soon as I stepped out, I was almost blown away by the wind. I understood Phil’s wisdom and headed straight for the lunchroom. I would enjoy penguins much better with a full stomach. However, I could not resist the temptation of waddling behind two Gentoo penguins for several yards before going inside. They ignored me completely.
When I came out again, the strong penguin odor struck me. I remembered my mother’s edict. She insisted that no matter how bad the smell was, changing one’s facial expression was unacceptable. According to her, that was not proper etiquette. She was the first person I remembered as I explored that holy ground, the birth place of thousands of the most gorgeous animals in this
planet.
The most magnificent of penguins, the Emperor penguins, live only in South Georgia Island and Antarctica on their special kingdoms of ice. However, the Falklands, with its milder climate, is also the breeding ground for three major types of penguins. According to current estimates, there are about one million penguins in Falkland Islands, reduced from six million estimated a century ago. Volunteer Point contained clusters of Kings, Gentoos, and Magellanics. There were some Rockhopper and Macaroni penguins as well, although I did not see them.
First, I visited the Kings. Only small white stones surrounding the birthing areas warned visitors not to invade the sacred spaces. A handful of volunteer guards in yellow jackets were making sure that the visitors did not cross the demarcation. Penguins were walking everywhere, inside and outside the lines and visitors were free to walk with them outside at a distance of a couple of feet. Inside the line, male Kings were hatching their eggs on their feet in a remarkably meditative pose, perhaps exactly the way I felt during the days before the birth of my children. I wondered what they might be thinking. King penguins, averaging 35 inches in height and 28 pounds in weight, are the largest penguins after the Emperors. Approximately 1000 of these gorgeous creatures, with black back and white front highlighted by yellow beaks and necks, called Volunteer Point home. King penguins formed small above-ground rookeries
with small rocks. The female penguin produces a single egg and transfers it to the feet of the male penguin. If the egg rolls off the feet, the parents would lose interest and the egg would have no chance of hatching. As soon as the transfer is complete, the starving female runs off to the food source in the water. King males continue to starve until the egg is hatched.
There were few hundreds of Gentoos and another few hundreds of Magellanic at Volunteer Point. Gentoos, the third largest penguins in the world after the Kings and the Emperors, look very much like the Kings, only smaller. However, they are more organized. After they arrive at the birthing site, they build mound shaped nests on the ground using carefully selected stones, tussock grass and moss. They lay two eggs inside the mound and hatch them sitting on top of the eggs. Their droppings fertilize the ground they breed making them favorable to sheep farmers. Gentoos remain loyal to their partners and their nesting grounds, returning to the same nests and mates for years. Some Gentoo chicks were already hatched. They were being fed regurgitated food by their parents. Compared to the graceful walks of the Kings, Gentoos sport a waddling gait.
The third common type of penguin there was the Magellanic penguin. They lay eggs in burrows, usually dug on an incline to prevent water getting in. As I wandered among my penguin friends, I accidentally backed up against a solo Magellanic
bird standing guard in front of his burrow. I was startled by a rude squawk, and hurried away realizing my offense.
When I checked my watch, I realized that I spent more than an hour blithely roaming among more than a thousand penguins in many stages of giving birth, the most sacred ritual for all living beings. I was honored that the penguins accepted my presence among them. The same fierce wind wrapped around us. It was time to return to the ship. Phil was negotiating the gravel road when another British RAF fighter jet, a legacy from the Falklands war, flew overhead. I could see the face of the young pilot waving at us. Phil and I waved back. He told us that he knew all of these pilots and these ancient crafts would soon be retired. The Falkland war established the regime of Margaret Thatcher in the region.
In spite of the many ill effects, it helped improve the dwindling penguin population in a complex manner. Immediately after the war, British government pumped in money and efforts to establish a successful fishing industry which created a food shortage for penguins. On the other hand, during the war, Argentina had laid down many landmines along the coast, making it dangerous for humans and sheep. There are an estimated 20,000 landmines in the Falklands. Fortunately, penguins are light and do not set off landmines. Eventually, penguins returned to the region for breeding on the fenced off landmine zones. Penguin habitats also tend to restore the land torn up by grazing sheep. It became a win-win situation. We saw some fenced off landmine areas with big red signs. They screamed “Keep away from the penguinsor die” without much elaboration.
I hoped that this delicate ecological and political balance would remain intact to delight wanderers like me for ages.
On our way back, Phil drove along the coast line of Port Stanley where old warships and merchant ships floated in their retirement museum. Most of them were partially scuttled on purpose. Waving Phil goodbye, we rushed to catch the last tender to the ship as deep black clouds with a tinge of cerulean covered the sky. Port Stanley cemetery was the last sight I captured in my camera as the boat pushed off. Once inside the ship, I went to one of the outdoor decks with a cup of coffee. The ship sailed exactly at 4 p.m.
A wide arch of rainbow spanned across the misty horizon hugging the magnificent ocean. An albatross floated just above the rainbow as if to lead our ship to the nether land.
Sam was summoned to the principal’s office. The principal had recently arrived to this school from another Kendriya Vidyalaya. He was previously the Physics teacher at the Kendriya Vidyalaya or Central School, Kumbakonam, before he was transferred here to Madras and was anointed as the Principal. He was Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar, M.Sc, M.Ed, as his nameplate proclaimed.
Samrat Bose was in the 9th standard, a tall kid and by virtue
of an easy-going personality, the CPL or the class pupil leader. That meant Sam represented his peers, his classmates, whenever some idiot was in trouble. Sam would get pulled up by teachers and have to listen to complaints about some intransigent student who was either incorrigible or refused to follow the rules or was dumb enough to get caught. Sam could not typically solve or resolve any situation but was sometimes able to mitigate the punishment doled out by mollifying an indignant
New Jersey
teacher mostly by highlighting how insignificant the poor student was in the grand scheme of things.
Samrat stood before the Principal, fidgety on the inside, consciously disguised with a blank expression of concern.
The principal was reading ‘The Hindu’ newspaper and took his time to acknowledge the presence of Samrat.
‘Aah, do you like chemistry?’ the principal, Iyengar Sir, inquired as smooth as coffee. The intent was obviously to unsettle Sam before he even could start dodging. Sam projected the requisite mystified expression.
‘Yes sir, I like chemistry sir.’ Sam reasoned that this line of questioning by the principal could not be all bad.
‘Aah, I want chemistry in the lab, not chemistry outside of the lab’ the principal sniggered.
Samrat was now wondering where this line of inquisition would take them.
‘I am hearing about louv in the class, on premise!
The principal was speaking in riddles, while shaking his head in sorrow with an undertone of disgust. The principal had relocated from Kumbakonam, some remote dust bowl, in the heartland of Tamil Nadu.
‘Love in the class?’ Sam was now truly confused as to how the principal knew and how much did he know.
The principal ignored his questions and continued.
