I am the Verdure… Raghuseshabhattar, Telugu poet
Words flow from head to tips of fingers
As subtly as larvae of fish from water, or,
The seeds of Crossandra disperse at the touch of moisture.
They haunt like the lines
From a coveted book lost.
Over the beds of enduring vison to its limits
The sky steps on delicately.
Rattled, Silence breaks like the marble of the Banta Soda.
I cannot savor the inflammable hours with bread
Nor make flowery hedges of the earthly thews.
Every time the scattered evenings
Congeal to vermillion hues,
I shall be the word behind the quondam verdure of the paper.
Raghu Seshabhattar
Raghu Seshabhattar
(Born 18.11.1970)
Born and brought up in Khammam, Mr. Raghu is a versatile poet bringing out 6 Volumes of poetry .
He is currently working as Senior Legal Manager with IFFCO-TOKIO General Insurance Co. Ltd. Hyderabad.
నేనొక హరితం
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నీళ్ళ గుండెలో చేప పిల్లలు పుట్టినట్టు
కనకాంబరం గింజలు నీరుతగిలి చిట్లినట్టు
తల నుండి చేతుల్లోకి మాటలు తంత్రుల్లా మారుతాయి
పారేసుకున్న పుస్తకంలోని పంక్తుల్లా
నాలుక మీద అతుకుతాయి
ఇక కంటి పరుపుల మీద పెండ్యులంలా
ఆకాశం అడుగులు వేస్తుంది
నిశ్శబ్దం ఉలికిపడి గోలీసోడాలా అరుస్తుంది
జ్వలన పుంజాల్లాంటి రోజుల్ని రొట్టె ముక్కల్లో ముంచలేను
ఈ మట్టి కండల్నిక పూలకంచెల్లా మార్చలేను
చెదిరిన సాయంత్రాలు కుంకుమరేఖల్లా
చిక్కనైన ప్రతిసారి
కాగితాన్ని పత్రహరితంతో కలిపే వాక్యం నేను !
.
రఘు
What shall we do?… Pasunuru Sreedhar Babu, Indian Poet
What shall we do?
With what smile can we belie our pain?
What do you think?
Hiding the wound behind eyelids,
shall we bedeck the night with dreams?
How about exploding in tears
Yoking our loneliness to some fear?
What do you say?
Feeling ashamed and ashen-faced under the cover of night
What new face shall we put on each day?
What is the alternative?
No. It is not the way.
We must do something.
Taking this moment as our last,
Let us inflame like a tongue of fire!
Let the world decimate in the inferno.
Won’t seeds take to life breaking through the fissures of dilapidated walls!
So, let us be… like them!
.
Pasunuru Sreedhar Babu
Indian Poet
Pasunuru Sreedhar Babu
ఏం చేద్దాం?
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ఏం చేద్దాం?
దుఃఖాన్ని ఏ చిరునవ్వుతో బంధించి అబద్ధం చేద్దాం?
ఏం చేద్దాం?
గాయాన్ని ఏ రెప్పలతో మూసి రాత్రిని కలల్తో అలంకరిద్దాం?
ఏం చేద్దాం?
ఏకాంతాన్ని ఏ భయంతో అంటించి కన్నీటి బిందువై పేలిపోదాం?
ఏం చేద్దాం?
చీకటి దుప్పటి కప్పుకుని బూడిదై రోజూ పొద్దున్నే ఏ కొత్తముఖం తొడుక్కుందాం?
ఏం చేద్దాం?
ఉహూఁ! ఇలా కాదు.
ఏదో ఒకటి చేద్దాం.
బతుక్కిదే చిట్టచివరి క్షణమైనట్టు నిట్టనిలువునా నిప్పుకణమై భగ్గుమందాం.
తగులబడిపోనీ ఊరంతా
కాలిన మొండిగోడలను చీల్చుకుని ఎన్ని గింజలు తలెత్తుకోవడం లేదూ?
అలాగే మనమూ మళ్ళీ…
.
పసునూరు శ్రీధర్ బాబు
2 poems of Dasarathi Krishnamacharya , Telugu Poet, Indian
Today is Dr. Dasarathi’s 95th Birth Anniversary
My life, a garden that reaches out its hands for few jasmines,
My mind, a babe that pricks out its ears for a sonorous song,
My heart, a lotus that is all eyes for a streak of light
My age, an innocence that carts heels over head for a small tribute
I laughed when you laughed, and when
you cried your eyes out, was swept away
to the bourns of the worlds by the tears,
never able to swim through the oceans of grief.
