Cruel December and Kind People

While waiting for Lal Quilla Express, which was running late by five hours, at Patna Railway Station in biting cold, it dawned on me that December had been unkind to me most of the times when I made a travel in the month.
On December 17, we checked out of the hotel, visited a few historical places in Patna and came to the airport to catch our flight at 12.20 PM. But after one and half hours waiting in the airport, it was declared our flights had been cancelled.
With much difficulty we were fortunate enough to arrange two tickets in the ordinary sleeper class. Santosh Sinha, the officer of Bihar Commercial Tax Department arranged the tickets using his connections. The scheduled time of arrival of the train at Patna was 7.35 PM, but it reached the station at 12.45 AM i.e. exactly by 5 hours and 10 minutes late. The temperature at Patna on that day was below 6 degree Celsius. That day and also the day before, there was thick fog and the sun was not visible. We were not mentally and physically prepared to travel by second class sleeper. To protect myself from cold I purchased a khadi chadar. I had telephoned a friend of Kolkata to book tickets in Coromandal Express to come from Howarha to Cuttack. He booked two wait-listed tickets, which could not be confirmed.
Three stations behind Kolkata we found the way the train was running late we could not reach on time at Howarha to catch Coromandal, scheduled to depart at 2.50 PM. We got down and rushed to Howarha by a taxi and just reached a few minutes earlier to catch Coromandal. We travelled six hours sitting, sharing the seats with our noble co-passengers by their mercy and goodness.
I have caught cold, glands of my neck have inflamed and I am still suffering, not fully recovered till the time of writing this blog.

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In 1982, I was travelling in the month of December by Neelachal Express from Delhi to Bhubaneswar. I was a student. I had one blanket, one bed spread and, perhaps, the arrogance of youth to brave the winter.
My co-passengers were a Sikh family. They were eight, but they had six confirmed berths. They were going to Howarha to attend a marriage of a relation. The family included a grown up daughter, perhaps studying in a college. I had noticed her reading an English novel during the day sitting on the side seat.
In the evening they took their dinner they had brought with them, spread their bed on the floor of the compartment and two of them slept on the floor. Others slept on the berths. They prepared the bed in such a way as if they were at home, and in fact, they created a home like condition in the running train.
I slept on the side lower berth allotted to me.
In the night, at around 1 AM I woke up trembling. The train was running at its highest speed in Bihar region. The cold was unbearable, my teeth were clattering. The blanket and the bed spread were no help against the severe cold. Since I had the lower side berth, cold wind coming through the gap of the window was also hitting my body. I desperately wanted a cup of hot tea, but at that hour, it was just impossible to get. I thought I might collapse, die of cold.
The college going girl noticed my plight. She woke up an old man, perhaps her grandfather, travelling with them, and told something. The old sardarji lent me a quilt and told me to spread the blanket and the bed spread on the berth and sleep wrapping up the body with the quilt. I did as he instructed and could sleep a few hours in the night.

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In December, 2010, I had been to New Delhi for training on GST. Every day in the morning I used to take tea with Pradeep, who had also gone for the same training, in his room. The training was over on Friday. Our flight was on Saturday in the evening. We were in a relaxed mood. As usual on Saturday in the morning I took tea with him and stood up to come to my room. Suddenly I felt head reeling, everything looked black, and to save myself from falling down, I rested my right hand on the wall. But my hand hit the glass painting fixed to the wall. It broke, the glass pieces fell one by one on my hand. I had a deep cut on the back of my palm, which bled profusely. Pradeep took me immediately to Safdarjang Hospital and I had as many as thirteen stiches on my palm in that chilly December morning.
The wound took more than a month to heal, the scar remains.

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In 2000, in the month of December I had been to Bangalore for training on VAT organised by NIPFP in collaboration with Karnatak Commercial Tax Department. I had booked tickets a fortnight in advance. I had confirmed tickets to go to Bangalore, but my tickets were wait-listed for my return journey from Chennai to Cuttack. I thought the tickets would be confirmed within twenty days by the time I would return after the training was over. I enjoyed the training with the officers of other states. In the afternoon every day we went for sight-seeing in a vehicle provided by the CTD, Karnatak.
My travails began when I started for my return journey. I sat on the seat allotted to me in Brundaban Express that came from Bangalore to Chennai. A person came and claimed that that seat was also allotted to him. He also produced the ticket issued to him bearing the same number of the seat . However, the Train Ticket Inspector (TTI) intervened and prevailed upon him not to insist for the seat I was occupying as it was a mistake committed by the Railway Authorities in allotting the same seat to two persons. He promised him that he would arrange another seat for him, but he failed as there was no vacancy. The other person was gentle enough not to demand the seat and travelled standing the whole six hours.
My wait-listed ticket booked from Chennai to Cuttack could not be confirmed. The journey from Chennai to Cuttack was more than thirty hours. I saw no way to get the ticket confirmed, and it was also too difficult to travel thirty hours in general compartment without a reserved berth. I got panicky. I approached a police officer sitting in a cabin in the platform with a board ‘May I help you?’ I said to him. “I am a government officer. Had come for a training. Have already stayed a week and my wallet is almost empty. I cannot stay a night at Chennai nor also do I have a certainty that I would get a confirmed ticket tomorrow. Could you help in any way?”
He looked at me, from my head to toes, thought for some moments, and indicating a person said, “Go and tell your problem to that person and say, I have sent you.”
I went to the person he indicated and told him what he had told me to tell. That person, indicating a compartment, said, “Go to that compartment, sit there and tell the TTI that I have sent you.”
I went to the compartment and sat on a seat. The train started and took speed. After about half an hour a TTI came. I told hm. He did not enquire, allotted me a berth. I heaved a sigh of relief.
I did not know their arrangement, how they passed on information . They also did not charge any extra fee (i.e. any bribe).

********.

I have similar experiences in the months of December of some other years. What is the moral? Should I avoid any travel in the month of December in future?
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Academy Award Farce

In the morning while having a glance at the newspaper I came across the news of Kalpana Kumari Devi getting this years’ academy award. I tried to dig my memory, but could not locate her. I have not read any of her books. I cannot remember to have come across also her name in any literary magazine during last fifteen-twenty years. I might have slipped. Since she has been awarded with the prestigious academy award, she must be a good writer; I concluded it was my ignorance not to know her.
When I logged in Facebook I came across Saroj Bal’s post: “Have you ever heard this name: Kalpana Kumari Devi???”
Then he adds, “She is eligible to get national Sahitya Academy Award for 2011 for her book ‘achinha baasbhumi’”

Saroj Bal is a writer, publisher and also an editor of a magazine. He is well informed about the writers/poets, and certainly better informed than me; but he had also not heard (or, it’s a sarcasm!) the name of Kalpana Kumari till she had been awarded and made news.

Let’s now see the reactions of some other eminent writers and persons associated with literature:
Rajendra Kishore Panda, Poet:I woke up with a surprise: Kalpanakumari Devi has been selected to receive this year's award of Sahitya Akademi (National Academy of Letters) for Odia. I confess, I have not read any of her books; it shows my ignorance. Of course, I had seen some of her short stories years back; they were lackluster; maybe, she grew in her dimensions later, about which I didn't know.

Ranjit Patnaik: Kalpanakumari is a less known name...award scenario is so faulty and corrupt that these Kalpanakumarees encroach very often and give shock to those who are disturbingly SADHANARATA !!!

