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Fani's Friday: A nameless ache!
As Odisha falsehoods battered by the wrath of cyclone Fani and limps back to regularity from the staggering trail of the very extreme twister, the state draws honor for being debacle prepared. Most proficient, auspicious and well-arranged huge scale departure and early admonitions have spared numerous lives, particularly of poor people and minimized living on the edge of this touchy waterfront biological system. While this effective crisis reaction sets a case for other powerless states, it likewise flags the need to organize atmosphere strong framework and structures to limit the humongous cost of reproduction.

Whatever you see,
Whoever you meet,
They seem like someone else.
In this cyclone cycle Fani's neighbourhood
it's as if their identity has been stolen away.
On the roads, stairs, verandas, all around the villages
Once again we listen,
Cyclone's sound of hiss and silent entry,
Once again coming, without a face,
Gilt-tongued, stone-hearted.
Coming and going.
Each time bringing a smiling curse,
Taking away a sliver of our hearts.


Beyond the bars of the window, on the other side of the grille, the moon had descended and paused at the cluster of confounded coconut trees, and Rina Palai, her face pressed against the bars, was gazing at this moon sinking amidst the coconuts. It was not clear whether Rina was trapped inside the room or whether the moon was trapped outside it. Perhaps they both were imprisoned. One inside and the other outside. The moon was lifeless and Rina was like a living ghost, and for a few days now, Rina too had stopped counting herself among the living, and perhaps that's why, for a few days now, she had taken a liking to the moon.

Rina's life was filled with the silence of the night and her mind was fearful with the sound of sea. Outside the house too, there was a deep dark nocturnal stillness. The cluster of ravage coconut trees and forest was hush. Her old ruined houses were silent. Rina's village roads and greenery that embraced the crumbling ruin and everything suddenly stopped and changed with a gust of wind at a bay. And now her husband's festooned boats sat pale and lifeless.

"The bay and lake that had undoubtedly been important, useful and a blessing, otherwise why would villages have been settling right at its mouth?   But now it is only a curse for us? and these places have only gifted '1999-Super Cyclone, Hudhud, Gaja, Titli, Nilam, Leher, Phailin, Laila, Fani and many more, even we do not know what will become our future. Now we are hearing that cyclone Vayu is coming soon. We have lost everything and now we have no patience. Please do us some favour and save our future generations' life. God knows where and what is our future? The past, present and future, all are blink" says Rina.

Rina glanced at the moon once again. It was where it had not been. Outside the room, the moonlight was coming alive, and yet inside the room was an unnamed, sinister darkness. Fani's dance of destruction lying about villages was awake. Like Rina many more villagers of Rameswarpur, Sipakuda, Sanapatana, Arakhkudar, Maensha and many more villages of Bramhapura panchayta of Krushnaprasadgada block.  These villages are the landfall area of Fani cyclone. Within two KM these villages are surrounded by sea and lake. On one side Bay of Bengal and on the other side Asia's largest brackish water lagoon Chilka.

The eye of the blind, Sushama Behera was deeply imagining Super Cyclone, Titli, Hudhud, Phailin and now Fani.

Before my eyes
The tired sun of the day
Gets lost in the evening's foliage
And I
Afflicted by the pain of separation and devastation
A stranger to my own shadow,
Am left standing alone on the road..

Sushama lay down as well. She was scared from remembering cyclones etched memories. Memories those are not something light, like a cluster of clouds that it can just pass by without notice. Each and every memory is a life gone by.. and no life goes unremembered in Sushama's village.

The young Chinmayee Dalei looked at her reflection on the village road. She could not recognize herself in her own birth place, everything has changed so much, and she shut her eyes and began humming:

The world I am estranged from how is it now    
Where are the blossoming branches?
The houses made of flowers
The lane that taught me what love is
Does it remember my footprints?
What winds blow in the village of humiliation?
How does it treat its lovers?
What is the value of perishing in love?
The moon must still appear
But to whom does the moonlight
Tell its stories of love
The moon must be sleepless
I was like a stone,
Thrown away
Now the memories of the homes in my village, how do they fare??
Come, for the lonely heart is now just that, a lonely heart
And now, there's no sound of its beating either. 


