Andaman Diaries -1

 

Andaman Diaries -1

 ( My thanks are  due to  my  Ph.D Guide and Senior  colleague in GSI , Dr. J.R.Kayal professor emeritus, Kolkata, for    providing valuable insights  while writing this article .  This write up  is based on experiences of the GSI team at Andaman Islands, India) 

The decade between 1991 and 2001 witnessed several major earthquakes across India, including those at Uttarkashi, Chamoli, Killari, Jabalpur, and Bhuj. While scientists were still studying these events, another earthquake struck North Andaman on 14 September 2001. Though moderate in magnitude (about 6.0) and causing limited damage, it was of great scientific significance. Its epicentre lay beneath the sea, about 30 kilometres east of North Andaman, providing valuable data for understanding the region's active tectonics.

Five days later, on 19 September, our team left Kolkata carrying a portable seismograph to record aftershocks. After a long flight across the Bay of Bengal, we arrived at Port Blair, the capital of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Scattered like emerald jewels across the blue sea, the archipelago comprises 572 islands, of which only 36 are inhabited. Surrounded by lush forests, rolling hills, and coconut palms, the islands presented a picture of extraordinary natural beauty.

Soon after our arrival, we installed an earthquake-recording instrument and later visited the historic Cellular Jail. The Sound and Light Show vividly narrated the suffering and sacrifices of India's freedom fighters, leaving us deeply moved. In the evening, we relaxed at Marina Park, where colourful lights reflected on the calm waters, creating a magical atmosphere.

 Before dawn on 20 September, we began our journey to North Andaman along the famous Andaman Trunk Road. The route passed through dense tropical forests, fertile valleys, paddy fields, and picturesque villages. Every turn revealed fresh shades of green and breathtaking scenery.

After crossing several checkpoints, we entered the protected territory of the Jarawa tribe. Vehicles were required to travel in police-escorted convoys through the reserve. As we moved beneath towering forest canopies, the silence and mystery of the jungle created an unforgettable experience.

Although our visit was primarily a scientific mission, it became much more than that. The Andamans offered a rare blend of natural beauty, living history, and geological wonder. Long after the seismic data had been analysed, memories of emerald forests, tranquil seas, and the spirit of exploration remained etched in our minds. The Andaman Islands were not merely a destination—they were an experience that revealed both the power of nature and the beauty of one of India's most remarkable landscapes.

-Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry : A few Paces Apart

  

A Few Paces Apart

I lazily watched the trains go by

At Maidan Metro Station,

When there alighted a pleasant-looking couple

From a crowded train.

Unthinkingly, I tried to guess:

Were they bound in marital bliss?

The woman seemed to be in her thirties,

Dressed in plain lilac cotton.

Her hair lay rather carelessly strewn,

Framing a face of innocent grace;

And he, a tall and mature man,

Walked beside her in fast pace.

Then my eyes caught a telling glimpse—

The man was striding far ahead,

While she, in her flattering slippers,

Lagged behind with measured tread.

The guess I made, I think, was right:

Leaving his lady far behind,

They could only be a married couple—

                               Such clues are not too hard to find

Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

10.09.1999

Poetry:Trajectory

 

Trajectory

  (This poem reflects on a silent journey shared with Buddha—not as a historical figure, but as a symbol of wisdom and inner awakening. Though paths may diverge and destinies unfold in different directions, some bonds remain eternal, sustained by silence, memory .)

Me and my Buddha

Walked together

In deep, dark woods,

In silence,

Distance does not separate;

Silence does.

Buddha is not a mortal,

But a Buddha, the enlightened one.

With him,

Silence binds,

And noise deters.

Our paths diverged,

Yet crossed;

Trajectories distinct,

In tangential directions

In space,

In chaos.

In Buddha's eyes,

Calm and serene,

I Met

A sudden fury,

The tremor ceased,

Everything subsided,

And Mother Earth returned

To her warm composure.

A solitary tear rolled—

Was it a grief long hidden?

Oh Buddha,

or did

silence veil your pain

And parting—

Painful,

Yet making the

Bond eternal.