ఒక కొన్ని జాజిపూవులకు కేలుసాచెడి వనము వోలినది జీవనము నాది
ఒక కొంత గానమ్మునకు వీను నిక్కించు నిసువు బోలినది మానసము నాది
ఒక చిన్ని వెల్గురేకకు నేత్రపుటినిచ్చు తమ్మివోలినది యంతరము నాది
ఒక కొద్ది తీపి మాటలకు ఉబ్బి తబ్బిబ్బులయిపోవు చిరుతప్రాయమ్ము నాది
నీవు నవ్విన నవ్వితి, నీవు కంట
నీరు వెట్టిన ఆ నీటి ధారలందు
కొట్టుకొనిపోతి లోకాల కొట్ట కొసకు
తిరిగి రానైతి దుఃఖసాగరము నుండి.
No quilts are there to keep warm the new-born baby-bud,
Asleep in the lap of its just-labored mother, being drenched
In rain in the tamarind grove; let me strum on my ‘Fiery Lyre’
Lays of fire to keep the tad cozy, lest it should freeze in the cold.
చింతలతోపులో కురియు చిన్కులకున్ తడిముద్దయైన బా
లింత యొడిన్ శయించు పసిరెక్కల మొగ్గనువోని బిడ్డకున్
బొంతలు లేవు కప్పుటకు; బొంది హిమం బయిపోవునేమొ సా
గింతును రుద్రవీణపయి నించుక వెచ్చని అగ్నిగీతముల్
Dasarathi Krishnamacharya
(22 July 1925 – 5 Nov 1987)
Telugu Poet, Indian
Poems Courtesy: Facebook page of Sri Parimi Sri Ramanath https://www.facebook.com/itisivam/posts/1001565506928457?notif_id=1595383570193179¬if_t=close_friend_activity
When it was Dark… Koduri Vijaya Kumar, Telugu, Indian Poet
That night…
When failure streamed down as a tear from lashes,
And, the contused body groaned in seething pain
Into that dark room entered Death taking storm for escort
And said:
“Look here, my friend! Your grief is as enduring as this rain
… there is nothing left in life…but grief!
Come! Embrace me!…
It is the balm that soothes your wounds.”
Breaking through the wounds, these words came out harshly:
“This soil has been bathed with their blood by martyrs!
I am a child of the land where even ploughs were turned to arms.
I am a fighter and love the fighting spirit in man
I can’t disgrace the sacrifices of my immortal lineage.
A rolling of thunder was heard in the distance
And the doors opened all of a sudden.
Lo! There was neither storm… nor Death.
The room was flooded with effulgent radiance .
.
Koduri Vijaya Kumar
Telugu, Indian Poet
Koduri Vijaya Kumar
చీకటి గదిలో
.
ఓటమి కంటి చివరి చినుకై జారిన రాత్రి
దేహం గాయాల కూడలిగా మారి అలమటించిన రాత్రి
తలుపులు మూసి వున్న చీకటిగదిలో వర్షాన్ని వెంటేసుకు వొచ్చిన
మృత్యువు యిలా అంది:
“… మిత్రుడా… యిటు చూడు! ఎడతెగని ఈ వర్షం నీ దుఃఖం!
… జీవితంలో దుఃఖం తప్ప మరేమీ లేదు.
రా! నన్ను ప్రేమించు…
నా కౌగిలి నీ గాయాలకు లేపనం!!”
దేహపు గాయాలను చీల్చుకుని, మాటలు కొన్ని యిలా కర్కశంగా వెలువడినాయి:
‘ వీరుల రక్తంతో తడిసిన మట్టి నా దేశం! నాగళ్ళు సైతం
ఆయుధాలుగా మారిన నేల, నా చిరునామా! మనుషుల
పోరాటాల్ని ప్రేమించే మనిషిని; మృత్యువును ప్రేమించలేను
అమరవీరుల త్యాగాలను అవమానించలేను ‘
బయటెక్కడో వురిమిన శబ్దం
గది తలుపులు తెరుచుకున్నాయి
వర్షమూ లేదు… మృత్యువూ లేదు
గదినిండా గొప్ప వెలుగు!
.
కోడూరి విజయ కుమార్
వార్త ఆదివారం 16 జూన్ 1997.
Love in a Hospital… Ismail, Telugu Poet, Indian
.
It was not yet time for your visit
I was watching the cityscape through the window
earth had stretched its sharp nails of shadows
Tearing open the sky, it swallowed the Sun.
And the Bacilli were sweeping through every corner,
drawing the last trace of hope from the moans.
It was time for your visit
suddenly, tubelights-syrenges started injectimg
Light into the veins of ashen city.
At last, windows opened their eyes.
I could hear your shoes on the steps
You enter like a WBC then.
.
Ismail
(26 May 1928 – 25 November 2003)
Telugu Poet
Ismail
హాస్పిటల్లో ప్రేమ
.
