HOW I WANT THE LAST EVENING OF MY LIFE TO BE

Before quitting everything. I want to recap every happiness. Or maybe the only happiness I had.

Even today this foyer is brilliantly lit up in the golden light of sundown. The tower clock, standing tall and far eclipses a greater portion of the horizon from my sight, the immortal pendulum of whose now, perhaps pities my stroll to departure.

As the oscillations of my rocking chair gradually diminishes, drowning with it the creaking of its timber, I graciously race back to time.The time when the sun down at this foyer of my house smelt of crushed coffee beans dissolving to hot milk that she poured from a porcelain tea pot.

“Pleasure of Sex” versus “Pain of Hunger”

The flame reluctantly glowed over the last piece of timber they managed to put together to fight cold that night. Soft flakes of snow like a summer drizzle kept pouring from the dimly lit sky and the otherwise green foot hills of the Siwalik’s, now looks like an art paper untouched by its artist.

Held above the shutting flame, on a thin bamboo streak was their supper for the night; hind limbs of a lamb. From the tint of the flesh, one could say it was a long way to go to be roasted fully and the strong winds that constantly rose from the pine woods to threaten the fire was making sure that they sleep the night over two cans of beer, yet again.

The pain of empty stomach could be felt well in their demeanour.

BOOK REVIEW OF “THE HOMING PIGEONS”

A NOVEL BY SID BAHRI

About the author:-

Siddartha Bahri, a Ranikhet based author, is yet another example of an ex-banker storming the Indian literary world. With his approach towards writing, deep down I could imagine this guy coming into discussion, whenever a bunch of book bugs in any part of this country, delves into discussion about Bhagat and Tripathi.

Liebster Award Nomination

Liebster Award Nomination

First of all I would like to thank Barkha for nominating my blog for this award.

My Lost Princess - Part 3

I kept the letter in my bag and headed for school but all the while my mind kept traversing around images of those glorious meadows of Mallikpur, my ailing dad and Rini.  I wonder what must have happened to the village. Dad kept telling me that situations there were worsening and so I must stay back in Kolkata and finish my schooling. But never did he reveal to me the reasons of not taking me to Mallikpur in the past decade. Was it something that was connected with my life there? Was it something that will burden my heart with a feeling of morose? I had no idea. All I could do was to wish that everything will be fine soon.

My Lost Princess - Part 2

I crossed the road and walked up to the concrete pavement beneath the peepal tree. It was from there that I saw a little girl sitting on the ground and sobbing. She looked absolutely uncared. Her little round face was stained with tears and her thin brown hands were continuously trying to wipe the wetness away. Tiny bells on her silver anklets jingles every time she shook her leg and the sound of it in the backdrop of a calm afternoon gave me goose bumps.  She wore a pleated frock that had dirt marks all over it and beside her on the ground lay a princess doll.

My Lost Princess - Part 1

Summer of 1970

Mallikpur Village

Some 200 kilometres from the city of Kolkata…

It was a humid afternoon and the sun was beaming at its pinnacle. Warm wind was drifting through the village making the leaves of peepal tree quiver at its place. It was under the shade of that peepal tree that I sat bent on my toes with the shooter marble in the crook of my index finger. As I placed my knuckle on the earth and closed my left eye to aim perfectly, I could feel the tension hovering over my friends. With me striking the green marble out of the ring I shall be winning the rack and that means they will have to handover their marbles to me. Losing marbles, then, was a child’s deepest grief.

BOOK REVIEW - "The storm in my mind… Ami Kolkata and Confessions"

A Novel by Ayaan Basu

About the author -

Ayaan Basu, hailing from the city of joy – Kolkata, is an example of yet another engineer turned author. Needless to say but these people are really flooding the Indian literary market. His first book was a collection of bengali poetries clubbed under the title, “Nasto Cheler Galpo”, which was written during the second year of

BOOK REVIEW – “EX…a twisted love story”

A NOVEL BY NOVONEEL CHAKRABORTY.

Well, for me there are 3 kinds of author.
1. Whose books are bought because of their facial charm.
2. Whose books are bought because of extravagant promotional activities and also because of that one successful book they produced many years ago compared to so many flops in recent times.

And last but not the least…

3. Whose books are bought because they leave you mesmerized with their words and thought process.
Novoneel Chakraborty falls in the last category. First let me tell you something about the author.

About the author -

Novoneel is a Mumbai based author and screenwriter. His books are a perfect blend of romance and thrill.

The Spring of 90

2002 – The Present.

It is raining heavily. The sky appears to have thrown across itself a shawl made of deep grey wool. I am running on my toes towards the river bank with my blue rubber sandal tucked in the curl of my fingers and a diary held against my chest. Each running step landing on the rain soaked earth kicks up innumerable droplets of mud that splatters onto the rolled up trouser of mine, creating an untidy mosaic. My body has given up but my legs still desperate to catch the last ferry to cross this river.

‘I have to’ I pump myself.

I am running since the past few minutes and I feel as if someone has evacuated the air out of my lungs with a vacuum pump. The atmosphere seems to have stopped existing around me. My ears are buzzing with the incessant drumming of an insane rain. I open my mouth to inhale some oxygen as the impact of a stentorian roar of the pouring sky made me fall on to the rain puddled earth over my chest. A cry of intense pain left my throat…but it was devoured so neatly by the sound of thunder and rain that even I couldn't hear it.

The reality is so much like the drowning of my cry in the drumming of rain. We expect people to listen to our pain and grief when they themselves have turned deaf by the screaming of their morose heart.

Lying on the mud water writhing in pain, all my rain blurred vision could see was the movement of a man clad in white vest on the boat and the swinging of a kerosene lamp across his face. Probably he was trying to get hold of it as the shaft of passing winds and streaks of slanting rain was all powered up to reduce it to pieces. I struggled to stand back on my feet with my left hand supporting my ribs and it was then I felt the diary against my chest. Cold and rain soaked. The last I wanted was the rain to have spoiled it beyond recognition.

