#1000 Words Tales | Dead Alive | September Entries
#1000 Words Tales September Entries
Winning Entry by Narayani V Manapadam
THE MAN, THE WAR, THE SAGA
I explored the options on the front camera which my ordinary smartphone offered. I need not have bothered, for it offered nothing ingenious like ‘selfie flash’ or ‘a panorama angle’. Yani, You should savour the precious moments, an inner voice reasoned with me. Yeah, I agreed. Dead men do not appear in camera, after all.
It was 5PM. He should be here any moment. After all, military men are known for their clocklike precision. There it was! That distinctive sound of boots stomping on the concrete road. I muttered a silent hymn and turned around. And gasped!
Was he the one I had requested for an interview?
No, it couldn’t be. I had clearly mentioned Harpal Singh Saini from the Sikh Regiment of 1971. A young man in his 30s, when he gave up his life for his country.A shaheed. This man advancing towards me didn’t look a day younger than 50. It must be a goof-up, I thought to myself.
The man took his seat in front of me. “Can I have a glass of water? I am parched.”
I stood rooted to the spot. The sun had just set, leaving behind a mild hue of saffron. The cool breeze from the Thiruvanmiyur beach hit my face.
Water! Oh yes! Hastily I took out a Tupperware from my bag. The soldier greedily grabbed it from my hands and gulped its contents down in one go. As the final drop of water trickled down his throat, his eyes lit up.
“I have one extra bottle.”
He returned the Tupperware to me and shook his head. “Shukriya.”
I couldn’t stop the lump that was threatening to form in my throat. I put on my sunglasses and sat down, facing him.
“Mmmmm…. You are ShriHarpal Singh?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Uh.. I don’t know how to begin. Mmm.. How many of you had the same name in the Sikh Regiment of 1971?”
“I didn’t get you, madam.”
“Oh ok. I had requested an interview with ShriHarpal Singh Saini.”
“I am.”
“Oh. I must have been mistaken. I though I read that you were only 30 when you were martyred.”
“29!”
“Excuse me.”
“I was only 29 when I took the bullet.”
Words failed me. He must have guessed my dilemma. “I look old, right?”
I looked around, wishing the earth would devour me. This was clearly spiraling out of control.
“You know, madam. I am forever thirsty. I should have requested for at least 40 bottles of water before agreeing to this interview.”
“Don’t worry. I can buy them. The stall is nearby.”
He looked delighted. “I kept on requesting them for a glass of water. But they never offered me a single drop.” He paused, looking at my shell-shocked face. “I was captured by the enemy, you see.”
Visions of excruciating torture tactics deployed by the army appeared before me. And then on an impulse, I looked at his hands. A fleshy mass hung where the nails should have been.
“This is nothing, madam.” He had a bemused look on his face.
“Didn’t the government fight for you?”
“Ministers don’t negotiate for measly soldiers.”
“Still. Only recently, Abhi……” I bit my tongue. As the stark reality hit me hard.
“I have heard that it’s now easy to spread awareness. Something called social media.”
“Yes.”
“Too sad we didn’t have it in those times.” He shrug his shoulders.
“Harpalsaab. I have often read in textbooks about tales of bravery. How chests of fathers swelled with pride as they distributed sweets amongst their neighbours when their sons returned in coffins.”
Did I discern a tear in his eye? Did I speak too much?
After a pregnant pause, he resumed. “What is so praiseworthy about being martyrs, may I ask?”
He took my silence as my ignorance and continued in a drone-like tone. “When you are at the frontline, you still feel hunger, thirst, fear and excitement. You are still a human, not a war machine.”
The clouds in my mind started lifting.
“I was captured by the enemy during the 1971 war. Do you recoil when you see scenes from Hindi films where the police torture the criminals?”
I nodded.
“This is nothing. They pulled out my nails. I revealed nothing. They tore at my hair. I passed out.”
With that, he removed his turban. Three strands of hair and loads of scars to be displayed on his resume. I bit my lips to prevent myself from bursting into tears.
“All I wanted was to quench my thirst.” Harpal Singh broke down.
I extended the second bottle of Tupperware towards him. He wiped his eyes, took it, muttering a ‘thanks’ and took three sips. He kept the bottle down. I said nothing.
“Do you know what happened to your wife?”
“She might have cried for days. I know her too well. But my son, Daljit, was quite strong for his age. I reckon he must have been 8 when I last set my eyes on him.”
“He has joined the Indian Air Force. He is a Wing Commander.”
Harpal Singh looked up and his hands joined together in a Namaste, as if offering his heartfelt thanks to the Almighty.
“Are you happy?”
“I am proud of him. He had always been the courageous one.”
“Are you scared that …..”
“….. he might die a martyr too?” Harpal Singh completed my question for me.
Silence reigned.
