Fiction: Rishikesh

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

Outside the hospital in the sprawling island city quite a few families looked either crest-fallen or shaken to the core. They were with sick or desperately ailing persons, who were clearly in the evening of their lives. The kin knew and could see that their geriatric kin had only a few evenings to see, possibly before the dark. They had seen years go by in all their tumult once, sometimes in happiness but never foresaw the uncertainty looming before them.

The reception staff was busy with the phone lines, mostly with their mobiles, but the talk was invariably shrill or pointless. Their medical specialists kept hammering on a single query that had no answer.

“Have the oxygen trucks come? Where are they right now? At the least we need two trucks for our immediate need. There are 30 patients gasping for breath, at the edge of the precipice. There are many others too in varying stages. “

The staff, who were used to tension-laden work for years, had not bargained for a day when a virus, lethal if ignored and manageable when shown alacrity, would swoop down like an invisible genie to take its harvest of deaths, primarily of those above 50 and surprisingly below it too. When it struck first the health staff like any other citizen did not know what it was until dripping well researched information produced an outline and nearly foolproof safety net from it. It took many months for them to comprehend its profile before they could recover those ailing from it. It was a grueling taxing work on shifts, stress eating away at the tissues and fatigue nagging the heart.

In that hospital the health staff took pride in pulling from the brink hundreds of ailing people who were oscillating between thin hope and certain end before the bell of recovery clanged. The staff had no time for accolades. Nor did they expect any or remembered them because the pandemic kept them on toes. Later they were vaccinated when the vaccines showed up on the horizon bringing the breeze of hope to chase away cobwebs of melancholy. They vaccinated many including those who were treated there. Yes, they didn’t bargain for another wave with mutants that could cast another spell of insufferable gloom or despondency.

It was back to square one with all the palpitated running for equipment, oxygen cylinders and the works. The hospital, generally known for its spotless hygiene, floors and ICUs, was inevitably caught in a puzzle, looking like a scrabbled chess board.

Rishikesh, young with ready humor and commitment, had become a qualified, licensed doctor five years ago. He had been a duty doctor in the hospital since then. When the pandemic struck he spent most of his time in the hospital attending to the patients at all times. His nurses asked him to take a few hours break as he too had a three year old son to look after and he obliged them by going home. He was in protective suit until he decided to leave for home hell bent on ensuring that he did not turn out to be a carrier. Protection mattered as much as a life. And he was back soon.

They all knew that scores of patients to be treated at a time meant that medical staff had to be on the job. And they made light of the situation with a mild joke or two as one of the nurses greeted him back with a cheery “these patients seem to be dearer than your wife. You can’t stay away?”

Rishikesh always was skeptical of tall claims or sweeping observations as reality was far more complex. From working among the patients he knew that some with co-morbidities were on the brink and others with a slender chance of survival. What they needed was liquid oxygen to replenish the blood flow in the lungs instantly or else would die. The hospital fortunately did have an oxygen plant that was giving the piped supply for years but that was designed to serve contingencies in the past. Now the situation was beyond the realm of contingencies.

He told his trusted nurse. “Sister! I don’t believe all this nonsense about the fact we should have anticipated or prepared well in advance. None can plan to the letter T or foresee emergencies and their associated needs. If that were so we should have had oxygen plants all over and in every hospital. Or we could even question why the need to have oxygen plants in all hospitals was never attended to? Were not we alive to it before? Or we were too mindful of the financial stakes in the business? The need is now and the essence of the hour is to have more oxygen trucks and possibly install one or more plants here urgently. “

She, Isabella, was in her thirties, having learnt composure from her profession and rationale from years of working among the ill and dying. She smiled, slightly shaking her head.

“Doctor! Agreed, In principle. It’s all easy and foolish to pass the buck as others do who are either opinionated no-gooders or lost in self importance. But have you forgotten the immense ordeal we went through two days ago when we had to manually revive a 65 year old patient with asthma and high blood sugar and failed? We had three more instances last week. All were dead. It left us mentally drained, sick. “

She went to attend another patient who was gasping for breath, trying to ease his heaving chest when Rishikesh joined her. The patient said testily in a weak tone which was almost a murmur. “Doctor! I wish I pass away without any more of this pain. “

“Sir! Please bear with us for a while. We have sent SOS and oxygen tanks will come anytime now, “ said Rishikesh. It was more in hope than any assurance. It sickened him to trot something which would be a lie if none turned up as promised.

Another young nurse, who joined the staff hardly a year back, came running. She was flustered for a while before getting her voice.

“Just now the admin got info that a tanker is five minutes away. The reception staff told me that more will be expected by evening. “

Rishikesh turned to the senior nurse and smiled. “Mine was not a far fetched hope, was it?”

The senior nurse, who had known Rishikesh for a few years and valued his sense of commitment, nodded with a smile. “At least we have kept our promise to these patients who were gasping for breath. Hopefully they will breathe easy.”

They could hear the patter of feet below when the tanker turned up at the gate.

 ………………….

It was 11 pm when Rishikesh returned to his flat three km from the hospital in his Maruti 800 which he liked as it was charmingly petite, productive and easy to handle. It was a just a six hour bonanza of rest before he would rush early morning. The hospital health staff worked on three shifts and numbered around 25 besides paramedics and drivers.

His parents had comfortably settled in Lucknow for years and the reports he got from them alternated between optimism about the virus control mechanism getting back on track with expedient steps or inevitable glitches on the way. He told his father “Dad! It is a monumental operation in a huge country on a mass scale. There are always marginal errors. Nowhere would the infra be equipped to meet a pandemic like this.”

His wife, Latha, gave a sleepy grin when he walked in. “Do you have to rush early morning? All are there on the table. For God’s sake don’t leave without having something in your stream in the morning.” She had reasons to say so. Often he would have a shower, give her a brief hug before rushing out. She knew the scare and never switched on television except when her son wanted to watch animation. A three year old kid would see fun and life only in the caricatures without understanding what it was all about.

“Don’t worry. I will help myself. Why don’t you go to sleep? I will leave all vessels in the sink before hitting the sack.” He felt the pangs in his heart that he had to wake her up at that hour but her face never lost the brightness of the day. She was a pharmacist too but at present content to run the home. There would always come a day when both could deign to spend maximum hours in medical service when their son would have found his feet.

 Latha knew from day one that he was a dream as a hubby and hated to add to her burdens. But her mind was not on what he would do or when he would hit the sack. Also it never so happened because he was attuned to his mobile for half an hour or more before catching sleep.

“Tell me, how is it all in the hospital or the city today? Anything major? You know I never watch TV.”

“Latha! It was all in a blur, so to say. First thankfully four oxygen tankers came one behind the other before 7 pm and it took a few minutes to install and connect them to the piped supply. We have no scares in that front as more are expected tomorrow. The hospital is going out of its way to ensure and secure its load of patients and send them safe and healthy home. “ He shook his head in pain when recalling a particular incident. She could fathom something was brewing and nestling in his mind.

She threw her arm around his shoulder. “Go on…what’s it?” He paused a while from eating and looked up at her. Then he spoke in clipped tone, measuring his memories.

“He was really badly off. Rohith Sawanth was his name. About 65 he had been a bank employee for three decades and a compulsive smoker. He got friendly with me over a week and not a day passed when he did not berate and bemoan his addiction to cigarettes. He also got his blood sugar from his father who had passed away in his fifties when he was in his teens. He had to take over the family, his mother and a younger sister. He thanked the stars for having got the bank job despite a tough period of remaining jobless.”

“I remember you told me his oxygen level was terribly low and he was on the edge of life. You also said he might not see the night through.”

Rishi nodded. “Yeah! So did I feel. Myself, Isabella and another nurse almost decided on manual resuscitation though we were skeptical. We brought ourselves to do it for an hour or so when he struck us as normal. He smiled at us and asked in a tone which we had to strain our ears to hear. “Please don’t tell my wife or son waiting outside about my condition right now. For God’s sake, please.” Yesterday when I came out I gave her reassurance without going further. But, Latha, he was put on oxygen later that night. When I went back today morning he was in passable condition, his intake was good and had a revived color in his face.”

