Statue

You broke the statue

throbbing with living beauty

sun moon star studded

on the vast canopy of sky

shading the earth for life’s

perpetual celebration.

But your intemperate mind

saw death in everything

you broke the statue

which you never made

scorched the earth

to divide in maps

you made the statue a quarry

to sell chips of starlike glow

at tinsel market places.

The statues you make

The Bamiyan Buddha,

Konark, Somnath are

fodder to time’s ants:

now you stare at them

standing like statues

nerveless listless dead.

Come my dears be Human

put the stars in their place

make the green earth whole

for that is your role

to celebrate life here;

for man is a speaking statue

The greatest ever made.

Sabita Sahu

Conspiracy

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

These days one regularly hears one word: Conspiracy. Mob lynching, they say is the conspiracy of one community to kill members of another. Conspiracy, they cry hoarse, when cows are smuggled out and sold in another country for rich tables. What was it, when Duryodhana’s soldiers and advisors attempted to steal the cows from Virat’s kingdom in the  absence of the king and his army in the Mahabharata, if not a conspiracy to smoke out the Pandavas from their period of incognito exile? The Jatugriha; the invitation of the Pandavas for a dice game by Dhritarastra: the claim to the Ayodhya throne by Bharat’s mother for her son on the day of Ram’s coronation; Sita’s abduction by Ravana (yes a vengeful conspiracy);Krishna’s plot to take away the armour from Karna- you name it! The list is endless. Political conspiracy apart the god- myths are full of conspiracies to defame, demean and dethrone rivals in anger or jealousy. Corporate conspiracy is a modern day scourge on our systems of capitalistic economy. Communal conspiracy, caste-creed conspiracy and the laughably intriguing small time conspiracies which we watch everyday on the Tele serials to defame a close family member are our daily bread, however stale or bitter: But conspiracy has its wide network as the second nature of human civilization.

What is conspiracy? Why does man conspire to bring the fall of another human specimen? Conspiracy is like a guerrilla attack on a known and powerful person or group when he/ it is least prepared or even aware of it. Who conspires? One who is weak and jealous; one who cannot take his target head on; one who feels small because of his/her own shortcomings. A strong man, a man of honour and valour never conspires: for he is confident of himself. He may not be flawless but he never stoops to conquer. At times ideological misconceptions too lead to conspiracy. The murder of Mahatma Gandhi, John.F.Kennedy, even Indira and Rajiv Gandhi’s murders have been plotted by groups whose ideologies are shy of confronting the heroes of nations. Such heroes at times fall victims to conspiracy of the mean and weak people. The conspirator is a coward. But often we see men of great honour too conspire in the name of some skewed logic of morality. Brutus kills Caesar in the Capitol in a stance of conspiratorial heroism. After the death of Achelles, in Homer’s great epic poem Iliad, Ulysses says: with the death of Achelles gone is Greek courage; but not Greek cunning- and the result in the Trojan Horse, a fatal gift which destroyed the towers of Troy. Greek cunning proves to be anti-heroic thievery slurring their victory to posterity.

The murder of Abhimanyu is a hateful illustration of conspiracy. Seven chariot warriors of the Kuru army, each one wearing a laurel crown of military glory conspired to kill Arjuna’s boy, Abhimanyu whose display of warfare shamed them to guileful meanness. This illustrates the shady machinations of tinsel heroes and brings self – condemnation forever. Conspiracy always robs the world of its most priced virtues. This also proves that a true genius is never accepted by the human beings. We see that in our myths, stories, literature in general and in social life too. We justify the early and untimely death of a great man, saying – whom God loves dies young. If this be true even, God does not appreciate genius in man, his own creature.