“Madam. It’s the duty of a soldier to protect his motherland. And he will die for this cause willingly. But my request is…..”
“Go on, Harpalsaab.”
“Do not EVER glorify the events in a battlefield.”
The mobile buzzed. It was time to bid adieu to Harpal Singh Saini. The time machine had come to take him back to heaven.
Not a word was exchanged between us, as he walked away. Leaving me enlightened. And a tad ashamed of my naivety.
Shortlisted Entry by Alipi Das
The Ethereal Diabolical Meeting
The umbilical cord was tied to eternity, the reflections encircled my mind. The exhilaration of the superpower resonated in my rhythmic motions…. “MA”, my only constant in life and forever.
Her musings played…. the husky, high-pitched voice, the loud humorous laughter, the soft skin, the tender touch, the expressive eyes, the loving looks and the subtlety of her senses, created an aura around her presence. A mirage of memories gushed from the glabella to my temples. I revisited the moments when my world was flooded with my mother’s bountiful blessings.
The dream was magical; to achieve the impossible…. Meeting my Mother again, whose presence was absent and no longer sensed in this entire physical world. Comfortably I sat at the backyard patio with the tea tray on the tabletop. The benevolent sun shone and spilt the mellowness on me. I sipped the aromatic jasmine tea and gazed at the dainty squirrels and the colourful birds that sang melodiously in the verdant awning.
Due to the momentary disorientation, I pressed my hands on my shut eyes. Images conjured in the phosphenes and events unfolded during the séance. It was as if a hive of buzzing honeybees had entered the arena.
A familiar self enshrouded the golden exuberance of the skies; and descended on the Earth. My mother’s persona metamorphosed into an elfin lass; a foot tall with wafting golden locks.
“Is this an enigma?” I ruminated.
The wrinkled skin, the ashen face, the dark rings encircling the sunken eyes and the crimson welts on the scrawny frame had the attached ache of a tale to tell. She smiled, twirled and danced in ethereal splendour.
“You’re not what I expected,” I asked brusquely.
Her hollow eyes welled up.
My belligerence softened at the vortex of grief and offered her tea to soothe the frayed nerves.
“Tell me, what happened to you?”
Her face palsied, “The red river overflowed, and the blossoms withered in its venom.”
“Your parents…. siblings?”
“My father and brother went to the shop in town…..they were gunned down.”
Listening to these treacherous sordid acts, my temper flared up, “Dear, was there no administration at your place, no government, no army, no police, no justice?!”
The past ghastly visions refused to cede control of her, “they were all dressed in uniform, those who cared, and those who stormed.”
She licked her dry cracked lips and sagged against the chair, her heart poured out, “Mother was tired, every day many men visited her, she always said….. leave my daughters. The final day, they took me and mother, but in the attic, I hid my sister.”
She narrated her horrendous account, my gut churned, “Where was your home?”
“The dunes encircled the mountains, we rejoiced and regaled in the terrains. Our father was a schoolteacher, at home he was our educator. I loved the science subjects he taught and wanted us to become doctors of the mass.”
In the early hours of the morning, I desperately needed one drink to dispel my physical tremor. Her memories bled, painting my eternal picture with the shades of burgundy from a forgotten palette.
Her soaked skin glistened under the glowing sun, she released her smothered sorrow, “They warned my father not to be a teacher, he disregarded their threats as education was his life’s crest, they plundered our home and called my father a traitor.”
The pent-up emotions frothed and choked my gullet. Life was indicative of spiralling chaos.
With a pensive mood, she continued with her nightmares, “My mother’s dainty frame was tied to a pole, like cattle, and I dragged her body, bullet-riddled. I couldn’t walk any further, my entity wounded by the harsh weather.”
My brains were blown out. My emotional anguish of losing my mother was dwarfed by the guilt of a helpless audience.
“The valiant men came and tried to revive me in their arms, in vain they tried as I laid quiet and calm.”
A steady stream of briny tears, fettered to my angst, flowed unchecked down my pale cheeks, “why are you here?”
Comprehending my dilemma, she offered, “I can help you, release your agony. Expectations only prolongs the suffering. We now live together in a gossamer, and you can fight the miseries of your soul with the guidance of your angel mother.”
She smiled and stirred her supine form, the attached pain gone. The saffron light of the dusk glistened on her serene face. A gale had forced her shimmering wings to float, unstrapped from the silvery threads of a ghastly cobweb, unfettered forever from the clasps of the diabolical world which she had sought for a long time, but been denied.
I was back in the present, bathed in sweat; head pounded; heart painfully beating fast, and the brackish tears moistened my clothes. The gnawing void in my heavy chest exacerbated the sick, clammy feeling inside me, an ineffable sense of longing.