‘Yes, after I came from Kumbakonam, the
Cambridge of the South, I am hearing about all these shameful louv stories in school.’ he seemed genuinely indignant. Sam had of course seen ‘louv’ in school but admitting that would get him in big trouble right away.
‘No sir, no love stories in school.’ Sam responded a little weakly. Sam needed strength now, else he would start to grovel.
‘I say, you not seen louv in school yourself?’ Srinivasa Iyengar was getting annoyed with Sam and he started putting in traps and bait for Sam to stumble upon.
‘Not in my class. No louv in my class.’ Sam was only responsible for his class and avoided having to speak for and lie for the whole school.
Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar softened. ‘I know. I know. You are a good class. All the boys and the girls are very good. I have not noticed any extra-curricular chemistry in your class.’
Sam was proud. He had managed to pull the proverbial sweater over the Principal’s head. Then Srinivasa Iyengar slammed Sam.
‘You are louving anybody?’ he said it in a deceptively soft voice. Sam was not fooled. Sam needed to keep the news of his romantic flirtations off the front pages. It was raging at this moment but Sam needed to calmly answer his esteemed Principal.
‘I am not loving anybody at the present moment, sir.’ What an idiot he was, he realized a fraction of a moment later. Sam had just opened the floodgates.
‘What do you mean, not at the present moment?’ Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar pounced.
There were a couple of girls who were casting coy glances at him and Sam checked them out dutifully. They were not from Sam’s class which meant it was not well known or advertised for somebody to inform on him.
‘I mean, I will love somebody when I marry,’ Sam clarified. ‘After I marry, I will love.’
Srinivasa Iyengar M.Sc, M.Ed looked at Sam approvingly. Finally Sam had managed not to trip over himself.
‘Good, good, my boy. You understand, I do not like louv marriages,’ he said almost wistfully. Sam thought he started to understand why Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar did not like love marriages. Sam imagined that Mr. Iyengar’s soft corner for somebody must have been crushed unceremoniously in the days of yore.
‘I do not like this co-ed education in KV. It is causing all these louv problems.’ Srinivasa Iyengar was now expounding on his pet peeve about Kendriya Vidyalaya.
‘I also do not like co-education sir!’ Sam hoped the Principal did not see his intestines coiling up trying to suppress a wayward smile.
Unfortunately Sam was not good at lying.
‘No, no boy, looks like you louv this co-ed thing. I can see it in your eyes,’ he flat-out contradicted Sam with a hiss. Mr. Iyengar must have been tracking his wayward glances when Sam walked up and down the corridors.
Mr. Iyengar then reasoned a little despairingly. ‘Ok boy, you are a Bengaali fellow, that is why
you louv all this co-ed education. Bengaali boys and Naarth Indian girls, always making trouble.’
‘OK boy, it is my responsibility to keep up the good reputation of KV and I am depending on you. I expect you to come and tell me if you see some boy or girl getting too cozy, cozy. You understand.’
The principal left Sam with this onerous responsibility on spying on his fellow classmates and reporting to Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar if a loving couple got too cozy, cozy. Sam wanted to warn his friends immediately if they even thought of getting cozy, cozy, make sure that they do not get caught.
Radha was not a Naarth or a North Indian girl. She was a very pretty South Indian girl from Bangalore and studied in 10A. She was dainty, elegant and tall and on the dusky side. She was also extremely stand-offish. That stand-offish front was to everybody else but Sam seemed to get a little different treatment. If she happened to pass by Sam, she would have an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile flickering on and off without ever directly looking at him. She knew Sam was squirming to communicate with her and it probably tickled her no end. She was her classical demure stand-offish self with her classmates from 10A, when any of the other boys, many secret admirers, tried to get close to listen to her dainty conversations.
Radha was heading Sam’s way and was alone. She stopped in front of Sam and had a puzzled look on her face. Sam had a premonition that they were going to have a conversation for the first time in their lives. Radha looked
The Earthen Moon
past Sam and said ‘Where was I going?’ inquiring of the world about this weighty question.
Sam understood that she was pretending not to talk to him but was still was talking to him. Sam took a deep breath and calmed himself down. Sam could see the flicker of a smile on her face and that she was ready to wait him out. Sam blurted out ‘For your next class?’
She smiled still looking past Sam as if she had not heard him and continued on her way. Sam was ready to smack himself as he had quite botched his first conversation with Radha. Why did he have to say something so inane? Why could he not respond with some smarty-arty response? He could have said ‘Oh, you were going to Paris’ and that would have elicited some gamechanging response.
Sam trudged back to class after this encounter of the fleeting kind. Mrs. Sundari was teaching the class. She taught Chemistry and also was a trained musician. There was a buzz in the class as he entered and Sam was a little concerned as he requested permission and made his way into the class.
‘Did she just announce a unittest date?’ Sam whispered to his bench mate. They sat in groups of two in a class of about forty kids. The class was predominately a male-dominated class, being this was the science section. The girls sat in front, separately and distanced by their position. They kept to themselves and the boys kept to themselves. This was Madras and it was hard for the twain to meet. In Madras, the buses had seats on one side for
the women and on another side for the gents. Invariably though the buses were mostly packed with men who could not sit in the women’s seat even if there were hardly any women on the bus.
‘No, she is announcing some sort of a dance-drama and needs volunteers.’ Sam’s desk-mate Raghu did not make much sense. Sam thought he must have misheard him. Samrat listened to what Mrs. Sundari was actually saying.
‘We are going to do a famous dance-drama called Chitrangada for our school day.’ She was addressing Sam directly this time in response to his quizzical looks. That dance-drama was a familiar name since Sam did know that Rabindra Nath Tagore wrote and directed this dance-drama in his time and it had been a staple of Bengali theater ever since.
Sam admired Mrs. Sundari’s intent but was not sure if this could be pulled off by totally non-Bengali singers and actors. Her next question floored Sam. Directly addressing Sam she said ‘Samrat, would you like to be in the dance-drama’? Sam was perplexed. Why him? Was Sundari Miss mocking him but he knew she would not do that. She was way too earnest for that. Sam would have liked to believe that it was due to his swashbuckling looks that he was being chosen for a crucial part.
Now came the casting. The drama required two very good dancers for the parts of Surupa and Kurupa, the two princesses. Surupa and Kurupa both were prime parts and it would be quite a challenge to choose the right people for that. As talent rightly
would have it, Radha got the coveted part of Kurupa. Radha was apparently a very good dancer and she would be cast as Kurupa just because of her slightly darker complexion. The role of the beautiful Surupa went to another one of Sam’s esteemed seniors, a girl called Madhuri Luthra. She was a very stylish, pretty Punjabi girl but not particularly skilled at dance. But good looks frequently trumped talent. Sam held out for the hope that he would be chosen for the role of Arjun, wooed desperately by Surupa and Kurupa, Chitrangada’s avatars.
