A TIME TO MOVE ON

Extracts from an old diary of a writer

Scattered notes 1.


The sun has gone down, but there is light. Evening is yet to come, but afternoon has gone long ago.

It’s twilight. And I am writing. I am writing on the roof of our flat here at New Alipur, putting my diary on my lap. Just a few hours ago, the early May sun was burning high above my head. But it is cooler now. My skin is burnt, the breeze from the southern horizon has turned it into brown from reddish, and my eyebrows are curled. My nose is in the direction of the horizon where just a few minutes before the red ball went down. I feel the cold of evening now. I feel the gust of the west at my face. But I have the touch of fire inside me, which was burning me since noon over my head. I have the diary on my lap, and I am trying to write.

The sky turns blue. I higher my neck, and keep looking at the clouds in the southern direction. I look at the TV tower; I look at the MERLINS, the South City, the floodlights of the Eden Gardens, the Howrah Bridge, the Hooghly Bridge and many more. I look at the birds which keep hovering over, ready to go back to their nest after a tiring day. There are also the big winged bats and owls, which start to come out of their nest. I sit still, I feel the wind at my face, I wonder of the whole world, which seems still from here. I look at the Southern Avenues. I keep looking, but I don’t find the thing I want.


A couple of times, I ask myself “Have you ever fallen in love?”

“Me? Being who?”

“You being the person who stood under the Eucalyptuses and Deodars once and wondered about the rest of the world.”

I remain silent. I try to remind if I wondered about the rest of the world when I stood under the Deodars and Eucalyptuses. My mind goes back in the colonies of Hardwar. I keep losing myself away on the paths of Dehradun. The breeze hits my face and I fail to resist it. It drains me. It drains my soul and makes me the loneliest person on earth. My eyes go back to the past, in the water of holy Ganges, leaping from the hills. I remind of the cold, ugly rooms at Hardwar and the wet blanket I had in my room, which caused me shiver each and every night. I remind of the songs they used to play at the Bharat Sebashram Sangha every morning. And then I think of the Eucalyptuses, lone, long, standing still in the corners of the colonies.


“No.” I keep it short.

“Never?”

“Never.”

I become dejected. I keep myself busy in other things and works, but that conversation hurts me.


A couple of time another person inside asks me the same question.

“Have you ever fallen in love?”

“Me being who?”

“You being the person who stood beside someone a long time ago and wondered whether God exists; who used to travel to places only to find the beauty of the world.”

I hesitate.

“May be once, or twice.”

Soon the person asking questions vanishes and I become alone once again.

-Nov'09

THE HOUSE

It is not a ghost story. It is also not a story about a haunted house. But this is a story about a house which saw innumerable happenings, bad happenings. That’s the reason I am provoked to write about it.


Her name was Sanjukta, or Sanjana…I do not remember properly now. Probably because it is long ago, and I was mere a child then, or may be no one called her by that name. She was, however called by her neighbors as Jane, and by the others like us, as Jane aunty. Today, as after many years I am going to write about her, I feel like calling her Jane. And the rest of the story, we will call by her name.

Jane was, however, a widow. In fact, she had no one to live with her. She was alone, - perfectly alone, living in the corner of our colony, in a very old house, the same house, indicating the landmark of our colony. Behind it, was the vast old graveyard separating the next colony from ours. Many years have passed, the graveyard is not there, the house is not there, but still I remember some things about it. And that is what I am going to tell you today.


It was a strange, two storied house, with huge walls covering it, and separating it from the nearby narrow lanes. As it aged above hundred years, wild bushes came up everywhere in it. There were merely two or three flowering plants in front of the house, and the rest were all bushes. There was a banana and palm grove on the right side of it, which was prohibited for many years because of thieves and men who used to strangle travelers and rob them. The house remained isolated from the rest of the world, and it seemed that nothing can match its depth, its secrecy and its loneliness. After evening, it seemed a black ghost stood at the corner of our colony, ready to take on all of us. The neighbors, we, everyone feared about Jane living in that house. But she was in fact, had a point not to fear in living in that house. But we will come to that later.

The house, in fact, had a history. And that is why we avoided it.


