NOT A SHORT STORY NOT A MEMOIR SOME CONCERN ABOUT A NICE THING PROPOSED.

Dt.29.07.2014.
Statue of Sardar Patel. My views, what are yours?
     In Manoj Das`s literature in more than one places and recently the same in some other writer`s article what I read, I am putting here to open my views on the proposed statue of a great man, the original and only one iron man of my country in modern days, he is Sardar Patel, the enemy less. He delivered his task to his dear country probably in the most perfect way humanly possible that no one else at independence was capable enough to do, uniting the great many princely states. I believe there is absolutely no controversy in feeling him the strongest man to be an Indian.
     In a misty winter post dawn a beggar in his rags stood by the side of an important road in USSR, the soldiers marched en route turned their head side wise and paid salute that amused the beggar, for a moment he enjoyed his importance before questioning the reason. He looked back, and was astonished how he could forget the statue of Lenin where he spent years and which the soldiers saluted.
      How dramatically things changed, after Glasnost and Perestroika USSR dissolved and the same statue was broken by none other than the countrymen of that great nation Russia not by any CIA or any other outside agency within the same 20th century. How beautifully R K Narayanan had touched it in his story Lawley Road in Malgudy Days much before things happened.
      The statue or crafted out image at Bamiyan on mountain, of Lord Budhha was damaged by the madness of the Taliban. Real history can be more absurd than any unthinkable fiction.
      Sardar`s statue as proposed by the prime ministerial candidate of a major political party Mr. NAMO in his won state which is also Sardar`s native state was nothing illogical as a matter of honoring people worshiped by masses, this is our culture. Now he is Indian PM and already done some budgetary provision to build the statue shows he is a committed man and should be regarded for it as keeping commitment by political people had become a rarity. So I must put forward my views with utmost regard.
       We must not compare some other greats like Pandit Nehru and the merit or demerit of seeing Patelji as our first PM as this never is going to happen and it only comes from devil`s mind who can enjoy imagining the fight of ghosts of two mutually admiring historical greats of our nation. I am aware of the fact that now a day’s so many people are not sparing our first prime minister, and even criticizing the father of the nation as they perceive he favored Panditji, my personal opinion with my little knowledge is that the available resources were properly placed in the right portfolios and they performed with great responsibility, honesty, dignity, dedication and passion. Of course no one out stood our then home minister considering the complicated scenario that he solved with steel nerves. So honoring him is a thing of absolute support, but comparison is bad work. Competing with height of the statue of liberty is madness; liberty is so supreme a virtue that cannot be measured by any height, statesmanship (of the iron man) is such a great attribute that cannot be measured by the height of a statue. So this competition is foolishness.
      Building this statue should not be seen as an isolated event, we do not end here, it will begin a serial as long as an Indian TV soap that never ends. Yes there will be all the, 33 corer of Gods, all prime ministers, all the freedom fighters, Tagoreji, Netaji, Mohatma, Vivekananda, Saibabas, Sriaurobinda, Ambedkar, at least 4 greats from each states, all the noble laureates, all the Sahid Virs, Hokey and cricket greats, other sporting stars, Lataji, Amitav, and of course Rajanikant so many greats in different fields in such a vast country. May be India will be the country of tall statues.
Those who think my view is a joker`s stuff please remember how Mayabatiji started doing a park of statues not very long ago.
      Certainly Odisha will do statues of Kings of Ganga dynasty, Samrat Kharavel, Madhubabu,VSS, MKCG, SCB, FM, Gopabandhu, and of course Biju the lion. So wise men be careful, you may do a thing but do not bring a sense of comparison or competition that never ends.
      A Kohli always comes better than a Sachin.
     What is my opinion? We cannot retreat from the plan, it will be insulting, but certainly it should be outside Gujrat, may be in Hyderabad near Nizam`s, or near Raja Harisingh`s palace in Kasmir, or may be at national Capital. Why? As this can easily be done for this loved national figure. This is not possible for lesser greats. This will increase the importance of the proposal, will shed the parochial angle. More ever I suggest its height should be slightly smaller than the statue of liberty to give a statement that we are not competing which will avoid the competition chain reaction as suggested above. More ever there should be collective decision and guide line in this regard to end any possible madness in future.
Once I opened a TV program, to my amazement it was Atalji`s those lines which meant ,"Oh God do not take me to that height that I should feel lonely". NAMOji ask Mr Patel`s soul if you can, you can listen the same lines of Atalji he must utter. A Hanuman would feel shy if his height is done more than that of his master Lord Rama. NAMOji if you still do not understand then imagine in the coming days if someone plans NAMOji`s statue in front of Sardar at a higher level or say in front of Atalji or a Shyama Prasad Mukherji.
     Sadhu Sabadhan, wise men you are warned by a small man like me as I feel it is my patriotic national duty. I am sure I am a Gynaecologist not a Psychiatrist .

     Certainly Sardarji is not greater than The Budha. Are we not behaving like the above said beggar at the shadow of the Sardar?                                      JAY HIND.

TWO MASTERS A hati series story.

Dt – 24 – 05 – 2014 Two Masters

    On Dr Manas Ranjan Sahoo the eminent surgeon`s photograph with the living legend Mr Sunil Manohar Gavaskar , I wrote little master squire. Dr Sahoo “Senapati you are joking”.

    The story teller Dr Hati entered as usual with his cracking laughter ha ha ha ha and viewed my FB interaction. He told, “Yes you are correct Senapati ,Manas matched the legend, better you listen this real life story of mine, ha ha…”. 3^rd story… of Hati series.

      Dr Hati was attending his uncle under treatment at Tata Memorial Hospital Mumbai, from where he flew to Bangalore to receive his sick uncle`s literary award from a prestigious linguistic institution. He was handpicked by his uncle as Hati follows his research work in Odiya literature that fetched the award.