I tried to scamper as fast as I can to the boat but all I managed was to limp. I stepped onto the boat as I heard the boatman saying, “Sahib, I am not going anywhere. Mausam aur bhi bigarne waala hai….”

He continued with his weather reports as I heard another thunderous roar with a flash of lightning gleaming off the river surface. I comforted myself beneath the shed on the boat and flipped open the diary. In the flickering dim light of the kerosene lamp kept on the edge of the bench I tried to examine it with my hands constantly swiping away the rain water lingering on its pages. I went down on my knees and crawled closer to the lamp to get a better view. The constant swaying of the boat to the crashing of waves by its sides that seems energized by nature’s tantrum made my skin erupt into tiny goose bumps of fear. Sitting by the lamp as the pale yellow light illuminated its pages and I could see the inked emotions wet by rain yet readable, a tremor of peace conquered my heart. I feel a panic drown within me. I sat unmoved, exhaling heavily to calm my desperation as I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the boatman himself.

I looked up only to see half of his face lit by the demure glow of the lamp. He was an old man. His sullen cheeks has the flesh clinging to its bones like the last leaf on the branches of a weathered tree. His thin hands dangling from his drooping shoulder makes me wonder how he can row this boat against the strong current of the river. He teamed his worn out vest with a dhoti that was stained with clay. In all he represented a person stuck in a land of calamity for years. Dead, yet alive.

“Sahib, where do you think you are going in this heavy rain?” His breath had the smell of freshly chewed beetle.

“Will you make me cross this river?” I said with a plea in my voice.

He turned to the lamp and tuned its knob a bit. The flame was now elongated and emitting more light. I can see him prominently. The darkness did misguide me. He was older than I had presumed, “But we can’t row in this weather. May be we have to wait till the rain stops.”

“I will pay you double. Please…” I was down to being an immoral human.

“Sahib, Zindegi ko paiso se nahi kharid sakte….” He replied and holding to the ends of his dirt smeared dhoti sat down with a lot of reluctance. “Aap nahi samjhoge”

My eyes rested on his trifle shadow casted on the sides of the hut that shook as and when a wave lashed against the boat. The sound of the rain on the water surface somewhere died out in my ears with his words, “Aap nahi samjhoge’. Was I really an immoral person? May be…

I was about to get up as he spoke once again.

“Sit down. Don’t go. The weather is horrific outside.” He paused as another sound of thunder rocked the early night sky. “I will take you across Sahib…” he said as I kept looking at him in utter bewilderment.

He stood up and left the hut, slowly walking across to the end of the boat. My eyes followed him but soon he was hid in the heavy downpour of rain. A part of me was happy as my requirement was being met. While I was disturbed over the fact that I am risking the life of a person just for my concern. I was not just being a selfish person. I was much like a selfish killer at that moment. The violence of nature may rate this trip as the boatman’s last ever and I will be the one responsible for it.

Before I could have registered myself to change my mind I saw the shore gradually recede into the darkness with the boat spinning to the current of the water. I stood with the lamp in my hand and took few steps ahead to see the boatman struggling to guide the boat. The oar almost slipping out of his tired hands to the gust of wind as swords of rain mercilessly strike against the fragile armour of his bare chest.

“Chacha…come inside…” I screamed. He signalled me to wait.

A minute passed and I couldn’t see the shore anymore. The guilt of me as a selfish killer in me was thriving to be corrected but it was all too late. I wish I wouldn’t have been so ardent. At that moment I only wished to see a shore again in this lifetime. Every crack of thunder unloaded an ocean of rain onto the earth in the form of torrents. The boat kept gliding to Chacha’s brave fight as I patiently waited for the boat to touch a shore.

Moments later I found Chacha walk up to the edge of the hut and sit. Despite the boisterous rain I could still hear his strenuous breaths. He was dripping wet and his thin tired arms craved for rest but he kept pulling the oar against the current of the water and the boat kept moving ahead. 

All of a sudden I found him leave the oar and sit numb. As soon as the oar was lifted off the water the boat spun on it like a drunkard dancing to groovy music. The current of the water accompanied by the strong shafts of wind made it toss like a child playing with his toys. I could feel the panic in my nerves. Cold sweat had started to drench my eye brows. Every time the boat tilted sideways I could feel my heart pound in my throat.

“Chacha what happened?” I shrieked. Nausea was overpowering me. Few more tilting and spinning and I shall throw up my guts.

I didn't get an answer in return. All I saw was Chacha engaged in some prayer with his joined hands shivering at his chest. A minute or so passed and I found that the boat had stopped spinning and Chacha was back to work, to his tireless rowing. I thanked my stars.

“Chacha what were you doing??”

“Ap nahi samjhoge Sahib” He replied to me and in that silvery spark of lighting I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

“Chacha please tell. I will try my best to understand” I requested.

Pulling up his wet dhoti to his knees that stuck to his skin, he begun.

****

1990 – The spring of sorrows

When God is the opponent in your game all you can do is to sit and enjoy getting defeated in style. 

It was in the morning of spring some twelve years ago that I lost my family. My beloved wife Neelam and the Noor of my eyes, my daughter Renu. Renu’s board exams were over and so I thought of sending them to my in-laws place in the town. As I arrived with my boat and they got onto it, I found that there were far too many people on the bank waiting to travel to the town on the other side of the river. I told them that I won't be serving the public today as I have to take my family along. But no one paid any heed to my plea. They all got into the boat making it clear that I am paid to work and so I should to be ready to work whenever they want. I didn't had much to say. Actually I had a lot to say but I did not had anyone to listen. My boat was loaded beyond capacity. We had sailed half way into the river that the rear part of my boat cracked and in no time water gushed in to touch its brim. The boat was upturned and people were drowning. I jumped into the water as well to save my wife and daughter and just then the anchor of the boat collided against my eyes. I couldn't see anything anymore, all I felt was a stream of liquid being flushed out of my eyes. By the smell on my face I guessed it was blood.

