Anandalipi 2015 by Ananda Mandir

ANANDALIPI

A Publication by Ananda Mandir, New Jersey

ANANDALIPI

An Annual Magazine Published by ANANDA MANDIR

A Tax-Exempt, Non-Profit Organization 269 Cedar Grove Lane; Somerset, NJ 08872

Tel: 732.873.9821

Website: www.anandamandir.org

PUBLICATIONS

Chairperson: Pronoy Chatterjee, pkc_usa@yahoo.com

Assistant Chairperson: Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com

Editor-in-Chief:

Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com

Managing Editor, Anandalipi: Amitabha Bagchi, amitabhanj@gmail.com

Managing Editor, Ananda Sangbad: Guru Chakravarty, guruchakravarty@yahoo.com

Editors:

Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com

Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com

Subhodev Das, subhodev.das@gmail.com

Sushmita Dutta, sushmitadutt@novel-ebiz.com Nupur Lahiri, nupurlahiri@aol.com

Associate Editors: Amrita Kangle, amritakangle@hotmail.com Ruby Banerjea, r_banerjea@yahoo.com

Members-at-large: Bhaswati Bhadra Ashok Rakhit

Cover Illustration by: Sushmita Dutta

Illustrations by: Sudipta Mondal

Composition and Layout by: Arup Ghatak

Ananda Mandir’s Board of Trustees and Committees (2014-2016)

Board of Trustees

President: Dipak Sarkar

Vice Presidents: Suprasad Baidyaroy, Jaiprakash Biswas

General Secretary: Arun Bhowmik

Assistant Secretary: Anup Rakhit

Treasurer: Chanu Das

Other Members: Chhanda Aditya, Krishna Bhattacharya, Prabir Biswas, Sikha Chatterji, Pronoy

Chatterjee, Krishna Dutta Roy, Phalguni Ghosh, Saurav Ghosh, Sanchoy Das, Soumen Roy, Subrata Bhaumik, Chandi Maitra, Pradip Majumdar, Sajal, Mukherjee, Mitra Purkayastha, Uma Roychowdhury,

Ashok Rakhit, Utpal Sengupta

Priest: Biswajyoti Nayak

Other

Committees and Subcommittees (2014-2016)

Award & Recognition

Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)

Subrata Bhaumik

Debajyoti Chatterji

Surya Dutta

Guru Chakravarty

Amitabha Bagchi

Ashok Rakhit

Dilip Guha

Dipak Sarkar

Jerry GaMarsh (Adjunct)

Building Maintenance

Prabir Biswas (Chair)

Pradip Mazumdar

Chanu Das

Arun Bhowmik

Communication

Saurav Ghosh (Chair)

Sanchoy Das

Pradip Mazumdar

Constitution Modification

Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)

Dipak Sarkar

Kamalesh Sirkar

Debajyoti Chatterji

Construction

Ashok Rakhit (Chair)

Prabir Biswas (Asst Chair)

Surya Dutta

Arun Bhowmik

Jaiprakash Biswas

Dipak Sarkar

Cultural

Arun Bhowmik (Chair)

Soumen Roy

Suranjan Choudhury

Event and Rental Coordination

Surya Dutta (Co-Chair)

Utpal Sengupta (Co-Chair)

Biswajyoti Nayak

Festivals (major)Coordinator

Surya Dutta

Food Arrangement

Suprasad Baidyaroy (Chair)

Uma Roychowdhury; Anupom Saha

Pradip Majumdar

Jaiprakash Biswas

Phalguni Ghosh

Soumen Roy

Ujjal Sanyal

Arup Dutta

Amal Paul

Fund-raising

Krishna Bhattacharya (Chair)

Ashok Rakhit (Co-Chair)

Suprasad Baidyaroy

Debajyoti Chatterji

Uma Roychowdhury

Dipak Sarkar

Humanitarian

Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair)

Internship

Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)

Dipak Sarkar

Puja Collection Table

Bandana Rakhit (Chair)

Krishna Dutta Roy (Co-Chair)

Rita Bhowmik

Rick Sen

Sikha Chatterji

Santosh Mukherjee

Lopa Das

Anup Rakhit

Soma Rakhit

Membership Drive

Krishna Bhattacharya

Saurav Ghosh

Member Update

Saurav Ghosh

Arup Datta

Chanu Das

Literary Discussion

Subrata Bhaumik (Chair)

Amitabha Bagchi

Pronoy Chatterjee

Roma Das

Puja

Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair)

Dipak Sarkar (Asst-chair)

Uma Roy Choudhury

Chhanda Aditya

Rita Bhowmik

Rik Sen

Bandana Rakhit

Susmita Biswas

Ambalika Mukherjee

Rina Ganguli

Lopa Das

Soma Rakhit

Sarbani Mukherjee

Mita Sinha

Ranjana Sanyal

Soma Dutta

Publicaton

Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair)

Subrata Bhaumik (Asst Chair)

Amitabha Bagchi

Debajyoti Chatterji

Subhodev Das

Guru Chakravarty

Sushmita Dutta

Nupur Lahiri

Bhaswati Bhadra

Ashok Rakhit

Amrita Kangle

Ruby Banerjea

Youth Activity

Dipak Sarkar

Auditing

Arun Sarkar

Jayanta Ghose

Eva Chatterjee

Editorial

Literature is, of course, an integral part of a community’s culture. This is especially true of the Bengalis with their rich literary heritage – spanning the range from Badu Chandidas to Rabindranath Tagore, from Jibanananda Das to Joy Goswami, and Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay to Mahashweta Devi. An important part of this heritage is the desire to enhance it with new and creative contribution. The desire for creativity burns in the soul of Bengalis everywhere, including those of us in the Bengali diaspora in North America. The aim of this magazine, Anandalipi, is to encourage and foster that creativity, from Bengalis (and their friends) all over the world.

Anandalipi is a magazine sponsored by Ananda Mandir, which is a religious-cum-cultural center for the Bengalis living in New Jersey, USA. From its very inception, Ananda Mandir has taken a broad view of its goal. So while we have spent considerable effort trying to build a temple in central Jersey in the Bengali tradition, we have also focused on building a cultural center for music, drama and festive gathering. We have long supported musical programs like Ananda Sandhya and wide-ranging group discussion sessions called Sahitya O Alochana on a monthly basis. . We have also brought out a quarterly newsletter called Ananda Sangbad. And largely through the untiring zeal of several enthusiastic individuals, we have continued to publish this annual literary magazine, Anandalipi.

Anandalipi is a bi-lingual magazine, containing articles, stories and poems in both Bengali and English, in keeping with our milieu as Bengali immigrants in America. We have contributions from USA and Canada as well as from UK and India. We also have a Youth Corner to encourage literary creativity among youngsters of our community. We hope you will enjoy its diverse fare and find the magazine both entertaining and stimulating. In this autumn (Sharat) period of Bengal’s greatest festivities, we offer our prayers for the health and happiness of all our readers.

Amitabha Bagchi Managing Editor, Anandalipi

President’s Message

On behalf of the Board of Trustees of Ananda Mandir, I wish you and your family Sharodiya Shubhechha! May the divine blessings of Maa Durga be with you!

I want to thank our community for helping Ananda Mandir by making financial contributions, volunteering services, and or by joining in Ananda Mandir activities. With your help, Ananda Mandir has now become a leading Bengali Religious and Cultural center in this country.

When I joined as a trustee in 2000, Ananda Mandir had only the community center building, a small temple, and a few dozen members who were working diligently towards building a Bengali Heritage Center where Bengalis could join to fulfill their religious needs and celebrate their cultural heritage. By 2004, Ananda Mandir had built a temple with a seating accommodation for about 95 people, and brought an extraordinarily knowledgeable priest, Biswabhai, whose religious performances are much appreciated by all devotees. At present, Ananda Mandir has nearly completed building an expanded temple where daily puja is performed and which will hold 300 or more people. The outside of the expanded temple, when completed with artworks, will carry our heritage look. We are also building a larger parking facility, with over 300 parking spots, and are near completion in building a much bigger community center, which will be able to host festive parties, hold cultural programs, and have rental spaces for assorted classes.

Ananda Mandir has created a Youth Forum to promote activities of our next generation and offered internship programs in research laboratories and on premises. Some youth members are involved in maintaining a monthly wall magazine called “Kishaloy.” Our “Seniors Forum” addresses the many issues faced by our older members; the monthly “Ananda Sandhya” brings both local musical talents and established musicians from India for performances; and “Sahitya O Alochana” features monthly literary and eclectic topical discussions. The Gayatri GaMarsh Memorial Award for Literary Excellence recognizes superior literary works in Bengali and English published in North America. We have also created a community service grant program and made several donations to worthy institutions and causes. We additionally provide our members, free of cost, our publications, Anandalipi and Ananda Sangbad, containing many outstanding literary works of writers from across the US and overseas.

Since joining Ananda Mandir as a trustee, I have served in various capacities and been the President for the past six years. I am happy with the progress I have been able to make by working with an incredible group of trustees and volunteers. I am now looking forward to handing over my President’s responsibility to another trustee leader in April 2016.

Please join Ananda Mandir and be a volunteer to keep this Heritage Center strong and capable of providing religious and cultural services to the Bengalis and their friends in the tri-state area.

Dipak Sarkar

President, Ananda Mandir

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Japanese Haiku Adaptation in Bengali

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An Evening with Rakhalda

Debu Majumdar, Idaho / 97

A Day at Lord’s

Rajat Basu, New York / 102

Black Pearl

Mekhala Banerjee, Illinois / 107

Change of Season

Debashis Roy Chowdhury, Massachusetts / 111

Under the Shadow of Vasuki

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois / 118

Basona

Basab Dasgupta, California / 123

East is West

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey / 127

Our Labor Day

Dilip Chakrabarti, New Jersey / 130

Obama Hillary Sangbad

Guru Chakravarty, New Jersey / 135

A Journey to an Elusive Nest

Pronoy Chatterjee, New Jersey / 138

Small Expression, Big Impression

Benoy R. Samanta, California / 146

Spring Break

Nupur Lahiri, New Jersey / 150

That Nice Girl

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts / 154

A Mother’s Heart

Sreya Sarkar, West Bengal / 156

POETRY

Antique Land

Mandira Chattopadhyay, Georgia / 163

Panacea

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois / 165

The Wheel of Six Sins

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois / 165

The Nightingale and the Poet

Prasenjit Baisya, New Jersey / 166

My Mom and Me on International Woman’s Day

Syamali Nandi, Oklahoma / 167

Wish I Could…..

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts / 168

My Island

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts / 168

Blinded

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey / 169

Surge…

Chitra Mondal, New Jersey / 169

The Roadside Weaver

Indrani Mondal, Illinois / 170

The Street Venders

Indrani Mondal, Illinois / 171

When Dreams Meet Reality

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey / 172

Two Poems

Basab Dasgupta, California / 172

When Dead Leaves Decay

Aniruddha Bagchi, West Bengal / 174

Bengali Rhymes in Translation

Aniruddha Bagchi, West Bengal / 174

YOUTH CORNER

Religion’s Effect on Society and Government

Nikhil Lahiri, New Jersey (Age 14) / 177

Looking Back: Feminism and its Achievements in 2013

By Priya Mukherjee, New Jersey / 180

Valentine’s Day

Parama Das, New Jersey / 181

What is Life?

Aniketh Sarkar, New Jersey / 182

Her Rage

Rudra Ray, West Bengal (Age 19) / 184

Have You Seen God?

Pramila Baisya, New Jersey (Age 15) / 185

Cancer Couldn’t Kill My Soul

Pranoy Chatterjee, New Delhi (Age 17) / 186

God In Shoes

Pranoy Chatterjee, New Delhi (Age 17) / 187

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Watching the mid night sun in the back drop of the Kenai river in Alaska. “Forget me not” is Alaska’s official state flower.

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Japanese Haiku Adaptation in Bengali

Sushmita Dutta, New Jersey

Very popular in Japan and adored by poets worldwide, Haikus are short poems on elements of the physical world conveying deeper philosophical meanings. Haiku started out as a popular acitivity in Japan during the 9th to 12th centuries and continues to be a well-liked form of poetic expression in Japan also translated by poets worldwide. Here are some popular Japanese Haikus translated in English and thematically adapted in Bengali.

Basho Matsuo, the first Japanese poet of Haiku in the 1600s.

An old silent pond ...

A frog jumps into the pond, Spalsh! Silence again.

Yosa Buson, 1700s.

A summer river being crossed How pleasing with sandals in my hands!

Kobayashi Issa, 1700s.

The world indeed is a dewdrop world ... and yet and yet ...

Natsume Soseki, 1800s.

Over the wintry Forest, winds howl in rage with no leaves to blow

Nick Virgilo, 1900s.

Lily : Out of the water Out of itself.

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“The oldest cousin from my mother’s side was always fun,” Shankar told DeeDee and Raja as he chuckled to himself. The three sat

inside the screened porch. His words intrigued the children, who scooted closer to their Grandpa. Darkness was setting in quickly; birds had quieted down in the trees, and no lawn mower sounds could be heard. On evenings like this, Shankar

often talked about his family in India, which DeeDee and Raja loved to hear.

“We called him Rakhal-da,” Shankar said. “He came to our house once in a long while, but when he did, we all rushed to him immediately, leaving behind

everything we were doing.”

Shankar gazed at the hedges in the backyard. DeeDee and Raja remained still and waited. They knew Grandpa went into these moods when he talked about his family in India.

“He was about 20 years older

An Evening with Rakhalda

Debu Majumdar, Idaho

than me,” Shankar started again. “We loved him. When he came, he’d tell us about his adventures: what he had recently done or something he was going to do next – they were all so thrilling!” Shankar stopped for a second. “Rakhal-da could do anything. Whether he was in a deep jungle or a big city, he was always in command of the situation.”

“I’ve never seen Rakhalda’s mother.” Shankar’s voice became soft, almost a lamenting tone. “She died when Rakhal-da was very young. That’s why my mother was very affectionate with him and would cook special dishes whenever he came. The only problem was we never knew when he’d show up.

“Once I was almost asleep when someone shouted: ‘Rakhalda!’ And I jumped out of bed and ran to him. Rakhal-da looked the same as always: tall, thin, and dark, with shiny, short curly hair. He wore a dhuti and a long white shirt with a chain of dusty-gold buttons – the top two unbuttoned. Always the same style.

‘Where do you come from now?’ My mother asked him.

‘From the northeast frontier,’ Rakhal-da said, and leaned over and touched her feet as they do in Bengal when meeting older relatives. ‘It’s a long story. I was there for the last eight months.’

‘I see, another adventure,’ my mother said, and looked at him for a few moments. ‘If my sister were alive, she’d not allow you to wander around like this. I’m glad you remember us once in a while. You talk with the children while I go and make

some dinner. Would you like some fried ilish maachh?’

‘That’d be wonderful; we don’t get shad fish on the frontier.’

Rakhal-da gave the four of us a warm, group hug; then we dragged him to the largest bedroom and gathered around him.

‘So what’s new around here?’ He asked.

‘Nothing,’ we answered in a chorus.

‘Tell us about the northeast frontier,’ my sister said. ‘Is it a dangerous place?’

‘Very!’ His face turned stiff, ‘Very dangerous. Wild animals are there; you name it - tigers, leopards, cobras, rhinos, striped hyenas, and noxious insects you’ve never heard of. In some areas, it rains every day and the forest is so dense, no one can enter. Then there are the savage tribals.’

‘But you can go there, right?’ I asked.

‘I went there with my friend,’ he told us, ‘it was a great opportunity. I couldn’t refuse.’

‘You lived with tribal people? And ate what they ate?’ My oldest sister asked with a frown on her face.

‘Sure. They are fine human beings if you approach them carefully; the only difficulty was that the place was so remote. We had to walk for days.’ Rakhalda stopped and rolled up his shirt. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. We discovered the most beautiful timber there.’”

Shankar shifted his gaze to the backyard, perhaps experiencing that day once again.

Darkness had fallen. Only faint light from the house illuminated the grass around the porch. And beyond that the plants and the hedges seemed to form a mysterious dark wall.

Raja pulled his hand. Shankar saw that DeeDee and Raja were looking at him. “My cousin was a character,” he finally said with a smile on his face.

“Tell us about your cousin, Grandpa,” DeeDee pleaded.

“Rakhal-da never stopped at just having an idea,” Shankar continued. “He would carry it out. This time he and his friend went to the northeast border area near Burma in search of fine lumber. No one had dared to go there before. First, they went by train as far as they could and hitch-hiked with truck drivers. Then they walked for several days and reached a place surrounded by the beautiful teakwood trees that they were looking for. They were excited by their discovery, but they faced a big problem: how to bring the logs down to the road? Rakhalda and his friend roamed around the area, but couldn’t find a way to transport the logs. They met tribal people, but they couldn’t understand their language. They couldn’t help.

“They wandered around the forest. One day Rakhal-da saw an unusual bird; it was so beautiful, he thought, it must be a bird from paradise. It was like a miniature peacock with a long red-orange tail, light beige body and head, and a light

yellow beak. It was the size of a grouse. And it had a brown spot on its head. It hopped on the ground and wasn’t afraid of them. Rakhal-da felt he could catch it with his hands. But he could never get close to it. The bird always guessed his moves and hopped away.

“Rakhal-da became obsessed with the idea of catching it alive. It was so beautiful - it would sell for a huge amount of money. He tried hard, but his efforts were futile. Every time he got close to the bird, something happened to stop him. He banged his head against trees, fell in holes, got entangled in creeping vines, and once he almost stepped on a poisonous snake. The more those accidents happened, the more Rakhal-da wanted to catch the bird. He was haunted by it. He forgot their main purpose of going to the forest.

friend took aim and shot at the bird, but the bullet hit a tree. He tried again, missed the bird, and hit a rock. The bullet would always hit something else even though he thought there was nothing between the gun muzzle and the bird. He was a good marksman, and that made him frustrated and angry.

forest was unusually quiet. He could hear the sound of his own footsteps. Somehow, the birds and the animals had decided to be silent. He trudged along for several miles.

“Finally he spotted a tribal man and called out to him. The man took a look at them, and his eyes became small and his dark face paled as if he had seen a ghost. He turned and hurried away. What was the matter with him? Why the man reacted in such a strange way? Rakhal-da wondered.

“His friend told him, ‘It’s an evil spirit, a fiend.’

“But Rakhal-da got mad. ‘I must have it,’ he said stubbornly. He was possessed with a fierce desire for the bird.

“The bird remained within sight but always a little distance away. This drove Rakhal-da crazy. He forgot hunger. He couldn’t sleep, but he wouldn’t leave the place without the bird. His friend suggested shooting the bird. Rakhal-da said he couldn’t shoot such a beautiful bird. But after several more attempts, he finally gave up and said, ‘You can shoot it.’ So his

“Rakhalda’s friend was now determined to shoot the bird. He tried many, many times, but all his attempts failed. Finally, on a clear day he lay motionless on the ground, aiming his gun, and asked Rakhal-da to go behind the bird and try to capture it. They were on opposite sides of the bird. When Rakhal-da jumped to get the bird, it flew toward his friend. The bird came close and he shot at the bird. The bullet, however, rebounded from something hard on a tree and ricocheted to hit his friend’s arm. His friend screamed. His cry sounded strange – a peculiar, shrill voice Rakhal-da had never heard before. He ran to his friend and found him unconscious. He looked up and saw the bird fly away. And then the light in the forest dimmed.

“Only a red spot marked the place on the arm where the bullet had hit; no blood trickled out. Rakhal-da couldn’t determine if the bullet had lodged in his arm or if it had bounced out. His friend needed medical help. Rakhal-da carried his friend’s comatose body through the desolate frontier land. The

“However, Rakhal-da realized he must be near a village of some sort and followed the man. Soon he saw more tribal people, but as he got nearer, they all moved away; he was an unwelcome guest. When he saw mud and straw dwellings in a clearing, he stopped, put his friend down under a tree, and thought hard: why were they running away from him?

Finally he spotted a tribal man and called out to him

“It then dawned on him that it might have something to do with the bird. He took out a paper and drew as accurate a picture of the bird as he could. He held the picture in front of him and went to the village. Men and women whispered in an unknown language, but no one came forward. He returned and spent the night sitting on the ground beside his unconscious friend.

“In the morning, a man came and stared at his friend for a while. He then talked to Rakhal-

da and made signs with his hands, but Rakhal-da couldn’t understand him. The man finally gestured for Rakalda to follow him. They went to the edge of the village where there was a round house. Most of their houses were square or rectangular, but this hut was round and the area kept much neater than the others. There was something special about it. Together they brought dark, hard wood from a shed next to the round house to where his friend lay. The man then created a fire around his friend. The tribal villagers observed them from a distance. The smoke surrounded his friend.

of the flower with yogurt and ground nuts; it was fragrant and delicious. Then they played large drums and started to dance. It went on for some time. Rakhal-da didn’t join them; the tribal men and women drank more of the mahua juice, became inebriated and danced joyously. Rakhal-da wondered if the festival would last the whole night.

“Suddenly a few men dragged a large, wild pig to the party, and the drumbeats and dancing stopped. Rakhalda thought that they must have captured the pig from the forest and that could be a reason for the party.

green leaves and branches on the fire, and it looked as though they had extinguished it, but no; they had smothered it from top and it had become an oven.

“Rakhal-da didn’t like what the man was doing, but he was tired and didn’t know what else he could do. He felt, though, that the man knew what he was doing, and indeed his friend soon gave a little cough. The tribal man then put water on the logs to extinguish the fire, carried his body out of the smoke, and massaged his arm with some kind of a paste. His friend finally sat up and the man left the place. Rakhal-da stayed with his friend, and the tribal man brought food for them. His friend felt better in a few days. Then the people of the village allowed them to stay in a hut.

“When his friend recovered, everybody in the village was happy and they threw a feast. They prepared an intoxicating drink from mahua flowers. They mixed fermented juice

“They quickly dug a pit and made a large fire. Then they put a long, thick metal rod in the fire. When it was red-hot, drums started to play again. Rakhal-da wondered what they were going to do with the glowing, hot rod. He soon saw what it was all about. While the drums beat loudly, a few strong men tied up the pig with ropes and poles, and some others put the redhot iron rod through one end of the animal and it came out the other end. The pig screamed and shivered; the drums tried to drown its cries by beating those hard and in a fast rhythm; men and women started to dance wildly around the pig. It was horrible to watch.

“Then they carried the pig on the rod and placed it on top of the fire in the pit. After a little while they put a lot of large

“Late at night when the drums were beating very hard and everyone was dancing wildly, the round hut at the edge of the village came to Rakhalda’s mind. He was always curious about it and sneaked away to examine it. The hut had an opening like a door and three small windows. An earthen lamp was burning inside. Rakhal-da entered the hut stealthily, but he stopped immediately. There in the middle of the room he saw the bird, the bird he had tried so hard to catch, and for which his friend had been wounded! It perched on a wooden pedestal. He could even see the brown spot on top of its head. In the faint light of the earthen lamp, the bird appeared surreal.

He picked up the feather, put it in his pocket

“The bird looked at him and made no attempt to move. Its brown eyes kept on blinking. Soon the desire to possess the bird welled up within Rakhalda. He didn’t care how the bird came to be there or what it was doing. He didn’t care why the tribal people had built this special hut or what it meant to them. The only thought that passed through his mind was to capture the bird. He saw one feather from its tail lay on the floor. He picked up the feather, put it in his pocket. He lunged to capture the bird. But it simply flew up to the window,

and Rakhal-da fell on the floor. He saw the bird’s round eyes glowing red in the darkness. He got up and tried to catch it, but each time the bird moved to a new place and the bird finally flew away through the window.

“Soon Rakhal-da heard voices outside the hut, which brought him back to reality. He didn’t know that a pair of human eyes had been watching him all along from two holes in the wall. He quickly pulled himself up and came out; he saw people were gathering and some had brought spears.

“Rakhal-da anticipated trouble and quickly went to his friend, and they left the village right away. He realized he had disturbed their sacred place and they would certainly kill him. He and his friend ran away before the tribal people could organize a pursuit. That was the end of Rakhalda’s lumber business.”

“Spooky!” DeeDee said. “Did your Rakhal-da figure out what had really happened to his friend?”

Before Shankar could say a word, Raja said, “I know! I know!” And nodded his head vigorously. “The bird had secret power. Maybe it was a spirit in the form of a bird.”

“I asked Rakhal-da,” Grandpa told them, “if he had talked with anyone in Calcutta about the bird. Rakhal-da said no one knew anything of such a bird. They seemed to think he had made up the story.

“Rakhal-da then took out

a red-orange feather from his pocket and dangled it in front of us.

“‘Wow!’ We exclaimed. ‘Was that a feather from that bird?’ We asked him together.

“It was shiny and exquisitely beautiful,” Shankar said. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, and immediately felt a strong desire to possess the feather. If I had seen the real bird, I’m sure I would have behaved like Rakhalda. ‘Yes,’ Rakhalda told us with a grin. But his smile evaporated quickly, and he stared out the window. But nothing could be seen outside in the darkness; only a faint sound of music came up from the neighbour’s radio. ‘We almost lost our lives for this feather,’ Rakhal-da said with a sigh.”

“Did you really eat pig meat cooked by tribal people?” My oldest sister asked. “Unclean, unwashed, and just broiled. No curry?”

“‘I’m only telling you what I saw and ate. That’s all.’ Rakhalda remained silent for a few seconds.

“‘How you can eat that I don’t know,’ my oldest sister said and went away in disgust.

“That put a little damper in our exuberance, but we wanted to hear more. I was fascinated with the strange world he had encountered, and didn’t care if it was safe or not to eat pig meat. I was certain ‘The feather possessed a magical power’ and a shiver ran through my body. I was scared by this tale of a ghostly bird and savages but quickly saw that the door was shut and the vertical iron rods,

built into the windows to stop thieves, were solid and strong. We were not in a jungle. Then I felt a strong impulse to touch the feather and stretched my hand, but Rakhal-da quickly put the feather back in his pocket. ‘It’s bad luck,’ he told me. ‘I must return it to the frontier. There are many things we don’t know. You are too young to understand it now.’

“We clamoured to hear more, but Rakhal-da’s face shrank and he looked sad. This was not the Rakhal-da we knew. He only said, ‘Often our actions end up disrespecting someone or something. The sad thing is we don’t realize it at the time.’

