Disguised ignorance

I can think of only one word, and that is ignorance.

The week passed in a boring way.

2nd was S.Pal’s birthday. I didn’t go to the college. In the noon, I watched a film on Jim Corbett on Discovery channel, became amazed by the same, and that too, to an extent which made me go to the Golpark library and read a book written by him, named ‘The man-eaters of Kumaon’. And afterwards, ate two chicken pakoras at Golpark(Bedwin). Came back home walking through SA.

1st, 3rd, and 5th were Monday, Wednesday, and Friday respectively. Had classes. Still hate that.

Saw a boy and a girl eating something filthy out of a plastic bag on the other day at Garia staion. There is no escape from this poverty.

Now as I sit at the corner of my bed, and keep looking at my mobile and wait for a short ringing or something(don’t know what else could be), listening to newly released hindi film songs, I can hardly forget the words of the clairvoyant.


I feel I should copy something from my diary of 2009, 3rd August to be specific.

“I ignore her. I ignore her when I talk with my friends sitting beside me, or when I laugh with them. I ignore her when she looks at me casually, or pretending the casual way. I smile several times looking at people I've never talked to but I never look at her. She becomes frustrated. She turns back to me, starts to look at me in a way that makes me look at her. I say hello in a mocking way, as she doesn’t answer. Rather, she says something that stuns me.

“It seems you do not notice me at all in the class.” She says.”



Catastrophe.


Sis is going to come over to our place tomorrow. Lot’s to catch up with, at least for her. Neice is growing by each day. Activities too, in the way of a steep curve. Love to spend time, just by watching her.


14th is the V-day. Not an important day for me, though. I was just thinking about something else. If I could finish the writing ‘A few moments I stood beside her’, I would publish it on the very day. Will be a gift to her from me, irrespective of the fact that she will be hardly aware of the present, given the fact that I finish it in time.


It’s a bad habit. Doing so much chat in g-talk(another software that allows you to talk with friends online). Always feel like using smileys. Could be anything like :) or :(.They are cute, aren’t they?


Still waiting to find the right choice. God is smiling all the time. Is the omen ever going to come?


Dreamt about grandma. Called her today, and talked to. Reminded about the days I was in Midnapur. I miss both of my grandparents. Sometimes, situations arise when chahte hue bhi tum kisi ko dekh nehi sakte, or may be uske sathh baithh ke do bateein bhi nahi kar sakte.


Nothing else to say, really. Just wanted to write about the neighbour-colony girl. She will have her own preferences, of course. That is what I should accept now. This applies to both the girls, in fact.


Let's see if I can finish ‘A few moments…’ before 14th.

Love and Happiness

“Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.”



Irrespective of all the arguments, I kept on visiting the avenues in a regular basis, and now the lake place and Shiva temple were added to my destination.

It’s not only just because it was the last time when we met at the lake places and near the Shiva temple, and as we walked together, remained silent for most of the time, and waved at each other while we parted at the front of her home, and never met again… but it is also because some happenings keep asking me the very basic questions of life, and in a way someone inside me kept telling me that the answers could be found at the place where I had left someone lonely, or may be it was the other way around.

And for some unknown reasons, Shiva temples across the various places started attracting me. I don’t know if it is because I got spiritual all of a sudden, or it is because I didn’t find peace anywhere else, started wandering at temples. In my imagination I kept moving in the narrow lanes of Varanasi, found myself staring vacantly to the unknown places she’s lived or sitting in steps of Ganges, and when the Sun goes down I kept sitting in the dark, listening to the old regular classical songs, marking the characteristics of Varanasi. The murmuring in the railway stations kept coming in my ear when I am left alone with nothing, and the stars come down to shine at the southern parts of the city where she’s now with everything, love, happiness, relationships…things one can live with in peace.


I keep standing in front of the figurine saying nothing. People start wondering looking at me. And then I murmur.

“…God, what is that you want of me?”


God smiles all the time. Is it just because people want to see him that way or he’s just like that… Knowing everything? He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t listen. But all you have to do is to throw him the question and he will direct the right path for you. And here is the secret. You yourself have to find out what is that he wants you to assign. After that, you are on your own. May be things are a bit confusing, but that’s the way they are.

And then I decide to seek for true love. I seek for happiness. Not for me, but I urge to God to show me the true love, and what is it called happiness. I want to know how it feels to be loved, or to be happy. God keeps smiling all the time; and I do not find the right path to choose.

Sometimes I feel I am wasting my time, walking to places each and every day, while wondering about the rest of the world. Thinking about a person you’ve known for five years and losing her in each and every moment of your life, and how does it really feel to be loved in a way when everything just seems to go against you, even the person you’ve fancied the most, doesn’t know about the love of yours towards her, and when you keep writing day after day about her or just stay at your home thinking what she would be doing now, walking to the places she has been, talking stuff she’s told with certain kind or manner, and deep into your heart you keep telling yourself, what could be the reason of her behavior…why had she said nothing to me…


I let my emotions take some break as I eye towards the crowd. I wait near the bus stop at Charu Avenue and watch people coming in and passing by. And then I found out something- a child of around three playing with cigar packets. The child is half naked. He is wearing a shirt, which is not distinguishable with any other dustbin clothes, muddy and dirty, must be the effect of frequent dust of the air mixed with the local tube well, where he’s taken to bathe, with all possibility. His body is filthy, smells like he hasn’t used a proper bathroom from the very birth of him. He is just another kid from the roads, untidy, unmindful, playing with cigar packets. As I hear some shouts towards him, and my eyes follow its source, I look toward a mid-aged man, with beard and mustache, with a defective leg, sitting in the corner of the path, selling cigars. I come up with the conclusion that this man could be the child’s father, selling cigars, making money while spending time with his child.


And then I astonished. It’s not only just because it is not always that you see a family at the road living their life, but also it’s the way that surprised me.

I found the child’s mother after half an hour, when she came from somewhere and started talking to the person with beard and mustache.

My search for happiness seemed to come to a catastrophe.

