Categories
Musings

Hope comes in strange shapes

Keith Lyons looks back at the challenges of 2020, and explores the expectation that lessons learnt will translate into action in 2021.

‘Hope comes in strange shapes, when you don’t expect it’

– Ray by The Muttonbirds

There are two things we all need going into the new year 2021, one is the temporary painful prick of a needle where your arm meets your shoulder, the other is an optimistic state of mind expecting and wanting things to change for the better.

Growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, the year 2020 seemed far away. 

Yet it held so much promise.

That future date, boosted by science and technology, would usher in a high-tech world of chatty robot servants, human jetpack suits and anti-gravity flying cars. By 2020, I had somehow come to believe the notion that telepathy would be the main form of communication, and that books and newspapers would be a thing of the past. I might even get bored by the slowness of personal jetpacks, so would (naturally) prefer teleportation. 

By the year 2020, nobody would have to work, everyone would have so much leisure time, and life expectancy would be over 100, I surmised from young adult sci-fi books from the library and Popular Science magazines. 

So how did 2020 work out for me? 

Probably pretty much the same way it worked out for you. 

The year 2020 proved to be a big year, or as President Trump said ‘bigly’ — or was it is really ‘big league’.

Either ways, the year brought together the world’s 7.6 billion human inhabitants and also kept us apart. Not since the Second World War has the entire globe’s population been so affected by a global event: a pandemic.

The actual coronavirus, also variously known as ‘the China Virus’, ‘the ‘Rona’, ‘the boomer remover’ so tiny and small it can’t be seen with the naked eye. It is way smaller than a single red or white blood cell. But like a mosquito in a room with an elephant, coronavirus has been the main irritant as it has spread beyond Wuhan to our communities, aged-care facilities, hospitals, and loved ones. Only a few remote spots on Earth have so far evaded COVID. 

The virus, which is new on the scene having probably come from bats in a Yunnan cave via the Chinese live animal trade network, is not just extremely infectious and contagious in its transmission from human-to-human, but its fatality rate is much, much higher than influenza, possibly as high as 3%.

With only 13 months of study into the impact and quirks of this new virus, it is still too early to know the extent of the havoc coronavirus causes, but already we are seeing not just many deaths (coming up to 2 million worldwide), but also far-reaching consequences for those that get it and those working to treat the afflicted. Already there’s talk of ‘Long COVID’, with the effects of the virus lingering for months beyond the initial illness. While in late 2020 several fast-tracked vaccines were released for general use, there is still no cure with no drugs proven to treat or prevent coronavirus. 

You don’t need me to tell you this, but for most people, the universal experience of the pandemic has meant 2020 has been dubbed ‘a roller coaster’  by many, others preferring the oft-used ‘unprecedented’, while some call it like it is — ‘dumpster fire’. Amid the fear and the losses, we have all asked ourselves some serious questions about our life and the meaning of life itself.

“Most of all, perhaps, it is the year of not knowing,” wrote J.M. Berger in The Atlantic. These were the questions he brought up. Is it safe to send my kids to school? Can I go to the store? Do I still have to wipe down the mail?  The quandary for many in 2020 included ‘is it safe to go to work’ (do I still have a job?), ‘is it safe to exercise’, and ‘can I trust the government/public health officials’? 

I’ve got to confess, even though at the start of 2020 I was travelling in India, Thailand, Myanmar and Indonesia, by mid-February, I arrived in my homeland of New Zealand. The following month we were put under lockdown which lasted five to seven weeks, effectively ‘flattening the curve’ and eliminating the virus from community transmission. I am one of the few people to watch the movie Tenet in a movie theatre surrounded by other audience members. Over 2020, and into the first week of 2021 with the attempted coup by Trump, watching the news has been surreal and disturbing. 

As we tend to do, the year-end is a time for reflection on the past 12 months, and a looking forward to the new year. But it is safe to say that few people have had a stellar 2020, with most wanting to get it over with and welcome in 2021. There’s been an interesting reaction I have noticed among some, who somehow thought that if we just make it to 31 December 2020, everything will be alright. As if the bad things from 2020 will not carry over. Yet it did.

We go into the new year with rising infection rates from the pandemic, many countries clocking up record days for infections and deaths. Let’s not forget the backdrop of economic crisis and of course, climate change. And on top of that the technical problems for the first-time users of Zoom. 

There are two important ideas that many are carrying into the New Year. The first is a technical solution to our problem, a vaccine which will not only possibly prevent individuals from getting the infection, but also lead to more immunity in our communities.

Actually, there’s more than one vaccine, with around 50 vaccines currently in trails, and some have already rolled out since December. The aim is for 70% of populations to be vaccinated to stop the pandemic. Already some 24 million shots have been given across 41 countries, according to the Bloomberg tracker. That’s quite impressive in a short time. Think of all the bodies now building up their natural immunity to be able to prevent contracting the illness and also passing it on to others. However, in the last year nearly four times as many people — 90 million — have caught COVID. 

As well as the prick in the arm of the vaccine, there’s another associated concept many expectantly have carried from 2020 into 2021, and that’s hope. While for some it is the belief that surely this year can’t be any worse than last year, for many there is some light at the end of the tunnel, and the prospects of 2021 being a re-set year when we move towards a world that is more equitable, sustainable and just. After a year of postponement, suffering, hardship and despair, there’s some momentum going forward, a cautious optimism, an empowered sense of resilience, and a belief that together we’re not going to be defeated by a deadly virus. 

