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The Weekly Yarns

Emboldened by the resounding success of The Daily Verse, we have started The Weekly Yarns, where we upload stories, flash fiction, anecdotes and musings of writers. If you have a story to share, please send it to editor@thewiseowl.art

Monday, 30th September, 2024

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Poetic Musings on 'Once upon a time'

By Sandip Chauhan

Hand Drawing
a moth on a lantern swaying in a storm.jpg

once upon a time

a lantern swayed in the storm

casting soft light

a moth traced erratic paths

drawn to warmth in the dark

once upon a time

a willow wept by the stream

beneath its long arms

a turtle basked in stillness

dreaming of sunlit shores

a turtle under a weeping willow on a stream.jpg
fireflies.jpg

once upon a time

grandma’s voice wove tales

a gentle balm at night

now screens flicker bright

lost is the magic of fireflies

Monday, 8th July 2024

an old couple sitting with the man smoking a pipe & the woman knitting.jpg

Love Revisted

by Snigdha Agrawal

What happens to a couple when the dreaded Alzheimer comes calling?

They met in the dining room of the facility.  He hobbled to her table. Leaning on his walking stick he asked, “May I join you?”  She looked up briefly at the close-shaved, neatly dressed man and replied, “If you are looking for a chatty companion, you have come to the wrong place. Sorry to disappoint.  I am not much of a talker”, going back to winding the wool around the knitting needles.  “That’s not a problem.  I’m not much of a talker myself”.  Her response was slow in coming.  A slight affirmative nod.  Acting on it, he slowly pulled back the chair opposite her and seated himself. They had breakfast together in silence.

 

She noticed the tremor in his hands as he started filling up his pipe with tobacco. “Please, don’t light up here.  I’m allergic to the smoke. There is a designated smoking area outside.  My husband had this habit of lighting up after every meal. I had to constantly remind him to step outside. He did of course.”

 

“I’m sorry Stella,” he said apologetically, reading her name from the laminated ID card, attached to a blue satin ribbon, hanging below her neck.  “Noted. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Anyway, it’s about time, I quit.  That would indeed please my wife.  Rest her soul”.  That meant he too was widowed.  Maybe that was the reason he had sought her out amongst the many residents.  A strong enough pull to draw two people together.

 

“Oh! I’m so sorry to hear of your loss Francis”, she responded, a tad ashamed. “I must tell you though, Stella is not my name. I go by the name Mary Ann.  It beats me, how they unilaterally decided to change it to Stella. Seems, the staff allot names according to their whims and fancies.  Has that happened to you Francis?”

 

“Yes, now that you mentioned it.  While they were filling out my registration form as Francis, I had pointed out the mistake, but they took no cognizance. I let it be.  After all, what’s there in a name?  Right? Frederick, Francis or Frankenstein?” he laughed aloud and noticed a smile breaking on her lips. “The person who checked me in said it was nothing to worry about, assuring me I was in good hands and would be in great company. He signed the admission form and got me upgraded to a superior room on the East wing with a view of the seaside.  Where are you located?”.

 

“I’ve been here for a very long time, much before the East wing was constructed. My room is garden facing.  With the changing seasons, the garden keeps dressing and undressing in different shades.  Even with my failing eyesight, I notice the bees picking on the pollen, red cardinals playing peekaboo on the conifer branches, and the Swans gliding in the lake.  It’s nothing short of paradise.  And now I am being told, they will be renovating this wing, and all inmates will be shifted to the sea-facing West wing.  Not that I mind.  A different view this time of the surf, sea and magical sunsets.”

 

“That should bring us closer, I suppose,” he said excitedly. “We can meet more often, outside of prying eyes, if you are comfortable with it.  I don’t wish to impose on your time or thoughts”.

 

****

 

The growing friendship between the two did not escape the notice of other residents, albeit with a tinge of enviousness. Stella the recluse, whom they could not draw into any conversation, or engage in any board games, seemed to be opening up in the presence of the newcomer, Francis.

 

****

 

No one knew that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were a married couple with a shared past, completely erased. They no longer remembered their names, faces, or past events.  Privy to only their son/daughter-in-law, and the doctors of the Senior Citizen facility, who were hopeful it would do good for both. The dreaded Alzheimer's had taken a toll on their memory.  First, the mother and in a few years the father followed.  Their son and daughter-in-law were painfully compelled to have them live in an Institution under medical supervision.