I decided to have my lunch at a nearby hotel so that I can come back to the bus stop once again and continue my experiment on these three persons on the road. One with a half-shirt, aging about three to four, ugliest creature on earth, another with a eternally unshaven beard and mustache, and the third with a mistaken beauty, with a total hundred percent chance of coming from a godforsaken slum. What a discovery!

The tiring noon ran over the long afternoon in turn leading to murky evening leaving me amazed at the bus stop that day. I kept all my imaginations about happiness miles apart that day just to watch this family, sitting happily at the footpath beside the bus stop. I saw the man yelling at his wife at least hundred times, and just after a few seconds, getting confused about some things and calling for her. I saw the half naked child, most of the time playing with stuff one can see at the footpath; cigar packets, old toothbrush, wearing clothes that remind one of old, rotten vegetables from the local markets. Hands and feet filled with dirt, and the whole body reflecting poverty of an eternity. I saw the man with beard and mustache, selling cigars and tobacco, shouting on his child and wife, sometimes talking to the child with soft voice, giving him company and entertaining him, married to a lady who is more than happy to stay away from her husband and her child, a mistaken beauty, showing-off her body.

I kept watching the family for the whole day, and when I decided to leave and reached home, the eternal question was still hovering around my mind. Are they happy?


At first I rule out the matter of sex. It can’t be about sex. A child, who is born from these kinds of persons coming from two completely different opinions and culture of life, can’t be just because of a mere sex. Is this because of love? Is this what I was looking for? I became confused once again.

I head towards the Shiva temple once again to find an answer. But the tiring visit to the temple proves to end up with nothing. I, unable to sort out anything, become dejected. In the midst of winter nights, I keep the window open and look towards the empty roads. Why is that sometimes we feel that we are very close to the answer, but yet don’t find it. The curtains of the windows of the room of the Punjabi family from the other side of the road remains still. And then I remember about the curtains of the windows of Pallabi’s room. I do not give it a second thought. She is now someone whom I can not think of. Now that I have to consider that she has better things to do in life and had to move on. I become unmindful. God keeps smiling all the time.

I kept on watching the family on the footpath each and every day. I would reach the bus stop half an hour early, and just sit there and watch, while waiting for the college bus. The people on the road would have their business, would come in, wait for the buses and go away but I would sit still, keep looking at the man with beard and mustache, at the half-naked child, and on a rare occasion, the mistaken beauty would show up and all the eyes of people waiting for the buses would search around her body.


And then one day on the same footpath, I see a couple.

They are blind, to be specific. The man holds a stick, followed by his wife, holding his hand. The lady wears a pair of black glasses. I watch them as they pass by. After all, how many times do we see a blind couple walking on the footpath without any help from others. I keep on looking at them as they head towards the nearby railway station. So they are going to catch a train! I imagined in my mind about the scene when they catch the train. I imagined how they able to live by their own. Being a blind person, it is not so easy to do things a normal person does, add to that you have someone you are living with, and she is also another blind person. This blind couple now astounded me.


But the bus that draws me to the college comes soon and I become busy in other things. Soon a unit test in college is rescheduled and it seems it would happen a few days before it was actually scheduled to. I hate it. One of the very few things I hate in the world is that when people keep talking about studies and when someone says he is doing an engineering degree. Trust me it is bad. Given a chance, I would rather do English honors. It’s pathetic to continue performing as an engineering student as well as keep watching people on the roads, read books and novels everyday, write stories and other things, and then sending them to different magazines, newspapers or somewhere else with a little hope to get them published. Well anyway, I live.


After a month or so I stand once again on the very bus stop, and I see the blind couple once again. I watch how they walk on the road with the help of each other. After then on, I watch them everyday on the road, as I see the cigar-selling family on the footpath. Now it seemed that I had something to think about love and happiness. I had now many more faces of love, relations and liking to think about. I thought about me and Pallabi(sorry that I had to use her name again), about the girl from the neighbor-colony and her boyfriend, about relations that do not exist, about the cigar selling family, and about the blind couple. It seemed that everyone around me was trying to write their own stories of love, happiness and relationships. So who is happy? And who are in love?


I felt bad about how lives of some people around me were going on. I met a one legged old lady, a poor family having only one person as the source of income, and he too, lame. And last but not the least a blind couple, fighting with their lives. I saw a tiny girl cleaning cups of tea in a tea stall, and then cleaning the whole shop. I felt bad in my heart after seeing these things. How can a person fascinate about the love or happiness for his own sake after experiencing these happenings. I remember about the girl from the neighbor-colony and her boyfriend, and thought about the scene when they kissed each other in front of me. So kissing someone, or holding hands in public, is that how we know that we are in love? Is that how we want to be sure that we are in love? These thoughts make me deserted and dejected every time. I do not find peace anywhere. This is something which can not be solved only by sitting in my lone room, listening to Gajals and classicals, or trying to find answers in the memories of someone whom I don’t want to remember(see, at least I am trying not to take her name). For me, this goes far beyond finding the answers of mere some questions. But this is for the thirst of our soul. When the soul needs to find the answer of something, we travel the whole world, may it be for a simple question too. So I head towards the Southern Avenues once again.


The visit becomes futile once again. One thing I was beginning to understand now that possibly I was doing some mistakes. There should be something, that I should be aware of, but not finding it. It’s just getting close, but yet not close enough.


And then after a couple of days as I look through my window towards the room of the Punjabi family across the road and see the curtains flying in the air, I remember about Pallabi once again. But this time not about the curtains, but about the opinions of relationship she gave. And in this way, in a moment everything became like daylight to me.


“ ‘Love comes only from respect and nothing else.’ She said, as I stood amazed at a corner of our classroom staring at her.” This is from my diary of four years ago.


If love comes from respect, then it must lead to two other things. Attraction towards the person, and caring for the other person as well as showing responsibility to the person, showing that you care for her, and will be there when the other person needs you.

No one passed the norms that she used, not the girl from the neighbor-colony, not me, not she herself. And then the blind couple showed up from nowhere. Now I know what she would have said, had she been here with me.

“See, it’s actually them, who are in love. Don’t you think?” And she would give a sigh, as if everything in the world has been taken away from her.