“Mother called us for dinner, and Rakhal-da got up. ‘Don’t tell this to your mother,’ he commanded us.”

“What happened to the feather that your cousin put in his pocket?” DeeDee asked Grandpa.

“We also wanted to know that, but Rakhal-da never told us what happened next,” Shankar told DeeDee and Raja. “He left the next day, and we didn’t see him for many months. He was like that.”

Shankar felt sad that he didn’t know what had happened to Rakhal-da. He was the most wonderful cousin in the world always jolly, always full of enthusiasm, and there was nothing that he couldn’t do. The sound of the crickets floated into the screened porch, and a few fireflies glowed in the garden. Shankar remained silent and wondered where Rakhal-da could be now or if he was even alive.

A Day at Lord’s

Rajat Basu, New York

Ihad marked Thursday July 17, 2014 on my calendar for the past four months since I got the e-mail from Marylebone Cricket Club telling

me that I was selected in the lottery to get two tickets for Day One of the India v England 2nd cricket test match at Lord’s. It all started the previous Christmas, our first ever

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Christmas in London. It happened only because my son Neil and daughter-in-law Winna moved to London a couple of years back. One day Neil mentioned that the Indian

Cricket Team would be visiting England the next summer, and tickets for the test match at Lord’s were being given out in lottery via the Internet. Moreover, the British Open golf tournament

would be in Liverpool the same weekend, so we might be able to see both on the same trip, just like hitting two birds with one stone. It re-kindled my interest in cricket, not having seen a test match in person or having played seriously for over 45 years. Plenty of tickets were available for the British Open.

So we bought those right away and entered our names in the lottery for tickets for a few of the five days of the test match We returned home with limited hope of being able to watch cricket at Lord’s. Neil mentioned that because there were a huge number of Indians in London, and Lord’s was a smallercapacity stadium. getting tickets might not be a shoe-in.

As far as I can remember, the last time I saw a cricket test match in person was at the Eden Gardens in 1966-67 when the Gary Sobers’ led West Indian team visited India. That test was marked in history with infamy because of the great fire in Eden on Jan 1, 1967 in which all the jute overhead covers at the Ranji Stadium were burnt out, creating stampede and chaos. However, I had given my ticket to my friend Shyamal for that day and missed witnessing the historic event. I was an avid fan and cricketer in my young days; I used to bowl leg spin and googly balls, and represented Bengal in inter-state school cricket, and later played for Presidency College where I acquired a small fan base, many of whom still remind me of my spin bowling. Since I moved to the US, I have never played cricket.

My wife and I arrived in London in the morning of July 15, and rested all day to get over the jet lag. Not having seen a cricket match for so long, I was not sure how I would be able to handle an entire seven plus hour day in the sun. Our younger son, Bobby, arrived the next day. Neil also got two tickets for the

match, so we had four tickets in all. Neither Neil nor Bobby had ever watched cricket before, so it was more of a curiosity for them, especially to Bobby. Neil having lived in London for two years already had picked up a little bit of cricket. They were actually more interested in the British Open than the cricket test match.

We were up quite early on the 17th and got ready by 9AM. The game was due to begin at 11AM. We wanted to be there early. We took the tube from Farringdon station. Bobby, however, decided to walk through the London streets and parks despite his mother’s serious objections. The ground was a short walk from the St John’s Woods tube station where we descended. Thousands of people were getting down there, carrying picnic baskets. This was a bit of a surprise to me, since in the US one cannot take any food in a stadium, not even a bottle of water in sporting events. Over here the sports teams have more of a moneymaking attitude, selling stuff in concession stands. Brits seemed more helpful to the spectators. So we decided to stop at a nearby grocery store and picked up some snacks and water.

We hooked up with Neil’s friend Scott, another person from US who wanted to watch a cricket test match. So we had three persons in our group who were going to experience their first cricket test match, and I was ready to teach them everything they wanted to know about cricket. When we entered

the ground, it was a little after 10AM, and a lot of people were already in the stands -- some holding their beer glasses. Both Indian and English players were practicing at the nets. Needless to say, I could not recognize any one of them. Our seats were near the Nursery end, in the lower tier of the Compton Stand. The seats were good. To my relief, it was shaded. We were hoping that the shade would stay for the whole day since it was warm and sunny with temperatures reaching over 80 F, and luckily it did.

I was expecting a very large Indian crowd with their love for cricket but there were way more Brits than Indians that day. There, on one end, was

their chins, and some Indians had the Indian flag painted on their cheeks. Next to us, a young guy and girl of Indian origin were seated. We later found out they were Bengalis and the girl was actually born in Calcutta. What a surprise! They helped us to recognize players and explained all other miscellaneous details of cricket which I had forgotten. Names of famous cricketers came to my mind -- those who had played in this historical ground where the game of cricket originated in the 1800s.

W.G Grace, Len Hutton, Don Bradman, Freddie Truman, and all the stalwarts of cricket who played there, and of course, our Bengali stalwart Pankaj Roy, who once led Team India

open the bowling for England, and there was a huge roar from the crowd in support. Incidentally there was some controversy going on because of his confrontation with Jadeja in the Trent Bridge test match, and India’s protest was to sit him down because of his behavior. The media was buzzing with India’s protest about this. This roar was a big backing for Anderson from the crowd. Anderson was bowling from the Pavilion end and towering Broad from the Nursery end. I am not sure why it was called the Nursery end. Dhawan was out soon scoring only 7, then Vijay for 24, so it was 73 for 2 at lunch and Anderson broke Freddie Truman’s previous

It was a truly festive atmosphere

the yellowish brick pavilion where it seemed like the distinguished members of the Marylebone Cricket Club were sitting, immaculately dressed with striped suits and ties, and of course round-brimmed hats. On the other side was this odd, huge, elliptical, all glass gallery standing atop the stadium -- this was the media gallery. Both on and off sides of the stadium were three-tiered, with the upper level teepee shaped. Most of the stadium was colored white, except for the pavilion side. The brick arched structure in some of the parts had a resemblance to Fenway Park in Boston. Some folks had a big Moeen Ali beard, full, thick and long attached to

in the 1950s. Our game started right at 11:00 AM. England came out along with the two Indian openers Murli Vijay and Shikhar Dhawan. All those names were unknown to me. The only players whose names I was familiar with were Dhoni, Virat Kohli and Ishant Sharma. Gone were Tendulkar, Ganguly and Dravid, whose names I was familiar with. India lost the toss, but got to bat first, which was a delight for us since that is what we wanted to see most. Rahul Dravid brought the balls to be played and then the starting bell rang. This seemed to be a new event, since this never happened in our time.

Jimmy Anderson came to

wicket taking record.

I always liked lunch during a cricket match. It reminded me of the elaborate lunches we had outside Eden Gardens during test matches in Calcutta. Between our and my chhotopishi’s house, we had about seven CAB memberships and we had luchi and mangsho from our house which all of us cricket fans ate in a strip outside Calcutta Club (presently Mohun Bagan Club).

At Lord’s, behind the media center, there is a large green lawn area where there were stalls selling food and drinks. People with picnic baskets were spread all over the green lawn and were having their lunches with mugs of beer watching

cricket on a large screen TV. We did not bring our lunches so we had to buy food from the stalls. The longest line was for Indian food. I went for fish and chips and the rest of our group went for pulled pork sandwiches. We squeezed a little room under a large umbrella. It was a truly festive atmosphere. This also happened to be one of the best fish and chips I had during our trip.

We came back to our seats after the game had started following lunch, just like the way we did at Eden Gardens. Then began a true procession of the Indian batsmen. I explained to my kids that Kohli is the best batsman on the Indian side and there was his picture on the

batting. It would have been a big bargain for us to see both sides bat with only one day’s ticket for the match.

Little did I know what a great innings was coming from Rahane and Kumar next. Rahane had a masterful innings, and was very well supported by Kumar. They were playing with confidence and had a great partnership of about 100 runs in fine style and with ease until Broad clean bowled Kumar around the end of the day. The bells flew high up in the air. This was a good partnership when India needed it the most. Rahane still continued with Shami, and at 93 he hit Anderson for a six right near the sight screen at the Pavilion end over the long

catch on his next delivery. It was a magnificent innings of 103 and the entire stadium clapped to acknowledge his great performance at a difficult time for India.

By that time, India had reached 275. They kept playing past 6 o’clock since the rule now was to play 90 overs if the weather permits. It was also different from our days when the games started and ended on time irrespective of the number of overs bowled. At the end of the day, India was 290 for 9 with toweringly tall Ishant Sharma (most Indian players were under his shoulder height) and Mohammed Shami at the crease. That ended an eventful day of Cricket for me after 47

We walked to the Baker Street tube station

front page of the brochure, but he went cheaply, being caught behind after making only 25 runs. Then it was captain Dhoni, then Pujara, Jadeja, and Binny. When Jadeja came out, the partisan British crowd booed him because of his earlier confrontation with Anderson who came to bowl to him. All along I was trying to explain cricket terminology to my kids - cover drives, square cuts, leg glances along with field settings, but they did not seem interested in any of that. At tea, India was in a precarious situation at 140 for 6. I proclaimed to my kids that India would be all out before the end of the day, so we shall be able to see England

on. It so happened that I just explained to Bobby that a home run here is called over-boundary and he wished if he could see one. I had to say that with the precarious innings that India was having, no one would dare to attempt to hit one at that stage. To my surprise, Rahane hit a ‘six’ in the next delivery to reach 99. The Brits started booing Rahane to unnerve him, the usual trick to make a batsman nervous when they approach the century mark, But that could not dispirit Rahane. He confidently hit a boundary through the covers to reach his century with a big applause from the crowd. Unfortunately, he gave Anderson an easy return

years, and watching it at Lord’s with both my kids made it even more memorable. It was indeed priceless. There was good bowling, good batting, collapse, gutsy recovery, century, and a sixer too! I bought a few souvenirs, Lord’s commemorative things - tee shirts, deuce ball and a beer mug. Half the crowd seemed quite drunk; however, most of them would not be driving, which was a good thing. Nearby pubs were crowd pullers. We walked to the Baker Street tube station, made famous by Conan Doyle, and caught the tube back home.

That was one day of adventure, but that was not

the end. We went to Liverpool over the weekend to watch the British Open golf tournament, in which one of our favorites, Rory McIlroy, won in fine style. We came back very late on Sunday. The test match was becoming very exciting in the meantime, with a see-saw battle going on. On the second day, England collapsed for a while and 6 wickets fell for 216 when their last four added about 100 more runs to get them past India’s score and they were all out for 319 with a 24 run lead. India started well but collapsed again in the middle and were 235 for 7. But gutsy innings by Jadeja and Kumar took the score past 330 and they were all out for 342. This left England to score 319 to win.

gave his speech as the Man of the Match. England succumbed to his bouncers in the second innings.

There were all kinds of speculation going on in the media about England and their poor form that they have not won a test match in more than a year. Moreover, going by history, only one team had won a test at Lord’s, scoring over 300 runs. So it was going to be an exciting finish. We decided if around lunch we saw India was poised to win, we might go to see the final hours of cricket if tickets were still available. At the stumps on the fourth day, England was 85 for 4, so we thought we may give it a try to see the final day’s cricket. We got up late on Monday and found that Moeen Ali and Joe Root were batting strong and had taken the score to about 170 for

4 just before lunch and the match may be heading to an exciting finish. It looked like it could be anybody’s game. After a late lunch at a Japanese restaurant, Neil and I headed to see the final hours of the match. Bobby did not seem interested; one day’s cricket was enough for him. Tickets for seniors were selling for 10 pounds. By the time we reached Lord’s, it was about

Tickets for seniors were selling for 10 pounds.

half an hour after lunch and we saw people exiting the stadium. England collapsed and the game was over. India had won the test by 95 runs. Departing spectators gave us their tickets to get inside the ground and we joined the celebration. This time the stands were entirely full of jubilant Indians. We could see the award ceremony; Captains Dhoni and Cook gave their speeches, and finally Ishant Sharma who took 7 wickets in the second innings

What a day it must have been for Indian cricket, with a convincing win over England at Lord’s, making this the second time this has happened in the history of Indian cricket, and for us being able to join in the celebration made it a worthwhile trip. From our time in India prior to 1969, I know of only two of Indian victories against teams like England, Australia, or West Indies. The first was in Kanpur against Richie Benaud’s Aussies in 1960 where Jesu Patel took nine wickets; and the next was in Calcutta in 1962 against Ted Dexter’s England with Selim Durrani being the hero. India has come a long way indeedthey convincingly defeated a strong team like England and that too at Lord’s, the birthplace of cricket, in their bicentennial year (Lord’s cricket ground was established in 1814). We hung around a bit, saw some of the players peeking out of the Pavilion at the huge roar of the Indian crowd. I do not know if I will ever be able to see a game like that in my lifetime or even be able to watch any more cricket in person or not. This was definitely an exciting end. Thus ended our fabulous sporting week in London on a great winning note.

(An earlier version of the story first appeared in the Protiva magazine of Buffalo, NY)

Black Pearl

Mekhala Banerjee, Illinois

One summer afternoon the sky was clear blue with patches of white clouds here and there.

The sun was generous, which is very uncommon in Chicago. Mira loves this kind of days like everybody else, but today she is in a very bitter mood. As soon

as Nicole, her baby sitter, called, she knew something is wrong. “Hello, how are they doing?” She asked.

“What? Could you please talk a little slowly?”

She couldn’t understand what Nicole was saying.

Nicole replied “I got a job, so from tomorrow, I can’t come”

and hung up. Mira burst into tears with anger. Jim, in his forties, is a sincere doctor who still loves research and is a compassionate guy as a boss. He came out of his office to talk to her about the new project. “What happened? Again babysitter problem? You have to solve this. Otherwise it is hard to finish anything on time.” She noticed a little annoyance in his tone. She can’t defend herself, because this is not the first or the second time. She took a couple of minutes to compose her thought and said, ”I will work evening hours after my husband comes home. Just give me a week. I promise, I will find a steady babysitter.” Jim explained the work and left without much discussion. After he left Mira started to run the sample, but her mind wasn’t there at all. Her dark big eyes became full of water with the reflection of sweet home atmosphere. Both of their parent’s houses in India were full of people, housemaids and servants, just like a mega family. Her daughter, being the first grandchild, got enormous attention from everybody; she barely knew her mom or dad . Over there neighbors always stop by to say “hello”. Everyday her brother-in-law, Rabin, after having tea and “luchi’ (fried flat bread) after coming from work, used to say “Boudi (sister in law), feed my cute niece and dress her up. I will take her out.” Mira knew she would be free for the whole evening.

They had a competition between brothers and sisters who would take the baby out to

show off to their friends. (She came to this country a couple of years ago with her husband and a little daughter along with a bag full of hope and joy. She didn’t expect all this. It should have been lot easier, rather than ..). Her former babysitter finally left, a blessing in disguise. Every other day she had a serious reason for not showing up. Mira was desperate to find a new babysitter for her sixmonth old son and may be for his seven-year old sister, that would be optimal. Mira’s boss was nice enough about it for a while, but finally he said that either Mira had to find a reliable babysitter or he had to find a more productive employee. This was perfectly understandable to Mira; he needed to have the results of her work by a specific deadline.

She walked home thinking about all the possible places to look for a babysitter, without even noticing the blooming bushes or planning which flower to plant next year. On the way she picked up several ads, and couldn’t wait to call. As soon as she entered her building, their super, Mr. Richardson, welcomed her, asking about the kids. He wore his usual working clothes, a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans. She collapsed, “Please rescue me from the crisis! Do you know anybody? Otherwise I have to quit my job.” She was so tense she wasn’t clear about what she said. “Calm down, tell me what’s the problem and let me see whether I can solve it,” he smiled. Six feet tall, strongly built German descendant, he

and his wife were very nice, always with a helping attitude. Mira took a couple of deep breaths and told him about the nightmare situation. That day was the last day for her old babysitter. Mira had a couple of ads in her hand, but she didn’t know if any would work out.

After listening to all her worried explanations, Mr. Richardson smiled in his usual way. “Don’t worry. I know one girl in our church. She seems very nice, and she was asking me about some kind of job. I will tell her to call you.” He consoled Mira in a fatherly voice. Mira desperately said, “Please don’t forget. Thanks so much,” and took the elevator to her 5th floor apartment. She opened the door, and saw that Nicole, the babysitter, was waiting to leave. Mira hugged the baby, said hello to her daughter, deeply immersed in TV. She had to say ‘hi’ to Nicole and give her the check for her work though Mira didn’t like paying her that much. Nicole hadn’t even showed up two days this week and left early three days last week. “Well, it’s over now, in a way it’s a relief,” Mira thought.

Nicole left, and Mira sat down on the sofa by her daughter with the baby in her lap, staring at the TV screen without noticing at all. She came back to her senses by her daughter’s shouting “Mom, look” then burst into a laugh. Mira woke up from her worried thoughts. She wiped teardrops from her cheek. What a bad fate she had.. “No, I shouldn’t waste time,” she thought to herself,

and she put the baby down, played with her daughter’s hair a bit, then went to the phone. She took the ads from her purse and sat at the dining table, on one side of her living room, so she could keep an eye on the baby. She started: “Hello, I am calling for a babysitter…No it’s too far. I can’t drop the baby in the morning,” and hung up. She called at least five or six numbers. No luck so far. She started to get annoyed. “OK, this is the last one, then I have to start cooking”, she murmured, “Hello I am looking...” “You talk to my daughter,” the lady said in broken English with a heavy oriental accent. “OK, give it to your daughter.” Mira talked to her and felt relieved. She was a Japanese lady who stays with her daughter, but the problem was she couldn’t start right away. “Well,” Mira thought, “maybe I could take a few days off here and there, go to work early, or work part time, blah blah blah.. At least I found somebody I like; she’ll be available in only two weeks, I will manage somehow.”

“Oh no” she jumped when she heard the time on TV. She had to start cooking, her husband would be home in a couple of hours. “Thank God he comes late” she thought.

She heard knocking at the door, and her saying “Who is it?” Then she heard the familiar voice of Mr. Richardson. Mira greeted him with “Come in.” He replied “No, I was about to sit down to dinner, and all of a sudden I remembered my promise to you. Here is the

girl’s phone number.” Then he left, and didn’t wait for Mira’s sincere “thank you”. But he heard it through the elevator doors. Mira didn’t wait to call the number. But no one was there. “Well, tomorrow is Saturday, I can call then. Friday night, no one stays home, especially the young people,” her husband always says.

She went back to her kitchen, keeping an eye on her kids. Her daughter was playing with her brother. Mira finished her rice, chicken curry, lentil and spinach dishes. Then they heard the door. Her husband came in. Pretty soon they started dinner, with the baby in the high chair. Mira told the whole babysitter story to Dilip, her husband. She couldn’t wait.

After all the cleaning was finished they went to bed. Mira couldn’t sleep at first, and then she dreamed that the babysitter turned her down. She woke up in a cranky mood. Even before having breakfast, she called the number Mr. Richardson gave her. After a couple of rings, she got worried. “Hello,” said a woman’s voice.

Mira said “Hello. I am Mira. Mr. Richardson gave me your phone number. Would you like to babysit?”

“Sure,” replied the voice. “When do you want me to start?”

“I can come today to meet you.”

“Wonderful!”

Mira wanted to dance. She didn’t expect this quick and easy solution. She couldn’t wait to see her new sitter. Mira woke

everybody up, and finished breakfast. She wanted to get busy so time would pass faster. Finally she heard the door buzzer.

“Who is it?” called Mira.

“It’s Doris, I’m supposed to come to meet you.”

Mira pushed the buzzer, then opened the door, waiting for Doris.

Those couple of minutes seemed like an hour.

“Oh no!” Mira couldn’t figure out from the accent on the phone the person is black or white. She was disappointed looking at her, a tall, slim, African American girl neatly dressed with skirt and sweater. She was a young girl in her twenties. “Come in, have a seat,” she welcomed Doris anyway. They both sat down, so Mira could learn more about her. Mira was even more upset, when she learned Doris worked in a hotel at night.

Mira looked pale, talking casually.

“Where do you live?” she asked. “I need somebody at home at least by eight.”

“No problem, I get off from work at 7:00, so I will be here by eight. I won’t go home from work.”

About an hour later Doris left.

Mira told her husband, “I didn’t like her. Where she lives sounds like a real slum. Not only that she works at the hotel at night.” Dilip replied, “But she sounds OK to me. She is a telephone operator in the hotel.”

“That’s what she said,” Mira replied with a caustic tone. “She wouldn’t say what she actually

does.” “But,” Dilip said calmly, “why would a person lie, first of all, and secondly, if she is a bad person, she wouldn’t look for a babysitting job.”

“Well,” Mira sighed, letting out a deep breath, “I don’t have a choice right now, but after two weeks, that Japanese lady will start.” Mira went to take care of her son, Dilip had to take her daughter to swimming. Saturday and Sunday passed the usual way. Monday morning came, and before Mira had a chance to worry, the door bell rang.

“Who is it,” Mira even forgot that babysitter could come on time. Doris entered with a big smile on her face. Mira kept talking and showing Doris what to do. Finally she left, full of worry that Doris would sleep all day long, and she was sure something wrong would happen to her son. She called home almost every half hour. Nothing happened the first day. Every day afterward she came home thinking that she could find something wrong so she could fire Doris. No, not today.

Eventually two weeks passed without any incident. The last day Mira paid Doris the same amount she was paying to her former babysitter. Doris didn’t complain. Mira was happy to tell Doris that she found another person who will charge a lot less, and that money was a big matter to them at that time.

“Oh my God,” thought Mira, she hadn’t planned to say that at all. Doris said she wouldn’t

mind getting less pay, but she absolutely needed the job. Mira was confused, she didn’t know what to do now. She couldn’t come up with another excuse. Doris kept saying she had lots of loans she had to pay back. “OK I will call you on Sunday. I have to talk to my husband,” said Mira. She was trying hard to let Doris go. Mira closed the door, sat down and called the Japanese lady. She said she’d start on Monday. Oh, that made Mira extremely happy. Finally she told her husband the whole exciting story, how she finally got rid of Doris. “Oh, not again,” Mira thought, when Dilip told her to keep Doris. “Why? I don’t know what she does at the hotel. On the other hand, this old lady is very nice, could be just like our mother.” Mira was persistent. Dilip nodded his head. “If you want, you can take the Japanese lady, but you are not doing the right thing. You are assuming everything you think about Doris, and that is not right.”

So it went on and on, young couple’s arguments over babysitter. Dilip’s view was rational. “Doris needs money, and the elderly woman lives with her daughter. She doesn’t need money that badly. You should not do any injustice. Poor girl trying hard to be honest, you should give her the job.” Finally Dilip won. Mira said “OK, I will try two more weeks, and if I see anything wrong, that’s it.” And believe it or not, those two weeks never ended. Mira loved

Doris so much she wouldn’t let her go for four years. Finally her son needed to play with other kids at some preschool. Doris taught Mira’s daughter good behavior, and read them good books all the time.

Finally Mira had to move, she and her children couldn’t hold back their tears. Every year for the next several years Doris sent birthday cards for the kids with some gifts. She was a poor girl trying to make both ends meet, but had a very rich soul. Mira thinks about Doris sitting in the porch of her new house. Once Mira bought a very pretty white dress for Doris. She was very happy but said, “I won’t wear the pretty White dress, because I’ll save it for my wedding.” She was a pure girl, in her mind, in her character. Mira heard all her stories, of growing up in a typical poor neighborhood. All kinds of problems were around, everything we see on the news. Mira thought that proverb is so true, “don’t judge a book by its cover”. She is a genuine pearl and needs no description.

It is almost three decades; still Mira and her two kids, now adults, sing the Christmas song taught by Doris:

“On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me----”

It was so beautiful then, now it brings a joyous resonance in their hearts where still hangs the portrait of a big eyed girl with a sweet smile. She herself is a fifty-plus woman now. Someday may be their hope will come true.

Change of Season

Debashis Roy Chowdhury, Massachusetts

Bhavna did not like it at all. The tension was killing her. She had waited patiently for more than twenty-four hours. Still there was

complete silence. It was as if an impenetrable darkness had engulfed her whole being, had isolated her from the rest of the world, the rest of humanity. She was alone, all by herself -a condemned soul confined in a solitary cell. Her self-esteem

was at its lowest, like a pool of putrid water hiding from sunlight at the very bottom of a well. Where did she go wrong? This was her third attempt and yet no one took notice, not even her friends. Friends? Huh! It was better to have enemies than

these so-called friends! She had no one to turn to except Dr. Deckel in such a crisis. The clear water of the lake reflected the glorious fall colors on a perfect afternoon. The surrounding trees had created a colorful garland along the

water’s periphery. The air was cool and crisp, filled with the scent of dry maple leaves. The cozy, single-storey structure facing the lake was a typical New England Cape, in harmony with its surroundings.

The name-plate at the doorway bore a simple sign, “Dr. Lionel Deckel, Eternal Boundaries”. Behind the main entrance was a modest waiting room with a couple of nondescript sofas. A soft music played from hidden speakers. What really took one’s breath away, however, was the vista beyond the large glass window, covering almost an entire wall. The afternoon sun splintered into a thousand pieces, being reflected on the surface of the lake. The ripples found their way through these to reach the shore, as if to embrace the flamboyant festival of fall colors.

Dr. Deckel was seated in his closed-door office, adjoining the waiting area. The bay window on the wall faced the lake. At this precise moment, Dr. Deckel was looking at the ripples on the surface, lost in thought. Bhavna had left an urgent message last night. She needed to see him immediately. They had met just last week. She seemed alright then. What was the reason for this urgency?

Of course, who knew better than him this unpredictable journey called life! Anything and everything could go wrong at any moment, especially where human mind was concerned. The mind was like an inflammable mixture, ready to catch fire at the slightest provocation. It was like

a snake coiled in a dark recess. If only one knew how to tame the snake, it was as harmless as a rope, rather a useful ally. If one lost control, it could uncoil itself at a moment’s notice into a venomous nightmare!

Dr. Deckel checked the clock on the wall. Bhavna was late as usual. He knew all her excuses by now. He had been seeing her for over three years. Three years were long enough to know a person, his or her habits and nuances. That was what his profession demanded. Dr. Deckel had his degree from Harvard University with specialization in “Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in the context of Dysfunctional Social Media”.