“Rishi! Did you tell his wife about it? She must be feeling relieved. I can imagine though he is not out of the woods yet. “

“He will recover,” said Rishikesh. “His addiction to smoking had left his lung weak and inept but he had kicked the ghastly habit two years back. He got emotional and profusely and unabashedly thanked us all. Isabella kept cautioning him that he was not yet away from the edge. You will find it interesting to hear what he said to me. “Aapko meri umar lag jaaye….”

Latha snuggled close to his face, smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s a normal blessing from him. All is well, right?”

There were some medicine strips on the table in the bedroom which Rishikesh usually took before he hit the bed.

 ………….

They were busy as usual in the wards of the double storied structure that it was with huge halls and rooms on the far end where equipment, ventilators in packs were lined up for use, apart from a compact canteen and rest room for nurses. The two floors, with beds spaced well for social distancing, had been converted into a Covid speciality. They didn’t, possibly couldn’t, take any other cases even if they were critical and used the one line rigmarole - “Only Covid care please…”

With the lion’s share of the attention and tension going with the virus they had no option. As of now the admin staff on the ground floor was getting a blizzard of calls about beds vacant or getting vacant. Yes, that was part of the commotion outside unobtrusively making its way into every health clinic near and far.

Isabella and Rishikesh moved from one bed to the other monitoring the flow of oxygen into every patient, the charts, their intake, mindset etc. (The last mattered a lot, as Rishikesh would aver especially in medical emergencies. If you whine you won’t get better. If you are calm, hopeful there was always a chance. God always helps those who help themselves. ) There were other nurses who were going about their work on the two floors on their shift routine.

“Doctor! We have been doing our rounds for the past five hours. I will have a quick grab at tea and return. “

“Please Isabella…” He moved further to talk to Rohith Sawant who greeted him with a toothy smile. Sawant’s wife was there till then and left for home to bring some food for them in the evening. Oxygen supply was going into Sawant’s lung stream and revival was perceptible.

“Sawantji…you must be feeling better now. Now is the time to put some muscle and strength into your mind as well”

He smiled and stretched out his hand to touch Rishikesh’s fingers. He spoke, putting less stress on his vocal chords. “If I were to lose hope or whine I would be doing great disservice to all of you. Yes…I do feel better and strongly hope I will be out of the hospital in a week. Doctor! I have shared some of my personal life too with you though as a community doctors have to keep away from personal attachments. I have a lone request ….the moment you feel I am better and can be discharged please do so. In this situation I have no right to occupy this bed longer than necessary.”

Rishikesh patted his wrist. “Sawantji…I appreciate this….to be frank, there is quite a clamor for beds outside that we may have to pack you off once you are safe.” Sawant grinned. Rishikesh went around the long line up of beds, spoke to each patient and checked the equipment and the chart. Isabella returned.

“Time for my turn…” he told her.

She grimaced and joked. “To get into this bed doctor? God forbid….”

 …………

It may be tiresome to hear the cliché, the jarring addendum that life is uncertain. Better to keep away the thought like the peeled skin of a potato.

It was grueling that day with the health staff spending hours in the two wards, be it on shifts or as a doctor working for nearly 10 plus hours. Rishikesh got into his car after sipping a full bottle of Kinley but with the weather being rough and hot his throat was dry when he reached home. He took another swig to moisten his throat. He felt a dull, nagging pain in his chest, a sudden blurring of vision though it was temporary and remained in his car for five minutes. He felt better or at least could move out. He stood on the ground, felt his feet becoming either numb or painful and the right side of his body heavy, inert but managed to drag himself to the door of his flat. He was glad to find Latha instantly answer the bell.

He staggered a bit before stepping in and Latha steadied him with alarm- struck eyes saying “Rishi! What’s wrong? You look haggard. God! I will get those medicines right away. Did you take any while at work?” A flurry of questions to which he was in no position to give elaborate replies except to mumble “Latha….I did take tablets but it looks like……a stroke….”

She took him to bed where their son was sound asleep. He stretched himself with irregular heavy breathing before her fingers flew over the black phone and Isabella took the call. “Oh No…we are coming right away. Latha, please try to ease his chest a bit …..see he takes his medicines now. “

They reached there in no time - Isabella, a heart specialist colleague of Rishikesh and two other nurses spent quite sometime to revive him with Latha stuck on the chair, wide eyed and shocked. The doctor, who was of the same age as Rishikesh, was worried at the condition of his friend, who appeared still and to be slipping into the zone of no hope. They spent an hour but nothing seemed to bring the thread of life back from the abyss.

He sat back, exhausted and emotionally stricken. It was as if something unthinkable and unforgivable had happened. “No…it’s not just right….,” he mumbled. Isabella, who scoffed at the call of the circumstances to reveal the truth to the bereaved, was angry all over, untypical of her. She quietly went close to Latha, pressed her head to her chest patting her. There was an unearthly silence for a few minutes before the wail accompanied by sobs broke it in the room.

With moist eyes normally the composed phlegmatic Isabella turned to the doctor.

“How is it life is so mercilessly uncertain and cruel doctor? Especially to us? Why?” It was almost a hysterical, angry shout, face contorted with inexpressible pain. It was a shout that came up when words had nothing to contribute.

The doctor was either benumbed or felt it too trite as the grimness of the situation enveloped them. He could hear the weak crackle of a crow in the distance.

 ………END……………

 

Bio: K. S. Subramanian, India has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India. His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi. He has been featured in museindia.com, run by Central Institute of Indian Languages, Hyderabad, His poems and short stories have also appeared in magazines, anthologies and web sites run at home and abroad. Writing is a passion though he feels he should have done much, much more than was possible. He is a retired Senior Asst. editor from The Hindu.

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Setu, May 2021

What short story means to me (K. S. Subramanian and B. S. Tyagi)

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

From my experience I have found that the main aim of a short story must be to connect with the reader, knowing his propensity for fast pace, easy and pleasant reading and keeping attention in place.  In our times it is hardly possible for anyone to spend even half an hour on a literary piece with his busy schedule unless he is literarily inclined.  Since the reader is the primary target audience it is inevitable to respect his needs and encourage his literary drive.  These days there is a perceptible change in the audience too who are gravitating to new literature partly due to untapped interest in creative writing and compulsive environment.

A short story can be personal dealing with an event or emotional sequence which affects his personality.  It could be a cathartic experience for himself too, a kind of therapy.  It is one way of unwinding oneself.  But I feel it need not be always personal, and he can branch out into other interesting events or happenings around.  Though there is no inherent pressure on him to convey a ethical message or of protest/resentment he can let his particular work speak for itself.  I feel any such message can emerge unobtrusively or be subtle.

I am personally apathetic to graphic details in a story. It militates against the essence of creativity and could be an affront to sensibility. A short story’s scope is wide, can deal with a wide variety of happenings including some historical or mythical characters if the writer is attracted to a specific streak of the personality.  Through unraveling that streak the writer can either elevate or downgrade the personality depending on the make up of the character.

Be it characters from history/mythology/social environment they cannot come out alive, I feel, unless sufficient research and focus has been put into it. Many illustrious novelists like Amish Tripathy have done phenomenal research to do trilogies which keep readers pegged. This yardstick applies to all literary characters who have become cherished icons in literature.

I wrote a short story Ghatotkach’s mace in Setu which was a learning exercise to enhance the character’s moral strength.

It is difficult to be precise about the language because it entirely dependent on the theme, nature of the circumstances and characters at play.  Suffice it to say that it should be racy, poignant where necessary and carry the reader to the end. However the language changes with eras in its idioms and nuances and even within the eras diction varies one section of people to the other. To be true to the times I think one must be conversant with local slang spoken then.  I would wish to cite Michael Crichton’s Great Train Robbery, a superb fiction which was also made into a thriller. His handling of the local dialect was amazingly authentic.