Yes, I know. It’s not always an omen shows you which path to choose, but it’s also not always an omen shows you the answers of the questions going into your mind. It’s like an everyday happening that a blind couple turned up and showed me the meaning of love. And what about the family on the footpath, selling cigars and tobacco? Are they happy? You bet, they are. But what are those things that constitute happiness? Well, I am still searching for an answer.

It started nowhere and it ends nowhere.



And a certain ruler asked him, saying, 'Good Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?' And Jesus said unto him, 'Why callest thou me good? None is good, save one, that is God.' - Luke 18: 18-19

-Jan '10

Promise of an Interview

I convinced someone for giving me an interview at last, after a few talking and a good no. of pleadings (Though I feel he was pretty interested about it from the beginning). He is a man of honor, the finest boy one will find anywhere, and does have a talent. That’s the reason I chose him. Now as I type these words in the night before the day of interview, I feel free to express the stage which was setting up for writing something different.

I was away, for a couple of days from my home. And as usual, kept on thinking about the fate of love, liking, happiness and relationships that can or can not exist in the world we live. In the odd hours of noon, as I sat in the room I was allotted, I would keep looking at the distant horizon and whisper millions of things to myself. I thought about the girl from the neighborhood, I thought about Pallabi(I must admit I should stop taking her name in public). I thought about the novel, ‘From the Ghats of Varanasi’. And then I smiled at myself. I looked at my right hand and smiled again.


“I can write a novel right now.” I muttered.


I thought about Friday, where I had to use a good no. of interviews, and then I chose to write something new.

And here, as I stop my rubbish writing, trying to concentrate more about tomorrow, trying to think about what I should ask and how. The Gajals are on at a very mild volume in my laptop as always.


Nothing much to say really. I was convinced to myself that I will post only stories and story-like things to the blog, but changed the plans.

Love and happiness will end in a few no. of days. No sign of new ideas for this one though. Bad for me.

Appeared in a test a couple of days ago. Horrible. 100 questions in 150 mins.

Still confused.

Should I start seducing girls? I will make a good one.

Life still roams around the lake places and Southern Avenues. Hate it. This silence. It’s killing me.

Pain to a vagrant

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy; And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief. Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility: For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.” – K.Gibran.


Wandering away, I find the Shiva temple out.

It is mid October, and the season of winter at Kolkata is just starting. The whole city appears in coats, pullovers and comforters in public. Everything is changed due to the effect of the chilly weather. Tea-stalls beside the roads always boast a healthy crowd around them, and one could watch the hot vapour coming out of the kettle every time it came out of the stove. It is a fascinating scene to me. In the evening when I get out of my home and have a walk around lake places, I would watch those kettles and the hot vapour coming out of their mouths. And on very rare occasions, I would have one of those cups of tea. I would just stop in front of the stall and the lady at the stall would place the tea in a container of earth. It is good; tea tastes the same, sometimes even better when you have it in a container made of earth than plastic. It is the same stall where once I had an argument over the smoking issue. The lady of the stall remembers me well for that reason. Sometimes we have to speak out just an opinion to be remembered.


My destination remains the Shiva temple.


Men light up candle. Hold it in one hand and guard it with another. And the light from the candle lightens their face, in a way lightening the path of their lives. A man, who doesn’t have a candle, seeks from others. He seeks the light, he seeks the truth, and he seeks life. He seeks life in various forms- love, liking, relationships, happiness, friendship, money, recognition, and appraisal. A man, who doesn’t get light, gets distracted and dejected in the path of life; creates mistakes, known as crime. A man devoid of money becomes poor, turns into a thief in the eyes of the cruel society. But there remains another kind of a person, who instead of keeping the candle to him, gives away to help others. And my search remains confined to those people.


It is the same place, where once we had met in the times of Durga Puja. But I do not get back for mere a lady. My search remains confined to the answers of the questions of a soul. And also how our fates can intervene into our lives. Also why I do feel an attachment to the places which make me unhappy, to a place where neither I was born, nor I’ve ever been to. Why people in the world feel attachment to things they’ve never seen or known.

They told to trust the physician inside.


Much of our pains are self chosen. It is the medicine that burns our heart; it burns our soul to the extreme sufferings of the world. And by doing this, our soul becomes pure, ready to be delivered as the sacred feast of the God. The words of Gibran hover around my head and heart.


I see her on the way and step away. We are in a position when we can’t talk to each other anymore. I fake it. I fake every time I smile. I fake every time someone relates her to me. I write entries like ‘A time to move on’, ‘I am a free man’ but I get stuck somewhere each and every time. I quit.


I see this lady. She is not a beggar. But she is not any less than that. She has lost one of her legs; she would sit at the Charu Avenue, and sometimes beg for food (especially at the evening). She is old, and her face is wrinkled. She often talks with herself and that’s the reason people call her mad. She is perfectly alone in her world. She is living because of the pity these slum people show for her. I fear the day they will stop seeing her, she’ll die. But once again, it seems that neither her life has brought any charm to any person in the world, nor her death is going to bring any mourn to any one. Everyone in the world overlooks her. Oh, just when I speak these lines I remind of a girl whom I see sometimes helping her by giving bread. She is a nice looking girl, does have a pair of eyes which, when fixed to you, asks thousands of questions at your heart. She is nicely poised, well dressed and lonely. When we meet in the road, we look at each other, but do not talk at all. Once I saw her giving bread to the lady and I felt gratified to her and kept looking at her. She must have read that look in my eyes, and after that we kind of fond of each other. Yes, I haven’t seen her for over a month or two, but am hoping to see her soon.



I wake up in the midnight at the calling of someone shouting outside at the road. It’s a cold night. And it is unusual for someone to be at the road at this time. As I try to see from the balcony, I find the old lady at the road shouting.

I astonish. And then I hear the cry.


She is crying out loud. And all those gibberish words trying to make a point that she is feeling cold. It is terribly cold night outside. And she has literally nothing to wear at all.

My heart trembles. It does not tremble feeling the situation she is in, but because I hear the words she is using to show her circumstance.


