Christmas Mass at St. Paul's

Today I had a religious encounter of a different kind.
I visited the St. Paul's Cathedral with four of my friends and it was a truly novel experience.
Had to get up at 7:30 in the morning to get ready as a big crowd was expected at the premier Roman Catholic Church of Kolkata on Christmas morning and we didn't want to be late for the mass. Arriving on time and full of enthusiasm that winter mornings unfailingly inject into unemployed minds in this city we were pleasantly surprised to get a seat in the last row made up of make-shift plastic chairs when inside the Cathedral. Already the gathering was sizable and by the look of the continuous stream of people that trickled in I knew it wouldn't be long before the Cathedral would be full.

As the choir gathered momentum and the carols got fervent there pervaded a sense of measured solemnity that was too palpable to be missed by anyone present. Though none of us were Christians by faith (inherited i.e) we too were part of the ongoing ritual and it was a
thoroughly enriching feeling. After the gathering was addressed by the Bishop people were asked to queue up to pray at the altar. When our turn came, we prayed. On bent knees and with folded palms there wasn't any distinction that we felt while praying alongside people who wore crosses around their necks. After all prayer to the Supreme Being isn't constricted by barriers of faith, colour or creed. And Christmas was just a celebration of that universal truth. The Bishop then blessed us and we headed for the lofted gallery of varnished wooden chairs. There was a
sense of grandeur in them. A feeling of dignified antiquity. The final address by the Bishop and a few carols later we got up to leave.
Wherever we looked there was only the sight of jolly people wishing each other a "Merry Christmas'. There was that unmistakable mirth in their features which we, Bengali Hindus have during savoring our Nabami bhog or when my Muslim friends greet us during Eid. I presume this mirth is exuded from the inner goodness innate to human beings. And there's no religion for a smile to elicit a smile. It's that simple.

Merry Christmas, everybody!!




photo: flickr.com

Ode to Cleopatra

Her bend of nose like birds of prey

Her lips carved out of lust

Her mane the shape of setting sun

Her tresses dark as dusk.

Her secrets dwelled in wells of heart

Her eyes kept all to her.

Her smile concocted enigma

Which none could decipher.

Entranced, enraptured came to her

Men of Blood and Might.

Hearts on fire with a zeal

Desires burning bright.

The Bard could not in wildest dreams

Envision that his Muse

Would this day be robbed of Pride

Her legend made recluse.

Veils of mystery now to yield

The Mistress of the Nile.

A single Fading Coin to make

Beauty stand on trial.

Yet, with every equinox

When beauty is conceived

A smile resplendent with intrigue

I hear Cleopatra breathe.

Photo: google.com

Death of a Bastard in a lonely Hospital cabin

He cries in a noiseless din.

Silence in his grief.

Cornered by a thousand hands

Out to strangle him.

His eyes a screen of hazy words

Face pockmarked with quiz.

A pin-drop could be heard in haste

In these hollow corridors

Pain and panic fornicate

Head swims in a dreamy blur.

Sickly fumes that augur ill

And ward-boys at their chores.

A desiccated soul asleep

Behind glazed glasses

Every labored rippled breath

Whispering a horrid threat

In silent vigil of a death

His father slowly passes.

His name a shame from before birth.

A society’s discard.

Now his hands in hands so cold

As life unfastened its own hold

His mind could mock at fate unfold

No longer ‘A Bastard’.

This was named something else by me. One of my blogger friends suggested a more direct nomenclature. I owe him this.

Photo: gettyimages.com

Random Songs of Life

Rules :
1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.

Tagged by ad libber, I put both my Media Player and mind in 'shuffle' mode and this is what emerged. I am really really old fashioned. I might just put you people to sleep with my choices.

So, here goes the soporific.

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?

“Jeevan kyaa hai......chaltaa firtaa ek khilonaa hai.” by Jagjit Singh.

Good for a start. Ghazals always make so much sense.

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?

“I know just how to whisper.......” by Air Supply

Hmm.....That's romantic with a capital 'R'.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?

“Aapki aankhon mein kuchh mehke huye sse raaz hai......” by Asha and Kishore.

Timely. Very timely.