Raising hopes that maybe, rebooting would work.  And so, what if that failed to work?  Discovering a new ‘each other’ was an adventure in itself, for the couple reunited.

Monday, 24th June 2024

Image by Alex Shaw

Yoga: The New Craze

by Madhuri Chatterjee

21st June is the International Yoga Day. Here are some musings on yoga

Suddenly Yoga is cool. It has become a fad. If you are not into it, you are not living. Whether you end your morning with "namaste" or dread the wayward soaring yoga mat inevitably flying towards your head when commuting to or by Metro Rail, you can't deny it : yoga is everywhere. 

 

Much before Yoga boutiques and YouTube tutorials were weaved into the morning rituals of millions around the world, the ancient practice promised first millennium Indians rewards far more ambitious than good health and state of mind, including flight and immortal life.

 

For nearly as long as yogis have been transforming their minds, bodies and spirits, artists have been documenting their achievements. While scholars debate the origins of yoga's practice, historians date it to 3000 B.C., in the archaeological site of Mohenjo-Daro of the Indus River Valley civilization. 

 

The discipline of Yoga is widely recognized around the world as a source for health and spiritual insight. However, few are familiar with Yoga’s history. 

 

Yoga is connected to Religion, History, Sanskrit, Philology, Indian Culture and Art. History, which has been exploring Yoga, unearthing the many unknown traditions at one time associated with Yoga culture. Yoga is much more than any of us know. I mean, the more I learned about Yoga, the less I knew about it and the larger it became.

 

Even in its earliest origins, yoga was never just one thing. Some more ascetic traditions emphasised celibacy while others preferred gathering at cremation grounds to consume meat, and sexual acts. 

 

Bouncing between chronological, geographic and aesthetic categories, yoga from its early origins, is something quite mystical and revolutionary, very different from the widespread spiritual outlet it is today. Yoga has become a universal language of spiritual exercise throughout the world, crossing religious and cultural boundaries.

 

While yoga's historical variations may seem mystical, alien, erotic, scary and even savage, the discipline in its present form has morphed into something familiar, popular and widely accessible.

 

Countless articles about the highly lucrative and often ridiculed yoga culture begin by locating us within a spacious room with polished wood floors. On the occasion of my visit to my son Abhishek’s  Yoga space at Tolly Club around the block from my home in Lake Gardens I saw rows of Yogis practicing Yoga standing on their mat.

 

Yoga may have its roots as a practice largely for the benefit of men in India, but  today it buys women an entrée into a world where hips, sacrums, and elongated necks are prized, and a woman’s body is worshiped. In exchange for 90 minutes of our time, we attain a personal encounter with our inner god by pushing ourselves to reach high, dig deep, and make contact with our perineum—but often as a means of peddling a stereotype of femininity, one tied to a certain aesthetic about what a woman’s body should be.

 

What began as an esoteric practice tied to meditation has become an industry with a corporate studio culture and a practice built on the notion of twisting ourselves into becoming someone else. It makes sense to me that as yoga adapts to our modern needs  In yoga people sometime chant in Sanskrit, oblivious to the meaning of the words.

 

But many of the  Yoga Centres in Calcutta, calls it “chicked out” yoga, its classes offering a little bit of everything—a little cardio, a little weight loss, a little spirituality. They can be in gyms or in studios resembling mediation halls, the classes may be structured around sun salutations or another series of vigorous postures but what they have in common is a yoga scene that celebrates the male ideal of the feminine.

 

Yoga culture has found a place within the multitude of think pieces that scrutinize the most effective octave of our voices, or applauds our panache for empathy and team-building, or gauges the precise angle at which we should lean in or out. It plays to the part of us that centre on what we can we do to be happy, successful, fit, and of course, less intimidating. And like those conversations, the yoga image is constructed for and by a decidedly fit, white, upper middle class.

 

To be fair, for some people yoga—of any variety—offers a space for emotional release and a sense of comradeship. It's popularity, in part, speaks to the fact that there aren’t enough sacred spaces in our community. 

 

Such is the yoga scene that less than 20 years ago, was associated with austerity and simplicity. Classes were generally offered in mediation and holistic centers. Yoga clothes were unheard of, much less pricy, form-fitting pants. With the economic boom of the late 1990s, but more importantly in the early 21st century, yoga entered the mainstream, spawning trends like sweaty and power yoga. 

 

Indeed, in a culture where people would rather subject themselves to sit in front of the idiot box than sit with their own thoughts for 15 minutes, it stands to reason that a practice meant to prepare us for meditation requires a room to get us there. And even then, I invariably eye with envy the perfect round sun rising a few rows in front of me. 

