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March 2014 issue of Indian Lit-Mag Branwyn featuring Author Nandita Bose and others.
Citation preview
Branwyn is the Goddess of love, beauty, mischief and mystery. It also relates to genuine literature. The name has been tossed by Lavkesh Kumar Singh.
Publisher and Director Vineeta Gupta
Founder and Editor-in-Chief Sneha Gupta
Mentor Dr. Subodh Kumar Jha
Managing Editor Parul Parihar
Tech Support Rahul Kumar Singh
Legal and Financial Advisor Abhishek Singhania
Contacts: Email : [email protected]
[email protected] [email protected]
Website : www.branwyn.in
Editorial :
Dear Readers,
Branwyn is stepping in the second
year of its publication. It is really
moment of celebration for all of us.
And these moments have been
gifted by you people – our readers!
Our entire Branwyn Family stands
obliged for this!
After the immense success of
Branwyn’s Anniversary edition, we
present the March issue of
Branwyn. In the cover-story we
have come up with the soul-stirring
story of Shaurya and his battle with
cancer.
With the excellent contribution of
our regular columnists and the
gems of guest articles, the issue has
itself become very special. Not to
forget prominent author Nandita
Bose whose interview adds wings
to the issue.
I hope our readers would enjoy the
issue very much. Feedback and
suggestions are always welcome!
Sincerely,
Sneha Gupta
Boosters
The magazine is eye-catching and very beautiful. All articles are very nice. Article in the
segment “Down Memory Lane” by Koushik Gangopadhyay is best among all. The nostalgic
feeling of the forbidden Air-force Life makes it an excellent read.
- A. Chaudhary, Dumdum, Kolkata
Anniversary edition was nice but I didn’t like the article by Lavkesh Singh. It was
very irresponsible and insensitive.
- Mihika Sarkar, Kolkata
Brother Subodh is my reason for reading Branwyn.
- Randhir Ahluwalia, New York City
I just love Branwyn. It is so beautiful and wonderful.
- Dharmesh Trivedi
Thank you for Branwyn. It is soothing refreshment in an otherwise tough life.
- Tejas
Daniel’s Diary was catchy. Issue was very nice.
- Betty, Toronto
Branwyn is my passage to India. It gives an opportunity to understand the beautiful
customs of India. I love all the segments. Greetings!
- Susan Littlefield, LA
Madam, the issue was good but I was disappointed to see that my favourite
segment “Bourbon with Branwyn” was not there. Please bring it back.
- Raushan, Patna
That story by Mr. Gaurav Gill made me cry. It was great!
- Princy Shukla, Moradabad
For two issues, I have liked Nitin Singh very much. His stories seem realistic. The
Endless Wait was superb. It was a fine piece of comio-tragedy. I wonder why Heena
Ahuja is a regular columnist. Her poems seem below the standard of a regular
columnist. In fact the poems published in Amateur Scribbles are better than Heena.
- Girish Chavan
Three Questions : Nandita Bose
Nandita Bose is the renowned author of “Tread Softly” and “The Perfume of Promise”. She has gained a prominent position
in the literary circles owing her impeccable approach towards both subjective and objective exploration of creative writing.
Her books are often considered a referential vision towards the society. She is a source of inspiration for other Indian writers.
Playing multiple roles in her personal life, Ms. Bose defines the aura of a woman in her different style. In spite of her over-busy
schedule, she obliged us with an interview.
Branwyn : What is writing for you? A resultant of a
serendipitous encounter with boring life or a long
nurtured joy of exploring ideas and imaginations?
Nandita : The question is a lot more imaginative than
my answer will be, I'm afraid. I write. Often it is more a
drudge than a pleasure. Often all that I write does not
add up. Fortunately some of my efforts mysteriously
fall into place and become cogent poems or stories. If I
were to try and define what writing does, it is my
engagement with the chaos around me.
Branwyn : How as a writer you decipher the marital
discords of contemporary Indian society? How far
does your books TREAD SOFTLY and THE PERFUME
OF PROMISE relate to it?
Nandita : I am disturbed by discord in society,
whether marital or no. I think the solution to discord
is stretching boundaries, greater understanding and
empathy. Whether in my 2 published works, Tread
Softly or The Perfume of Promise, or the other
manuscripts that are still in the process: my concerns
are about the grossly disparate natures of the world
of a woman as compared to the world of men. My
sense of justice makes me aware even in my plots
that the world of a man is no easier or
uncomplicated. In fact I think true love is when you
begin to see the personal worldview and its
limitations from the lens of the one you love. And yes
I offer love as a solution, maybe a cure-all, for most of
our issues.
Branwyn : What role does your family play in your being a woman and a writer?
Nandita : I came to the world of writing and publishing quite late, after convincing myself that I had done justice to the other responsibilities of my life. Which means I thrust a change of goals and lifestyle upon a family that was quite settled in a comfortable, totally different gear. Now they deal with incomprehensible routines, weepiness and mild twinges of the social pressures of living with someone who participates in a public domain. All I get in return is unstinting support and so much love that it enables me to do what I want to do...
Thanks for being with us Ms. Nandita Bose. Branwyn Family wishes you all the very best in all your future endeavours.
SHAURYA FOREVER
Shaurya Forever is an initiative by Purple Pen
Blogs. Shaurya… The dictionary meaning of
this word is bravery. Perhaps, after this story
it might change and even go beyond bravery.
Shaurya Forever is an E-Book based on real
life of Shaurya Maingi, a 12th grader who was
normal in all ways to the other students with
the same specification. Only the difference
between him and other students was the
Cancer cells in his blood, multiplying with
unstoppable speed.
Purple Pen Blog
Shaurya Maingi, 18 years old,was suffering from cancer (Diffuse Large B cell lymphoma)
.He was undergoing treatment in Medanta hospital, Gurgaon. He was given 11
Chemotherapys in Medanta after which the doctors agreed to their inability to cure him
further.Therefore, he was shifted to another reputed hospital - FORTIS where his
treatment was started again. Later, the chemotherapy stopped working and his cancer
cells, instead of getting destroyed started multiplying even more and spread to other parts
of the body. Before the chemotherapies were given, his healthy 10 million stem cells were
taken out for stem cell transplant (usually a person has 2 million stem cells in his body)
and were stored by CRYO back (which is the outsourced bank of Medanta) in early stages
of the treatment which were to be injected back in his body after the chemotherapy
process got over. When he was shifted to FORTIS,he was given the proper treatment
required and was on the verge of recovery . Before the transplant is done,a very strong
chemotherapy is given which reduces WBC's to 0, and then the already stored healthy
cells are put in the body so that they start multiplying and create fresh WBC's. He was
given his strong chemotherapy and then his stem cells were brought from Medanta to
continue with the process. However, it was found that the cells were not stored properly
and had been destroyed beforehand and only 50,000 cells were found in the body.
Because of this, Shaurya's condition became critical due to absence of WBC's in his body, side
effects of wrong stem cell transplant starting prevailing, and he suffered multiple organ
failure.One year of his struggle to win over cancer had gone waste due to mere negligence of a
hospital in storing cells properly. In spite of absorbing lakhs of money for their storage, they
failed to store the cells accurately. An innocent life was taken, a long battle had gone waste
because of negligence of a so called REPUTED hospital, MEDANTA.