The cheerful sound of my near ones made me feel blithe after a long hiatus. For the first time after my mother had passed away; a feeling of completeness embosomed my entire being. I decided to go with the flow of God’s purgation destined for all souls, but to live this mortal life with a meaningful purpose.
Entry by V ramya
With great difficulty I woke up responding to my morning alarm. My eyes were puffed indicating sleeplessness overnight. A real angel in sparkling white costume was sitting beside meddling with his phone. Clearly am still in dreams and waved at him. He read my mind and said,
“Dude, last night you saved a homeless man in an accident and fought hard with the hospital staff to treat him. God was pleased and granted you a wish. You could bring one dead person alive for a day and here I am to convey the message. Whom would you choose?” excitedly he asked flapping his wings.
As I felt my adrenaline pumping hard, without a blink I replied, “Dr.APJ Abdul Kalam Sir”. I noticed the angel vanish away but in front of me was Kalam Sir standing with folded hands and smiling innocently. I just fell onto his feet and greeted him. It took an hour to explain my admiration towards him and how he has inspired my life just like many others.
“My son, so what have you done?” he asked looking into my eyes.
I really thanked GOD at that moment for having to hear his voice closely. Then I showed him my green initiatives and the NGO where I support few children’s education. He was impressed and patted on my shoulder. I have received a priceless lifetime award and felt like the angel who just visited me.
Looking at my tiny library he questioned,
“I am surprised to see different religious books?”
With a shy look I said, “Sir my interest in knowing about other beliefs grew after reading your book ‘Transcendence: My Spiritual Experiences with Pramukh’.”
“India is diversified in faith but together we stay united. This was the one of the best spiritual experience for me” he spoke gladly.
After a quick freshen up, the magical journey started. I drove steadily with India’s most valued person beside me. First, we visited the places where the tree plantations were done honoring his name. We walked around and he was immensely happy to see the greenery.
“Sir, starting from kids to elderly people, I have seen many such people volunteering for planting saplings. Your vision ‘Billion Trees for Billion people’ has taken a clear path and we are nearing the goal”.
Smilingly he responded, “ The real seed is the thought that must be planted in one’s self. It is remarkable to see these initiatives.“
Our next place was the innovation school. It encouraged students from different schools to showcase talents through their inventions. He liked the smallest satellite that was indeed named after him. Color coded thermometers, spectacle microscope, solar seeder, torch for visually impaired and portable atmospheric water generator were some of them which he keenly observed.
“Can you share your thoughts Sir?”, impatiently I asked wanting to know his opinion.
He laughed and said “Motivation and encouragement is what needed for today’s generation. I strongly believe in our students and you will witness much more advancement in the coming years.”
“Sir do you have any regrets in life?” I asked lowering my voice.
With a majestic expression he replied, “My dream of becoming a fighter pilot did not come through. We all come across failure at some point in life. It should not stop us from trying hard. As I always say, ‘Dream Big’ and it would be real one day”.
A long drive and now came the biomedical university. We walked through the innovation lab which had the latest exhibits for viewers. I remember this was one of his deep interests as he had supported the researches. Patiently he read through the improvisations in sensory, neurological and orthopedic implants. I dwelled in happiness when he looked contented reading the rise in successful cases of cardiovascular medical device transplantations.
While driving back I was excited to talk about ‘ISRO’, the much-awaited topic.
“Chandraayan 2 was launched last year. We were awaiting the historical moment, but the deviation led to hard landing. It made me upset for few days Sir”.
“I still remember the deployment of Rohini satellite. People’s hard work is enormous, and many are involved than you imagine to be. I am certain that Chandraayan 3 will emerge successfully soon” he spoke blissfully.
Looking at his confidence it seemed nothing is impossible in this world. My positive vibes have been continuously increasing from morning and I already feel so energized for the next ten years.
To answer the mysterious question that is running in your minds, except me nobody could see Kalam Sir and that’s how we travelled today.
This journey too had to reach the destination as the clock was about to strike twelve. I took a few selfies with him and knew it was time to bid goodbye. I hugged him closely and he said “ My son you have shown me the advances happening and I am confident my visions are no longer just words. I feel happy and thank you for inviting me”. Such a flawless smile he wears all the time, I thought to myself. My eyes started turning blurry as tears filled in and I looked up to the wall, it was twelve past a minute. I opened to the first page of the book in my hands named ‘Vision 2020’. Above his signature were the words
‘Dear Son,
Never let failure take over you
Rise again even stronger
Continue your good work’
APJ ABDUL KALAM.
Entry by Sudha Viswanath
A Lesson To Learn
The chirping birds heralded the arrival of yet another day.
Suddenly I could feel a delicate touch on my shoulders. There was no one in sight, but a gracefully modulated voice spoke.
“Today, you are the lucky one to have got a boon to recall anyone dead and spend a day with the person. By 6 in the evening, the soul will vanish. You have the entire day to chat.
