 SetuVolume 4; Issue 10; March 2020Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetry
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Photo FeatureSpecial Edition: The Best of Women Poetry Guest Editor: Padmaja Iyenger-PaddyForthcoming Calls Setu Special Editions
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Showing posts with label 202003E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202003E. Show all posts
Setu, March 2020
Editorial: Sunil Sharma
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| Sunil Sharma |
The uncertainties are many.
Nobody knows whose number is next in this gigantic existentialist threat that has struck the developed and developing economies and the varied geographies.
It began as a country-specific medical emergency in December last year. Currently it has blown into a full global pandemic---COVID-19---and resulted in the lock down of cities and countries on unprecedented scales. Fatalities are on the alarming rise; so is panic and fear caused by a pestilence that continues to defy any medical solution so far and has caused enough problems for the world.
The long-range fallout is also grim. Recession is expected to hit the nations soon.
It is a world war of another kind.
Sci-fi, dystopian fantasies, doomsday predictions, mutant-attacks, climate-change-induced catastrophes---all these scenarios of an earth invaded, almost-destroyed except few souls in a bleak and barren landscape sound so convincingly true and plausible, amid rising statistics of the victims of this fatal enemy.
An invisible virus has made the world stop---temporarily, albeit---in its forward march.
Hope triumphs over plagues and pestilences; spirit soars above tragedies and upsets, refusing to give up under any circumstances.
We are born as fighters due to a long and eventful evolutionary struggle---the real heroic saga.
The solidarity and commitment of humankind towards tackling any national disaster or crisis as traits universal are truly inspiring; the innate human tendency to rise up and ultimately overcome unforeseen setbacks, sudden disasters and problems is, well, real phenomenal.
Human species has survived and adapted to the changing environments and faced dangers, as one big family, with courage and fortitude…and emerged as winners.
We will prevail this time also and overcome the debilitating virus COVID-19.
Preventive measures, communal efforts, optimism, research and cooperation, as pro-active and positive actions by the international community of nations will surely defeat this new monster.
Setu prays for the wellness and well-being of every citizen of the world and for the fast recovery of those suffering from its effects. Sooner or later, a vaccine will sure be found against this silent invader.
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Some good news now!
March edition carries an edifying selection of the best of women poetry edited by the guest-editor Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy, a prominent author-poet-editor, also widely respected for curating the terrific Amaravati Poetic Prism anthologies and annual fest called International Multi-lingual Poets’ Meet, at Vijayawada, Andhra Pradesh, India.
She was kind enough to do this for us again---we remain indebted to her for the same!
There are 46 finest voices from across the world; voices that delineate the experience of being a woman and a professional, her overarching value, meaning and significance, in the contexts of the new millennium and high-tech culture of a gendered society.
March is the month dedicated to the celebration of woman power and her nurturing instincts. She remains the main creator and the foundation of family and civilization.
We salute the woman power and showcase their creativity via this exclusive yearly section.
As usual there are other regular features as well.
Happy to state that Setu has crossed another glittering milestone: more than 1.3 million page views.
We are still counting.
Once again, a big thank you to all the esteemed contributors, editors and readers, co-partners of this onward literary journey, for their constant support.
Sunil Sharma,
Editor, Setu (English)
Mumbai Metro Area, Maharashtra (India)
Guest Editor’s Note: Best of Women Poetry
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| Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy |
Here I am again, invited to guest edit the special March’20 issue of SETU – the ‘Best of Women’s Poetry’! The Editor (English) Dr. Sunil Sharma suggested that I select the 40 best of women’s poetry from across the world! A tough call for me as I know so many women poets who write exceedingly well! Equally, I don’t know many women poets who perhaps write better! Well, within these limitations, I present here the 46 ‘Best of Women’s Poetry’!
As the poems came in, it was as always, pure joy for me to read them! Ah, so much variety and so much learning for me from each of these women poets and their poetry!
I was awe-struck when poet Mallika Chari from Wardha, Maharashtra, India sent me her
senryu (a genre of haiku poetry) on women! Sample this:
space
the orbiting Mangalyaan carried
women power
I believe, this is perhaps, one of the best tributes to the women scientists who helmed the path-breaking Indian Mars Mission (Mangalyaan)! Another interesting one was this:
back and forth
she swings hooked
to the morals
How true! And this one from my friend Magie Faure-Vidot Vijay-Kumar of Seychelles, to which most of us women can relate:
Be patient Magie
I became resilient
But remained a civil guardian
Wore my different caps
To absorb the heavy downpours from
various taps
And another one by my friend Alicja Maria Kuberska of Poland, that resonated with me as I am sure, it will with other women too:
The woman's handbag contains
a few items
and the whole world of the owner
And finally, this by my friend Ambika Ananth of Bengaluru, Karnataka, India:
They are her mind screens
flashing her aspirations and yearnings…
The beautiful secrets in a woman’s eyes
You can perceive only when
you open the sealed eyelids of your mind.
My dear readers, as you read each one of these 46 ‘Best of Women’s Poetry’ in this issue of SETU, I am sure, you will revisit the poems as each one of them speaks beyond what it seeks to communicate, and with each re-read, you will discover something new and something refreshing and unfathomable too…immediately…
These poems have come to soothe you at a time, when we are all indoors under a national lock down by most countries of the world, as our healthcare professionals and respective governments are grappling with the Corona Virus. Let’s all take care, stay safe, stay indoors, and reflect by turning the light inwards and say a silent prayer of gratitude!
I thank Dr. Sunil Sharma, the Editor (English), SETU for once again giving me this great opportunity to be the Guest Editor of this ‘Best of Women’s Poetry’ issue and for the rewarding experience! Last but not the least I thank all the women poets featured here (and also those who mailed their poems but for some reason whose poems couldn’t be featured here), for readily responding to my call, SETU’s call, with their excellent poetry!
Best of Women Poetry: Featured Authors
Hindi Poetry: Pravin Sharma Translated by Madhu B Joshi
Hindi Poetry: Pravin Sharma
Translation from Hindi by Madhu B Joshi |
| Pravin Sharma |
Inside-outside
(Andur Bahur)
In the blinding sun outside was peril,
insecurity,
hunger, fear.
In the dark
of the dungeon was security,
the illusion of assurance.
Signing the treaty
I was aware
of the condition.
***
The Dungeon of Rooms
(Kumuron kee kaaraa)
Let us rebel against the walls of these rooms! Run away
on the wings of some soundless car and set off
with some Columbus swimming in far away Pacific ocean.
Float on saltwater, be the food
of some rock-like marine animal
or
die of thirst
amidst the expanse of water.
But do let us escape
Rebel
against the walls of these rooms!
What sin did I commit? What fawn did I shoot? When did I break
the eggs of the sparrow?
Why then this dejection, frustration, calamities
disrupted dreams,
ruined brushes?
Come let us too watch Malvika’s act read Urvashi’s letters
in a deserted corner of the lonesome country.
Why suffer the sorrow of living?