     There was no story in receiving the award for his uncle`s boiling midnight oil, in the most descent mannerism. He being the dummy was not the subject of interest and he liked every body`s wish for uncle`s quick recovery although his inside doctor knew it is terminal. He returned.

     The air ticket sponsored to him was of higher, class not of cow`s class that put him in discomfort. Hati never travelled in this class where he found Rahul Dravid by his side, there were Tharoor, Sova De, Kiran Kher like people whom he recognized, he felt not being elevated but diminuend. Reading book may help him so he opened his hand bag, picked the book received from organizers,

“Comparative study of Odiya, Bengali, and Assamese of eastern India”. As such he loves to read this type of literature because of his uncle but not on that day with the elite surrounding. There was no suitable alternative other than to connect with the book, his uncle`s essay was there, and he did the repeat reading. He was not sure any conversation happens in this class or it remains a silence zone. He being a fan of Mr Wall of Indian cricket felt it an honor to seat at his side but kept mum to give justice to his nervousness.

     Mr Dravid was reading Immortals of Meluha. Dravid broke the silence and started, but Hati liked to give his introduction as the other needed no introduction. "Oh you are not a professor at Shanti Niketan, I presumed so", told Dravid. The Obstetrician Hati now comfortably joked, see Mr Wall the number of test runs you scored can match the number of deliveries I conducted. Great told Dravid which confused Hati.

        What is great there, the lady labors to sweat and a pool of blood, Hati gains from the bloody business, can it be great? No no told Hati, obstetrician is just like a cushioned tray to receive a VIP, and at times witness tragedy. Do not joke doctor, you are the friend at people`s most anxious moments told the wall. Hati replied ten runs in last over with two wickets in hand, and the bowler is Shane Warne, like situation, it was too hard for him to stop his free flow of laughter ha a a. Dravid instantly replied no it is more tense a situation he knew being a father. Is it really so? Hati felt shy and honored, which made him comfortable to spend rest of the time up to Mumbai gossiping with the legend.

      The discussion was mostly on uncle, the three sister languages of eastern India and how both the men were connected to books beyond their profession. They were too absorbed in discussion to forget the presence of writers like Tharoor and Sova De. Hati being encouraged by Dravid was now talking at equal terms not as a fan and a legend. He tried his level best to impress Mr Dravid that a Hati can be an intelligent species. It was interesting to see Dravid preferred little conversation beyond an exchange of smile of recognition and admiration with the other elites. Hati found reserve people can be so exciting and a casual man like him can be so well mannered, he sensed an amusing sensation against the discomfort to start with.

        He had to travel with Mr Amir Khan who was coming back from Portblair at identical time as they had to share a motivational program in a private university at Mumbai before which the perfectionist Mr Khan would interact face to face with Wall. Hati did not feel comfortable to meet the man whom he considers a great actor second only to none other than Kamal Hassain and above anyone else in Indian cinema, his shyness reappeared. Moreover being an obstetrician Hati feared if Amir thought and alleged he did sex selective feticides, he had seen his two episodes of Satyameva Jayate. Hati felt sorry for his professional colleagues for whom he is put in this unfortunate situation. How can Hati avoid such an opportunity his favorite cricketer introducing him to his actor of choice? He could not overcome Amir`s other episode of SMJ in which he uttered his fear to attend Indian hospitals, he can afford but can his countrymen? They henceforth will go to the hospital with increased negative mindset. Hati seriously thought to invite Amir to his area to make him know the real bondage between a doctor and the patients, he was turning megalomaniac. He was not angry on Amir but emotionally wanted to defend a doctor`s special status in the society. Hati always positioned himself as a washer man or a hair dresser serving people with the expectation of getting back the love the way Hati loves the above two servants of society.

What are you thinking man, Dravid observed him lost somewhere, Hati found Amir in front of them true or dreaming? Hati was overwhelmed to be introduced to Amir by Dravid`s  words, “The obstetrician from Odisha  who already had crossed my test runs in hosting the arrival of lives to this world, is it not a greater achievement than mine”?

Amir did not go back to SMJ but his face brightened with his beautiful smile, and started, “Not comparable. Millions pray for a safe Dravid`s wicket in a tense situation with a mix of patriotism whose help for building a nation cannot be measured, the wealth generated by BCCI although can be. In doctorsab`s case a family offers a million prayers for the safety of the woman and her product of labor.

" If everything is fine you both are praised, if anything goes wrong Dravid or Hati you are stoned. For actors like me after a hundred retake and promotions things may fail but nobody mourns."

 Hope you saw Three Idiots, Chetan Bhagat put some good quality to each of the three ordinary five point some ones, we put all qualities in an Amir Khan to make him an Indian macho hero that sold very well but can you compare me with you two guys or with a Chetan ? No we cannot, better to do the job in proper spirit what one may be doing”.

 “That is why we are your fans Mr Perfectionist”.

They moved to the promo as greats, Hati moved towards Tata memorial as an ordinary to narrate everything to uncle. Kusuma Parase Pata Nistare, the thread from the cover of the banana tree used to make a garland, with the touch of flowers gets salvation around His neck. 

Tryst with destiny, in Hati series story,

  Tryst with destiny.      A Hati series story. Dt.09.07.2014.  

      I was reading a serious book, The argumentative Indians by, noble laureate Amartya Sen and the specific chapter was on Pandit Jawaharlai Nehru`s famous speech at our independence in 1947 which child Sen listened through All India Radio . He explored how far we covered in our destiny in different fields mostly in comparison with China, the odds and the evens. At my thoughtful leisure entered Dr Hati with his tread mark laughter of ha ha ha. What are you doing Senapati, he questioned while looking into the pages.