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?

“Amrican Pie...” byDon McLean

That's poignant.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?

“Piyaa toshey naynaa laagey rey....” byLata Mangeshkar.

Issshhhhhh...... Honesty bites.

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?

“Kal Ho Na Ho........” by Sonu Nigam and Alka Yagnik

Great. I love this shuffle.

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?

“Winds of Change......” by Scorpions

Does that make any sense ??

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?

“Starry Starry night........” by Don McLean

One of my favorite songs.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?

“Main agar kahoon.......” by Sonu Nigam (Om Shanti Om)

often ??? That would be once in a trillion Pluto-years.

WHAT IS 2+2?

“Kajraa rey...kajraa rey...." by Alisha Chinoy

Father and son....and bahu, I think. Great timing

DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?

“Believe....” by Cher

Could have been a more apt song.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

“Tumko dekhaa to yeh khayal ayaa.......” by Jagjit Singh.

See. Ghazals make sense. And they are punctual.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?

“Jokhon porbey na mor paayer chinho....” by Hemanta Mukherjee ( Rabindragsangeet)

Dhushhhhh!! Should have been the one to be played in my sraddho. aagey bejey gechhey.

Just my luck!

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

“Boro Boro......” by Arash

That's not 'boro..boro' ( big..big) in Bengali, I guess.

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

“Hoshwaalon ko khabar kyaa........” by Jagjit Singh ( Sarfarosh)

Lucky Stars!

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?

“Wahaan kaun hai teraa........” by S.D Burman ( Guide)

Graceful reminder.

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?

“Zindagi maut na ban jaaye......” Sonu Nigam ( Sarfarosh)

Just my feelings. Just my feelings !!!!

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?

“Mujhko kyaa huwaa hai.....kyon main kho gaya hoon....” by Udit Narayan ( Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai )

See. Funeral mein kya bajayoongaa sochaa thaa.......aur kya baj raha hai......

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?

“Jibon Khatar protii pataay.......” by Shyamal Mitra ( Dewaa Newaa)

perfect!

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?

“ Ghum nei keno chokhey....” by Hemanta Mukherjee

Mysterious me.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?

“Chingaari koi bhadkey.....” by Kishore Kumar ( amar prem).

Yaa. Just have to see any of them in a fit of rage on their day, and you will understand.

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?

“ Khamosh sa afsanaa......” by Lata Mangeshkar ( Libaas )

Ending bhhi achha hai......

I would tag J. Alfred Prufrock, Blabberwocky , Antigone and Misha.

The New Airtel ad

The new AIRTEL ad really moved me. The idea that communication can dissolve boundaries between States and join people has that sort of an effect on me. Always. It gives me goosebumps.

The people behind making this ad really deserve praise. In times when everything from soap bars to sedans are marketed using the attention holding abilities of the unclad female body or star-power of film personalities, the idea of portraying a simple human story woven into the framework of an eternally relevant message is undeniably brave and positively reassuring.

The simple story where two little boys from two sides of a barbed wire fence decide to play football on what is understandably a 'no man's land' (LOC) conveys a simple message, but that which has a universal appeal. There is a certain sense of defiance in the way the two kids cross their borders to engage in a sport, ironic with a blissful disregard for human boundaries, consumed by their juvenile frivolity and characteristic innocence.
A swarm of thoughts flooded my mind on catching the ad for the first time on TV today.
It reminded me of Frost's 'Mending Wall'. It reminded me of the futility of divisions among humans. And how we all are a party to it.


I congratulate the team behind the concept of the ad. AIRTEL has been a leader in the way they market their product in a responsible manner and some of their previous advertisements bear ample testimony to that.

Here's another from their stable that touched me. Long back.




Video: Courtesy: Youtube.com
Logo: Google.com

Testing Times

Read, I shall.

Write, I will.

Be as smart can be.

To make heads turn

I have to earn

They say, lots of money.

I should turn out

Both stiff and stout

For knowledge makes for pride.

And wealth does count

As paramount

When looking for ‘that bride’.

All investments

Some own, some lent

Must bear this lovely fruit.

That my good name

Do garner fame

Worthy of some to brood.