Shaurya during Treatment
Writers from Purple Pen Blogs came to know
about his story and were moved. They
decided to make him eternal, and what is
better than writing a book. The book
‘Shaurya Forever’ written by Himanshu
Appie Chhabra and Parul Parihar, portrays
his journey of one year of struggle, fight, pain
and tears. All the chapters of the book are
available on the website: Purple Pen Blogs
(www.purplepenblogs.in) and soon E-Book
will be available all the online E-Book portals
for download for everyone.
Parul Parihar
Himanshu Chhabra
Alpine Ambergris : Dr. Subodh Kumar Jha
Will there be RESURRECTION?
‘Wish you a happy
And fruitful stay!’
Your words struck me
Deep deep deep!
Could I be happy?
Could my stay
Be fruitful?
In the deserted place –
Deserted and abandoned!
Forsaken and forgotten!
Deprived of your
August company?
Can my heart
Dare beat
Even a bit
Just a bit
With choked throat
And frozen pulse
Sinking further and further?
Cleansing and purging
The soul’s abode
Oh, the whispers, the murmurs
Around me!
What do they signify?
Will there be RESURRECTION?
Dr. Subodh Kumar Jha has been a member of NCERT and UGC Workshops for the proficiency of English Language in various study streams! At present, he is a prominent part of Magadh University as the Head of Department of English in S.N. Sinha College! He honoured Branwyn with his special segment titled "ALPINE AMBERGRIS". Alpine means mountain peak which denotes Subodh Sir's intellectual persona and Ambergris means a fragrant substance found at sea level. Thus, "Alpine Ambergris" together denotes the combination of an intellectual person like Subodh Sir and novice writers like us who are just trying to make a difference!
Of Profanity. And Art.
“I fear the day technology will surpass our human
interaction. The world will have a generation of
idiots.” - Albert Einstein
Are we approaching the era already? Yes, we have
connectivity that is taking humanity forward. Yes,
there are visionaries and dreamers who would
have us believe that the humanity is at the brink of
a all-inclusive revolution, where the best of
knowledge will be disseminated to the lowest of
the lowly; a day when boundaries will shatter,
perfection will be omnipresent and empowerment
will be easier than what we deem today.
And yet, we also live in an era where instant
gratification takes precedence in our minds simply
because abundance causes the affluent to fall into
the trap of believing that the prosperity they
encounter is an all- prevailing one.
The social fabric of the society is breaking.
Whereas this enables individualism to prevail, and
wherein an individual enjoys freedom to express
and live the way s/he deems appropriate, it also
causes the ‘peer pressure’ to be wiped out of the
equation. Thus moral decadence, if it creeps in the
social fabric will less and less be subjected to
‘social’ acceptance and will more and more be a
liable to be judged by the individual who indulges
in them. This will in turn have a domino’s effect-
wherein every ‘mistake’ that we make is but
‘human’, and every ‘morally’ wrong deed will begin
to be seen as ‘liberation’, unless it is illegal- in
which case it shall be a covert exercise depending
on the ability of the state to enforce the law.
I am definitely not dogmatic in my approach to
analyze the evolution of literature in handling
Eroticism and Sensuality. In fact, I am a firm
believer of the fact that the taboo of the yester
years should give way to a pragmatic social
acceptance. A rather important aspect of humanity
indeed is brushed off in the undertones simply
because of dogmatic prudence and profanity that
our prejudices bestow it.
However, I find the journey from D H Lawrence to
E L James a disturbing one.
Instant gratification, as I say, is becoming easier by
the day. Adult stuff is available in phones carried
by children, and thus what was once perceived as
‘illegitimate’ is now perceived as liberation. Any
attempts to counter that view is wither censured
as archaic, or promptly termed intolerant.
In the Bachelors course in Delhi University, English
Literature, I had a chance to read Ismat Chughtai’s
‘The Quilt’, talking of a dame who fulfills her carnal
fantasies through a female, in a relationship which
would be viewed as illicit. The story was narrated
through the eyes of a novice, who finds it
unimaginable and surreal. I run the peril of
challenging an established norm, and yet, I didn’t
find the story artistic enough to deserve the
accolades that it was able to attract. Whereas it is
(obviously) shunned by the old-timers as
blasphemy, it was applauded in literary circles.
Nothing wrong in that- except that it did not merit
the acclaim it got. So a literary renegade got the
advantage of being a rebel, and was able to make it
mainstream literature just because it challenged
everything that was either “moral” or “outdated”
depending on the school of thought you belong to.
Generations of writers and poets have refrained
from discussing carnal innuendoes as a work of
art. More so in India, where (much like elsewhere,
where the concept of religion takes precedence)
carnal desire is in itself seen as a sin, it has been
less explored in art than it merits.
And hence, with the break of the era of
information, it is rather important that it is
explored with less guilt, but remains a work of art
and does not go berserk in the name of liberation.
There may be profound art in exposure. And there
may be barbarism and filth behind covers.
And that is why it is so important to differentiate
art from all that isn’t art. After all, that is what is
intellectual.
Mr. Incandescent Speaks…
Lavkesh Singh [Branwyn Column name – Mr. Incandescent] is an Investment Banker who works in the Realm of Mergers and Acquisitions for his living. He at present resides in New Delhi.
No sooner had I signaled towards the Air
Force Dressing room for a drink, I heard
a few catcalls from the crowd and a
husky voice said “ Sale ko pani mat de.
Bina pani ka marne de.” I hung my head
in shame, banged my helmet on the turf
and decided to quit cricket forever.
Suddenly, I felt a gentle pat on my back. I
“Come on Gang. After all it’s a game. You
can still fight. You have that in you.” I
looked back and saw my Adjutant,
Squadron Leader Rajeev Varshney,
standing behind me with a smile on his
face. I looked into his eyes and found
tons of inspiration. He nodded his head
and walked back towards our dressing
room with a bottle of water which I
refused to drink.
My team was tottering at 25 for 2. And I
was the villain of the hour. It was 1st
April 1995, a windy and sunny day at
Mount Abu. In the final match of the last
tournament of the season. Air Force
Station, Mount Abu was pitched against
the mighty Cricket Club of Abu. In fact it
was a clash of Titans. Both the teams
were packed with quite a few seasoned
and outstanding cricketers in their ranks
and if I do not exaggerate we had an
Indo-Pak rivalry on the field and off it,
we were close buddies. We occasionally
shared a drink or two at the local
Rajasthan Tourism Pub. But today was
the final match and we were determined
to put in our best show. At the toss my
captain, SK Sahu handed over the team
list to the opposition captain, Daljit
Singh, a Ranji player, which listed me as
batting at No 1. As Daljit Paaji, (we
fondly called him Paaji) crossed my path,
he said Gang, “All the best. You are
batting first. But helmet zaroor dal kar
ana.”. I said “ Paaji todi adesh sar akhoN
par”.
I opened the innings with Avtar Singh, a
god fearing Sardar who continuously
chanted “Wahe Guru” while batting.