     Suddenly his laughter stopped quite unlike of him, he was very serious; and asked me, what was my opinion, did we get anything right? I endorsed the views of Mr Sen as a safer option. He did not tell anything and was not a real Hati. I did not expect a story; I asked the senior doctor what the matter was?

      Those who searched for immediate destiny during those bad hours in the history of India what happened to them? At the frontiers did anyone had time or mind to listen Nehruji, sighed Dr Hati? He started his story.

     In 1987 Dr Hati completed his medical graduation and went to New Delhi to do residency in AIIMS like many of his friends to gain some experience and money. He worked in the psychiatry department under madam Sanjitha who was a professor only at forty. Prof Sanjitha had a big library. She told she stayed in a house that people say story house. Story house, Old Quilla road was a sufficient address for any one.
     Story house!

     Why not? Gradually Hati could know, Prof Sanjitha herself was a story, the old lady in the house was a storehouse of many stories and she herself was a bestseller novel, the house had the library of huge collection of literature. Sanjitha introduced Hati to the old wrinkled lady, 'Story D Maria'. Her name was Story D Maria, so the people had no fault in calling the house story house. He listened to D Maria as she narrated the tragic story of aftermath of partition.

Boy she affectionately addressed Hati, if you stay here and gossip with me your time would not be a waste, you might finish a week still the story would not finish, so listen a small episode of tragedy. See the woman lying there as a mattress in the corner is Zubeda. Zubeda Akhtar as my hospital record registered. She pointed to herself and told D Maria worked in the Christian mission hospital in that part of the territory of Lahore which remained in India at partition. Till late August 1947 the village could keep their integrity intact, the Hindus, the Sikhs, the Muslims in the village of Fate Singh did daily meeting, guarded their village jointly with available arms, did not allow any outsider enter the village who had no relations in any family. Refugees were guided to government camps by volunteers and so on.

      Zubeda was approaching her expected date of delivery, she got complications, her blood pressure raised too high and she had a bout of fits.
      Oh! Eclampsia Hati uttered!
      Yes my son, D Maria continued, her abdomen was too protruded and all believed she had more than one fetus in the womb by clinical judgment. People of the village 'Fate Singh' had no other option other than sending her to the hospital fifteen kilometer away, the one where Story D Maria worked.

      The village elders Harilal a Hindu, Kartar paaji the Sardar, and Khuda Bux the local Moulavi decided there was no other way. How the bearded sharp featured Gulfam Pathan would take his wife outside in such troubled time where beyond Fate Singh the minority Muslim was targeted by the criminals in the name of Gurujis and upholding the flag of Khalsa. No problem told Kartar Paaji, Gulfam who was the dramatist in that area who always played the role of the Sikh Gurus can pass the test, for these plays only he had long uncut hair and beard of a Guruji, Kartar offered a turban, his son`s turban. Gulfam told the gathering 'Sat Shri Akal' and there was no time to look back. Gulfam witnessed violence, a truck load of refugees moving towards Pakistan were being attacked by Hindus and Sikhs most of attackers looked like refugees driven out of Pakistan in the same cruel manner.
       Gulfam`s blood was boiling, but he had a job in hand, Zubeda had her second episode of seizure. They reached hospital. The doctor after giving preliminary treatment wanted to shift her to the main mission hospital nearer to Delhi, a long way. Anything may happen on the way so D Maria was deputed with the ambulance to their base hospital. They proceeded, Zubeda now was unconscious. The ambulance was not moving on an ordinary road, on the road through which Afghans travelled to conquer Delhi several times, Mughals reached Delhi, the several wars at Panipath happened, and now the civil war the bitter fruit of independence at mid night by dividing the Indus Valley civilization by a line with a new dreaming land of Pakistan.
       The British took the plea of saving people from civil war, they destroyed the land in most politically correct way so that they would escape the hatred of people against them accumulated and distilled for three centuries, and instead the anger was diverted to frantic religious war not to be healed for another century.
       D Maria became control less. Hati guessed she was French not British.
       Hati interrupted, "what happened next".
       Oh yes, D Maria rebooted, "As we moved towards Delhi we saw corpses, surrounded by dogs and jackals, kites and vultures flying everywhere, smell of putrefaction, and the ambulance moved. Babies, old young, male female no one was spared. Feminine bodies were mutilated in the most vulgar ways. But they moved, Zubeda had another bout.

       Suddenly Gulfam wanted to stop the ambulance, how should he move? He had seen some life in a supposed dead body, he moved towards him for help. The almost dead Muslim got frightened seeing the sardar in Gulfam coming to him, he did not accept to be killed for a second time he pretended to be dead. Gulfam had seen life in him so he moved closer and closer the dead like man saw from the small opening of the eye, and suddenly gathered energy to take out the kripan of Gulfam and pushed straight into his heart. Hey Allaha, yah Khuda and some dear verses from Quran came out from Sardar Gulfam`s dying voice, the voice that always preached the message of Gurus in several plays he worked as an artist. The monkey always spoke truth at death and the killer at once uttered, 'Toba Toba'  what did he do? Hey Allha what a miishtaakee , his voice fumbled and calmed forever.
        Story D Maria kya kare, tu ta fas gayee, bach nehi payegi. (What to do Story D Maria, you are trapped, cannot escape from it.) They reached the base mission hospital, and doctors could save the two male babies. Zubeda remained unconscious for many days, doctors wanted the babies to be handed over for adoption and sole responsibility was given to D Maria.
         "My boy life in those days was very simple excepting the bad times. Human words carried meaning, hospitals handed over babies to people in good faith for all party`s benefit, law was not above humanity, humanity never deceived itself oh except the bad time, the cruel fruit of partition, after  thousand years people of Pakistan would curse the creator of the nation, history may not be untruthful". Once again D Maria was losing control.