Tell me, whom would you like to spend the day with?”
My eyes popped out of my head in disbelief.
“Edward Jenner, can I meet him?” I asked, my tone rife with excitement.
“Here you go,” said the voice and Lo!!! The very next moment, I could see Edward Jenner sitting right opposite me.
“What would you like to know from me, boy?” He asked, seating himself comfortably on the chair.
“Sir, I have always marveled at your smartness, for having developed a vaccine to trounce the smallpox virus. Tell me, sir, how dreadful was the disease, and how did you find a way to save humanity from its evil clutches.” I asked, switching on my recorder.
I worked as reported in the media. That I met someone dead long ago would make a piece of sensational news the following day.
“Well, it was indeed a dreadful disease,” Said Mr. Jenner. “Though we could not trace the origin of this virus, it was understood that it mainly spread by direct and fairly prolonged face-to-face contact between people. With this early rash stage, they became a potential carrier of the smallpox virus.” Mr. Jenner began explaining the mode of spread of the smallpox virus.
“An infected person would spread the Virus on coughing or sneezing and allowing the droplets from the nose or mouth to spread to other people. One remains contagious till the last scab falls off.”
Seeing me a bit confused, Mr. Jenner explained that a person affected by the smallpox virus would develop rashes on their body.
“A fluid would come out of the rashes, and if the person touched it and also touched his eyes, there was every possibility of eye impairment beyond redemption. Many lost their sight, and many died,” he shook his head sadly.
“Does it mean that the scabs on the patient’s sores had the virus?” I enquired.
He nodded. “The scabs and the fluid in the patient’s sores also contained the Variola Virus.” He paused as he caught me mouthing the word mutely, ‘Variola.’
“Variola Virus could also spread through the materials or objects contaminated by the infected patients. Health workers wore gloves and took extreme care not to get infected.” Mr. Jenner explained.
“Sir, it was you who brought respite to thousands of people reeling under this virus’s evil effect. How did you do this?” I anxiously asked.
“Back in those days, we did not have well-equipped laboratories.” He gave a sad twitch to his lips.
“I noticed that some milkmaids who had previously caught cowpox while milking the cows did not catch smallpox even during a smallpox outbreak.
I found a young dairymaid, Sarah Nelms, who had fresh cowpox lesions on her hands and arms. Using matter from her lesions, I scratched it into the skin of an eight-year-old boy, James Phipps. A single blister rose on the spot where I had scratched, but soon he recovered.
I inoculated the boy once again, this time with smallpox matter, and no disease developed. Thus the vaccine became a success.” Edward sat back, resting his back on the cushion, with the triumphant feeling of having found a vaccine for a deadly viral disease like smallpox.
“May I know why you chose to meet me today?” He smiled.
“Sir, the world is reeling under a serious pandemic, caused by a virus called the Corona Virus.” I winced.
He shook his head, showing his sympathy.
“Theories and postulates are being mooted about the origin of the virus, and debates are on about finding ways and means to defeat it, but to no avail. No vaccine has been found yet to trounce it. Lakhs of people have lost their lives.
Though many scientists are working throughout the globe to find a suitable vaccination for this viral disease, we are still at the fumbling stage. It is nearly eight months after the virus affected the first lot of people.” I explained to him in detail the havoc caused by the virus on humankind and how the lockdown has jeopardized the world’s economy.
“Sir, we need an Edward Jenner in this 21st century. What would you have done in a scenario like this?” I enquired with a hint of professionalism.
“Son, remember that I found this vaccine for smallpox in the 18th century, but the disease has been attacking people way back from the 3rd or 4th century. With little knowledge of science and medicine, people might have found it challenging to find a solution then.”
He creased his brows, which showed that he was deeply in thoughts.
“In the first place, what I feel is the population has increased exponentially. It becomes more challenging to control the spread of a virus in a scenario like this.
I had nothing to debate on that point.
“I am sure with advanced technology and more of apparatus; the scientist might be exposed to a whole lot of proficient material to find a solution for this virus. But you cannot hurry with it. One has to work on it patiently.” He explained.
“When there is an epidemic, we need to follow certain rules, and here you are experiencing a pandemic, stringent rules have to be followed.” He shook his head while I had nothing to argue again. He was right. Most of the people don’t seem to take the matter seriously and openly defy lockdown rules.
I did not know when the day passed, speaking to an intelligent personality. How strategically he explained the fact that it was high time we human beings learn some discipline.
Entry by Preethi Warrier
The Tax for Dignity.
I sheepishly switch on my cell phone. Sadly, that’s how most of my mornings begin these days. Amidst all the Covid -19 news and politics, an article suddenly pops up.
“Backward class woman beaten and torched to death for allegedly falling in love with an upper class boy.”
