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Poetry

Found in Translation: Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Pravasini Mahakuda have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Pravasini Mahakuda
YOUR POETRY 

You do not get liberated by arguments. 
Liberation isn’t on your mind,
Neither is it in your fortitude or your courage,
Nor in the tricky manoeuvring of your steps.
Liberation is in the challenges
Your soul ceaselessly confronts.
Salvation is in each line of the poem you write.
Do you know or do you not?
That even after you quit this beautiful earth,
Your poetry will live.
Readers of poetry will continue to be. 
Your poetry will live forever because
You hold a timeless lover inside you,
And because of your love,
Which is liberation itself.
Your poetry will thrive as a green permanence,
Even on a blazing summer noon.
You and your poetry are one,  
And have never existed apart.
 You yourself are poetry --  
Only poetry, and nothing else.
Because like you, Poetry, too, is a woman>
And you, like poetry itself
Are the eternal Truth.   

 THE REST OF THEM 

Let the rest of them 
Write about revolutions 
And resistances,
About rights and responsibilities.
I write about life.
I write about love,
And things that happen around me.
I write about the changing seasons,
About the prices of goods,     
Of the soreness hidden in the heart.
I write about the hopes and fears that
The heart incessantly wavers between,
Of an unseen wound that never stops to hurt.
I write about the eye that cannot see
The tears trickle down the other one,
Or the drenched pillow and the sari-end.
I write about a hand 
That does not care to share 
The ache in the other one.
I write about the song the dead river 
That flowed once between us had sung.
Let others write about 
What they won and lost.
I will write about the pain emanating from 
An aspired for void.
Let others write about spite and disdain, 
I will sing of life and love.
 
SHRAVANA* 

For which Shravana must the woman
Write a poem now?
What kind of a poem of Shravana  
Must she write to sprinkle life
Into the desert dying inside her
To cheer herself up?
Do you think it is easy to write poetry?
You do not know perhaps,
Only a drop of rain comes down
Against millions of palmfuls of tears.
In that lone drop of rain,
 Rings a primeval tune
That perhaps lay buried under
A century old rock.
You had never been in that song 
In any phase of life,
Not as friend, a husband or a neighbour
Neither as a reader, nor a critic.
The agony is because 
You were never a part of that song.
The Shravana is because 
You were never a part of that song.
And the rain is because of that,
And the poem too!  
It’s half-hour past eight. 
On this evening of a Shravana Sunday
The Shravana pours generously.
Do you believe a woman somewhere   
Still sits waiting for you on this evening,
Watching her own silent tears
Mingle in the Shravana rains outside?

*Month of July-August in the Indian calendar, normally monsoons in India.

GODDESS 

She is not a goddess --
The one you invoked while 
Immersing, 
Or immersed while
Invoking.
She is a woman.  
Perhaps you have not cared to see
The tears in the eyes of that goddess.
During those performances,
You have time and again played games
With her body and her tears.
Every night,
On the freshly made beds 
And in freshly written verses too.
You always know that the 
Finale of the game
Will be under your control 
And by your choice.
Because you have ensured the result
Would be in your favour,
You have taken the game for granted. 
    
        
SAREE 

The pain and pangs I have lived through 
Are as many 
As the threads woven 
In my saree. 
The end of the saree fails to hold
the profusion of 
All honour and dishonour,
All joys and sorrows,
Interest and indifference, 
The ache of losing things 
I had won,
The ecstasy of loving 
And the agony of no response.
As I set out on a journey,
The sorrow-flowers bloom in a row
Along the border of the saree,
Spring into life. 
As innocent symbols of that agony, 
A scene floats past my mind in a flash
Where I find the whole of my being
Standing by the loom.
I marvel at the intimate emotion
Of a beautiful loving mind
Employed at the act of weaving
Such a saree of choice.
The threads in this saree 
I am clad in are as many as 
The sorrows and sufferings, 
Joys and elations that roll
Inside me like the gentle undulations of 
The middle notes of a song.

Pravasini Mahakuda is a distinguished Odia poet and translator with 18 original books and 8 books in translation from Hindi to Odia. She has received the Odisha Sahitya Akademi award, Jhankar Award and Junior and  Senior Fellowships from the Ministry of Culture, Govt. of India. Her international engagements include participation in poetry festivals in Germany presenting her work in Berlin, Munich, Hamburg, Leipzig and Frankfurt. She regularly contributes poems in national magazines and attends seminars and poetry festivals across India. 

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Stories

The Rose’s Wish

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

A tiny honeybee once wished to fly on her own and see the world. She longed to gather nectar from flowers and store honey by herself. After persuading her mother, she flew out of the hive.

As she flew around, she spotted a bright red rose blooming in one place. She immediately tried to land on it. But the rose closed its petals at once.

“Oh, little honeybee! Have you come to sip my nectar so easily? Give me what I want, and then take what you want,” said the rose.

“What can I give the rose?” the honeybee wondered.

Just then, a rabbit appeared beside the bushes. The honeybee asked, “What should I give the rose to make her happy?”

“I don’t know. I have to collect roots,” said the rabbit and hopped away.

A little further, the honeybee saw a cow grazing. She asked, “What should I give the rose?”

“How would I know what a rose wants? All I know is grazing and giving milk,” said the cow.

The honeybee felt disappointed by this answer. As she flew ahead, she saw a peacock. “Peacock! Do you know what I should give the rose?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. But if you want, take one of my feathers and try giving that,” suggested the peacock.

The honeybee brightened up. She happily took the peacock feather and flew to the rose.

“Look what I brought for you!” she said, showing the feather.

But the rose said, “This is not what I want,” and closed her petals again.

This time the honeybee saw a parrot and asked for help.

“Children love my playfulness. Take this ripe guava I’ve pecked. Give it to the rose. She will surely like it,” said the parrot.

The honeybee felt hopeful and took the guava to the rose. But the rose frowned, “I’m a flower. Do you think I eat fruits?”

Discouraged, the honeybee settled sadly on a nearby bush.

“In this huge forest, doesn’t anyone know what the rose wants? How will I sup on nectar?” she cried.

A sage meditating in a nearby hermitage heard her voice. He called her close and told her what the rose truly wished for.