Me and my Buddha

Walked on,

Each one

Along a destined trajectory.

Me and my Buddha

Are inseparable,

Bound by a journey that never ends,

For he walks forever

In the silence within,

My Buddha and me.

Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

31.05.2026

 

Poetry : The little Girl

 

 

The little Girl

(Today, on Wednesday, 27.05.2026, I have completed   posting  fifty blogs on this platform. This fiftieth blog is a heartfelt expression of gratitude to the little girl who inspired me to write, create, and continue this journey of expression as a blog.)

I looked into your eyes to see
But met a silent mystery,
A fleeting smile, a sudden spark,
That vanished back into the dark,
You  laugh  at every playful whim,
Perhaps to suppress the sadness  within.
Leaving a cold and empty space
Like fading echoes none can replace
Little Girl, You remain a mystery to me.
            You desired for moon
             A distant dream, a  little desire,
            But an  impossible and heavy call,
            I wish that I could fetch that light,
            And bring the cosmos to your hand,
           To guide you through your lonely night,
           And help you find a gentle land.
          Little Girl, You remain a mystery to me
Why do I find you all alone,
Within the crowded, noisy room?
With so many friends and relatives to share
They desire you with utmost care
A statue carved of silent stone,
Little 'Oasis' waiting for its bloom.
Little Girl, You remain a mystery to me    
        You remain a deep, uncharted sea,
         A puzzle that I cannot trace,
        A beautiful, sharp mystery,
        Lost in the folds of time and space.
       You went away, beyond my sight to flee,
       Still Little Girl, why dost haunteth me?

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

   27.05.2026

 

    

A narrative : I am Born

 

I AM BORN

I was born; a dark complexioned, a dark-skinned, flat-nosed baby girl; something very repulsive (unpleasant) in those days. The people in the hills usually are sharp featured and fair complexioned. Those were the days when girls were crying little beings who demanded constant care. I was born in a little “Obri”, a dim mud-walled room smelling of earth and smoke in the innermost corner of my parental house. All the babies born in my house saw their first light (or life) in this darkest room. It was a mud house with a slate roof. The midwife, they say, died soon after on the dark stony path of hills. She had slipped down the hills into the Khud (Gorge).

A small Puja was performed within the household. I  was named Mallika, a princess. Baba  ( my Paternal Grand Father) wanted a festivity, as I was his first grandchild. I  was the darling of his eyes and he called me Bablu. Dadi ( my paternal Grandmother) , a more practical person warned, “If you celebrate the girl’s ‘Namkaran’ ceremony the Goddesses are pleased and keep on reappearing” as if Goddesses are meant only for worshipping and staying in heaven, not to land on earth.

I  grew up in a small village of Samnoli, situated in the a valley wrapped in mist and pine-covered majestic hills. The village was devoid of electricity for many years. Encounter with chirpy birds and dancing trees around  my  house was part of my daily life. As a child listening to stories by the night lamp was the source of entertainment. The rich wealth of folklore, stories of shepherds and Gujjars echoed through the mountains, transported the little girl to a maiden with an instinctive craftsmanship.

What I  had lived unknowingly as a child, I  later rediscovered in Poetry . These childhood memories found their reflection in the verses of William Wordsworth and John Keats. The little girl from the misty hills stood awestruck before their poetry, discovering in their words the same beauty, wonder, simplicity, and emotional depth that I had once experienced in my own mountain world. The hills of my childhood had silently prepared my soul to understand and cherish the romantic spirit of nature, imagination, and beauty. Thus, the dark little room where my  life began gradually opened into a world illuminated by literature, creativity, and poetic wonders.

-Pankaj Mala  Bhattacharya

Poetry :Quiet Craftsman

 

Quiet Craftsman

(It is completely natural to feel hurt when your hard work goes unnoticed, even if you initially poured yourself into it purely for comfort and escape. You are not a loser; you are experiencing a deeply human conflict between wanting work to be a private sanctuary and needing your worth validated by the world. )

I work with quiet devotion,

Not to draw attention to my work.

Work, to me, is a solace, a pastime,

A refuge from haunting thoughts.