In the story (true) of Dharmapada who laid the pot at the peak of the Konark temple, we notice the same pettiness, jealousy and inhumanity in man. The twelve hundred artisans could not place the  Kalasa, could not complete the time bound work. The boy Dharmapada, all of twelve years , son of the chief Architect Sibei Samantaray, who had gone there in search of his father could do it with ease and perfection. These artisans, including the architect, fearing decapitation at royal command, almost compelled the boy to make a sacrifice of his life to save the so called artisans and sculptors from ignominy. Genius is always sacrificed at the altar of immoral, self-seeking cowards. Is this the price of genius: death by deceit, conspiracy or meanness?

In the modern world in which the Sapiens are more educated, trained and much better off than their early centuries counterparts, conspiracies are technologically hatched for political gains. After the Second World War the computer and the Internet have given scope for cyber conspiracy. Pentagon can be hacked, the fighter planes cannot take off, bombs may explode, data would be manipulated by remote control and even wars can break out by spreading fake news.

The powerful conspire to retain power; the poor and the jealous cowards conspire to destroy towers of civilization: and the great intellectuals play safe by resorting to the conspiracy of silence! Borrowing Huxley’s Brave New World, I may say, hurry! Let us conspire against each other to bring mankind to God’s shame and regret for having conspired to create man for his own sadistic entertainment.

Give Me Something New

Give me pain

I’ll love you more,

nail me on the cross

I’ll give you release,

Beat me bloody

I’ll drown you with kisses

throw me to hell

I’ll take you to Garden of Eden.

Give me something

beyond pain and pleasure

to make me feel original

beyond human measure,

I’ll hold time on the palm

to be my own shrine

for mortals and spirits.

If you can’t give me

what I wish for

tears and laughter

I’ve no need for

Let me be what I am

beyond your love

don’t throw at me

what is already mine.

Sabita Sahu

Happy Sunday

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty 

God, after naming his created wonders for six days made Sunday the Sabbath day for rest. For the Jews Saturday is Sabbath. If God needs rest after working for six days, we mortals ought to have everyday a rest day for we always feel restless in God’s wonderful creation where from sunrise to midnight we have to work for survival. But all workplaces, government and private corporate offices, give us Sunday for rest. This Sunday some call Happy Sunday for they can laze over the bed longer than in other days without rushing through morning ablutions and gulping some breakfast while buttoning shirts, answering phone calls and go out to catch a bus or to start the bike, car or cycle. The unlucky ones walk their miles to places of work mumbling curses on the traffic. Housewives, at times unbrushed and unteaed prepare breakfast and pack lunch boxes for their harried men without any complain although some shout- get some bread when you return; and yes don’t forget to bring my backache medicines...O’ he is beyond the gate now... Sunday is different.

No need to rise early. The morning cup can be sipped while reading the Times of India. An appointment for a massage and facial can be made. A visit to a few friends' houses and dine out programme are also a possibility. But so much of unfinished work, postponed to Sundays every weak day beckons like a hangman in wordless gestures. My dearest often wanted to visit the Mahakal temple with me as she is worried over my asthma. She never says so but I know why she wants me to visit Mahakal temple and perform a yajna. Every morning after she gets up, and she is always an early riser, she plays on her mobile Mahamritunjaya mantra much to my anger. But I do not express my anger ever in words. I understand why she does that. Her faith in astrology disturbs her routines. Even in sleep on most nights, she babbles. She spends most of her time in her Puja room. She works hard. Cooks for our children, our son and daughter. Washes clothes in the machine, telephones our family dhobi and gives him clothes for ironing. Collects her puja items and serves breakfast for me, our children. Picks up her fresh dress and enters the bathroom but comes out fresh in a trice to see me off at the gate. Prepares the kids for the school, both are in Sai Inter-National. The school bus starts at  8.50. She leaves them at the stop, about 100 meters away from our gate. Locks the front door and then sits for her breakfast. She was an athlete, a sprinter. But now she doesn’t find time even to go for a walk. She is putting on fat which does not burn in the household chores.