Immediately, the honeybee flew to a meadow where little children were playing. She played with them for a while and then asked them to come to the rose plant.

When they hesitated, she said, “There are guava, orange, and banana trees. You can eat plenty of fruits!”

Hearing this, the children followed her.

When they reached the garden, they laughed, clapped, and shouted joyfully, “This place is so beautiful!”

The honeybee went to the rose and said, “You wanted children’s laughter, didn’t you? Look over there.”

Hearing the children’s joyful laughter, the rose blossomed happily.

The honeybee gently landed on the flower and drank nectar to her heart’s content.

The children picked the fruits they liked and went home.

After a while, the honeybee too returned to her hive and shared many stories with her mother. The mother bee felt proud of the little bee’s kindness.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Satrughna Pandab’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Satrughna Pandab have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Satrughna Pandab 
SUMMER JOURNEY

Does this journey begin in summer?
After the mango buds go dry 
And the koel’s voice trails away…
When simuli, palash and krishna chuda
Blaze in red? 
Does it begin when the blood
After reveling in the festivities of flesh
Crosses over the bone-fencing
And gets cold, 
When the burning soul yearns for
The fragrant and cool sandalwood paste?

And the soothing monsoon showers? 
 Where lies the destination --
At what border, which estuary, 
Which desolate island of wordlessness?
The journey perhaps itself decides 
The appropriate hour.
 You embark upon this journey alone --
Without friends, without kins, 
Without allies without adversaries.
   
You yourself are the mendicant here.
You are the violin, you too are the ektara. 
You are the alms too.
And what are the alms after all?
At that ultimate point,
When the end would wear the 
Garb of blue ascetism,
The scorch of summer
Turns to
Sandalwood paste,
 Besmears the breath that
Leaves you overwhelmed 
With its exotic fragrance.

A SKETCH OF FAMINE

The white wrap of the clouds
 Is ripped into shreds.  
The pieces are blown away in the wind.

The sky spreads out like 
A grey cremation ground,
Where the sun, like some kapalika 
Performs a tantric ritual
A sacrificial act,
And slits the throat of a virgin cloud --
Moon:  The skull of a man just died,
Constellations: A crowd of beggars,
 Night:                        A Ghost Land 
 Fissured farmlands: Human skeletons.

Flames leap. 
Green vegetations char.
The blue of the sky turns ashy. 
The tender earth
Lamenting its bruised honour
Sprawls in a pathetic, arid sprawl.

WAR (I)
 (FROM KURUKSHETRA TO KUWAIT)

All the Dhritarasthras 
Between Kurukshetra and Kuwait 
Are blinded kings, 
Pride boiling in their blood,

Not a single weapon misses the target
Each Ajatasatru fights another 
Ceaselessly,
Neither of them returns from the battlefield,

The weapons have no ears for  
 The mantra of love
Or of brotherhood,
Nor does the blood recognise its kinsmen.
The battlefield does not care to know
Which warrior belongs to which camp.

Not a soul could be seen on the bank of 
The bottomless river of blood
That flows across the battlefield
Desolate and forlorn.

And there is always an Aswatthama, 
Ready with his Naracha, the iron arrow, 
Awaiting the Parikshitas yet to be born. 


AUTUMN 

Is this river your body
Flowing, calm and pristine, 
A translucent green? 
Are the dazzling streamers of sunlight
Hanging from the sky of
Your glowing skin?
Are the rows of paddy fields 
Stretching to the horizon, 
Your sari?
Do you smell like the paddy buds? 
Do the delicate murmur of the river waves
Or the cheery chirpings of the birds 
Carry your voice?  
The glimmering stars of the night --
Are they your ear-studs?
Do your eyes sparkle 
Like those of some goddess?
Do you ever cry?
Really?
Are the dew drops clustering 
On the grass your tears, then?

And the pool of blood under your 
Lotus-like feet --
Whose blood is that? 
Ripping apart the night
Coloured like the buffalo’s skin,
Your lotus-face gleams like stars,
My breath smells of the lotus, too. 


A FAMILY MAN’S DAILY ROUTINE

The man stands 
His back turned to the sun,
Or is it the wind?

A bare back, always
Rough hair, dry, windblown,
May be there is a hunch on his back,
Or, is it a load of some kind?
Heavy and sagging, 
His toils do not show on his face.
  
He stands like a scarecrow,
Waving aimless, hollow hands
Warding off the emptiness 
Around him, or the void within?
 
His face does not show it,
Or he does not have a face at all?
Just a headless body
Moves about here and there,
 Brushing the dust off,
Mopping the sweat beads away.
The cracks on his palms and his heels
 Could be seen, indistinct though.
There are, however, times, when
A face fixes itself to the headless torso,
When he comes to know
About the pregnancy of his unwed daughter,
Or, when he has to carry his dead son
Over his shagging shoulders,
The pair of eyes in that face look like marbles 
 Deadpan, stiff and blank.  
 
How does a family man take it
When the harvest succumbs  
To the tyranny of flood and famine,
When a dividing wall is raised 
 In the house or in the fields, 
Does it matter to the family man?
May be,
A dagger rips his heart apart,
The pain does not show on the face.

Sometimes one can see something like 
A basket on his back --
Who does the family man carry in that?
 His blind parents? His kids? 
Perhaps his name is Shravan Kumar
And he is on a pilgrimage,
Perhaps not! 

He buries his already sinking feet 
Some more under earth, 
Beads of sweat shine like pearls on him.
His beards hang off his face,
Like the aerial roots of a Banyan tree,
Does he move on carrying
A dead sun on his back? 
His face reveals not much.

Who does the man stand 
Showing his bare back to? 
To the sun or to the wind?
Who knows?
Nothing shows clear on the family man’s face.

