Tea-shop girl

The corner shop that serves us tea

And houses all furore.

From rising price to falling stars

In voices shrill and sore.

A pair of eyes does follow them

Look askance at their din

When closing shop with little hands

And washing strainers clean.

A simple riddle troubles her,

At times does make her smile

How grown up men have silly fights

Knowing all the while

People die and prices rise,

Stars shoot up at night.

Among things does never change

Her books drink in streetlight.

Amar dosh nei. Langcha salaar jonno kobita haariye gelo. :(

His Last Cigarette

It was the second summer of love for me.

The scorching sun set fire to the bitumen-heart of dusty streets.

I was having my second shower of the day, of sweat and grime

Profusion peeping from behind sweat glands

My favorite deodorant losing efficacy

Slowly in unseen, muted vapors.

I felt an uneasy calm haunting me,

Bullying me around the bylanes of Southern Avenue.

She had said, “I need to talk”.

Me, ever eager for stealing a tryst knew

Her impulses could never wait.

Still, this time, deep inside, anxiety breathed.

How bad could this be?

Many storms had left us tempered, bruised.

Yet, love had had its say.

In all its sweet stubbornness.

Eyes used to lazy siestas drowned in a sea of images.

The air, thinning in a moistureless mirage,

Carrying tender promises of sweet nothings brewed

Promises of a more humane evening beckoned.

-‘An Appointment’.

I smiled at myself.

Far down the dreary road, spent souls prayed for relief, paid for water.

Summers in this city surely didn't promote love.

The defiant zombie.

Charmed with love, kissed with death.

I moved.

In a single minded motivated motion.

Where? I did not know.

I was waiting for my answers. When would she come?

It was about time now.

I could smell the sweet lavender of her talcum with my eyes closed

Soft, soothing, reassuring.

It was her only perfume.

Her tresses made careless riddles at me,

As occasional sighs of stale air teased them, trounced them

And went back defeated, fatigued.

Like me.

Leaning against a rusting post, I lit up.

Curls of white smoke, in their sinuous ascent sneered at me.

They were with her now. Traitors!

She hated tobacco, smoke and fire.

I loved them all, within a single delightful wrap

They called 'Cigarette'.

Smoke made her eyes red,

As red as the setting sun we were audience to, sometimes.

Times we discussed Tomorrow and its Bliss

Today, she was late. Unusually.

My loneliness bought me courage to protest my wait

I rehearsed my lines to get even.

She knew my patience hated being tested.

And she loved that look on me.

Now, I could see her down the lane.

A light sky blue on her, cooling my eyes.

Distance diminishing with her every step.

I had already forgotten my lines.

Rebuke had escaped its rickety prison inside my ribs.

But, there was no playful annoyance in her today

A Duchess miffed at disservice.

Her eyes were unadorned

Naked with an emotion unknown to me.

What could it be?

She knew how I loved kohl on them

How I could stare at them for eternity.

She always tossed those loving gazes

Into the water of the lake.

They sank, gasping for breath.

Rippling out to their deaths.

I could only sigh. She laughed.

She said it was late.

Always.

And left.

Today, she glanced between my fingers.

As familiarity emerged in her eyes.

A blend of distress and discomfort.

Confused, I took another drag at my stick.

Simmering in a telling sacrifice for me,

It could provide no wisdom today

As I grappled for answers.

I waited for that known sweep of disgust

Emanating from her sleek fingers,

Grounding my prized ‘India King’.

I waited for that familiar look of hurt

To reflect on her hazel eyes.

Nothing like that today.

Something had moved.

More sheepish every second, I stood.

Silence dawned. Love waited.

Words trickled in a crisis

I walked. We walked.

In her eyes I saw a storm,

Nestling its fury, exploding inwards.

She spoke at last.

She was leaving.

Far off lands held more promises.

Promises of progress, avenues of learning.

How I loathed my nursery rhymes now.

How I hated quantum physics.

That cruel idol of ‘Education’ had had its revenge.