Sometimes I think

At myself wink

That if I were to fail.

All hopes would dash

And walls would crash

I will have fled this jail.

To me success

Is one such mess

To onlookers pristine.

Out of sorts

Trapped in knots

You suffocate within.

Don’t look at me

For I can see

That cynic-smile on rise.

On your face

It’s out of place

On me it does look nice.

May be my words

Will touch no chords

Unlike last time I wrote.

I pray you feel

In my ordeal

My future goes to vote.

Ghosts of hope

In darkness grope

Expectant eyes on me.

In firing line

It suits me fine

For none will let me be.

For the time-being

I may just sing

That I will try my best.

In two-three days

Anxiety says

I am to face my test.

Sunset from the Ghat

The chimneys at the other bank cough out muffled ire.

The dogged looking little boats seem to be on fire

In hope of lighting up the sky mimic starry quiver

Yet in languid meander swells the lazy river.

Of lovers in their sweet embrace, untouched by all vice

In corners within kisses deep, lust lives in disguise.

Vendors in their tattered best, invite in their voice

Vie to make a meal for night. A virgin makes her choice.

Curiosity peeps to see if filth could find its path

To banks of sacred pilgrimage. A Brahmin takes his bath.

The silent tale of Ghats in play; the river sullen quiet.

As sunset kisses whiskey-skies, pheasants make for flight.

The Other Life

Joy in silent spurts of life

Dilutes bitter grief and pain.

Here with hunger rodents thrive

Crumbs at night but uncertain.

With rags at hand to hold their shame

And tools all battered, broken.

They wander like some herd of game

Their fate in ambush beckon.

Sluice of filth that brimmeth by

Cheap liquor in their veins

Spectres of nude children cry

Pang of Hunger Pains.

Wet and flooded, Grime and blight

Dance in orgy of this life.

Trading gloom for neon lights

The Slums in slumber just survive.

Under Streetlights

Blinking lights

Shrinking stars

Pavement looks behind

Miles left back,

Miles in front

A stranger comes to mind.

He, toothless, grins at

Shameless fate

An unheard malaise peeps.

In tattered clothes

With peace at feet

A naked beggar sleeps.

Room on Fire

I strike a matchstick
Your face lights up
The sun sets in your eyes.
You smell of me
And I of you
Dusk bids us both goodbye.

In sweet embrace
As ties untie
You kill once more in greed
I beg for you
And you for me
In silence passion bleed.

I burn my hand.
The room falls dark
You feel for me in haste.
A stolen kiss
A soft reproach.
I bask in my conquest.

You despise dark
And so do I.
We let a suspense loom
As love meets lust
With fumbling hands
A matchstick burns my room.

She Was Just a Girl

She walked to the edge.

The cliff lay parched under her feet.

The sand beneath her feet burning,

As if to exact some distant primitive revenge.

Fierce, vicious, violent.

The thorns bathed in venom bore into her flesh.

Pebbles burnt black,

Giving off soot like a sinewy skeleton .

The lust in the thirsty wind streaked her troubled tresses.

Carrying embers of doom in their unrelenting ire.

Under the hot afternoon sun,

Her heart hardened and died.

“You are a girl.” They said.

And she was just a girl.

The squalid waters flowed under her,

Cutting through the base.

The tentacles of glass barriers,

Spreading placidity all around itself.

Her eyes looked tired of saline tears

Drying in a screaming silence.

A tell-tale lull prevailed.

The minutes wet with easing pain,

Waited for time to clot into a meaningless void.

And through the pores of cerulean skies,

She heard whispered curses.

“You are a burden.” They said.

And she was just a burden.

She looked down into the depths,

Where there was no dearth of dark.

Where still hissing magma of hatred dwelled

In endless reservoirs of unclad vice.

No one breathed.

Nothing moved.

Only a seductive gorge of envy gaped back at her.

From here it was a steep climb up to find the sun....

And some wafts of moist clouds, she thought.

Like rain in starved June,

Like kisses wrapped in soft delight

Like unuttered promises of love.......she hoped.

But, that was not her.

In some other time.

Some other place.