Come let us run away!
***
That Town
(Vuh Shuhur)
That place could have been anywhere.
Ready to depart
the train on the platform could have gone anywhere
there was a town in every direction.
From a town
I could have boarded
any train going anywhere
and de-boarded
at my desired place anytime.
That protruding at the front yellowish house
a little beyond
the turn opposite or across the road where the narrow lane turns northwards
a little beyond that standing in front
of the brown house
I could have glanced inside through a window could have knocked
at any door
could have walked in unannounced-
I had to be back immediately.
Were folks going in different directions going to the same place?
Or getting together to come here!
It could have been any town
that place could have been anywhere.
***
Mystery of the Murder
(Hatya Ka Rahusya)
The mystery of the murder would have been revealed before I woke up.
With clear cool water
poems themselves will erase all relics of defeat.
On humiliated faces will shine the sun
of assurance before waking up.
With me will be- molten snow
the sunshine
the flight of birds
in the cloudless sky
on waking up.
***
Words
(Shubd)
I too have to fight this war unarmed, unarmoured, alone.
Facing me stands
a war-crazed army
its war-cry resounding in all directions.
I only have words for arms.
The words are all sick, old, wounded. Just detritus.
With these
I have to strike,
express victory, defeat.
In the battlefield
I will fight
not with symbols not with signs. With these broken
words shall I wage war and make all-out effort
to fell every warrior
standing opposite me.
Symbols are liers all; signs are cowards- mere feints, moves
the last resort of every beaten warrior.
I will fight
not these beaten, tired, poor warriors- I will fight with
the defencelessness of these helpless words
I will sharpen these somehow.
Will breathe new life in their lifeless forms Live these words
in an absolute moment of audacity -
in some new contexts- so the warriors standing opposite me
stand astounded.
***
Journeys
(Anubhav Yatrayen)
Several journeys remain.
I have to explore
the hidden sources of several lakes.
I have to wake with the passion of my touch
the oblivious sleeping waterfalls.
I must get wet in the deluge of words in the rainy madness.
The uninhibited flow
of the torrential stream will flood my
parched origins.
***
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| Madhu B Joshi |
Born in 1956, Delhi
Communication Practitioner and major Translator
Taught translation and self-designed
Course of Indian Culture
Author of short stories for children
Poet and published articles on socio-political and cultural issues
Poet: Pravin Sharma
Born 23 January 1943
Graduated with English Honours and did Masters in English Literature from the Department of English, Punjab University, Chandigarh.
Joined IAS in 1967.
Published poems in eminent literary journals and anthologies of poetry during the initial years 1961 to 1967 and then again from 2000 onward.
A collection of his poems named Aisey nahin phir kabhie published in 2002.
Orange Dawn - Chapter 2
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| John Clark Smith |
We slowly moved down the mountain to a cave entrance well-concealed behind a large rock and several large branches. The cave led to a tunnel which ended near where we would meet with Paul’s friends on the western side of Harding.
The cave was only a brief journey. Most of our trip was through the dirt-lined tunnel. Despite Paul’s flashlight, it was so dark that it was necessary for us to put our hands out to feel the walls. Often my hand would touch worms and insects. Occasionally streaks of light would appear—openings to the outside—and then we would fall to blackness again.
“The natives made these tunnels,” Paul told me as we walked, hunched over. “There are many around Harding.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Glen claims they were used in their Indian wars between the Iroquois and the Erie.”
Occasionally we would feel or hear various creatures scurrying in and out of holes or on the floor of the tunnel. I assumed they were rodents, moles, or other animals. Several streams leaked into the tunnel and created their own brook. I wished I had brought along some rubber boots.
When we came to the end of the tunnel, the air still smelled as fresh as it had been on the mountain, though it seemed to be becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. My eyes were watering so badly I had to wipe them with a cloth.
“Where we headed?” I asked.
“Abe Fisher’s.”
“And who’s he?”
“Someone I trust.” He paused. “We started a journal together.”
Near the bottom of the mountain was a tributary of the Allegheny River. The same signs of toxins that I had seen near the hut were visible in the water.
“How long has the water been like this?”
“Years,” he said. “I remember when I was a kid, my parents telling me not to drink from the tributaries.”
We jumped over a narrow section of the stream and entered a swampy area filled with dead branches, tall weeds and other flora in a constant state of death and rebirth. Though uninhabitable for humans, Paul said it was a haven for deer, bear, birds and other wildlife.
After the swamp there was a small forest of very old trees whose ground was composed of layers of pine needles. Once we passed through it, we were in sight of Harding.
“Look,” he said.
In the distance I could see the backs of two National Guards standing at the end of a broad boulevard.
Despite my watery eyes and breathing problems, the pervasive tint was strangely relaxing. We were walking near an abandoned farmhouse when I asked him if I could rest, but I actually wanted to absorb the feeling. I sat on one of the rusty swings beside the house and swung back and forth, letting the marvelous orange swallow me in its radiance. He became impatient after a couple of minutes and we moved on.
“What’s the journal about?” I asked.
“An alternative view of life in a small city.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Not to my brother, especially when we talk about recent history. Glen has thoroughly researched that history and created a chronicle of the town. Then there’s Tosh Jones, who’s lived a lot of the history. He and my grandfather didn’t get along. Abe and I edit and contribute essays. And of course, Melinda. She brings the feminist point of view. So, we’ve lots of material and some of its… well… not so kind to my family or some of the other citizens of Harding.”
In front of Abe's apartment building were two pump-grasshoppers. I petted one of them as I passed. Abe greeted us at the door. His bright red cheeks, bald forehead, and clump of red hair sitting proudly at the back of his head, created a jolly impression, despite his tired eyes.
We followed him up the stairs and sat in the kitchen. Out the window, there was a view of the orange and surrounding mountains.
In one corner sat a mongrel puppy with mournful eyes. I tried to catch his interest, but he was apparently too weak to move. I rolled a ball before his nose. He just watched it go by. Bowls of uneaten food and water were beside him.
“Hey, Peirce.” Abe sat down beside him on the floor. “C’mon, boy. Eat something.”
He petted the dog’s head and scratched his back.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
"Ever since the orange, he just lays there, looking up at me.” He glared at Paul. “We might as well have sent Peirce.”
They began to argue. Apparently, Paul was supposed to go to the next town and find a place for the group. Melinda especially wanted to get her daughter Aphra out. Very few children remained.
As the men bickered on, evening came through the window—an astonishing sight. I ran from the apartment building and stood looking at the spectacle. The translucent orange seemed to magnify light from the moon and the stars, as if they were on top of me. The sky was a distant black background behind the orange glow. Especially impressive was the way it painted the water and the metal grasshoppers.
Years ago such a sight might have been viewed as a divine visitation, but that mindset was long gone in most people. Such events were usually signs of real dangers, such as the noxious swamp near the rubber factory, an ice storm in Florida, or the transformation of a once living lake into a dead pond or a desert.