The social network had connected billions of human beings around the globe. It had created a virtual superconsciousness spanning diverse races, religions, creeds and cultures. However, in the process, it had uncovered unprecedented evolutionary issues and problems, hitherto unknown to the human race. Bhavna was such a victim, like thousands of others. Dr. Deckel owed his professional success to such unfortunate, suffering human minds.

The knock on the door was unmistakable. Dr. Deckel could almost identify each and every one of his patients from his or her distinctive knock. He prided himself on his super sensory abilities.

“Come in, Bhavna.”

“Sorry, I am late ... construction everywhere on the way ...”

“You could have started ten minutes earlier.”

That would have been an honest response. However honesty was not always the best policy. Instead he said with a welcoming smile,

“Don’t worry. Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Bhavna slid into her familiar chair. The lake and the sun never failed to instill a feeling of assurance and calmness in her. But not today. Though the turbulence inside her somewhat subsided, still she could feel its dark presence crouching in a corner, ready to pounce any moment. The wound inside felt raw, like a leaf turned red, defiant in the face of demise, destined to fall and decompose at any moment.

“What’s going on? Tell me what happened.”

Dr. Deckel’s calm voice brought her back to her surroundings.

“It’s a moment of truth, that’s all. No one likes me anymore!”

“Before you reach such a verdict, first tell me what really happened.”

“Nothing ... and that is the problem.”

“Let me understand. Nothing, that is, absence of something that is expected, can cause disappointment. What were you expecting?”

“What was I expecting? A simple acknowledgement, is it too much to ask for?”

“Not really. But go on.”

“It was the day before yesterday. Started like a normal day. I got up late. Made some

coffee and skipped breakfast. It was nice outside. Went to the patio, opened my tablet, and was enjoying my coffee. Surfed the usual news sites. Nothing noteworthy. Usual deaths in Iraq and Syria. Palestine in a mess. Then something interesting caught my eye. Two women from Chattagram, Bangladesh are touring the world on bicycles, spreading the message of Buddha. They are admirers of the Dalai Lama. They would like to end their tour in Tibet, but China has denied their visa. There are vigorous protests all over the world. Protest marches started in a small university called Jadavpur University in Kolkata and went viral. Is not this fascinating?”

it was a breaking news!”

“Nice job, congratulations!”

“You really think so?”

“Yes. Caring and then sharing ... one should be surely proud of such thoughtful acts.”

“Thanks, Doctor. You may think so, but what about my friends? You know what happened after that?”

“What? China changed its mind?”

“Of course not, you must be joking. What happened is simply this. No one, believe me, absolutely no one ‘liked’ my post. I waited and waited. I logged out and logged in a thousand times. The post stared at me like an abandoned child, like an orphan ignored in an indifferent world.”

It was so similar to folk tunes from South-East Asia, what a coincidence! Her voice was crystal-clear; each note emerged like a pristine dew drop shining on a blade of grass!”

“I love Peruvian cuisine, don’t know much about their music though.”

I love Peruvian cuisine

“Hmm ... very interesting. Tell me, what is most fascinating to you – world tour by the two women from Bangladesh on bicycles with a message of peace or China’s denial of their visa or the protest march starting in that University in Kolkata?”

“Everything ... all of it ... what is fascinating is how random places get connected in time by a single triggering event ... how one thing leads to another.”

“OK, tell me more.”

“What does one do after finding such a piece of news? Naturally, I logged into Facebook and posted a link. I was really excited, I was the first to report it in my friend circle ...

“I’m sorry to learn it, it is indeed distressing. What did you do next?”

“What can one do in the face of such callousness? I could not help but think of Maureen ... she has always been my savior. When no one paid any attention to my posts, she never failed to acknowledge. I was tempted to send her a message. But, thank God, I did not stoop so low.”

“It’s a tough one!”

“I waited. It was evening. Made a strong cup of tea, listened to music. I was surfing the music sites. And do you know what I suddenly found? A nine year old girl from Peru singing a folk song in an unbelievable voice ... it took my breath away.

“You probably know then, their traditional cooking style is slow roasting of meat, placed over hot stones in a pit. Their music, just like their cuisine, is perfected in a pit of hot passion. I have observed, music and cuisine go hand-in-hand in most cultures. I did not waste a moment. I forgot the earlier behavior of my friends. I logged in. I posted a link to this unique track of music with a poignant comment.”

“That’s good. That’s really good. You did absolutely right. One has to let go what happened before and move ahead with new thoughts and ideas.”

“I’m glad, you think so. But not my Facebook friends! Friends? What kind of people insult their friend repeatedly? I tell you, no one cares for me! It is abundantly clear.”

“Bhavna, you have a right to be resentful. However, let us sit back and analyze the situation. These two postings ... do they represent you entirely?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then logically, if your friends do not like these, it does not mean they reject you

entirely.”

“But, at that very moment, when I posted it, doesn’t my post represent me?”

“Yes, but not your whole self entirely. You are much beyond what you post. A post is a reflection of your thoughts and feelings. Just look at the reflection of foliage in the lake ...does it substitute an entire forest?”

“Hmm ... you have a point.”

“Consider this. What in reality your friends rejected is your particular thought that was captured in the post. If you change your thought process, they will change theirs.”

“But I tried, I tried three times ... I have not even told you about my third attempt.”

“Do you think, your state of mind really changed between these posts? Your three posts were three reflections of the connected state of your mind, like three different images of the same object on three different mirrors. The desperation to be ‘liked’ was always there in your subconscious. That desperation resulted in dejection.”

“What should I do then? I am really lost.”

Bhavna felt like a tree in autumn, shedding its leaves one by one. Outwardly, it was colorful while its inside was dying. She would rather be like a pine, erect and evergreen.

“You did the right thing to see me immediately. Bhavna, I have seen you for over three years. I can understand your pains and your dilemma. Today I’ll suggest an unusual method. Believe me, I’ll not recommend

xyl¨!¡!þ›

this to everyone. I am suggesting this to you only because, I think, you may embrace it. You have your roots in India that can help.”

“What is it that you recommend?”

“Meditation. It is the surest way to get your mind to restfulness. I go to a Vedanta Center, I know the Swami-ji. He is an extraordinary man. He can do wonders. I only ask you to meet him and give it a try. If it works, it will cure you forever.”

“Okay, can I think about it first?”

“Sure, of course. Take your time. Then let me know what you decide.”

The mansion was not visible from the main gate. A path meandered through carefully maintained flowering shrubs and bushes. Ancient pine and oak trees stretched far into the surrounding woods. It was a large estate, tucked in a solitary section of the suburb, away from the main thoroughfares.

The large mansion was fashioned after an 18th century French chateau. It became a Vedanta Center years ago in the late nineteen thirties. Since then it was a quiet retreat known to its followers. Swami Swarupananda stepped into the prayer hall and looked at the assembly. The large prayer hall was mostly empty at this morning hour. There were a dozen people of various ages. Everyone stood up. They were all known to him, except the girl in the far corner. She looked Indian, seemed in her late

twenties, of medium build with a fair complexion. She had kept her gaze downwards with hands folded. She seemed tense. One quick glance was enough for Swami-ji to take in the essential details. Swami-ji was expecting her. Dr.Deckel had called last evening. Her name was Bhavna, she needed treatment through meditation. God willing, she might even advance her soul in the path of spiritual journey.

Swami-ji took his seat on the raised platform. He faced a gigantic portrait of Shri Ramakrishna Paramhansa Dev, considered an ‘avatar’ by the followers. The morning ‘puja’ was about to start. It followed a fixed sequence of offerings accompanied by a musical hymn. A senior disciple, an elderly African American, was singing the hymn in his deep, resonant voice. A young disciple accompanied him on the harmonium. The hymn repeated itself after a slow eight-beat cycle.

Several candles and incense sticks were burning. The room was filled with a soothing fragrance. Swami-ji was seated in the lotus posture. With an ever so slow motion of his right hand, he picked up flowers and other offerings in front of him and offered these in rhythmic gestures. His whole being seemed engrossed in the ‘puja’. Peace and tranquility pervaded the room.

Bhavna had closed her eyes and tried to follow the tune in her mind. The unhurried, repetitive melody had an effect of putting the mind at rest. She could not

follow the words, they seemed words in Sanskrit but garbled in an unaccustomed tongue. The only word she could gather was, ‘Chamunde ...’. A few people joined the singing and they seemed to know the words well. She simply kept her eyes closed and let her mind wander with the flow. Was this meditation? She did not have a clue. This continued for what seemed like a long time.

Bhavna seemed to wake up from a reverie when the music stopped. Had she fallen asleep? One by one, the devotees approached the platform.

Swami-ji handed a flower to each of them. When Bhavna’s turn came, he gave her a white lily and smiled at her. Then he

yet persistent. Bhavna tried to distance herself like a stoic spectator. She watched them rise and fall and eventually disappear. Were they not a part of her? Yet in some strange way, she started feeling, she could be unattached to them.

Such was the mental exercise that meditation dictated. Her mind was flooded with endless waves of thoughts. Swami-ji had taught her how to observe them and finally how to control them. She followed his directions as faithfully as she could. She had chosen a corner in her bedroom that faced the window. She had got a yoga mat that she spread on the floor. She preferred facing the window with the light from outside pouring in.

repeat, ‘OM’ in her mind. After that, she would let her mind run free. It sounded simple enough; however in practice it was not at all easy.

At first, just sitting for an hour seemed like an eternity. She would look at her watch every few minutes, as if time had stopped advancing, each tick stretching beyond limit. Yet she did not give up. When finally she could force herself to sit for long, with eyes shut, her thoughts at first were like waves on a stormy night. They were like a rushing gush of restlessness trying to drown anything that came on the way. She had no power to stop them. She had to give them time, try not to block them, let them die

The gigantic breakers were forceful

stood up slowly and left the room without uttering a word. Most people left soon after. Bhavna and one other man lingered on. Bhavna was free for rest of the morning. She remained seated facing the gentle eyes looking down at her from the portrait. She closed her eyes and tried to repeat a prayer she had learnt from her grand-mother when she was young.

The waves were endless; one followed another. Sometimes they came bundled together, as if rising from nowhere, and came awash on the shore. The gigantic breakers were forceful and intimidating. Then there were the perennial rollers that were evenly paced, quieter

Sometimes she would light a scented candle. She practiced her meditation daily, once in the morning and once before going to bed.

Swami-ji’s instructions seemed simple. She would sit crossed-legged on the mat with folded hands, fingers on the right-hand touching those on the left, as if to complete a loop. She closed her eyes and tried to look inwards. This was difficult. How could one look inward? It was an attempt to read her own mind as if she was an observer. This was accompanied by a breathing exercise, counting each time up to five, while slowly breathing in and out. With such rhythmic breathing motion, she would

down on their own. As if, they were toddlers who needed to run around for a while to exhaust their energy. She knew she had to be patient. After a while, they would eventually yield to her persistence. They would then become like waves channeled into a back-water pool, slowly losing their force. There would be tiny ripples and bubbles on the surface. But below the surface it was quiet and peaceful. The bubbles were short-lived, appearing and disappearing like fireflies on a summer night. It took weeks and months to reach this preliminary stage. Bhavna sometimes lost her will to go on. What kept her going was the subtle inspiration from

the Swami. Every weekend, she attended the group prayer sessions with Swami-ji at the Vedanta Center. Swami-ji spoke very little on these occasions. But his one benevolent look acted like magic. It seemed to fill her with an inner strength and determination. With each such visit, she would acquire another week’s supply of resilience to continue her quest.

The door bell sounded like an alarm that sent a shock wave through her. She opened her eyes distressed and at first did not know what was going on. The bell rang again with a jarring persistence. She had no choice but end the morning meditation mid-way. She slowly got up to regain her balance and approached the door.

“What’s the matter with you? You took forever to open the door!”

Maureen was her bubbly self this morning.

“What are you doing here? I thought, you were in New York with your parents.”

“Yes, but here I am, visiting Boston for the weekend. Didn’t you get my message last evening?”

“Message, where?”

“Message in Facebook, where else?”

“Well, usually I am busy on Friday evenings.”

“No time even to check Facebook? What’s the matter with you? Are you seeing someone special?”

“Seeing someone specialthat’s all you can think of! Come in now, how about some tea?”

“Exactly, do you expect me

xyl¨!¡!þ›

to say no to tea?”

Bhavna put the kettle on. Maureen’s sudden outburst raised a momentary doubt. What was happening to her? Was her life becoming slowly removed from everyday reality?

“I have some news!”

Maureen confessed over the first sip. Her face was aglow with suppressed excitement.

“I knew the moment I opened the door. Come on, out with it now, no holding back.”

“Brendon and I have finally decided to get engaged.”

“Wow, when did it happen?”

“Only last week. I wanted to tell you in person. The date is not final yet.”

“Congrats. I am really happy for both of you.”

“Bhavna, don’t talk like my mother! Let’s go out and celebrate. How about a special brunch! Then later in the evening, we can go to our favorite Hookah bar.”

“Brunch sounds great. But in the evening, I have an appointment.”

“Appointment with whom?”

“Well, it’s a long story. I have joined a meditation group, have to go. Sorry.”

“Meditation group? No wonder, you look so composed and motherly! Like a Buddha or something!”

“Can you stop? Anyway, we have a whole day to celebrate, let’s not waste time in useless chatter!”

The day out with Maureen gave Bhavna a break from her daily routine. It felt like old times. Maureen was like a rush

of fresh air. And it brought home new thoughts and new doubts. That night, when Bhavna was finally alone in her bed, she pondered over what Maureen had said earlier in the day, during a casual conversation.

“Bhavna, you look calm and mature. I always relied on your help. Now I feel, you are somehow wiser, I can rely on your advice. Do you really think, Brendon is the right person for me?”

Had she become wiser? Did ‘wiser’ mean that mentally she had aged more than her friends? Was she becoming too content and placid? When was the last time she had any excitement in her life? What was she really aspiring for? Just in a few months, she had lost the urge to visit Facebook regularly. She did share things once in a while; she liked others’ posts out of sheer courtesy, but where was the excitement? Where was the compulsion? Was this called ‘happiness’ and ‘being content’? Was this what she wanted to become? Her sleep was disturbed that night, for the first time in several months.

Dr. Deckel noticed a change in Bhavna as soon as she entered. In the past few months, she had become a calmer person. She was punctual and her anxieties had subsided. Now as she stepped in, there was an air of uncertainty about her.

“Good afternoon, how are things?”

“Good afternoon. Not too bad, I suppose.”

“Is everything going well?”

“Yes ... I feel content. I do my daily meditation. Though sometimes, I have this nagging doubt that I have become like a vegetable, no excitement, nothing to look forward to. As if, time is passing by and I am just a spectator. I am not in the arena of life anymore. Have I somehow lost touch with reality?”

“Interesting ... how are you getting these thoughts ... any specific event triggered these?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I think, it started after Maureen’s visit the other day.”

“Okay, tell me more.”

“Come to think of it, Doctor, now-a-days when I log into Facebook, when I post a thing and when several friends appreciate it ... I feel, something is still missing. Am I am being ‘liked’ too easily? Are things happening too smoothly? Why

am I not excited by it, where is the anticipation? Where is that sudden rush of adrenalin?“

“May be, your feelings are getting under your control. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful? You know, Doctor, I have changed. When I look at cool guys in the street, they do not interest me anymore. A girl of my age should like to watch guys, don’t you think? Is it natural to lose one’s emotions? What is happening to me, Doctor? Am I losing myself?”

“The question is, Bhavna, what do you really want? Excitement or happiness?”

“Sometimes, I think, I just want to become what I was before. I miss my old self.”

Dr. Deckel smiled, ever so imperceptibly. Did he see it coming? He looked at the lake outside. The surface was

frozen white. The surrounding trees were denuded of leaves. The lake stretched like a white desert, lifeless and aloof. It was, as if a reflection of Bhavna’s meditative self, calm and restrained. Yet she did not really know what she wanted - winter’s unperturbed equanimity or the excitement of spring with its flourish of new blooms?

Dr. Deckel enjoyed these moments that challenged him as a professional and brought out the very best in him. It was inevitable that season would change. Like season, people had to invariably change. Bhavna was no exception, her dilemma was universal. Fortunately she could count on expert help at hand. Dr. Deckel knew exactly what he had to do to guide her at this cross-road. He turned to Bhavna and smiled reassuringly.

“Here, I have a present for you,” Prince said, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his jeans pocket with his left hand and

handing it to Rina. A wire basket full of tea glasses was dangling from his right hand.

“What’s this? Another cheap present from the poet wannabe, eh?” Rina retorted but took the paper. Then, she shoved it in her old, but somewhat expensive brand name purse, discarded by one of her employers. The teashop was not the place to read a poem. She would read this missive when she would be alone at home, nothing but a shack where she lived with her

old, distant grandaunt.

“When will I get a real present? A bag of peanuts is better than this,” she said with a slight smile on her lips. She was well aware of the effects of such a smile on young men, particularly Prince, a pretentious man who can be manipulated easily. The soiled and frayed edge of his jeans pocket was darker than usual. It was easy to conclude that the proud man did not get a chance to wash his only pair of jeans last week. There was a real shortage of water

Under the Shadow of Vasuki

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

in the Bandra East slum since last month. At the same time, she wondered once more about who gave him his fancy English name, extremely uncommon for a Hindu teashop waiter. Prince finished serving tea in thick glasses to his regular customers as Rina hovered near him in the dark interior of the shop. She knew that Prince’s work shift was about to end.

“Why don’t you read the poem first before wagging your sharp tongue?” Prince said as he poured the last of the sweet

Masala Chai from a big kettle into two stubby glasses. Before answering him, Rina spotted the empty bench outside and promptly occupied it. After washing and drying his sticky hands and wiping them, he brought the tea glasses outside along with four biscuits in a little bag made out of recycled newspaper. He set them on the rickety bench next to Rina and sat down with the snacks between them.

Twilight was creeping over this giant city. The street was jammed with cars, auto rickshaws, buses and motorbikes coming from every direction and rushing to every other direction. However, the crowd in the teashop was dwindling with the dinner time approaching. With her back turned to the restaurant, she took in the wonderful

aroma of the Masala Chai laced with cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon wafting around the shop. Once again, she thanked goddess Kali for this gesture of kindness from Prince. From early childhood, she spent her entire life serving others. Prince is the only person who insisted on serving her tea and biscuit on her way home from work every day. She met Prince by sheer luck. One evening, on her way to the bus stop returning home, she heard Prince talking with a customer in Bengali. Curious, she ordered one tea and Prince refused any payment from her. That was six months ago. She had been coming here ever since.

Rina was staring at the extraordinary residential tower about half a mile away, which was clearly visible from the bench. Nobody could imagine that such a building could be built, but it raised its head last year. The bluish tower has a foreign name, but everybody calls it Vasuki tower. From many angles, it resembled the menacing head of the serpent king Vasuki, the king cobra, from the epics of Mahabharata. The structure, painted in white and blue, has a series of outdoor swimming pools. As the evening light dimmed, the bright tower was turning darker with various shades of grey. Two rows of outdoor pools gave the impression of a snakeskin and the tower itself started resembling the ominous raised head of a king cobra.

Long before the building construction ended, Rina had

managed to put her name in the maid pool for residents. Perhaps, it was useful that she could comfortably manage day-today communications in several languages, including Hindi, Marathi, Gujrati, and most importantly, in fluent Bengali. Languages came easily to her. She had a working knowledge of English as well, thanks to the head nun at the nearby Ramakrishna Mission, who insisted on her attending school and gave her a small stipend so that her mother would not insist on her working as a house maid. Her family could care less. Their only interest was with her older brother who was pampered. However, as she grew up, she could not stand unwanted, sometimes dangerous, attentions from her cousins in the extended family and ran away to Mumbai.

Of course, she did not mention her knowledge of English in the application form. It could have been detrimental to employment prospects. Folks occupying those fancy flats wanted maids who would neither understand their conversation, mostly in English, nor be able to read their mail. The maid agency gave her steady assignments in Bengali families in the Vasuki tower since it opened.

“Would you share your thoughts? Your tea is getting cold. I snuck in two extra cardamom pods in the last batch of tea I made, just for you.” Prince was talking to her but his eyes were fixed on Rina’s generously endowed breasts. Inside her thin blue tunic, they were heaving at a slightly faster

pace than usual. Small beads of perspiration were glistening above her well formed, redstained lips. A single ringlet of hair, carefully curled, was making the total picture impossible for Prince.

Rina unwrapped the scarf from her neck and started fanning herself. It was early February, but already getting very hot. It was good to spend most of the working time in a fully air-conditioned apartment, but that’s a kind of prison after all.

“Well, you must to do something about money soon,” Rina said, tilting her brow toward the dark corner of the teashop, “Doing business there is getting old. The building security guard at Vasuki was alone at the exit today. That is three days in a row; he managed to send away the old hag who is supposed to do pat-downs. It is not that I do not like his patdowns, but he is getting used to the pleasure.

“Well, what is problem then?” Price sulked but kept smirking.

“I may lose my job if I protest any further advances.” Rina sighed. Before entering the Vasuki apartments, every maid must check in all their possessions in lockers and were patted down before checking out of the building. It eliminated the chances of petty thefts.

“How is the new NRI lady working out?” Price asked about Rina’s current assignment. Vasuki apartments were filled with non-residential Indians or NRIs who spend the winter

months in the warmth of Mumbai. Rina knew that the couple was from a very cold city called Minneapolis. Her husband did some business in Mumbai and was out of the apartment most of the time.

“It is fine. Mrs. Chatterji seems to like my cooking and not too unhappy with the rest of the housework. Her husband loves my old-fashioned vegetarian cooking and seems to be a decent man. But there is one thing about the woman that is driving me nuts. I cannot imagine how one can talk so much. She is on her mobile phone all day long unless she is out shopping or clubbing. When she cannot reach anybody, I become her victim. In the past two months, I learned more about all her rich relatives scattered around the world than I ever knew about my own parents. Before I left today, I had to listen to a detailed account of the diarrhea that her newborn nephew in Hollywood is suffering from – that too with pictures in her mobile phone. I wanted to wrench that phone out her hand and throw it in that fancy pool. However, I must admit she is not a mean person, unlike some other ladies that I worked for.”

“She has relatives in Hollywood?” Prince interjected.

“No, silly! I do not know exactly. It must be somewhere near Hollywood. Do you think I am going to ask her a question so that she can talk for another fifteen minutes? Anyway, why are you interested?” Rina picked up the glass of tea and took a satisfying sip.

“Do you remember what I said last month? A guy in our slum approached me. He wants solid contact information about rich folks in America. We can make some good money if you can supply that. He has started a new scheme and wants to pay very well for each contact.” Prince said.

“What will he do with them?”

“Is that any of our concern? If everything goes well, we, you, your grandmother and I can pool our money and make the small down payment for an apartment in one of the high-rise buildings. I hope Modiji’s plan for building high-rises to replace slums goes through. Since three of us live in slums, we may qualify.” Prince replied.

Rina looked at Prince with intrigue. Was this the same Prince who read and wrote love poems? Both of them were transplants from Kolkata. Prince came here chasing his dream of becoming a Bollywood celebrity. Doing something illegal scared them equally. However, living in Mumbai slums was getting unbearable. Most important thing Rina missed was the indoor toilet in her parental home.

“Let me think about it.” Rina stood up after finishing the tea. They started walking toward the bus stop.

“What kind of information do they need?” Rina asked tentatively.

“I suppose names, phone numbers, addresses, ages, possible financial worth, names of the relatives and any other

relevant information.” Prince shouted over the din of the street.

“Let me ask the guy for details before you do anything.” He continued as they waited at the bus stop.

The bus number 215 came on time, but it was crowded. Rina and Prince stood close by. Rina got a seat within five minutes. Prince got down two stops ahead of Rina’s stop. She kept staring at the back of his faded royal blue polo shirt with two white stripes running down the sides. He has good eyes for style, even though he buys them from used clothes vendors.

Rina’s wardrobe was substantial as she got the cast-offs from her clients. A lengthy approval letter

address book, but how could she smuggle that out of the building? Then she got an idea. The only thing maids were allowed to take in and out of the building was a supply of sanitary napkins. She could hide pieces of paper inside them. Most of her pants have pockets to carry them as well. What would happen if she got caught in the act? Why were these crooks not getting information in usual ways, like stealing phones or hacking computers? She must ask Prince about it. Also, she did not want to get involved with these crooks directly. Prince should never give them her name.

The next day, Rina learned that Mrs. Chatterji was planning an earlier departure -- around the

dawn so that you can go to the filthy public bathrooms. These folks have bathrooms attached to every room. Even when you are slaving around the apartment all day long, you have to go to a little cubbyhole and sit on the floor during breaks. Even the maid’s room has an attached bathroom. Their fancy bathrooms would get polluted if you use them. ” Prince continued, “I may work in a tiny teashop, but I can sit on any of the seats here. They may not be mean, but we are transparent to people like Mrs. Chatterji. You yourself told me so.” Prince was clearly agitated. Rina did not expect such a reaction from him. The transformation in her mild-mannered boy-friend

It is something to do with tax men in America

was required for everything that could be taken out of the apartments.

Should she set her heart on this man and plan to marry him someday or should she take matters in her own hand and improve herself? With her uncanny aptitude with languages and cooking, she could probably get a job in the tourism industry. Whether she married Prince or not, she was confident that she would build a good life for herself. Vacation – yes, vacation in Bhutan, the land of happiness, that’s what Rina wanted.

Rina could not sleep that night. It was perhaps not difficult to copy Mrs. Chatterji’s

last week of February instead of the first week of March. It was already February 9. Prince and Rina must act quickly. That evening, Prince told her that he already spoke with his scamming acquaintance. Rina was quite sure of her strategy as well.

“But what happens if somebody gets hurt in the process?” Rina asked.

“Nobody will get hurt. They may have to part with some of their money. It is something to do with tax men in America. Just like in India, some of these NRIs often get involved with tax frauds.” Prince continued.

“Look, you get up before

saddened her in a strange way, but she did not say anything. Her internal conflict about the act of deception was melting away fast too.

Next evening, like expert sleuths in movies, Prince and Rina had an evening session of planning in a different teashop.