 

Yoga is about your intimate contact with your own body and being present in your body in a very powerful way. It gives us a modicum of control and power over our body. Living a life of healthy balance requires us to shift back and forth from being the doer and recognising how much is being done for us. The way to replenish the reserves is to stop the doing and receive, and to recognise when we are receiving and let it in.

 

After decades of Yoga craze, it may be that the promise of yoga is the very element that often eludes us—contentment. And rather than escape to Yoga classes, yoga is best practiced by inviting the chaotic, loud, and decidedly un-yogi world to actually affect us. But happiness, as we all know, is the most desirable commodity—and in whatever form, someone somewhere is selling happiness.

 

Explore the endless permutations of yoga believers both human and divine. Here we have the cosmically inclined Vishnu Vishvarupa, rendered in watercolor in the 19th century that holds the sun in one eye and the moon in the other, harnessing the powers of the universe from head to toe.The Yoga Centres are marked in the body and so are the power points. 

Monday, 17th June 2024

Image by Jorge Fernández Salas

Flash Fiction with a twist

The dying waves lap my feet. My toes sink into the wet sand. I think I will walk along the beach to the pier.

 

******

 

“You’ve already confessed to the crime,” I say to the kid who sat in front of my desk. He is 16 and he has a mean looking face. His eyes are beady and his nose is squashed. “You might as well plead guilty. Next time the police question you don’t tell them a damn thing.”

 

******

“I like Spain,” Barbara, my wife, says. She has put on a little weight recently but I don’t find her any less attractive. She sat up in bed. Her pyjamas are light green. I sat in the armchair to the side of the bed with a book clasped in my hands.

“We went to Spain last month,” I say. “Let’s go to Italy or something.”

“I’ll think about it,” Barbara says, but I have been married to her long enough to know she has already decided that we will go to Spain.

*****

 

“You’ve got to try the lobster,” Barbara says. Her hat has a wide brim and her dress is floral and pretty. I am wearing a t-shirt and shorts. The sun is so strong against my skin that I sweat lightly even though we have been sitting down for over half an hour.

 

I reach over with my fork and stab a chunk of Barbara’s lobster. As soon as I put it in my mouth I realise that she is right: the lobster is delicious.

 

*****

 

“It’s boring,” Barbara says. She hasn’t even opened her book.

“It’s a 40-minute flight, honey,” I say.

“They should show a TV show if there isn’t time for a whole film.”

“Just read your book. It’ll be over before you know it.”

 

*****

“Barbara was an amazing wife,” I say. The tears come. I stare at the closed coffin in front of me. The lid is closed but I picture Barbara lying in it in my mind. “She was kind. Generous. Loving. She was a perfect mother to all of our children.”

 

*****

“You’re a what?” Tammy, my date, says. She is young (I think she said she was 26 or 27). The people at work will surely talk. They will say a sixty-year-old shouldn’t be with someone so young. They can talk all they want, though; I don’t care what they say. I need a partner, a lover, a friend. Going on holiday on your own is no fun.

Monday, 10th June 2024

a dark forest of pines with translucent horse rider ghosts galloping through it.jpg

The Ghostlore of Vagamon

by Anju Kishore

The writer-poet narrates the story of the forest of Vagamon, a place in Kerala, where  ghosts can be sighted in the eerie light of the night.

The choolamaram forest howls and moans

like she had said it would
My nearly blind grandmother, lighting the twilight lamp 
to usher in the Gods and scare dark spirits off her doorstep

The dark is no time to loiter among the pines
It's the time yakshis wander to devour handsome boys 
she had announced to this young man, just back with a coveted degree
the just-back tag still hanging from everything 
I thought, didn't think, said, didn't say, did, didn't do...

So I walk, mildly curious to see if any ghosts find me handsome
 

Across the dreaded clump of pines breathes my uncle
Wheezy, painful breaths that everyone says, pleaded for death

The night is hollow

It swallows me whole
In its depths, crickets creak a warning
The Kaalan Kozhi calls

cracking the silence with its omen of death


On cue, a breeze begins to blow, rustling awake the dozing trees
Gathering the filtered moonlight with my eyes

I crunch forward on fallen leaves

into the pines that howl and moan

but there is something else too
like the galloping of horses

I turn
There are indeed many riders racing towards me

No, there is only one. The rest are split images of the one
Dashing towards me, they merge into one and pass through me
But what goes through me is only a horse without the rider
Was he left behind? Did he fall off? Or was he swallowed too by the night?