By the time I managed to swim to the bank I found myself all alone and with a few other people who survived. But those few people did not comprise of Neelam and Renu. I lost my love and the Noor of my eyes too…forever. Since then whenever I cross this river I spend a minute praying for the good of their soul.

I wish those people would have understood me. 

Khair…ap v toh unhi logo me se ek ho….aur aap v shayad mere dard ko nahi samajh payenge Sahib….

****

The present again -

In the meantime my teary eyes spotted the electric lamps of the town from between the leaves of the Neem trees occupying the banks of the river. We were nearing the shore. I took hold of my diary and wiping my wet eye lids, I stood up. I was stunned to see Chacha without having his vision anchor the boat with utmost perfection. Perhaps this evening I had encountered God’s own disciple.

I got off the boat and turned towards him, “Chacha, I wish Allah remain with you in every sphere of your upcoming life. Khuda hafiz!”

He forecasted a feeble smile. I stretched my hand towards him with a hundred rupee note tucked in my fingers.

“Rehne do Sahib….phir kavi....” he replied as his lean hands slowly lifted the anchor off the shore and the boat started to drift away.

****

The rain had stopped but the flash of lighting up in the black night sky kept lighting my way towards a deserted building that once upon a time used to my school. I recollect her words.

“Happy one year of togetherness Rehan. Promise me you will never quit writing and every year on the day we first met you will gift me your diary.” She spoke as her thumb kept caressing my fingers on her soft palm.

“I promise dear…” I replied and kissed her forehead. She rested her head on my chest and we stood there in each other’s arms on the bank of the river insulated by the coldness of the morning breeze and the serene chirping of birds that echoed through the cobalt blue sky.

Spring never appeared so beautiful to me…

“Okay. Mom will be here anytime. You better go now. See you as the school reopens. I will spend the vacation at my mom’s place with my granny. You take care of yourself. Love you a lot…” she whispered in my ears.

“Love you too. Take care….” I whispered back and started to walk away.

A loud crack of thunder brought me back to my reality as I found myself standing before the deserted school building of mine. I managed to locate my class and walking past a series of broken and dusty benches I stopped before the one that once was the place where we sat and talked our heart out.

Every year I come at this place to keep the diary I have written throughout the year and this year was no exception.

I kept the diary on the bench saying “Happy twelfth anniversary Renu. Rehan misses you a lot.” and slowly walked out of the place.

Interestingly I never find any diary at this place every year I return to keep a new one…

Chacha was right. I can never understand his pain. Mai unke dard ko isliye nahi samaj sakta tha…kyuki shayad mai har pal us dard ko mehsoos karke jee raha tha……

By Sobhan Pramanik

   

SAVERA. An art of unrequited love – Part 3

Sobhan Pramanik

I was in the plains but my soul remained in Manali. Somewhere amidst those mountains and the pine forest; learning to play the Harmonica from Savera…

My patience was undergoing the test of time. I wanted to leave my college midway and return to Manali. I wanted to sit by the rumbling stream of mountain water and listen to her play the harmonica. I wanted to lie down on the grass by her and see the sun play hide and seek with the clouds. I wanted to spend every single moment of my awaiting life with her….

SAVERA. An art of unrequited love – Part 2

A harmonica playing girl, who wore a threadbare frock, had a light brown complexion and sombre hair.

Well, this was Manali’s first gift to me for the love and respect I had showed to this place in all these years. Every gift deserves to be treated with utmost care but some deserves to be loved as well. She was one such gift…

SAVERA. An art of unrequited love – Part 1

Part 1

It was early March, the onset of summer in the plains and the Gulmohars were starting to blossom. My college term had ended and like every year I was all set to leave for the hills, to my grandparents place in Manali.

As the train drew out of the station and started to gain speed along stretches of overgrown meadows,

BORN FREE

Your NAME is just a noun till the time you are working over the draft of your life to accomplish the listed objectives. Once you are done with accomplishing your objectives, your name won’t just be a noun. It will then be the definition of Success.

And what if you don’t succeed in achieving your objectives?? It won’t be a definition to Failure, it will be declared as an Attempt to achieve something that was not meant for you.

Having legs is one thing, WALKING is another.
Having eyes is one thing, VISION is another.
Having life is one thing and LIVING yet another.

Everyone has got their own fate map with innumerable other routes crossing their paths. All you need to do is to locate the right path that connects your today with your destiny. Very often people with their vision misled by the dazzle of the other paths, tend to drown in the infiniteness lingering between you and your destiny. Learn to WALK the right path irrespective of how much alluring the wrong one is.
If the tidiness of water would have held the potter’s vision, then this world would have never seen a neat clay pot been built from the loose untidy clay.

In this journey of life, the vehicle of present takes you to that cross road of life where you halt for some time and look back the at the road travelled, only to question yourself the reason of your travel. There are times when life seems meaningless to you and you haplessly look for the reason that like the firefly once caught your attention in the darkness around you and suddenly disappeared into the darker sections of life. You plan to chase that shaft of light but the uncertainty in that darkness prevents you from chasing. Remember, speed breakers in this tiresome journey to destiny are only meant to delay your arrival not to culminate it. Enlighten your VISION, such that even the darkness of hell can’t make your goal go out of your sight.
If striking stones, just for once, would have created a spark then probably there wouldn't have been any match box in this world.

The opposite of Success is Attempt, not FAILURE. Even those people who walk the paths not meant for them, just to explore life, ultimately get drowned in an unfathomable ocean of quest are not failures. They are the ones whose lost tale stand to guide people to follow the path meant particularly for him/her. You came into this world crying. You will leave with people crying. But just like your birth, when people around you were holding a smiling face, your death must leave with them with a million such reasons to smile in your absence as well.