Fact 1: In spite of Mrs. Chatterji’s fondness of her mobile phone, she still preferred to use her tattered brown address book when calling people. She kept her mobile in her purse all the time, but routinely left her address book on the drawing room side table next to the TV remote. She kept her bedroom door locked when she was

not around. Since Rina was often alone in the apartment, it would not be difficult to copy down information from the address book. Since Mrs. Chatterji would be leaving soon, she would be away from the apartment more frequently to finish shopping and visiting.

Fact 2: She could scan the address book and pick out names that Mrs. Chatterji called often. She could make extra notes about each family as well. Like other NRI’s, many of Mrs. Chatterji’s friends were visiting Bombay and Rina had met many of them. She could supply that information as well.

Fact 3: Smuggling papers though the security guard and old woman should not be difficult. Each of them would require appropriate bribes.

Fact 4: The crooks wanted specific information. Random information by hacking phones and emails was becoming very expensive and risky.

During the next ten days, Rina executed her plan, delivering more than one hundred contact information. Whenever possible, she added names of children and the time they would be away from their home. In some cases, she also managed to supply information about vacation homes of the contacts. Smuggling the papers out was easier than she expected. For the security guard, all she had to do was to take off her scarf and stand closer to him. His pathetic body responded exactly as she expected. For the old woman, she added a bit of red color on the napkins making sure that the

stain showed through the plastic storage bag.

“What can I say – I am having a really heavy period this month.” She said taking the bag out of her pocket and waving it around. The woman shrank away from her instantly.

It was the last day of her employment with Mrs. Chatterji who would be leaving the following morning. Rina already received her next assignment from the agency. She would be working at a different building next week. She was busy preparing mutton stew with big chunks of potatoes and onions, just the way Mr. Chatterji liked. Rina had a hard time figuring out what kind of food Mrs. Chatterji liked from her constant prattle. Moreover she was constantly on some kind of diet.

The vent fan was running at full blast.

“What? What are you talking about? Your vacation home in Florida was broken into? How awful!” Rina could hear Mrs. Chatterji’s screaming voice above the noise made by the vent fan. Rina turned off the fan.

On her way out that evening, Mrs. Chatterji gave her a stack of her husband’s old clothes, a few saris, old towels and used makeups that she no longer wanted. Rina collected her emergency things from the locker near the exit, gave the old woman the nicest sari, but she kept her distance from the security guard. The man scrutinized the long approval letter from Mrs. Chatterji itemizing every item in the large bag Rina was carrying out.

“I heard that they extorted quite a large sum of money from one of the contacts you gave. We will get an additional bonus later.” Prince told her as they walked to the bus stop.

Rina was about to tell Prince about her new assignment, but stopped short as she looked up to the Vasuki building looming under the settling dusk. It looked foreboding. She thought it was winking at her as if it knew her sins. She decided not to tell Prince what she heard about the break-ins in Florida either. Out of modesty, she never told Prince exactly how she smuggled out the information. She wondered why the process of stealing seemed so easy. At that instant, she had the gut feeling that somebody was watching her all along. She would not be able to escape the grip of these crooks unless she broke all ties with Prince. Her heart stopped at the thought of abandoning this kind young man walking by her.

“When do I get my cut of the money?” Rina asked.

“Soon, within three days at most.” Prince said.

“OK then. I will see you soon.” Rina said casually. Both of them got into a packed bus, but unlike other days, she wiggled her way toward the far end of the bus distancing her from Prince. She did not care when other passengers yelled as her backpack bumped against them. Except to Prince, she was an anonymous person in this world, even to her old grandaunt who was only interested in the rent she paid for sharing the shack.

Amal was reminiscing about the experiences of his teenage years from almost five decades ago. He remembered reading a novel

when he was in high school by the famous novelist, Sunil Ganguly. Mr. Ganguly wrote it upon his return from his first visit to US. He wrote about some American girl asking him, “What do young people do in India in order to meet people of the opposite sex?”, when she heard that there was no dating custom there. He had difficulty in answering the question because the true answer would have been “absolutely nothing”.

Mr. Ganguly went on to write that at that moment he realized that there was no “youth” in India; people simply jumped from childhood to being mature adults. Amal identified with that comment.

He always felt that he was a romantic person. There was always some young girl who he considered to be suitable to be his wife. Amal hardly talked to them, almost never touched them, but they were there. He

Basona

would look into their eyes; he would want to help them; he would want to protect them and would expect dedicated affection and attention from them. Amal could not remember what triggered his first serious interest in getting involved with a woman in an intimate romantic way. He knew that it had very little to do with love and certainly did not evolve around any girl he used to fantasize about. In fact, his concept of

Basab Dasgupta, California

love during that young age was very pure – always centered around facial beauty and voice – it was almost divine. Sex was probably the driving force, but only as a matter of curiosity.

When he was in high school the scandalous affair involving John Profumo, a cabinet minister in UK, and Christine Keeler, a model, was the item of hot discussion among Amal and his friends - the adolescent teens. His father used to subscribe to a weekly newspaper, titled “Blitz”. Although the newspaper was largely political in nature, its very last page always featured a sexy picture of some western woman. Christine Keeler’s photo appeared in several issues in various seductive poses. Amal used to read all the salacious details of the affair without his father knowing about it. It was the source of his first physical excitement. If it was not the pinup picture from Blitz, it was always some picture of a scantily clad Caucasian woman: a photo of Brigitte Bardot from the movie “And God Created Woman”, a photo of Sophia Loren in a negligee from the movie “Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow”, the famous pose of Sue Lyon as Lolita and so on. What was remarkable was that even just the face of a Hollywood actress, such as Ava Gardener or Anita Ekberg, would have a more sensual impact on him as compared to the faces of the Indian actresses such as Suchitra Sen or Nargis. It was one thing to have fantasies but to actually develop a romantic relation with a girl seemed almost impossible in

Calcutta. Even if a guy gathered the courage to approach a girl and “ask her out”, where would they go and what could they do? He could take her to a movie and perhaps touch her in the darkness of the movie theater – a rather awkward approach which might backfire. He could go to a restaurant. The funny thing was that many restaurants had closed private booths but there was always a curtain in the doorway of the booth which ran only half-way down; in other words, one could probably steal a quick kiss but forget about any passionate embrace or other “making out” because everyone in the restaurant could see your legs and lower parts of the body. Forget about any idea of taking your date to a hotel. The moment an unmarried man and a woman checked into a hotel, everyone in the hotel knew about it and gossip would spread like wildfire. You could bet that word would get to your parents through the friend of a friend of a friend! If that happened it was probably not very detrimental to the guy but for the girl it could literally mean the end of the world. Her image would be tarnished; she would be ostracized in the society; and she would have a really tough time getting a husband through the usual arranged marriage routine. Even if you wanted to just have a romantic walk in a park or by the river, it was difficult because there were so many people everywhere all the time! Amal was satisfied to keep himself busy with his studies, hanging out with male friends and relatives and his fantasies.

There were always two types of fantasies: the fairy-tale type involving some Bengali girl and the sexual type involving some Hollywood actress. His curiosity about sex led him to follow another course of action -- to learn more about naked female bodies. In Calcutta, there was a street named “Free School Street”, right next to the movie theater “Lighthouse” which only showed western movies. He went there to see movies like “Sound of Music”, “Lawrence of Arabia”, “My Fair Lady” etc with his college friends and on his way, the street vendors hawking newspapers and magazines always caught his attention mainly because of alluring pictures of seminude women on the covers of many magazines. Amal was supposed to be very proper in all of his behavior and so he never explored these magazines in the presence of his friends. On one occasion, he was having some snacks and tea with his best friend Samar from high school after seeing a movie, and then Samar left for his hostel in Shibpur. Amal thought that this was a good opportunity to explore those magazine stores. What he learned was that the magazines on display in the front were only a tease. The “real stuff” was stashed somewhere in the back and for the “right price” the vendor would show some samples and sell them. The “right price” was relatively expensive and he had to save money from his weekly allowance for several weeks before he could go back and actually buy a magazine or

two. They had magazines such as “Playboy”, but what really appealed to Amal were small post-card sized magazines with nude photographs of women by a British photographer named Harrison Marks. Each magazine was devoted to just one model in dozens of different and very artistic poses. The photos were all very explicit except for the areas just below the lower abdomen, which were deliberately blurred out. All the models had voluptuous figures, sultry lips, sexy curves; something that could be described as “classic beauties”. He remembered being mesmerized by those photographs.

Amal’s friend Samar, who joined an engineering college upon graduation, seemed to have better luck with girls. He would visit Amal about once every couple of months and tell him stories about how he approached certain women, what they talked about and what they did. Amal would listen to him as a completely captivated audience. Samar was an extrovert, was reasonably goodlooking, and associated with his engineering school buddies who were all preoccupied with girls. Amal almost started living his romantic life through Samar’s experience.

He liked the stories of Samar’s romantic escapades no matter whether they were made up or based on facts. They seemed to be an ideal mixture of good old-fashioned romance starting with a bold approach getting a shy but willing response and continuing with

adventurous meetings at places conducive to private encounters together with a tantalizing suspense that it might lead “all the way” to a final climax.

Once Amal was in college he started going to Bollywood movies regularly. These movies were all Elvis Presley style musicals with more or less the same story line – boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, villain shows up and causes all kinds of problems to destroy the romance, boy gets rid of the villain one way or another and finally boy and girl marry and live happily ever after. The events were punctuated by a generous supply of song and dance routines with catchy tunes ranging from classical Indian music to blatant copies of western and Latin American songs. There was no question in Amal’s mind that Samar was being influenced heavily by these movies and much of his “moves” were based on his favorite star of the moment, be it Rajendra Kumar or Shammi Kapoor!

Amal had absolutely no story to share with him. He would tell Samar about his experience of giving a ride to a girl in his class (which turned out to be very uncomfortable because there was not much to talk about, but he did not tell that part to Samar), writing a “love letter” to another girl (he read the letter to Samar, but he did not tell that he never mailed it), visiting a girl’s house to borrow a book (which was true but he did not tell Samar that another guy was with him) and his daring act of touching a girl when he put his arm over the

arm of a total stranger (and she did not object) on the common armrest in a dark movie theater. In fact, Amal’s first opportunity to talk freely and one-on-one with an attractive woman came as a result of his effort to help Samar.

Samar came to visit him one day, very agitated, and told him “Amal, you got to help me. I met this girl on the train when I was coming back from Darjeeling. Her name is Basona Raychaudhuri. She is strikingly beautiful and we had a delightful conversation on just about everything throughout the whole journey which took almost one full day. We had lunch together in the dining car and talked about movies, books, politics and she even suggested some books that I should read. I think I might be falling in love. She lives not too far from you. I do not have her exact address but she told me the general area. You got to help me find out where she lives. I cannot travel all the way from Shibpur everyday to track her down”. Amal was instantly agreeable to take on this project. Of course, he wanted to help his best friend, but more importantly he sensed an opportunity of an adventure involving a girl! Deep down inside he also had a slight hope that perhaps she would prefer him to Samar – if nothing else because he shared the same last name, Raychaudhuri, with Basona, which meant they both belonged to the same caste.

The very next day, Amal started developing a strategy about how to go about his mission to find Basona. He headed to

the general area described by Samar by bus (only two stops from where he used to live at the time). He made a general survey of the area first in order to assess the social status of the people living there, privacy of the houses, if there were young men in the neighborhood gathering in any area for “adda”, if it was easy to get in and out of the neighborhood etc. He concluded that he had to come back in their car. The car would give him a certain degree of respectability and would allow him a quick getaway in case something went wrong. However, Amal’s father was the one who kept the car and he was away to a different city on some business assignment. He had to wait a few weeks until his father came back to town before he had access to the car.

As soon as he had permission from his parents to use the car, he was back on his trail one afternoon. He asked the driver to park the car near a cigarette shop in the neighborhood where Basona was supposed to have her home and decided to take a walk. It was getting dark. He spotted a man who was tall and a few years older than him but appeared to be friendly. He approached the person and asked “Hello there. Would you by any chance know which one is Basona Raychaudhuri’s house? She is my sister’s friend and I have to pick up some books from her, but I forgot the house number.” The man replied in a friendly voice: “Yes, I do know Basona and know exactly where she lives; her brother is a very good friend of mine. It is not

far from here. Let me walk you to her house”. “No, no” Amal said anxiously, afraid that his charade might be exposed “that is alright. I have my car right over there; just tell me the street number and I can go by myself. Thank you very much”. He got the street address, hopped back into the car and went straight to her house. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. It was his lucky day! Basona herself opened the door. Samar was right. She was not only strikingly beautiful but seemed to be very warm and friendly with a smiling face. He said, “My name is Amal Raychaudhuri. You do not know me, but you met my best friend, Samar Chatterjee, on a recent trip from Darjeeling, and he has asked me if I could borrow the book that you recommended to him because I live not too far from here”. “Oh, yes! I remember him. Please come in”. It was a nice cozy living room. It also appeared that no one else was home. She sat across from Amal and said “you are a Raychaudhuri; I am also a Raychaudhuri! Actually, I was a Raychaudhuri”. Instantly Amal looked at the parting of her hair and saw the red vermillion. She had gotten married in just the past few weeks and that is why her last name was not Raychaudhuri anymore! While he felt sorry for Samar, it was a great relief for him. All the tension around the challenge of finding as much personal information about her was gone. Since she was already married there was also no question of Amal trying to pursue her. They

ended up having a very nice and friendly chat about various things; he does not remember any of that because they were totally irrelevant. She offered him a cup of tea. Amal was there thirty to forty minutes and finally left without the book he came to borrow. He completely forgot about it. Basona also did not remind him. She probably read him like an open book from the beginning and fully understood that the whole evening was just a charade to gather some information about her. Even though he could not help Samar this was a significant event for Amal because he realized that he could have a very friendly relation with a beautiful woman of his age and he could communicate freely with her in a one-on-one situation. From that one little experience Amal realized how precious women were. They were not just symbols of beauty or objects of lust but pleasant company, great hosts, sources of indescribable happiness and inspiration. Women were delicate, vulnerable, yet commanding respect and admiration. They smelled good and filled the space with some sort of invisible aura. It was fun to tease them and make them laugh. They were mysterious and playful. They were sensitive, caring and nurturing. It was the awakening moment for Amal to the real world of romance. In Bengali, the word “Basona” means desire; how appropriate, Amal thought. Basona was the one who ignited his desire for a real woman for the very first time in his life!

Getting uprooted from your turf is a stressful experience, even in the best of times. Getting uprooted from your turf when you are well

into middle age, by which time your ideas are already well formed and you are prone to be a little opinionated, can be extremely traumatic. I am not denying that broadening your horizons opens up the windows of your mind and lets the sun shine upon the different parts

of your brain that are clogged with cobwebs. But you see, by that time we have already made friends with the spiders in there. When I sailed onto the shores of America (actually, I flew in and landed in Newark; but ‘sailed in’ sounds so much more poetic), I realized what it means

to be an Indian in the USA. First and foremost, we are made to understand that we are not the only Indians that exist. It was all thanks to the confusion of ideas between Columbus and the navigation compass that he was using. The compass knew that he had not sailed west enough but

East is West

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey

Christopher Columbus thought that he had. He presumed that he had discovered India and named the natives there ‘Indians’. Now these ‘Indians’ were the native Americans because all that Christopher Columbus had managed to do was to reach the shores of America. But Indians they have remained, ever since. And we Indians have to be satisfied with sharing our name with them. At least in America, we have to get used to being known as South Asians.

Now, an American living in a remote part of the country has no clue as to what India is all about. Neither do they have the foggiest idea which part of the globe it is situated in. If you say that you are going to India on vacation,

preferred profession? That is a misconception that needs to be fought!

I will admit that we do have our share of pachyderms that are seen making their stately way down the roads, making some money for their mahouts, swishing their tails and swinging their brightly patterned trunks to the delight of passers by. But they are very few and far between. I will also admit that we have our share of bovines sitting about on the roads, holding up traffic most nonchalantly, as if it is their birthright.... and no one does a thing to make the creatures move. In fact even the traffic police are apprehensive about shooing them away since the odd passerby comes and

away for most people to put on their ‘must visit’ list. So they have to rely on what is shown to them in films or communicated to them via a global platform. Responsible international filmmakers, who set their locations in India, choose to reinforce the beliefs of their countrymen about India, rather than painting them a proper picture. They invariably show only scenes of abject poverty’ or exotica in the other extreme, just as a visual aphrodisiac, and these are the pictures that go on to become the ‘face’ of India. Such scenes only reinforce the common person’s belief that India is just a step away from jungle law!

Another thing that India is

I am not blaming the Americans for their attitude

you get asked questions varying from, “Do you need to take a bus?” right up to, “Do you have elephants walking on the roads there, instead of cars?” I am not saying that every American will ask you this. I am talking about your average one. I console myself with the thought that our average Indian (the desi variety), say a Monty-chacha in a small village near Jalandhar, will also not know about the Wawa Store in North Carolina. So, I need not feel offended. But the fact is, I do. Why has India remained the land of the exotic? Why are we still identified with the mystic fakir in a tattered loin-cloth, and why are all Indians presumed to choose snake-charming as a

puts a red tilak on the noble forehead of this animal and feeds it grass. You see, the cow is our Mother. She is known as our ‘Gomata’ and we worship her. Everywhere. Even in the middle of dense traffic. Some Indian, just to prove how ‘progressive’ he is even in the midst of ‘regressive’ India, must have told stories about the menagerie that we have out on our streets and lo and behold, we are immediately identified as a country which has elephants walking the streets, and every citizen a small time Maharajah sitting atop it!

I am not blaming the Americans for their attitude. India is a land that is too far

known for and I am constantly asked about, as if my identity rests on that, is ‘The Curry’! You literally go blue in the face trying to explain that ‘THE’ Indian curry does not exist. It is certainly not that brownish or reddish glob of junk that is sold for an exorbitant price at desi restaurants. Indian curries have different recipes, depending upon what part of the country you hail from, and I go to great lengths to explain that the curry is not a generic hash of ingredients and the red color does not always signify the amount of heat in the curry. A curry is all about the fragrance of various spices and the velvety smoothness of onion and tomatoes cooked

slowly and evenly along with these spices till the result is pure ambrosia. Some Americans love this cuisine and gobble up a curry in any form which some unscrupulous restaurants put in front of them -- in some hole in the wall eatery which appropriately has pictures of the Taj Mahal and decorated elephants (yes! Elephants again!), regardless of the authenticity in taste -- but other Americans are still a little reluctant to try this ambrosia! Well, the Indian in me is equally reluctant to try out their mediumrare steak! Not because it is beef and certainly not because the cow is our Mother, but just because that raw chunk of meat is only half cooked without the benefit of being immersed in spices. The Indian in me, with the cobwebs in my brain, still needs some spices in my food.

Talking about flesh, I must not forget to mention how I needed to adapt to the dress code of the West. Okay, ‘dress code’ is too harsh a word that I used. Nobody forces you to wear pants or jeans. Nobody but the weather, that is. In India, I used to wear only sarees for quite a number of years. Now a saree is an extremely useful apparel with which you can hide all the parts of your anatomy that don’t flatter you. I thus had quite a wonderful opinion about myself and if anyone had called me ‘fat’, I would have thought that the person was joking. When I started living in America, the joke turned out to be on me. I needed to lose weight drastically, if I wanted to wear jeans and if I wanted to look

anything like Julia Roberts, who was my dream woman. There is no need for loud guffaws here. I have used the word ‘dream’! Bollywood is the other product with which we Indians have established our identity in the world. It is all thanks to the Indian film makers who produce slick and shiny movies which portray a shiny and perfect picture which are just celluloid copies of what Hollywood produces..... but with a ‘desi’ flavor. The music of these films is promoted on television, much before the film is released, and both the young and old are to be found gyrating to these ever popular songs as soon as they hit the stands. Indians and nonIndians alike are swept away by these numbers which are played not only in desi homes but also in all the night clubs in the very stylish New York City. Of course I need not add that the really great films which have

been made by our film makers, films that hold true meaning, are not considered ‘Bollywood’. Bollywood dance classes have sprouted all over to teach the masses all the appropriate dance steps too. It is a huge industry. And because of the overdose of religion often found in these films, religion and celebration of the various festivals of our country have assumed grand proportions. Far away from home and starved of the joys associated with celebrations, our Indian brethren borrow from Bollywood with gay abandon. Festivals, marriages and special occasions have assumed the appearance of mini movies with all kinds of filmi paraphernalia thrown in. Desi children are taught to recite the Gayatri mantra and various shlokas. It is to their credit that they can recite these difficult Sanskrit mantras albeit in an American accent. I very often feel that the immigrant children in the West are more Indian than the children back home because the kids over there are busy aping the West!

In all this, I spot a rainbow. Thanks to technology, the world has already become a smaller place. Maybe if ordinary people like you and me, and our counterparts in the different countries where we have pitched our tents, try and understand each other’s cultures and try to inculcate the best in each into our systems....... maybe, just maybe we might be able to bring about the long-searchedfor peace without having to use guns.

heat would abate. We all wait for the time of year when the temperature would be moderate and days would be pleasant and enjoyable.

The arrival of Labor Day

Our Labor Day

Dilip Chakrabarti, New Jersey

makes me nervous, because it implies that summer is over and winter days are not far behind. People start to think how they are going to spend Labor Day. Normally people invite their

Every year the winter drags on; it feels like winter is never ending. However, eventually it comes to an end. Everybody becomes very happy, as heavy bundling up becomes history. Finally the warm weather arrives, summer days start to roll in, hot and humid days reign and people start to think when this summer

friends and family and do barbecue in their backyard and enjoy the food they prepare. In the past we have spent Labor Day as any American family would, inviting friends and family, barbecuing chicken and vegetables and enjoying the fare and company. But this year we had no plan at all.

Normally, I play tennis in the morning with my buddies. So, I got up early and left for the tennis court around seven in the morning. While I was driving towards the court, I heard the phone ring and was surprised to hear the most beautiful voice; it was none other than my beloved daughter, Krista. She smilingly said – dad, good morning, what are you doing?

Knowing her as a late riser, I was worried a bit and anxiously asked her – are you guys alright? You are up so early, what makes you get up at this time of the morning.

She said – dad, I hear wind, are you driving?

I said – yes, I am driving and going to play tennis; wish me luck. We always joke, my daughter and I, about how I did in the game. I would always reply – my partner was terrible and if he would have played a little better we could win the set. My daughter would smile at me and say – yes dad, I am waiting to hear from you that you played bad, and you lost; don’t blame your partner, give him credit, he tried his best and admit your opponent played very well. We joke about it. She smiles, I smile and we laugh about my tennis game.

She said – dad, when are you coming back home?

May be around 10 o’clock, do you need me for doing anything? I replied to her. Since I am retired and do not have a regular routine of life, I am the one who fills in whenever they need to do anything. It is like being kind of a spare tire; fit

whenever and wherever they place me and keep going. I do not complain about it. Krista said – dad, we are thinking that if mom and you can come to our place around 11 o’clock, mom and I can walk in Central Park; Nick and you can ride bicycles. What do you say?

Nick is our son-in-law, he is like our son, and we love him very much. I always like to do things with him. It gives me a feeling that I am doing things with my son. If Nick wants to ride bicycles with me in Manhattan, that would be the best thing we could do together. I would not miss it for the world. So without a second thought I replied – Ma, we are coming. Did you ask your mom? Please tell her I will be home by 10 o’clock.

Our daughter got married about three years back. They live in midtown Manhattan. Their apartment is small, but large enough for the two of them. It is a one-bedroom apartment. When you enter it, the kitchen is on your left, bedroom is on your right, and the living room is straight ahead. It is on a high floor. All you can see outside is the upper floors of other buildings and some roads far beyond. There you see people wandering around but their sizes look small; sometimes you may feel the whole road is filled with small men and women; it may remind you of Gulliver’s Travels and the Lilliput Island where the men and women were all very small, may be a few inches tall. Anyway, we like their cozy home, especially their warmth,

caring, love and affection for us. Makes us feel that we are their little children and they are our parents. Nick came to the living room with two cups of coffee, one for him and one for his Ma (mother-in-law). He knew I am not a coffee person. Our daughter said – Nick, dad and you ride the bicycle, Ma and I will walk around the Central Park in the walkway. Make sure you keep an eye on dad because he did not ride a bicycle in the recent past. It’s been a while since he rode a bicycle. His balance might have been reduced due to nonpractice. She expressed her fears about my riding trip with Nick.

Krista, I said, two things peoples do not forget in life: one is swimming, the other is riding a bicycle. Once you learn them, you never forget them; only your skill may be a little rusty. If I fall I will get up, it’s not a big deal, so, don’t worry. Your dad will be fine. Once I finished talking her mother said - Krista, don’t bother my husband, he should be okay. My wife smiled at her with her usual affection.

Krista said – Ma, your husband is a stubborn man, he does not want to admit that he is ripe now, that he has limitations; besides a few months ago, remember, he had an episode of orthostatic hypertension. Dad always complains about his knees now-a-days. Bicycle pedaling needs a lot of knee work. Then she looked at me and stopped. My daughter never

calls me old, she always calls me ripe. That’s her way of denying that day by day I am growing old. Occasionally she will tell me –dad, I am very glad that you like outdoor activities, tennis, etc. I always tell my friends that my father is very athletic; he does things which a person of his age would never try to do. Please be careful, I want you to have fun not get hurt. After finishing her speech, she hugged me and shortly thereafter, she and her mom started to walk towards Central Park. I said to both of them – have fun, see you later. Nick told me – dad, let’s go to a Citibike stand. It is only a block away. We started to walk towards the bike stand. About two years back, Mayor Bloomberg started a program called “Citibike”. They have installed hundreds of stands where you can rent a bicycle for five dollars. Nick has a card which he uses to rent the bike. He loves to ride bicycles, and so do I, but the only difference is that he rides it regularly, I did not ride for the last few years. I was a little nervous, because of a lack of practice, and also for fear of riding the bike on the city streets which are full of people, cars and travelers from different places and countries. I expressed my anxiety to Nick –are we going to ride on the 8th Avenue? It is very busy now, lots of people are walking. We have to be very careful. No, dad, we are not going

I thanked God that we have him as our son-in-law

along 8th Avenue; we may go through the avenue maybe for four or five blocks. After that we shall go to the Central Park bike lane and ride the bike. Nick stopped. Then he said – don’t worry, we will be fine. He tried to reassure me. In the meantime, we took two bikes from the bike stand. Nick paid for it. Then he lowered the seat for me and explained the route we would be taking for Central Park. Nick said – dad, you go first, go slow, I shall be following you. We entered into Central Park through the 59th street and 8th avenue gate. We approached the bicycle lane very slowly, because a large number of pedestrians were wandering aimlessly and enjoying the sunshine as well as the close relationship of family and friends. It seemed to me that everyone was in a joyful mood, trying to spend their time as lazily as possible. We did not ride through this crowd; we walked slowly through them. Finally we reached the bike lane. Nick explained to me that the bike lane follows the same traffic rules as the cars. If there is a red light, we would have to stop for the pedestrians, etc. I knew these traffic rules. But I was amazed to see that Nick was trying to teach me in a way as if I was a little boy. I was overwhelmed by his caring and I thanked God that we have him as our son-in-law.