Or am I the rider? Or the horse?
 

Recovering with a cold shudder, I wonder

if this vision is in vogue now
Grandma's ghostlore was probably passé
among the grieving pines that continue to...

 

Faint with anticipation, I approach a scattering of houses

blinking in the moonlight

Opening the wicket gate to my uncle's

I walk up the path zig-zagging in the light of a swinging lantern

I step in the half-open door

 

Turning around slowly

grinning a toothless grin, is my grandmother

There is a glitter in her eyes I have not seen before


The choolamaram must have moaned louder
The Kaalan Kozhi must have slept, its job done

*Vagamon- A place in Kerala
*Choolamaram- A type of pine tree that makes a howling sound when the wind blows
*Yakshi- a female ghost
*Kaalan Kozhi- a bird of ill omen, a harbinger of death

 

Monday, 3rd May 2024

Indian summer.jpg

A Requiem to Summer

by Madhuri Chatterjee

The writer talks about the Indian summer which has its magic as well as pain points

Summer is a reality check that strengthens our resolve to survive each day, specially after a  vacation. It's a sizzling 47+ outside. Even a simple task is a battle that needs to be won. My  short morning walk almost finishes me, though I go in the  very early hours. It becomes difficult to take it, making me sweat as in the gym. Even an urgent car drive can roast you. Going to the nearest market becomes an odyssey. The best thing about summer is that you can blame everything on it.

 

From April through June, north India descends into hell. As the mercury rises above 40C, the air gets progressively drier. Homes were cooled with curtains of the fragrant “Khus”. This dried herb had to be watered and the dry wind would blow fragrance and moisture into the house. It was surprisingly effective. In school, students would routinely suffer nosebleeds and faint from the heat during morning assembly which was held in the open school grounds. Now we have air conditioners in some places.

 

There are dust storms accompanying heat waves in deserts. People would shut all doors and windows and the dust would still find its way in. In this lower ring of Hades, students would write their final exams. Summer always brought the sense of an ending.

 

What also ends, is the supply of good vegetables. Bhindi (okra), eggplant, gourds, sundry root vegetables are all that is there in the shops. Everything else is dead from the heat. But there are cucumbers. Long, slender, footlong cucumbers with very fine skin which you do not need to peel. These were referred to, poetically, as “Laila ki ungliyan; Majnu ki pasliyan” (The fingers of Laila, the ribs of Majnu). And there was Rooh Afza: A lurid pink “sherbet” which came in a glass bottle – it is made with Unani herbs to counter the heat. Jugs of this are served with ice and slices of lime. There are “cooling” foods with coriander and lime and raw white onion. Icy cold lassi with mint and roasted cumin is invariably present at every meal.

 

What would summer be without mangoes? We didn’t get the King of mangoes, Alphonso, always but there is Dusshehri and Langda and so many varieties. All are sweet like dates in the Middle East. Occasionally, on the way out of town, as kids, we would buy sugary Honeydews and watermelons on the dusty roads of Rajasthan. The bigger the battle, the larger the reward. A tall glass of nimbu pani, watermelon, buttermilk after some work are adequate consolation. Or the blissful relief of a cool shower at the conclusion of a punishing day. The soothing balm of an evening breeze. Earlier, deep purple Jamuns were bought from handcarts; these stained our faces and dresses. The dresses would be thin cottons or muslin which had turned a butter-yellow colour with repeated washes.

 

The Indian summer is as cruel as it is generous. It sings a melodious tune (the morning cuckoo's cry wakes me up) only if we are patient. The joy I can't but do without is Gondhoraj in summer, another favourite. Many years back,I had discovered in Bengal this marvellously rich, soothing, fresh scent. The scent that’s stayed on my mind. I knew the sapling was coming home with me.The great Bengali Gondhoraj lebu, lime, lemon, call it what you will but the king of taste and fragrance is the ‘Raj’ in it’s name. It smells so divine in my daily rice plate. It has a distinctive flavour and aroma akin to it’s South East Asian, lumpy bumpy cousin the Kaffir lime. Lime to lemon in size and really used more for its zest rather than the pitiful amount of juice, although still worth the trouble, trying to get every last drop of it.

The streets are deserted all afternoon. There wouldn’t be a crow in sight. And as the streets are ablaze, so are the skies – with flames of Gulmohar and the gold of Amaltas (Laburnum). The curtains would be drawn, the cooler, now Air conditioner would be switched on. Something would be playing- Abba, the Beatles, the Carpenters, old songs or there is reading and Netflix.