So in a modern setting one has to settle for the local idiom and even slang when building the theme of his story.  But if it is in a historical or mythical setting the language has to be courtlier and more classical typical of the expressions of the age, I suppose.


Traditionally it is known that a short story has a beginning, middle and end as much as a novel.  Many think it is old school of thought without realizing that most of the contemporary novels and novelists stick to this format. Even Frederick Forsyth’s thrillers and of his contemporaries have this format in the background. They are adept at making it lurk while building up the plot to its climax with amazing and enormous details thrown in between that the reader realizes it only when he reflects on the novel. This can be found in biographies/autobiographies too.

The environment does inspire any writer.   No writer can say or claim that he is a hermit dwelling in an ivory tower and writing from there. The environment need not be present in every story of his but is an invisible factor.

A short story can be a collage of events but designed to an ending. I have always admired the adroitness with which the classical American writer O Henry used to build his stories to an unimaginable climax without ever letting the reader feel that it is contrived. For example, let me cite The Gift of the Magi or the Passing of Black Eagle. There are many illustrious short fiction writers in various languages globally and O Henry will rank right there in the top echelons.  Surprise endings are often the key to the impact of a story.

Facts do matter especially when one is dealing with an event or sequence where history, medicine or science is a dominant element. Science fiction falls in this category and anyone attempting it will fail inevitably unless he has a solid grounding on facts.  Facts also have a special bearing when the theme has something to do with medicine or any other branch of knowledge.  Otherwise it can be contested.

Indian English writing has ranked with the best since its birth. However the classical poets and novelists have been confined to the curriculum in a way though their stellar contributions have been much acknowledged.

There are a lot of contemporary writers who are still in the shadow except for the limited visibility available through social media and internet.  In this context the visibility factor has certainly improved with highly motivated and enthusiastic web domains promoting literature to wider audience. But self-published writers are unable to break even notwithstanding the presence of some publications committed to promoting literature.  Either the cost is a deterrent or the marketing reach. On mass media it is still an uphill task to get one’s work reviewed or even catalogued in the weekly release of books’ list. It is like shooting a wild arrow in the darkness or finding one’s way in an untenanted land.

But things will change or are changing…

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Mechanism of Poetry

K. S. Subramanian and B. S. Tyagi

B S Tyagi

My personal experience of poetry writing leads me to believe that poetry should be natural, spontaneous and fluent as only then it can enable humans to realize inherent beauty and freshness. It should ring the echo of truth and beauty which can transport a person into the other world forgetting worldly ‘fret and fever’ for a while. It has capacity to lift a person into ‘a world quite different from that of prose or everyday life’. A simple and natural verse can touch magically a person’s soul with its all soothing effect. To me poetry is a pristine source of love, peace and joy as it springs forth from heart. It knows no boundaries; hence all-embracing. Its inspiring force urges me to search for truth through nature and its beauty. Besides, poetry has its own way to interpret life with its all facts, and experiences which dominate worldly life. It relates human feelings and passions which matter most in day to day life. And above all, it purges human mind of negativity which is the need of today’s times as our conscious mind knows it well that negative feelings such as anger, fear, greed, lust, jealousy etc. are not acceptable to society. If these feelings are suppressed, internal system looks for ways to manifest as destructive images, feelings, thoughts and behavior. Poetry can purify mind and keeps the whole being calm. In Indian context the majority of people believe in spirituality; poetry with spiritual touch interest men and women. They enjoy much such poetry. Man, if imbibes its beauty, can stay in harmony with nature and realize it presence all over the universe. In fact, poetry educates the readers to look at life from the poet’s insight. Hence, it is rewarding in a number of ways.

Next, pleasure is the chief function of poetry so it must have rhythm; it lends grace and aesthetic beauty to the poem and the reader feels great pleasure while reading a poem. Its music is an arresting element of poetry which makes the reader’s heart throb with joy. It renders the subject easy and the reader easily identifies himself with poet. A poem may be in free verse but it should have music of language. Its rhythm leads poetry to perfection and aesthetic beauty. It makes poetry more natural and spontaneous in its expression. A poet should be aware of this essential element as it can make the expression rich and palpable.

 The reader grasps the subject quite easily and feels closeness with the poet. It contains solid joy of heart. Rhythm enables poetry to carry out ‘exalted mood of passion and imaginative ecstasy’ which leaves an everlasting impression on the mind of the reader. It keeps awake all senses of the reader; that’s why he enjoys poem in depth. An image created through rhythm helps the reader to retain it longer. In fact, a poet adopts the form of poetry that suits his taste and temperament.

So long as Haiku is concerned it ‘revolves around the Japanese aesthetic concept known as ‘ma’ (pronounced as ‘mah’), which is all about showing the ‘void’ around things…not to clutter up the spaces; to give breathing and dreaming spaces between images and words – in short, to leave space for the reader to step in.’ Vivid imagery is a significant aspect of Haiku. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, it is an “unrhymed poetic form consisting of 17 syllables arranged in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively.” A poet needs to discipline himself as he has to say a lot within these words. On the other hand a reader should be alert all the time to grasp it wholly as it has space for him. Anyway, it is an interesting form of poetry and a reader trained in this form enjoys it much like other forms of poetry. Many Indian poets have composed Haikus such as Kala Ramesh, Rajiv Lather, Paresh Tiwari, Gautam Nadkarni, Johannes Manjrekar, Madhuri Pillai, Pravat Kumar Padhy, Shloka Shankar etc. They are successful poets of Haikus.

There are many Indian poets who have contributed a lot to the English literature over the years. Their work has been greatly appreciated all over the world. Among these classical poets are - Rabindra Nath Tagore, Sri Aurbindo, Sarojini Naidu, Harindranath Chattopadhyaya, Kamaladevi Chattopadhyaya, Virendranath Chattopadhaya, Jayanta Mahapatra, Keki N Daruwalla, Gieve Patel, Kamala Das, A K mehrotra et al. They are timeless poets. Their work has inspired many poets to write on Indian theme. Besides, there are other modern poets like Nissim Ezekiel, Arun Kalatkar, Dilip Chitre, R Parthasarathy etc. Their poetry is marked with typical Indianness.They have written passionately about the issues that matter most in our society. Many modern poets after independence have sought inspiration from them. Their contribution has enriched Anglo-English poetry. Students working on Anglo-English poetry often refer frequently to these poets while discussing the trends prevailing in post-independence English poetry.

The English poetry in India has faced the problem of wide readership for certain reasons. Generally, poets writing in English do not have readers in large number as people in general lack interest in poetry. Secondly, language is a barrier as mostly people are not well versed in English. They do not understand poem until it is explained to them. To understand a good poem a reader needs maturity, command of language, and knowledge of context. So, poetry books have a poor market. Their takers are very few. But as education is spreading and internet is available to all, the number of poetry readers is increasing by and by. Moreover, many young boys and girls are writing in English, they propagate their work on social media. It has made people aware of poetry being written in English. Self-publication has also helped poetry to reach the large number of readers. Many national and international anthologies are published every year and readers read the poems with great interest.

A vernacular has played a vital role in enhancing English literature. If we talk about Indian literature, many great volumes of poetry have been written in vernacular. Indian literature has produced a body of work in poetry in a variety of vernacular languages including Sanskrit, Prakrit, Pali, Bengali, Behari, Tamil, etc. Though vernacular is contrasted with ‘high-prestige’ forms of language, it has given a rich expression to culture, cults, customs, philosophy, and great traditions of spirituality prevailing in society at that time. Many modern poets have used vernacular in their work and preserved many precious traditions of that territory or region. Many beautiful folk-songs are found in vernacular. When their work is translated into English or other language, it is welcomed by a large number of people. Briefly, speaking, a vernacular has enriched English literature and given expression to many lofty ideas.