       What happened to the babies, Hati wanted to guide D Maria.
       "Oh yes, on those days there was not good treatment for infertility and several couple were remaining in touch with hospital to adopt a baby. D Maria for the safety of the babies in that troubled period handed a baby to a Sikh couple and another to a Hindu couple not too far from the hospital area. Sikh couple knew they got a sikh baby, Hindu duo got a Hindu baby, mother Zubeda never returned to a condition to ask what happened to Gulfam and where went her baby. She recovered with no intact memory, to be a part of Story house for ever, not fit to do anything except domestic help."            Hati was no more able to digest anymore and wanted to divert D Maria to normal chores of today`s life. But she did not stop.

     Listen to the end my boy. "One became Manjit and the other was a Krishna. They were nurtured in their own traditions. Children were not at that close a distance to be recognized as twin brothers, and at their youth one bearded Sardar and a clean shaven Hindu had no chance to be known as brothers. It was funny and a mere coincidence that both joined student politics and later on became strong youth leaders of the same party and worked together," D Maria kept the link to both their parents with the hope anytime Zubeda might regain her higher sense and ask?
       Then the horror revisited in 1984, Manjit left the party opposing Bluestar operation when the Golden Temple was once like many times in history was daggered. He lost the favor, and after the prime minister Indira Gandhi`s assassination bad times revisited India, through the Mohalas of New Delhi, thousands of Sikhs killed by non Sikhs.

One morning Manjit`s father rushed to D Maria to inform the tragic murder of his son, D Maria got a flash back of what happened to the Sardar Gulfam thirty seven years back. Just after his departure came Krishna`s father to tell his son was arrested in connection of organizing riot. 'Toba Toba Toba' uttered Story D Maria; she had not the guts to explore to know who killed Manjit.
      Did she do any misshhttakkee?
      There was no end would it end if religions were put in the graveyard forever. She begged excuse from Hati as her prayer time approached. Hati also spontaneously whispered Oh My God, where is the escape from Him.

      I was mesmerized with Hati`s real life story and was lost in the story, the robes are more important than the blood, the faith and the humanity, told Dr Hati. 'Senapati, did we found the right tryst, did we reach the right destiny, for Hati these things of human understanding always stood upfront the comparison with China, the nuclear deals, the Chandrayans and the bullet trains. I did not know how to react to whom and to sympathize.  

             Dedicated to Saadat Hasan Manto, Bhisham Sahni, and Khuswant Singh                    

The majestic pond KASTURA`s east bank with the fallen goldmohur...in my memoir Annyatha Mullyaheena

Annyatha Mulyaheena.......The goldmohur tree at the center of east bank uprooted on 07.07.2014, imagine how scenic it must be when the full blown red flowered canopy reflected on water, that must have added a lot of aesthetic sense in all of us......Late Sri Natabara Tiadi of near by village Golapanka planted the tree 50 years back when he was a class v student, as told by Sri Akshaya Sahoo and Sri Nrusingha Nrusingh Charana Moharana , both my teachers and are students of same school. Majestic pond Kastura, its East bank, the fallen old goldmohur tree at the center are seen,the school in my villge was established in 1886, and the Matha now a temple of Lord Jagannth on the land of lte Sri Ghana Acarya whose son Adwita Achrya becme a Kashi Pandit and became the head of Balaramkot Matha of Puri , a landmark of Annyatha Mullyaheena, I had written on the pond in different context, this pond is the life line of my village and any one of my village can write a big volume on the pond. My grand father told the pond was before his grand father`s time, no one can tell but sure it was much before the school, why otherwise people kept such a big squire shaped area in between village and school? This is not the only big pond in Tulati, on the opposite side ie west of the village another big pond is there obviously after this pond as it is called Nuagadia means new pond, there is Maa Hingula as the presiding deity, on the north under Lord Shiva there is Mahadeva Gadia, and on the southern side under presiding deity Maa Sanjei there is a medium sized pond Sola gadia means the pond of thermocool. There are so many other named ponds and plenty of unnamed ponds. Each family has a personal pond, my family has 3.75 number pf ponds out of which one is being leveled. Logic is when the river Brahmani/Kharasrota is 15 Km south and the river Baitarani is 15 km north how the advanced people with an old school would live without personal and public water bodies. But how to use it to improve our economy? The fishery department should guide on state`s interest. Recently the importance of refilling ground water by doing ponds was govt concern and subsidized loan of fifty thousand per pond was given to encourage people to generate labor days to dig ponds, of course these loan will never be recovered.Should the government not count the number of ponds done in the geographical domain of Annyatha Mulyaheena , my village Tulati and give a prize. Can any one believe this pond was dug by a lady Kasturi the eldest of the seven sisters each of whom did so at different villages. May be true or may be a legend but we the villgers have special respect for the eves for this reason, and girls in our village are cared equally. WE TULATIANS INHERIT AN ENVIABLE LEGACY.

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Jhapsuvainamaskar, in Annyatha Mullyaheena, MEMOIR.

JHAPSUVAI NAMASKAR (saluting brother Jhapsu in ANYATHA MULYAHEENA,ଅନ୍ୟଥା ମୂଲ୍ଯ୍ୟହୀନ,

 OTHERWISE WORTHLESS).

 This is not flashes of my childhood memoir of insignificant incidents now found to have new meanings; this is a memoir of an ordinary man who constantly kept time for the labor force of my village for forty long years without a break. He was Jhpsu whom all children addressed as Jhapsuvainamaskar meaning Salamwalekam brother Jhapsu, actually not only children but he was saluted by everyone like that. He never understood anybody`s joke and repaid every salute with a smile. Some even joked twice or thrice fur fun.