Ratnabala Swain: I am surprised and shocked when I came to know that Kalpana Kumari Devi is awarded with Sahitya Akademi Award for Odia literature. As an editor of Odia literary magazine CHITRA, I know almost all Odia writers. But I don’t feel ashamed to confess here that I have not read any of her writings. Can anyone have an idea about the jury members? I feel it’s a great joke.

Soubhagyabanta Maharana, Poet: I was utterly surprised to hear such news. I have not yet gone through any of her book till now. I am totally in the dark about Kalpana Kumari Devi. Jaya Ho Sahitya Akademi.

Pradeep Biswal, Poet: Awards are seldom free from controversies. Sahitya Akademi is no exception. Not only the awards but also the activities of the Akademi in Odisha are far from satisfactory. It’s being used as the fiefdom of a few to appease their henchmen. It’s a sad spectacle. No right thinking person can appreciate it. Self- seeking in such a system is unfortunate.

Chittaranjan Misra: It was really a surprise. Of course I have not read any of her writings as yet.

Ajit Kumar Behera: Not only you sir, I am damn sure, 99% of literature lovers haven't heard this name

A reader normally tempts to buy a book, if the author of the book or the book itself gets an award. Sale of the books of the award winning author goes up. If a reader buys a book as the book is awarded or buys a book of an award winning author and finds the book is substandard, will it not be a fraud on innocent buyers?
There is a complaint that readership of literature in Odisha is decreasing. This is not true. Books written in English sell, but books of Odia literature do not. If a person, a book lover reads literature in English why shall not he read books of Odia literature? The reasons are many. I know some Odia readers who have learnt Hindi and Bengli to read literature in those languages. Because, the original lustre of a creation is lost in translation. One of the reasons is good Odia books, for some reason or other; do not reach the Odia readers. Parents now prefer English medium schools to send their children for study. All students of any medium school- English or Odia- cannot be book lovers. There are many book lovers who have studied in English medium school. But, somehow or other, an impression is created among them that good books are not being written in Odia. Our writers-selectors selecting unworthy books/ writers for awards contribute to this kind of impression and further distancing the readers from Odia literature.

No writer writing in Odia ever thinks of making a living on his writing. It is the appreciation/affection of the reading public that encourages the writers keep on writing. Any award is recognition of that appreciation. The ‘Jury’- the middleman between the recognition and the readers’ appreciation- selecting an unworthy person instead of a deserving one for an award certainly discourages a true writer and does a disservice to the literature at large like bad money driving out the good.

Academy Award winning novels/books are translated into other languages. When such a book is translated into other language and the people of the other language happen to read it, how will they rate Odia literature? This is for anyone to guess.

This is nothing short of a crime, though there is no provision under the law of the land for punishment of such crime. To conclude, I quote from the post of Sabir Ali in the Facebook, “It is the lack-of-integrity of the writers-selectors themselves that is the root-cause of all questionable decisions. It is pitiable when some of them stoop to the lowest level shamelessly. As I find from the comment-posts, most of the persons have not read even a single work of Ms Devi. How could she turn 'eminent and award-worthy' overnight? Obviously the writers-selectors have stooped to the lowest level shamelessly. Who are they? If the Sahitya Akademi doesn't --- on its own --- reveal the names of members of the 'Preliminary Panel' (with the names of the books each of them recommended) and the 'Jury', the data can be accessed through RTI Act. That may expose the nexus.”
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PATNA Diary

December 15,11:The flight, despite fog and chilly weather, reached the Jayprakash Narayan Airport, Patna on time at 8.35 PM. S K Sinha, an officer of the Bihar Commercial Tax Department, had come to the airport to receive us. I noticed a red light fixed at the top of the vehicle that was to carry us to the hotel, and thought, perhaps, the officers of Bihar Commercial Tax Department used vehicle with red light. There are restrictions in use of red light. The Odisha High Court has a ruling to the effect who can use the red light and who cannot. A Parliamentary Committee has recommended that the MPs should use vehicle with red light. If they are allowed to use, their counterparts of the State Assemblies would also demand the same. To me, red light of the vehicle is a symbol of power and authority. I asked Mr Sinha, “Do your officers use vehicles with red light?”
He replied, “No, it’s for you. You are our guests… guests of the State.”
I felt flattered.

*******

December 16, 11: The workshop on e-Governance in VAT administration began half an hours later than the scheduled time as Sushil Modi, the Deputy Chief Minister who was to inaugurate the workshop reached late. Officers of Gujrat, Keral, Odisha and Maharastra gave their power point presentations on e-services they had implemented in their respective states. Each presentation followed a session of questions answered by the presenter. The discussions and sharing of experience were lively and enlightening. In summing up, the Deputy CM said, it was the most educative day for him in the last six years he was in office as a Minister.
The Deputy CM might have told it to please the organisers and the participants, but we believed he was honest in his remark. He sat all through the meeting from the beginning to the end. He asked questions, took notes and also clapped to appreciate a point made by a presenter. It was amazing considering his busy schedule being the Deputy CM. Bespectacled, dhoti-kurta clad, Mr Modi who is also the Chairman of the Empowered Committee of States’ Finance Ministers, gives the impression of a strict Head Master. He seems sincere and serious. As he is the Chairman of the Empowered Committee he is conscious of the onerous responsibility of implementing GST. He appears not only serious for implementing GST, but also for improving conditions in Bihar. He minced no words in his address for the officers of Bihar to work to a plan fixing deadlines for different e-services.

*******

December 17, 11: We had only 3-4 hours with us, provided if we could wake up early and get ready finishing our breakfast to see important sites of Patna as we had flight at 12.20 PM.
Patna’s ancient name was Pataliputra, the capital of Magadha. Ashoka, the emperor of Magadha had invaded and defeated Kilinga in the war at Dhauli in 261 BC. It is said, the war changed a Chandashoka to Dharmashoka and Ashoka not only renounced war but also any kind of violence by accepting Budhism after witnessing the horrors of Kalinga War. Later, Kharvela, the emperor of Kalinga had taken revenge by defeating the king of Magadha in the second century BC.
Historically, the relation between Magadha and Kalinga was not friendly, but the names Ashoka and Pataliputra evoke a soft feeling in the hearts. We wanted to see the places associated with Ashoka and other sites, whatever possible within the short period. Mr Sinha was willing to play host and a guide for us. He reached the hotel at 7.30 AM and by that time, we were ready. We checked out of the hotel as we decided to spend as much time as possible seeing the places without wasting our time coming back to the hotel for check out. We had decided to go straight to the airport.

We saw Kumrahar, the remains of ancient city of Pataliputra, now a beautiful park. People were seen doing morning walk braving the biting cold and thick fog. We saw the archaeological remains of Arogya Vihar, said to have been headed by Dhanvantari and a tank, believed to have existed during the days of Ashoka. From Kumrahar, we went to Agam Kuan or unfathomable well. The well is 105 feet deep, it’s circular and brick encased. It is believed, Ashoka had dug the well, used it for torturing the people; he had thrown the bodies of his ninety-nine brothers in the well after killing them. The well is in the precincts of Shitala Devi temple. People believe Maa shitala Devi cures smallpox and chickenpox. We visited Gurudwar Patna Sahib, the birth place of the tenth Guru Guru Govind Singh.

On our way from Agam Kuan to Gurudwar Patna sahib we went to the bank of river Ganga. Some constructions were going on. I saw a person sitting on a wooden cot reading a religious scripture in front of a statue of Mahavir and a Bull. It was 10 AM. He was immersed in his reading. Another person was doing some rituals in front of a human skull. A woman, perhaps his wife, was with him.
I asked Mr Sinha,“What is he doing?”
He said, “Perhaps some tantric practices.”