Translation of poetry is an uphill task. Many a time, it has been observed that translator feels unable to translate that bluntness and temperament of the original language. Many words or expressions cannot be put in another language with the same ease and sharpness. Words that can express that particular emotion, are missing in that language. Here translator feels helpless though he tries his best to put that expression in words or phrases but it lacks that original force. But an intelligent reader can grasp that expression. Sometimes the translator has to use that particular word as it is with explanation or a phrase near to it. Even then a seasoned translator is successful in translating work of poetry to a great extent. A number of translated works are published all over world. Many works in translation have been recognized and awarded. All Noble Laureates and award winning poets and authors come to us through translation and the readers showed their full appreciation. Hence, translation has become a great means of communication across the world.

Last but not least, poetry is essentially subjective somewhere in depth while dealing environment. Even the great poets have given touch of their experience to the environment and situation. Though the poet tries to write objectively, unknowingly his personal experience soaked in his culture and environment in which he has been bred and brought up comes in his poetry. So, it is very difficult to escape from subjectivity. But in the tint of subjectivity poetry does not lose the luster of objectivity and it captures reader’s imagination and he enjoys it wholly. Nothing hinders poetry from providing pleasure.

Setu, December 2019

What a dog’s night!

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

Those two fair, slit eyed lads in their early twenties mustered enough impudence to check the lock on the gate and muttered “it seems to be a lark.”  One of them winked at the other “It is a big house and we can easily bolt from here in pitch dark.  There won’t be much of activity around here then with sparse traffic.  Right?”  The other winked back in agreement.

The house they contemplated avidly was well fenced with a big portico in front and a spacious verandah but the car was missing.  It didn’t take them long to surmise that the family had left somewhere, perhaps for a holiday of some duration.  A well manicured garden with soft grass on the left provided a cushy, soft aroma of the delicate tastes the family possibly nurtured.  The wide, ample balcony gave the house an appealing nouveau riche aura from which they could deduce the extent of affluence. 

Those two lads had worked in a small hotel for some time when they started showing attitude and were promptly sacked.  Quite typical of age but their kin took a fastidious view of it and gave a mouthful almost every day because they had to feed two who had a blank balance sheet.  They were present promptly at home when their stomachs churned and otherwise loitered around aimlessly.  “No way I am going to work in a hotel in future.  Had enough of those verbal punches,” said one ruefully.  The other was even more enterprising.  “Mate!  We must think of how to make a fast buck.  Let us put our skill to test.  If we hit it off at least we can keep the money for our own enjoyment.”
A spell of doubt enveloped one, who was more guarded of the two.  “It looks to be a worthy hit for all we know”, he said stealing a look at the grilled window on the left side of the house. “We will find something worthwhile to get away with.” So they set off.

The lads never suffered from any paucity of skills when it came to cutting the hard iron grill with a slew of tools from pliers to razor blades as they had learnt a bit about carpentry without ever sticking to any job.  “Getting in is child’s play” was how they put it with cocky throw of the head.  Fake smugness always seemed to run in the veins of such species who liked to trifle with the law. 

It was a cold night with a crescent moon shedding its dull light and two streetlights supplanting the effect.  It was quite dark and they landed softly on the grass bed.  Inching their way up with eyes peeling of the darkness they moved to the window.  The more artful of the two took a few minutes scraping off the vertical grill and managed to remove it.  They got in and lighted the torch cautiously guessing rightly that the mains could have been switched off.  They found a steel cupboard and used their special skill to crack the levered lock.  While one was busy with it the other ascended the stairs to go to the bed room where a cupboard made of rosewood was more appealing.  “May be there is a jackpot here” he muttered when a peal of screams from downstairs sent him into a twirl.  It was accompanied by the blood curdling growl and bark. 

He rushed to see his mate grappling with a menacing black Doberman which was pawing at his throat.  Its glowing eyes and drooping tongue left him frozen.  “He has bit me on the leg, mate.  I can’t bear the pain” howled his accomplice before the dog lunged at him.  They had no knowledge how to tackle the dog and ran around in hexagonal ways with the canine close on their toes. 

“Drop everything mate.  Let us get out of here” cried one as he swiftly ascended on the windowsill and managed to jump out.  His mate was still at war with the Doberman when with whatever strength he could muster he pushed it away.  He was barely half out of the open window when the dog caught his jeans.  Its sharp teeth nearly tore off the hard fabric before he too scrambled out panting.  The dog’s bark was so resounding that they could hear it even after they jumped the front gate and ran for life on the empty road.  Their tools and the torch lay orphaned in the house. 

They sat on a side lane gasping and scared stiff, eyes popping out. They could see a couple of persons sleeping undisturbed on the wide platforms with blankets pulled over.  The dog’s bark obviously was too soft or low for their hardened ears.

It took quite a while before one, fancying he was craftier of the two, recovered his voice.  And he bleated.  “What a dog’s night mate!  Who ever thought there would be a canine friend waiting for us there?”

There blew the whistle of a cold wind as if it was chuckling at the unseemly end to a midnight jaunt.
                                                                       ………………

Setu, November 2019

Fiction: In the good old days…

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

It never ceases to amaze me that my frequent eatery, cozy and air-conditioned on one of the arterial roads in Chennai, is frequented by several elderly faces, often single or in groups.  I acknowledge them with a smile or nod of the head when I am busy digging into some spicy or delicious stuff to stimulate my gastric juice.  I have spoken to some, keep exchanging smiles with others but have picked up a modicum of info about how well the joint is doing in its business.  These days info travels a lot in social media or personal meets with lesser cloud around their credibility.  Yeah, they do matter a lot, right?

I met that benign, smiling face of a gentleman who appeared to be visiting the joint for the first time, at least to me.  It may not be so and it is not axiomatic either for him to know me before making his appearance there.  That was in a lighter vein, of course.  On the first occasion he smiled in a pleasant way and I responded.  He always seemed in a hurry and gave his order in a flurry as if he was to catch the next flight in a few seconds to his home a couple of streets away. 

As it happens, we were silently aware that exchange of smiles was no precursor to breaking the ice.  When my bill came and I paid I had accidentally kept a Rs.20 note with the other which was not necessary.  As was customary in that joint where the stewards were meticulously honest and officious about all, including expecting tips, one of them returned the Rs.20 note with an apology - “Sir!  It was found along with the other note.  I am returning it to you.”  Slightly abashed I took it when the elderly gentleman in front smiled and said “It happens to all.  Thank God, it was only Rs.20. “   I grinned and joked “Hope it does not happen to me again like the saying goes – if you stumble once you do so again.”  We broke the ice. 

On the next chance meeting a few days later the initial reluctance to open the vocal chords was there.  The chat drifted to hotels that had been there for ages and he seemed to relive his age by going back on the memory lane.  “Friend!  I don’t know how old you are but had you been born in the 50s you would have delighted in the typical south delicacies which cost not more than 50 paise or half anna as it was called in those days.  It included filter steaming coffee.  I used to visit a hotel near a popular cinema close to Mount Road where a delicious masala dosa cost 25 paisa.  Can you believe it now? That hotel has grown to have several branches now and much sought after still.  I still remember the joints in Mandaveli or Mylapore where on hygienic plantain leaf breakfast used to be served.  And filter coffee would stay in your stream for hours.”

I cut in.  “Those days business environs had been governed by some ethics.  Or some balance, to put it right.”   He pounced on it.  “Exactly.   Some of those joints are still there in new environs, bricks and mortar, and you pay ten times the price or even more.  I am not on that point.    What I specifically remember was a small businessman with whom I worked without pay as an accountant for some months  in the 60s.  He was a thoroughbred honest guy who never took a penny more than he was worth nor did he leave anyone unhappy.  There used to be a small café near the theatre on Mount Road where a sumptuous dinner would cost 50 paise.  Every evening when I returned home he would stuff me with 50 paise to let me have dinner there.  Those days 50 paise would mean a lot, friend.”

I nodded.  As if to assuage him I told him that the joint where we were eating also had endearing, warm stewards though it cost 10 to 20 p.c. more compared to others in the area, including the traditional ones he spoke about.  He grinned.  “Friend!  The stuff may be palatable to you because you have no choice.  But my gastric juice does not react the same way as it did 50 years ago.  I am 75. “  His age slipped naturally out of the chat. 