I would have remained longer, but after a few minutes I had to escape back into the kitchen from a coughing fit.
The view from the window kept me spellbound.
Paul brought me a glass of cold water, fresh and odorless.
As I stared out the window and brought the glass to my lips, an alarm went off in my mind. The stream's water had also been clear. But thirst prevailed and I drank.
I ran to the sink and spat it out. “The water is rancid!”
Paul and Abe looked at each other.
"You’re imagining things," Paul said.
Abe waved Paul away. "The orange affects everyone differently.”
Paul handed me a bottle of spring water. “I suppose it’s as likely as any other reaction."
"But the air too?” I asked.
“What about it?” Paul said.
I threw up my hands. Perhaps my reactions happened because I was new. Perhaps the residents over time became immune.
Other events still puzzled me. What were the National Guard forces doing here? Why were people not leaving if they felt danger? And the orange, what exactly was it? I needed to roam about Harding and see how others responded to the orange. I fancied myself as the only one who saw the situation with an open mind, like a crusading lawyer coming to town to solve the case. It should have dawned on me that an open mind is only open to what it can understand.
[To be continued ...]
Fiction: A Fortunate Stroke of Serendipity
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| Anjani George |
The only ones to gain were the out of state gypsies who seemed to flock in hoards with their peppy and colourful wares, which definitely did help to relieve some boredom for those who were stuck in the traffic jam. The gypsies seemed to be perfectly at home under the Bridge where they had set up their tattered tents and little cooking fires for preparing the evening meal. The young women in colourful skirts chatted together and some suckled infants while the older ones seemed drunken showing all signs of being in an inebriated state. There were so many little children running around while some of were too small and were bundled up in the women’s laps. Those who weren’t children were parents; flinging into the air the taboos of morality, with policing unknown and thriving on the code that life was a journey wherein the larger the crowd the merrier.
The sun was setting and the sky was a splash of orange. The lamps were tiny in size hardly about half feet in length including the handle and were a miniature version of the yester year kerosene lamps. They had solar powered wicks, protected by thin glass chimneys. The glass was held in position by golden coloured “x” shaped thin metal strands. The top cap, bottom base and the delicate handle being an exact replica of the lamps she faintly recollected used during her childhood days to light the tiny living space of their thatched hut. Of a rustic iron colour then, these decorative lamps were a glitzy gold with tiny knobs in fluorescent pink, green and orange adding to its comeliness generating positivity in the beholder.
She clutched tight at the rupee note in her hand, not sure how much it was. She felt hot and flushed, sweating profusely. Her hands trembled as she agitatedly looked here and there, wondering if anyone had seen her pick the note from the ground. She was sure it belonged to one of the gypsies and yet as it lay on the ground she couldn’t help picking it up. This wasn’t the first time she had taken something that didn’t belong to her, but the act always made her feel nervous. It would perhaps be enough to fetch some bread for Janki and herself to stop the rumbling in their stomachs. Janki probably was back from school and she had to reach home before the child got worried.
Where all had she been all day? Where had she been all this while? She remembered feeling the hot sun beating on her face felt tired and exhausted. Yet, hard as she tried she could not recollect the events of the day. She wore a blue coloured blouse, yes it was blue for sure she reaffirmed. The pallu of her sari had moved away from her shoulder and lay dragging on the ground. The hooks on her blouse lay loosened. As she tried to comprehend the stares of the passersby, though still confused by the hazy thoughts clouding her head she felt shame for her nakedness. Very slowly she lifted the lingering cloth to cover her chest. The sari she wore was of nylon, a very bright coloured nylon sari which Janki had draped for her in the morning.
She had been an erring mother today and perhaps Janki had already begun searching for her, not finding her at home and would probably be vexed at her for leaving the safety of their shack. She had to cross the road and get on the other side to buy the bread packet. Her lips were parched from dehydration and yet the thought of food had got her salivating. She was a wasted figure with sunken cheeks and a starved look. Her hair was uncombed and unruly. Strands of white could be seen among the black hairs. She wore no ornaments and kept muttering unintelligible things in a subdued voice mostly to herself.
Even as she tried to concentrate on the heavy flow of traffic making an effort to cross to the other side, she simply couldn’t take her eyes away from the lamps hanging aplenty in the arms of the gypsy hawker. They were so beautiful, prettier than anything she had seen or owned in her entire life. So attractive they were that she was overwhelmed, mesmerized by their beauty. So much was her desire to own one that she released her tightly clutched fingers to look at the money held within, wondering it would be enough to get one of them. At the same time she could feel the pangs of hunger that were burning within the insides of her empty stomach.
When the line between sanity and insanity is very thin, the person in question is but a tight rope walker balancing rationality and madness, tilting sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. The cutting edge for such a person is the freedom to act at will since no explanation is expected. Hence when the tattered, ragged “mad” woman decided to get one of those lamps giving in to her yearning for it and prioritizing it over a meal for herself and her daughter, nothing else need be said. The hawker was only too happy to give away one for the money that she had so tightly held a while ago.
Having been relieved of the only money she had, Janki’s amma decides to sit right there under the bridge and examine her new prized possession now being its proud owner. Her fingers were trembling as she lovingly caressed the new treasure. It lay there in her dirty hands, the golden coloured metal shining bright and she lightly turned it’s colourful knob, the solar wick began to glow. She took a quick inward breath, more out of excitement and set in the backdrop of evening time of day her face glowed in the warm yellow light of the lamp. It highlighted the innocence in her eyes, lit her face and it was as if for that moment even fate had forgotten she was of an unsound mind. She turned it off wanting to save the rest of it for Janki.
Janki was indeed worried. Where had her “amma” disappeared to. The make shift tin door to their tiny one room shack was wide open when she returned from school. The walls of the shack was made from blue tarpaulin wrapped round PVC pipes inserted in the ground at regular intervals and the roof was of corrugated asbestos. There were no windows and when the winds blew hard the rattle of the door and the roof made a lot of noise terrifying Janki, who was afraid the shack as a whole would collapse and fall on them. The little shack had been the cement go-down, when the hotel nearby was a construction site. After the work got over, the shed was abandoned and perhaps because it was farther away and out of sight of the now running hotel, it was never brought down. This turned lucky for Janki and her amma, who had no home, nowhere to go and no acquaintances.
Janki attended the nearby Government school and was a student of class six. She woke early in the morning cleaned the room, lit a small fire outside and prepared black tea, tealeaves collected from the left over teabags, she managed to pick out from the waste bin of the hotel that was quite close to their shack. She carefully washed the tea bags to remove any traces of milk or other particles from them, opened them up, carefully spread out the tea leaves on a piece of paper and let them dry in the sun.
Then she helped amma bath and change and finally got ready herself to go to school. Every morning she would warn amma not to step out of the shack but almost every evening she came back, the shack was empty. She carried a little plastic container into which she would pack a little of the rice gruel and lentil served to the students for free at school and bring back for amma to eat. She never asked for a second helping because it made her feel ashamed and always divided the share she got into half to carry home for amma. Mostly it was the only food they ate except for a sweet or piece of cake students would bring for their birthdays, which was an absolute treat for Janki. Yet, no matter how much ever she craved for the sweetmeat, there was always half of her share neatly wrapped up for “amma”.