He had two work places all the years, all in his profession work in two places. The bearer of post bag, he brings Daka bag from the sub post office at Korai to the branch post office in my village Tulati. The post office in Tulati functioned in a very important sahi having uniquely working cast with equal importance. It was placed in a diagonal manner spreading from north east to south west, sandwiched between the singhsahi of snake keepers on south east side and Harijan sahi on the northwest. The sahi begins from a Panda Brahmin family who was our ME School teacher cum owner priest of lord Siva`s temple and it ends with a Big Brahmin family titled Dashas, paradoxically even if the sahi had names of several castly adjectives nobody called it Brahmanasahi. This was because another sahi was named so. Some people called it Badheisahi (sahi of carpenters), some told it Radhisahi (sahi of pressed rice producer), and others called it Kharada sahi those who deal with tin works and prepare edible lime from lime stones. The sahi was of other importance as the oldest rice mill that was running with diesel engine; the two panikundas (brick walled water containers) still exist. For children it was interesting to visit the spot to see these kundas to listen and see the work of the mill and how rice and bran came down on each side of the cemented structure over which the unhusked rice was loaded. I always asked me how the machine dehusks and makes rice and bran separate.

The other very important place was the post office, at the center of the sahi, where Jhapsuvai threw the bag namaskared the post master and left the place at once for some reasons. He told to himself; he should honour the post master and none else. From everyone else he expected one or more salutes which of course he returned with interest in form of a smile. He believed and told, no one could take any action on him, he was directly employed by none other than Indira Gandhi, he had no retirement, would work till death. Same thing he always repeated not as a megalomaniac, not with grandiosity but with conviction of surety. We must know a little more about him before what he did next.

He was not our villager; he was of Korai, with his house near the post office, police station, and the medium sized mosque. He did not work at Korai believed he was the employee of Tulati and vice versa, he believed carrying the bag on his head was his only duty to and fro. He looked old when we were children and he remained his own carbon copy even when we became middle aged with a few grey hairs. Daily eight kilometers walk kept him fit. He was thin with all bony prominences, wore a Dhoti like the native Indians with a kachha towards the backside and a thick Khaki shirt his official costume. His walk looked limping but he was not lame, this was as he was imbalanced with his always new umbrella hanged from his left shoulder. He did not require it as the water proof post bag worked as his protection from rain and Sun, but never forgot to carry it as he thought this was the rule, after all the department gave it to him. What he did with so many new umbrellas one per each year was my doubt from childhood till date. So with this small imbalance of load his limping also looked small. He bore a thin line of Raj Kapoor style moustache that looked prominent with the careless stains of betel red saliva. A trendy old Indian Hindu look of a poor innocent Muslim, as he believed Lungi and fatei was his home dress and he had to wear his Indian dress in office with the uniform.

Every day he walked about one kilometer inside Korai village as he reached hospital squire from there he moved north on the road that divides paddy field into two halves where the field workers worked in two shifts or sometimes in one long shift. Each day they waited Jhapsuvai not that they had to pay a namaskar or were interested for his post bag non permeable to the whole world or water or anything when it was in his hand but with his time of arrival they had to end first shift. No land owner could keep them working beyond that time. The position of Sun or the wrist watch of the owner was irrelevant for them. Probably it was approaching 1 PM. This was for the two shifters.

After throwing the post bag and saluting his only master, he each day rushed to the Brahmin`s house where he brushed his teeth with gudakhu (tobacco and jaggery mix, a toothpaste type red substance). He shouted for his requirement as if son of our teacher Sri Krushna Chandra Panda demanding, never with any tinge of begging was evident. He then rushed to his Gobaravai`s (my teacher Sri Nrusingha Moharan`s elder brother Sri Gobardhan Moharana) house and took his pet food a bowl of semi sour water rice with some additives. He was loved by both the houses, rather in the whole village. When he required he collected chuda (pressed rice), edible lime for his betel or anything from respective manufacturing houses in the sahi. Once his work is finished he could not wait, his master had to oblige him with the ready return postbag. Jhapsu was the time keeper how could he wait, seeing his return journey the single shifter laborer would return home, time about 2.30 PM to 3 PM. If he is not in time our village daka might not catch the Sub Post Office return time delayed by a day.

How I remember so much, what was my work there in post office. I was a regular visitor during the school recreation, several reasons were there. There was available The Samaj news paper subscribed by school, my two brothers were in army so we always waited for a letter, some regular news paper readers were gathering there who were knowledgeable debaters, and to pay a salute to Jhapsuvai.

I moved on, left the village but he continued, whenever I debated religious fanaticism I quoted Jhapsu, the practical real secularism of our great Indian tradition. No one can believe all of my villagers who were never fanatic in any count sent a brick with nominal coins for the Ayodha temple movement, Jhapsu not being a villager and not being a Hindu also contributed, this never was thought in hatred feeling as the villages largely were not pro or anti of any religious movements. Any one called in the name of religion was answered. This is where the hard liners blackmail. Interesting thing is the man who collected bricks and money did not know how to dispose the bricks, it is supposed the money was self consumed. Bricks?

Whenever the tensions were created in India by vested interest people in 1990s I was at Khariar and I always doubted can a riot any day is possible in my state, can anyone raise a sword on the Dhoti and Khaki shirt Jhapsu who is secular the real example of Indian secularism, my senses told not possible but what happened in 1947. In 1984, in 2002 many Jhpsus hounded, Oh my God.

He moved up and down those four kilometers daily except rare postal holidays, years after year, no one else covered the path more than him; I always called it Jhapsu Road. He retired in due time against his belief.

A month back I met a man from his sahi of Korai and Jhapsuvai is no more as I learnt.

(Dedicated to Jhapsuvai Namaskar and this piece is for national integration, not fake ask anyone from Tulati the geographical domain of Annytha Mullyaheena) 

RETURN OF THE AXE , in Madhuban days, a short story collection.

    Return of the axe.                      