As if waiting for the inevitable

While tongues, lecherous with pallid drool reached out to her bosom.

A pair of red unforgiving eyes swooped down on her.

She gave in.

A deep, lonely plunge.

Silence.

Then,

She heard them shout,

“You are a whore!"

And she was just a whore.

The idea of this poem was presented to me by one of my friends. I developed on it, after which she decided that I had lent too many shades of my own to her original outline and hence it now belonged to me. Therefore, I post this with slight acknowledgment and sparse regret ( as the original idea remains pilfered ).

She Has A Lover ......

She has a lover

Dark and strong.

In him when she confides

Gives me shivers,

Jealous bouts

I find so hard to hide.

In silent whispers

Feathers fall

While time stops by to see

If ever words that

Hummed in heart

Will come to rescue me.

Is it late ?

A play perhaps,

The end to know I lust

A loving game

Of losing self

Of nursing nascent trust.

I feel for him.

I hope she does.

Before it is too late.

Her lover fair

Beyond repair

Comes to share my fate.

NECROPOLIS

Guarded by unyielding walls
Entrance through the Gothic gate.
“Rest In Peace”, the vulture calls
In this ‘Haven of the Late’.

Four ‘n half yards underfoot
Breathes a seething thirst to quench.
Swerving up the air as soot
Rises up a rancid stench.

Restless in the black casket
Sleeps a fire, raging red.
Where with hell the evil mate
Emerges the living dead.

Labored sobs and screaming pain
In mournful, heavy air.
Trickles down a slow disdain
Loses path a prayer.

Tomb and moonlight kept apart,
The unborn cries hoarse.
Dagger sprouting off its heart
A sublime hatred grows.

Burning vengeance, rotting flesh
The fading crescent dwarfs.
Dried blood in deep caress
With desecrated corpse.

Hooting owls ‘n hanging bats
Wait drooling for a feast.
In defiance, the gnawing rats
Defaces the deceased.

En masse nocturnals celebrate
The daylight kingdom sleeps.
Dawn in waiting hesitate
The Necropolis lives.

My Telephone - Diary

Once in two neat columns it tried to arrange my life.

On the left – Names.

On the right – Numbers

And in between scribbled letters which were meant to be addresses.

A shade of brightest blue,

A laminated cover on which still were written

In my signature ‘Vines and Strokes’ writing

Three harmless words-

My Telephone Diary.

How every new name and number brought thrill,

of growing popularity.....fun .......and much more.....

To ring up and speak in an unsure voice to some strict uncle...

or, at times, to ‘ Living -Questionnaires’. .....

Gave us reason to sulk.....and laugh......and complain....sometimes.

And as familiarity emerged at the other end in another overjoyed tone

of an eleven year old.....

Peace prevailed....time flew....innocence giggled in hushed tones.

At times when school was either lost in the heat of May

or drowned in festive drum-beats of para-pujos.

We shared life back then.

In small sachets of secret jokes and harmless jabs...

......conveyed in codes of 1s and 0s....over distances

which sounded unending and places obscure.

Now.....lost in the race to nowhere...

We have lost touch.

Love ?

I hope to believe not.

My diary doesn’t look its self now...

Tattered at places...

Torn into pieces

It looks at me with studied anticipation

And a knowing acceptance.

Giving the smudged letters a final glance I put it back...

to where it belongs now..

- The back drawers of my old, wooden closet.

Along with my nursery rhymes and frayed pencils and crayons

It will have good company there.

So I hope to believe.

The faded blue of it reminds me of a childhood-

Now I choose to make a relic.

Only an occasional reminder of

Who I am.

It serves its purpose every few years..

while the entire house gets cleaned...or painted.

Memories pound my veins now...

And as I push in the dreary drawer..

With a defeated sigh My Telephone Diary bids goodbye..

to things it meant to me ....once.

Who remembers these days ?

I move onto the next drawer.

The Ringmaster's Daughter - A review.