నువ్వొచ్చేవేళ కాలేదింకా
గవాక్షంలోంచి చూస్తున్నాను ఊరివంక
నీడల వాడిగోళ్ళని చాచింది ధరణి
నింగి పొట్టని చీల్చి మింగింది రవిని
మూలమూలలా ” బేసిలై “ తోడుకుంటున్నాయి
మూలుగుల్లోని వెలుగుల్నికూడా తోడేస్తున్నాయి.
నువొచ్చే వేళైంది
చివాల్న ట్యూబ్లైట్ల ఇంజక్షను మొదలైంది
పట్టణం నరాల్లోకి కాంతులు ప్రవహించాయి
కట్టకడకు కిటికీలు కళ్ళుతెరిచాయి
మెల్లగా మెట్లపై నీ బూట్ల చప్పుడు
తెల్ల జీవకణంలా ప్రవేశిస్తావప్పుడు.
.
ఇస్మాయిల్
(26 May 1928 – 25 November 2003)
తెలుగు కవి
The Expat… Vinnakota Ravisankar, Telugu Poet, India
It was long since the umbilical was snapped.
Decades passed since the borders were crossed.
Yet, the yearning for the motherland
Has not ceased a whit.
The host country has provided everything.
It taught necessary skills
to gather the fruits of life.
But, the land of early faltering steps
Remains in memory for ever.
Not only this soil,
Even the atmosphere here
looks crass and unfamiliar
The Sun and the Moon rising everyday
Seem spent, used up and secondhand.
We go to places
Fly like dreams taking to wings.
But whenever the eyelids close in a nap
The face of a childhood pal
Greets us in our dreams.
Someday, for sure
I take rest under this soil.
But even in that eternal sleep
The tangs of my native soil
Shall haunt overwhelming me.
.
Vinnakota Ravisankar
Telugu Poet
A product of REC Warangal, Telangana State, India, Sri Ravisankar works for Dominion Energy and lives in Columbia, South Carolina, US.
A prolific writer and a poet of fine sensibilities, Sri Ravisankar has to his credit three poetry collections ‘కుండీలో మర్రిచెట్టు’ (The Bonsai Bunyan), ‘వేసవి వాన’ (The Summer Rain), and ‘రెండో పాత్ర’ (The Other Cap); and a Collection of literary essays ‘కవిత్వంలో నేను’ (The ‘I’ in Poetry)
ప్రవాసి
.
బొడ్డుతెగి చాలా కాలమయింది
ఒడ్డు మారికూడా దశాబ్దాలు దాటింది
అయినా అమ్మనేలమీద బెంగ మాత్రం
అణువంతైనా తగ్గదు.
ఆదరించిన నేలే అన్నీ ఇచ్చింది
బ్రతుకుఫలాలు అందుకోవటానికి
పరుగెత్తటం నెర్పింది
కాని, తప్పటడుగులు వేసిన నేలే
ఎప్పటికీ తలపుల్లో నిలుస్తుంది.
ఈ నేలే కాదు
ఇక్కడి ఆకాశం కూడా
అపరిచితంగా తోస్తుంది
ఉదయించించే సూర్యచంద్రులు
వాడిన వస్తువుల్లా కనిపిస్తారు.
ఎక్కడికో వెళతాము
రెక్కలొచ్చిన కలలా ఎగురుతాము
కాని, కన్నులు మూసుకున్నప్పుడు
చిన్నప్పటి నేస్తం ముఖమే
కలలో పలకరిస్తుంది.
ఏదో ఒకనాటికి
నేనూ ఈ నేల కిందే నిదురిస్తాను
అనంతశయనంలో కూడా బహుశా
అక్కడి వాసనలే
విడవకుండా నన్ను వెంటాడతాయి.
.
విన్నకోట రవిశంకర్
తెలుగు కవి
(తానా జ్ఞాపిక 2013)
A Stale Roti… Abd Wahed, Telugu, Indian
Hunger
Is much a like loan taken on compound interest;
The principal never gets cleared,
You perpetually pay the interest … in installments.
Forget just one EMI,
It will hit you on your tummy
Like the brute loan-collector.
With mushrooming hotels, restaurants,
And pizzas, burgers, and biryanis sold therein
A stomach un-famished
Can hardly relish a stale Roti like me.
For, I don’t bear that tang of tastelessness
Borne out of loss of appetite after an eating bout
To the point of throwing the food away.
After all, I am —
A very ordinary Roti
That means
A Roti
Covetously preserved by the coolies
To beat the fire in the belly
Of morrow… in installments
That’s why I look dry.
I, too, was soft and yummy
Ready to melt on the tongue
When I was first prepared.