Live in such a way that every single tear rolling down the cheeks of your own people at the time of your death, must have the potential to dry with the heat of determination in them and not with the wipes of sympathy from someone. And then your life will be called as a LIVING.

Yes, you are born free till the time you are successful in -- locating the right path to walk -- develop the right vision to focus on your goals – living the life gifted to you.

With the armor of right path, right vision and a life worth living casing you, the venomous fangs of failure, defeat and regret won’t ever succeed in etching a dent on you.

The Over-baked Toast

Sunday means I was supposed to take her out. Sunday means I wouldn’t take any calls from my office mates. Sunday means she would sit unmoved with a stupid face pack for an hour or so, which means in that one hour I need to do everything that comes up. From giving away the clothes to the laundry guy to attending calls from my in-laws. Once I was peeing and half way I had to rush out of the toilet to take the call of my mother in law. Ah!! That pain was indescribable, all thanks to my bladder muscles for successfully holding back my ammoniated water.

How pathetic it was to answer to her- “How are you doing beta??”
I replied- “Doing great”. Can you please hang up, my bladder is bursting.

Just imagine all this use to happen in that span of one hour. Where I went crazy fixing those little things, she sat unmoved and unaware with a deep belief that in the next hour she would look ravishing. Girls, I tell you, just tell them to hold their breath for twenty minutes that they will be the sexiest creature on earth after that. I bet they will attempt to do that.

It was a goddamn Sunday again and my one hour was about to start. She was stirring the paste in a bowl and with that sight all I remembered was to unload myself with all sorts of biological pressures. Because the last thing I wanted was to rush out of the toilet once again, half way into peeing. Unlike every weekend I was in no mood to go out in this suffocating weather. With humidity scaling well above the ninety mark, I couldn’t help being a lazy ass.

And my extremely busy one hour went like this- I gave way the washings to the laundry guy. Took the trash out. Shaved. Flipped a few pages of the sports section from the newspaper. Read about my horoscope. Gave a ‘Have a good day’ smile to my sexy neighbour, dreamt a date with her on the desolate stair case to terrace on a rainy afternoon. Prepared myself for at least fifty push up, gave up at ten. Went to the kitchen, prepared two cup of tea. Placed the bread in the toaster and came back to the living.

Her one hour went like this- Sitting…Breathing…Wondering. I will look sexier.

“Your chaai” I said placing her cup down on the side table as she finally dissolved her frozen state.

“Huh. How can I drink with this face pack?” she replied, slowly opening her eyes.

“Don’t drink…” I exclaimed holding back my smile while looking at her face. It resembled a thin crust pizza without toppings, except the fact that her pack smeared face appeared a tad whiter than the pre baked pizza base.

She left with an icy look. I concentrated on my tea. I desperately waited for her return; I really wanted to see the effects of that close to mayonnaise kind of thing on her face.

Ten minutes post she returned after having washed her face, I raised my chin in the hope of seeing something more glowing than the heavenly bodies, only to hang it back with a murmur – Kya time pass hai yaar. There was no change…!!

She sat beside me with the cup of tea in her hand I made for her. She placed back a streak of hair behind her ears that was falling across her cheek in a way not to touch her face.

Oh my god! She was so conscious about it. I hardly noticed a change.  

“Chai thandi ho gayi hai…” She spoke looking at me. The look wasn’t just a look, it was a ‘go and make it once again’ order. And for the first time ever in all my life I was developing a feeling of hatred for Sundays.

I was mentally preparing myself to make a fresh cup of tea once again. And on a weekend it really needs a lot on motivation to make me move my ass for something so called productive things, like “REMAKING” a cup of tea. Fuck!

‘Cheers’ I said holding my empty cup before her face.
“Hey…move….” She shrieked and jumped a feet back on the bed in sheer horror as if the cup carried a living cockroach winking to her from one of its corners. Her horrifying jump made the clammy tea pour out of the cup and stain her dress. My heart sank to see the silk bed sheet getting spoiled. Frankly I don’t care about her dress. I loved the bed sheet more. I got it from Lucknow when I went there on a business meet.

“You nuts…” she shouted.
“What happened? Just an empty cup…”

“Whatever. But what was the point of bringing it near my face??” She spoke in anger slightly shifting on the bed to see her in the mirror, just to be sure that the post mayonnaise effect on her face wasn’t disturbed.

Freak she is. I wondered. I got up and started to walk towards the kitchen.

“Now kindly make efforts to wash the bed sheet with your mayonnaise. Oh! Sorry, face pack.” I said smiling to myself. I turned to look at her expressions.

“Go to hell”. Yes, that’s what she said. I ignored and went to the kitchen, only to encounter yet another shit.

My utter inexperience of making a toast welcomed me to the kitchen with a cloud of fumes and a burning smell. Yes, the toast got brutally raped by the toaster, I mean burnt. And my inexperience lies in the fact of leaving the bread into the toaster with a timer of three minutes. With the fumes of a charred toast making way into my lungs I came to know that, three minutes can prepare you at least fifty toasts and I applied that time span to two. The outcome was justified….no regrets whatsoever.

This is what you call a super Sunday. Isn’t it?? Spilled tea followed up with charred toast. Not to forget the spoiled bed sheet. It had loads of painful yet pleasurable moments associated with it….the silky feel contributed to the “moment” as well. J

I did prepare the tea somehow but failed to prepare the toast once again as it suffered a short circuit due to overheating leaving me with no choice than to stuff an over baked toast or making something else. I was hell tired for the latter and she won’t accept the former. I was clueless.

I left kitchen with a plan B in my mind. As soon as I reappeared in the living, her expecting eyes seem to scan me to locate her cup of tea and the breakfast. It turned a tad sad tracing the absence of breakfast.