Avatar was one of our best batsmen and
could score at a steady pace. I was asked
to keep one end going so that we don’t
lose early wickets. I restricted my stroke
play and wanted to give most of the
strike to Avtar. Dinesh, the burly fast
bowler of CCA was bowling quite quick
and was pitching the short ones at
regular intervals. Putting bat to ball was
becoming difficult. Avtar walked unto
me and asked me to avoid the hook
shots. He knew that I was a compulsive
hooker. All of a sudden, a short ball
which did not rise as much as I expected,
kissed my elbow guard and flew into
Daljit Paaji’s gloves. There was a loud
appeal and up went the finger signaling
the end of my ordeal. I pleaded with the
umpire that the ball had brushed my
elbow guard, but he was not convinced.
Dinesh bhai rushed up to me and
showered me with some choicest
expletives. As I started walking back to
the dressing room, I saw the opposition
captain, gesturing something to the
square leg umpire. On getting the
umpire’s nod, Daljit rushed up to me and
said that he knew that I had not nicked
the ball and it had indeed brushed my
elbow guard. I shook hands with Daljit
Singh and expressed gratitude for his
sporting spirit.
As I took fresh guard, I heard a few
slangs being directed towards me. I was
trying to concentrate hard but a cruel
spirit was stopping me from doing so.
My heart was burning to tear apart the
opposition bowling. But I decided to give
most of the strike to Avatar and in the
process, I ran for a non extinct second
run and Avatar Singh was run out by
yards. Our regular No 3 Batsman, Rajesh
Maskari was injured and was not playing
the final. K Ravi walked in at No 3 and
told me that the captain wants you to
keep yourself cool and play sensibly. I
and Ravi shared a wonderful rapport off
the field and that reflected on our game
too. He spoke a few Bengali words while
I could utter a few Tamil syllables. While
we were steadying the ship, another
horrible mishap occurred and Ravi was
run out. We were 25/2. Ravi left the
ground cursing me in Tamil and
slammed his bat on the ground. It was
sufficient material to make me the villain
of my team as well as the most hated
person of the crowd. Sensing that it was
going to be a one sided match the crowd
started booing me. I was dejected and
demoralized. I was telling myself that I
let my team down and I should quit
cricket. As I turned around to pick up
my helmet, I saw Squadron Leader
Varshney running in with a pair of
gloves and a bottle of water.
Once I looked into Squadron Leader
Varshney’s eyes, I gained some
confidence. I was determined to make it
my day. I said to myself, “I am a soldier.
A soldier does not quit. I may die but I
will fight”
In came Tandon, the wily offspiner of
our side. I was astonished to see him at
No 4. He told me that he will play his
natural game and try to get some quick
runs and I should keep my wicket intact.
He told me that as I was well set and
Dinesh was not bowling anymore, I
should relax and keep rotating the
strike. Our partnership yielded some 40
odd runs that too at quick pace. In the
meantime, Jaimin, the opposition vice
captain quipped from the first slip
position. “Dada isko bhi run out kara
de..aj ka party mai dunga.”: But
ultimately Tandon sacrificed his wicket
in search of quick runs.
At the drinks break, my captain patted
me on the back and said, “Don’t worry.
We are scoring at 4.5 runs per over. If
we can manage something around 225,
we will give them a fight. But keep your
end intact”. TV Rao, who came in at the
fall of Tandon’s wicket was hit on the
helmet by a rising delivery from Dinesh,
whom the opposition captain
requisitioned to break the back bone of
our team. I rushed to Rao, and was
shocked to see him writhing in pain. But
he refused to walk out. Indeed, a soldier
never quits. Alas Rao did not last long.
His timber was shattered by a precision
made Yorker from Dinesh. Sahu, our
captain walked in on Rao’s departure. A
seasoned campaigner and street smart
cricketer, Sahu quickly adapted to the
situation. We stitched a wonderful
partnership, and gave Daljit bhai and his
boys some wrinkles on their forehead.
Sahu got out at the 40 over mark after
scoring a splendid 50. We were placed at
180 plus. By that time, I too had crossed
the milestone of 50 and was given a
round of applause by my team mates.
Daljit bhai and Dinesh too shook hands
during the over break.
After getting out Sahu sprinted towards
the dressing room and stopped the next
batsman from coming in. I was surprised
to see SN Singh, a notorious Jat, our
short tempered fast bowler walking out
without a helmet. In the next few overs,
SN tore the bowling apart while playing
some cricket shots which existed only in
his cricket manual. The hapless fielders
were left to retrieving the ball from the
boundary line. In the first ball of 48th
over, I was dropped at short mid wicket
while chancing my arm against the left
arm spinner Raghav. But lady luck
departed me on 89 in the last ball of the
49th over. I was caught plumb in front of
the wicket by Dinesh. As I started
walking back to the dressing room,
Dinesh rushed to me and gave me a pat
on my head and Daljit bhai punched my
chin softly with his keeping gloves and
said “Yaar Fauji, well played”. I hugged
Daljit bhai and said “You gave me the
opportunity by showing sportsman
spirit”. As I removed my helmet and lay
back on the chair, the be-spectacled,
ever smiling, Squadron Leader Varshney
tapped me on the shoulder and said “I
knew you can do it. Come on pad up for
the next session. The war has not ended
yet. We need your contribution as a
wicket keeper.” He seemed to be an
Down Memory Lane : Koushik Gangopadhyay
The Tournament
angel of God. An immense will power
started gaining strength in me.
It has been close to two decades now. I
don’t remember exactly how many runs
we scored. But it was close to 240. SN
Singh had set the Polo ground of Mount
Abu on fire with his batting display. As
we were having lunch, we noticed a
spring in the stride of SN Singh. He
hardly ate something and was warming
up. He was egging us to come out and
give him some practice. I read something
in his eyes. He was breathing fire. I
moved my chair closer to Sahu, my
captain and said “Why don’t we open the
bowling with SN?” Sahu was reluctant.
He opined that SN does not have control
over the new ball. I suggested that let us
give it a try as we had quite a few runs
on the board. If SN gets hit we will go
with our regular new ball bowlers. Sahu
acceded to my request.
Sourav and Mayank opened the batting
for CCA. In those days the Dada of Indian
Cricket, Sourav Ganguly had not made
his mark. But the Sourav of Cricket Club
of Abu was revered by all and sundry. A
stylish right hander, he was perfect on
the off stump, but a bit weak on the leg
stick. As he took guard, I noticed from
behind the stumps that SN was ready to
take off like a wild bull eager to charge
at the matador. Something played in my
mind. I rushed upto Sahu, fielding at mid
wicket and asked him to give the first
over to Jyoti Ray who bowled fast off
cutters. Sahu got annoyed with me. I said
“Look. Give Jyoti the first over with the
new ball and let’s wait for a miracle.
Sourav is susceptive to the incoming ball
early in his innings. Give the second over
to SN. If we don’t give him the first over
inspite of giving him the new ball, he will
be boiling like a fully heated steam
cooker.” Sahu called Jyoti and asked SN
to come from the other end as he
wanted SN to bowl to the lefthander
Mayank.
The first few overs were like mystery.