After the class, Sam went over to Mrs. Sundari.
‘Miss, I think I will be OK in acting in the dance-drama.’
Mrs. Sundari looked up from her desk and was beaming with excitement.
‘Samrat, oh very good.’
‘Miss, what part would I get? I think I can play part of Arjun.’ Sam had to suppress his eagerness. He put a lot of stock in his imaginary warrior-like looks and his goofy charm and was hoping that the stars were aligning and he would get the part of Arjun and princess Radha would be dancing to woo him.
Mrs. Sundari very skillfully put forward irrefutable logic.
‘No, I have to give the role of Arjun to a girl only.’ It of course was crystal clear, any semblance of ‘louv’ between the sexes was unimaginable on the big stage.
She then attempted to reason with Samrat. ‘You are naan-veg. Naan-veg causes too much libido. Ayyo, it will show on stage.’
So Mrs. Sundari had constructed a perfect knot of myth and bias. The Bengali’s well-
advertised non-vegetarian habits and its presumably awkward consequences were being used to take him out of the race. Sam tried to make a weak comeback.
‘But Miss, Madhuri is naanveg too. She eats naan and is veg.’
It was the weak joke which completely flummoxed Mrs. Sundari because she only heard the first sentence of Madhuri being ‘naan-veg’ . She was now getting upset.
‘Ayyo, I always suspected she was naan-veg. I hope she is not too bold. She is so lissome.’
Mrs. Sundari now worried and fretted at her choice. Last thing she needed on stage was a nonvegetarian temptress with all the repressed boys in the audience. She was seriously concerned that Madhuri Luthra was going to be a heart-breaker with her lissome ways.
Sam did not ever see Madhuri Luthra as a raging tigress but Mrs. Sundari’s fretting now made him think of Madhuri as a possible feline. A lissome feline?
It turned out that Mrs. Sundari just wanted Samrat in a group scene with a bunch of villagers extolling the beauty of nature and to be reasonably coordinated while dancing and frolicking aimlessly. To give this a more authentic flavor of a Bengali dance-drama, all the villagers ended up being Bengali guys. Dilip Roy, a slick looking guy grumbled and complained at getting shanghaied into this part just because of his Bengali identity. For some reason he seemed to be protesting a bit too much but actually seemed pretty eager to start rehearsing.
Samrat’s much coveted part
of Arjun went to a senior girl as expected and that was the end of Sam’s hope in getting close to Radha aka Kurupa.
Hope resurfaced the next day. Mrs. Sundari announced, Radha was going to choreograph the dance for the ungainly villagers. Now Sam really looked forward to being taught by the winsome Radha. He was going to be one delighted villager.
Sam looked at his group. There were three of his classmates, all Bengali, and two more seniors who were also Bengalis. Happy, strappy Bengali villagers! It was probably Mrs. Sundari’s intent to also get them to sing the happy villager song. She did try but despite their Bengali background they did not cut it as singers. She abandoned that notion and had Mr. Hemanta Kumar do the vocals from a tape for the villager’s scene. Apart from that interlude, Mrs. Sundari and a few senior girls would sing the entire Chitrangada Bengali songs in a soulful South Indian accent.
The dance rehearsal for the villagers was all set. Sam had to contain his fidgeting as he waited for Radha to show up. Radha stepped into the room and ignored all the other boys and looked directly at Sam. It was going to be a delightful rehearsal. Sam unflinchingly looked back at her.
She took her place at the center of the room and instructed the boys to face her. She was now dressed up in an austere dance dress that made her look every bit of the dancer that she was.
‘Stand up straight’, Radha barked. It sounded peremptory and Sam suddenly felt the
blood rushing back from his forehead into his jaws and his neck stiffened. That was not the start of a friendly conversation. Though it was addressed to the whole group, Sam felt the heat of Radha’s glances searing him.
Radha was all business and was trying to simplify the dance steps for the boys. She went about showing them how to skip and hop forward with an imaginary spear in their hands and retreat, all to the beat of the song.
‘Forward’ Radha intoned sharply. She was only a year older but now she was acting like the teacher. There was a power vacuum since Mrs. Sundari was soft and pliable. Now Radha had filled that vacuum and was making the happy villagers as miserable as possible.
The whole line skipped forward. Everybody seemed to meekly accept Radha’s ascendency. Stand-offish Radha was now transformed into domineering Radha. It was a small step for Radha but a giant blow for mankind consisting of some disconsolate Bengali villagers.
‘Can we put on the fan, it’s getting hot.’ Sam was truly sweating both because of Radha’s presence and her bossiness. The weather may have slightly contributed too.
‘We will put the fan on later. Smile,’ she barked. She was determined that everybody would smile while they were dancing. That included Sam who looked out of sorts and grouchy.
‘Happy smile. Not just smile, smile’ she yelled directly at Sam. Her entire focus was now into getting Sam to dance.
The Earthen Moon 139
‘Why should we smile?’ Sam asked, even scowling a little bit. The dance was confusing all of them and nobody was happy.
‘Because you are villagers’ she said with finality.
‘Why are villagers always happy?’ some of his classmates was now getting some courage to talk back.
Radha bristled.
‘In a dance only if you smile you will attract the audience’s attention. If you were a war party, then you will be fierce.’ Radha’s eyes flamed and shone with her fiercest scowl. Everybody cowered a little, and soon the dancers were practicing in lockstep.
Samrat stepped out of the room and unfortunately there was the group of seniors lolling around waiting for a victim to harass.
‘Hey Rat, yenna da, you are doing this Bengaali dance.’ The usual group leader made his usual nasty comment prefacing it with the unique sobriquet bestowed on him by this group.
‘Ya, not much dancing, just being on stage because Miss wanted it’ Samrat was forced to respond, else this group would hound him till he went into his class.
‘You think you are some Mithun Chakrabarty, da’ . For whatever reason, the whole group started to giggle and laugh.
‘ Yes da, I will be doing disco dancing with the girls. I am a disco dancer,’ Sam crooned mockingly. The tone of Sam’s voice caused the laughter to fade a little. He knew they envied his access to the girl’s through this dance, especially the girls in their
batch, 10A. The rehearsals picked up. It was now twice or thrice a week just after school. Surupa aka Madhuri Luthra was becoming very good in her dancing and many a heart was dancing to her rhythm. One day sitting on the sidelines, Sam saw with some amount of trepidation, Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar had come into the room like a slow moving glacier. He had a painful expression on his face as he watched the rehearsal.
When Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar stepped out of the room, suddenly the whole room started buzzing as if the cicadas had just been released from their long hiatus. Miss Sundari hurried out and Samrat sidled out too. This would be very interesting.
‘Sundari Miss, I am a little concerned about the rehearsal,’ Samrat could overhear the principal say in the distance. A visibly upset Miss Sundari saw her protégé Samrat lurking, and immediately called him up. With a look of resignation, Samrat went up to the principal.