And wasn’t it sweet.

My helpless eyes looked up

A bead of pregnant emotion had gathered cloud

At the corner of her eyes.

I could never see her cry. Something snapped within

A deluge of emotions arrived in abandon.

She cried. We mourned. Hours flew.

She whispered, “We will meet”.

The skeptic in me jeered.

The boulevard was replete with memories.

As we walked in silent vigil

We trampled them, muting their voices.

Forever.

Our walk was labored. Long and viscous.

Still, it had to end.

Roads never went on forever. I knew that.

Our last walk together. Perhaps, this was.

I put the last cigarette to my lips,

Waiting for her to throw it away.

One last time.

How I longed for her hand to move,

In one final stroke of playful disdain.

The last act of love at work.

She stared back at me

Her eyes the colour of a pallid evening-sky,

Denuding me of all my strength and weaknesses

For the first time ever

I watched her

As she held the light for me.

Kanha-IX

The better part of the morning was lost to lazing off by my friends as I took to the television and it was well past 10 that there arose suddenly a sense of urgency which till a few moments back looked a far cry from the sloth like pace of proceedings. Within 45 minutes all seemed in readiness for us to undertake the 'Bheraghat Expedition' which was understandably expected to be the highlight of our stay in Jabalpur. A few minutes walk from the hotel and, armed with our cameras, caps and water-bottles like full-blown tourists, we were at the auto-stop, Baeka and myself in the midst of a heated bargain with the auto-drivers as to what should be the just amount they should set us back by for a two-way ride. A suitable deal sealed we hired two auto-rickshaws, one in tow the other. A good long ride past the slimming semblances of all that's urban and there sprang stretches of greenery, interspersed with arid patches and dotted with rocks and stones, a feature of this part of the country we had long become accustomed to. Not before long we had reached our destination and scouting for a food-joint so that the stomach could have enough to chew upon and leave the mind to appreciate the beauty of the marble rocks at leisure. As is the custom with tourist spots a dhaba was not far-off and having had our fill we were now poised to treat our eyes to the beauty of the legendary marbles ( sans Kareena Kapoor dancing to raat ka nasha abhie......). But Kareena or no Kareena our long wait and longer negotiations with the naao-wallaahs were amply rewarded by the imposing grandeur of the scenery that met our eyes once we were into our boat-trip. The colour of the water was a deep slimy green which reminded me of certain lines from Coleridge's 'Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner'. We were told that the lake was some 300 feet deep at the center and as if to bear instant testimony to such an intimidating detail we saw little energetic whirlpools spiraling into the deep recesses of the river-bed just in front of us. Taking our minds off this frightful spectacle were the six boat-men who started an animated commentary on the history of Bheraghat and the legends of the Marble Rocks.
Right from the spots where numerous hindi films were shot and places where the rocks had been fashioned into familiar shapes by the corrosive hands of Nature their narration covered all in witty couplets delivered with a deliberate lisp to attract attention away from our attendant perils. We were in the middle of the great lake, straining our necks while trying to grab onto our seats, clicking away merrily at our cameras to capture every quarter of the pristine pink marbles which were both rare and grand when the boat-men announced most unceremoniously that they could go no farther from there for what we were paying them. A little nudging told us that they would charge around 200 rupees extra to give the whole guided tour and once hooked to the beauty of the place and with no plans of visiting Jabalpur in the coming decade we decided to take the plunge. What ensued didn't let us down and we felt happy to part with those 200 rupees. Only that the two men who accompanied us throughout the tour proved to be as uncouth as they come and didn't even bother to offer their part. They said they had seen it all before and made it look like we were wasting their precious time, dragging them mid-sea into dangerous territory against their will.

The stairs to the Ghat had locals vending marble souvenirs which myself and Harry took the pains in bargaining for. I say 'pains' because thats when we came to know of the fury that the sun unleashes in these regions. Our backs were literally toast when our transaction was over and I had this feeling that it was perhaps the revenge of the chicken on whose flesh we had so ravenously dined last night and now it was their turn to make walking kebabs out of us. Even Stevens and, weren't we feeling it mightily.