Jyoti bowled the first ball of the CCA
innings to Sourav who went for a classic
square cut and the ball hit the top of his
bat then his thigh pad and flew into the
leg slip area. I dived full length and
claimed a catch. Up went the finger of
umpire Gulshan Makkar. My team mates
jumped on me as I lay on the turf with
the ball held in my left glove. Before our
celebration had ended the flamboyant
and heart throb of many a girl, Jaimin,
jogged into the playing arena in his
unique style, kissing his bat and gloves.
He was immensely popular among the
women folk of Mount Abu. A stylish
young man, Jaimin, rode a cherry red
Japanese Suzuki bike. The partisan
crowd gave him a loud ovation. As he
took guard, I shouted to Jyoti “ iska
middle stump agar tor sakoge to sham ka
party mai throw korunga.” Jaimin turned
around and said “jagte hue vi kya
khawab dekh raha hai?” I said “apna
team ko pahle bacha le Jaimin bhai. Har
gaya to larkiaya ro ro kat tera hanky gila
kar dengi”. For the next few overs, Jaimin
sent us on a leather hunt. SN was over
excited and got hit all over the park. My
captain, Sahu tried to play the mind
game and called Tandon to bowl his
slow off spinners. He checked the flow of
fours and sixes, but he went wicket less
during his first four overs. The CCA
score had quickly moved into the sixties
without further loss.
During the drinks break, we had a team
huddle and we decided to bowl Ravi for
a few overs. Although Ravi was a
specialist batsman, he had the
reputation of being an unpredictable
bowler. God might have heard our
prayers. Mayank was trapped LBW by
Ravi. After a long wait, there was
something to cheer for us. In very next
over, tragedy struck us. Because Jaimin,
was continuously steeping out of the
crease, I decided to move up and keep
wickets standing close to the stumps.
Jyoti bowled a short ball to Jaimin. As he
ducked, I was unsighted by the batsman
and got hit on my throat. I almost missed
a breath or two. I was compelled to leave
the ground and seek medical attention.
In spite of a nagging pain and feeling of a
lump in my throat, I was itching to get
back behind the stumps. I said to myself
“I will be cursing myself forever, if my
team loses due to the absence of a
regular keeper. In the meantime, Daljit
Paaji came over and enquired about my
injury. He expressed his affection and
brotherly feelings towards me.
I sent a message to my captain, that I
wanted to take my place behind the
stumps. He put it in the umpire’s notice
and in the very next over; I sprinted
back to the ground. Jyoti was starting a
new over and Jaimin was on strike.
Jaimin said something to me which I
could not hear clearly as I was standing
back. Moreover, I did not want to react
because the pain was bothering me. Jyoti
bowled a bouncer; Jaimin went for a
hook shot. The ball kissed his gloves and
flew towards the vacant slip area. My
instincts sent me soaring into the sky
and while I was in the air, I felt a thud in
my right gloves. I stood on my feet and
my eyes met Jaimin’s. He had an
astonished look on his face. As he
started walking back after scoring some
60 odd runs, I said Jaimin bhai, “Thank
you for making it my day.” A young boy
ran in with a half eaten ice cream and
told me “Uncle share karo na please. Kya
catch pakra apne”. I patted him on the
back and told him that if I eat ice cream,
my captain would scold me. The next 4
CCA wickets fell like nine pins to
Tandon. Tandon mesmerized them with
his off spinners. The author lent him a
helping hand with 3 stumping and a
catch. Among the ruins, Daljit Paaji stood
like the Rock of Gibraltar.
My heart went out to Daljit. CCA needed
some 40 odd runs in the last 10 overs to
win the match, but except for Daljit
Singh there were no batsmen left in the
squad. But some more twists and turns
were left in the match. Dinesh, the
firebrand CCA bowler, played some
lovely shots and almost took the match
away from us. We failed to make any
further inroads. CCA needed around 10
runs in the last over with Daljit on strike.
But as was destined by the Almighty,
Daljit was run out in the first ball of the
final over while trying to retain strike.
SN, our moody Jat, kept his cool and
bowled 3 consecutive dots balls. Then
he uprooted the leg stump of Raghav
with a beautiful Yorker. The last two
balls were a mere formality as the new
batsman could not put bat to ball. As we
were basking in the glory by hugging
and patting each other, I noticed Daljit
Bhai waiting to shake hands with us. I
quickly broke off from the huddle and
hugged him. He asked “Ganguly..gloves
me kya fevicol chipka kar laya tha ?” I
said “Paaji yeh todi dua hai jo har catch
chipak gaya”. He ruffled my hair and said
“Well played”. He then walked away and
shook hands with the other players.
Daljit Paaji is a true sportsman whom I
will adore as long as I live.
Our celebration was halted by the
announcement of the organizers over
the loudspeaker. After a brief narration,
they announced the Man of the Match
award. The author was declared the Man
of the Match for his batting effort and for
claiming six victims. As I write this
memoir, I recollect those days, when in
spite of an injury which needed
prolonged treatment, I played that
match. I am grateful to the Indian Air
Force for imbibing in me that mental
strength to overcome all odds for a
common cause.
The party continued well past midnight.
Shortly after that cricket match which
remains etched in my mind till date, I
was transferred to New Delhi. In 2005,
when I visited, Mount Abu, with my
parents as a tourist, surprisingly, I was
recognized by the little boy who had
offered me a bite from his ice cream a
decade ago. He told me that he wanted
to be a wicket keeper like me. It’s an
honour for this author, that I could be a
role model for a child. I believe all odds
can be overcome if there is a will to
kill the fear within. Jai Hind…..
Kaushik Gangopadhyay is an ex-defense personnel presently working with State Bank of India. He honoured us by accepting our request to share his real experiences and anecdotes of Air-Force life in ‘Down Memory Lane’
PEEK-A-BOO : PRERNA VARMA
The boy who got late
“How do you spell 'love'?" - Piglet
"You don't spell it...you feel it." - Pooh”
― Winnie the Pooh (A.A. Milne)
He was an orphan, been appreciated but never loved. And he was never late. Sultry
sun, raging rains, wrath of winters never stopped him from picking up piles of
newspapers in his hands and walking at least two hundred homes in different
societies. He would neatly fold them up- keep them on the porch or against the railing.
A smile would flash each time he saw a customer. He listened to their woes intently,
asked about their well being, would bring milk when asked politely or fetched packet
of bread if requested.
And even when though he played with kids waiting for their school buses and cuddled
pet dogs, he wasn’t ever late for delivery. Not until one day when he noticed almost all
homes closed in a building. Curiously, he walked five flights of stairs and saw a single
home unlocked. As he delivered a paper, the owner summoned him to come inside.
Walking past the entrance, he noticed at least 20 of his customers standing behind a
shiny red colour cycle, a school bag and two sets of uniform on its back seat. It was
then he realized that he no longer needed to walk and carry those heavy piles. Once he
was done with the job, he was supposed to visit a school with all his fees paid.
He felt love!
That was the day he gleefully thanked all, rode the bicycle for a few miles and was half
an hour late at delivering rest of the newspapers.
Writer’s Note- This is a true story that happened in the locality where I stay.
Prerna Varma is a versatile
writer who has been working
with a number of organizations
on a freelance basis. She is
credited with a book titled THE
DUMB AND DUMBFOUNDED.
Her writing prowess is free of
genre specification and that is
what makes her unique.