Looking back on the last year, which saw some questions raised on whether lockdowns infringed on freedoms, and was the wearing of masks a political statement, there seems to be a very ugly side of humanity and human nature which has been exposed.

Before, conspiracy theories tended to be the domain of weirdo uncles and ‘know-it-alls’, but now this minority is more vocal and manipulative in spreading outlandish falsehoods using social media, in particular Facebook and YouTube, linking Hollywood elites, child sex trafficking, 5G causing coronavirus, deep state, compulsory vaccinations and microchips. As we have learnt in the last twelve months, those gullible enough to believe these wacky theories can’t be swayed by rational arguments, evidence, or myth-busting. Often these made-up stories, fake new hoaxes and ‘alternative facts’ can be used to fuel violence, terror or racism. 

But as well as some unsavoury aspects of human behaviour clearly evident in 2020, we have also seen the other side; the respecting of public-health guidelines, the revelation that some low-paid jobs are actually the most essential, a sense of community unity and shared responsibility. My wish is that through the ‘life and death’ wake-up call we’ve had in 2020 with coronavirus, that we reflect on what we have learnt and make small steps in making the changes real in our lives. After all, the events of 2020 have impacted not just on how we live, work and play, but on our health, wealth and global security. 

There are other stories that have come out of 2020, a new resolve, an awareness of things previously taken for granted, and the discernment that the most important things in life can’t be bought online. These more personal learnings are shared among many, with the realisation that what you thought you once wanted isn’t necessarily what you need.

As well as sorting out what’s important, a number of my friends have grown to value the importance of self-care, or at least the need to stop doom-scrolling to avoid getting easily triggered and upset.

Lockdown and time alone have heightened the importance of relationships, the choice to slow down, and what benefit there is in appreciating the small things. Connection with the natural world has been a green cure for many too, as demonstrated in numerous studies including one titled: less screen time and more green time. And if there is an idea that has come out of the harrowing times of 2020, it might be the desire for a kinder world, starting from loving oneself, and extending out to all. 

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer, author and creative writing mentor who has been based in Asia for most of the 21st century writing about people and places. Find him at Wandering in the World (http://wanderingintheworld.com).

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Categories
Review

A Story from Manipur

Book review by Rakhi Dalal

Title: Waiting for the Dust to Settle

Author: Veio Pou

Publisher: Speaking Tiger, 2020

In his debut novel, Veio Pou weaves fiction to chronicle the forgotten history of Naga people, a past whose dust, even after three long decades, is yet to settle. Waiting for the Dust to Settle is set against the backdrop of Indo-Naga conflict in Northeastern India.

The story of this novel follows the life of a ten-year-old Rokovei from Senapati district in Manipur from late 1980s onward. He lives a peaceful life with his parents. Fascinated by the convoy of army trucks passing daily in front of his home, he secretly wishes to become an army officer. Once, while visiting his native village of Phyamaichi, he witnesses atrocities committed by the soldiers on the villagers. His disenchantment with the army comes to the fore when he becomes aware of his people’s sufferings as a consequence of confrontation between Naga undergrounds and the Indian Army. At the center of this novel is the Operation Bluebird, carried out in the state in 1987.

In September 1958, the Government of India enacted Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) in the North-Eastern states to quell Naga resistance. In July 1987, the National Socialist Council of Nagaland (NSCN) attacked an Assam Rifles post at Oinam village, in Manipur’s Senapati district. The Naga undergrounds of NSCN looted large arms and ammunition from the post. The Assam Rifles launched a counter-insurgency operation code-named “Operation Bluebird” to recover the looted arms and ammunition. This intense search operation, which was carried for three months in nearly thirty villages, was a torturous period for the residents of those villages. The Rifles committed large-scale human rights violation, including forcing two pregnant women to give birth to their babies in full view of the soldiers.

By spinning the narrative around the operation, the author attempts to give voice to the otherwise erased account of a people’s history from the consciousness of a country. The final erasure came when in 2019 the Manipur High Court disposed case against the Assam Rifles, filed by Naga Peoples Movement for Human Rights (NPMHR), after twenty eight years citing dislocation of entire record of the case. Nandita Haksar, who was the lawyer who filed the case on behalf of NPMHR, wrote in an essay that the entire record consisted of twelve volumes of evidence and ran into thousands of pages.

Through account of Rokovei and his family’s life after Operation Bluebird, Veio Pou brings to notice the physical as well as mental sufferings endured by the victims of army brutality.  Disillusionment of natives with respect to Naga undergrounds and their cause, the splitting of NSCN and rivalry between Naga factions, increased awareness among natives for better education, the issue of racism that people from North East face in Mainland India, are the themes dealt prominently within this novel.

Rokovei, while studying in Imphal, witnesses the hostility between Kuki and Naga factions after their conflict in the 1990s. When he moves to University of Delhi few years later, he comes in contact with Lalboi – a Kuki, but does make friends with him because he is the only other boy from the state in his class. After coming to Delhi, he realises the difference of living in a place where no ASFPA is enacted, an experience which should have come as a breather but is marred by racism which he confronts and leaves him astounded. The prejudice that he faces makes him wonder about his identity. Rokovei wishes to find answers. His conversations with his cousin Joyson, with whom he lives in Delhi, gives him a clearer perspective on the history, issues and realities of his people and state. 