Today is Happy Sunday again. Last night she convinced me that I accompany her to Mahakal temple, just 30 kms away, a famous place for Shiva devotees. She has made all arrangements. The list given by the priest has been fully procured. Last evening she had gone with our driver Ram, to get things personally. The children too are eager to go on a outing, if not a family picnic. She had bought new smart dresses for them, shoes too. She is a great woman of taste. She is a good cook, a good housewife, a good lover but always apprehensive of something happening to me. She consults astrologers about my future. This yajna is their idea. Well, if a yajna reassures her, so be it. I wanted her to be happy and in good cheer. She has lost all her other interests. She used to paint. Not a mean painter. But she gave up all those things after the children were born. Constantly she thought of their education. Both Harish and Meena are good at studies. Both are smart and hard working. But my wife always is worried about this and that. Her smiles are rare, always a few lines appear on her forehead. I often ask why, why? She smiles away in mock pleasure O’ nothing – everything will be fine. God is there, nothing will happen. Well what are you worried about? Nothing. Life you know; living it is worrisome.

The driver came. Here are the flowers Madam, the 64 lilies, 128 lotuses, the incense...Ok, keep them in the car. We’ll start by 9. The puja will start exactly at 11 A.M. Why are you not dressed yet? Put on that dhoti and silk kurta I have kept on the bed. You’ll look more handsome. You wanted blue silk, blue it is. Go. I went to change my dress. The children were looking very smart in their new dress. She was clad in a white silk saree looking like a goddess. Her long open hair was once thick, now not so thick, yet she looked younger and elegant.

I came out from the bed room. She looked at me with glowing eyes. She was happy to see me in my exotic handsomeness. Well let’s move I said. She held my hands. I called the children nearer. I held them and we moved. We crossed the threshold and I brought out tickets for a film show. Children and my dearest- morning show, lunch at Meridian and then a drive to Mahakal for darshan. Happy Sunday dearest - No yajna is superior to the yajna of living together- come. She finally laughed- Happy Sunday at last!

Umbilical Cord

The tenuous night dozes off

as old parent's dream broken nights

waiting for a call to eager ears

a voice mellifluous and comforting

from far away kids coming close by.

The copper wire and Google connecting

the distance to a hand’s touch

spreading a smile from ear to ear

the umbilical cord joining together

a birth and death in the same breath,

when no call comes the  morning turns freak

the first cup of the day tastes bitter

newspaper headlines float in air 

blurred gets the head and face lines.

As branches are cut off

stump is the tree like old parents

just stems without roses

the smell spreading beyond their noses.

Sabita Sahu

Shopping

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

I don’t think we need a Socrates to ask why do you work hard and what will you do if you earn more money. The language, accent and phraseology might have changed but the basic answer remains almost the same. Money was always used for security; the food shelter-dress security was the minimum need that was hard to get. Today people live in a consumer society and the products available are almost nightmarish in their variety. From roadside vendors to big Malls wherever one goes one sees men and women in colourful attire bending over counters on which salesgirls pile up various products- from traditional, ethnic designer fashions to eccentric baggy trends. This is not to say that only fashions interests people. Music, art, designer cards, picture books of all kinds and food parks or flower and fruit exhibitions, wherever the fancy leads, people flock together. New tablets, phones and any new electronic gadget attracts crowds of buyers. Only new books are perhaps not awaited in feverish eagerness unless it is a Harry Potter. Why this craze? The answer is simple: people have more money; easy money. The wives of officers and other professionals whose ‘extra’ income is far in excess of their legitimate dues, their wives and children go for shopping in their craze for new versions of everything. The TV changes every year, so is the case with refrigerators and even micro-ovens. This scene in all cities on Dhanteras is mind blasting. Why?