The wailings of the owl were
interspersed with the gut-originating
shrieks of the buffaloes. The din of the
Cable Televisions running in the houses
was audible only as a distant semi-
delight. The stars gazed in full
brightness from the dome in which they
were embedded. A shanty dwelling with
dim light stood at the corner of this
village on the Banks of Satluj. Two cots
were lying in the front of the dwelling
occupied by two boys of eight and ten
years of age.
“Do they feel hungry?”, asked Sukha
while pointing towards the stars in the
sky.
Lakha the elder sibling nodded,” They
must be fed to fatness to sustain their
dazzling shine.”
“Surely, Maa would be feeding them”
“Yeah, just as she fed us here.”
“They stole our Maa”, said Sukha feeling
the agony of hunger from his squeezed
stomach.
“When I will become a Star like Maa, I
will take revenge from them.”, retaliated
Lakha.
A rickshaw stopped near them and
Bhola, the rickshaw-puller fell on the
ground, as he tried to offload. Generally,
children are delighted to see their
parents coming from work. But destiny
had been rather cruel to these children.
They had only despair writ across their
anemic faces when they glimpsed at
their father who was inhaling dust. As
was the daily ritual for them, they
carried their father’s living corpse inside
the house and placed it on a cot. They
searched his pocket for some rupee but
as always it heightened their frustration.
They shifted their cots inside the
dwelling and swamped their empty
stomachs with as much of water as
would drive then unconscious. For them,
unconsciousness was better than
hunger.
*************************
“Hey Lakhe! Would you prepare cakes
today”, a voice caught Lakha as he had
just awakened from sleep.
Chhinda, a dairy farmer in his creamy
kurta and printed lungi was addressing
him from the door of their shanty
dwelling.
“Of course, why not?” he replied while
looking at younger Sukha, who was still
asleep and their senseless father who
would not get up before the sun would
have risen by a quarter-circle in the
hemispheric sky.
“Here’s the shovel”, said Chhinda as he
passed the equipment into the small but
rough hands of Lakha.
Lakha silently wielded the shovel and
piled up the dung adjacent to the back-
wall of the dairy. He laboured for about
two-hours and finished the work.
“Wahe Guru! You are a god-gifted artist,”
said Chhinda with his astonishing eyes.
Lakha re-looked at the quintessential
sun emerging behind the mountains that
lead to a valley of flowers, fruits and
crops. He had made cakes of all sizes to
depict his imagery on the canvas of the
back-wall. The moist dung-cakes would
easily cling to the wall thereby assisting
Lakha in giving wings to his imagery and
simultaneously serving the purpose of
Chhinda for the same cakes would dry
up on the wall and become a cooking
fuel.
“Take this!” said Chhinda as he handed
over a twenty rupees note to him.
Lakha accepted the money not as a
reward for the beautiful work but as a
tool for mitigating his own and his
brother’s hunger.
“Look! What have I brought for you.”,
Lakha whispered to Sukha as their
father was seeming to regain his
consciousness.
“Oh! Samosas!! Wah Wah Bhaaji”, Lakha
sprang off the cot in delight.
“Shhhhsh. In a low voice... we will not
share anything with him.”
“Why should we? When he doesn’t care
for us.” asserted Sukha as they marched
towards the village well for a hitherto
illusive meal.
*****************************
“You, son of an idiot! Stand at a
distance.”, yelled the teacher in loud
make-up and suited in green salwar-suit
embroidered with golden zari-design.
She was wearing bangles from the wrist
to the middle of her fore-arm
symbolizing her recent marriage.
Sukha retracted three steps back
dumbfounded, while guessing the fault
that he might have committed in
showing his notebook to his high profile,
city-educated teacher belonging to an
urban middle-class family but compelled
to work in rural settings after being
recruited under the Sarva Shiksha
Abhiyan.
“Why do these filthy people must study?
Silly policies of the Government! Uffoo..!
He is smelling like a rotten egg.”, the
teacher muttered irritatingly as she
barged the notebook on Sukha who was
now standing a good five feet distance
away from the teacher.
“Get lost; you foul smelling donkey’s
seed.”
This time he was infuriated at his elite
teachers malignant remarks on his
parentage. He attended the school not
because he loved studies but because of
the mid-day meal served in the school.
“Teacher ji, there is no charcoal to cook
the meal”, reported the cook.
“What? And you are telling it now.
Whose duty was it today to fetch it?”
“Sukha’s”, replied the cook.
“Get out you Sukha and fetch the
charcoal otherwise, I will throw you out
of the school.”
Sukha, though burning from inside,
silently moved out of the class-room. He
got hold of the manual cart parked near
a tree on one side of the school’s
courtyard. He drove the cart to a shop-
keeper in the market, loaded it with a
few sacks of charcoal and again drove
towards the school.
As he was un-loading the sacks in the
school, a few students were involved in
chopping vegetables while some others
were washing utensils.
The food was ready. The children were
seated in the verandah in two rows on
either side.
“Oye Lakhe! Just keep an eye on that
Heroine. Signal me as she steps out of
the class-room for the wash room”,
whispered Sukha.
“Why so?”
“You just do it. But make sure that no
one else is in the class-room.”
“Ok!”
A Million Universes : NitinSingh
Nine Day’s Wonder
In about ten minutes while the students
were having meal in the verandah the
teacher left for the wash room.
Lakha signaled Sukha about it. Sukha
took a couple of pieces of the burning
charcoal from the hearth and stored
them in a small iron box which he hid in
his pocket. He hurried out of the school’s
main gate and climbed above the
school’s side-wall into his class-room
through the window. He put those pieces
of burning charcoal in the teacher’s
hand-bag and left the room from where
he had entered.
The teacher returned to the class room,
shouldered her hand bag and moved
towards the staff room for lunch. Just as
she was having her home-cooked lunch
her colleague spotted the fumes
emanating from her hand-bag. She
brimmed up in anger to the extent of
insanity. She avowed to kill Sukha, her
prime suspect. But a wise colleague of
her counseled, “You have no evidence. If
you inflict any corporal punishment on
him then it may become an issue during
these election days especially when the
media is so hyper-active.” She had to
bite the bitter pill. Sukha had revenged
the insult to his parentage.
*************************
“Whats this?” asked Lakha while
pointing to a cap worn by Sukha.
“It’s the Aam Aadmi Cap”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The Sarpanch with a five rupee note, for
sporting it for the whole day, tomorrow”
“What? But what will the Sarpanch get
from all this?”
“I don’t know. I agreed for the five rupee
note.”
“Hmmm… . It looks like our inverted
paper-boat. Will it float any better than
those paper-boats that we try on the
currents of Satluj.”
“It should. Let’s try it out.”
They went to the bank of Satluj. A large
number of tents were erected there,
where liquor and meat was being served
to the villagers without any distinction
of caste, creed or religion.
“Is it a marriage party?”, Lakha enquired
from a man who was swaying left and
right under the influence of booze while
holding a roasted chicken’s leg-piece in
his right hand.
“Idiots! Don’t you know, tomorrow is the
Election Day”, replied the drunkard.
“So it’s free for all”, questioned Sukha
with enthusiasm.