The bill came and I paid. When I got up after polite pleasantries he came with a parting shot.
“Never forget the tips, friend because tomorrow you have to face them, unlike the old days.”

Setu, September 2019

JAUNTY INN

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

                                                                             
It was a sultry torching day of April 2016 when you did not know what the cruelest month would entail besides the rigors of running around in heat.   Neither did Sridhar as he watched the 1000 sq.ft space being pruned, spruced up to appear presentable for the launch of a mouth-watering food joint with a catchy title “The Jaunty Inn.”  He smiled to himself consciously that he was the least jaunty about the plunge down the precipice he was undertaking.  He and his mates – Venky and Arjun,- had the brains to know that one could not accumulate if he didn’t speculate.  That’s only the thin end of the wedge.  It was also a cliché.  “When you get down to the nicer details that you realize trekking is not on with just a safe pair of mountain shoes,” he muttered.  He was watching the carpenter’s team giving finishing touches to the kitchen that needed to be equipped to the standards of a palatable joint.
The health inspectors came to have a look at the space where safety of the culinary team and of the food loving connoisseurs mattered.  The threesome found their mouths dry after lengthy assurances to them.  “God!” said Venky, 28, “they are cut up, yaar, because we greased their palm a little less than they expected.  I almost envy them.  They don’t sweat or bend their back to earn but always find money in their palm as a matter of entitlement.  God!  My bile comes up the moment I see their waspish faces.” Arjun put an arm around his shoulder.  “Come on Venky…let’s not spoil the day by talking about them.  I hate them as much as you do.  But remember, we may have to live with them for a long haul if we succeed in this.”
“And succeed we must “ said Sridhar who was overseeing the work.   “Guys!  Remember we slogged five years in that popular joint for a pay pack of Rs.15000 a month but must also thank them for taking care of our stay, food and siesta time.  Of course they raised it to 20K in three years but doing two shifts a day took its toll on us.”
“Yeah….and we hardly saw each other except in our lousy cubicle of a room where we warned each other before turning over in sleep.”  said Arjun, who is normally hard to restrain or clam up.  “And before you said good morning I would be off for day shift which lasted well till dusk. “ He shook his head.  “God!  The only gloss about it was the glass doors through which you had a good view of the ever busy traffic.  It was a svelte set up, whatever we may say.”
Venky always had a dismissive, desolate air about him which made him look a bit sepulchral to Sridhar.  “All this because we were not good enough to do anything better than catering.  You two were more talented but still got stuck with me in the same rut.  In fact I get a vicarious pleasure when I think of it. “
Yes…boss…” Sridhar reacted after slapping Venky’s back hard.  “Venky…I had a officious grin always on which pleased some customers and made others look more poker faced than they were.  But you took its after effects to our room cribbing why the hell had you to do it.  I  didn’t though the tips weighed more in my pocket than yours.  Still I learnt to make the most of it even if the going was tough.   It was part of the game then having got into it.  Now Venky, I don’t want to get out of it.  Let’s take the plunge and see where it takes us. “         
“That’s right.”  Arjun acquiesced nodding.  “BTW Sri…I told a couple of pals to distribute bills to joggers and oldies in the nearby park to spread the word about Jaunty.  Poor things!  We must thank them .… they spent two hours not only passing the bills but also spoke to a lot about patronage.  They were quite enthused, it seems.  “
Yeah….I admire those pals..” said Sridhar stroking his chin.  “Arjun!  We will employ them.  We will need quite a few reliable hands like them to run the joint.  And we have a lot to do.  Remember we are going to build it brick by brick.”
                                                                               ………………. 
And they went about it in a professional way, more than what they could have learnt in the catering institute – applying a mix of commonsense, innovation and leaving the rest to luck.  Five years of slogging it out in the previous hotel made them quite frugal about their personal dalliance or idiosyncratic turns and they pooled 40 p.c. of their salary each month in a recurring deposit at a time when the government’s heart was warm enough not to turn its heat on it.   “Yeah!” mused Sridhar “good we started it in 2011 when the returns were fairly good and not a measly 7 plus p.c. now.   You have to make hay even when the sun no longer shines?”  He chuckled to himself.  The pooled money came to nearly Rs. 10 lakhs for the three aspiring entrepreneurs when they had to get down to the nitty-gritty of the marathon! 
Arjun was categorical.  “Let’s rent out a place, man, preferably in a residential area near the heart of the city but ensure that the kitchen norms are clean and unquestionable.    That’s the first step.  The rest will follow….”
“The rest will start from then on, not follow.  You talk as if it is all an ice cream we have to just dig in. “ said Venky who fancied he had a better probing head than the other two.  “Now the question of a chef,  a team of four or more,  an accountant who can sit through the day and also a couple of cashiers at the counter.  And their pay.  We have to keep it open right through the week and they will be looking for theirs offs. “
Sridhar laughed good humouredly pressing Venky’s shoulder.  “And of course a chartered accountant who can take care of our returns.  But guys…the nitty gritty involves the ability to restrict our recurring expenditure to about 40 p.c. of the revenue earned or less.  At a generous estimate, that is.  Initially it will be in a flux, could be more or plummet to some extent.   We must set ourselves a financial target as we are going in for a loan Rs.10 lakhs repayable over 15 years.  Being a start up we will get a tax holiday for five years as we are going to give jobs. “   He paused lighting a cigarette and watching the blue smoke dissolve slowly and languidly in the hot, airless noon.  “If we aim at a revenue model that gets 50 p.c. return on an average a year we can run the show barring coughs.”
“Venky…we may have to forget our own offs for a while.” said Arjun.  “We must make maximum use of the physical space to host 20 customers at a time besides keeping two counters for a cashier and an accountant.  Our shack must be open for 15 hours a day, close sharp at 10 p.m.  We must operate two seven hour shifts for our staff of four waiters……”  Arjun paused stroking his chin.  “We three must alternate for the accountant as and when we can. “
“Boy!” mused Venky.  “For us it is the shack and nothing else.  It will be our life until we look up financially and then start breathing easy….
Sridhar took a deep drag, held his thumb up to Venky.  “We will Venky.  Between the three of us we will work it out this way – a five hour shift so that we can alternate with the rest on the work schedule.  One of us will have to audit income and expense daily after we return home.  I have software ready at home linked to the office.  But the most important thing of all is pricing and menu.  We must keep it at 10 p.c. less than that of the known middle class hotels in the vicinity. “  He flung the cigarette before it was about to burn his finger.   “Two chefs we knew earlier are happy to join us.  They were quite cut up with their pay in the earlier joint ….are keen to have a stake here.  If they are willing to stay on we can coax them to invest a bit too.”
“Oh! That’s quite a la la land man”, grinned Arjun.  “Why not boss?” argued Venky.  “I think he talks sense.  It’s a question of making them believe in themselves, in us.”
“Oh…that’s in the future, guys.  Let us get the gaadi on right now.  Let us work out a financial chart for the first two years and stick to it to the letter T.  That’s how the saying goes, right?”  grinned Sridhar.
                                                                           …………………….   
April 2018 was as much the cruelest month as was its wont but when Sridhar was watching the beads of bulbs coruscating around the hotel’s insignia “Jaunty Inn” he wasn’t feeling the blistering fallout of heat at dusk.  Rather he felt a swell of pride as if the glittering bulbs winked at him saying “boy…..you haven’t done all that badly so far.”  He took a deep drag on his fag and blew the smoke curls into the coastal wind blowing in.  Venky was busy inside looking at the accounts while Arjun gave him company knowing two of his staff were on duty inside.  Of the twenty chairs inside at least 16 were occupied with the chef on second shift directing his minimal but talented staff about meeting the variegated orders of culinary delights from the clients.
Two waiters, also in their mid twenties, were in their distinctive uniform of black and white and on their toes as well.  It was routine work, albeit gruelingly so, at times but their smiling, serene expressions betrayed no sign of discomfiture.  “Boys!  Keep smiling all the time but if it gets too tough at least keep a blank face.”  That was Sridhar’s first injunction when he gave a pep talk on the first day.
Venky was updating the returns on the computer for the day and also the money spent on groceries over a week and stashed safely in the refrigerated container inside the kitchen.  “Well…” he mused.  “The money spent over water tankers every day has gone up this month possibly because of petrol/diesel induced price rise the tankers charged on their trips down here.  And of course, milk sachets and groceries ..in all adds up to 70 p.c. which is not good news. “   He sat back thinking.   “ It’s high time I tell Sri to raise the menu rates a little more.  No go anyway. …Why should we stick to two year old rates when the clientele is as good now as it was from the start. “ 
It was Sridhar’s plan to start at low rates with a composite menu that would entrap the lower middle and poor earners besides a sprinkling of the neo middle class.  They turned up slowly, in mean numbers for a start before it became a kind of droves over two years.  Yeah….but the take home returns hardly amounted to 30 p.c. on the chart though he told his waiter friends to start a fund of their own pooling their tips.
“Sri….” Arjun spoke in hushed tones “the way Venky is staring at you he has something up his sleeve…Man, he is coming with a fresh litany of suggestions or complaints.”
Sridhar stamped his fag and grinned.  “No Arjun, from the looks of it he is cut up that the returns are still hovering at 30 p.c.   I bet he is going to ask me to jack up the rates from next month.”
“Sri…”  came up Venky almost breathless.  “You have enough cause to light up another fag.  There is no visible improvement on the returns.  We have to raise the menu rates except on beverages…..at least by Rs.15 to 20 at the minimum.  Let us level it up yaar with the joints in the area.  What difference will it make?  After all ours is well known now with a session of four hours from morning at least having nearly 50 people.   We expected around 80 to 100 a day which took more than a month to happen.”
“Venky…..now it is around 150 ” said Arjun.  “ We have a meal session for two hours which is packed as always.  We wanted a lull between 2 p.m and 4 p.m when the evening session starts, a kind of lean period.  Let us stick to it. “
Venky was upset at having been crossed.  “You would’nt take a suggestion from me.  You want to go at snail’s pace as if it is the hallmark of business sense.  I would call it nonsense.”
Sridhar put an arm around his shoulder.  “Venky…do you look back on the first day when we all were tensed up, running around like squeaking chicken not knowing how will it turn out?  Those four young guys, who are equally qualified, offered to work as waiters for us out of personal regard, nothing else.  Why man….because they believed that it was a youthful, innovative exercise and they wanted to be a part of it. “   He paused, collecting his thoughts and weighing his words like pearls.   “Profit is the one off in any business venture, Venky,   and we all know it.  But look at the clientele who have been extremely chatty, friendly and eager to come here.  Some of them even wanted us to succeed when we told them about Jaunty…..Let us not lose even one of them as they have all become part of the Jaunty Inn community.  So cool it man….wait for another two years when the turnaround will knock at the door.”
“I agree Sri…..My mind echoes what you say.” Arjun said listening to him patiently.  “Venky….just think of the days when you cribbed about the perceived or imagined insults of the client.  There was a time when we all wanted was to be our own boss, have our own lives and walk around with a bit of pride and happiness.  Now we have it, man…..don’t you see?  Thankfully our families are small too……You and me have younger sisters while Sri is the only son.  Thank God!  Our parents are not even dependent on us financially and have even left it to our choice……that’s very rare boss!”
Just then the water tanker came with a fresh round of supply.  One of the waiters and another from the chef team came out to monitor the supply to the overhead tank.
Venky watched it quietly.  “Sri…..give me a fag yeah…”  Sridhar struck the match to light his cigarette. Venky took a deep pull and smiled. “I get it Arjun…..to have a team of staff like that who have never pulled a long face at doing anything.  This is the stuff life is made of,  Sri,  and all these pain and anxiety we went through is worth it.  I got my usual bouts of dyspepsia. ”   He grinned.
Just then a call from one of the waiters came out for Venky.  “Boss!  A couple of bills to be cleared in the system….”
Sridhar punched Venky’s stomach playfully.  “You relax and enjoy your fag…Let me go back to Jaunty….Guys….time to have our coffee together.”
                                                                            ………………………
                                   