Is it like King Lear saying - reason not the need? We are superfluous in almost everything. Food, clothes, home decor, home appliances and even bed covers and lamp shades bore us in a few days. What to do when we get bored? Go for shopping, for the eyes are now our minds. The eyes are no more for nature’s beauty. Nature’s rivers, forests, wild beasts, lakes and dolphins are now in videos. If we find time we may watch them. But the fun of living is in the malls. We have no time for a leisurely chat with friends. In any party we see people busy with their cell phones. All are busy. Distraction is the only diversion. Those who go visiting places, they too tick off place names and capture the scenes in their video camera. The calm contemplation is only a bohemian phrase. We don’t have time even for foreplay in love making. We are alwa8ys in a hurry. A funeral dirge too is boring even if the body in the grave is our dearest soul mate. Time itself is impatient to cause tremors in our impulsive minds. Shopping therefore is a welcome distruction, a relief from the tedium of life’s varied transactions.

The other day I was in a Mall, well that is an understatement. It was a city in itself. A star hotel. A theatre for special- you know what- films, a large swimming pool, a gym, a conference hall and a sprawling high rise five tiered Mall larger than Macy’s. I was interested in buying some books and wanted to go to a book shop. My companion, a person I worship in my heart, insisted that we go to that Mall where the whole world was available. I quipped – if the whole word is there are we visitors from another planet! She looked at me with wide bright eyes and smilingly said, yes we are from the Moon. What a fall, from Moon to a Mall! No, no it is a rise from dreams to the spread of reality. I stopped arguing knowing pretty well what her reaction would be. We entered the fashion section where my eyes fell on a simple yet elegant saree and whispered, hey, it would be a tribute to your beauty. She gave me a baleful look: what this fabric and this colour! Are you  a true connoisseur of beauty? What do you know about sarees? This will make me look pale. I was silenced. She moved from salesgirl to salesgirl and I meekly followed. The forenoon lapsed into the afternoon, her saree selection could not begin. I was bored stiff. Hunger raised my acid level. I mildly proposed, come let’s at least eat. Eat? What is life meant for eating only?

No my dearest, life is meant for shop hopping, stall hopping and rejecting Ritu Bery or Satish products. I therefore propose some real shopping, come. O’ books! No my boy all work and no play makes Jack - you know what. You read books which make you physically dull and mentally preoccupied. You simply wander like a Somnambulist in unreality. What else is there except unreality?  When you see your reflection in the crystal waters of the pool you feel like Narcisus: Is that real? When you see the morning sun the scarlet ball raising its arc in the east, you want to use it as a flash light for your night walks: Is it real? When I hold you in my arms you become a beautiful sod, speechless with eyes closed and I whisper all my love in inanities: Is that real? When you read an epic you are stunned by the grandeur of the palaces and the heroic display of swordsmanship and start day dreaming that you are a Ulysses or Arjun: Is it real? Ok stop, she said and asked, what do you want now?

Let’s go shopping. We will buy peace from the mountains, rhythm from the lake shores, beauty from  the hot springs- she stopped me asking – and Love?  Love is only you I cannot buy you. No mall can hold my love as a designer’s delight. Love is where shopping ends. Let’s not talk shop any more.

Python

Where is the python
            the lazy predator

like me he never knows

            what hits him.

Stones pelted at him 

            never disturb his peace

Waits for the prey to come near

            so sure of himself.

He never moves to bite

            he is full half the time, 

coiled he sleeps life's hours

            wakes only to eat.

He neither reads or writes

            love's speckled rhymes

for him love is entangled
            in a moment of passion.

I'll make  him my Guru

            wait for food and love

like him stretching on my bed

             of rocks, thorns and agony.

Sabita Sahu

Anger

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

Anger is one of the six ripus as per our ancient wisdom and all over the world people consider it to be the basest emotion which the wise should avoid. Agreed. But why does a man get angry? Anger comes naturally like smiles or affection when confronted with disagreeable situations or when a person speaks something hurtful or does something which causes injury to our ego, pride or self- esteem. The human being is a social creature and his feelings, thoughts and emotions always function in an inter-dependent manner. He has to operate in the society where clashes of feelings as well as symbiotic contacts are inevitable. When someone treads on your corns, slights your ego, contradicts your views, what you think is irrational; causes terrible loss, demeans your personality you naturally get angry. The adrenalin rushes into the blood, the palpitation of the heart increases the eyeballs pop out, the face reddens and you shout straining your vocal cords and rave mad. You speak fast, frothing at the mouth and use even expletives against your grain. At times like termagants you saw the air and often break whatever you lay your hands on.