This kind of people always fascinates me. I become curious to know more about them. But I never get time or opportunity to fathom their beliefs and decode the mysticism.

*******

We said good bye to Santosh Sinha and entered into the airport at around 11.30 AM. It was displayed on the board that our flight was delayed by one hour. But some other flights were cancelled due to thick fog. The temperature in Patna was below 6 degree Celsius. We waited in the airport. But after one and half hours, the airport authority declared our flight cancelled because of thick fog and poor visibility.

We called Mr Sinha. He came immediately. He tried with his friends, connections and telephoned the commissioner to help arrange two tickets for us in any train to come to Howrha or Kolkatta. From Howrha / Kolkatta we could come to Bhubaneswar. He succeeded in arranging two confirmed tickets in Lal Quilla Express from Patna to Kolkatta. The train originating from Delhi was running late by two and half hours. The scheduled time of departure of the train at Patna was 7.35 PM.

At 8.30 PM we went to a hotel near to the railway station to eat something. My co-traveller Mr P K Patra, offering a hundred rupee note to the hotel boy, asked to bring a bottle of water. The boy, in a high-pitched voice, said, “Are you blind? Don’t you see I am baking bread?”
His manners were rough and insulting. At that time, I was attending to a call in my cell phone and speaking in Odia. A young man who was sitting on our side seat shouted back at the boy, and was about to beat him. He said to his employer, “They have come from outside. If your boys behaved in such a rude manner, what impression they would take on Bihar back to their states?”
His employer did not say anything, but the boy went himself to the nearby shop and brought one bottle of water. We paid the price of water along with the food bill after we had finished our eating.

In the morning we were discussing on the change in Bihar after Nitish Kumar had taken over the reins of power six years back.
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On the occasion of a book release…

My 10th book, a collection of twelve stories, ‘Gabhira Nidrare Iswar’ (God is in deep sleep) is released. All the stories of this book were published earlier in Odia literary magazines. Release of a new book always gives pleasure and I am happy.

No writer writing in Odia ever thinks even in his dreams to live on his writing. The person who publishes a literary magazine in Odia buys paper, pays to the printing press, hires one painter to design the cover and pays him. He gives a discount to the seller/hawker, pays for everything to publish and circulate the magazine. But he does not pay to the writer, though the magazine is sold only for the writings a magazine contains.

A publisher of Odia books behaves as if he would be showing a ‘favour’ to a writer to publish his book. His complaint is that Odia literature does not sell. They say they used to print one thousand copies of a book thirty years back. But now they print five hundred copies. If Government (Raja Ram Mohan Foundation) does not select the book to purchase, they do not know how many years it would take for the five hundred copies to be sold. Sometimes a writer feels humiliated to approach a publisher to publish his book.

Despite all these factors, the question arises, why I should write. Often this question is asked by an interviewer interviewing a writer for a magazine. Sometimes I also ask myself this question. In fact, I do not know exactly the answer to this question. But I know what happens to me if I do not write. If I cannot write for a fortnight or a month I feel restless and become irritable. Only writing calms me down and I become normal. I feel I may go mad if I cannot write.

Reaction over a story overwhelms me. I got a good many phone calls for a few months after the story Gabhira Nidrare Iswar was published in a magazine (Jhankar). The story was photocopied and distributed among the officers of the Department I worked for. My senior officer, when we met, asked me, “Whether your God is awake or He is still in sleep?” A woman after she had read my story ‘Pua’(Son) was so moved that she made phone calls to three-four persons to get my phone number, and telephoned me at about eleven in the night to say that the story had brought tears to her eyes. Many writers must have similar experiences. Perhaps, this is one of the factors that keep encouraging a writer to keep on his writing.

Twenty years back when I was working as a Treasury Office in a small town an engineer met me in my office and told that he had read one of my stories published in the literary page of a newspaper (Sambad). I had only published seven-eight stories by then. He said, “The story is good. I liked it. But it’s not great to write a good story, it’s great if one continues with writing good stories.” In course of discussion I came to know he read literature in four languages: Odia, English, Bengli and Hindi. He learnt Bengli and Hindi to enjoy reading books in those languages. He could be termed as a ‘voracious’ reader. To a budding writer like me he advised. “A writer should not take a reader for granted, should not write whatever he likes. A writer should remember a reader might have read Henry and Chekov, Maupassant and Maugham, Manoj Das and Surendra Mohanty. Why should he read you unless you write something new and different? Why a reader should buy your book and read wasting his money and time unless it interests him? Books of great authors are always available in the market and the reader has a choice. A writer should keep the reader in mind.”

I don’t know where the engineer is now. But I remember him before I despatch a story to a magazine for publication.
xxxxx

Apathy towards one’s literary tradition

Last Saturday I had to conduct viva on Odia language for the officers of the Odisha Subordinate Finance Service (OSFS). The officers of OSFC are selected through a competitive exam conducted by Odisha Staff Selection Commission. The competition is tough. They were all good students. Otherwise, they would not have qualified the test and been selected for the jobs. In the written test they have to translate a passage from Odia into English, and retranslate a passage from English into Odia.

In the viva on the language, I asked the names of the authors of some popular Odia books such as Nilasaila, Amadabata, Matiramanisha, Kaa, Sasthi, Narakinnar, Danapani, Paraja, etc or asked to name any three stories of Phakir Mohan Senapati. Amadabata, Matiramanisha, Kaa, Sasthi have been made into successful films. To my utter surprise, most of the candidates could not name the authors. To be precise, only two out of 60-65 candidates I asked could name the author of Nilasaila, (Nilasaila had won Kendra Sahitya Academy award for the author), and only one could tell the name of the author of Amadabata. No one of 70-75 candidates I asked knew the authors of Matiramanisha (Matiramanisha was made into a film by none other than the great film director, Mrinal Sen), Kaa, Sasthi or Narakinnar. Only two out of 70-75 candidates could tell three of the stories of Phakir Mohan Senapati.

Are the young people not supposed to have some knowledge on their rich literary tradition? Should they be so oblivious to their culture and tradition?

I asked one candidate, “Where do you belong to?”
He said, “Khurda”
“Have you heard the name of Sachi Routray?”
I asked this question to him because Sachi Routray, the great poet, Jnanapeeth award winner, regarded as trend setter in Odia poetry was born in Gurujang, a village very near to Khurda.
He replied, “Yes, perhaps, he is in politics.”
I asked, “Was he an MLA or MP or a Sarapanh of your gram panchayat? What…?”
He kept mum.
I said, “Get out.”

I remember a young man I met in 1999.