“O baba go. O baba go. O baba go.”


Tell me, have you ever heard a beggar crying out loud from your bed in a winter night, you being covered by blankets, you have a fascinating bed, pillow, sheets covering you. And the person crying her heart out for covering, may be food and heat. Oh you will never hear it, will you? You might well use a word or two which will describe the state of the person, or you may curse the person a while, and fall asleep once again. Tell me anytime, if you have the courage to stand beside the lady that night, give her some food or shelter.


Well you have certainly seen the world, haven’t you? Yes there are worse, and you’ve seen them. Yes, it always happens this way.


I become deserted. It’s not just because nobody understands. But no one cares too. Some times I do feel that the words Pallabi had said were actually true. People in big cities do not have the time at all. Malls, multiplexes, the life itself has taken away all the caring for others. Oh, I have mentioned her once again. (Now that I must admit I have to try and forget her.)
My hatred for people ceased completely. Is this what people call maturity?


One day, when walking at the Charu Avenue, I hear the old lady murmuring to herself, and I overhear.

She took three names. And I still remember those names as I speak of these happenings.

“Nattu bhai, Radha mami, Moni mama…”


So she had relationships, at some point in her life. And probably more often than not, she recalls those times of happiness of her life. What a catastrophe it has been, to her life. Someone who had familiars once doesn’t have one at all. Devoid of one leg, no home; must be tough for her. My eyes become vacant when I think of these. I remember once I said to myself, in the world we live, we can not fancy about love and liking at all. There are sufferings, there is poverty, and there are diseases which leave people with a desire to die.


I admire Oscar Wilde for writing those lines, which I feel free to recall here.


“Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!”


Fantastically stated. Now this is why they say that much of our pains are self chosen.


Isn’t it obvious? I prefer not to elaborate.


The truth is that, each moment we live, is a pain to our life. And each and every moment we live, leads us to the ultimate pain and truth of life. Death. This is just the way a no one thinks about some shadowy corners of life. This is the story of a vagrant trying to find answers of the questions of his life. Trying to find what pain is.


Once I thanked someone by saying “…but this is because she simply is.”


May be sorrow, gloom and pain are just like that. They are beyond men, women, old, lonely persons, dying, distressed, and poor.


May be they simply are.

Dec '09

A collection on friendship

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the ‘nay’ in your own mind, nor do you withhold the ‘Ay.’


And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed. When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.


And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks ought but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live. For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.


And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and
sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

- From 'The Prophet' by Khalil Gibran

A collection on love

"When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor, into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, ‘God is in my heart,’ but rather, ‘I am in the heart of God.’
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brooks that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy; To return home at evening tide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."

- From 'The Prophet' by Khalil Gibran

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

Thoughts of a wanderer 4

Once again I find myself on the paths of the lake place. Dark becomes the world. The lake is still. The evening couples continue their love talking and love making. The breeze from the southern horizon rides over the lake and touches my face, as I return to the usual question.


Why had she said nothing to me? What could be the reason of her behavior?


I walk alone. I walk as if I am a ghost. I do not feel anything. I do not see anything that is related to the real world. I do not feel love. I do not feel pain. I do not feel the need to be loved or the need to be felt special. I see faces as if I dream, as if they exist in the virtual world. I feel sorry for those persons who exist. I feel sorry for those persons who fall in love. I envy those persons who have hungry kisses in the Moonlight. I feel hungry when the Chhatim flowers awake my soul. I feel the urge to be happy when I imagine her drinking vodka. I feel stones in my heart when I see her holding his hands or dragging him close in an old picture. I feel I would bet the world when I see the curtains of the windows of her bedroom flying in the wind. I feel myself losing away when I keep looking at her old pictures. I feel rejuvenated when someone calls her name at my presence. I feel the most beautiful dreams of mine become true one day. But I do not feel her. I do not feel her consciences. That’s the reason I do not feel anything that is related to the real world. I do not feel anything. I walk as if I am a ghost. I walk alone.


The smell of the Chhatim flowers bewitches me. I feel the blue snake at my forehead, as I remind of the last words of the clairvoyant. I see the smile at the end of his lips as he took my hand, and said those words. I feel the gust at my face, I turn my face away. I turn my face away from all the pleasures of life- love, liking, and relationship. I just become an unhappy person sitting in the corner of his room, like the character portrayed by me in the story ‘The Night Train’. I remember the fact that someone said I was going to write the story of my life myself. I shiver, because I know that I am a tragedy writer.


In my dream, Pallabi comes. And when I walk here at Southern Avenues, I clearly see her footsteps at the roads and humbly step away. I stare to the place where once we stood in the times of Durga Puja in front of a house. I think of those few seconds I got the chance to stand beside her. I feel myself special when I think of these happening. I feel myself special when in my heart I travel to the holy places of Varanasi; from where she came when she was just nine years old. I feel myself special when I praise of her writing and she doesn’t answer. I keep looking for a word, a sign, rather an omen, but I fail. And the more I fail, the more I feel. I feel because I don’t tell. I write because I don’t tell. I fail because I don’t tell.


In my truth, Pallabi comes. I place the Urim and Thummim in my heart and let them lead the path. My legs tire, but I walk. The stones lighten the path of my life and I follow the toughest path. I seek the truth from the liar. I learn to live from the depressed one. I learn to smile from the distressed. I feel the sorrow of the street side beggars. I keep looking at their face and they smile. They do not smile because they get money. They smile because they know what’s happening. I stretch my hands in the dry summers expecting the raindrops at my palm. I keep looking to the southern horizon where a flight of pigeon goes round and round. The picturesque descriptions sometimes drag me to the past, as I lose myself away to an unknown zone. I fear I might not return. I fear because I love. I get back because I fear. I love because I do not get back.


I walk across the cinema hall named ‘Menoka’. I become unmindful. I walk past colonies in search of her. I come near her house, and see the meeting. I see the curtains of the windows in her room. I walk past the Nava Nalanda building, and everything starts to fade away.