Finally, keeping in mind better prospects for the future, he settles down in Delhi. It is the year 2008, five years after the leaders of NSCN visited Delhi to meet PM Vajpayee and yet a solution to the political question his people face is nowhere near. Rokovei ponders over the relevance of Naga resistance which had once started with the dream of a sovereign state but was subsequently made weaker by the split in the party. He reflects upon the corollaries of a struggle which had left the natives disappointed because at stake was a peaceful existence that has long been denied them. For him the dust hasn’t settled yet and his hopes are tinged with despair. 

The history of a place is essentially the history of its people. To recapitulate it, especially when it is complex and painful to remember, must be an arduous task for the people who have witnessed harrowing times and have lived every subsequent day of their lives watching the repercussions unfold. To pen a fictional account of such history therefore requires conviction and also courage to endure the trauma all over again.

This book is not only an attempt at chronicling the events which led to the political question that kept haunting the lives of the Naga people but is also an effort to bring their predicament to the attention of people who have little idea about their sufferings and about the gravity of denial of justice to them.

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Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Private Lessons

Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us through a hilarious episode of elopement with a surprising conclusion

It took me quite a long time to conclude whether it was a noble act or a mischief. Those historical legends who rode away on horseback with brides and wives of their choice did not inspire me as much as my tutor with his daring act of elopement. Trains and motorbikes replaced horses and my English tutor, an aspiring novelist with a magnum opus in progress, managed to gallop ahead with élan in the hostile terrain.

He returned and churned a gripping tale – a real tour de farce – of his nocturnal conquest featuring burly cops who swooped down heavily at his door and the nail-biting chase that followed. The rush of adrenalin ejaculated a tall promise to repeat his heroic feat and make him feel proud of me as a worthy disciple who followed in his footsteps. With such an ambitious dream I entered the age of reckless youth, but ended up wrecked after a spate of rejections, with no girl ready to partner me and pillion ride on this challenging expedition.      

The English tutor suddenly disappeared when I was supposed to appear for my board exams. I was not aware he was going on a mission or else I would have rallied behind him with full moral support and offered prayers for his victory. While I was deprived of last-minute suggestions and struggled to revise my lessons, my English tutor was chalking out his strategy for the operation. He was a brave young man with dollops of chutzpah to elope in those days, invite the wrath of his family and community for displaying sapiosexual tendencies. He resurfaced with an invite almost a fortnight later, back with a taut narrative of how he and his childhood lover bribed a young priest to formalise their marital bond in a small temple after dusk and boarded the midnight train for the chills and thrills of a honeymoon in the hills.

After successful consummation, the excited couple took the earliest train to return home and seek the blessings of those who had opposed something sacred like marriage. A reception was organised at a marriage hall. I was his only student who was invited to attend the function where vegetarian food and liquor were served.

He introduced me to his erudite wife who looked pretty tired of meeting strangers with a faux smile. She was teaching English in a private school while he was looking after his family business to disguise his joblessness. The courage to marry without a job made him a role model in my eyes. His audacity to run away from the city with the daughter of a retired cop was a dramatic coup of sorts that would kindle interest for its potential as a frothy Bollywood caper. Visualise night sky and temple, gunshots in the air, and the married couple in sherwani and lehenga racing ahead on a wobbly motorbike and a police van chasing them on a highway. Get the drift. 

My English tutor revealed that he was working on a literary novel — slightly autobiographical as it was inspired by the childhood events. He could wait for another couple of years to get suitably employed and within this period he had to climax his literary worth as his wife had married him because of his literary prowess. A child arrived the next year, and his literary dream was aborted. He began teaching part-time, perhaps feeling insecure of his ability to produce something magical in words, feeling a surge of chauvinistic umbrage as his spouse worked hard to run the home like a householder while he sat brooding at his teakwood desk, looking at the window and the world outside, waiting for inspiration to strike.  

Even though our meetings became scarce after my school days, he remained my first idol. He was an exemplary teacher who taught practical lessons and encouraged me to outperform him — though outperform had several connotations and I was not quite sure of the context and what he implied.   

He legitimised running away to marry and became a hero of sorts even though there were other members in the family who married outside the community. Here was my teacher inspiring me with his love story, to elope if required and achieve success in the mission. I had grave doubts about my ability to convince a girl to do the same but he became a love guru I consulted later in my career. His wife discouraged his interactions with the former students and so we grew apart. His novel did not appear in print — not even as a self-published masterpiece. It is more than twenty years now. His social media profile updates mention Headmaster of a primary school.

When I sent him my writing samples online, he wished me good luck in my writing journey. The despatched links have not been seen even after three months — perhaps he has lost interest in reading and writing. The closed chapter of life he does not wish to revisit. I resisted the urge to ask him about the fate of his literary novel — and let it remain unclear, inconclusive and open-ended like his favourite Night Train At Deoli.    

*sherwani: A long formal coat worn often by grooms in India

*lehenga: A long skirt worn often at weddings by the bride in India

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  


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Categories
Humour Poetry

Sticky Myths

Rhys Hughes takes us through Greek mythology with his own brand of humour blending the past and the present

  
         1
 When Bellerophon
      saw a unicorn
 upon his lawn
 he was somewhat
      disappointed.
 “I have no wish
 to make a fuss,”
 is what he said, “but this
 is the day appointed
     for me to receive
       a visit from
 Pegasus instead.”
  