After a short drinks-break at the nearest shop we were walking uphill towards our final destination for the day, Dhuwadhar Falls- our last frontier on this tour. We reached it in all possible states of disrepair, panting and hands hanging loose by our sides when the rumbling sound of the great waterfall injected us with fresh vigor and enthusiasm. Taking a flight of sinuous stairs to the point of nearest approach to the falls our senses stood a lot relaxed and refreshed. The mad cascade of white gushing water kept tumbling out of nowhere, gathering a monstrous momentum before hurtling down the steep gorge only to be calmed into the serenity of the underlying lake. We stood there transfixed for half an hour, soaking our souls in the generous sprinkle of cool water that flew in our directions, blind from the explosive impact on the hard unyielding bedrock beneath us. Though the sun seemed in no mood to relent from pouring fire onto these fuming rocks it was quite late and we hurried up the stairs, panting again, to hire two autos to Bheraghat. Our rented autos were waiting for us there and we took the same route to our hotel, thinking every moment that we might never again have the opportunity of coming to this place. The Marble Rocks on a full moon night made for a heavenly experience, but alas, we were to miss that spectacle this time around. " Better Luck next time", we told ourselves and retired to our rooms at the hotel.



Our train was due at 10:45 in the night and it was only 8:30 and we had already had our dinner, another sumptuous feast at the Saheb's and, myself, Avik, Alu and Harry were busy treating ourselves to a host of mouth-watering sweetmeats at the nearest sweet-shop at Russel Chowk. Another frantic packing session was underway inside our rooms and before 10 we were all set to hit the road to the station. Arriving early at the station, Dudu started becoming characteristically edgy when it struck him that it was 10:30 and yet the platform to Shaktipunj Express was not announced. It was nearly 10:45 and Dudu was at his tether's end fathoming what possible catastrophe had withheld our train to home. According to him, there had never been such a situation in his ten to fifteen illustrious train journeys. Surely, this was a situation which demanded prompt action. And Alu and me decided to give him some of it. Alu, the natural actor that he is, took the opportunity to showcase the more subtler side of his antics when he rushed to the adjoining platform and running back towards us in all earnestness announced that Shaktipunj was lodged at the other platform, that we had been duped by the Railways and that we were to miss the train if we didn't rush. Calamity, it is said, paralyzes some and urges the rest to action. Dudu opting to be the latter for this singular excception lost no time in lifting his luggage and was about to make a mad rush for the other platform when we all fell down laughing at the joke which had been so well executed.

Our train came in at 11:10 and left Jabalpur at 11:35. With of course 'all eggs in one basket'.



If any of us had thought that our party with the Unforeseen was over when the train started to move from Jabalpur he must have committed one of the more horrible errors of judgment. In fact our ride on Shaktipunj was an eye-opener of sorts. A lesson in the great framework of the behemoth called the Indian Railways. Ours was supposed to be a 30 hour long journey to Howrah. We didn't bother ourselves with stacking an unnecessary amount of food in our bags, assuming that there would be umpteen stoppages and stations on our way where we would be spoilt for choice. But what our journey actually proved out to be was a cruel and practical exhibition of a bengali saying, " Sei guurey baali".
Rather , " sei baalitey guur" would have been a more apt title to our escapade, I thought.