I was a Sales Tax Officer working in a circle office at Cuttack. A young man, V. George by mane appeared before me for a firm owned by a person of Keral. The firm had a branch at Cuttack and George was the accountant of the Cuttack branch. I examined the books of accounts of the firm, and to record his statement I asked him his name, age, his father’s name, his village, etc. He told his village Alleppey. I remarked, “Alleppey is a familiar place. I don’t remember exactly, but recently it was in news.”
George said, “Alleppey is the place where Thakazhi Sivasankar Pillai lived. He died recently; perhaps, you have come across the news of his death and read his obituary in the newspaper.”
I looked at him. There was a tinge of pride in his voice. He added, “I belong to the place where the great writer lived.”
George was at 23. He told his age when I had asked for the purpose of the statement I was recording. I became curious. A young man identified a place with a writer and took pride in saying he belonged to the place where a writer lived! If you ask a person of Cuttack about the city, he would say the place famous for its filigree work, it was the ancient capital of Odisha, the city boasted of the first college of Odisha, or anything; but no one would say this is the city where Sachi Routray lived or Jayant Mohapatra resides. The young man of Khurda even did not know who Sachi Routray was, though the great poet’s native is hardly two kms away from Khurda.
I asked George, “Have you read his books?”
He looked surprised. I could read from his look what he had in his mind. Perhaps, he thought the question was irrelevant, rather meaningless. Being an inhabitant of Keral he was supposed to have read the book and such silly question should not have been asked. I added, “I have read his Chemmeen, in English translation. I had enjoyed the novel. Of course, that is the only novel of the writer I have read.”
I clarified. He briefly told the story to convey that he had actually read the book and asked me what other books of Malayalam literature I had read. We discussed for some time on Malayalam literature, the books of other writers I had read. My knowledge on Malayalam literature was limited; I had read maximum one or two books of some of the writers, especially those available in English translation.
The advocate, an Odia gentleman who represented the firm and accompanied him, listened to our discussion and admitted that he had not even read five per cent of Odia literature to George’s reading of his language literature.
A few days later George came with two books of M T Vasudevan Nair. In course of discussion he knew the books of Malayalam literature I had read and what I had not. The books were in English translation. I said, “I had not told you to buy books for me?”
He said, “Sir, you are a lover of literature, please accept the books as gifts. You have read only a few stories of MT from magazines; you can better appreciate him and Malayalam literature if you read his novels.”
I saw the books. The cost of the two books was more than Rs 350. I said, “I would receive it, but you have to accept price of the books.”
His salary, I guessed, would be meagre. I know the amount the private firms like the one he represents pay their employees. Spending Rs 350, no doubt, was too much an expense for him for some sort of meaningless and sentimental reasons. But he was reluctant to accept payment. He said, “How can you say it a gift if you pay for the books. If you insist, I have to receive; but it will hurt me.”
I had to receive the valued gifts with much reluctance not to hurt his sentiments.
xxxxxxx

What’s in a name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell sweet”
-Shakespeare
In simple words, my teacher used to say, what‘s in a name, in any other name the rose smells the same. The great poet and playwright by this means and what we understand is what matters is what something is, not what it is called. There is much discussion on the subject and the two lines are much quoted. But I have not come across a discussion on what happens when two persons bear the same name. It definitely matters to the person bearing the name of another person, known and powerful. A very few persons might have the bitter/sweet experience as I have.

The officers of Orissa Finance Service have to pass Marwari language test. Since the business community in Odisha comprises a large chunk of Marwaris, the officers are required to know the language to study their books of accounts they maintain in their language. An officer of Orissa Administrative Service, then working as ADM in Sundargarh, had come to take the viva test. When I entered into the room, he offered me a seat and then, asked his first question, “Do you know any other person by the name Sahadev Sahoo?”
“Yes, there are three in Odisha… I know.” I replied.
“Three?” He looked surprised.
“Yes, sir. One Prof Sahadev Sahoo, the professor of SCB Medical College, who recently died of car accident. Second, Sahadev Sahoo I A S.” I said
“The third one?” He asked.
“Myself, I mean, the person sitting before you.” I replied
He could not control his laugh. Laughingly he said, “Write your name and the post held by the second Sahadev Sahoo.”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS was then Secretary to Government, Information and Public Relations Department. I wrote on a piece of paper in Marwari. My interview was over. He had awarded me the pass mark.

When I was a student in college/university I wanted to be a feature writer/columnist, to write on current affairs, comment on socio-political events. But destiny had some other things in store for me. I entered into government service and I learnt I could not write anything critical of the government policy. I could write only articles of academic nature. I gave up my ambition of writing features/articles on current events, and switched over to writing stories.
My stories got attention of the reading public. I received letters of appreciation from the readers, which encouraged me to continue with writing. Sometimes I received letters like this. “Sir, I read your story published in … magazine. I liked it. I have read your articles on daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps). But I did not know, you also write stories which are so beautiful….”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS is a philatelist. He was former Chief Secretary to Govt of Odisha and also former Vice Chancellor, Odisha University of Agriculture and Technology (OUAT). He writes essays, features on varied things. He has also written a few stories, but he is not known as a story writer. He wrote in the Samaj, one of the most popular and widely circulated Odia daily, a regular column titled daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps) for quite a long time. The above letter writers mistook my stories as his as he was famous and a popular person.
To the above letter-writers I wrote back just to dispel their misgivings, “Thanks for the letter, glad to know you liked the story. But I am not Sahadev Sahoo IAS, the philatelist, though I have written this story.”
I did not get back any letter after I clarified them, which created doubts in my mind whether the story I wrote was really good! Was the letter addressed to me was neither for me nor for the story, but for the former Chief Secretary and Vice Chancellor?

In the year 1999, my first collection of short stories was published. An eminent writer was invited to the book release function held at Puri. The function was organised by my friend, Pradeep Biswal, the poet. The eminent writer told me,“Honestly speaking, I had not read your story till I got invited to the function. I was under the impression that the IAS Sahadev Sahoo was writing the stories. He is an essayist, a feature writer, but not a good story writer. I did not want to waste my time on reading his stories. Recently, after I got invited, I chanced upon your story in nabalipi. Of course, your photograph was also published. I have read only one story of yours. That was good.”

A few years back SAMBAD had published in every month the dates of births of the Odia writers/poets. My date of birth, as recorded in my certificate, is 10th January. In the month of January of that year SAMBAD had mentioned my name against 10th January, but had published the photograph of Sahadev Sahoo IAS. His date of birth is, perhaps, not 10th January.

Gobind Chand, a journalist cum writer has published his research work on contribution of Jhankar to Odia literature. All the stories published in the name of Sahadev Sahoo in Jhankar by the time the book was published, both mine as well as his, have been mentioned against Sahadev Sahoo. Credit of all the stories goes to one person, and definitely it would go to the IAS.

There are many similar incidents occurring since last twenty/twenty-five years.

A few months back, Neelkain, an Odia literary magazine honoured me as a story writer in a function organised at Bhubaneswar. I was given two minutes to speak my reactions. I spoke about the confusion being created bearing the same name with a known and familiar person, an IAS officer. My daughter was in the audience. She told me later that a person sitting beside her was saying to his friend, “I also believe the same. Sahadev Sahoo, IAS writes the stories. Who is this fellow? First time I am hearing there is another person by the name Sahadev Sahoo.”
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Living in Two Worlds

Last Sunday, I got a phone call when I was preparing to go to Bhubaneswar, to the site to see my house under construction. It was a woman’s voice. She introduced herself, “I am one of the readers of your stories.”
I was in a different mood, so I could not get at her. I did not react immediately. She understood and explained, “I just finished your story published in SAMBAD’s annual special issue and I wanted to talk to you.”
She was telling about the story seshachithi (the last letter) I had referred to in my blog ‘A Love Story Retold’.
I asked, “Where did you get my phone number?”
I do not usually publish my phone number along with the story in any magazine like other writers do. I cannot always attend to the call if it comes. Normally, I keep my cell phone in silent mode if I am with my boss or in a meeting. If the phone is not in silent mode and I am in a meeting or with the boss discussing something I immediately switch off when it starts ringing. The caller would certainly feel offended and mistake me as haughty and arrogant.
She said, “In fact I had read the story yesterday. I was so moved by the story that I wanted to talk to you. I got your phone number from SAMBAD office. Today I reread the story and just finished it.”
A writer desires his/her writing should be appreciated; he certainly likes to be praised. Her phone call, no doubt, gladdened my heart.
She asked, “Is it from your own life? I mean… an affair of your school…college days?”
I said, “No Ma’am. The main character of the story is an aged person; he is on the verge of retirement or has already retired. But I am not as old as the character in the story. That is a story, a work of fiction, certainly not my story.”
She said, “The story is excellent, especially the way you have ended. It appears as if it’s yours, a real love story. The language is very simple; I have already read it twice.”
Her eloquence in praising made me shy. To change the topic I asked about her. I learnt she was a teacher, working in Charampa, Bhadrak. I thanked her and switched off the cell phone.
I went to Bhubaneswar, argued with the contractor, got irritated for the slow progress of the construction, paid to him his weekly payment, fretted over the increasing cost of construction materials. I returned home hungry, ate a late lunch and slept. A day passed. I forgot the woman caller’s name. I had not also saved her phone number.