Petter is a special child. Not because he has some physical disability but, because he has got an immense gift. The gift of imagination. The gift that renders him helpless in distinguishing between ‘recalled reality’ and ‘recalled fantasy’, he engages himself in a business both profitable and perilous. He starts distributing his ideas and plots to intellectually challenged individuals who make a living out of building novels around their borrowed framework. With time both wealth and recognition comes to know of Petter. But, his is an extraordinary life. A life riddled with imperfections and anxieties. A troubled childhood combined with a deep sense of isolation makes him commitment-phobic. Though he loves, he loves with a fraction of himself always held back in reserve. Almost in anticipation of a setback.

Maria, the only woman amongst numerous flings who he comes to love truly leaves him for a life in Stockholm. She gives birth to a daughter he is never to know of. Life with its glorious uncertainties moves on for Petter and unexpectedly comes full circle in the most inopportune manner. In times that prove to be both difficult and dangerous for his existence Petter discovers love again. But, this time in the arms of an intriguing stranger in an unknown land. A tortuous road to rediscovery and revelation shatters Petter and takes the reader along with him to his nemesis.

‘The Ringmaster’s Daughter’ is a book which narrates the life of a precocious child with such chosen simplicity that the reader is left asking for more. Jostein Gaarder, in this studied documentary of human nature draws unbiased portraits of characters victim to destiny and circumstance. Though at some places the reader is bound to feel a shade distracted by the advent of a plethora of concomitant tales yet, he is left sumptuously served at the closing paragraphs. He is sure to discover the very intent with which the digressions were designed. He is sure to close the book basking in the glory to have finally read a book which is not didactic on morality but rich in content.

A beautiful book which I am sure will find equal favor with my reader friends.

THE DEVIL'S REVENGE

A sharp pain sprinted across his nerves.
He awoke from his nightmare
Where he only ran.
And ran.
From nowhere.
To nowhere.
A faint light
Like a lure wrapped his vision,
Teased him
And urged him on.
To where he never knew.
It looked like an unending dungeon.
Deep like the womb of some hideous witch,
Dark as the caverns of the lair of death.
And like avarice incarnate in search of gold
He trudged along.
Dug at places where humans slept
And cadavers mocked in shadowy grins.
All along his eyes.
They were his only light.
As in darkness they burnt
With a primitive glow
Giving him strength, shutting his senses
To more sinister predators of night.
The Devil waited.

As in love and hatred
As in life and death
As in pleasure and pain.
He ran wild and blind.
The thorns of the bushes slashing his flesh
In careless cuts and brutal bruises.
He replied the paining numbness with a divine smile
Hanging off his lips.
Lips as red as a crimson gale
He was no human.
He was no ghost.
A tear drop welled somewhere.
An agony swelled
In Hell.
And a rose blossomed.
A star cracked
A child cried.
He ran.
A reckless black-curse of lunacy.
With hair askew
Feet bloodied
And like a fear unleashed.
The Devil waited.

Time coughed blood in spurts.
Doors opened.
Doom beckoned.
And in a thin stream of flesh and blood
Life escaped to its last refuge.
Like a heathen crawling
Like an insane craze
Like a winding road.
An endless nightmare.
Sweat poured from within
And his heart raced.
He opened the portal of his fate
Where bent on his knees
He kissed the lifeless hand.
And disrobed the dead
To lay a wreath
On his lifeless child.
The Devil grinned.

TALES FROM FIROZSHA BAAG................. A REVIEW

A book which blends the essence of story telling with a clarity characteristic to novels ‘Tales from Firozsha Baag’ will remain etched into the creative recesses of my mind for its disarming simplicity and absorbing diction. Moreover, Rohinton Mistry brings to the narrative an unmistakable veneer of humane understanding and compassion - a welcome leitmotif throughout the book. It proved to be a book both provoking and nourishing to the mind famished of good literature in recent times.

The book is a collection of short stories which chronicles various facets of the lives of people living in a Parsi housing complex. The different blocks of Firozsha Baag and their tenants lend their lives to the lively paint-brush of Mistry who with his masterful strokes inspire awe with aplomb amongst his readers. From the fretting Rustomji who resents boys playing cricket within his earshot to the jovial raconteur that Nariman Hansotia is, from Najamai and Tehmina of C Block who share a grudging symbiosis to Jehangir Bulsara and his travails of adolescence, Mistry unearths all in his own soulful rendition of life in its truest form and honest colours. His portrayal of poverty and need in the Bulsara household is as true as his juvenile mischief while narrating the playful atrocities committed by Pesi padmaroo and his cohorts.