Setu, July 2019

Which is real?

Subramanian K.S.

Retired journalist and author

---

Footsteps heard on a dark, country lane.

It was 10.30 pm and the sky looked a bizarre dark grey in peak summer with hint of monsoon waking up from deep slumber.  There was yet no sign of patter of rain which would have been a delayed gift to a parched city dweller like me.  A busy road it was during the day but now appeared to have covered itself in a sheet of night.  Not a soul was in sight giving it a surreal touch.

I took a deep breath knowing my home was just a furlong and half away.   The hair on my neck rose as the footsteps came closer and a whisper in my ear – “If you watch every step, you can test even the fate’s patience.”  I whizzed around and found none, the long stretch of road empty and dizzyingly gloomy till the arterial road where little traffic could be seen.

I was struck by the element of unreality about the whole scene, pinched my arm to confirm whether I was real and alive.  How come the road was unusually quiet and ominously deserted?  Again, the footsteps sounded closer and the breath of whisper was felt.  “Who is this?  What do you want? What are you trying to say?” I fired these queries wondering whether I was being stupid, naïve or both.  I have grown with a sardonic lack of faith in unreal experiences arguing that the world was far too real, tangible and explicable as the phenomena breathing in it.  So how could I ever experience or face the unreal?

“So you don’t believe in it, right?” the resonant timbre of the voice was clear now. “Many don’t priding themselves on their cerebral superiority and even look down on others as mentally frail or vulnerable.  They prance around in vigor of youth, enjoy a cushy job and generally feel that the law is for the unread or spineless.”

I paused and stood in silence stunned that the voice trailed somehow the flow of thought in me.  I was not hallucinating.

“Boss! Don’t worry.  I am not here to harm you.  But just see a few steps ahead to your right near the zebra crossing.  Do you see a patch of dried blood?”   I did and muttered foolishly, “Yeah… but what happened?”  There was a lull for some time as if the voice had suddenly lost its tone.  I quickened the pace thinking either I was losing my head so near my home or the world was losing its.

“Friend!”  the voice returned to my annoyance.  “I was just 28, in the prime of life and feeling on top.  I felt the law was only for the commoner and I was a cut above him. I loved speed on a road of sparse traffic and in the dark couldn’t shirk a guy who came from the wrong end.  I was tossed on the road, bleeding from the head.  All was still.”

I reached home, locked myself in.  Next morning, I flicked open the city page to read the news about the youth.  Which is real - the news or the voice?

Setu, July 2019

Voices Within: K. S. Subramanian

K.S.Subramanian, India has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India. His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi and other branches. His poems were featured in museindia.com, run by Central Institute of Indian Languages, Hyderabad, India. Also in magazines, anthologies and web sites such as thebrowncritiqueblogspot.com, www.yorickmagazine.com, poetrymagazine.com, poetrypacific, Kingston writers creative Blog, museindia.com, vigilpub, Café dissensus, unesco.it, verbalart.in, Phenomenal Literature Vol.2 (Authors Press) among others. His short stories have appeared in indianruminations.com, setumag.com, Tuck magazine, indianreview.in and museindia.com.

He is a retired Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu.

On a lease of hope

 Steady patter of rain,

moistening the crevices

of dry, scorched soil;

Fatigued souls, unsighted

for once to the unexpressed

cobwebs at heart, lighten

up a bit; like an eagle’s wing

caressed by damp wind;

A query, often laced with

worry, springs – will it see

off a parched tongue this year?

In this city, the rattle of the

Juggernaut is faint now,

The candle in weaver’s home

gasping for the last flicker;

Yet startling designs keep

the market spinning;

Many- splendored banners

waft with promises in the air;

Lips open half in hope

clam up in uncertainty;

Years too on a lease of hope?

Eyes sly, set for a kill

to make a pie at all cost;

Eyeballs rocking on the arc

of malice for nothing; Not eyes

suckling on serenity;

Years ago they warmed to

a word of kinship;

Now self-absorbed, opaque

like a cloudless sky.

Irises graying in flecks of fears.

eyeless on the plains of limestone?