We circled around the Central Park for a few times, I

don’t exactly remember how many times, but it must have been three or four times. At the end of the last lap Nick told me – dad, we have finished riding in Central Park, now we shall go to the riverside bike ride lane. When we go to the gate at 8th Ave and 60th Street, we shall get out of the Park and we shall go look for the Riverside Bike Lane, we shall take 58 Street and go towards west, towards the Hudson River bank where we shall ride by the side of the river.

“Alright Nick, I will stop when I come there” – I told Nick. Anyway I was feeling a little tired and I thought this stop would give me a chance to catch my breath and be reenergized for the Riverside Bike Lane. I was having a real good time with that Citibike. Although once in a while I wanted to ride a bicycle in Manhattan, in my entire life, I never thought that I would ever actually do so, that my dreams would come true in a better way, that I would be riding with my dear son-in-law, Nick. God has a unique way of rewarding people. Silently I expressed my gratitude to the Almighty.

We started to ride from the corner of 8th Ave and 60th street and pedaled south traveling through 8th Avenue. This ride was not bad because they have designated bicycle lanes where a cyclist can ride very safely. The mayor of the city has done a great service; he has created all these bicycle lanes for the bicyclists. I think, the mayor himself was a fan of bicycle riding. Now any tourist can

rent a bicycle and see the city his way and have fun. This was not available in New York City before; Subways or Cabs were the only modes of traveling; not any more, now bicycle has offered the freedom of travel to any visitor or city dweller.

Riding a bicycle through the bike lane of any avenue is safe but riding through any street is quite different; a cyclist has to be real careful because there is no bike lane and streets are like jungles filled with cars, cabs and buses; everyone tries to beat everyone; cab drivers of this city are famous for their aggressiveness in driving, they don’t care, they just want to go, no matter how. Traffic rules and disciplined driving are hardly followed, so any bicyclist has to be extra careful; accidents may happen any second.

We were riding through a street going south for going to the bank of the Hudson River. It was downhill; it felt great, the bike was going faster and faster, and it was not a problem for me. Suddenly I realized that the traffic light was red and I would have to stop. My speed gave some trouble but I managed to stop without any incident. After passing this light we came to the famous bicycle lane of Hudson River. This lane starts from North and goes all the way to the Battery Tunnel -- a distance of quite a few miles (I do not exactly know how many). It was exciting enough for me that I was going to ride a bicycle by the side of the Hudson. Nick said to me “dad, look on the other side of the river, that is

Jersey City.”

I looked on the other side of the river, it was beautiful, and Jersey City’s buildings were looking very bright because sunlight shone them; reflected rays of the sun were coming from some of the buildings, it was spectacular, and I felt very lucky that I could become a witness to such a beauty of nature and human creation of architectural beauty as well. Nick said – dad, we shall ride south a few miles and then we shall return, if you feel tired, let me know, we shall go back at that time, you are riding a lot today, make sure your legs do not cramp. I heard concern in his voice about my health.

I told him – Nick, don’t worry. Whenever I feel tired I will stop. And we will go back. Nick said – dad, I know, you play tennis a lot, your physical activities are praiseworthy but I still wanted to let you know that whenever you want to stop; we will stop and go back. Now let us go. We started riding by the side of the Hudson River, a lifetime experience for me. I felt, I am very lucky to gain an experience like this, especially when I am having this experience with my son-in-law.. After about half an hour, Nick stopped and asked me to stop. He said – Krista called me, they are waiting for us, I think we should go back now. They are ready for lunch. Do you want to ride more, or should I tell her that we are coming?

Yes, tell them, we are coming – I told Nick. We stopped and started to go back.

Dad, we are going to take 48th Street, all the other streets are uphill; 48 Street will be easy for us because it is more flat than any other streets around here, your knees won’t have to work hard – Nick told me. I was glad to hear him because I did not want to go uphill, I was afraid my knees might hurt.

Nick, where are we going to meet them? – I asked him.

At the corner of 50th Street and 8th Avenue – Nick replied. We started rolling and in about fifteen minutes we reached the meeting place. Krista and her mom were sitting on a bench. They saw us and stood up to

greet us. My wife said – how far did you guys go? It’s been so long that you two were gone. Then she looked at me and said – I hope your knees do not give you pain. I hope you are happy now that you rode in Manhattan, and that too with Nick, your dream came true, right. Nick, did he bother you? - She wanted to know.

Nick was smiling, then he said – Ma, no he did not bother me, he bothered other bikers, they were afraid of dad. He joked about my riding style. Then he said – no Ma, dad was a perfectly responsible biker. I am very glad that we both rode together; I will

remember it all my life. Then he looked at Krista and said – where are going to have lunch?

Krista looked at me, then looked at Nick and said – we are going to have lunch in Renaissance Restaurant. We walked to the restaurant and sat at a table outside under a tent which was kind of open, sunny and very pleasing with a light breeze. The food was delicious. We all stood up after eating to return to our daughter’s apartment, I realized that, together with our daughter and son-in-law, we had finished a very happy day, a memorable day, this year’s Labor Day.

Obama Hillary Sangbad

Guru Chakravarty

New Jersey

Obama: Hey

Hillary, you must be feeling good now that your road to nomination is all clear.

Hillary: Are you kidding? I am nervous hoping that history does not repeat itself. 2008 was a nightmare!

Obama: Does not look like that is going to happen. You need a polished Harvardian, a fiery orator, a young person in the forties and a guy with a distinctive name – not easy to

get someone with that kind of charismatic qualities. There is no one like that on the horizon.

Hillary: (With a sigh) – I am still reeling from that defeat. I am a Yalite, can talk intelligently, politically savvy and a woman. But nothing helped against you.

Obama: You have to have a catchy phrase; try “It is time for a Woman”!

Hillary: Let me ask you –why didn’t you offer me the Vice Presidency? It would have made my candidacy so much easier this year.

Obama: I was afraid you would impose Bill’s ideas on me all the time. I had to have someone with total and

unquestioned loyalty.

Hillary: Anyhow, looking at your dismal popularity, does not look like you can help me any. So, my advice is - make yourself scarce. Leave politics to me, go play more golf.

Obama: OK, but make sure you get me good contacts for speaking engagements after I retire. I have to pay bills too.

Hillary: You know I am really afraid of that Bush guy. I think he has the Republican nomination sewed up, just like me with the Democrats. But in the general election, the guy can transform into a moderate, and keep spending his money trying to color me a lefty liberal. What is your advice?

Obama: Oh don’t you worry - your problem is solved by Donald Trump. He has already painted Bush as the Mexicolover because of his Mexican wife. All you have to do is echo the words of Trump. If Ford wants to build a plant in Mexico, Bush will be all for it, infuriating the public. Use Trump’s words as your tool.

Hillary: So, tell me - what is your strategy to stop ISIS? Do you really care?

Obama: I have a great solution in mind. I know that Iran is going to get the nuke sooner or later. I can just delay it, but cannot stop it. When that happens, then Iran will take care of the ISIS problem.

Hillary: Looks like Obamacare is in trouble in the Supreme Court. If they remove the provision of Federal subsidy in individual states, then it will effectively die in a majority of

the states. There will be such a chaos!

Obama: I am sitting pretty on that. For the next two years, the Republicans will be running helter-skelter to fix it because people are going to blame them. And, after that it will be up to you, to bring it back with proper legislation. You can then call it Hillarycare. Good luck to you!

Hillary: Boy, you are such a smart ass. But, even you could not do anything to stop the Race divide or to enhance Gun Control.

Obama: I know! If being a Black person, I could not do anything to bring about racial harmony, what can anyone else do? So, I am not going to worry about it anymore. I am going to go away from all of this and build my Presidential Library in Hawaii. No stop-andfrisk policy there! I am afraid Gun Control is a much more difficult problem. I think people are slowly turning away from NRA. I have a bold plan, I will announce it at the end of my term, and I will leave it to you to enact the plan into law.

Hillary: Fat chance! So, what are you going to do after your term? You are so young!

Obama: No problem -I have many, many options.

Option 1: As you know, I spent my childhood in Indonesia. And I was born a Muslim. It may not be too hard to convince the Indonesian people that I am one of them. If that happens, I will run for the President of Indonesia. Thus, I will create history by becoming the President of two countries in one lifetime.

Option 2: Then there is Kenya. Everybody knows that I was born of a Kenyan father. If anyone born of an American father anywhere in the world can be an American, I can claim to be a Kenyan. There is a chance that I can get into Kenyan politics and become Kenya’s President.

Option 3: Then there is the question of the Nobel Peace Prize. I was given the prize with the promises I made to end the Iraq war and to bring the Afghanistan war to a gradual close. As we can see now, although I brought the American soldiers back from Iraq, that area is ablaze with sectarian war, and we are creeping back there slowly again. There is no end to that violence in sight. As for Afghanistan, Americans are still there and will continue to remain for an uncertain future period. No real peace is expected in that region for the foreseeable future. I want to work as a peace missionary for both of these areas to re-earn the justification of my Nobel Peace Prize. If I am successful in doing anything meaningful, I may be able create history by earning a second Nobel Peace Prize. Yes, I am excited about it. This could become my first choice after retirement.

Hillary: Wait a minute, Barack. If you go into those dangerous areas, you know that you could be kidnapped. That is a no-no. I won’t allow that to happen. That would be a disaster to my Presidency. The whole country will be at a stand-still, concentrating on that

one matter – to free you from the kidnappers. Jimmy Carter’s presidency was ruined by the Iranian kidnappers, and mine will be by yours. No, I won’t allow you to travel outside the country. If you must work on your peace mission, it has to be done from inside the U.S.

Obama: Fair enough–that may work out. You know, Michelle and the children would not like me to travel to those areas, I am sure. So, that may kill

two birds with one stone. I will declare my bold intentions to go to the war-torn areas to the world, and then citing your decree, I will have to soften my goals to actually work from home. I hope the Nobel Committee will be satisfied with that approach.

Hillary: (Laughing) you are such a smart ass! You can think of everything and come up with appropriate answers on the spot. That’s why the Republicans can not pin you down on any issue.

You can come up with arguments that they can not shoot down as much as they wish to.

Obama: Thanks! You are not so bad at that either. You have managed to sneak clear of so many scandals: Whitewater, Vince Foster suicide, Ben Ghazi, State Department emails – am I missing some?

Hillary: See you after the election. Wish me luck.

Obama: Sure, Madam President!

A Journey to an Elusive Nest

Pronoy Chatterjee, New Jersey

Hena was born in Patna but brought up in Sitalpur, a small village in the Saran District of Bihar, where there was a sprawling community

around a sugar mill built in the 1920s by two Bengali industrialists -- one from Chapra and the other from Allahabad. The mill was situated on the bank of the Mahi River that flowed through Nepal to Bihar and further south east. The establishment was enclosed by a ten-foot high brick wall, with several steel gates, that kept it separated from the rest of the

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village. Local train tracks were installed for transporting the sugarcane stock and finished products in and out of the mill. Inside the compound, there were bungalows and different

types of houses occupied by the employees of the mill –divided into different sectors for corporate executives and blue color workers. The compound was self-contained with all essential amenities needed for normal living. It was a close community where the families knew each other intimately and mingled frequently whenever they had free time.

Hena’s father was a senior staff member who lived in one of the units of a row of bungalows on the side of a dirt road that was being coated with a special clay to keep its surface hard. The women there would gather at their doorsteps and chat for hours. It was a peaceful small close–knit community where most of the administrative officers and technical personnel were Bengalis and the rest of the workers were Biharis.

It was at this place that Hena spent her childhood and youthful years when she fell in love with Tarun, who lived next door to hers. They were about to approach their parents for their approval to get married when suddenly, due to an odd circumstance, Tarun stepped back and their plan fell apart. A year later, Hena had an arranged marriage with a widower of his father’s age and moved to Muzaffarpur, about 150 miles from Sitalpur. His husband had two older children from his previous marriage and later two more with Hena. But twenty years later he suddenly died of heart attack. Hena lived with the children for another five years and then one day, leaving

the family in the custody of her oldest stepson, she moved to Benares and lived there alone.

On graduating from high school, Hena’s youngest son Shanku decided to see her mother and spend the summer in Benares. Hena did everything she could do to make Shanku’s visit pleasant. Together they went to different places in Benares - visited temples, roamed in and out of narrow lanes and walked on the treelined roads of the university campus.

On rainy days, when Shanku stayed home the whole day, Hena told him stories of Sitalpur with bits and pieces of her personal life, carefully avoiding the parts that were painful, which she wanted to bury deep within herself. She only told him the happy moments of her life, when she was not struggling with social humiliation. Shanku took a keen interest in her life in Sitalpur.

A week before returning to Muzaffarpur, on one such rainy day after Hena finished her story of Sitalpur, Shanku said, “Ma, do you want to come with me to Muzaffarpur? She replied calmly, “We’ll see, when the time comes,” but the day before Shanku’s return, she decided to go with him.

Next day they arrived at the station in time, but a delay for two hours in the train’s arrival was announced at the platform. After an hour and a half, there was another announcement for a further delay of another hour. The railway staff, ticket collectors and others walked

back and forth with reservation lists in their hands. Every now and then they stopped to sip tea or smoke cigarettes.

Finally the train arrived. It rolled into the platform and then came to a screeching halt. Shanku and Hena followed their porter who took them to the compartment which had their reservations. Shanku looked at the seat number and asked his mother to occupy the designated seat. He sat next to her.

On the way to Muzaffarpur, the train stopped at a major junction, Sonepur, where one could change to a local train to go to Sitalpur. As the train approached that station, the memories of Sitalpur flashed in her mind. She knew Sitalpur was only a few miles from there.

Because Sonepur was a major junction, the train halted there for over twenty minutes. Before the train fully entered into the station she got up on her feet and told Shanku, “We must get down here. Quick! Let’s roll up our beddings and pull out the luggage from underneath the seat. Hurry up.”

Shanku looked at her with total surprise. He said, “No Ma, Muzaffarpur is still a few hours away. I’ll tell you when to get ready.”

“I know,” she said. “But let’s get down here at Sonepur. We’ll get a connection to Sitalpur. I want to go there. I want to see the place again; I want to touch its soil.”

“Why? There is no one there you know. And, I heard of lots of crimes in the villages of Bihar. We don’t know anyone and we

have no place to stay overnight.”

“Shanku, I have to go. I feel Sitalpur is pulling me. I may die soon, I’ll never have the opportunity to visit that serene place. You’ll see for yourself. I’ll show you our house, the temple where I was stuck once in heavy rain, the river that I used to swim in. I’ll show you the mill where sugarcane was chopped in a shed and then a belt carried the pieces to a crusher inside the building. Dozens of rail carts dumped the cane into the cutter. The trains may not be there but you can see the railroad track by the shed. We used to play next to it, climbing up on a broken locomotive engine. My palms became black with soot from the chimney. Leela gave me a handful of linen to wipe the soot away. I wiped it on her cheek instead. She looked so funny.”

She laughed and her voice choked. She cleared her voice and continued, “I’ll show you the place where I first met Tarun, behind the tall grass by the river. A boat was floating on the river at the time. A man sat quietly with a fishing pole in his hand. I must go there, Shanku. Once, may be for the last time, I want to walk on that clay-topped street between the houses, touch the one where I lived and smell the air; just once more.”

Her eyes were fixed to the window, gazing at the distant landscape. She said in a whisper, “I must go, Shanku, Tarun is waiting.”

“Who is Tarun, Ma?” Shanku asked.

Hena turned to Shanku, snapping back from her reverie.

Trying to change the subject she smiled and stuttered. Placing a hand on his shoulder she said, “Oh, no, I don’t know. Maybe I was dreaming. Hurry up; let’s get down when the train stops. Do you know how long it will halt here?”

Shanku said, “Should be at least twenty minutes. Sonepur is a major junction.”

The train entered the platform slowly and then came to a halt. Shanku and Hena waited at the door with their luggage and quickly stepped down when the train stopped. Shanku pulled the luggage and dropped them on the platform. He called a porter and asked him to get to the information counter. The porter held the suitcase with both hands and with a jerk lifted it on his head. Balancing it on his head he freed both hands to carry the bedding and a handbag. Shanku took another handbag and they followed the porter.

At the information counter, a bald-headed man with a bushy mustache was sitting behind the window and chewing pan. Shanku went to the window while Hena stayed with the porter who was carrying their luggage and stood a few feet away. He asked in Hindi when was the next train to Sitalpur. The man said the last train for the day had already left an hour ago. The next one was scheduled for the following morning.

Shanku came back to his mother and asked if she still wanted to go to Sitalpur. She said, “Yes, buy the tickets and look for a place to stay overnight.” She also asked him

to check with the man if there was any hotel at the station. Shanku went back to the window and asked the man about a hotel.

The man said, “How many nights do you want to stay?”

Shanku replied, “It’s just one night, for two persons. Tomorrow we’ll leave for Sitalpur.”

“You can rent a guest room at the station if you buy two tickets for Sitalpur now, and it’ll be much cheaper than the hotel. For two beds, it’s only fifteen rupees per night.”

“My mother is with me. Can she stay in that guest room?” Shanku hesitantly asked.

“Certainly, she can. It’s not for men only, and it’s clean. She shouldn’t have any problem. If you need anything, just call the maid who is in a room at the end of the building. There’s a sign on the door and you just knock on the door. For a small tip the maid will even go to market and bring your food. If you prefer to eat out, you just have to cross the tracks and you’ll find lots of stores and restaurants.”

The room was opened and dusted, and the maid neatly made two beds and hung a mosquito net on each. After she finished making the beds, she showed them the bathroom that was attached to the room. It was clean and a bucket at the corner was filled with water. Hena gave her a tip. The maid was happy, thanked her a few times and left.

Shanku said, “Let me bring some food for us. I’m hungry.”

She said, “Don’t bring the food here, I’ll go with you. Let me wash up first. In the

meantime, open the suitcase for me.”

Hena freshened up and changed clothes. Shanku washed his face and combed his hair. They locked the room and walked to the platform.

Crossing the tracks, when they came to the other side of the station, they saw shops of all kinds -- clothing, food, groceries, spices, and others. They picked a restaurant where a man was baking bread on an open flame on the street outside. All the restaurants operated the same way -- cooking outside, guests being served with food inside.

The meal was served after half an hour. When they finished eating, the owner of the shop

about robberies on the road all the time. You’ll be better off traveling on the road in broad day light, not in the dark.”

Hena nodded and paid the bill and told Shanku to look for a scooter to go to Sitalpur that evening. Hena was obsessed with Sitalpur. The man’s caution didn’t register in her mind. She was so near to Sitalpur, she couldn’t wait any longer. Every minute was like an hour to her.

Shanku reluctantly agreed when he found his mother was determined to go that evening. He had heard the cautionary remark so he was slightly afraid but he knew his mother couldn’t be stopped. If he didn’t go she would go alone. Shanku went to the rickshaw-scooter stand

the middle and picked up speed again.

There was plenty of sunlight when they started from the station. Shanku was watching the roadside. Men and women, young and old, all sorts of people were walking on the dusty sideroads. Some carried baskets on their heads and some bamboo poles on their shoulders with pots hanging at both ends. Some walked fast and others were just dragging themselves. Stray dogs lay in front of some small huts where cows were leashed with thick ropes. The other end of the rope was tied to a stake on the ground. The cows dipped their heads in buckets placed before them and then chewed food, raising their heads. Naked

The wind was blowing on their faces

asked if they needed anything else. Hena said, “No, thank you. But, can you tell us how far Sitalpur is from here?”

The man replied, “Not too far, about thirty-five miles. You can take a scooter cab; you’ll be there in an hour.”

She said, “Really? We can go by scooter? I thought we have to take the train.”

“Yes, you can go by train, but if you wish you can also go by road.”

“Can we get a scooter now?”

“You may, but I suggest you wait till morning. If you go now, by the time you’ll arrive there, it’ll be dark. Then, if you want to come back it will be very dark and the road is not safe. We hear

and asked a few scooter drivers about the fare. All of them refused, saying it would be unsafe to travel at night. Finally, one driver agreed to go with an additional surcharge. At Hena’s insistence, Shanku agreed on the price and they boarded it.

The scooter moved slowly at the beginning and then picked up speed as soon as it crossed the entrance gate. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for cars to cross one another. The cars were driven in the middle of the road. When a car or a scooter approached another one, both slowed down and moved to the shoulder, barely avoiding a crash. As soon as they cleared each other, they both moved to

children were playing in front of the huts. Their mothers were occupied crushing corn using stone grinders.

The dogs barked as the scooter approached and then ran away as it came nearer. As soon as the scooter passed, a dog followed it, barking constantly and then finally stopped as it got tired.

From time to time, the driver blew horn as he faced a man or a cow on the road. The landscape was receding fast as the scooter picked up speed. The wind was blowing on their faces and, at times, the dust from the road blew inside the scooter.

Hena’s eyes were open, but she wasn’t paying attention

to anything. She was totally absorbed in her own dream. She was moving fast to her long cherished desire, to see and touch Sitalpur that she knew. Her mind was showered with a kaleidoscope of memories of the land. It was the place where she grew up with feelings of hope, distress, uncertainty as well as love. It was the place where she had her romantic interlude that gave her the strength to sustain life. It was the place where her brother and mother passed away, leaving scars in her mind.

The people were gone now, but the memories and landscape remained intact and Hena was only minutes away from her dream land. She would again walk through the street where she once ran and played in the dirt. She would stand at the bank of the river she swam across many times during the summer months. She would slide her hand on the brick walls of the house she lived in; a place where she laughed and cried.

As the time passed, her anxiety heightened. She could hardly wait to jump off the scooter and step onto the streets of Sitalpur. She anxiously asked the driver, “How far is it?” The driver said it should not be more than forty more minutes.

The sun had set minutes ago. It was getting dark. The scooter was going fast with its headlight on. The light reflected on two bodies standing on the road ahead. The driver slammed the brake. One man came up to them and asked where they were heading to.

The driver gently answered,

“Sitalpur.”

“Who’re these people?” the other man asked.

“I don’t know. They hired the scooter for a round trip to Sitalpur.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Sonepur,” the driver replied.

“Don’t you know how dangerous it is to travel on this road at night? More so with a woman passenger?”

“Sir, they insisted on going.”

“Rascal, they insisted you to go or you got big bucks.”

“I’m sorry.” The driver’s face turned pale; he was frightened.

The first man aimed a flash light on Hena’s face and then Shanku’s. Then he switched it off and told the driver, “Move to the side, we both will sit in front.” The driver moved over and they squeezed into the front bench along with the driver. The scooter started again and picked up the speed.

Hena and Shanku didn’t understand what was going on. Shanku was scared, thinking the men were robbers. Hena hadn’t understood the kind of risk she had taken in going at that late hour. Now she was a bit concerned, but her mind was still occupied with her dream of Sitalpur. When the men boarded, she was more concerned about the delay in reaching her destination than robbery, rape or murder. As the scooter started, she took a deep breath and sank back into her dream of stepping on to the soil of Sitalpur.

The scooter was going fast. It had covered another five miles before the first man said to the

driver, “You stupid scoundrel, stop here now!” The driver braked hard; the scooter swayed sideways before coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. The man was angry. He said, “Haven’t you learned driving yet, you fucked-up beast?”

The driver smiled stupidly. The second man asked for a biri (a local cigarette) from the driver. The driver gave him a couple of biris. The men left and quickly disappeared into the woods by the side of the road.

The scooter came to a forked junction and the driver got confused which way to go. He stopped and said, “I don’t know which side of the fork will lead to Sitalpur.”

In the meantime two women walked across the road with baskets on their heads. The driver asked, “Hey, do you know which way to Sitalpur?” They told to bear right at the fork. The scooter started again.

The paved road had ended and a dirt road began. It was a narrow road; both sides had tall corn plants. The entire area was a corn plantation and the road cut across the field. It was night, but not too dark; those tall corn plants were distinctly visible in the moonlight. The winding road through the cornfield had no exit to bypass; it was open to one direction only. Hena and Shanku stayed silent and so was the driver. The plants were swaying with the wind as the scooter moved through the road.

They arrived at a place where there was an open patch of land and the road forked again. The

driver stopped the scooter at the intersection to make a decision. In that faint moonlight, they again saw two women with baskets of corn on their heads. As they came nearer, the driver asked, “Do you know which way to Sitalpur?”

“This is Sitalpur,” they replied.

“Where’s the place that had a sugar mill?”

The women looked at each other and with a big sigh said, “Sugar mill?” One woman put her hand on her cheek and frowned, then said, “Oh, the mill? That’s sold a long time ago and everything has been turned into a plantation. A rich merchant bought the land and demolished everything to turn it into farmland.”

Hena got out of the scooter and eagerly asked, “What about the houses, the roads, the factory buildings, the railroad tracks? Those are there, aren’t they?” She was shivering with excitement.

“No ma’am, they’re all gone,” the woman said.

“What about the rows of bungalows? How can they demolish those bungalows? They were expensive to build.”

“Do you want to go there and check yourself?” the woman asked.

“Yes, we want to go there,” Hena replied.

The woman looked at the driver and said, “Bear left at this fork. In half a mile you’ll find another intersection. Turn left and go for a mile, you’ll see a brick house with a big iron gate. There, if you find the

doorkeeper, tell him you want to see Jagat Singh. If you don’t find the doorkeeper, wait there, don’t go through the gate. Jagat Singh has guns and he may shoot you thinking that you’re robbers. Be careful.” Both women laughed and said “Good luck to you.” Then they continued to walk along their way.