I don’t click on that headline, I can’t read it through. Well into the twenty first century, but alas, the discrimination still exists. When I pride on being modern and liberated, young girls were being set on fire, in the name of honour.
It’s a holiday, I am off work and supposed to be relaxed, but somehow I can’t rid my mind off the girl, and the utter dreadfulness. Perhaps, I relate to her, being one of her kind…
I recollect the story of Nangeli, which I had narrated for an elocution competition, way back in my childhood. In my speech, I had mentioned a few relatively unknown and underrated feminist icons of history, and now that I remember, she too had been young and had lost her life to casteism.
But my memory is now blurred and I fail to recall properly. If only I could talk to her, get to know her more, bring her back to life… I close my eyes and am jolted up when someone nudges my shoulder.
“You desire to talk to me?” Nangeli looks me straight in the eye. Big black eyes lined with kohl, thick jet black hair tied in a neat braid, tall and dusky, she is sans any makeup or ornaments. She looks classy in just a white Mundu (sarong) below her waist, another white shawl covering her chest and a calm smile playing on her lips.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” I am terrified.
“You can speak in our native tongue, Malayalam. Don’t you know, today you’ve been blessed with the power to bring us dead back to life? So shoot, why have you consulted me?”
I stare at her open mouthed. All I manage to come up with is, “How old are you, you look barely…”
“Oh, I was very young then, just married. It was more than two hundred years ago, so I guess I was perhaps in my teens.” She shrugs.
“So you belonged to the backward section, and is it true, the upper castes would levy the, err…” I pause mid-way.
“Breast tax? Yes. And why do you feel awkward talking about it, when they could actually impose such a tax on us women?” She plonks herself on the sofa.
“Could you elaborate? They don’t mention you very often in history books.” I prod.
“But of course.” She explains, “I was born into the Shudra (backward) community and as strange it might sound, our women were barred from covering our breasts. Only the women from the higher caste were permitted to don the shawl over their chests, while we had to move around exposing our bare upper half of the body. They said that was the only way they could differentiate between us and their women.”
I feel a tear trickle down my eye, she notices it.
“Hey, don’t shed those tears, all of you do that these days. But back then, we had to face these people every day. Men, of all sections would leer at us, hoot, and call us names. We would try covering ourselves with our hands. But while toiling in their fields or kitchens most of the time, our hands were never free to help ourselves.”
I let her go on.
“It so happened that some of us couldn’t take it anymore and we rebelled. A woman needed no man’s permission to maintain her dignity. So we would wear the shawl, come what may. That’s when they came up with their novel idea, the Breast Tax!”
“Did they really measure…?” I broke off again.
“Yes, they did. They let us cover our chests, but at a price. Our families needed to pay that wretched tax, to safeguard their womens’ honour. But the worst was, the tax depended on the size of our bosoms. Male officers would visit our homes to assess our sizes.” I could see her fuming. I clasp her hand.
“Unfortunately, all my friends and relatives agreed to this humiliation. Don’t know why, I couldn’t. For me, self- respect mattered the most, my caste couldn’t take that away. When the officers arrived at my doorstep, I refused to let them in, I blocked the door armed with a sickle. But they were many men, they overpowered my husband and chased me. I realized my struggle would be futile, but I wouldn’t let them touch my body. So, I did the inevitable. I cut them off, the symbol of my femininity, the very reason for the tax.”
Her shawl slides down in the breeze and I weep inconsolably at what I witness. She picks up the cloth and drapes it again.
“Here, here. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I passed away soon after, I didn’t suffer too much. But my action really shook the tax agency and the rulers of the kingdom. So much so, that the British abolished the tax and the oppressive practise. Our women lived in dignity ever since, my village now proudly bears the Malayalam synonym of breasts, as it’s name.” Her eyes twinkle.
“Nangeli, Thank you, if not for you, may be my great grandmother, or grandmother would have had to…”
She interrupts me, “I happened to bring about a change. But should we always wait for someone to perish, to take that step forward?”
She touches my face and I wake up. To reality, to realization.
I click on the news item and post my tweet, tagging those responsible, those who needed to take action and those who turned a blind eye. I wouldn’t let the incident die down, I wouldn’t let her sacrifice go in vain. She would live in me, in her, in us… Women.
Entry by Santosh Bakaya
Resurrected
As I got up knuckling away sleep kinks from my eyes, a voice fell into my ears, “I bestow on you the power to bring back any dead personality from the past for one day”. I looked around, eyes hunting for the speaker, but heard only the disembodied voice. Was I hallucinating?
How I wish I could bring back Martin Luther King Jr. for a day. No sooner had I expressed the wish, I heard some rustling near my writing table. A familiar figure stood near the table, looking at me quizzically.