Satrughna Pandab is a conspicuous voice in contemporary Odia poetry. A poet working with an aim to define the existential issues man is confronted with in all ages, he adopts a style that embodies traditionalism and modernity in a proportionate measure. Highly emotive and poignant, his poetry that reveals a fine synthesis of the experiences both individual and universal, are testimonies of a rare poetic skill and craftmanship. A recipient of the Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award, the Sarala Award, and several such accolades the poet has nine anthologies of poems and several critical and nonfictional writing to his credit.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Categories
Review

Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive

Book Review by Satya Narayan Mishra

Title: Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive

Author: Amal Allana

Publisher: Vintage Books, Penguin

During an extensive interview, Pankaj Kapur, the highly acclaimed actor, director and writer, nostalgically remembered his days in NSD[1] as a student in the 70s and of Ebrahim Alkazi who was the guiding light of the school as the Director from 1962-77. Mandi House was the vibrant cultural hub where the quartet of NSD, Triveni Kala Sangam, Sriram Art Centre and Kamani Auditorium breathed cadences of art, music, dance and theatre. As the presiding deity of NSD, Alkazi’s prodigious talent in all aspects of theatre except costume (where his wife was the moving spirit) brought his dynamic genius into the quest for intercultural and interdisciplinary thinking in artistic expressions that was both transformative and liberative for his myriad students like Sai Paranjpye, Nasir, Om Puri, Surekha Sikri, Uttara Baokar and Pankaj Kapur[2], who later on lit the stage and celluloid  though their exceptional talents and skill. He would have been a hundred this month. Amal Allana, his daughter has authored a biography of her father, Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive. The book  makes an absorbing read.

She brings out Alkazi’s early encounters and reception by the Hindi Theatrewallas of Delhi in the early 60s. It is the story of a western educated Bombayite who was presumptuous enough to think he could teach Delhi theatre buffs a thing or two. As a second-year student, Sai Paranjpye recalls Ebrahim as a storm under whom a metamorphosis took place in the NSD overnight. Walking in to the den of Hindiwallah writers’ camp, Alkazi caught them unawares by picking up the works of the most cerebral and experimental of the Hindi new wave movement; Mohan Rakesh’s Aashadh Ka Ek Din[3]and Dharmavir Bharat’s Andha Yug[4].  Aashadh ka Ek Din, a play with a rural background, was the story of the Indian villager, whose lifestyle, pace and values were succumbing to the inevitable onslaught of urbanisation. The basic theme was autobiographical to Mohan Rakesh himself, where he identified himself with a classical playwright like Kalidas. This mix of history and the present entwined in to a single entity, was a modernist strategy that Alkazi too had attempted while contemporising myths. He exquisitely crafted the mise en scene[5]that sparkled with delicate, nuanced performances from young student actors such as Sudha Sharma as Mallika and Om Shiv Puri as Kalidas.

 India had lost a war with China in 1962.  Alkazi had chosen Andha Yug, set during the last days of the Kurukshetra war, when Aswasthama stood in rage, prepared to use the ultimate weapon to annihilate the mankind. It was just not the play’s topicality, its anti-war thrust that drew Alkazi to it. Alkazi tried to shrug off the baggage of European modernism he was carrying, embarking now on a foundational journey towards a deeper ‘discovery of India.’ Through Andha Yug, Alkazi came closer to learning about India’s value system and philosophy as explored in the Mahabharata, while Aashad gave him an appreciation of the artistic sensibility of the great Sankrit poet-dramatist Kalidas, India’s veritable Shakespeare. From now on, he would engage with the idea of India between the two polarities: India as a myth and India as a kind of documented reality. Alkazi was introducing the idea that theatre was a performance art, not literature performed on stage. He was creating a language of performance that was distinct from the language of words.

The making of Tughlaq and its staging in Purana Qila is a watershed event in the theatre landscape of Delhi. Alkazi was greatly drawn to Girish Karnad’s play Tughlaq. Karnad had confided in him how Tughlaq was the most idealistic, the most intelligent king ever to come on the throne of Delhi and one of the greatest failures also. And how in the early sixties India had also come very far in the same direction. Alkazi felt that this play effectively reflected the trials and opposition a visionary leader faced, while trying to function within a corrupt political scenario. The cast of Tughlaq had some of the most brilliant actors, each painstakingly trained by Alkazi himself. There was Manohar Singh who was playing Tughlaq, Surekha Sikri and Uttara Baokar were doubled as Sauteli Ma, Nasiruddin Shah as the Machiavellian Aziz, Rajesh Vivek as Najeeb. The young reporter members included Pankaj Kapur, KK Raina, Raghuvir Yadav, a veritable who is who of latter-day cinema. Tughlaq was staged in 1972 at the Purana Qila (Old Fort) in Delhi, utilising the historical ruins as a backdrop for the dramatic spectacle. This production is considered a landmark event in Indian theatre, combining history, politics and performance to create a commentary on the reign of Tuqhlaq[6] and politics of the 60s.

Nehru’s dream of reconstructing the nation needed a powerful and unitary concept of ‘nationalism’ to recognise all productive forces in the country. Culture was very much a part of the reconstructive process that needed to be systematised and brought under one umbrella and for this purpose, three national academies had been set up: the Sangeet Natak Academy, the Lalit Kala Academy and the Sahitya Akademi. The desire to modernise Indian theatre was part of the same reconstructive cultural policy. And Alkazi was the mascot of the theatre movement and Mandi House, the epicentre of cultural conflation and crescendo.

The Purana Qila festival in 1972, with Tughlaq, Sultan Razia and Andha Yug became the most talked about cultural event of the decade He wanted to offer both the hoi polloi and the cognoscenti, including burqa clad women, high quality theatre that did not conform to ‘popular taste’; theatre that had a social relevance, that both instructed and entertained. This was Alkazi’s ideal of what constituted national theatre.

There have many stars in firmament of Indian theatre. Ebrahim revitalised Indian theatre. Habib Tanvir, blended folk traditions with modern drama. Badal Sirkar revolutionised Bengali theatre by challenging conventional norms. They are like the great troika of Indian Cinema, Satyajit Ray, Ritwick Ghatak and Mrinal Sen.

Alkazi left NSD as it was denied autonomy by scheming bureaucrats. Allana brings out how Alkazi passionately believed that an artist belongs to no political party, and has no religious ideology. An artist has to distance himself from each one of these in order to see each one of these objectively. “And finally, he has to distance himself from himself.” He wrote: “ It is our duty and moral responsibility to study history dispassionately, but with a passion for the truth, with humility and with a profound sense of responsibility and to ask ourselves seriously: What is the legacy that we shall leave behind?”