“Hey…you are looking awesome…I mean really hot…” I tried to make some efforts to suppress the topic of breakfast. But then cheesy lines can’t suppress hunger. My words ultimately can’t calm her hypothalamus. Simple as that!

“When did awesome turn out to be the synonym of hot??” She queried with a pissed of look taking her cup of tea from my hands.

“No. I mean you are looking fab. The pack really works.” My lazy mind was quick to substitute ‘mayonnaise’ with ‘face pack’. I sat close to her playing with her hair and doing everything that could save me from my breakfast making task.

“Oh! Really??” she faked a smile, her voice was tracing that she was convinced.

“Yes. No doubt about it. You know sweetheart, if you would have taken the screen test for Murder 3, Jacqueline would have been rendered jobless. You are looking ravishing babe.” I ended as my fingers were still gently caressing her creamy thighs resting behind her sexy night gown. I leaned against her as her throat gulped down the last sip of tea from the cup.

“Accha…yeh toh mujhe bilkul v nahi pata tha…” she murmured.
 I avoided eye contact as my lips met her neck and was about to remove the ends of her night gown from her left shoulder when all my efforts went down the drain.
“Hang on…hang on…nothing doing right in the morning…” she smiled naughtily. “Where is the breakfast??” And her naughty smiles now appeals to me as an evil laugh.

“Babe…forget breakfast nah…we do that regularly. But aisa romantic morning har din thodi hota hai…” I replied; still not ready to accept the fault of spoiling the breads and also the toaster that came to my house in the form of ‘her-dad’s-love-towards-her’. Well, Dahej sounds too rude, its father-daughter love actually.

“Yaa…right…” Her convinced voice was back and with it I once again hugged her.

“Darling can you please make the breakfast for today. Maggi will do. I am too tired…and the toaster also passed away today.” I extended my sincere condolence.

“And the grief made you so romantic, right??” she mocked.

“Yeah, kind off” I mentally saluted my efforts and got back to romancing her.

“Leave. Maggi v banani hai….” She said pushing me and got down from the bed.

“Thank you. Love you...” I imitated a kiss. She smiled.
“…and yes…your mayonnaise works wonder….”

“Call it mayonnaise once again and I am not making Maggi” she replied sternly.

“Ok…Ok…Sorry…You are born beautiful…and grew up to become sexy…” I chuckled.

She bent down to plant a peck on my cheeks and left to serve our screaming tummies.

Darkness is not the absence of light…It’s the absence of right sense.

Insomnia was steering my life those days. A good sleep sounded like a boon for me. Some bewildered thoughts, few unsaid words, unending wait and an acute pain were my only companion of my sleepless nights and hopeless days.

It is 8^th of June, says the digital table clock. And with it the clock of my mind reminds me that it’s been two months I have been robbed off all my happiness. And most importantly I have spent this gruesome period of two months without a person whom I thought I can’t spend a day without. Time teaches you a million lessons, resurrects many a disbelief of yours. But I am yet to believe the fact, that believing in loving her was my disbelief.

I am reclined onto my couch staring helplessly at the starless night sky through the partially open window with a can of beer in one hand and lit up joint on the other. It was just another beginning of a sleepless, sadist, drug laden night. A part of me was dying to see a glimmer of hope on the endless canvas of darkness above me. But then it was just a wish…or yet another disbelief. There was an erotic pause in the stratosphere, the trees stood erect at their positions without creating a charm of rejuvenating breeze. Just the way my heart was following an ill-mannered rhythm after been succumbed to an irreplaceable loss. I walked up to the window stealthily and stretched my hand to further open it. I took a long drag and allowed the smoke disperse into the darkness of the night through my slightly parted lips. With every single drag I tried to find my mistake that led me to this.

I took a sip from my can as the nuttiness gave my head a spin. I controlled myself by holding the window grill and stood there unmoved. I took out my cell phone to read the last few verbally emotional encounters of ours. And I did feel that for an aching heart, it’s neither beer nor a hard rolled joint, but the reason of ache itself that can gift you the ultimate soothe. With the messages of her wishing good night caressing my forehead and kissing my eyes, came flashing all the moments of love we shared and also the moment that separated us. The sky was far away from changing its colour, the real night had just set in but the 3 by 2 inch cell phone screen flashing its neon light did illuminate my heart to a certain extent. I dropped the lighted joint’s bud in the astray and turned to read the messages, once again.
The messages did bring back the moments but this time the moments were accompanied by wet eyes and not grinning lips. The beer slipping down my throat did make me feel guilty somewhere. Deep down I felt I was a dolt to have treated her badly. Had I not been that rude to hurt her innocence that arose out of her love for me, I wouldn’t have been trading with insomnia now.

I kept my phone back; the messages had enough warmth to set my eyes watering and soul jittering with guilt. I turned towards the window looking at the darkness and lighted yet another joint. I closed my eyes with the first drag and tried to recollect something…

“Baby, you are overreacting…” She said with an airy gesture.
“Are you nuts?? I am absolutely not overreacting. It’s you who had pulled up this drama.” I spoke as my hoarse voice seemed to choke with the last word due to extensive shouting.
“All I want is your sweet little time….”
“If I devote my entire time to you, will that pay for my bread? Can you please grow up?”
She was already in tears. All these years I had lived seeing the kohl in her eyes sparkle with joy and now I am seeing it smudged with tears of grief and shattered expectations, never did I thought that I would be the reason for her tears.

“Baby…you may not earn bread by devoting time to me, but no nutrition is as nutritive as the nutrition of love and care…” she replied like a child with her left hand wiping her moist cheeks.

“You and your Cindrella dreams...Just enough. Look I think, I devote you enough time that can keep a relationship alive.” I said to her. She sat on the bed hanging her face with a pillow tugged in her arms.

“No dear…you don’t devote enough time. All you do is to get back from office…freshen up…finish your dinner…get drunk and sleep with me. Do you even know how you treat me??”