Ten years back. My third book, a collection of short stories (Nija batare nije i.e. all are in their own ways) was just published.
I had finished my eating and was about to go to the office when my land phone started ringing. (Then mobile phone was not commonly used and I did not have one). It was also a woman’s voice. She introduced herself in the same way, “I am one of the readers of your stories. I just finished your book.”
“May I know your name?” I asked.
I was pleased to hear a woman’s voice, an admirer of my stories. I wanted to know more about her. But instead of answering my question, she asked, “Do you know the names of all of your readers? Certainly not. So, why should you want to know my name?”
“It’s true; I don’t know all of my readers. I don’t know if I have at all any readers. But all don’t call up me. It is not unusual to be curious to know the person who gives me a ring.”
She laughed, I was amused.
She said, “You need not be curious about me, I shall not tell my name. But I assure, you have a good readership, your stories are liked by many. We, I mean, me and my friends have really enjoyed your book. In fact, we were discussing…”
I said, “Are you a student, staying in a hostel?”
“Don’t be smart… I shall not give any hints…”
“You have already given me hints without being conscious of it.’
“No, you are wrong. Even you assume me a student, staying in a hostel; you don’t know my name, the college or the hostel. Leave it. Please answer my question. Are you the character of your stories? The stories are so lively and beautiful, it seems, the writer is writing his own experience. We thoroughly enjoyed the stories…”
The book, nija batare nije contains fifteen stories. The main character of all the stories is one. His name is Manas. The character is the same in all the stories, but situations and events are different. Different event and situation make a different story with Manas as the protagonist. I asked, “There are two kinds of stories in that book. Some stories give the picture of an organisation, its ugly face and hypocrisy of the persons working for it. The other stories depict the escapades of the main character, Manas; his affairs with women other than his wife, even with married women. Which kind of stories of the book you like?”
She giggled, then took a pause, thought for a few seconds and said, “That’s the beauty of the stories. Your protagonist is an honest, upright and a committed person, but at the same time, he does not bear a moral character in traditional sense of the tern. Very pragmatic, not an ideal type, a true lover, any woman will like.”
I was really tempted to say the character is no one but me. But I said, “I am getting late. Please leave with me your phone number, I shall call you back.”
She said, “No, thank you. I know you are a sincere officer, very punctual and also dedicated to your duty. But I shall not give you my phone number. I shall call you again.”
She hung up the phone.
I went to the office. I was late. My boss had already enquired about me. When I met him he started reprimanding me for a draft. He said, “Is it the way a proposal should be drafted? Sometimes you do without application of mind…. “
The woman caller evaporated from my mind. I am yet to receive her promised second call.
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Anna, Corruption and Government Servants

My daughter does not like Anna. She knows that Anna fights against corruption, he is committed to cleansing the society of the ills, and he has dedicated his life for the betterment of the people. Still she does not like him for the cap he wears. To her Gandhi cap is synonymous with hypocrisy and corruption.
Things were different during my childhood. I was born twelve years after India had attained her independence. Freedom fighters were seen moving with Gandhi caps on their heads, and living with their Ganhian principles. The persons in Gandhi caps were respected. Teachers in the class spoke of Gandhism and preached that the man should live for others, do something for improving the society. They cited the examples of the dedicated leaders, freedom fighters who had sacrificed their comforts for the nation, neglected their family and children for the country and its people.
They wore Gandhi caps.
Mahendra, my friend once said, “When first time I came to Bhubaneswar, after I got down from the bus, I took a pinch of Bhubaneswar dust and smeared on my forehead. Because, the great persons-MLAs and Ministers- has walked over the earth of Bhubaneswar. Then, most of the MLAs and Ministers were former freedom fighters. I had heard from my teacher, a minister was going to the Assembly and to the Secretariat riding a bicycle. A former Chief Minister after demitting office was seen riding a bicycle. The earth of Bhubaneswar I considered as sacred as Gangajal.”
Mahendra was disillusioned soon after he entered into government service in the later part of eighties of the last century. He joined forest service and found there nexus between timber mafia and the forest people. The forest mafia thrived with active support of the politicians. Being a man of principle, he could not tolerate the loot of the jungle and tried to enforce law. He did not get cooperation from his own people and on the other hand, he was threatened by the mafia. He only created enemies. At one time, he perceived the danger to his life and saw he could no longer work there. He approached the forest minister. The minister had learned about him from his own sources and said, “I shall transfer you from that place. But I cannot help you always. You have to amend your ways. You are an honest officer. It is okay; but that does not mean you should try to prevent others from becoming dishonest. That’s as simple as that. You will be always in trouble, if you enforce your principles and honesty on others. Don’t try to become a second Gandhi. Gandhi was killed when he was old, you would be killed young.”
He was transferred as Assistant Conservator of Forest coincidentally to the place where I was working as Treasury Officer. We were happy to be reunited after our university days. We would engage ourselves hours together in small talks over cups of tea; go with our families on picnic at least once in a month. But he looked most of the times depressed and absentminded. He would often say, ‘I should not be in this job.” But he also could not do anything else, considering his family background, he could never risk for anything else at that point in his life. At that time also his wife was expecting their first child.
When we met he told me about his office matters. The forest range officer, subordinate to him, had unofficial and informal relation with the DFO, his senior. He had scant regard for him. The Range officer was also on intimate relation with the local MLA. The local MLA, formerly a jungle mafia, earned his wealth by timber-smuggling. One day Mahendra seized a vehicle carrying smuggled logs. The MLA intervened, but he did not listen. The DFO ordered him to release the vehicle without booking a case. The DFO told that the Chief Conservator had telephoned him to tell him in this matter. He had to release the vehicle.
After this incident, one day the MLA called Mahendra to meet him at the PWD bungalow. When he reached, the MLA told him to sit in front of him. Without saying anything more, he opened his briefcase, took out a revolver, checked the bullets, cleaned the revolver with his handkerchief and put it back in the briefcase. Then he said, “Mahendra Babu, you know, our paths are different. You were a brilliant student, otherwise you would not have qualified PSC exam to become an officer. But I was a school dropout. We have different backgrounds, we play with different toys. You have just seen the toy I play with. Your toys must be different. If we play with our respective toys, I need not explain, you know what would be the consequence….”
Later, Mahendra described before me the way the MLA spoke and laughed. He remarked, “The MLA must be an action movie buff.”
But after some months, he went mad. He thought everybody who went to him was conspiring to kill him. He sat with a loaded rifle, supplied to the forest department by the government, and threatened to kill if anyone would dare go near him. The psychiatrist diagnosed him to be suffering from one kind of paranoid psychosis.
Another sad incident happened during that period when I was the Treasury Officer. A BDO committed suicide. He was honest, hardworking and a committed officer. For his uncompromising nature, the chairman of the Panchayat Samiti harassed him; the Collector did not support him, and the Minister who was on a visit to the area humiliated him in public. It was also rumoured that his wife had betrayed him. I was shocked. I wrote a story on the incident of the BDO’s suicide. The story was published in Katha under the caption Chakravyuha. In the story, a character says, “In the present system, an honest officer will either go mad or commit suicide.”
I do not dislike Anna for the Gandhi cap he wears. But I do not expect much from the movement he leads. Will Anna’s Jan Lokpal protect honest and committed government servants against an MLA with a revolver and the kind of DFO and Co and allow him to work for the people?
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A Love Story Retold