There wasn’t any light in their little shack due to which Janki generally sometimes did her study, especially when there was more homework to do, under the street lamp a little further ahead. Usually she completed all school work by 6.00pm when there would be enough natural lighting. Since there wasn’t any cooking or any other thing to be done after sunset, mother and daughter huddled in the darkness of their little shack, comforted only be each other’s company. Perhaps the darkness of the shack was a blessing in disguise, protecting the deranged mother and her vulnerable daughter from the dangers lurking in an evil outside world. To be safe and protected is a privilege in itself and for those who have enough of it; it is usually misinterpreted for lack of freedom. It is only those who have forfeited this prerogative, know its value.
They were always hungry and so it was not a new feeling. Janki could correctly remember the day she had a full meal, enough to fill her stomach. It was two years back, on her best friend’s birthday. Avantika had brought chicken biriyani, homemade, for all her friends. She still remembered the aroma of the spiced basmati rice lavishly strewn with tenderly cooked chicken pieces, with raitha and hot and spicy lemon pickle for accompaniment. She had hungrily dug into the rich food, savouring its taste and finishing every single morsel that had been served for her. For the first time in her life, she felt her tummy full and satisfied and it had felt very good too. She had promised herself she would carry the usual school served meal for amma but by the time the party was over, she was too late to collect her share.
That night Janki had gone to bed on a full stomach while amma was hungry. Without any food the whole day, the older woman had been difficult to control all night. She abused Janki verbally calling her names and muttering to herself. There were tears flowing from her eyes as she clutched at her stomach, not knowing it was hunger that made her stomach growl. Yet in spite of all the reprimands and loud wailing the woman never touched the child. It had been the ranting of a mad woman, who even in her unsoundness wouldn’t harm her little one. The disturbance continued well into the night till she became weak and fell asleep. That morning Janki woke very early scavenging into the food waste bin of the hotel till she found some bread, with which she fed her mother.
Janki had felt dreadful about it and so terribly guilty, vowing never ever again to eat anything without having kept aside half of what she got for amma. After that she eluded friends, having decided that sharing their food was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. It distracted her and besides, she would never be able to give back anything.
The child’s mother now makes a re-entry into the story. Like a champion she emerges holding high her trophy and her eyes gleaming with excitement. She cannot wait to get to Janki and seeing her from afar breaks into a run. She stops a few inches away but short of breath and scoops the little girl into her arms. This sudden play of affection is not new to the little girl who was quite used to it and who would now accept detachment too with the same temperament. It all depended on the emotions her “amma” went through about half an hour before they met, as the feeling of happiness or sorrow could linger in the poor woman’s brain only for a maximum span of about half an hour, the time about which she could hold on to them. If the last emotion the woman in question experienced before she met her daughter was happiness, the Janki could expect a hug as today and if not a rough push.
She shoved the new treasure into Janki’s hands. It took some time for the child to realize what it was, but on a re examination, her face shined in delight, just as older woman’. Janki handled the new toy with special care, turned it over to examine it, as her mother showed her how to gently turn it on lightly turning the knob. That night for the first time since they had made the shack their home, it wasn’t pitch dark. The warm light from the solar wick of the lamp seemed to have removed the darkness of the room. Long after her mother fell asleep, little Janki stayed awake till the light faded out. Even after the light had dimmed, the golden framework of the lamp dazzled in the streak of moonlight that stealthily found its way into the shack through one of the holes in the corrugated roof.
Janki was overwhelmed by its beauty and she caressed the lamp in her little hands rubbing it softly, secretly hoping for the genie as in the Alladin’s story, she had heard, to pop out. If it did, what would she ask for? She looked round to review their belongings in the moonlit room. Hmm… what could she ask for? Her eyes fell on her mother snoring away on the other side of the ragged mat they slept on and her eyes became gentler. Then she knew! She would ask the kindly genie for a full plate of biriyani, just like the one that Avantika had brought on her birthday. She wanted it that amma also got a taste of the delicious meal, she had so selfishly partaken all by herself on that day.
“Yes dear genie”, she whispered lightly to the lamp, “please get amma a meal of chicken briyani with raitha and lemon pickle and some for me too”. It still took her awhile to go to sleep. She could hear the croaking of the frogs, the leaves of the neem tree swaying in the night breeze, the clutter of the asbestos sheet of their roof as the wind hit it and of course the growling of street dogs, as they snarled and barked at each other. She knew they were prowling outside their little shack and as scary as they seemed they provided the mother and daughter armour of protection against heinous beings and diabolic intrigue of the dark.
She knew she ought to be thankful to them for they were the reason the red eyed, fiery looking supervisor working in the nearby five star hotel, didn’t dare to get at her. He had called her near once, on the pre text of offering her some sweets. Then he had clasped her cheeks in his palms, hurting her and then brought his face so close to hers that she could smell his breath. It had been loathsome and then suddenly aware of some terrible danger lurking, she had broken away from his grip and run for her life. She tried to explain to amma what had happened but the poor woman couldn’t understand a word and she had left it. But she had been careful never to cross paths with the man again and took pains to make sure they never met.
From the twelfth floor of his luxurious suite room, the biggest in his Hotel, Khalid Omari the owner looked out of the window with a sense of satisfaction. This hotel had been his dream, or rather his father’s dream. The Omari family had shifted to Kochi from Hyderabad, driven away from their hometown as debtors. His father used to run a restaurant on Basheer Bagh, a crowded street in Hydrabad. As fate would have it, the family was forced to shut down their small restaurant, sell their property and go into hiding, since even all this would not be sufficient to return a loan taken from the local money lender.
It was tough in the beginning but then the small Hyderabad food stall they began in Panampilly Nagar took off far better than expected. The people of Kochi are avid food lovers, coming from different back grounds and different places but having amalgamated into the hustle and bustle of this crowded but fun loving and vibrant city. Eating out and trying out new food jaunts are among the city folk’s favourite outings and before long Baba Omari’s Hyderabadi specialties were rated as one of the best. Business grew and so did little Khalid. Soon, he took over the business and before long the family began to flourish. Today Baba and Ammi lived a content retired life, Khalid was married to Ameena and his children Abid and Shafeena went to the best international school in the city.
From his room, Khalid squinted, straining his eyes to see what seemed like a little fluorescent blue box from the window facing the back portion of the hotel. It looked like a shed. His brows furrowed, wondering what was going on there. It sort of disturbed him and he wondered if any nefarious activities were going on right there under his nose. He needed to look into the matter.