A colourful collage of inter-related short stories, ‘Tales from Firozsha Baag’ resonates with the troubles and tribulations, dreams and disillusionments, memories and monomania of an entire community marginalized over ages. My personal favourite was the story ‘Exercisers’ which in its blissful tactlessness described the pleasuring volatility of teenage love, its unformed edges stained with emotional outpour and the searing despair at the end of it all. After reading the story my heart went out to the unsuspecting naiveté of Jehangir and his tryst with the wondrous phenomenon of love. To me this was the swelling point of the book and then it just ebbed a bit like in a play with a mistimed catharsis. Still, I relished the book with gay abandon and would recommend it to all with the sincerity of an avid aficionado of short stories that I am.

A zillion “Thanks” to a dear friend who recommended Mistry to me..... And another zillion for the one who took the trouble to find this one for me from the literary labyrinths of BCL.

I loved it well.

SCATTERED PAGES.............

The gust of wind tugged at her hair and while she pushed away the strands whipping against her eyes, the sheaf of paper loosened from her grasp and took their turns at tossing and turning in small whirlwinds around her. She immediately went down on her haunches to pick them up and was struggling to collect them against the insolence of the blowing wind. She was slowly getting frustrated at her repeated attempts at gathering all the sheets being foiled when suddenly she felt a towering presence swooping down on his knees beside her. Without even knowing who she had for company at that juncture she felt a sense of relief. The papers were then quickly gathered without much of a struggle and finally Anjali could look up to see the face of the person who helped her in her pursuit. What she found was a man in his early thirties, neatly dressed in formals with a smile that had a quality of pleasantness and affability. Quickly mumbling her “Thank you” in return, she disappeared into the corridor.

Anjali Parekh was the English lecturer in St.John’s college for almost six months now and already the students loved her. She was not the usual ‘dry’ lecturer who went through her copious collection of notes in a hurry nor was she one amongst those who had no interest in her students. In one word she was ‘involved’ with her students in a constructive manner. Boys admired her for her candour as did girls for her aura of unstated strength .Her first day in college as lecturer cemented her place of pride within the students. She in reply to a jab at her dress made by one of the ‘usual ruffians’ in the class turned back and gave such a resounding and emphatic reply that jaws dropped and everyone knew she was a ‘no nonsense woman’. So, they listened to her with intent and approached her with caution. Same was the mood in the staff room too. She quickly made her presence felt all around although being polite and submissive in her approach throughout.

She stepped into the staff room after delivering one of her lectures on Byron when suddenly she realised the person sitting opposite to her was none but the man who had helped her gather the scattered sheaves of notes in the morning. She was about to say something in appreciation for his help and to explain her hasty exit when Prof. Sharma interjected, “Anjali, this is our new Professor of History, Mr. Druv Pathak. He has just joined today.” He introduced Anjali with glowing remarks which embarrassed her no ends. Then he asked her, “Would you be kind enough to show Prof. Pathak around? He was my colleague in Janakilal College, so we happen to share a long association. Would you mind?” Anjali readily agreed to the proposition and escorted Druv to the class room where he was scheduled to deliver his first lecture.On their way Anjali felt his constant gaze on her and as was her nature withdrew into her private domains of coy temerity. Meanwhile she also noticed the unusual look of jaded expense on the face of Druv and somehow felt strange. At the entrance of the class room she said, “Here is your class room for the first lecture for the day Prof. Pathak. I will take your leave now. Good luck.” She was about to turn to leave when she heard him say, “Call me Druv. Will you Anjali? I am sorry but, can I call you by your first name?” A little startled by such forthcomingness she somehow managed a whispered “Sure.”

All her way back she debated the kind of person Druv was like and atlast decided to drop the issue from her head when she realised its triviality. Still a feeling of inexplicable buoyancy lingered in her heart without much of her consent or will.