The house was built long ago in 1901, under the name of ‘Mohini Mansions’. Ram Shankar Roy with his wife Mohini Devi started to live there with their old servant Divakar. In 1910, the couple had their first child as a son named Rup Prasad. For the first time, Mohini Mansion filled with joy. Ram Shankar was so ebullient that he distributed sweets all over the village. Things started falling in pieces for them. But, good times never stay for a long time, and two years later, suddenly Mohini Devi was murdered in her own room. Enquiries ran and their servant Divakar was sent to the prison. But there were not much proof against him for the murder, and soon he was bailed.

The son of late Mohini Devi and Ram Shankar was now brought up by his father. In 1939, Rup Prasad got married and after four years, they had their second child as a son, named Rishi Kumar. When Rishi Kumar grew up, he sent his sister Devika away to grab the baton of Mohini mansions. By this time Rishi Kumar’s old grandfather Ram Shankar died and soon after him, Rup Prasad also passed away in consecutive heart attack. Rishi Kumar became one and only heir left of their family who could now control the mansion. Rishi Kumar wasn’t a person with good morals. He sold all the valuables of the house and went to another city. Mohini mansions remained alone without a master for the first time.

The next fifty five years remained unknown. The stories of the house were muttered often in the corners of the colony, but no one as such tried to find Rishi Kumar or his heir. Life went on smoothly enough for the people of the colony, and the neighbours started forgetting the fact that there was a family once living inside those huge walls and evil doors.

Then suddenly after fifty five years, on a morning, a young man and a woman took off from a rickshaw and opened the gate of Mohini Mansions. Now after so many years, they were the son and daughter-in-law of late Rishi Kumar, Raman and Jane. They were now the new owners of the house.



It was the first time we were seeing Jane. We were children of about eleven or twelve, and Jane and her husband were the first ones from the Mohini mansions whom we came to see.

Days started passing as they passed usually. Jane became one of our aunties in our colony within a few days. We used to play at the nearby ground and she would watch us playing from the rooftops of Mohini mansions. She herself didn’t have any children, so her heart would pour all the love and emotions to us. In the evening, as we would return home, she used to come down with bottles of water for everyone.

We grew up eventually. At sixteen, I was sent to a boarding school for further studies. I stayed there for six years. All these years, I kept myself busy in studies, writings, reporting to the newspapers with a dream of being a journalist. I finished my studies at twenty-one and came back to my birth place once again. This was the time I heard the worst news of our colony. Jane aunty had become a widow. An accident took her husband Raman’s life last year.

One again life went on. It was only the first time I realized the loneliness of Jane. She stopped coming in public. We used to her rarely at the social meetings and occasions. Towards evening, she would light up a lamp, and sit at the lone rooftops. Evenings used to spread its sheet all over the colony but that lamp would remain lit, which meant that Jane was still sitting lonely at the roof. We feared sometimes that she might commit suicide, but she didn’t do that. It seemed there was an old battle going on between her and the house. At one end, the house was consuming each and every person living, and on the other Jane was trying to prove it wrong by living in the house. Strange things became eccentric when she stopped coming in public all together.

By the time Mohini mansions was much too old, and the major portions of its rear part started to fall down. It was that part of the house where a hundred years ago servants’ rooms and store rooms used to be. Within the next monsoon, half of the Mohini mansion fell down, mostly being the rear part. It was then, Jane decided to reform the house, and within a few months, the rear part of the house was gone, mixing into the soil of the graveyards. The house was renamed as ‘House no. 64’.

Another year passed. I took up journalism and writing as profession. I started to move at places because of my reports and works. Meantime I heard that Jane was having an affair with someone back at our colony. I remained mystified as I finished my work at a place and came back once again. The rumor now I heard in my own ears. It was probably someone from another colony, who met Jane at somewhere, and in their first meeting, gave his heart to her. Neighbours said that he wanted to marry her, and persuaded, but Jane didn’t want to leave the house. She didn’t have any problems with the person but she also didn’t want to quit from the invisible battle, which was continuing between her and the house. Much to our amazement, the man admitted the fact, married Jane and started living in the house.