Babul Raut's life turned after Fani's rage. The roar of Fani encompassed all of his life; Babul lost his wife just after one week of his marriage. The honeymoon memories and his wife Rupa's soft sweet melodious sound were whispering in Babul's ear every moment. His imagination and mind's eye recalled and roamed about Rupa's body. He remembered afresh the pleasures of the night past.

Babul madly says, "Rupa was so interesting. When she lay down on bed beside me, it was as if a cool morning breeze was lying next to me. Everyone dances to her tune. She brought a lot of joy to the villages. Rupa was the Bulbul of the village, sea, and lake. What a girl she was, by God! How Fani killed her, I cannot believe".

The shadow of her hair
Tiptoed into my room
In the dead of night
And made a promise to be true
The lips
That planted burning flames
On my chest and my face.
The deep eyes
That I closed silently with my lips.
The stone that sat in my heart dreaming of our home
Those eyelids, the hair, the lips, the eyes?
That flawless, beautiful idol of stone
Taken away, her promises,
In my heart
I try to distract myself with playful dreams
The perfume of her body
Spreads like disheveled hair
Appears wrapped in a soiled cloak of memories
And rises, restless of sitting in this room for so long
Then sits down again and begins to weep. 


In the landfall villages of Fani, one can get so many people's poetry. You could not make it your own. You could only feel sad wondering and then you will give thanks to god because it was not yours! There are so many rough, difficult paths around the heart. In this land of names 'Fani', everyone stares in terror at their own reflections in the broken heart of their individuality, reflections that are like thousand-headed monsters. They do not know today and there is no tomorrow. Everyone looks at their present fearfully, with their backs against the wall of desolation of just yesterday. As if there is not truth left except for what has passed. There is no difference between living and not living. Villages of Satapada and its bustling streets remained unaware, unmindful of this question.

Let's go, the two of us
To the village of slumber
In this village of fog, all shadows are asleep.
Dashed on the shore of this deep sea of sweat
All respite is asleep.
That soft weeping is asleep.
All whispers are asleep.
The roads,
As they travel.
Have dissolved into smashed houses.
The village is left standing alone.
Why don't we take this lonely, lost village with us,
To the village of slumber.
Night falls.
The eyes begin to burn.
The words are exhausted by the burden of their voice.
Let's cover ourselves with a cloak of whispers
Come, these whispers will sustain us on our journey.


The Dark Friday night, everyone heard the agony-filled stories, tears-tensions in every part of the villages. There had been couple of deaths?. God knows who will stay in those villages?

If there is an ode to the night, sing
For this morning
Has not song
No voice
No sinking moon
The forest of night
We stand?
Every single road sits holding its breath
But no one comes bringing any sign of hope
And falling on the stony surface of hard circumstance
Laughter, like glass,
Delicate like my heart,
That laughter shatters.
Courage lies vanquished
In the eyes that have been awake all night
In the eyes that yearn for morning

There are only the embers of burnt-out moments
A nameless ache-
Fani's Dark Friday! 

The Fani's landfall villagers can't really forget sorrow! Sorrow is a reality. Like Life. Or perhaps like thought and endings. Thoughts are their life and there are different kinds of deaths!

Tired of the day by evening
My heart sank like the sun.
My pain comes in wave after wave.
And hope is like a bandage, fastened too tight.
The hands of time are frozen.
The sky is empty,
The sea is hungry,
No sun,
Nor moon.
Moonlight like the frigid melancholy of my eyes.
Sunlight like the weariness of my face
Someone else's rhythm in the beating of my heart,
And sea,
No sunlight in the courtyard of my villagers' heart.

And then there is the death of all those good stories that are sold and bought to be made into cursed cyclones like Dark Friday Of Fani.

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