I give second thoughts in writing the novel ‘Friday’. What should I write now? Should I write about all the virtual interviews I am going to invent myself? Should I write about her Varanasi background? Should I write how a serene, holy girl turned into a gypsy, in the flame of the lies of a city? Should I write about those innumerable smiles those lips threw to a boy, who came from a Mofussil, passed his childhood in a hostel loving the nature and worshiping the truth? Or should I write about the wry smiles I see in my nightmares in the face of her?
I fear I might lose my story. I am afraid, I have lost the girl.


On the way back home, I stop. I stop, look at the sky and think for a while. I feel myself like the shepherd boy. I search for the Alchemist, and I find him in each and every face of humankind. I place Urim and Thummim at my heart. My eyes become narrower. My hands stiffen. My legs cramp. I feel the hunger at my stomach. I walk till I get tired. And then I start walking again, till I get tired.


I feel the urge to ask her the question, why had she said nothing to me…but I realise the answer. It’s not only just because this is what happens if you want somebody from your soul and that somebody wants another from her soul, but there may be other answers.


May be because I am the chosen one.

- Oct'09

A few words about nothing

For the last couple of days, I was down in Influenza. But now, I am better, and fitter, of course.


As I have always spoken that every thing has two sides to deliver, if you expect always good things from a certain object which has always delivered right things in the past, then you should probably give it another thought. Just like that if you get depressed with a common shock or illness, then you should probably reconsider the truths they make you see when you fall ill, or you just lie at your home thinking about the rest of the world, and about life and also about human fate, how do we get attracted to the place we belong, and how our lives get complicated with the more and more offerings of the recent world.


I realised there were a lot of ‘get well soon’ wishings on the day I updated my current status on the social site in my profile. Now this is the problem with getting some famous. Think this way, if only I had kept a low profile on my writing side, these things would never happened. I could have said that day at ease that I do not owe any blog, and I do not write at all, as I had said to 'S', that I hardly read stories and novels, as she has turned her face away from me now, and I can once again fancy about the offerings a love could. But once again, that was another thing, and this writing thing, is so different. As it is said, that “No man, when he hath lighted a candle, putteth it in a secret place, neither under a bushel, but on a candlesticks, that they which come in, may see the light.” Now I did not find any reason to hide the candle in a bushel, that’s all, after all, I am no Athena.


My head suffered from a pain, and the cold and cough from inside, they were all coming down to me, at the same time. The whole day I spent before my laptop, either staring blankly to the ‘yellow pages’ or going to the ‘My computer’ and then once again coming back to the ‘Desktop’. The evening proved to be some fruitful, as I managed to do some of the BRM tests (I still don’t know what is the full form of BRM, it’s just that I’ve started doing these because they seem to be interesting and thought-provoking) with my wristwatch around the pen and paper.


I dropped my head on the pillow when my mobile said it was 11.38. It was the famous ‘Janmastami Puja’, and the sound of Dhol and Khanjani kept coming from the nearby Hanuman temple. I tried to see the blind boy who comes and sits here under the lamppost every night, but as I found out, he wasn’t there tonight. I clinched to the railings of the windows and kept staring outside. Now as I say that I keep looking outside, you would probably get wrong information that perhaps from the window I look, there are some beautiful sceneries which can be seen, but that will be so untrue. It is actually a window of a flat which resides nearly opposite to a long road, but as previously stated ‘nearly opposite’; there are not a lot to see at all. But this is the very window, where I sat and wrote stories like ‘Another rainy day’, ‘A love, forgotten’, and others. So it’s kind of favorite place for me to sit and write. The lamppost stands at the left corner, the main road passing down, and the closed room of my favorite neighbors, the Punjabi family, who does not live there any more.


Now this has been a frustrating thing. How much the Punjabi family meant to me! I remember how I introduced them in one of my stories, ‘The no-private room’. I feel I should copy the whole paragraph from there and quote the thing here. So here it goes:

“Beside the road, to the opposite side of my room, lives the Punjabi family; my favourite neighbour, and it is a nice job for me often to watch them. They have two cars, and both the cars shout like bulls, and the little boys at the road shout at them. But, you can curse them, laugh at them though you can’t help but love the two daughters of the Punjabi parents, the same two girls aging between 18-19, who were the popular topics of the boys’ talking in the town.”


And now when they are gone I can do nothing but watch the glasses of the windows of their rooms. I watch the lamppost standing in the day, in the half-light of evening and in the darkness of midnight. I look at the third floor of a nearby house, which is under construction. But after a certain period of time, they all seem to be boring. Yes, yes, a writer gets bored sometimes.


I remembered the entries I wrote under the heading ‘Thoughts of a wanderer’. The whole thing was based on my visits to the lake places and Southern Avenues, and the experiences and considerations I made there. I remember how I discovered her place, how I discovered her ancient home, and how I discovered her, out of nowhere suddenly at the previous Puja. But for once again, I have become the thing I was. S-I-N-G-L-E. This whole loneliness thing, it is kind of a creepy thing in itself. I mean, I am kind of a sick and habituated in it. Like, I am dying to fall in love once more and this time, for real; and yet again, even if a girl comes to me and asks me out, I am going to freak her out by saying, that I am so sorry and it’s a matter of fact that we should not hang out at all, because we have our responsibilities to take care of, and all that nonsense. And why the hell am I talking about nonsense? Have I forgot about the phone call made on the 1st January, 2007? Anyways, that is past.


Right, anyways, it is midnight, and today is 15th August. I don’t think I am the right person to talk about the gravity of the day at all. But, just reminds me when I was in N.C.C (Navy, to be specific) in our school, back in Narendrapur, we used to do a lot of things on this day. But the past days are gone now, today is not real, and the future coming ahead, is going to be as hazy as grey (apparently, grey means death, doesn’t it?). So I close the writing on a note where I see a few plants surrounded by steel covers, with the following thing written all over it: “This is our city. Please raise your voice to stop pollution. Plant and preserve trees”, a few people sleeping in the footpath with their sheets on (yes it is New Alipur and still, people from the nearby slum comes out at these footpaths for a good night sleep), and with the silence all over the colony. Just as a matter of fact, I saw two monks passing the road a couple of minutes ago, as they stared astonishingly to me and I continued to neglect them; childhood habits.