‘Samrat, how is the dance going?’ the principal quite unctuously enquired. Sam was surprised that Mr. Iyengar now knew his name.
‘Very good, sir,’ Sam said in a very neutral voice.
‘Very good? Are you dancing with the girls?’ Srinivasa Iyengar did not like to beat round the bush.
‘Not with the girls sir, the boys just dance by themselves’ Sam said. Miss Sundari looked delighted; Sam was saying the right things.
Srinivasa Iyengar looked at
Sam with dark suspicion. ‘The boy’s dance by themselves? Not with the girls?’
‘No, no, sir, we make sure that they all have separate parts,’ Miss Sundari insisted.
‘We just dance with the princesses.’ Samrat said it and the next second knew this was going to be unfortunate.
‘Is there any hanky-panky while dancing?’ Srinivasa Iyengar was unrelenting.
‘No hanky-panky sir, we only dance Bengali dance,’ Samrat quickly replied all the while dreaming of some hanky-panky dancing with Radha.
‘Yes sir. Radha is very strict with them sir,’ Miss Sundari interjected ‘ Absolutely no indecent words and no indecent dancing.’
‘I don’t like Bengaali dance, too much movie influence.’
Srinivasa Iyengar was a fan of Bharatnatyam and traditional dance, and was very suspicious of the Bengali dance style.
‘This Tagore fellow. Too liberal fellow. Why does he have to make girls and boys dance together in his dance-drama?’ Srinivasa Iyengar shook his head.
Then he revealed his cosmic vision.
‘Girls and boys are like yearthen moon’ Srinivasa Iyengar explained forcefully. Sam did not grasp it quickly enough and repeated.
‘Like earth and moon?’ Samrat asked, confused.
‘Yes, Samrat. Like yearthen moon. The moon circles the yearth. There is natural attraction but the centrifugal force keeps the moon away from the yearth. Perfect balance.’
‘Boys and girls should be like that. The girl is the yearth. There needs to be some centrifugal force to keep all the boys from falling for the girl.’
‘You are right, sir.’ Miss Sundari was excited by this natural law and repeated it in Tamil.
‘Yes Miss Sundari, and when there is no centrifugal force, girls and boys dance together and they come closer and closer together. Then there is no balance, there is louving and all sorts of problems.’
‘No sir, we will make sure we have balance sir,’ both Miss Sundari and Samrat reassured Srinivasa Iyengar.
‘We will make sure the boys don’t fall into the earth, sir. We will dance like moons around the respective earths, sir,’ Samrat was emphatic.
A small crowd of detractors as usual pursued Samrat after this incident.
‘Dai, Moon Chakrabarty’ somebody said and Samrat groaned. From ‘Rat’, now he would become Moon with this lousy crowd of seniors.
Radha aka Kurupa, was gathering more admirers during the rehearsals. That bothered Samrat a little but he felt that she was only dancing to impress him. Every jhatak, every matak he could feel as he sat through the rehearsals. Radha was the earth and he could feel her gravity.
Now Surupa, Madhuri Luthra was dancing and many of the boys edged closer. Sam saw his friend Dilip Roy lean a little forward and suddenly Madhuri with a small scream lost her balance and
stumbled across the stage. Dilip bounded from the sidestage and just as Madhuri Luthra was about to fall, put out his hand and held her up.
The universe stalled. The planets froze in place. Madhuri Luthra and Dilip Roy were gazing into each other’s eyes. The teachers stared wide-eyed at the couple. Miss Sundari looked like she suddenly ate a nonvegetarian dish. The other girls visibly and audibly gasped and suddenly stopped dancing. The other boys looked on with envy.
The earth had swooned and fallen into the moon. Mr. Srinivasa Iyengar would have surely felt this sudden loss of centrifugal force. Gravity had won out. Samrat had missed this romance between Madhuri and Dilip, so blinded was he, cavorting with Radha. Dilip and Madhuri must have been very cozy, cozy, under the guise of the rehearsal.
Madhuri Luthra and Dilip Roy, as suddenly, detached from one other and Madhuri made a show of bravely hopping away. She was soon engulfed in a gaggle of girls who ooh-ed and aah-ed at her twisted ankle. Dilip Roy disappeared from Samrat’s view but he was very much in the vicinity where he could surreptitiously watch the lovely Madhuri.
Suddenly Samrat felt a soft hand slide into his hand and give a squeeze before disengaging. He looked around in confusion and saw Radha walking away. There was a quick turn of her head and he saw her smile. The universe had truly lost its balance.
The rehearsals continued and the universe would never be the same again. Word on the street was that Dilip Roy started giving rides to Madhuri Luthra in his car because she was still a little hurt. Samrat and Radha now openly talked during rehearsals. Radha actually stopped yelling and correcting him and occasionally even rearranged his hands during the rehearsals.
The drama was a roaring success. Madhuri Luthra was stunning in her role as Surupa. Radha as Kurupa wowed the crowds with her dance skills. Samrat and his gang of Bengali boys did an adequate job and got a lusty applause, and felt like rock stars.
Srinivasa Iyengar squirmed and smiled sorrowfully during the performance. He occasionally looked at the parents, almost ashamed to meet their eyes. From where he sat, the Bengaali boys were a little too bold and little too close to the girls, notwithstanding their insignificant roles. He even caught Surupa and Kurupa ignoring Arjun and smiling at the boys!
Samrat happened to walk by the principal as he was standing alone after the festivities.
‘How did you like the dance drama, sir?’ Samrat Bose asked politely.
‘Ayyo ! Ayyo ! Too close, too close’ was all Srinivasa Iyengar could mutter disgustedly.
Sam commiserated with feeling ‘I know sir, too much gravity.’
Samrat Bose looked back and winked at Radha Iyer who smiled back at him.
The Earthen Moon 141
The concept of civilization was born out of the desire of the people to improve the amenities of life through material progress, cultural advance, and spiritual uplift.
Ancient civilizations flourished in India, China, Egypt, Babylon, Greece and Rome. Although material prosperity of the people was limited, spiritual and cultural uplift reached a high degree of excellence.
Great religions originated in ancient times. Hinduism and Buddhism were preached in India and the
the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the enormous stupas and statues of ancient India.
Europe is the birthplace of modern civilization. When Roman power in Europe declined, Europe plunged into the Dark Age. Reawakening of Europe began after the Crusades (re1igious war). Soon new ideas and inventions revolutionized the life and society of the Europeans. But shortage of manpower stood in the way of material progress.
The Europeans
the defining technology of the industrial revolution was achieved by James Watt. The international unit of power, called the Watt, was named after him.