The pretty woman came to Nirvayapur, was the center of all discussion for several weeks. It was to be so, when the ordinary blind-man Champu at his approaching old age, who, many forgot to exist, brought her during the festival of Laxmipuja. The village was loaded with guests, in every house as per the local custom. This made the discussion more lively. Many would be murmuring; the original Laxmi, the Goddess of grace and prosperity came and stayed in Champu's house. Everyone of the village paid a visit to his small hut at the outskirt abandoned bushy area of the village, considered  to be a wasteland. People commented in many ways. Was the blind man able to see her marvelous beauty that glittered with the bright red vermilion put on her forehead and over the scalp in between the right and left pleated pluck of rich dark hair that added to her look? It did not matter her clothes were simple, country made and were of economy range. Although she was in her thirties some went on describing her as very young, even some youth identified their own age group of around twenties. With the precious new guest to the village, virtually all thought to befriend her. She appeared to be cultured and educated. She refrained to react the people's reaction, except offering descent and pleasing smile that a mother Goddess possessed everywhere on the pujamandapas.

 She was Bidisha as she identified herself.

Within no time she was with her axe, spade and other instruments to remain constantly busy to make a home out of that hut and a garden around. The initial craze of people diminished as she was more graceful than the notorious chauvinistic mindset of males could peep at. In the village set up a trespasser beyond the Laxmanrekha(limitations) was rarely possible.

Nirvaypur was a nice village with no controversy in those days of boiling Madhuban in the line of pro displacement and anti displacement movement to provide land to heavy industries, neither group gave any importance to the inhabitants. Each group thought, villagers were in their side. The industries also did not give much importance to the villagers. They knew the docile people would vacate at any moment within a short notice. Companies became very careful in dealing with the evacuation plans after the police firing that took the precious life of thirteen youths. Everyone in the village resided normally, trying to develop the house, like a man in the deathbed also planned his future projects.

      Certainly, nothing mattered to Bidisha who slowly built up a garden mostly with vegetables. She grew several drumstick (Sajana) trees nearer to the fence, watered them carrying in pots from the nearby perennial water body. A yielding garden came up in only three years of regular labor. Now Champu had the pleasure to play his flute only for pleasure sake and not for begging alms. He attracted the company people who sometimes arranged stage performance for him. A house of pleasure haunts with a beautiful garden that yielded revenue enough to live happily by two people.

               Years passed under the sword of Damocles of evacuation. A decade and a half made champu old and Bidisha middle-aged say fifty. People sympathized on Bidisha that she did not become a mother. Sympathizers subconsciously blamed Champu for the reason, and cursed him destroying a beautiful woman's life.

         Now a days, more and more people discussed about the arrival of the final time to pack and move to the company made colonies. Everyone wanted not to lose a pie from the prescribed maximum benefit in form of cash, good house, services and employment in the plant and so on. There was a mass marriage drive and in a single month all the boys from sixteen to thirty five or more married and joint families were intentionally broken to nuclear mode to get more number of houses. Those who married at illegal age forged their birth certificates, funny things happened, even an younger brother's age became more than the elder brother and sometimes they became twins. Nirvaypur was only following the same happenings in all nearby villages. People suddenly were with huge cash of compensation and started spending lavishly to finish all of it as quick as they could.

        No one thought about the blind man. He approached everyone, he had no land record, and he was nonexistent everywhere except in the voter list. He met the Sarpanch who explained him that voter list had no importance, a Bangladeshi could be in the voter list in this age of politics. He further convinced him not to object the displacement move which was in country's interest. It would yield employment and development.

Champu sensed, the Sarpanch was now not speaking for him; gained over.

 How it could be a development when his flute for last fortnight was playing the voice of weep.

  He rather moved to Ghuruda the other landless youth who was unfit for anything other than catching fish from the particular water body and had no land record or existence in the village as he was not a native in original, only an addendum in last twenty years.

           Champu and Ghuruda were not well equipped to deal with the situation. Very depressed they counted the days. Champu was not worried for himself, as he berated him, an old valueless blind man, who had the option to face the challenge, returning to alms at the lion gate of any temple, but what about Bidisha. He could not eat or sleep.

 These impaired people when depressed, are in too much of it.

 He became seriously ill and was hospitalized up to his final journey.

Only Ghuruda came to Bidisha's help in that hour of grief.

 A new problem arrived as Bidisha did not shed her vermilion and other attire of a woman with a husband. Villagers tried to comppel her to live as per the norm with the codes prescribed for widows.

 Bidisha was not in trouble, she straightforward unfolded her story that she was not Champu's wife but a deserted woman as her man settled with another woman and drove her out keeping her only child with him. She went to the temple for her last offering before her plan to do a suicide, she was weeping at the slowest of her voice that nobody noticed except the special sense of the blind man who had a chat with her. The illiterate blind man Champu had enough wisdom to save her life and convert it to revenue yielding garden of sajana and other edibles.

Bidisha's  'Sajana' in full bloom.

       How can she stop wearing the symbols of her marriage when the husband who deserted her, was still alive?

The panchayat wanted to interfere in the matter and approach her husband.

 She denied, which husband in this world would believe his wife stayed pious with a man in a single room for fifteen or more years, moreover her husband was not a Ramachandra to whom a Sita to do a fire pier test of her chastity. She although had strong hatred, could not shed the symbol of his existence after all her daughter was there.

 But where?

She did not know his where about for last five years as Champu told her the family moved somewhere.

     Now she became the most loved one of the village and people became proud of having such a strong and cultured woman in the vicinity. All respected her. She now remained fully busy in her garden and sajana trees. She did not know where to move when the villagers finally vacated their houses. She did not stop gardening she stayed as usual.

     Everyone started shifting to the new colony of planned houses, with no plan for Bidisha.

 Ghuruda left the village to some other unknown place.