I live with it

As life lives with water;

It is my nourishment,

It is my pleasure.

Then why does it pain me

When my work goes unnoticed,

Unrecognized?

For I did not labour

To display the labour,

But to do my work sincerely,

Honestly—perhaps thoughtfully.

But then, thoughtfully, I realize:

The world looks at the persona,

While I look at the craft.

They chase the noise;

I build the worth.

I am not a loser for my silence—

I am a quiet craftsman

In a loud world.

Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry : Ainsi Va la vie ( That’s life )

 Ainsi Va la vie

( That’s life )

 ( This poem is based on a true incident from my life nearly twenty-seven years ago, when I was working in the Geological Survey of India office near Indian Museum. The office functioned from two separate buildings, one of them an old British-era structure with high ceilings, long corridors, and an ancient manually operated lift. I had gone there to meet my senior colleague and PhD guide, who would always welcome me warmly with a cup of tea.That day, however, I reached just two minutes late. The lift had already been closed for the afternoon, and there were no mobile phones in those days to check whether he was available. After climbing four steep storeys—almost equal to seven floors of a modern building—I reached his office tired and breathless, only to discover that he had gone out for a meeting .At that age, such little frustrations felt quite significant. Looking back now, the incident seems almost amusing, and the poem captures both the disappointment of the moment and the quiet acceptance that came with time.)

On reaching the lift gate,

The doorman said, “You’re two minutes late.”

The lift closes at half past three,

And then begins the evening tea.

I climbed up to the fourth storey

Of the building in magnificent glory,

Reminding me of the British Empire

When they ruled the country entire.

Panting profusely,

I reached the place,

Hoping to find solace

In a hot cup of tea;

Only to find it vacant.

Without remorse, I climbed back down—

This is how I have grown.

Why events turn out so, I  don't  know why;

I smiled and thought,

“How lucky am I, anyway?”

 Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

23 hrs 16.07.99

Story : the Exodus

 The Exodus

Piddu grew up in a tiny, quiet hamlet nestled in the green hills of District Kangra, Himachal Pradesh. He lost his father, when he was just five years old. His mother  raised  him alone facing many hardships. She survived on the meager ,wages she earned by working in the village fields. Whenever a wedding took place in the area, she would help with the household chores to earn a few extra money. Life was tough in hills then , it still is.

In those days, young men from the Himachal hills followed a familiar path. After completing their basic schooling in the villages, they ventured down to the plains under British rule. Most moved to bustling hubs like Amritsar, Jalandhar, or Lahore. Some managed to open small shops, while others secured modest government jobs.

Piddu’s life took a turn for the better when he landed a permanent position as a postmaster in Lahore. With a steady income secured, his mother quickly arranged his marriage to a young woman named Neera. Within a year, Neera gave birth to twins.

Lahore was a grand, sprawling town, vibrant with the glamour of British civilization. Seeking familiarity in the big city, a few Himachali families flocked together, living side by side in the narrow, winding streets near the Sant Nagar. Piddu and Neera moved into this close-knit community, building a comfortable life for their new family.

The political atmosphere grew volatile as the map was rewritten and two independent nations were born. Overnight, the country fractured. Riots flared up across the land, homes were destroyed, and millions of people were forced to flee for their lives. A massive exodus began as terrified families crossed the newly drawn borders between India and Pakistan.

Realizing that staying in Lahore was no longer safe, a few Pahari families decided to make their escape. Leaving during the day with heavy bags was a deadly risk, so they chose the cover of darkness. Packing only their absolute barest essentials, Piddu and Neera slipped out into the night and headed for the Lahore railway station.

The train left Lahore station at around seven in the evening. It  was devoid of proper electricity , heavily packed, with people crammed inside the carriages like sacks of wheat. Somehow, amidst the desperate, pushing crowd, Piddu managed to claim a tiny, space right near the carriage toilet. Neera squeezed onto their single metal trunk, tucking her tiny infants tightly against her bosom to protect them from the crushing weight of the crowd.