It was almost dusk when Anjali stepped out of the college gate to board the usual bus to her place when she realised the person standing next to him was none other than Druv. He was talking on the phone unaware of the fact that Anjali stood right in front of him. After a while when he realised her presence he promptly went up to her asked her if she went back home everyday by the same route. “Do you mind having a cup of tea with me, Anjali?” Anjali, both anxious and unsure could not think of an answer when she found to her utter surprise Druv rushing her into a bus. She boarded the bus and found relief in the fact that the bus would take her to her home too. She enquired where he lived and discovered that it was not too long from her home even on foot. “A brisk walk of five odd minutes” she thought to herself “and I would be home in no time.” On disembarking from the bus she saw Druv’s flat to be in a neat locality dotted by gardens. On entering the flat she found it to be in a state of utter disarray, a sign of house without a proper manager to it. Then out of nowhere a small kid of about six years old rushed into Druv’s arms calling “Daddy, why are you so late today? I came back from school a long time ago and Seema didi is not ready to play with me ......” A young girl came out of one room and took the child by his hand inside to finish his unfinished plate of rice . The child struggled and refused and it was only on his father’s persistence that he agreed to finish his food. He was chubby and sweet and teeming with life and vitality. She noticed another unique thing about the child. He had a gurgling laughter which was loud and hearty yet soothing to the ears as it rang with the sincerity of innocence. Druv turned back to her and said in a hushed tone, “That’s my son, Vipul.He lost his mother at his birth and...”A sudden surge of emotion seemed to choke him completely before he again regained his composure to complete his sentence. “And now he is going to lose his father too.” The impact of these heart rending words and a contemptuous smirk that accompanied such devastating a news plunged Anjali into an unfathomable whirlpool of incoherent emotions.Druv tried to diffuse the situation by small talk and levity as he immediately realised what his careless revelation had done to his ‘one day old colleague’ .Anjali could stand no more of this staged drama and asked Druv “What is it with you? Are you ill?” He said that he had cancer in his lymphatic system which was incurable.While she left the house she saw Vipul run to his father’s arms and through the closed door behind her she heard his gurgling laughter. She could not stand the pain she felt and she rushed out in uncontrollable tears welling down her chin. She cursed Druv for the agony he had inflicted on her in a single day’s acquaintance.

* * * * *

The door bell rang with a touch of impudence. Anjali woke up to the present from her reminiscence of the past and opened the door. As soon as she unlatched the door a sporadic entry of young feet inside the house greeted her. Within no time the whole house was resonating with bursts of laughter coming from the other room. Anjali sat down to have her cup of evening tea when a sudden surge of gurgling laughter distracted her. And its element of inherent innocence gave her a sense of joy which was amazingly both painful and triumphant. She sipped her cup of tea and looked up at the two framed photos on her drawing room wall with a smirk which meant a lot, only to her.

THE END.

ODE TO A DRINK

Shining within slender shapes,
Luring all my lust
Clouding conscience between drapes
I ascertain, “I must
Savor it to satisfy
My inner Devil’s crave.”
Flabbergasted, I do cry.
Mirror makes me brave.
Tumbling off the smoothened edge
I pour my heart with it.
“Give me not that crooked gaze
And don’t you contradict.”
Now dejected, I feel whispers
Mock in frigid noise.
Fomenting the breathing scars,
Muffling inner voice.
My indulgences not in pain
Nor cruel memory.
Inebriated, not insane
I sing to reverie.
I forget if I am broke
Or fortune is my slave.
Tired hands in pockets poke
To find a gaping cave.
Half awake, half careless
Inattentive to loss
Hiding in my carapace
Courage gathers moss.
Slipping into world I own
I touch my floating dreams
Ambling down a fancy-zone
I wish if I could swim.
The river of my fantasy,
Me lonely in my boat
As ‘nother glass of ecstasy
Goes gurgling down my throat.
Dripping with a fluid glee
Feeling for my peer
Spicing up virgin whisky
With a touch of beer.
Looking confused to my eyes,
They ask if I am fine.
In lasting languor I surmise,
“I love my glass of wine.”

COMING BACK TO MEMORIES ................