 

The best thing about summer is that you can blame everything on it, especially the polls in this mad heat. The Indian summer is as cruel as it is generous.  It generously hands out mangoes of all varieties, a variety of juices, and other by-products of mangoes- panna, pulp, fresh, fried, pickles, jam etc. All sweet and savoury- can't decide which one tastes best. Perhaps anything which can be squeezed between the fingers.

 

Next, the smell of the night-blooming jasmine or raat ki rani and the tuberose are among my favourite ‘Indian’ smells, though the former is native to the West Indies and the latter is native to Mexico. The mallika (jasmine) is found in Sanskrit poetry, associated with the season of summer. Though the garden completely shrivels but jasmine and tuberose bloom in the tender moonlight. The fragrance of jasmines and madhugamini wafts in grom the garden, like a hundred blessings.  It seems all pervasive, and the light breeze seems  to control its intensity in the night. I love to use the leaves too in fragrant rice dishes. They make a fabulous and delicious addition and flavour to my pantabhat. It, in fact, turns the most boring meal into a gourmet experience.

Summer romance is a vacation; we get to sit indoors and be in a permanent state of inelegance.

Monday, 27th May 2024

an woman sleeping with a book on her chest.jpg

The Intruder

by Anju Kishore

A poetic yarn

It was early one rainy morning

when I woke up to its loss

My prized kettle

a horror of battered aluminium

my dowry of five and thirty years

or was it five and twenty

Who knows

or cares

 

He was already calling for kattan-chaaya

like he would soon begin for his bowl of kanji

I ducked outside to collar a street urchin or two

when I found my neighbour

hands on hips

questioning passing boys

who were shrugging away her assault

They don’t play house-house

with stolen vessels, don’t we know?

 

It was fowls the next day

And worse, they were brought back dead

Strewn all over the shore

My kettle among them

sandy, salty, poorer by its lid, richer by a fish inside

that bristled like our old man

whose bowl was delayed, for that was gone too

 

The sea caressed the carcasses

and wiped the debris with her hem

Her fragrance

mingled watchfully with the women

as they pointed dagger-fingers at each other

The men folded up their lungis

and scratched their heads over toddy

as it poured

 

The palms waved their fronds in sympathy

Let us sit watch tonight, wheezed our old man

the storm in his cataracted eyes

The sky scowled assent

The wind howled dissent

snatching our tattered thatch

The nets, tangled like us

fumbled with our fingers

while the men dragged their boats farther

How far could they go...

 

That night we watched the sea rise

and smash the shore

Wails rose

The children roared

I woke up

with an open book of poems on my chest

‘The Sea Eats the Land at Home by Kofi Awoonor’

it read

*kattan-chaaya: black tea
*kanji: gruel
*lungi: a men's garment consisting of a long piece of printed cloth worn wrapped around the lower body and tucked at the waist

Monday, 20th May 2024

a terrified little bird.jpg

Vagrant

by Sasha Clark

A poetic story about an avian vagrant.

Once upon a time..

The wanderer doth
alight upon a vagrant
avian friend. He
soothes the bird with his gentle
trilling, with treats and water

He scratches his beard
and leans down slowly, quietly
with respect and care
he offers his new friend his
finger for a higher perch

"Can you tell", he says,
"the way back to the flyway?"
The little bird looks
around, turning a circle.
slowly towards him. Head down.

His body quivered
lightly. More felt then seen, thought
thought the wanderer. He
creased his brow and rubbed his chin
"I suppose," he said, you'll have
to winter with me this year."

Little bird lifted
his head slowly, fluffed sodden
feathers and released
a shaky, quiet trill. "I
can keep you warm, and bathed."

Little bird gently
ruffled his feathers melting
down into the wanderer's
hand. Slowly, quietly with
with respect and care he stood

This year winter was
particularly mild so
Little bird spent some
time outside. When in, the man
would often tell him stories

Glorious tales of
distant lands danced around the
room each night. The man
and bird soothed in their vagrant
hearts. Images dance in dreams

As winter withdrew
it's icy breath bird and man
knew their parting was nigh
quiet melancholy did
chance upon their brows at times

The morning came that
bright warm sun swirled their rooms

"I suppose you need
to leave me now." Wanderer
sighed to his bird friend
Little bird bowed his head, fluffed
his feathers and trilled sadly

The light began to grow
until they had to shade their
eyes. From the light a
beautiful fairy princess
emerged with a loving look

"Wanderer," she said
I had lost my lovely bird
companion in the
winds to find him safe and warm
with you in joyous friendship."