The peak summer heat was suffocating. Inside the third-class compartment, the air was thick, hot, and heavy with the stench of sweat, iron rust, and panic. The usual sounds of travel were replaced by a tense, breathless silence, occasionally  broken only by sound of prayers and the soft cries of frightened children. Exhausted by the terror of the past few days, the stress of leaving , and the oppressive heat , Neera’s eyes grew heavy. She eventually fell into a deep, heavy sleep, her arms still locked around her babies.

Outside the barred windows, the vast plains of Punjab rolled past under a bright moonlit sky, presenting a haunting contrast of pure peace. Rich, emerald fields of wheat  and tall stalks of sugarcane swayed gently in the night breeze, glistening with silver dew.

Nature remained entirely untouched by the sudden madness of men and the artificial borders they drew. The soil smelled of timeless fertility, and the ancient rivers flowed with the exact same rhythm they always had, completely oblivious to the tragedy unfolding on the tracks above.

Piddu noticed  that one of the twins had stopped moving completely, a panicked Piddu leaned down and pressed his ear to the infant's tiny chest. The baby was dead. The scorching heat, the lack of air, and the crushing crowd had been too much for his fragile body to bear. The child had quietly left this unkind world. The dead baby was on Neera's left shoulder.  

Looking at his sleeping wife, Piddu’s mind spun into a state of wild, desperate grief. They were returning to their native village to start a completely fresh life from scratch. Why carry a dead child back to his mother's doorstep? Driven by frantic panic, he decided to act quickly before Neera could wake up and see the tragedy. The train roared onto the massive Beas River Railway Bridge between Amritsar and Jalandhar, its iron wheels vibrating violently over the water. In the dim, shadowy darkness of the compartment, Piddu reached down. He carefully lifted the still, quiet infant from Neera’s left shoulder and, with a swift motion, hurled the small bundle out of the window into the rushing, deep waters below.

As the bundle left his hands, a tiny, sharp cry shrieked through the night air.

Terrified and confused, Piddu froze. At that exact moment, the full moon broke free from a thick shroud of clouds, casting a bright, clear light directly into the carriage. He looked down at his wife. Neera was still fast asleep, a look of serene peace on her face as the moonlight washed over her.

But Piddu's blood ran cold. The dead child, cold and motionless, was still resting securely on Neera’s right shoulder. In the pitch blackness of the corner, he had miscalculated. The baby he had just thrown into the dark, roaring river was his living, breathing child—whose final cry was now swallowed forever by the speeding train.

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

21.05.2926

Poetry: The Sky and the Belle Fleur

 

The Sky and the Belle Fleur

(The poem serves as a metaphor for human relationships. The sky represents warmth but retains the power to withdraw behind the clouds . The flower represents  exposure to confusion  when connection suddenly ceases. The Blue Sky is a distant protector, guide, and source of warmth. The Belle Fleur (beautiful fower)  is  vulnerable, innocent, and grounded in earthly life. Rain is a  Divine blessing, a shared joy, and emotional nourishment. Dark Clouds / Thunder: Sudden conflict, emotional withdrawal, or protective barriers.)

The vast blue sky, so big and grand,

Looked down upon the earthly land.

Where a belle fleur waved its hands,

And bloomed across the sunny sands.

It floated, bathed in golden light,

Beside its guide of blue and bright.

The watching clouds began to smile,

And gathered close to stay a while.

The wandering clouds shed the rain

To wash away each earthly pain.

The sky and flower watched together,

And danced in  the joyful weather.

Though miles apart, both low and high,

The little flower and the sky

Shared a steady, gentle glow,

That warmed the lonely earth below.

But suddenly the heavens shook,

As dark clouds hid the sky's bright look

The little flower stood alone,

and wondered, "Where  have you gone?"

Yet firmly rooted in the clay,

it chose to wait, and chose to stay.

It bowed its head against the storm,

and dreamed of skies both blue and warm,

And watched the graying heavens clear,

to see its distant guide appear.

One day

The heavy shadows broke apart,

And  warmth returned to soothe the heart.

The blue sky swept the dark away,

and looked below in deep dismay.

It saw the flower, bent and cold,

still waiting in the earthly mold.