The train stopped at every possible opportunity, sometimes at places where there were no visible human settlements, leave alone railway platforms. At times it looked that jogging along with the train would have saved us some money for it would have taken us the same amount of time, at the same time doing a world of good to our collective girth. As if speed was our only worry there arose the little sobs from within our tummies, crying gently for food, sobs which would in some hours turn into terrible grumbles and manic restlessness. In all of the 30 stoppages that we had met from the morning there was not even a chanawallah within our sight. Come afternoon and the biscuit packets were all emptied and the packets of potato-chips lay crumpled. Even our reserves of drinking water were about to run out. It was almost sundown when we finally arrived at a station queerly named Barkakana, which was quite near to the Jharkhand border, and to our utter relief it had some food stalls on it. Three of us quickly made to the stall where anda-bread were being devoured by the masses with as much relish as mutton Rogan Josh at the Maurya Sheraton. I had passed on 5 plates for the others and was about to dig into mine when I saw a harried looking Alu coming up with bottles of water filled from the station tap. Hygiene for once was taking the back seat to basic urges in the most fastidious amongst us.
I was about to order my second plate of anda-bread when it became apparent to us that there was no rush at all. The engine of the train was being replaced and we could have our own sweet time nibbling at what all was there to be nibbled at. Tea was next on our agenda and before long the train started moving. The six of us again nestling safely inside the compartment, this time a little full, bore little smiles of satisfaction for the fact that we were now onto the last leg of a 8-day tour which many hadn't approved of initially. Dinner plates were bought from insisting vendors and suspiciously eaten during the night. By Jove! No one wanted an 'emergency' visit to the toilet that had seen many a troubled tryst with Relief of 70 odd fellow passengers for the last 20 odd hours. I think it was 12:30 when I passed off and it seemed as if I had just started to drift into discovering deeper dungeons of Sleep when bright halogens started shining on me through the half-open windows. It was 4:20 am and we were 5 minutes from Howrah, we were told. Shaktipunj had arrived 2 hours too early to our chagrin.


What ensued after the train stopped at Howrah must go down in our memoirs as the most frantic of packing one has ever witnessed. Shawls were being rolled into ruck-sacks, pairs of chappal tied into promiscuous pairings, air-pillows being extinguished with knock-out punches and shoe-laces getting into impossible knots in the hurry. We managed to get down on the platform before the RPF would drag us out and now, all were looking for taxis to take them home. A thoroughly memorable and rewarding trip had come to an end and as is the case with all beautiful things we weren't even complaining that it did.

Kanha - VIII

Compared to the long winding sessions of frenzied packing and book-keeping went to the details of the last penny spent the proceedings of our last morning inside Kanha could be safely termed as smooth sailing. Also, there was this crank-call in the lodge office the previous night which sparked off a 'wrong name-wrong number-wrong information' fiasco and made us a little jumpy and break some sweat pacing up and down in consternation. A few calls to our homes and all confusion was put to rest. There had been a mistake and our nerves were sinking back to their slothful-modes again.

But now, rows of big, heavy, intimidating looking luggages stayed lined up on the veranda of the hostel as the six of us kept checking and re-checking if anything was being left behind. Having ensured the intactness of our belongings as on the day of our arrival ( save the cumulative tonnage of biscuits and snacks which were devoured during the course of our stay) we moved towards the tourist-canteen. The plan was to have our breakfasts there and wait for the 12-noon bus to Jabalpur right there. The bus would take us to Jabalpur by 6 in the evening and then after checking in to a 'reasonable' hotel we would make our leisurely survey of the city. As Michael Corleone would put it, " Everything was arranged."

While sipping at our tea, standing in front of the canteen premises, we were made audience to an array of exhilarating acrobatic stunts by a group of animated langurs. They gathered in small bands of 3 to 4 in front of the canteen and while the others waited their turn, one amongst them would make a mad dash for the nearest peepal tree, climbing as high as it could in a single breath and then in one flash, with a sweeping motion, banged its hand at one traffic-board while jumping down to the ground. Then this 'performer' would quietly come back and sit with the other cheering spectators. Soon, there were many contestants and the stands were full of eager audience egging their favorite to pull down that sign-board. As to what offense that seemingly innocuous sign-board posed to their pride we couldn't fathom. What was the most amazing aspect of this entire episode of Langur-limpics was the degree of discipline in their ranks. A recording of the event would have, I thought, considerably bolstered the repeated attempts of our junior-school teachers in inculcating Order into us in a most novel way.
I reckon it would have worked much better with us, 'hooligans'. Alas! We were too early, maybe.