He saw her at a distance, approaching him at a leisurely yet labored pace only hand-pulled rickshaws could offer in this city of colonial ruins. Through his deep seated spectacles he slowly followed the changes that had set in her face, her figure, her persona. What he saw he committed to memory in his usual harmlessly surreptitious manner.

She looked about her age. Forty-nine that would be. Time had stroked her hair with its grey fingers and the taut outlines of her placid face made apparent that she had asked for more testimonies of age than these. Her face bore the look of a woman-in-charge. A lady who knew what came next. Yet, there was a whiff of disenchantment in her elegant movements, in the settling of her sari, in the caressing of the errant tresses and in the manner in which she faced the worldly audience.

There was a sense of quiet assurance in her eyes.

-Those eyes he could once die for.

He took a few steps back and from behind the refuge of a road-side stall his eyes followed her. The rickshaw passed him uneventfully, jingling its bells, raising no alarm.

-Only a whispering reminder to people on its way to make way.

He took to the by-lanes now. Long, meandering and as lonely as him. He remembered how it was the August of 74 that had brought love in his life. Their lives.

And how it all faded suddenly. For good.

Now, back to the city of his birth after almost two decades he was roaming the roads in search of his past. A past he then wished to bury in the endless murk which met his eyes every time he crossed the nullah. He aspired to reach for the skies then.
To challenge the very limits. His meager livelihood combined with an ambience of constant need cemented his faith in ‘money’, the things it could buy, and the attendant relief that his restless heart so desperately sought those days.

Still, escaping the watchful eyes of his determination to prove his mettle , dodging and hiding from his near-Spartan resilience to rediscover himself love happened almost noiselessly, and he was more than glad it did.

Madhurima Sarkar, was vivacity incarnate.
A girl to whom good books and good food made for life in entirety an affair with a boy whose only claim to popular notice was a ‘Grecian frown’ was almost unbelievable. But, from the very day they met both of them in their most private moments of childish premonitions knew this could go far.

And yes, it did.

For four long years they shared their life. She was the inspiration behind his stories and

she felt her heart aflutter while singing a particular stanza that made intimate identifications to her own life inevitable.

Life with all its lyrical thrills unburdened itself on these two souls.

The fights occurred often with a loving regularity bordering on trivial issues.

The reconciliations proved tedious yet rewarding.

And then the rifts surfaced. While her family sough out suitors with a religious zeal, he could do nothing but wander the streets in search of a solitary job,

-A face-saver, A ‘something’ with which he could bargain his life in return.

But fate had other conspiracies brewing. Amidst tears that were a continuous stream of suppressed grief and sobs heart-rending muted with the screaming conch life augured a ‘new-beginning’ as a story reached its end.

A neo-natal death of a love was well mid-wifed by society. Onlookers of this incident lamented 'fate', enjoyed the sumptuous wedding-feast.

He walked the lanes in search of some momentary solace. And found none.

After weeks of desolation and unforgiving bitterness he came back to the realization of the void in his life. The void that now surrounded him till he could gather himself to do something about it. So he did. He finished his course, worked tirelessly in the day while the midnight oil grew weak from his nightlong endeavors at mastering borrowed books.

On the 23^rd of April 1981, from the stairs of a prattling train he bid goodbye to his past of misery and misfortunes.

Today, back as a near-affluent NRI to that very city, he could not help but look back in mournful retrospect. He turned back at the road he had traveled unmindfully, engrossed in his thoughts. And as he approached the nearby grocer for directions to the main-road, a white smoke billowed from an adjoining window which he hardly noticed amongst the gathering scene of daily chaos.

-The window that had filled the eyes of a girl with myriad colours, all of whom seemed dull and vacuous amidst the flourish of her sweet remembrances.

-The window that had muffled her soft sobs from homely disagreements with the inviting hum-drum of the outside world and its activities.

-The window that had made the rain and the clouds, the sun and the spring a delight to watch within its restricting frame as she drank in all their aromas and ecstasies.

-The window that for twenty-one years breathed life into the numbing nothingness amongst the din of worldly worries that accompanied everyday.

-The window to the kitchen of Madhurima Sen Gupta, who once was a Sarkar and loved a boy who sported nothing but a Grecian frown on his face.