“Yes”, replied the drunkard and then he
moved awkwardly towards the lane that
led to the village.
“Lakhe! What a wonderful opportunity.
Let’s get in immediately.”
“Let’s…”
“Oye! Stop!! Where are you both going?”,
shouted the organizer near the entrance
of the tent.
“Food, Lambardar Sahab”, replied Sukha.
“No you can’t go inside”
“But why?”
“Because, you cannot vote.”
“We will also vote. Please allow us in.”,
pleaded Sukha.
“Get lost from here. You think I am a
fool. Go first grow up to be eighteen to
vote, Ok!”
The two moved away from the entry-
point to a side beneath a tree and stood
there watching their co-villagers and
electorate, coming out with their food-
packed burgeoning stomachs.
“Another hungry night?” rued Sukha to
his elder brother.
“No, wait. Let me see”, Lakha went
around the tent to the section where the
meat was being cooked.
“Chhinde!!” shouted Lakha as he spotted
the dairy-farmer who was also his part
time employer.
“Oye Lakhe!. You here, for the feast,
right?” reverted Chhinda.
“Yeah! But the organizer shooed us
away.”
“Let him go down the Village’s Well. You
have this.” Chhinda handed him pieces of
meat wrapped up in a newspaper.
The sun had set. The darkness had
intensified. The din of the birds hurrying
for their nests could be heard. The
siblings sat besides the river bank
devouring the delicious food like the
hungry dogs.
“Can’t we have elections every day”,
asked Sukha.
“I think, the more we have them the
better it will be for the people.” opined
Lakha.
“Arrey…You forgot. We haven’t checked
whether this cap is better than our
paper-boats.”
Sukha placed the inverted Aam Aadmi
Cap on the gentle currents of the river. It
started drifting in the direction of the
current. The boys were watching it with
interest. Hardly had it drifted by three
meters that it capsized.
“See! It has sunk.” said Lakha with the
audacity as if he had predicted its fate.
“Yeah! Our paper-boat is better than the
Aam Aadmi boat.”, chuckled Sukha
They embraced each other laterally
around their necks and started for their
home. As they reached the door of their
house, Lakha asked,” But you had taken
five rupees from the Sarpanch to wear
the cap for the whole day tomorrow,
isn’t it?”
“Oh! That’s true. But now, I neither have
that damn cap nor those five rupees
from which I had some ladoos from the
halwai.”
Lakha chided him gently on his cheeks
and they burst into laughter. It was not
going to be just another hungry night for
them. Now they could sleep without
waiting hopelessly for their drunkard
father.
Nitin Singh is Assistant Commissioner in EPFO [Cent. Govt.] His freestyle write-ups often deal with day-to-day adventures of middle class people. Nitin is a resident of Ferozepur and considers his wife the inspiration behind his writing.
Sacrament Sobriety : Gaurav Gill
Gypsy Leaf
I was like a gypsy leaf blown by the vehement times,
No bough ever clenched me in its fairer climes,
You stealthily came in and the storm abated,
Your disarming smile had my heart elated.
This wandering leaf had found a refuge,
Your moist eyes had embraced my eye’s deluge!
TO BE CONTINUED……
Mr. Gaurav Gill is a person of quintessential contemplation known for his kind and modest nature. He is a lecturer and lives in New Delhi.
‘Beep, beep , beep ‘… the microwave
started to call me and the fresh smell
of baked chocolate cupcakes filled
the air of my room, overpowering the
lavender room freshener I have
sprayed in the morning. Cream is
always neat and clean and she
prefers to use her strawberry
perfume after her ‘not-so-
entertaining’ bath and was rather in
a very cheerful mood today finding
me home , the whole day and kept
me busy the whole morning with her
pranks, which were actually stress-
busters for me. She responded to the
microwave, immediately and started
to jump in joy, as I kept on
wondering, the cause behind this
sudden joy of hers, which I always
notice when I bake something. Is it
the food she is actually interested in
or it is the whole process of baking in
the microwave, which attracts her;
the queer sound of the microwave ,
followed by the sweet smell of cakes
and muffins is actually reciprocated
by her smile and she won’t let me get
some peace till I take out the baked
desert and give her the first piece.
This whole event was something
‘amazing ‘for her and also was a
bribe which she used to get after her
‘ not-so – entertaining’ bath which
actually she abhorred but don’t know
why , she would listen to me after a
lot of ‘nautanki’.
I went to the kitchen, wore
my baking gloves, opened the door of
the microwave and took out the
cupcakes carefully. Cream was
looking at me, her eyes bursting out,
“When am I going to get my treat?
Don’t you think you have tortured
me enough today with that horrible
water and soap and you didn’t even
let me play with those wonderful
floating-ball type of thingy with air in
it “. The toppings were already there
and all I needed was a little time to
arrange them. Decorating the soft top
of the chocolate cupcake with wafers
and jelly beans, I took the cupcake
and gave it to Cream. She was surely
.
delighted and gulped it down. I don’t
know about others but she was my
most sensible daughter, who
understood me, respected me and
loved me even though I was not her
biological mother. I don’t know how
she could sense it or understand, but
when it came to food, all she wanted
was the first piece. When friends or
guests came over for dinner, she
would sit with us and eat the first
piece of chicken from my plate and
more, if only she was given. If
somehow, I failed to understand that
she was still hungry, she would look
at her own plate with a very sad face
and then would look at me with
lachrymose eyes, as if , she was
saying , “Mommy, you forgot that
your princess is still hungry”. Ah, yes!
She is my princess. I still remember
the day when I had found her on the
streets of Atlanta, crying beside her
dead mother. She was barely a
month old and without even giving a
second thought, I had carried her to
my home, while I was returning from
Athens, and from then on, I became
her mother. However, there is a
certain bond, which I notice between
us; don’t know if it was related to our
past lives or rather her past lives. No,
she wasn’t my first daughter, she was
the second; I don’t know if it would
be wise on my part to call her ‘the
best’ but all I can say is that yes , she
loved me back. Maybe, Lily did too
and even after decades, I can’t forget
her. I should have realized that she
wasn’t happy, maybe she needed
something more, which, being a girl
of 22, was not clear to me. Lily was
my first daughter. I still remember
that day. I had just come back home
after a very critical appendectomy
and it was during that time, when, all
of a sudden, she took a chance and
flew out of her cage , while my aunt
was cleaning and left me alone ,
forever. I had forgotten my doctor’s
strict rules of not to walk fast, not to
run and above all, not to shout. I ran
to the roof, not caring for any
medical restriction and I cried, ‘Lily,
Lily ‘but she was not there to listen to
me or come back to me. I wasn’t her
biological mother but I brought her
up, fed her, cleaned her and listened
to her endless speeches. But maybe,
there was something lacking from
my side and maybe, God took her
away as a punishment. For a long
time, I never had a daughter. I had
sons, Lemon, Lime and Chuckles. I
was Chuckles’ foster- mother but
these days, I really wonder; are there
any difference between biological
mother, the mother who brings up a
baby and a foster- mother ? I never
made Chuckles feel the lack of
motherly love and care but God too
took him away when he was two and
a half month old baby. After a long
time, Cream came in my life and this
time, I was independent enough to
support her and this time, I was
determined, not to ignore my duties
and responsibilities towards her.