East, Judaism in Israel, and Christianity in Europe and the Mediterranean countries. In the eighth century, Islam was preached in the Middle East. Ancient culture was also enriched by the Indian epics like Ramayana and Mahabharata and Greek epics of Homer like Illiad and Odyssey. Bhagavat Gita, the great religious book of the Hindus, was described by Aldous Huxley as the greatest religious book ever produced by mankind.
began to explore sources of power and energy to manufacture goods. This marked the beginning of the industrial revolution in the world. The industrial revolution in Europe started in England. The invention of steam engine with continuous rotative motion by the Scottish engineer, James Watt, led eventually to the invention and production by the British
The most significant achievement in the energy sector was the invention and investigation of electricity. Electricity has revolutionized human life on the planet. Today’s civilization would be nowhere without electricity. The invention and investigation of electricity by the American philosopher and scientist Benjamin Franklin, French engineer Charles Coulomb, Italian scientist Volta, British scientist Faraday and American physicist and inventor Edison brought unprecedented progress in the human society.
Very soon the invention of wireless telegraphy by J.C. Bose and Marconi revolutionized the communication technology. Nowadays, any message can be sent to any part of the world by the fax machine. Person-toperson communication can be made by cell phone at any time. No telephony land line is necessary any more.
New Jersey
Some of the great monuments of ancient civilizations are the Pyramids of Egypt, The Great Wall of China, the relics of Greco-Roman art in Europe and the Mediterranean countries, massive structures on Rhodes and Cyprus in the Aegean Sea,
engineer, George Stephenson, of the first locomotive in 1814.
Stephenson’s steam locomotive was preceded by another British inventor, Thomas Newcomen, who designed the improved piston driven engine. Further crucial design improvements that made the steam engine
The invention of flying machines at the beginning of 19th century opened a new chapter in travel and transport. The idea of lifting objects in air by Count Rumford (an American) and the Swiss mathematician Daniel Bernoulli laid the foundation of researches. But it was the Montgolfier brothers who designed the first
flying machine (a glider or engineless aeroplane). Since then, rapid progress was made and finally the modern airplane with gasoline powered engine was built. The historic transatlantic flight by Charles Lindberg opened the aviation industry.
The invention of nuclear energy revolutionized the energy sector. The observation was made by the German scientist, Otto Hahn, that when high molecular weight Uranium (U-235) was bombarded by neutrons, Uranium nuclei broke down into smaller particles (fission products) and a high amount of energy was liberated in the form of heat. Later Hahn together with Lise Meitner and Otto Frisch found that total fission products were slightly less massive than the original Uranium atom. The missing mass, Meitner calculated, would be converted into energy.
This observation led the Italian scientist Enrico Fermi to achieve controlled fission in his laboratory at the University of Chicago - an achievement that would eventually generate huge amounts of heat and electricity in nuclear reactors. Nuclear bombs prepared with fissionable materials have tremendous destructive power and they completely destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan. The huge amount of heat energy generated by atomic fission is used to produce steam to generate electricity. Nuclear reactors account for nearly 13.5% of the world’s electricity generation today..
The advances in chemical research allowed scientists to form precise descriptions of
molecular bonds. Two American scientists Gilbert Lewis and Linus Pauling did pioneering work in this field. X-ray diffraction studies by Pauling showed that big molecules of protein are built by small amino-acid molecules. Similarly the genetic molecules (nucleic acids) are built by purine and pyrimidine units. The first synthetic macromolecule called polymer was developed as early as 1907 by the Belgian-American chemist Leo Baekeland and it was named Bakelite. Its wide acceptance in myriad ranges from electrical insulators to telephone castings brought a change over from natural to synthetic materials. New polymers soon came to the market. E.I. DuPont introduced the wonder fabric nylon whose long chain contains the recurring amide group CONH. In England another polymer called polyethylene was produced from small molecules of ethylene. Today synthetic substances are indispensable in our daily life.
Glass and ceramics were known to the earlier people. But their manifold domestic and industrial uses have been made possible by modern researches.
The computer is one of the most wonderful inventions of the twentieth century. In today’s world, the computer is indispensable in business, science, technology, communication, weather, and space research. In the early 19th century, the British mathematician Charles Babbage devised a programmable computer. During the Second World War, Germans used Enigma machines to send messages The concept of a digital computer that
can store and process information in binary digits or bits came from the British mathematician Alan Turing. Binary data are ideally suited to electrical system, in which two basic conditions are ‘on’ and ‘off’.
Based on Turing’s concept, the Hungarian-American mathematician John Newman devised a system architecture for a machine that stored a program in its memory and then manipulated data by placing them at different addresses in memory. In 1946 ENIAC (E1ectronic numerical integrator and computer) was announced. But this machine contained 18000 vacuum tubes, millions of soldered connections, and 70000 resistors. It weighed 30 tons and occupied 1500 Sq ft. But modern portable computers soon came to the market when computer chips became available. Today the smallest computer (Pa1m V11) weighs 7 ounces and runs on two AAA batteries and has two million characters of memory.
Unprecedented progress has been made in health care and medicine. Vitamins today play important roles in maintaining health and preventing many diseases. They provide many nutrients which are sometimes not available through diet. A significant advancement in medical science was made by Alexander Fleming who discovered the antibiotic penicillin accidentally. Previously many infections and diseases were not treatable. But with the discovery of antibiotics almost all infectious diseases have become treatable. New treatment methods like chemotherapy, surgery, and
Modern Civilization and its Drawbacks
radiation therapy are giving new hope of curing cancer. Surgery in today’s medicine has made great progress. Laser surgery of cataract and for the removal of unwanted tissues is playing a great role. Bypass surgery today has become very common and is saving numerous lives. New drugs for the treatment of arthritis and hypertension have become very effective. Vaccines to prevent many diseases are being widely used.
The greatest achievement of mankind in the twentieth century was the sending of man to the moon. Space research started in America and Russia in the late 1930s. It was boosted by the wartime efforts to counter the German V-2 rockets. In 1957 the Soviet Union stunned the World by placing the first satellite in orbit around the Earth. Then in 1961 the Soviets put the first man in space. He orbited the planet once in less than 90 minutes. The Soviet success intensified the space race and in 1969 America stunned the world by sending men to the Moon. The feat dazzled civilization and the first astronaut Neil Armstrong collected rock samples from the Moon and brought them down to Earth by Apollo 2. Since then, space research has been progressing rapidly and expanding our knowledge of the universe.
Although modern civilization has created wealth and prosperity for mankind, led to enormous developments of human society, and established greater communication between
different countries, it has also brought many evils. Modern civilization has created more rivalry between countries, diluted the religious concepts of people, and human greed and competition have caused many devastating wars and destroyed many old civilizations. Rich and more developed countries have often grabbed the territories of weaker nations.
