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Bijay Kant Dubey
Bijay Kant Dubey Chandrakona Town / India, Male, 51
Profession :
College Principal
Education :
B.A., M.A. in Eng, Pol.Sc. & Hist., Ph.D.

About Me : My Resume Bijay Kant Dubey (11.10.1965- ) Bijay Kant Dubey who was born in erstwhile undivided Bihar at Lohardih village by the banks... more »

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  • POEM: Leave This by Rabindranath Tagore (8/23/2016 9:02:00 AM)

    Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! is one of those poems of Gitanjali which tell us to be a karmayogi, not a dhongi as God is not in rituals merely, God is int he love of man, as has been said rightly, service to man is service to God. Many don the saffron clothes, take to the mandala-kamandala and the trisula to be a sadhaka, but the path of sahdna not so easy and sadhna does not deter one from shrama-dana. Before being chaste and holy, one needs to be righteous and virtuous from his within. Many pose to be sadhus and mahatmas, but are not saints and great souls. All that glitters is not gold is the case with. A man cannot be recognized from his attire. One needs to be pure from one's within. The poet asks the pretending religious man to come out of the temple and to see the world wide.
    He is there where the tillers keep tilling the lands, where the path-makers keep making the paths under sun and shower. Their clothes are mud-smeared, but the swamiji in finer ones. Deliverance is not in pretense. If one seeks to see God, one should in one's action, one's own karma.
    They too keep doing, they too keep helping humanity. Had they not, the crops would not have grown. Had they not, the paths would not have been. The difference is one should have the eyes to see.
    The dignity of labour must be held aloft. There is no religion that this welfare, this karma done.

  • POEM: A Summer Poem by Jayanta Mahapatra (8/20/2016 12:27:00 AM)

    A Summer Poem is one of those summer-pertaining poetry pieces of Jayanta Mahapatra where he takes to the Indian country burning in sun and heat, the rural landscape and that of his personal reflection and musing; a country of temples, rituals, faith, beliefs on the one hand while on the other of hunger, depravity and scarcity of food and resources in the midst of plenty. When during the midday or late midday the hot wind continues howling the countryside, ruffling it all, even then the priests keep chanting the sacred mantras, the Sanskrit syllables doing marvels with incantation and rhythm of speech, the mouth of India opens. It is of the gods first and then of the mortals like us.
    It is also a fact that in the mud-built homes which in the maximum people cook food with cow-dung cakes, haystacks and dry leaves and are in the habit of taking food in the noontime or in the afternoon generally after the worship in the household Vishnu temple.
    A typical summer poem full of private and personal reflection and musing it is no doubt an imagistic poem, never written before. Indian summer one cannot feel it unless he lives in the country and feels it. How difficult is it to cook food with in a dingy, small, narrow space of the mud-built and straw-thatched houses of the country and that too with cow-dung cakes, haystacks and dry leaves and those too not available easily? Today we are able to eat and wear. Yesterday it was difficult to sustain and survive. People used to remain half-fed, hale-clothed and even had to resort to taking grassy things and leaves. To get rice gruel was a big thing.
    Mornings of heated middens, dunghills keep burning and smoking. The scene is one of heat, ash, smoke and burning.
    The crocodiles move into the deeper waters as such is the intensity of heat, the scorching sun, the earth burning and cracking, men reeling under the heat waves doing the rounds, perspiring and sweating, from heat and humidity.
    This is but the one side of the scene while on the other the good wife lies she by his side, taking a nap not, but a siesta through the long afternoon unmindful of the pyres burning far and the muffled sounds coming to intermittently.

  • POEM: A Rain Of Rites by Jayanta Mahapatra (8/18/2016 11:39:00 PM)

    A Rain of Rites is the title poem of the collection named so as well as included in the text, but the way he frolics with private and personal myth and reflection that he confuses us with his image and idea, what he means and what he takes for. A small poem of some sour stanzas, it is not about the rains, but the rites raining. The Oriya scene and sight is certainly the crux of the matter. Whatever happens it, the rites will not cease, come to a stop; the Vedic chants and Upanishadic will keep continuing even during the past midday. Under heat and scorching sun, it will keep going.
    Sometimes a rain comes slowly across the sky, turning upon grey clouds and breaking away into light. This is how he starts the poem, A Rain of Rites. Rains and rites keep confusing, but the reality is he has the least to dispense with the rains as these are not his concern, but the rites of Orissa, India, continuing on the sea beach, in the Jagannath temple and the people thronging. Flowers and petals offered to the deity. Some people are shaven-headed. The spectacle of the temple sight is the panorama of the poem which he transmutes so well.
    The rain he has known and traded all this life is thrown like kelp on the sea beach protecting from salty ingredients and adding to the greenery. Like some shape of conscience he cannot look at, a malignant purpose in the nun’s eye.
    Discussing the rites, not rains, he moves to the cloudburst, the bringing of first showers as well as the cold cloud brining this blood to face? Actually, absurdity takes over, the absurdity of life and living, why rains, why rites, why this cycle of rains and rites, rites and rains? Actually, the earth parches in the scorching sun and it vapourises to hanging cloudbursts, downpours, heavy showers, rumbling, colliding to thunders and rains dripping and dropping and the rains wetting and soaking in water for vegetation and life.
    Numbly he climbs the mountain-tops of his own where his own soul quivers on the edge of answers. Who is it who brought the cold clouds? Who is it who brought blood to human face? Where were rites then? Mark it, where there is a rock-built temple there was a hill thereon.
    Which still and stale air sits on an angel’s wings? What it holds his rain so hard to overcome? Who to answer his absurd questions? His rains the showers of logic and reasoning refreshing absurdity with his crosswords of puzzles and riddles.
    In Jayanta the crushed flowers of the temple courtyard too have the songs of their own to sing. To see the things in contrast and contradiction is the beauty of his poetry. In one poem his good wife sleeps and snores by his side, taking her summer midday siesta full of sweating and humidity while on the other the rites with the mantric chants are heard from the distant temples and the funeral pyres keep burning at a distance. Play and inter-play keep going in his poetry.
    The syllables of the rains and the blood of the rites, who to say about? What do these rains and rites mean really which but Jayanta knows it well and none the else. Something of Original Sin, something of temptation and fall has been inducted in. It will be better if we end the poem, A Rain of Rites with ‘Da, dyadhavam, damayata and datta; om shanthi shantih shantih’ as does he Eliot in The Waste Land.

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