Futility

Spring and summer return dumb

murmurless waits the earth

to watch the cycle of nothingness

in vivid cycles of birth and death.

Parents disappear from sight

mangoes fall like pelted stones

urchins pick up 

trees never see

pain chases pleasure

like night the day

no gauge to size up

unsung lyrics written long ago.

How long to watch 

the fleeting scenes

the silent parade of

the seasons, mind and heart

losing count of nature's motion.

If all this is to 

draw a zero,

the finger and sand are enough

why need book and degree, 

pen and brush

to imitate the dots

leading to a dark infinity.

Sabita Sahu

Ganga Calls Me...

 

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

When the winter night descends with vaporous heaviness shading the sky, the stars invite me with their half twinkly mischief, I pedal my rented bicycle on rough short cuts to Ganga at Triveni Sangam. The nip in the air, the irregular growth of flower plants amidst bushes unrecognisably dense and the unpaved road pathlike leading me to the confluence of Ganga, Yamuna and the unseen Saraswati at Sangam.  In half thrill and half fear I turn from the Katra roads to the seven kilometres of mercurial joy through scattered settlements singing all the way. The Ganga calls me, The Yamuna beckons me: come you lover boy, see how we swell with history; we flow time on our bodies, flow with hilarity where kings and paupers watch us to assess our ageless strength, when lovers beseech us to unite them, when Krishna and Radha sulk and make up in fanciful orgies. We shudder and fidget when armies shear our bosoms with their boats and ships to attack and kill people on our banks and beyond. We cease to breathe and flow when new born girl children are thrown into us, when dead bodies are thrown into us as if we are dumpyards, and we cry when tortured young women and jilted lovers jump into us to save their self respect from sexual bestiality. We are vocal and eternal witnesses to man’s glory and depravity. When men and women worship us, drink our waters as ambrosia we bless them but when they throw all sorts of rubbish into us we protest in turbulent fashion and warn them not to take away our purity by their philistine ways. But we love them- humans and all life. Those who write love lyrics on our banks, sing ballads to their lovers, play the mesmorizing flute as Krishna did we also turn lovers. We bless them, empathize with them and often greet them to their freedom with ripply smiles. We carry their flowers, fruits with unease but tolerate human folly to the best of our patience. They have dirtied us but we in unprotesting helplessness silently wither away ...

I listen to Ganga and Yamuna. I listen to their songs and moans. I pedal my way to them to see their pearly expanse. Yamuna is darkish, deep and sober like a woman who has seen the romance of life as well as the horrors of mans irrational logic.  She has felt the naked warmth of luscious Gopis as well as the poison of the king cobra kalia. She has made way to  Vasudeva carrying the new born Krishna on his head going to Mathura to save the new born from the wrath of Kansa; she has witnessed terror and glory calming her soul to follow the rhythms of time . Ganga is full and empty as the mood takes her on. Flowing from the matted hair of Shiva she is the life giving fluid from heaven and also the moral arm of death, punishing errant humans transgressing life –enhancing values.  She is short tempered like a proud maiden, beautiful  and haughty: she is also a sage in contemplation.  She has often changed the course of history to bring humans to the moral path. She saves souls purifies body and mind but always ‘tameless swift and proud’.

I row with permission of the boatman and watch the bubbles of water born and reborn at the aft of the boat. I sing for Yamuna imagining the childhood pranks of Krishna. Poetry becomes reality, reality envelopes me with benign beauty. Suddenly the boat enters Ganga ,I lose balance, I fall into her bosom under the eighth day moon. The boat man saves me. I return the next night as if nothing has happened. The boatman smiles and leads me on.

During my postgraduate days at Allahabad this was my daily routine. If it rained I did not venture out. On all other nights I rented a 9 to 9 bicycle from a cycle shop near Holland Hall paying only eight annas, half  a Rupee for my – what shall I call it – an adventure bug biting me or the perennial charm of a river flowing from god knows  where with her grace and life force. Rivers are time’s darlings flowing with life giving waters sustaining civilizations.

But now when I ask myself what was the attraction, why did I go every night to boat in Yamuna (Ganga was of variable current, not favoured by boatman in lonely nights) at the risk of my studies without knowing how to  swim; my answer would be- I don’t know. Maybe I was in love. The river like the primordial Aphrodite spread eagled on earth’s bosom calling me to absorb my mind and heart to a romance of living. What’s life after all? Not a time span for birth- procreation – death with a pseudo game of housekeeping thrown into follow Trivarga- Dharma, Artha, Kama. Not a challenge of the Maker or just nature’s mischievous off shoot of purpose to spend time from the cradle to the grave experimenting with your imagination of Man’s purushakar with ideas, norms, forms, inventions in impalpable encounters where defeat is the only truth, if there is something called truth anywhere. Yes I was in love with rivers; all rivers big and small. I wanted to wear the river around my neck and have orgiastic pleasure. My body they say is 7o percent water, the earth too is surrounded by 70 percent water. I wished to play with the rest thirty percent for I am not a body. I am an essence of extra corporeal stuff. Now the Ganga calls me Yamuna calls me the hidden streams call me to be my essence here, now everywhere.