“Oh Martin Luther King Jr.! What an absolute pleasure to set eyes at you!” I gushed like one besotted, King smiled warmly and picked up a book from the table, looking at it in utter surprise.
“You know, that is your biography that I have written”. I said a trifle bashfully.
“That is so great.”
“I had always been fascinated by you and your crusade for civil rights. That Jim Crow! Those Klansmen! I often wonder about man’s inhumanity to man. You and our Bapu would have hit it off so well.”
“Yes, I know. He guided us at every step during our non- violent crusade. In fact during the Montgomery Bus Boycott, he was our Guiding light”.
“Alas, he died before the two of you could meet.”
“I did go to India in 1959, it was a pilgrimage to Gandhi’s land. If only I could have seen him in flesh and blood. When I visited India, it was already eleven years since he had left the world. I have always believed that Gandhi was probably the first person in history to lift the love ethic of Jesus above mere interaction between individuals to a powerful and effective social force on a large scale. You know, when I laid the wreath at Rajghat, I had such a fuzzy feeling all over. It was Mordecai Johnson who had initiated me into the ideology of Gandhi. The day I heard his lecture on Gandhi, I was so fascinated that I went out and bought many books on Gandhi.”
“Isn’t it strange that both of you were killed because you preached love.”
“Hate can never kill love, it will always be resurrected from its ashes .Love never dies, and this is what your Bapu taught me. You know ……uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Santosh.”
“Sa…ntosh…. Am I pronouncing it properly?”
“Yes, you are, and I love the way you pronounce it. When Izola Curry tried to plunge a knife into you, you forgave her, not unlike Bapu.”
“A steel letter opener, actually. On September 20, 1958, while I was signing copies of Stride toward Freedom she tried to plunge it into me, she was unwell and did not know what she was doing. It was lodged near my heart and I would have died, had I so much as sneezed. I received many letters during this time, but the letter which touched me immensely, said, “I am a ninth grade student …a white girl. I’m so happy that you didn’t sneeze.
Let me reiterate, over the bleached bones and jumbled remains of civilizations are written the words too late-People will have to realise the folly of hatred, or…”
“I remember reading that you used to love dancing, swaying and prancing arm in arm with your best friend, Ralph Abernathy.”
“Oh, Ralph! What a great time we used to have together, sometimes Coretta and Juanita Abernathy used to feel so embarrassed at our pranks. Ralph and I spent fourteen years of wonderful times together”…He sighed.
“Despite your best efforts, there is inequality still, you bore no animus even towards racists like Bill Connor, and when that white youth in the audience tried to punch you in Birmingham, you were gracious enough not to press any charges.”
“Your Bapu taught me forgiveness, Coretta was aghast when she came to know that I had allowed the boy to stay on in the audience. What if he had a knife with him?”
“You need to be reborn King, black lives still don’t matter.
Your granddaughter, Yolande Renee King gave an excellent speech on August 28, 2020 about your dream. We will fulfil my grandfather’s dream she said in a voice which was reminiscent of your impassioned outpourings. Things have not changed since you delivered your famous I have a dream speech. John Lewis was also there with you during the March on Washington, an important figure in the civil rights movement, he died in July 2020, do you ever meet him up there? I remember reading that in May 1961, he was attacked by some white men at Rock Hill, South Carolina for trying to enter a waiting room marked Whites. In 2009, Elwin Hall, a former Klansman who had attacked him, asked to be forgiven. Obama’s election had prodded him to admit his hatred. He said, “If just one person comes forward and gets the hate out of the heart, it’s all worth it”. So, some of these acts are indeed bright, healing sparks, but hatred is spiking. Bapu also said, an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind.
Joan Baez is still around, and what a delightful singer she is! Come back and sing We shall overcome with her. I remember, she was a sixteen year old when she heard you for the first time in Birmingham, later, she loved protesting along with you.” My words were a gushing stream.
“I remember her singing with such heartfelt intensity during the March on Washington in 1963, Bob Dylan was also with her, and she was only twenty two then.”
With a wistful look, he started humming, Oh, Freedom
And go home to my lord And be free
No more weeping
No more shooting
Let me go home”.
As I raised my hand to bid him goodbye, I found he was no longer around, but his words kept ringing in my ears, Too Late Too late.
Entry by Reshma
If I were to revive any dead personality who would it be and why.
WHIRLPOOL OF LOVE
Nandini couldn’t believe it, she was here to host the man herself, in this highly acclaimed literature festival. She was extremely nervous as she waited for her guest on the stage. The overcrowded venue was buzzing with a frenzied audience, after all he was no ordinary personality. In her mind she kept rehearsing all the questions that had been prepared. They were scheduled to have a prior discussion but time was elusive to him.
All the questions were impeccably curated by her and it raced through her thoughts like a reel. The 21st century longed to hear his voice for real and also understand the personal interpretation of his works.