The bus was punctual, both in its arrival and departure, and we were looking through the windows at the shifting scenery of fantastic boulevards, easing the mind to the approaching adventures that lay in store for us in the next leg of our tour.
A ride in a M.P Tourism bus is a revelation for any Kolkata commuter, and that we found to our delight and dismay. Diametrically opposed in nature to the Govt. buses that ply on Kolkata ours looked resolute in keeping every nook and cranny inside the bus occupied, all the time. And for this the conductor would jump out at places and call out the mausis and the taus out of their huts, inquiring if they needed a ride to the sheher or not. Some complied, some declined. Yet, the bus was making good time. Villagers thronged the bus with their produce ( matarfallis and food-plates made out of sal leaves) and we were soon thanking our lucky stars that one of them didn't have a mind this morning to bring along his bachhra or bakra for a bus-ride. The women wore sarees which ranged from graphic greens to revolting reds in colour, but they sat on their skin as naturally as any fabric, blending with their beings. I was instinctively reminded of 'Palamou-er Pothey' , a piece we all read in secondary school chronicling the rural life of the Chhota Nagpur region. And here, in the midst of a personal rendezvous with 'men and women of the soil' I couldn't agree more with the author.

Now came the 'dismay' part. Overcrowding has its own share of discomforts and Dudu faced one unusual variety from amongst them. Harry was safe to the window-side leaving Dudu to endure the rigors of a teeming bus. Amongst all the good natured shoving and pushing one infant took the opportunity of dusting his little feet on Dudu's generous mop of hair, all the while hanging from his mother's grip. Miffed yet helpless, he could only hope that the ordeal would last till the nearest stop. When we arrived at Russel Chowk, which Baeka told us was the Esplanade of Jabalpur, the Sun was dipping fast in the horizon and the streetlights were taking over. Having counted all 14 bags into the safety of our custody it was decided that Baeka and Avik go scouting for the hotel as we four, myself, Dudu, Harry and Alu, stay behind with the luggage. Always the one to break into a conversation, I found a good garrulous company in a auto-driver and soon Shivraj Chauhan's Industrial policy in Madhya Pradesh was being discussed. Also, now having the luxury of being able to avail the cell-phone we were making short-work of Alu's balance. A good two hours were now past and still there were no sign of our emissaries. Avik and Baeka had committed the singularly idiotic mistake of not carrying their cell phones and that put us into a tizzy. The four of us were now growing restless from our long standing vigil and for a moment it was considered if the two of them had fallen in some form of distress or the other. At last the two of them arrived and quickly narrated the difficulty with which two rooms had been arranged. The hotel was expensive but keeping in mind our personal reservations regarding cleanliness and also the over-booked status in most hotels due to the Industrialists' meet this was our best bet. We quickly locked our luggage in the three rooms and after a much deserved breather went out in search of dinner. Just round the corner we met our gastronomic paradise. Saheb's.
The display of chicken kebabs just outside the Dhaba brought water to our mouths and the order was put in all promptness. Believe me, we are the most ravenous yet refined of foodies that we know of within our far-flung circle of friends and acquaintances yet it is our collective vote of assent that Saheb's serves THE best Fried Tawa Chicken. The daily diet of vegetarian food though highly delicious had unknowingly frustrated the flesh-eating demons inside us. And thier wrath was in full view when the chicken was served. Within a flash the plates were empty and more were being ordered. When we were finished with giving the waiters a scare with our relentless orders it was ascertained that each one of us had devoured a bit more than one whole chicken. But, none of us were complaining. We left to plunder the nearest sweet-shop with a promise that Saheb's would be our dinner-joint the next day and any day that we decide to come to Jabalpur again.


The night was lost to 'little revelries' that are so integral to my friends' sense of well being as I slipped off to sleep owing to the exploits of the day.

The next morning had more in store for us. One had to be fresh for its challenges.