Ball Games

He throws fire balls at me

when the wintry sun winks

in the haze of half seen sky.

He throws Ice balls at me

when the surges of love swell

my decorated body waiting for

his arms in moony delight.

I mix the fire and ice

make it an ocean of love,

he raises a sand storm

to bury my ocean in sulking haste.

I leave my words buried in me

the network of elements goes dead

the sky masters indifferent  to

start a picnic with the fairies.

Sabita Sahu

Farewell

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

Airports, Railway Stations, Bus stands often are mute witnesses to individuals or groups returning after bidding farewell to friends- of all denominations- bosses, protocol officers and children or parents. Fare Thee Well, may the gods land you safe at your destination- bonvoyage, best of journey or simply All the Best are often said with flowers. Waving hands wish the journeyers or travellers hassel free and safe journey. In some cases kisses are blown by individual men and women, substituting words by gesture. Rarely a person communicates in silent suppression of some feeling- joy or sorrow, goodwill or formal responsibility; unless the person making the journey and the one who sees off are too sophisticated to be formal . Farewell is a goodwill gesture, socially practised as it  softens relationship. When foreign delegations come and go there is welcome and farewell. When students take admissions there is a welcome now-a-days – but when I joined school and college there was no welcome. In the University at Allahabad there was a welcome both in the PG class and in the hostel, and also a farewell. If you ask why there was no welcome in my school or college, I need not hazard a guess. With certainty I can say that poverty has its own culture. When there is no great historical memory, no pride for the Kalinga War foisted by Ashoka on a brave, proud people for princess Karuvaki, resulting in million deaths of Odias, how can there be any values attached to the human life to welcome or bid farewell in routine affairs!

Welcome and farewell represent the softer nuances of the inner being when the outer body feels secure and hopes for  prolongation, inspires involved motivation to indulge in larger social life. One may argue, since there is no welcome to life in this indifferent world including the vast expanse of splendrous nature, how can there be a farewell ! Who welcomed the first life that appeared on earth? What arches were raised, what timbre rose out of the mountains, valleys and fronds for man? But we have survived in this planet and have grown in numbers spreading out all over this earth? We value life. We welcome the new born. In the poorest of the poor families smiles broaden faces when the first cry of a babe reaches the eager ears of parents. The neighbours greet the new born, the mother is taken care of , love is lavished on the tiny new life, wishes sincere or formal are poured on life. This happens in civilization. And in this civilization farewell too is given with love.

Love is the binding element in the society. It connects people, bonds are formed, and relationships are forged. The self emerges out of the soul and relates itself to things and people in social commerce. When a man or a woman goes to a far off land we gather and show our affection wishing the person well. We bless people to prosper and fructify their dreams. We wish people to do their best to achieve and accomplish. When a soldier goes to the battlefield we wish him to comeback in one piece after achieving his task of killing the enemy. This wish is observed in a ritualistic fashion. Mother kisses his son who goes for a job in a distant place. This is the inherent value in all farewells: life should prosper, should not fall prey to deceit. In Hamlet when Polonius in his own characteristic style bids farewell to his son going to study abroad, he among other things tells his son-“never a lender nor a borrower be”; that is to be your own benefactor without depending on transactions which may be troublesome. Similarly a wife bids farewell to her husband wishing him to come back victorious. A lover gives farewell to his/ her ‘life breath’ wishing everything that nature and society can afford to brighten life.

Farewell is a projection of a soul force on another soul with love. The Ka is given like a wish to a person who enters another reality. This is extended to persons retiring from office. A man who dies he too is given a tearful farewell for the nirvana of his soul. Farewell is an acknowledgement of the worth of a life. The soulful farewell that was accorded Atal Bihari Vajpayee by a grateful nation strengthens human faith in the human being. Farewell is a soul transcending ritual which ensures peace in the other world- if there is any. Civilization is richer when a man is given a sincere send off for new pastures or the unseen afterlife abode. Farewell makes us richer, elevating the soul to divine heights.

O’ Soldier

Blasting sun, avalanches or

chilly snowfall and descent heat

never he ceases, may it be the

dunes or the high showers, stands

like a wall, no malice,  no fear

and no regret, even takes bullets on

bravely for his country's pride.

Seasons or reasons, cause or policy

never deter, bother or disturb his

constancy, he fights for others

sacrificing his youth and energy

what love motivates him to death?

Salutations, O’ brave, for the

wounds you embrace, we pray

for your safety, for sure you

will return with honour to your

loved ones, who lit the lamp

of love for your homecoming .