She was startled out of her thoughts by the cheer of the masses. The illustrious sage had arrived. An enigma whose body was covered in layers of unflattering clothes, which swept the floor and again a face which was almost veiled by he long silvery strands of hair on head and cheeks which sailed on the invisible atmosphere. A slightly soft and husky voice said
“NAMOHSTE’ and what followed was sheer ecstasy. Nandini numbly stood up, utterly in awe of his persona. His God-like presence was sending ripples down her spine. Could wishes like this actually come true? Was this real? It must be cause apart from her, there were the spectators who were also witness to such a miracle.
Let whatever be, be, as long as she was living this moment! She stretched out her hand, pulled it back again, folded both into a namaste, pulled back again, bent down to touch his feet and yet did not feel convinced. In a moment of aberration, she hugged him, didn’t she always want to be in his arms, feel him, breathe him, live him?
After settling down they began with their conversation, talks of his childhood, his art, his contribution to literature, his interaction with the other eminent national and international personalities of his time, and his women. somewhere along the line Nandini had crossed the boundaries of formality and committed social solecism by trespassing on personal space. The preformulated questionnaire took a back seat, and Nandini found herself asking all those questions that had her perturbed her during these years of idolizing Gurudev. How did he explain his love for Kadambari Devi? Pure pious love without adultery, it must have been so magical. Were his love affairs with Annapurna, Anne and Ocampo not sagas of unrequited love? Why did Mrinalini commit suicide at 29? She wanted to hear the answers from the horse’s mouth itself, although she’d read about it all from those researches and biographers who though that they knew it all.
Gurudev was calm and composed not at all embarrassed, and both were so immersed in their intimate talk that they were oblivious to the awkward silence of the audience or the blaring lights of the cameras. It was just Thakurda and her. He said that he carried bits and pieces of all his women with him, always. It wasn’t easy giving a name to all his relationships, it was perhaps easier expressed in his poetry. Everyone said that Kadambari had discovered him but in actuality, even at the tender age of nine, he had an awakening effect on her and hence the discovery. What followed thereafter was an emotional affair, just as impactful as an intense and intimate love affair. Yet it wasn’t detrimental to his marriage nor to the society of his times, which is unbelievable.
Mrinalini worshipped him, always seeking his attention, worked very hard to match up with his intellectual level, but unfortunately couldn’t cope with the pressures of being pretentious all the time. The women in his life, the beautiful JORASANSKO WOMEN were tainted with ill- luck, and their tragic love affair with Thakur has been controversial till date. He claimed to have loved them all in different shades, perhaps he had found muses for his creativity in each of them. What was it that drew each one to him? Yes! It must have been those soft deep highly evocative eyes, and in that moment all else blurred and Nandini found her love, her home, her shelter. She found herself being drawn by their magnetism, and then like in a whirlpool she was sucked inside, inside him and inside time. It was left unto her to remove the jinx cast on the Jorasansko women as tragedy queens. All true love stories should have fairy tale ending, so should hers, even if it meant walking away with the dead. Ironical isn’t it! Just like Mrinalini she too sacrificed the 21st century to be able to love and live happily in the 20th century and to prove that, yes, the sage finally lived happily after with this woman.
Together they walked hand in hand to his adobe in VisvaBharati, Shantiniketan. They vowed to look after that place till eternity offering knowledge to learners from all over. Together they would sing verses from his Gitanjali and his collection of hymns.
Afterall hadn’t she always been inspired by his words, that if you believe in yourself then don’t be afraid to walk alone. She was doing exactly that, she had faith in her love…. “eeklachalo, eeklachallo, eeklachalo re” echoed in her mind and heart.
Entry by Chandra Sundeep
A visitor from the frayed pages of history
“Are you enjoying the book?” a deep voice shocked me. I looked up, and there wasn’t another soul in the room. The history buff in me had a knack of visualising and bringing to life the pages from old books. Shush, stop hallucinating. All these are signs of senility. I admonished myself and turned to my book. “You are not hallucinating moné *” again, the rich voice boomed in the silence.
I felt the hair at the back of my neck stand, but grabbed my walking stick and thundered, “Why don’t you show me who you are, instead of floating like a ghost?”
I blinked in disbelief as a cloud of fragrant smoke filled my room.
I wiped my spectacles and saw the distinct image of a man sitting cross-legged on the floor. I had never seen a face as serene as his. His deep-set eyes captured me with an unknown warmth. My grey cells raced as I tried to identify the stranger in my room. Surprisingly, I wasn’t scared.
Dressed like a warrior in a saffron and gold, closed collar kurta, white mundu* and a thalappavu* on his head, his persona was charismatic. Three distinct vibhuti* lines shone on his forehead with a bright kumkumam* dot in the middle. Heroic thick moustache and side burns added to his alluring personality. From which page of history has he stepped out?