The very first thing Khalid did the next morning was to investigate the “fluorescent” blue box that had given him a sleepless night in spite of spending the night in the best room of his five star hotel. The box had lost its charm with dawn. The streaming rays of sun shone on the blue tarpaulin and asbestos sheet, brought out the worst of it, and it was beyond doubt an eye sore. Yet, far more than the damage it was doing to the views from his hotel rooms; it was the plight of the school going girl and her mother that tugged at the gentleman’s heart.
It was clear, they were starved, but before they could be fed, they had to be shifted to a safer destination. He arranged for them to be accommodated in one of the lady staff rooms with an attached toilet. For the first time in her whole life, Janki and her amma had a proper room to themselves. A room with a tube light, a ceiling fan, a table with a chair and a window by it with horizontal bars from which she could look out onto the beautiful landscaped garden of the plush hotel. Just by the side of her bed was a small table on which she gently placed the lamp, so that it was the last thing she saw before closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep.
Dear reader, everything would follow in days to come, if not in excess enough to suffice, enough for Janki and her amma to survive and they did live more or less happily ever after.
You perhaps wonder why Janki’s amma was not taken to an asylum, given her condition or why Janki wasn’t given over to an orphanage, which is the usual case. Well, as you see I am an optimist. I believe, every mother strives to give the best to her child. She sets her heart at it and gives her whole self to its fulfillment. When she is overpowered by circumstances that render her helpless and incapable of the task, her mind shuts out and she becomes unhinged. When things return to normalcy so does rationality.
You also perhaps wonder why Janki escaped the clutches of the red eyed supervisor pedophile. That because it would be too cruel, for no child ever ought to be harmed. No! Not even in stories. The world must set out to protect them for they are love, they are the future and they are all we have.
And now for the crux of the story! Khalid was a very kind hearted man. Feeding another two mouths was nothing for so rich an hotelier but he preferred to do it in style. “They shall be fed every single day with one plate each of my own very special “Hyderabadi Dum Biriyani”, he ordered.
Who says there aren’t genies in lamps anymore? But alas for their interpretation skills….
**********
Translation: Assamese Poetry of Guna Moran
Original: Assamese: Guna Moran - English Translation: Bibekananda Choudhury
 |
| Guna Moran |
LIKE WATER
Shapeless
Wordless
Flows down
Turns into a river
What would flow like a river
Who is benevolent like water
I don’t have means to buy golden utensil
To store water to quench my thirst
I cut out a bamboo cylinder to keep water and hung it down from the wall
Help myself with a swig fetching it as I get thirsty
Had golden utensil been favourite of water
What had been the plight of a person like me
As I measured shapeless water with a suspicious eye
I could not understand its value
Now only I understand
Why it does not have the shape
Neither the words.
***
RAVANA
One soul
Three incarnations
All three times
Iconoclast
All the three times
Stayed in the hands God
How benevolent Ravana had been
More devoted to God
Than a god believer
Adversity is the best stairway to reach God
Was rightly understood by wise Ravana
Memory is the best offering
It is only possible
To memories every moment
Through adversity
So
Ravana did not turn a believer
***
THE THREE MONKEYS AND ME
One monkey said closing the eyes –
Don’t look at bad things
Another monkey said tying its face –
Don’t say anything bad
The third one said covering the ears –
Don’t listen to bad things
I didn’t listen to the monkeys
In spite of being a human
Did many things
Travelled across places and States
Tasted some so called sins
In the name of experience
At the end the mind turned melancholic
An unknown feeling of guilt chases me around
Now
What did I do
What did I do
I didn’t perform prayers
The tiger of illusion chases
At last I surmised
I was born at a wrong place
I was born at the wrong time
I was born wrong.
***
Bios
Author: Guna Moran is an Assamese poet & critic. His poems are being translated into Italian and France language and have been published in various national and international magazines, journals, websites, newspapers like The Tuck magazine, Spillword, The Merak magazine, Story Teller, The Poem Hunter, The Sentinal, The Hills Times, Best Poetry and so on.
Poetry: Sukanya Basu Mallik
 |
| Sukanya Basu Mallik |
As the rain drops on my head,
It cools my tensed up scalp,
And trickles down my head
Descending upon my face,
Touching my forehead,
Eyelids, cheeks and chin,
Dry,
Impoverished!
It waits there till it next falls on my bosom,
Plum yet suckled.
It follows my stomach
And my womb that breeds life,
And flows through my legs up to my feet,
All thirsty and unfed ...
The little drop tries
To cure my needy body’s ailments
But it can’t
Owing to its small size,
And yet it tries!
It tries to feed the skin,
On which many fed,
It tries to quench the thirst-
Seldom met,
Until it too vanishes within the earth
Alike thousands of such explorers!
***
Banjaran
No home, no plan,
In this world full of people
I was a lonely wonderer
A banjaran, a nomadic woman.
Storms swept by,
I had no one,
Neither was I ever there for any,
But you…
I wrote and wrote,
For that was all I could do,
And thus I did.
I wrote and wrote,
For in this sea of endless possibilities,
You were my only boat,
The winds blew hard,
Yet you kept me from drowning!
throughout my journey,
you kept me from drowning.
When amidst all practical people
Well suited and booted,
I found no shelter,
You gave me one,
In the lap of your evergreen hope’s grass;
When I found no soul,
We became lad and lass!
The ink I spend in writing you into paper is like the chlorophyll to my leaves,
And the words that flow- like the anthocyanin to my petals,
For when the world left me bank,
You coloured my entire canvas,
In you this banjaran-
Dreams, lives and breathes!
***
Manipur - The Crown of North East India
 |
| Gopal Lahiri |
- Gopal Lahiri
Passing through scenic countryside, sleepy villages and picturesque towns, one can understand the ‘jewelled land’, Manipur in her elements. A visit to this tiny state in the north east of India is an unforgettable experience.Dotted around are the grass rings floating on the Loktak lake is a revelation. Loktak lake is the largest freshwater lake in the North-East India and is located in Moirang in Bishnupur district. The view of the lake from the Sendra hillock is breath-taking.
The only floating National Park in the world, the Keibui Lamjao National Park located on the Loktak lake is the natural habitat of the famous dancing deer ‘sangai’. We were lucky to have a glimpse of this shy deer walking on this forest in this enviable setting.
Kangla Fort is a must visit. Located in the heart of Imphal city, the oldest polo ground is the real star attraction of this fort. Kangla is one of the most important historical and archaeological sites in Manipur. It reflects the proud history of the erstwhile Asiatic Kingdom dating back to 33 A.D. It is the symbol of the state’s culture and heritage.
Shree Shree Govindji Temple is the centre of Vaishnavites in Manipur. Twin domes, a beautiful courtyard and a large raised congregation hall are the highlights of this historic temple. The place becomes vibrant during Raas Leela time with song and dance.
INA base at Moirang is worth a visit because Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose led the INA to defeat the British and established the first independent government in Moirang. The flag post is still preserved. It’s rich in local history.
War cemetery at Imphal is a fascinating location. Commemorating the memories of the British and Indian soldiers who died during the World War II.