Many women actually complain that
it is difficult to be a ‘single- mother’.
But I actually enjoyed it. After a long
day of classes and research, I would
seek Cream’s love, in her pranks,
games, cuddles and kisses.
Something inside me would say that
she really loved me. Cream means
everything to me, and I am her whole
world to her.
Thoughts reigned chaos in my
heart as I decorated the cupcakes.
For some reason, Cream sensed that I
had lost myself in some other world.
She hated it when I was silent. We
both are chatterboxes and people
would say that we are surely made
for each other. Suddenly, I felt a jerk
in the anchal of my saree. I looked
around and saw Cream playing with
it, bored with my silence. Yes, my
saree, was another thing that
fascinated her. Here, in USA, the
Bengalis wear saree only on
occasions. Cream would see me only,
in a saree as I have the habit of
wearing a saree, when am at home
and would wear one on any occasion
SEMIOTIC BOND
I find, be it a conference or a party.
The frills of the ‘kuchi’ and the
anchal, which I would leave freely,
flaunting the typical Indian
kalamkari, or kosha silk on my arms
were her main sources of attraction
and she enjoyed playing with them,
least bothered to realize that she was
tearing it. I never forced her to stop;
rather I enjoyed it in my own way. I
have lots of sarees and I buy lots of
them from India. What was more
valuable to me was our bond which
grew with this game and food.
I took a cupcake and
putting the rest in the refrigerator; I
went to the drawing room and sat on
my easy chair, facing the balcony.
Living in an apartment of post –
Strafford was a something I took out
of my own volition. Traveling to
Athens, was of course difficult, but I
wanted to live in the memories of
past. My brother and sister would
visit me and we would talk about
those wonderful moments we had
spent with our parents and aunt
here, more than a decade ago, when I
visited them at the age of 20. Cream
hopped on to my lap, now
demanding serious attention. I took
her in my arms, and kissing her, I
started singing. Singing was another
thing, which she loved, and the
reason too, I didn’t know. I am not a
good singer; at least I don’t consider
myself as one. I would sing the
Bengali Rabindrasangeets which I so
loved and Cream would show
gestures of happiness. She didn’t
understand the lyrics for I never
bothered to talk to her in Bengali;
raising her in this multi- cultural
environment was a tedious task and I
wanted to train her first in English
and Spanish , the two languages
people speak here and maybe
someday, I am sure I will succeed to
make her respond to Bengali as well.
When I saw her responding to my
Bengali songs, I was a little relieved
and I realized , that before our next
trip to India, I would be able to make
her understand at least these phrases
: ‘ edike asho’, ‘ eta koro na ‘ , ‘
okhane bosho’ and others. The
afternoon was a typical Georgian
summer, warm with the wrangles of
little drizzles. I enjoyed the weather
here, specially my day offs, when I
would do my research from my
home; sometimes, I would go for a
long drive with Cream, sometimes,
we would take a stroll downtown or
sit lazily by the pool. Cream has a
very little patience holding capacity
and specially, when I would stay at
home, it meant going out for her. She
jumped off my lap and headed
towards the door. I went behind her ,
shouting, “Cream, wait. At least let
me change first”. She was not there
to listen. She started sniffing around
my scattered shoes near the shoe-
rack. Opps…. I remembered!! I forgot
to clean it and had left it to Cream’s
disposal. I went and took Cream in
my arms. Before I could turn my
head towards the bedroom, to
change, my phone rang. I picked up.
“Hello ma’am”, came a very polite
voice of a man.
“Umm.. Hi “, I replied wondering who
could it be .It was definitely not from
my university and it wasn’t someone
I knew.
“Ma’am, I am calling from BlueDart
Courier Services. We have a package
for you from India and I am waiting
at the gate of your apartment. Can
you please come and pick it up?”
‘Courier? From India?’ My heart
skipped with joy.
“Yes. Please wait for a few minutes. I
am coming down immediately”, I
replied, my tone, changing from a
silent note to one full of happiness.
Wearing one of the slippers, that was
lying in front of me, I locked the door
and rushed down the stairs, with
Cream in my arms. I took the short
cut through the pool and finally met
the man from BlueDart, who was
waiting for me patiently. He was
holding a big box, which seemed
quite heavy. As I signed in his file, I
wondered, who could it be to send
me such a heavy parcel from India.
Once we were done with the
formalities, the guy gave me the box,
cuddled Cream and left. On the top of
the box, in a familiar handwriting, it
was written ,
FROM : SHUKTI ROY .
The name in the bold letters
seemed to remind me of the
conversation I had with my Spanish
ma’am a month earlier. She didn’t
exactly teach me Spanish. I learnt
Spanish from Dr. Dibyajyoti
Mukhopadhyay, the head of Indo-
Hispanic Society, Kolkata, India. I was
doing my post- advance course when
Sir gave me the first break of my life
and I got the chance to translate a
few poems in a book which Shukti
ma’am was editing. From then on, we
became extremely good friends, she
provided me a motherly shelter and
now, whenever it comes to
translation works, she never misses
to give me a call. It was only last
month, she was telling me about
getting some Spanish books and
wanted me to work with her for the
translations. I had agreed but I had
no idea, the book would reach me so
quickly. I didn’t want to disappoint
Cream. So I took her to the pool
where she roamed around. A few
kids were playing and she was quite
famous in our apartment; everyone
would cuddle her and pat her and
some would even give her a treat. I
sat on one of the wooden chairs,
facing the pool, pondering over my
parcel, every beat of my heart,
counting the seconds that passed by
and waited for the time when I
would open my Pandora’s Box and
see the wonderful treasures inside. I
realized that I was still in my saree
but actually I didn’t feel
uncomfortable; of course, I missed
my dive in the pool, but the parcel
was worth it . I watched the kids
playing with Cream and it gave me
peace. When I see her running and
jumping around, I feel happy; she
needs friends and it was my duty to
show her the ways to socialize. After
half an hour, Cream came to my seat,
licking my feet and wagging her tail. I
knew, it was time to go home.
She seemed to be in a very
playful mood, and didn’t bug me to
take her in my arms or may be, she
noticed the heavy parcel I was
carrying. I have stopped thinking
about this sensibility in her behavior.
In the life of this lonely spinster, she
is the one who creates the cascade of
love and drenches me with her
unconditional love and sensibility,
fulfilling the space of loving and
being loved back, of caring and being
cared for. I returned back to my
apartment. Giving Cream, a bowl of
water and some food, I retired to my
study with the parcel in my hands.
Finally, the box of treasure would be
torn open and I would become rich. I
tore the parcel with a knife and
found four books in it and an
envelope. It was clear that Shukti di
has sent some letter in that envelope.
Leaving aside the books, I opened the
envelope and started reading the
letter.
‘Dear Udbhaboni ‘, it said. ‘I could
have told you about this parcel over
phone, but I preferred to give you a
surprise. There are two Spanish
books which we will be translating
and I took the liberty of sending you
this year’s Pujor Shuktara and
Anandamela , knowing well how you
love them and can’t avail them’.
Tears rolled down from my eyes as I
read the letter. For a second, I
wanted to see her and break down in
her arms, but sometimes, one needs
to make sacrifices for a better cause.