Anger, however, is not a uniform or standardized reaction to ego hurting stimuli. The intensity and expression or outburst varies according to the situational dynamics of the emotion. A voice-raised repartee to a witticism or sarcasm of a familiar person cannot be termed anger. Similarly a child unintentionally breaking a toy or a tea cup does not evoke anger. At times there is mock anger or simulated anger when a beloved person reacts to a situation that is unpleasant. People often are angry  when the petrol prices rise but they do not show any violent reaction. But the reaction of dissatisfaction which has political overtones may influence the social approval pattern. When one’s reputation is tarnished by unsavoury comments too invokes anger; when a family is defamed or abused one may get irritations bordering on anger. But when a loss of property, prestige and ego happens a man gets angry. The most dangerous kind of anger is the one which seethes a person’s hurt feeling to a bursting point. At times when the person insulting, is stronger and you feel your violence  may be self stultifying you keep it on the back burner of your mind and bide for a chance to retaliate. This anger in certain cases is nursed for a long time in the case of Shakuni in the Mahabharata. This type of anger leads to revenge. Shakuni’s parents and relations died one by one in a slow and cruel death as Duryodhan provided only one meal a day for the entire Gandhar royal family. Shakuni was kept alive by the family on that one meal to avenge the death of the entire clan. This anger resulted in the destruction of the entire kuru clan.

There is another type of anger which is termed as righteous indignation. When moral truth is suppressed by physical powers and a person is ruined, he like glowing embers under a blanket of ash burns into a rising tongue of flame to lick his enemy. Revenge  however is accepted in literature as a heroic value. No legal- moral law is flouted when revenge stems out of moral hurt. But revenge, as is shown in Hamlet, is a destructive value.

We see, often, young persons of thwarted ambition feel totally imbalanced in simmering anger, externally they appear like the Pacific but inside they are violent and rough. In their conversations we notice bitter sarcasm and even universal cynicism. Jimmy porter in Look Back in Anger is a typical illustration of this kind of indignant person who hates religion, love, society and almost everything. His mocking tone hurts people. Even his wife, for no fault of hers, lives a martyred life under his morose temper. Frustrated people and those conscious of their own weaknesses and those who have settled for less in life, are always angry but their anger singes themselves more than those faceless things that caused his sustained anger.

When the self interest of a group of persons who, they feel, have been robbed of their entitlement they too show their  infructuous anger in many ways. But the most harmful anger comes from a realization of inadequacies of one’s own self. When you feel that you are nothing and all your efforts fail to establish yourself in your chosen field of pursuit, not  because of socio- intellectual prejudice of others but by your own failings; you come to the verge of suicide. This may lead one to destroy life.

Is there  any cure for anger? Well, no medicines, (tranquilizers) can restore you to your balanced view of the world. Yoga, Pranayam may help but what is  needed is a proper understanding of your reality and the human condition. How to attain it? Well, I wish I knew. Therefore live as you wish to live without rancour or a sense of inferiority.

Poolside melody

The swimming pool is empty

dry and still the bluish waters

pause for the ripples to dance

when the mermaids sway their tails.

Where have they gone, the nymphs

where are the feasting couples

licensed to cavort and mate

in the rafts of serenading strings:

the auctioneers bids will measure

breasts and buttocks when night rages

with Sheikh dollars smelling of petrol.

The pool turns purple and blue

entwining bodies flap and swim

the zooming cameras flash and flick

the pool witnesses the orgy

and turns still again in deathlike gloom.

