From Delhi Haat to Odisha

           While I was taking a casual stroll, in the lanes of Delhi Haat, I came across a woman from Odisha, who was substituting for her husband in a "bell metal (kansa)" utensil shop. She had a ten-eleven year old son, who was sleeping on a mat laid on the floor. As I was passing by the shop, I happened to hear her speak in Odia and had gone into the shop. On asking the price of an utensil, she quoted the price as Rs. 700. It was then that I had the most interesting of conversations. When I asked her from which district she belonged, she said that they were from Anugul and that her husband had a job in there, and this was the family business that they were continuing. Further she added that nothing can be done with the meagre salary of 40-50 K (which is the monthly income of many salaried people) that her husband was earning and that the tuition fees of her son alone was 10-12 K. Besides this they had to pay the salary of drivers of the bus and the car they had. This made me realise that the businessmen in India (and Odisha in particular) were not so poor as is otherwise being depicted. Judging people's bank balance by the way they dress or live is a mistake that is committed by many people. Which brings us to the question of poverty in India. Who are the people who are actually poor in India? There are instances of people serving as officers in companies and government offices, while their families are having BPL cards. This raises serious question marks on the effectiveness of the district administration in the transparent distribution of these facilities meant for the poor. This incident further cemented the theory that the rich are becoming richer and the poor poorer. 

           So who are the poor in Odisha, or for that matter in India in reality? It is the small and marginal farmers, the artisans, the landless labourers, the cleaners and even the people having a salary of Rs.5000 or even Rs.10000 per month. Life is difficult for them. They cannot afford, either good food or education for their children! Which raises the question what has been done for them in all these years that India has become independent. Providing rice for Re.1/kg to the people is like making them dependent on the government for everything and taking away their dignity. Much more needs to be done for providing employment to the people to empower them to earn a dignified living.

              Coming back to reality from the chain of events that conversation with the lady had taken me to, I walked on to the next shop in search of something new (may be a new story or a new perspective about life). As the sun began to set over the horizon the "Duma dum Mast Kalander" song being played in the CD and DVD shop caught my attention and looking at the reddish blue sky I wondered why there is such injustice in this world? A question which I have no answer to till now......

A poem about time and friendship.....

Time passes by faster than the speed of light,
it makes us wish,
to make it stay,
so a few words we may say,
to each other that we so longed for.
But time waits for none,
it's like the tide that's always there,
but in a flash which is gone.
We can't stop time,
but can preserve the memories,
which make us want to go back in time,
to the days which were the best in our life,
when each moment was wonderful,
and enjoyable,
because we were with our friends.
Time's changed now and everyone has gone far apart,
but in our heart we'll always cherish those moments,
which were sweet and eternal.
Though distances have increased,
but in our heart the light of friendship,
has not ceased.
It will burn till the last heartbeat,
till the time we no longer cease to exist.
But till that moment there are,
millions of moments and memories to make,
there are billions of things to share
with those people
whom we call friends.

The Highwayman

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

The Highwayman

PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

"THOSE UNFORGETTABLE DAYS"

Days come and days go by,

But the essence of some always stays by.

Those are the moments which fill our life,

with love, joy and happiness for which we always strive.-1-

The thought of these days fills the heart,

with satisfaction unbound,

and leaves us with visions of the past,

which are adorable and immortal.

Some say they were just great moments,

but some can't describe the beauty of even one second.-2-

The thought of those days just brings a smile from the heart,

even in situations which are extremely hard.

But the hardships can't just be set aside,

as they also increase the happiness when it does come by

and for which we always long.-3-

Words can't express, words can't describe those unforgettable days,

when one forgets all unhappiness

and emerges from the sad darkness,

to embrace the light of hope and joy.-4-

The thought of those days,

the thought of those moments,

makes one feel cherished,

taking us into a world,

where there is laughter, joy and love.-5-

----------------the end---------------------

By

Anshuman.....

The Best Days Of Our Life...

The clock of time ticks on and on,
and when we look back,
we think life was fun,
when the time was long back.
Each day when we get up from now,
each one will ask the same question,
how!
has life changed so much,
when we are no more in touch,
with friends and dear ones,
like in the college days.
Time is said can heal every wound,
but this one is hard to heal,
as our friends are bound,
to our heart and soul.
But the memories of the wonder years,
will always remain fresh in our hearts,
no matter how far the clock has ticked on,
we will remember each other in our hearts,
again and again.
Because these are the memories,
which will bring a smile,
to all our faces,
even in the darkest hours.
These are the days which are the most beautiful
days of our lives,
which we spent with friends so wonderful.......

By Anshuman

A TRYST WITH DESTINY.................

The world is a small place says everyone,
but is it really, I ask one,
and all,
who think the world is small.
When time passes by,
people come and pass by,
But our journey does continue,
into the distant future,
where many challenges await us.
People who were with us,
no longer stay anymore,
some become forgotten,
and with some we can't get in touch,
even if we try to.
So how is this world a small place?
How is this world a small place!
If people important at some point of time,
are no longer near,
If people whom we care beyond space and time,
are very very far....
Life is really a tryst with destiny,
where if fate rules,
only then can we remain nearby,
our friends.
FOR ALL MY FRIENDS......THOSE WHO ARE NEAR AND FAR......

By Anshuman Swain

2010

The Seven Ages of Man by William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.