The driver asked Hena, “Shall we go back? It doesn’t look like anything is there anymore. Why take a chance?”

Hena still wanted to visit the place, at least to see some buildings as well as the roads and the river.

The driver, seeing she was determined to move forward, started his scooter again. Hena and Shanku boarded the scooter.

After fifteen minutes of driving, following the directions the woman had given him, they reached a clear area in front of an iron gate. As soon as the scooter halted two men walked out. They were tall, and one had a big black mustache. Both wore white turbans on their heads and carried tall bamboo poles in their hands.

The man with mustache asked in a deep voice, “What do you want? Who you are looking for?”

Before the driver had a chance to speak, Hena said, “We want to see Jagat Singh.”

The man said, “You’re speaking to Jagat Singh. Please get down and come inside with me.”

The other man went to the gate and opened it. A dog barked but the man made a loud sound and the dog stopped barking. They followed Jagat Singh inside the courtyard and sat on chairs at his instruction. Jagat Singh asked the driver to bring the scooter inside and when he brought it in the other man closed the iron gate.

Jagat Singh said, “Tell us the purpose of your visit?”

Hena said, “I lived here when I was a child. My father used to work at the mill. I wanted to visit the place again.”

Jagat Singh asked, “Where do you live now?”

“Benares.”

“Who is this boy?” Jagat Singh asked, pointing his finger

to Shanku.

“My son.”

“Let me get water and tea for you before we proceed further.” He called “Bahadur! Come here.”

Hena quickly said, “No, no, it isn’t necessary. We don’t want to waste our time. Just tell us which direction we’ll go to see the place where the mill is situated.”

Jagat Singh said, “You’re sitting on the very same place. Tell me exactly what you want to see.”

“We want to see the row of bungalow houses, the banyan tree at the corner of the clay-top road, the tin shed, the railroad track and the riverfront;” Hena said in one breath.

“All you can see is the river. Everything else was demolished by the initial owner who bought the mill. I’m the next owner and I am a farmer. I converted the whole thing into a big farmland.

“What do you mean? Everything is gone? All the houses, the roads, the railroad tracks? Nothing is there?” Hena looked at him with wide eyes, filled with tears reflected by the light from the kerosene lamp on the table next to her.

Jagat Singh looked at her and said, “Yes, but you can see my farm tomorrow morning. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

Hena didn’t answer. She slowly pulled out a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes. Clearing her voice she said, “No thank you. We want to return tonight. But, before going back, can we drive down to the river?”

Jagat Singh said, “Yes, you can. I’ll give your driver the direction. You have to walk a few yards to get to the riverfront. Stay here tonight, I will have someone go with you tomorrow. You can see everything.”

Hena said, “Thanks for your hospitality. We can’t stay because our luggage is at the Sonepur train station. Maybe tomorrow we’ll come again. But would you give us the direction to the river, please?”

Jagat Singh gave directions to the river and told the driver how to get back to the main road from that point. He again asked Hena to stay at his house that night, telling of the danger on the road at night. He mentioned about the frequent robberies and killings, but nothing could change Hena’s determination to go back.

Once again, expressing thanks to Jagat Singh, Hena and Shanku stepped on to the scooter. The driver turned the ignition key; there was a loud cranking sound of the engine and the scooter started with a big thundering noise that reverberated in the quiet cornfield land.

When they got out of sight from Jagat Singh’s house, Hena asked the driver to just follow the direction Jagat Singh gave and then turn around and go back to Sonepur.

The driver replied, “Don’t you want to get down and walk to the river?”

She said, “No.”

The driver followed her instruction. When he reached the end where Jagat Singh said

that they had to walk to the river, he asked again “Madam, are you sure you won’t go to the riverfront? I’ll go with you. Nothing will happen.”

She said, “No, there’s no need,” leaning back against the backrest.

As the scooter again cut though the cornfield she remained silent, her eyes closed.”

All throughout, Shanku had remained quiet. Now he asked, “Ma, are you tired?”

She gestured with her hand to express no, but didn’t speak. During the whole time the scooter was on the paved road she didn’t say a word except to ask once how long it would take to reach Sonepur station.

The wind was blowing hard on their faces as the scooter flew along. She covered her face with the end of her sari. Her head was rested against the corner of the hood. Her mind was empty. She tried to sleep, but couldn’t.

When they arrived at the Sonepur station she made the payment to the driver and gave him a few extra rupees as tips. The driver thanked her and asked if they would like to go again the next morning to see Sitalpur in daylight. She said, “No” and walked towards the guestroom on the other side of the tracks.

The next day they took the Muzaffarpur train. On the way there, she never mentioned Sitalpur. When Shanku raised the topic, she remained silent, looking outside the window, watching the land receding back.

The Singapore Airlines flight from Los Angeles landed at the Changi Airport at 3:30 AM on a Saturday morning. This time I didn’t have

a connecting flight to catch. I was going to stay in Singapore for the entire weekend with my niece and her husband, whose job recently transferred him

to Singapore. I had an onward flight to Calcutta two days later -- on Monday evening. Since the timing was rather odd, I told my niece, June, that there

was no need for them to come and pick me up; I would hang around the airport till the sun came out and then would take a taxi to reach their home. To that,

Small Expression, Big Impression

Benoy R. Samanta, California

she objected. She said that there was no need for me to hang around the airport after such a long flight, and that I should get a taxi and come home as soon as I was through with immigration and customs.

I didn’t want to haul my two large suitcases into their apartment for just two days and planned on leaving those at the “left luggage” station at the airport. I packed my carry-on bag that way. After immigration and customs, at about 4 AM, I arrived at the “left luggage” office in the terminal from which I would depart two days later. The terminal was practically empty at that early morning hour, and an elderly man was attending the “left luggage” office.

hours.

“Then in that case, we have to charge you for three days and it would cost you 30 Singapore dollars for two suitcases (one Singapore dollar = 0.80 US dollars).”

I turned back and replied, “Not really.”

“How many pieces of luggage you got?’ the man asked me.

“Two,” I answered.

“And for how many days?”

“Two days.”

“You know, Singapore Airlines will check in your bags 48 hours ahead of your flight time. What time is your flight?” the man asked.

I checked my ticket again and it turned out my departure time would be well above 48

I didn’t have much of a choice and took my wallet out to give him my credit card. The man unloaded my suitcases from the trolley and then paused for a while. He then asked,

“What are you going to do in Singapore during the next two days?

“I am going to visit my niece.” I replied.

“In that case, why don’t you take these suitcases to her place? You are alone. The taxis will very easily take these suitcases and I am sure your niece wouldn’t mind if you leave them at one corner in her place, and when you are ready to leave, get a taxi and come back to the airport. Besides, why would you want to spend 30 dollars for no good reason?” the man said with a genuine note of concern.

I was pleasantly surprised with this suggestion and decided to follow it. In fact, June had told me that I could very easily bring my suitcases to her apartment, if I wanted to, and left the decision entirely with me. The man helped me put those suitcases back on my trolley. The taxi stand was just outside the “left luggage” area and I could see a few that were waiting at the curbside. As I was leaving the area, the man called me from the back,

“Are you in a hurry to reach your niece’s place?”

“Let me suggest something to you,” he said. “Let your niece sleep for a few more hours, and you go to the coffee shop and buy a nice cup of our local coffee and relax till 6 AM. If you take a taxi now, they will charge you a midnight rate, which is fifty percent more than their normal rate. Why would you want to pay them extra? The midnight rate will expire at 6 AM. Come out at 6:05 AM and then get a taxi.”

He continued, “I was going to ask you to take a train from the airport, but it would be a little difficult with these suitcases.”

Later I realized that the way the public transportation system has been designed for the whole city, a train ride would have been just as convenient as any other mode of transportation for a traveler without much luggage.

Very rarely in our life do we encounter people who would show such genuine concern for a total stranger. There are decent and helpful people in every society, but this was out of the ordinary. Regardless of whether this man worked for the state or any private company, it was definitely not in his or their business interest to help me this way. I thanked him and headed towards the coffee shop, a few yards away. The name of the coffee shop was “Toast Box,” which was still open with only a handful of customers. It was a delight to see how coffees were made and served at “Toast Box.”

The man would hold the coffee cup in one hand and then, while pouring coffee from the pot with

his other hand, he would slowly raise his arm till he reached the maximum height he could attain. Some coffee would spill over the cup that he would later clean with hot water. Then he would add only a measured quantity of cream in an elaborate fashion, as if to suggest a little extra or less would completely destroy the taste. Though the coffee was strong and extremely sugary, it was without question, very tasty. Later I learned that this place strives to deliver the best “Nanyang kopi (coffee)” with a distinctive South East Asian flavor.

I took my coffee and found a comfortable place to sit down in that near-empty terminal. On the plane, I was reading a book and had finished about half of it. I now opened the book to continue reading, but I couldn’t concentrate. The thought of the man whom I had just encountered at the “left luggage” station kept coming back to my mind. I wondered what it was that provoked such concern towards me. He could have simply taken my suitcases and my credit card and given me a receipt and everything would have been perfectly all right. Yet, he chose a different way. He most likely thought that it would have been an unnecessary expenditure on my part. Perhaps, the older people or the people from the previous generation understood the value of money differently than the

younger people from the present generations do.

I had a somewhat strange but similar experience in Saudi Arabia several years ago that I simply cannot forget till this date. In Yanbu, Saudi Arabia where we lived for many years, people mostly shopped in convenience stores, called commissaries. Though there were large grocery stores and shopping areas, every neighborhood had a commissary of its own. I was not familiar with the term commissary before I went to Saudi Arabia. It’s a food supply store as in an army camp, where one could get just about all essential food items. Once in a while there used to be a few vendors outside the commissary selling locally grown fresh and dried fruits from their pick-up trucks. However, one night as my wife and I came out of the commissary, we noticed an old man selling shrimps. He was sitting on the pavement with a very young boy, most likely his grandson. His clothes were not so clean and he was wearing a turban. His one eye seemed defective and he also wore thick glasses. From his appearance, he looked like a villager or a Bedouin, who probably drove far from the city we lived in. He had three cane baskets in front of him containing three different sizes of shrimps -- large, medium and small. The large were extra large and the small were not that small either. It appeared that those shrimps were all freshly

caught in the nearby Red Sea. Both Red Sea and the Arabian Gulf had an abundant supply of seafood.

The small ones would be good for you.

In the Middle East, particularly in Saudi Arabia, People normally did not buy anything without bargaining or having a lively exchange of words about the price. The bargaining goes on even in a gold souk (bazaar). I wanted to know the prices of the shrimps the old man was selling. He spoke only Arabic, which I understood very little. The large shrimps were 40 SR per kilogram; the medium sizes were 30 SR and the small ones were 20 SR (1 US dollar= 3.75 SR). I was interested in buying the large ones and asked him what he would sell those for. The man gave me a squint for a few seconds and then said, “You buy the small ones. It’s very good and I will give them to you for 15 SR.”

I wasn’t interested in buying the small ones and insisted on the price of the large ones he would sell me for. The old man was not agreeable with me and insisted that I buy the small ones.

I didn’t quite understand him. He was a seller trying to sell his shrimps and I was a willing buyer ready to pay whatever the price we would settle in with and therefore, his unwillingness to sell the large shrimps completely baffled me.

“Have these shrimps been sold already?” I asked.

“No,” he replied firmly and put the lid on the large and the medium baskets. He then pointed his finger at the basket containing the smaller shrimps and said again, “The small ones would be good for you.”

But I wasn’t interested, and for the next few minutes we talked back and forth about it. Suddenly, the situation turned ugly as the old man lost his patience convincing me. He became visibly angry. His voice became louder, his face turned red and he started shaking his index finger towards my face, as he spoke in his language that I completely failed to understand. I felt like I was getting a good scolding from him.

A young Pakistani man was standing nearby, listening to our conversation. I had seen him around and his face was familiar to me.

“What is he saying?” I asked.

This young man moved forward and explained, “This old man is saying that you shouldn’t waste your money buying the expensive fish. The small ones are just as good as the large ones and he is going to lower the price for you. He is also saying that if you waste your money like that, how much will you save for your family and how much will there be left for you to take care of your parents back in your country?”

I didn’t quite expect to hear this from a street vendor, or any vendor for that matter, and I was completely taken aback. I had never experienced anything

like this before and I didn’t quite know how to react. All along this conversation, my wife, Lolita was standing quietly next to me, but now she spoke, “You don’t need to worry about that. You weigh two kilos of those large shrimps.”

Arab men are generally very polite and respectful to women outside. Saudi men, in particular, would rarely speak publicly with women who aren’t directly related to them, let alone argue with them at a public place. Women are given special preferences everywhere for just about any services. So while still grumbling, the old man weighed two kilos of those large shrimps and put them in a plastic bag. He didn’t lower his price by a single SR and wouldn’t even look at my face when I paid him the money.

“What does he think of us?” my wife reacted.

“I didn’t see it the way you did,” I replied, “he didn’t know me, he didn’t know where I came

from or what kind of work I did, and yet he chose to give me a lesson on a few important things in life; a lesson against wasteful spending; perhaps a need for some discipline; a need for saving money for the family and finally a need to look after one’s parents. Whether I needed these lectures or not, these are not bad things to learn and be reminded of once in a while. He was a poor villager and he could have made his life easier by selling to me what I wanted to buy, and yet he chose not to do so for a purpose or some principles he felt so strongly about.”

These two incidents were somewhat out of the ordinary but made me realize something. And that is, the fundamental qualities or values of showing concern or doing good for others are perhaps inherent in human nature. However, these elements are suppressed in societies or in a social system, where the priorities are greed and maximizing profits.

It was 6:05 AM by the airport clock. I stood up to walk towards the taxi stand. I saw the gentleman from the ‘left luggage’ office walking by me at a distance in the opposite direction. I waved at him. He waved back and said, “Enjoy your stay in Singapore.”

(An earlier version of the story first appeared in the magazine of the Ramakrishna Mission Cultural Center, Gol Park, Kolkata.)

During our spring vacations from the school in the city of Kolkata, we visited our ancestral home in the village of Halishahar and got

acquainted with the extended family.

It was a sprawling property with several acres of farmland, mango groves, numerous fruit trees, and a pond stocked with fish. It was located in the heart of the village where a cluster of high caste Brahmins lived.

We travelled by cycle-rickshaw along a winding dirt path bordered with flowering shrubs until we came to an ancient Shiva temple that practically blocked the road. By the far side of this temple, there was a bend in the road that led to our house.

Spring Break

Nupur Lahiri

New Jersey

There was a small gate that led to our property and there stood the huge outbuilding on the left of the gate. A large grass courtyard separated the outbuilding from the main building.

I remember the Shiuli tree that stood in the middle of

the courtyard – in full bloom during our spring vacations. The outbuilding was built for the use of the gardener, the cook and other servants although my grandfather had donated this house to a family in need of a dwelling. They were also high caste Brahmins and consisted of aging parents, five daughters and two sons.

center with many fruit trees, numerous flowering plants and a variety of Hibiscus plants that bore flowers of many colors. At the far edges of the house were many tall coconut and palm trees.

biting into it and sprinkling some salt on the flesh. It was delicious but our mothers were worried that we might get skin rash from the sticky sap that drips near the stem of the mangoes.

My recollection of this courtyard was always from a time of the day, early in the morning, when the grass was still wet from dew. Walking across the grass we came to the main building with a fieldstone patio that wrapped around the whole house.

The palatial structure looked like a square with a long two-story building in the front and three sets of one-story buildings on the other three sides of the square. There was an enormous garden in the

The two-story house was our living quarters. It had several bedrooms upstairs with a modern toilet. Downstairs were two large sitting rooms for entertaining guests. My grandfather invited our distant cousins and their families during the spring break. The building had a flat roof where we would gather in the evenings to exchange important stories from our cousins and aunts and uncles. We would have our breakfast of hot and spicy puffed rice mixed in with roasted peanuts with brown papery skins and fresh coconut bits. We spread straw mats in the afternoon and took a snooze after listening to fairy tales from a great-aunt. Several cousins played cards in the evening after snacking on ripe mangoes and jackfruits that came from our groves. We came back to the roof after a dinner of steamy hot rice, lentil soup and crispy fried fish caught from our pond that was filled with an endless supply of fresh water fish. We told jokes, sang songs and laughed at each other before we slipped into the bedrooms to sleep.

My extended family joined us for the yearly worshipping ceremony and the gigantic celebration of Basanti puja during spring breaks.

The children gathered green mangoes in the mango groves and tasted the sour firm pulp by

We spent hours in the afternoon in the gardens when our mothers took a nap. We loved to climb a Jamrool tree that reached to the roof of the two-story building. It was a thrill to climb onto a thick branch of the tree, jump onto the flat roof and collect Jamrools that had dropped there. The roof was covered by hundreds of tangy ripe fruits with shiny white skins.

The second set of the onestory house was used as the house of worship and had a section with a dark secluded room where the ancestral family had established an altar for Sitala, the goddess that appeared in a dream of my great-greatgrandmother.

The entire village would be invited for a three-day long feast and prayer chants and devotional musical extravaganza during this yearly worshipping ceremony. Next to the worship room was a room for cooking food strictly for the goddess. I remember my mother, my aunts, great aunts and grandmothers would gather every night and start peeling fresh gourds, yellow, green and bitter squash. They would chop brinjals, beans, cauliflowers, and potatoes and start the cooking for the next day. The children would break open the fresh peapods and get scolded for secretly sneaking into the peas and snacking on

them. Sometimes we would have some three hundred people expected for meals to be served during the next three days. The food prepared had to be fresh, clean and a mortal was not allowed to even smell the aroma of the meal to be offered to the goddess. Smelling the food was equivalent to half eating the food, according to ancient Hindu scriptures. It would be a sin to take a taste or sniff of the food before the goddess tasted or smelled it.

Incense burnt in the worship chamber and the priest rang the small bell from time to time and large bells, conches and cymbals sounded in unison and the entire house shook from the vibrations and clamor of the noise. We would wait for these prayer sessions to end so that we could get our hands on a plateful of heavenly sweets and fruit clusters.

The third set of house had several rooms where the extended family members stayed and at the end of this building was the communal kitchen. The charge of this kitchen was with my grandfathers’ youngest sister and she was always calculating the amount of food needed to feed all the hungry mouths. She made sure that there were enough scraps and leftovers that would feed her some twentythree cats.

Two women, a mother and a daughter who were somehow related to my grandfather through a distant cousin, occupied one of these rooms. The mother was a widow and she looked emaciated and malnourished

but always worked hard to help with the household chores. She felt obliged to my grandfather because she was given a shelter in this huge house and for the fact that she would never have to starve during her lifetime.

The young woman, the daughter, looked jovial and happy most of the time. She wore bright colored saris that were old, mostly reds, but faded and full of holes. She wore a bright red vermilion dot on her forehead and in the parting of her hair. Sometimes she became very sad for no reasons. Some days she looked giddy and joyful. She was lonely and lost, but never stepped out of the house to look for friends.

Her name was Sabitri.

daily fare.

She did not talk to anybody but her mother. She would go back into the tiny room assigned to them in the evening and nobody would hear a sound from her. During the night we sometimes heard her sobbing and, rarely but very loudly, cursing the gods.

Then one day we heard that Sabitri’s husband was coming to fetch her and to take her back with him. Sabitri was told to bathe and oil her hair and comb it straight and get all the knots out. She was given a fairly new sari to wear and one of the aunts gave her some black soot that gathered under an oil lamp so that she could draw a thin line under her eyes.

In Hindu mythology Sabitri was known to have brought back her husband Satyaban from the land of death by the power of her beauty and prayers to the gods in the heaven.

We never saw Sabitri’s husband. We had no idea why Sabitri did not have a husband in spite of her vermilion dot on the forehead and her bright red saris. The women with dead husbands wore white and had cropped hair. Sabitri’s hair was long, unkempt and full of lice. She often sang in a monotone and a soft groaning voice. She sometimes sat by the garden, looked up at the sky with blank stare and did not talk for hours. As if she was waiting. She always came to the communal kitchen door when the smell of spicy food traveled through the air, and looked eagerly to my great-aunt for her share of the

My mother brought her own little case of vermilion powder and put some in the parting of her hair. Then she took a flat nail and dipped the head of the nail into the red powder and placed it on Sabitri’s forehead that made a perfect dot between her eyebrows. She then touched her chin and kissed her stretched fingers in a gesture of blessing for this poor girl.

Sabitri stepped out onto the grass courtyard and waited for her husband. She had a small bag made of jute under her arm and she clutched on to it tightly. The man came late in the evening and took her away. Her mother cried her eyes out and did not eat her evening meal.

Nobody heard from Sabitri or her husband for days. Our spring break would soon be over. We were getting ready to go back to the city to start our

usual routine of school.

One very early morning there was a loud noise at the front gate and the entire house was woken up. Several men were trying to push their way into the house through the small door. One of them declared that he was Sabitri’s brotherin-law and demanded to meet my grandfather, the head of the household. My grandfather came down from his bedroom and met the man in one of the sitting rooms.

The man told his story and did not spare any details.

He described how Sabitri was totally useless for housework and cooking and could not even milk the cows the family owned. She was always crying and refused to sleep in the bedroom with her husband. She complained that the husband came to her drunk and vomited on her time after time and hit her till she had bruises covering her whole face. One day the brothers decided to tie her hands and legs and hold her down so that her husband could consummate the marriage.

Sabitri screamed through the whole procedure and ended up biting her husband in the leg so hard that the village doctor had to be called. The brothers had to beat her until she stopped making any more fuss. She had to learn the act of obedience to her husband’s family and starvation for three days was the consequence of her insubordination. Sabitri ran away.

But before she disappeared she took the kitchen knife and

slit the throat of her husband in the thick of the night.

They called the police. The entire family was now in shock, in mourning of their loyal faultless son who performed his lawful duties of a husband. They were humiliated and shamed by Sabitri’s despicable, crazy criminal behavior and asked for another huge sum of money to be compensated for their suffering.

My grandfather was speechless to hear this tale. He paid this brother-in-law off generously and asked him to leave.

We wondered about Sabitri. We did not know where she was and whether she would be able to find her way back to the house or she might never come home. Our spring break was over and we had to get back to the city. My mother told us to forget about Sabitri and get on with the usual routine of going to school, music lessons, tennis lessons, swimming lessons and so on. But it was impossible to forget Sabitri. Something must have happened to her.

The next day our servant from the country house came to Kolkata with the news and met my father. Sabitri had come back to the house but she did not enter the living quarters. It was hot and humid in the country and the night was still. The people who lived in the outbuilding heard somebody weeping in the middle of the night but did not care to come out of their mosquito nets to check on what was going on. The people who lived in the main house did not hear anything.

Sabitri’s mother woke early every morning and came out to the grass courtyard to gather fresh Shiuli flowers to make a fresh garland for the Goddess Sitala. In the haze of the dawn she saw her daughter. One of the branches of the tree was bent, almost touching the ground. Behind the thick branch full of leaves and pure white countless blossoms of fragrant Shiuli flowers was the drooping head of Sabitri. Her red sari was wound tightly around her neck. She looked very pretty for the first time in her life in her lean brown figure and with a bright red vermilion dot on her forehead.

My grandfather arranged a simple cremation service at the burning steps of the river Ganga that flowed nearby. The river was sacred and could absolve a person of any sinful deed. The ashes were scattered into the water and we never talked about Sabitri after that day.

Our next spring break did not seem as exciting as in the previous years. We came to the village by train from the city as usual. We rode the cyclerickshaws through the winding road, past the Shiva temple and the bend before the house.

As we came through the small gate, the sweet scent filled the air. We walked onto the grass courtyard and saw the Shiuli tree in full bloom as usual. It looked pure with a pale white grandeur and the branches bent over to the ground from the weight of thousands of fresh blossoms.

Our spring breaks were never the same anymore.

“Imet a very nice girl, she is in our group, works in a lab across the hall from the lab I will be working in, she is so kind and helpful,

and I know I will be very happy there.” I said that to my parents without pausing for a moment while entering our home after my first day as a research fellow at a new university.

“How do you know?” my mother asked. “You just met her.”

“I know, there is something very nice about her, I can’t explain, but she is unique.” I replied.

I am a scientist, and I knew that explanation didn’t make much sense, but I strongly felt that I was right. That evening I continued talking about how

nice this girl had been to me.

“We would like to meet her too. Could she come for dinner before going home on Friday night?” My mother asked. We lived close to the campus, so I thought it might not be too inconvenient for her to accept my mother’s invitation, unless

That Nice Girl

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

she had some other plan.

Next day I asked her, and as I had hoped, she agreed to come.

Friday arrived, and she came home with me. During the week I had talked so much about her, how smart she was, how much she had been helping me to get started on my new project, etc., etc., that my father was also interested to meet her.

“Hello, I am Anne” she extended her hand to my parents as she walked in.

My parents told her how much I had been talking about her all week and they were very happy to meet her in person.

Anne looked at me with a cheery smile.

Before sitting down Anne put down her pocketbook on the floor, took out a round container from a bag she was carrying, gave it to my mother and said

“I baked a cake for you; hope you like desserts.”

We all were very surprised. All of us in the lab worked till late every evening and Anne had a rather long drive home.

“When did you find time to bake it?” My father asked. “Hope you didn’t stay up all night for that.” My father, being a physician, was always concerned about taking proper care of one’s health.

“I enjoyed baking it, nothing fancy, hope you like it.” Anne answered, with her usual pleasant smile.

Needless to say we all enjoyed the freshly baked cake very much. Anne seemed to like my mother’s cooking and complimented her. During dinner we all had a very pleasant conversation. Anne talked about her parents and two brothers, who were living in other states; she had been at this university for about two years, etc. My parents told her how happy I was to be working in the same group with her. Anne smiled and said “Hope I can be of help to her.”

It was early May, and the night was getting cool. After a while Anne was ready to leave, thanked us for dinner, and I walked with her to her car. After I came back my parents told me that I was right about Anne being a very special and nice person.