“What else can I do?? I need to work as well….” I was still not at the verge of accepting my guilt.

“I thought you loved me. I was wrong. This kind of love can be achieved with money. For your kind information I am your wife…not a prostitute…” She said with a trailing voice and left the room immediately. I stood there clueless and like every other arrogant Indian male I didn’t make any effort to stop her, instead I was confident that she will be back. Unfortunately the confidence brought to me two months of insomnia and drugs.

The conversation resounded in my mind as my blurred vision from behind the rising smokes of the lit up joint could see the flaws on my end. Just an apology wasn’t enough. I was ready to be on knees begging for another chance. And this was the first time in all these two months I felt I was wrong. My train of thoughts was interrupted by an irregular chirping of birds that neatly floated across the night shedding sky. I looked at the western sky that was gradually dissolving into faintest shades of red. The night was about to be drained. The morning was about to begin. And the darkness of my life guarded by ego and arrogance just got wet in the rain of love and care.

The endless cans of beer and unlimited joints that had been intoxicating my entrails all this while were showing effects. I was finding it tough to keep myself standing. My head was hurting badly but amazingly the ache in the heart was comparatively less. The window grill slipped off my palm as I fell flat on the ground on my back. All that my shutting eyes could manage to see was a rising sun…and the very sight made the heart promise to itself an apology to her the following day. I dozed off on the lap of many realizations.
               

The curtains of darkness were getting pulled over from my life…with the right sense sipping into the soul.

LOVEVINE

In the golden light of a burning wax mold...
I see her twinkling eyes having the memories, old...
She was worried about the tomorrow that is untold...
I held her hand and promised to walk into the future, bold.

Under the night sky calm and dark...
I wish our love is always marked...with its entity as eternity...with its depth as divinity.
She is in my arms, warm and cozy...complementing the air, rosy.
It’s the darkness and a glass of wine...that trapped us in this love-vine.

She curled her lips and blew the candle down....as we kissed till the dawn gulped the night down.

Just 10 SHOTS OF VODKA BEFORE VIVA…innumerable after it.

1. First one down the ducts. Ah! I wish I studied man.
2. Second one. Einstein? He failed in Physics.

3. Third one. Four months wasted for each semester. It’s half the time a sperm needs to be identified as something close to human.

4. Fourth one. You don’t need wings to fly. All you need is the wish to do so.
5. Fifth one. Dean is a dick head, three hour of exam can’t judge a student’s potential.

6. Sixth one. Winds. Darkness. Clouds. She. J

7. Seventh one. She is like a capacitor that stores my happiness. She is like a step up transformer provoking the “thing” between my legs.

8. Eighth one. Life is a mess. Porn is my love.

9. Ninth one. Head hurts. My last facebook status. “I promise. No facebook till the end of the exam.”

10. Tenth one. She is sexy and I love her….more than I lust her.

And your oral cavity shoved with half a litre of SPRAYMINT…Be Viva Ready, you sit before the professor.

1^st question- “What is a differentiator circuit??”

I should have stopped at 3^rd or 4^th shot. I think I am overloaded. I knew it man…I knew…. Ah! Yes got it.

Student- It is something that differentiates all our happiness into sheer stress and distress.
Guys speak truth only when they are drunk.
Professor-What?? Are you drunk?

Student- Umm…yes!!

Professor- Get out…Just get out you fool.
Student- Mam I am really sorry. I can answer. Trust me. I can.
Yes, I can. I can tear your guts and use them to make the circuit connection. You bitch!

Professor- Okay, last chance.

2^nd question- “What is OP-AMP(Operational Amplifier)??”
The eight peg…no it wasn’t the real love. I love her more than a nude Monika Mayhem.

(In case you are drunk, scroll up and check what eighth peg meant for)

Answer- OP-AMP is she, who amplifies every single beat of my heart with every touch of hers. I really love her. Yes, I do.

I turn around to catch a glimpse of her.

Umm…she is a little embarrassed because of my pathetic condition. No worries. I will get her few chocolates and she will be happy once again. I wondered.

Professor- “What nonsense is this??”

Not more than the one sitting before me and asking crap.

Student- “Umm…”
Professor-“Get out of here right now. You get a zero here.”

Student- “Please mam….”

Professor- “Out! I said”

Shove your attitude up your ass.

I got up from the chair. My head seemed to spin more than what Shane Warne can afford to produce on the pitches of Melbourne. Unable to balance, I fell flat on the ground.

I boozed over my boozing skills. I should have really stopped at the ninth shot.

I looked at her and said- “You know, I really love you” Cleaning the dust off my trousers.

She showed me a raised finger.

Umm…I love that. She showed me her raised “ring finger”. Waoh…!! Even she loves me. She wants to get married to me.

It was actually a raised middle finger. ‘Fuck off’ is what she meant….but I didn’t get that.

Thank god, I didn’t stop at ninth. Tenth shot really paid off. Middle finger= Ring finger. Love you sweet heart!!

I somehow managed to crawl out of the room as I heard someone scream. One of my friend, I guess. I think he stopped at the fourth or fifth shot.

“Bhai...Don’t worry. College will send 25 out of 30 for internals…for all…irrespective of fifth or ninth.”

Ten minutes later. I was preparing the eleventh shot back in the dump yard of my hostel room. 

Jinke gusse me bhi mere liye pyaar tha…

I could see papa bent down to kiss your forehead…

I could see a drop of tear run down your cheeks...
I could feel papa caress my curled fingers and your eyes flood with tears of joy…
I was in her arms…looking at her face that shone in the joy of having me in her arms…
I just wanted to know- Who else would have lived the pain… Who else would have shed their blood…just to kiss my innocent face…

I could feel my papa’s finger in my clutch…
I try to get up holding it...I almost did, as papa kissed me to sleep…
I could hear her saying to papa, how quickly I will grow up and how strong I will become…may be more than my papa…
I am still in papa’s lap as she is feeding me while I am asleep…
I just wanted to know- Who else would have fed me before eating herself… Who else would have sung me to bed every day, just with the dream…that one day I will grow up…that one day I will be as strong as my papa…

I could feel her soft fingers combing my hairs…
I could see papa keeping new books in my beautiful red Doraemon bag…

I could hear her saying me to be obedient in the class…and papa…he always wants me to be strong…he told- ‘beta, do eat your tiffin’.