“I’m surprised,” his voice laden with sadness, “such a voracious reader, a self-proclaimed history buff and yet you do not recognize me”
“Are you really here, Shreeman*?” my voice shook as I questioned him.
“Yes,” he assured me with his pristine smile. “Didn’t you wish for this?”
I pinched myself! Only last night I had wished for a historical figure to come to life!
With folded hands, I bowed in obeisance, “Shreeman, I am honored by your visit. If I am not mistaken, are you the great VaikomPadmanabhanPillai?
His gentle smile reassured me.
My old bones experienced a renewed vigour as I fell at his feet. Apart from Padmanabha* Himself, I hadn’t had the luxury of seeking blessings from anybody in the last decade. The perils of being the oldest in the family!
“I am here to spend the day with you,” His deep baritone voice pulled me out of a trance.
A victorious smile appeared on his face, “and this brought me here,” He glanced at the book on my table, ‘The Tiger of Mysore’
“Isn’t it interesting that invaders find mention in innumerable books, and yet children of this great Bharatabhoomi are unaware of the actual heroes who fought for our motherland?”
Shame gnawed at my conscience.
“It was in 1789 when we defeated him the first time at Nedumkotta*. His army of 14000 soldiers attacked our Travancore kingdom and yet 20 of us NandyatKalaris* were enough to drive away those scoundrels.
After we killed his commanding officer, Tipu himself came to the battlefield. We fought face to face, and he fell from his horse when I made a deep attack on his knee.”
“Why didn’t you kill him? You could have prevented him from unleashing terror in later years?”
He smiled, “Does dharma teach us to kill a fallen soldier?”
I was speechless.
“After this victory, from a Kochasan* I rose to become the commander of Travancore Army. I am forever obliged to Maharaja VeluTampiDalawa.”
I couldn’t curtail my curiosity. “Shreeman, if I may ask, you were a teacher, and yet you joined the army, what motivated you to pursue that path? You quit teaching for fighting? Was it a tough choice to make?”
“Maatru-bhoomirakhshithahaparamodharmaha*. Patriotism runs in our blood, and no man or woman would think twice to sacrifice their lives for the nation.
Tipu was a ruthless ruler and wanted to fulfil his father’s dream of invading Travancore, and attacked us again in 1790 with a stronger army. With Lord Vishnu’s blessings, we broke open a dam on Periyar*, created a flash flood and forced the Mysore army to retreat.”
A vendor’s loud cries penetrated the room, and I watched in awe as Sri Vaikom’s eyes lit up. I pushed open the window and shouted, “orukarikkutharu*.”
I poured it in the tumbler and offered it to him. A wide smile appeared on my face as I watched him slurp it with a childlike enthusiasm.
“In 1809 the British eyed Travancore and wanted to bring it under their authority. VeluTampi knew those people were worse than vultures and rebelled against them. We attacked Poonjikkara Residency. You know who the British Resident there was?”. He continued to speak without waiting for my response. “It was Col. Macaulay. But our attempts to capture him went in vain. Betrayals and treachery have been Bharathabhoomi’s greatest enemies since forever, and sadly some of our own people helped him escape.
I feel proud that I killed many of our enemies and fought like a tiger till the very end. Even when the British captured me and sentenced me to death, I held my head high. My only grievance is, one of our own betrayed me.”
There was a deep anguish in his eyes.
“It saddens me that the true gallant fighters who sacrificed their lives for this nation find no mention here, neither in your books nor in your memories.”
The setting sun was a reminder that he might leave soon. However, I didn’t wish for my special day to end so quickly, and that too on a sad note. I huffed to the kitchen and brought a bowl of paladapayasam*. My eyes watered as he took a spoonful and said, “ahhh heavenly.”
“Moné, Appolpokunnu… nannayivaratte (Child I am leaving now, let good come to you).” Before I could convey my heartfelt gratitude, he disappeared.
I couldn’t wait to share this noble warrior’s story with my grandchildren; the present and future of our great nation.
Glossary
Moné – child
Thalappavu – turban or headgear, which is a symbol of power, status and protection
Vibhuti – sacred ash
Kumkumam – sacred red powder
Padmanabha – principal deity of the Royal Family of Travancore.
Shreeman – respectful way of addressing males
Nedumkotta – was a defence fortification constructed along the northern borders of the erstwhile Travancore allied Cochin State
NandyatKalaris – warriors trained in the legendary martial art of Kalari.
Kochasan – deputy teacher
Maatru-bhoomirakhshithahaparamodharmaha – our foremost duty is towards our motherland
Periyar – Longest river in Kerala
orukarikkutharu – give one tender coconut
Poonjikkara Residency – now Bolghaty Palace
paladapayasam – sweet delicacy prepared in Kerala
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