Children wanted to take me in one go.
But the elders warned them of
Morrow’s hunger,
And they preserved me.
Children pleaded
Cried their belly was not even half-full.
They repeatedly complained of hunger.
The elders persisted that
They should get used to starving.
Poor kids!
Looking at me eagerly, yet consciously
Suppressed their hunger against their will,
And set me aside for tomorrow.
I changed hands
And deeply studied varied lines
hunger had drawn on every hand there…
One farmer raised a wheat crop for me
But committed suicide unable to beat the hunger.
At another place, a farm laborer, for want of work
Migrated to town to feed the hungry mouths of his children
I rode on the backs of coolies
Who bore the wheat bags
I greeted the hunger in their bellies
And the worker in the flourmill
Traded his living
For few handfuls of flour
And ignoring the hunger within
A mother’s hand had prepared me.
Scared of hunger, they saw me as insurance
And as they preserved, I became stale.
They did not even mind that
And wanted to take me after soaking in water.
But now, forget about their hungry stomachs
There was no trace of their bones.
As I lie between the sleepers, now
No hungry mouth looks longingly at me.
And praying for some hungry mouth to reach me
I gave up the last traces of my life.
Yes,
I am a dry, stale, lifeless Roti.
.
Wahed
Telugu , Indian Poet
Photo Courtesy: Abd Wahed
రొట్టె చచ్చిపోయింది
.
ఆకలి – చక్రవడ్డీల అప్పులాంటిది
అసలు తీరడం ఉండదు
వాయిదాలుగా వడ్డీ చెల్లించాలి
ఒక్క వాయిదా మరిచిపోయినా
గుండా లాంటి లోన్ కలెక్టర్ లా
కడుపులో పిడిగుద్దులు గుద్దుతుంది.
హోటళ్ళు, రెస్టరెంట్లు
పిజ్జాలు, బర్గర్లు, బిరియానీలు
ఆకలెరుగని నోటికి ఎండు రొట్టె తెలియదు
ఎందుకంటే –
తిని తిని, తినలేక పారేసే అరుచి
ఎండు రొట్టెలో ఉండదు.
నేను
ఒక మామూలు ఎండురొట్టెను
అంటే
ఒకటి రెండు రోజులు
ఆకలికి వడ్డీ కిస్తులు కట్టడానికి
కూలీలు దాచుకున్న రొట్టెను
అందుకే ఎండిపోయాను
వండినప్పుడు
నేను కూడా మెత్తగా, చాలా రుచిగా
నోట్లో వేసుకుంటే కరిగిపోయేలా ఉన్నాను
పిల్లలు అప్పుడే నన్ను తినేద్దామన్నారు
పెద్దవాళ్ళు రేపు ఆకలి వేస్తే చస్తామన్నారు
అందుకే నన్ను దాచుకున్నారు
పిల్లలు ఏడ్చారు
సగం పొట్ట కూడా నిండలేదన్నారు
కడుపు మాడుతుందన్నారు
కడుపు మాడ్చుకోవడం అలవాటు చేసుకోవాలన్నారు పెద్దలు
పాపం పిల్లలు
నన్ను… నోరూరించే రొట్టెను ఆశగా చూస్తూ సర్దుబాటు చేసుకున్నారు.
నన్ను రేపటి కోసం దాచుకున్నారు
నేను చాలా చేతులు మారాను
ప్రతి చేతిలోను ఆకలి వేసిన పిచ్చిగీతలు చూశాను.
పొలంలో నాకోసం గోధుమలు పండించాడు రైతు
ఆకలికి తట్టుకోలేక ఆత్మహత్య చేసుకున్నాడు.
అక్కడ వ్యవసాయకూలీ
పనుల్లేక పిల్లల ఆకలి తీర్చడానికి పట్నం వచ్చాడు.
బస్తాల్లో నన్ను నింపి మోసిన కూలీల
వీపులపై స్వారీ చేశాను
వారి పొట్టలో ఆకలికి హలో చెప్పాను
మిల్లులో నన్ను పిండి కొట్టిన కూలీ
ఇంట్లో పిడికెడు పిండి కోసం
తన రోజులు అమ్ముకుంటున్నాడు
ఆకలిని కడుపులో దాచుకుని
నన్ను వండాయి గాజుల చేతులు
కడుపులో ఆకలి పిడిగుద్దులను సహిస్తూ
పిల్లల నోట్లో ముద్ద పెట్టాయి
కడుపు మాడ్చుకుని రేపటి కోసం దాచాయి
పాపం వాళ్ళవెరు తినలేదు
ఆ రోజుకు అర్థాకలితో కడుపు మాడ్చుకున్నారు
వాళ్ళంతా రేపటి ఆకలికి భయపడ్డారు
నేను ఎండిపోయాను.