“She seems to light up the room,” my mother commented. That was more than three decades ago. During this time our professional lives went through a lot of changes. After completing her research project at the university, Anne got a job at a large local industry. About a year later, I also started working at the same corporation. Due to financial and other reasons, incomprehensible to many of the employees, the corporation downsized and finally closed down. Because of such problems, most of the employees had rather difficult work schedules during that period, but Anne always helped me to overcome many of the hurdles as much as possible. After leaving that large industrial organization, Anne and I worked at separate smaller organizations for a while, and then decided to resign and devote our time to other interests.

Throughout all those years a lot of changes happened in our personal lives also, including the loss of close family members. Anne was always there for me and gave me the strength I needed to manage my life. She understood exactly what would make my life more enjoyable and what I needed to hear on days when even bright sunshine was not enough to remove gloominess. The nice girl I met on my first day at the new university still lights up my days, even from about 2000 miles and two time zones away. I was told that a good friend is a gift from God, and I believe I have the best gift anyone can have.

Aloose lock of hair had escaped from Gargi’s neat braid, tickling her broad forehead and thick lashes. She tucked it behind her ear

and looked around the jampacked metro compartment with a sigh. She did not like taking

the morning eight-thirty train from Tollygunje. It was terribly crowded. Students, office-

goers, quick-tempered mothers with toddlers, were all packed in like sardines. She preferred

A Mother’s Heart

Sreya Sarkar, Illinois

taking the eight-ten train with less people and less fuss but could never make it to the metro station before eight-thirty. After taking a year-long break from work she was anxious to

reach office on time and not provide her boss any reason to complain. She got down at Central and took a short auto ride to her advertising agency. For the first two weeks she spent the thirty minute ride chewing her nails nervously but now she had got back to the groove and felt more comfortable. She was glad that they were moving to their new apartment soon. That would substantially cut down her commute and allow her to spend more time with her oneyear old toddler. She hated leaving Guddu, her happy-faced little boy, alone with her motherin-law every day but she had no choice.

Gargi had worked hard to secure a place for herself in Kolkata’s Advertising community and had believed in giving her all and more to her creative department. But Guddu’s birth had re-arranged her priorities. Her friends had told her that it had softened her. That she no longer had the burning desire to stir up a storm with her ambitious streak but Gargi knew that she still had all that simmering below but now she appeared more relaxed. Motherhood was teaching her patience every day. It was teaching her not to be in a hurry, not to be desperate to achieve all the time. Now she was willing to wait and slow down a bit so that she could enjoy everything--her work and motherhood--more.

She swept her eyes over the throng crowding around her and saw a few familiar faces. She had seen them often since she

had started taking the train. But there was one particular face that drew her attention more than the others. It reminded her of her mother’s face—soft and tranquil. She had never got over the shock of losing her mother to a freak accident ten years ago. But the pain had dulled over the years and she learnt to live with it. No wonder she sought her face out every morning in the crowd. Today she did not see her. Perhaps she was in a different compartment. She remembered her well as the other lady also got down at her metro stop and switched to an auto to reach her final destination. Some days she shared her auto ride as well. By now they nodded their heads and smiled when they ran into each other.

Gargi was lucky to get a place to sit today. She let out a bored sigh and closed her eyes, trying to prepare a mental list of things she had to get done in her agency today. She felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder and opened her eyes a bit surprised. There she was, smiling at her. It crinkled her eyes and lit up her face with a warm glow. “Would you mind keeping this bag under your leg?” She pushed a big shopper towards Gargi’s knees without waiting for an answer. Gargi smiled back and offered her seat. She knew that in this crowd that kind of adjustment was impossible but she still offered. “Don’t bother, I am fine”, said the older lady. “Just afraid that the crowd is going to kick my bag out”.

The bag smelled like heaven. It smelled of coconut, jaggery,

and fennel seed. It smelled like Gargi’s childhood afternoons. The afternoons she spent dangling her leg off a high stool in her mother’s kitchen, while she labored away at creating one delicacy after another.

“What do you have in here? It smells delicious”, she said savoring the aroma. “It’s for my daughter. She does not know how to cook. I mean… she does but not the specialty dishes that I can make. She was craving them for a while. So I made malpoa and patishapta for her. But she doesn’t know yet. It’s a surprise.” She gave Gargi a conspiratorial wink. “My twin children loved my food since they could barely walk”. Gargi looked at her with renewed interest. She asked, “Two girls or two boys?”

“One boy, one girl”.

“That must be wonderful!”

The lady smiled and nodded her head.

At Park Street a fresh wave of commuters pushed inside the compartment and hid the lady’s plump and short frame from Gargi. Well before the train approached Central, Gargi started her tedious journey from her seat to the door carrying the lady’s bag gingerly, guarding it from the crushing crowd so that none of the patishaptas got squashed. The lady took the bag from her carefully and thanked her generously.

“There you are! I was hoping to bump into you”, said the lady mopping sweat from her

forehead. “The other day you helped me so much and I forgot to even ask your name! How rude of me.

“I am Gargi. And you?”

“Krishna. Call me Krishna masi. Okay?” Her big bulging eyes were vibrant and sincere. In spite of her short frame she looked tall in her cotton saree. She held her head high and carried herself with grace and dignity.

Gargi nodded her head. “Are you going to your daughter’s house again?” She figured that Krishna must be going to the same place since her route was always the same. “Yes, I go to her house thrice a week. She also has twins you know! One boy and one girl. They have a nanny to look after them but I still go to help out. Managing two kids is not easy and my daughter is not the most organized person to handle all this alone. On top of that she has a full-time job”, she said. She prattled on about her daughter in a complaining tone for the next ten minutes. “You work?” she asked just when Gargi was losing interest in the monologue. “Yes, I work in an advertising agency”, said Gargi. “You make advertisement film?” Krishna asked wide eyed. “Yes, I am in the creative department”. Krishna could see that Gargi was married. She had obviously noticed the telltale marking of sindoor parting her hair. “Do you have children?” she asked. “I have a one-year old boy.”

“Oh, it’s that age when they start growing their personalities and asserting themselves. He must be a handful!” said Krishna.

“He is fun”, Gargi said with a whiff of longing in her voice. As if sensing her wistfulness, Krishna put her hand on Gargi’s wrist and said, “Children are resilient, at times much more than adults.” Gargi stared at Krishna. How did she know that I am worrying about Guddu? She looked perplexed. Krishna smiled at her. “It’s every mother’s burden my dear as long as she lives. Wherever they are and however old they get, you will always worry about them. At times even when you know that it will not do them any good.” There was a hint of anguish in Krishna’s tone. “How old are your grandchildren?”

“They are three. The girl is strong and robust but the boy is of a more weak constitution. I keep telling my daughter that she should take extra care of him. Boys are more delicate, you see!” Gargi did not really understand why but she still nodded her head.

“Tell me more about your children---your twins”, said Gargi.

“When they were growing up Titir, my son was as calm as a crystal…like Dalai Lama. He was always more sensible than his years and Titli…!” Krishna rolled her eyes in exasperation. “She was a terror—always willful and stubborn. She would convince Titir to participate in all sorts of mischief and my sweet boy would always follow”.

Now the daily commute for Gargi did not seem as tedious as before, at least not the three days Krishna masi took the

train with her. Gargi was not a big talker but Krishna did not mind it one bit. She would start talking as if they had never stopped. She would ask Gargi many questions---about her son, her husband, her work. Gargi was generally reserved but did not mind giving Krishna honest answers. Bit by bit she opened up to her. A special space long vacant in her heart started filling up gradually.

One day Krishna passed her a tiffin box as they were about to take off for their destinations at the end of their train ride. “Don’t open it now. Open it during your lunch break”, she said. That afternoon Gargi had a very satisfying lunch after ages. Krishna had lovingly packed luchi aloor tarkari and two patishaptas. Tears welled up in her eyes as she wolfed down the deep fried flat bread and the spicy potato curry. She took her time relishing the patishapta. The flour and semolina crêpe with coconut filling melted in her mouth. That night she went back home and could not stop talking about Krishna and her thoughtfulness. Her husband listened with amusement. Before retiring for the night he reminded her that they were moving to Girish Park in two months. They needed to pack and arrange for movers soon. There were a hundred and ten things to be done before their move. Gargi sighed and enjoyed a few more minutes thinking about her delicious lunch before moving on to focus on the move.

running out of time. Instead I got you this”, said Gargi passing Krishna her empty tiffin box and an envelope. “What’s in this?” “I got you two passes for the latest Srijit Mukherjee film. “Really? How did you get it?” said Krishna blinking her eyes rapidly. “This is one of the little perks I get working in the advertising World. We did an assignment for the film. You said you like his movies”. Gargi was pleased to see Krishna excited. She was grinning like a child. “I can take Titli with me”, she said excitedly. “Titli was always running off to movies unlike Titir, who was so studious.”

The next two weeks went by fast with a heavy load of work for Gargi both in office and at home. Packing and moving was proving to be more strenuous than she had imagined. She saw Krishna every few days and they kept talking. Now Gargi knew exactly what she would tell her. She would generally talk about her children—complain about Titli and praise Titir. She knew by now that Krishna favored her son over her daughter. She also knew that Krishna thought that Titli was an incompetent mother, barely capable in keeping her household together. She did not understand how a mother could discriminate among her own children so but she did, and very strongly. Gargi did not comment about it. It was none of her business anyway.

“Masi I got something for you. I thought I will cook something but I am always

One morning Krishna looked unusually troubled. She was fidgety and distracted. She asked Gargi all the usual questions though and continued showering

her fusillade of advice on Gargi. “How is your Guddu?” “Have you started potty training him yet?” “Make sure he completes his vaccinations” “Make him sit with a plate of rice and let him play with it. Children learn to like their food more if you allow them to play with it.” But her heart was not in her advice today. “What’s wrong? You look distracted”, she could not help saying. “Oh, it’s nothing. My grandson is not doing too well these days. I am a bit worried. That’s all”, she said with a weary smile.

“What has happened to him?” asked Gargi, her brows furrowed with concern.

Krishna let out a sigh. “He has a weak heart”, she said quietly. “Whenever he has a cold, he has difficulty breathing. Last two nights were really bad”

“Oh”, said Gargi almost inaudibly. She did not know what to say. She squeezed Krishna’s soft round wrist gently hoping to comfort her. Krishna was as quiet as the hush of evening. She looked outside the metro window with wet eyes. The stations were rushing past in a blur.

“Have you consulted a doctor? I know a very good child specialist in Moulali, I can pass you his contact information. It doesn’t hurt to have a second opinion”, said Gargi stroking Krishna’s hand tenderly.

Krishna turned her face slowly towards Gargi. “We have already consulted so many doctors. They say it’s a congenital heart condition. Operation is an option but he is

still very small. His weak body will not be able to withstand it. The doctors want to wait a few years. Till then we have to be very careful with him.” She sighed and fell silent again.

It was almost time for Gargi to move. She was tense about the numerous loose ends she had to tie up before the final day. Guddu had been feeling colicky and crying a lot for the last two nights. Gargi was exhausted with all the work and lack of sleep. She trudged along to her office bristling at the least of disturbance around her. She had already snapped at the auto driver and glared at one of her co-passengers in the train since morning. She was ready to almost bite off some one’s head when Krishna pulled her hand and drew her into the seat next to hers that had been just vacated by a large woman. “I have not seen you for the last few days. Where have you been?” She was back to being cheerful and gregarious. Gargi was not in a mood to socialize. “I am moving next week to Girish Park. So, the last two days my husband dropped me at my office after we ran some errands together. Guddu has also not been well. I have been really busy…”

“You are moving! You never told me. Why didn’t you tell me? Now who will I talk to?” said Krishna cutting Gargi short.

“We can still keep in touch. Here, I will give you my business card”, said Gargi hastily, scribbling down her

new home address and her cell number on the back of the card. Krishna stared at it and then at her blankly.

“Well, Girish Park is much closer to your office. It will definitely ease your commute”, she said quietly. “But you could have told me before. I could have helped you”. Her tone was turning whiny. Gargi felt another wave of irritation sweep over her but kept quiet. She changed the topic. “How is your grandson?” Krishna’s smile was back. “He is much better. I stayed at my daughter’s place last weekend. That helped him a lot. My daughter thought I was just fussing over nothing but she is not the understanding type you see like Titir who would know why I stayed over. I did not pay heed to her words and stuck around”, she said in a triumphant tone.

“Girls these days are so willful I tell you. They come and go as they like and never tell the elders what they are up to. My grandson got so sick because my daughter took him to the children’s fair at Maidan. I had told her not to take him to that dusty place but she would not listen to me.”

“Oh I so wish Titli was more like Titir—calm and practical. Never saying or doing anything unwise.”

Gargi could not take it anymore. Something snapped in her and she blurted out. “I don’t understand why you criticize your daughter so much. She can’t be doing everything wrong! And your son, oh he seems to be a perfect angel isn’t

he? Always good, always right! You are so biased!”

“Yes, girls these days are brasher than before but look at your generation. You are so regressive. You openly prefer boys over girls. Maybe you don’t even realize it. It’s the mentality our society breeds. Always putting women down, undermining their achievements and ignoring their problems. Your daughter is as good as your son, if not better! If as a mother, you won’t acknowledge that, then how can we expect anyone else to do that?”

Krishna stared at Gargi open mouthed. She did not protest, nor did she cower. Just stared at her. A slow and sad smile stretched her lips. “You have misunderstood me”, she said once Gargi’s rant was over. “I have not misunderstood you” said Gargi defiantly. But she felt unhappy as well. With her rage and rant out of her system, she felt limp like a rag doll. Krishna let out a ragged breath and looked out of the window. Gargi felt embarrassed at her behavior. She had let her frustration show. She had vented, that too in front of a woman who had been nothing but kind to her. “I am sorry Masi. I am just tired. Please don’t mind me”, she said sheepishly when they reached Central. She told her about the sleepless nights and the anxiety attacks she had been having about the move and her son. Krishna smiled at her patiently. “Don’t worry about that. If you won’t tell a mother about your

troubles, who would you tell?”

“But I misbehaved”, said Gargi. “No, you didn’t. You were just protecting my daughter because you could relate with her problems” Krishna held her hands and continued, “Listen I wanted to give your son something. When is your last day on this route?”

“This Friday is my last day on this route”, said Gargi guiltily. “Okay. See you on Friday then”, said Krishna with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I know you will manage well”.

unspoken need. “I…I know you feel that I favor my daughter over my son and you don’t like that in me.” Gargi waited while Krishna fussed with her bag straps. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I love my daughter a lot, Gargi. She is the reason why I wake up every day and have a sense of purpose in life. She saved me when I lost the will to live”. Gargi said softly, “It’s okay Masi. You don’t have to explain.”

“Here, this is something I wanted to give to your little boy”, said Krishna as she passed Gargi a small present wrapped in a teddy bear printed wrapping paper. “It’s a book Titli’s children love. I read it to them every now and then”. Gargi smiled shily. “Thank you!”

“You look less grumpy today, I guess you could finally catch some sleep last night”, said Krishna with a wink. “I did. I am so sorry for the outburst the last time I saw you. Listen, I need your phone number and address.” Gargi took out a small pad and a pen from her handbag. They talked about her move and her changed route of commute for a while. Krishna was as usual full of helpful advice.

Krishna looked at her as if she wanted to tell her something but was not being able to. “What is it Mashi?” Gargi sensed an

“No, I need to…explain. I criticize Titli because I can. But I can’t criticize Titir ever and that gives me so much pain”. Krishna was making no sense to Gargi. “What does that mean really?” she asked, mildly frustrated. “I can’t find fault with a son who no longer lives”, said Krishna in a strained voice. It hit Gargi like a jolt of lightening. “He passed away when he was just thirteen. He had the same congenital heart defect as Titli’s son”. Their station arrived too soon today. Krishna gave her a big hug and said, “Call me. I have given you my number. And take care!” Gargi returned her hug but couldn’t say anything. She stared listlessly as Krishna walked away with her big shopper. Her vision swam with tears. She was a mother and yet she had not been able to understand another mother’s heart. And she had judged her. Gargi sat down at one of the station benches and wept. For Krishna’s son who had died too young. For her mother who had left too soon.

Antique Land

Mandira Chattopadhyay, Georgia

Yes, I’m coming from afar Where thousands of years ago

The fine white sand

Danced in the air

When the aliens Built their pyramids of stone.

Yes, I am coming from A distant land

When one afternoon

Fifty-eight tourists Were murdered by militants In front of the temple of Queen Hatshepsut On the west bank of Luxor (She always dressed as a man). I’m sure that day The dust devils swirled all around

I consider a world where Beauty floats. In the magical oasis Of Siwa in Egypt

Here beautiful girls Hide their faces with netted veil. They go round town In the donkey carts Perhaps they Look at you mischievously From behind their netted curtains, Time is stilled here.

I see throughout its history The Oracle of Ammons offered Solutions to myriads of problems, In Hellenistic times in the land of Egypt, Siwa oasis was the Primary destination for the sort of mystery, That you don’t get at home. Even the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Don’t come close.

When Alexander the Great Appeared from his audience With the oracle at Siwa, He knew that the trip Was well worth it

The detectives of today can still find Secrets in the oasis of Siwa.

I can tell you about Cleopatra’s heart throbbing Bath in Marsa Matruh, Not far from Siwa Oasis, where Silence prevails over all. Here in this antique land, Alexander’s successor Cleopatra Wrapped Marc Antony around In her little finger, As all the other admirers Anxiously awaited their turn.

Deep in the beautiful oasis guarded by Luscious date and palm trees, The natives believe If you dig any part of the earth there, Water gushes out instantly.

Did you know that?

Moses was indeed an Egyptian, Who placed his footsteps on The echoing hills around Mount Sinai: And found The Ten Commandments in fire

Let your tired feet rest, As the Bedouins haul you On a camel --

To watch the heavenly sunrise At the mountaintop, As it did for maharajas.

What did you find there?

Murals of the afterlife

The worshippers of cats and bulls, Made dead bodies last forever--. Mummified cats, of course, And the pharaohs and their queens, Ramses the Great and Nefertiti, the ancients’ Audrey Hepburn. Come, lose you alarm clocks, The muezzins awake you each morning. At evening, a Nile dinner cruise with the swirling Sufis Chanting “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Panacea

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

Only when the darkness fluoresces under the dome of magical arctic light, the phenomenon of extreme tenderness is revealed to me. At that instant I let my guard down and begin to weep without noise, remembering wisps of those strange nameless longings lost to me through ages, from beyond my birth and even rebirths.

Aches spread through every artery of my body, reaching the heart that bursts open, letting a precious lotus flower in a tight bud spill out. It floats before me in that darkness tinged by brilliant Borealis. I pluck out its divine petals one at a time, to keep count of longings fleeting by.

When they are gone, all fifty of them, the hollow stem dangles from my palm. Ever so gently I thread it through the hole in my heart, hoping to make a siphon, never knowing what damages it may cause along its way or what I may draw out of that unfathomable depth. Pitiful poisons?

Or a panacea for fulfillment of all desires?

The Wheel of Six Sins

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

Let the wheel with six spokes roll on forever with shameless pomp and mindless heraldry. That is your goal. You fulfill all carnal desire. To be brazen and nasty is part of your mystery.

With shameless pomp and mindless heraldry you declare to the world how great you are. To be brazen and nasty is part of the mystery. If one disagrees, you fill him with mortal fear.

Declare to the world how wonderful you are Keep all the ill-gotten wealth you acquire. If one wants a share, wage the inevitable war. Be careful – your anger must not backfire.

Infatuations tie you to the wealth you acquire. Soon, the spoke of vanity may trip the wire. Along with it, desire and greed may conspire with their spokes broken with outcomes dire.

Wearing a mask, you spew your brand of fire. Telling brazen lies becomes part of the mystery. Soon, other spokes of sins collapse. A quagmire swallows your wheel in the face of vain heraldry.

Sins or Ripus in Sanskrit: Most Hindu texts do not accept the concept of sin as defined in the English language. The common word used is an adversary or enemy. In this poem, I have used the word sin for Ripu with a poetic license. Ancient sages defined six great Ripus that may lead a mortal into deep trouble. Six Ripus are: Lust (Kama), Greed (Lobha), Anger (Krodha), Arrogance (Mada), Attachment (Moha) and Jealousy (Matsarya)

The Nightingale and the Poet

Prasenjit Baisya, New Jersey

Walls of the mansion, cobwebbed and dusty

Leaves, strewn around, shriveled and weakened

Sounds tiptoeing around the hallways

The threadbare robe-clad man, slumped in a hollow room, purposeless

A despair of aimlessness pervading the air

The gray bird looks around

Having flown in from the grizzled tree in the backyard

Muses to herself – “wasn’t there poetry and music here?”

“Where has it all gone?”

Spying the man, the bird launches into song

Stirred from his apathy, the man rises and cries out

“Why, o nightingale , that is surely music from the heavens !!!”

“Will thou sing again for me?”

The nightingale muses – “Ah, I would, but where are thy words to inspire me?”

Puzzled, the man says – “Me? What may I do to inspire you?”

“Bring forth the words you smashed into pieces, nay buried, in this house of despair

Dust off thy apathy and unleash those exquisite torrents of rhyme!!! ”

“O my poet – if thou shall do so, my song shall never cease …” – warbles the bird.

The poet lurches to his knees, unsure of his gait, hesitant of his voice

“Will I be able to raise rhyme after all these decades?” his heart wonders

Low at the onset, progressively strong and clear, his voice splits the air

A poem of yesteryears, held in place by time, no less sensuous than when first penned

The leaves stir and churn, cobwebs shrivel away as the house itself rumbles awake

The nightingale , stupefied, cries in anguish, memories of yesteryears, love and lives lost ..

“What wonder is your rhyme, o poet!! Why was this magic allowed to die?”

“If there are gods in heaven, surely they must have wept in despair”

The poet, now so vividly alive , stood upright, robe cast aside

Weeping freely and profusely, chest heaving and with overwhelming sadness, ruminates

“O nightingale from the heavens, there were many birds of yesteryear”

“Of varied shapes and colors, of loving and caressing temperament”

“Some reveled in my rhyme, some mocked it, others would not lend ear to it …”

“Finally, in much pain, and to make peace,

I cast my rhyme to everlasting rest

Among the leaves and hollow rooms of this house, Never to be awakened again here, in this chest”.

“There was none like you, o nightingale of mine, to rend asunder the fabric of time” “And now, as the gods have ordained, the rhyme shall never stop”. So saying, the poet stood in brilliant sunlight, the house all aglow Rhymes bursting forth in torrents – here, there and everywhere, As if time had finally released the shackles of despair.

The nightingale flitted from room to room, Serenading all and sundry, With beauteous song matching every unfolding rhyme, Its heart filled with peace and notes at their warbling best.

Never again would they stop, the nightingale and the poet A rhythm so haunting Held together by an invisible fabric In the everlasting music of time…

My

Mom and Me on International Woman’s Day

Syamali Nandi, Oklahoma

Woman gives my first breath and air, Woman who takes my first care.

Woman gives me her blood and flesh, Woman gives me her heart, body

To give a birth and rest…

Woman gives me my health and strength She gives me my first food, grain.

So Woman is who is “Me.” Woman is always inside “He.”

That is why, I the Woman, nice to be!

Wish I Could…..

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

Wish I could spread my wings

Fly over the serene river, let the soothing drizzles greet me.

Wish I could float in the air

Far away from the blemishes of darkness.

Dive in gently to the flowing stream, swim along the placid waves,

Immerse in the soothing touch of my companions, the swans.

Wish I could become one of them.

They can go anywhere, anytime, as their hearts desire.

Wish I could break the barriers, the artificial ones created for us,

The needless boundaries that cripple us, hurt us,

Cause painful, invisible scars.

Can I not fulfil my wish?

My Island

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

An island it is

My home, my dream home, that is what I call it

The surroundings change, the views don’t

The serene river is all around me

Nothing hinders its flow to interrupt my solitude

I remain immersed in the little island of my dream

Sunrise and sunset I enjoy, share the delight of the songbirds

Gloom does descend, occasionally

Only when I let the extremes cross the river to bring the darkness

On those days the raindrops cheer me up with their music

Bring me back to my island

To my serene solitude.

Blinded

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey

Raw, powerful, all encompassing

It comes as a storm

And threatens to tear your guts out.

It leaves you exhilarated, it leaves you strong, It leaves you feeling like you have the moon!

It makes you feel wanted

It makes you feel beautiful

It takes over your days and nights...

Pulsating, throbbing, it robs you of breath

Then makes you realize that it IS your breath.

You journey to the stars

The skies enfold you

The rainbow seems within your grasp

Nothing else matters, all sensible thought

Left far behind......

What was that sound?

What could it be?

What is this pain and why should it be?

Like a punch in your stomach, it has knocked you down

You journey to the ground straight from the crown

You don’t need these tears, when will they go?

The more you wipe away, the more they flow...

Surge…

Chitra Mondal, New Jersey

I stared at the ocean

And saw my soul

Crushed with broken dreams

Submerged with pain

I watched the waves

Felt the surge of grief

Coming in one after the next

Each more perilous than the last

I sat by the water

Let the foam cover my toes

It wasn’t so choppy anymore

It wasn’t that cold

The tides are changing I know it will end

But the ocean is fickle

So the question is when…

You don’t know where you stand you don’t know what to do

“God give me strength, please I beseech You.”

I put all at stake, I gave it my all

Then why this cruelty, why this fall?

Trust, faith, love they meant nothing to you

Why did I not see it? I know......

I was blinded by you.

The Roadside Weaver

Indrani Mondal, Illinois

A colorful patchwork shawl thrown over thin shoulders he sits there on the pavement, flagstones chipped with age weeds nudging their sharp, unruly elbows in between slivers of dusty green in the worn, fissured granite, in straight backed, cross legged ease hour after hour on a torn sack, a modern Buddha in stance and profile, fingers endlessly in motion weaving and threading stone upon stone, bead after bead some real, some look alike all equally precious to the eager wearers waiting patiently (or not) all around watching avidly as those adroit fingers, scarred dark with constant thread friction, bring form and shape to every loose anarchy of jingling color and spilled sparkle, stringing row upon row of neat bind to hold a neck maybe or a wrist with grace, glitter and symmetry; birds come to roost with a flap of wings and strewn feathers in the overhanging peepul tree sharing loud chirps of their day’s adventures over the din of vehicles of all shapes and sizes driving by in a cacophony of horn blasts, screeching brakes and belching exhausts.