[1] National School of Drama

[2] Well known Indian actors

[3] A Day in Aashadh (June-July) was a Hindi play that debuted in 1958

[4] Blind Age was a verse-play in Hindi written in 1953

[5] Placed on stage

[6] A 1964 Kannada play by Girish Kannad, translated to Urdu in 1966 in NSD and most famously performed for in Purana Qila, New Delhi, in 1972

Satya Narayan Misra is a Professor Emeritus and author of seven books. The latest, Against the Binary, was published in December 2024. He is a regular columnist and reviewer of books for several leading newspapers in Odisha and digital platforms likeScroll.in and The Wire. He was associated with the NSD in the 70s.

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Categories
Review

Silver Strands of Soaring Symphonies

Book Review by Anita Balakrishnan

Title: Silver Years: Senior Contemporary Indian Women’s Poetry

Editors: Sanjukta Dasgupta, Malashri Lal and Anita Nahal.

Publisher: Sahitya Akademi

Several centuries ago, women poets had to fight to be heard, their poems often dismissed as unworthy or mediocre. It is a testament to their determination, grace and sheer talent that today female poets are amongst the most celebrated and respected the world over. In India, pathbreaking women poets such as Toru Dutt, Sarojini Naidu and Kamala Das paved the way for more recent talents such as Eunice de Souza, Suniti Namjoshi and Sujata Bhatt. Of course, this list does not include the vast number of women poets writing in Indian languages ranging from Assamese, Bengali, Hindi, Malayalam, Punjabi, Tamil and Telugu to name but a few.

A recent anthology of poems by senior contemporary Indian women poets titled Silver Years, reflects the centrality of women in today’s Indian society. While elders have always been revered in this society, the overwhelming influence of western media has brought in a certain skepticism towards such traditions. In this context, it is refreshing to read these poems that showcase the maturity, resilience, humour and sagacity of these women. They offer their diverse perspectives on the experience of being an Indian woman, exploring changing societal attitudes to their place in the world, the dynamics of their social roles and the trauma and transcendence they encounter in their lives.

The poems in this collection are not just pretty words that pander to social expectations, they carry the weight of the experiences of fifty senior women poets who have lived rich and varied lives, working in their chosen fields and observing the radical transformation of the world around them. The common thread that runs through this anthology is the forthright tone and boldness of expression in the over 160 poems included. As women who have lived full lives, both in India and across the world, these poets never shy away from controversies, rather expressing with rare grace and tenderness what it means to be sixty plus and female in contemporary society.

The introduction to this volume is no less impressive than the poems. Jointly written by the editors of the collection, Sanjukta Dasgupta, Malashri Lal and Anita Nahal, the introduction traces the evolution of Indian women’s poetry in English, eloquently delineating the political and social challenges faced by women writing in English. Furthermore, the introduction also explores the impact of a deeply patriarchal culture on women in Indian society. The recasting of mythology to suit contemporary societal expectations also finds a mention as well as an emphasis on the voice, agency and power these poets claim for themselves through their poetry. Most significantly, the introduction underscores the resolve, resilience and charm of these sixty plus women, who erase with the power of their words the negativity and weakness associated with aging.

The poems in this anthology vary widely in style and theme, ranging from poems that reimagine gender and societal roles, to those that focus on the havoc wrought by humans on the environment. Perhaps understandably, in an anthology of poems by women poets over sixty, perspectives on aging are numerous.

Anita Nahal’s poem ‘We are the Kali Women’ is a searing condemnation of patriarchal oppression, casteism and discrimination based on skin colour. The poems refrain “Ma Kali. Ma Kali. Ma Kali. Don’t think she’s not watching” strikes a warning note to those hypocrites who are guilty of crimes against her followers while piously bowing before her image.

On a similar theme, but in an entirely different key, is the poetry of Lakshmi Kannan. This poet’s feminism is not overt, but the poems convey an effective message nonetheless. ‘Silver Streaks’ sets forth an idea that is common to many of the poems in the anthology, that senior women do not become less attractive as they age. Instead, this poem emphasizes the power of self-knowledge that maturity brings.

Malashri Lal’s poetry slides into the readers’ consciousness as smooth as silk. Replete with irony and layered with nostalgia, her minimalistic verse has a visceral appeal. ‘Book of Doubts’ evokes a sense of loss for the books one used to treasure. ‘Jaipur Bazar’ is almost like a haiku, conveying the beauty of an emerald and the heritage it encapsulates. ‘Kashmir One Morning’ contrasts the senselessness of sectarian violence with the Gandhian legacy of nonviolence. ‘Krishna’s Flute’, juxtaposes the mellifluous music of the flute and the dreaded coronavirus pandemic. One is associated with the certitude of faith that Krishna’s tunes represent while the other stalks the silent city leaving death and loss in its wake. This is elegant poetry, that does not shock for effect, instead gently evoking images that resonate in the reader’s mind.

Sanjukta Dasgupta’s poems focus on aging with honesty interwoven with humour. Her poems cut to the bone without any unnecessary sentimentality or understatement. Aging, for Sanjukta Dasgupta is an undeniable fact, she asserts that one has to accept the harsh reality of physical debility and the inevitability of death. The poet does not try to gloss over the signs of age, rather she sees them as a culmination of a life lived to the hilt.

The poem ‘When Winter Comes’, is a recasting of P. B. Shelley’s famous line ‘…when winter comes, can Spring be far behind’. The optimism of Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind’ is contrasted with the reality of aging as Dasgupta notes:

In such an intimate Winter
No time 
To spring back to Spring

Spreading its embrace….
Scripting a cryptic memoir
On every inch
From face to toe

The poem ‘Fall’ resonates with the repetition of the words ‘falling’ and ‘failing’, which sets the tone for the final descent “into everlasting rest”. The images used in these poems are at once concrete and fanciful, “the swan throat a tortoise neck now” with “countless rings of recorded time”. The poem “Crowning Worry” addresses the anxiety of aging:

Silver waved among blackened hair
Like flags of treachery
Flashing grin of metallic strands

This poem highlights the power of poetry to acknowledge the reader’s anxieties and ameliorate their lack of self-worth:

Black and blonde tresses howled
In low self-esteem, utter frustration
And massive bi-polar manic depression
As the Grey Gorgeous divas 
Grinned and Glowed

Poems such as these emphasise the beauty of the older woman, whose youthful innocence may have gone, replaced by something finer, the beauty of self-assurance and poise.