         2
 Hydras are bad
 in Hyderabad
      or so
 Hercules has heard.
    Needless to say
 he therefore
       plans
       to go there
              gladly
 on Pegasus Airlines
       but not before
 he goes to Goa
 because he badly
     needs a holiday.
 What a legendary chap!
  
        3
 In order to earn
 money as well as learn
 something, while
 writing her thesis on Theseus,
 Ariadne works  
     as a guide
     to sightseers
     and gives them
 a Minotaur of the famous
      labyrinth.
  
         4
 Sovereign of dolphins,
 king of the waves,
 the god of the sea
       makes bubbles
 without any trouble
 when he plays the flute
       as he bathes.
 And jazz in the oceanic
 jacuzzi is cosy
      and groovy
      but the melody
 is unfamiliar to you.
 Yet I can name
     Neptune in one.
  
        5
 There’s a Zeus
 loose about this house,
 his thunderbolts
 will cook your goose,
 assuming that
     you are unlucky
 enough to have one.
 But even if you don’t,
 when you hear
    him stir,
    it’s better to duck!
  
         6
 Simple arithmetic
 ought to be taught
     in the schools
 that heroes go to,
 so they will know,
 without any doubt,
 that one minus one
      equals nought.
 The stealing of
 the Golden Fleece
    celebrated with
     a premature feast
 in the near vicinity
 of the daring theft
 adds up only to trouble.
      Sail away first
 before slaking your thirst,
 sail far from the
      hostile nation.
 But enraptured by wine
 and more potent brews
 Jason plus crew
      (that fiery few)
 are captured and thrown
      into jail. 
 While serving time,
 forget the blue sea,
 remember instead
 all that you learned
 about subtraction
 and count down the years,
       one minus one
 equals nought, a free
       Argonaut…
 and that is the sum
      of this tale.
  
          7
 Atlas, holding up the sky,
 looks and sees
 aeroplanes flying by
 around his head
 and through his legs,
 the passengers
 respectful to his
 massive thighs
 but oblivious
 of his giant sighs.
  
          8
 Pan in the kitchen
 clattering pots
 and chopping boards.
 What’s the god
 of nature doing
 indoors? He’s frying
 so hard to be
 a domesticated chap,
 that’s what!
 A non-stick goatish
 do gooder with
 a skillet skill set.
  
         9
 Prometheus on
     the promenade
 walking in
     the shade of trees
 no longer gives
     away anything
 to humanity
    for free, not even
 lemonade: those
     days are over.
 Now he hopes
     to make money
 and only offers
    his fire for hire.
  
          10
 Socrates was such a tease
 in the market square.
    He doubted this
 and questioned that
     until some people
 had had enough.
 They felt he mocked
     their authority
     and in a cup
 of hemlock they turned
 a key, the skeleton
      key of his mortality.
  
         11
 While the rock
 goes up his socks
 fall down. Poor
    Sisyphus!
 When the rock
 rolls down his socks
 are quite forgot.
 Mighty but mild
    Sisyphus!
 As the moon goes up
 his efforts are
 with moonlight
 flooded thus. Don’t
 make a fuss, old
     Sisyphus!
  
        12
 A cyclops is like
 a bicycle headlamp
 coming the other
 way. We meet them
 on country roads
 at night when we
 are cycling far away.
 “How do you do?”
 we always ask
 as we zoom past
 very fast, but they
 never deign to reply.
 They just hiss
 and wink darkness
 back to life and
 softened by gloom
 or the glow of
 the moon they
 become rather more
 beautiful. Now
 there’s a cyclops for
     sore eyes!
  
          13
 Icarus upstairs
 on the omnibus.
      His wings
      were things
 that fell apart.
 Some people fly
 for business,
 others for sport:
 But since his
 accident Icarus finds
 that he prefers
      public transport.
  

  
  

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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Categories
Poetry

The Plough is Beaten

By Sabreen Ahmed

The Plough is beaten

They till the barren Earth.

They sow the seeds of green.

They reap the fruit of gold.

Yet all they hold is

 a meagre gain—

Undaunted they

move on even if

the plough is beaten or

the soil is smitten

with their blood and sweat.

Others nonchalantly devour

their harvest.

We stand hands tied

with not enough solidarity

with not enough gratitude

with not enough empathy

for the cause they fight

in cold, dust and hunger

with solid acumen of faith

for rightful justice.

Across Bhupen Hazarika Setu at Dhola

The long bridge on

the luminous waters

of the ancient river

erected between

the hills of

 heart and home

is the distance of a hidden

thousand leagues both seen

and unseen in the

car’s speedometer

with race, brakes and starts

like the speed of

many marathons across

the lovers heartbeats.

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‌ Sabreen Ahmed has received her PhD from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi in Feb 2013. She writes for various webzines and newspapers and has published an anthology of poems entitled Soliloquies(2016). Currently she teaches in the Dept of English, Nowgong College, Nagaon, Assam as an Assistant Professor.