None of the sounds and smells interfere with the weaver’s incessant bead play telling tales of style after style in rhythms galore quiet, calm, effortless… almost as mesmerizing as the tapestry of our lives being woven incessantly by an artist more dexterous, swift and articulate than we.

Thus I sit on my wobbly tin stool balancing a tiny overheated terracotta cup of over sweet tea in my wriggly fingers trying to make sense of this endless quiet creation of pattern in the surrounding chaos of distracting noises while night falls.. groping yet to find my homecoming in such relics of my forsaken childhood.

The Street Venders

Indrani Mondal, Illinois

Amidst the daily evening crowds

Jostling to get home in street dust and fumes, the crammed street venders spill all along the uneven pavements flaunting their wares in unabashed abandon, from bewitching eateries; serving piping hot savory onion fritters gurgling and spluttering in the murky hot oil of giant cauldrons, brick red skewered kebabs smoking in blazing make shift pits, or flatbreads with a cracked egg on top fried to pungent perfection then rolled with chopped salad plump lentil stuffed pitas dipped in spicy potato curry, along with the ubiquitous tiny terracotta cup of sweet milky tea; to sculpture stalls of sedate clay images of Gods and Goddesses with intricate colorful adornments, useful household tools, keys, almanacs to binding and restoring old manuscripts, junk jewelry from scarps of metal, wood and stone ingeniously strung for every size, shape and taste, colors, flavors, smells gone wild in ad hoc frenzy, as I run into bustling bodies just by standing to admire, a common risk here taken in stride, but for me a wonder at every step a discovery at every turn a gasp, a choke, a stumble ending nevertheless in an unexpected chuckle often at the marvel of assertive life, a pang of guilt sometimes or an unshed tear at the unabated flow of talent so cheaply spent, so easily squandered, from the gnarled sculptor, the talkative painter, the prayerful weaver, the wise book-binder the sprinting cartoon street actor to the innovative boy cook, all unsung heroes of their evolving destinies every day, an encounter with awe even reverence for me at this coming face to face with so many palpable hungers some alien and remote maybe but incredibly resonant even now this sheer thrust for survival that manages to fire, mold and define my loves and hates move the tectonic plates of my world so many decades and latitudes away.

When Dreams Meet Reality

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey

When dreams meet reality, Why do dreams have to die? Why does the dark night Always rub the light from the sky?

Dreams are so delicate... They are tiny shoots of green; Shyly raising their little heads, In their effort to be seen.

Trusting and hopeful, Gentle as a fawn; They are life’s own offspring, As tender as the dawn.

Then rises the strong sun, As it is wont to do; Spreading light and heat Warming the whole earth through.

While it reaches its zenith, Traveling ‘cross the sky, It scorches and searches Every corner low and high.

Now dreams are often fragile, They cannot bear the light. The heat often burns them, After the cool of the night.

What had seemed so real When seen with closed eye, Burns and seems to fade But, does it really have to die?

Not if you take care, Of its leaves firm and green; If you protect and nourish it, The miracle will be seen.

If you nurture the dream, With tender loving care; From it, will grow a tree With you, its fruits to share.

Don’t be scared to dream, Look the glare in the eye! If you love them enough Your dreams never die.

Two Poems

Basab Dasgupta, California

Poem 1

I won’t hide all my pride with you as bride at my side to guide my stride into the sky. I will abide, I will provide with arms open wide I want to glide, come ride the tide of my “high”.

Poem 2

Like a desert dried baked this heart cried, ached to cool in rain or flood for years. My lonely weeping soul is only a gaping hole that’s full of pain, blood and tears. Every instant it seems love a very distant dream a mirage that stays far forever. Levee set in rock; Heavy gate with lock block barrage of waves from river.

When Dead Leaves Decay

Aniruddha Bagchi, West Bengal

When dead leaves fall,

There is a silent swish in the air

Like nature heaving a sigh.

But when dead leaves rustle

Under the feet of playful children, It rises in a crescendo

Like peals of laughter –

Before mingling into the fading twilight.

In an auburn heap

Lit up by the sun’s ray, When dead leaves decay

Impregnating the earth –

Life is reborn in newer mirth, Sequencing a tale of greater glories

Of sprouts and birds and bees

Leaving footprints of a giant leap

(Half in waking, half in sleep).

(In respectful memory of my teacher, the late Professor Jasodhara Bagchi.)

Bengali Rhymes in Translation

Aniruddha Bagchi, West Bengal

I

The Boys of Jhinedah being wealthy men, With luxury and menagerie shot into fame. They added a collection of pigeons galore, A fine assortment, never seen before.

The Squire would sit back and betel-leaf munch, The pigeons in turn would go, glean and crunch.

Yonder in zigzag the showy swans swim, Courtly coo the pigeons and feed his whim.

II

Once there was a wonder land

With crazy occurrences, Where sunny nights and luny days

Made routine appearances.

The people there would stop and marvel Were the sky not green, And unless the vegetation a perfect blue

Protest in loud din.

The fish walked on all fours – grazing; In water, birds reigned supreme.

Youth Corner

xyl¨!¡!þ›

Religion’s Effect on Society and Government

Nikhil Lahiri, New Jersey (Age 14)

For millennia, peoples from all corners of the world have practiced religion. Religion has been a source of information, of comfort, of

power. While religion has its origins in morality and ethics, people have used religion as a weapon as long as religion has been around. Power-hungry people use religion as a scare tactic and as a way to justify their rise to power, such as the pharaohs of Egypt and kings of Babylon. However, once in a position of power, political and religious leaders have further used religion as a weapon to manipulate society. In ancient Babylon, King Hammurabi used religion to justify his prejudiced code of laws. The Torah, the most sacred religious text of Judaism, was created by humans and gives power to men in society. In ancient India, Aryan immigrants incorporated the Caste system into the religion they brought to give themselves the most power over society. Religious beliefs and values shaped the hierarchy of a society, which also influenced family dynamics and social relationships. Because of this effect, humans began to use religion as a weapon to benefit themselves. This practice continues to this day.

Around 1790 BCE, a man by the name of Hammurabi rose to power over the kingdom of Babylon, which stretched out over most of Sumer and Mesopotamia. As many political leaders of ancient kingdoms had done, Hammurabi used religion as justification for his rise to power. He claimed that it was the gods themselves that gave him power to rule. The use of religion in this way is an example of how religion can be used as a weapon. As religious people, peasants and people of lower and middle class were god-fearing people, and they believed that Hammurabi was rightfully chosen by the gods to be their leader. Once in power, Hammurabi established a code of laws, the famous “Hammurabi’s Code.” Again, he used religion as the justification for these laws. While these laws were based on ethics and morals, they showed prejudice against women and people of lower classes (although Hammurabi’s laws were more forgiving of women than other civilizations). Some of these laws included Laws 198, 199,

and 201 of Hammurabi’s Code in the “Civ DBQ” packet. They show favoritism to people of higher classes, and place lower value on the lives of people of lower classes by instituting lesser punishments for crimes committed against people of lower classes. Law 198 states, “If he [a nobleman] put out the eye of a [commoner] or break the bone of a [commoner], he shall pay one [silver] mina.” However, Laws 196 and 197 state, “If he [a nobleman] put out the eye of another nobleman, his eye shall be put out,” and, “If he [a nobleman] breaks another [noble]man’s bone, his bone shall be broken.” The eye for an eye punishments only apply to people of the same class. If one commits a crime against someone of a lower class, the punishments are less harsh. Hammurabi’s laws shape family relationships too. His laws show that young people must show great respect to their elders, such as in Law 195. This law states that if a son strikes his father, his hands will be cut off. This shows that the Babylonians valued respecting one’s elders,

especially male elders. While Hammurabi’s Code does favor men, as all ancient civilizations had gender inequality, Babylonian law was not as harsh toward women compared to other civilizations. Women were able to leave their husbands if their reason was justifiable, (Law 142). They were able to own businesses, such as taverns. However, punishments were still harsh for women, such as in Laws 108, 109, 110, 129, 143 (although punishments were harsh in general during ancient times compared to today’s punishments). All of these laws were written by Hammurabi to benefit a certain group of people and were justified by religion. Religion was used as the basis for law in other societies as well.

The Book of Exodus is the second book of the Hebrew Bible and is also known as both the Torah and the Book of the Laws. It can be assumed that the Bible was written by humans on Earth based on their belief of God. It is evident that the writers of the Hebrew Bible favored men. The Book of Exodus includes many laws, and while it does not highlight differences in laws based on social class, it does favor men. A major reason for this is the fact that God, the divine being that is worshipped in Judaism, is male. This contributed to the fact that the Israelites’ society was patriarchal. A patriarchal society is a society in which men have power over women and the oldest male member of the family is the head of the family. In the Book of Exodus,

there is a law that states that any sorceress must be put to death. However, there is no mention of sorcerers, or male magicians, and any punishment for finding one, for God Himself has divine, magical powers. This law stresses the importance that there is no female divine being. The Book of Exodus also greatly emphasizes the fact that no other god shall be worshipped. This helps give further religious justification for a patriarchal society because according to the Book of Exodus, the only divine being is God, a male. Even if there was another divine being, they would be male too. This is because the Book states that, “Whoever sacrifices to another god must be destroyed,” which implies that there would be no acknowledgement of a goddess, or female divine being. In these ways, the Book of Exodus, a sacred religious text, allowed men to take power over women in society, and men could use the text as a weapon against women. This continues today.

A social institution that still exists today that has been shaped by religious beliefs is the Hindu caste system of India. The idea of the caste system originates in ancient India, with the arrival of the Aryans, a nomadic group. The Aryans developed a caste system with different groups of people. The Brahmins, or priests, were the highest group. Then came the Kshatriya, the warriors and the kings. Next were the Vaisyas, who were the farmers and merchants. The last caste was the Sudras, the servants. Finally, there were the Harijans, or the Untouchables. The Untouchables were made up of the Dravidian population, the indigenous peoples of India. They belonged to no caste (and thus they were outcasts). The Aryan priests, the creators of the caste system, rigged the system in their favor, and again used religion as justification for their actions. As priests, they were highly respected, and their word was considered the gods’ words. The caste system was fixed so that one was unable to ascend the social ladder. No intercaste marriage was allowed, so a family forever stayed in the same caste. The caste system also gave more economic opportunities to people of higher castes, restricting the job market of lower class people. In this way, Aryan priests used religion to forever keep themselves in power.

Even in the 21st-century, we continue to face the lethal weapon of religion. Though change has come gradually, Judeo-Christian texts continue to emphasize the inferiority of women, and to this day, in many parts of the world, women still do not earn the same wages or have the same rights as men. The caste system still exists in India, and people of lower classes are still living in slums, shunned by their fellow citizens, stuck in an endless cycle of poverty. Due to oppression and their lack of opportunities, it is impossible for these people to climb the socio-economic ladder. In Afghanistan and some areas of Pakistan, the Taliban, a fundamentalist extreme Islamic

group has used Islam to oppress women. Women were not able to get an education, and were forced to be accompanied by a male relative and fully cover their body with a burqa any time they were in public. This still goes on today in many Taliban controlled areas. Again, the world recognizes these problems now and there have been great efforts to bring change. The young Malala Yousufzai, a seventeen-year old Pakistani girl of the Swat Valley – a Taliban controlled region of Pakistan -- has fought against the Taliban for a girl’s right to an education since age eleven. However, one girl cannot bring down the Taliban and free women of all ages in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Yes,

Malala has inflicted a mighty blow on the Taliban, but the rest of the world must back her up to deliver the final blow and bring equality to the region. A fourteen hundred year old text (the Quran) should not justify the oppression of women, for the writers themselves created the text to benefit themselves forever.

In order to support their own power and status, religious leaders have acted as a force against achieving equality, while supporting the institution of social hierarchy. Religion is supposed to be a spiritual comfort, yet for thousands of years, religion has been used as a weapon by its wielders. Ideas that many believe teach ethics and morals encourage the

oppression and segregation of many peoples. While the idea of religion is good, an idea that teaches people to be moral and treat others well, it has been misused since its creation. While the world is changing, people often look back to their religion in times of distress and despair, but power-hungry people also look to it as their path to power. As long as religion promotes oppression and the creation of social classes, it should be considered an extremely hypocritical idea, as it claims to teach ethics, yet preaches many unethical ides.

Citations

“Caste.” Encyclopedia. Issues & Controversies. Infobase Learning, n.d. Web. 26 Oct. 2014.<http://icof. infobaselearning.com/icofencyarticle. aspx?wid=17186&ID=4374>.

Looking Back: Feminism and its Achievements in 2013

By Priya Mukherjee, New Jersey

As young girls, growing up is difficult. Different influences and different worlds collide to shape everything we know and believe.

As a teenage girl in America, these influences range very widely, from Miley Cyrus and the fad of ‘twerking’ to the infamous Wendy Davis and her inspiring filibuster. But as a young Indian girl, I am lucky to have a wider set of influences than the average American. This includes the learning of our Indian mythology, culture and religion.

Throughout our Indian culture, we see the idea of female power. We see it in Maa Durga and her composure and ferocity; we see it in Maa Kali and her rage and remorse.

As a young Indian girl, these divine figures are important in our perspective of our place in society. Yet in this very society, many things happen that do not reflect the ideas represented by our religion. For example, just earlier this year, much controversy surrounded a particular rape case in India, of a young girl in a bus. This case garnered much attention from the media and was an immediate

target for feminism activists. In our Indian culture, this concept of feminism is apparent. The idea that women are actually human beings is something that shouldn’t even have to be a concept, a movement. It should be inherent and obvious. And yet from this case and many others, we see the dehumanization and violence toward women. Another major debate regarding women is the ProLife/Pro-Choice debate. While abortion is a very touchy topic among many cultures and communities, it had been heavily debated in the United States particularly in Texas and Florida. Here, senator Wendy Davis led an inspiring filibuster against a Texas Bill that would close five abortion clinics in the state. She successfully continued for eleven hours in her debate and was not allowed to sit, drink, eat, use the bathroom or even rest against any furniture for the duration of this period. She showed immense dedication to the cause: keeping these clinics

open and allowing women to choose whether they will continue a pregnancy or not, instead of having that choice taken away from them by a group of old white men.

All negativity has been channeled in positive directions. 2013 has been a progressive year for feminism. With different movements and organizations working tirelessly to change perspectives and enforce new regulations, in India, the US, and across the world, women have shown their strength. Through numbers, determination, and major perseverance, big steps are being taken and the role of the female is changing drastically around the world. It is tragedy that some countries still refuse their women even the right to education, but it is also a challenge to fight for and another reason to realize that this feminist movement is an ongoing battle. Yet, it has come far and will only go further in the years to come.

Valentine’s Day

Parama Das, New Jersey

Valentine’s Day, also known as Saint Valentine’s Day or the Feast of Saint Valentine, is a holiday observed on February 14 of each year.

It is celebrated in many countries around the world. St. Valentine’s Day began as a liturgical celebration of one or more early Christian saints named Valentinus. Valentine’s Day is when you express your love for your friends and family. People do this by sending cards or letters, giving gifts or flowers, and arranging meals in restaurants. Common symbols of Valentine’s Day are hearts, red roses and Cupid. Cupid is usually portrayed as a small winged figure with a bow and arrow. In mythology, he uses

his arrow to strike the hearts of people. People who have fallen in love are sometimes said to be ‘struck by Cupid’s arrow.’ Over 141 million Valentine’s Day cards are exchanged annually, making Valentine’s Day the second-most popular greetingcard-giving occasion. Research shows that more than half of the U.S. population celebrates Valentine’s Day by purchasing a greeting card. Valentine’s Day celebrations did not catch on in India until around 1992. It has spread due to programs in commercial TV channels,

such as MTV, dedicated radio programs and love letter competitions. Valentine’s Day has been strongly criticized and is regarded as a front for “Western imperialism”. But in spite of this Valentine’s Day is becoming increasingly popular in India. Since technology has created such a huge impact in our lives, millions of people use every year digital means of creating and sending Valentine’s Day greeting messages such as e-cards, love coupons or printable greeting cards.

What is Life?

Aniketh Sarkar, New Jersey

What is and isn’t life? This question has been pondered by many great minds over the centuries. Stephen Hawking, believed by

many to be one of the most intelligent people ever to put their skills to use in decoding the complexities of existence, applies this question to computer viruses, which are almost universally not considered to be alive, by saying, “I think computer viruses should count as life...I think it says something about human nature that the only form of life we have created so far is purely destructive. We’ve created life in our own image.” I am an ardent fan of Stephen Hawking, and even take personal offense when someone criticizes him, but I still strongly disagree with his statement in several ways.

My first issue with it is the worn-out almost-cliché of humans being naturally destructive, and the further postulation that other animals are better than humans because they are ironically more civilized than us. This is a very comfortable worldview, but as with all statements of this sort, is entirely not true. First, history shows the countless times in which humans have unnecessarily gone to war, often with drastic consequences for their populaces. What history

does not know are the times when war was averted. Secret dealings behind closed doors have saved people from countless wars, but their secrecy prohibits them from being recognized and immortalized in history. Second, the generalization of war being a bad thing denies credit to the belligerents who were there not of their own will. Many condemn both or all sides of a war, indifferent to the reasoning behind it. For example, in Word War II, the United States entered the war largely because of Pearl Harbor. Is the United States to be blamed for entering the war, even though its territorial integrity was violated? Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito were well on their way to victory until the US intervened. Third, our apparent destructiveness is not something to be disgusted by. Every living thing on the planet operates on one simple rule, “Survive and reproduce at all costs.” Many people say that not all animals are like that, with the most common example being the bonobos. Unlike their close relatives, the chimpanzees, bonobos are very peaceful, almost never physically fight, and willingly share food.

However, these are an exception. Bonobos have absolutely no competition whatsoever, while chimpanzees have to compete with large, powerful gorillas. If bonobos were likewise subject to competition, they would adapt to suit the new environment, or go extinct. Fourth, our Competitiveness has brought us many advantages. The competition that humans have with other humans in their communities and elsewhere, which many call betrayal, has given rise to almost every advance in the collective human society. This has evolved to become capitalism. Although correctly called ruthless and greedy, capitalism has brought wonders to every country which follows it. After all, nature is kept in balance by the survival of the fittest; the ruthlessness of capitalism in many cases can weed out the weak. In short, not only are humans probably one of the most compassionate species on Earth, our competitiveness, which has brought us many advances, is simply an essential part of survival, and is followed the by all living things. My other problem with Hawking’s take on life is his

classification of computer viruses as life. The currently accepted definition of life involves certain characteristics of life forms, specifically: they are composed of cells, have levels of organization, they use energy, respond to their environment, they grow and develop, they reproduce, and they adapt. However, in my view, this is less a definition of life than a conclusion drawn from knowledge of existing life forms. Any extraterrestrial life forms, which almost certainly exist, could be so different from Earth life that we do not even recognize them as life. Hawking seems to realize this, and so for

that reason classifies computer viruses as life. However, there is a problem with this assessment. Based on my own observations and theories, I would prefer to classify life as any entity that actively attempts to remain in a stable state and attempts to spread its influence over a progressively larger area. By influence, I mean something that carries a mark of that entity, such as dividing cells carrying the mark of common DNA. A computer virus is merely an extension of a person, a tool for wreaking havoc. The computer virus is basically an embodiment of the chaos in a person, as a person uses it

exclusively for creating entropy, violating the first clause of my definition.

Ultimately, Hawking’s statement is deeply flawed in two ways. First, his generalization of humanity as destructive is a tired and untrue statement; as all species have an intrinsic goal of survival at all costs, and that which is considered “destruction” is necessary to survival. Second, his postulation of computer viruses as being alive does not seem to be even theoretically viable as they are under the total control of one or a few people, and therefore are simple tools.

Her Rage

Rudra Ray, West Bengal (Age 19)

She scrubs again and again.

To get clean.

She can scrub until there’s nothing left of her skin.

She turns porcelain into braised vermillion. But she still feels unclean, defiled and beaten.

She leaves the bath.

She doesn’t look in the mirror.

She doesn’t want to face her terror.

Her eyes are swollen.

Her eyes are red.

Bruises dance on her skin.

The skin that was once pristine.

The cross which had a home around her neck, Finds a new one in the box in which it had never stayed.

And she is always weak.

Can’t smell anything but his reek.

Food won’t nourish.

Water won’t quench

She cries.

Like she’s never cried before.

And the pain never goes.

And the shame is painted on her body and her soul.

Prays to her god.

Prays to her lord.

Her skin has healed.

Her pain has not.

The dances of bruises have stilled.

But her rage will not. It will never end quietly.

Prays for the first time for the death of a man who should have been hanged.

Her bones creak.

Her soul grows weak.

And as life begins to leave.

His hands still seem to be on her eyes.

On her skin, on her face.

And in her disgrace.

And she cries,

Like many times before.

And she can’t look at men above their nose.

She would rather break those.

Have You Seen God?

Pramila Baisya, New Jersey (Age 15)

A spirit walks amongst us all, Standing over great and tall. I’ve looked everywhere, He is nowhere to be found.

I’ve searched the hills, The trees, The flowers and the leaves.

I’ve been here And there, But he is nowhere.

Where is his greatness? This God you speak of? “Is God here?” I ask.

“Get lost” the fellow said, Opening his flask. He was just a bum, you see. Could not give me the golden key.

I’ve searched the mountains And the cities The oceans and the streams.

I stare down at the reflection, It is me I see. All this time I was blind. I did not comprehend.

For God is in all of us. I am God. And He is staring back at me.

Cancer Couldn’t Kill My Soul

Pranoy Chatterjee, New Delhi (Age 17)

Life has taken a sudden turn, the horrendous pain makes my stomach churn. I have been victimized by a deadly disease, everything precious to me has been seized.

The doctor told me to keep my calm, the shock I received incinerated my formidable palms.

The jocose life I had been living up till now has got plagued by this parasite, I have fallen short of my true motive living in this unfathomable plight. No matter how hard I try to forget about this pain, I simply can’t get rid of this excruciating bane. Death is certainly a traumatic experience, but the fear of death makes us lose all sense.

Blood, blood, blood, I spew out blood! Someone reach for me! Please! I am drowning in this bloody flood. I have been shoved into a dark pit. People who glare at me with a jaundiced eye consider me a misfit. My life has been forked, my might has been chocked.

Life ticks away like the pendulum’s oscillations. Unknown to me I am suspended by a thin string not knowing when it might break giving my spine a chilling sting.

My feelings pilfered, my tears snatched, my heart cries with its excruciating anger about to lash.

Cancer takes the form of icicles making me shiver, one wrong move and straight down to the doomed river Almighty help me sustain these painful moments, as I continue to relentlessly lament.

As I continue to watch the stars in the sky, I am revved up with a fiery inspiration of flying high. That is why I can’t afford to squander my life away. I can’t afford to become the prey! My life, my possession and right, as if I am going to back up without putting up a fight. My emotions are true and not disguised, my fighting spirit won’t break down even if the pain is on the rise.

I am a design of my God, destiny is something which I am not going to shod.

The torture I will endure, even if it might turn out to be a hell of a tenure. Making an inevitable mark on the sands of time, that’s my goal.

Even if I die, I will die with a proud feeling in my heart, that cancer couldn’t kill my soul.

God In Shoes

Pranoy Chatterjee, New Delhi (Age 17)

1

So many days since I have taken a human form, it feels so nostalgic. I tried to get rid of the heaven’s aroma, as I had got allergic.

The thought of making rounds on my very own artistic creation crossed my mind, I consoled my inner self, “I too have the right to live as a human! So why should I be left behind?”

I finally descended making a phenomenal appearance, With my beauty so sensational, no being could resist my unrivalled ambience.

However I never imagined that I would face the shocking reality that would incinerate my eyes. A premonition of the impending doom on the motherly abode makes me cry.

As the malevolent forces try to consume this world, I start to doubt my existence, as it has caused the innocent people repentance.

“Why did I create this world?” I started to argue with my inner self as my guilty consciousness was brought out.

My sheen was eliminated the moment I landed. “How despicable!” I wanted to shout.

On one hand are the deplorable slums while on the other is the detestable yet rampant corruption. My emotions could not keep pace with my body. I felt I did not belong here. It was the first time I had understood the pain of rejection.

My ears could not bear the people’s reverberating cries.

I try to take cover in darkness in order to hide from the prying eyes.

First time I had felt helpless, Should I have been more selfless?

As I started to wonder I was jerked by an old man.

“Why pale, young lad?”

“Are the arising complications making you go mad?”

“A rough patch of life will soon be filled with lush greenery. There is nothing to fear.”

“Youngsters like you shouldn’t shed a tear.”

“This is human life. I was taught this by my Guru”, he said with a face so high and mighty. It was then that the mentally and physically shaken me, awoke to the purpose of the Almighty. It is only through these difficulties that humans are able to mature and gain self respect. They have to try their best to see through life in a positive perspect.

No matter how much they detest me and comment on what is fair.

I know that what I am doing right now is for their greater welfare.

My entity, believers can never shod. Who am I? You ask. I am God.

xyl¨!¡!þ›

Anandalipi 2015

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Japanese Haiku Adaptation in Bengali

Sushmita Dutta, New Jersey

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An Evening with Rakhalda

A Day at Lord’s

Black Pearl

Mekhala Banerjee, Illinois

Change of Season

Debashis Roy Chowdhury, Massachusetts

Under the Shadow of Vasuki

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

Basona

Basab Dasgupta, California

East is West

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey

Our Labor Day

Obama Hillary Sangbad

Guru Chakravarty

New Jersey

A Journey to an Elusive Nest

Pronoy Chatterjee, New Jersey

The wind was blowing on their faces

Small Expression, Big Impression

Benoy R. Samanta, California

Spring Break

Nupur Lahiri

That Nice Girl

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

A Mother’s Heart

Sreya Sarkar, Illinois

Antique Land

Mandira Chattopadhyay, Georgia

Panacea

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

The Wheel of Six Sins

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

The Nightingale and the Poet

Mom and Me on International Woman’s Day

Syamali Nandi, Oklahoma

Wish I Could…..

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

My Island

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

Blinded

Amrita Kangle, New Jersey

Surge…

Chitra Mondal, New Jersey

The Roadside Weaver

Indrani Mondal, Illinois

The Street Venders

Indrani Mondal, Illinois

When Dreams Meet Reality

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