Another significant theme among the poems is climate change and environmental degradation, the burning issue of our times. As mature adults who are aware that their legacy to future generations includes denuded forests, polluted rivers and oceans, arid landscapes and a rampantly consumerist mindset, these poets feel compelled to lament. The elegiac tone is prominent in many poems. Well-known poet from Northeast India, Mamang Dai celebrates the biocentric culture of the tribes of the region in her poem ‘Birthplace’. The poem ‘Floating Island’ also describes the harmony that exists between women and nature. ‘Earth Day’ by Smita Agarwal is another poem that focuses on the negative impact humanity has had on the environment.   

The poems in this anthology reflect the changing status of women in present day society. The poets are successful women and their clear-sighted view of life reflects their wisdom and rich experience. Aging is not seen as degeneration, but an enlightened phase where the wealth of one’s experience makes for a perspective that is to be celebrated. The poets included herein write with skill, empathy and wisdom, showing readers the hidden nuances of life that are often overlooked in the heedlessness of youth. They are unafraid to boldly present their wrinkles and grey hair as signs of a new beauty, one that is bolstered by maturity and self-acceptance. Pathbreaking feminist Betty Freidan sees aging not as decline, but as a new stage of life filled with power and promise. Her famous quote “Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength” emphasises her views on the fountain of age.

In these 143 poems, these poets have offered readers a fresh perspective on these new horizons, so that they can be viewed with compassion and a renewed appreciation for the felicities of life. Most significantly, these poems reiterate that the silver years are a time of hope and light that shines on the promise of fresh achievement.  

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Dr. Anita Balakrishnan is former Head, Department of English, Queen Mary’s College, Chennai, India. Author of Transforming Spirit of Indian Women Writers (2012) and contributor to the Routledge Encyclopaedia of Postcolonial Studies, ed by Sangeetha Ray and Henry Schwarz. Has published papers in national and international journals and reviewed books for The Book Review, Borderless Journal  and others. Her interests include contemporary Indian Writing in English, Ecocriticism, Ecofeminism, Cultural Studies and Postcolonial studies.

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Hrushikesh Mallick’s Poems

Five poems by Hrushikesh Mallick have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

AFTER THEY LEAVE     
        
After they leave,
The tree in the midst of a bare field
Stands forlorn.
Not a single bird, 
Nor the sound of chirping anywhere 
Not a leaf flutters in the breeze,
No one speaks a word
After they leave.

The world is a meaningless void
When they are not there.
Flowers bloom and wither aimlessly.
Festive seasons come and depart.
The privileged and the poor come and go 
Without making an impact.
Silence reigns everywhere and around 
When they are not there.

Living in a pattern,
Like, in every moth-hour 
‘Chhatu bhai’ riding back  
From the village market, ringing the bicycle bell,
Or, farmers sitting on a platform in the evenings
And deciding which patch of the land
Would be plowed next morning,
Like, the moon coming up routinely 
At measured intervals,
And discussions centering around 
How ‘Gaya-bhai’
Escaped the wrath of the village-goddess
Last night by a sheer miracle.
Routine life continues  
Like rice cooking tender in the kitchen-hearth
While cow-dung cakes are put
To smoulder in the cowsheds.
The regular pattern of living
Is dull and cheerless
In their absence.
Who are they, then? Who indeed?
They are the fragrance of the paddy-buds 
In the farmlands by the hillside,
They are the Siju bushes that
Grow under the eaves in the backyard,
They are the sound of the clearing of throat
That inspires courage in a fearful heart
 On a dark pathway,
They are the drumbeats floating in
In gentle waves from the neighbouring village,
They are the pallbearers that twine ropes 
 To make a pyre;
And, after they leave life loses its meaning!

WHEN THERE IS NO GOD

Once you join your palms 
sitting on the bed
while going to sleep 
or, as you wake up, 
worries stop disturbing 
your calm.
You are assured of the presence
of someone called God
who might break your fall.
But these are the bleak days
of God’s absence,
these days the headless bodies 
saunter down the streets of the night
whispering to one another.
The dogs howl in a chorus.
The sounds of sermons or devotional songs
do not float in from the mandapa,
the air throbs instead with the siren  
of ambulances.    
As such belief is that 
the God that holds 
the trident and the mace
is omnipotent.
 Why does that God stand dull 
 and lifeless in the temple now?
Does an idol in any temple 
have the power now
even to chase away the stray dogs?
Is there a God in any shrine
who can hold open 
its closed doors and by some miracle 
turn auspicious 
all that is ominous? 
In these dark days when
God is not there,
if we take a fall,
we have to get up on our own.
We have to lean on our own mettle 
and our own merit
in the moments of death or survival.
In the absence of God, 
we have to commit ourselves 
to the service of the distressed,
to feed the hungry
and nurse the sick,
give shelter to the homeless.
It’s time we repented our indulgences 
without religious extravaganza.
It’s time we stopped 
pinning blind faith in 
the figures of stone.  

THE LONE GIRL 
 
The lone girl has nowhere to go,
She sits alone lamenting her loss;
Once upon a time she had 
 a country like we all have,
it was called Syria.
Its lofty national flag
soared to the clouds.
It had a national anthem that 
sparked the spirit of martyrdom 
in its people!

In the evenings, 
perched on the shoulders 
of her babajaan,
she watched the moon 
in the sky of her homeland;
heard stories from her mother
that set her eyes rolling in wonder;
that country, her homeland is now in ruins
a vast, barren expanse,
littered with severed limbs. 
Its air is sick with the smell of 
tons and tons of explosives
there lay piles of disfigured childhood
in pathetic abandon
to tell the tale of a country that was! 

No one had ever warned the girl
that her tomorrows will be spent
in makeshift shelters under the tents,
nor did she know that 
her palms would join to make begging bowl,
and there would be merchants 
to trade on 
the perfumed void in her.
No one predicted that she would grow up 
believing in hatred instead of love!
And when she would learn to ask 
the whereabouts of her parents
the whole civilized world will 
keep mute. 