So it is 1.00 A.M now, and as I also need a good night sleep, coming out of an Influenza, I would not risk anything at all now, so good night and all, and yes, always remember that the darkest hour of the night came just before the dawn. Someday, you will understand the inner meaning of this. Chao.

- August '09

The last question

“What’s the relation between an I.T professional and a Microbiologist?” – That’s the last question Jannabi asked me. Yes, she was Jannabi Bhattacharyya, with three consecutive double consonants in her name, passing nine months with me, leaving me alone at a time when I was losing everything in my life, my academics, my aim, my friends and everything.

I was eighteen, about to start my life in an engineering college, and was calling at her landline for the fifth time, with my trembling fingers on those numbers, as usual.

“It’s over.” This was the first reaction from her.

“What?” I astonished.

“You and me, it’s not working.”

I had no idea how on earth did she think that the relation was just over, but I argued.

“Well, I can change.” I survived.

“It’s not a matter of change, it just can’t continue any more. We look least like boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. That spark of love, liking and attraction has gone from our relationship. I know that if I need something, you will be there. But I am not sure the same about me. I don’t think I want someone right now in my life. There are studies to do; there are a lot of other things to do. Besides, can you remember how both of us loved physics and came close to each other by that? And now, see, how our fates have taken us to different paths of life. Can you tell me what’s the relation between an I.T professional and a Microbiologist? Our lives are taking different routes, and so should we do.”


Troubled, sad, confused, I had to pay the bill for the call. A cool refusal from a girlfriend in lieu of just 2 rupees! Well, that’s some special for a loser.

But at the end of the day, the truth was that, I had lost her from my life, and nothing could bring her back. My new engineering college seemed to be a disgusting one. Friendless, halfhearted, unmindful, I kept pouring tears on engineering physics, mathematics, and computer. In the college, the whole first year proved to be a trash for me. I didn’t like the college; I didn’t like my specialization- which was information technology. I even didn’t know what I was going to do after studying information technology.


But some changes came with the winter of second year. I was declared the class-leader. My co-curricular activities became popular in the college. I was good in table-tennis, could sing a little bit; I played guitar and flute, and above all, had a good sense of humor. People were fond of me soon.

At the third year, grey matters mattered. Circuit theories, web technology, software engineering covered up brain cells. I had to attend group discussions, seminars, had to write reports for the tech-club. Opportunities kept coming, and responsibilities were more and more.

Another year passed at the college and at the end of the fourth year, when I passed out of the college, brain consisted only c, c++, programming language and all that – just ideal for an I.T. professional.

But I didn’t join the industry as yet. An MBA degree, I thought, would be a better option for me.

It was another six months from the time I joined another B-school to do MBA, I found my diary of class twelve from and old desk.


The first page was very familiar which showed: - “No one can discover life without love. So for the girl I am able to write, these stories are dedicated to her.”

Then, I explored my old stories after about five years. They were like completely new ones to me. Here is my first story written when I was eighteen named ‘Good Night’ in which a boy on a given night reminds of the girl he loved, who treated the boy only as a friend but never as a boyfriend. The thoughts of the happy memories with the girl keep weaken his mind and turn him an insomniac person. After it, there is another story named ‘Happy new year’, in which a boy calls his girlfriend on the first day of the year to wish her ‘happy new year’, and when the girl wishes the same and encourages him to call her again, he begins to think that the girl also likes him. “What can one expect in the whole year if he is greeted by a girl on the very first day of the year?” He kept wondering in his mind. But as time progressed, he found himself being detached from the girl.

Then came my favorite story, ‘Listen to Southern Avenue’ in which a boy goes for a walk every evening to a place three kilometers away from his house, leaving his studies miles apart, in the search of a girl who used to live there. Years passed, the girl detached herself from the boy, but he didn’t stop visiting that place from time to time, out of love for the girl or the place itself.


Stories are some special, I thought. We move on, our lives change. But they exist in the same way, being the proof of our happy or unhappy past. And afterwards, when we go through them, we find another person inside us- hurt, troubled, ill-fated towards some direction.

Do you think still I hope to get her back? No, I do not. Because after so many years, I have understood that it’s not always what we lose, but it’s what we have that matters.

It’s love, which connects two unknown people from different places and decides their fate. Our paths can go different ways, but the subtle and secret relationship exists, probably for the whole life.


I lost you from my life anyway, but you were in my stories and will be there for a long time. And I shall love to write those stories, which will be the only relation between us.

- May '08

The Blood Triangle

She was bored. The music was pumping. The drinks were flowing. And she was dressed to kill. She stood in front of the bar, running her eyes over the couples’ slow dancing. And then she saw him…and her best friend with him.

He was drunk. They both were. They had sense left at their bottom. But they were together… and that’s the thing which left her in agony, hatred. And as they tottered forth through the floor to the front door, she stood up to her feet. Tonight, she will have to follow them.

It was not destined to her, as she reminded of old days. She and this girl, they used to be something more than just best friends. They loved each other. But three years ago, this man came into their lives, and how madly she fell in love with him. But eventually she knew that he was actually attracted to her friend, not to her. Days passed, and it became a love triangle. Lastly, today, the climax has come. They have chosen their path for being together forever, and she has also chosen a path for herself – a path for all of them. The three sides of the triangle are going to have the same destiny, tonight.

It was the lake nearby she reached following them.

Just next to the lake, the couple sat on a bench, unknowingly that just ten feet after them someone was standing with a 9 mm pistol in her hand. And then what next? Two shots from point blank range and all the happy dreams of them shattered within a moment beside a heavenly lake.

The dark water of the lake remained stagnant till its deep, where traces of life found their way somewhere.


She was crying silently. She had to kill the persons she loved. But once she had chosen this path, there was no stepping back. She stood up wiping her tears.

“The debt that all men pay.” She muttered, holding the gun beside her ear, as tears rolled down her eyes again.