I went out with papa…I was looking grown up with a little bag on my shoulder and a Ben10 water bottle around my neck. Yes, just grown up…to attend the first day in school.
I just wanted to know- Who else would have got me ready… Who else would have asked me to be obedient…just with the dream to see her smile that she retained in all pain to earn a name in this world…

I could feel my shirt soaking her tears, as she hugged me tightly…
I could feel papa bless me with tears in his eyes…as I was set to leave home for a different city to my workplace...
I told her not to cry, papa held her shoulders and consoled her as she said- “Beta, maa hoon mai tumhari…chor ke chale jaoge toh rou kaise nahi…”

And I came to know the lady, behind my growing up. Who transformed me from an embryo to a little baby…and from there to a grown up human being. How can I let her eyes drench in emotions of sorrow that had seen countless dreams for me?? I couldn’t…
I hugged her back only to whisper- “I love you maa…Wo geet ekbar phir se ga do nah…jisse tum mujhe bachpan me sulati thi…”
And I could feel the curtains of my bedroom swaying to the early morning breeze gently brush against my forehead…I opened my eyes to find my mother sit beside me holding my hands just the way she did when I could barely straighten my fingers….the images of her fingers tucked in between my curly palm as I learnt to walk the first of the millionth step of my journey came flashing back.
“Happy mother’s day mama..” I wished her as she kissed my fingers.

Her eyes still had the tears…the tears that welcomed me to this planet a score back.
Those tears had the film of joy etched over it…and now it has pride shining to its full might.

You are the best mother…!!

TUMI ROBE NIROBE (You’ll remain silent in my heart)

With the light of dawn tracing its first streaks on the skin of the night shedding sky…and the air of living beautifully blanketed by the heart-warming melodies from the pages of ‘KOBI PRONAM’, the day couldn't have asked for a better start.

On his 152nd birth anniversary we heartily remember the legend whose words had been a constant source of inspiration to us. The person who made history with his ink dipped feather, sitting by the window that for us only opened to stretches of sun baked grassy lawns…but for him the window opened only to an endless canvas of serene imagination and heartfelt emotions. The person for whom the knowledge deciphered within the four walls of a classroom on a shiny black rocky plate held no meaning. Whose childhood images of water tickling down the leaves of the mighty trees and the insane elephant swaying its head (JAL PARE PATA NARE, PAGLA HATHI MATHA NAARE) found prominence in every mortal heart and almost every section of history that we fondly remember. The person who was the first Non-Russian Nobel Prize winner in the field of literature for his work ‘GITANJALI’, which means the song offerings(Git-Song. Anjali-Offering)very lucidly portrayed a strong devotional connotation…

With his native soil in JORASAKO getting painted to the colors of a festival and literature academies across the globe paying homage to the bygone poet, myself out here in Kolkata cramped to the occupancy of life, lost in one of his tracks caressing nostalgia, proudly looking back to the abundance of his glories; I try and frame a few words as a mark of tribute to the connoisseur of literature, RABINDRANATH TAGORE.

You left…only to live forever…

Where the endless ocean and the rumbling cascade would bow to your diversity…
Where the myth is devoid of a second you…

Where the eternity fails to describe you…
You left…only to live forever…

Where your words reignites the flame of living within the race of life…
Where your creations would make the architect of heaven envious…
Where the darkness of woods gets buried by the light of your vision…
You left…only to live forever…

Where your compositions fail to abide by the eight octaves…
Where our life jives to the notes of your unconventional…yet serene music…
Where our life and your creations are a blend that would melt any raging hurdle…

You left…only to live forever…

Regards,
Sobhan Pramanik.

WHY ME??

By Sobhan Pramanik

I was born like any other kid…till you drew the line of discrimination.

When their innocence was kissed
…I was earning myself a living.
When they danced to joy as their parents got them balloons

…I suppressed my hunger just to work longer.
When they were held by the caring arms of their childhood
…I was torn by the brutal present.
I don’t have any regrets; but one question. Why me??

When they played with their friends on the grassy beds
…I was walking the burning soil with shacks on my little shoulders.
When they got a bleeding knee, their mothers cleaned it with utmost care.
…I cried as my body hurt only to be scolded by the heartless master.
When they were being fed with care…

…I was left all bare.

I don’t have any regrets, but one question. Why me??

When they were groomed to dream of a grand life
…I shivered to see my grilling life.
When they went to school in tidy uniforms, to learn the laws of science
…I fought for my life in rags with shut conscience.
When they complained about the teacher being rude with them
…I never spoke a word against life that was literally beating me down every day.
I don’t have any regrets but one question. Why me??

Now when I see them talk about, how unfair life is…I just whisper to myself,

“You are lucky…I wish I was a part of your unfair journey…”

I love you more than you love me.

The lush green lawn basking in the warmth of the mid-morning sun rays witnessed the contagious moments of our togetherness. The canopy of the dense Peepal with its jovial branches playing in the tranquil breeze etched a cool a shade on her face for seconds before it was once again exposed to the the aureate light of sun.