EYES

Just as I believed that all poems 
which could have been written on ‘eyes’
are already written
your ‘eyes’ flashed before me
and what an amazing lot of trees
laden with fruits and flowers
 and birds, they held!
I wondered where did you flick
your deep, boundless glance
from the corridors of the hospital
like a handful of floral offerings.
The anguish that glance held
was like the lost look in the eyes of a kid 
who was rudely denied a father’s lap, 
 like a fresh bloom shying away 
from the eyes of a honeybee
or, a streak of lightning flashing
in the overcast noon-sky 
like a poor man’s last hope.
Your eyes are like the lines of a poem
that unfold a new meaning 
at every other reading.
Your eyes,
like a strange horizon captures 
the crimson of the dawn 
and the gleam of a red silk sari
in a perfect balance!
Your eyes could transform a waste land
to a paddy field in luxuriant green, 
at times they are moist with muffled sobs,  
or, like a spear smeared in blood, at others!
What is more beautiful --
the bright loquacity in your eyes
or the rain-washed sunshine,
the mysterious mutter in your eyes
or a village enveloped in a wispy darkness? 

THE HONEYBEE DOES NOT KNOW

The son writes poems.
His mother does not know.
‘You are rotting yourself through writing,’
She complains,
‘Did you write them?’ 
A girl-friend, looks at him in wonder,
‘Can you swear to that?’ she asks.
The boy writes poems 
The street where he lives does not know it, 
Nor does the village! 
His young face does not sport a beard, 
Nor have the creases appeared on his forehead.
There was not that distant look 
Like the faraway stars in the eyes,
How could then he be a poet?
Who would believe that?
A man who picks up a quarrel with the fisherwoman
Could recite the brajabuli,  
Or, the fellow weaving clothes at the loom
Can sing lines from Tapaswini
 
A poet is not supposed to have a home.
He sits under the trees
Amidst the anthills. 
A poet hacks off the branch he sits on.
He does not have that worldly intelligence.
A poet is not pragmatic.
He begins a line at the wrong point 
And ends it at a wrong one too.
A good poet forgets the right way of chanting 
The mantra that would protect him from dangers
While actually facing them. 

The mother does not know that 
Her son is a poet; nor does the father.
The owner of the hut where the poet takes shelter 
Does not know his tenant to be a poet.
The poet’s voice does not know 
It belongs to a poet.
The reflection has no idea it is the poet’s image.
The lizard exploring the shelves 
Does not know the ‘Award of Padmashree’ 
Carefully preserved there,
Was won by the poet.
The honeybee that circles the graves
Does not know that   
The lines engraved on the tomb
 Were the epitaph for the poet.

Glossary:
Mandapa is a pavilion.
Brajabuli is a dialect based on Maithali that was popularised for poetry by the medieval poet Vidyapati.
Tapaswini: A famous long poem by the 19th century Odia poet Gangadhar Meher.

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Dr Hrushikesh Mallick is a reputed Odia poet and writer. He has 13 Poetry collections. His first book in 1987 heralded a new era in Odia poetry. He has received Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award (1988), Sarala Award (2016) and Central Sahitya Akademi Award (2021).He is also an eminent literary critic and fiction writer. He served as President of Odisha Sahitya Akademi (2021-2024). He has been a professor of Odia language and literature from 2012.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Editorial

Storms that Rage

Storm in purple by Arina Tcherem. From Public Domain

If we take a look at our civilisation, there are multiple kinds of storms that threaten to annihilate our way of life and our own existence as we know it. The Earth and the human world face twin threats presented by climate change and wars. While on screen, we watch Gaza and Ukraine being sharded out of life by human-made conflicts over constructs made by our own ‘civilisations’, we also see many of the cities and humankind ravaged by floods, fires, rising sea levels and global warming. Along with that come divides created by economics and technology. Many of these themes reverberate in this month’s issue.

From South Australia, Meredith Stephens writes of marine life dying due to algal growth caused by rising water temperatures in the oceans — impact of global warming. She has even seen a dead dolphin and a variety of fishes swept up on the beach, victims of the toxins that make the ocean unfriendly for current marine life. One wonders how much we will be impacted by such changes! And then there is technology and the chatbot taking over normal human interactions as described by Farouk Gulsara. Is that good for us? If we perhaps stop letting technology take over lives as Gulsara and Jun A. Alindogan have contended, it might help us interact to find indigenous solutions, which could impact the larger framework of our planet. Alindogan has also pointed out the technological divide in Philippines, where some areas get intermittent or no electricity. And that is a truth worldwide — lack of basic resources and this technological divide.

On the affluent side of such divides are moving to a new planet, discussions on immortality — Amortals[1] by Harari’s definition, life and death by euthanasia. Ratnottama Sengupta brings to us a discussion on death by choice — a privilege of the wealthy who pay to die painlessly. The discussion on whether people can afford to live or die by choice lies on the side of the divide where basic needs are not an issue, where homes have not been destroyed by bombs and where starvation is a myth, where climate change is not wrecking villages with cloudbursts.  In Kashmir, we can find a world where many issues exist and violences are a way of life. In the midst of such darkness, a bit of kindness and more human interactions as described by Gower Bhat in ‘The Man from Pulwama’ goes some way in alleviating suffering. Perhaps, we can take a page of the life of such a man. In the middle of all the raging storms, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a bit of humour or rather irony with his strange piece on his penchant for syrups, a little island removed from conflicts which seem to rage through this edition though it does raise concerns that affect our well-being.

The focus of our essays pause on women writers too. Meenakshi Malhotra ponders on Manottama (1868), the first woman-authored novel in Bengali translated by Somdatta Mandal whereas Bhaskar Parichha writes on the first feminist Odia poet, Bidyut Prabha Devi.

Parichha has also reviewed a book by another contemporary Odia woman author, Snehaprava Das. The collection of short stories is called Keep it Secret. Madhuri Kankipati has discussed O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland and Somdatta Mandal has written about Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing, a novel by a global Tibetan living in Sri Lanka with the narrative between various countries. We have an interview with a global nomad too, Neeman Sobhan, who finds words help her override borders. In her musing on Ostia Antica, a historic seaside outside Rome, Sobhan mentions how the town was abandoned because of the onset of anopheles mosquitos. Will our cities also get impacted in similar ways because of the onset of global ravages induced by climate change? This musing can be found as a book excerpt from Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, her book on her life as a global nomad. The other book excerpt is by a well-known writer who has also lived far from where he was born, MA Aldrich. His book, From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala is said to be “A sweeping, magnificent biography—which combines historical research, travel-writing and discussion of religion and everyday culture—Old Lhasa is the most comprehensive account of the fabled city ever written in English.”