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Categories
Ghumi Stories

The New Year’s Gift

By Nabanita Sengupta

Ghumi was in an uproar! The small township was suddenly awake with whisperings in every nook and corner and accompanying giggle or exclamations. The rumour mills had started running overtime, churning out spicy tidbits at small intervals. In the freezing winters of this green plateau, people relished those piping hot juicy nuggets of gossip with their steaming cups of evening tea or under the weekend sun. The quiet and sleepy region had suddenly turned chirpy and each gatherings of its inhabitants were spiced up with perky speculations and tangy bits of news. It was not everyday that some scandal of this magnitude shook Ghumi.

For the routine bound life of the Ghumians, unshaken by any happenings more interesting than the Sunday bazaar or a community movie night, elopement was a scandal that had the capacity to take the town by storm. And that’s what it did. It took the area by storm — a storm that literally brewed in teacups and coffee mugs.

Even the winds of the place whispered — Mrs Aggarwal had eloped with Mr. Ghosh!

The club corners, pool sides, badminton court, card tables were humming loud. Even dinner tables with couples who otherwise had got used to the everyday silence struck up conversation. Well, that was a positive side of rumour. It often rejuvenated the dead river of communication between people who had nothing new to say to each other.

Mr Agarwal was a senior manager in the company. Quite innocuous in his commonness, he had an amazing capability to blend in any kind of gathering. So plain he was that no one ever noticed his presence or felt his absence. His usefulness was felt at gatherings whenever there was a member less than the required number. So, he could easily pass on as the fourth hand at card game or as a partner for a round of badminton or to fill the gap at the pool table. But no one had ever associated anything drastic with this non-confrontational, calm and quiet person. He was indispensable to Ghumi in his own ways. No one could challenge his efficiency at his workplace, and none could barbecue chicken as succulently as him. So naturally none of their club parties could be complete without him. There was not another hassle-free soul like him in the whole of Ghumi. His wife, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. The young, chirpy, stylish woman of fifty could easily be the centre of any gathering. At the same time her quick tongue could easily lash out at any moment, making her quite a bundle of opposites.

That fateful day, Mr. Agarwal had gone to his neighbour’s house in the evening, looking for Vineeta, his wife. They had had a spat in the morning before he left for office, a continuation of a difference of opinion that had cropped up a few days back. Now, on his return, he had to enter the house using his set of duplicate keys as no one answered the doorbell. He had thought initially that Vineeta must have gone to some friend’s place but when even the mobile phone responded switched off, he was a bit worried. In Ghumi, words travelled faster than wind and by late evening all of the township, knew the tale of the missing wife. This was the second time that such an event had occurred. Though the first time the gossip mongers had been proved woefully wrong, it did not dampen their spirit. This time once again they kept adding fuel to fire.

Only Raya and her family did not join the bandwagon. They maintained an uneasy silence, distancing themselves from the whole brouhaha. Being on the receiver’s end once, they could feel for the person concerned. Such gossips were always associated with public disgrace. But that’s a story for some other time.

There was a crisis brewing at Ghumi club house. Every year Mr Agarwal would oversee the arrangement for the New Year party. No one was as perfect as him when it came to estimation for the feast. Hence, he was the one who decided upon the quantities of mutton or rice or other ingredients required for the New Year’s party. But this year, with the racy gossip doing the rounds, none knew how to ask him about it. There was of course still a couple of days left before the New Year. The shopping for the party was generally done on the morning of that day itself. Still the panic button had been pressed and no one knew how the crisis would unfold. Added to rumours about the elopement, were the speculations of a spoilt feast. Both these stories kept the Ghumians quite busy.

*

The moment she stepped out of her house, Vineeta felt lighter. An oppressive thought was weighing on her mind since the day she had seen Phuli. She had seen the girl being beaten black and blue by her mother for not cleaning the utensils properly. There were a few jhuggis* huddled together in one corner of the estate where the Agarwals and other families of the management executives lived. The jhuggi dwellers catered domestic help required by the residents of the estate. Vineeta had to cross the jhuggies quite often on her way to meet friends or to go to the temple or club. Whenever she walked along that area alone, she stopped to talk to the little boys and girls who played bare feet and were raggedly clad. She loved the innocent bantering with them, at times even gave them some toffees or biscuits that she would be carrying from home. Over the years, she had grown to know each of them by name and any addition to the brood did not pass unnoticed.

She had also seen children, especially girls being ill-treated by the mothers. Though she had tried to intervene at times, it didn’t yield much result. Slowly she learnt to accept it as a part of their lifestyle. Just as she had accepted the club, the kitty parties, as a part of hers. At times, remembrances of scenes from the past did upset her. But she had learnt to cope with it. Overall, she was a happy woman. Her nature did not allow her the leisure to crib over her past. She knew she was quite admired, and she did enjoy the harmless attention that was bestowed upon her. Yet somewhere lurked a thorn of dissatisfaction, a yearning for a space that was her own, a self-created identity. Despite that nagging she had moulded herself to this life of sedentary existence, soaking herself in the natural beauty of Ghumi.

And she would have continued to live so had she not seen Phuli that day, shivering and still being beaten by her mother. That sight snapped something within Vineeta, pulled her out of a dormant existence she was slipping into. She rescued the girl from her mother’s mad wrath and took her home. Once stopped, the mother also realised the extreme to which she had gone. Vineeta knew these girls had to bear the brunt of their mothers’ frustrations. Women in these shanties lived a life much harder than she could ever envisage. Defeated by life, their menfolk took out their disappointments by keeping their women terrified and these women in turn let out their steam on the children, particularly girls. The boys here were still slightly better off by virtue of their gender. Bringing Phuli home had led to the most bitter spat of words.