The most serious drawback of modern civilization is the pollution of the oceans, seas, rivers, and the atmosphere. Factory wastes are dumped into rivers and seas and this is polluting the water which is harmful to the aquatic animals. Sometimes some huge trash is dumped in the ocean. Huge quantities of oxides of carbon, sulfur and nitrogen are thrown out in the atmosphere by factory chimneys and the automobile exhaust gases are continuously poisoning the atmosphere and causing respiratory diseases. The greenhouse gases such as carbon dioxide cause changes in the weather pattern. This greenhouse effect is reflected in serious floods in many places and droughts elsewhere. Hurricane Sandyone of the most devastating in U.S history -- is the latest in a series of highly unusual weather patterns.
Chlorofluorocarbon compounds pose a threat to the protective ozone layer in the atmosphere which filters out much of the ultraviolet radiation from sunlight.
Another serious drawback of the modern civilization is the rapid depletion of natural resources, With the growth of population, the demand for
natural resources is rising. Scientists and engineers are now exploring the seas and oceans in search of minerals and petroleum. But these undertakings are not without risk or danger apart from some minor incidents in the oil rigs. The catastrophic disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is an example. Petroleum leakage in the oil rig caused fire and took the lives of several people. The uncontrolled flow of oil from the leakage polluted the gulf water and thousands of aquatic animals died due to the heavy pollution. It took months for the clean-up operation.
Another source of health hazards is the disposal of nuclear wastes. Many parts of the world are now using nuclear energy to generate electricity. Although nuclear energy is cheaper, it is not without any risk or danger. If proper care is not taken for the disposal of radioactive waste, it will pollute the soil and water and contaminate the vegetation.
The production of nuclear energy poses another problem. If there is an accident in the nuclear reactor, it becomes catastrophic. The best example is Chernobyl in Russia. When the reactor broke down, a large number of people died due to extreme heat and radioactivity. Hundreds of people suffered incurable diseases. Almost the entire atmosphere of Europe was polluted with radioactivity.
Another recent example is nuclear disaster in Japan where the Fukushima unit suffered a meltdown after an earthquake and tsunami.
In a year I’ll get married
In about three, I’ll probably get my first kid. Just one though. I can’t handle two.
By age 34, I’ll have my first TV show. It’ll be a political/late-night show, much like The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, except with me as the host so…yeah, it’ll be different.
But what will you be doing between then and now? you might ask. Nothing really. Just writing, I guess, I’ll respond.
In case you didn’t know, I’m a quote unquote ‘young reporter.’
I’m interning right now and gaining that experience, pay or no pay, but hopefully one day, with pay, lots and lots of pay.
Money.
Mansions.
Swimming pools the size of heaven itself, Boundless Boundary-less And yes, with plenty of dead fish.
My first show will be cancelled after a year because the critics will love it but the people won’t get it. My fans though will lobby for me and at age 37, I’ll be back on the air and this time, with a bigger base of supporters and consequently, more power.
The show will be a hit of course.
By the time I’ll die I’ll most likely be an icon for future generations to behold and build on. I’ll be turned to ashes at around age 85 or 86, depends on when I’m really tired and bored. And my love will be my love My heart will be mine. All mine.
Sudip Bhattacharya
Subhash kissed him on the cheek and whispered, I won’t be gone long
He rolled over in bed and looked up and saw Subhash standing over him
It was dark out
He could see the moon glowing behind Subhash’s head
Just stay, he said and reached for his hand and held it
But Subhash kissed him again on the cheek then on the hand and finally, started walking toward the window
Just tell Him what you need to tell Him and come right back, was the last thing Subhash heard before he opened the window and began to walk to the moon
He promised he would be safe
He promised he would be safe
He shut the window behind him and walked higher and higher, over the skyline,
Past highways and black tar rooftops.
He walked into the light and didn’t look down, not until he stepped onto a cloud and stood before a woman who was seven feet tall it seemed
I had an eleven o’clock appointment, said Subhash
The woman was dressed in black jeans and her hair was cut very very short like a swim cap
She nodded and opened a black ledger
She asked for his name and he told her
She then thumbed through the pages and nodded again and again
Right this way, she said and stepped aside
Subhash looked ahead of him and noticed a door that suddenly appeared
It was a small wooden door like any he would find in his own building
It was a small wooden door seemingly hovering in the clouds
Subhash watched it open and without hesitation, he walked through
Once he stepped through, he was in his room once more
His bed sheets were crumpled and his TV was left on.
He heard some plates and spoons clattering and looked to his left, where he saw a short man wearing a goose-fleeced jacket standing on a chair and opening random kitchen cupboards
Don’t you have anything other than crackers to eat? the man asked
Subhash walked over to him. Why are we back in my room? Subhash asked instead.
The man continued to stand on the chair and open the cabinet. He continued to peek into each drawer and drag his hand through.
‘Cause my place isn’t exactly hygienic right now, said the man, I’ve been sorta cold these past few weeks and didn’t have time to clean up.
Subhash looked at the man. He watched the man for a few seconds. He watched him chewing on crackers and muttering.
I have some chicken tikka in the fridge, said Subhash, but it’s a couple days old…
Don’t care, said the man who hopped off the chair, and plodded over to the fridge, which he opened and xyl¨!¡!þ› 146
rummaged through.
It’s in the back, said Subhash and watched the man pull out the plastic tray written over in blue marker with the words tikka special across the top.
The man opened the tray and began chewing on the red bits of chicken slathered over in red gravy
Subhash winced. Don’t you want to warm it up…? He asked.
Nah, I’m good, said the man as he chewed and as the gravy slid down his short beard, Let’s get this show on the road, the man added and walked over to the window, where he sat down on the edge of the bed.
Subhash followed him but stood next to the window instead.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the window and looked over at the man.
This is good chicken tikka, said the man, where did you get it?
Subhash looked at the man. It’s this place around the block actually, he said.
Hmmm, I’ll check it out, the man said.
Subhash nodded and with his arms still crossed, he looked through the window at the buildings and at the moon.
He listened to the man chew and burp.
He listened to the traffic miles below.
So go ahead, said the man, I have only so much time man.
Subhash turned back to him and narrowed his eyebrows at him. I really think we should’ve done this somewhere else…, he said.
The man chewed on a chicken bone as he rotated it in his left hand. He burped. Well, he said, it’s here or nowhere. So say what you have to say.
Subhash sighed. He looked at the floorboards and drew in a deep breath. He looked up.
My fiancé is dying, said Subhash to the man, I want you to save him.
The man nodded and chewed. His fingertips were red from the gravy. What kind of cancer is it again? The man asked.
Blood, said Subhash.
And you want me to cure him, I assume, the man said.
Yes, Subhash replied.
The man again nodded and finished chewing. He kept his chin above the tray however as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
The man then closed the tray and placed it on the night stand.
The man flexed his neck side-to-side and looked through the window as he remained sitting on the edge of the bed.
He smacked his lips and clasped his hands on his lap.
I make what I make, the man said as he kept peering through the window, but everything else is about the here and now. You know that.
So what are you saying? Subhash replied, standing straight-up now. That you won’t do anything for him? That you’ll let him die!