Mr P is my friend. Every day we meet during our morning walk. He retired from government service in 2006 after rendering 34 years of service. He admires my stories and reads whatever I write whenever he chances upon it. A few months back while doing our ‘brisk morning walk’ he suggested, “Why doesn’t you write a story on me?”
“On you?” I could not get him.
“Yes, on me. I had a love affair, just after I had completed my Matriculation. It had lasted exactly four years and three months. But we were intensely in love with each other. “
Everybody loves to read a love story. The story may be Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Chetan Bhagat’s 2 State Story of my Marriage. Irrespective of nation, language, region, age or time, a love story always interests a person.
I said, “You have to tell me.”
And he told me his love story. He took the whole one hour we did our morning walk to describe his story with all the tit bits. He must have replayed his story many times in his mind during the last 40 years; otherwise he could not have made the story so interesting. In fact, I enjoyed the hour listening him without any feeling of fatigue for the ‘brisk walking’.
It was just a usual love affair in the sixties between two young persons who belonged to two different castes. Since their castes were different and also social standing of their parents in the village, the affair could not be translated into marriage. They had to succumb to social pressure, and part their ways.
I wrote a story based on his affair. The story is published under the caption ‘seshachithi’ (the last letter) in the anniversary special issue of SAMBAD, 2011.
I got a phone call at 10.30 in the night. I do not entertain any call after eight. But it was Mr P, my morning walker friend. He said, “Sorry to disturb you. I know you don’t like to be disturbed after eight, but I could not wait till the morning. I just finished your story. It’s really excellent…. the way you have ended the story… I don’ find words to describe it. It’s one of the four or five best stories of Odia literature I would always remember …”
Of course, I was pleased. But I felt he was over rating the story, it might not be as good as he described. I said, “It’s your story, that’s why it interests you. Others may not appreciate it…”
He stopped, took pause. Perhaps, he could not believe me. He said, “Maybe, that’s a point. But I think it’s really a good story. You will get good response from others… definitely… I am sure...”
I did not want to discuss on the subject more in the night. I said, “Okay, we shall meet tomorrow.”
I switched off the cell phone.
The next day in the morning we met. He again eulogised me and the story. He said, “I gave you a skeleton, but you injected life and put the soul. You have added something which I had not told you. But those were my real feelings at that point in time and in that kind of situations…. It’s really amazing... how could you imagine other’s feelings exactly …”
To change the discussion I said, “But I committed a mistake. I have changed the names of the characters. But I forgot to substitute some names for Manas and Manasi.”
Manas and Manasi were the code names they were addressing each other in their letters though Mr P and his lady love’s names were different. I had substituted some other names for Mr P and his lady love in the story, but forgot about Manas and Manasi. Of course, besides Mr P and his lover, the code names were only known to two of his closest friend and his wife. Yes, his wife knew the affair. He had burnt all of her letters except one. Somehow one letter out of a trunk full he had received during their affair of four years and three months had escaped the destruction. And that letter reached the hand of his wife who could discover the real Manas of Manasi with little investigation.
He said, “No, rather you have done the right thing in not changing the code names. She may chance upon the story. After all, Smbad’s anniversary magazine is widely circulated, she may get to read it and….”
In the story Mr P has met his lover after a gap of thirty three years, but in real life they have not met till now after they had parted their ways forty years back.
I looked at him. He stopped and did not complete the sentence.
Mr P is now at 63. His wife would be at 60.
“And…” I asked.
He smiled. I understood.
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Odia Puja magazines

In the seventies and early eighties of the last century when I was a student in the School and later in the College I was eagerly waiting for the Durga puja holidays. Durga puja was a great festival of Orissa. The Government employees got the longest holidays during this time. But it was not observed in our village with the fanfare as it was observed in Cuttack or in some other towns. I was not a devotee of the Goddess either. I was eagerly waiting for the Puja as Odia literary magazines brought out their special issues on this occasion. When I was in the school – our school was in a remote village- I would come to Cuttack to buy the magazines. Jhankar was a must and besides, I used to buy Asantakali, Nabarabi and some other magazines. The magazines were thicker with more stories, and some of those also published complete novels. After the School/College reopened, I would have enough material for a few days’ enjoyment. I enjoyed most reading a good story or a novel.

My waiting for the Puja has been a habit with me since those days. Asantakali stopped its publication. Nabarabi was also stopped; but after some years, it is published again. Jhankar continues its publication being the oldest surviving odia literary magazine. Now the number of odia magazines published during the Puja has increased.

With development in printing technology, the get up/lay out of the magazines has improved. It now looks nicer and more attractive. Exact figure is not available with me, but the number of odia literary magazines hitting the stands during the Puja is around a hundred. Of course, ninety-five per cent of the magazines published during the Puja disappear from the market, and are not seen whole of the year.

There is always complaint that the readership of odia literature has greatly reduced and most of the odia people have no longer any interest in odia literature. On being asked, the writers writing in odia cite the example of the Puja magazines. They say, almost all the magazines published during the Puja are sold out. Sambad, the odia daily, publishes its annual anniversary issue and it claims to printing more than one hundred thousand copies. There are some monthly magazines like Kadambinini, Katha which print more than twenty thousand copies. On a rough estimate, the total number of copies of all the magazines would be around two lakh. But it does not imply that two lakh persons buy odia literary magazines. For example, each year I usually buy around ten Puja special issues. The person who has interest in literature cannot be satisfied with one magazine, and usually he, on an average, buys more than two-three magazines.