It was only at certain times that the otherwise calm and benevolent Mr. Agarwal erupted in anger and one of those times was when he felt that his authority was being challenged at home. The master of the house had always let Vineeta do things her own way, till it came in his. Phuli stood for all that he hated or perhaps feared. The deprivation, the squalor, and above all, the disruption of a system that he had closed himself in. it was the first time too that Vineeta felt the need to stand her own ground. Phuli was fed and soothed and sent home as soon as Vineeta felt the storm brewing. And she prepared herself for the impending outburst. It was still a mystery to her how a publicly affable person like Agarwal could be so venomous during his occasional outbursts at home! Anyway, being experienced in the ways of her husband, she was already prepared with her answers and this time she too did not mince words. She had decided on her course of action and needed a few days to organise everything. That new year she wanted to begin with a new chapter, the old had to give way to new.

Vineeta kept thinking all these as she sat in the car with Sushrut Ghosh taking the wheels. Monty, the neighbour’s son, had seen her carry the bag and get into the car. She immediately knew that Ghumi will have a story for their evening tea. She smiled to herself, with a fondness of the matured for the inane. She loved the place but was aware of its faults too. She was also confident of the inherent goodness of the inhabitants. It had been a difficult task convincing Mr. Ghosh to her plan. She had to use all her arguments and persuasive skills to embark on this journey. She had not said anything to her husband; serve the old man right she thought to herself. And as the car moved ahead, she felt strangely liberated.

Their first step was going to be the most difficult one. They drove to the block development office to seek the required permission. The officer was a middle-aged person and quite positive in his approach. He was more than willing to cooperate with Vineeta and Sushrut. He also gave them relevant papers and explained the process, which though a bit tedious, as all government affairs were, was not impossible. Once out of the office, the magnitude of the project they were about to undertake stuck them. And both remained in silence for a long while, sitting quietly inside the car, each one deep in contemplation of the future, before they had the courage to utter a single word. Neither of them wanted to return home immediately for reasons of their own. Vineeta wanted to give herself some space before confronting her husband and Sushrut did not want to return to the loneliness of his apartment.

It was only then that Vineeta suggested that they drive down to her parents’ place, some 3-4 hours’ drive from there. Sushrut could spend the evening and drive back by night. His work as a security officer in the explosives’ factory at Ghumi had familiarised him with the area and driving back at night would not be a problem at all. The next day being a weekend, he would laze in the house. This would help them maintain the secrecy they wanted to till the New Year just in two days’ time.

Meanwhile in Ghumi the rumour mills worked even on the following day. Mr. Agarwal was aware of his wife being at her parents’ place and whatever emotions that might have evoked in him, he would not get a chance to talk about it anytime soon, not at least till she returned. So, he decided that he must go on with life and strolled into the club house, to look into the New Year feast preparation that had been his passion for a long time. He loved the meticulousness that was required in planning a feast. It allowed him to work in peace, alone. Not that he did not like gatherings, but he was happiest being with himself. So, completely oblivious to the gossips around him, he went to the club that morning and busied himself in the preparations for the feast to be held the next day. People were looking at him with sympathy which he did not realise as he did not even know that Vineeta’s going away from the Ghumi had become the talk of the town; that Monty had already reported yesterday’s sight to everyone at Ghumi, which, added to his own enquiries about her whereabouts had formed quite an interesting story! In fact he was blissfully unaware of the entire thing, comforted in the knowledge that Vineeta had left for her parents’ place after that day’s quarrel, something he considered typically feminine and did not consider to be worth his notice..

On the New Year day as people started gathering in the club for the feast, there was suddenly a hush. The missing lady had arrived, right from her hideout, and she was accompanied by the Block Development officer or BDO sahab as he was popularly known as. He asked everyone to pay attention for a while. Vineeta took the centrestage.

Dear friends,

I apologise for my absence from Ghumi for a couple of days. It was high time that something was done for the children of the jhuggis, those kids whose parents work to make our lives comfortable. Using my previous experience as one of the co-founders of an NGO before we had to move to Ghumi, I have drawn a plan for the education of these children. I propose the formation of a similar organisation here, run by the ladies who would volunteer. 

Mr. Ghosh has been of immense help in this regard, as he was the one from whom I sought help first. Being in the security department he had an intimate knowledge of this place and I had often seen him play with the shanty kids in the evenings. BDO sahab has given his consent and we have also completed the initial level of formalities required for setting up such a voluntary organisation.

This is my new year gift to Ghumi. Now let us all enjoy the feast and discuss this idea further over food.

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Nabanita Sengupta is an Assistant Professor of English by profession and creative writer by passion. Translation remains one of her chief areas of work and interest. Her works can be read in various journals, anthologies and e-zines.

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Categories
Review

Unraveling Odisha

Book Review by Bijaya Kumar Mohanty

Title: No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

In No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha, Bhaskar Parichha brings together some of his earlier published essays, primarily written for The Political and Business Daily and other newspapers. The well-known journalist and author begins with a preface in which he quotes Oscar Wilde: “Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.” I would rather begin by inserting a slight modification to Wilde’s quotation, ‘Journalism is certainly readable and literature is not widely read’. I have inserted this modification, keeping Philip L. Graham’s quote in mind. He states: “Journalism is the first rough draft of history”.