ఎండినా ఫర్వాలేదు నీళ్ళలో నాన్చి తిందామనుకున్నారు
ఇప్పుడు ఆ ఎండిన డొక్కలు
ఎముకలుగా కూడా మిగల్లేదు
ఇప్పుడు పట్టాల మధ్య
నన్ను తినేవారు కూడా లేరు
శవాల మధ్య… ఒక శవంలా
నన్ను తినండ్రా అని మరింత ఎండిపోతూ
ప్రాణం వదిలాను
నేను
ఒక మరణించిన రొట్టెను
.
Wahed Abd
10th May 2020

Munny… Ganapathiraju Atchutarama Raju, Telugu Indian
Kalaprapoorna Ganapathiraju Atchyutarama Raju
( 5th March 1924 -10th June 2004)
Poet, Short story writer, Dramatist, Lawyer and Educationalist
About the Author:
Sri Ganapathiraju Atchyutarama Raju (5.3.2024 – 10.6.2004) ) was a versicolored genius born in Kolimeru Village of East Godavari District of Andhra Pradesh. A Graduate in Arts from the Andhra University(1945) and Law from the Madras University (1948), he practised law at Visakhapatnam. He was a dramatist, classical poet, short story writer, translator, actor, director, novelist and above all an orator of consummate ease. He was the Founder of Visakha Nataka Kala Mandali, Nominated Member, AP Sangeeth Natak Academy (1957-61), Member, AP Legislative Council (1968-74) and President, Lalita Kala Parishat. He was also on the advisory board for Telugu, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi (1988-92). He was on the Senate of Andhra University (1964 – 72) and Sri Venkateswara University (1969-72). He was conferred “Kalaprapoorna” by the Andhra University in 1993.
He had to his credit Vinayakudi Pelli (1951) and Brahma Mudi (1952) (plays), Maharajashree (1952), a playlet, and Ananda Hela (1982) and Amaram (1997) (Poetry).
***
MUNNY
***
With the thin wispy clouds spreading across the town and taking different shapes, like Kamadhenu, Kalpatharu, and Iravat, the sky was looking like the proverbial ‘Milky Ocean’. It looks as if the abundance of good was heaped over there.
It is said that the color of ‘virtue’ is white, and that of ‘evil’ is black. If it were true, why should my mommy call Aunty who looks an incarnation of virtue, an ‘evil woman’ every day? Why did innocent Aunty ceaselessly weep her heart out these two days and went away? She did not say a word against me although she knew that I was squarely responsible for Munny’s death! How gracious and magnanimous was Aunty compared to my mom!
These were the overwhelming feelings raging in the mind of a boy, Murali, lying on a tape-cot in the backyard of a middleclass house at the centre of a town, watching the sky.
Amidst colorful Rangoli (chalky designs) in front of the sacred basil on the cemented courtyard, ‘Karteeka Deepalu (Oil Lamps of Karteeka)’, a cluster of lights of cotton wicks soaked in ghee put on banana bark were blinking like the stars on the sky, and the zari flowers on Munny’s petticoat. These very lights which twinkled like the beautiful smiles of Munny till the other day, were flickering like the dark, murky lamps of the slum dwellings. Yes. They were looking exactly like that to his eyes. Aunty, who rented in the two south-end rooms of their house, vacated them and left for her place this evening.
Aunty had left!
Six months ago when schools reopened after Summer vacation, Munny and Aunty came here. When they were alighting from the rickshaw, he was reminded of the cow and the capering baby calf at his grandfather’s place.
Aunty was arranging their belongings in the two rented rooms. And Munny, moving briskly between the rooms helping her mother, was like a piece of butter-white baby-cloud playing with the moon. Wishing to help them, he loitered around their rooms. When he volunteered saying, “May I help you, Aunty?”, his mother overheard him and shouted at him, “Hey, Murali! Come here once!”. When he went in, “You don’t have to extend a helping hand to everyone living in the town. Go! Take out your books and read!” she said knitting her forehead.
“But mommy! We haven’t bought the new class books yet!”
“Don’t argue. Take out whatever books you have and start reading!” she reproved him.
Aunty looked more beautiful and dignified than mommy.
That night…
He was lying down on his bed, adjacent to the bedroom of his father. He couldn’t sleep for a long that night. He lost in thoughts about Aunty and Munny.
He suddenly overheard his mom…
“You let out the rooms to all and sundry paying no heed to me. See that woman. Does she look like a widow? Do you know she bought two seers of jasmines today?”
“In what way we are concerned with what she buys? Why do you poke your nose? Is it laid down in any scripture that widows should not buy flowers?” asked his father.