 Where she would go? She looked at her garden, everyone got compensation for trees and animals they lost, she did not, and she rather was an encroacher of government land, as if the people with land records had an ancestor who was born with a God given land record!

 Those who were aware made the land recorded several generations back those who did not meant they encroached government land.

 Bidisha was knowledgeable enough to think so. She was the last person to pack as little as required. How could she pack her garden, the sajana trees those were her lifeline, her reason of existence, and her valuable time spent.

      She put her luggage on her head and moved to the colony. The whole village loved her in the hut but in the new place, no one could plan for her. How could they keep her in their planned quarters? She explored all approachable people's help in vain. She now was an old woman and a permanent burden to anyone who tried to keep her inside their family. The new colony had no Kothaghar (community house), no temple, no extra room other than the headcount provision of earmarked confinement for each one but Bidisha.

     She was tired and kept her baggage under the only big banyan tree she found in the area. It was so cool and pleasing. Some of the confused street dogs of Nirbhayapur with no owner to be attached had followed the partially pet fellow community. The later group cornered themselves in their owners premises. Pure wanderers gathered under that tree moved away respecting the human arrival. Bidisha sipped some water from the big cooking bowel with a smile of a mother and did not bother to keep it open for these animals. She fell asleep soon.

She had a dream, her sajana trees, hanging drumsticks the wealth of her, and she now worked in people's house as domestic help. She got up and failed to sleep again. She could not accept the projected reality.

 She went back to the place with the luggage, threw it in the hut, brought out the axe and suddenly was out of control. She went on destroying the entire garden. The aged Bidisha tired and hungry for the whole day forgot her own self and went on in rampage. She turned completely mad to kill things she grew as her own children, until she was exhausted and dropped down at the root of the last existing sajana tree.

No one came forward to claim Bidisha’s dead body, for her last rites.

Local vernaculars printed her story, only in a small column. The crowded high rise of chimneys, the propelling smoke machines of the steel plants (already existed), the sign of development taunted the last existing sajana plant that absolutely had no reaction!

(Dedicated for the story `Axe` in Malgudy days. This story was written in my mother tongue Odia when my father in law was being operated for long five hours by Dr Madhabananda Kar a leading cancer surgeon and my friend for years as I waited out side the OT.)             

Fall of Sunajhari , in Madhbana days .. a short story collection

Fall of Sunajhari   ..

He prospered in the land of Saudi Arabia for his talent, sincerity and subdues mannerism all of the qualities he inherited from his nativity in a non-discrete illiterate village at the foot hill of Madhuban range the beautiful Sunajhari named after the stream of Sunajhari which again was derived from the name of the hill Sunajhari. Sunajhari literally meant the fountain of gold which nobody did a search. His name Mirza Ayub Baig was uttered with full of love and respect by all the Indians in the kingdom of Saudi. His journey was fabulous with many twists the latest being his plan to leave Saudi for ever after staying twenty five years and earning a lot. Knowing the man`s nature and passion for home land no one disbelieved it. It was not difficult to pack and move for a bachelor of half a century old.

 Sunajhari hill and ASHA hospital.

       Everything was coming back to his memory. No one of his village of tribal dominancy with a few other backward class families and numbered Muslim dwellings was literate. They did cultivation by diverting the water of Sunajhari in their own crude methods in the off-season to add to the regular crops of monsoon. The hill provided enough other forest products, fodder for animals and hunting opportunities in those uninhibited days. The nearest primary school was at a distance of ten kilometers aiding their illiteracy in a plenty of happiness. The greenery attracted many people to come for a picnic, locals provided them fuel and forgotten ration sometimes chicken, all these made the village to live smoothly if not in surplus.

       Once a Baba reached the place and entered a little above on the side of the stream to find a place, a horizontal platform to construct a small hermitage. He resided there forever. The villagers loved the learned Baba and helped him in all possible way. Baba reciprocated by providing non-formal education of the available children. Soon education became a felt need and Baba happily catered it, a school like thing started running. The Muslims initially hesitated to learn from a Hindu religious man till Mirza one day reached with a child`s query. He stayed aloof; baba called him, fed him fruits and started telling a story to the gathered children with Mirza in the group. Baba always made his session interactive. He on that day narrated the story of Guru Ramdas and his disciple Chhatrapati Sivaji, he helped children actively participate in the session and was impressed with the searching mind of Mirza who was the cream of the class.

      At the end of the story, Mirza asked what is your name Babaji? No one knew his name till that day, Baba told he is Ramdas. Who then is your Sivaji, joked the talent in Mirza? Babaji instantly pointed his finger to Mirza himself and that ended the Muslim people`s inhibition to enter his Ashram.

       From that day onwards Mirza moved forward and forward. He achieved all possible academic success available in those days. People of the area called him, ‘Sivaji’. His association with Ramdas continued, he was not an ordinary Baba, was highly educated and in high position when suddenly he wanted salvation leaving material world to come to Sunajhari. He guided Sivaji who went on the ladder to be an MBA from the most prestigious IIM when Baba instructed him to earn huge money from Saudi before he returns India. Whenever MIrza revealed his desire to come back Baba told to wait until the right time. This time Ramdas has called back Sivaji so he packed.

     On the opposite side of the hill there was one village called Rangitangar that meant colorful stone. They cut and sold some colored stones to make their livelihood. It was not possible for children of Rangitangar to cross the hill to reach Babaji`s class as such they remained illiterate. So two opposite things happened in two opposite sides of Sunajhari progress courtesy Baba Ramdas and stagnation of Rangitangar as it was where it was.

      The stone Mafias remained active on that side.