I lay on the grass quietly intently listening to her enthusiastic talks. She was never tired of talking and listening to her was something that brought me immense joy. Likewise we complimented each other in the best possible way. She was like a cherry to my scoop of chocolate ice-cream and I was the one who never had an ice-cream without my cherry. We are basically inseparables. Sky would have never been so glamorous without the sun lighting it up…just the way my cherry’s talks are incomplete without my patient and lovely hearing. I kept looking at her and her lips that kept moving to innocent clatter. I loved the way daylight beautifully nudges the soft texture of her cheeks to various shades of red, I loved the way the drifting breeze makes the loosely held strands of her jet black hair sway across her face, I loved the way she nagged to know whether I had my meal or not….and last but not the least I loved to get defeated in the fight of - I love you more than you love me-

Someday I would love to prove that I love her more than she loves me. Oh! Wait…let it be like that. I love to be defeated till the time Cherry is the opponent, for the charismatic smile that I get in return of my defeat is simply priceless.

Yes, love rewards both the contenders and that is why it is called LOVE. If you win, you are lucky…if you lose, you are happy because you lose to someone who loves you more than you love her. Interesting eh..!!??

I wonder how she managed to picturise every single happening of her life with utmost perfection, unlike me who would stammer to deliver a seminar in my office on Business Expansion to our clients. My ever disappointed boss had given up his dreams to see his business literally expand someday. On the other hand my cherry always left in me an eternal joy with her talks. She began from ‘what I meant to her’ and ended at ‘I don’t know what you mean, but you are simply awesome’. Everything in between had her joys, like a buzzing bee going around me (the beautiful fauna of her life) to seek the nectar of love. 

Tomorrow I am leaving for a business meet in Delhi. I would be away for a week. I would be away from my cherry. Time often changes colour like a garden lizard, hours get spent like seconds being with her and when it comes to staying away from her, time starts to crawl on its knees. It will almost pause itself. This one week of separation will give a ‘miss you’ feel of one year or even more.

Dear Time, Why are you so cruel? I guess you have never been in love…!!

“One weeeekk…!!!” she said with lips curving down in disappointment, her fingers tightening its grip on my t-shirt. Give her a chance and she won’t allow me to be away for a moment.

I cupped her face in my palms and checked my eyes from melting down. Love brings joy…but too much love brings tears of joy. “I am leaving tomorrow. Today is still left cherry…let’s live it…” Her big, round eyes lined by the kohl had the innocence of an infant. They had only one message to convey- I will miss you. Every steady blink of those expressive eyes was desperate to be loved.

“Don’t go nah dear…I will be bored nah….” She spoke lying by me on the sun lit grasses.

“Just a week…will be back….” I tried to instil some confidence.
“You so bad….” She replied and turned the other side. She is the cutest girl in the world when she tries to be angry with me. The very combination of her cute red nose accompanying those upset eyes was igniting passion in me. I just wish she is a tad angrier.

I let my fingers run through her hairs holding my desire to gift one hug. I kept looking up the bright sky with floaters blurring my eyes; the very shade of cobalt air held high above me, shared an ethnic resemblance with the freshness of our love. The beginning of the day meant a young, beaming sky unlike the sky at the dusk, dead and dusted…yet beautiful. Same was our love held by young blood and united by a little matured heart. Love grows old…only to be more beautiful in the latter phase. The floaters seemed to be lost somewhere from before my sight as I found cherry planting a kiss on my cheek (Thank god! I was clean shaven that day).

“Come soon Berry…” She whispered in my ears. I am her BERRY and she is my CHERRY.

“Sooner than you expect Cherry” I whispered back as two sunburnt leaves from the spread out branches of the Peepal tree touched the grasses.

“Hey…please bring me those leaves…” she said.

“Leaves?? Why??” I queried back.

“Bring nah…please…” the nag that had been successfully defeating me in debates with her for years, was back again and the result being the same. I turned to get those leaves.

“Look…we both gonna write something that our heart says on these leaves and then exchange it. The rule of this game is that you will be seeing it only when we will be away from each other.”

 “Umm….you are seriously a baby…” I smiled at her innocence.

“Do it, come-on…” she replied giving me one of the two leaves. I took out my pen and wrote down what my heart said. I wrote- “I love you my sweet Cherry…” and passed the pen to her.

“Close your eyes first….then I will write…” she said pointing the pen towards my eyes.

I closed my eyes and waited for her to finish. We both exchanged the leaves. She kept it in her clutch and me in my backpack, making sure that we will read it only when we are away.

*****

A lighting fell across the square glass window adjacent to seat E7 of flight IE931, Indigo Airlines as I opened my sleepy eyes to admire the overcast evening sky of the capital city of India. The captain declared the landing, as the cabin crew got back to their business to ensure that every passenger had fastened their seat belts and in no time the flight touched down the runway of Indira Gandhi International Airport. I switched on my cell phone and dropped two messages, one to my mom and the other to my cherry that my flight had made a safe landing here in Delhi. I was on the arrow bridge to the lounge to collect my luggage that the sky had started to drizzle.

I collected my luggage and headed for the exit, neatly placing my RayBan aviators in my pocket. Soon I was out of the terminal making my way through the thick crowd to reach my cab in the backdrop of an acute drizzle adding to the clamour of the place.

“Welcome sir…” greeted the chauffer of the Kenilworth Palace.

I greeted back with a nod and handed him the luggage. Within moments we were cruising down the streets of the capital city to Kenilworth Palace in the company afforded car, an elite class Mercedes and it was then I remembered of that Peepal leave Cherry gave, as a ‘miss you’ token when we won’t be together.

I quickly unzipped my bag to take out the leaf and started to read it in the flashlight of my blackberry handset (once again a company afforded stuff).

The leaf said- “I love you more than you love me, my chweet berry” An involuntary smile invaded my face. I was short of words. I told you, I will never win this battle…rather I don’t want to.

The smile lasted way long for an sms had made way to my inbox, it was sent by Cherry.

                Now you agree to it nah?? J Have a safe ride to the hotel.

Yes, I do agree…. J Take care Cherry. I replied back placing the leaf back in its place as the Mercedes stopped to security checks at the royal Kenilworth Palace.