It whispered through a passing breeze,

"I hid away to find my ease,

But through the walls of dark and gray,

My warmth for you was here to stay."

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

 

 

 

 

Moscow Diaries

 

Moscow Diaries

( My thanks are  due to  my  Ph.D Guide and Senior  colleague in GSI , Dr. J.R.Kayal professor emeritus, Kolkata, for narrating the actual  events  and   providing valuable insights  while writing this article .  This write up  is based on experiences of the GSI team at Moscow)

In 2006, I embarked on my maiden voyage to a foreign land, traveling to Moscow, Russia, as part of a four-member Indian geoscientist team from Geological Survey of India. Our mission was to study advanced earthquake research at the Russian Academy of Sciences  for potential implementation in India. Beyond the scientific mission, the delegation experienced Moscow’s extraordinary urban planning, characterized by grand architecture and serene, flower-lined avenues.

A highlight of the visit was the iconic Moscow Metro, an "underground palace" renowned for its artistic beauty and efficiency. We also  explored the historic Kremlin and Red Square, witnessing the deep heritage of the Russian state. During the stay, we experienced the vibrant atmosphere of "City Day," observing the hospitality and industrious nature of the Russian people. Ultimately, the journey was a profound success, blending valuable scientific exchange with a deep appreciation for Russia’s rich culture and tradition, advanced earthquake research systems of the Russian Academy of Sciences (RAS) and determine if their sophisticated seismometers and methodologies could be implemented in India.

We boarded an Aeroflot flight from Delhi on June 6th, touching down in Moscow at 1:00 p.m. local time. Navigating the airport would have been daunting given the language barrier, but we were met by a representative from the RAS who became our essential guide. As we drove the 30 kilometers to the Academy Hotel, I was immediately struck by the city’s grandeur. Moscow was extraordinary—a masterclass in urban planning with broad avenues, majestic apartment blocks, and vibrant flower beds. It felt serene and silent, a powerful historic capital that still commands global admiration.

Founded in 1147 on the banks of the Moskva River, the city seamlessly blends its ancient roots with modern efficiency. Nowhere is this more evident than in the Moscow Metro. Established decades ago, it remains one of the world's most sophisticated underground networks. The stations are not merely transit points; they are "underground palaces" adorned with stunning architecture and artistic decorations, some sitting 50 feet below the surface. With trains arriving every minute and a network spanning 120 km, it is a pinnacle of public transportation.

Our journey also took us to the heart of Russian power: the Kremlin. Situated at the confluence of the Moscow River and its tributary, this fortress is shielded by iconic red walls and houses the President’s office alongside ancient cathedrals and museums. Adjacent to it lies Red Square, where the colorful domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral stand as a vivid symbol of national identity.

By a stroke of luck, our visit coincided with "City Day," celebrated on the first Sunday of September. We watched as the city transformed into a massive festival of music and dance. Thousands gathered in Red Square, showcasing a culture that is as vibrant as it is hospitable. Throughout our stay, we found the Russian people to be industrious and refined. Whether we were enjoying a formal lunch with the RAS or a simple evening meal of salad and bread rolls at a local hotel, the quality and cleanliness were consistently impressive.

Ultimately, our visit was a scientific success. The insights we gained from their modern instruments significantly benefited our research back home. Much like India, Russia is a nation of immense tradition and cultural wealth. It is a place where the rhythm of the violin and the precision of science coexist, proving that both nations share a greatness rooted in history and hard work.

-Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry: This is a Habit

 

 

                         This is a Habit

The continuity of messages,

The links for connecting minds,

And building relations.

These modern gadgets—

Are they empty, boisterous nodes?

Just a way of keeping busy,

When life itself is renamed "busy."

Every word and every moment

Becomes a part of nostalgia.

Fingers, merely typewriters,

Conveying remembrances

Until the message pops:

Refrain: it has become a habit.

Are thoughts not? Memories not?

A habit?

They are a way of life,

a continuity and  not  digital detox

Leading to vacancy,

Or to wholeness?

  - Pankaj Mala  Bhattacharya