      Mirza was not sure what happened to Baba Ramdas that he called him back; on his return journey this puzzled him. He had enough money he can do a lot of good to his own area and the state of Odisha. Too many plans were bubbling inside his brain. He tried to control all his thought; all are meaningless for him as he is mere a Sivaji awaiting what Ramdas has planned for him. Mirza had no one in the village. Long before, he took his parents to Saudi where they died, one by one in last two years by natural causes.  Mirza felt very lonely in the foreign land. No one forced him to marry or to remain bachelor, and he remained single by his own wish and reason only known to him.

     He reached and became happy to see the better roads to his village. A lot of development visible in the Madhubana area amazed him. It turned to be the Industrial capital of the state. It was late night by the time he reached Baba`s Ashram. Ramdas had arranged all possible welcome for Sivaji , told him to take rest for the night  and sleep as much time as his brain demands before they do some meaningful discussion.

     In the next morning, Sivaji left his bed much early, to see his area the most beautiful area at dawn. He got the shock of his life, where went the greenery, where is the real Sunajhari, only the ghost is seen! He wanted to reach the stream at its maximum beauty of play, no stream was seen, with difficulties recognized, the outline of long dried stream, and wanted to visit all nooks and corners where once he caught hares by snares. He moved up and down, forgot his age and bodily limits and moved like a mad elephant devoid of vegetation till became exhausted both physically and mentally, did not know how to react to such huge devastation, for unknown reason feared to face Ramdas, as if he an icon of global development destroyed all. There was the leftover of the hill; everywhere he found stones, boulders, and raised crusher units. He cried at the top of his voice as if a child lost somewhere.

    Suddenly someone tapped on his shoulder, he turned back to fall at the feet of Ramdas. Sivaji! Cried Ramdas, control you, this ought to happen, look at the east to the proud industries of Madhuban, the constructions around, the progress redefined. How this was possible without killing Sunajhari and other resources, without erecting the smoky chimneys.

     Progress redefined.

 “If you raised your voice, you were regressive. I made a mistake to see only this side Sunajhari. I did not work on the other side of the hill. The village of Rangitangar remained as such.” baba sighed.

Taking the advantage of their poverty and illiteracy, the stone mafias went on eroding from that side which the villagers helped to earn daily wages. There was no gold, no iron, no chromites or no other ore in the hill still it could not withstand the human eyes, the flora and fauna no one valued, no costing of the stream was done, people this side raised weak voice. Authorities suspected Ramdas , he who left his lavish opportunities in search of salvation was entangled in controversies, was termed foreign agent against progress, he could have left the place and moved to Himalayas but could not. Soul of Sunajhari did not permit him to leave. The soul inside the wounded body of Sunjhari came very often and told Ramdas not to move before seeing the complete fall of the hill.

“Yes a big devastation waits, to avoid that; Siva! Your presence was required so I called you”.

      Sivaji got the message and he in a few days could survey the entire hill, how weak it has become from the side of Rangitangar. He did not fight with anyone only made everyone including the mafias aware that the base of the hill has become too weak and it is about to fall. He predicted the fall would take the toll of the two villages on both side so they have to move to safe places. He appealed to the authorities in vain; they did not pay any attention, as this type of things did not happen any time before. In their record Sunajhari existed in full vigor as there was no permission for any mining, extracting, or blasting. As if mafias wait someone`s permission. He wanted to meet the district magistrate and other people of eminence but he feared the days are counted , Ramdas was whipping him to move fast, his power of keeping intact the skeleton of Sunajhari is almost exhausted the soul of the hill itself have already desired to leave. Move Siva move fast.

     So Mirza bribed the poor people a day`s wage and the mafias the greed of his huge investment to cooperate to the followers of Baba. Everybody understood the grave situation and got prepared to leave their home for safer distance permanently. No government functionary came to see, when he or she moved. Mirza the Sivaji reported to Ramdas and begged his own evacuation in vein. Ramdas laughed and laughed, told Siva my boy let me laugh and play a few hours with my friend and mother Sunajhari`s soul in our last hours, in any case the days for both of us is finished. Siva prayed the whole of Sunajhari village prayed but Baba did not move. He ordered everyone to leave the area before the dusk. Who can disoblige the enlightened Ramdas.           All moved but Sivaji. Baba had made store of his most valuable possessions of divine value that he handed over to Sivaji. He drew his future road map how he should use his huge money for the benefit of the society and many other powerful discourses for a few hours and blessed him. Siva could not pursue him to come with; neither had he got his permission to stay with him. Ramdas finally uttered, “Siva your time with me is over, you cannot and should not stay here anymore.” 

       Baba put his hand over his head. He ceased to be Ramdas and he ceased to be the Muslim of international importance Mirza Ayub Baig, it was the Krishna and the Arjun, he raised the treasury without any further question in a very calm mind, moved his first step towards the road map drawn by Ramdas like Arjun raised his bow of divine duty. He came down with the treasury on his head like an ordinary boy of Sunajhari who once had asked for the first time “What is your name babaji?’’

     All anxiety of Siva vanished and he could sleep well in his designated tent like the whole of Sunajhari and Rangitangar only to wake up in the morning to see Sunajhri has fallen with the Baba. They searched for the body of Baba with the now awakened government functionaries but in vein. The oldest man of Sunajhari a long time help in the Ashram was murmuring Mother Sunajhari and Baba were merrymaking in the midnight just before a huge sound of fall he heard and saw a high luminous element moving up and up that looked like an enlightened mother holding an enlightened  baby.

       Everybody young or old, Sunajharians or Rangitangarians all looked at Sivaji and without any inhibition addressed him Baba Siva.

 (Dedicated in memory of the eleven young men of Rangitangar village of Sukinda in Jajpur district who were buried to death by the fall of the laterite quarry by a careless man made error, the story originally was thought before that incident seeing  a badly destroyed hill on the side of express highway in between Kabatabandha and Balisahi, also in remembrance of an amazing Indian Mirza Ayub Baig of Alakunda in Jajpur and my friend the patriot Mir Iftikar Alam in Saudi)