By the side of Ann

Every moment looking at Ann's tender eyes

they squirmed as if smitten by the nail;

Who will share the agony of parents

pushing the wheel chair of an ill-fated girl?

Years back I felt a pang when I saw her

but it was a ripple in a truant;

Now, as I ripe thru' the chain of years

fume at Nature tarring the crescent.

I could imagine her blushing at a fair youth

caressing flowers, dreaming of a bright morrow;

But she has lost all that lend life charm

kenneled to a spirit numbed in sorrow.

No! away with all pet fancies! I wish

I spend only a few hours by her side,

telling sweet tales and as she laughs

caress the bright brown hair on her head.

An incantation

“Veerabahu! Veera Mahendra!”

Save us, you are our fate,

Lead us to a fresh dawn

Bring us good tidings.”

An incantation to Lord Shiva

I learnt at Ten and still have on

my lips when lids close for the night;

A bit of juvenile credulity then,

now adult skepticism.

Time, on the swinging wheel

of technology, is ahead by four

paces always, leaving me breathless.

That’s your lot In this land!

Faded jeans, an emissary of

new –fangled skills, conceit;

Girls, in in skin-hugging attire,

dangle a bit of sensuality, coquetry;

Yet always on the road to outpace

men; Internet brings the world to

your palm, yet finds it ever in

the web of tumult.

Generation gap no more

within a yawn’s grasp;

Neither is a silicon city

within the ambit of a brow;

Will it ever raise a query?

“Veerabahu! Vera Mahendra!”

The voice trails off too soon

as lids close for the night.

 Heart’s beloved.

Little do they wrangling in heat

as to whether he exists or not,

perceive that He is a motive force

dear not to the brains but the heart.

Every moment of glory in life

is a sign of our debt to Him;

All deeds, awesome or humble

spring from His grace like a stream.

Firm Columbus saw through leaping waves

warm God beckoning to a distant shore;

Man alighted dazed . on the Moon

crowning fruition of a feat, so rare.

Things sundry, moving in perfect symmetry,

betray a design of splendid art;

All toll the truth of the motive force

dear not to the brains but the heart.

Voices Within - Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019

Poems by K. S. Subramanian

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

1. APJ Abdul Kalam

Death is always an unexpected visitor
at the threshold; the last breath is too
priceless a gem to be gifted away.
Yet it is ever on lease.

The visitation came on him, at an hour
leaving all in numbed silence, the
moment reality dawned that
their gem was stolen by stealth.

A gem that sparkled with an inborn glow
and was cosmic in its radiance.
He was loved by all, for his spotless charm,
sombre gait and cherubic ambience.

In his smile or gestures was a skein of
simplicity that dwarfed his greatness;
He never blotted his trail even once.
No wonder the trail will lead us far…


2. Taj Mahal – made me reflect

Yamuna flowed quietly behind.
Mosques on either side face
the marbled edifice of timeless grace;
Fronted by minars the proud castle
glistens in the blazing Sun!
Awe-struck eyes idly peruse
the amazing detail of design;
Patterns carved out of sparkling stones
reveal the stunning glory of artifice;
To be told this mind-bending art
is a monument to a mindless monarch
affronts the beauty in human craft.
That spurred me on to remember
Thousands of hands that wore
in selfless zeal over this future wonder!

And the birthpangs of the architect
who bore his genius in a single act
embalming the divinity in Man.

Time withers men, not their vital elan!
My thoughts rang an echo in marbled walls;
Yamuna flowed quietly behind. 


3. Nature’s missive.

My balcony is a window to the eye.
 As I eased to recoup my tired bones
soft dusk wind blew across my face.
I was awakened by Nature’s tones.
Just a crumb of the unexplored scenario
that left a stunning, unrealized missive.
Shadows had rung the arrival of the dark.
Tired crows were searching for a perch
on branches to rest their wings
necking each other out in a hurry
lest nature leave them no niche to sleep,
their crowing subsiding in a jiffy. 
I was bemused by a sobering thought. 
Nature is mimicking the human lot.


4. Aging gracefully

Ease into the evening of life
iss a time- honoured idiom;
Grey hairs alone do not uncover
the valley of wisdom.
As your bones feel the tremors,
you inch away from the whirlpool
of emotions; Doesn’t the world
change faster than the batting
of an eyelid?

You are a cloud of the Past,
shrinking in memory as time
ticks by; Soon the cloud is gone!
The new generation, on a tenuous
toehold, speaks a language
that waltzes over mind;
A bridgewide gap or a mouse trap?

You have reached a stellar stage
when what happens is only a happening;
It may anger or please but is
only a passing of breath, no more.

Growing old is refining the glint of memory.


5. Time makes a call

Spring’s verdure slowly ebbed
before summer’s breath snuffed
It out; Time’s footfall tip-toed
a message – “Life’s curves are
hazier than the lines in your palm;
Strain not the brow on what’s in store,
brace up to weather the storm;
Storms leave fading scars on plains;
The Banyan is ruddy on its shore,
knows not where it will spread.
Its bleached branches beyond the seed;
Hearts stagger on jagged strains,
a hopeless hunt for a green moor.
Then encased in thorny silence”

Setu, November 2018

Ghatotkach’s Mace

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

Kurukshetra, the holy city humming with the deep voices of immortal lore, is ensconced in its own meaningful solemnity.  It is immensely aware of the great past whose echoes ring in every memory.  The peepul tree stands tall and stately in the fertile ambience of the most enduring and captivating song that defined the course of the 18-day war. 

The city was witnessing the unraveling of the philosophical discourse where the greatest archer (perhaps not so because he had a gallant, redoubtable rival to the pedigree) was getting a glimpse of the construct of Dharma from the all-knowing philosopher.   All were at a standstill because the rules of combat prohibited any force from making the charge especially when the other camp was constrained by necessity to be in non-combat posture.  Bhishma Pitamah, who was watching the spectacle 3km away, knew well the nature of the discourse and wished he had been blessed to be in Arjuna’s spot.  The squirming Duryodhana was tongue- tied knowing that his huge force could never move a step forward unless Pitamah sounded the bugle.  The city was well aware of the deep tensions brewing and veins on a leash on either side while the tree remained a mute witness. 

Forces ranged face to face across the huge plains where the distance hardly mattered as sturdy horses could gallop and caparisoned elephants stamp down on anything breathing with impunity.  Jayatradha, King of Sindhu region, knew that his father’s boon had sealed the fate of the opponent who severed his head if it landed on the earth.  He knew as well that he could only stall and tarry the Pandavas but could never defeat them.  He was grinning maliciously behind the powerful and overbearing Duryodhana giving verbal, mocking barbs at the seeming failure of Arjuna’s vow to kill him before sunset unaware that it was a sleight of the eye worked out by the magician from Gokulam.    The sun reappeared and though Jayatradha realized the game was up he felt a twinge of delight that Arjuna would die with him.  It was not to be. 

This city saw the spectacle of his head stuck on a crescent shaped arrow moving across the skyline leaving the tired soldiers to wonder where it was headed.  They knew later his father’s boon had turned into a curse for the family.  But neither the story nor the war ended there.  This city watched with trepidation the long drawn out battle that night where Kaurava soldiers were trampled under foot like ants befuddled by the sorcery and overwhelming prowess of a giant who was now visible, then not seen.  

Now this observant city has a tale to tell.  Ghatotkach, the roaring, rampaging giant on the battlefield, was then a frolicking, playful boy known more for his generosity than his ghatam shaped head.  Bhima, big boned and exceptionally strong limbed, watched his son running his fingers lovingly on the fur of a squirrel.  Hidimba watched solicitously.

“Hidimba!  He seems to have a soft underbelly just like the squirrel he is caressing.  You think he will measure up to the stature and grandeur of the Pandavas? “

She smiled, characteristic of a loving and composed mother who had known the lacerating edges of life.  “Lord!  The whole world knows your valour, sense of right and wrong and enormous strength.  You have never taken a false step till now always ready to obey the diktat of your elder brother Yudhishtra.  You gave me a life of dignity and respect. Don’t you think your son would have inherited a great part of your virtue and strength?