With that, we come to our fiction section. This time we truly have stories from around the globe with Suzanne Kamata sending a story set in the Bon festival that’s being celebrated in Japan this week for her column. From there, we move to Taiwan with C. J. Anderson-Wu’s narrative reflecting disappearances during the White Terror (1947-1987), a frightening period for people stretched across almost four decades.  Gigi Gosnell writes of the horrific abuse faced by a young Filipino girl as the mother works as a domestic helper in Dubai. Paul Mirabile gives us a cross-cultural narrative about a British who opts to become a dervish. While Hema R touches on women’s issues from within India, Sahitya Akademi Award Winner, Naramsetti Umamaheshwararao, writes a story about children.

We have a powerful Punjabi story by Ajit Cour translated by C.Christine Fair. Our translations host two contemporary poets who have rendered their own poems to English: Angshuman Kar, from Bengali and Ihlwha Choi, from Korean. Snehaprava Das has brought to us poetry from Odia by Aparna Mohanty. Fazal Baloch has translated ‘The Scarecrow’, a powerful Balochi poem by Anwar Sahib Khan. While Tagore’s Shaishabshandha (Childhood’s Dusk) has been rendered to English, Nazrul’s song questing for hope across ages has been brought to us by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Professor Alam has surprised us with his own poem too this time. In August’s poetry selection, Ron Pickett again addresses issues around climate change as does Meetu Mishra about rising temperatures. We have variety and colour brought in by George Freek, Heath Brougher, Laila Brahmbhatt, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snigdha Agrawal, William Miller, Ashok Suri, Scott Thomas Outlar, Dustin P Brown, and Ryan Quinn Flanagan. Rajorshi Patranabis weaves Wiccan lore of light and dark, death and life into his delicately poised poetry. Rhys Hughes has also dwelt on life and death in this issue. He has shared poems on Wales, where he grew up— beautiful gentle lines.

 In spring warm rain will crack
the seeds of life: tangled
roots will grow free again. 

('Tinkinswood Burial Chamber' by Rhys Hughes)

With such hope growing out of a neolithic burial chamber, maybe there is hope for life to survive despite all the bleakness we see around us. Maybe, with a touch of magic and a sprinkle of realism – our sense of hope, faith and our ability to adapt to changes, we will survive for yet another millennia.

We wind up our content for the August issue with the eternal bait for our species — hope. Huge thanks to the fantastic team at Borderless and to all our wonderful writers. Truly grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork and many thanks to all our wonderful readers for their time…

We wish you all a wonderful reading experience!

Gratefully,

Mitali Chakravarty.

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (2015) by Yuval Noah Harari

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Click  here to access the contents for the August 2025 Issue

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Categories
Stories

The Gift

 By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

It was a science class for the 9th grade. All the students were listening attentively as the teacher was explaining the lesson. Just as there were 15 minutes left for the bell to ring, the attendent walked in with the notice register.

After sending him away, the teacher looked at the class. He noticed Ramu and Gopi sitting at the back and talking to each other.

“Children! Are you all listening?” the teacher asked aloud.

All the students except Ramu and Gopi raised their hands to show they were paying attention.

The teacher felt that Ramu and Gopi were talking about something more important than the class. Curious, he quietly walked over to them.

At that moment, Ramu was saying, “Mohan’s gift wasn’t liked by anyone at our home.”

“I thought it would be something valuable because he told me he would give a special gift,” replied Gopi.

“You didn’t come to our new housewarming ceremony, so you don’t know. Honestly, I feel a bit embarrassed to talk about it,” Ramu said sadly.

Hearing Mohan’s name in their conversation, the teacher felt it was something worth discussing. He gently tapped their desk with a stick and asked them to explain what they were talking about.

Mohan was a smart and well-behaved student, so the teacher was surprised to hear any complaints about him.

“Ramu had invited his friends for the housewarming a few days ago. I couldn’t go,” said Gopi. “But we were just talking about how the gift Mohan gave wasn’t good when you came, sir.”

“I see… what kind of gifts did the other students give?” asked the teacher.

“They gave useful household items,” replied Ramu.

“And what did Mohan give you?” asked the teacher.

“A mango plant,” said Ramu with a laugh.

The whole class burst out laughing. The teacher looked at Mohan, who bowed his head in embarrassment.

The teacher scolded the students and asked, “How can you say that a plant is not a good gift?”

Ramu replied, “To grow a plant, you need space. You have to water it every day. If it grows into a tree, its leaves will fall everywhere. Cleaning up is hard. It would have been better if he gave something else.”

“So, is that all you know about plants?” asked the teacher.

“Growing and maintaining a plant is difficult,” said Ramu again.

The teacher turned to the class and asked, “Is Ramu right?” The students nodded.

Then the teacher told Mohan to stand up and asked, “You said you would give a valuable gift, but you gave a plant. Why?”

Mohan answered, “The other gifts may break or become useless after a while. But a plant won’t. That’s why I chose it.”

“Tell us more about why you think it’s valuable,” the teacher encouraged him.

Mohan began to explain: “When a plant grows into a tree, it gives us many benefits. It absorbs the carbon dioxide we breathe out and gives us oxygen in return. Trees give us clean air to live. Their branches and leaves spread out to give us shade. People rest under trees to cool down. That’s why trees are important.

“If this mango plant becomes a tree, it can give us mangoes. Raw mangoes can be used for pickles and other dishes. Ripe mangoes are tasty fruits. A tree can give fruits worth thousands of rupees in its lifetime. We can eat the fruits or share them with relatives. The branches can be used as firewood. Even the dried leaves can be used to cook food. There are so many benefits. That’s why I gave a plant. I hoped Ramu would understand.”

“Is that all? Most people know these things. Tell us what science says about plants,” said the teacher, encouraging him further.

Mohan continued: “Cutting trees reduces forests. Because of that, rainfall is not coming on time. Pollution is increasing. Holes are forming in the ozone layer, and the Earth is becoming hotter. If we give plants as gifts and grow more trees, it helps society. If every citizen does this, we can enjoy green nature. It also reduces air pollution caused by too many vehicles. People will become healthier.”