“Somebody visited her this evening calling her ‘Rajani! Rajani!’. He looks like a riff-raff fellow!”
“Shut up! Don’t talk rubbish without knowing what is what,” snubbed his father putting out the light.
So Aunty’s husband was not alive! Shouldn’t a widow buy flowers?
Next morning, while was brushing his teeth, he observed Aunty throwing a withered garland of Jasmines to a corner in her room. Munny was sitting on a tripod near the cement saucer round the well and taking bath. She had her back towards him and taking water from the bucket near her. She just had her petticoat and nothing else on. He could see her back which looked like a white polished marble slate. She looked round like a ball in that wet petticoat.
Somebody came out from the adjacent room. “Rajani! I have to go back as early as possible after taking Munny to school.” Murali looked at him. He wondered why his mom had commented about him like that. He did not look like a rowdy or a riffraff fellow. He did not have big side locks, dense tapering moustache, ruddy eyes, or a beedi in his mouth!
Munny dried herself with a green towel. Wrapping the towel round her waist, she let drop the wet petticoat, wrung water out and dried it on the line and then looked at him. He felt as if some current had passed through him. Shy-stricken, Munny ran in like a scared baby doe. How beautiful she looked then!
Munny was admitted to a convent school.
From the time he saw her bathing, there was some change in him, and he became more enthusiastic about studies. He started reading his class lessons loud sitting in the backyard; started singing film songs aloud; and moved around Aunty on some pretext or other. He got his new dress stitched in the latest fashion and walked elegantly wearing it. He was feeling happy and proud that Munny was taking notice of all these changes.
That was a Friday in the month of Sravana. It is said that women who observe some religious vows will be blessed. Mom got the house dusted, cleaned, washed and decorated the floor with Rangolis. She took oil bath, wore new clothes, and was busy with preparing special dishes, and inviting ladies of the neighborhood to our house and what not.
Munny and he were returning from convent that evening. It was getting dark and the traffic was thin. As they were turning round the street corner, someone stopped his bicycle, pulled Munny’s gold chain off her neck and started peddling away. He ran after him shouting ‘thief, thief’. That fellow kicked him on his face with all his strength and sped off. People heard his alarm and caught the thief. Munny got her chain back. Then she looked at him widening her already-wide eyes with admiration. She dabbed off the blood on his mouth with her handkerchief, and dried the tears rolling down his cheeks. Someone from the neighborhood escorted them home.
When the incident was narrated at home, Aunty hugged him dearly. He forgot all the pain in her warm embrace.
“Can’t you send your girl to school without all such decorations ? Thanks to you, my boy would have lost his life today,” mommy almost shouted at Aunty.
“I am sorry. Today being Friday of Sravana, I sent the girl to school with the gold chain. I am anyway deprived of such small pleasures,” said Aunty taken aback at mommy’s onslaught. She pulled him away from Aunty’s embrace and dragged him home. Munny shrank to a corner, scared.
Mommy boasted before everybody in the street that her son was saved from death in the hands of that thief, because of her ‘virtue.’
Mommy never invited Aunty for any of her religious observances, though she invited everybody else. That hurt him very much.
Once he asked Aunty, “Why don’t you attend any religious observances in our house?”
“I am not that fortunate, my child!” she said turning her face away.
When he was alone with mommy he asked her: “Why don’t you invite Aunty to your functions, while you invite everybody else?”
“Shut up! Why do you stick your long nose in all matters?” she chided him.
He went to Aunty’s room in anger and with determination. He said to her, “Aunty! From now on, you observe all religious vows. Munny and I will get you whatever you need from the market.”
“No, no! Leave it! I was qualified for those things only when Munny’s father was alive. I am not fortunate enough now,” Aunty said with a tinge of pain.
“You mean, you should not perform those things now?”
“Yes,” she said wiping her tears.
Munny receded silently to a corner.
An inexplicable sadness and anguish filled him.
*
That was Janmashtami, birthday of lord Krishna. Noticing his mother was busy in her activities, he silently slipped into Aunty’s portion without his mom noticing him. On the wall, there was a photo of a gentleman in full suit. He was sitting in a chair with his legs crossed, and wore a pleasant smile. A garland of jasmines was hanging to it. Aunty removed that withered garland and replaced it with a fresh one.
There was another photo next to it. There were many women bathing in a pond. None of the women had clothes on. Some of them were waist deep in water. One lady covered her bosom with her hands. Another covered her chest with one hand and looking away. Two other women lifted their heads high in the air and making salutations. On one of the branches sat Krishna, smiling mischievously. And on another, a heap of saris of different hues was slung.
Looking at the picture, Murali smiled. But noticing that Munny observed him looking at the picture, he felt shy to look at her.