During my student days, some of my favourite writers were Manoj Das, Santanu Acharya, Mahapatra Nilamani Sahoo, Rabi Pattanaik, Bibhuti Pattanaik, Jagannath Prasad Das, Chandrasekhar Rath, Pratibha Ray, Ramachandra Behara, Padmaj Pal, Kanheilal Das, Jagdish Mihanty, etc. Some of them have passed away, and some of them have stopped writing. Some talented writers have come to the odia literary scene. New writers are coming to the literary field every year. Some of the old writers have been deleted and some new ones have taken their places in the list of my favourites. Comparing the present writing with that of the past there is not only change in theme and content, but also in style and presentation. But my interest in literature remains the same; I still wait for the Puja for the Puja special odia magazines.
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Living in dream

Images intrude into the mind
Clash with the worries
Broken into pieces
Like reflections on a broken mirror

Picture of a bride suddenly changes
Sindoor is wiped off her forehead
Bangles of her hand broken
Bereft of color, she turns into white

In search of the nest
One has already traveled
Two-third of the way
The nest is not to be seen
It’s still far away

Commanding look of the boss
Dejected face of the self
Savage apparitions of the wishes
Unusual thick humid stagnant autumn air

Keep sleep at a distance

In the wee hours of the morning
Mind refuses to think
Eyes rebel
I slide into a dream

Birds chirp
Bell rings in the temple
Waves play on the beach
Cool wind blows from the south

As she appears
Emanating peace and tranquility
I refuse to come out of the dream

*******

When life ends before it begins…

They celebrated their first marriage anniversary on 4 July 11.
Buni was expecting; the doctor had predicted the birth of the child in the second week of September. Pradeep, her husband was negotiating with a builder to buy an apartment. They would shift from the rented house to their own apartment after their child was born, and set up their own dream home.
On 7th September, Pradeep had a temperature. Dengue had taken the form of an epidemic. There was news of dengue related deaths every day in the daily newspapers. He consulted a doctor of a Nursing Home. The doctor got tested his blood sample and also did other tests. The reports of all the tests were negative. The doctor prescribed medicine for the fever and said, “No need of taking admission in the Nursing Home. Go home, take medicines. Complete rest will get you well within three four days.”
The temperature remitted after he took medicines, but it relapsed after one or one and half hours. The next day, on the 8th, the temperature touched 102 degree plus in the thermometer. He telephoned the doctor. The doctor assured, “Don’t worry. It is only the second day. Viral fever normally takes at least a week to be cured. Continue with the medicines. You will be well within three four days.”
On the 9th, he had unbearably high temperature. He was taken to the same Nursing Home. But on the way to the Nursing Home he became unconscious. The doctor of the Nursing Home said, “We don’t have vacant bed for the patient,” and advised to take the patient to SCB Medical College and Hospital.
The scene at the SCB was depressing.
The SCB is always overcrowded with patients. A large number of patients are on the veranda of the Medicine Ward; sleeping, some of them are seen on drips and their attendants sitting beside them. People, the near and dear ones of the patients would be running hither and thither. There is always allegation of callousness and carelessness of the doctors in any Govt Hospital. Sometimes, the doctors’ behaviour precipitates into violence; after death of the patient, the close relatives physically assault the attending doctor, and are beaten in return by the doctors. The doctors go on strike against such violence and demand action against the culprits, and as a permanent solution, demand enough protection. Taking into account the large number of patients and disproportionately less number of the doctors, the helplessness of the doctors is understandable.
Pradeep was admitted in the Medicine Ward. He was put on drips. He regained consciousness, but not fully. He could open his eyes, recognise the persons, but could not comprehend properly. He was, perhaps, administered some medicine, but what and what for, his relatives could not know. There was no discernible improvement in his condition. His relatives had a feeling that he was not properly attended to. The doctors were irritable when asked anything, and their behaviour was certainly very rude. When one of his relatives asked, “What has happened? What ailment he is suffering from?” Their answer was, “What do you know? I am the doctor or you are?” and the doctor turned his face away as if the person asking were not a human being, but an ugly beast or something like that.
Buni felt labour pain. The same day she was admitted in the Gynaecology Ward of the SCB Medical.
The next day, on the 10th, condition of Pradeep deteriorated. His relatives were desperate. The doctors were unresponsive. His relatives were not sure whether or not their patient was being treated properly. One of his relatives, himself a doctor serving in a periphery Govt hospital, visited him and inquired into the case. He observed, “There is no transparency; the patient’s attendants should know the disease he is treated for and the medicines he is being administered. That instils confidence in the treatment. The doctor may prescribe the medicines; patient’s relatives shall buy, so that they will be reassured…” He went to the doctor on duty and suggested the same. The young doctor on duty, a PG student, replied, “He is treated properly. There is no provision that a patient would purchase the medicine. The Hospital is giving the right kind of medicine.”
The patient might be treated properly; the Hospital might be providing the right kind of medicine. But what’s about the quality of the medicine? There are also news, one often come across, about poor quality of medicine supplied to Govt Hospitals by the unscrupulous suppliers in connivance with certain corrupt officials. One reads such kind of scandals in the newspapers!
The doctor-relative remarked, “He is very arrogant and also misbehaving. I was his senior, still he behaves like this. A few months back he was also beaten by a patient’s relatives, and there was much hullabaloo. Better, you take the patient to a private nursing home.”
The doctor-relative told that Pradeep had cerebral malaria.
The friends, relatives, acquaintances who heard of his illness thronged to the SCB to see him. One of his relatives has a doctor-friend serving as Asst Professor in Berhampur. He requested him whether he could help the patient in any way. The Asst Professor was a lecturer in the SCB before he got promoted and posted to Berhampur. The Asst Professor asked about the Unit in which the patient was admitted and the Professor heading the Unit. When he heard the Unit and name of its head, he said, “That Professor is very arrogant and irritable. Instead of listening to any one, he would rather be annoyed.” And he told once his own uncle had gone to the Hospital and he, by the way, dropped his name. The Professor got annoyed and rebuked his uncle. The Asst Professor added, “But he is a good doctor. He does not neglect in his duty.” That was the only solace.
On the 10th, Buni gave birth to a son in the Gynaecology Ward. Pradeep was informed about his becoming a father. He asked, “Has the child been administered injections?” and then, he lost consciousness.
Pradeep’s condition further aggravated. The next day, on 11th, he was taken to ICU and put on ventilator. Dialysis had to be done for functioning of his kidney. But the instrument the SCB had took eleven hours for a dialysis.
The doctors of the SCB did dialysis once and then, his relatives took Pradeep to Appollo Hospital, Bhubaneswar. In Apollo, the dialysis took four hours. Dialysis had, now, to be done regularly.
The doctors of the Apollo gave hope, they told he would survive.
After a few days the ventilator was put off, but dialysis continued in regular interval. The Asst Professor told recovery would be fast after the ventilator was put off.
But on 28th, the patient’s condition suddenly deteriorated, the right side of his body turned paralytic, he was again put on ventilator. On 29th, at around 5.30 pm, he breathed his last.
Buni is my niece, the only daughter of my wife’s sister. She is at 27, Pradeep was at 31. Their marriage was only one year old; their son is only 21 days old when his father died.
I visited my wife’s sister on last Sunday, 2nd October. I asked her father, “Where is Buni?”
He replied, “She is now in her in law’s house.”
“How could you send her to her in law’s house in such a condition?” I could not believe.
He said, “What can I do? There is a social custom; the wife has to see the face of her dead husband before the dead body is cremated. Vermilion has to be wiped off her forehead; bangles of her hands have to be broken…”
I could not have patience to listen more. I wanted to meet Buni, but now I did not have the courage to face her.
I cannot forgive the doctors of the SCB Medical College and Hospital. Of course, they meet every day hundreds of such patients, but Buni had only one patient, her husband who died, her parents has lost their only son in law, their only daughter is now a widow.
I feel hatred against such a cruel social custom that put a grieving wife to such a painful trauma.
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Rain, Flood and My School days