As the December wind had stopped blowing, the farthest fraction of the city remained silent, and dark. The lone long trees fervoured by the night fog kept them mysterious. The lake was covered by a thick layer of fog. The silence was on. The city was in their sleep, for some the sleep was forever.


As the growing moon started hovering up in the lone sky, the three bodies remained still in the park beside the freezing lake, as the three distinct sides of a triangle – the blood triangle.

- Written for the Spellbound competition '08

A FLIGHT OF PIGEON

A flight of pigeon they were..., flying in the lonely sky in the direction of season wind, backing the massive red ball in the west... Dusk was the time, and my early childhood. Alone on the roof of dreams and fantasy, eyes fixed to the white-off white-grayish far-off feathers, wind playing with soft hair, with those pigeons hovering in the southern horizon, one after another after another...

I used to call them ‘friends’. Friends of a lonely child. They were companions of mine since my early childhood, from when I was seeing them rounding the southern horizon by days after days, months, years. It seemed to me that they would continue to round the horizon till the end of time...

Emerald green was the nature, spring...did we presume. I considered myself as being the nature. Joyous I was, for no reason, save the loneliness I was in; if it could be. But nevertheless, friends I had, from the moment I went to the roof, I was no more alone, sky was there to watch over my footsteps, wind was to listen to my songs, and above all, those pigeons covering feather around me, embracing me from any harms that could be caused by the fluffy old world...

Days passed, years progressed. Days of my early childhood ran through the late ones to reach me into my age of eighteen. But I was fresh. Fresh like a seed, before it is put to sprout, wet and muddy, all set to create a new magic to the world.

And that is how life made my paths easier to meet with Purabi. Later, much later I have thought about it, that what could be my fate if I was not to meet with her. I mean, the whole world goes in its own way, even time doesn’t stop for anyone, but again, between that, we do come to meet with someone special at a certain point in our lives. We meet, our minds meet, but perhaps the invisible cord, which binds us to human periphery, does not have enough time to bind us to that deep and strikes us far apart... where from there can be no sign for a comeback...poor men can not believe, if someone has gone from our lives its a hell hard chance to bring her back.
So that’s the way, I met Purabi. At primitive, we were just friends. But as time, as well as life started moving on, we realized that there is something more in the world also than friendship we can share of. That’s the day we knew each other. Our heart beated as one. Love was in the nature. Never had I saw the world more colorful as I used to see then. We never told each other that we love, but it was all in t he belief of us.

And that was the time when life took us apart from each other. It was not that we tried to push things and make our lines cleared, but the truth is that, we accepted it.


After she went from my life, I started writing. It was by writing, I kept those happy moments behind me, which used to often trouble me. Not long after that insomnia affected me, the only suffering which has no medicine for itself. The thoughts of the happy past kept weakening my mind. I nearly broke up. But writing kept me alive all the time. Here is a short poetry written some days ago keeping her in mind:



I loved a rose once.
A small, red rose.
When I saw it,
I wondered of the creation of God.
I kept it in my pocket, and forgot.

The next day, I found it dead.
But it left a thorn at my chest.
A drop of blood, it caused.


I loved a lady once,
a nice hearted one.
Again I wondered the creation of God.
I kept my promises, and waited.

And this time, I lost her...
But she left words at my heart.
Words of love, they were.


I saw a tiny girl,
playing at a park.
And gave her a flower.
What is it? She asked.
Love. I answered.
And she ran away.

'Love it is, which does not die.' I said.



There are many writings like this. And because of my suffering of insomnia, I like prefer night over daytime. No one watches the full night as they do the day. I have seen nights, like the old man watches the clumsy evenings shattering day after day.


Monsoon came. The dry dust of the earth got wet. The scent of the newly wet nature was in the air giving people an unknown reasoned happiness. I, packed up in my room had nothing to do, and started climbing the steps to the roofs. It was a long time I had visited the same. And as I stepped forward, I saw something. I stopped and watched. A boy, of age around twelve, standing alone in the roof, looking at the southern horizon. The season wind playing with his hair, eyes fixed to far-off. As my eyes followed the direction of his eyes, I saw greyish, off-white spots moving in the horizon...FRIENDS!


Nearly one and half decades have passed. But the picture lays the same there. For me, life has moved on, but for the roof, the wind, the massive red ball in the west, life hasn’t changed as yet. Friends will be there...perhaps till the end of time. The boy of twelve will be there, playing and watching the nature for eternity. It’s not our lives, its not the time that move on, it is you and I who change, and the rest of the story remains unchanged. For ever and ever...

-March '09

MEMORIES OF A NO ONE

DECEMBER, '06


“Why do you write such stories which end up with a tragic situation?” she asked me.

“As because I do believe that life is a sad song” I said.

“But life has some glad sides also. Relationship with your familiars, smiling nature, love, happy surroundings, - don’t they keep your mind fresh, alive, happy?”

“I don’t believe in relationship, love or likings, so they don’t excite me.”

What did I say? God, I was talking to the person I had loved for over a year. Days, months I’ve only waited for the day when we will talk something about love. I was eager to talk with her about her views of love, and what I’ve done? When the right time came, I just said that I do not believe in it? But, after all, what could’ve I said? From the day she had stepped into my life, I’ve only feared of losing her. It seems I was destined to meet with her in some part of my life. And now, when I have fallen in love with her, I would better accept the fact that our paths are different, and whatever relation we have now, it’s not for eternity. As I was destined to meet with her, she is probably also destined to meet with someone else. And the best thing for both of us would be probably to be what we are.

This time she gave no answer. She was immensely thinking about something. I couldn’t make out if my stories had done any effect on her mind. I was even in doubt whether she had understood the stories or not. Now another question raised in my mind that, she has certainly noticed that most of my stories contain her name, then why didn’t she ask me anything concerning that. Has she understood my feeling for her, or she is just ignoring this possibility. If considered that she has taken it so simply that no curiosity raised in her mind, but one should get some clicking in her head seeing a name so many times in a diary. And if considered that she has understood it, and just ignoring that related talking, it will be better for me to keep a safe distance apart from her.