The man peered through the window and waited.
Once Subhash’s words had stopped their ascent, the man calmly explained that it was up to the doctors to save his fiancé.
But you made the world, you made all of us, Subhash yelled. You’re choosing to let him die! You’re choosing to let him go!
Again, the man sat there and waited for Subhash to finish.
And with calm, he repeated what he had said earlier.
I don’t control what you do, I can’t interfere at all, he continued to explain, if I do interfere, even once, then the whole system would collapse and people would become dependent.
I don’t care, just do it. Please. We don’t have the money for more operations. Please. I love him. I love him.
Subhash began to feel the tears streaming down his cheeks. Please… he murmured, please save him…
Subhash stood in the silver glow of the moon as the tears dropped from his cheek and onto the floor.
The man kept looking through the window. He cleared his throat. I am sorry, he said, but I only create, I don’t control.
The man then stood up and walked past Subhash, who had continued to cry.
The man told Subhash that he needed to be brave.
Fuck you, Subhash muttered back.
The man sighed and stood back with his head slightly lowered. He simply backed away as Subhash’s voice grew louder and louder.
Fucking asshole, Subhash said and pushed the man.
The man backed away and Subhash pushed him again.
The man backed away and Subhash pushed him and cursed.
When the man opened the door and left, Subhash followed him.
The floor disappeared and he was in the clouds and he was suddenly falling.
Subhash plummeted and closed his eyes. He felt the warm air hitting him on the face and skin. He felt the car horns and police sirens.
He felt his blood start to shift.
Subhash curled himself into a ball, into a comet, so that when he would land in his room, the entire world would explode,
The entire world would be destroyed.
When the time comes I will be with you again
As they all tell me, and I believe them.
I go through life, endure pain, accept fate,
Wait for the moment of my dream
When your love will embrace me once again, Your smile will make my tears vanish.
A dark thunder roars
Makes my dream fade into gloom. What if they all are wrong?
If I never be with you again?
Was that the last time?
Can I not be with you once more?
The moment I am waiting for?
Where will I get the answer?
Sleeping seed
Floating in a drop of red plasma
Tiny red drop
Waiting in a state of suspension
To separate in serial continuum
A sleeping seed to a splitting zygote
One, two, four, eight and counting
Until the Great BIG BANG
Sudden self realization of the Universe
Bursting combustion in Super Novas
With speed of light
Spark of photon
When that lightening of enlightenment strikes
Unknown Quantum Mechanics
Merged with Theory of Relativity
Millions of spirals within a giant one
Appearing and disappearing
Replica of galaxies
Pathways of Milky Way
Expanding Universe opened its spiral eyes
With dream of life
Yet to come.
We are like bells in a temple, And we have to chime all the time consciously, To prevent decay, stagnation and violence.
As the bells chime in their round shell, So do thoughts chime in our mind, in our head, Creating vibrations of life and action.
‘Ting, Ting, Ting’ -- just as the bells ring, So do thoughts, play around our mind, Invoked and processed, as we want.
We are the masters, who jingle our bells, Mastering our thoughts each day slowly, Should be our goal to bring in harmony.
As the great Kautilya said, “As centesimal droppings will fill a pot so also are knowledge, virtue and wealth gradually obtained.”
So, let keep filling our pot, with the harmony of infinite thoughts, like musical notes, ringing in our minds harmoniously.
The endeavor I started, the solo flight I continue, Where will it take me? I ask
Did I ask that before embarking on the flight?
Alone in a large crowd, I am surrounded by many
Did I imagine they would be with me?
Did I expect my venture would take a different path?
Did I not know the path is only for solo flights?
I am in it, it is my identity
When I chose the solo flight.
To bridge the negative space
From unknown to unknown
A spark of light or Fireworks of shooting stars
Celestial astronomical charges
In its unending spiral coil
Unique manifestation of complex composure
A limited entity
The life
Involving same old theory of physics
Transformation of energy to mass in a cycle of chain
Evolving in each step
Destiny towards the vortex of black hole
Yet in the core of that limited life
Possibility of a super nova
With vastness of universe
Yearning to explode
It holds the power to perceive all
Absorb all and Surpass its own limitation
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The trip! The trip! That was the only thing that had been running through my mind all day. Right at breakfast, my mom had informed me that we were going to the Florida Keys. My reaction was so ecstatic that if I typed it, the paper would burn. Ever since last Tuesday, when my friend presented her current event on something that happened there, I was instantly in love. Through math, I could only think of beaches. Through science, it was snorkeling. So this is what complete obsession feels like, I thought to myself as I trudged back home from school.
As soon as I was in my room, it was homework time, unfortunately. First came math, then science and everything not nice. When my homework was done, the main thing on my to-do list was finished. Time just ran by me as pictures of Key West flooded my mind.
I heard my mom’s car enter
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the garage. Leaping out of my chair, I jumped to question my mom some more. As soon as I saw her glare, I wilted and backed away. Clearly this wasn’t the time for questions. About twenty minutes later, my dad’s car arrived. Thankfully, my dad was in a good mood. Yesss! The Q and A was most successful. I learned that we were leaving next week, the trip was three days, our flight would be three hours long, and we would be doing a lot of fun activities!
“Get up!” my mom said very clearly — as if I didn’t know what she meant by shaking me by the shoulders at 5:00 a.m.! Groggily, I reached for my glasses and got up to my feet. My teeth were brushed in a very crude manner. I had the feeling that if they could speak, I would have an enemy. Breakfast was gulped down. My outfit was pretty average, and my
hair unbrushed. We lugged our belongings into the trunk of the taxi. Honk! The taxi driver we had called was impatient. Despite his honking, we still had to wake my brother, Harit, up.
When this was over and done with, we hit the highways. In one hour, we got to JFK Airport. Now, the most dreadful thing you have to go through at the airport is, in my opinion, the whole security routine — taking off your shoes, baggage inspections, and so on. What added to the annoyance was the fact that my brother went haywire and started running around in circles. He reminded me of a bird going cuckoo, cuckoo. The only way we could get him to stop was by grabbing him and restraining him in his stroller. Soon, we boarded the plane.
Thankfully, my brother had fallen right asleep. If he hadn’t, my next move would have been to break open the window right next to me and jump out of it. The ride took about two hours. Harit was still a stone. I continued to look like someone who had had a bad hair day. Ignoring the people who looked at me like I was a zombie, I helped my parents with the luggage.
Our hotel was somewhere in the jumbled mess of cities and beaches. Well, I’m not going to write my heart was beating so hard it would burst out of my chest or something an average person would say. I, however,
“I loved it,” I said to my dad as we walked towards my mom, who was waiting in the car. We had just gone snorkeling and the whole thing had been incredibly exciting. I’m pretty sure that nothing else in my life would ever get the same reaction from me. Let me tell you what had happened.