News of flood reminds me of my school days.
In class VI we were asked to write an essay on ‘Our School’ in ten lines and we were taught to write the first three lines like this:
1. The name of our school is Jagulaee High School
2. Our school is situated on the bank of river Kelua
3. There is an embankment in front of our school
So, the school was situated between the river and an embankment. Not only our school, but also three other villages were situated in between the river and the embankment. The purpose of the embankment was to protect villages against flood, but the embankment constructed to protect other villages against the flood of river Kelua put the school and the three villages more in danger of high flood. The danger point of Brahmani (of which Kelua is a branch) at Jenapur is 67 feet, but, we knew, when the water level of Brahmani touched 64 feet at Jenapur, Kelua overflowed and flood water entered into our School campus.
It was 1975. I was in class XI. The school did not have a hostel. Three teachers were staying without their families in the school campus. I was sharing a room with one of the teachers. Shankar, the peon cum cook appointed on contractual basis in a monthly salary of a paltry sum of Rs 30 and free meals, cooked for us.
It was the month of July. One morning I woke up to find it was raining. The rain had started in the night and there was heavy downpour. That was the first depression rain of the season.
I liked rain and my favourite season was rainy season. Those days were happy days. The chasses generally remained suspended as the students could not come to the school. I enjoyed watching rain falling on the grass and leaves of the trees and hearing the sound of the fall of rain drops. I picked up a story book or a novel and read sitting in a class room alone and watching fall of rain drops on long leaves of the coconut trees of the campus, and rambled on in the world of my imagination.
The downpour continued unabated. In the third day by evening there was a slight change in the weather. The downpour gave way to drizzling. During those days the medium of communication with the outside world was radio. We had one. We listened to the regional news to know about rain and flood situation. But at that time the radio we had was out of order, and it required repair. One of our teachers asked Shankar to go to the river and see the water level. It was evening. Shankar without going wrongly reported that the water level had hardly touched the half mark. Since it was the first depression rain of the season and the river was almost empty before the rain started, Shankar bluffed assuming the situation might not be that serious. Later, we learnt that water level of Brahmani at Jenapur had touched 72, much above the danger point.
We slept after we had our night meals. At about 12 in the night, one of the three teachers got up hearing murmuring sound of the water entering into school campus. He wakened others. Our school had a new one storied building. We took our things from our rooms to the roof of the new building. We had hardly finished carrying the things to the roof, water entered into the office and class rooms. Of course, one of our teachers with help of Shankar had arranged the records of the office and science instruments on the top of the almirahs so as to protect those getting drenched and damaged in flood water.
The rain stopped; there was sunshine in the morning. But water was everywhere. From the nearby village, two milkman families came and took shelter on the roof along with us. Flood water had damaged the mud walls of their houses which collapsed. With much difficulty they waded across the water, the male members carrying the children on their shoulders and the women carrying whatever they could save and carry from the flood water. Among them was Sanju who was my classmate. She had dropped out of the school after class VII. Her father who eked out a living by rearing buffalos and selling milk, butter and ghee, could not afford to fund for her further study. Moreover, in those days and in the rural area, importance was not given for girls’ education.
I was very pleased to see Sanju. She had grown up; the frock she wore was tight for her body. Perhaps, she used to wear frock at home, but saree when she came out to go somewhere. But it was a different situation. She had to come out of the house to save her life and had no scope or means to change her dress. She looked beautiful. I was then at 16, she would be at 16 or more.
Sanju’s mother took over cooking; the woman of the other family and Sanju helped her. We had a kerosene stove, and also kerosene in stock. Shankar provided them the stove, and supplied rice, dal and vegetables whatever was with us. They cooked rice and dalema for all the persons taken shelter on the roof top. It was a kind of feast despite the flood and adversity. Sanju was very shy, perhaps, for the dress and the adversity they were in. She was avoiding eye contact with me.
In the evening I felt severe cold and headache. My teacher touched my forehead and said it was fever. I had to take rest. Shankar prepared a bed on the roof. I slept looking at the sky. Shankar covered me with a blanket. I was too tired that day for being busy whole day in carrying and arranging the things and doing other things in mud and water. I went into sleep immediately.
I woke up in the morning with a touch on my forehead and saw Sanju examining whether or not I had fever. She wore a sweet smile on her lips and a soft look on her eyes. Her face looked like the face of Goddess Durga. She happily declared, “You don’t have temperature, you are cured of fever.” Her mother said, “Wake up, brush your teeth, eat a handful of chuda and drink a cup of tea. You will feel invigorated.”
Later that day, Shankar told me that I was running with high temperature and was in a delirious condition. Sanju’s mother heated garlic with mustard oil and massaged my feet, palms and legs with the oil mixed with garlic. Sanju put a handkerchief soaked with water on my forehead. Both Sanju and her mother had nursed me; Sanju had not slept the whole night, she was sitting beside my bed.
The rain had stopped. The flood water receded. Sanju and her family left for their homes leaving behind a warm memory of a sweet smile, soft look in a Goddess like face.
This year there is heavy downpour of depression rain followed by flood in river Brahmani, Baitarani, Kharasrota and Kelua. Flood has devastated the districts of Jajpur and Kendrapara. TV camera shows the submerged fields, villages with temples and homes. I could guess the situation of my school sitting here at Cuttack. There are reports that this year the flood situation is worse than that of 1975. Flood water would have nearly touched the roof of the school building. All of my school teachers have retired. They are with their sons and families. Some of new teachers of the school might be staying in the school campus. The school has improved. It now boasts of a big two storied building. If a few teachers were there, they would not be facing the same problem we faced 36 years back. No one might have also come to take shelter in the school building as most of the people have now concrete houses. They have their own roofs to take shelter.
But where would be Sanju now? That Goddess like face with a sweet smile on her lips and soft look on her eyes are still fresh in my memory.
xxxxxxxxxx

Waiting for her

(2)
Akrur has not come with the chariot
Buffalo has not visited my dreams
Crow has not cawed on the roof top
The announcer has not beaten his drums
The post and telegraph department
Has not brought any message
Still
South breeze stops blowing
The flowers of the trees wilt
A lull after the storm pervades the market
Coconut trees stand
Like sentries standing
Beside the dead body of the assassinated prime minister

I know
The time of your visit has come

I open the door
Queen of nights have fallen
Like someone has decorated the path
To welcome his dearest one
The soft morning sun has dispelled the mist
The path snakes towards the horizon

The path eagerly waits for her promised visit
To set her foot and walk on its chest

I sit on the veranda of my house
To receive her

I know
If you come
You will come through the back door
That I have kept open

xxxxxx

Waiting for her

(1)
You are coming
I have the news
Today or in the next month
Tomorrow or in the next year
You have not fixed the date and time
But I am sure
You are coming

Today she came
To the office on official work
I had been waiting for this day
Since long ago
She had been always in my mind

She is today as she was
When I first met her years ago
She wore a smile on her face
Her eyes gave off a feeling of many untold stories
I found her the way
I expected to find her

I have many things to tell
Things inside me competed with each other
To come out first
But words failed
I could not tell
Felt pain in my chest

How could I tell in the office?
Amidst the known and unknown faces
My voice would have been drowned
In the words like ‘yes sir’, ‘thank you’?

She looked at me
Her look pierced into my eyes
And from my eyes into my heart

She told at the time of parting
She would come again
This time
Not to the office on official work

I am afraid
You might visit me
Before she comes again

xxxxx

Mumbai on a rainy day

Train reaches the station
Ends excitement
An unknown fear grips
Giving rise to anxiety

Black clouds hover over Mumbai sky
Terrible downpour floods the city lanes
A car met an accident
The injured driver taken to hospital

She pervades everywhere, everything
Black clouds and incessant rain
The damaged car and the injured man
The lonely moments and waking hours

The wind soaked with rain
Touches the body
That wets the mind and
Sets ablaze the heart

The unending rain and the stormy wind
Being incapable of extinguishing the fire within

*******