I have devoted my life to research,
and was living the life of a spinster,
working in the university, and along
with that, continuing my writing
career. These gifts meant to me more
than anything. I have always loved
books and they mean to me more
than those stupid ornaments women
wear. I pressed the letter with my
hands, feeling the letters, written in
blue ink. Truly, some people are
there in your life to stay. Spanish
brought us together and honestly, I
am indebted to that language.
I could hear Cream’s snore in my
bedroom. I placed the letter in one of
the books I was reading since
morning and took out my new
presents. The first book was , El
Corazón , written by S. Rosevall. The
very name of the writer struck me. It
reminded me of some Rosevall, I had
met at Frankfurt airport, when I was
returning from Atlanta with my
parents. The Rosevall, I knew, was a
flight attendant of Lufthansa Airlines.
I have always been a chatterbox and
started talking with her. We were
almost of same age and within
minutes, we had discovered our love
for Spanish. She was a German, who
was learning Spanish and I was an
Indian, learning Spanish. We started
talking in Spanish and became so
good friends, that she allowed me to
call my brother , from one of the
phone lines of Lufthansa, before our
boarding, without charging any
‘dinero’. I could never forget her, not
only because of the favor she had
done for me in the foreign land, but
also because of the friendship she
had offered. Traveling with parents
and a sick aunt was not that easy and
she arranged everything for us so
that we could take my aunt, safely to
our connecting flight to India. Later,
while coming to USA, whenever, I
travel via Frankfurt, I always try to
look for her, but apparently she
couldn’t be traced. All I knew was
that she was studying tourism and I
felt, she must have moved to a better
place. For some reason or the other,
my friend, Rosevall’s memory, made
me read this writer Rosevall’s book.
As I went through the pages, I
found the book, pretty interesting. It
was more of a travelogue; however,
Rosevall, instead of describing the
places, was more interested in
talking about human beings she had
met in her life, the culture of places
where she had travelled and her
experience of speaking Spanish as a
German and the reasons of her
choosing to write in Spanish, a
language, whose sign systems are
completely different from that of
German. I got completely engrossed
in the book and when I came to the
seventh chapter, I simply couldn’t
believe my eyes. The name of the
chapter was: Udbhaboni : La Mujer
de India. I rubbed my eyes and felt
the page of the book to see I was
dreaming or not.
“Ella es muy buena y guapa” , she
had written , followed by a lot of
adjectives which meant that this girl,
Udbhaboni is very cheerful and
friendly. After a point of time, I saw ,
that instead of writing , ‘ Udbhaboni ‘
, she was referring to me as ‘ mi
amiga ‘. Yes, it was HER!! This
Rosevall was my friend Rosevall. I
immediately got up from my table
and opened my laptop. It was written
in the book that Rosevall has started
writing and has made a name in the
writing world. ‘It wouldn’t be too
hard to get her number ‘, I thought.
Luck favored and soon I found her
number, dialed the numbers, a little
anxious to know what will happen. A
lady picked up the phone. ‘ Hola !’ ,
came a voice which seemed very
familiar. I garnered my strength and
said, ‘ Yo soy Udbhaboni ‘.
‘ UDD- VAAB- OOOO - NEEE ?’
‘!Si! ¿ Como esta? ‘
‘ Bien. ¿ y tύ? ‘
‘ Muy bien. Tengo su libro en mis
manos ‘
‘ ¿Qué?’
‘Si…… muchaasss graaaciiaaasssss ‘ .
Our one hour phone call was
followed by a plan to meet up. Yes,
Barcelona was calling me. I felt like I
am on the top of the world. I woke up
sleeping Cream and hugged her
tightly. Oh, how I love her soft furs.
Cream was a little dumbfounded by
my strange outburst of joy. I cuddled
her and kissing her on her cold black
nose, I said, “Cream, shona amar;
puchku amar ….. AMI TOKEY
KHUUUUBBBBBB BHALOBASHI.
“She licked my faced, wagging her
tail gleefully, reciprocating my words
in Bengali.
- APARAJITA DUTTA,
JADAVPUR UNIVERSITY,
WEST BENGAL
Fragrance of Heena
Rediscover, She…
Do you take her as a lump of mud? To smash her down with forceful thud
Do you take her as a young flower bud? To force her to deck your clumsy bed
Do you take her as a pool of water?
To soak your sinful stains as a blotter Do you take her as a piece of furniture?
To fill your home’s null just like a denture
Do you take her as your family’s au pair? To whom you can control just by your glare
Do you take her as an albatross? To hold her guilty for all your loss
She is a woman of enlightened creator
Lying beneath countless mystified layers She is the one who inhabits your soul Who chisels diamond out of the coal
She has softness inside her strong shell
A heart where you will always dwell She’s a woman with saccharine nectar
Protecting you from terrifying specters
She’s a woman with full of emotions Acting as your beloved love’s potion To carrying motherly caresses ocean
But against her you have sordid notions
Seek and ye shall find her adorable Strong yet her gestures so affable
The one who holds the miraculous seed Of giving birth and gratifying our need
Treat her with your own equivalence
And she’ll be the prop to your ambivalence You be her desired, inamorato wise man
And she will be your heaven-sent Amen..!!
Heena Ahuja is a girl who loves to scribble the rhythmic melody of literature. She lives in Mumbai.
Mr. YouKnowMe Speaks…
Then I met you
Day before I met you,
I thought I am ordinary,
My life is a complete waste,
And no one is there,
Who think of me sometimes,
And world is a deserted place…
But when I met you,
I realized there is something in me,
And I am no ordinary,
I have a lot to do,
And someone is there,
Who think only of me all the time,
And world is most beautiful place…
You always have time for me,
You always hear what I tell you,
I can’t think anything without you,
Can’t even breathe without you,
My heart skips a beat,
When I don’t get to see you…
You can count on me for everything,
If it makes you happy,
I don’t mind to do anything,
Your smile is all I care about,
You can put all your trust on me,
Because I can’t even think of breaking it…
Before you nothing was right,
But you made everything all right,
I know very soon I will be away,
When I will be out of this place,
When you will not get to see me often,
But I promise I will be there for you,
Always around you, walking silently with you…
Mr. YouKnowMe is someone whom all of us know yet all of us are still to discover. He is a biker, an author and like all of us, a lover of life… He is at present working with an IT Company.
Then I said to God- I Agreed
Your call came With same excitement
I remained silent To speak
What I thought to speak I was puzzled
How to start and where to start Stillness for the fraction of second
Made noise in your mind What I am thinking Why I am thinking
Then your heart made decision To take a break
A break from me Do I expect so?
That you will ask for break A break of heart again
Your words reminded me Of someone
Of something I counted days
Together we remained Then told to myself
Asking you inside me Do you know me?
Still you need to know me Yes, I was waiting
For your call I knew it was you
I could see without eyes But you couldn't hear
What you wanted to hear So I remained silent
Saying myself This is what God wanted to show
That you were unable to know While your love kept mum
And you created storm Then I said to God I agreed-I agreed
Dr. (Ms.) N. M. Leepsa Assistant Professor Department of School of Management National Institute of Technology Rourkela Rourkela, Odisha
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