The War Cemetery is well maintained recording the sacrifice of those gallant soldiers. The monument in memory of Japanese soldiers who fought with the British is also a tourist attraction.
Ima Market is a unique all-women’s market with more than 3000 stalls run by the mothers. It spreads on the two sides of the main market road. Handlooms, garments and household items are sold on one side and on the other side the fruits and vegetables, groceries and fishes are sold.
The boat ride around the floating forest is an illuminating route through an overlooked landscape that is weirder than any other, and becoming wilder once again and the view is spectacular. The expanse of the flat land is amazing. It’s the perfect base for those in search of an adrenaline rush.
Manipur has always inspired the visitors for its rolling mountains to serene water, hidden waterfalls to the floating park, for its exquisite dance forms to amazing flora and fauna and the rich cultural heritage.
Solzhenitsyn’s "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich": Story of Soviet Concentration Camp
 |
| Aju Mukhopadhyay |
Aju Mukhopadhyay
Brief Bio: Aju Mukhopadhyay is a bilingual award winning Poet, Author, Essayist and Critic. He writes on varied subjects besides literature. He is a regular contributor to journals and books in India and abroad. Besides some awards and honours on poetry he received “Albert Camus Centenary Writer’s award” on Essays and Laureate award as Best Author. Besides main stream poetry he has been writing Japanese short verses published in many international magazines. He has authored 36 books including 12 books of poems and six books of short stories besides a novel. His poems and stories have been widely anthologised and translated. He has published more than 250 Scholarly essays in books and journals.
The Subject
Through the imagined character of Ivan Solzhenitsyn
has narrated the incidents of his life in the notorious Siberian Concentration
Camp where he was sentenced for eight years for writing a derogatory remark
about Stalin, the communist dictator, in one of his correspondences with his
close school friend. It is the story of prisoners sentenced to ill reputed labour
camp in Siberia, the coldest part of Russia. The story relates the day-to-day
routine of their life; how pleasant, bitter, surprising and hellish way they had
to live.
The Summary
The day begins at dawn and proceeds through risky and boring
routines strewn with pain,
humiliation, corruption and risk. Calling prisoners to
assemble and dissemble is fraught with
corporeal-mental risk. Major portion of the day is
spent in different types of work, mainly physical with short break for food.
The routine ends at night after calling all for assembling and counting
followed by all paraphernalia. All through the time severe Siberian cold chills
the bone, clods the blood of all, of specially those who undergo some
punishment.
Like
millions of ordinary Russians Ivan Denisovich Shukhov was caught in the vortex
of Second World War and compelled to join the Soviet Army. Undergoing all
hunger and deprivation he fought with the Germans for four years. Once in 1945
he and another fellow soldier were captivated by the Germans but in a few days
they escaped. Instead of receiving a hero’s welcome he was caught and charged
for treason by Stalin’s supersensitive secret Police. Sensing that he would be
shot if he argued, Shukhov ‘Confessed’ and was sentenced to imprisonment for
ten years in Siberian Concentration Camp. The book tells about one of the three
thousand six hundred and twenty-two days in Ivan’s prison life; one of the
ordinary days, neither better nor worse than any. One plus point is that he
seemed to be lucky by all points of view on that particular day and felt happy
at the end.
Events of
the Day: How they Tell Upon their Life
Here is how the day begins and continues to progress
until it sleeps at night with men.
The roll
call at dawn; a clang on the rail was hardly audible penetrating the
double-paned, frost-blurred windows. Still wearing the inhuman chill all over his
body Shukhov stood up to work as usual. They are there to put hard labour to
build up their country; that is why the great leader had chosen them charging
them with false heinous crimes. Vdovushkin, once a University student of
literature but compelled to be medical assistant when caught with charges for
crime unknown to him and sentenced to serve, came and examined him. He found
that Ivan had a body temperature of 99.2 degrees instead of 100 like the others
and said that there was no escape from work. Doctor would find him guilty and
he would be locked for further torture. Sukhov did not wish to escape. He
didn’t speak. Wearing the hat he went out to find the parade ground deserted.
Atmospheric temperature outside was minus 17 degree whereas his body
temperature was 99 plus. He started jogging around, alone. The fight was on. It
was that rare moment when everyone in the camp was sleeping pretending that
there wouldn’t be any work that day whereas they knew that everything had already
been decided. When everything was foretold prisoners indulged in self-deception
by deafening themselves as if the call was a mistake.
A guard was
rushing around the parade ground. He asked Tiurin how long they would have to
wait for someone in his squad was late. Shukhov might be scared of him but not
Tiurin. He would not wait in the cold; he led his 104th squad shuffling and
squeaking for he knew how to grease the guard’s hand with a pound of salt pork.
Instead of his squad some other squad was punished to go the ‘Socialist way of
Life’ in minus 17 degrees cold ground without fire and shelter.
To make the
corrupt point home the writer explains,
“A squad
leader needs a lot of salt pork- to take to the planning department and to
satisfy his
own belly too. Tiurin received no parcels but he
didn’t go short of pork. No one in the squad who
received any lost a moment in taking him some as a
gift.
“Otherwise
you would never survive.” (One Day 38)
Then came
the time when the whole parade ground became black with coats thrown in for it
is the time for search; search by numbers on the jackets
and hats. The numbers often faded
and paled making them indistinguishable. The painters
were there to touch up the numbers. Poor
painters too had to respond to roll calls and had to
perform the drudgery. Anybody found with
indistinct numbers was confined to guard’s room for
further treatment.
Apart from
the above minute hazards of camp life that often becomes dangerous with
torture,
getting the necessary fuel for life becomes delicately
hazardous as it is strewn with huge corrupt practices at every point
threatening to further deprivation.
The
prisoners had to stand in long queue to get the pittance of food for lunch and
dinner. Each had to please the superiors or sometimes a lucky colleague to get
something from them to make up or satisfy the hunger. At night when Shukhov was
lying near captain Tsezar, who slept by his side threw a piece of bread to him
as an extra out of what plenty he got. “And he put out of his mind any idea of
getting something tasty from what Tsezar had laid out. There’s nothing worse
than working your belly to no purpose.” (One Day 142)
There’s nothing
to be happy with the food package they got. “Shukhov had known cases
when before his parcel arrived a fellow would be doing
odd jobs to earn a bit of extra kasha or
cadging cigarette butts- just like anybody else. He
has to share with guard and the squad
leader-and how can he help giving a little something
to the trusty in the parcels office? Why,
next time the fellow may mislay your parcel and a week
may go by before your name appears
again in the list!” (One Day 143) And that other
fellow who kept your food “safe from friskers and pilferers.” (One Day 143)
Naming the fellows go on ad infinitum for sharing that tiny food packet. It’s a
self-pitying humility that one has to undergo just to keep fed and maintain his
body in such surrounding inhuman climatic and living condition. Here is an
example of drinking tea in the camp life.