Now, after many years we thought that the curse of Mohini mansions will stay away from its inhabitants. We felt happy to see Jane happy and finding someone after many years. But it was only then, we were proven wrong.

It was hard for the rest of our colony to find out what was happening inside those huge walls of the house. Catastrophe was realised when at a fine morning people saw the man lying dead in front of the house. Family feud, this time took another life in Mohini mansion. Jane didn’t say a word in the whole process of funeral. And then she went back to the house, as silently as she came.

The next day, she ran away from the house saying nothing to a single soul.

I got a new job and left the colony too after a few years.


The house is still there. No one lives in it now. No one wants to take the curse what was started with the death of Mohini Devi. The last death of the house has occurred with the death of Jane’s second husband. Or may be it is waiting. May be it is waiting for another family, for another happy couple to strike its stroke ahead.


It was a strange, two storied house, with huge walls covering it, and separating it from the nearby narrow lanes….

-Nov'09

The boy who got tired

I realise I should write something where people won’t confuse me with the main character of the story. I keep thinking for the whole week. And then I get a topic. I search and get the situation. I get the feelings involved in the story. All I don’t get is the character involved. And I leave that into the hands of the readers to decide who the main character is. So this is how the story starts…


“It was a warm, Sunny day. The boy on the road looked pretty happy. He adjusted his backpack, and started walking once again. Just similar to all the inhabitants of the city the boy loved to walk. He walked merrily, sometimes hopping over the pool of mud, sometime staring to the wayside windows curiously. He had this distinctive style of walking, whenever he was on the road, people would look at him; could be for no reason. Nevertheless, he was different from the rest of the people on the road. And that made him special. He would not lower his face, hide hands in the pockets, or mutter while walking on the road. He lived his life to the fullest, hanging out with friends, taking pictures with friends, making small trips to exotic places. He was a boy of twenty, good-looking, and well-build. That’s the reason girls used to like him a lot.


But this story is not about this boy.

What? Are you amazed?

See, the major portion among us do not have girlfriends like he does, right? So we have to come down to somewhat a general level.

Let’s take that boy, for an example, the boy crossing the street. Can you see any difference between him and the rest of the crowd? May be no, because he is and may be will be as ugly as the rest of the crowd for the rest of his life. See how he moans over the fact that the bus which usually takes him to the college is late as usual. Ugly people do have a tendency to shout at everything, you see. I hate these guys, telling the truth. But what can I do else? Got to finish the story first, right?

The bus comes, as he gets into it. In the bus, he stares at outside through the windows, as the old vehicle drags him to his destination.

Now as he gazes outside, let’s gauge him from a distance.

He is a boy of twenty-one, but looks much older. His eye-brows are sharp, and are coupled just above his nose. His nose is sharp, and steeper than any person you will see around you. His face is dark brown, but those who have seen his body, doubts the color of wheat. He looks vaguely into people’s eyes and pass bye. Few were in the world that made or seen him laugh. There were men who would bet upon a smile of him. Seldom did he smile, and when he did, the sadness in his eyes turned into a pale sheet of happiness. He was an unhappy person, to conclude. There were problems in his life as people generally have. And he was alone in his life as people generally are.
And yes, the boy walked slowly on the streets. Head down, hands in his pocket. He dreamed that someday he would be to the hills, where his heart used to lie. But it seemed just a dream, as living in a big city had taught a precious thing among others that you can love you dreams, you can follow your dreams, but you can never reach your dreams. That will not be a dream then. And he believed it. He was a believer of everything. He was just a simple boy.

The bus took him to a place fifteen kilometers away, to his college. And when the college ended, he became hungry. But he was a person who could withstand a few things, even the primitive needs too. He had an institution to visit for some reference studies. He headed for that. And these visits took long enough to call the September evening. It was 8.00 in the evening as he headed back to his home. He walked across colonies thinking about the vegetables his mother was going to cook for him. He walked thinking how tiring day it was. And then he uttered those words…’I am tired tonight.’

He was hungry. He was thirsty. The place he used to live, they would call this wind a strange one that blew from the southern part of the city, which started blowing now. It made him look tough, and then it made him tough. In the midst of a dark evening, the boy became one of the fewest wanderers in the streets. But the boy hurried. He was hungry. He was thirsty.