Parichcha’s book ably presents the author’s long bilingual career in the field of journalism. He primarily writes in Odia and English. The wide variety of essays in the book is intended to create a yearning to know more on the subject. This book would attract all those who are interested in a brief understanding of modern Odisha in general and post-millennial political narratives in particular. It fills a void in the field of political economy of contemporary Odisha.

The book is divided into four parts: ‘Portraits’, ‘Politics and Beyond’, ‘Conflict Zone’ and ‘Odds and Ends’. And concludes with a postscript on “what to expect from Naveen Patnaik’s fifth term as Odisha Chief Minister”.

‘Portraits’ consists of six essays. It starts with Madhusudan das aka Madhubabu, the architect of modern Odisha as ‘the global Indian’.  In Odisha, when children are first introduced to the world of education, they get to learn a widely popular Odia rhyme:

Patha Padhibi, Okila Hebi,

Kalia Ghoda re Chadhibi,

Madhu Babu sange Ladhibi…

A rough translation of the popular memory is: ‘I will study with all the commitment, will achieve all the success and will fight for the nation like Madhubabu’. Madhubabu was one of the earlier institutional builders in the context of colonial inter-region specific cultural and economic conflicts. As rightly concluded by the author, Madhubabu “had a practical sense of realism and fought fearlessly against the ‘mental’ darkness of early twentieth century Odisha”. 

The other five essays are on the maverick Biju Patnaik; the legendary Harish Chandra Bakshipatra; the arrival of astute Naveen Patniak along with two cultural icons of post-colonial Odisha, Pandit Raghunath Panigrahi and the noted film scholar/maker Nirad Mohapatra and his world of Maya Miriga.

This section concluded with Nirad Mohaptra’s Maya Miriga (The Mirage). This was one of the few new wave regional films ever produced in India, as observed by C.S. Venkiteswaran, the noted Kerala based film critic, academic, documentary film-maker, who contended: “There are two kinds of film-makers — those who create an oeuvre of their own and leave a personal imprint on their field, and those who not only want to explore the medium and create a body of work, but also want to communicate and connect with society of their time”. Nirad Mohapatra belonged to the latter kind, by quoting Mohapatra’s words, the author argues that “the making of Maya Miriga was an exciting experience of improvisation within the broad framework of a written story”.

The beauty of Maya Miriga lay in shooting almost the entire film in a single house, which was renovated beforehand by the filmmaker to portray the characters as realistically as possible. To Parichha, Nirad Mohapatra’s kind of cinema truly “sought after truth, didn’t obey convention, and certainly didn’t become subservient to common notions of what was good and palatable”.

The second part, is called ‘Politics and Beyond’. This part accommodates sixteen essays written on issues related to the rise of BJD ( Biju Janata Dal). The strength of these essays revolves around the BJD’s immediate rivalry with parties in context of everyday governance and its electoral prospects in the state.

The third part of the book has some exciting pieces on the issues titled under the sub-section name: ‘Conflict Zone’. Essays written in the context of ‘Polavaram Tangle’ and ‘Make in Odisha Conclave 2016’ are impressive. These have comparative analysis with neighbouring states, like Andhra Pradesh and Chhattisgarh, or with richer states, like Gujarat, for attracting foreign direct investments. They even address issues of rehabilitating displaced people as a result of Andhra Pradesh’s unilateral actions with regard to Polavaram Project.

Finally, the last part of the book, has 16 essays titled ‘Odds and Ends’. This section hosts governance issues that range from chit fund scams to a news item on the terror attack in the state capital, Puri; safety issues in the world of Odisha’s industrial corridors; the big confusion around the so-called – India’s single-largest foreign direct investment by the POSCO (Korea) and the aftermath issues of Phailin (a book on Odisha without touching the issues of natural disasters is indeed an incomplete one).

 In ‘Is Odisha a litigant State’, Parichha justifiably contends: “It is high time the Odisha government comes up with a litigation policy on the lines of the Haryana government in order to bring about a visible, qualitative and quantitative improvement in the manner in which litigations are pursued and managed by the state.” ‘How healthy is Odisha?’ brings out the dismal state of public health care as well as private health sector. He urges for an increase in the outlay for public health expenditure from the annual budget.

In ‘Baina, Itishree and Nirbhayas’, Parichha highlights the issues of widespread domestic violence, discrimination against women at the workplace etc. Towards end of the essay, he mentions the introduction of Gender Inequality index (GII) in 2010 as a result of the UNDP (United Nations Development Programme) report. The quality of having such an index, according to the author, can be put to use by the public sectors to address the existing anomalies of “poor distribution of resources and opportunities amongst male and female”. He rightly says, “Acknowledging the presence of a problem will lead to solutions sooner or later”.

Parichha’s book is an open ended one. The author’s wide array of interest on the issues related to Odisha would be of interest to both lay persons and researchers.