Sabita Sahu

Youth

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

When the evening lengthens to reach the dark core of night I rejoice waiting for the dawn. Light never fades; what appears like dissipation is illusory, for behind the dark infernal silence the exuberance of luminosity opens up atom by atom, the lotus blooms petal by petal, grass blades dew-decked or pale –dry look up like my beloved raising her eyelids shade by shade while getting ready for the day. The flapping pages of calendars change numbers, letters and figures but time does not fade into history rather assimilates all history, remaining aesthetically and morally neutral. The sun is never tired, never late, never betrays its own youth. The moon waxes and wanes revitalising itself (herself or himself as you please) as a beautiful being like my love changing apparel to satiate her moods morning, Moon  night her imagination flies, floats, ambles but is never still; the soul of the moon, stars and all beings embraces phenomena for moments of fulfilment and move on for new excitement in the flow of time. The universe is young, youth is the vital energy of creation, all humans, animals, insects and vegetation like the astral manifestations up above move with energy of youth.

You may say how is it – man grows old, slows down and dies, flowers swell with pride of beauty but droop and dry, blacken and fall? Well that is the meaning of youth. A man falls but man is always up and doing, a flower dies but flower is not dead, like the clouds marching in royal fury on a clear blue sky, conquering the blue territory with dark energy within a word-drop.  No static form is true, change and dynamic renewal of youthful vitality is what the universe is the stuff of.  The Gita says the form changes, the body is discarded; a new body is taken by the soul like my love changing a saree into a suit or a gown, this lila goes on with vigour, nothing comes to an end.  Life is the only sentence without a fullstop, it changes images, metaphors, tense and speech yet moves on. A man is old in years but his mind, desires, dreams, aspirations in the progression of changing tenors continue till the body is discarded for its uselessness and a new form is taken. The process is automatic, with the youthful universal energy changing scripts as the new imaginaries take on its fancy. There is no pause.  For every death there is new birth, for every tear there is laughter, for every end there is a built – in beginning.

Have you ever seen the waves of the ocean lax in rest slackening their shore breaking roars? Dawn noon night they strike changing rhythms as the wind blows or tempests blow or the red moon maddens. They never stop inbreathing the spring air, never pause to see visiting fairies with floral diadems on their heads like Ceasar’s laurel crown.  If you watch keenly the sea changes colours too as the sun completes his diurnal molion charming from morn to night and as the moon changes her makeup like my love. The dark green at dawn turns blush green when the dawn crimson touches the sea with a wake up kiss. The sea changes colour as the sun changes from crimson to pale yellow to white (hot) to orange in slow succession. The night changes colours, the earth, the sky and all ocular substances change colours, attributes, quality and at times shape. This is the dynamic vitality of youth which is not a ‘state’, temporary and faddy.  It’s not what the poets say spring and summer, gradually slowing down to a mature slackening of pace. Youth is not a rosary of hours, it is eternities of moments with different validity constantly updating its informed reality.

Youth today is not an enchantment of the soul. Modern young persons are impatient to spend time in comforts luxuries with the conviction that ‘youth’s a stuff that will not endure’. The rhythms of fluid, variable eternity outlasting the ‘endurance’ of the material body are not of meaning or validity to them. Pleasures of balloon moments are indulged in with superficial ludicrous attention till they burst leaving tonal lethargy in the body and mind. Youth today are without moral soulforce, they dissipate their  energy in radical protests or uncritical practicality unsure of the veracity of the higher soul. And they are alone, each to his needs of body moments. Love is no more an unending lyric changing pace, rhythm, metrics, passions and images in mutually adjustible progression to a life beyond. Living is confined to a feel good factor. Self belief is rare, limited areas of momentary illumination are explored to the accompaniment of sensual music.

O my youthful souls, remember, if darkness descends on us brightness also falls on us, whether from heaven or pure physicality the investigation is not over. God is not dead, he is in us, driving our energies to the creativity of literature, arts, philosophy and science. A mystic veil still hangs -  go and discover it. Make your soul multi-sensory and search for the Beyond in everything.

Man Is Divine

After a long painful journey,
half filled dreams and shadow fights
man stops exhausted,
no rest house in sight
no welcome arches for the hero
returning from Trozan victories
to rest in his house he started from
recounting his honour and glory
and lamenting his failures and gloom.

But where is  his Penelope
where Telemachus? Who will
soften his aches, balm wounds
and wash his grime with love?

Poor lonely  man slows down
with languid steps for medicine
which none prescribes, none brings .

Ye children , men and women,
man is not exiled from life,
what he calls home, sweet home
his nest made after a tedious strife.
He is the priceless creation of God
take him in your arms, make his
last life a celebration, never
make him ashamed for having
raised a family  for which he
sold his sweat and blood
the prize of a life's fitful pride.

Now is the time to give him love
take him to your soft bed and
listen his bright eyed tale
his heart aches and laughs
become a proud parent of your parents.

Sabita Sahu