The class ended. I came back home. Night came gradually. I kept my bedroom dark and sat at the corner of my bed facing the window. “…keep a safe distance apart from her”, I muttered. If I had thought so ten months before. The golden months, the months deciding the route of my life. If I would have thought so before they had passed, before I passed them so callously thinking about her leaving my studies miles apart.


JANUARY, '07


“It’s me.” I said, as she received the call.

“Oh yes, say”

“Listen, the date of our Friday class…, I mean the timing of our class has been changed. Now onwards, it will start at 2.30 and end at 7.30. It means the biology class will be from 2.30 to 4.30 and chemistry class will be from 4.30 to 7.30.”

“Why this…”

“See, the syllabus can not be completed if the change doesn’t occur. Sir told that the extra one hour may lead to the completion. ”

“Oh! Five hours class!”

“Okay, listen, are you coming this Wednesday? “

“Yeah, I will.”

“But sir told that he will get us out if we can’t answer the questions. “

“No, no, I will go. See, I’m not going that class for two weeks, so I don’t really think that, later he will keep me inside anyway. ”

“Okay.”

“Happy new year, anyways.”

“Happy new year, happy new year.”

“Okay, thank you, bye.”

And I put down the receiver. My heart beats were going faster and faster. My fingers were trembling.


“How much for two minutes’ call?”

“You give four rupees.”

I walked down the footpath. The most remembering day of my life! I can’t believe myself. I called her, and she recognized me! Colourful butterflies flew around me. I could not see the people around me, but only the smiling face. I could not hear the buzzing crowd, but the soft voice asking hello at the telephone in a tender voice. What can one expect in the whole year if he is greeted by a girl on the first day of the year?

I didn’t sleep that night. A tender but sharp voice echoed at my ears, “Hello, hellow, hellow…”


But surprise was waiting all the time for me. She didn’t come that Wednesday, not that Friday too. I astonished, my heart broke. She told me that she would come, but she did a treachery.

My nights seemed to be my only friend then. I thought, I spoke, I cried, I laughed, but it was all the night who was my companion. None other was there to share me.

After a few days, she comes, and wants my copy to note. I give it to her and ask for the questions of the tests. She promises to give those and tells me to remind her at Wednesday by phone. These become very formal talking, but my journey through sadness starts from that moment, even though I think that it is going to be the opposite. If atheists have a god to pray, I am ready to pray for her, at any cost.

Days pass, and I suffer from some sort of uncertainty. I call her on that Wednesday, but she doesn’t come. She doesn’t come even that Friday. I become a little bit angry with her, and call at her home that Friday night.

My trembling fingers become once again on those numbers; it starts ringing, and I can hear the every beat of my heart.

“Hello”

“Hello, is she there?” I ask.

“Yes, you have to hold a few seconds.”

“Okay.”

“Pam…, Pam… it’s his phone…” her mother shouts.

“Hellow” she takes the phone now.

“Hey, what’s this?”

“Why, what happened”

“What’s about my copy?”

“Hasn’t your friend Ratul given you that?”

“He didn’t come today.”

“Oh, I’ve given your copy and the questions to him and left for home as he told that he would be at the chemistry class.”

“Its embarrassing, my copy…, by the way, what happened at Wednesday?”

“Yes, yes, I am telling you that. See, you called me at 3.30 but at around 4 o’ clock I realised that I was not ready for the question answer session. So I called Mashie and asked for your phone number, but as she failed to give it, I told her to tell you that… but just a second, Mashie didn’t tell you that?”

“Yes, she told me, but you see…, my copy…, if Ratul forgets?”

“Hey, is there any problem for it? I mean, is there any urgent need for your copy?”

“No, that’s not. But I’ve to write in my rough copies and have to rewrite them.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Just stick those pages right in your copy. By the way, not a bad idea, no?”

“Yeah, okay then… bye.”

“Bye.”


FEBRUARY, '07

Time. And it was passing like rainy stream. Control on mind was lost previously, and now, I was losing control of my own, my nerves, my soul, my behavior. And all things around me were suddenly very disgusting to see, to hear, to feel, to judge and to accommodate.

Midst of February passed without any happening. None! Neither I called her, nor she did. A big, big question of uncertainty covered my mind; does she want to step out of the relation or is it the pressure of time which keeps us apart?

If anyone reads this, will obviously support, that in this world, something happens somewhere concerning us, which we do not know, but we have to suffer the results, whether it is good or bad. My opinion is the same too. If someone assesses you and takes decision governing you, which may go for you, or against you, but you have to accept them, because it is possible that you have done the same with someone other also.

It reminds me of the first conversation between us, which I can’t forget for the rest if my life. The day, the first class took place at the other building. I was the only person around her. “Tapan sir’s class?” she asked me, and I was pleased. I was pleased because she talked to me. I was pleased because at the time of answering her question I could look at her face, I could look into her eyes.

But all these were very primitive. And the last conversations were...

“Have you got your copy?”

“Yes, Ratul gave it at last.”

And it seems a formal, normal talking. But I know, relations don’t end anywhere. You can’t end them. Yes, it is true, that we are not going to meet after this, but you will know someday, the world is very big, and people themselves do not know, what they are going to do, or what they have done, with others or with themselves.

How much I felt for her, how would she know? So many things I thought about her, about me, about us. So many things I knew about her... Many had been told to me. I can even remember about the night when I dreamed her saying those magic words to me. But just then I woke up at the bed and realizing that it was just a dream, tears rolled down my eyes. It cried me badly. People often say that, what we see, we hear, we think, comes in our dreams..., but I haven’t thought it for a while, that she would tell those things to me..., but still it happened, and it happened, just to hurt me.

And time has taught me, to understand all, to understand the situation I am in. And..., and yes, I have to stop loving you. I have to stop loving you because I want to live. I don’t want to die just thinking about you throughout my life.


But I will never forget you. The small things you did, you told. I won’t forget your eyes, your lips, your gentle smile, all things concerning you, and just you. And I can’t forget the first day to the last day I passed with you, the days I passed with you, or thinking about you, because..., I can stop loving you, but I will not stop loving those days I loved you.

- February, 07