Right after my mom had dropped us off at the boat, I was nervous. It took some time for us to board the boat. When we were on board, a guy went over the rules of snorkeling and told us that the boat would drop us at a specific location in the ocean.
Finally, the boat arrived at the location. “Hey! Look at that!” someone shouted. I looked and saw a small, gray fish that had jumped at least two feet up in the air before dropping back in! As I looked into the almost see-through water that held the golden key to my excitement, I really wished that we could swim right now. Ever since I was little, I loved swimming in the water. The guy announced that we were at our destination and we would get off. I was trying to be calm, but I was barely able to contain my excitement. In one, two, and three, we were off in the water.
On the side of the boat, red
ropes dangled, swinging from side to side like pendulums. People hung on to the ropes, afraid that the ocean was going to pull them inside with its almost irresistible grasp. My dad was one of these people. He was scared to go further because he didn’t really know how to swim that well, and he had never swum in an ocean before.
I, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying myself. The water was warm and comfortable, and I also saw a few things. Through my snorkel, I saw a long, and not too wide, gray fish with stripes swim right underneath me. The coral reefs around me were brilliant colors, all starring in a show. Little speedy fish darted here and there, and it was just like a busy town with all of the creatures in the sea. With all these amazing things going on, it was really hard to remember that I was submerged forty feet deep in the Atlantic Ocean, hanging on to a noodle.
Still clutching the ropes, my dad didn’t really get to see the fish. I still enjoyed myself. There were medium sized fish that looked like Dory and Nemo, apart from the fact that these fish were gray and yellow. I remembered that when we first came from the boat to this spot, all the fish had crowded around us. It was hard to swim through without kicking them by accident, since they were super-friendly. My flippers kept getting in the way sometimes, and didn’t help. As I looked closely, I noticed that some of the corals were white. From a book
Youth Corner can truly and knowingly state that I’m not a normal person. So my reaction was more than speechless. Questions were popping up in my head like crazy. What beach would we go to? I was crazily happy.
I had just read, if corals were white, that meant that they were either already dead or at the point of dying.
After a half an hour of this, we headed back to the boat. I wouldn’t say that everyone was sad to leave the water, since it wasn’t exactly true, but everyone was buzzing about what they saw and how far from the boat they went.
On the way to the dock, we encountered two miracles. One was a flying fish. In all my life, I have never ever seen a flying fish. The moment was so sudden that one had almost no time to realize what was happening. The fish was about thirty feet away from us, and we saw it burst out of the ocean surface and jump at least ten feet above the water. For a moment — just a moment — everyone was quiet, just engrossed in watching this wonder of nature make its way up in the air, and then dive back in the water. The fish didn’t look really big; it seemed smaller than average, but we saw it from a distance, so it could have been any size.
The second miracle was that we saw a shark. The fin was sticking straight up and it went underneath the boat. Thank god it didn’t tip us over! Everyone sighed with relief. We finally headed back without anything else happening. There were no more weird miracles.
Key West is a fun, but dangerous place. How would you like to go there one day?
Through an eleven year old’s eyes I observed
Through the ears of a child I listened
Through a youthful mind I was enlightened, brought to another level of being
My eyes would beg to come to a close, my body yearned rest, but both were rejected by his majestic voice
He sat on the stage with his hands reaching stretched towards the sky as if he were communicating with the gods.
The words of the music rang through the church touching everyone’s soul “Om Nama Shivaya. Om Nama Shivaya.Om Nama Shivaya”
Light was slowly creeping in through the body of Jesus on the stained glass of the church. It felt as if he were controlling it and that the light only entered after his blessing
As the light entered his singing became faster, and more powerful than before I looked around to see others in a trance with their eyes fixated on him, not wavering for a split second
Was it God’s way of communicating with me?
The melodies and taans filled every ounce of my body with raw emotion
How can this be just a human being that I see?
Sometimes his voice would be as calm as an ocean
Other times it was violent and powerful like an earthquake
The music rose, and rose even more got even louder and faster, and then stopped
The last note echoed through the church as if God were speaking
Everyone rose to their feet and clapped except for me
I had already collapsed on to my mother’s lap and entered a deep slumber, but it didn’t matter because the effect had already happened and his job was done.
Shivan Mukherjee (4th Grade) New Jersey
Sky looks blue, Re-cycle bin is blue. Sky can accept all waste, Blue box accepts reusable waste. Sky obeys the principle of nature, Recycle bins obeys the principle of the 3 Rs. Sky can generate to a new product, Blue box can develop a new product.
I collect all waste, Everybody throws things at me with haste. I collect 6 days a week, My disposal system works one day a week. I help you to clean nature, I help you to create a better future. I am immune to all the seasons, I witness the nature’s power in all seasons.
Reuse, Reduce, Recycle, Three words are common in product cycle. Recycling has great contribution, Its list of benefits has no confusion. Recycle helps to maintain green, Recycle helps to balance nature’s routine.
Compliments to Anandalipi
A South Asian Center for Language and Heritage Beginning its 25th Year
Weekly Classes of Bengali Language & Heritage
Sundays: 11 AM to 12:30 PM at ANANDA MANDIR
Special classes and workshops held periodically on recitation lessons, songs, dance movements and different art forms of Bengali heritage
2013-2014 Session for Bangla Class began on September 8, 2013 Pre-school Children to Adult
Contact: Dhriti Bagchi (732) 577-9575(R), (732) 598-2287(C) dhritibagchi@yahoo.com: www.mrittika.org
On the Occasion of the 2013
Sharadiya Durga Puja ,
We Wish You A Very Joyous and Festive Family Time!
The Chakravarty Family Guru, Anita, Arijit, Poonam, Amrik, Meera, Shubha and Chris
We wish all members and friends of
Best wishes Best wishes to to all members and friends all members and friends of of
Samir Bannerji Samir Bannerji
Rajat and Rachna Bannerji Rajat and Rachna Bannerji
Shrimati Reeta Baidyaroy, Artistic Director
The Academy would like to thank friends & members of the Ananda Mandir Community for their blessings and continued support for over twenty five years.
RITAM ACADEMY
is a performing arts school specializing in Indian classical dance, Bharatanatyam
Classes are held in Princeton, Marlboro, and Ananda Mandir
For class schedules, workshops & events, please call 609-252-0407 or 609-468-0703 or visit www.ritamdance.com
Nominations are invited for
Cash awards of $500 each will be given to recognize two writers of excellence (one in Bengali, one in English) who have authored essays, poems, short stories or plays in magazines published in North America within the last five years.
Gayatri Memorial Awards have been made possible through a contribution made by Jerry GaMarsh to honor his late wife.
Please visit our website for further details on nomination eligibility and submission requirements including nomination form.
269 Cedar Grove Lane, Somerset, NJ 08873
For Further Information:
Please Visit www.anandamandir.org/gayatriaward.html. or
Contact: Debajyoti Chatterji ( debsmee572@gmail.com)