 

Mr. Bijaya Kumar Mohanty, teaches Development Process and Social Movements. He is an Assistant Professor in Political Science, Ramjas College, University of Delhi. Email Id: bijaya@ramjas.du.ac.in

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Categories
Humour Poetry

Let Old Acquaintance Not be Forgot

By Tom Merrill

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I remember Vergaza and Diddlyweed,

who drove me to Tina and then Flambé;

there were numerous others along the way:

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Mere Ois and Reptile, Genghis and Pogo,

Martha and Mother Superior,

Majestique, Weenciepoo, Skew the hobo.

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Pinocchio’s gone, like RH and Daisy;

Leena is driving old Boblett crazy;

Twinkle and Juliet got the heave-ho.

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Troisieme’s zoo lacked the esoteric:

just whoozit, what’s-his-face, so-and-so.

Mine tends to be more nongeneric.

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Poems by Tom Merrill have recently appeared in two novels as epigraphs.He is Poet in Residuum at The Hypertexts and Advisory Editor at Better Than Starbucks.

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Categories
Stories

Deja-vu

By Aminath Neena

I look at those lush green trees.

The hills beyond the pavilion danced with the silky breeze. Their outline of azure blue hue beckons me to come closer as they whisper my name huskily.

“Come and give us a hug!” they start chanting clearly in a language that I can understand too well.

On my right, the lake shimmered in stark silver like that of a bride smiling in her nuptial glory waiting for her groom…and then my thoughts reach out to you, the one closest to my heart. The one whose aura consumes most of my lucid dreams. The one whose face remains etched in my mind’s eye, since forever.

The sweet chanting was getting louder by the moment.

“Sheeeeeeseeeeeeeeeeh… Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhheeesh! Come, come!”

I gazed longingly at those inviting contours. The greens, the blues and the whites all mixed together as if in a surreal painting and they pulled at my heartstrings.

I started missing you more than ever and there is a noticeable pain in my heart now.

My feet started moving willfully on their own as if in complete control of the feat ahead. Closer and closer I moved but although I felt a strong need to be there among the hills, I had an intense burning desire to have you beside me, right there holding my hands.

And then the thought struck me. It hurled at me like a whirlwind.

It was so sudden that I almost lost my balance. Slowly, I bent down and crouched on my knees on the wet grass. I put my hands on my head in an attempt to excogitate the answers to the raging questions in my mind.

Why did this place feel so familiar when in reality it was the first time, I had consciously visited it anyway? What made me feel that I have known you all along and that I have known you all my life when in reality I could not recall just how or where we had met before?

Why did I feel this way every time I saw these hills and the greenery close to me? And most importantly, why did it all remind me of you; of us when in the real sense, there is no us at all?

Why? Why? Why?

Is it possible that you and I, we had lived among those luscious hills, perhaps in another lifetime? But my strict sense of religion clearly forbade me to think along these lines. Or, could it be possible that souls met in heaven before they were destined to start life on Earth here? In that case, it did make sense to me.

What I did know for sure is that it was not just my imagination or a hallucination but a real feeling I had. There was no mistake about that! And, at least, that itself is a relief.

With that dwelt a certainty. Just like a mathematical formula, if there was a me and an us, somewhere, at some point in time, then there definitely was and is a you. The mere notion that you existed somewhere out there just like I had felt all along, was enough motivation for me to suppress all my Earthly desires, till the point in time in our entwined destinies, when we would meet each other. The thought made my heart smile.

Slowly, I walked back to my dorm.

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Aminath Neena is an English lecturer from the picturesque archipelago nation of the Maldives. An avid lover of words, she writes both poetry and short fiction. Her writings explore themes like love, relationships, spirituality, society, and global issues.

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Categories
Poetry

Twenty-One Days Later

By Sanket Mhatre

At the airport 

The ban has been lifted

Doors open. The first travellers are ushered 

The click of check-ins. 

Trolleys scramble, without any distance.  

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I am waiting for you.

There’s one voice. Then another. Followed by many. Till there’s cacophony. 

Sign: The world has returned to normal. 

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Counters fly open. Smiles flutter. Scarves swing into action. 

Luggage belts start with a thud. Leather rubs against leather. 

Gucci against Desi* against plastic without the fear of isolating. 

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I am waiting for you. 

Food stalls open. There are complimentary desserts for the first travellers.

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Air is sprayed with lavender fresheners. I think of you. Lavender is closer to mauve. Mauve is you. 

Outside, a plane takes off.   

I think of your eyes. What will your eyes think of this? 

Would they search and find me? Would I have to find them?   

Another thought surfaces: where are we flying? Where? 

I am still waiting for you.  

I have kept my face unshaven. Messy hair.  

I have removed the extra grey. Just because it’s grey. 

The world has passed through enough grey. No more grey now. 

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You arrive at a distance. And stop. 

 Our eyes don’t have to search for too long. We placed ourselves well within our sight. 

 Your bags drop. A corner of your lip quivers with truth and remembrance. 

 You are wearing mauve. 

  I greet you as several planes take off in the distance. 

 “Where to?” I ask.

 “To each other,” You say. 

  Twenty One Days dissolve in an embrace. 

  And countless poems. 

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Here, I am still waiting for you.  

It’s Day One. 

At the airport.

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*Desi — of Indian origin

Sanket Mhatre is a well-known bilingual poet writing in English & Marathi. He has curated Crossover Poems. Apart from this, Sanket Mhatre has been invited to read at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, Poets Translating Poets, Goa Arts & Literature Festival, Jaipur Literature Festival and Vagdevi Litfest. 

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