I’ll watch the scene to report

still like the lethargic pool

and pen the lyrics in dark ink.

Sabita Sahu

Honour

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

Honour is an honorific word signifying a person’s or country’s achievement that elevates the stature of an individual or country, commanding respect of people in general. Honour is a fulfilment of the human spirit. The average individual is most often a reflexive pragmatist unless he is a dud waiting for things to happen to him. He searches for the needs of the self and is satisfied without assertive survival.  But a man who believes in his inner spirit aspires for glory, heroism, creativity. He makes life more than a package of living. He may be an Arjuna or an Achilles or even a Ravan with an urging soul to dominate, conquer and confidently earn respect of the common man. He always leads and never is led compromising his self-esteem. The soul may also enter a reflective state of being where ideas, metaphors, rhythms can invent truths not perceived by the laity. He may also renounce, sacrifice his energies to serve people with compassion. Compassion too is a great soul value. These souls earn and achieve a state of honour which is not palpable. It is an abstract social value which endows the soul with pride, a sense of non-arrogant superiority not displayed or proclaimed but a state of worthiness much more valuable than money, power or visible assets. Honour is a social perception of a name, a reputation.

Some people achieve honour by their soul force striving for it by pursuing qualities of excellence; some inherit it vicariously by their birth into a family. For example, the children of celebrated families of King’s or other respectable institutions. Some others have greatness thrust on them, again vicariously by chance or circumstantial gimmicks. But honour is a state of divinity which a mortal attains by his deeds - courage, compassion or sacrifice.  Those rich and powerful men who think they are honourable are self elevated morons. Shakespeare’s Falstaff (Henry IV part 1) says:

                   What is honour? A word. What is that word honour? What is that honour? Air!

                    A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No.

                    Doth he hear it? No. ‘Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead.... honour is a mere

                    scutcheon...

Since it is dangerous to disagree with Shakespeare who is definitely more endurably honourable than most men of honour, I accept with humility. But Falstaff is definitely not my embodiment of honour, for he does not make people proud of him. Honour is that value which makes people feel elevated by the achievements of an individual. A man who lives for others and/ or gives a sense of relief, solace, pride, safety, joy and such like values to a large section of people deserves the honorific of honourable man.

When a person is self assertive, however exalted his heroic honour may be we hesitate to accept such heroes. Victories over human hearts are more honourable than the heroic exploits of war heroes. Achilles and Shakespeare’s Macbeth are not men of honour. A man of honour is always humble, for his honour stems from people’s acceptance of his greatness. Honour does not exist in a socio- cultural vacuum. Honour is always bestowed by society: it cannot be claimed like an average man claiming credit for killing a snake. But can you kill or commit suicide in the name of honour? Often men of glory kill themselves when their unconscious follies come to light. Othello, definitely a man of heroic honour, falls victim to his baser self manifested in jealousy. When he realizes his blunder, he kills himself. Antony too kills himself but his stature does not lift up by suicide. Cleopatra dramatizes her own reckoning, thereby enhancing her innate honour. But when parents kill their sons or daughters for love affairs or inter- religious marriages, in the name of honour, doubts crop in the mind about honour.

Is honour a caste or religious value? If a son or daughter marries a person of another caste or faith, how is one’s honour tarnished? The Khap Panchayats in India pronounce death penalty on love defectors without hesitation and parents obey in the name of honour. Raped women often kill themselves as ditched women do, for honour. But honour is not associated with chastity which is important in itself. Violation of a woman definitely injures female pride but I do not think honour is violated. Sita dies for honour which she had earned, after she was abandoned by Ram, by her determined existence of purity. But that is not true of Amba or the rape victims. When the politicians demand respect for their honour and prestige we feel like laughing for except a few politicians whose souls glow with sage like flame for mankind, the others are rooted in self. One attains honour after a lifetime of work dedicated to human welfare or mass enlightenment. Let us not, therefore, cheapen it by using it in the manner in which we use the word beautiful.