“Well said! You explained it beautifully. I’m proud to say you’re my student,” said the teacher, clapping.

The class clapped too, just as the bell rang.

Looking at Ramu, the teacher asked, “Now tell me, was Mohan’s gift a good one?”

Ramu replied, “I couldn’t understand the value of the gift before. I behaved wrongly. Mohan’s gift is truly valuable.”

The teacher concluded, “Children, be wise. If you want to give a gift to someone, give them a book… or a plant!”

“Yes, sir!” the whole class replied loudly.

At that moment, the next class bell rang.

From Public Domain

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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Poetry

Poems by Angshuman Kar

Angshuman Kar has translated some of his shorter Bengali poems to English

Angshuman Kar
RULE
 
A river wants
pebbles on its bosom.
Only then the water will get a jolt,
the current will be visible.
 
The wind wants
a few trees to stand against it.
Only then it will whiz,
the speed will become visible.
 
A word also wants a few antonyms
in opposition.
Only then can it sparkle like a jewel!
 
Nature wants opposition
 
A boss slavery…
 

GROUP PHOTO 

Father is gone. Uncle is gone.
Grandma is gone. Tikla is gone.
I am still here. Tukai is here.
Looking at a forty-year-old group photo,
it becomes clear that people take pictures together
only to realise, someday,
that in a cruel world made of black stone,
they are alone.
 
UMBRELLA 

A broken rib.
The plastic handle is partly cracked.
It holds back the drizzle,
but when the rain pours hard,
it gives up.
From head to toe, I get drenched.
 
And so, the monsoon comes, the monsoon goes.
 
Looking at the umbrella, sometimes
it seems,
it is my father from the distant past.
 
Always hesitant.
 
 
ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE 

One can immediately identify the other
the moment the two meet.
 
One understands the other.
Understands the pain, the suffering, their causes–
everything.
 
The two drink coffee together.
Gossip. Quarrel.
Together they watch the young couples
pass by.
 
Boarding the same bus, then,
they go back home together.
 
One solitary man, still,
can never become the friend of
another.
 
 
LOVE

The wind is blowing gently
and the leaves of a tree
are shivering.
It seems
a deaf and dumb boy
has fallen in love
with a girl, deaf and dumb.
 
 
 THE WIND

 Those who think you are a friend
 are fools.
 You just touch and pass–
A foreigner in every land.

Angshuman Kar, a Bengali poet and novelist, is Professor of English at University of Burdwan, West Bengal. He was also the Secretary of Sahitya Akademi, Eastern Region. Kar is the recipient of several prestigious awards including Paschim Banga Bangla Akademi Puraskar, Krittibas Award, Bangiya Sahitya Parishad Puroskar and Shakti Chattopadhyay Samman. He has read his poems in Scotland, Germany, America and Bangladesh. Wound Is the Shelter is a collection of his poems translated to English. 

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Stories

The Opening

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

In Parvatipuram, there lived a merchant named Sunanda. He used to run his business by fulfilling the needs of the people. He had two sons – the elder one, Anand, and the younger one, Vinay. Anand completed his education at the gurukul and returned home, while Vinay was still studying.

Anand told his father that he didn’t want to work under anyone, and instead, he wanted to start a profitable business of his own—one that would also provide employment to others. Hearing this, Sunanda was very happy and made arrangements to help Anand start a business in a nearby town.

He chose an auspicious time for the opening and invited Anand’s guru, Medho Nath, to bless the occasion. The guru, moved by his affection for Anand, came for the inauguration. In the presence of his guru, Anand performed the rituals and made his first sale.

To show his respect, Anand offered silk clothes and thamboolam (a traditional token of respect) to his guru and bowed to him. Accepting them, Guru Medho Nath blessed him saying, “May your business grow like the saying—three types of goods, six kinds of deals. But for that, you must follow three conditions. First, you must come and go without being seen. Second, receive with one hand and give with the other. Third, always eat five-course feasts. Follow these, and you will reach great heights in business, my son!”

“Yes, Guruji! With your blessings, my business will flourish just as I dreamed,” Anand replied happily.

Standing beside them, Sunanda could not understand the meaning behind the guru’s blessing. The conditions seemed strange to him. “What kind of blessing is this, filled with such odd conditions?” he thought to himself.

Guru Medho Nath sensed this and turned to Anand, asking, “My son, did you understand the deeper meaning of my blessing?”

Anand replied, “Yes, Guruji, I understood it clearly.”

“Then explain the meaning of these conditions to your father,” the guru instructed.

Anand nodded in agreement and turned to his father. “Guruji’s first condition was to go and return without being seen,” he began.

Sunanda interrupted, “How is that possible? When going out for business, you meet many people. Business means interacting with customers. How can one go unseen?”

Anand smiled and said, “Listen to the deeper meaning. He meant that I should leave for work at dawn and return only after sunset. If I go late in the morning, I’ll see many others along the way, and by then, other merchants would already have done a lot of business. But if I start early, I’ll have more time and more opportunities.”

“I see! That makes sense. What about the second condition—receiving with one hand and giving with the other?” asked Sunanda.

Anand explained, “Customers often try to buy on credit. If we keep giving goods on credit, the business won’t survive. Later, when asked to repay, some customers avoid us. That’s why Guruji advised me to take cash with one hand and deliver the goods with the other—no credit.”

“That’s very sensible. And what about the third condition? He told you to always eat five-course meals. Is that practical? If you eat like that daily, you’ll lose money—and it could even cause indigestion!” said Sunanda.

Anand laughed and replied, “Guruji didn’t mean literal feasts. He meant that I should work so hard that I feel truly hungry before eating. When someone is really hungry, even a simple meal feels like a royal feast. So, work hard, earn your hunger, and only then eat. That was his advice.”

Satisfied with his son’s explanation, Sunanda’s face lit up with happiness.

Guru Medho Nath then praised Anand, saying, “Well done! You have truly proven yourself my disciple. You’ve understood the essence of my message.”

Sunanda expressed heartfelt gratitude to the guru who had shaped his son into such a wise man.

In time, Anand not only earned great profits through his clever business sense, but also gained respect and fame.

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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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