There was silence for a while as Bhima lapsed into a reverie.   He sighed and spoke with a sense of expectancy and foreboding.  “Hidimba!  You know my commitments, the call of honour which should come some day.  It will take me away from you and Ghatotkatch for the monumental battle that would redeem our esteem and standing.  I hope I would never be thrust into the situation where I would have to ask my son to be at my side.  He is brave and ever ready for the plunge.  But I would hate to lose him in a battlefield.  Lord Krishna has taught him some decisive skills which he says would come into play at the momentous instance.” He paused.  “I don’t know what he means, Hidimba, but it fills me with forebodings.” 

Hidimba’s deep voice admonished her that Lord Krishna’s gracious boon of special skills to her son would make him strong but also vulnerable in some way.  Women, especially mothers, normally listened to their deep voices which made them proverbially inscrutable.  “Is my son destined to do something which, in a battle for ethics, would make me loose him?  If it does am I to feel pride or anger over my bereavement?”  She closed her eyes.  “If fate which no one knows has willed it that way whom am I to stop it?” But she was love-bound to counsel and console her husband that his worst fears were misplaced.  It was her dharma, after all. 

“Lord!   A warrior like you cannot be stuck in forebodings.  I know I will have to lose you some day to your call of duty but cannot fret over it.  Poor mortals don’t have control over every day or moment of their lives?  Think of it.”

The great mace ace suddenly felt a scepter of lightning pass through him.  He turned to her. “Hidimba!  You could not have said anything truer!”

***

Jayathradha’s demise turned out to be a shot in the arm for the war to get bitter and fearfully aggressive.   Soldiers never felt the fatigue of sleeplessness or the stinging pain of scars and stuck to the duty of battling the enemy.  A huge dark cloud of arrows, spears and glittering, clashing swords hung in the air amid the shrieks of huge, sturdy elephants swerving through the forces while the horses, powered by great warriors, galloped to well- directed targets.  What the uncomplaining soldiers did not bargain for was the sudden appearance of a giant with blazing eyes, ghatam- shaped head, who cut a swathe through them with his unmatched sorcery skills. 

It was like being hit by a tornado on the plains where there was no place to hide.  They were smitten like flies and suddenly felt powerless and also clueless against the giant.  His broad chest appeared to take any number of poisonous, sharp arrows which he playfully plucked and threw.  He was like a god sporting with flies.  The Kauravas felt as if they had been enmeshed in a huge void where they could be trampled with impunity by his giant foot.  They were unquestionably brave, skilled and ready to die but not without a fight.  Ghatotkach appeared to give them no space to mount even a feeble, if not spirited, fight. 

Duryodhana was aghast.  It hurt his pride that a half demon could so masterfully overpower his army.  Aswathama, one of the few wise souls who could dare to counsel or contradict him, was scared out of his wits.  Never known to have harbored fear Aswathama felt that against such overwhelming display of sorcery conventional resistance could fall apart.  “Dear friend… this is going too far.  Soldiers are not only fatigued beyond recovery but also are ready prey to him.  If we do not stop him now they will have little fight left in them.”

To the Kaurava Prince the moment alone mattered.  Ghatotkach was engrossed in his moment and reveling in his sorcery skills at night when he was nearly invincible and swinging mace at the maze of soldiers who were fleeing in panic.  His dear friend Karna was giving the demon a few stomach-churning scares with his unquestionable bow skills and was unsettled slightly when Ghatotkach made a customary bow to the King of charity.  “I never thought I would match my skills against a matchless warrior like you, King Karna”, he said smiling.  “But it is my day.” It seemed to be an unending night. 

Duryodhana was besieged with anxiety that his troops would hardly be in a frame of mind to face the battle on the 15^th day.  He nearly screamed at his dearest friend.  “Karna!  I cannot believe that you cannot get rid of this pest.  You are a veteran of scores of battles and he is just a fly for you to swat at.  Do you want to see a beleaguered force for tomorrow’s battle?”  The mighty warrior paused and turned to his friend with a streak of agony in his face.  “Duryodhana!  He is no pest as you seem to think.  He is a great warrior, invincible at night.  I have exhausted all my skills of archery but am left with one option which I do not want to use.”

 

Just then the Prince saw the infantry getting bulldozed by the stamping foot of the demon.  “Karna!  I do not know what you can do or want to.  But I want him dead and now.  I have not fought all this while just to see the battle slipping through. “ 

At a distance Lord Krishna was watching the conversation with an uncanny smile.  Bhima saw it but was enraptured by his son’s stupendous fight.  “Your son’s moment has come, Bhima!” he said leaving his close cousin flummoxed.  “What do you mean Krishna?” he asked with rising suspicion when suddenly the great roar of his son came through.  Krishna’s inscrutable smile had its answer.  Bhima saw him tottering, chest in flames and excruciating pain, as he turned his blazing eyes towards his father.  “Father!  Is it my moment?”  he enquired feebly as he fell slowly forward.  “Ghatotkach!  You cannot let me down even now.  Show me son, even in your last moment you are an invincible giant.”  Bhima shouted his last missive as his heart broke. 

Ghatotkach’s giant frame crashed on the retinue of soldiers crushing them.  Duryodhan yelled, raising his arm in victory while his dearest friend sat down on his chariot, tears rolling down his cheeks.  “I have lost the only ace I preserved against Arjuna,” he muttered.   Duryodhan did not know or understand but at a distance Krishna’s inscrutable smile widened.  Bhima yelled at him in anger.  “I am buried in grief and you are smiling, Krishna!  I never thought you would be so heartless.” Krishna laid his arm on his cousin’s broad shoulder. “Bhima!  Today your son gave his life to save Arjuna.  Some day the truth will be told, and your son will soar in your estimation.  But no, this is no time to talk about it. You take care of the rites for your dear son.”  Bhima looked bewildered.                   

Bhima felt a searing lump of agony in his throat that his son not only died a martyr for a cause but also nurtured no resentment at the fact that his father deserted him for a bigger vow.  When he went around his son’s body on the pyre the sole emotion coursing through his heart was “I let you down when you needed me the most.  But you more than atoned for it.” His immaculate brothers stood in a row, smothering their grief. 

Before lighting the pyre, Bhima spoke to the skies with a raised fist. “My son will not leave the abode of earth without me. He will take my memory too with him.  I am burying this mace as the token of my unquestionable devotion to him.” He did. A solemn, forlorn wind whistled across the plains as some kind of a dirge for the departed warrior.  There was not only a tragic nuance to it but also a sigh of acknowledgement. 

I, the witness, was lone and silent as darkness totally enveloped the day.

***

They were archaeologists who had descended on the area as part of the excavation work that was going on for quite a few years. Dig… dig… dig… the effort unraveled quite a few artifacts and structures that dated back by a few centuries though narrowing down the periods and the cultures embedded in them would take a lot of cohesive reasoning and empirical analysis. Discoveries have been made with startling results and inferences would attract more questions, especially skepticism. 

There were a dozen of them working on a broad area and carefully assembling and marking out the findings.  Only two of them were staring wide eyed, inquisitive and also befuddled at the long metal specimen gleaming through layers and layers of accumulated sand that time had not cared to stop. It was long, domed at the top with sharp pointed spear thrusting out.  Rusted and coated solid with grime it looked heavy and beyond human capacity to lift. 

“What the hell is this, man?” enquired one archaeologist to the other who was equally perplexed.  Both tried their hand to lift what seemed like a metal stick riveted to the dome.  “God!  Looks like it would weigh a ton. We may have to haul it out.” Again, one said to the other. “Send word to the team. Here is something we cannot make head or tail of.”

They kept staring at the finding which had the appearance of a time-worn weapon while the team members, with brimming curiosity, rushed to the spot. 

I, the witness, remained silent. I cannot vouch or speak for what has been found because I am a tongue-tied onlooker to endless waves of scenarios that have swept through.  Some have no answers even in Time?

………

Setu, August 2018