"Your love and caring
warms my heart. Though I'll miss
my little friend, there
is no need for his return
if you both wish he remain."

Wanderer and bird
looked at each other and smiles
bloomed. Little bird flew
to his shoulder sealing their
friendship in forever's grace

From that day ever
on bird and man would wander

to and fro throughout
the land. Following the warmth
an inseparable pair

Wherever they went
they always found sustenance,
comfort and friendly
faces. Nights around bonfires
and space for peace and sharing

And now and then the
beautiful fairy princess
would join in the evening
to listen to their tales of
their wonderous adventures

And they lived happily ever after

Monday, 13th May 2024

Image by Varun Pyasi

Quirky Fate

by Snigdha Agrawal

The writer creates a 'once upon a time' tale with her characteristic panache

Once upon a time, there lived an old woman, believed to be endowed with supernatural powers.  She lived alone in the Sal Forest bordering a village in Purulia.

Not many knew that she was born with a birth defect and abandoned by her parents when she was ten. The girl with four hands would be a lifelong liability for the parents.  So, they blindfolded her and left her on the steps of the 'Sitala Mata'[1] mandir, in a drugged condition.  As the effects of the drug started wearing off, Pratima realised with a sense of shock, her parent's deceit.  Taking refuge inside the temple she prayed for a miracle to happen.  Her ears picked up airy music notes, having a flute-like tone.  She dozed off. 

 

The next morning, she awoke with a start.  A pair of old, tired eyes, was staring at her in disbelief.  Except for a Shikha (tuft of hair) hanging from the back of his head, the old man was completely bald, bent double with age.  Picking her up, he noticed her out-of-the-ordinary physical form. What was she doing in the temple, he asked.  The girl narrated the events leading to her abandonment.  The Priest took her under his tutelage; providing her with a home, food, and education, she would otherwise have never received. He trained her on how best to turn her disadvantage into an advantage, assuring her that far from being a freak, she was an incarnation of the Deity, sent to him as a blessing for his untiring services.  Pratima felt reborn with his love and attention.  In return, she cooked, cleaned and tended to the kitchen garden and became his caretaker when the Priest was on his deathbed.  On his demise, she took over the service of the temple, comforted in the thought, there was no one around to object or cast aspersions on her deformity. 

 

Years rolled by.  Pratima grew as old as the ruins of the temple.  Then out of nowhere, one day she found a few men praying inside the temple.  Surprised she asked what had brought them so far from the village.  With downcast eyes, they told her of the smallpox epidemic that was raging in their village, taking away the lives of children and the elderly.  The village population had halved.  The district hospital staff were reluctant to visit for fear of falling victim to the disease.  Only “Sitala Mata” could save them from their misfortune.  Seeing her four hands folded over her chest, and convinced she was an avatar of the Mata, they fell at her feet, asking for forgiveness and her help in removing the curse that had befallen their village.  They pleaded that she visit the village and perform the ‘yagna’ (ritual done in front of a sacred fire with a specific objective). 

 

Thus, Pratima visited her village after seventy-five years since she left.  Vastly changed.  She was sure of not recognising her home if it hadn’t been for the banyan tree which stood untouched by the road rollers.  Ignoring the urge to knock on the now-carved wooden door, of her home, she went along with the men to perform the rituals.  It would be pointless to rake up memories of the past with the present occupants who would not have heard of her. 

 

Any doubts she harboured about a female freak performing a yagna were instantly removed with their warm welcome.  At the end of the four-hour ‘yagna’, they bowed to her in reverence.  “Mataji…can you not stay in our village?  Your presence will be like a shield of protection”, they implored.  She refused.  Returning to her abode in the forest, she continued living under the protection of the Devi.  A few years later, the village Pradhan visited with gifts and to share that the curse had been lifted forever.  That year, and subsequent years there were no epidemics.  The villagers were healthy and happy.  They believed that her supernatural powers were responsible for the turnaround. 

 

Ironical, wasn’t it?   A freak once banished, being relegated to Devi status!

[1] Sitala is a Hindu Goddess regarded to be an incarnation of the goddess Parvati.  She is believed to cur poxes, sores, ghouls, pustules and diseases, and is most directly linked with the disease smallpox (source internet).

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