That day, Munny and Aunty worshipped garlanding that gentleman’s photo, the picture of Krishna and bathing ladies, another photo of Krishna standing by a white cow, and one more where Krishna was dancing on the hoods of a giant serpent.
He understood now. Aunty could worship singly, by herself, but could not invite to her house ladies with their husbands alive. He could not understand the reason why.
That day when Aunty and Munny were going to the movie Krishna Leelalu, he wanted to be along. “Take the permission of your mom,” advised Aunty. He lied that he took her permission and went with them.
Aunty and Munny were enjoying the naughty pranks of little Krishna. Then followed the obscene bathing episode, the picture of which he had seen in Aunty’s room that morning. The bathing ‘Gopikas’ (dairy maids, so to speak) were begging for their saris back from Krishna, who had stolen them and was sitting perched a branch. Krishna said to them smiling mischievously, “I will return your saris if you give up your lust for bodies”. Then the maids put their hands up above their heads and prayed. Krishna returned them their saris. Of course, there were many episodes in the movie.
While returning home he asked Aunty, “Krishna advised gopikas to give up their lust for body. Aunty, what does ‘lust for body’ mean? What is the relation between this and returning the saris to gopikas?”
“Lust signifies desire for the body. If one prayed God giving up all desires, God will bestow his blessings. With his blessings human beings go to heaven after death where there will be no worries and troubles. Everyone will be happy, jolly, and cheerful there.” As Aunty was explaining, the rain which started as a fine drizzle suddenly intensified into a downpour. All of them reached home fully drenched.
As soon as they were home, mommy started lashing at them all collectively. Daddy left the scene, embarrassed.
“Don’t you have a sense of proportion and time? Don’t you ever go out with every hoi polloi to cinemas?” mommy slapped him. Munny trembled with fear.
“Forgive us. It was a mythological movie, Krishna Leelalu (playfulness). So I thought… ” Aunty was trying to explain when mommy cut her short, and stuffing her words with all her spite she said, “We have been watching all your ‘Leelas’. We are only short of Krishna’s ‘Leelas’. Who will come to our rescue if something untoward happens to my child?” and many more.
Aunty turned pale. Without speaking another word, she withdrew to her room with Munny who was already in tears.
Changing into dry clothes Murali went straight to bed. He dreamt of Krishna high on the tree branch, the nude Gopikas in the pond, advancing tongue-lashing demons, pathetic faces of Aunty and Munny…and much more.
*
Next morning he went to Aunty’s room. Aunty paid her obeisance to the person in suit in the photo. She removed the withered garland from the photo.
“Are you cross with mom’s behaviour last night, Aunty?” he asked.
Aunty simply laughed away the question and kept silent. How nice Aunty was!
“Who is he in that photo, Aunty?”
“Munny’s father.”
“Do you buy jasmines only to worship him, then?”
“Yes. It was his birthday yesterday. That is the only worship I am not deprived of,” she said drying her tears. Munny seemed angry, depressed and withdrawn.
Over a period of time, Aunty told him that Munny’s father was a senior officer, and she used to perform her vows and prayers on a large scale when he was alive.
Then, even to earn God’s blessings Aunty could not perform her vows and prayers! That was why neither his mom nor other ladies with their husbands alive won’t invite Aunty for any function or festival. Why couldn’t he and Munny perform vows for her benefit on her behalf? Then Munny would be well educated and become a doctor. That would be the fruition of all Aunty’s efforts. He decided to perform all religious observations with Munny in Aunty’s house only.
There is one God who removes all obstacles in the way of any good work. He is Lord Ganesha, the darling child of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati. If he is worshipped no failures happen in one’s way. On Ganesh Chaturdhi, with the money given by Aunty, he and Munny went to market, bought all paraphernalia required to celebrate Lord Ganesha’s birthday in a befitting way. He turned a deaf ear to his mommy’s reprimands, and he read out the text of worship himself as Aunty and Munny performed the pooja.
Days of dark rain-threatening clouds seizing the sky had receded. Schools closed for Dasehra. Wherever Dasehra pandals were erected and programs were held, he visited them with Munny. They enjoyed the pooja holidays thoroughly.
Then came Diwali. Munni’s uncle who had accompanied her on her first day to the convent school visited them again and bought many crackers for Munny. He also gave all his crackers to her. That night, brighter than the brightest crackers, Munny sizzled like … a filigree of finest silver work, a ball of gold, and a rain of moonlight. She was the cynosure of Aunty’s eyes, and the glow of her laughter.