He reached home. And then he realised it was warm. Whenever there were arguments in the house, it would become silent. No one asked for him. No one gave him a glass of water. No one talked with him. He became deserted. He silently started to put off his shoes. And then he heard the argument starting again.

Not many people I have ever seen to control tears in public. But this boy, on the other hand, had a rare gift of that. He looked at his parents vacantly, who were fighting over the case once again. He looked at his feet, on which he believed, he put on the shoes, and got out once again, as he entered a few minutes ago, silently, getting merely noticed.

The boy headed towards the same road he traveled on the morning while going to catch the bus. It was the same road he traveled while he returned home. And it was the same road he was walking now.

He walked towards the lake place for no reason. The wind from the southern part drenched him thoroughly, awaking his hunger. He looked tougher. His eyes narrowed. He shivered, and it came from his hunger. He looked at the still water of the lake. He looked at the chhatim tree. He looked at the large flats and other buildings. He reached the avenue which was at the southernmost part of the city. He took a turn, and started walking towards the well known bridge. He kept walking until he felt the color. He saw red at his hands; he saw red at his face, at his nose. He tasted the color, and found salted. He tasted blood.

His nose bled. He searched his pocket thoroughly but didn’t find a piece of cloth. It was clumsy. People were starting to notice him on the road, with the bloody nose. So he went to a shade, stood there, as the blood kept oozing out and he kept dropping those blood drops in the mud…until it stopped oozing altogether. His clothes were full of blood stains. But he started walking once again.

He found the tube well at the end of the Southern Avenues, and left the deep sigh from his heart. He washed his face thoroughly. He watered the upper part of his body. He kept on drinking the water until he didn’t feel hunger anymore. It wasn’t the source of drinking water, but he didn’t care. He was a boy from the hills. He could eat, drink or live on anything in the world. Little were his needs. And he knew how to fulfill those. He gulped down another mouthful of water. And then he felt satisfied. He saw this tube well building, couple of years ago. Just as this evening, he was on his way here that day. As he saw those workers digging deep, he knew what was happening. He stood, waited there for a long time to see. He admired those workers that day for building up something like that which helped him today profusely. And then he started walking again. He thought of going back home, but it could’ve been that the dispute wasn’t over yet, he thought in his mind, so he continued walking.

And it was then he saw Athena.

The Moon was up above the head. The branches of the trees in southern avenues mysteriously blocked the Moonlight to drop down to earth. There were lampposts, however, which lighted the paths and the turns for the favor of those who walked. These lampposts were tall, reached at a height from where even if they were lit, the atmosphere would be blurring. And in the murky light of the old lampposts, he saw Athena.

Athena was, however, a white owl. She used to sit on the branches of the trees nearby, and at evening, she would come down, and hover around the Southern Avenue in search of rats or any kind of food. The boy named her Athena. He found a strange attraction to the bird. It would come down and fly around him every time he was on Southern Avenues. He felt something extraordinary. He smiled every time he saw her. And the bird would answer a sharp, shrill cry that would drift across the high-rise buildings and colonies.

Athena went away in search of her food, as he headed to the Chetla bridge.

His head dropped down in exhaustion. He continued his walk across the fish markets and the cremation ground. He continued his walk until the bridge ended, and then he decided to come back.

He was tired of walking now. It was the same road that he travelled half an hour ago. And what was worse, he was going home.

In the stillness of night, the boy lost himself in the crowd. The faces became one. The lights, the shadows, the dreams, all the happiness and sadness of the world unified to create lives in the big cities, where you, me, the boy, everyone just goes round and round the lamp. The feelings blend, and create the oil, the lives end, to create the fire. But they go round and round. They dance around the light, they fall upon each other, they dance like drunk, and they dance like drugged. And then they drop. They drop down in the light, and turn into fire. But they do not stop.


Misty night experienced two girls thinking about a boy from the windows of their respective rooms. And strangely enough, not for the boy who looked happy on the road, walked merrily, took pictures or used to hang out with friends in exotic places…but for a lonely person, who was on the way back to his house on that night, hiding his tears in the dark.

-Nov '09