“Just then
a captain appeared with “A pot of tea, special tea, you can bet! Two tea
barrels
stood in the barracks, but what sort of tea could you
call it? Sewage: warm water with a touch of
coloring, dishwater smelling of the barrel-of steamed
wood and rot. That was tea for the workers.
But the captain must have taken a pinch of real tea
from Tsezar, put it in his pot and hurried to
the hot water faucet.” (One Day 144)
At dawn, “As
soon as they’d left the barracks with the boots the door was locked after them.
When they ran back they shouted, ‘Citizen chief. Let us in.’” (One Day 152)
The guards
entered their quarters, did the book keeping to be assured that none was
missing.
If everything went right Tsezar would come diving
between the tiers of bunks on his way
back. He thanked Ivan Denisovich who thanked back.
Then Ivan Denisovich Shukhov shot up to
his top most bunk like a squirrel. He could now finish
his bread, smoke his second cigarette and
sleep. He remembered that the day passed quite nicely for
him as he was not punished on any
count, rather he managed extra food and drinks, he
felt fresh and rejuvenated so his way to sleep
was laden with happiness and so, tardy. More so because
Aloysha came to his bunk next to him,
and at the same level. He’s a very pious fellow who
always reads Bible and pray. He surmonises
Shukhov who’s not opposed to God but doesn’t find any
efficacy in praying in his situation,
hence the useless arguments ensue between them.
At last
when he’s left alone, “Shukhov gazed at the ceiling in silence. Now he didn’t
know whether he wanted freedom or not.” (One Day 155)
At first he
longed for it but freedom meant for him going home and he became sure that they
would never allow his going home.
At the end
when someone suggested that there won’t be any second count,
“‘Yeah,’
said Shukhov, ‘We ought to write it up in coal inside the chimney. No second
count.’ He yawned, ‘Might as well get to Sleep.’” (One
Day 156)
“And at the
very moment the door bolt rattled to break the calm that now reigned in the
barracks. From the corridors ran two of the prisoners
who’d taken boots to the drying shed.
“‘Second
count,’ they shouted.
“On their
heels came a guard,
“‘All out
to the other half.’” (One Day 156)
And after
much of talks, shuffles and movements they were shoved to the other half of the
barrack. And counting started. There could be problem if anyone was found short.
which meant recounting but that didn’t happen. As soon as he was counted
Shukhov ran back to his bunk. Tsezar also returned and Shukhov lowered his sac
to him and gave a biscuit to Aloysha. He kept everyone in good humour.
Everything sleepy, space of night was assured to them, they gradually fell
silent.
“Shukhov
went to sleep fully content. He’d had many strokes of luck that day; they hadn’t
put him in the cells; they hadn’t put his squad to the settlement; he had
swiped a bowl of kasha at dinner; the squad leader had fixed the rates well; he
had built a wall and enjoyed doing it; he’d smuggled that bit of hacksaw blade
through; he had earned a favor from Tsezar that evening; he’d bought that
tobacco. And he hadn’t fallen ill. He’d got over it.
“A day
without a dark cloud. And almost a happy day.
“There were
three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days like that in his stretch. From
the first clang of the rail to the last clang of the rail.
“Three
thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.
“The three
extra days were for the leap years.” (One Day 158)
Time’s Role
in it
One day’s
event among thousands and hundreds of days is nothing exceptional yet it is sensational
and exciting. It does not seem to be a continuous occurrence. Time is
fragmented here into pieces. At the end of the day and evening, at night, after
they finally assemble and stand for being searched and counted and are allowed
to occupy their allotted niche in the many tiered bunks, when they, like Ivan,
recapitulate the incidents of the day, they actually string together all that
happened separately occurring on the same day to find its effect in their lives.
There is no flash back here. It is simply the narration; tale of prisoners’
lives strewn together through the events of the day. One day but it is the face
of all the days past and to come as the day ends and rolls over to the next
through the night. Time passes through their lives exhausting their cruel yet
exhilarating moments of existence without any guarantee to regain what they
left behind. Time passes through their lives.
The Writer
and his Creation
Alexander was posthumously born on 11 December 1918.
He was brought up by his stenographer mother. He studied mathematics and
physics before he got a chance long after to study literature for some time. “I
would not have survived eight years of the camps, if as a mathematician, I had
not been assigned for four years to a so-called sharashka; and in exile I was
allowed to teach mathematics and physics which made life easier and gave me a chance
to get down to the job of writing.” (Solzhenitsyn 16)
Writing was
his earnest dream even as a child and the hard, never to forget experiences of
life set him to write one of the best works he produced which brought out the
worst examples of the practice of communism giving birth to such inhuman demons
as Stalin and Mao Zedong, even as it proved the fallacy of communist theory.
The Birth
Centenary of Alexander Isayevich Solzhenitsyn, the Great Russian Writer, was observed
in December last year, 2018. It is still vibrant in the memory of men who knew
what he experienced in his life and how the artist in him expressed them
through his literature. He served in the army during the World War-Two;
suffered imprisonment in Siberian labour camp for eight years for a remark
about Stalin, a fluke, and released after the death of Stalin in 1953 but was
exiled to Central Asia and rehabilitated in 1957 after the new leader Khruschev
had denounced Stalin in 1956. Again, his citizenship was revoked and he was
deported in 1974, the year he was awarded Nobel Prize. He suffered from cancer
and recovered; married and had children. Defying all obstacles throughout his
life he lived robustly creating history and literature at the same time. His
works are reflections of his life. His first book published was One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
in 1962; the only book selected by Khruschev to renounce Stalin and published
from USSR. It was the writer’s skill and courage that one communist leader used
against another without much regard for the writer as such. All his other manuscripts
were rejected by the regime. It is doubtful how valuable were the lives and the
principles of such leaders and their dogmatic ism who ignored such great
writers and their reflections on life.
See the
frustrated look of a writer in a communist country; how he lost all faith but
recovered unbelievably after the unforeseen stroke of fate. Any writer in any
other country would suffer the same and suffers in similar situation but he
will have further scope and option in a country with a democratic set up.
“Throughout
the years up to 1961, not only was I convinced that I would never in my life
see a line of mine in print but I also did not dare read anything to most of
even my close friends for fear of divulgence. Finally when I was about
forty-two the secretiveness as a writer began to oppress me very much. The
heaviest burden was the impossibility of having my work commented on by sophisticated
literary readers. In 1961, following the Twenty-second Congress of the CPSU and
Tvardovsky’s speech at it, I decided to reveal myself and to offer “One Day in
the Life of Ivan Denisovich.’