Strangely, in spite of all the festivals and the contingent joy and bonhomie, there always remained some inexpressible void in Aunty’s house. Whereas, in spite of constant querulousness between mommy and daddy, there was some wholesomeness in his house. Was it really due to mommy’s ‘accumulated virtue’? Why should not Aunty get the same ‘virtue’? He wondered how his mommy would react after Munny got a good education, became a famous doctor, married a wealthy boy, and visited her?
*
He heard some people were going on a picnic to a hillock at the end of the city by buses, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and even on foot. He asked Aunty why all people went there? She replied, “This is Karthika, the favorite month of Lord Shiva. God showers his blessings on those who take food under an Amla tree.”
One Sunday, daddy’s office staff planned a picnic to that place with all family members. They sent a jeep for daddy. He was ready to accompany his daddy. Mommy refused. As he was thinking it would be nice if Munny also accompanied him, she came out ready in Punjabi dress. She wore a blue chunni. Daddy invited her. He did not heed mommy’s murmurs. The jeep sped off and reached the foot of the hill soon. The bungalow there was full. There were people under every Amla tree. There were people of all age groups. Some people were engaged in cooking, some were playing cards, some were gossiping, and some others were singing, laughing, making fun and frolicking. It was a colorful parade of dresses and flowers.
All the colleagues of daddy gathered under a tree. He and Munny had breakfast and washed their hands in a stream flowing nearby. The water was cold and sweet, like Aunty’s sweet smile. The stream was flowing down from atop the hillock. There was a footway along the stream and there was a steady flow of people both ways. He asked one old gentleman, with tattered clothes and unkempt beard coming down, where he was coming from.
“There is a pond atop of the hillock. As per the legend, it was made by Lord Sri Rama for his consort Sita to bathe in. People go there to get Lord’s blessings.”
Munny and he started their way up along the footpath by the stream. They played with the greenery around, plucked the unknown flowers, rested under the shades. Sun was at the meridian by the time they reached the pond. There were pearls of sweat on Munny’s face. People had already left the pond for lunch. Only he and Munny were left at the pond.
He imagined Munny to be gopika in the pond and himself Lord Krishna. He was overwhelmed with joy at that thought. He told Munny about it and Munny got into the pond all smiles.
“Give up the lust for your body, I shall shower blessings on you!” he said playing Krishna.
The bashful smile on the face of Munny and her chunni were suddenly drowned in the pond. Munny with her hands hung up high disappeared gradually.
It was all over by the time people gathered and pulled her out, now limp and lifeless.
With the Kamadhenu-, the Kalpataru– and the Iravat-like cirrus clouds standing witness, under the cold and sweet waters of the pond up the hillock, all the ‘good’ and ‘virtue’ Aunty had earned over years were dissolved once and for all!
The cluster of ‘Karteeka Deepalu’ in the backyard of his house where Murali was lying were all blinking… and were about to go out!
GANAPATHIRAJU ATCHYUTARAMA RAJU
***
(Telugu Original: Munnii, Swati Monthly, January 1974 )
Read the original telugu story Munni- Ganapathiraju
The story appeared in Saranga Web-Magazine: https://magazine.saarangabooks.com/munny/
తోటమాలి … రబీంద్రనాథ్ టాగోర్, భారతీయ కవి
ఈ రోజు రబీంద్రనాథ్ టాగోర్ 159 వ జన్మదిన వార్షికోత్సవం
నీకు అదే ఇష్టమనిపితే
నా పాటని ఇప్పుడే ఆపేస్తాను.
నీ గుండె ఉద్వేగానికి లోనవుతోందంటే
నీ ముఖంలోకి చూడడం విరమించుకుంటాను.
నడుస్తూ నడుస్తూ, ఆశ్చర్యంతో అడుగు తడబడితే
నేను ప్రక్కకి తొలగి, వేరే దారి చూసుకుంటాను.
పూదండ గ్రుచ్చుతూ తడబడుతున్నావంటే
అలికిడిలేని నీ తోటవంక కన్నెత్తైనా చూడను.
ఈ కొలనునీరు తుంటరిగా నీపైకి ఎగురుతోందంటే
ఈ ఒడ్డున నా పడవ నడపడమే మానుకుంటాను.
.
రబీంద్రనాథ్ టాగోర్
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
భారతీయ కవి
The Gardener
If you would have it so,
I will end my singing.
If it sets your heart aflutter,
I will take away my eyes from your face.
If it suddenly startles you in your walk,
I will step aside and take another path.
If it confuses you in your flower-weaving,
I will shun your lonely garden.
If it makes the water wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat by your bank.
.
Rabindranath Tagore
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
Indian Poet
Poem Courtesy: Contributed by Nirupama Ravindra
The Lost Case… Sriraj Ginne, Telugu, Indian
Sriraj Ginne
(Born: November 22, 1946)
********