“Such
self-revelation seemed to me then-not without good reason-very risky; it could
lead to the destruction of all my manuscripts and me myself. But at that point
things turned out happily; after extended efforts A T Tvardovsky succeeded in
bringing out my novella a year later. But publication of my things stopped
almost immediately; my plays were held up, as was in 1964 my novel ‘The First
Circle,’ which in 1965 was confiscated along with my archives from years back. In
those months it seemed to me that it was an unforgiveable mistake to have
exposed my work prematurely and that I would not be able to complete it.” (Solzhenitsyn
64-65)
But sheer
fate restored his writing life as he confessed here, “We almost never can
evaluate and through consequences immediately become fully conscious of events
which have already happened to us; all the more unpredictable and surprising
for us is the course of events to come.” (Solzhenitsyn 65)
He became
known when this One Day in the Life of
Ivan Denisovich was published as a
weapon. All his other books were published in foreign
countries. Besides the slight look and
volume of the book (not very thin though with a page
length of 158 in paperback) the purport of
One Day in
the Life of Ivan Denisovich was highly
serious eye opener. He authored greater books like The First Circle, The Cancer
Ward and The Gulag Archipelago
(awarded Nobel Prize). Strong while tortured, calm while disturbed, he was
robust in physical, vital and mental health; exuded serenity. Carrying the
tradition of his predecessors he was one the greats among the famous Russian
litterateurs.
Let us
delve deep into a very serious and emotional moment of his life as he recalled
later:
“One
pallied European February it took me from our narrow salient on the Baltik Sea,
where depending on .one’s point of view, either we had surrounded the Germans
or they had
surrounded us, and it deprived me only of my familiar
artillery battery and the scenes of the last
three months of the war.
“The
brigrade commander called me to his headquarters and asked me for my pistol. I
turned
it over without suspecting any evil intent, when
suddenly from a tense, immobile suite of staff
officers in the corner, two counterintelligence
officers stepped forward hurriedly, crossed the
room in a few quick bounds, their four hands grabbed
simultaneously at the star of my cap, my
shoulder boards, my officer’s belt, my map case, and
they shouted theatrically, ‘You are under
arrest!’
“Burning
and prickling from head to toe, all I could exclaim was, ‘Me, what for?’
“And even though there is no answer to this
question, surprisingly I received one! This is
worth recalling because it is so contrary to our usual
custom. Hardly had the SMERSH men
finished ‘plucking’ me and my notes on political
subjects, along with my map case, and begun
to push me as quickly as possible toward the exit, urged
on by the German shellfire rattling the
windowpanes, than I heard myself firmly addressed-yes!
Across the sheer gap separating me
from those left behind, the gap created by the
heavy-falling word ‘arrest,’ across that quarantine
line not even a sound dared penetrate, came the
unthinkable magic words of the brigade
commander:
“‘Solzhenitsyn. Come back here.’
“With a
sharp turn I broke away from the hands of the SMERSH men and stepped back to
the
brigade commander. I had never known him very well! He
had never condescended to run-of-
the-mill conversations with me. To me his face had
always conveyed an order, a command,
wrath. But right now it was illuminated in a
thoughtful way. Was it for shame for his own
involuntary part in this dirty business? Was it from
an impulse to rise above the pitiful
subordination of a whole lifetime? Ten days before, I
had led my own reconnaissance battery
almost intact out of the fire pocket in which the
twelve heavy guns of his artillery battalion
had been left, and now he had to renounce me because
of a piece of paper with a seal on it?
“‘You have
. . .’ he asked weightily, ‘a friend on the First Ukranian Front?’
“‘It’s
forbiden! You have no right!’ the captain and the major of the
counterintelligence
shouted at the colonel. In the corner, the suit of
staff officers crowded to each other in fright,
as if they feared to share the brigade commander’s
unbelievable rashness (the political officers
among them already preparing to present materials
against him). But I had already understood:
I knew instantly I had been arrested because of my
correspondence with a school friend and
understood from what direction to expect danger.
“Zakhar
Georgiyevich Travkin could have stopped right there! But no! Continuing his
attempt to expunge his part in this and to stand erect
before his own conscience, he rose from
behind his desk-he had never stood up in my presence
in my former life-and reached across the
quarantine line that separated us and gave me his
hand, although he would never have reached out his hand to me had I remained a
free man. And pressing my hand, while his whole suite stood there in mute
horror, showing that warmth that may appear in an habitually severe face, he
said fearlessly and precisely:
“‘I wish
you happiness, Captain!’
“Not only
was I no longer a captain, but I had been exposed as an enemy of the people
(for among us every person is totally exposed from the
moment of arrest). And he had wished
happiness to an enemy?
“The panes
rattled. The Garman shells tore up the earth two hundred yards away, reminding
one that this could not have happened back in the
rear, under the ordinary circumstances of
established existence, but only out here, under the
breath of death, which was not only close by
but in the face of which all were equal. (The Gulag
Archipelago. Solzhenitsyn 23-26)
About this conscience of the Brigade Commander
let us remember the oft repeated word of Sri Ramakrishna, the Kali worshipping
sage of Dakshineshwar, that he is a true man who has his man and huns meaning
honour and self-consciousness. When a man realises himself as Amritasya Putrah, the son of immortality,
ever free as part of the immortal soul; free from all bondage, he actually knows
himself as a true man, the son of God. Death he fears not, cares not for an
assailer. In a rare moment of revelation, a flash of consciousness, the Brigade
Commander had reached that point when defying all warnings, not caring for any
consequences he said and did what he felt right and true at that point of time.
Solzhenitsyn
further explained the cause of his arrest precisely,
“I was
arrested on the basis of censored extracts from my correspondence with a school
friend
in 1944-5 basically for disrespectful remarks about
Stalin, although we referred to him by a
pseudonym. Material complementing the ‘accusation’ was
rough drafts of stories and reflections
found in my map case. Nevertheless, this was not sufficient
for a ‘trial,’ and in June 1945 I was
‘convicted’ by a procedure that was then widespread-
in my absence by a decision of OSO (an
NKVD Special Tribunal)-and sentenced to eight years in
a labor camp (at that time it was considered a mitigated sentence).
(Solzhenitsyn 20)
After the
turmoil was over, the writer was all laughs when expressing his opinion on work
of
art; “A work of art contains its verification in
itself; artificial, strained concepts do not withstand
the test of being turned into images; they fall to
pieces; turn out to be sickly and pale, convince
no one. Works which draw on truth and present it to us
in live and concentrated form grip us,
compellingly involve us, and no one ever, not even
ages hence, will come forth to refute them.
(Nobel lecture. Solzhenitsyn 70)
Conclusion
Alexander Solzhenitsyn wrote what life had taught him
verified in the crucible of time and experience; his writings drew on truth of what
he experienced. It exposed the falsehood of all diabolic claims and whims of the
poisoned heart of the dictator at the helm of the communist regime; how inhuman
and horrendous was the result of the communist movement was witnessed by the
world as it happened in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic. It has left an
indelible mark in history recorded by such great writers as Alexander Solzhenitsyn
and Mikhail Sholokhov. The images created by him are permanent as illumined by
his creative words; no one is expected to refute them.
Work Cited
1. Solzhenitsyn Alexandeer. One Day in the Life of
Ivan Denisovich. New York: A Signet Book; New American Library. 1963. Paperback.
2. Solzhenitsyn-A Pictorial Record. London: The Bodley
Head. 1974. Paperback.
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